Nothing takes more courage than truly loving someone.
I am blessed with that opportunity now.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Judgement of Solomon
From Kings 3:16-28
Not all Kings are as wise as Solomon. A disinterested King may have said '"Fine, if you are willing to give up the baby, problem solved." No blood would be shed, but the damage would still be done. It seems to me that in our society, not many value the kind of selflessness and willingness to sacrifice that this story portrays. Has the world really changed so much since the time of Solomon?
Or maybe the problem is actually a different one. Maybe there just aren't very many kings at all any more. How would this story change if these two women were left to resolve this issue on their own? One thing is for sure, the claim of the first woman would be put to the test. How likely is it that the second woman, after hearing this selfless proclamation, would give up her jealousy and attachment in the name of what was truly right for the child? How likely is it that the first woman, if faced with actually having to give up her child, would actually do it even if she knew that she was the right one to take care of the child? Could her selfless words transform into selfless action? This story gives us no insight into that.
What of the child? Would he know the difference one way or another? If all the baby craved was milk and a warm arm to cuddle in, the two 'mothers' would appear about the same to him. Without preference, without a basis for comparison, the baby would be lost to fate, having no ability to know who he truly belonged with.
When I say that I think the story of Solomon's Judgement is beautiful, I mean it. But most of what makes it beautiful to me is how complicated the situation gets when you take out the wise ruler and the triumph of compassion over selfishness, and you begin to look at what it means to really let go in the name of love. It is a risky road to walk, and doesn't always have a happy ending.
The question is whether it is a path worth taking in the first place, and though I believe in my heart it is, that's a tough hand of cards to play when dealt.
16 Now two prostitutes came to the king and stood before him. 17 One of them said, "My lord, this woman and I live in the same house. I had a baby while she was there with me. 18 The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone; there was no one in the house but the two of us.This is a well known story, anyone who's grown up anywhere near a bible will recognize it, and so will many of those who have not. To me, it's a particularly beautiful one, too. It shows the triumph of selfless compassion over jealous attachment, and praises Solomon for his clear and just decision. But like most things biblical, this is just a story, an ideal for us to make room for in our hearts. Reality is often much more harsh.19 "During the night this woman's son died because she lay on him. 20 So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant was asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast. 21 The next morning, I got up to nurse my son—and he was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn't the son I had borne."
22 The other woman said, "No! The living one is my son; the dead one is yours."
But the first one insisted, "No! The dead one is yours; the living one is mine." And so they argued before the king.23 The king said, "This one says, 'My son is alive and your son is dead,' while that one says, 'No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.' "
24 Then the king said, "Bring me a sword." So they brought a sword for the king. 25 He then gave an order: "Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other."
26 The woman whose son was alive was filled with compassion for her son and said to the king, "Please, my lord, give her the living baby! Don't kill him!"
But the other said, "Neither I nor you shall have him. Cut him in two!"27 Then the king gave his ruling: "Give the living baby to the first woman. Do not kill him; she is his mother."
28 When all Israel heard the verdict the king had given, they held the king in awe, because they saw that he had wisdom from God to administer justice.
Not all Kings are as wise as Solomon. A disinterested King may have said '"Fine, if you are willing to give up the baby, problem solved." No blood would be shed, but the damage would still be done. It seems to me that in our society, not many value the kind of selflessness and willingness to sacrifice that this story portrays. Has the world really changed so much since the time of Solomon?
Or maybe the problem is actually a different one. Maybe there just aren't very many kings at all any more. How would this story change if these two women were left to resolve this issue on their own? One thing is for sure, the claim of the first woman would be put to the test. How likely is it that the second woman, after hearing this selfless proclamation, would give up her jealousy and attachment in the name of what was truly right for the child? How likely is it that the first woman, if faced with actually having to give up her child, would actually do it even if she knew that she was the right one to take care of the child? Could her selfless words transform into selfless action? This story gives us no insight into that.
What of the child? Would he know the difference one way or another? If all the baby craved was milk and a warm arm to cuddle in, the two 'mothers' would appear about the same to him. Without preference, without a basis for comparison, the baby would be lost to fate, having no ability to know who he truly belonged with.
When I say that I think the story of Solomon's Judgement is beautiful, I mean it. But most of what makes it beautiful to me is how complicated the situation gets when you take out the wise ruler and the triumph of compassion over selfishness, and you begin to look at what it means to really let go in the name of love. It is a risky road to walk, and doesn't always have a happy ending.
