My beloved doggie ChooChoo is dead. I loved her more than I love most humans. She was a reminder of my growing up in Atlanta, together with my family. She was always there to comfort me with her fluffy cuddly self, when my family couldn't or when they were the problem. Yesterday when I found out she passed, I cried all day and woke up with very bloated red eyes. My students told me I looked like I'd been smoking dope.
I remember thinking as a teen, ChooChoo will die someday, when I'm in my twenties, or with luck, my early thirties. I wondered what kind of person I would be then, what my husband would look like, and what my life would be like without her. It seemed so far away. That's why it was such a shock to find out that ChooChoo had gotten old and ill, that the time had finally come. She stayed unusually young - puppy-like - for a long time. It was like this with my grandma, too. She was such a sprightly 70-something. But then when illness hit, old age caught up to her and she deteriorated so quickly...
It feels silly, to grieve so much for a dog. But she was a part of the family, and in some ways she held us together. I worry for my parents, who must be devastated at the loss. My mom told me they will get a fish to replace her. I wanted to tell her, No, don't do it, as I thought of the time I saw a fish die before my eyes, in painful slo-mo, and how traumatized I was by it. But everything beloved dies, it's part of the cycle of life, as they say. And I guess it could be worse. There is an age you reach when death arrives in rapid succession. Your parents are long dead, your friends are dying one by one, and you've outlived your spouse. All that remains is your own death. How burdensome that knowledge must feel! If only death didn't come with all those emotional strings attached - the missing, the grieving, the heaviness, all the regrets and what-ifs...
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Safe Harbor
(for a painting by the same name)
Divided into two rectangular panels,
it looks like a hundred-year-old photograph,
romantically blurred so that everyone's imagination
has room to roam inside its vast spaces.
I stare at the dark green swirls of the picture
hoping to reach into their faint center to my own destination,
a place that I cannot see but feel
whole-bodied inside the deliberate paint strokes,
warm tones and opaque smudges.
I smile childlike, contented
at the thought of a place where clocks
never stop running
and one can fall asleep in a room with a locked door and never
run out of air.
Where the most satisfying of dreams don't just happen
during the day, with your consent, but too at night
when sobbing and sweaty terror never arrive
to initiate the long tortured night.
Where intestines don't boil
and screams don't run away or hide,
nothing hides.
Where the path trails off in a cozy
blur she must have mixed so thoughtfully
on her palette.
I sit here contemplating my home among the swirls
but away from them, safe in the color of forests,
my surroundings clean and earthy,
simultaneously warm and chill,
like mud packed near the base of a tree.
(for a painting by the same name)
Divided into two rectangular panels,
it looks like a hundred-year-old photograph,
romantically blurred so that everyone's imagination
has room to roam inside its vast spaces.
I stare at the dark green swirls of the picture
hoping to reach into their faint center to my own destination,
a place that I cannot see but feel
whole-bodied inside the deliberate paint strokes,
warm tones and opaque smudges.
I smile childlike, contented
at the thought of a place where clocks
never stop running
and one can fall asleep in a room with a locked door and never
run out of air.
Where the most satisfying of dreams don't just happen
during the day, with your consent, but too at night
when sobbing and sweaty terror never arrive
to initiate the long tortured night.
Where intestines don't boil
and screams don't run away or hide,
nothing hides.
Where the path trails off in a cozy
blur she must have mixed so thoughtfully
on her palette.
I sit here contemplating my home among the swirls
but away from them, safe in the color of forests,
my surroundings clean and earthy,
simultaneously warm and chill,
like mud packed near the base of a tree.
when alone..lone..lonely..lo..
loneliness echoes, but
a drink or two or more's the salve
i'll have a beer, red wine, spirits to raise the dead
or string me up to the rafters,
i'll take what i can get.
the first cool mouthful incites urgency
down there, a tingling that feels like desire.
Now i write with abandon,
after all i have been abandoned
oh, drink brings out the narcissism best
woe is me, why oh why me oh my
i talk of things that shock and you squirm
i'm that drunk for whom you feel neither pity nor affection -
isn't contempt all we ever have for others,
when not for ourselves?
alone again - still - with a sorry excuse for a friend,
drowning, tiny, swimming, flailing foolishly in the bottle
like a patient whose operation has gone terribly wrong,
screaming, in a tone more muddled than rage,
what is this botched life worth
and why do we hear only our own echoes
loneliness echoes, but
a drink or two or more's the salve
i'll have a beer, red wine, spirits to raise the dead
or string me up to the rafters,
i'll take what i can get.
the first cool mouthful incites urgency
down there, a tingling that feels like desire.
