sitting

Dear Teacher, I sit by the window, at a table in The House of Curry restaurant on College Avenue in Berkeley, one of several “offices” here at which I spend much time, sometimes late into the evening, like tonight, chugging chai, now looking at the time on my cell phone display, which reads 9:11, a rather ominous number in our collective psyche, somehow fitting though, given the nature of this sentence, a jetliner of words streaming out of nowhere from this prodigal terrorist of a student, full of explosive notions that he flies into the friendly skies of dharmakaya “I am-ness” with an angry derisive “my ass-ness!”, angry at those two words that he always resists, first the “I” and then the “am” that foil him every time from grocking the much touted witness consciousness, the “I” immediately separating him from the “am” which he can never blend fast enough with the “I”, wondering now if it’s a failure of the English translation, but not really caring, knowing that it will never do it for his own it-ness, not that static and dichotic “I am” peeping Tom on reality do-nothing in itself “I am”, not in this world of constant flow and change, where I am wanting always for a more tantric transformative becoming through anti-grammatical first person to second person to third person shifts, slips, and slides ripping language to shreds, that self-limiting medium of supposed communication that is eternally bound to fail us, even in our attempts to deliver meditation with words like “I just sit,” refusing to acknowledge the brutal simple reality that sit happens.