blue sky and the maw of mediocrity

Skitter-skattering mind lays out a tray of hors oeuvres:

-- In spiritual life, there is always one more thing to forget. It may sound cruel or difficult or frightening, but I have a hunch it is pretty simple: There is just one more thing to forget.

-- The longing to be good and kind and understanding, especially when collected together with a similar longing in others, requires a bit of steel. Without personal responsibility, mediocrity and cruelty are bound to have their say and make a mockery of goodness, kindness, and understanding. This is no fucking joke.

A New Zealander and two Burmese men have gone on trial in Myanmar on charges of insulting Buddhism.
The trio, who run a bar in Yangon, are accused over a flyer promoting a drinks event depicting Buddha with headphones.
The image triggered an angry response online shortly after it appeared on the bar's Facebook page.
Burmese law makes it illegal to insult or damage any religion. Myanmar, also known as Burma, has also seen growing Buddhist nationalism.

In the United States and elsewhere,

(Reuters) - Sony Pictures has canceled the release of a comedy on the fictional assassination of North Korea's leader, in what appears to be an unprecedented victory for Pyongyang and its abilities to wage cyber-warfare.
Hackers who said they were incensed by the film attacked Sony Corp (6758.T) last month, leaking documents that drew global headlines and distributing unreleased films on the Internet.

No one gets to insult the great leader, Gautama (the Buddha)! No one gets to laugh at the celestial heights imagined for North Korean president Kim Jong-Un. The beneficence and decency of these men and what they represent to some is beyond reproach and deserves to be observed by all.

It is comforting to be part of a group that has its ducks lined up, its philosophies chiseled out, its deviations decried. And what is true socially is likewise true in the mind. The goodness is extolled and the potential for corruption is dismissed or worse. How many times has any Buddhist heard someone say they must "defend the Dharma?"

This hard-headed appreciation of what is loved is par for the course as far as I can see. With luck, the blood-letting of goodness will be minimized. But what interests me is the personal willingness to shoulder the responsibility that goes with what is praised. What is praised is often wide as the sky and yet treated as if it were narrow as the eye of a needle.

Who will take the responsibility for the very simple observation that people (and this assuredly includes me) fuck up. They may do so on behalf of goodness and they may do so on behalf of evil. Either way, they fuck up.

Without taking responsibility for the errors that arise, how is anyone to sift out the miraculousness of any personal or social goodness? Where the arms might spread wide, how fruitful is living within the confines of narrowed definitions and rules?

It may be tricky and it may be hard, but I simply cannot think of another more appropriate encouragement than that from Gautama: "It is not what others do and do not do that is my concern. It is what I do and do not do -- that is my concern." This is not a call for mindless, mediocre self-centeredness. It points to what anyone can actually do anything about when it comes to the feeling that mediocrity is not enough.

Agreements with others are pleasant.

But when will a (wo)man see fit to agree with her- or himself?

the Cheney-Taliban approach

Hurrah for former U.S. Vice-president Dick Cheney, who has parried suggestions that American torture of suspected 'terrorists' (even when innocent) was warranted.

In a bit of irony that is as toxic as it is apostate, this beacon of American exceptionalism has taken a stance that is almost perfectly aligned with the Pakistani Taliban Cheney might claim to abhor ... you know, the group that attacked a school on Tuesday and killed 148 people, most of them children.

Both Cheney and the Taliban, of course, proclaim a true vision which, when it is not shared, deserves to be reiterated through cruelty. It's the principle, dontcha know. If you can't or don't or won't share the Cheney/Taliban true-truth, you are not only stupid and unrealistic, you deserve to be punished. This confection of philosophy is wrapped up in patriotic bows and relies on creating a climate of fear among the populace. And it is in this arena that Cheney, if not the Taliban, is winning. People are willing to be afraid and blame someone else for their fears and torture them out of existence.

Cheney and the Taliban are winning. America loves a winner.

Hurrah.

