Meditating, it makes sense, the morning writing session, the attempt to find bits and pieces of what the subtle mind is thinking. Subtle mind, in the Buddhist sense. Seat of wisdom, compassion, non-judgment, concerned with the welfare of all sentient beings, aware of the unsatisfactory nature of the life unenlightened and its constant pursuits…
I should have figured that out years ago, how, for instance, it ties in to Chekhov's accomplishment of the sweet sad not un-beautiful complexities of life (as if he were an early physicist of laws of conservation and equality in the energy of personal lives.)
That's the accomplishment of a writer, and it, of course, includes the mysteries of his own freedom from the standard accomplishments of life-nailed-down, the job, the family-man life, the house, the investments… Unconsciously he/she makes no such strivings, as if to see through them, sensing a greater good beyond it all, one that references the greater good of the monk, a Dalai Lama… Few other accomplishments, even, happily, as a writer. (No crime-ridden best-seller page turner a la whomever, not naming those I haven't read.) Instead, the maintaining of ambiguity and the void behind all reality.
It makes one happy to read, via New York Times, and NPR, the search for the grave, the bones, of Cervantes. His beautiful penniless last wish: to be buried in the refuge of the Sisters who were kind enough to save him when he was a hostage, the Dominican Nuns without Footwear, something like that (Convent of the Barefoot Trinitarians.) Indeed, he created, if you think about it, a great portrait of humanity, the imbalanced (or balanced) play between the gross mind (of worldly achievement and conventional viewpoints) and that of the subtle mind (of beauty and noble wisdom--even as it is in a way, in Cervantes' presentation, somewhat laughable.) You can't help but see that crystalizing inner force of a person's subtle inner life, portrayed in that odd way of being, of taking it upon one's own self, to be, something fine (though let's not get carried away--he still had to sell books, thus the humor of the situation of Don Quixote, not that it helped poor old Cervantes out much financially.) Yes, as he was dying, of "the dropsy," (something unpleasant to do with bodily fluids) he wished to remember those selfless subtle nuns who hide away saying Mass and praying all day quite apart from the rest of the day to day practical cement-mixing real-estate grabbing world, as if in a large way he was aligned with them, and would find with them, as all along, a final resting place, a home. Perhaps being wounded as he was, now the story is less the Turkish pirate axe and more the gunshot, to the left hand and chest, helped him attain a less deluded life. Made funnier, richer, by the fact of his having written a book about a fellow who in ripe old age has his head go soft from reading too much of El Cid and tales other noble and storied knights (which, of course, in real actual life, he shall never be.) Oh, the beautiful old straight face, Spanish and proper, of Miguel.
Easy to get carried away with.
If you take away the gross mind, and let the subtle mind meditate and do its work, from within, as if alighting some DNA-like spiritual structure within, the totality of being crystalizes, forms, becomes afresh something prone to do righteous and unselfish things. And if anything can enable or help along a gross and humble being, as if to help find in the confusion of the present moment, a good way to be, well, maybe in the long run, that's a good thing.
And so, the practice becomes more and more about the practice of mediation, the great initial work one has to do before doing anything else...
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Buyer's remorse, it never fails to hit. "What will I do with all this crap?" A question always arises, just as you might think you would take some satisfaction for solving a problem, a rusted charcoal chimney replaced, comfortable clunky Ecco black work shoes for work, the metatarsal aches, but why stay grilling (as a Buddhist go vegetarian), or why stay with that job (not the right profession as the eight fold path says.) Dukkha, that feeling of ill at ease… Only thing you can do, is Simplify. Why the whole shelf of Ernest Hemingway books that have been hanging around here for ever--sign of an egotistical past, kept for show, for the same vain reasons as everything else.
It just gets clearer and clearer to me, the world of samsara, the constant suffering of occupying the gross mind of duality and qualification, the world of Saturday night, young people out having their loud 'fun.' Which only makes me ashamed at all the years I've spent in bars. Well, is what it is. We tried to keep them calm bars, civilized… That's my reaction as I practice walking meditation on a Saturday night after midnight, walking past Russia House and the bars on Connecticut Avenue, loud, drunken, aggressive...
But in the end it makes no difference, because you have to realize this about the world. And writing too is a part of that false world, made up, looking real, feeling substantial but a complete delusion.
Beneath the gross mind, where everything is identified as fitting into its proper little cubbyhole, lies, according to Buddhist thought, the subtle mind. It is said to operate beneath the quantum level, and so perhaps its appropriate that when we see a star or a planet, that would be giving us an idea of scale, up there the quantum level (what we normally associate with protons, neutrons, forces, etc.), down here, thought. Thus the notion that when we look at objects, phenomenon, they and we merge, as if in a dream.
To say I've come to actively dislike Washington, DC, wouldn't be correct. But I've finally come to see it as I've seen it all along, the world of samsara, of seemingly happy, efficient capable self-minded people tied to the functions of gross thought. Everyone keeps to themselves, unless something strange moves them. Friendships are few and far between, as are real understandings. The classic DC question, "what do you do," which means "who are you, who do you know that I might use usefully…' says it all. The gross mind in action, no subtle open curiosity.
Everyone is defined here, egotistically. Sexual identity, professional life, material comforts, all flaunted, defined, displayed, pointed to. And if you're not in that game of ego, as you might if you were more of a subtle mind kind of person wondering who you are, striving to be better and wiser and good, you're to be ignored as a useless idiot.
And so it is a place where people are, some of them, kept on the outside, kept out of the tribe of those-in-the-know and the right track in life.
If you weren't a Buddhist, hoping to hatch an escape plan, it can be a horribly depressing place to be, even despite all the civil politeness it might be, on the surface, known for. And because of the nature of gross mind, as opposed to subtle, no one here will ever agree on anything, and nothing will ever get done to solve a problem, at least without attempts by another party at retribution.