Now i write with abandon,
after all i have been abandoned
oh, drink brings out the narcissism best
woe is me, why oh why me oh my
i talk of things that shock and you squirm
i'm that drunk for whom you feel neither pity nor affection -
isn't contempt all we ever have for others,
when not for ourselves?
alone again - still - with a sorry excuse for a friend,
drowning, tiny, swimming, flailing foolishly in the bottle
like a patient whose operation has gone terribly wrong,
screaming, in a tone more muddled than rage,
what is this botched life worth
and why do we hear only our own echoes
Friday, May 05, 2006
Trog and Og
I am a monster, he says.
If you're a monster, then what the hell am I? I ask. Of course I am the monster in this relationship. I am a monster with or without him. A big hairy one. I scare myself frequently.
OK, then, we're both monsters.
I realize his self-assessments have no bearing on what I think of him. And vice versa. We reach our own conclusions.
Nobody hates us like we hate ourselves.
And yet we go around caring so much about what other people think of us, projecting upon them our cares and insecurities!
Fuck that. I want to live freely. I want that for everyone I love too. Especially my younger sister, for whom I've taken up the role of the anxious, overprotective mother. I sit down to write holiday cards to her, trying to refrain from writing hackneyed Hallmark messages. What I really wish for her, besides a season's greeting or a happy birthday, is that she live burdened by nothing but responsibility to her chosen life.
But it's a cheesy thing to say, so I write jokes or cliches instead, year after year. There is so much I want to tell her, but don't. Somewhere along the line we decided that sincerity and mature displays of affection were to be reserved only for non-family members. I do not live freely.
For more on this subject, see: Reflection
If you're a monster, then what the hell am I? I ask. Of course I am the monster in this relationship. I am a monster with or without him. A big hairy one. I scare myself frequently.
OK, then, we're both monsters.
I realize his self-assessments have no bearing on what I think of him. And vice versa. We reach our own conclusions.
Nobody hates us like we hate ourselves.
And yet we go around caring so much about what other people think of us, projecting upon them our cares and insecurities!
Fuck that. I want to live freely. I want that for everyone I love too. Especially my younger sister, for whom I've taken up the role of the anxious, overprotective mother. I sit down to write holiday cards to her, trying to refrain from writing hackneyed Hallmark messages. What I really wish for her, besides a season's greeting or a happy birthday, is that she live burdened by nothing but responsibility to her chosen life.
But it's a cheesy thing to say, so I write jokes or cliches instead, year after year. There is so much I want to tell her, but don't. Somewhere along the line we decided that sincerity and mature displays of affection were to be reserved only for non-family members. I do not live freely.
For more on this subject, see: Reflection
Sunday, April 30, 2006
How's the weather
It's a beautiful, sun-drenched day in Pasadena. The kind that makes you feel ridiculous for ever having huddled under the covers wishing the world would disappear. But I don't wish there were more days like this. A year full of beautiful days can make you complacent and stupid. And so it is that I miss New York.
I won't go into simplistic east coast - west coast comparisons, but there's something to be said about having four distinct seasons. It keeps you on your toes. Here, I'm mostly kept on my back, lethargic from the sun, with a dumb smile on my face. Sorry, I said I wouldn't be simplistic. L.A. weather is pretty complex too - there are streaks of rainy days and it gets surprisingly chilly in the evenings. And, with nothing else to demarcate the seasons, there will always be fashion trends to define our springs and autumns with their traditional color palettes. It becomes almost laughable in the winter when clothing store windows display mannequins wearing woolly scarves and puffy down jackets. "Umm...why?" I'd turn to my boyfriend and ask. "It's just fashion," he'd respond with a shrug. He's long since gotten used to the strangeness of this place.