The question is whether it is a path worth taking in the first place, and though I believe in my heart it is, that's a tough hand of cards to play when dealt.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
My Own Walden
For the last couple days, I've been daydreaming a lot about my cabin in northern Vermont. It is really way up there, in a tiny town called Lunenburg which is almost in Canada:
This place has no running water, no phone service, and no centralized heating. It has been in my family for generations, as a 'camp' or refuge. My dad is a factory worker and though I know little about his side of the family, I think they too went that route. Our Vermont cabin was a place they could go to forget about the daily grind and be immersed in the beautiful peace and quiet of nature.
The cabin is on a dirt road that is a couple miles long with only two neighbors. Except for our cabin and the two other houses up there, there is nothing but forest surrounding the lands. I always found it amazing that we had a brook running right alongside our property. As a little kid I spent hours upon hours splashing around in the mud, eating raspberries, and keeping an eye out for moose and bear. I didn't usually see them, but sometimes I did.
High up in the mountains, thunder sounds different. Instead of a clap of noise coming down from the sky, the thunder at the cabin sounded like it was rising up out of the ground, like a struck bass drum. The wind was like this too, you could feel the ground breathing.
The morning smelled like morning, and I have no idea how to put that in words. Something about the evaporating dew on leaves and pine needles leaves an unmistakable scent. At night, the air was cool and crisp, even in the warmer months.
My mom always used to say that the mountains were beautiful because they looked different every time she looked at them. This is of course, true. Go there in the fall and you'd be convinced God was a painter, in the winter, that he was a skier. Though you rarely needed to wait for the seasons to change, the mountains wore their emotions on their sleeves, and you could see their darkness in rain, and brightness in the sunshine.
When I think of looking at the stars on a clear night from this tiny cabin, I realize this is where I met God, not in my force-fed religious schooling. When I think about this, it makes me want to show my own kids this some day. I want them to see that beauty and wonder are all around them, not just crammed up in some books to be passed down by holy men.
This tiny little cabin, with barely enough room to fit a family, became a warm place at night. My family didn't usually spend a lot of time together, but when we were there, it was different. My mom and dad would play Setback, my brother and I would play the good old NES on a TV that barely worked because it was used so infrequently. We'd all eat our meals together, and we'd laugh together.
Ever since I was little, I always dreamed about going up there with someone I loved, to spend a quiet weekend and explore together. New Hampshire's White Mountains aren't far, and places like Franconia Notch or Mt. Washington are too amazing to describe. Actually, this almost happened once, with Emily. She got really sick half of the way through the trip though, and we ended up at the hospital and my childhood dreams were somewhat dashed by the cold reality of life. Nevertheless, this is still one of my 'dream vacations' because it seems so romantic.
When things started to go bad between my parents, we stopped going to the cabin so much. It got into disrepair, and really started to fall apart. I think it took a while for my Dad to get his heart back into it after they split, but these days, he's up there working on it most weekends in the summer. Though I'm sure he enjoys the work on its own, I know why he's doing it overall. He wants to pass this down to me and my brother, the way his parents did to him and his brothers. He's the only one who uses it, and I think the same thing will happen with me.
Still, you can bet that even if I end up doing something crazy like trying to raise a family in Boston or NYC, I'll be spending some weekends up there. If for nothing else, to show a new generation a glimpse of more simple times, where high speed internet wasn't as essential as food, water, and basic shelter. How many kids in America these days have ever even used an outdoor toilet? My guess is not so many, but mine will.
We don't need to throw away our creature comforts or renounce the convenience of modern society, but we need to be careful not to forget about what is pure, simple, and natural. My cabin gives me a great opportunity to remember that.
This place has no running water, no phone service, and no centralized heating. It has been in my family for generations, as a 'camp' or refuge. My dad is a factory worker and though I know little about his side of the family, I think they too went that route. Our Vermont cabin was a place they could go to forget about the daily grind and be immersed in the beautiful peace and quiet of nature.
The cabin is on a dirt road that is a couple miles long with only two neighbors. Except for our cabin and the two other houses up there, there is nothing but forest surrounding the lands. I always found it amazing that we had a brook running right alongside our property. As a little kid I spent hours upon hours splashing around in the mud, eating raspberries, and keeping an eye out for moose and bear. I didn't usually see them, but sometimes I did.
