If the experiment were successful, it is hard not to wonder if places with repressive, Internet-intrusive governments might be outflanked. Repression being what it is, the answer is probably not.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
the balance of power
If the experiment were successful, it is hard not to wonder if places with repressive, Internet-intrusive governments might be outflanked. Repression being what it is, the answer is probably not.
the organ recital
W-h-h-h-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-e!
Yesterday I was walloped with a landslide of fatigue accompanied by various aching body parts. Doing anything carried with it a ramped-up degree of difficulty. I worked hard not to, but eventually succumbed and went to bed at 8:30.
The only cause that seemed to make much sense aside from advancing age was a fish-oil prescription my doctor had handed me as a means of expressing his concern about my cholesterol. The prescription was a last-ditch effort the curb cholesterol ... previous attempts in the chemical realm of stattins had led to similar aches/pains/lassitude reactions.
Anyway, I'll knock off the fish oil today and try not to be too gloomy about my wussy inability/disinterest in doing sensible things like modifying diet, getting exercise and stopping smoking.
I wonder if it's true for others: At a certain age, good advice becomes too burdensome. First, it presumes it is 'good' and then, perhaps the same thing differently expressed, it fails to address a question asked in curiosity rather than despair: for what?
Yesterday I was walloped with a landslide of fatigue accompanied by various aching body parts. Doing anything carried with it a ramped-up degree of difficulty. I worked hard not to, but eventually succumbed and went to bed at 8:30.
The only cause that seemed to make much sense aside from advancing age was a fish-oil prescription my doctor had handed me as a means of expressing his concern about my cholesterol. The prescription was a last-ditch effort the curb cholesterol ... previous attempts in the chemical realm of stattins had led to similar aches/pains/lassitude reactions.
Anyway, I'll knock off the fish oil today and try not to be too gloomy about my wussy inability/disinterest in doing sensible things like modifying diet, getting exercise and stopping smoking.
I wonder if it's true for others: At a certain age, good advice becomes too burdensome. First, it presumes it is 'good' and then, perhaps the same thing differently expressed, it fails to address a question asked in curiosity rather than despair: for what?
between man and god
The only thing that stands between Man and God is belief.
If this experience could actually be transmitted or 'shared,' it might be worth writing about.
Since it can't, the whole matter becomes like selling Tupperware to a housewife without leftovers.
Poor ol' God.
If this experience could actually be transmitted or 'shared,' it might be worth writing about.
Since it can't, the whole matter becomes like selling Tupperware to a housewife without leftovers.
Poor ol' God.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
donation
Recently, I received a donation on this blog site.
$1.88.
I honestly cannot express my gratitude adequately.
$1.88.
I honestly cannot express my gratitude adequately.
the teacher's job?
The teacher's job is not to insist you become something or someone else.
The teacher's job is to coax you to be yourself.
Father's Day
Since, as I see it, a mother is just a female father and a father is just a male mother, don't you think it's time to consolidate Mother's Day and Father's Day?
But I suppose that would lead to quibbling about whether the new holiday should be dubbed Mather's Day or Fother's Day.
Oh well ... as the fictional TV newscaster Emily Letella was wont to say, "Never mind!"
But I suppose that would lead to quibbling about whether the new holiday should be dubbed Mather's Day or Fother's Day.
Oh well ... as the fictional TV newscaster Emily Letella was wont to say, "Never mind!"
just a teeny-tiny intrustion
Gossamer thread by gossamer thread, one thing connects to another. "Terrorists" and other "enemies" are scary and "threaten the fabric of society." By collecting data, citizens are "protected." To improve protection, collecting more data is required.For the six months ending 31 December 2012, the total number of user-data requests Facebook received was between 9,000 and 10,000, relating to between 18,000 and 19,000 accounts."These requests run the gamut - from things like a local sheriff trying to find a missing child, to a federal marshal tracking a fugitive, to a police department investigating an assault, to a national security official investigating a terrorist threat," Mr Ullyot said.
"With more than 1.1 billion monthly active users worldwide, this means that a tiny fraction of 1% of our user accounts were the subject of any kind of US state, local, or federal US government request."
Gossamer thread by gossamer thread ... until the fabric of society is torn to shreds.
lost medieval city found
Passed along in email:
A medieval city that may have been doomed to extinction by its own successes has been discovered in the jungles of Cambodia.
Mahendraparvata dates from about 1,200 years ago and some of its temples have not been looted.
A medieval city that may have been doomed to extinction by its own successes has been discovered in the jungles of Cambodia.
Mahendraparvata dates from about 1,200 years ago and some of its temples have not been looted.
A journalist and photographer from the newspaper accompanied the "Indiana Jones-style" expedition, led by a French-born archaeologist, through landmine-strewn jungle in the Siem Reap region where Angkor Wat, the largest Hindi temple complex in the world, is located....
Jean-Baptiste Chevance, director of the Archaeology and Development Foundation in London who led the expedition, told the newspaper it was known from ancient scriptures that a great warrior, Jayavarman II, had a mountain capital, "but we didn't know how all the dots fitted, exactly how it all came together."
the fear factor in Buddhism
Is there anyone who doesn't have something that scares the pee down their leg? I mean, sure, there can be young military officers who proclaim "no fear!" but those are the guys who get their troops killed in order to make their point ... a poor and arrogant trade-off if ever there was one. My guess is that they're just scared of fear and bereft of means to allay it. No biggie, but I try to steer clear of people like that ... the ones whose altars are bathed in the blood of others.
Fear.
Did it ever strike anyone else as strange: Keen-eyed observers can call Republicans out for their manipulation of the electorate's fears, using those fears as a means of feathering their centralized-power
Fear.
Well, what Republicans and Christians might embrace is not something I can do much about. I doubt if they're alone.
What chewed my gum this morning were the subtle and gross fears that Buddhism can evince. I'm talking about practicing Buddhists, not the philosophically adroit. Everyone has something that can scare the pee down their leg and Buddhism is not somehow exempt from that warm and sometimes shaming trickle. Or anyway, that's my experience.
How many Internet bulletin boards or open lectures -- and most important, individual minds -- are not tinged with fear? Gotta get rid of attachment; gotta be more compassionate; gotta be more humble; gotta immolate the ego; gotta attain enlightenment ... etc. The alternative is to slip back into old and hellish ways in which this life was littered with examples of dissatisfaction and uncertainty... a hell realm that becomes more and more insufferable (read, deluded) as time and practice progress. Get thee behind me, Satan!
As a countermeasure, practicing Buddhists slip on the Buddhist robes, both within and without. They practice hard. Really -- practicing Buddhists work very hard. They learn what's desirable and undesirable in thought, word and deed and (subtly, perhaps) attempt to shield themselves by holding on tight. "I am a Buddhist." Or, if they don't try to shield themselves, I know I have and might yet again. Fear can send the pee down my leg and being afraid has put a fire under my butt in the past. Of course it's not called "fear" -- it's called something more sensible and digestible and acceptable and praise-worthy ... a desire to save all sentient beings, a longing for enlightenment, a canny awareness of attachment, a sense of emptiness ... etc.
Fear.
Unless anyone wanted to create a shining institution or a well-feathered nest, fear doesn't work very well. Or rather, fear works fine, but relying on it doesn't. Fear is a perfectly good descriptor, but a cheap date as a point of leverage. As far as I can see, Buddhism is not about fending anything off or consigning it to some vanishing point in outer space or finding relief, whether in smarm-talk or fiery sermon. Buddhism is just about being alive and being awake, two things that only a fool would bother fearing.
It is about courage without "finding the courage."
Well, I'm not entirely sure what I'm on about this morning, but I guess it has something to do with creating and nourishing the fear anyone might initially wish to escape. Does fear need "fixing?" Does attachment need "fixing?" Does enlightenment need "attaining?" Does compassion require robes ... or no robes either? Is emptiness someplace "else?"