This morning we made up after a tense spell, the picture-perfect weather appearing to affirm our reconciliation. "It's so gorgeous out here I could just die!" I exclaimed upon stepping outside our apartment. On the way to the local cafe/bakery where we would have brunch, I pondered my paradoxical outburst with amusement. Why is death so often invoked during life-affirming moments? Wouldn't I be less willing to die on a day like this? Not finding any answers, I shook my questions out of mind. With a welcoming "ahhh," I opened up the sunroof and let the sun kiss my face. The car radio was turned off, but music played steadily in my head. I had been reminded of a jazzy tune of which I only knew the first line of lyrics. I hummed it over and over anyway. It's only April and the livin' is already easy...
We found a parking space easily and arrived at the cafe to take our place in the long slow line. We took it as our opportunity to comment shallowly on the customers already seated. There was our requisite pointing of fingers at the coupling of unattractive-white-dude with cute-younger-asian-woman. And then my, "Oh my god, look at the cute baby!" followed by, "Oh my god, what a cute doggy!" I wondered what the other customers would say about us. Probably something reproachful about our gross public displays of affection.
We carried our coffee and pastries outside, marveling at our luck in grabbing the only free table there. The food was delicious this time, I had to concede. You see, this was my boyfriend's favorite local cafe and one that a famous food critic had gushed over, but I had been thoroughly unimpressed. I made a mental note to only order the egg salad or tuna sandwich on future visits. Chocolate souffle's ok; bread pudding: no. To my right a large, amiable-looking dog stood with its tongue hanging out. At the table to my left sat the cutest of babies. I was in heaven.
Our coffee turned cold as my boyfriend and I read the latest edition of LA Weekly together. Pages upon pages of advertisements for plastic surgery, strippers, and oriental massage had us chuckling, "Only in L.A." We said it again as we read the front-page story about Mickey Avalon, Jewish glam-rap Hollywood sensation. But I was less caught up in the content of the story than in the writing. Though my boyfriend and I read at approximately the same pace, I kept stopping to re-read especially well-crafted sentences. "Look at how the writer sets up this passage! It's fucking brilliant!" I'm not often impressed by the literary qualities of magazine writing, but LA Weekly is known for its gonzo-style journalism that lends itself to creative language and a novel-like quality. There was a story in a previous issue of LA Weekly about a violin prodigy turned homeless person in which the author's gifted prose overshadowed the sensational storyline. If only I could write like that, I sighed. And here I was falling in love with another LA Weekly article. When we reached the end of the article, my boyfriend and I looked at each other with the same sad look. We flipped through the rest of the magazine hoping to remain lost in a world of words and, ultimately, to fend off the passing of the day.
Out of articles to read, we spent some time looking at concert listings, choosing which ones we would attend if we had the time. "Shit, Bob Dylan and Paul Simon are playing together this month!" "And for only 30 dollars - that's pretty good." "'Pretty good'?! That's a freaking steal." "Too bad the concert's in New Orleans." "Then let's go to New Orleans!" We went on like this, me being the one who talks exclusively in exclamations. But that, too, came to an end and we found ourselves on the last page of the magazine with no other reason to linger at the cafe. My boyfriend, being the one more grounded in reality, announced, "Time to get to work now..." It was true, we each had work to catch up on, and we had whiled away enough of our Sunday afternoon. Looking around, I suddenly noticed that the babies and dogs were long-gone and the air had turned brisk. I nodded slowly and took one last sip of my cold coffee.
I won't go into simplistic east coast - west coast comparisons, but there's something to be said about having four distinct seasons. It keeps you on your toes. Here, I'm mostly kept on my back, lethargic from the sun, with a dumb smile on my face. Sorry, I said I wouldn't be simplistic. L.A. weather is pretty complex too - there are streaks of rainy days and it gets surprisingly chilly in the evenings. And, with nothing else to demarcate the seasons, there will always be fashion trends to define our springs and autumns with their traditional color palettes. It becomes almost laughable in the winter when clothing store windows display mannequins wearing woolly scarves and puffy down jackets. "Umm...why?" I'd turn to my boyfriend and ask. "It's just fashion," he'd respond with a shrug. He's long since gotten used to the strangeness of this place.
This morning we made up after a tense spell, the picture-perfect weather appearing to affirm our reconciliation. "It's so gorgeous out here I could just die!" I exclaimed upon stepping outside our apartment. On the way to the local cafe/bakery where we would have brunch, I pondered my paradoxical outburst with amusement. Why is death so often invoked during life-affirming moments? Wouldn't I be less willing to die on a day like this? Not finding any answers, I shook my questions out of mind. With a welcoming "ahhh," I opened up the sunroof and let the sun kiss my face. The car radio was turned off, but music played steadily in my head. I had been reminded of a jazzy tune of which I only knew the first line of lyrics. I hummed it over and over anyway. It's only April and the livin' is already easy...
