A Katha Upanishad for Millennials and Ranchers – reblog from waltbox

Excellent writing style!

waltbox

The home of Yama, King of Death, was a craftsman bungalow near an urban area revitalized for Millenials. The plots in this neighborhood were tiny, the homes half the size of those in newer neighborhoods but twice the cost. Most had seen a non-load bearing wall removed to achieve an open floor concept. Owners of these homes owned vehicles with deluxe emblems on their trunks, and though the main road through the neighborhood was paved with brick, and walking for groceries or to a restaurant was encouraged, vehicles such as these needed to be driven, or rather paraded, often, if not daily. Otherwise what would be the point of anything.

Wet leaves dampened the thud of Nacho’s boot heels on the wooden steps leading to Death’s door. The steps smelled of fresh pine, and fresh paint. The potted mums of fresh soil. The curb appeal was to die for.

Nacho removed…

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About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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