The well’s run dry but Frank Zappa’s album Weasels Ripped My Flesh is still an amazing creative inspiration. The album was around the house when I was a kid. Absurdly funny, musically just wonderful. I love Zappa. He rocked.
The problem is: What happens when weasels REALLY rip one’s flesh? What does one do about it? Afterall, mammals are weasels’ choicest food.
I never thought much about it when I was a kid. It just seemed like a funny joke and something that would never happen. At least not to me. Not in America. Certainly, there would be a haven from weasels in the “Land of the free….”
Yet, when picking up my wife from the train station, or in the supermarket, or even in church, there are the weasels. Yes, right there they are: Weasels ready to cut into the skin, weasels always hungry, weasels on the prowl.
Just ask Ben Stiller. He makes a good witness.
Meditation heals, and it’s something weasels just can’t do very effectively. They operate on a different plane. Yes, they’re just too busy when they are not sleeping to acheive a peaceful mind, or at least that which we humans consider to be peaceful. They play by their own rules.
Humans can’t really touch them, at least most of us, without being bitten. We can, however, choose to not follow their ways. We can choose not to tear human flesh; weasels can’t make that choice.
Meditation is a place to be safe from the weasels. Yes, it is. For me, an unorthodox mixture of yoga postures and Christian prayer does the trick. Closing the door when the weasels approach is probably a good idea, too.
That and a nice game of Snood is all is needed, for now.