It’s hard to remember where my suffering went, most of it seems to have been cleared away today. I’ve obsessed for years, but that was because I had no perspective. I lacked a true self, I was unaware of who I really was, who I could be, what I truly needed, what was in my way or what I didn’t need, how I could help others, how faith could offer me a higher quality of life. For the last year and 6 days I’ve been in a practice.
In the beginning it was to not feel the immediate pain, now it is about staying in this present moment right now. What a concept to actually try and honor.
-To understand old patterns of thinking, to be wary and mindful of desire, hope, and most of all fear of my future, this can only be practiced. Fear in any sense, real or unreal, fear is just a word. Most of us can leap ahead into our future and poison it, whether it’s the next moment, next hour, later this night, the next day, week, month, year or years to come. For only now, I have been given the gift to practice and watch how I react to everything. For only now I can continue to practice.
Why practice? Practice allows all of the imperfections to exist and therefore allows all that is and is not, to be quite perfect. Wow, do I live in California or what?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Fun or Fear...
May 13th 1979, I graduated from the Houston Texas Juvenile Detention Center For Outstanding Youth. I enjoyed my time spent and thanked all those who helped make my stay pleasurable. I thanked many as I went; Tomas F. from El Paso was first. He and I shared some laughs one night after he and his cousin stabbed me in the lower abdomen with Bic pens. I later repaid the good prank by showing him the benefits of severe head trauma delivered with a metal chair leg. Gene M. from Arkansas got my attention when I had my back to him in the work yard. After spending 4 ½ months in ICU with severe injuries to both of my feet, I turned a negative into a positive and gave him a hug that he would never forget; breaking both arms in more than one place and dislocating his shoulders, tearing his labrum so thoroughly that he could never raise his hands above his waist. The guard whom I grew to be most fond of sexually assaulted two of my girlfriends after drugging them with Rohypnol. I found fingernail clippers simple and effective when pulling the inside of a cheek apart.
My studies from the Center gave me a new outlook and an improved sense of citizenship. But that waned after a week and I was outa my mind again. I flew across the city in a stolen green Ford something, being chased by two of Houston’s worst. They had guns too, and radios, and a helicopter. This was livin’! This was rock and roll; heroin, German Shepherds, older men with large automatic weapons and harder drugs, women, an empty house in Sugarland filled with blow, a tattoo on a rabbit, swamp-jump blues, Tuaca, a ’71 Nova, and envelopes of Franklins -more than I knew what to do with…this was my life…If only…if only I could add more to this adventure. Maybe I could get laid or stabbed by the end of the day? Why not, so much seemed possible at that moment. I really had no way of knowing….I was 17 and in America.
Driving to Beaumont, San Marcos weekly standing on streets in Austin, knifed in Galveston, driving, more pain, lunging head first into a big bucket of fear, I did some of my best thinking, and committed to some of my best actions; I made it worse.
My studies from the Center gave me a new outlook and an improved sense of citizenship. But that waned after a week and I was outa my mind again. I flew across the city in a stolen green Ford something, being chased by two of Houston’s worst. They had guns too, and radios, and a helicopter. This was livin’! This was rock and roll; heroin, German Shepherds, older men with large automatic weapons and harder drugs, women, an empty house in Sugarland filled with blow, a tattoo on a rabbit, swamp-jump blues, Tuaca, a ’71 Nova, and envelopes of Franklins -more than I knew what to do with…this was my life…If only…if only I could add more to this adventure. Maybe I could get laid or stabbed by the end of the day? Why not, so much seemed possible at that moment. I really had no way of knowing….I was 17 and in America.
Driving to Beaumont, San Marcos weekly standing on streets in Austin, knifed in Galveston, driving, more pain, lunging head first into a big bucket of fear, I did some of my best thinking, and committed to some of my best actions; I made it worse.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Buying A Pair Of Shoes
My father has over 20 pairs of cowboy boots. He’d love nothing more than to shove one of his Tony Lama alligator, ostrich, hippo, lizard, or rhino boots up your ass. He has 5 or 6 Stetson hats that are blocked to perfection. All of this makes sense since he was born and raised in Teaneck, New Jersey.