PS. One small example of the inexorable march towards a mediocre lifestyle may be seen in the unwillingness of movie theaters to show Sony's send-up of a plot to assassinate North Korean President Kim Jong- Un. Hackers broke into Sony's computer info and threatened to wreak havoc on the company if the movie were shown. Imagination is not appreciated by dictatorships like North Korea's, from which other countries (U.S., eg?) can learn ever so much..

the end of the Dalai Lama

In a wide-ranging interview with the BBC's Newsnight programme, the 79-year-old spiritual leader conceded that he may not have a successor....
"The Dalai Lama institution will cease one day. These man-made institutions will cease," the Dalai Lama told the BBC.
"There is no guarantee that some stupid Dalai Lama won't come next, who will disgrace himself or herself. That would be very sad. So, much better that a centuries-old tradition should cease at the time of a quite popular Dalai Lama."

I wonder how many will hear such words and dismiss them as mere posturing and immodest modesty. I am inclined to take him at his word ... institutions, however good, have no real staying power. How many spiritual institutions would have the kindness to express such a truth? What good is spiritual life if the best anyone can do is "spiritual life?"

At the same time that I think he is speaking to a real truth, I can't deny that I would miss his playful, honest and no-doubt-manipulative spirit. A kind man is a wonderful thing.

Palestinian dissent ... Israeli/U.S. echoes?

RAMALLAH, West Bank (AP) — Two-thirds of Palestinians say they are afraid to criticize Mahmoud Abbas, according to a poll, and some of the Palestinian president's recent actions only seem to confirm claims that dissent comes at a price....
Critics say that after a decade in power, Abbas is overseeing a largely authoritarian system with shrinking room for dissent — a claim denied by Abbas supporters who say Palestinians enjoy more political freedoms than most in the Arab world.

I wonder if and whether a similarly-themed story could/would ever be written about Israel (or possibly the United States) and appear in the American press.

December newspaper column

A bit gaudy and conformist, but it's what I could muster for a monthly column.

A 91-CENT GIFT THAT NEVER LOST ITS VALUE

Tuesday, December 16, 2014 
(Published in print: Wednesday, December 17, 2014)

NORTHAMPTON — Like ivy on some campus dormitory, the Christmas lights have begun to creep up and around the houses in my Northampton neighborhood. Their jolly colors whisper of long traditions — of giving, of neurotic shopping and of a religious past in which starchy and imperious Christians frowned on and even banned the celebration of the Yuletide.

The traditions, like the lights, eddy and swirl, but among them is a recollection that makes me wince almost 50 years after the fact.

In 1967, I signed on to a three-week tour of the Soviet Union. After reading something like 200 books about the Russian Revolution, the adventure had a certain logic. Russia, in 1967, was anathema to the United States, much as the Islamic State is today: Without an enemy, America would be somehow diminished, somehow less mighty and good. Enemies nourished a sense of self-esteem. Russia was the enemy du jour. I wanted to meet my much-maligned enemy.

Even before the tour group boarded our plane for the 17-hour flight, tour participants were treated to a class in Russian history and culture — a kind of quickie cheat sheet of do’s and don’t’s for first-time visitors. The factoid that stuck with me was the depiction of Russians as people who had a DNA-deep revulsion about giving any sort of gift that was not given in complete openness and love: The Russians, we were told, did not give gifts the way many Americans celebrated Christmas — giving because they ought to.

Eleven days of the tour were given over to sailing down the Volga River on the Prince Yuri Dolgoruki. The ship would dock periodically so that we might get off and sight-see some historical or cultural landmark. 

But one morning, I came on deck to find the ship tied up to a rickety dock surrounded by nothing but green grass leading off into nearby hills. This was, it seemed, to be a day of tourist respite — doing nothing but a bit of hiking and swimming.

I walked into the hills, inspected a small village composed of Lincoln-log houses, and was on my way back when I ran into five boys, aged about 10 to 12. They looked as playful and full of sass as any boys of that age. We approached each other with an equal curiosity and said some awkward hello’s since neither of us was much good at the other’s language.