It just gets clearer and clearer to me, the world of samsara, the constant suffering of occupying the gross mind of duality and qualification, the world of Saturday night, young people out having their loud 'fun.' Which only makes me ashamed at all the years I've spent in bars. Well, is what it is. We tried to keep them calm bars, civilized… That's my reaction as I practice walking meditation on a Saturday night after midnight, walking past Russia House and the bars on Connecticut Avenue, loud, drunken, aggressive...
But in the end it makes no difference, because you have to realize this about the world. And writing too is a part of that false world, made up, looking real, feeling substantial but a complete delusion.
Beneath the gross mind, where everything is identified as fitting into its proper little cubbyhole, lies, according to Buddhist thought, the subtle mind. It is said to operate beneath the quantum level, and so perhaps its appropriate that when we see a star or a planet, that would be giving us an idea of scale, up there the quantum level (what we normally associate with protons, neutrons, forces, etc.), down here, thought. Thus the notion that when we look at objects, phenomenon, they and we merge, as if in a dream.
To say I've come to actively dislike Washington, DC, wouldn't be correct. But I've finally come to see it as I've seen it all along, the world of samsara, of seemingly happy, efficient capable self-minded people tied to the functions of gross thought. Everyone keeps to themselves, unless something strange moves them. Friendships are few and far between, as are real understandings. The classic DC question, "what do you do," which means "who are you, who do you know that I might use usefully…' says it all. The gross mind in action, no subtle open curiosity.
Everyone is defined here, egotistically. Sexual identity, professional life, material comforts, all flaunted, defined, displayed, pointed to. And if you're not in that game of ego, as you might if you were more of a subtle mind kind of person wondering who you are, striving to be better and wiser and good, you're to be ignored as a useless idiot.
And so it is a place where people are, some of them, kept on the outside, kept out of the tribe of those-in-the-know and the right track in life.
If you weren't a Buddhist, hoping to hatch an escape plan, it can be a horribly depressing place to be, even despite all the civil politeness it might be, on the surface, known for. And because of the nature of gross mind, as opposed to subtle, no one here will ever agree on anything, and nothing will ever get done to solve a problem, at least without attempts by another party at retribution.
Friday, April 25, 2014
I did go see the chanting monks, but to my consternation I did not see the Dalai Lama when he came to campus that year when I was a sophomore. I don't know where my head was. And I could have used some spiritual help that year. My father would have been happy with me, too. He saw D.T. Suzuki at Johnson Chapel; my seeing his holiness would have been a great counterpoint to that. I don't know what I believed in then… being an English major, I guess. And other foolishness. Why did I not take a class with Robert Thurman? That would have changed the course of my education, I'm sure. But I fell into the pagan cult of English, and worse things too. Punk that I was.
But you cannot avoid being a Buddhist. The way of thinking is simply tried and true, the most accurate picture the primate human animal has ever come up with. And we are all vessels of the dharma and its truth. Like a typical fool American kid, I missed it, and stumbled on into years of what should be adulthood under the general illusions of society and consumerist bent, to which I suppose Buddhism is a threat.
If you're an artist I guess you have a second chance, for being able to appreciate, as you would the simplicity of a Zen garden, the coherent logic of the Buddha, the no self, the law of dependent origination, the noble truths, the proper steps on the path, the concept of the subtle mind operating below the quantum level… And what you do, when it runs contrary to that system is indeed foolishness and wasted time. Who knows why such things happen, misguided foolishness, wasted years spent under illusions… who knows.
It is important to go see such a person, as his holiness, just like it's important to have a guru. You get it much better, in person. You see the effects of all that spiritual training, the meditation, the self-control, the enlightened quality. Why my arrogance, passing up such a chance, I feel very shameful… The only thing is, Buddha wouldn't want one to dwell on such a thing… Not to worship, but to follow the path, that is the important thing.
Perhaps this is a bad habit enabled by American literature, as if we have to go on a long voyage with Captain Ahab or Dean Moriarty to earn enlightenment, only getting it on the very last page, and even then just for a lyrical moment before probably going right back to square one. The curse of having no long traditions, no structure to fall into to save ourselves. Consumerist fools that we are. Is it that we are subject to the Christian tradition, left to consider a mystifying story, not very well explained, almost political, a great work of literature, but why not, like the Buddha, stop to explain things, keeping it simple… not to confuse us into thinking that we too are little Jesus Christs. But yes, the whole Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition is aimed at a political world, and look at the consequences. We might think it's necessary to be political, but it's all missing the point, the business of really considering the nature of reality… Of course, you can get Theosophically theologically imaginative and say the Cross itself is a simple of our being stuck to Three-Dimensional reality, the Cross being a cube laid open, as if to explain a three dimensional object to a two dimensional existence… but no one, being stuck in tradition would really listen to you anyway, not for a moment, believe me. Religions meant for family and professionals and the world of the worldly, of appointed time… but, one might argue, missing something. "Hey, look at me, see how well I cope with society and fight wars to keep us safe from 'those people…'"
Well, you don't buy Buddhism. You get it, you comprehend it, you understand it, you see the infinitely layered beautiful wisdom of it, and it causes you to be compassionate. And maybe you celebrate that, well, after all, no, it's not too late, look on the bright side. Take great joy in simple things.
But you cannot avoid being a Buddhist. The way of thinking is simply tried and true, the most accurate picture the primate human animal has ever come up with. And we are all vessels of the dharma and its truth. Like a typical fool American kid, I missed it, and stumbled on into years of what should be adulthood under the general illusions of society and consumerist bent, to which I suppose Buddhism is a threat.
If you're an artist I guess you have a second chance, for being able to appreciate, as you would the simplicity of a Zen garden, the coherent logic of the Buddha, the no self, the law of dependent origination, the noble truths, the proper steps on the path, the concept of the subtle mind operating below the quantum level… And what you do, when it runs contrary to that system is indeed foolishness and wasted time. Who knows why such things happen, misguided foolishness, wasted years spent under illusions… who knows.