My father loves clothing. He is what he terms a, “clothes horse,” although he wouldn’t call himself that. He appreciates footwear the most. Years ago he found a pair of cow hide clogs, during his clog phase. Not sure if he ever wore them but after the divorce my mother threw them out in the trash, I happened to grab em and still have them today.
New Jersey is the 6th borough of New York City. It houses over 2 million flat footers. The masses that work in the city, that trudge the pavement. My father was destined to mass with the masses in the city and become a flat footing commuter, working in an office doing office things. But somehow he wound up in the middle of the country at Offutt air force base, met my mother and began to raise a family. He got into his cowboy look when he was riding the rails selling credit life insurance to banks across the prairie. One night after dinner and drinks, around 2am, this cadre of businessmen and bankers suggested it was time for my father to own a proper cowboy hat. One of the men at the table owned the large western wear store in the town and at 2am, the men played dress up. They had selected a fine Angus granite 4x fur felt Stetson for him. My father looked great in it, he looked strong, like an American. This hat led to more hats and boots, and more boots and long rider trench coats and that was about it…no bolo ties as far as I can recollect.
In 1980 I was graduating high school and my father thought it was time I owned a suit. We picked out a nice blue pin stripe, a couple dress shirts, ties. And then it came to the shoes. He insisted I have a nice pair of Florsheim Wing Tips. He bought be a pair of the classic black Carleton’s. I wore them always. They became my favorite shoe and I had them resoled countless times.
In 1986 I moved to New York City and within the first few weeks of being there I took my coveted Florsheim’s into a shoe repair place on 1st Avenue just below 51st street. I asked them to be resoled, cleaned and shined. “Day after tomorrow,” the man said. That night the woman I moved in with got drunk and mad and kicked me out. I found a pal to crash with in Tribeca on Reade Street and after a few months I moved to the upper west side where a 2 bedroom sublet became available.
I met my wife on the upper west side. She and I lived across the street from each other at 90th and Columbus and later moved in together cross-town at 90th between 3rd and Lexington. We had a glorious time together in the city as young people do in their late 20’s; we dined, danced and dreamed of owning a nice Murray Hill Townhouse…but then moved to Los Angeles.
This past fall I was back in the city on the east side to give a speech at the United Nations. As we motored up the FDR, I smiled about the city and thought about how it never really changes. After the speech a few of us gathered for lunch near the Roosevelt Tram and then after lunch I took a stroll down 1st Avenue. The neighborhood seemed familiar and then, out of nowhere I felt a shock run through my feet, up my spine and into my ears, I somehow remembered my wingtips. I looked to my right and there was the same storefront that had existed 25 years earlier. I entered, an electronic signal echoed in the shop and a small man came to the counter to greet me.
“Picking up -dropping off?” The man asked abruptly.
“Uh…hello… this may seem strange, and I’m just going to take a shot here, I was in a long, long time ago and had dropped off a pair of shoes to get resoled, again this was about 25--“
The man cut me off.
--“Black wingtips?”
“YES!”
--“Size 12? Leather resoles?”
“YES!”
--“Day after tomorrow.”
My father loves clothing. He is what he terms a, “clothes horse,” although he wouldn’t call himself that. He appreciates footwear the most. Years ago he found a pair of cow hide clogs, during his clog phase. Not sure if he ever wore them but after the divorce my mother threw them out in the trash, I happened to grab em and still have them today.
New Jersey is the 6th borough of New York City. It houses over 2 million flat footers. The masses that work in the city, that trudge the pavement. My father was destined to mass with the masses in the city and become a flat footing commuter, working in an office doing office things. But somehow he wound up in the middle of the country at Offutt air force base, met my mother and began to raise a family. He got into his cowboy look when he was riding the rails selling credit life insurance to banks across the prairie. One night after dinner and drinks, around 2am, this cadre of businessmen and bankers suggested it was time for my father to own a proper cowboy hat. One of the men at the table owned the large western wear store in the town and at 2am, the men played dress up. They had selected a fine Angus granite 4x fur felt Stetson for him. My father looked great in it, he looked strong, like an American. This hat led to more hats and boots, and more boots and long rider trench coats and that was about it…no bolo ties as far as I can recollect.