Isn't there a time to leave heaven and hell out of the equation?
As for example when the warm pee dribbles down my leg?
brilliant day
A brilliant, brilliant morning. Blue sky, the air filled with the scent of an earlier dampness. Easy and delightful.
My wife and two boys took off for Pennsylvania yesterday, bound for a party today to celebrate my daughter's run-away marriage in Fiji earlier this year. I don't travel well, so ... well, I hope everyone has a good time.
And that the day is as brilliant and benevolent there as it is here.
My wife and two boys took off for Pennsylvania yesterday, bound for a party today to celebrate my daughter's run-away marriage in Fiji earlier this year. I don't travel well, so ... well, I hope everyone has a good time.
And that the day is as brilliant and benevolent there as it is here.
Friday, June 14, 2013
the first casualty of war...
It is said that the first casualty of war is the truth. But whose truth? What truth? Whatever the answer, there seems to be an endless capacity for war and with it, an endless willingness to embellish or sidestep the truth of the situation. Which liar is anyone willing to believe?
-- The U.S. stated Thursday that the Syrian government has used chemical weapons against the rebels in its country. The U.S. has stated that use of chemical weapons constitutes a red line when it comes to greater American involvement in the slaughter that is Syria today. President Barack Obama said yesterday that the U.S. would help to arm the rebels. Specifics were not detailed. The Syrian government described the U.S. announcement of chemical weapon use as being "full of lies."
-- The British government has put airlines on notice: Edward Snowden, 29, a man who leaked information on top-secret U.S. government surveillance programs, is not welcome in England. Whether Snowden is telling a useful truth or a scurrilous pack of lies does not seem to be part of the British equation. Associatively in the Snowden (and Bradley Manning) arena, the creditable documentary film maker Laura Poitras has apparently been badgered in a variety of ways by the government whose activities she has examined in depth.
-- In Sao Paulo, Brazil, an estimated 5,000 pretty-pissed-off demonstrators took to the streets in the wake of a subway-fare price hike. The government claims the price hike is not even commensurate with inflation. The people who need to ride the subway in order to make a living seem to have a different point of view.
-- In Australia, a radio host was fired after he asked Prime Minister Julia Gillard if her partner of seven years were gay. He must be gay, the host suggested, because he was a hairdresser. The comment came in the midst of a mud-slinging, saber-swinging run-up to the Sept. 14 general election that Gillard seems destined to lose.
-- The U.S. stated Thursday that the Syrian government has used chemical weapons against the rebels in its country. The U.S. has stated that use of chemical weapons constitutes a red line when it comes to greater American involvement in the slaughter that is Syria today. President Barack Obama said yesterday that the U.S. would help to arm the rebels. Specifics were not detailed. The Syrian government described the U.S. announcement of chemical weapon use as being "full of lies."
 |
| Edward Snowden |
-- In Sao Paulo, Brazil, an estimated 5,000 pretty-pissed-off demonstrators took to the streets in the wake of a subway-fare price hike. The government claims the price hike is not even commensurate with inflation. The people who need to ride the subway in order to make a living seem to have a different point of view.
-- In Australia, a radio host was fired after he asked Prime Minister Julia Gillard if her partner of seven years were gay. He must be gay, the host suggested, because he was a hairdresser. The comment came in the midst of a mud-slinging, saber-swinging run-up to the Sept. 14 general election that Gillard seems destined to lose.
credentials
Joe, my neighbor across the street, walked over and asked me yesterday if I would participate in a homework project he had. Joe retired a year or so ago and is currently taking classes that will result in a certificate attesting to his ability to counsel the aging, an activity he already engages in at his local church. Joe wants to hone his skills and get his ticket punched.
The homework consisted of interviewing five people and then writing a short paper. Joe emailed me the questionnaire that constituted the interview. It was entitled, "Older Adult Interview: Social Roles and Relationships in Old Age." The questions, eight of them, felt as if I were being questioned from behind bullet-proof glass ... asked by someone who was convinced that old age could somehow be improved and that they had a handle on how that might be accomplished. The questioner sat on the other side of the glass as if trying to keep the leper of his own old age at bay.
Who knows? Maybe such improvements can be made. Old age brings with it a variety of circumstances that cannot be escaped, but maybe they can be ameliorated. The emphasis deserves to be placed on the word "maybe." Reduced energy, a wispy, misty sense of loss, dwindling social connections, a feeling of ostracism, financial nooses, aches and pains, a sense of floundering ... well, it goes with the territory and perhaps such nostrums as "keep busy," "do something for someone else," "volunteer," "exercise," "watch your diet" ... it all sounds good and sounds caring and sounds reasonable.
The only problem is that old age is not reasonable. Old age is just a fact and when have facts ever kissed the ring of sweet reason, sweet caring or any other sweetness? Facts are unimpressed by optimism or pessimism. They're just facts.
The questionnaire seemed to imply that the matter of old age could be approached in the same way anyone might approach learning basketball or French or driving a tractor: Just apply the easy-to-follow instructions and voila!
The question that really brought me up short was, "Do you (or did you) have any role models for successful old age?" The notion that anyone could be a success at what they were already a success at (being old) struck me as preposterous. And the suggestion that anyone might have a role model (some Mickey Mantle or fluent French speaker) to mimic ... well, I suppose in some perverted way, this might be possible ... it sounds so reasonable and caring, right? ... but does it really compute?
Well, Joe needs to get his ticket punched. He needs credentials as a counselor. Like shrinks and stock brokers and probably anyone else climbing the ladder of profession or satisfaction, there are accomplishments that need acknowledgment from others. Everyone wants to eat, so sometimes credentials are important.
And sometimes credentials do in fact prove something. But more important than what they prove is what they don't prove. Credentials cannot definitively -- as from behind bullet proof glass -- prove entirely reliable in the subject matter they address. At best, they can make suggestions, offer possible frameworks or tools. A man with a law degree may be credentialed in all sorts of ways and yet the human panorama that the law addresses is always larger and more complex than what can be codified, described or corrected.
And the same is true for individuals who may fall into the trap of believing their own publicity -- the accomplishments and failures in which they wrap themselves as a means of credentialing their lives. It's an exercise that is bound to lead to dissatisfaction and dis-ease. As comforting as credentials may seem to be and as supportive as a collection of failures and successes may be, still there is something left out, something elusive and yet certain. Many address this sense of uncertainty by simply adding on more and more credentials, more and more reassurances, more and more answers from behind bullet-proof glass.
It's not that credentials are somehow bad. And it's not that self-defining doesn't have its uses. But credentials need to be acknowledged as incomplete. And the question needs to be asked, what then is complete?
Who knows? Maybe such improvements can be made. Old age brings with it a variety of circumstances that cannot be escaped, but maybe they can be ameliorated. The emphasis deserves to be placed on the word "maybe." Reduced energy, a wispy, misty sense of loss, dwindling social connections, a feeling of ostracism, financial nooses, aches and pains, a sense of floundering ... well, it goes with the territory and perhaps such nostrums as "keep busy," "do something for someone else," "volunteer," "exercise," "watch your diet" ... it all sounds good and sounds caring and sounds reasonable.
The only problem is that old age is not reasonable. Old age is just a fact and when have facts ever kissed the ring of sweet reason, sweet caring or any other sweetness? Facts are unimpressed by optimism or pessimism. They're just facts.
The questionnaire seemed to imply that the matter of old age could be approached in the same way anyone might approach learning basketball or French or driving a tractor: Just apply the easy-to-follow instructions and voila!
The question that really brought me up short was, "Do you (or did you) have any role models for successful old age?" The notion that anyone could be a success at what they were already a success at (being old) struck me as preposterous. And the suggestion that anyone might have a role model (some Mickey Mantle or fluent French speaker) to mimic ... well, I suppose in some perverted way, this might be possible ... it sounds so reasonable and caring, right? ... but does it really compute?