We found a parking space easily and arrived at the cafe to take our place in the long slow line. We took it as our opportunity to comment shallowly on the customers already seated. There was our requisite pointing of fingers at the coupling of unattractive-white-dude with cute-younger-asian-woman. And then my, "Oh my god, look at the cute baby!" followed by, "Oh my god, what a cute doggy!" I wondered what the other customers would say about us. Probably something reproachful about our gross public displays of affection.
We carried our coffee and pastries outside, marveling at our luck in grabbing the only free table there. The food was delicious this time, I had to concede. You see, this was my boyfriend's favorite local cafe and one that a famous food critic had gushed over, but I had been thoroughly unimpressed. I made a mental note to only order the egg salad or tuna sandwich on future visits. Chocolate souffle's ok; bread pudding: no. To my right a large, amiable-looking dog stood with its tongue hanging out. At the table to my left sat the cutest of babies. I was in heaven.
Our coffee turned cold as my boyfriend and I read the latest edition of LA Weekly together. Pages upon pages of advertisements for plastic surgery, strippers, and oriental massage had us chuckling, "Only in L.A." We said it again as we read the front-page story about Mickey Avalon, Jewish glam-rap Hollywood sensation. But I was less caught up in the content of the story than in the writing. Though my boyfriend and I read at approximately the same pace, I kept stopping to re-read especially well-crafted sentences. "Look at how the writer sets up this passage! It's fucking brilliant!" I'm not often impressed by the literary qualities of magazine writing, but LA Weekly is known for its gonzo-style journalism that lends itself to creative language and a novel-like quality. There was a story in a previous issue of LA Weekly about a violin prodigy turned homeless person in which the author's gifted prose overshadowed the sensational storyline. If only I could write like that, I sighed. And here I was falling in love with another LA Weekly article. When we reached the end of the article, my boyfriend and I looked at each other with the same sad look. We flipped through the rest of the magazine hoping to remain lost in a world of words and, ultimately, to fend off the passing of the day.
Out of articles to read, we spent some time looking at concert listings, choosing which ones we would attend if we had the time. "Shit, Bob Dylan and Paul Simon are playing together this month!" "And for only 30 dollars - that's pretty good." "'Pretty good'?! That's a freaking steal." "Too bad the concert's in New Orleans." "Then let's go to New Orleans!" We went on like this, me being the one who talks exclusively in exclamations. But that, too, came to an end and we found ourselves on the last page of the magazine with no other reason to linger at the cafe. My boyfriend, being the one more grounded in reality, announced, "Time to get to work now..." It was true, we each had work to catch up on, and we had whiled away enough of our Sunday afternoon. Looking around, I suddenly noticed that the babies and dogs were long-gone and the air had turned brisk. I nodded slowly and took one last sip of my cold coffee.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Looking
You always seem to look past me. It's no secret I obsess over this detail, in spite of your overall wonderfulness. I complain about it. I threaten to leave over its implications. But mostly I just stare at you, hoping to catch your gaze. I try not to be jealous, especially of the trivial things that are so often the objects of your gaze - the motion of a ceiling fan, the colors in a blanket, the pattern of stars in the sky...But I wonder, how can they be more fascinating than me - a complex human being who can communicate, think and create? Is it an indictment against me, my lack of visual and conceptual interest? I find it so difficult to concentrate on anything but you when you are near me. The rest of the world fades away, becoming the muted background to our love story. Why aren't you similarly affected?
I don't ask to be the only thing you pay attention to. I am not that self-centered. And, certainly, you aren't the only thing that holds my interest. But don't you know how important it is to be looked at? How much can go on in the meeting between two sets of eyes? Maybe I've watched too many movies. Maybe I look to you for reassurance when I should find it within myself. But even if I'm mostly wrong about this, I know I am at least part right. So I continue to demand your attention. But you know how it goes - the more I stare at you, the more you look away. And the more you ignore me, the more I anguish over it.
