Somewhere pondering The Stone's NY Times blog piece explaining Wittgenstein, how the philosopher seems to be falling into general agreement with The Lankavatara Sutra (stating that ultimately there is no form, no thought classification all that deeply worth pursuing), somewhere between such thoughts and the Lotus Sutra, a writer finds that rather than telling stories, reporting on events and people, the stuff worth writing about is from within.  (Wittgenstein observes that philosophy pretends to be a science, but cannot be, due to innate subjectivity.  Even science reaches a point, a limit of that which is knowable.)  The stuff from within, as fleeting and as ever-changing as it is, particularly the stuff that pertains to enlightenment, that is what is worth writing about.  (And this is what the market exactly protests:  who gave you authority to go beyond the strict details?!  Who let's you be the authority about what constitutes 'salt of the earth' types?)

The problem is, of course, the duties of satisfying the fascination with the news, with all the stuff going on, leading us to complete distraction ever at our fingertips.  I should know.  I'm as fascinated with it all just as much as you are.  An addiction, to whatever the next little blip about information might be, TV, internet, news, an email, a check of the cell phone, 'hot chicks,' entertainment gossip, etc..  With some exceptions, as the Buddha's great piece of radical and compelling wisdom tells us, it's all, by measure, illusory, a distraction.  The basis of everything is non-form, formless, void.

One discovers things from within.  Understandings must come from within.  One discovers through living the nature of That Which Is.  Being a part of That, 'thou art that which is,' one learns, at least from time to time, about the deeper creature, even the ideal, the organic shrinking from some things and growing towards others, the deeper generosity, even the Buddha Nature within,  and even trying to fit that sort of stuff in with daily life in a particular society.

So I could never really write satisfying reportage about the things that happen, or are supposed to happen, in 'a bar room,' when they are just little events that don't have much to do with the deeper reality.  Because such things never really happen.  What comes through the vibrations, the waves, the details, the real stuff, the compassion, the placing the bar experience quite beyond what it seems in actuality to be, those are the things worth making note of.  Bar talk, as we know, can be about complete vanity, utter hollowness, and this is what makes it incredibly tedious.  Only a saint would bother to filter it all as if there were honey to be collected from within its dust.



Wine, to me, is a form of herbal tonic.  It seems to be good for the blood.  It quiets anxiety.  It might help in confessional opening up of one's mind.  It can, surely, quickly lead to complete sentimental crap, but, at the end of the day, I suppose it's not the worst thing one could be doing, even though it would be better to keep the mind spotlessly clean, so that one can keep on reading and diligently studying sutras and what-not.