High up in the mountains, thunder sounds different. Instead of a clap of noise coming down from the sky, the thunder at the cabin sounded like it was rising up out of the ground, like a struck bass drum. The wind was like this too, you could feel the ground breathing.
The morning smelled like morning, and I have no idea how to put that in words. Something about the evaporating dew on leaves and pine needles leaves an unmistakable scent. At night, the air was cool and crisp, even in the warmer months.
My mom always used to say that the mountains were beautiful because they looked different every time she looked at them. This is of course, true. Go there in the fall and you'd be convinced God was a painter, in the winter, that he was a skier. Though you rarely needed to wait for the seasons to change, the mountains wore their emotions on their sleeves, and you could see their darkness in rain, and brightness in the sunshine.
When I think of looking at the stars on a clear night from this tiny cabin, I realize this is where I met God, not in my force-fed religious schooling. When I think about this, it makes me want to show my own kids this some day. I want them to see that beauty and wonder are all around them, not just crammed up in some books to be passed down by holy men.
This tiny little cabin, with barely enough room to fit a family, became a warm place at night. My family didn't usually spend a lot of time together, but when we were there, it was different. My mom and dad would play Setback, my brother and I would play the good old NES on a TV that barely worked because it was used so infrequently. We'd all eat our meals together, and we'd laugh together.
Ever since I was little, I always dreamed about going up there with someone I loved, to spend a quiet weekend and explore together. New Hampshire's White Mountains aren't far, and places like Franconia Notch or Mt. Washington are too amazing to describe. Actually, this almost happened once, with Emily. She got really sick half of the way through the trip though, and we ended up at the hospital and my childhood dreams were somewhat dashed by the cold reality of life. Nevertheless, this is still one of my 'dream vacations' because it seems so romantic.
When things started to go bad between my parents, we stopped going to the cabin so much. It got into disrepair, and really started to fall apart. I think it took a while for my Dad to get his heart back into it after they split, but these days, he's up there working on it most weekends in the summer. Though I'm sure he enjoys the work on its own, I know why he's doing it overall. He wants to pass this down to me and my brother, the way his parents did to him and his brothers. He's the only one who uses it, and I think the same thing will happen with me.
Still, you can bet that even if I end up doing something crazy like trying to raise a family in Boston or NYC, I'll be spending some weekends up there. If for nothing else, to show a new generation a glimpse of more simple times, where high speed internet wasn't as essential as food, water, and basic shelter. How many kids in America these days have ever even used an outdoor toilet? My guess is not so many, but mine will.
We don't need to throw away our creature comforts or renounce the convenience of modern society, but we need to be careful not to forget about what is pure, simple, and natural. My cabin gives me a great opportunity to remember that.
Monday, April 14, 2008
On Courage
For some reason when I think of courage, I think of some ridiculously masculine quality, like a hero blasting through enemy lines to save a damsel in distress, and maybe some babies, too. You know, something like Rambo.
This of course, is extraordinarily silly. Though war-time heroes romanticize the notion of courage and make for good cinematic value, real courage comes in many forms, most of them far more subtle.
Even if it's not blood, guts, and burning bodies, sometimes the courage involved in self-control is as admirable as any heroic conquest. It takes a tremendous amount to know that before you can run, you need to walk. And sometimes, on a hurt ankle, you may need to stand still for a while before you can go anywhere at all.
It takes great strength to utter the words "I'm not sure". We spend all our lives trying to be so sure of ourselves, that we forget that we don't always need to have all the answers. The act of creating the needed time and space between yourself and the sources of your confusion is a challenging, honorable task. We always forget this. We think the world demands us to figure out our problems 'right now', which is probably half the source of our problems.
Perhaps the most courageous thing of all is realizing that as life changes, our needs change. That our seemingly natural attachment to that which brought us a sense of completeness and satisfaction isn't always natural after all, and the courage comes in braving the storm of breaking old bonds to form the new ones that are needed to allow your heart to grow.
Of course, there is a balancing truth that sometimes we are taken from that which is really most important to us by the passions of the present moment, looking at the world through rose coloured glasses. This too, takes tremendous courage to deal with. Gently stepping away from temptation back to which makes you feel wholesome and skillful is no easy task.