In 1980 I was graduating high school and my father thought it was time I owned a suit. We picked out a nice blue pin stripe, a couple dress shirts, ties. And then it came to the shoes. He insisted I have a nice pair of Florsheim Wing Tips. He bought be a pair of the classic black Carleton’s. I wore them always. They became my favorite shoe and I had them resoled countless times.
In 1986 I moved to New York City and within the first few weeks of being there I took my coveted Florsheim’s into a shoe repair place on 1st Avenue just below 51st street. I asked them to be resoled, cleaned and shined. “Day after tomorrow,” the man said. That night the woman I moved in with got drunk and mad and kicked me out. I found a pal to crash with in Tribeca on Reade Street and after a few months I moved to the upper west side where a 2 bedroom sublet became available.
I met my wife on the upper west side. She and I lived across the street from each other at 90th and Columbus and later moved in together cross-town at 90th between 3rd and Lexington. We had a glorious time together in the city as young people do in their late 20’s; we dined, danced and dreamed of owning a nice Murray Hill Townhouse…but then moved to Los Angeles.
This past fall I was back in the city on the east side to give a speech at the United Nations. As we motored up the FDR, I smiled about the city and thought about how it never really changes. After the speech a few of us gathered for lunch near the Roosevelt Tram and then after lunch I took a stroll down 1st Avenue. The neighborhood seemed familiar and then, out of nowhere I felt a shock run through my feet, up my spine and into my ears, I somehow remembered my wingtips. I looked to my right and there was the same storefront that had existed 25 years earlier. I entered, an electronic signal echoed in the shop and a small man came to the counter to greet me.
“Picking up -dropping off?” The man asked abruptly.
“Uh…hello… this may seem strange, and I’m just going to take a shot here, I was in a long, long time ago and had dropped off a pair of shoes to get resoled, again this was about 25--“
The man cut me off.
--“Black wingtips?”
“YES!”
--“Size 12? Leather resoles?”
“YES!”
--“Day after tomorrow.”
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
That part of my life is over.
We had slept in the van again, but only for a couple hours, then it was time to drive again. Not sure who was driving, maybe Emery, maybe myself, we pulled onto the onramp to get back on Highway 94 and it felt as though the chain fell off my bike. Stepped on the gas, and there was noise from the strong engine, but nothing else. We turned off to the side of the onramp, put it in park, then in drive – same thing, no forward movement. “Transmission,” Someone mumbled.
We had been coming in from Chicago, I’d dropped off the clown or the fat guy in the city, said, “Thanks, we’ll call you, love to do it again, see you around…” I had made previous arrangements to fly the juggler in and pick him up in Grand Rapids the next day then drive to the show in Mount Pleasant. Everything was timed out perfectly. Now, everything was perfectly fucked.
This was my first tour on my own, in my first van, with my first crew. We were expected to meet the agent who sold our show that afternoon, rub elbows, impress him, go to lunch, listen to his stories of when he bought and sold the Brooklyn Bridge, broke down on the Verrazano or the Dan Ryan Expressway or the Turnpike, Thruway, Holland Tunnel, Brooklyn Bridge. We had to show up shiny, bright eyed, eager, firm handshake! Now we were in peril.
“Y’need a new rear end.” The truck driver said. “That’s what she said.” I mumbled. “Whazat?” He asked. “Where can I get on of those today?” I asked desperately. It was Saturday, starting to rain, which was another count against us. “Dunno.” He mumbled back. Emery and I got on the phones and tried to solve the problem, we had to try.
