bb xxx: note(s) to self, re: zenso, etc.

 

Brix!

Sometimes it may be valuable to go for a walk by yourself [under the stars or moon or in the rain or on the beach or in the shade of the redwoods], and muse, or get lost, or whatever.

And sometimes it may be rejuvenatory, to think onto some paper, or something like that.

Like this, maybe.

Through tapping fingers:

___

I think there are a couple of things that may be worth remembering, or reminding myself or ourselves, from time to time: One of these things is that, above all, Zenso is born today, of a personal experience, a personal expression, personal art; it’s highly personal. Health seems to be this exhibition of creativity, art as it is espoused by the individual, by me or you or whomever. So that is one thing; it’s that Zenso is whatever it is or whatever it seems to be right now – irrespective of what anyone else thinks or reads or says or whatever. What another person says about your act(s) of thinking, and how anyone else looks at the way you make love with the doings of your life, is cracker-jack-box shit.

Another thing, what is written of Zenso – like anything else of Zenso – is about anti-depressionalism. It’s about fun. It’s about authentic expression. That’s it. And anything that is done with or regarding Zenso, whether it be planning or Riding or writing or reminding people of events or cooking up a story of or doing Zenso (the art of doing it) seems to be about… Fun. And feeling; and authenticity or honesty and art – however the fuck that happens to be expressed.

And also, regarding Riding or writing: that what is written – especially as it pertains to brain [of] Butter – has the theme, as ideationed before, to be writing these things, these thoughts, these whatevers, as to Brixton (you) – and maybe as to TFL – that this appears to be an open-the-door to some creative expression and honesty of thought, and deep thought(s), handed over (shared) as in relationship, with people I la-la-love.

And as a general reminder, to let expectation vanish in the fucking wind, and slay the guilt dragon, and Let be anti-depressionistic any of these [seemingly trustable] tendencies; and authentic feet be those which lead me spontaneously to wherever here happens to be. That fear can die under sense. And sensual behaviors can offer themselves up as anytime treats. That riding the wave of now can be at once pleasuristic and filled with meaning and full of an artist’ touch, and emotive in all its ranginess and coloriness, and a life all their own each-and-every of these sense-things. And connection: that me-you-us-all-of-it has no name maybe, but glows inside, outside, over, and/or under whatever this seems to be…