I don't think it was always this way. Weren't the roles reversed once? I remember the day we first met. You were so into me. The discomfort I felt is still palpable when I recall that day. But then again, there was also that feeling that you were rather 'robotic'. It's not that you were at all cold - in fact, you were unusually affectionate and inquisitive. It's just that I didn't understand you, didn't feel any sense of familiarity in your presence. Your eyes - where were they looking? What kind of person were you? What were you thinking in that formidable brain of yours? I had no idea. I know you much better now. But what I would give to get back your rapt attention...
I don't ask to be the only thing you pay attention to. I am not that self-centered. And, certainly, you aren't the only thing that holds my interest. But don't you know how important it is to be looked at? How much can go on in the meeting between two sets of eyes? Maybe I've watched too many movies. Maybe I look to you for reassurance when I should find it within myself. But even if I'm mostly wrong about this, I know I am at least part right. So I continue to demand your attention. But you know how it goes - the more I stare at you, the more you look away. And the more you ignore me, the more I anguish over it.
I don't think it was always this way. Weren't the roles reversed once? I remember the day we first met. You were so into me. The discomfort I felt is still palpable when I recall that day. But then again, there was also that feeling that you were rather 'robotic'. It's not that you were at all cold - in fact, you were unusually affectionate and inquisitive. It's just that I didn't understand you, didn't feel any sense of familiarity in your presence. Your eyes - where were they looking? What kind of person were you? What were you thinking in that formidable brain of yours? I had no idea. I know you much better now. But what I would give to get back your rapt attention...
Saturday, April 08, 2006
What really goes on
i'm reclining in this grey mass of bed linens, laptop bent towards me. typing here is such a sensual experience. the heat from my laptop warms my wrists and thighs. the sound of its whirring mechanics have turned from a distraction to a soothing constant. i hate to sleep but i hate not to get enough sleep. i hate to sleep but i love to lie in bed. i love the idea of action, but i hate to act on it. most of all, i hate these contradictions.
this morning i felt both despair and idealism, the usual high and low that comes with social interaction. it stays with me for days. the extremes are even more acute when the interaction is with youth. i can't help but to think they hint at deeper significances. am i too much of a mystic?... i don't know what to think - kids confuse me. sometimes they're so stupid, so beyond repair. and other times, they astonish you with their wit, insight and creativity. all i can do is sigh and shrug. that's my reaction towards most everything these days. yes, i'm still in quiet mode. except with my s.o. he hears too much from me. i need to remind myself that nothing is secure and we are all shallow creatures.
i'm brought back to the sensualities of this bed. at home it's never really quiet. the noise of street traffic, intermittent airplanes, and always the mexican neighbors. this is also emotionally confusing for me. how do i take in the sounds of children and families - chattering mothers and screaming kids, alcoholic fathers and careless sons, hanging out in front of the spanish style house day and night. barbecues weekly...once, a death in the family had one neighbor crying out for 'abuela'. heartwrenching sobs i took in through my gut. i know this scene well. abuela. drunken men. loud scenes. is it silly, racist even, to be frequently reminded of the movie 'la bamba'? i remember it often, actually. the violence of alcoholism had been imprinted on me at an early age. what cruel maker designed thoughts alone to be traumatic, far removed in time and space from the physical event? oh, but what i'd give for the joys and complications of having a large family again...isn't everything complicated?
i think of all the fantasies i create for myself, all the paranoid "what if"s i allow myself to linger on...i ruminate incessantly on metaphysical possibilities, the properties of reality and consciousness. i ask myself, what if i don't exist? what if nobody else exists? what if i dreamed everyone up? what if it's me who's a part of someone else's dream? what if i'm god? what if i'm really dead? what if i'm an unwitting actor in a movie, my life already scripted for me? what if someone can read my thoughts?... i wonder, too, at the feats i could accomplish if i just concentrated hard enough...if i listened real close, could i hear voices in my head? what are they saying to me? if i focused all my energy at someone, could i make them disappear? move a certain way? i follow these trains of thoughts a long way down, only to stop myself when i begin to feel real fear. but the uncertainty and the curiosity are always there, even knowing that these alternate realities are completely illogical. what i'm really wondering, i guess, is if the things we're taught are just cognitive and perceptual errors, the result of faulty or convoluted genetic engineering, are really real. like the baby who won't walk across a glass table for fear he'll fall through. what if the baby is right? what if you can fall through a glass table? and in what kind of universe would this be the case? more importantly, if i am a part of that kind of universe, can i trust my perceptions? what do i really know about anything?