It is important to go see such a person, as his holiness, just like it's important to have a guru. You get it much better, in person. You see the effects of all that spiritual training, the meditation, the self-control, the enlightened quality. Why my arrogance, passing up such a chance, I feel very shameful… The only thing is, Buddha wouldn't want one to dwell on such a thing… Not to worship, but to follow the path, that is the important thing.
Perhaps this is a bad habit enabled by American literature, as if we have to go on a long voyage with Captain Ahab or Dean Moriarty to earn enlightenment, only getting it on the very last page, and even then just for a lyrical moment before probably going right back to square one. The curse of having no long traditions, no structure to fall into to save ourselves. Consumerist fools that we are. Is it that we are subject to the Christian tradition, left to consider a mystifying story, not very well explained, almost political, a great work of literature, but why not, like the Buddha, stop to explain things, keeping it simple… not to confuse us into thinking that we too are little Jesus Christs. But yes, the whole Judeo-Christian-Islamic tradition is aimed at a political world, and look at the consequences. We might think it's necessary to be political, but it's all missing the point, the business of really considering the nature of reality… Of course, you can get Theosophically theologically imaginative and say the Cross itself is a simple of our being stuck to Three-Dimensional reality, the Cross being a cube laid open, as if to explain a three dimensional object to a two dimensional existence… but no one, being stuck in tradition would really listen to you anyway, not for a moment, believe me. Religions meant for family and professionals and the world of the worldly, of appointed time… but, one might argue, missing something. "Hey, look at me, see how well I cope with society and fight wars to keep us safe from 'those people…'"
Well, you don't buy Buddhism. You get it, you comprehend it, you understand it, you see the infinitely layered beautiful wisdom of it, and it causes you to be compassionate. And maybe you celebrate that, well, after all, no, it's not too late, look on the bright side. Take great joy in simple things.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
"Lions surround family in burning car"--from news gathered by the Weather Channel. In game preserve, park wardens save mother and children, video of a family style van engulfed in flames. Little more is told. No pictures of lions sitting expectantly on haunches surrounding the vehicle. Dialog of sentient beings the lions? Hey, what do you think we should do? Ah, nothing. Tourist dollars keep us safe. Wouldn't pay to do anything more than express a little curious interest. Besides, it will be a story on the Weather Channel. But we don't need the coverage. We'll just play it cool. Terrible thing, fire like that. They'll come to save them. No worries.
Born Free tells the story of the dignity of these creatures, and revisiting, following up, the lions come and sit respectfully at the man's cairn gravesite. (Poachers killed him.)
The story of Prince Gautama is the story of all of us. Young fellow, in his particular case, raised in ease, with pleasures given to him, an exaggerated case. He practiced the arts, probably was a literary young fart writing poetry and whatnot, music, swords, whatever. Consorts to school him in pleasures. But all of it details as far as his greater accomplishment as Buddha, awakened one, enlightened being. The final truth of no mind. No mind, only light within. No need for any story. Only thing to tell is a general guide of how to live in accordance with that, supporting that ultimate reality. Thus, no engaging in story, which perhaps is the point of the Zen branch.
A few stories to illustrate, to teach the point, but otherwise, get right at it. Meditate, clear the mind.
We crave narrative. Our minds love the habit of qualifying things, labeling, nailing down, discussing.
Chekhov's Black Monk, the specter haunting the protagonist of a famous story, perhaps representing that there is no story to tell, that it's all relative, nothing to nail down ultimately, no judgments to be made that really last.
I think of my egoless father… How with such great love and tolerance he put up with my presence, placed little need for a narrative upon me… And that is love, the way we feel it, when we sense that great agelessness, the need for narrative no longer pressing up against us or our relationship, passive in a way… telling us, as maybe the lions said to one another, 'no mind.'
Born Free tells the story of the dignity of these creatures, and revisiting, following up, the lions come and sit respectfully at the man's cairn gravesite. (Poachers killed him.)
The story of Prince Gautama is the story of all of us. Young fellow, in his particular case, raised in ease, with pleasures given to him, an exaggerated case. He practiced the arts, probably was a literary young fart writing poetry and whatnot, music, swords, whatever. Consorts to school him in pleasures. But all of it details as far as his greater accomplishment as Buddha, awakened one, enlightened being. The final truth of no mind. No mind, only light within. No need for any story. Only thing to tell is a general guide of how to live in accordance with that, supporting that ultimate reality. Thus, no engaging in story, which perhaps is the point of the Zen branch.
A few stories to illustrate, to teach the point, but otherwise, get right at it. Meditate, clear the mind.
We crave narrative. Our minds love the habit of qualifying things, labeling, nailing down, discussing.
Chekhov's Black Monk, the specter haunting the protagonist of a famous story, perhaps representing that there is no story to tell, that it's all relative, nothing to nail down ultimately, no judgments to be made that really last.
I think of my egoless father… How with such great love and tolerance he put up with my presence, placed little need for a narrative upon me… And that is love, the way we feel it, when we sense that great agelessness, the need for narrative no longer pressing up against us or our relationship, passive in a way… telling us, as maybe the lions said to one another, 'no mind.'
