Never too young for mala beads!
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meditation. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Friday, July 6, 2012
Confession
I woke this morning a little before 5am from a dream of an unruly meditation group. In the dream, two of the students from my past life as an adjunct community college professor have found their way into the new age bookstore where the meditation group is meeting. I attempt to corral their energy in a constructive manner but fail, utterly, and soon find myself asking them to leave the gathering. As they get up to go, I’m struck by a wave of guilt – is one allowed to expel another under these circumstances if it’s for the good of the whole? Or, is it a sign of failure on the part of the teacher, a mix of impatience, incompetence and frustration?
Whatever it is, I find myself running after them in the dream, stopping them in the parking lot, and telling them they can come back inside if they contribute rather than distract from the teachings. Neither of them respond, and I return to the room. Something has shifted, however, and the momentum that I had been building has been replaced by doubt.
This may or may not be the point.
I woke again at 6:30, meditated, showered, and made a cup of chai. At some point I began to journal (a measly, anemic entry that has sadly become par for the course over the past year) and eventually turned on my phone. There was a message from Saylor:
We haven’t spoken in months, and other than a couple of unreturned calls in either direction over the winter, we’ve had virtually no contact since last summer when my yin and I spent a couple of nights with him in San Francisco. The call, both in its timing and content, was poignant. Among other things, Saylor mentioned that he has been watching this blog, wondering what had happened.
I have at least a half dozen reasons, some real, others fictive, but all are ultimately unsatisfying. I’ve thought maybe it’s a result of being too happy, of being unhappy, of working too much, of not working enough, of working too much of the wrong type of job, of being uncomfortable, of being too uncomfortable, blah blah bah…
The words seem to disappear as effortlessly as they arrive, and over the past year this has been a curious source of disappointment for me. But, with Saylor’s call this morning, and the resultant realizations I had on the drive into work, I can’t help but think I may have turned a corner, found some pinprick of light through the dark haze that has been obscuring the words for far too long…
Whatever it is, I find myself running after them in the dream, stopping them in the parking lot, and telling them they can come back inside if they contribute rather than distract from the teachings. Neither of them respond, and I return to the room. Something has shifted, however, and the momentum that I had been building has been replaced by doubt.
This may or may not be the point.
[lapse]
I woke again at 6:30, meditated, showered, and made a cup of chai. At some point I began to journal (a measly, anemic entry that has sadly become par for the course over the past year) and eventually turned on my phone. There was a message from Saylor:
 |
| "Drowned Sorrows Dried Up" |
(here comes the confession)
I don’t know.I have at least a half dozen reasons, some real, others fictive, but all are ultimately unsatisfying. I’ve thought maybe it’s a result of being too happy, of being unhappy, of working too much, of not working enough, of working too much of the wrong type of job, of being uncomfortable, of being too uncomfortable, blah blah bah…
 |
| Do you see what I did there? |
Time will tell…
Thursday, January 12, 2012
a little over three years ago...
The poem below was written a little more than three years ago, and although I didn't know it the night I wrote it, tiny cracks were beginning to appear in the facade of my would-be romance. At the time I was engaged in an experiment with celibacy, which taught me many things, but few of them were what I expected. The mind's ability to project inductions and fabricate deductions is truly stunning.
The point is that growth, change, and shifts of consciousness always happen just beyond our ability to see them. The precursors, however, become visible if we practice placing our attention on them. For me this primarily comes through dreams, poetry and meditation.
Unfortunately, waiting for a dream to reveal our next step can lead to a long time waiting (believe me, I've tried), and even when they do arrive interpreting them is a hazy proposition. Poetry is more reliable, but inspiration follows its own timetable – not to mention the dangers inherit in mistaking the muse for the Muse.
That leaves meditation, which is far and away the most reliable source of clarity and wisdom I have yet to discover. (And by 'discover,' I mean stumble into.) One of the interesting things about meditation is that its benefits are realized through practice, not the practitioner's belief of its efficacy. This mean two things.
First, practicing meditation will provide grounding, improve focus, and offer peace of mind even if the practitioner doesn't 'believe' in it. My own experience with mantra and japa mala has taught me this. Second, believing in meditation without practicing is no more useful than believing in reincarnation or the Big Bang or the price of tea in China. For me, although rare, this lack of practice usually results either from a perceived lack of time (inevitably false) or pleasurable distraction (self-explanatory).
Anyway, a little over three years ago I was doing a hell of a lot of meditating. There were flashing lights and revelations and cosmos-shaking insights, but the true benefits of this practice were beginning to show up in more subtle ways. All the flashing lights in the world don't make a difference if we stay stuck in the same patterns, and what good is an insight if we don't integrate it into the way we live our day-to-day lives?
The poem hinted at this process of integration, which was happening in spite of my mind's best efforts to twist the actual situation around into a story worthy of John Hughes or Lloyd Dobbler:
I hold meditation responsible for what happened, and more importantly, for all the things that didn't happen. I could have stayed spinning in that cycle for months or even years longer, delaying – or perhaps even denying – the peace, happiness and fulfillment I now (don't) take for granted. And all because...
But this is beside the point.
The point is that growth, change, and shifts of consciousness always happen just beyond our ability to see them. The precursors, however, become visible if we practice placing our attention on them. For me this primarily comes through dreams, poetry and meditation.
Unfortunately, waiting for a dream to reveal our next step can lead to a long time waiting (believe me, I've tried), and even when they do arrive interpreting them is a hazy proposition. Poetry is more reliable, but inspiration follows its own timetable – not to mention the dangers inherit in mistaking the muse for the Muse.
not this Muse
That leaves meditation, which is far and away the most reliable source of clarity and wisdom I have yet to discover. (And by 'discover,' I mean stumble into.) One of the interesting things about meditation is that its benefits are realized through practice, not the practitioner's belief of its efficacy. This mean two things.
First, practicing meditation will provide grounding, improve focus, and offer peace of mind even if the practitioner doesn't 'believe' in it. My own experience with mantra and japa mala has taught me this. Second, believing in meditation without practicing is no more useful than believing in reincarnation or the Big Bang or the price of tea in China. For me, although rare, this lack of practice usually results either from a perceived lack of time (inevitably false) or pleasurable distraction (self-explanatory).
Anyway, a little over three years ago I was doing a hell of a lot of meditating. There were flashing lights and revelations and cosmos-shaking insights, but the true benefits of this practice were beginning to show up in more subtle ways. All the flashing lights in the world don't make a difference if we stay stuck in the same patterns, and what good is an insight if we don't integrate it into the way we live our day-to-day lives?
The poem hinted at this process of integration, which was happening in spite of my mind's best efforts to twist the actual situation around into a story worthy of John Hughes or Lloyd Dobbler:
Cusak did for stalking what Madonna did for Kabbalah
I hold meditation responsible for what happened, and more importantly, for all the things that didn't happen. I could have stayed spinning in that cycle for months or even years longer, delaying – or perhaps even denying – the peace, happiness and fulfillment I now (don't) take for granted. And all because...
I didn't listen
When we met she told me she wanted to be alone.
But I didn’t listen and soon I was in her bed until
one day she said she needed to be alone. But I
didn’t listen and this was repeated many
times until one night she told me that
she didn’t not want to spend the
night with me. I looked around
her room and saw the cat on
the bed, a stack of books
on the nightstand and
I realized the only
thing in her life
saying she
wasn’t
alone
was
me
.
But I didn’t listen and soon I was in her bed until
one day she said she needed to be alone. But I
didn’t listen and this was repeated many
times until one night she told me that
she didn’t not want to spend the
night with me. I looked around
her room and saw the cat on
the bed, a stack of books
on the nightstand and
I realized the only
thing in her life
saying she
wasn’t
alone
was
me
.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
redux: Zazen v. Nancy
This time last year, I read Norweigan Wood and was immediately taken in by its sense of loss. Before even the first page was finished, I found my mind start drifting,
and I could smell the cold German mist of the narrator's world
colliding with the humidity of past life Floridian summers. I felt as if I knew Naoko, but was unable to place precisely how or whom.
Was it Nancy she reminds me of? Those broken cryptic warnings that masqueraded as invitation? Was it her deception or my projection? What difference does it make now, eleven years later? Karmas have been incurred, lives altered, and each of us stumbled into worlds safely removed from the other's.
Was it a trap door?
Those six years stand like a giant pillar in my life, blocking a clear view of what came before and bathing the years since in its shadow. Is it messianic time flowing in two directions? Everything before and after anchored to the memory of what came to pass, of what lay ahead. Sometimes I walk around that pillar and watch the shadows stretch across the ground, but the sun is never moving.