To me, a very difficult practice has been to acquire a "don't know" mind. A mind that finds itself attracted to the wholesome and gently detached from the unwholesome without any prejudice about how 'Things are supposed to be'. It takes a lot of guts to be able to live this way and simultaneously offer a sense of stability and fidelity to those you love. However, wouldn't it be great to master this skill?
Sometimes courage involves knowing what not to say, and when not to say it. So I'll stop writing now. :)
This of course, is extraordinarily silly. Though war-time heroes romanticize the notion of courage and make for good cinematic value, real courage comes in many forms, most of them far more subtle.
Even if it's not blood, guts, and burning bodies, sometimes the courage involved in self-control is as admirable as any heroic conquest. It takes a tremendous amount to know that before you can run, you need to walk. And sometimes, on a hurt ankle, you may need to stand still for a while before you can go anywhere at all.
It takes great strength to utter the words "I'm not sure". We spend all our lives trying to be so sure of ourselves, that we forget that we don't always need to have all the answers. The act of creating the needed time and space between yourself and the sources of your confusion is a challenging, honorable task. We always forget this. We think the world demands us to figure out our problems 'right now', which is probably half the source of our problems.
Perhaps the most courageous thing of all is realizing that as life changes, our needs change. That our seemingly natural attachment to that which brought us a sense of completeness and satisfaction isn't always natural after all, and the courage comes in braving the storm of breaking old bonds to form the new ones that are needed to allow your heart to grow.
Of course, there is a balancing truth that sometimes we are taken from that which is really most important to us by the passions of the present moment, looking at the world through rose coloured glasses. This too, takes tremendous courage to deal with. Gently stepping away from temptation back to which makes you feel wholesome and skillful is no easy task.
To me, a very difficult practice has been to acquire a "don't know" mind. A mind that finds itself attracted to the wholesome and gently detached from the unwholesome without any prejudice about how 'Things are supposed to be'. It takes a lot of guts to be able to live this way and simultaneously offer a sense of stability and fidelity to those you love. However, wouldn't it be great to master this skill?
Sometimes courage involves knowing what not to say, and when not to say it. So I'll stop writing now. :)
Alice, Who The Fuck Is Alice?
Louis Hunter, AKA Hunter Blue, AKA Chicken Delicious.
A rare and wonderful find at Mimi's piano bar in NYC, one of my favorite places on earth.
Hunter is the one that told me I was 'like a fucking comet'
Priceless
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Love for Akron/Family
I like all sorts of music, but for some reason, when I'm feeling sad, Akron/Family reaches directly into my heart and brings me warmth.
sorrowed boy
with so much mind
you look so tired
with glassy eyes
your quiet pain
i feel the hum
beneath the surface
a steady drum
you're like a child
when you've been wronged
your heart is aching
but you're still strong
come back alive
when stars collide
you can feel the universe
behind your eyes
and you find your body
in between the waves
a sonic haven
for the lonely days
your mood so mellow
how your colors bloom
you steal the evening
from an empty room
and i might not of seen you
if i looked too hard
but i just gave up
and here you are
you'll sweet the sound
and break the melody
that was already broken
now it's fixed for me
not everyone's the way you are
you are a blood star
- Sorrow Boy - Akron/Family
On not killing bugs
People who have spent some time with me over the last year or so may have seen me do something which seems quite silly on the surface. If I find bugs in my apartment, I usually do not kill them, instead I chase them around and try to capture them and then relocate them to just outside my door. I don't blame people for thinking this is a little weird, it is. However, this is one of the more rewarding practices I've integrated into my day to day life, and maybe with a little explanation, it will seem a little less silly.
For most of my life, the reaction to a small gnat or moth flying near me was simple and automatic. It can be described in one word, clap. With a single blow, the bug would fly no more, would stay away from the TV or from my face, or whatever. It could be flicked off to the floor or wrapped up in a tissue and discarded. Problem solved!
But after learning a bit about the Dharma, and reading a bit about those who practice compassion for all sentient beings, from humans on down to mosquitoes, it struck a chord with me. I especially found this behaviour to be quite beautiful on retreat, where on more than one occasion I saw a random yogi chasing after some small insect with a cup and a napkin, trying to catch it to bring it outdoors. This action could not be summed up in a single word, it was distinctly different than the death clap that most of us have successfully mastered on the front lines of the war on insects.