Well, Joe needs to get his ticket punched. He needs credentials as a counselor. Like shrinks and stock brokers and probably anyone else climbing the ladder of profession or satisfaction, there are accomplishments that need acknowledgment from others. Everyone wants to eat, so sometimes credentials are important.
And sometimes credentials do in fact prove something. But more important than what they prove is what they don't prove. Credentials cannot definitively -- as from behind bullet proof glass -- prove entirely reliable in the subject matter they address. At best, they can make suggestions, offer possible frameworks or tools. A man with a law degree may be credentialed in all sorts of ways and yet the human panorama that the law addresses is always larger and more complex than what can be codified, described or corrected.
And the same is true for individuals who may fall into the trap of believing their own publicity -- the accomplishments and failures in which they wrap themselves as a means of credentialing their lives. It's an exercise that is bound to lead to dissatisfaction and dis-ease. As comforting as credentials may seem to be and as supportive as a collection of failures and successes may be, still there is something left out, something elusive and yet certain. Many address this sense of uncertainty by simply adding on more and more credentials, more and more reassurances, more and more answers from behind bullet-proof glass.
It's not that credentials are somehow bad. And it's not that self-defining doesn't have its uses. But credentials need to be acknowledged as incomplete. And the question needs to be asked, what then is complete?
Thursday, June 13, 2013
spiritual life in a nutshell
If there ever were a thorough, quick-hit description of serious spiritual endeavor, I doubt if it could do better than the following light-hearted limerick attributed variously to William Monkhouse or possibly the world-renowned Anon.
There was a young lady of Niger
Who smiled as she rode on a tiger;
They returned from the ride
With the lady inside,
And the smile on the face of the tiger.
"the oneness of all things"
I wonder if life's things come together and become comfortable after anyone just gets too damned tired to keep them apart.
No formula or exercise necessary.
Just too damned tired.
Never mind "the oneness of all things." Just give it a rest.
No formula or exercise necessary.
Just too damned tired.
Never mind "the oneness of all things." Just give it a rest.
"spiritual" adventures
Does anyone besides me find the word "spiritual" a little weird? From where I sit, "spiritual" seems to be a bit like "love:" Everyone uses the word with an assurance that might do the pope proud and yet when
called on to define it, every person wants to splice in a "yes but," some footnote to indicate that the word has meaning beyond the definition given. "We" speak the word as if we all agree and yet the bald fact is, well, we only sort-of agree ... each with his or her personal yes-but to tack on.
An Internet dictionary describes the adjective "spiritual" as meaning:
But still, using the dictionary definition, where is the line between anyone's uhhhh spirit "instead of the physical world?"
Spiritual stuff is sort of invisible, I guess, and it's usually big ... bigger than a breadbox ... big, as in god-big.
It seems to be imbued with something benevolent, but you can never quite be sure when it might come around and bite you on the ass.
Separation from the physical world may be OK for a definition of "spiritual," but when you try applying that separation, when trying to say for sure what is and is not "spiritual," things seem to fall into disarray.
"Spiritual" has a presumptive truth (why else use the word?) and yet what, precisely, is presumed seems to live in a land of wubba-wubba.
Even dissecting the word "spiritual" can seem to be bad manners -- it's taken that seriously.
Taken seriously enough to use without a backward glance and a sometimes-oozing insistence and yet not seriously enough for anyone to know what they're talking about.
It's weird.
Or maybe it's just me.
An Internet dictionary describes the adjective "spiritual" as meaning:
Let's give "spirit" a pass for the moment and pretend we all know what that means.related to your spirit instead of the physical worldreligious, or related to religious issues
But still, using the dictionary definition, where is the line between anyone's uhhhh spirit "instead of the physical world?"
Spiritual stuff is sort of invisible, I guess, and it's usually big ... bigger than a breadbox ... big, as in god-big.
It seems to be imbued with something benevolent, but you can never quite be sure when it might come around and bite you on the ass.
Separation from the physical world may be OK for a definition of "spiritual," but when you try applying that separation, when trying to say for sure what is and is not "spiritual," things seem to fall into disarray.
"Spiritual" has a presumptive truth (why else use the word?) and yet what, precisely, is presumed seems to live in a land of wubba-wubba.
Even dissecting the word "spiritual" can seem to be bad manners -- it's taken that seriously.
Taken seriously enough to use without a backward glance and a sometimes-oozing insistence and yet not seriously enough for anyone to know what they're talking about.
It's weird.
Or maybe it's just me.
visiting Tasajara
It was a weekend, no doubt, when Joe and I tooled south in his red MG convertible. We didn't know where we were going, but we wanted to get away ... anywhere would do as long as it was away from the installation where we spent six or seven hours a day, five days a week, in the pressure cooker that was then called the Army Language School. The training was intense enough so that the army made reference in its welcome-aboard literature to the possibility that we, as students, might feel suicidal urges. When I first read that, I smiled. After a couple of months of training, I wasn't smiling any more ... eight students per class ... never knowing when an answer might be required ... learning German in 1962 ... attention! attention! a-fucking-ttention!
Anyway, it was the weekend. No classes. A time to escape to ... to ... well, Joe and I didn't know where we were going. It was enough to be going away ... south out of Monterey and down the California coast towards the egregiously well-heeled community of Carmel. Joe, who came out of an impoverished and truly dysfunctional setting in Tennessee, liked classy stuff of the sort Carmel or his red MG or his Jack Daniels or his love of "Madame Butterfly" provided. But I don't think he was after anything classy that day. We were just going away.
Shortly before we reached Carmel, a dirt road cut away to the left, heading off into the parched and scruffy hills that contrasted with the lush greenery along the Pacific Ocean to our right. Who knew where it went? We certainly didn't, but we did know the unmarked road seemed to offer an even richer sense of away. We took it.
The road led across perhaps 200 yards of flat land before curving left as it reached the base of the hills. And coming around that corner, we were instantly rewarded for our risky, I-don't-know-where-I'm-going spirit. Around that corner lay a small farmhouse in front of which, and spilling out into the road we were traveling, was a small herd of ... wait for it! ... peacocks, for Christ's sake! The birds ambled and shambled and dragged their brilliant riches behind them with the same bored assurance a mother might invest in holding her child's hand. We had to slow down. Hell, we wanted to slow down! It was like entering a dream whose story line was missing but whose delight was distinct. Peacocks!
We edged through the herd and began to follow the dirt road upward into the scrub dry hills. Up and up and up and up. No signs told us where we were going, but the road must lead somewhere, mustn't it? It was hot and grew hotter under the bright sun ... up and up a one-lane dirt road. Occasionally, when a sharp corner appeared, Joe would slow in anticipation of someone coming from the other direction. But there was no one.
At about 5,000 feet, a sign directed all traffic that planned to go further on our road to check in with the fire warden. Obediently, we pulled into a short driveway at the end of which stood a fifty- or 60-foot tower. The guy manning the tower gave us the cook's tour of his aerie, which looked out over an enormous swath of scrub hillsides. He had binoculars. He was alone on the job and, while pleasant enough, had the kind of brusque directness that people who live alone can acquire. He understood our desire to explore and get away. He wanted to know how long we would stay. He wanted to keep an eye on our potential either to start fires or get lost. And when he heard that we were at the language school, his face took on a playful wryness. "Gonna be spies, hunh?" he said with teasing amiability.
The question left me flat-footed. This was a man who seemed to be sure of himself, to be grounded in experience, so I was inclined to heed him. But it had never occurred to me that I was going to language school with some aim in mind, some greater direction or purpose. For me, going to language school was just going to language school. It wasn't for something else. Things were too intense and focused to be for anything else. A spy? Moi? It sounded too ludicrous for words. The perspective was whacked! This was a good guy, but his perspective was whacked. Only, of course, it wasn't his perspective that was whacked ... it was my own.