Back then I was also reading Bodhisattva Archetypes, and I thought about the Zen understanding of a sitting meditation. Iin the Zen tradition the point of sitting is not to attain altered or transcendent states of consciousness – it is merely to sit. (A useful understanding since my current schedule requires that most of my sitting practice has been relegated to parking lots in Broward County.)
Another point that stood out was the notion of 'no-self,' which has a certain linguistic resonance with my dormant nihilism. No-self is not a purely negative construction, however, but an understanding that there is no personal existence except as it relates to all other beings.
Coincidentally, perhaps, last year was also the time my own teacher began to describe a 'transcendent individuality' that exists as a way station (or stomping ground) between the identified, limited self and re-immersion into the Godhead. The Zen understanding of 'no-self' seems to overlap with my teacher's 'transcendent individuality,' though I'm not certain either the dead Dogen or the living half-Canadian would care to hear so.
The point is that no-self holds resonance my deepest meditations, which seem less like an expansion of self than the dissolution of self. (Not that the expanded sensations don't exist, it's just that they seem somehow to be more 'me' and less free.) The no-self is also easier to reconcile with my concerns regarding the balance between the material and metaphysical realms. Unlike the yogic concept of the atman, which is ever unaffected, ever outside of relationship, the no-self lends itself more easily to seeing ourselves as constituted historically as well as atemporally, helping to understand one's place in the world for those 23 hours each day that we're not transcending our living rooms and parking lots.
The only problem is that, while my sitting practice resonates with the no-self, the experience that started me on this whole rigmarole four years ago is beyond my comprehension unless it is framed within the notion of some sort of unaffected, unchanging core of existence - the atman, in other words.
(C'est quoi disent les Francais? Mais oui, c'est la vie...)
[return]
Either way, it doesn't really matter. The answer (which is the question) will reveal itself in its own due time. Until then, one continues to sit...
Was it Nancy she reminds me of? Those broken cryptic warnings that masqueraded as invitation? Was it her deception or my projection? What difference does it make now, eleven years later? Karmas have been incurred, lives altered, and each of us stumbled into worlds safely removed from the other's.
Was it a trap door?
Ever watched a rabbit emerge from hat?
Those six years stand like a giant pillar in my life, blocking a clear view of what came before and bathing the years since in its shadow. Is it messianic time flowing in two directions? Everything before and after anchored to the memory of what came to pass, of what lay ahead. Sometimes I walk around that pillar and watch the shadows stretch across the ground, but the sun is never moving.
Back then I was also reading Bodhisattva Archetypes, and I thought about the Zen understanding of a sitting meditation. Iin the Zen tradition the point of sitting is not to attain altered or transcendent states of consciousness – it is merely to sit. (A useful understanding since my current schedule requires that most of my sitting practice has been relegated to parking lots in Broward County.)
Another point that stood out was the notion of 'no-self,' which has a certain linguistic resonance with my dormant nihilism. No-self is not a purely negative construction, however, but an understanding that there is no personal existence except as it relates to all other beings.
Coincidentally, perhaps, last year was also the time my own teacher began to describe a 'transcendent individuality' that exists as a way station (or stomping ground) between the identified, limited self and re-immersion into the Godhead. The Zen understanding of 'no-self' seems to overlap with my teacher's 'transcendent individuality,' though I'm not certain either the dead Dogen or the living half-Canadian would care to hear so.
But this is beside the point.
The point is that no-self holds resonance my deepest meditations, which seem less like an expansion of self than the dissolution of self. (Not that the expanded sensations don't exist, it's just that they seem somehow to be more 'me' and less free.) The no-self is also easier to reconcile with my concerns regarding the balance between the material and metaphysical realms. Unlike the yogic concept of the atman, which is ever unaffected, ever outside of relationship, the no-self lends itself more easily to seeing ourselves as constituted historically as well as atemporally, helping to understand one's place in the world for those 23 hours each day that we're not transcending our living rooms and parking lots.
The only problem is that, while my sitting practice resonates with the no-self, the experience that started me on this whole rigmarole four years ago is beyond my comprehension unless it is framed within the notion of some sort of unaffected, unchanging core of existence - the atman, in other words.
(C'est quoi disent les Francais? Mais oui, c'est la vie...)
[lapse]
A man walks into a store.
The clerk asks, "Atman or no-self?"
The man answers, "One of each please."
The clerk asks, "Atman or no-self?"
The man answers, "One of each please."
[return]
Either way, it doesn't really matter. The answer (which is the question) will reveal itself in its own due time. Until then, one continues to sit...
Friday, August 26, 2011
near misses , or (that's) "The Way It Goes"
Hurricane Irene skated by the coast of South Florida yesterday afternoon, and other than a handful of jackasses being knocked around by waves up the road at Boynton Inlet, the area has once more escaped damage. In fact, since I moved here a little less than five years ago, there have been no tropical weather related maladies, and I sometimes like to credit this fact to my mere presence.
"That's the way that it goes..."
(Yes, that is the sound of me removing my tongue from my cheek.)
Anyway, this year's August has thus far been defined by near misses. The week I left North Carolina, for example, Neko Case played not once, not twice, but three times within a three-hour radius of Boone. And tonight, while I'm lurking around like some curtain-bound cave-dweller, my yin, my brother, and his wife are going to see Gillian Welch at App State:
"That's the way that it goes..."
It isn't all sour grapes, though. Besides Irene missing us, earlier this week I narrowly avoided a head-on collision with past karma at one of my workplaces, and at the other school I was fortunate enough to receive a warning ticket instead of the real thing after inappropriately backing into a parking spot.
The point is that yesterday one of my students spoke about the importance of timing when it comes to communication. It was an insightful observation, and this past week has done nothing so much as reinforce this idea. Often times we get so lost in the 'should and should not happens' that we forget we are ultimately not the ones in charge.
Time and timing follow a logic all their own, and the difficulties arise only when we begin to think that we could orchestrate it better. But the near misses are just as important, just as meaningful, just as rife with possibility as the times when things go exactly the way we want. Of all the qualities I've heart exhorted as virtuous, patience is undoubtedly the least contentious.
In fact, the ability to wait, easefully, for the right moment to present itself is the goal of all my metaphysical pursuits and interests. It is the reason I was meditating before 6am this morning, the reason I find myself living a life that seemed equally unlikely whether one chooses a time frame of 5 or 10 or 15 years. I accept and celebrate the time and Timing of these things; I do not covet God-Realization, Enlightenment, Nirvana, or Heaven.
Coming full circle, Neko Case has some things to say about this as well:
But poorly chosen automotive metaphors are beside the point.
The point is that yesterday one of my students spoke about the importance of timing when it comes to communication. It was an insightful observation, and this past week has done nothing so much as reinforce this idea. Often times we get so lost in the 'should and should not happens' that we forget we are ultimately not the ones in charge.
Time and timing follow a logic all their own, and the difficulties arise only when we begin to think that we could orchestrate it better. But the near misses are just as important, just as meaningful, just as rife with possibility as the times when things go exactly the way we want. Of all the qualities I've heart exhorted as virtuous, patience is undoubtedly the least contentious.
In fact, the ability to wait, easefully, for the right moment to present itself is the goal of all my metaphysical pursuits and interests. It is the reason I was meditating before 6am this morning, the reason I find myself living a life that seemed equally unlikely whether one chooses a time frame of 5 or 10 or 15 years. I accept and celebrate the time and Timing of these things; I do not covet God-Realization, Enlightenment, Nirvana, or Heaven.
[lapse]
Coming full circle, Neko Case has some things to say about this as well:
"I have waited with a glacier's patience..."
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
22 days and counting...
My yin and I leave on our honeymoon three weeks from tomorrow, and I find myself not unlike a cat, long-tailed and neurotic, in a room full of:
Apparently, photographs provide little relief to cliché;
Apparently, photographs provide little relief to cliché;
.tnoi
peht
edis
ebsi
siht
tub
peht
edis
ebsi
siht
tub
just got home.
just decided to write.
just talked with my yin.
just a mild case of poetry.
just listened to two messages.
just remember this is all a game.
just ten months until the wedding.
just one year until i finish my thesis.
just wonder what i will dream tonight.
just six weeks until we leave for summer.
just stacking one word on top of the other.
just don't care so much for right from wrong.
just regurgitating a form Saylor once admired.
just a sliver between the imaginary and the Real.
just thinking La Cienega leaves for India tomorrow.
just recounted a cadence on the beach in September 2007.
just saw the swirling hypocrisy of time wither in the blink of an eye.
just recounted a cadence on the beach in September 2007.
just broke my own rule about using "friend" as a verb.
just remembered the mid-February Fear of 2009.
just fifty-two minutes until my sister's birthday.
just wondered if Mercury is still in retrograde.
just learned Jache is flying for Africa tonight.
just spent four hours in a bar not drinking.
just experienced a parking lot revelation.
just learned my old roommate moved.
just "friended" my divorce attorney.
just have one research paper left.
just had french fries for dinner.
just read a rejection letter.
just turned off my phone.
just saw an apparition.
just stopped.
