.
Today, a video project has filled my mind. I want to do a reading of John Cavanagh's "A Modern Monk's Tale." The voice will hide behind the still pictures that accompany his essay. Tomorrow, I will go and do the reading in a sound studio and pay more money than I have a right to be spending, given a fixed income, to have the recording done ... edited, etc. I haven't got those skills. The project as a whole strikes me as quite important, much as anyone's plans might strike them as important and fill the mind.
Anyway, today is a day of practice. Reading text is not all that hard, but it reminds me of various Zen retreats I have gone on in the past -- retreats during which the assembled students would chant "The Diamond Sutra" in unison. The sutra is a long one and unless you paid very close attention to the words (Chinese or Japanese or Pali transliterations?) on the multiple pages, you would get lost ... and no one could help you because they were too busy paying attention to their own difficulties. It was a good practice.
Reading aloud, which I tried yesterday and will continue trying today, occasions various flubs. Forty-one pages: The odds are pretty good that the emphasis or the words will somehow get jumbled. And there is no one to get inside my head to stop that from happening. Attention and concentration are required and ... well, sometimes I simply can't do it.
Privately, reading aloud into an empty house, I forgive my flubs, back up and correct the errors I recognize, and then continue. But publicly, in a finished video project, there is no forgiveness. The nail needs to be hit on the head, no flubs allowed...or anyway, that's how I see it.
And it makes me think: Why is perfection seen as perfection when flubs are clearly the rule? Wouldn't it be better to turn that around and recognize that imperfection is the perfection and what is commonly called perfection is an aberration and a mock-up? True, there are times of the perfect strike, the perfect reading, arise and they are wonderful. Just perrrrfect! But perrrrfect all the time? Through all 41 pages? The odds don't favor it and, although I may do my best, still, if I don't want to make even more flubs, it would be better to set perfection aside... what bonehead thought up perfection in the first place? Or imperfection either, for that matter?
OK, I've got bonehead work to do.
.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
desperate times
.
This morning I had a note from a friend with whom I used to work at the newspaper. He had been a photographer at the time, with a wife and two children. Recently, after a long hiatus, I wrote to him asking if he would/could help me with a project I was planning. His return note said he was not the man to lend a hand ... I wanted help with the audio portion of a video; he had always hated the technical side of videos and was more into the creative end of things.
And he added ....
How infuriating I find the presidential candidates with their oleaginous claims of caring and their focus on tax returns and birth certificates!
.
This morning I had a note from a friend with whom I used to work at the newspaper. He had been a photographer at the time, with a wife and two children. Recently, after a long hiatus, I wrote to him asking if he would/could help me with a project I was planning. His return note said he was not the man to lend a hand ... I wanted help with the audio portion of a video; he had always hated the technical side of videos and was more into the creative end of things.
And he added ....
I felt helpless in a time when I would like to help. Bob acknowledged that he was not alone in his particular boat, but still ....We've completely slipped out of the middle class and are on various types of welfare. I'm delivering pizzas/washing dishes/mopping 3 evenings a week at a local restaurant, gigging most weekends, hosting an open mic, occasionally teaching guitar and occasionally doing freelance photography. Kath got laid off a few weeks ago. Desperate times.The kids are doing great in spite of our financial stresses. We're certainly blessed in that regard.
How infuriating I find the presidential candidates with their oleaginous claims of caring and their focus on tax returns and birth certificates!
.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Occupy ....
.
The Occupy Wall Street movement is scheduled to rally anew on Wall Street this morning. Will it work, will it won't? No one really knows.
What began as a mighty statement of malaise and anger and hope has largely dissipated ... and yet ....
Here is a short history of the Occupy endeavor.
And here's a news story.
.
The Occupy Wall Street movement is scheduled to rally anew on Wall Street this morning. Will it work, will it won't? No one really knows.
What began as a mighty statement of malaise and anger and hope has largely dissipated ... and yet ....
Here is a short history of the Occupy endeavor.
And here's a news story.
.
genteel incuriosity
.
When my daughter Olivia was perhaps five, she joined a bowling league with a group of her peers. The kids were barely big enough to heft even the lightest of bowling balls and their lanes were always buffered by bumpers that assured the ball would not end up in one gutter or the other.
The kids loved it ... the lights, the noise, the opportunity to wreak controlled havoc at the other end of the lane ... pee-wee demolition derby .... eeeeeehaw!
At the time, my wife was working as a bookkeeper at a church in Longmeadow, Mass., a community broadly known for its affluence. Stately oak and maple trees graced its main drag and set back from those trees were equally stately colonial houses in which a nouveau riche presided. These were not the old aristocracy whose assumptions of social standing were ingrained and devolved from an approving and understanding God. These were people who relied on their stuff ... the money, the country clubs, the civic organizations, the knowledge of table etiquette, the right colleges, the merchandise ... and a barely-concealed I've-got-it-and-you-don't aura.
At the end of six or seven weeks, Olivia's bowling league wrapped things up with a small party at the alleys. There was cake and fruit juice and ... trophies. Olivia won some kind of first place plastic statuette. My wife and I thought it was a hoot -- a midget kid winning a bowling trophy. We were pleased that she was pleased, but pleased as well that she was not pleased as a means of putting anyone else in their place. She was happy. We were happy. What a hoot!
But when my wife retailed this story to a co-worker at the church, thinking the woman might get a smile out of the circumstances, the woman looked her straight in the eye with some seriousness and commented ...
"Oh ... bowling."
I'm not sure which burns my flapjacks worse -- the out-and-out-ignorance of a man or woman who might employ words like "nigger," "spic," "kike" without embarrassment or the genteel incuriosity of a man or woman unwilling to employ the blessings of background to see some wider world ... a person for whom status trumps all else and everything is seen as a means of ensuring or elevating that status. What doesn't elevate that status is unworthy of investigation ... let the rest of the world suck and egg or eat cake or something.
By way of example, I don't much care for NASCAR races and will snicker in agreement if someone points out that the event consists of a bunch of cars going very fast and making one left turn after another. Duller than dishwater in my book. But I would not for a moment put my assessment above the enjoyment that others may derive from it -- even beefy guys sporting tattoos who may or may not use words like "nigger," "spic" and "kike" without embarrassment.
I find the ignorance of genteel incuriosity astounding, insidious ... and in the end, saddening. To be so disproportionately well-educated and well-situated and then not employ those gifts for anything other than affirming a world full of merchandise ...
Talk about creating hell in pursuit of heaven!
A dismissive ignorance is hardly the basis for an informed opinion.
Genteel incuriosity may recoil at the use of the word "nigger," but too often it misses the "niggers" it creates.
.
When my daughter Olivia was perhaps five, she joined a bowling league with a group of her peers. The kids were barely big enough to heft even the lightest of bowling balls and their lanes were always buffered by bumpers that assured the ball would not end up in one gutter or the other.
The kids loved it ... the lights, the noise, the opportunity to wreak controlled havoc at the other end of the lane ... pee-wee demolition derby .... eeeeeehaw!
At the time, my wife was working as a bookkeeper at a church in Longmeadow, Mass., a community broadly known for its affluence. Stately oak and maple trees graced its main drag and set back from those trees were equally stately colonial houses in which a nouveau riche presided. These were not the old aristocracy whose assumptions of social standing were ingrained and devolved from an approving and understanding God. These were people who relied on their stuff ... the money, the country clubs, the civic organizations, the knowledge of table etiquette, the right colleges, the merchandise ... and a barely-concealed I've-got-it-and-you-don't aura.