After signing in, we climbed back into the MG and headed out, this time descending instead of ascending. Down and down and down we went into hills that seemed to capture and magnify the heat all around us. From the warden, we knew by then where our road was leading -- a place called Tasajara Springs, a watering hole for those who found succor in hot springs and a place whose telephone number was TAsajara-1 ... TA-1.
By the time we pulled into a small parking lot near the collection of wood-frame buildings, the heat had taken on a force and insistence that wiped other considerations aside. There was a rectangular, nothing-elaborate swimming pool shimmering about 25 yards from the car and, without thinking, I opened the door and sprinted towards it. I didn't care who cussed me out for trespassing. This was important -- viscerally important. It was only in the mid-flight of my dive towards those cooling waters that I realized I had forgotten to take off my wrist watch ... oh well, too late now.
Joe and I stayed the night. I don't recall anything about the owner of the place or the guests I probably talked with. At dinner and afterwards, there was an aging piano player who had come to San Francisco in 1898 and had been poor and who had wrapped his legs in discarded newspapers as a means of keeping warm when he slept on park benches. He played old-time popular music that everyone might sing, or at any rate hum, to. And when he had finished for the evening, he gathered all the children around and gave each of them a penny.
In the cool dawn that arrived the next day, I ambled around the grounds before breakfast. A small brook bubbled quietly downhill from the swimming pool. Its waters nourished the green trees along its banks and then ambled into the I-don't-know-where ... someplace away. And as I stood idly, it seemed to me that Tasajara was a blessed place, an oasis without any of the oozing folderol that sometimes accompany words like "blessing." The blessing was all over me like body odor -- quiet, consuming, insistent and so obvious as to be downright boring.
It was a blessing and in that moment I swore -- really swore -- that I would come back to this place before I died.
Well, I didn't make it and now that Tasajara has become a Zen center, my desire to return is far less insistent. In fact, even if I could, I doubt that I would go. For one thing, blessings that count themselves as "blessings" make me blanch. And for another, the pedal-to-the-metal longing to get away has gone away.
I'm not sure where it went.
Maybe there are peacocks there.
Anyway, it was the weekend. No classes. A time to escape to ... to ... well, Joe and I didn't know where we were going. It was enough to be going away ... south out of Monterey and down the California coast towards the egregiously well-heeled community of Carmel. Joe, who came out of an impoverished and truly dysfunctional setting in Tennessee, liked classy stuff of the sort Carmel or his red MG or his Jack Daniels or his love of "Madame Butterfly" provided. But I don't think he was after anything classy that day. We were just going away.
Shortly before we reached Carmel, a dirt road cut away to the left, heading off into the parched and scruffy hills that contrasted with the lush greenery along the Pacific Ocean to our right. Who knew where it went? We certainly didn't, but we did know the unmarked road seemed to offer an even richer sense of away. We took it.
The road led across perhaps 200 yards of flat land before curving left as it reached the base of the hills. And coming around that corner, we were instantly rewarded for our risky, I-don't-know-where-I'm-going spirit. Around that corner lay a small farmhouse in front of which, and spilling out into the road we were traveling, was a small herd of ... wait for it! ... peacocks, for Christ's sake! The birds ambled and shambled and dragged their brilliant riches behind them with the same bored assurance a mother might invest in holding her child's hand. We had to slow down. Hell, we wanted to slow down! It was like entering a dream whose story line was missing but whose delight was distinct. Peacocks!
We edged through the herd and began to follow the dirt road upward into the scrub dry hills. Up and up and up and up. No signs told us where we were going, but the road must lead somewhere, mustn't it? It was hot and grew hotter under the bright sun ... up and up a one-lane dirt road. Occasionally, when a sharp corner appeared, Joe would slow in anticipation of someone coming from the other direction. But there was no one.
At about 5,000 feet, a sign directed all traffic that planned to go further on our road to check in with the fire warden. Obediently, we pulled into a short driveway at the end of which stood a fifty- or 60-foot tower. The guy manning the tower gave us the cook's tour of his aerie, which looked out over an enormous swath of scrub hillsides. He had binoculars. He was alone on the job and, while pleasant enough, had the kind of brusque directness that people who live alone can acquire. He understood our desire to explore and get away. He wanted to know how long we would stay. He wanted to keep an eye on our potential either to start fires or get lost. And when he heard that we were at the language school, his face took on a playful wryness. "Gonna be spies, hunh?" he said with teasing amiability.
The question left me flat-footed. This was a man who seemed to be sure of himself, to be grounded in experience, so I was inclined to heed him. But it had never occurred to me that I was going to language school with some aim in mind, some greater direction or purpose. For me, going to language school was just going to language school. It wasn't for something else. Things were too intense and focused to be for anything else. A spy? Moi? It sounded too ludicrous for words. The perspective was whacked! This was a good guy, but his perspective was whacked. Only, of course, it wasn't his perspective that was whacked ... it was my own.
After signing in, we climbed back into the MG and headed out, this time descending instead of ascending. Down and down and down we went into hills that seemed to capture and magnify the heat all around us. From the warden, we knew by then where our road was leading -- a place called Tasajara Springs, a watering hole for those who found succor in hot springs and a place whose telephone number was TAsajara-1 ... TA-1.
By the time we pulled into a small parking lot near the collection of wood-frame buildings, the heat had taken on a force and insistence that wiped other considerations aside. There was a rectangular, nothing-elaborate swimming pool shimmering about 25 yards from the car and, without thinking, I opened the door and sprinted towards it. I didn't care who cussed me out for trespassing. This was important -- viscerally important. It was only in the mid-flight of my dive towards those cooling waters that I realized I had forgotten to take off my wrist watch ... oh well, too late now.
Joe and I stayed the night. I don't recall anything about the owner of the place or the guests I probably talked with. At dinner and afterwards, there was an aging piano player who had come to San Francisco in 1898 and had been poor and who had wrapped his legs in discarded newspapers as a means of keeping warm when he slept on park benches. He played old-time popular music that everyone might sing, or at any rate hum, to. And when he had finished for the evening, he gathered all the children around and gave each of them a penny.
In the cool dawn that arrived the next day, I ambled around the grounds before breakfast. A small brook bubbled quietly downhill from the swimming pool. Its waters nourished the green trees along its banks and then ambled into the I-don't-know-where ... someplace away. And as I stood idly, it seemed to me that Tasajara was a blessed place, an oasis without any of the oozing folderol that sometimes accompany words like "blessing." The blessing was all over me like body odor -- quiet, consuming, insistent and so obvious as to be downright boring.
It was a blessing and in that moment I swore -- really swore -- that I would come back to this place before I died.
Well, I didn't make it and now that Tasajara has become a Zen center, my desire to return is far less insistent. In fact, even if I could, I doubt that I would go. For one thing, blessings that count themselves as "blessings" make me blanch. And for another, the pedal-to-the-metal longing to get away has gone away.
I'm not sure where it went.
Maybe there are peacocks there.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
systemic and symptomatic
Maybe it's a good question to ask: Of what systemic framework is this activity a symptom?
For example, of what systemic framework is war a symptom? And perhaps the answer might be greed. And if that were a credible answer, then treating war with peace treaties could be called a definite relief, but it would not eradicate or even change very much the underlying problem... and the approach of the next war.
Or, as another example, consider the Vatican's difficulties with pedophile priests. Is a case-by-case or revised-policy-after-revised-policy approach actually addressing the underlying systemic frameworks that encourage what the Vatican might claim it wanted to escape?
On a personal level as on an institutional one, systemic flaws that led to unfortunate symptoms might be recognized and accepted with a blase or even heart-felt "it is what it is." Everyone makes his or her own choices.
But never to investigate and try to find out what was symptomatic and what was systemic ... it strikes me as pretty unfortunate....
A life held together with Band-Aids that cover the symptomatic running sores but fail to address the underlying, systemic illness.