For more on this subject, see: Solipsism
this morning i felt both despair and idealism, the usual high and low that comes with social interaction. it stays with me for days. the extremes are even more acute when the interaction is with youth. i can't help but to think they hint at deeper significances. am i too much of a mystic?... i don't know what to think - kids confuse me. sometimes they're so stupid, so beyond repair. and other times, they astonish you with their wit, insight and creativity. all i can do is sigh and shrug. that's my reaction towards most everything these days. yes, i'm still in quiet mode. except with my s.o. he hears too much from me. i need to remind myself that nothing is secure and we are all shallow creatures.
i'm brought back to the sensualities of this bed. at home it's never really quiet. the noise of street traffic, intermittent airplanes, and always the mexican neighbors. this is also emotionally confusing for me. how do i take in the sounds of children and families - chattering mothers and screaming kids, alcoholic fathers and careless sons, hanging out in front of the spanish style house day and night. barbecues weekly...once, a death in the family had one neighbor crying out for 'abuela'. heartwrenching sobs i took in through my gut. i know this scene well. abuela. drunken men. loud scenes. is it silly, racist even, to be frequently reminded of the movie 'la bamba'? i remember it often, actually. the violence of alcoholism had been imprinted on me at an early age. what cruel maker designed thoughts alone to be traumatic, far removed in time and space from the physical event? oh, but what i'd give for the joys and complications of having a large family again...isn't everything complicated?
i think of all the fantasies i create for myself, all the paranoid "what if"s i allow myself to linger on...i ruminate incessantly on metaphysical possibilities, the properties of reality and consciousness. i ask myself, what if i don't exist? what if nobody else exists? what if i dreamed everyone up? what if it's me who's a part of someone else's dream? what if i'm god? what if i'm really dead? what if i'm an unwitting actor in a movie, my life already scripted for me? what if someone can read my thoughts?... i wonder, too, at the feats i could accomplish if i just concentrated hard enough...if i listened real close, could i hear voices in my head? what are they saying to me? if i focused all my energy at someone, could i make them disappear? move a certain way? i follow these trains of thoughts a long way down, only to stop myself when i begin to feel real fear. but the uncertainty and the curiosity are always there, even knowing that these alternate realities are completely illogical. what i'm really wondering, i guess, is if the things we're taught are just cognitive and perceptual errors, the result of faulty or convoluted genetic engineering, are really real. like the baby who won't walk across a glass table for fear he'll fall through. what if the baby is right? what if you can fall through a glass table? and in what kind of universe would this be the case? more importantly, if i am a part of that kind of universe, can i trust my perceptions? what do i really know about anything?
For more on this subject, see: Solipsism
Sunday, February 12, 2006
So that's where babies come from..
My sister has gotten herself knocked up. Coincidentally, the point of conception was just about the time I moved out of the family home where she and her husband also live. I imagine my departure turned into a wanton celebratory event, complete with paper noisemakers and festive hats. "Yay!" they shout with glee, "The baby-delaying sex killer is gone!" My sister pulls out a dusty kama sutra kit she got at her bridal shower, "We can use this now!"
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Zen blog
How does one write without being self-aggrandizing, without sounding utterly self-important? Most of the time, the act of writing disgusts me. It almost requires the production of easily digestible soundbites, statements simplified by the constraints of intercommunication. To write is to limit oneself. And I don't want to be pinned down. My written words don't betray "who I am." Pomposity. There's nothing new about this insight, but I'll say it again - our words reveal who we wish to be. Ultimately (or maybe initially), writing is an act of ingratiating desperation.
...
I have a 'Zen board' which is just a piece of cardboard that you write or draw on with a paintbrush dipped in water. Whatever image you create disappears in just a few seconds. If only this page were a zen board.
***edit: to say this is dishonest on my part. i have the ability to delete anything i write soon after i write it, or never to write it at all. i just don't wish to.
For more on this subject, see: Zen And the Art of Doing Things Badly
...
I have a 'Zen board' which is just a piece of cardboard that you write or draw on with a paintbrush dipped in water. Whatever image you create disappears in just a few seconds. If only this page were a zen board.
***edit: to say this is dishonest on my part. i have the ability to delete anything i write soon after i write it, or never to write it at all. i just don't wish to.