At the end of six or seven weeks, Olivia's bowling league wrapped things up with a small party at the alleys. There was cake and fruit juice and ... trophies. Olivia won some kind of first place plastic statuette. My wife and I thought it was a hoot -- a midget kid winning a bowling trophy. We were pleased that she was pleased, but pleased as well that she was not pleased as a means of putting anyone else in their place. She was happy. We were happy. What a hoot!
But when my wife retailed this story to a co-worker at the church, thinking the woman might get a smile out of the circumstances, the woman looked her straight in the eye with some seriousness and commented ...
"Oh ... bowling."
I'm not sure which burns my flapjacks worse -- the out-and-out-ignorance of a man or woman who might employ words like "nigger," "spic," "kike" without embarrassment or the genteel incuriosity of a man or woman unwilling to employ the blessings of background to see some wider world ... a person for whom status trumps all else and everything is seen as a means of ensuring or elevating that status. What doesn't elevate that status is unworthy of investigation ... let the rest of the world suck and egg or eat cake or something.
By way of example, I don't much care for NASCAR races and will snicker in agreement if someone points out that the event consists of a bunch of cars going very fast and making one left turn after another. Duller than dishwater in my book. But I would not for a moment put my assessment above the enjoyment that others may derive from it -- even beefy guys sporting tattoos who may or may not use words like "nigger," "spic" and "kike" without embarrassment.
I find the ignorance of genteel incuriosity astounding, insidious ... and in the end, saddening. To be so disproportionately well-educated and well-situated and then not employ those gifts for anything other than affirming a world full of merchandise ...
Talk about creating hell in pursuit of heaven!
A dismissive ignorance is hardly the basis for an informed opinion.
Genteel incuriosity may recoil at the use of the word "nigger," but too often it misses the "niggers" it creates.
.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
the devil's playground
.
Published in 1855, H.G. Bohn's "Hand-Book of Proverbs" includes the one-liner,
Variations on the theme include, "Idle hands are the devil's playground" etc.
It seems to me that an idle mind is never a problem.
It's a narrow mind that kindles the fires of hell.
And which of us does not have that problem?
.
Published in 1855, H.G. Bohn's "Hand-Book of Proverbs" includes the one-liner,
An idle mind [brain] is the devil's workshop.
Variations on the theme include, "Idle hands are the devil's playground" etc.
It seems to me that an idle mind is never a problem.
It's a narrow mind that kindles the fires of hell.
And which of us does not have that problem?
.
'beneath' the surface
.
Strange to think how philosophy and psychology and religion and science all work so hard to dive beneath the dancing waves of daily life, to connect the dots between what is seen and what is hidden and to bring the secrets up and let them dance, wave-fashion, in the sun... finding meaning and importance and who knows what other building blocks in a sunny life.
And it's not to say that philosophy and psychology and religion and science should be discounted or dismissed with the wave of some all-encompassing hand. That would be bullshit... the kind of bullshit that anyone might be, and frequently is, capable of. Most of us need pointers in connecting the dots. There is work to do. Most of us need to practice.
But still it's strange: Having connected the dots between what is seen and what is hidden, what is ordinary and what is secret, what is above and what is below ... when all things dance unimpeded in the light, what then?
Was there ever anything other than the dancing waves ....
Dancing?
.
Strange to think how philosophy and psychology and religion and science all work so hard to dive beneath the dancing waves of daily life, to connect the dots between what is seen and what is hidden and to bring the secrets up and let them dance, wave-fashion, in the sun... finding meaning and importance and who knows what other building blocks in a sunny life.
And it's not to say that philosophy and psychology and religion and science should be discounted or dismissed with the wave of some all-encompassing hand. That would be bullshit... the kind of bullshit that anyone might be, and frequently is, capable of. Most of us need pointers in connecting the dots. There is work to do. Most of us need to practice.
But still it's strange: Having connected the dots between what is seen and what is hidden, what is ordinary and what is secret, what is above and what is below ... when all things dance unimpeded in the light, what then?
Was there ever anything other than the dancing waves ....
Dancing?
.
the drought of 2012
.
Out of sight, out of mind?
The drought of 2012, like the Dust Bowl of the 1930's, may be off the radar screen of Americans living in greener pastures, but,
Eighty percent of American farm land.
Dead fish, dead deer, corn withered in the fields, rivers drying up ... and American voters are being asked to to care about presidential candidates' tax returns or birth certificates.
.
Out of sight, out of mind?
The drought of 2012, like the Dust Bowl of the 1930's, may be off the radar screen of Americans living in greener pastures, but,
Over a recent six-week stretch, the U.S. Department of Agriculture designated 1,692 counties as disaster areas due to the drought. The department notes about 80% of agricultural land in the country is affected, making this year's drought more far-reaching than any since the 1950s.
Eighty percent of American farm land.
Dead fish, dead deer, corn withered in the fields, rivers drying up ... and American voters are being asked to to care about presidential candidates' tax returns or birth certificates.
good weather, poor Zen student
.
A crispy, crackly day, just this side of "cold," with blue skies and a few fluffy clouds.
Good Zen students will practice in any weather and find all weather equally useful.
But I never claimed to be a good Zen student, and I look forward to a crispy, crackly morning sit in the zendo.
.
A crispy, crackly day, just this side of "cold," with blue skies and a few fluffy clouds.
Good Zen students will practice in any weather and find all weather equally useful.
But I never claimed to be a good Zen student, and I look forward to a crispy, crackly morning sit in the zendo.
.
"nobody understands me!"
.
And, in the walkin'-talkin' koan department comes the sometimes-whispered, sometimes-yowled ...
"Nobody understands me!"
Simultaneously, in day to day affairs, there is some recognition that where friends, lovers or enemies do, to some extent, seem to understand, still their understandings limit who I am in ways that amount to a continued lack of understanding: I am not just a soccer mom or just a writer or just a telephone lineman or just a stock broker or just a genius or just a red neck or just a truck driver or just a dad or just a comedian or just a Zen student or just a priest or just a marathon runner or just a builder of houses or just a cook or just a ... just a anything at all. And descriptives that parse the scene and add different facets to complete the whole ... still it is not whole.
Nobody understands me.
I want someone to understand.
But when they do understand, they don't.
And when they don't understand -- when every agreeable or disagreeable understanding seems to fall short of the truth -- perhaps it is time to reflect: How much better am I at understanding me? I can say what a lack of understanding feels like -- mistaken or limiting or close-but-no-cigar -- but can I really say what would be bang-on true and lacking in constriction? Nobody else can hit the bulls-eye, but I'm no expert either.
Nobody understands me and neither do I.
But where the whispering and yowling abate, where the facts consent to stand still for a moment without the overlays of despair or delight ... well, how about them apples?!
Who is this nobody who understands me?
Nobody understands me and yet I am capable of kindness and cruelty, laughter and tears, silly and serious, smart and stupid. This 'nobody' is pretty versatile, it seems, and nailing this 'nobody' down is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Who in his right mind would try to nail Jell-O to a wall?
Jell-O is just something to eat, isn't it?
I don't know about you, but I think Jell-O can be pretty tasty... jiggly, fun and tasty.
.
And, in the walkin'-talkin' koan department comes the sometimes-whispered, sometimes-yowled ...
"Nobody understands me!"
Simultaneously, in day to day affairs, there is some recognition that where friends, lovers or enemies do, to some extent, seem to understand, still their understandings limit who I am in ways that amount to a continued lack of understanding: I am not just a soccer mom or just a writer or just a telephone lineman or just a stock broker or just a genius or just a red neck or just a truck driver or just a dad or just a comedian or just a Zen student or just a priest or just a marathon runner or just a builder of houses or just a cook or just a ... just a anything at all. And descriptives that parse the scene and add different facets to complete the whole ... still it is not whole.