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Okay, painters in the kitchen. Do not set the alarm. Do not set the alarm, I repeat to myself as I leave, finally. I watched myself close the door. I watched myself push in the code, followed by the little beep beep beep. I opened the wine bar door, picked up my bicycle, backed it out onto the steps down to the sidewalk as the door shut. Then, about to lock the deadbolt, uh oh. Shit. So, I scramble, open the other door, punch in the one code I know. I'm inside now. Will it work? And then, no. Very loudly, no. (Never to try to rob a place. The alarm noise is such that you can't even think.) But, somehow it doesn't seem to effect the painters, viewed through the porthole window on the kitchen door. Or they are such stoics that the noise, through the closed door doesn't seem to bother them. I try to figure out the keypad alarm system, but can't find my reading glasses, blasted by the horns, so eventually, I lock the door and step outside. I wait around for a while. A policeman goes by hurriedly on a motorcycle, to the Safeway. The noise stops. I check my phone, and pedal away, pulse racing, guilt following me. What if the cops come and think the painters are robbers? No, it's pretty obvious they are painting the kitchen ceiling. Long night. Kitchen closed three hours before I'm finally done. A quick run to the Safeway for groceries, rice, quinoa. Back to restaurant, groceries into courier bag, get ready for ride home. Boss's wife stays late with my regular customers, electric violin from the live jazz in my ears, no wonder the distraction, the mind gone into auto mode. The jumble, as I ride, distractedly, home, stopping in the park to see if any remnants of the meteor shower are still in the eastern sky. Too much light pollution anyway.
I come home, amped still. I vacuum the living room rug, the television on, something about Rembrandt compared with a Chinese Buddhist nature painter with the black brush sketches. But there is backsliding going on, and despite lighting candles, and some incense, I know there is an open bottle of Ventoux in the fridge, and though I've been dry all night, home, I do not resist the urge. "Just don't bring any home, next time," I tell myself. Thus, no temptation. Live simply. But, yes, there is backsliding, even though I find where I was in the YouTube "Dalai Lama -- How To Practice: The Way to a Meaningful Life." I'm no longer bent on getting the electric razor out and shaving my head, Buddhist style, like I was a few days ago. Hair, a problem, it would be better to not have to deal with it really. Typical, no follow through, just another one of those phases in an unserious life.
Stupid intellectual, should have never gone slumming for such a job, I might have mumbled to myself as I do the dishes. Finally go to bed.
Today, the third anniversary of my father's funeral.
My head's a jumble, subtly pained, too much, the night before. The depressive aftereffect of a melatonin tablet, a glass and a half of wine, on top of the seeming lack of direction, the need to show up to work tonight? I don't seem to know what to do today. How to find some calm before going off to wine tasting… Where did I leave off yesterday in my calm clear understanding about how we all are in dharma reality, and that it might be construed that we act accordingly on a deeper instinct. Somehow we find our way in the dharma, naturally, on instinct, like a bee does its work in the hive. And this is to resist the outer pressure to conform, to do all the things we're supposed to do as citizens and people, sons and daughters.
The problem of society is the impugnment of motives. Motives, motives, everywhere. And the motive of some people is little more than finding a way in the dharma, finding a place, way to teach, however they can. This, of course, requires an awakening, to be conscious of this primary quality of mind. And this awakening is not encouraged much here. It's hard enough to come o an understanding of it, given favorable conditions. Yes, the greater motives of the world are confusing and weighty. Everyone seems to think, you need motives to get you through, don't you, anyway… Don't have any? You must be a fool, with no ambition.
But there is that place of learning, that ability to be open and ready for a lesson, wherever it might come from. And that's how we treat a student, with the benefit of such respect.
There is also the condition that a student might one day mature, grow into being a teacher, having awoken to a logic, a coherent philosophy. And with the dharma, perhaps it depends on how you fit into it, as either an example or a teacher, through an understanding of it or through a choice of ignorance for it.
I come home, amped still. I vacuum the living room rug, the television on, something about Rembrandt compared with a Chinese Buddhist nature painter with the black brush sketches. But there is backsliding going on, and despite lighting candles, and some incense, I know there is an open bottle of Ventoux in the fridge, and though I've been dry all night, home, I do not resist the urge. "Just don't bring any home, next time," I tell myself. Thus, no temptation. Live simply. But, yes, there is backsliding, even though I find where I was in the YouTube "Dalai Lama -- How To Practice: The Way to a Meaningful Life." I'm no longer bent on getting the electric razor out and shaving my head, Buddhist style, like I was a few days ago. Hair, a problem, it would be better to not have to deal with it really. Typical, no follow through, just another one of those phases in an unserious life.
Stupid intellectual, should have never gone slumming for such a job, I might have mumbled to myself as I do the dishes. Finally go to bed.
Today, the third anniversary of my father's funeral.
My head's a jumble, subtly pained, too much, the night before. The depressive aftereffect of a melatonin tablet, a glass and a half of wine, on top of the seeming lack of direction, the need to show up to work tonight? I don't seem to know what to do today. How to find some calm before going off to wine tasting… Where did I leave off yesterday in my calm clear understanding about how we all are in dharma reality, and that it might be construed that we act accordingly on a deeper instinct. Somehow we find our way in the dharma, naturally, on instinct, like a bee does its work in the hive. And this is to resist the outer pressure to conform, to do all the things we're supposed to do as citizens and people, sons and daughters.
The problem of society is the impugnment of motives. Motives, motives, everywhere. And the motive of some people is little more than finding a way in the dharma, finding a place, way to teach, however they can. This, of course, requires an awakening, to be conscious of this primary quality of mind. And this awakening is not encouraged much here. It's hard enough to come o an understanding of it, given favorable conditions. Yes, the greater motives of the world are confusing and weighty. Everyone seems to think, you need motives to get you through, don't you, anyway… Don't have any? You must be a fool, with no ambition.
But there is that place of learning, that ability to be open and ready for a lesson, wherever it might come from. And that's how we treat a student, with the benefit of such respect.
There is also the condition that a student might one day mature, grow into being a teacher, having awoken to a logic, a coherent philosophy. And with the dharma, perhaps it depends on how you fit into it, as either an example or a teacher, through an understanding of it or through a choice of ignorance for it.
