Weed Pulling Meditation Center Manual : Chapt. 1

Weed Pulling Fingers, by Dark Sevier.
(Originally posted on Undead Words, 2/20/2006)

Official Weed Pulling Meditation Center Document

Lets start by talking about the word metaphor. I think the word deserves attention.

(m t -fôr , -f r)n. 1. A figure of speech in which a word or phrase that ordinarily designates one thing is used to designate another, thus making an implicit comparison, as in “a sea of troubles” or “All the world’s a stage” (Shakespeare). 2. One thing conceived as representing another; a symbol: “Hollywood has always been an irresistible, prefabricated metaphor for the crass, the materialistic, the shallow, and the craven” (Neal Gabler). [Middle English methaphor, from Old French metaphore, from Latin metaphora, from Greek, transference, metaphor, from metapherein, to transfer : meta-, meta- + pherein, to carry; see bher-1 in Indo-European Roots.] met a·phor ic (-fôr k, -f r -) or met a·phor i·cal adj. met a·phor i·cal·ly adv.

I start with this word because I think a deep understanding of metaphor enables a person to make connections that might not otherwise be made. In my opinion, finding a metaphorical illustration to help convey the essence of what one sees or has a desire to share adds an additional dimension beyond the words used. To illustrate:

Before a garden can be planted, the ground must be prepared.

One could limit the phrase to seeds, weeds and dirt. One could also assign metaphorical designations to the nouns and verbs: 

Before a desire can be realized, the conditions must be cultivated.

Or something like that. 

The illustration of the garden (if one actually knows how to plant a garden) serves as a mental model to reflect upon in the process of realizing ones desires. Knowing what you want = getting the seeds. Knowing the ideal season and climate that the plants will flourish in = knowing when, where and how to act on what you want. Cultivating the desire = weeding out volunteer seeds that would compete with the ones you chose. 

Now, I would like to propose that the act of planting a garden can serve as a meditation on, and/or a prayer for, the realization of ones larger desire. Even more, I propose that the real, active process of finding what grows well where you are (or moving to the place that best facilitates what you want to grow) serves to germinate ones natural desires if one opens their mind to them, and showers them with attention once the seeds have sprout.

Whoah. I’m mixing my metaphors here. On purpose. That’s my point. Metaphors can be two way doors. Or three. 

Do you see what I’m saying? I ask this not in condescension, but as a literal question. 

Do you see what I am saying? Or do you just hear the words? Probably neither since this whole thing be written text. 

Get my point? I ask this both metaphorically and literally. It be my intent as a writer to prod your curiosity to read further. Then we can have a relationship. Without ever having physically met.

It be my desire to relate with more people with less effort. So, I concentrate my effort on defining clearly what I want to relate, and choose an appropriate medium for that want to be conveyed. Hi there.

Chapter 00: Rubber Chicken

(Originally posted on It Seemed Funny At The Time, 9/5/2008)


The Heroes’ long blond hair whipped furiously in the cross winds of the Cajon Pass as he rode an open topped ‘68 Land Cruiser down the massive roller coaster of Interstate 15. The engine was red- lining at 70 miles an hour as he cruised down the slow lane of the six lanes headed west. The Hero hits ‘play’ on his Walkman and nods a grinning head to the opening bass line of “Mountain Song” by Jane’s’ Addiction. 

The script was unwritten; the story was an idea, and the hero’s arc undetermined. I was living the dream, the movie, the life of a human on the verge of… 


I was reared as a good Christian boy, in a good, ultra conservative, Christian family. I spent most of my life living in a stretched out notch beneath the buckle of the Bible Belt. I had a well balanced childhood. I was caged in the iron fist of the fundamentalist paradigm, but was allowed ample doses of the saccharine sweet liberty and freedom seen on network television. Between the age of four and nine I lived in a suburb of Atlanta. Ted Turner was just beginning to crank up the wattage on the Television tower for WTCG (soon to become WTBS, then TBS). Unlike the big three networks, Turner was actively digging up the best of television history and making it available to a new generation. 

I watched Mr. Ed, Father Knows Best, Leave it to Beaver, :The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Bewitched . . .

To live in mental bondage, to have the Master bind the mind with threats of pain and suffering, and allusions of heavenly bliss. But that trip had a Santa factor that I couldn’t deny. It wasn’t the same kick once the theatrics ceased to pull me in emotionally. I realized that there were options of how to be in this life. I decided to seek them out.

I moved to Los Angeles on Halloween 1989. I sensed optimism in the zeitgeist of the West. “What happens in the 90’s will make the 60’s look like the 50’s” was a catch phrase I heard at the time, and it stuck with me. I was a young American moving into the World, excited to be there.

I was 20 years old and I thought I was funny. I decided that I would become a stand up comic, then comedic actor, then movie star, then a reclusive eccentric. My optimism was partnered with my narcissism and my expectations were painfully cliché, but I carried the protective shield of naiveté as I enlisted in the army of wannabees training for action in the arena of pop culture. 

