In my attempt to recreate the world in my own image--regardless of reality, I've decided to open the Joe-Mammy.com Zen academy. Of course the overhead is waaaaaay to expensive to actually open much of anything other than a fresh bag of cornnuts, so I'll just throw up my little snippets right here on the Blog of Universal Oneness. Enjoy...

The first step to complete Mammy-ness is to not want to be Mammy-like
When I woke up, say, five years ago (where all of this silliness really really began, but that's a story I'm likely going to avoid for a long time...) I didn't hop out of bed and say to myself "I'm going to be Joe Mammy and be the beacon for all that is funkariffic for entire generation." Nope, I probably wondered why I was awake at that particular moment instead of still being asleep. (It's a daily question, trust me...) And then wondered what purpose there was to me being awake. Then I'd think that maybe the question was moot because I was going back to sleep. Then I'd wonder why I couldn't back to sleep. Then I'd just get irritated and get out of bed, even though I was still tired and no real purpose in actually being conscious at that particular point in time (or for any foreseeable future, for that matter...) So how did it all come together, you ask? Because I didn't want it to come together.

You see, many times it's much more psychologically rewarding to suffer continuously against some sort of universal machination--especially if you think that at some point those around you will actually notice and be impressed by said suffering. While pro-ballplayers make the big money, no one is as loved as a martyr. But thing is, long-term self-induced suffering is like going on a hunger strike when no one cares or (better yet) no one knows. Sure there's a degree of self-congratulatory "check out my discipline" mentality at work, but in the end you're just hungry.

So, there I was, metaphorically hungry trying to stare down the bologna sandwich of life (and let's face it, life isn't gonna be one of those deli sandwiches with hand carved slow-roasted cured meats, it's gonna be the massed produced boring and compositionally suspect kinda sandwiches--bologna. Maybe even Spam. But I digress...) Thing is, no matter how long you stare you're going to lose because sandwiches don't have eyes. Absurd? Yes. Truthful? Trust me.

And one day there came a point where I just said "screw it" and took a nibble of sandwich. The world didn't end and no one thought less of me for it. And that's when it all starts. You still think of yourself as on a hunger strike, but you snack away. Soon you're eating full meals (granted, meals of bologna and white bread, but meals...) and then you look and realize you're nothing like the person you wanted to convince people you were. What's more you look back and realize, none of them really care either way.

So, where does that leave you? Who are you? You're not a martyr anymore. You're not some Dionysian hedonism freak, either. You're just someone. Maybe your name is Bill. Maybe your name is Trent. My name was Joe. It's the wonderfully banal process of becoming what you are. Extraordinary because there is no process per se, just a point in time where you can look back on and say that you kinda figured out what it was you were.

Sit my lil' wallabees and listen to a parable:
Once upon a time Phil went to his mother and said "I want to be President."
Phil's mom didn't say much, but nodded supportively.
Phil tried hard and did his best, but he couldn't become the president.
He went to his mom after that and said "I want to be a famous painter."
Again, mom didn't say much.
After Phil realized he wasn't particularly good at painting he thought he'd try and be a zookeeper.
His mother seemed to be tiring of these incessant attempts at different lives, but said nay a discouraging word.
Phil again fell short of his goal and decided that he could be happy doing the most menial of work. He could be a physical laborer and still feel like he had accomplished something.
Phil said to his mother "I'm going to be a lumberjack."
At which point his mother finally sighed and said, "Phil, you have your own special gifts in this life and you seem to be missing them all by wanting to be something you're not.
"What's more, you're a tree, so stop all this lumberjack talk and stand here quietly like the rest of us; you're upsetting the neighbors..."

Thus sprach Joe Mammy...