I must admit, it is quite difficult for me to comprehend the notion that even an insect has sentience and the precious sparks that separate living entities from non-living entities. I think it is wonderful that some people have reached a level of compassion great enough to deeply value all forms of life, but I don't think I'm there yet. Instead, I look at this practice for its metaphorical value.
When you take a few moments out of your day to safely remove some insect from your living space rather than eradicating it effortlessly, it is an opportunity to remember how precious life really is. I find that by doing this, it helps me apply compassion and loving-kindness in the more crucial parts of my life, especially when dealing with people. Though it is always a challenge to remain mindful, I think that this has helped prevent me from death clapping people in conversations at least a few times, and has cultivated a greater sense of the value of simply being alive in my heart.
One indication of the influence of this practice on my life is that for a little while, I started killing bugs again. In the late months of summer, some fruit flies started to make my apartment a permanent home for themselves, and they became sufficiently annoying for me to start killing them on sight. Though it occurred to me another option would have been to keep my apartment a bit cleaner, I didn't really think much of it.
However, now that I look back on it, the period of time in which I was killing insects was around the same time that I stopped meditating for a few months. It's not that I think my sitting practice makes me some sort of insect messiah, but this does make me feel like the two are certainly connected.
So this is why I do not kill bugs, and why I hope that I can keep up with this practice. We owe it to ourselves to really understand what it means to be alive. Without this, we may end us mindlessly clapping our way through a graveyard of beings we've killed out of convenience or lack of compassion.
If we can remember to avoid killing a moth, leaving a little space in our hearts for patience and calm when someone cuts the line in the grocery store becomes a whole lot easier. If we can learn to love even the most insignificant beings, our most significant connections will become all the more precious to us.
For most of my life, the reaction to a small gnat or moth flying near me was simple and automatic. It can be described in one word, clap. With a single blow, the bug would fly no more, would stay away from the TV or from my face, or whatever. It could be flicked off to the floor or wrapped up in a tissue and discarded. Problem solved!
But after learning a bit about the Dharma, and reading a bit about those who practice compassion for all sentient beings, from humans on down to mosquitoes, it struck a chord with me. I especially found this behaviour to be quite beautiful on retreat, where on more than one occasion I saw a random yogi chasing after some small insect with a cup and a napkin, trying to catch it to bring it outdoors. This action could not be summed up in a single word, it was distinctly different than the death clap that most of us have successfully mastered on the front lines of the war on insects.
I must admit, it is quite difficult for me to comprehend the notion that even an insect has sentience and the precious sparks that separate living entities from non-living entities. I think it is wonderful that some people have reached a level of compassion great enough to deeply value all forms of life, but I don't think I'm there yet. Instead, I look at this practice for its metaphorical value.
When you take a few moments out of your day to safely remove some insect from your living space rather than eradicating it effortlessly, it is an opportunity to remember how precious life really is. I find that by doing this, it helps me apply compassion and loving-kindness in the more crucial parts of my life, especially when dealing with people. Though it is always a challenge to remain mindful, I think that this has helped prevent me from death clapping people in conversations at least a few times, and has cultivated a greater sense of the value of simply being alive in my heart.
One indication of the influence of this practice on my life is that for a little while, I started killing bugs again. In the late months of summer, some fruit flies started to make my apartment a permanent home for themselves, and they became sufficiently annoying for me to start killing them on sight. Though it occurred to me another option would have been to keep my apartment a bit cleaner, I didn't really think much of it.
However, now that I look back on it, the period of time in which I was killing insects was around the same time that I stopped meditating for a few months. It's not that I think my sitting practice makes me some sort of insect messiah, but this does make me feel like the two are certainly connected.
So this is why I do not kill bugs, and why I hope that I can keep up with this practice. We owe it to ourselves to really understand what it means to be alive. Without this, we may end us mindlessly clapping our way through a graveyard of beings we've killed out of convenience or lack of compassion.
If we can remember to avoid killing a moth, leaving a little space in our hearts for patience and calm when someone cuts the line in the grocery store becomes a whole lot easier. If we can learn to love even the most insignificant beings, our most significant connections will become all the more precious to us.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Joyful Attachment
The last few days I've been experiencing some rather strange feelings. These unsurprisingly arise from my oh-so-complicated romantic life. However, as the title of this post suggests, I've felt a sense of 'joyful attachment', and I don't really know what to make of it.