Nobody understands me.
I want someone to understand.
But when they do understand, they don't.
And when they don't understand -- when every agreeable or disagreeable understanding seems to fall short of the truth -- perhaps it is time to reflect: How much better am I at understanding me? I can say what a lack of understanding feels like -- mistaken or limiting or close-but-no-cigar -- but can I really say what would be bang-on true and lacking in constriction? Nobody else can hit the bulls-eye, but I'm no expert either.
Nobody understands me and neither do I.
But where the whispering and yowling abate, where the facts consent to stand still for a moment without the overlays of despair or delight ... well, how about them apples?!
Who is this nobody who understands me?
Nobody understands me and yet I am capable of kindness and cruelty, laughter and tears, silly and serious, smart and stupid. This 'nobody' is pretty versatile, it seems, and nailing this 'nobody' down is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Who in his right mind would try to nail Jell-O to a wall?
Jell-O is just something to eat, isn't it?
I don't know about you, but I think Jell-O can be pretty tasty... jiggly, fun and tasty.
.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Jizo bodhisattva
.
In Zen Buddhism, Jizo (Ksitigarbha in Sanskrit) is one of the most popular bodhisattvas. Bodhisattvas are so-called enlightened beings who choose to linger in the lands of those who suffer and lend a hand.
Others will know more about bodhisattvas than I do. My take was always that they were suggestions or aspects of the human spirit. Kuan Yin was merciful; Manjusri was boundlessly wise; etc. And Jizo was a good egg who could be tougher than nails ... entering willingly into the realms of hell to defend the unfortunate and defeat the demons of greed and anger and ignorance.
Out in the zendo here, I have a keisaku that is more decorative than useful. A keisaku is a stick used to strike the shoulders of sometimes-inattentive students doing zazen, or seated meditation. On the keisaku in the zendo are Japanese characters quoting the Zen monk Ikkyu: "Easy to enter Nirvana. Difficult to enter difference."
Nirvana is easy.
But the realms in which Jizo travels are not for spiritual sissies who are merely drawn forward by bright lights and cotton candy. These realms are hard and wide and hot and full of a fiery fury that sometimes masquerades as love. You know... the ordinary stuff.
'Good' Zen students are sometimes hell-bent for Nirvana.
Only their very own good-egg companion Jizo could rescue them from such a hell.
The hell we choose is the heaven we seek.
.
In Zen Buddhism, Jizo (Ksitigarbha in Sanskrit) is one of the most popular bodhisattvas. Bodhisattvas are so-called enlightened beings who choose to linger in the lands of those who suffer and lend a hand.
Others will know more about bodhisattvas than I do. My take was always that they were suggestions or aspects of the human spirit. Kuan Yin was merciful; Manjusri was boundlessly wise; etc. And Jizo was a good egg who could be tougher than nails ... entering willingly into the realms of hell to defend the unfortunate and defeat the demons of greed and anger and ignorance.
Out in the zendo here, I have a keisaku that is more decorative than useful. A keisaku is a stick used to strike the shoulders of sometimes-inattentive students doing zazen, or seated meditation. On the keisaku in the zendo are Japanese characters quoting the Zen monk Ikkyu: "Easy to enter Nirvana. Difficult to enter difference."
Nirvana is easy.
But the realms in which Jizo travels are not for spiritual sissies who are merely drawn forward by bright lights and cotton candy. These realms are hard and wide and hot and full of a fiery fury that sometimes masquerades as love. You know... the ordinary stuff.
'Good' Zen students are sometimes hell-bent for Nirvana.
Only their very own good-egg companion Jizo could rescue them from such a hell.
The hell we choose is the heaven we seek.
.
Angus lifts 500 pounds
.
Today my son lifted 500 pounds. How anyone does that beats the socks off me. I'm still busy trying to carry the groceries.
.
Today my son lifted 500 pounds. How anyone does that beats the socks off me. I'm still busy trying to carry the groceries.
.
"Occupy Wall Street" returns
.
Not that the sentiments ever died, but the Occupy Wall Street movement appears to be poised for a resurrection Monday with demonstrations in the American financial heartland.
After a weekend of scattered events,
.
Not that the sentiments ever died, but the Occupy Wall Street movement appears to be poised for a resurrection Monday with demonstrations in the American financial heartland.
After a weekend of scattered events,
The group, which popularized the phrase "We are the 99 percent," will attempt [on Monday] to surround the New York Stock Exchange and disrupt morning rush hour in the financial district, according to a movement spokeswoman.However inchoate and vaporous the objectives of the "Occupy" movement may be, how I wish there were an American presidential politician who could inspire the same lightness in my heart.
.
papal appeal for religious freedom
.
In Beirut, Lebanon, the Roman Catholic pope issued a plea today for religious freedom and tolerance in the Middle East.
It's nice to hear anyone stand tall for freedom and peace and tolerance.
And it's also nice to consider the in-house track record of the one issuing the appeal.
.
In Beirut, Lebanon, the Roman Catholic pope issued a plea today for religious freedom and tolerance in the Middle East.
It's nice to hear anyone stand tall for freedom and peace and tolerance.
And it's also nice to consider the in-house track record of the one issuing the appeal.
.
getting past the ooooeeeeoooo
.
OK, I changed my mind. What is a mind for if not changing?
This morning, a friend pointed out to me that John Cavanagh had released his "A Modern Monk's Tale" to me on the day before he died. From other sources, I had been told in admonitory tones that the former Trappist monk was quite sick and that he was on oxygen 24/7... between-the-lines message: Don't bother the poor guy with trivial matters.
But I did bother him.
And for all my bother, Cavanagh took the trouble to email me a couple of times as I sought permission to get the tale (with the help of a friend) on the Internet. I was bouncing up and down with enthusiasm and awe and he was on oxygen 24/7, a man cheek-by-jowl with his own demise.
My friend's email noted the fact that it was only a day before his death that Cavanagh OK'd the release of his tale. With an exclamation point. How about them apples?! Implication for serendipity freaks: Cavanagh must have thought it important enough to rouse his energies one last time; that this was important; I helped him lay his burden down; I helped to kill him; and how fortunate we all were -- just imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been in touch... etc. etc.
My first reaction was to notice the fact but not mention it. Serendipity freaks tend to get caught up in the ooooooeeeeeoooo of things and miss the substance. I didn't want anyone to miss the substance of what Cavanagh had written.
But now I think, what the hell, perhaps the oooooeeeeeoooo will nudge someone towards a closer examination ... sorta like spiritual life: Walking on water, changing water into wine and other bits of spiritual fluff ... who knows what will encourage whom to serious up?
.
OK, I changed my mind. What is a mind for if not changing?
This morning, a friend pointed out to me that John Cavanagh had released his "A Modern Monk's Tale" to me on the day before he died. From other sources, I had been told in admonitory tones that the former Trappist monk was quite sick and that he was on oxygen 24/7... between-the-lines message: Don't bother the poor guy with trivial matters.
But I did bother him.
And for all my bother, Cavanagh took the trouble to email me a couple of times as I sought permission to get the tale (with the help of a friend) on the Internet. I was bouncing up and down with enthusiasm and awe and he was on oxygen 24/7, a man cheek-by-jowl with his own demise.
