I woke up this morning feeling unusually good. No idea what has come over me, except the engine just turned over for the first time in a while.

I think it was Orion flying by. I think maybe the sound of it passing woke me up, on time, at the perfect spot in the REM cycle and shit just cranked.

I’ve been trying to hit on a perfect guided image for my daily attempts at meditation, couter-intuitive for my hard-cranking, fast churning monkey-house of a brain, and finally this morning, as I kept forcibly reminding myself, “Stop, don’t bring that stress here. Stop, only think  about one thing. Stop, don’t follow every squirrel, steer the damn ship,” it finally hit me. My image is chips in racks. My image is the decimated strip at 4am in the off-season. My image is water on the pavement as I blast from SLC to Vegas in four hours flat.

This images bring me stillness. Wholeness. I realize that, indeed, if 6 was fucking nine, I’d have your world, and you’d have mine.

The volume knobs on things turn in the right directions. My mind is suddenly still, mystic, initiatory.

I look out on this town and it’s like a fucking zen garden built in a garbage dump and I feel perfect and  I think, for the first time in a couple years,

“I’m a motherfucking card player, that’s who the fuck I am.”

Good times. Good times. Good times to come.