MARK BELLUSCI
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An amazing fucking book

4/18/2021

5 Comments

 
Books will save you.

But not just any book — forget that Zen in any open book shit. It’s got to be a good book.

No, a great book.

No, an amazing fucking book.

Okay, maybe you can get by with a good book.

​But a bad book? A book you feel you should read — like that little fucking teacher voice in your head has put it on your mandatory reading list? A book that will enlighten you even as it bores you to tears?

Fuck that.

​A book like that could throw your reading rhythm off for months. Could return you to mindless scrolling of cat videos on Instagram, political diatribes on Facebook and skateboard face plants on YouTube.

​No, a bad book like that must be buried after about 30 pages of minutiae. To stop it from getting in the way of your getting devoured by an amazing fucking book. A book that you want to burn through but actually slow down with because you can’t imagine life going on when you’re done with it. A book that has you researching the author to find anything else he’s written, and when he plans to write a sequel to the amazing fucking book you’re currently reading. A book that forces you to start another book you can only hope is anywhere near the amazing fucking book you’re reading because at some point you will finish the amazing fucking book and will have to wind down gradually from the high since cold turkey will have you looking for the razor and a bathtub.

​Price should be no object. No bargain basement or library book will do. Pay what you have to for that next amazing fucking book to survive the completion of this amazing fucking book.

​And may your life be one amazing fucking book after another.

Oh, and by the way? The Price You Pay by Aiden Truhen is an amazing fucking book.


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The story never ends.

4/16/2021

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“So then I says, ‘Whaddya mean no more chocolate glazed donuts?’ And the guy, he says, ‘We’re out.’ So I says ...”

Yet another harbinger of old age to come: the brutally banal banter bandied about without pause.

Everything — everything — becomes a Shakespearean opus, replete with character descriptions, action narratives and detailed dialogue.

Doesn’t matter how mundane the story — waiting in line at DMV, setting up a dentist appointment, getting the morning toast to the perfect shade of brown — they all merit a full-scale, one-person production.

At what age does the bad bard gene kick in? Are we born with it and nervously await its ill-fated debut during senior citizenry?

​Or is it that younger folk have so much good shit going on that they want to get right past the mindless daily rituals as fast as possible so they can tell you about this hot guy or girl that kind of smiled at them at the coffee shop, or this potential job opportunity that will take them to Australia, or this bike-to-hike-to-rock-climb thing they’re locking in for a month sabbatical.

Maybe when you run out of stories worth telling, you transfer your storytelling skills to the drug store line you had to wait on for six goddamned minutes. “And let me tell you, I said to them, I said ...”


I have seen the storytelling future, and it ain’t pretty.


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Meditation constipation

4/14/2021

1 Comment

 
These days, she questioned everything. But one thing she was certain about is that meditation is supposed to relieve stress — not cause it.

So much for that certainty.

“Is it a real itch or my delusional mind? What am I forgetting to do while I’m wasting time meditating? How much time has passed? How could I possibly sit here for an hour? Did I shut off the oven? Why am I thinking so much? Am I breathing? I must be or I’m already dead. Am I the first person to ever fail meditation?”

​Ah, one can see the bliss meditation has brought her.

​Yeah, right.


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1 Comment

A visual feast

4/12/2021

2 Comments

 
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But wait. Look at it. Just look at it. No, I know you’re starving, but that’s an actual plate. China, actually. Pristine clean. And the silverware, laid out like a resolved calculus equation.

The napkin. How do they fold it like that, so it it stands up like a sentry, protecting the valuable cargo next to it?

​Then there’s the food. Ahhh, smells so good. Fresh. Right from the pan to this plate — no plastic or cardboard container transition. And they didn’t just throw it on the plate like me turning over the take-out container and plopping it on my plate. No, they shaped it — a beautiful, colorful circular pyramid, like a three-dimensional pinwheel.

​And look at the colors: they glisten! Let me just take this in. And I’m sitting down, across from a friend who’s doing the same thing. Quite a change from being hunched over my apartment counter watching YouTube videos of parkour guys kissing poles as they do headers on stairs.

​I’m just taking in this experience, INSIDE A RESTAURANT. An experience I used to take for granted. With a beautifully prepared meal I’m enjoying with my eyes before my nose and mouth even introduce themselves. Before the pandemic — before we started hoarding meals in the corners of our homes like mice with crumbs — who even gave a shit about meal presentation and ambience? But now? It’s a visual feast.

​Of course, the best is still to come. The primal, and somewhat carnal, pleasure of devouring this exotic bounty. But for just this moment, the visual feast is enough.
2 Comments

The Zen Superhero

4/11/2021

1 Comment

 
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As a kid, his superhero heroes were the juggernauts. The kick-ass, take-no-shit types. The Hulks, the Thors, the Things. But as an adult mired in way too grown-up shit, his superhero worship shifted to Mr. Fantastic, Reed Richards, because of his ability to bend and stretch and conform to all the shit that comes his way. Even the super strength of the other superheroes can’t withstand the barrage of shit life throws at everyone. But Reed, he just bends to its will and goes with it. He’s the adult superhero. He’s the Zen superhero.


1 Comment

Fuck big. Go quantum.

4/10/2021

2 Comments

 
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Here’s to the quantum life. Here’s to breaking things down to their smallest elements and dealing with them at that base level — even while understanding that dealing with small things does not always provide a predictable outcome. The vacuum breaks, the bike tire rubs, the writing idea flits a way into the ethosphere. But by breaking things down into smaller and smaller bits, there’s a better chance of taking them on, or at least overcoming the inertia of not wanting to take them on. Quantum it is. Real it down, bring it on.

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A love affair, rekindled.

4/5/2021

0 Comments

 
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French fries. Hot. Crispy. No, really, crispy. Not used-to-be crispy or came-out-of-the-oven-but-no-more crispy. Straight up crispy. On a plate. Outside. At a restaurant. With people and wait staff. With conversations and smiles and dogs under tables. With people watching people strolling up and down the street. With a cool breeze, not a cold draft. After a long, oppressive Covid quarantine winter replete with soggy takeout, he and his wife returned to a restaurant. Their first return in the early spring season. So much that used to be taken for granted that no longer is. All summed up with fresh French fries. Oh, and also a cup of coffee in a ceramic cup. That you could get refilled. The little pleasures. How nice to rediscover them, and appreciate them like a toddler heading to McDonalds for the first time.


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The no-status status call.

4/3/2021

1 Comment

 
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He kept dialing in on the status calls of a client of his, even though the project had wrapped, just so he could have some kind of connection with other people since he had no more live gigs. Just to maintain the illusion of having work buddies even though he was an occasional contractor who had only worked with a few of the people in the company. It was a combination of George Constanza lying his way into an office, and Kramer just showing up even though he doesn’t work there. He wondered what it would be like in six months when his project was long forgotten, everyone who vaguely remembered him had moved on, and his only connection would be the Monday morning status call. When it’s his turn to discuss his status, does he mention his self-imposed assignment to clean out his sock drawer? Oh well, he figured he’d keep calling in until they were in the uncomfortable position of having to tell him there was no reason for him to call in. Or perhaps they would take the less uncomfortable solution and just expire his email and access code. But until then, they were the only work buddies he had — whether they liked it or not.


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