Within 20 minutes we had it miles away in someone’s barn slash auto repair place. Now to get a rental car, we’d have to come back for the van, since he said it’d be a few days. We’d be in Wisconsin or Ohio, but we’d figure that out later, had to make it to the gig, the show….
”Can you make the show?” The agent always begged to know when we ran into travel problems.
The agency guys ended up picking up my new juggler and transported him to the venue. My credit cards had all been declined when we tried to rent the car, but I had access to cash and happened to find a cash only car rental place in Benton Harbor. There were about 10 other insurmountable obstacles that got in my way, problems that I was sure would end my “big,” and “oh so special” world as I knew it at the time. But we were on the road. We made it to the show, in the rain. The agent sat in the front row, with his wife, the rest of the agency, arms folded. We knew it was going to be bleak. I tried to brief the juggler how the show would run, he seemed to get it, I asked Emery to hold his hand. With 5 til curtain I heard a rumbling, “thunder?” No the house was packed with about 600 people.
In the end, everything worked out. I had no way of knowing that or trusting that idea as I meandered through my struggle. I made efforts to do what I could to move forward and that was all I could do. The rest was going to be what it was. But if I wanted to, I could’ve let my struggle and suffering overpower and destroy me.
This is a small story, I share it because it has meaning; when it gets hard I want to cry, when it gets bad I want to run, when it gets difficult I want to blame, when it gets ugly I want out. And sometimes when I dive in, it gets worse, it gets harder, there is no relief, sometimes more pain. But what life continues to show me is that the results continue to reveal themselves. And in the end, I will be okay.
My real changes and victories from my immediate past year are still presenting themselves to me. I came into my year with a great self-imposed suffering brought on by my own fear, self-will, loss of self, and a complete lack of faith. What I’ve found over this year, little by little -is that if I do what is in front of me, the best I can, stay honest, if I give of myself, and stay grateful, everything becomes a gift.
We had been coming in from Chicago, I’d dropped off the clown or the fat guy in the city, said, “Thanks, we’ll call you, love to do it again, see you around…” I had made previous arrangements to fly the juggler in and pick him up in Grand Rapids the next day then drive to the show in Mount Pleasant. Everything was timed out perfectly. Now, everything was perfectly fucked.
This was my first tour on my own, in my first van, with my first crew. We were expected to meet the agent who sold our show that afternoon, rub elbows, impress him, go to lunch, listen to his stories of when he bought and sold the Brooklyn Bridge, broke down on the Verrazano or the Dan Ryan Expressway or the Turnpike, Thruway, Holland Tunnel, Brooklyn Bridge. We had to show up shiny, bright eyed, eager, firm handshake! Now we were in peril.
“Y’need a new rear end.” The truck driver said. “That’s what she said.” I mumbled. “Whazat?” He asked. “Where can I get on of those today?” I asked desperately. It was Saturday, starting to rain, which was another count against us. “Dunno.” He mumbled back. Emery and I got on the phones and tried to solve the problem, we had to try.
Within 20 minutes we had it miles away in someone’s barn slash auto repair place. Now to get a rental car, we’d have to come back for the van, since he said it’d be a few days. We’d be in Wisconsin or Ohio, but we’d figure that out later, had to make it to the gig, the show….
”Can you make the show?” The agent always begged to know when we ran into travel problems.
The agency guys ended up picking up my new juggler and transported him to the venue. My credit cards had all been declined when we tried to rent the car, but I had access to cash and happened to find a cash only car rental place in Benton Harbor. There were about 10 other insurmountable obstacles that got in my way, problems that I was sure would end my “big,” and “oh so special” world as I knew it at the time. But we were on the road. We made it to the show, in the rain. The agent sat in the front row, with his wife, the rest of the agency, arms folded. We knew it was going to be bleak. I tried to brief the juggler how the show would run, he seemed to get it, I asked Emery to hold his hand. With 5 til curtain I heard a rumbling, “thunder?” No the house was packed with about 600 people.