I.
I drove home last night thinking about
marriage, ceremony, and ritual,
commitment and obligation,
thinking about dharma.
I thought about the moment hidden in the pomp,
the moment obscured by circumstance:
the moment two becomes one.
I thought about impermanence,
how every thing that has a beginning
will surely have an end.
I thought about the real,
the eternal, the unchanging.
I thought about what I have to offer this union.
No one can give you anything
that you do not already have.
Not peace,
nor security,
nor wisdom,
nor wealth
is lacking.
II.
Then what is the meaning of this marriage?
Is it a dress?
My wish for you, S____,
My wish for you, N_____,
is that
on those
worn
tarnished
rainy
days
you
remember
love has no beginning,
love has no end.
And this, amazingly, is not beside the point, though I have no idea how it connects to all the other dots and circles running around my head right now. I've been able to meditate more this week than I have in the past month, and it's been amazing to watch all the various dreams and memories and visions and desires – repressed and otherwise – bubbling to the surface.
I've been watching Twin Peaks before bed each night, and someday my blog will have something to say about that.
just decided to write.
just talked with my yin.
just a mild case of poetry.
just listened to two messages.
just remember this is all a game.
just ten months until the wedding.
just one year until i finish my thesis.
just wonder what i will dream tonight.
just six weeks until we leave for summer.
just stacking one word on top of the other.
just don't care so much for right from wrong.
just regurgitating a form Saylor once admired.
just a sliver between the imaginary and the Real.
just thinking La Cienega leaves for India tomorrow.
just recounted a cadence on the beach in September 2007.
just saw the swirling hypocrisy of time wither in the blink of an eye.
just recounted a cadence on the beach in September 2007.
just broke my own rule about using "friend" as a verb.
just remembered the mid-February Fear of 2009.
just fifty-two minutes until my sister's birthday.
just wondered if Mercury is still in retrograde.
just learned Jache is flying for Africa tonight.
just spent four hours in a bar not drinking.
just experienced a parking lot revelation.
just learned my old roommate moved.
just "friended" my divorce attorney.
just have one research paper left.
just had french fries for dinner.
just read a rejection letter.
just turned off my phone.
just saw an apparition.
just stopped.
And the year before like:
I.
I drove home last night thinking about
marriage, ceremony, and ritual,
commitment and obligation,
thinking about dharma.
I thought about the moment hidden in the pomp,
the moment obscured by circumstance:
the moment two becomes one.
I thought about impermanence,
how every thing that has a beginning
will surely have an end.
I thought about the real,
the eternal, the unchanging.
I thought about what I have to offer this union.
No one can give you anything
that you do not already have.
Not peace,
nor security,
nor wisdom,
nor wealth
is lacking.
II.
Then what is the meaning of this marriage?
Is it a dress?
(once worn)
Is it a ring?(tarnished)
Is it a Saturday evening in May?(raining)
Is it ‘til death do you part?(death is not an ending)
My wish for you, S____,
My wish for you, N_____,
is that
on those
worn
tarnished
rainy
days
you
remember
love has no beginning,
love has no end.
[lapse]
But this year, at least on this day, there's not a poem in sight. Instead I find myself in bookstores buying road maps and thrift stores buying books and half-lying about my consumption.
I am listening (truly) to a Chinese pop song:
And this, amazingly, is not beside the point, though I have no idea how it connects to all the other dots and circles running around my head right now. I've been able to meditate more this week than I have in the past month, and it's been amazing to watch all the various dreams and memories and visions and desires – repressed and otherwise – bubbling to the surface.
I've been watching Twin Peaks before bed each night, and someday my blog will have something to say about that.
to be continued...
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
weird.
Last night I was at a friend's house for our weekly meditation group. The half-Canadian that leads the group is leaving next week, and the night proceeded as it often does: hellos, satsang, and meditation.
The point is that after we finished, I walked into the kitchen to set down my empty glass in the sink. I turned around, and that's when I saw it:
On the refrigerator was a picture of the president, the first lady, and their children. I was immediately fascinated, drawn to it, staring at it, and searching the image for what it was that I found so enthralling. I heard myself say:
I had no answer and kept repeating, savant-like:
One of my favorite experiences in life is when something, wholly and mysteriously, grabs my attention. Most of the time I'm drawn to ideas and images and sounds that already hold some resonance. I think most people are like me in this regard; we gravitate towards the types of experiences that have been shown pleasurable or rewarding in the past.
Everyone once in a while, though, I find myself enthralled by something that 'shouldn't' be. Whenever this happens, besides the initial easy pleasure of fascination, there comes a second pleasure – the joy of discovering why I enjoy. This is what I spent the ride home doing with my yin. The rant went, approximately, as follows:
The picture caught my attention because it embodies this bizarre mixing of the public and private realms, the intimate and the impersonal, the authentic and the contrived. Apparently my friend received it in a campaign email, and had she not posted it on her refrigerator, I would have never realized the complex set of relationships being embodied by the image.
The kitchen – and especially the refrigerator – stands at the heart of the private sphere. It is both the source of the family's sustenance as well as the gallery where finger-painting and school pictures and crudely drawn "I love mommy and daddy" cards are displayed. These are the most intimate and personal creations of our lives, the artifacts and art objects we surround ourselves with.
The Presidency, of course, has long been this strange mingling of personal and private, best exemplified by the bizarre status of the First Lady, who is either appointed to her post by her husband or indirectly elected by citizens depending on one's point-of-view. (I'm sure one of my civic-minded friends will clear this confusion up for me.)
This picture seemed different, however, and it took nearly twenty minutes for me to articulate it to myself. The staging of the photograph has the feel of a Christmas card – performative and sincere, saccharin and sweet, banal and unique. My yin asked how it was any different than having a picture of a rock star:
This image is different because it deploys the family in disturbingly novel and impersonal way, calling upon the aesthetics and sensibilities of the familial familiar (the Christmas photo sent to friends and loved ones) as a means to achieving the most impersonal and public of ends (Obama's upcoming re-election campaign).
A picture of the Obama family is not like a picture of Obama, or even a picture of Obama and his wife. The President and First Lady are public figures, first and foremost, whereas the family is held sacrosanct by the same mythologies and mythologizers who spin deficient libidos and surplus economies into the web we call the American Dream.
All this in a single image, and I would have never even realized it if not for my friend and her beautiful refrigerator...
But this is beside the point.
The point is that after we finished, I walked into the kitchen to set down my empty glass in the sink. I turned around, and that's when I saw it:
the Obama family
On the refrigerator was a picture of the president, the first lady, and their children. I was immediately fascinated, drawn to it, staring at it, and searching the image for what it was that I found so enthralling. I heard myself say:
"It's so weird... It's so weird... It's so weird..."
"Why is it weird?" my friend asked.
I had no answer and kept repeating, savant-like:
"It's so weird... It's so weird... It's so weird..."
One of my favorite experiences in life is when something, wholly and mysteriously, grabs my attention. Most of the time I'm drawn to ideas and images and sounds that already hold some resonance. I think most people are like me in this regard; we gravitate towards the types of experiences that have been shown pleasurable or rewarding in the past.
(Sukha, I think it's called.)
Everyone once in a while, though, I find myself enthralled by something that 'shouldn't' be. Whenever this happens, besides the initial easy pleasure of fascination, there comes a second pleasure – the joy of discovering why I enjoy. This is what I spent the ride home doing with my yin. The rant went, approximately, as follows:
The picture caught my attention because it embodies this bizarre mixing of the public and private realms, the intimate and the impersonal, the authentic and the contrived. Apparently my friend received it in a campaign email, and had she not posted it on her refrigerator, I would have never realized the complex set of relationships being embodied by the image.
The kitchen – and especially the refrigerator – stands at the heart of the private sphere. It is both the source of the family's sustenance as well as the gallery where finger-painting and school pictures and crudely drawn "I love mommy and daddy" cards are displayed. These are the most intimate and personal creations of our lives, the artifacts and art objects we surround ourselves with.
The Presidency, of course, has long been this strange mingling of personal and private, best exemplified by the bizarre status of the First Lady, who is either appointed to her post by her husband or indirectly elected by citizens depending on one's point-of-view. (I'm sure one of my civic-minded friends will clear this confusion up for me.)
This picture seemed different, however, and it took nearly twenty minutes for me to articulate it to myself. The staging of the photograph has the feel of a Christmas card – performative and sincere, saccharin and sweet, banal and unique. My yin asked how it was any different than having a picture of a rock star:
Andy Warhol
or movie star:
understood
or spirit star:
the nature of the image.
