Newest article for the Tattooed Buddha called A Dudedist Explains How to Handle the Jerks in Your Life.
Newest article for the Tattooed Buddha called A Dudedist Explains How to Handle the Jerks in Your Life.
So Mahayana Buddhists have this cool thing called Tathagatagarbha, or Buddha-nature. Basically, it means that all beings have the potential to become Buddhas. That’s kinda cool, isn’t it? It’s kinda… positive, ya know?
Well, I’d like to posit that all beings also have Dudeha-nature; the potential to fully Abide. To relax, take it easy and let everything roll on off, like water from a gimp suit. So we all have Dudeha-nature, but we get distracted and instead pursue the dreams held by Jeffery Lebowski “The millionaire.”
Life is noisy, man. “Lotta strands in ol’ Duder’s head.” The more tied up I get in wanting this and that, the more miserable and stressed out I get when I don’t get/lose this and that. Meaning, if I don’t abide, I suffer.
But there’s hope, hope to wake up that sleeping Dude within. And to maybe even find a little compassion for people as it becomes apparent that everyone has Dudeha-nature. Ah, to live in a world full of Dudes. We already are, just very un-Dude Dudes dude.
Well, I’m gonna crash. Catch ya later on down the trail.
So I kicked some royal ass at work last night. Yeah, I know, I say on my FB profile that I’m unemployed, but if there’s one thing you need to know about me from the start, it’s, “Dude Lee lies.” That’s also the first thing you need to know about Matt Smith’s “Doctor.”
If that went over your head, then you obviously aren’t a nerd like me.
In fact, everything about me is a lie. My name isn’t even Lee Glazier, it’s a pen name. By my other name, which is also a pen name, I’m a minimally known writer who has a loyal fan base.
I didn’t want to alienate said fan base, so here we are. Also, I didn’t want to talk about smoking weed all the time under my second pen name or given name since both of those names reside in a state where that sweet, sticky green is illegal. That’s why, as far as anyone reading this is concerned, I live in Golden, Colorado.
“But you just said that you don’t live in Colorado.” “No, I said that my given name doesn’t live in Colorado – I do live in Colorado though, Dude.”
Uh, so, yeah, anyway—I kicked ass last night. We were short handed and set the goal, “I want this place, come morning, to look like we weren’t short handed at all.” Come morning, we didn’t. It felt good achieving that, also felt good to haul ass because on most nights my job is easy a shit.
But among all the ass hauling, kicking and other things, there wasn’t any stress, Dudes. Abiding doesn’t, ya know, mean that we have to seem chill all of the time. Appearances can be deceiving; While power walking and doing this and that, I probably didn’t look chill at all—but, I was.
Sometimes, we’ve just gotta go for it, ya know? We’ve gotta expend energy, move fast, and get shit done. But that doesn’t mean that I have to lose my inner Dude during all that. Mellow, contrary to popular opinion, isn’t something that the world can touch.
So, I started smoking weed in the summer of ’02. Nothing really happened the first few times. That’s because I was still, ya know, hesitant so I didn’t rip the shit out of it like I was supposed to. But, by the 3rd for 4th time… it happened. “Ground control to Major Lee.”
That was my first fling with psychedelia, the awesome potential of mind to dive into altered states of consciousness, to twist its own perception and free play with reality. Well, it wasn’t free – 20 buck a gram – but still.
Everything that I knew took on a whole different dimension: music, food, nature, orgasms… it was also so… uplifted, man. Even the paranoia was awesome, in fact those were the best trips in retrospect. Those highs when you’re so baked that the brain tries to remember what it was like to be sober. It can’t, so, ya know, it gives the, “What in the holy fuck is going on?!” response.
Weed changed my life and, using it during that pivotal developmental period, probably changed my brain itself. I dunno if I could’ve ever even gotten into Dudeism, Zen, Taoism and whatnot without being terraformed by weed.