My friend's email noted the fact that it was only a day before his death that Cavanagh OK'd the release of his tale. With an exclamation point. How about them apples?! Implication for serendipity freaks: Cavanagh must have thought it important enough to rouse his energies one last time; that this was important; I helped him lay his burden down; I helped to kill him; and how fortunate we all were -- just imagine what would have happened if I hadn't been in touch... etc. etc.
My first reaction was to notice the fact but not mention it. Serendipity freaks tend to get caught up in the ooooooeeeeeoooo of things and miss the substance. I didn't want anyone to miss the substance of what Cavanagh had written.
But now I think, what the hell, perhaps the oooooeeeeeoooo will nudge someone towards a closer examination ... sorta like spiritual life: Walking on water, changing water into wine and other bits of spiritual fluff ... who knows what will encourage whom to serious up?
.
adjectives and adverbs
.
As one of the phases of a writing practice, there was a time when I deliberately tried to stick with nouns and verbs. No gussied-up, dig-my-bias addition of adjectives and adverbs, the volume-control on the conversational radio.
But not only was it a discipline. It was something I could and did enthrone and admire and require -- a common-sensical imperative that did away with the mere loudness that others might bring to a topic ... a loudness that could shroud and hide the substance of the issue at hand. If you don't know what you're talking about and if you want to divert attention from your substantial ignorance, well, adjectives and adverbs are your friends.
Good, better, best.
Bad, badder, baddest.
Holy, holier, holiest.
Spiritual.
Wicked.
Soaring.
Blasphemous.
Uplifting.
Smelly.
I was pretty hard-headed about it: The more that I or anyone else laid on the adjectives and adverbs, the greater the likelihood that they or I were full of shit and unsure of the substance of the item under discussion. And to a certain extent, I still think that.
Strip away the adjectives and adverbs and what have you got? Well, one thing you've got is the opportunity for the reader or listener to judge for themselves ... and of course most of us spend a ton of time trying to convince others to see things our own adjective- or adverb-strewn way. What a chickenshit approach. As I say, I was pretty hard-headed.
But nowadays, I find my fiery dicta burning lower and lower. I still think it's a good discipline, trying to strip away adjectives and adverbs, to turn down the volume on the conversational radio, but bit by bit the adjectives and adverbs assert their power....
The problem nowadays is to be convinced by the nouns and verbs to which they are attached.
I suppose it is possible to find some consolation in the fact that "adjective" and "adverb" are nouns.
.
As one of the phases of a writing practice, there was a time when I deliberately tried to stick with nouns and verbs. No gussied-up, dig-my-bias addition of adjectives and adverbs, the volume-control on the conversational radio.
But not only was it a discipline. It was something I could and did enthrone and admire and require -- a common-sensical imperative that did away with the mere loudness that others might bring to a topic ... a loudness that could shroud and hide the substance of the issue at hand. If you don't know what you're talking about and if you want to divert attention from your substantial ignorance, well, adjectives and adverbs are your friends.
Good, better, best.
Bad, badder, baddest.
Holy, holier, holiest.
Spiritual.
Wicked.
Soaring.
Blasphemous.
Uplifting.
Smelly.
I was pretty hard-headed about it: The more that I or anyone else laid on the adjectives and adverbs, the greater the likelihood that they or I were full of shit and unsure of the substance of the item under discussion. And to a certain extent, I still think that.
Strip away the adjectives and adverbs and what have you got? Well, one thing you've got is the opportunity for the reader or listener to judge for themselves ... and of course most of us spend a ton of time trying to convince others to see things our own adjective- or adverb-strewn way. What a chickenshit approach. As I say, I was pretty hard-headed.
But nowadays, I find my fiery dicta burning lower and lower. I still think it's a good discipline, trying to strip away adjectives and adverbs, to turn down the volume on the conversational radio, but bit by bit the adjectives and adverbs assert their power....
The problem nowadays is to be convinced by the nouns and verbs to which they are attached.
I suppose it is possible to find some consolation in the fact that "adjective" and "adverb" are nouns.
.
debafflement
.
I awoke with a made-up word dancing impishly in my mind:
Debaffled.
If you can say, "He was utterly baffled by the scene," what might it mean to say, "He was utterly debaffled by the scene?"
Utter bafflement.
Utter debafflement.
It sounds kind of kool, but I have to admit it baffles me.
.
I awoke with a made-up word dancing impishly in my mind:
Debaffled.
If you can say, "He was utterly baffled by the scene," what might it mean to say, "He was utterly debaffled by the scene?"
Utter bafflement.
Utter debafflement.
It sounds kind of kool, but I have to admit it baffles me.
.
the naked babes of spiritual insight
.
Sometimes I think that spiritual insights are little more than scantily-clad or naked babes running around or posing in the Playboy Mansion ...
Breasts and bottoms proclaiming that gravity is someone else's problem....
Hair so perfect that the wind never blew....
Skin so smooth that the word "airbrush" was never invented....
So full of provocative pep and all of it in aid of the monthly-magazine scripture...
Playboy ... reminding men and women everywhere what it was like to be young ... to reach for the stars and fantasize as they skim the glossy, perfect, wise and beckoning pages.
Hot damn! This really is curvy, enticing, and ... holy!
And then one day, the gilded magazine shows up on time, stuffed in the mailbox with junk mail about the newest iPhone or sale at Costco, and lo and behold, the centerfold picture -- the pièce de résistance of the whole scriptural collection ... the page that unfolds to offer up a BIG version of babe-dom -- is empty.
And the thought arises unbidden, "Hey! My magazine is defective! I paid for this and by god, I want it! I got fucked..." which is what a lot of the guys were thinking about, un-holy-fashion, in the first place ... only not in a bad way. "I want my money back! I want all the effort I expended in youthful times returned ... with interest!"
Empty! No big-time scripture where big-time scripture had always existed in the past.
Empty, for Christ's sake!
What a gyp!
But then ... but then ... but then ... but then, you gotta laugh.
Who is this nitwit who imagined in the first place that gravity didn't exist?!
.
Breasts and bottoms proclaiming that gravity is someone else's problem....
Hair so perfect that the wind never blew....
Skin so smooth that the word "airbrush" was never invented....
So full of provocative pep and all of it in aid of the monthly-magazine scripture...
Playboy ... reminding men and women everywhere what it was like to be young ... to reach for the stars and fantasize as they skim the glossy, perfect, wise and beckoning pages.
Hot damn! This really is curvy, enticing, and ... holy!
And then one day, the gilded magazine shows up on time, stuffed in the mailbox with junk mail about the newest iPhone or sale at Costco, and lo and behold, the centerfold picture -- the pièce de résistance of the whole scriptural collection ... the page that unfolds to offer up a BIG version of babe-dom -- is empty.
And the thought arises unbidden, "Hey! My magazine is defective! I paid for this and by god, I want it! I got fucked..." which is what a lot of the guys were thinking about, un-holy-fashion, in the first place ... only not in a bad way. "I want my money back! I want all the effort I expended in youthful times returned ... with interest!"
Empty! No big-time scripture where big-time scripture had always existed in the past.
Empty, for Christ's sake!
What a gyp!
But then ... but then ... but then ... but then, you gotta laugh.
Who is this nitwit who imagined in the first place that gravity didn't exist?!
.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Sex and the Roman Catholic church
.
Richard Sipe has written a trenchant and brief challenge to the Roman Catholic establishment. Entitled, "On Sex and Reformation in the Catholic Church," Sipe's piece throws down a common-sensical but blunt gauntlet supported by contrasting views from the Vatican and those who find Vatican policies rigid and unrealistic. In summary, he states:
Richard Sipe has written a trenchant and brief challenge to the Roman Catholic establishment. Entitled, "On Sex and Reformation in the Catholic Church," Sipe's piece throws down a common-sensical but blunt gauntlet supported by contrasting views from the Vatican and those who find Vatican policies rigid and unrealistic. In summary, he states:
.