Monday, April 21, 2014
Finally, at the end of Easter, feeling odd with a house guest in the basement who goes to bed early, tired from Saturday, I opened a bottle of wine around midnight after a long nap, still feeling the smoke from grilling meat on my face, dishes undone After taking a week off, only a few glasses of wine after the Tuesday shift, a beer after Wednesday night jazz, then three days completely dry, even the Saturday shift, I felt I could try a little wine and see how I felt about it. I needed some calm energy, I thought, to sort through my book shelves, assess what I had. Too much stuff, beginning to weigh on me. Attachments. I'd ingested bread at work on Saturday at the end of the night, feeling it in my joints, unable to get into lotus. I felt I could use a glass, just to smooth things over, calm me down, let my writer mind wander unselfconsciously. Do some recycling. Strip things down. "Good wine is a necessity of life for me," Jefferson said, so maybe it will help me organize my little Monticello with too many books, too many guitars, papers, Hemingway magpie clutter, Madam Korbonski's Polish stuff. I see the picture of Dad, the botanist as a boy back in Turner's Falls atop the desk. The cat knocked it over, broke the glass.
Okay, try a glass, okay. After all this Buddhist stuff, let's see if I'm being a little too Taliban, a little too Puritanical… It all makes a supreme amount of sense, but let's see how the calm reaction to it will be… trying not to get nervous because maybe my future as a barman is riding on this. Peter Matthiessen, you can't get any better than that, the magazine section piece noted him having "a well stocked bar," and maybe the Zen wing more readily allows that, holds that it's the intoxication, and that you can get intoxicated on anything, even Buddha. And poor old Kerouac liked to allude to old Chinese monks of the mountains who loved their wine, whatever they made it out of, even though this hints loudly of enablement. (He could go dry when he had to. Fame… that's what fucked him up. Let's drink with the King of the Beatniks, they'd say, knocking on his basement window as he sat at the typewriter.)
You can't be an Enlightened Buddha overnight. It takes practice, daily practice, the following of moral code, the discipline of meditation and physical readiness. As I hoped, the wine didn't taste that good, and nor did it soothe. I know one can easily get 'holy, holy, holy,' think he is getting somewhere, pray to Jesus in sincere hopes of a second-coming; I know one can go through phases, fully buying it one week, and then a few weeks later, losing enthusiasm and will power and vision. Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't become a full Catholic quite yet, as nice and as comforting as that would be, your mind made up for you about just about everything.
Therefore, test things yourself, in your own laboratory, be honest with yourself, and see what happens. What's all this Buddha stuff about anyway? What is the Lama saying when he says that within all pleasures there is, if you partake, the increase of suffering?
And what I felt was, after all these years of trying to fit in, of telling myself a story, was that no, I don't need it. There was no great aversion, no spitting out, just non-attachment, the truth of non-attachment, distance from the ego-body of 'wine enjoyer.' (And look how my email in box is full of wine related offers, along with all the rest of marketing crap.) There wasn't even too much--though there was some--of great regret, at least the next day in daylight. There was simple plain honesty. A simple note of how very preferable not to even begin.
I might wonder why. Because wine represents attachment? I'm not sure. Or maybe I was just now being honest with myself, cutting through all the crap myths of self, seeing rather the red flush on my cheeks as I looked in the bathroom mirror. "Oh, yes, writers are supposed to drink," a voice said, but it was old and distant, an old fool, tired, though I did not beat up the voice, fearing reprisal, fearing being taken back in. "Think of Coltrane, the Love Supreme, for the newly clean, newly strong."
Forgive self for, in state of complete hunger and growing stiffness from seven hours on your feet after a busy shift for reaching toward the glass of camaraderie, the drink with the chefs jolly to be done with their very long day sweating the kitchen over the proverbial hot stove. There's no fault, just the call to be aware, to raise awareness, to not do the knee-jerk patterned response, after an evening of seeing everyone wrap their own lips around the edge of a tipped wine glass, as if stories and laughter of Czech proportions would come out of the pagan woods, that spirits would dance, the sky would open above and that one would return, with all his hard working good hearted friends to the bosom of a nice small town somewhere tucked within forested hills with very old trees and gardens and courtyards, a magnificent light pollution free sky overhead, fresh mountain air, a river, a fountain, then go home to sleep well under a thick feathered comforter embraced and embracing the girl of dreams.
No, enough fantasies, and each day is day one not be drawn in by the old habit, but to see freshly, to not even dwell on the sins of the past, but be liberated and be the moral being of good just wisdom who harms no one and wishes for the enlightenment of all sentient beings.
Yes, doesn't it feel good, after two ibuprofen, to be up at a reasonable hour for a night shift worker, sipping green tea. And if I can't figure everything out today, quit my job as barman instantly, as I might like, go join at last the monastic call, well, I guess that's okay. Just, yes, live in the present, and only care about what you need to care about and really wish to care about. And don't I feel calmer for saying so.
We cannot but help practice Buddhism in our lives. That is the funny thing. You might as well realize this, and map out to what extent you are doing this negatively or positively.
Okay, try a glass, okay. After all this Buddhist stuff, let's see if I'm being a little too Taliban, a little too Puritanical… It all makes a supreme amount of sense, but let's see how the calm reaction to it will be… trying not to get nervous because maybe my future as a barman is riding on this. Peter Matthiessen, you can't get any better than that, the magazine section piece noted him having "a well stocked bar," and maybe the Zen wing more readily allows that, holds that it's the intoxication, and that you can get intoxicated on anything, even Buddha. And poor old Kerouac liked to allude to old Chinese monks of the mountains who loved their wine, whatever they made it out of, even though this hints loudly of enablement. (He could go dry when he had to. Fame… that's what fucked him up. Let's drink with the King of the Beatniks, they'd say, knocking on his basement window as he sat at the typewriter.)