As a Buddhist, I recognize that attachment is a root cause of suffering. That by clinging to things, we ultimately stand to be hurt when they change or fade away. I don't know whether it's dust in my eyes, or what it is, but for the last few days I've mostly been saying 'so what' when I feel the effects of my attachment to this one particular person.
Sometimes a skillful way of dealing with attachment is to use some restraint, to put some distance between yourself and the object of your attraction. Once this is established, it is possible to see the attachment for what it really is, and that in and of itself tends to lead to more skillful actions and the loosening of the binding feelings of attachment.
At least, for me, that has worked for things in the past. Right now, I'm totally ignoring any sort of common sense or rationality. The only subtle difference between what I'm doing now and utter blindness is that I can see the risk of a train wreck up ahead. I know that if I'm not careful, pouring so much passion and energy into something will derail us.
It's like my mind is telling me that some space is needed, if nothing else, to catch up on the more mundane bits in life. But something else, some deep and powerful energy is telling me, the more attached I get, the more joyful this whole thing is. I'm actually liking the feeling of the danger of the whole thing, I'm excited at the risks that it brings, and that's a tenuous state to be in. I'm used to feeling like attachment eats away at me, steals energy and makes me feel all tied up. Instead, I feel energized, the more I dive into this.
It's times like these where my practice is most difficult of all. I actually long to simply accept the fact that I'm love-drunk and stupid, and I really want to ride out that wave. But there is something within me that demands a higher level of awareness and compassion. I know in my heart that some skillful renunciation combined with a sense of equanimity will be the only way to truly protect my heart and the hearts of those I care about.
It's easy to take a step back when things are going terribly, but so much harder to do so when you feel like things couldn't get any get better. But such strong feelings always need a little bit of quiet space to run their course, if you don't want to be steamrolled over by them.
I read this somewhere and I know it now more than ever, things have a way of sticking with you until they've taught you whatever lesson you're meant to learn from them. I have to be honest, life is a clandestine teacher sometimes.
As a Buddhist, I recognize that attachment is a root cause of suffering. That by clinging to things, we ultimately stand to be hurt when they change or fade away. I don't know whether it's dust in my eyes, or what it is, but for the last few days I've mostly been saying 'so what' when I feel the effects of my attachment to this one particular person.
Sometimes a skillful way of dealing with attachment is to use some restraint, to put some distance between yourself and the object of your attraction. Once this is established, it is possible to see the attachment for what it really is, and that in and of itself tends to lead to more skillful actions and the loosening of the binding feelings of attachment.
At least, for me, that has worked for things in the past. Right now, I'm totally ignoring any sort of common sense or rationality. The only subtle difference between what I'm doing now and utter blindness is that I can see the risk of a train wreck up ahead. I know that if I'm not careful, pouring so much passion and energy into something will derail us.
It's like my mind is telling me that some space is needed, if nothing else, to catch up on the more mundane bits in life. But something else, some deep and powerful energy is telling me, the more attached I get, the more joyful this whole thing is. I'm actually liking the feeling of the danger of the whole thing, I'm excited at the risks that it brings, and that's a tenuous state to be in. I'm used to feeling like attachment eats away at me, steals energy and makes me feel all tied up. Instead, I feel energized, the more I dive into this.
It's times like these where my practice is most difficult of all. I actually long to simply accept the fact that I'm love-drunk and stupid, and I really want to ride out that wave. But there is something within me that demands a higher level of awareness and compassion. I know in my heart that some skillful renunciation combined with a sense of equanimity will be the only way to truly protect my heart and the hearts of those I care about.
It's easy to take a step back when things are going terribly, but so much harder to do so when you feel like things couldn't get any get better. But such strong feelings always need a little bit of quiet space to run their course, if you don't want to be steamrolled over by them.
I read this somewhere and I know it now more than ever, things have a way of sticking with you until they've taught you whatever lesson you're meant to learn from them. I have to be honest, life is a clandestine teacher sometimes.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
My trip to Busch Gardens
My brother took these pictures. As you can see, he really enjoyed the sky ride. A lot.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Murakami makes me sniffle
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
From Haruki Murakami's On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Snowfield
Wind picks up a white curl of frozen crystals
the horizon emptied of all obstructions
Rays of sunshine break into a thousand tiny diamonds
I stand still, then knees hit glacial sands
tears lie dead in their tracks
assailed by the cold
Just one breath
A single image of her silent beauty
the memory of her voice
mentally sketching the curves of her cheeks
Faint aftershocks from locked lips that seemed destined to explore
Cold hands becoming warm again
Cracking ice, falling walls of glass
A raging waterfall, sonic like a fountain
Blood flows through hearts again
but they are not mine.