For example, of what systemic framework is war a symptom? And perhaps the answer might be greed. And if that were a credible answer, then treating war with peace treaties could be called a definite relief, but it would not eradicate or even change very much the underlying problem... and the approach of the next war.
Or, as another example, consider the Vatican's difficulties with pedophile priests. Is a case-by-case or revised-policy-after-revised-policy approach actually addressing the underlying systemic frameworks that encourage what the Vatican might claim it wanted to escape?
On a personal level as on an institutional one, systemic flaws that led to unfortunate symptoms might be recognized and accepted with a blase or even heart-felt "it is what it is." Everyone makes his or her own choices.
But never to investigate and try to find out what was symptomatic and what was systemic ... it strikes me as pretty unfortunate....
A life held together with Band-Aids that cover the symptomatic running sores but fail to address the underlying, systemic illness.
we, the people
Reuters photos:
Protesters run as riot police fire teargas during a protest at Taksim Square in Istanbul, June 11, 2013. REUTERS/Osman Orsal
Munduruku Indians from the Amazon Basin demonstrate in front of the Ministry of Mines and Energy by lying on the street to symbolize the dead, in Brasilia, June 11, 2013. The Indians are demonstrating against violations of indigenous rights and are calling for the suspension of the construction of the Belo Monte hydroelectric plant on the Xingu, Teles Pires and Tapajos rivers, a huge project aimed at feeding Brazil's fast-growing demand for electricity. REUTERS/Lunae Parracho
A radical Orthodox believer (R) throws an egg at gay rights activists during a protest against a proposed new law termed by the State Duma as "against advocating the rejection of traditional family values" in central Moscow, June 11, 2013. Russian police detained more than 20 gay rights activists involved in a "kissing protest" outside parliament where lawmakers were preparing to pass a bill banning homosexual "propaganda". REUTERS/Maxim Shemetov
A sign reading "No Reporters Please" is posted
on the front door of the house belonging to Lonnie and Karen Snowden,
father and stepmother of NSA whistle-blower Edward Snowden, in Upper
Macungie Township, Pennsylvania, June 11, 2013. REUTERS/Mark Makela
Munduruku Indians from the Amazon Basin demonstrate in front of the Ministry of Mines and Energy by lying on the street to symbolize the dead, in Brasilia, June 11, 2013. The Indians are demonstrating against violations of indigenous rights and are calling for the suspension of the construction of the Belo Monte hydroelectric plant on the Xingu, Teles Pires and Tapajos rivers, a huge project aimed at feeding Brazil's fast-growing demand for electricity. REUTERS/Lunae Parracho
A radical Orthodox believer (R) throws an egg at gay rights activists during a protest against a proposed new law termed by the State Duma as "against advocating the rejection of traditional family values" in central Moscow, June 11, 2013. Russian police detained more than 20 gay rights activists involved in a "kissing protest" outside parliament where lawmakers were preparing to pass a bill banning homosexual "propaganda". REUTERS/Maxim Shemetov
squandered trust
SAN FRANCISCO (AP) - Before there was Edward Snowden and the leak of explosive documents showing widespread government surveillance, there was Mark Klein - a telecommunications technician who alleged that AT&T was allowing U.S. spies to siphon vast amounts of customer data without warrants.And therein lies the hub of the current security-leak discussion: The government claims, "we can't tell you the secrets that would prove our case because that would cause too much harm. You'll have to trust us." But what trust the American public has had in its government has been sorely tested and frayed by, among other things, two wars that cost a trillion dollars and had no reliable or logical foundation; a Congress in thrall to the very big businesses that unleashed financial hardship on millions of people; and a Supreme Court which declared that corporations were allowed to throw as much unsupervised money at politics as they liked.
...
All the lawsuits prompted by Klein's disclosures were bundled up and shipped to a single San Francisco federal judge to handle. Nearly all the cases were tossed out when Congress in 2008 granted the telecommunications retroactive immunity from legal challenges, a law the U.S. Supreme Court upheld. Congress' action will make it difficult to sue the companies caught up in the latest disclosures.
The only lawsuit left from that bundle is one aimed directly at the government. And that case has been tied up in litigation over the U.S. Justice Department's insistence that airing the case in court would jeopardize national security. [Emphasis added]
Trust that can be earned can likewise be squandered and such betrayals can turn into a bloody business.
Not only were there Mark Klein, Pfc. Bradley Manning or Edward Snowden, but, now, resurrected, there's also the harrowing case of Thomas Drake.
en plein air
Was there ever a man or woman of high station who was not, in some measure, as nimble and needle-toothed as a mongoose? I doubt it. Call it ruthlessness, call it wisdom ... still, as nimble and needle-toothed as a mongoose.
On Tuesday, an Associated Press story said that Pope Francis had lamented the existence of a "gay lobby" within the upper echelons of the Roman Catholic Church. His remarks were made in a private meeting with confederation of priests and nuns who hailed from Latin America. The meeting was not recorded (apparently), but confederation members cobbled together a report of the meeting for their own uses -- a generalized sense of what the pope had said.
Reports of a "gay lobby" at the Vatican were not new. Francis' predecessor, Pope Benedict XVI, had commissioned an investigation and report on the topic in an effort to clean up the Vatican's act. The report was completed, Benedict quit his job, and the hot potato landed in Francis' lap.
Ouch.
Roman Catholics high and low do not, as a matter of church policy, take kindly to homosexuality, although church documents dating back to at least the seventh century depict the simple human difficulty a guy might have trying to keep his pecker in his pants. Homosexual or heterosexual, a pecker has a mind of its own and the church, squirm and wriggle as it might, was not immune. But that squirming and wriggling, the denying and gainsaying of human sexuality, had led to various kinds of blackmail and arm-twisting within the upper reaches of a smooth and soothing church. If I had to guess, I think I would guess that Francis might be forgiven for viewing this nest of vipers and whispering, "Oh shit!"
The Latin American confederation's document made it into the public square although, supposedly, it was not supposed to.
But as the mongoose in charge, it is hard not to imagine that the public unveiling of a private report was precisely what Francis had intended. The problem was intractable within the Vatican walls. No one wanted his ox gored and fought viciously to assure that it wouldn't be. The "gay lobby" was playing out against a wider scandal of priests who had sought their own place in the mongoose sun and plied a sexual trade on hapless children. What other recourse was there, assuming anyone wanted to clean up the Vatican act, than to air the secrets, lance the boil, make a clean (or at any rate cleaner) breast of things ... to take the secrecy out of the secrecy?
As the richest and most powerful corporation on earth, the Roman Catholic Church is in a good position to lose a bit of power, lose a bit of credibility, suffer a body blow ... and still thrive in some new-made format. And it is for this reason that I suspect Francis -- the oh-shit Francis saddled with a no-win situation -- might have welcomed what a larger public could find revelatory or wowsers... things en plein air with the lesser mongooses sent away to lick their wounds.
Together with this in-the-news speculation, I wonder about the corruption that may evolve in any life dedicated to a nimble and needle-toothed capacity. Call it ruthlessness, call it wisdom ... still the effort to keep secrets secret means that so much energy is devoted to keeping things secret that the energy devoted to addressing the deeper secret itself becomes diminished and obscured.
What is kept secret? What is the deeper secret? A mongoose mind can bounce and dodge and weave with incredible swiftness. And where more so than in spiritual endeavor? It's not a big deal, in one sense -- everyone, man or woman, has a hard time keeping their peckers in their pants. But it can also be a pretty big deal when that same man or woman may long for a little peace or seek to find out "the secret of life." With all the secrets carefully tamped down or held nimbly at bay with explanations and beliefs and other needle-toothed applications, what energy is left for any honest peace or any honest unraveling of "the secret of life?" The mongoose of control and understanding frolics. Explanation is heaped on explanation until what is explained is lost in the discourse ... and there is no peace.