This image is different because it deploys the family in disturbingly novel and impersonal way, calling upon the aesthetics and sensibilities of the familial familiar (the Christmas photo sent to friends and loved ones) as a means to achieving the most impersonal and public of ends (Obama's upcoming re-election campaign).
A picture of the Obama family is not like a picture of Obama, or even a picture of Obama and his wife. The President and First Lady are public figures, first and foremost, whereas the family is held sacrosanct by the same mythologies and mythologizers who spin deficient libidos and surplus economies into the web we call the American Dream.
All this in a single image, and I would have never even realized it if not for my friend and her beautiful refrigerator...
Does the photograph look any different now?
Saturday, January 8, 2011
a little over two years ago...
The poem below was written a little more than two years ago, and although I didn't know it the night I wrote it, tiny cracks were beginning to appear in the facade of my would-be romance. At the time I was engaged in an experiment with celibacy, which taught me many things, but few of them were what I expected. The mind's ability to project inductions and fabricate deductions is truly stunning.
The point is that growth, change, and shifts of consciousness always happen just beyond our ability to see them. The precursors, however, become visible if we practice placing our attention on them. For me this primarily comes through dreams, poetry and meditation.
Unfortunately, waiting for a dream to reveal our next step can lead to a long time waiting (believe me, I've tried), and even when they do arrive interpreting them is a hazy proposition. Poetry is more reliable, but inspiration follows its own timetable – not to mention the dangers inherit in mistaking the muse for the Muse.
That leaves meditation, which is far and away the most reliable source of clarity and wisdom I have yet to discover. (And by 'discover,' I mean stumble into.) One of the interesting things about meditation is that its benefits are realized through practice, not the practitioner's belief of its efficacy. This mean two things.
First, practicing meditation will provide grounding, improve focus, and offer peace of mind even if the practitioner doesn't 'believe' in it. My own experience with mantra and japa mala has taught me this. Second, believing in meditation without practicing is no more useful than believing in reincarnation or the Big Bang or the price of tea in China. For me, although rare, this lack of practice usually results either from a perceived lack of time (inevitably false) or pleasurable distraction (self-explanatory).
Anyway, a little over two years ago I was doing a hell of a lot of meditating. There were flashing lights and revelations and cosmos-shaking insights, but the true benefits of this practice were beginning to show up in more subtle ways. All the flashing lights in the world don't make a difference if we stay stuck in the same patterns, and what good is an insight if we don't integrate it into the way we live our day-to-day lives?
The poem hinted at this process of integration, which was happening in spite of my mind's best efforts to twist the actual situation around into a story worthy of John Hughes or Lloyd Dobbler:
I hold meditation responsible for what happened, and more importantly, for all the things that didn't happen. I could have stayed spinning in that cycle for months or even years longer, delaying – or perhaps even denying – the peace, happiness and fulfillment I now (don't) take for granted. And all because...
But this is beside the point.
The point is that growth, change, and shifts of consciousness always happen just beyond our ability to see them. The precursors, however, become visible if we practice placing our attention on them. For me this primarily comes through dreams, poetry and meditation.
Unfortunately, waiting for a dream to reveal our next step can lead to a long time waiting (believe me, I've tried), and even when they do arrive interpreting them is a hazy proposition. Poetry is more reliable, but inspiration follows its own timetable – not to mention the dangers inherit in mistaking the muse for the Muse.
not this Muse
That leaves meditation, which is far and away the most reliable source of clarity and wisdom I have yet to discover. (And by 'discover,' I mean stumble into.) One of the interesting things about meditation is that its benefits are realized through practice, not the practitioner's belief of its efficacy. This mean two things.
First, practicing meditation will provide grounding, improve focus, and offer peace of mind even if the practitioner doesn't 'believe' in it. My own experience with mantra and japa mala has taught me this. Second, believing in meditation without practicing is no more useful than believing in reincarnation or the Big Bang or the price of tea in China. For me, although rare, this lack of practice usually results either from a perceived lack of time (inevitably false) or pleasurable distraction (self-explanatory).
Anyway, a little over two years ago I was doing a hell of a lot of meditating. There were flashing lights and revelations and cosmos-shaking insights, but the true benefits of this practice were beginning to show up in more subtle ways. All the flashing lights in the world don't make a difference if we stay stuck in the same patterns, and what good is an insight if we don't integrate it into the way we live our day-to-day lives?
The poem hinted at this process of integration, which was happening in spite of my mind's best efforts to twist the actual situation around into a story worthy of John Hughes or Lloyd Dobbler:
Cusak did for stalking what Madonna did for Kabbalah
I hold meditation responsible for what happened, and more importantly, for all the things that didn't happen. I could have stayed spinning in that cycle for months or even years longer, delaying – or perhaps even denying – the peace, happiness and fulfillment I now (don't) take for granted. And all because...
I didn't listen
When we met she told me she wanted to be alone.
But I didn’t listen and soon I was in her bed until
one day she said she needed to be alone. But I
didn’t listen and this was repeated many
times until one night she told me that
she didn’t not want to spend the
night with me. I looked around
her room and saw the cat on
the bed, a stack of books
on the nightstand and
I realized the only
thing in her life
saying she
wasn’t
alone
was
me
.
But I didn’t listen and soon I was in her bed until
one day she said she needed to be alone. But I
didn’t listen and this was repeated many
times until one night she told me that
she didn’t not want to spend the
night with me. I looked around
her room and saw the cat on
the bed, a stack of books
on the nightstand and
I realized the only
thing in her life
saying she
wasn’t
alone
was
me
.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
on the 12th day of Christmas
on the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
yesterday i saw myself immersed once more in my thesis, whose progress had become strained and sporadic over the holidays. i managed to pull away long enough to eat lunch and dinner, but probably only because my yin reminded me to. this got me thinking:
if it doesn't want to do something, then there are a million obstacles, diversions and complications. if it does want to do something, there are a million reasons, excuses and obligations. i've experienced both of these in the past weeks, and it seems absurd that something so banal could result in such extreme reactions.
Patanjali classifies these phenomena as two of the five kleshas, which are afflictions of the mind that result from separation from the divine:
the first klesha is avidya, ignorance as to the divinity of all things. this ignorance is not to be confused with doubt or questioning, which are just as likely to arise from curiosity or misperception, but rather indicates a far more fundamental problem – the experience of not knowing at all, of truly forgetting that everything is perfect (i.e. obeying karma) just the way it is:
the second klesha is asmita, (mis)identification with assorted sordid entities, which results from our ignorance of the truth. the most common of these entities is the mind itself, causing so many people to walk around believing their thoughts. by doing this we limit ourselves, tying our soul to a specific thoughtform (vritti) that reinforces our sense of I, me and mine (ahamkara) .
for example, if i truly identify with being a "student," then what happens five months from now when that term no longer applies? i have to run out and grab another thoughtform, like "graduate" or "unemployed bum."
the third klesha is raga, our tendency to run towards the things that give us pleasure. these are the behaviors and objects that reinforce whatever thoughform we've latched onto: capitalists accumulate capital, consumers consume, and drug addicts use drugs. it turns into a vicious cycle, with each activity feeding the (mis)identification, and the (mis)identification directing one the sources of his or her desire.
the tricky thing, of course, is differentiating between raga and fulfilling one's dharma, the path to which we must abide to realize our proper place in the universe. my thesis, for instance, is part of my dharmic responsibility, but if i use it merely to reinforce my (mis)identification then i've missed the whole point.
the fourth klesha is dvesha, avoidance of the things that bring us pain. raga inevitably leads to dvesha, just ask any capitalist turned philanthropist or alcoholic turned anonymous. these are still (mis)identifications, though, and rarely do our aversions coincide socially responsible behavior. it's far more common for to run away from the things we need to face, the feelings we need to experience – why else would one hoard all that money in the first place?
the fifth and final klesha is abhinivesha, the fear that keeps us clinging onto the impermanent world we typically call "life." no matter how many things we run away from, no matter how many things we run towards – we will never be able to soothe the disquietude that comes from not knowing who we truly are.
it's a slippery slope from ignorance to (mis)identification, and as far as i can tell it's unavoidable on this plane of existence. but the point of a spiritual practice (or at least mine) isn't to transcend these things, and i suspect i have at least as many lifetimes ahead of me as an oak tree has acorns.
i'm okay with this.
i'm okay with this because three years ago had a vision at Lake Worth's Annual Street Painting Festival. it was of the same festival, of the same park, but eighty years into the future. i was overcome by the realization that everyone i saw in the park, all the families and parents and running children, would be gone in eighty years. immediately i understood that i would be dead, too. i thought to myself:
there was no fear, no dread, only the calm acceptance of something so obvious. accompanying this, however, was the quiet certainty that it made no difference: the body i inhabit is temporary, the mind i call my own is ever-changing, but the me "I am" is neither.
there is no need to fear death, no need to seek liberation;
the belief in a 'destination,' the yearning for 'transcendence,' the search for the 'divine' – these are symptoms, not solutions. they are born in ignorance, and i remind myself everyday that every thoughtform to which i attach myself – even those that are 'spiritual' – will someday find themselves in that Lake Worth graveyard.
twelve hours working
yesterday i saw myself immersed once more in my thesis, whose progress had become strained and sporadic over the holidays. i managed to pull away long enough to eat lunch and dinner, but probably only because my yin reminded me to. this got me thinking:
it's a funny thing how the mind words.
if it doesn't want to do something, then there are a million obstacles, diversions and complications. if it does want to do something, there are a million reasons, excuses and obligations. i've experienced both of these in the past weeks, and it seems absurd that something so banal could result in such extreme reactions.