There is no me. Only you.
the horizon emptied of all obstructions
Rays of sunshine break into a thousand tiny diamonds
I stand still, then knees hit glacial sands
tears lie dead in their tracks
assailed by the cold
Just one breath
A single image of her silent beauty
the memory of her voice
mentally sketching the curves of her cheeks
Faint aftershocks from locked lips that seemed destined to explore
Cold hands becoming warm again
Cracking ice, falling walls of glass
A raging waterfall, sonic like a fountain
Blood flows through hearts again
but they are not mine.
There is no me. Only you.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Sandalwood
Sandalwood is a perfectly imperfect society, founded on love and only love. It was born in a coffee shop, from the spoken words of a few beatniks and the *tha-thump* *tha-thump* of their bongos.
At first it wasn't as much a place as an idea, a dream. The hip cats and the riff-raffs, they knew what it was without ever needing to know where it was, or where it would be. They built the villages, one word at a time. They built the sandy pathways of the market place, one beat at a time.
Sooner or later all these kids crying revolution, all these future guerrillas, all these freedom fighters figured out that there's a big wall called "Put up or shut up" that all lofty ideas crash down on. The sell outs sold out, stocks in souls go cheap these days, anyway. The bandwagon lost a wheel, and all the oxen died. The weak ones trailed ass back to town, leaving nothing but the strong ones behind.
Kids with long hair and a long history of struggling with the man, founders of Sandalwood. Sons and daughters of the revolution who found religion by killing their God, founders of Sandalwood. Sandalwood was once just an idea, but there were a few who made it a place.
Artists, musicians, hackers and painters. People who believe the only crime worth punishing by death is ennui. Yes, once, Sandalwood was just a folk tale, told to the college lot with their warm espressos and cold hearts, in hope that they'd melt a bit. Most didn't but a few did. A few couldn't help but let go.
Signs flew up around Yale, then around Columbia.
"Hey smart kids, do something groovy. Sell off all your property and buy back your souls. Follow us to Sandalwood."
Two weeks go by, then fifty kids meet for the first time ever at Penn Station, waiting to board a train heading west. Between them they've bought 250 acres of land in the middle of nowhere, USA. Between them, they've sold off everything except for a backpack filled with a few days clothes and miscellaneous sentimental artifacts.
I'm one of those kids. You think I'm on vacation, but I'm really gone for good. Don't worry about me though, It'll all work out okay.
At first it wasn't as much a place as an idea, a dream. The hip cats and the riff-raffs, they knew what it was without ever needing to know where it was, or where it would be. They built the villages, one word at a time. They built the sandy pathways of the market place, one beat at a time.
Sooner or later all these kids crying revolution, all these future guerrillas, all these freedom fighters figured out that there's a big wall called "Put up or shut up" that all lofty ideas crash down on. The sell outs sold out, stocks in souls go cheap these days, anyway. The bandwagon lost a wheel, and all the oxen died. The weak ones trailed ass back to town, leaving nothing but the strong ones behind.
Kids with long hair and a long history of struggling with the man, founders of Sandalwood. Sons and daughters of the revolution who found religion by killing their God, founders of Sandalwood. Sandalwood was once just an idea, but there were a few who made it a place.
Artists, musicians, hackers and painters. People who believe the only crime worth punishing by death is ennui. Yes, once, Sandalwood was just a folk tale, told to the college lot with their warm espressos and cold hearts, in hope that they'd melt a bit. Most didn't but a few did. A few couldn't help but let go.
Signs flew up around Yale, then around Columbia.
"Hey smart kids, do something groovy. Sell off all your property and buy back your souls. Follow us to Sandalwood."
Two weeks go by, then fifty kids meet for the first time ever at Penn Station, waiting to board a train heading west. Between them they've bought 250 acres of land in the middle of nowhere, USA. Between them, they've sold off everything except for a backpack filled with a few days clothes and miscellaneous sentimental artifacts.
I'm one of those kids. You think I'm on vacation, but I'm really gone for good. Don't worry about me though, It'll all work out okay.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