Now let's get down to some serious discussion and dismiss the apodictic stance that sex is intrinsically evil and current church teaching is unalterable.
- Masturbation is not intrinsically evil.
- Contraception is not intrinsically evil either inside or outside of marriage.
- Certainly condoms should be used if effective in avoiding disease, especially the HIV virus.
- Gay orientation is not an intrinsic disorder.
- Homosexual love is not intrinsically evil.
- Marriage between same-sex partners is not intrinsically evil.
- Neither scripture nor theology unalterably dictates that women are intrinsically disqualified from the sacrament of priestly ordination.
Why are we, concerned followers of Jesus—and priests—afraid to discuss human realities?
John Cavangh dies
.
This morning, in an unsigned email using John Cavanagh's email address, I got word that John Cavanagh, a man I did not know, had died last weekend. Looking through my "old mail" queue, I see that I had been in contact with him six days ago. Now he is dead.
John was the author of "A Modern Monk's Tale," a piece I found enormously touching. With John's OK, a friend acceded to my request and got the story told by a former Trappist monk (Cavanagh) on the Internet.
I never knew the man and yet feel both blessed and touched in his life. I am sad.
Thank you very much.
.
This morning, in an unsigned email using John Cavanagh's email address, I got word that John Cavanagh, a man I did not know, had died last weekend. Looking through my "old mail" queue, I see that I had been in contact with him six days ago. Now he is dead.
John was the author of "A Modern Monk's Tale," a piece I found enormously touching. With John's OK, a friend acceded to my request and got the story told by a former Trappist monk (Cavanagh) on the Internet.
I never knew the man and yet feel both blessed and touched in his life. I am sad.
Thank you very much.
.
don't be a bore
.
Today, old-fart-fashion, I remember again a time when I worked as a newspaper reporter and the day when a young woman who was full of love and light and a dollop of idiocy arrived at the zoo in Springfield, Mass., where I then worked.
It was the early 1970's, a time of "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll," a time when a waxing generation had no way of knowing the sacrifice and sorrow of those who had borne them -- an older generation that had erected the white picket fences of a tightly-wrapped peace in the wake of a capricious and rending world war.
The young woman went to the zoo as a lover of nature and the interconnectedness of all beings. As a means of expressing her arms-wide-open love and understanding of the universe and its creatures, the young woman crossed two hip-high barriers between herself and the polar bear cage and put her arm through the bars in an expression of kinship and understanding.
The polar bear promptly bit down on her arm.
A police officer called to the scene drew his .38 and shot the polar bear above the left eye. The polar bear let go of the young woman's arm. The polar bear, with its seven-layered skull, did not die, but it did lose its left eye. The young woman went to the hospital and survived. Newspaper readers were about evenly divided between those sorrowing for the young woman and those angry with her for having been such a nitwit -- a nitwit who had, ipso facto, injured a poor dumb animal in captivity.
Yesterday, I was reading a blog that, among other things, seeks the reform of a Roman Catholic Church whose power politics are rightly criticized for overwhelming the just and compassionate message of Jesus Christ. There is no escaping the evidence that can be brought to bear -- evidence of corruption and cruelty and exclusion -- but the blog is not just devoted to an ain't-it-awful whine; it seems to have a vision of a revised and brighter tomorrow... a more loving, just, compassionate and encompassing tomorrow... an 'authentic' Christian approach to life and its populations.
Who could disagree? "Hope springs eternal," the fortune cookie informs us. "All it takes for evil to prevail is that good men should do nothing." Social improvements are possible. I couldn't fault the blog and its well-worded directions, but neither could I escape the memory of the young woman and the polar bear.
Am I wrong or is it true? That there are unending quests to bring life to heel, to control and direct the circumstances that life serves up. Sometimes those efforts get bitten on the arm and there seems to be an ethereal titter from behind a cupped palm ... what the fuck did you expect? Sometimes, of course, life does not bite down but instead seems to accede and promote a sense of success. Things do get better, healthier and less cruel.
Unending quests ... using the intellect in ever-more expansive and subtle ways in an attempt to back life into some tame corner, to outflank life through ever more delicate and caring argumentation or action. And when such efforts prove unsuccessful -- or only moderately successful -- the questing heart slinks sullen as a child into some corner, asserting with a self-serving gloom, "it's all meaningless."
Two things cross my mind: 1. If you could in fact back life into a corner, make things 'authentic' and less cruel, how unutterably boring would that be? If you were the god you posit and your infallible wand were brought into play and the seas parted at your slightest whim ... wouldn't that be a hell beyond naming instead of a heaven you envision? And if this is true, what does it say about your unending quest to back life into some cozy corner? 2. Thinking is a very good tool and surely sloppy thinking is almost worse than no thinking at all. But trying to outflank life with thinking -- however subtle and however refined and however endlessly promulgated -- is like trying to scoop up the ocean with a teaspoon. Life is just plain more interesting than "I" am ... yes, fierce as a polar bear sometimes and purring as an 'authentic' kitten at others. A moronic and self-serving indolence won't do the trick, but a well-oiled intelligence and activism won't do it either.
The only option that makes much sense to me is to do what needs to be done with a fully-committed heart and then shoulder then responsibilities that flow from that action. Set aside expectation and virtue. Think it through and then act.
Act ... and don't be a bore.
.
Today, old-fart-fashion, I remember again a time when I worked as a newspaper reporter and the day when a young woman who was full of love and light and a dollop of idiocy arrived at the zoo in Springfield, Mass., where I then worked.
It was the early 1970's, a time of "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll," a time when a waxing generation had no way of knowing the sacrifice and sorrow of those who had borne them -- an older generation that had erected the white picket fences of a tightly-wrapped peace in the wake of a capricious and rending world war.
The polar bear promptly bit down on her arm.
A police officer called to the scene drew his .38 and shot the polar bear above the left eye. The polar bear let go of the young woman's arm. The polar bear, with its seven-layered skull, did not die, but it did lose its left eye. The young woman went to the hospital and survived. Newspaper readers were about evenly divided between those sorrowing for the young woman and those angry with her for having been such a nitwit -- a nitwit who had, ipso facto, injured a poor dumb animal in captivity.
Yesterday, I was reading a blog that, among other things, seeks the reform of a Roman Catholic Church whose power politics are rightly criticized for overwhelming the just and compassionate message of Jesus Christ. There is no escaping the evidence that can be brought to bear -- evidence of corruption and cruelty and exclusion -- but the blog is not just devoted to an ain't-it-awful whine; it seems to have a vision of a revised and brighter tomorrow... a more loving, just, compassionate and encompassing tomorrow... an 'authentic' Christian approach to life and its populations.
Who could disagree? "Hope springs eternal," the fortune cookie informs us. "All it takes for evil to prevail is that good men should do nothing." Social improvements are possible. I couldn't fault the blog and its well-worded directions, but neither could I escape the memory of the young woman and the polar bear.
Am I wrong or is it true? That there are unending quests to bring life to heel, to control and direct the circumstances that life serves up. Sometimes those efforts get bitten on the arm and there seems to be an ethereal titter from behind a cupped palm ... what the fuck did you expect? Sometimes, of course, life does not bite down but instead seems to accede and promote a sense of success. Things do get better, healthier and less cruel.