For more on this subject, see: Zen And the Art of Doing Things Badly
A collector's dream
I desire to collect truths like other people collect stamps or baseball cards or lovers. Not silly little facts about any old subject, but the kinds of truths that guide you in this world as you battle the crisis of having been born a human being - both remarkably intelligent and vastly ignorant. After all, like any other collectible, you can itemize truths, make a list of them, display 'em to the world. But I wouldn't store them away in a drawer or put them behind a glass case, no, I'd carry my truths around with me all the time - wear them like armor. Truths, when they're determined to be so, are indestructible by definition, unlike the delicate relics typically chosen by collectors. And this is the allure of truth-collecting - that it has the ability to become a part of you. What is collecting anyway but the activity of obsessive-compulsives who find in it some respite from the constant nagging sense of incompleteness, or the sad-sack whose collection makes him feel important, valuable, somehow less invisible?
I've run into a crucial problem however. That is, I can't seem to hold onto truths for too long. There is very little I think I know for sure about the world, life, or myself. Perhaps, then, this is an impossible chase, and a silly kind of collection to have - after all, collections imply unusually large numbers of things. What kind of a collection holds only two items? I can't even give the excuse that it's merely the fledgling collection of a beginner. I've been seeking out truths all my life! And another problem with this collection - I see truths as objects - to own, to hold, to count. Maybe I need to change my perspective completely - to see truths as temporary aids to daily living rather than big and final answers to the grand problem of life.
In any case, the things I do know to be true have remained such constants in my experience and such reliable problem-solving techniques in many an existential crisis, that I find it almost impossible to put away this collection. These truths I hold dear:
1. These are the things that make me happy (a collection in itself) - the kinds of things that have the power to bring me that sense of joy that feels like the glowing incarnation of beauty and peace and bliss all at once: playing music, crafting art, writing, being around children and animals, forming loyal friendships and other kinds of social bonds, knowing that my family is healthy and happy, spending time with my family, loving and being loved and being IN love, having children, acts of social service, and the knowledge that I have had a positive effect on someone else's life.
2. When I think about all these things that make life for me worth living, and that motivate all my worldly pursuits, they really fall into two basic categories: connectedness and creation.
So my conclusion is that to be fully human we must be connected to the world - nature, other people, the products of our own making, and not least of all, the regeneration of life itself. Conversely what brings us misery, makes us less fully actualized humans, is alienation from these things.
I've run into a crucial problem however. That is, I can't seem to hold onto truths for too long. There is very little I think I know for sure about the world, life, or myself. Perhaps, then, this is an impossible chase, and a silly kind of collection to have - after all, collections imply unusually large numbers of things. What kind of a collection holds only two items? I can't even give the excuse that it's merely the fledgling collection of a beginner. I've been seeking out truths all my life! And another problem with this collection - I see truths as objects - to own, to hold, to count. Maybe I need to change my perspective completely - to see truths as temporary aids to daily living rather than big and final answers to the grand problem of life.
In any case, the things I do know to be true have remained such constants in my experience and such reliable problem-solving techniques in many an existential crisis, that I find it almost impossible to put away this collection. These truths I hold dear:
1. These are the things that make me happy (a collection in itself) - the kinds of things that have the power to bring me that sense of joy that feels like the glowing incarnation of beauty and peace and bliss all at once: playing music, crafting art, writing, being around children and animals, forming loyal friendships and other kinds of social bonds, knowing that my family is healthy and happy, spending time with my family, loving and being loved and being IN love, having children, acts of social service, and the knowledge that I have had a positive effect on someone else's life.
2. When I think about all these things that make life for me worth living, and that motivate all my worldly pursuits, they really fall into two basic categories: connectedness and creation.
So my conclusion is that to be fully human we must be connected to the world - nature, other people, the products of our own making, and not least of all, the regeneration of life itself. Conversely what brings us misery, makes us less fully actualized humans, is alienation from these things.
Friday, February 10, 2006
a rhyme
I have a friend
she says, hon- what's your sign?
but it's not a pickup line,
when stars and characters align
everything makes sense - it's her paradigm
For more on this subject, see: Find Your Fate
she says, hon- what's your sign?
but it's not a pickup line,
when stars and characters align
everything makes sense - it's her paradigm
For more on this subject, see: Find Your Fate
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