This domineering tyrant is in charge of my mind and directs my focus and attention to whatever puzzle or curiosity it’s attracted to—like a magpie spotting a shiny piece of tinfoil on the ground and heading into a nosedive.
Or a bee getting that little zing up its tiny spine and making a straightaway for his morning shot of nectar dusted with trendy macha powder.
Or discovering what kind of homing pigeon call four competing gas companies receive that announce a newly made cross section of road.
All that scattered focus is part of what Eckhart defines as a wretched epidemic running rampant across our globe—a dreadful affliction, an incessant enslavement, a blight of flesh-eating, biohazardous decrepitude that is pure poison.
Okay, that last part I added myself for pungent emphasis, so scratch that if you’re a stickler for purity, but his message remains:
Thinking has become a disease.
Apparently, the real me is buried deep within a place that requires a treasure map to locate and which is about as obtainable as nuclear warhead access codes.
But it’s there.
And from what I gather, it’s shaking its head at me and making some thoroughly annoying tsking sounds.
Well, not entirely.
I’m thinking—er, guessing—that if I close off those roads the devilish despot situated in my brain’s bus driver seat will plow through and easily make a few detours. He’s determined and relentless. A big bulldozing control freak. And I can’t have him behind the controls, running rampant and unshackled.
Thinking about fewer things could be helpful.
Actually, thinking about fewer things is the new ordinance. It’s written in tiny, black ink letters at the bottom of the contract I just signed with my new publishers on page 79.
Thou shalt not obliterate brain cells unless in the effort to complete labor on our behalf.
I get it.
They’re Eckhart Tolling my evil overlord. He’s been too busy with fingers in more pots than those found in a Cuisinart factory. Which means when he rouses from slumber tomorrow morning, he’ll find a cup of tea in a cardboard mug and a bran muffin in a paper bag waiting for him by the front door, as well as his suitcase and passport.
Along with breakfast and the clean underwear I’m making sure the taskmaster is taking with him, he’ll also be tucking a calendar beneath his arm.
The one that contains my blog post schedule.
After nearly four years of popping out weekly essays, the winds of fate are asking I blow hot air in a different direction. So, if it’s not become easy enough to read between the lines thus far, here it is in plain speak:
I’m going into Monk Mode.
Hands have shaken all around. Publishing dates are set. Editors have been met. And sleeves have been rolled up to reveal many sets of attractively sculpted forearms.
I’ve split open a fifty-pound bag of dog chow for the hound and placed it in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I’ve allowed the mouse population to flourish in the basement for the benefit of the cat.
And I’ve filled the pantry with four season’s worth of tinned beans and tuna for my teenage son.
Everyone will be happy.
I’ll be wheeling around a rolling intravenous infusion pole that will alternate two bags filled with either French roast coffee or chamomile tea, and once a week I’ll slip in a dram of whisky for good measure.
This is the new normal. This is the new now.
The other half of this blog posting team will be up to his earballs in new and exciting work as well. As many of you know already, Rob’s talents extend far beyond his side-splitting sketches, and during the next year he’ll be trying to get a new theater show off the ground in Sweden. As the ground is often frozen and frequently unforgiving, it will require extra effort and a massive sense of humor.
Thank God Rob has all that in spades.
We’ve had to ponder and plan the roads in front of us.
This is not goodbye, I promise, but rather the announcement of a new schedule for Rob and me.
It’s what we’re referring to as “No Schedule,” just random, occasional posts when we both find ourselves popping up above ground for a breath of fresh air and a check to see who’s ahead in any political polls.
Change is good for all of us. It challenges, invigorates, and inspires us to see and create with fresh eyes. And just like underwear, fresh is hugely appreciated by those who take the time to sit beside you and see what new alluring and inviting art you’ve fashioned since the last time you all had a good chin wag.
We promise to keep in touch and keep you “posted.”
We’ll be thinking of you—even if Eckhart Tolle tells us not to.
~Shelley & Rob
Don’t forget to check out what we’re cookin’ in the Scullery and what we all talked about down in the pub. Plus, you can see more of Robin Gott‘s humor–all from the only pen carved from a human funny bone.