Unending quests ... using the intellect in ever-more expansive and subtle ways in an attempt to back life into some tame corner, to outflank life through ever more delicate and caring argumentation or action. And when such efforts prove unsuccessful -- or only moderately successful -- the questing heart slinks sullen as a child into some corner, asserting with a self-serving gloom, "it's all meaningless."
Two things cross my mind: 1. If you could in fact back life into a corner, make things 'authentic' and less cruel, how unutterably boring would that be? If you were the god you posit and your infallible wand were brought into play and the seas parted at your slightest whim ... wouldn't that be a hell beyond naming instead of a heaven you envision? And if this is true, what does it say about your unending quest to back life into some cozy corner? 2. Thinking is a very good tool and surely sloppy thinking is almost worse than no thinking at all. But trying to outflank life with thinking -- however subtle and however refined and however endlessly promulgated -- is like trying to scoop up the ocean with a teaspoon. Life is just plain more interesting than "I" am ... yes, fierce as a polar bear sometimes and purring as an 'authentic' kitten at others. A moronic and self-serving indolence won't do the trick, but a well-oiled intelligence and activism won't do it either.
The only option that makes much sense to me is to do what needs to be done with a fully-committed heart and then shoulder then responsibilities that flow from that action. Set aside expectation and virtue. Think it through and then act.
Act ... and don't be a bore.
.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Danny Kaye puts confusion in perspective
.
I'm showing my age here, but the whole confused and confusing mess about who produced the spoof ("Innocence of Muslims") that is currently provoking outrage and violence in several Middle Eastern countries reminded me of actor Danny Kaye's schtick in the 1956 musical comedy, "The Court Jester." Danny Kaye had a hard time getting things straight and, as of now, news organizations are tying themselves in similar knots in an attempt to get a bead on the 'who' and 'why' of the spoof.
.
I'm showing my age here, but the whole confused and confusing mess about who produced the spoof ("Innocence of Muslims") that is currently provoking outrage and violence in several Middle Eastern countries reminded me of actor Danny Kaye's schtick in the 1956 musical comedy, "The Court Jester." Danny Kaye had a hard time getting things straight and, as of now, news organizations are tying themselves in similar knots in an attempt to get a bead on the 'who' and 'why' of the spoof.
.
spoofing Islam
.
The latest spotlight on violence in the Middle East focuses on the killing of the American ambassador to Libya and subsequent outbreaks of rage in Egypt and Yemen and Tunisia ... all of them fueled, if the news is to be believed, by an American-made (?) Youtube spoof of Islam.
News outlets and politicians have issued 'heart-felt' fulminations that decry the ambassador's death and advance the principle that you don't run around insulting someone else's religion. In the midst of this sandstorm of caring, the spoof itself (sorry, it has an ad) has gained a traction that it hardly deserves. Not only are the critics in full cry, but Google and Youtube are attempting to distance themselves from content that so many claim to find offensive. All of this elevates the spoof to a status and impact it does not deserve. In my eyes, it is both juvenile and poorly made... an over-dubbed and provocative send-up that barely gets off the ground.
I watched the spoof expecting something intelligent or at least slap-sticky ... something that held up for scrutiny aspects of Islam that might deserve a second look. Is there any religion anywhere that does not excite critics, some of whom make pretty good points? I seriously doubt it. But if you're gonna razz something or if you really want to provoke an argument, at least do a good job.
And how seriously can you take anyone's 'serious' commitment to a religion if they explode at every sidelong glance?
Inane heaped on inane.
The only thing that is not inane is the willingness to kill others so that you can rest in peace.
.
News outlets and politicians have issued 'heart-felt' fulminations that decry the ambassador's death and advance the principle that you don't run around insulting someone else's religion. In the midst of this sandstorm of caring, the spoof itself (sorry, it has an ad) has gained a traction that it hardly deserves. Not only are the critics in full cry, but Google and Youtube are attempting to distance themselves from content that so many claim to find offensive. All of this elevates the spoof to a status and impact it does not deserve. In my eyes, it is both juvenile and poorly made... an over-dubbed and provocative send-up that barely gets off the ground.I watched the spoof expecting something intelligent or at least slap-sticky ... something that held up for scrutiny aspects of Islam that might deserve a second look. Is there any religion anywhere that does not excite critics, some of whom make pretty good points? I seriously doubt it. But if you're gonna razz something or if you really want to provoke an argument, at least do a good job.
And how seriously can you take anyone's 'serious' commitment to a religion if they explode at every sidelong glance?
Inane heaped on inane.
The only thing that is not inane is the willingness to kill others so that you can rest in peace.
making life easier
.
As a starting point, I think there is nothing better than finding the honest places in your life. Just the little hints and whispers of honesty that no one can escape.
A sneeze is honest.
A belly laugh is honest.
And hearing a piece of favorite music is honest.
Good starting points in a life that may sense its own dishonesties.
What makes such things honest? My guess is that they are honest because you get out of the way or are gotten out of the way, somehow. In one small moment ... poof! ... the sneeze or belly laugh or beautiful music eradicates everything that went before. Belief, love, hope, wisdom ... GONZO! And it is a wonderful lightening of the load. Such a simple thing, getting out of the way, when anyone gets out of the way or disappears or whatever it is.
Starting with such small matters, the capacity to extend this honesty grows.
Suddenly, dishonesty is not so attractive any more. Control and meaning and belief and hope -- sure, they're possible, but honesty is so much easier: Just get out of the way and there you are ... so to speak.
I am not, therefore I am.
Or vice-versa.
.
As a starting point, I think there is nothing better than finding the honest places in your life. Just the little hints and whispers of honesty that no one can escape.
A sneeze is honest.
A belly laugh is honest.
And hearing a piece of favorite music is honest.
Good starting points in a life that may sense its own dishonesties.
What makes such things honest? My guess is that they are honest because you get out of the way or are gotten out of the way, somehow. In one small moment ... poof! ... the sneeze or belly laugh or beautiful music eradicates everything that went before. Belief, love, hope, wisdom ... GONZO! And it is a wonderful lightening of the load. Such a simple thing, getting out of the way, when anyone gets out of the way or disappears or whatever it is.
Starting with such small matters, the capacity to extend this honesty grows.
Suddenly, dishonesty is not so attractive any more. Control and meaning and belief and hope -- sure, they're possible, but honesty is so much easier: Just get out of the way and there you are ... so to speak.
I am not, therefore I am.
Or vice-versa.
.
if you can't say anything nice ....
.
Later, apparently, the line got cleaned up grammatically. Originally, in cartoonist Walt Disney's (1942 movie) "Bambi," the rabbit Thumper is advised, "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all." Nowadays, Thumper's Law reads, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." And the origins of the line drift backwards into the wisps of the past. Did anyone ever really say something first?
Say something nice....
I've never been able to figure out exactly why the line "never speak ill of the dead" goes unchallenged. Isn't it demeaning to the dead and instilling fear into the living if the best anyone can do is remember the dead in 'nice' terms?
It's nice to be treated nicely and yet as an unremitting diet, anyone might know it was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Novelist William Faulkner painted tableaux of the South that included a lock-step gentility which veiled an explosive violence and unkindness. The British or Japanese politesse may camouflage the knife slipped in between your ribs, but the knife doesn't feel any better. And let's not get started on southern California, a place where, in my limited experience, people were often so damned nice that you could lose all track of any honest humanity... talk about the "Night of the Living Dead!"
And then there's nice spiritual life, all good news and group hugs, all compassion and warmth. Most people's lives are so hard that it is understandable that they seek out a little warmth and support and, well, niceness. A kiss on the lips is lovely after a lifetime of getting kicked in the ass one way or another. Zen Buddhist teachers, for example, can model themselves on Kuan Yin (the aspect of compassion) and many will flock to them. But the pivotal word is "model." And like the models on some runway of fashion, it may look great, but is anyone really that skinny or really want to get caught dead in that dress? How could anyone be beautiful if they were constantly trying to be beautiful?