In the end, everything worked out. I had no way of knowing that or trusting that idea as I meandered through my struggle. I made efforts to do what I could to move forward and that was all I could do. The rest was going to be what it was. But if I wanted to, I could’ve let my struggle and suffering overpower and destroy me.
This is a small story, I share it because it has meaning; when it gets hard I want to cry, when it gets bad I want to run, when it gets difficult I want to blame, when it gets ugly I want out. And sometimes when I dive in, it gets worse, it gets harder, there is no relief, sometimes more pain. But what life continues to show me is that the results continue to reveal themselves. And in the end, I will be okay.
My real changes and victories from my immediate past year are still presenting themselves to me. I came into my year with a great self-imposed suffering brought on by my own fear, self-will, loss of self, and a complete lack of faith. What I’ve found over this year, little by little -is that if I do what is in front of me, the best I can, stay honest, if I give of myself, and stay grateful, everything becomes a gift.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
That which is no longer...
It again was fall, with rain. The dark, dead, doom of winter on the Great Plains was nearing. The true nature of nature was now showing its face. Willa Cather must have been Viking stock or of Mongolian breed. The pioneers who settled here had strength of machines. How would people of today survive 150 years ago? How would it have been possible without all our modern conveniences, our creature comforts? Where would my father be without his Homedics BB3 Foot Massaging Bubbler Foot Bath? -How could my mother live without her lighter? -How could my wife survive without her iPhone? -My mother in law without her remote control? –My sister’s doubles matches? -My brother’s airport access to TED lectures? -My sister’s Volvo that continues to break down? How could I go on for a single moment without a Grande Soy Latte Macchiato? I shudder island to think.
I was driving around this place last fall; the town on the Missouri that I was born in, raised in, remained in until my early twenties. I was emotional, driving my Dodge Stratus from Hertz. Hertz had the best deal on Kayak that day. This was the first time back that I was alone, the first time I had to explore, to let my eyes see the city with no distractions. My heart surprised me and was able to let in my childhood, my adolescence, my memories of a place I never really saw, rarely understood or cared about. It was an exciting slow ride in my Stratus…Foghat blaring on Z-92 FM. My parents had picked an amazing town; rolling hills, changing seasons, a large enough population with different races, with high and low economic neighborhoods, parks, libraries… funny how I never saw any of it growing up.
This place seemed to have taken off; the city and it’s new buildings. The trees had shot up, many still had leaves, were still full and I could see how strong they grew, would’ve seen more except the rain obscured and glossed my vision. Even the rain brought back memories of rain from my childhood…it’s smell reminded me of the slow incoming canopy of darkness and the cold days ahead that would sequester all life for months.
Driving west, crossing 72nd street on Cass, I drove behind the old Crossroads which was for sale. My father worked at Musicland there and told me once he met The Rolling Stones when they passed through. I continued west and came to the HyVee, which was never there. This whole section of town was never there, north of Cass. This was where Peony Park once stood! Where was Peony Park?! What had they done with Peony Park?! Someone will have to pay for this!!
Peony Park was our hometown Disneyland, our Six Flags, our Knottsberry Farm, our Arnold’s Park, our San Diego Zoo. Except it had man made swimming pool that took up about 10 acres smack in the middle, with sandy beaches around the entire watering hole, -slides, fountains, diving boards, diving platforms, swings, trampolines, volleyball, rafts and music. A monorail circled the pool throughout the day, -rollercoaster’s and rides and games surrounded the monorail. The park was a dreamland for me, and all children.
One summer day I was given some money to go by myself and buy an ice cream cone. The stand was packed with people and I was too little, I was lost and surrounded by adults. Then I felt a pinch, no worse, my arm was stinging, I didn’t know what to do other than cry. A woman had burned my arm with her cigarette. Generally when injured I was prone to screaming and begging to be rushed to the nearest hospital, but after she saw that she had burned me, she bent down in her white bikini and my tears and pain flew away. This stranger was the most beautiful woman in I had ever seen. Dark, long brunette hair, full lips and brown eyes, and a Coppertone figure straight out of Movie Star Magazine. She bought me two ice cream cones and I walked away in love for the rest of the summer.