And after a bit of distant but friendly silence, I motioned for them to sit on the grass. From my pocket, I withdrew a handful of change — a mixture of American and Russian coins. One by one, I placed coins of about equal value side by side — an American 50-cent piece and a 50-kopek coin; a 25-cent and 25-kopek piece; and so on down to a penny and a one-kopek coin. When I was finished and I could see that they had absorbed what I was saying, I gave each of the boys one American coin.

They looked pleased and I got up to return to the boat.

But about halfway to my destination, I heard a voice calling me from behind. One of the boys came forward shyly and held out his two hands, across which lay a 16-inch bit of twisted black and white twine. Each end was adorned with a black and white tassel.

It was clear he wanted me to take it.

It was equally clear that it was one of his prize possessions — a possession that reached down into his heart. He loved it, but more than loving it, something in him knew that giving what he loved was the way of the world. My gift was 91 cents. His was priceless ... and he didn’t have to think twice before parting with it.

I didn’t want to take the string. I didn’t want to deprive him. I didn’t want to be ashamed of the carelessness with which I had given my gift. And...

I could not refuse his gift. I could not not take it.

I took the string and said thank you. I tried to look calm, but inside I was seething with a desire to take back my past, to reshape it and infuse my gift with more honesty. I wanted to honor my heart as he had honored his own. At the time, I wasn’t up to the task. 

Having given his gift, the boy smiled with delight and scampered away to be with his friends: He had not lost anything; he had not gained anything. He had given and that was the way of the world and a joy. He knew it without any starch-collar instruction — as surely as a mosquito bite itches.

Tradition is nice but common sense is better: The gift is the giving, not the gift.

For years, I kept that string. In the midst of my accumulating of stuff, I always knew just where it was. But I never solved the loss of an opportunity to do as well as what that small boy had done without effort.

And then one day the string was lost. How and where I really don’t know. But it lingers in my mind at times like Christmas, stinging gently, its pedestrian message ever fresh: Give and be happy; receive and be happy.

Be happy.

There’s no time like the present.

Adam Fisher lives in Northampton. His column appears on the third Wednesday of the month. He can be reached at genkakukigen@aol.com.

time-lapse at Yosemite

Passed along in email: A 200+ mile backpacking experience through Yosemite National Park captured by Colin Delehanty and Sheldon Neill. This project was filmed over the course of 10 months. We spent a combined 45 days in the park capturing the images in this video. Published on Feb 27, 2014.

governed by laws

The best that can be said for a country 'governed' by laws is that it is an improvement on the alternative.

I first got some sense of this when, as a young reporter, I covered police and courts ... the starting point that a lot of reporters used to begin with.

Police was and remains an easy sell: "If it bleeds, it leads" expressed the yearnings of the civilized to seek out an often-uncivilized underbelly of their own human nature. Being naughty has a lot of allure.

But it was in the court that I began to sense what I think is true: Any social attempt to codify and guide human behavior is bound to fail: Human nature is more interesting than anything that could be found in a book.

Perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. Laws can really be quite good. But they cannot be "complete," cannot cover all the permutations of, say, a murder or robbery. Circumstances eddy and swirl in any given situation and so the crime invariably offers differing dollops of delight or distaste.

The crimes of the judicial system are not difficult to find: Just ask anyone in the business. But the alternative of anarchic and tribal decision-making happens to be less introspective and more capricious. And my guess is it is this compromised and compromising attitude that leads people to applaud a "country governed by laws."

And the same is true for individuals trying to guide and make sense of their own lives: Some applause may be warranted, but not as much as is sometimes applied.

Russia ... too big to fail?

Too big to fail?

OK -- I understand the English words, but I don't honestly understand the links between action taken and ends desired:

Russia's rouble has slipped back near its all-time low despite a dramatic interest rate rise by its central bank.
It increased rates to 17% from 10.5% in an attempt to boost the currency's value against the dollar.
The rouble has lost almost 50% against the US dollar this year as falling oil prices and Western sanctions continue to weigh on the country's economy.

I know that American neocon princelings like Dick Cheney love to chortle and preen when the enemies of the country that prints money and morality at their behest suffer a setback.