You can't be an Enlightened Buddha overnight. It takes practice, daily practice, the following of moral code, the discipline of meditation and physical readiness. As I hoped, the wine didn't taste that good, and nor did it soothe. I know one can easily get 'holy, holy, holy,' think he is getting somewhere, pray to Jesus in sincere hopes of a second-coming; I know one can go through phases, fully buying it one week, and then a few weeks later, losing enthusiasm and will power and vision. Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't become a full Catholic quite yet, as nice and as comforting as that would be, your mind made up for you about just about everything.
Therefore, test things yourself, in your own laboratory, be honest with yourself, and see what happens. What's all this Buddha stuff about anyway? What is the Lama saying when he says that within all pleasures there is, if you partake, the increase of suffering?
And what I felt was, after all these years of trying to fit in, of telling myself a story, was that no, I don't need it. There was no great aversion, no spitting out, just non-attachment, the truth of non-attachment, distance from the ego-body of 'wine enjoyer.' (And look how my email in box is full of wine related offers, along with all the rest of marketing crap.) There wasn't even too much--though there was some--of great regret, at least the next day in daylight. There was simple plain honesty. A simple note of how very preferable not to even begin.
I might wonder why. Because wine represents attachment? I'm not sure. Or maybe I was just now being honest with myself, cutting through all the crap myths of self, seeing rather the red flush on my cheeks as I looked in the bathroom mirror. "Oh, yes, writers are supposed to drink," a voice said, but it was old and distant, an old fool, tired, though I did not beat up the voice, fearing reprisal, fearing being taken back in. "Think of Coltrane, the Love Supreme, for the newly clean, newly strong."
Forgive self for, in state of complete hunger and growing stiffness from seven hours on your feet after a busy shift for reaching toward the glass of camaraderie, the drink with the chefs jolly to be done with their very long day sweating the kitchen over the proverbial hot stove. There's no fault, just the call to be aware, to raise awareness, to not do the knee-jerk patterned response, after an evening of seeing everyone wrap their own lips around the edge of a tipped wine glass, as if stories and laughter of Czech proportions would come out of the pagan woods, that spirits would dance, the sky would open above and that one would return, with all his hard working good hearted friends to the bosom of a nice small town somewhere tucked within forested hills with very old trees and gardens and courtyards, a magnificent light pollution free sky overhead, fresh mountain air, a river, a fountain, then go home to sleep well under a thick feathered comforter embraced and embracing the girl of dreams.
No, enough fantasies, and each day is day one not be drawn in by the old habit, but to see freshly, to not even dwell on the sins of the past, but be liberated and be the moral being of good just wisdom who harms no one and wishes for the enlightenment of all sentient beings.
Yes, doesn't it feel good, after two ibuprofen, to be up at a reasonable hour for a night shift worker, sipping green tea. And if I can't figure everything out today, quit my job as barman instantly, as I might like, go join at last the monastic call, well, I guess that's okay. Just, yes, live in the present, and only care about what you need to care about and really wish to care about. And don't I feel calmer for saying so.
We cannot but help practice Buddhism in our lives. That is the funny thing. You might as well realize this, and map out to what extent you are doing this negatively or positively.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
In the hours before my shift tonight, Saturday, I think of the suffering of humanity and all creatures, the deep secretive pain we all feel not knowing enlightenment and the refuge of the Buddha's teachings. I feel strange about the duties of work now, as if I am only adding to the illusion of escape, through wine, through promoting the whole restaurant ritual. How many martinis and manhattans and old fashionedes will I have to make? How much bubbly will I pour? I will offer dessert to every table that dines, unless otherwise instructed. And all I will do cordially and in a good-natured way.
Suffering, I know, because I too have suffered, and blindly sought to escape it, looking at my own behavior, not constantly poor or cruel or evil to others, but enough to feel shame and realize I hurt people close to me who were far more enlightened and serious than I. And I know what it's like, to go home, feeling the great angst, not knowing what else to do, but pour a glass of wine and feel the medicinal numbing, almost sleepy, as I lean back on the couch, remote in hand, nodding, until I wake up and try to go to bed.
Saturday Night is a shift of suffering anyway for those who have to work them. There is tonight the six top just before kitchen closing. That's life. That's business. "Do you want to not be busy," the boss would ask, to make his point firm. Stress is involved. I get in early and diligently, very diligently, set up.
So I write this minor meditation on it, as if to present the issue, clearly, coming out of my mind, this time, rather than bottled up within. "I'll have a splash more," a regular fellow, a very decent guy who visits the wine bar of The Bistrot of the Dying Gaul, says when he gets rolling. Of course his buddy comes, a man in his prime with lots of energy, serving him a complicated business to be endured. "Well, my friend, you do not need a splash," I might like to say tonight. For you, I, and all poor creatures are dearly suffering in this existence, ignorant of the dharma truths.
The night is busy, but it goes by. Mercifully, no bar crowd expecting entertainment. My coworker stresses. (I've begun to hint to him that meditation would be helpful, as it helps keep the calm in the air-traffic controller stress situations common in busy restaurants.) He barks orders. "I need bread on 62," he half shouts, wide eyed, loud like a bluejay. The little walkie talkie behind the bar rings its beeping electric alarm, an excited frantic tone, and he goes off running downstairs through the main dining room to the kitchen and back with whatever is ready. I would have let the busser make the trip in the hectic pitched battle hours. Enough to do here as it is.
As I student, as a young writer trying to find my voice, I was aware of the problem of suffering. I sought alternative to the deep joy of mediation. I tried the escapes of pleasure, and years went down a hole, even as I showed friendship and compassion to my fellow beings. I thought a mutual escape of reality seemed a solution, as if it was a political movement, as if it would bind people on a common ground. I went on long bike rides, stoically propping up my mood and physique. There was always suffering there, the unsatisfactory quality, dukkha, from which no one can escape, for whom efforts to escape will only generate more suffering.