I saw the L.A. Caberet sign on Ventura Boulevard and turned into the parking lot on impulse. I opened the door and entered into darkness. Cigarette smoke varnished bar lights skulked into my vision as my eyes adjusted to the room. There was no one there. I stood for a few moments, buffeted with a freon tainted air conditioning heavily fragranced by eau de bar smell. 

A stocky bald guy emerges through a heavy velvet curtain, then stops in his tracks when he notices me. 

“Can I help you?” he asks with tone. I asked if they had an audition night. He walks behind the bar a pulls out a piece of paper and attaches it to a clip board. Then he looks at his watch. “Sign up isn’t ‘till 6:00.”

“What time is it now” I asked.
“Have you never been here before?” 
I shook my head no. “First time I’ve seen the place.”
“sign up is at 6:00. We make a line-up from the list and post it outside at 8pm. You come back then to find out if you have a spot.” 
“A spot tonight?” I balked. I was looking for info on auditioning, not an audition, not yet.
“No, last night. “ the crabby dude said. “How long have you done standup?”
“Um, not long” I winced at the idea of clarifying furthur. He thrust the clipboard at me and said “Go ahead, but next time you sign at 6.” I lettered my name and handed it back. He turned and threw the list on the bar and walked through the curtain into the showroom.

I had thought about doing comedy, but that was about it. I had no act, no jokes, no real stage experience, no clue as to what to do with a spot if I got one. I stood in the quiet blackness of the bar and looked at the list. I thought about scratching my name off, but it was too late. I showed my face. I asked and I received. 

I turned and walked out into the harsh San Fernando Valley sun with my head racing. I spent the next three of hours pacing and scribbling notes. I thought of things I had said at parties that made people laugh, a few tall jokes, and odd bits that were just weird. 

I returned at 8:00 to check the list. There were a half dozen people gandering the line up, many more that had looked, and more that were waiting to look. I used my abnormal height to peer over the tops of their heads. There were thirty people listed for the main room. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw I wasn’t one. Then I noticed the bar stage list. I was on it. First position. I panicked a bit and started walking in circles around the vast parking lot the club shared with a strip mall. 

At 9:00pm I entered the bar and introduced myself to the Emcee. I told him it was my first time and asked who I was auditioning for. “This will be your first time?” he asked incredulously. 
“Yeah” I exhaled.
“Uh, you don’t want to audition for anyone or anything your first time buddy. You’re on the bar stage for a reason. No one knows you and know one cares, which is good, trust me. Just get up there and have a good time.”

I wasn’t legally old enough to be in the bar. I ordered a whisky in the hopes I would be kicked out, but I just got a very small and expensive drink, as the emcee took the mic. He had a face for comedy. Premature wrinkles and extreme features. He specialized in groaners. He didn’t seem to be there for the laughs. Wiry and kenetic, the funny was implied. He seemed to consciously elicit groans and heckles. That was his gig. Then he stops his small-stage pacing and straightens up. He announces a first timer with a modicum of ceremony and I shoot my whisky.

After I took the stage I quickly realized that the context of making a funny with friends is far removed from performing in front of a room full of strangers. My face flushed and my heart pounded as I tried to decipher the notes scribbled on my hand. I pushed through it and got the light none too soon. I didn’t bring the house down. I walked off the stage and headed for the door when Bobby Pollack stopped me. He asked me if that was really my first time. I winced and said yep. He told me I was great and encouraged me to keep it up, then asked if I wanted to go with him to an open mic off Fairfax and Beverly. He said the audience was nice. I was certain that if I didn’t go I would never try it again. 

If Richard Lewis dressed like a poor disco dancer from the 70’s and only told one-liners, you would have Bobby Pollack. Long black hair, shirt tucked in and unbuttoned to his belly, a black leather vest, and jeans with a package crushing tightness. The week before I had agreed to get into a Maseratti with a real life California Ken and Barbie and only managed to get away from them after three days of high weirdness. So, I told Bobby I’d follow him in my car. 

The Mad Hatters coffee house was an art space run by a few enterprising optimists in their early twenties. It was conceived as an alternative to the bars, a place where the kids (many of whom were already in treatment before their 18th birthday) could socialize sans alcohol. I think it was the only coffee house in LA at the time. This was before Highland Grounds, Grounds Zero, The Bourgeois Pig, Stir Crazy’s, Insomnia, and long before Starbucks franchised itself. It was a hodge podge of curb furniture and spontaneous art. It was the first place I ever saw the little white Christmas lights used out of season. 

Bobby and I walked in and signed up on the list. The room was full of thrift store hipsters and the consciously uncool. They had no name at the time. The labels of Hipster, Grunge, and Generation X were yet to be. Most didn’t dress down of necessity. Many were kids of ex-hippies. It was a den of the new rebellion, the anti fashionists, the trust funded gone feral. 

Futons and floor pillows cushioned the audience. I took the stage still feeling the adrenal surge of my last set. I used the few things that received polite chuckles and improvised some this and that. This time I was not looking through a blinding stage light at smoke veiled, hard lined faces. This time I was faced with beaming enthusiasm from open minds and I was comfortable on stage. I naturally fell into the techniques of timing and facial mugging and extend the laughs. I found myself performing and I loved it. I was high and I was hooked.