But I also wonder at what point our enemies' difficulties have the same effect as those experienced by our friends. In this instance, for example, at what point, if any, does Russia's financial plight have the same effect as the past difficulties of a Goldman Sachs and the U.S. is forced to address the 'fact' that Russia is "too big to fail?"

Wallowing in victory can only suffice for so long before the negative effects become apparent.

writing neurosis ... again

Woke at 2:30 and was immediately aware that I wanted to get rid of the newspaper column due for publication two days hence. It was a grinding sense: I had already rewritten it three times; it was still too damned long; and I was not at all sure that the argument I wanted to make hung together. I had reached the fuck-it zone.

When I was asked to write a monthly column, I had been flattered and was convinced that I could write such a thing as easily as falling out of bed: I had opinions up the ying-yang and was anxious to spread my imagined wisdom about ... well, pick a topic.

But nowadays, I find myself reclining in less insistent realms -- mostly in the recollections of an old fart. Those now-ancient lessons or observations or experiences are much more inviting than the rants ... even the rants I might rant about ... the Vatican, the militarization of my country, the hypocrisies and depredations that dot the social landscape, the advance of drones or whatever.

Instead, I feel like a bird settled on its eggs, warming them though they may never produce a chick. It's all I honestly have and so, though I sometimes despair of this backward-focused way of being, still, it is the being that fits me like warms socks. Social outrage is a very good thing in its time, but it takes a lot of energy and the likelihood that its targets will be more than mildly bruised.

I am picky about writing a column -- picky in ways that I seldom if ever apply to this blog. No doubt my slovenly approach shows through on the blog, but I forgive myself: No one takes a blog that seriously. A quick and even misspelled hit is OK on a barf-mobile blog. Rewriting, rephrasing, replacing ... forgetaboutit. One and done. By this time tomorrow, who will give a shit?

But the column is for public consumption. I feel that there is some undelineated bar to meet. Phrasing, length, choice of words ... it's homework and I drop back into some getting-an-A mode. It should be interesting but of course "interesting" is a subjective matter... even as some dictator or philosopher insists it should be universal.

Well ... I shipped it off in email a few minutes ago ... "The Expense of a 91-cent Gift." I'll now leave it to the editor to make what changes he thinks necessary ... as long as they agree with me, of course.

Funny how the old stuff -- in my case writing -- can't die a peaceful death but insists on coming around to bite you on the ass.

the most courageous (wo)man

Maybe the most courageous (wo)man is the one who can live without enemies.

Enemies are so delicious.

warming tales

Along the news wires, occasional warming stories of success spice up a drum beat of death and destruction ... the flubs that so many work so hard to put a dignified face on... you know, the ones in which tragedy is good and the more people believe that, the more the perpetrators are given permission to commit further 'worthwhile' atrocities.

Anyway, the warming tales are welcome since a constant diet of agitation and propaganda causes rickets of the mind.

The warming tales are so compelling that their failure, when it occurs, is seldom mentioned.

In Amsterdam, an amorous suitor rented a crane and planned to knock on his would-be wife's window on Saturday, play her a song and pop the question in style. "Instead the crane toppled over, smashing a large hole in the neighbor's roof."

The girl said yes -- why else run a heart warming story -- and the two went off to Paris to celebrate, but the crane crushed other structures in the subsequent efforts to straighten it out.

A warming story to be sure and thankfully no one was hurt, but it does seem that warming stories -- like bloody ones -- leave out the clumsy or ravaged tale that can easily follow in their wake.

Perhaps the "and they all lived happily ever after" is so tightly woven in the DNA of a self-serving humanity that the naughty or confused bits are shuttled to the back row of any tale.

Who, in the specific case, is paying for the damage inflicted in order to spin this warming, marital tale?

lord, make me the person.

If I had to pick a prayer that sidestepped the religious treacle that can drip from such entreaties ... something that nonetheless spoke the honest language of love and yearning, it would probably be this:

Lord, make me the person my dog thinks I am!

