I'm not Buddha

Sleep eludes me once again. Thoughts nudge me awake. Stupid thoughts, silly questions, random musings.

Today is garbage day. I have litter to clean. Snow to shovel. Papers to grade. A semester to wind down and another to prepare. A blog to decide on.

I'm wondering if this train has gone so far off the rails, it's driving on concrete and broken glass.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Maybe I should put on some sandals and spread rose pedals on everyone's front yard. Spread some joy. Fake it until I have convinced myself.

Scroll through Facebook and read the joy and disappointment in the updates. Football and boots for sale. People living life online.

I've lived online for many years. Shaped my days and nights, trudging my soul through chat rooms and 3D worlds. Bruised myself trying to reach out to people like me. People who can't sleep. People who need to broadcast and advertise their lives via avatars and profiles. Looking for love in all the wrong places and finding treachery. Social networking.

I realized I've begun to apologize for what I've been posting, thinking, wanting. Not because I'm ashamed of it, but because I'm supposed to be ashamed. I should get with the program. Quit my job and live on dreams.

That ain't happening.

I'm not Buddha. I'm not anyone but me. I don't fall into any social niches. I'm the awkward on the guest list. The one without the plus one or the plus little ones. No one hangs on my every word. I'm a dabbler of all things. A master of none.

I've hosted dinners. Read Tarot cards. Run drum circles. Gone exploring. I've reached out and have had my knuckles rapped. But most importantly I've been scolded that I need to see the ray of sunlight in the endless sky of cloud.

I'm not Buddha. I like coffee and asking why. I swear a lot. Like an apprentice trucker. Why has that profession been trapped in foul mouth stereotyping?

I put people on the spot when they say something disingenuous. I don't believe in flattery as a means to approval. I don't pretend to like someone but I don't maim them with my dislike either.I observe the twitching mouth and subtle look away.

So what?

Shall I update my FB status to say I cannot sleep? Who really gives an F? Or a G? Can I buy a fucking vowel? There's the trucker.

So what if no one hangs from my every word? My word is not law. My word is just that. A word. Or a few of them strung together to jigsaw the pieces of thoughts in my head.

I don't have a recipe to share. I've been making jewelry but can't be bothered to promote it. There are several books unwritten in my head. I'm a poet. Who gives a shit? Really?

I'm not Buddha. I can't inspire to a better life. I can barely get a full night's sleep. I can just be me. Flawed. Questioning. Sometimes sarcastic. Cynical. Labelled by those who are better than me. I'm not happy. I have moments of happiness. The rest of the time, I just am.

I've made visualization boards, and done cleanses. I have tried to be better. But I'm still flawed. Still filled with  remnants of my past. I wish I could press a button and eject everything. See the world through the wondering eyes of a child. I'm like a mosaic created from the shards of experiences. And that's okay.

I'm not who I'm not. There's a certain freedom in that.

It would be nice not to care what people think of me, but people who might not be generous with their time or compassion are very generous with their opinions of me. Personally. Don't take this personally. I'm not talking about you, unless you think I'm talking about you in which case you have a post to write yourself don't you?

The truth is, I care and I don't. It depends on the day, what's happened, and my mood. Does that make me evil? According to whom? Who made them the boss of me? Not I! Who puts food on my table? Well, technically, I don't have a table, my house is too small for it. But the answer is me. I do. I don't owe anyone anything. Except the mortgage company.

So. I'm not Buddha. What of it? There was only one of them. I'm Genie. Flawed. Insomniac. Questioning the meaning of all this nonsense in the middle of the night. Saddled with lists of things to do because I don't have the money to pay someone else to do them. And even when I do have money, I can't seem to get someone to do it. Like tile my fucking basement floor.

I happen to be female, independent and childless. Anathema in this society unless you're having sex in the city and broadcasting it. I can't even spell Manolo Blahnik without Googling it. Who put "blah" in sexy shoes? Anyway my feet are too arched and wide, my ankles too tender to wear crazy stilettos. I don't live in New York and I don't want to. Sue me.

My humor has a bite to it, and most don't get it because it isn't literal.

Did I mention I'm not Buddha? And I'm flawed? That doesn't mean I can't point out the flaws. It doesn't mean I don't have the right. This is just my perspective from my fractured lens on my blog that I choose to ramble on.

And just cause I see the fractures in others, doesn't mean I hate them or judge them for it. I like fractures. They make kaleidoscopes and stained glass out of them. Pretty. Lemonade.