The secret of life, for those willing to grant such a grandiose sentiment, is that life has no secrets. How can I say that? I can say that because the person reading these words is not dead. S/he is alive and reading and there is no secret in it. S/he knows the secret of life, whether or not the mongoose likes it. Life is alive -- anyone knows that without thinking. Life is alive, I am alive, you are alive ... and there are no secrets in it.
Easier said than done ... OK. But a little at a time, with attention and responsibility, there is no reason not to become at ease with the obvious. The obvious and inescapable. The secret of life is that there are no secrets. How much more peace could anyone desire? How much more peace could anyone achieve? How much more peace could anyone actualize?
Sure, the mongoose creates the cobra. The cobra creates the mongoose. Priests fuck little boys or maneuver and pose in positions of great power. It is not something to overlook or paper over with a mongoose-y 'goodness.' There are heinous secrets to be told, within and without ... and some pretty nifty ones as well. But still ...
This morning, against a grey sky, a single, brilliant male cardinal settled on a telephone wire outside my house. He was alive and as bright and stunning as any sunrise. He sat there, completely whole, completely alive ... and then flew off.
Reports of a "gay lobby" at the Vatican were not new. Francis' predecessor, Pope Benedict XVI, had commissioned an investigation and report on the topic in an effort to clean up the Vatican's act. The report was completed, Benedict quit his job, and the hot potato landed in Francis' lap.
Ouch.
Roman Catholics high and low do not, as a matter of church policy, take kindly to homosexuality, although church documents dating back to at least the seventh century depict the simple human difficulty a guy might have trying to keep his pecker in his pants. Homosexual or heterosexual, a pecker has a mind of its own and the church, squirm and wriggle as it might, was not immune. But that squirming and wriggling, the denying and gainsaying of human sexuality, had led to various kinds of blackmail and arm-twisting within the upper reaches of a smooth and soothing church. If I had to guess, I think I would guess that Francis might be forgiven for viewing this nest of vipers and whispering, "Oh shit!"
The Latin American confederation's document made it into the public square although, supposedly, it was not supposed to.
But as the mongoose in charge, it is hard not to imagine that the public unveiling of a private report was precisely what Francis had intended. The problem was intractable within the Vatican walls. No one wanted his ox gored and fought viciously to assure that it wouldn't be. The "gay lobby" was playing out against a wider scandal of priests who had sought their own place in the mongoose sun and plied a sexual trade on hapless children. What other recourse was there, assuming anyone wanted to clean up the Vatican act, than to air the secrets, lance the boil, make a clean (or at any rate cleaner) breast of things ... to take the secrecy out of the secrecy?
As the richest and most powerful corporation on earth, the Roman Catholic Church is in a good position to lose a bit of power, lose a bit of credibility, suffer a body blow ... and still thrive in some new-made format. And it is for this reason that I suspect Francis -- the oh-shit Francis saddled with a no-win situation -- might have welcomed what a larger public could find revelatory or wowsers... things en plein air with the lesser mongooses sent away to lick their wounds.
Together with this in-the-news speculation, I wonder about the corruption that may evolve in any life dedicated to a nimble and needle-toothed capacity. Call it ruthlessness, call it wisdom ... still the effort to keep secrets secret means that so much energy is devoted to keeping things secret that the energy devoted to addressing the deeper secret itself becomes diminished and obscured.
What is kept secret? What is the deeper secret? A mongoose mind can bounce and dodge and weave with incredible swiftness. And where more so than in spiritual endeavor? It's not a big deal, in one sense -- everyone, man or woman, has a hard time keeping their peckers in their pants. But it can also be a pretty big deal when that same man or woman may long for a little peace or seek to find out "the secret of life." With all the secrets carefully tamped down or held nimbly at bay with explanations and beliefs and other needle-toothed applications, what energy is left for any honest peace or any honest unraveling of "the secret of life?" The mongoose of control and understanding frolics. Explanation is heaped on explanation until what is explained is lost in the discourse ... and there is no peace.
The secret of life, for those willing to grant such a grandiose sentiment, is that life has no secrets. How can I say that? I can say that because the person reading these words is not dead. S/he is alive and reading and there is no secret in it. S/he knows the secret of life, whether or not the mongoose likes it. Life is alive -- anyone knows that without thinking. Life is alive, I am alive, you are alive ... and there are no secrets in it.
Easier said than done ... OK. But a little at a time, with attention and responsibility, there is no reason not to become at ease with the obvious. The obvious and inescapable. The secret of life is that there are no secrets. How much more peace could anyone desire? How much more peace could anyone achieve? How much more peace could anyone actualize?
Sure, the mongoose creates the cobra. The cobra creates the mongoose. Priests fuck little boys or maneuver and pose in positions of great power. It is not something to overlook or paper over with a mongoose-y 'goodness.' There are heinous secrets to be told, within and without ... and some pretty nifty ones as well. But still ...
This morning, against a grey sky, a single, brilliant male cardinal settled on a telephone wire outside my house. He was alive and as bright and stunning as any sunrise. He sat there, completely whole, completely alive ... and then flew off.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
a billion here and a billion there
The late U.S. Senator Everett Dirksen has been frequently misquoted as saying, "A billion here and a billion there and pretty soon you're talking real money." (When asked about the quote, the senator replied, "Oh, I never said that. A newspaper fella misquoted me once, and I thought it sounded so good that I never bothered to deny it.")
And of course it does sound too good to deny, not least because it speaks to the spending habits of the government.
On Tuesday, in New York City, Mayor Michael Bloomberg unveiled a $19-plus billion plan to build metropolitan defenses against a time when the city might be struck by a big storm. Global warming has led to rising sea levels and the dangers from a storm like Hurricane Sandy, the most deadly and destructive of the 2012 hurricane season, are still relatively fresh. Costs for Sandy were estimated at $53 billion, an amount only exceeded by the fallout from Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Costs associated with Katrina were put at $81 billion.
A billion here and a billion there ...
Repairing the damages from or defending against Mother Nature.
It is hard not to wonder if the billions spent on restoration and defense mechanisms might not be matched with funding that would attack some of the palpable man-made causes of global warming instead of shoring up mechanisms that will not, in all likelihood, work.
Oh well ... I guess then we would be talking about real money.
And of course it does sound too good to deny, not least because it speaks to the spending habits of the government.
 |
| Sandy heads north |
A billion here and a billion there ...
Repairing the damages from or defending against Mother Nature.
It is hard not to wonder if the billions spent on restoration and defense mechanisms might not be matched with funding that would attack some of the palpable man-made causes of global warming instead of shoring up mechanisms that will not, in all likelihood, work.
Oh well ... I guess then we would be talking about real money.
how does your garden grow
Across the dike, here, the fields which in past years have sprouted corn are now beginning to throw up shoots of I-don't-know-what ... squash, perhaps... I don't know leaves well enough to be sure.
bits of news
-- In France, middle-class homeless people have taken up residence in an abandoned office building. As why not? Economies being what they are in the wake of the financial collapse whose foundations no government has seen fit to rectify, it makes some sense ... poverty has its demands and those demands need to be met.
-- In Ecuador, apparently, people eat guinea pigs with the regularity that Americans eat hamburgers. But what happens when an American is confronted by a guinea pig on his/her plate?
-- In a case of shutting the barn door after the horse got loose, contracting firm Booz Allen Hamilton said today it had fired Edward Snowden for "violations of the firm's code of ethics and firm policy." Snowden, 29, is apparently holed up in Hong Kong after releasing information about the National Security Agency's and Central Intelligence Agency's farming of America's phone and Internet data. Snowden left the hotel he was staying in on Monday and his whereabouts are unknown, though he is believed to still be in Hong Kong, which has laws protecting individuals from extradition when that extradition is being exercised for reasons that exceed the breaking of law ... as for example, punishing those who exercise a critical posture towards government.
Where is the proof to buttress the word "if?"