Patanjali classifies these phenomena as two of the five kleshas, which are afflictions of the mind that result from separation from the divine:
the genealogy of the mind
the first klesha is avidya, ignorance as to the divinity of all things. this ignorance is not to be confused with doubt or questioning, which are just as likely to arise from curiosity or misperception, but rather indicates a far more fundamental problem – the experience of not knowing at all, of truly forgetting that everything is perfect (i.e. obeying karma) just the way it is:
dominoes, mother f**ker!
the second klesha is asmita, (mis)identification with assorted sordid entities, which results from our ignorance of the truth. the most common of these entities is the mind itself, causing so many people to walk around believing their thoughts. by doing this we limit ourselves, tying our soul to a specific thoughtform (vritti) that reinforces our sense of I, me and mine (ahamkara) .
for example, if i truly identify with being a "student," then what happens five months from now when that term no longer applies? i have to run out and grab another thoughtform, like "graduate" or "unemployed bum."
one of my favorite bums, unemployed since 1994
the third klesha is raga, our tendency to run towards the things that give us pleasure. these are the behaviors and objects that reinforce whatever thoughform we've latched onto: capitalists accumulate capital, consumers consume, and drug addicts use drugs. it turns into a vicious cycle, with each activity feeding the (mis)identification, and the (mis)identification directing one the sources of his or her desire.
the tricky thing, of course, is differentiating between raga and fulfilling one's dharma, the path to which we must abide to realize our proper place in the universe. my thesis, for instance, is part of my dharmic responsibility, but if i use it merely to reinforce my (mis)identification then i've missed the whole point.
this is never beside the point.
the fourth klesha is dvesha, avoidance of the things that bring us pain. raga inevitably leads to dvesha, just ask any capitalist turned philanthropist or alcoholic turned anonymous. these are still (mis)identifications, though, and rarely do our aversions coincide socially responsible behavior. it's far more common for to run away from the things we need to face, the feelings we need to experience – why else would one hoard all that money in the first place?
Warren Buffet, capitalist turned philanthropist
the fifth and final klesha is abhinivesha, the fear that keeps us clinging onto the impermanent world we typically call "life." no matter how many things we run away from, no matter how many things we run towards – we will never be able to soothe the disquietude that comes from not knowing who we truly are.
it's a slippery slope from ignorance to (mis)identification, and as far as i can tell it's unavoidable on this plane of existence. but the point of a spiritual practice (or at least mine) isn't to transcend these things, and i suspect i have at least as many lifetimes ahead of me as an oak tree has acorns.
i'm okay with this.
i'm okay with this because three years ago had a vision at Lake Worth's Annual Street Painting Festival. it was of the same festival, of the same park, but eighty years into the future. i was overcome by the realization that everyone i saw in the park, all the families and parents and running children, would be gone in eighty years. immediately i understood that i would be dead, too. i thought to myself:
yes, this is true.
there was no fear, no dread, only the calm acceptance of something so obvious. accompanying this, however, was the quiet certainty that it made no difference: the body i inhabit is temporary, the mind i call my own is ever-changing, but the me "I am" is neither.
there is no need to fear death, no need to seek liberation;
the last desire to fall away
before enlightenment
is the desire for Enlightenment
before enlightenment
is the desire for Enlightenment
the belief in a 'destination,' the yearning for 'transcendence,' the search for the 'divine' – these are symptoms, not solutions. they are born in ignorance, and i remind myself everyday that every thoughtform to which i attach myself – even those that are 'spiritual' – will someday find themselves in that Lake Worth graveyard.
front cover of my 2010-2011 day planner
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
on the 4th day of Christmas
on the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
at three o'clock on the fourth day of Christmas, i was startled awake by a dream of a theater in North Carolina. i worked there as an undergraduate, and in the Dreaming i was mid-return. something about this scenario was disturbing, however, and as i lie in the dark my mind began to fill with questions about the future.
barring unforeseen calamity, i will complete my graduate work five months from now, signaling another of those life junctures where nothing is known, and one finds himself face to face with the enormity of endless possibility. every moment is like this, of course, but rarely do we accept it for what it is: exciting, but also frightening, especially at 3 o'clock in the morning.
rather than allowing my mind to spin in circles, i got up and went to the living room. i took out my mala beads and meditated:
eventually i grow tired again and go back to bed, but this insomnia and meditation stays with me throughout the day. i rewake at 8am, tend to various chores and meet with my half-Canadian friend mid-morning. i go to my yin's hatha class at noon, and in the afternoon i finally start revisions on the second chapter of my thesis.
our weekly meditation group meets that night, and we spend an hour discussing the application of yoga-darsana in our lives, which is a medium-pretentious way of asking:
i talk about the conflation of, and confusion between, meditation in the colloquial sense and meditation in the philosophical sense. the former is more aptly described as a sitting practice, which sometimes (and perhaps atypically) results in the latter (what Patanjali calls as dhyana).
Buddhism (at least Zen variety) seems to outline this delineation more clearly than the yoga practitioners i've known, and in my limited, yet sincere, readings of such texts i have arrived at some understanding of the dangers involved with turning one's meditation practice into a substantial object (which can be possessed) rather than recognizing it as a transient, ephemeral process. put more simply:
with the mysteries of the universe put to bed for the night, we practiced sitting together, and i had another damn vision, this time of a leaf spinning itself (counterclockwise) into a tight spiral, extending lengthwise towards the sky and the Earth. it had the shape of a elongated seed or pod, and was enveloped by a flame burning all around it. i have a blank canvas in my closet, given to me by Saylor years ago, and as soon as i come into some oil paints i plan to attempt a rendition.
the point is that my yin and i came home and finished watching Luis Buñuel's That Obscure Object of Desire:
the film is surreal, comical, and features les belles femmes above playing a single character named Conchita. Fernando Rey plays the male lead, of course, and he attempts to bed Conchita with all the absurd enthusiasm one would expect from Buñuel:
there are innumerable failed attempts to realize his desire, and the film's French title (Cet obscur objet du désir) literally spells out the need for a Lacanian interpretation of these things. right now, though, with more revisions looming this afternoon, psychoanalysis is the last thing i want to write about. besides, these ideas are illustrated with images more forcefully than could ever be accomplished with words:
suffice to say that terrorist plots by the "Revolutionary Army of the Baby Jesus" wreak havoc in the background, and Buñuel has this magical way of allowing the camera to linger in one place just a little longer than necessary, so that Rey's bourgeois nincompoop exits the frame and a second figure (a housekeeper, a gardener, a homeless man) is revealed to be the actual source of labor supporting his opulence.
visions and revisions,
mediation and surrealism –
four boding starts
at three o'clock on the fourth day of Christmas, i was startled awake by a dream of a theater in North Carolina. i worked there as an undergraduate, and in the Dreaming i was mid-return. something about this scenario was disturbing, however, and as i lie in the dark my mind began to fill with questions about the future.
barring unforeseen calamity, i will complete my graduate work five months from now, signaling another of those life junctures where nothing is known, and one finds himself face to face with the enormity of endless possibility. every moment is like this, of course, but rarely do we accept it for what it is: exciting, but also frightening, especially at 3 o'clock in the morning.
rather than allowing my mind to spin in circles, i got up and went to the living room. i took out my mala beads and meditated:
vision of the fragile glass shell of my mind. i find myself trapped inside it, bumping from one side to the other. suddenly, i'm outside of it/ti fo edisni – i am the air filling the room and all that lies beyond.
eventually i grow tired again and go back to bed, but this insomnia and meditation stays with me throughout the day. i rewake at 8am, tend to various chores and meet with my half-Canadian friend mid-morning. i go to my yin's hatha class at noon, and in the afternoon i finally start revisions on the second chapter of my thesis.
a frustrating hour passes.
our weekly meditation group meets that night, and we spend an hour discussing the application of yoga-darsana in our lives, which is a medium-pretentious way of asking:
"do you practice what you preach?"
i talk about the conflation of, and confusion between, meditation in the colloquial sense and meditation in the philosophical sense. the former is more aptly described as a sitting practice, which sometimes (and perhaps atypically) results in the latter (what Patanjali calls as dhyana).