For years I continued to look for her at the park…every time I was back at the pool, floating on my raft, laying on my towel, standing on line for ice cream, I kept an eye peeled. I was even looking for her now in the produce section as I stood over the Texas grapefruits inside the ordinary HyVee.
I was driving around this place last fall; the town on the Missouri that I was born in, raised in, remained in until my early twenties. I was emotional, driving my Dodge Stratus from Hertz. Hertz had the best deal on Kayak that day. This was the first time back that I was alone, the first time I had to explore, to let my eyes see the city with no distractions. My heart surprised me and was able to let in my childhood, my adolescence, my memories of a place I never really saw, rarely understood or cared about. It was an exciting slow ride in my Stratus…Foghat blaring on Z-92 FM. My parents had picked an amazing town; rolling hills, changing seasons, a large enough population with different races, with high and low economic neighborhoods, parks, libraries… funny how I never saw any of it growing up.
This place seemed to have taken off; the city and it’s new buildings. The trees had shot up, many still had leaves, were still full and I could see how strong they grew, would’ve seen more except the rain obscured and glossed my vision. Even the rain brought back memories of rain from my childhood…it’s smell reminded me of the slow incoming canopy of darkness and the cold days ahead that would sequester all life for months.
Driving west, crossing 72nd street on Cass, I drove behind the old Crossroads which was for sale. My father worked at Musicland there and told me once he met The Rolling Stones when they passed through. I continued west and came to the HyVee, which was never there. This whole section of town was never there, north of Cass. This was where Peony Park once stood! Where was Peony Park?! What had they done with Peony Park?! Someone will have to pay for this!!
Peony Park was our hometown Disneyland, our Six Flags, our Knottsberry Farm, our Arnold’s Park, our San Diego Zoo. Except it had man made swimming pool that took up about 10 acres smack in the middle, with sandy beaches around the entire watering hole, -slides, fountains, diving boards, diving platforms, swings, trampolines, volleyball, rafts and music. A monorail circled the pool throughout the day, -rollercoaster’s and rides and games surrounded the monorail. The park was a dreamland for me, and all children.
One summer day I was given some money to go by myself and buy an ice cream cone. The stand was packed with people and I was too little, I was lost and surrounded by adults. Then I felt a pinch, no worse, my arm was stinging, I didn’t know what to do other than cry. A woman had burned my arm with her cigarette. Generally when injured I was prone to screaming and begging to be rushed to the nearest hospital, but after she saw that she had burned me, she bent down in her white bikini and my tears and pain flew away. This stranger was the most beautiful woman in I had ever seen. Dark, long brunette hair, full lips and brown eyes, and a Coppertone figure straight out of Movie Star Magazine. She bought me two ice cream cones and I walked away in love for the rest of the summer.
For years I continued to look for her at the park…every time I was back at the pool, floating on my raft, laying on my towel, standing on line for ice cream, I kept an eye peeled. I was even looking for her now in the produce section as I stood over the Texas grapefruits inside the ordinary HyVee.
Monday, March 22, 2010
My Whole life was just about to change – I just did not know it yet.
I was adrift in the chaos of my twenties, following along…barely. It was the dreary, doldrums. It was the gray, dead-end of fall, I had registered for more classes at university. I was doing what they told me, fulfilling requirements to "get out." The process was high school, into college, into the world. No one knew why, but it was what throngs of other white, middle class, and undereducated parents were doing with their children. It was a conveyor belt. I was a disgruntled cog or widget, wobbling down the line, escaping every once in awhile to find relief. I’d find it by accident in burned out garages, watching teens from high schools who were angrier than myself, moshing to hardcore bands...beer, sneers, knuckles...other bars and parties, people, women... distractions. None of it was enough.