-- In a case of shutting the barn door after the horse got loose, contracting firm Booz Allen Hamilton said today it had fired Edward Snowden for "violations of the firm's code of ethics and firm policy." Snowden, 29, is apparently holed up in Hong Kong after releasing information about the National Security Agency's and Central Intelligence Agency's farming of America's phone and Internet data. Snowden left the hotel he was staying in on Monday and his whereabouts are unknown, though he is believed to still be in Hong Kong, which has laws protecting individuals from extradition when that extradition is being exercised for reasons that exceed the breaking of law ... as for example, punishing those who exercise a critical posture towards government.
A petition posted on the White House website calling for Mr Snowden's immediate pardon has gathered more than 30,000 signatures."If the aim..."
However, an opinion poll commissioned by the Washington Post suggests a majority of Americans think government monitoring of phone records is acceptable if the aim is to fight terrorism.
Where is the proof to buttress the word "if?"
Zen teacher teaching Zen?
Yesterday, in an effort to find a specific date in a decades-old past, I wrestled a box of old journals out of the basement. The box and the amalgam of spiral notebooks within it had that dank feeling that basement storage seems to impart ... not exactly wet, but somehow softened by wetness.
In order to find the specific date on which I had spray-painted both the Zen teacher's stoop and the Zen center's doors, I was forced to skim-read page after page of hand-written entries made during 1981 and 1982. Of course, each of those entries had once had a heart-felt meaning and importance ... confusions, relationships, activities, sorrows and delights. But yesterday, each entry rose off the page as if from afar and sometimes I was captured by some small interest.
One of the passages that diverted my attention was an entry about Zen teachers.
My good friend Frank and I were once Zen students together. We went out for food now and then (Frank's Sicilian grandmother had been fond of saying, "Eat slow, but eat a lot") and gabbed as good friends will -- work, relationships, confusions. And at a time later than the time I was perusing yesterday, Frank and I once created what was one of the high points of my Zen training ... a day on which we decided to do an all-day meditation sitting in his living room. We began with the morning chanting we knew from the Zen center we attended. But when we got around to the Kannon Ten Clause Sutra -- a chant with a lot of energy and a lot of speed ... we both broke down laughing. I don't mean tittering, I mean laughing our asses off. Each time we tried to serious-up, the laughter overtook us again. I honestly don't know how we ever managed to stop laughing. There was no explanation ... it just happened.
What I ran across yesterday was how Frank and I diverged on the subject of my Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi. It wasn't a right-wrong divergence. It was a divergence of taste.
After Frank and I had left the center headed by Eido Shimano, we both did some practice with Kyudo. But as a 1982 journal entry indicated, Frank was not entirely happy. He did not like Kyudo's approach. Kyudo, he noted according to the entry, tended to talk in the zendo about television shows or about himself or about other bits of information that had recently caught his attention. Frank said he missed the references to the lineage and historical past and philosophical positions taken in the wider realms of Buddhism. Kyudo was not a man to dwell on "emptiness" or "compassion" or "enlightenment" when speaking. If a peanut butter sandwich had the capacity to gum up your mouth or constipation had ruined your day, that was something that might have so-called spiritual links without going all 'spiritual' about it.
I knew then as I know now what Frank was talking about. The arabesques, the grounding, the history of Buddhism can help to mortar a firm and determined practice. But now as then, I always had some half-shaped wish and sensibility ... somehow I had to get through this tra-la-la and get back to washing the dishes and being confused and laughing out loud... and be at peace with it. It was just a wispy, half-spoken sense ... and Kyudo played well in that regard. At least for me.
Frank and I did not disagree: That would have been like going into some greasy spoon and arguing about whether fried eggs or scrambled were somehow better. It was just a taste element.
But yesterday, the journal entry seemed to sharpen the focus a bit: I was content with the appreciation (however mangled) I had had; and I hoped that Frank is likewise content.
Scrambled and fried eggs, after all, are both capable of providing good nourishment.
In order to find the specific date on which I had spray-painted both the Zen teacher's stoop and the Zen center's doors, I was forced to skim-read page after page of hand-written entries made during 1981 and 1982. Of course, each of those entries had once had a heart-felt meaning and importance ... confusions, relationships, activities, sorrows and delights. But yesterday, each entry rose off the page as if from afar and sometimes I was captured by some small interest.
| Kyudo Nakagawa |
My good friend Frank and I were once Zen students together. We went out for food now and then (Frank's Sicilian grandmother had been fond of saying, "Eat slow, but eat a lot") and gabbed as good friends will -- work, relationships, confusions. And at a time later than the time I was perusing yesterday, Frank and I once created what was one of the high points of my Zen training ... a day on which we decided to do an all-day meditation sitting in his living room. We began with the morning chanting we knew from the Zen center we attended. But when we got around to the Kannon Ten Clause Sutra -- a chant with a lot of energy and a lot of speed ... we both broke down laughing. I don't mean tittering, I mean laughing our asses off. Each time we tried to serious-up, the laughter overtook us again. I honestly don't know how we ever managed to stop laughing. There was no explanation ... it just happened.
What I ran across yesterday was how Frank and I diverged on the subject of my Zen teacher, Kyudo Nakagawa Roshi. It wasn't a right-wrong divergence. It was a divergence of taste.
After Frank and I had left the center headed by Eido Shimano, we both did some practice with Kyudo. But as a 1982 journal entry indicated, Frank was not entirely happy. He did not like Kyudo's approach. Kyudo, he noted according to the entry, tended to talk in the zendo about television shows or about himself or about other bits of information that had recently caught his attention. Frank said he missed the references to the lineage and historical past and philosophical positions taken in the wider realms of Buddhism. Kyudo was not a man to dwell on "emptiness" or "compassion" or "enlightenment" when speaking. If a peanut butter sandwich had the capacity to gum up your mouth or constipation had ruined your day, that was something that might have so-called spiritual links without going all 'spiritual' about it.
I knew then as I know now what Frank was talking about. The arabesques, the grounding, the history of Buddhism can help to mortar a firm and determined practice. But now as then, I always had some half-shaped wish and sensibility ... somehow I had to get through this tra-la-la and get back to washing the dishes and being confused and laughing out loud... and be at peace with it. It was just a wispy, half-spoken sense ... and Kyudo played well in that regard. At least for me.
Frank and I did not disagree: That would have been like going into some greasy spoon and arguing about whether fried eggs or scrambled were somehow better. It was just a taste element.
But yesterday, the journal entry seemed to sharpen the focus a bit: I was content with the appreciation (however mangled) I had had; and I hoped that Frank is likewise content.
Scrambled and fried eggs, after all, are both capable of providing good nourishment.
uphill on level ground
Just noodling...
Another uphill push on level ground:
The greater the religion, the greater the lie.
Most, if not all, spiritual persuasions do not condone lying. This is a good and useful encouragement of all great religions, all great lies.
Lies and truths dance the tarantella on the open plain. Wreathed in enjoyment. Wreathed in smiles.
It's a rather pleasant truth ... no need to acclaim or despair of who is dancing and who is not.
It's just a rather pleasant truth ... nothing worth lying about with aimless truths.
Dancing.
A rather pleasant blessing.
Another uphill push on level ground:
The greater the religion, the greater the lie.
Most, if not all, spiritual persuasions do not condone lying. This is a good and useful encouragement of all great religions, all great lies.
Lies and truths dance the tarantella on the open plain. Wreathed in enjoyment. Wreathed in smiles.
It's a rather pleasant truth ... no need to acclaim or despair of who is dancing and who is not.
It's just a rather pleasant truth ... nothing worth lying about with aimless truths.
Dancing.
A rather pleasant blessing.
Monday, June 10, 2013
shame
It's a bit too precious and too convoluted as written, but since I am too lazy to rewrite it and since
various recent conversations put me in mind of it, I will put it here so I'll know where to find it -- a 30-plus-year-old incident that had some impact in its time, but now is just a small shard in the mosaic of depredations of the Zen teacher Eido Tai Shimano.