Buddhism (at least Zen variety) seems to outline this delineation more clearly than the yoga practitioners i've known, and in my limited, yet sincere, readings of such texts i have arrived at some understanding of the dangers involved with turning one's meditation practice into a substantial object (which can be possessed) rather than recognizing it as a transient, ephemeral process. put more simply:
one gains no-thing from meditation.
with the mysteries of the universe put to bed for the night, we practiced sitting together, and i had another damn vision, this time of a leaf spinning itself (counterclockwise) into a tight spiral, extending lengthwise towards the sky and the Earth. it had the shape of a elongated seed or pod, and was enveloped by a flame burning all around it. i have a blank canvas in my closet, given to me by Saylor years ago, and as soon as i come into some oil paints i plan to attempt a rendition.
but this is beside the point.
the point is that my yin and i came home and finished watching Luis Buñuel's That Obscure Object of Desire:
the film is surreal, comical, and features les belles femmes above playing a single character named Conchita. Fernando Rey plays the male lead, of course, and he attempts to bed Conchita with all the absurd enthusiasm one would expect from Buñuel:
i know how he feels
there are innumerable failed attempts to realize his desire, and the film's French title (Cet obscur objet du désir) literally spells out the need for a Lacanian interpretation of these things. right now, though, with more revisions looming this afternoon, psychoanalysis is the last thing i want to write about. besides, these ideas are illustrated with images more forcefully than could ever be accomplished with words:
this poster is available here
suffice to say that terrorist plots by the "Revolutionary Army of the Baby Jesus" wreak havoc in the background, and Buñuel has this magical way of allowing the camera to linger in one place just a little longer than necessary, so that Rey's bourgeois nincompoop exits the frame and a second figure (a housekeeper, a gardener, a homeless man) is revealed to be the actual source of labor supporting his opulence.
visions and revisions,
mediation and surrealism –
thus concluded the fourth day of Christmas.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
my original face?
there is a koan in Zen Buddhism that asks, approximately, "What did your face look like before your parents were born?"
or, perhaps, "Show me your Original Face, the face you had before your parents were born."
or even, "What is your original face, before your parents were born?"
whatever it is, it must have gotten muddled in my mind somewhere along the way because what came to me during last night's meditation was: "What was your original face when you were born?"
perhaps this elision is a metaphor for my spiritual development, perhaps i'm not yet ready to imagine that far back, perhaps this is beside the point.
the point is that i had my eyes closed for most of last night's satsang. it was a good one, focusing on the nine obstacles to growth: disease, dullness, doubt, carelessness, laziness, delusion, non-achievement, instability and the craving for worldly things.
obstacles are also beside the point.
the point is that the half-Canadian talked and talked and talked, and i found my eyes closing intermittently, moving in/out as poorly-defined questions were repeated ad infinitum. by the time he started winding down, it was clear that the meditation would need to be brief and i closed my eyes without expectation.
i have the most bizarre decentering experience, of my self in utero, the moment of emergence, the first articulation of 'i'. it is the movement from undifferentiated to differentiated, from _________ to "i am." there is bewilderment without fear, confusion coupled with the raw ecstasy of living. it is the sight of my original face, and the realization that my original face preceded my ability to see it.
all these things leave me reeling, and i exit the room without giving hugs or saying goodbye. i try to speak to my yin on the way home. words fail. everything is raw. i feel utterly exposed, each hair on my arms tingling. i am vulnerable and dependent. there is a part of me that is still in that womb – was it my mother or my Mother?
the next day the words return, and i feel almost hungover from the night before. one things zips into another. occasionally i still feel the tingle.
author trespassing in an abandoned temple, Summer 2010
or, perhaps, "Show me your Original Face, the face you had before your parents were born."
a view from above
or even, "What is your original face, before your parents were born?"
the spigots are broken and the gutters have fallen
whatever it is, it must have gotten muddled in my mind somewhere along the way because what came to me during last night's meditation was: "What was your original face when you were born?"
chalk, decay and yantra
perhaps this elision is a metaphor for my spiritual development, perhaps i'm not yet ready to imagine that far back, perhaps this is beside the point.
the point is that i had my eyes closed for most of last night's satsang. it was a good one, focusing on the nine obstacles to growth: disease, dullness, doubt, carelessness, laziness, delusion, non-achievement, instability and the craving for worldly things.
obstacles are also beside the point.
the point is that the half-Canadian talked and talked and talked, and i found my eyes closing intermittently, moving in/out as poorly-defined questions were repeated ad infinitum. by the time he started winding down, it was clear that the meditation would need to be brief and i closed my eyes without expectation.
[lapse]
i have the most bizarre decentering experience, of my self in utero, the moment of emergence, the first articulation of 'i'. it is the movement from undifferentiated to differentiated, from _________ to "i am." there is bewilderment without fear, confusion coupled with the raw ecstasy of living. it is the sight of my original face, and the realization that my original face preceded my ability to see it.
all these things leave me reeling, and i exit the room without giving hugs or saying goodbye. i try to speak to my yin on the way home. words fail. everything is raw. i feel utterly exposed, each hair on my arms tingling. i am vulnerable and dependent. there is a part of me that is still in that womb – was it my mother or my Mother?
[lapse]
the next day the words return, and i feel almost hungover from the night before. one things zips into another. occasionally i still feel the tingle.
graffiti, hearts and wisdom
Friday, November 19, 2010
audio/visual (Paul Westerberg, meet Wong Kar-wai)
audio
this morning i woke up, meditated and started coffee – nothing unusual. i turned on my computer, clicked on a playlist and this song came on:
ever have one of those moments when something sounds so fresh and new that it seems as though you're hearing for the first time? this was one of those: "Pretty girl keep growin' up, playing make-up, wearing guitar... Growing old in bar, you grow old in a bar."
i had never picked up on the inverted meaning in the first half of this line;
i had always been too lost in the melody. how many things like this do we miss every day? how many times do we let familiarity or routine or the fragile veneer of drudgery to obscure our vision? how many times do we only hear what we want to, or only want what we hear?
Paul Westerberg had some things to say about this, too: "And if I don't see you, in a long, long while... I'll try to find you, left of the dial."
visual
a friend and colleague sent me a link to a website yesterday, which had a short blurb about a film he introduced me to. it was a nice gesture, one of those incidents that confirms my suspicion regarding the interconnectedness of all beings. more over, and perhaps coincidentally, it was around this time last year that my friend and colleague screened Wong Kar-wai's In the Mood For Love for the film class i was assisting:
it inspired me to ask these types of questions:
what
is smoke?
what is longing?
what is a shadow?
what is a mirror?
what is a hallway?
what is a reflection?
what is a smoky reflection?
what is a smoky reflection in a mirror?
what is a smoky reflection in a mirror down a hallway?
what is a smoky reflection casting shadows in a mirror down a hallway?
what is a smoky reflection casting long shadows in a mirror down a hallway?
is smoke?
what is longing?
what is a shadow?
what is a mirror?
what is a hallway?
what is a reflection?
what is a smoky reflection?
what is a smoky reflection in a mirror?
what is a smoky reflection in a mirror down a hallway?
what is a smoky reflection casting shadows in a mirror down a hallway?
what is a smoky reflection casting long shadows in a mirror down a hallway?
what resulted was this particular piece of recycled poesy, my favorite version of which lives here. given time constrains, i will offer it in its original form:
leitmotifs in celebration of Sino-cinema
dreaming of hallways in rack focus
i gazed through
(the blinds of memory, half-drawn)
a patchwork predicated onthe
present's
projection
of the presence
of past
present's
projection
of the presence
of past
predilection and perception.
beginning
pulling time into focus
(slippage)
(dilation)pulling time into focus
end
repetition and mirrors,
hallways and telephones,
the rehearsed departure of
wedding bands and restraint,
(not my own)
curtains and mirrors,
light bulbs and longing,
the textured punctuality of
clocks casting shadows down the hall.
light bulbs and longing,
the textured punctuality of
clocks casting shadows down the hall.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
2 years (minus) 2 days ago
i've not written in days, owing to a lack of time and unwillingness to get up any earlier. unfortunately 5am has become le temps de réveiller de rigeur, meditating before sunrise and then spending the rest of the day in a combination of teaching and/or writing my thesis. this typically continues until sundown or just beyond, and by the time 10 o'clock rolls around i can barely keep my eyes open. i drift off to sleep seeing the strangest things, like last night's dream of a non-existent African-American Studies department at my university.