Of course there is no one true way in the land between nice and not nice. Nasty sucks. But nice can suck even worse since locking a skunk in the bathroom does not mean the house won't stink anyway.
The best I can think of is honesty ... honesty and a willingness to correct the errors that crop up:
Be nice, be nasty, but be honest and refine that honesty.
.
Later, apparently, the line got cleaned up grammatically. Originally, in cartoonist Walt Disney's (1942 movie) "Bambi," the rabbit Thumper is advised, "If you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all." Nowadays, Thumper's Law reads, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." And the origins of the line drift backwards into the wisps of the past. Did anyone ever really say something first?
Say something nice....
 |
| Thumper |
It's nice to be treated nicely and yet as an unremitting diet, anyone might know it was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Novelist William Faulkner painted tableaux of the South that included a lock-step gentility which veiled an explosive violence and unkindness. The British or Japanese politesse may camouflage the knife slipped in between your ribs, but the knife doesn't feel any better. And let's not get started on southern California, a place where, in my limited experience, people were often so damned nice that you could lose all track of any honest humanity... talk about the "Night of the Living Dead!"
And then there's nice spiritual life, all good news and group hugs, all compassion and warmth. Most people's lives are so hard that it is understandable that they seek out a little warmth and support and, well, niceness. A kiss on the lips is lovely after a lifetime of getting kicked in the ass one way or another. Zen Buddhist teachers, for example, can model themselves on Kuan Yin (the aspect of compassion) and many will flock to them. But the pivotal word is "model." And like the models on some runway of fashion, it may look great, but is anyone really that skinny or really want to get caught dead in that dress? How could anyone be beautiful if they were constantly trying to be beautiful?
Of course there is no one true way in the land between nice and not nice. Nasty sucks. But nice can suck even worse since locking a skunk in the bathroom does not mean the house won't stink anyway.
The best I can think of is honesty ... honesty and a willingness to correct the errors that crop up:
Be nice, be nasty, but be honest and refine that honesty.
.
wake up, night! wake up, day!
.
The crescent moon lounges in the eastern sky this morning, as unaware of its beauty as some cynosure actress in a roomful of wannabes. What is beautiful is not 'beautiful.'
Riding higher as the sun edges closer, the morning star looks positively phony in its brightness ... so big and bright that it might have been concocted by a high school student painting mediocre backdrops for the drama-club production.
Wake up, night!
Wake up, day!
Time to wake up.
.
The crescent moon lounges in the eastern sky this morning, as unaware of its beauty as some cynosure actress in a roomful of wannabes. What is beautiful is not 'beautiful.'
Riding higher as the sun edges closer, the morning star looks positively phony in its brightness ... so big and bright that it might have been concocted by a high school student painting mediocre backdrops for the drama-club production.
Wake up, night!
Wake up, day!
Time to wake up.
.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
the realm of the snake fuckers
.
Once upon a time, The Village Voice, then a left-leaning tabloid in New York, ran a whimsical quiz in which it listed the names of ten rock bands and asked the reader to identify which of the ten was bogus.
I can't remember all of the names, but as I perused the list, I considered that the most outlandish names were probably true (I didn't know a lot about current bands) and the made-up name was probably more prosaic. Still, "The Snake Fuckers" struck me as so outlandish that I could not resist putting my mental money down.
And I was wrong.
"The Snake Fuckers" really did exist. The bogus group was, as I had suspected, more prosaic ... so prosaic that I can't remember what it was.
And for some reason, "The Snake Fuckers" came to mind this evening and sent me off on a keenly-felt train of thought -- one that is likely to partake of the unsubstantiated, caterwauling mish-mash of opinion and bias that characterizes so many blogs. Sorry, I just haven't got the energy to look things up and link them ... I'm in the mood to spew.
Over the last several years, I have been involved or have involved my mind's engines in the corrupt aspects of spiritual life. I don't consider myself especially well-informed, but I am well-informed enough to have some fiery opinions ... a strong sign of a weak mind. First, it was Zen Studies Society and the sexual and ethical depredations of Eido Tai Shimano. And later it was the Roman Catholic Church -- initially with its priest-sexual-abuse component and later with the structural deficiencies and cruelties as promulgated in canon law. The most compelling piece of writing I have seen in the realm of those dismayed and sometimes disaffected or crushed by the Vatican, is "A Modern Monk's Tale" by John Cavanagh, a former Trappist monk who grew up in the lap of luxury ... a luxury that included close ties with the Vatican hierarchy.
Cavanagh's piece came to me via the Rev. Emmett Coyne, a Roman Catholic whose book, "The Theology of Fear" was recently published. I just ordered a copy today, so I cannot claim to know it from muzzle to butt plate, but I do know that Emmett is due for a meeting with his superiors on Oct. 26 and the meeting is not likely to be about whether to paint the front door of the church green. Coyne seems to be among a growing number of dissenters from within the ranks of Roman Catholicism ... saying that the church has replaced the loving message of Christ with the fear tactics used by powerful organizations everywhere.
But it was Cavanagh's note to Coyne, which I received together with Cavanagh's tale, that caught my eye. In it, he suggested ever so gently that the problems of the Roman Catholic Church are deeper than mere theology.
And (here comes the personal bias), I agree with him. I agree with him as it pertains to the Roman Catholic Church. I agree with him as it pertains to Zen Studies Society or Buddhism in general. I agree with him, in fact, as it might pertain to any spiritual persuasion. I agree ... and that agreement flummoxes me.
In any debate, there are two sides. In the case of spiritual formats under attack, there are the dissenters and there are the supporters of the same ol' same ol'. There are variations on the theme, subtle changes in emphasis, but that's about the sum of it.
Coyne, like other dissenters, seems to argue that there is room for correction within the church ... a return to principles of the past, deeply touching and important principles of love and decency. And in the realm of Buddhism, Stuart Lachs, with whom I have had a number of edifying and enjoyable to-and-fro's, argues convincingly (the man knows his history) in a number of papers that Buddhism in the West is top-heavy with intended and unintended bullshit.
Both men, if I am not mistaken, argue for removing the bullshit ... and it is precisely here that I get flummoxed. I agree that the bullshit exists and I agree that less of it would be better. Remove and remove and remove the bullshit until ... until what?
Until the church is bullshit-free? Until Buddhism is bullshit-free?
The bullshit referred to in each case is very serious stuff from my point of view. People get hurt where the bullshit flows. And my bias is not to like seeing people get hurt in a realm where they are trying to dig their way out of what may be a world of pre-existing hurt.
So ... remove and remove and remove the bullshit until you reach the point where imagination and hope say the bullshit no longer exists, a place where the yearning human heart can be gently and fully assuaged.
And then ... and then ....
And then, I cannot help but think, as soon as anyone opens his or her mouth, as soon as format and direction are formulated, at that point precisely, the bullshit starts flowing all over again. Not precisely the same bullshit, perhaps, but bullshit nonetheless.
It can't be helped. That's all I can think: It can't be helped and running away from that fact is the last thing anyone in their right mind would want to do.
Sure, call it holy, call it wise, suckle at the breast of so-called kindness or clarity ... pray from dawn until dusk; practice meditation till the cows come home....