Yes, it's funny, but that doesn't mean it's not serious.

The brow-furrowers of spiritual pastimes may see this prayer as silly or childish or insulting to one profound religion or another, but my own leaning is to encourage anyone prone to spiritual interest to get down to brass tacks as soon as possible.

It does not matter whether those brass tacks are twisted or juvenile or miles off the track ... as long as others are not made to suffer: For my money, spiritual life always means your spiritual life and finding the courage to be honest about it is about the only way I can think of to find a usefulness that is not laden with diversions and gimcrack... that opens the heart that longs to be opened. Don't worry, your dog won't sell you out.

Today, a friend sent along an article about Pope Francis' saying that dogs were perfectly welcome in heaven. You know the shit will hit the fan on that one but a spiritual adventure in which the shit doesn't hit the fan can hardly be called a spiritual adventure.

Many people love their pets. In some cases it is instinctive. In some cases it is a fine way to steer clear of human beings who can be messy and contradictory and ... well, you know. In some cases it is an avenue on which to nourish a love and reciprocity that is ineffable. It doesn't really matter if it's "right" or "wrong" -- what matters is that it is true and whether that wide-open truth can form a starting point for a happier and less-beleaguered life.

Loving a pet is like loving a piece of music -- it opens out in all directions and fills the sky. It is utterly quiet and yet thundering in its effect.

The drawback is not so much whether animals have "souls," but rather how much damage to others can be kept in check. Such a love may be psychologically twisted or right on target: Each works that out on his or her own time and to the extent that no one else is harmed, I think it is important to say "yes" to such a love, such an openness, such a gob-stopping certainty. Saying no to such a love merely encourages what it seeks to expunge. So, for my money, it is best to say "yes" and be very careful not to shove it down anyone else's throat.

Yup -- if I had a dog, I can well imagine being swept off my feet ... enfolded in a tail-wagging world that leaves Vatican and mosque and temple in the shade. How this works, I have no clue, but I am comfortable for my own purposes to say it does work and that it is worth my soul, by whatever definition, to embrace what cannot be embraced.

Strange to think how unconcerned my dog might be with any of this. Her tail wags, his tongue is wet against my cheek ... everything between us is instantaneous and clear because, I suspect, there really is no "between" between us and saying so neither improves nor diminishes the truth.

My dog knows all this, I imagine, and there comes a time when I simply have to throw caution to the winds and just know what neither of us could possibly "know."

Perhaps I will deify my dog for a while. The dog doesn't mind, but his or her presence does pose an increasingly insistent question: Whose tail-thumping deity is this and do I have the courage to stop making a federal case out of it?

Imperfectly remembered, the Baal Shem Tov was once said to have been deeply impressed by a shepherd's prayer:

Dear lord,
Though I keep others' sheep
For money,
For you I would keep them for free
Because I love you.

anything you want

This afternoon, I got an email from my sister, Revan. It said:

What would you want to do if you could do anything? Take a trip to the islands, to the mountains, read a book, go to a concert? Whatever it is let's see if we can make it happen. If you need my help or presence let me know and I will be there.

For a moment, I just sat there flabbergasted. My sister is a serious person and not just some Hallmark-feels-good sentimentalist so I know I can take her at her word. But this was ... well, jaw-dropping. I felt as if I were six years old or something. No one has asked me a question like that in forever, let alone offered to help make my wish come true.

After realizing that the pleasure of being asked such a thing was really as good as it gets, I wrote back saying that and adding that ...well... maybe going on a whale watch would be nice: I haven't seen the ocean in so long and being on a ship and seeing a whale ... well, that would be nice too.

But the question itself was really the manna from heaven.

love and fear as usual

Just a reminder to myself that I sometimes forget and others might find utterly useless:

It's a good idea to examine what is loved and longed for with an eye to the fear that invests it. Likewise, it is a good idea to examine what is feared with an eye to the loving and longing it implies.

So often the two come as a matched pair, like the double helix of DNA. The question is not so much whether this is good or bad, corrupt or pure, confusing or clarified. The question is simply whether I am willing to examine the obvious.