but this is beside the point.
the point is that i've turned to the old reliable standby of the over-worked and under-slept: the cop-out. explaining our actions into (or out of) meaning is one of the mind's most well-practiced functions, and it never ceases to amaze me how many ways there are to under/stand a given phenomenon.
man cannot live by excuses alone, however, and so i turn to that stalwart companion of the cop-out: repetition. so, given that my class starts in 16 minutes, and in anticipation of the 15 hour day ahead of me, i (re)present what was happening around this time last year, when my yin and i went to see this man play his guitar:
introductions were made;
topics: androgyny, honky-tonk,
Omaha hipsters, dreams of David Bowie.
but this is beside the point.
the point is that i've turned to the old reliable standby of the over-worked and under-slept: the cop-out. explaining our actions into (or out of) meaning is one of the mind's most well-practiced functions, and it never ceases to amaze me how many ways there are to under/stand a given phenomenon.
man cannot live by excuses alone, however, and so i turn to that stalwart companion of the cop-out: repetition. so, given that my class starts in 16 minutes, and in anticipation of the 15 hour day ahead of me, i (re)present what was happening around this time last year, when my yin and i went to see this man play his guitar:
introductions were made;
the backdrop: patch-top anarchist
chatter, comparing flashlights in the dark.
chatter, comparing flashlights in the dark.
topics: androgyny, honky-tonk,
Omaha hipsters, dreams of David Bowie.
searching
for a label
to name
thi/e/s/e
thing/s.
for a label
to name
thi/e/s/e
thing/s.
it seams to remain,
the stitching removed.
the stitching removed.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
sanyoga = sans yoga (Il n'y a pas de coïncidences)
last night, in spite of my earlier sloth-inspired reticence, i went to my weekly meditation group. the half-Canadian who leads the group is in India right now, and, being a complete and utter madman, he agreed to connect in via Skype at the ridiculously early time of 4:30am Jaipur time. the ethernet connection on our end, however, had disappeared into the ethers itself, and the group ending up having a nice long meditation while we waited for the half-Canadian to call.
fortunately, this is beside the point.
the point is that we finally did connect with one another, and the whole episode provided a lovely metaphor for that night's topic of discussion: sanyoga, which means, approximately and allegedly, 'without union.'
the term is explicated in the second book of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras:
which means damn near nothing to anyone living today outside of scholars and poseurs because Sanskrit is deader than Latin. thankfully, however, there are enough scholars and poseurs to pass down translations* to would-be scholars and poseurs like myself:
drashtri (द्रष्टृ, draṣṭṛ) = the seer; he who perceives; the true self; drastu
drishyah (दृश्यः, dṛśyaḥ) = that which is seen; experienced
sanyoga (संयोग, saṁyoga) = unity; bond; identification
heya (हेय, heya) = that which should be avoided
hetuh (हेतुः, hetuḥ) = cause
in other words, sanyoga is the disconnection from our true self, an identification with an experience rather than the recognition that we are the observer of the experience. this leads, invariably, to pain and suffering.
sanyoga is the root cause of all other obstacles:
the question arises:
but only in the mind experiencing:
so, rather than asking why, i find it more useful (and less agitating) to address the source of the question. that's why i:
and, most of all:
fortunately, this is beside the point.
the point is that we finally did connect with one another, and the whole episode provided a lovely metaphor for that night's topic of discussion: sanyoga, which means, approximately and allegedly, 'without union.'
the term is explicated in the second book of Patanjali's Yoga Sutras:
drashtri drishyayoh sanyogo heyahetuh
which means damn near nothing to anyone living today outside of scholars and poseurs because Sanskrit is deader than Latin. thankfully, however, there are enough scholars and poseurs to pass down translations* to would-be scholars and poseurs like myself:
drashtri (द्रष्टृ, draṣṭṛ) = the seer; he who perceives; the true self; drastu
drishyah (दृश्यः, dṛśyaḥ) = that which is seen; experienced
sanyoga (संयोग, saṁyoga) = unity; bond; identification
heya (हेय, heya) = that which should be avoided
hetuh (हेतुः, hetuḥ) = cause
in other words, sanyoga is the disconnection from our true self, an identification with an experience rather than the recognition that we are the observer of the experience. this leads, invariably, to pain and suffering.
sanyoga is the root cause of all other obstacles:
the breeding ground of aversion
the question arises:
why does this happen?
but only in the mind experiencing:
s e p a r a t i o n
so, rather than asking why, i find it more useful (and less agitating) to address the source of the question. that's why i:
close my eyes each day
(author with half-Canadian, Vermont, 2009)
(author with half-Canadian, Vermont, 2009)
practice mantra
(envelope containing mantra, Delray Beach, 2008)
(envelope containing mantra, Delray Beach, 2008)
and, most of all:
try to remember
(author seeing ocean for first time, Outer Banks, 1980)
(author seeing ocean for first time, Outer Banks, 1980)
*translation appropriated from here, without permission
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Manali v. Lakeland
i spoke to Jache yesterday afternoon, while waiting for my mother at a chain restaurant in Lakeland, Florida. we hadn't spoken in some time, and he asked about my yin. i told him she was in Manali.
"she gets India, you get Orlando," he said. "it's like yin and yang."
touché, i say, but this is beside the point.
the point is that i believe you can judge a lot about a town by two things: its thrift stores and radio stations. if this holds any bearing to reality, then i would say that Lakeland is one effed up place, in spite of its preponderance of Frank Lloyd Wright buildings. the two thrift stores i went to were gigantic, nearly as large as the big box retailer where i bought 88 unbent spoons for the ridiculously low price of $23.54, and seemed to have a book to bible ratio of 2:1.
furthermore they were absolutely packed, not with quasi-slumming semi-hipsters wasting time (comme moi), but with people needing to go to the thrift store. i even saw one car in the parking lot set up with the seats down and a mattress in laid out. i imagined it to belong to the sunburnt bearded man i ran into at both locations. the second time i saw him, he was throwing away a toy car and i felt my heart breaking a little, wondering how long he had held onto it, or what it might have meant to him. was it a new purchase, suddenly realized to be useless, or a final souvenir of a life that no longer belonged to him?
perhaps in this question lies a larger metaphor, an understanding of how we relate to the world around us; perhaps questions like these are merely ways to avoid the sadness i feel when i encounter things that seem so senseless.
as for the radio, Lakeland is marked by dozens of Christian and country radio stations, which outnumber the rock, rap and other approximately 1.5:1. (note: all ratios are psychological rather than scientific.) i heard one man going on and on about the retina and what a wonderful, perfect creation it was. somehow this soliloquy worked its way around to evolution, and the program ended with the host informing the listener that Christians needed to be well-versed in scientific facts because the Bible is, in fact, both historically and scientifically accurate.
flipping stations, i stumbled upon a call-in show about that nutjob church in Kansas. a caller to the show told the host that, when he first heard about [name omitted for the safety and well-being of all sentient beings] he thought it was the work of "atheists" who had "infiltrated" the church in order to discredit true believer.
he really said this.
let me get this right: an atheist pretends to be a churchgoer for the sole purpose of discrediting churchgoers. ah yes, those devious atheist infiltrators....
it was hilarious, frightening and sad that this caller's paranoia and fears of persecution had caused him to project so strongly onto others. but still, i couldn't help but be disturbed that this man (white, male Christian) felt perfectly okay using the public airways to slander a minority group. no doubt part of my outrage has to do with my former longstanding affiliation with this minority group, but still...
anyway, i believe Lakeland (which sits halfway between Orlando and Tampa) serves as this incredible case study as to what happens to the mid-sized towns caught between urban centers. it has its own independent existence, it's not a suburb, and yet it still feel surrounded by the fervor and fever and foment of those scary ideas lurking an hour down the road. it's towns like these that bear the scars of America's schizophrenia, which has been dubbed so eloquently as 'the melting pot' by the dead and dying men that write our nation's textbooks.