But it is uncommon becoming a Buddhist here. I was an idiot and passed up several good opportunities at college, special chances that I let pass by, missing the boat. I didn't know how to go about becoming one, and still don't know what to do, except begin an attempt at my own little practice. On the other hand there were the books my father passed down to me, from his Theosophical tradition, and I read when I could, and yes, such things made sense. But then it was always, back to work, back to the shift, and then back to the modest pleasures of close friends--you bring a bottle of good wine, they cook dinner, you catch up. Always, the problem of a career, and years ticking by. Life in a city--you drink wine, keep up to date somewhat. The city's greatest paper, repository of culture and art and all the news that's fit to print, has a wine column, a beautiful subject. "Buy in, buy in," it all says. You don't want to look odd. And your own foolishness, lack of direction, career obtuseness left that your best option, knowing how to open a wine bottle and talk about it, to read people, to entertain, to get the job done.
So what do you do? The monastery? If you were honest, if you weren't stuck with too many possessions already from trying to enjoy some of life, yes, you would. You would disdain attachments as low things, and move on.
I get home, spoon up some quinoa, nothing on television, wash face, brush teeth, pour glass of water, tuck myself in in the April cold, put a melatonin tablet under my tongue. I wake at first light, Easter morning, with a day free ahead of me, but not feeling I know what to do with it, and rather feeling darkly about a lot of things, as if anything I could do at this point in life, mid life, late mid life, wouldn't help anyway.
I do a small rubber made tub of dishes, as tea brews. It's Easter morning, and I will attempt to meditate.
Who is happy? What is happiness? What if I had caught that train early on and became a Buddhist scholar, taught, had a respectable job, a house somewhere, family life… Or was it better, for the purposes of understanding, to live a suffering life with that strange beauty of enlightenment within grasp, but difficult to attain, until finally comprehending it as fully as one could from within.
The Buddha is right to explore suffering, to experience it first hand, freed from illusion. The problem is that this philosophical look at suffering, this experience of it, causes a change in one's look at things, a change one might compare to the atomic bomb explosion, such that suddenly one sees all things differently, entire great cities not mattering anymore than an anthill, all human endeavors seen in new light, separating the things that matter from the things that do not matter in an entirely new way. The things that conventionally matter suddenly shrink and blow away in importance, the bulk of human society amounting to sand pipers trotting hurriedly around on a beach as waves come up and then recede. The things that were taken as utterly important, like the kind small act of a stranger, are suddenly the atomic solar light, far surpassing the strict codified system of manners and social rules and social position and estimations of personal importance in their relevance to the good of the world, the shy and the often silent upholding the species and its footing on the planet.
But who wouldn't initially want to back away in pain at such realizations, seeing all the good one has done in the form of small acts, not wishing anything in return, suddenly more important than what all the world's "great leaders" manage, ants too, but not with the knowledge that they are ants.
"My Life had stood--a loaded Gun
In corners--Till a Day
The Owner passed--identified
And carried Me Away."
You, like I, have felt the unsatisfactory quality of conversations, particularly over the phone, talk about stuff, plans, happenings… You want to say, 'no, that is just stuff of the ego; we're not really interested in that, so let's not talk about it.' Talk about stuff can be amusing, but it falls short, distracts. Perhaps that's another reason to enjoy Emily Dickinson's poem here, its sense of great resolution. And that resolution, almost like a mantra, seems to pull the reader into a place of resolution too, a place of contentment, everything, even relationships, in the right form, proper, well-mannered. And this speaks of course of the initial state of not being content, of running things of the past through the mind and wondering why things turned out so, as perhaps she, being "the spinster," might have felt closely. And again, that sense that seems to run through her poems, of feeling that townspeople curiosity, "what's up with Emily, does she like that Colonel guy?" (which we still feel compelled to ponder--"maybe she's gay"), juxtaposed with her own deep sense of things that basically pays little mind to that stuff, having an entirely different view of time, thus being present enough, egoless enough, to see and compose a poem on its own terms.
Does that sense of time account for the enigmatic ending of her poem, born with the power to kill, but not the power to die… What is the sense of "He must longer live"? Is it desirable, to live longer, if you must? Is she speaking of living in a great omniscient present, thus no power to die, the freedom of being passively in perfect order with the Universe? That the narrator has now few worries, because of the epiphany, in one reading of it. Without the power to die, she has found eternity's presence. Still, it is an odd meeting of the normal material time we live in and the eternal, puzzling.
The palpable satisfaction of suddenly finding no regrets, of a great order to life, lasts through the end of the poem. She has found a greater purpose than would have come with other relationships. It was all easy in the end, being chosen, carried away, no need for any effort but to be what you are. What a comfort to the reader beating his or her self up for something that didn't happen.
Suffering does lead us somewhere. It's a fact we live under till we are carried away by a realization...
Suffering, I know, because I too have suffered, and blindly sought to escape it, looking at my own behavior, not constantly poor or cruel or evil to others, but enough to feel shame and realize I hurt people close to me who were far more enlightened and serious than I. And I know what it's like, to go home, feeling the great angst, not knowing what else to do, but pour a glass of wine and feel the medicinal numbing, almost sleepy, as I lean back on the couch, remote in hand, nodding, until I wake up and try to go to bed.
Saturday Night is a shift of suffering anyway for those who have to work them. There is tonight the six top just before kitchen closing. That's life. That's business. "Do you want to not be busy," the boss would ask, to make his point firm. Stress is involved. I get in early and diligently, very diligently, set up.
So I write this minor meditation on it, as if to present the issue, clearly, coming out of my mind, this time, rather than bottled up within. "I'll have a splash more," a regular fellow, a very decent guy who visits the wine bar of The Bistrot of the Dying Gaul, says when he gets rolling. Of course his buddy comes, a man in his prime with lots of energy, serving him a complicated business to be endured. "Well, my friend, you do not need a splash," I might like to say tonight. For you, I, and all poor creatures are dearly suffering in this existence, ignorant of the dharma truths.