At my age, the willingness dwindles.

Christmas lights

The Christmas lights have begun to adorn the street where I live. Holy or unholy, the colors are jolly, even in a New England which once frowned upon and sometimes outright-banned the holiday.

Is there anything so good that it can't serve to piss someone off or anything so evil that it can't excite someone's praise?

Oh well, I suppose saying I like green lightbulbs is a bit over-the-top.

the moral of the story

Sitting around chewing on the topic I'd like to use for this month's newspaper column, I wonder idly:

Do all stories have a moral?

I guess I think they do. Probably more than one according to the listener(s)/reader(s).

And perhaps the most dangerous scenario is not when someone says there are many morals or no morals at all, but rather when they insist and get others to agree with them that there is only one moral.

thinking ... true or false?

Stolen from Zen Community:

oops... enlightenment day!

Well that frosts the cake for sure: I missed Dec. 8, the day celebrated in the Zen tradition I once followed as Buddha's enlightenment day.

Enlightenment didn't even cross my mind, where once there were pedal-to-the-metal sesshins/retreats; tears of joy and sorrow; wispy paradoxical talks that lifted me on their wings; giggling and a sense that there was something overarching and wise and humane in life.

Well, I guess I can see why the Buddhist Santa will cross me off the list of boys and girls who have been "nice."

More seriously, to completely miss it after all the years of sturm und drang I once put into it?! It's like forgetting World War II or something. Dec. 8 was important ... big time!

Worse, I don't much mind and have no need of commiserating souls telling me I can get back on the bus if only I'll consent to see and focus and breathe and ... well, do the stuff I once did so much of.

But I think I prefer to be the one others can point to as an example of those who practice Buddhism poorly if at all. "Poor bastard ... that's what can happen to you if you don't watch out!"

I honestly hope everyone had a nice enlightenment day, whether or not they remembered it.

a Palestinian mantram? "I can't breathe"

I wonder if some of the same people who have protested the I-can't-breathe-death of a black man, Eric Garner, at the hands of a video-taped white police officer might consider transferring some of their concern to the Palestinians under constant assault by a righteous and who-me Israel.

Amnesty International has accused Israel of "war crimes" in the decimation of four buildings in Gaza. Though the situation is not proved, still there are endless similar and much-excused assaults by the well-armed Israelis taking one step or another to grind down the no-account and comparatively-ill-armed Palestinians, a group which might likewise cry out, "I can't breathe."

Israeli air strikes on four high-rise buildings in the final days of this summer's conflict in Gaza amounted to war crimes, Amnesty International says.
Evidence suggested the destruction was "carried out deliberately and with no military justification", a new report by the human rights group found.

The deaths of Eric Garner in New York and Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, have sparked street protests across the country -- the latest being seen on the professional basketball court Monday where several players donned "I can't breathe" T-shirts for warm-up drill.

The racial upset pits civilian rights against publicly-sanctioned police authority. Police do a dangerous job and need to be both vigilant and fair, a hard line to draw sometimes, but not a line that should be ignored. The arrogance of power needs to be called out, publicly labeled as unacceptable, and punished where warranted... just like any other crime.

It is really not enough to imagine that a particular individual or group might do something bad, the U.S. foreign-policy excuse for all sorts of random-but-'righteous' attacks on 'terrorism' that the U.S. allows itself to define without restraint.

No doubt Israel sees an opportunity in U.S. leadership. Palestinians are bad. They think bad thoughts and do bad things. Israel, like police forces everywhere, has the preponderance of weaponry and a boatload of propaganda. They are taking pre-emptive action against an opponent who has proved his villainy in the past.

But the villainy of those who do not categorize themselves among the villains goes unchecked and worse, has the gall to raise its actions to a pedestal of righteousness. The result is people who "can't breathe" ... either metaphorically by subjugation or literally because they and their families are dead.