Manali, on the other hand, has signs like this:
regardless, on the drive home i found myself remembering the trip my yin and i took to St. Pete over two years ago. it was long before we recognized our physical interconnectedness (i think this would make a nice Buddhist euphemism for sex), and she convinced me to listen to Phish for all those empty hours across the middle of the state. i found myself having dozens of mini-revelations about the nature of art, creation and seva as i drove, exploding like the firecrackers i saw tossed out the window of a pick-up truck in Lakeland.
our attachment to the things we make binds us. i see it in myself: fear of judgment, fear of letting go, fear of losing the things that were never ours in the first place. Walter Benjamin believed art was special because it allowed the unconscious and conscious minds to come into contact in the waking state, and my own experience has taught me that the creation of art allows us to resolve problems, to work through issues in a manner that ultimately reveals that any perceived dilemma never really existed at all.
my task during these three weeks of near-solitude is to allow all these things to integrate more deeply, and in this spirit i've made a sankalpa to meditate at least twice each day, regardless of circumstance, fatigue or agitation. this is the gift i've been given in lieu of Manali, and i can feel it happening already. i see signs in the Sign of the Mouse, which is really nothing more than two circles stacked upon a third:
i dream of insomnia and awake to the empty sunless room of 5am, knowing that my yin is enjoyed the cool mountain air of the Himalayas for both of us. i think of my mother in Clearwater, my father in the mountains, my brother concocting one mad idea for world peace after another – he would be proud to know i shopped at that Wal-Mart in Lakeland.
i think of the indomitable dinner companion, the half-Canadians, and the giraffes in Orlando, who look like trees walking in the dark. i sit up in bed well before 6 am, take out my mala beads, and begin repeating my mantra. i remember the night before, the years before, the lifetimes before this one. i see in my mind's eye seven hours before, when i encountered a smoking cross-legged bodhisattva sitting atop a newspaper stand in Yeehaw Junction.
what secrets does he hold, and why didn't i ask him for his picture?
"she gets India, you get Orlando," he said. "it's like yin and yang."
which one would you choose?
touché, i say, but this is beside the point.
the point is that i believe you can judge a lot about a town by two things: its thrift stores and radio stations. if this holds any bearing to reality, then i would say that Lakeland is one effed up place, in spite of its preponderance of Frank Lloyd Wright buildings. the two thrift stores i went to were gigantic, nearly as large as the big box retailer where i bought 88 unbent spoons for the ridiculously low price of $23.54, and seemed to have a book to bible ratio of 2:1.
furthermore they were absolutely packed, not with quasi-slumming semi-hipsters wasting time (comme moi), but with people needing to go to the thrift store. i even saw one car in the parking lot set up with the seats down and a mattress in laid out. i imagined it to belong to the sunburnt bearded man i ran into at both locations. the second time i saw him, he was throwing away a toy car and i felt my heart breaking a little, wondering how long he had held onto it, or what it might have meant to him. was it a new purchase, suddenly realized to be useless, or a final souvenir of a life that no longer belonged to him?
perhaps in this question lies a larger metaphor, an understanding of how we relate to the world around us; perhaps questions like these are merely ways to avoid the sadness i feel when i encounter things that seem so senseless.
as for the radio, Lakeland is marked by dozens of Christian and country radio stations, which outnumber the rock, rap and other approximately 1.5:1. (note: all ratios are psychological rather than scientific.) i heard one man going on and on about the retina and what a wonderful, perfect creation it was. somehow this soliloquy worked its way around to evolution, and the program ended with the host informing the listener that Christians needed to be well-versed in scientific facts because the Bible is, in fact, both historically and scientifically accurate.
flipping stations, i stumbled upon a call-in show about that nutjob church in Kansas. a caller to the show told the host that, when he first heard about [name omitted for the safety and well-being of all sentient beings] he thought it was the work of "atheists" who had "infiltrated" the church in order to discredit true believer.
he really said this.
let me get this right: an atheist pretends to be a churchgoer for the sole purpose of discrediting churchgoers. ah yes, those devious atheist infiltrators....
it was hilarious, frightening and sad that this caller's paranoia and fears of persecution had caused him to project so strongly onto others. but still, i couldn't help but be disturbed that this man (white, male Christian) felt perfectly okay using the public airways to slander a minority group. no doubt part of my outrage has to do with my former longstanding affiliation with this minority group, but still...
anyway, i believe Lakeland (which sits halfway between Orlando and Tampa) serves as this incredible case study as to what happens to the mid-sized towns caught between urban centers. it has its own independent existence, it's not a suburb, and yet it still feel surrounded by the fervor and fever and foment of those scary ideas lurking an hour down the road. it's towns like these that bear the scars of America's schizophrenia, which has been dubbed so eloquently as 'the melting pot' by the dead and dying men that write our nation's textbooks.
Manali, on the other hand, has signs like this:
if only it was always that obvious...
regardless, on the drive home i found myself remembering the trip my yin and i took to St. Pete over two years ago. it was long before we recognized our physical interconnectedness (i think this would make a nice Buddhist euphemism for sex), and she convinced me to listen to Phish for all those empty hours across the middle of the state. i found myself having dozens of mini-revelations about the nature of art, creation and seva as i drove, exploding like the firecrackers i saw tossed out the window of a pick-up truck in Lakeland.
our attachment to the things we make binds us. i see it in myself: fear of judgment, fear of letting go, fear of losing the things that were never ours in the first place. Walter Benjamin believed art was special because it allowed the unconscious and conscious minds to come into contact in the waking state, and my own experience has taught me that the creation of art allows us to resolve problems, to work through issues in a manner that ultimately reveals that any perceived dilemma never really existed at all.
my task during these three weeks of near-solitude is to allow all these things to integrate more deeply, and in this spirit i've made a sankalpa to meditate at least twice each day, regardless of circumstance, fatigue or agitation. this is the gift i've been given in lieu of Manali, and i can feel it happening already. i see signs in the Sign of the Mouse, which is really nothing more than two circles stacked upon a third:
one might surmise my fondness of circles
i dream of insomnia and awake to the empty sunless room of 5am, knowing that my yin is enjoyed the cool mountain air of the Himalayas for both of us. i think of my mother in Clearwater, my father in the mountains, my brother concocting one mad idea for world peace after another – he would be proud to know i shopped at that Wal-Mart in Lakeland.
i think of the indomitable dinner companion, the half-Canadians, and the giraffes in Orlando, who look like trees walking in the dark. i sit up in bed well before 6 am, take out my mala beads, and begin repeating my mantra. i remember the night before, the years before, the lifetimes before this one. i see in my mind's eye seven hours before, when i encountered a smoking cross-legged bodhisattva sitting atop a newspaper stand in Yeehaw Junction.
what secrets does he hold, and why didn't i ask him for his picture?
Friday, October 15, 2010
my morning so far
3:20 am
i wake up and look at the phone next to the bed. there are no clocks in our bedroom, and usually no phones either, but i had to set a 'just in case' alarm because i'm presenting a paper at a conference in Orlando later today. perhaps this anticipation is the reason i'm awake, or maybe it's because i'm subconsciously syncing up with my my yin's time zone in New Delhi. it makes no difference either way and i try to go back to sleep.
3:31 am
it occurs to me that maybe i only dreamed about looking at the clock, and i'm taken by an urge to look at the phone again. sadly, the memory of the clock was accurate, rather than the dream of the memory.
4:01 am
get sick of laying in bed and let go of the following story: "if i get up now, i'll be sleepy and tired later in the day."
4:06 am
meditate. i have a vision of an old-time crystal doorknob like this one:
except the one in my vision is refracting the entire spectrum of light. it materializes out of nowhere and then an invisible door grows around it. i reach out to touch it, and as i turn the knob it looks like a rainbow spinning in my hand. i step inside a quiet place. forty-five minutes later i open my eyes.
5:02 am
learn that my paper has been accepted at the University of Florida's upcoming "Film and Philosophy" conference.
5:05 am
practice hatha for forty minutes, including several rounds of sun salutation. the sun does indeed rise a couple of hours later, which may or may not be coincidental. i listen to Wah! while i practice, and remember how a friend once told me that the singer had an unhealthily large ego. this, in turn, reminds me of a drummer friend in North Carolina, whose ego is not unhealthily large:
author with drummer of Raleigh's I Was Totally Destroying It
5:52 am
coffee!
6:00 am
start typing up notes that will become this blog, journal, and listen to Pandora's "Beach House" station – not as sunny as the title would lead one to believe.
6:39 am
eat delicious homemade banana bread muffins that my yin made before leaving. the house is impressively overstocked at present, especially considering the fact that i'll be gone for a couple of days. luckily the box from the farm was anemic, typical for the first delivery of the season. the contents included (with my reaction):
1 butternut squash (i think 'penis squash' would be more descriptive)
1 small bunch of basil (gotta find my yin's pesto recipe)
1 star fruit (even after four years, these things still freak me out)
6 cucumbers (really? six?)
6:54 am
call my mom and wish her a happy birthday, who oddly enough shares the day with fore mentioned drummer. her company has sent her to train in Clearwater for two weeks, so i'm taking her out for dinner tomorrow night after my conference hubbub dissipates. i don't remember the last time i saw her on (or near) her birthday, and it's well worth the extra driving to deliver her card in person.
7:13 am
post blog, finish coffee, and take a shower. shave with medium success and finish packing my things.
7:46 am
listen to Waylon Jenning's "Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way?"
just for good measure.
8:00 am
depart for Orlando.
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