Nate eyes me funny, "I'm not meditating, I'm just sitting here."
"That's true meditation," I say. "Think of nothing."
I put a towel over Nate's head like a dick (in a cum rag), while he sat there on the white tile with a pillow underneath, and one leg crossed over the other, hands together, palms up and thumbs together like some tattooed blond-haired bodhisattva. He'd just finished reading my copy of the Dharma Bums (it's not even mine, it's Katarina's) two days ago and was discovering the Zen Lunatic within.
I talk to him in a deep voice after he throws the towel off and says, "I need to be aware of everything, Becky!"
"You need to be aware of nothing," I say, slightly sarcastically Buddha. "Empty your mind of every thought, don't think of the day, don't think of me, or you, or these words. Don't think. Just let it wash over you like a rock in a stream that just sits and is. That's you."
He probably hates me. I'm laughing inside.
"Count without numbers, Nate. Be without feeling," I say as I walk inside. "Let that be your eternal mindset."