SHAME (6/10/13)
Shortly before 3 a.m.
on Oct. 5, 1982, a
forty-two-year-old house painter and Zen student got out of bed, sipped a
little cold coffee and headed out the door of his 88th
Street apartment in Manhattan.
He was sleepy. He was scared. And he was determined.
As he walked south along Third
Avenue, the streets were largely empty. A few
trucks, a few taxis and a few buses plied their trade, but in a city as
jam-packed as New York, this was
an empty time and the emptiness seemed to compound his sense of fear. What if
he were seen or caught red-handed breaking the law? How could he deny that the
plastic bag in his right hand contained cans of spray paint and that the spray
paint belonged to him?
Nineteen blocks later, he turned left on 69th
Street and walked east until he stood in front of
356 East 69th, a handsome brownstone in an equally-handsome neighborhood and
home to Eido Tai Shimano, a Zen Buddhist teacher who had collected an
often-well-heeled following since his arrival in the United
States 20-or-more years before.
The sandstone stairs leading up to the front door lay in
partial shadow, partial street-lamp light.
The forty-two-year-old house painter and Zen student
withdrew one of the spray cans from his bag, shook it until the small steel
ball within rattled to indicate the paint was well-mixed, and then sprayed
first one and then another of the sandstone stairs: "SHAME." The
paint had been deliberately purchased in an oil-base form -- something that
could not be washed off easily as water-base paint might be. With luck, it
would be mostly dry before the sun came up and the lawbreaker's handiwork was
discovered.
With a sense of partial relief, the man replaced the can in
the bag, looked up and down the street to check for witnesses and walked away.
The relief was partial because there was one more stop to make, one more law to
break.
Two blocks away, at 223 East 67th
St., lay the Zen temple Shobo Ji, a converted
carriage house with an ornate set of double doors. How many times had the Zen
student and house painter lovingly stripped and sanded and revarnished those
doors over his eight-plus years of Zen practice? It was many and he had been
happy to do it ... but not today, not Oct.
5, 1982. Today was a day on which to withdraw another spray can,
shake it, and spray on the temple doors he had maintained ...
"SHAME."
This was the temple that Eido Shimano's followers had
provided for him. He 'ran' it. It was through his efforts that the idea had
become a reality. His followers were quick to credit his efforts but less
capable of acknowledging that without them, he and his efforts would have been
meaningless. Eido Shimano did not disabuse his loyal followers. He accepted and
subtly encouraged their fealty. He was the who of Zen Studies Society, the
umbrella organization that oversaw both Shobo Ji and the monastery in the
Catskills, Dai Bosatsu.
And now, today, one of his followers was drawing a line ...
SHAME. On the one hand, it was just a bit of scurrilous graffiti. On the other,
it was a summing up of Shimano's previous and future years as what some called
a "Zen master." He had manipulated and abused women students ... and
would again. He had manipulated and abused the finances of Zen Studies Society
... and would again. There was no pervasive Internet use at the time and so it
had taken years for the evidence to accumulate and make itself felt: Shimano
had betrayed is own teachings and hurt quite a lot of people into the bargain.
Was there a better word than SHAME?
The forty-two-year-old house painter and Zen student was, of
course, me. It was I who was tired and determined and scared. I was scared not
just that the police might catch and prosecute me but also that I might incur
some mystical wrath from the brightness of the Zen Buddhism I had followed as
best I might: Not only were the cops going to hit me on the nose with a rolled
up newspaper, but the Buddhist tradition itself might exact some fearsome,
hell-bound, karmic price. Toe the mark or risk reprisal ... that was Shimano's
teaching and I too had ingested it. But not today, not Oct. 5, 1982.
Looking back on that one small adventure, that shard in the
mosaic that is Shimano's corruption, I am no longer afraid. In fact, there is a
part of me which pats a younger and more frightened me on the back.
I was right.
Buddhism is worth the risk.
PS. For those seeking some verification of Eido Shimano's self-anointing adventures, a good source is the Shimano Archives. Those wishing corroboration of the spray-painting incident may want to peruse a letter Eido Shimano sent to the sangha ... the letter itself is a wonderful example of Shimano's executive ability not to address issues directly.
tryanny
"Tyranny" is one of those five-dollar, fire-cracker words that, like "terrorism," seems to gain momentum and force not so much according to a quantifiable yardstick but rather according to the number of people who claim to know what they're talking about and, more important, agree with each other. It's real, it's painful, it's outraging, and it's sometimes enough to spark bloody confrontation.
The trouble is that one man's tyranny is another man's benevolence. Like the "cults" that spring up out of socially-accepted religious frameworks, "tyranny" seems to allow no certain delineation when examined closely. What was "intolerable" to the American colonists who rose in sometimes-reluctant revolution, was "tolerable" to their British lords. Yet there were elements in each camp who recognized and were willing to discuss the imperfect boundaries of their positions. "Tyranny" and "benevolence" were important but lacked the stick-pin definition that would create an honest and quantifiable boundary.
Perhaps the easiest -- but not the only -- broad-brush dictionary definition of "tyranny" is:
The dictatorship of a Joseph Stalin or an Adolph Hitler, the mass murder in the Cambodian killing fields ... history supplies an endless array of examples of tyrannical activity. But tyranny can be as subtle in one instance as it can be vicious in another. Judging by the fallout, the word can be applied to situations of employment or race or spousal relationship or economic policy or political maneuvering or any other less-literally-bloody situation. On examination, the word seems to fall of its own weight and resolve itself in the punchline of the 1976 movie "Network:"
"Everyone says so" is hardly a responsible or peaceful lifestyle. Like those who proclaim "peace" as the opposite of "war," this way -- the way of "everyone says so" -- merely nourishes the fields of the next war, the next tyranny. Anguish is no joke and deserves a potent response, but without examination or responsibility ... well, it's not my cup of tea.
Perhaps the easiest -- but not the only -- broad-brush dictionary definition of "tyranny" is:
dominance through threat of punishment and violenceAnd "tyranny" does seem to have one agreed-upon aspect within its cheering-section definition: Tyranny always relates to the other guy -- the someone or something else that is imposing his/her/its will ... on ... me and my friends who are no longer willing to be ground beneath the tyrannical boot.
The dictatorship of a Joseph Stalin or an Adolph Hitler, the mass murder in the Cambodian killing fields ... history supplies an endless array of examples of tyrannical activity. But tyranny can be as subtle in one instance as it can be vicious in another. Judging by the fallout, the word can be applied to situations of employment or race or spousal relationship or economic policy or political maneuvering or any other less-literally-bloody situation. On examination, the word seems to fall of its own weight and resolve itself in the punchline of the 1976 movie "Network:"
I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!I can see nothing wrong with rising up against the anguish imposed by one sort of tyranny or another. The anguish can be as clear as the word is ephemeral. But I balk when the uprising relies for its force on the unexamined cheering of others. When I'm mad as hell and you're mad as hell and we're both mad as hell about approximately the same tyranny, then perhaps we can join forces to combat or overturn that tyranny. But not to examine and take responsibility for my own actions and reactions strikes me as a tyranny of convenient ignorance.
"Everyone says so" is hardly a responsible or peaceful lifestyle. Like those who proclaim "peace" as the opposite of "war," this way -- the way of "everyone says so" -- merely nourishes the fields of the next war, the next tyranny. Anguish is no joke and deserves a potent response, but without examination or responsibility ... well, it's not my cup of tea.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Edward Snowden, whistleblower
At 29, Edward Snowden left his $200,000 a year job, his girlfriend and his family and blew the whistle on the secret surveillance of the agencies he had worked for -- NSA and the CIA, among others. Metaphorically, he joins Pfc. Bradley Manning, 25, in an effort to call attention to what both might see as a tyranny-in-the-making.
Both in The Guardian article and in the video above, Snowden addresses the why's of his actions.
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