I think it would be nice if the outrage of the street protests in the U.S. took a moment or two to consider the actual and potential arrogance of America's client in the Middle East -- Israel.

the allure of high heels

On the one hand, high-heeled shoes can make their wearers out as little more than sex objects. On the other hand, a study seems to prove one thing for sure: They work and there's no arguing with success.

where scarecrows outnumber people

In this Thursday, Nov. 6, 2014 photo, a teenager look alike scarecrow sits on a log pile in Nagoro, Tokushima Prefecture, southern Japan. This village deep in the rugged mountains of southern Japan once was home to hundreds of families. Now, only 35 people remain, outnumbered three-to-one by scarecrows that Tsukimi Ayano crafted to help fill the days and replace neighbors who died or moved away. (AP Photo/Elaine Kurtenbach)

dreams

In the end, a brown man stripped to the waist and hunkered by a doorway, pointed amiably to the door: That was was where I needed to go, he indicated.

I opened the door and stepped into the darkness. Almost immediately I could feel what I took to be two young boys, each holding one of my hands. We went forward until I had had enough: "Get me to the light!" I said loudly as I swung both of them to and fro.

I could feel the fear in their hands and I issued my demand, but they made no noise. I did it a second time -- even louder, even more imperious ... swung them and inveighed, "Get me to the light!"

And I woke up. It was 1130 last night and who knows how long the dream had gone on -- an endless, meandering dream that ended like this ... awake.

There had been priests and nuns in the half light.

There had been corners to turn and boys playing jai alai and a feeling of one of those intricate South American dream/reality books. I hardly knew where I was going, but I was walking and everyone seemed to be barefoot and I remember no cars. Occasionally I asked to be pointed to "12th Avenue," but even I was not sure if that would get me where I wanted to go.

Dreams. No one can write them with transmissible impact. They are like skinny dipping through the universe. Maybe fear. Maybe longing. And yet full of bare-ass impact.

On and on and on it went.

Maybe it was the lingering hospital drugs. Maybe it was the damned pills I take to 'improve' my health. Maybe it was hallucination. Maybe it was reality knocking on the door. There were shadows and light, young people and old. It probably had meaning and yet thumbed its nose without arrogance at anything so flimsy as meaning.

When anything can come true, is that true or is it reality and who gives a shit?

I gave a shit, but to expect anyone else to give a shit about my dream was really off the charts. It was important to me and yet how could it be important where no one else could possibly find import? Were such dreams questions or answers? Was there a difference between the two and if so, who cared when no one else cared?

So much force. So much importance ... for what? I don't know, but I know I was pretty serious: "Get me to the light!"

creating underground art

Passed along in email

drugs

The last time I checked, and I've got to check these days, today is Friday, a mere five days since I had a hospital operation that involved a lot of drugs -- drugs that have really messed with my circuitry.

This morning, for example, I woke up after the sun rose -- something I haven't done in YEARS. I dreamed long and specific and not terribly interesting dreams that were teeming with people ... and almost no intellectual or emotional focal point. And earlier in the week, I there was a period where I would wake from a nap and, for a short while, find myself somehow upside down... gravity was up somehow and it was weird. I can read a paragraph in a book fine ... but then need to read it three or four more times to understand it.

My wife assures me that it is the hospital drugs wearing off and I sure as hell hope it is.

I am more accustomed to my other version of crazy.

'the Vatican is not broke"

Is there anyone outside the most mentally defective lunatic who would assume that the Vatican were somehow on hard times? An institution hip-deep in great art, golden statues, castles, palaces and guys wandering around in golden shoes with curly toes on them? Let's be serious, right? They're almost as bad as the English.

And yet here is a BBC story suggesting that -- hallelujah, brother! --"It is important to point out that the Vatican is not broke," Cardinal Pell wrote. "Apart from the pension fund (...) the Holy See is paying its way, while possessing substantial assets and investments."

Poor dears. Always struggling so hard. Sure, they have corruptions, but what good corporation doesn't? They're just trying to get by. Their modesty is admirable. Such nice people.

Pedophilia, the gay cartel, banking corruption?... Boys will be boys.