The night is busy, but it goes by. Mercifully, no bar crowd expecting entertainment. My coworker stresses. (I've begun to hint to him that meditation would be helpful, as it helps keep the calm in the air-traffic controller stress situations common in busy restaurants.) He barks orders. "I need bread on 62," he half shouts, wide eyed, loud like a bluejay. The little walkie talkie behind the bar rings its beeping electric alarm, an excited frantic tone, and he goes off running downstairs through the main dining room to the kitchen and back with whatever is ready. I would have let the busser make the trip in the hectic pitched battle hours. Enough to do here as it is.
As I student, as a young writer trying to find my voice, I was aware of the problem of suffering. I sought alternative to the deep joy of mediation. I tried the escapes of pleasure, and years went down a hole, even as I showed friendship and compassion to my fellow beings. I thought a mutual escape of reality seemed a solution, as if it was a political movement, as if it would bind people on a common ground. I went on long bike rides, stoically propping up my mood and physique. There was always suffering there, the unsatisfactory quality, dukkha, from which no one can escape, for whom efforts to escape will only generate more suffering.
But it is uncommon becoming a Buddhist here. I was an idiot and passed up several good opportunities at college, special chances that I let pass by, missing the boat. I didn't know how to go about becoming one, and still don't know what to do, except begin an attempt at my own little practice. On the other hand there were the books my father passed down to me, from his Theosophical tradition, and I read when I could, and yes, such things made sense. But then it was always, back to work, back to the shift, and then back to the modest pleasures of close friends--you bring a bottle of good wine, they cook dinner, you catch up. Always, the problem of a career, and years ticking by. Life in a city--you drink wine, keep up to date somewhat. The city's greatest paper, repository of culture and art and all the news that's fit to print, has a wine column, a beautiful subject. "Buy in, buy in," it all says. You don't want to look odd. And your own foolishness, lack of direction, career obtuseness left that your best option, knowing how to open a wine bottle and talk about it, to read people, to entertain, to get the job done.
So what do you do? The monastery? If you were honest, if you weren't stuck with too many possessions already from trying to enjoy some of life, yes, you would. You would disdain attachments as low things, and move on.
I get home, spoon up some quinoa, nothing on television, wash face, brush teeth, pour glass of water, tuck myself in in the April cold, put a melatonin tablet under my tongue. I wake at first light, Easter morning, with a day free ahead of me, but not feeling I know what to do with it, and rather feeling darkly about a lot of things, as if anything I could do at this point in life, mid life, late mid life, wouldn't help anyway.
I do a small rubber made tub of dishes, as tea brews. It's Easter morning, and I will attempt to meditate.
Who is happy? What is happiness? What if I had caught that train early on and became a Buddhist scholar, taught, had a respectable job, a house somewhere, family life… Or was it better, for the purposes of understanding, to live a suffering life with that strange beauty of enlightenment within grasp, but difficult to attain, until finally comprehending it as fully as one could from within.
The Buddha is right to explore suffering, to experience it first hand, freed from illusion. The problem is that this philosophical look at suffering, this experience of it, causes a change in one's look at things, a change one might compare to the atomic bomb explosion, such that suddenly one sees all things differently, entire great cities not mattering anymore than an anthill, all human endeavors seen in new light, separating the things that matter from the things that do not matter in an entirely new way. The things that conventionally matter suddenly shrink and blow away in importance, the bulk of human society amounting to sand pipers trotting hurriedly around on a beach as waves come up and then recede. The things that were taken as utterly important, like the kind small act of a stranger, are suddenly the atomic solar light, far surpassing the strict codified system of manners and social rules and social position and estimations of personal importance in their relevance to the good of the world, the shy and the often silent upholding the species and its footing on the planet.
But who wouldn't initially want to back away in pain at such realizations, seeing all the good one has done in the form of small acts, not wishing anything in return, suddenly more important than what all the world's "great leaders" manage, ants too, but not with the knowledge that they are ants.
"My Life had stood--a loaded Gun
In corners--Till a Day
The Owner passed--identified
And carried Me Away."
You, like I, have felt the unsatisfactory quality of conversations, particularly over the phone, talk about stuff, plans, happenings… You want to say, 'no, that is just stuff of the ego; we're not really interested in that, so let's not talk about it.' Talk about stuff can be amusing, but it falls short, distracts. Perhaps that's another reason to enjoy Emily Dickinson's poem here, its sense of great resolution. And that resolution, almost like a mantra, seems to pull the reader into a place of resolution too, a place of contentment, everything, even relationships, in the right form, proper, well-mannered. And this speaks of course of the initial state of not being content, of running things of the past through the mind and wondering why things turned out so, as perhaps she, being "the spinster," might have felt closely. And again, that sense that seems to run through her poems, of feeling that townspeople curiosity, "what's up with Emily, does she like that Colonel guy?" (which we still feel compelled to ponder--"maybe she's gay"), juxtaposed with her own deep sense of things that basically pays little mind to that stuff, having an entirely different view of time, thus being present enough, egoless enough, to see and compose a poem on its own terms.
Does that sense of time account for the enigmatic ending of her poem, born with the power to kill, but not the power to die… What is the sense of "He must longer live"? Is it desirable, to live longer, if you must? Is she speaking of living in a great omniscient present, thus no power to die, the freedom of being passively in perfect order with the Universe? That the narrator has now few worries, because of the epiphany, in one reading of it. Without the power to die, she has found eternity's presence. Still, it is an odd meeting of the normal material time we live in and the eternal, puzzling.
The palpable satisfaction of suddenly finding no regrets, of a great order to life, lasts through the end of the poem. She has found a greater purpose than would have come with other relationships. It was all easy in the end, being chosen, carried away, no need for any effort but to be what you are. What a comfort to the reader beating his or her self up for something that didn't happen.
Suffering does lead us somewhere. It's a fact we live under till we are carried away by a realization...
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