It wasn’t all good though. There was a time, from ’10 to ’12, when I used it as a crutch following the untimely death of a friend. I don’t remember much of those years, but they were confusing, emotional, and I just didn’t want anything to do with any of it; I wanted to fly 24/7. But, ya know, tolerance is a bitch.
Eventually I wasn’t even getting high anymore, it just took the edge off reality. All this culminated into a near suicide attempt and me checking myself into the loony bin for two days.
There’s no shame in admitting yourself if ya need to, Dudes. It’s one of the best decisions I made in my life. After that, I was level again, but still enjoyed smoking; so much so that they kicked me out of group therapy or advocating marijuana use hahaha. Kicked out of group therapy, I didn’t even know that was possible!
The facilitator called me and said, “You have to go to a group where people are still using drugs.” “I have to?” “Yes.” “I’m doing this voluntarily man, so I don’t have to do anything.” “Yes you do! If you don’t, then we’ll have to close your case.” “Well… guess my case is closed then isn’t it?”
And that was that. Just because I’m a Dudeist doesn’t mean I’m gonna put up with someone’s shit and I certainly wasn’t gonna go a group for heroin and meth addicts – no offense if you’re a heroin or meth addict, live and let live, man – but, ya know, it’s different.
Anyway, my weed use slimmed down overtime, mostly because I was flat broke and that shit’s ridiculously expensive. A couple years went by without me smoking at all. My first re-acquaintance was when I took a trip to Cali to visit a FB friend. Holy fuck, Dudes – I got sooooooo fucking stoned. Her and one of her friends went for a walk, but I was way too out of it to associate with the non-high population.
So I stayed behind in her condo. I was mesmerized by a rain stick, musta played with that thing for a half an hour. Then I spun in circles around the place, sat smoking on the balcony, had a bunch of insights that I completely forgot the next day – ya know, the usual.
There was paranoia that time, as the brain struggled against its new environment. But, it was fuckin’ awesome. Did it a few days later while being a passenger in Cali traffic. Wooow man, that was an experience. Stoned out of my gord riding along on a Cali highway, a bumper to bumper flow of shiny salmon or migratory birds, listening to some EDM New Agey music I’d never heard before but fit the situation perfectly.
Then, downtown San Diego, with its monoliths and crowds of pedestrians, all marching in time to the tune. It was… monumental.
After that, I didn’t smoke again for over a year. Then I had a really… Buddhisty experience that I won’t go into here. After that, I’m constantly aware of an aspect of mind, or consciousness or idk, that isn’t influenced by… well, anything. No matter what I think, feel, or experience, it’s just there.
So when I started smoking again, it wasn’t the same as before. I got really, super duper high, but there was no paranoia or even, unfortunately, a lot of psychedelia because that awareness of the whole thing wasn’t affected.
I guess it’s like, ya know, we watch our live unfold. We watch our feelings, thoughts, sensations, perceptions etc. and we’re, the watcher, is affected by these things – apparently. Then we turn around and watch the watching and see that it really isn’t affected by anything at all – no matter what.
It doesn’t feel pain or pleasure, doesn’t believe or disbelieve in anything, doesn’t get high, drunk, or sober – it’s just there, man. I’m guessing most theists would call it the soul, but I can’t go that far with it. Actually, I mean, I’ve gotta go further, passed awareness.
But, uh, yeah this post really got away from me. So, I’m just gonna abruptly end it here.
Have you ever just sat and stared at something for a long ass time? Really focusing on it, revolving around it, really letting it occupy your mind? It’s pretty cool—especially when whatever it is you’re focusing on suddenly changes.
I was sitting at the edge of the driveway, enjoying some sporadic sunlight, watching the last storm’s leftover water go rustling down the gutter. Every now and then, the apparatus pumping it out would stop…. uh, pumping, and the little stream would settle in.
The gleaming sunlight sprites would go into hiding as the crests softened into placidity. Then, I’d hear a whoosh out of my right ear, and sure enough, there came the next flood. The first wave carrying the sunlight like a flag, arching decadently across its entire surface. The proceeding tide once again gave birth to shining sprites as the ripples rose up and collapsed back into the flow.