It's nice to think they found a few million euros squirreled away. That way, devoted parishioners will not be be asked to pony up for "God" or "Jesus" ... although I suspect there will always be another plate that promises a place in heaven and a defense against hell.

General documents WWI Christmas Truce

Passed along in email:

A letter documenting the day when British and German troops laid down their arms, exchanged gifts and played a game of soccer at Christmas in 1914 has been uncovered in England.
The letter, written from the trenches in France by a high-ranking British general to his wife, has been made public to mark the centenary of the truce.

if a prodigy shocks, is she a prodigy

Renowned violinist Kyung-Wha Chung has shocked audiences at the Royal Festival Hall by publicly berating the parents of a coughing child. Coughing is a particular problem for classical performers in the winter months.
An academic paper released in 2013 even suggested that people appear to cough more in concerts than in they do in normal life.
The South Korean prodigy had been absent from the London stage for 12 years, partly due to a finger injury.
But the 66-year-old took offence at a child coughing during her performance of Mozart's Sonata In G.
"Maybe bring her back when she's older," she scolded the parents from the stage.
Anna Picard, music critic for The Times, said the atmosphere in the hall had already been tense, such was the anticipation surrounding the violinist's comeback.
"With one shrivelling put-down, a tetchy atmosphere turned toxic," she wrote in her review.

The prodigy flops -- there, I've said it. The toiling, the straining, the virtuosity, the perfection. The sissies lack daring as they assess the scene. The maestro has not found the lush loving grasses that offer more than a perfected cutting -- the land of faith and love.

A child coughs. Bringing expertise to bear is off my charts. Does the maestro hear a rude interruption or a bit of music that fits in every human way.

Humanity. Music. What could possibly interrupt or incur an uppity riposte?

No one interrupts what cannot be interrupted and the maestro knows this at a bone-deep level.

I'm not sure why this gets under my skin. Perhaps it is that in the land of soft grasses and faith and love, the maestro is no longer "perfect."

bad news, good news

Ran across this:

not cancer

After three or four or five weeks of tests and fidgeting about a potential cancer node on my right lung, the operating deed was done today. They had to play the worst-case-scenario even though they weren't sure. It turned out not to be cancer, and today I feel as if I had been kicked in the chest by some medium-sized, cloven-hoofed animal. A "fungus" was the verdict.

Arrived at the hospital at 7:30 a.m. Monday and arrived back home Tuesday at 1 p.m. That's the most efficient hospitalization I've ever been subjected to.

heavenly hell

There is something blissful, even heavenly, about the helpfulness and convenience and supporting nature of "hell." Like the benefits of "heaven," hell provides a generalized storage space and definition for all the "bad stuff."

In spiritual life, who does not squirm and writhe in an effort to soothe or eradicate the fires of hell? Subtle or gross, the effort consumes page after page of exposition, day after day of effort, year after year of crying out. Hell is no damned joke any more than hitting your thumb with a hammer is some kind of joke.

And yet does anyone sense the overwhelming loss that might occur if hell were to dissolve? There may be lots of praise for this notion -- get rid of hell, attain heaven -- but where the rubber hits the road, where the possibility might actually be within reach ... hell is so comforting and ridding oneself of comfort hardly makes any sense, let alone be truly desirable.

Dante did the Christians a favor with his technicolor depiction of a Disneyland-esque hell. As hell threatened, so heaven was simultaneously burnished. And others inclined towards spiritual prisms did what they could to keep pace with Dante's screen play. Individuals are no different.

But the convenience and comfort of "hell" -- the pit where the wind blows and the shit flies and things hurt like hell -- can't be denied, I suspect. Many are content to let hell light a fuse for heavenly realms ... but isn't that just more of the same: It's like inviting a couple to your party: You like the wife and can't abide the husband, but they come as a set, each miraculously completing the other in ways that please them but don't please you.

Heavenly hell. Hellish heaven. Really, I don't think the blessing of hell should be overlooked, let alone shunned. It's about like anything else: Keep an eye on it and after a while it has the chance to disappear ...

Who ever made this shit up in the first place?