Where the human heart yearns in its most touching ways, there will always be a snake-charmer, a snake fucker. It's not worth criticizing, but it is worth noticing. Enter the realm of bullshit and grow the flowers from there. Since there is no other choice for anyone spiritually-inclined, well, there is no other choice. Hymn-singing and hosannahs and vibrant theology and smarmy homilies and swirling Dharma talks can't change the facts.
The heart yearns to be free of bullshit and yet at every hand there is nothing but bullshit. Bullshit is horrific stuff -- empirically horrific. And there are bullshit artists at every turning, speaking of all the "good that can be done" and all the "evil that can be avoided."
But once the mouth is open and the lyrics tumble forth, well, The Snake Fuckers are back in business.
And like as not, I am their lead singer.
Dishonesty is not enough.
.
Once upon a time, The Village Voice, then a left-leaning tabloid in New York, ran a whimsical quiz in which it listed the names of ten rock bands and asked the reader to identify which of the ten was bogus.
I can't remember all of the names, but as I perused the list, I considered that the most outlandish names were probably true (I didn't know a lot about current bands) and the made-up name was probably more prosaic. Still, "The Snake Fuckers" struck me as so outlandish that I could not resist putting my mental money down.
And I was wrong.
"The Snake Fuckers" really did exist. The bogus group was, as I had suspected, more prosaic ... so prosaic that I can't remember what it was.
And for some reason, "The Snake Fuckers" came to mind this evening and sent me off on a keenly-felt train of thought -- one that is likely to partake of the unsubstantiated, caterwauling mish-mash of opinion and bias that characterizes so many blogs. Sorry, I just haven't got the energy to look things up and link them ... I'm in the mood to spew.
Over the last several years, I have been involved or have involved my mind's engines in the corrupt aspects of spiritual life. I don't consider myself especially well-informed, but I am well-informed enough to have some fiery opinions ... a strong sign of a weak mind. First, it was Zen Studies Society and the sexual and ethical depredations of Eido Tai Shimano. And later it was the Roman Catholic Church -- initially with its priest-sexual-abuse component and later with the structural deficiencies and cruelties as promulgated in canon law. The most compelling piece of writing I have seen in the realm of those dismayed and sometimes disaffected or crushed by the Vatican, is "A Modern Monk's Tale" by John Cavanagh, a former Trappist monk who grew up in the lap of luxury ... a luxury that included close ties with the Vatican hierarchy.
Cavanagh's piece came to me via the Rev. Emmett Coyne, a Roman Catholic whose book, "The Theology of Fear" was recently published. I just ordered a copy today, so I cannot claim to know it from muzzle to butt plate, but I do know that Emmett is due for a meeting with his superiors on Oct. 26 and the meeting is not likely to be about whether to paint the front door of the church green. Coyne seems to be among a growing number of dissenters from within the ranks of Roman Catholicism ... saying that the church has replaced the loving message of Christ with the fear tactics used by powerful organizations everywhere.
But it was Cavanagh's note to Coyne, which I received together with Cavanagh's tale, that caught my eye. In it, he suggested ever so gently that the problems of the Roman Catholic Church are deeper than mere theology.
And (here comes the personal bias), I agree with him. I agree with him as it pertains to the Roman Catholic Church. I agree with him as it pertains to Zen Studies Society or Buddhism in general. I agree with him, in fact, as it might pertain to any spiritual persuasion. I agree ... and that agreement flummoxes me.
In any debate, there are two sides. In the case of spiritual formats under attack, there are the dissenters and there are the supporters of the same ol' same ol'. There are variations on the theme, subtle changes in emphasis, but that's about the sum of it.
Coyne, like other dissenters, seems to argue that there is room for correction within the church ... a return to principles of the past, deeply touching and important principles of love and decency. And in the realm of Buddhism, Stuart Lachs, with whom I have had a number of edifying and enjoyable to-and-fro's, argues convincingly (the man knows his history) in a number of papers that Buddhism in the West is top-heavy with intended and unintended bullshit.
Both men, if I am not mistaken, argue for removing the bullshit ... and it is precisely here that I get flummoxed. I agree that the bullshit exists and I agree that less of it would be better. Remove and remove and remove the bullshit until ... until what?
Until the church is bullshit-free? Until Buddhism is bullshit-free?
The bullshit referred to in each case is very serious stuff from my point of view. People get hurt where the bullshit flows. And my bias is not to like seeing people get hurt in a realm where they are trying to dig their way out of what may be a world of pre-existing hurt.
So ... remove and remove and remove the bullshit until you reach the point where imagination and hope say the bullshit no longer exists, a place where the yearning human heart can be gently and fully assuaged.
And then ... and then ....
And then, I cannot help but think, as soon as anyone opens his or her mouth, as soon as format and direction are formulated, at that point precisely, the bullshit starts flowing all over again. Not precisely the same bullshit, perhaps, but bullshit nonetheless.
It can't be helped. That's all I can think: It can't be helped and running away from that fact is the last thing anyone in their right mind would want to do.
Sure, call it holy, call it wise, suckle at the breast of so-called kindness or clarity ... pray from dawn until dusk; practice meditation till the cows come home....
Where the human heart yearns in its most touching ways, there will always be a snake-charmer, a snake fucker. It's not worth criticizing, but it is worth noticing. Enter the realm of bullshit and grow the flowers from there. Since there is no other choice for anyone spiritually-inclined, well, there is no other choice. Hymn-singing and hosannahs and vibrant theology and smarmy homilies and swirling Dharma talks can't change the facts.
The heart yearns to be free of bullshit and yet at every hand there is nothing but bullshit. Bullshit is horrific stuff -- empirically horrific. And there are bullshit artists at every turning, speaking of all the "good that can be done" and all the "evil that can be avoided."
But once the mouth is open and the lyrics tumble forth, well, The Snake Fuckers are back in business.
And like as not, I am their lead singer.
Dishonesty is not enough.
.
military returns to Harvard
.
In hard times, in hard-scrabble environments, a life in the military was always an escape route -- a way to assure an income, clothes to wear and a certain security within sometimes dangerous circumstances. I had a friend in basic training who was both happy for a pair of shoes and, at 19, had to have all his teeth pulled out because toothbrushes, while possible, were rare where he came from.
Now the military has extended its allure with a return to Harvard University, one of the great and often liberal educational institutions in the United States.
Absent from campus since 1971, the Army and Navy began Reserve Officers' Training Corps began training this week. In an insecure environment that shows every sign of relying on fear and war, why not?
.
In hard times, in hard-scrabble environments, a life in the military was always an escape route -- a way to assure an income, clothes to wear and a certain security within sometimes dangerous circumstances. I had a friend in basic training who was both happy for a pair of shoes and, at 19, had to have all his teeth pulled out because toothbrushes, while possible, were rare where he came from.
Now the military has extended its allure with a return to Harvard University, one of the great and often liberal educational institutions in the United States.
Absent from campus since 1971, the Army and Navy began Reserve Officers' Training Corps began training this week. In an insecure environment that shows every sign of relying on fear and war, why not?
.
enough to piss off an academic
.
.
Ah, the groves of academe.A former US biologist has pleaded guilty to murdering three colleagues and wounding three others in a 2010 shooting rampage at a faculty meeting.Former University of Alabama at Huntsville scientist Amy Bishop, 47, had previously pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. (Complete BBC story)
.
it's not what I expected
.
Given the empirical fact that nothing ever turns out exactly as expected, wouldn't you think that more people would ease up on the throttle of expecting things and examine expectation itself a little more?
.
Given the empirical fact that nothing ever turns out exactly as expected, wouldn't you think that more people would ease up on the throttle of expecting things and examine expectation itself a little more?
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)