I sat and watched this for several minutes—not even stoned. Perfectly calm, Dude. What I was watching was change. The dynamic, powerful force of impermanence manifesting itself as a tiny gutter river, carrying twigs and small leaves along with it without concern.
I stood up and turned to see a tree’s roaming shadow play across the pavement as the wind rustled through its leafs and branches. Perception has us differentiate between figure-ground relationships. In this case, the dappled sunlight on the asphalt was the ground, and the traveling shadows were the figure.
But it’s possible to reverse this relationship by disciplining one’s focus. As I watched, the swaying shadows became the solid background, and the sun dotted pavement began to move. Then, the relationship changed again, so that figure and ground became equal. This translated to the brain as a flowing experience, an utter lack of stagnancy and differentiation, a clear revelation of the fallibility of labels.
Then, I smiled, went inside and took a piss.
I started up this WordPress account, chose a random layout and looked around at all the features, colors, widgets and doodads. I lit up a smoke, took a swig of room temperature coffee and thought, “What the fuck is all this shit?”
I used a color picker tool to, uh, pick the color from the Dude’s robe and made that the background. Then I went through and deleted all the bells and whistles, No search bar, no blog roll, no what-have-you.
I’m not gonna add too many graphics to these posts or accentuate anything with headers. I’m gonna make it as boring as humanly possible.
I’ve always had a thing for empty rooms. Have you ever seen the show Life? It was on for two seasons. It was about a detective who was wrongly imprisoned for 12 years. He started practicing Zen while he was inside. He was given a huge settlement when he won his wrongful imprisonment suit, or appeal, whatever.
He bought a gigantic fuckin’ pad – but he never put anything in it. There was just one spacious empty room after another. I really dug that. “That’s because it lets the energy flow.” “Shut the fuck up, Donny.”
That show is actually what got me interested in Zen. After, ya know, actually getting into it, I discovered that the series sensationalized it a bit – and that’s OK. For the life of me, I’ve never met a Zenny that reminds me of Charlie Crews.
Zennists are usually just ordinary people (though they can be real asshats on FB – so, yeah, ordinary people) who accept, and work with, the facts of life and stare at a lot of walls.
Zennies dress in black for the same reason that beige might appeal to the Dude – it’s simple, boring, ordinary, non-eye-catching. It, “Fits right in there.” Sometimes there’s a color, well, it’s the color of its place and time.
I find it interesting, ya know, that the Dude—whom the squares would consider the seminal hippie—never wears tie-dye or beads; ya never see a hookah or Rasta colored Bob Marley poster in his pad. Because he isn’t a hippie—he’s just the Dude, just himself.
There are so many labels that we use to define ourselves, ya know? Which is fine, it’s cool, labels are helpful. But then, ya know, we start going into self-fulfilling prophesies and shit, assimilating cultural memes that are associated with the label that aren’t necessarily who we are. Then we get confused and wind up in Thailand with a fake passport, a pound of Colombian Whites, and a dead guy in the trunk.
Says the guy sitting here in a tie-dye shirt and mala beads. But I like some color from time to time, some spark in the machinery. That’s why I liked Christmas when I was younger. I mean, the presents were cool too, but I loved riding with my parents down those ultra-Christmas streets.
Ya know the ones. Those streets that are pretty much seasonal attractions to the point where they sometimes have pamphlets printed out for them. I loved the lights, man—the color. I’ve got a lot of browns in my wardrobe, but I can really dig some oranges, blues and forest greens too.
This might seem arbitrary, because it is. This post is ultra-arbitrary, like a floor tile or a leak dripping into a plastic bucket. But such is life; finding the magic in ordinary things, seeing the deeper meaning behind the mundane, er within it or around it, something like that.
So, yeah, this blog wasn’t my idea. Someone who read my TTB article asked if I had one. I didn’t, so now I do. It’s all so astonishingly arbitrary.