Unsure if I was on academic probation or double probation at the time, either way, my attitude -even after being threatened with expulsion, didn’t seem to waiver, I was going to show these pointy-headed instructors who was smarter by not showing up or by not doing the work. What did any of it have to do with the state of the world right now? And what good was any of this insipid information going to give me? How was I to benefit the world as a human if I could compare and contrast Robert Blake’s The Tyger and anything by Wordsworth? "What did “intimate,” mean? Think he means imitate." Alas, I was young, spoiled and entitled, eyelids still sealed shut, ears clogged with bread boxes the size of bread boxes and angry about all of it.
Miraculously, I made it to one of my 5 or 6 classes that semester, the one being, Eastern Civilization. It was a random class out of a handful that I could have picked. The teacher was as Wally Cox as he could be...small, bespectacled, wound tight, tweed blazer, button down brain, bow tie...the whole bit. And he could go on and on and on about the dynasties and the empires in a time before time existed. For the first several classes I simply fell asleep. He droned on in a dreaded nonstop, monotone, lecture voice, the kind of tone and endless spoken sentence structure that I could not fight. It was like a section of classical music, once it began, it never repeated to hook you back around, it basically never stopped. The man was a sitar. But one day, for reasons that are unknown to me even now, I began to listen.
For once in my life I was able to focus and listen to this man I normally ripped apart in my mind. I took notes furiously til I had to shake my hand from cramping. I learned to take notes with both hands, sometimes scribbling simultaneously in two notebooks. I ended up filling 2-3 notebooks per class. He often spoke faster than I could keep up, sometimes I would raise my hand and ask him to repeat ends of sentences. My mind raced to understand everything he described. In other classes I would take notes and mark key things one would figure obvious on a test. This was different, this wasn’t about the test, this was for me, and all of it was fascinating. I was able to set my ego aside, which I later found out was trying to destroy me, and I could just listen to all of this information about a time and place and a people and culture that I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d learn anything about.
The access this single class granted me was fifteen thousand fold; it allowed me to open and listen, it took me out of myself, it gave me the opportunity to see that I could learn about mundane topics and anything at all really, it piqued my curiosity to listen for and learn more, it reminded me that I didn’t know anything at all really, it gave me the mind it would take to throw myself into events perceived as difficult, or tasks that I would normally be so very afraid to tackle, it showed me that if I try to detach fear that I can learn, listen, walk and speak with a little more lightness through this life.
Unsure if I was on academic probation or double probation at the time, either way, my attitude -even after being threatened with expulsion, didn’t seem to waiver, I was going to show these pointy-headed instructors who was smarter by not showing up or by not doing the work. What did any of it have to do with the state of the world right now? And what good was any of this insipid information going to give me? How was I to benefit the world as a human if I could compare and contrast Robert Blake’s The Tyger and anything by Wordsworth? "What did “intimate,” mean? Think he means imitate." Alas, I was young, spoiled and entitled, eyelids still sealed shut, ears clogged with bread boxes the size of bread boxes and angry about all of it.
Miraculously, I made it to one of my 5 or 6 classes that semester, the one being, Eastern Civilization. It was a random class out of a handful that I could have picked. The teacher was as Wally Cox as he could be...small, bespectacled, wound tight, tweed blazer, button down brain, bow tie...the whole bit. And he could go on and on and on about the dynasties and the empires in a time before time existed. For the first several classes I simply fell asleep. He droned on in a dreaded nonstop, monotone, lecture voice, the kind of tone and endless spoken sentence structure that I could not fight. It was like a section of classical music, once it began, it never repeated to hook you back around, it basically never stopped. The man was a sitar. But one day, for reasons that are unknown to me even now, I began to listen.
For once in my life I was able to focus and listen to this man I normally ripped apart in my mind. I took notes furiously til I had to shake my hand from cramping. I learned to take notes with both hands, sometimes scribbling simultaneously in two notebooks. I ended up filling 2-3 notebooks per class. He often spoke faster than I could keep up, sometimes I would raise my hand and ask him to repeat ends of sentences. My mind raced to understand everything he described. In other classes I would take notes and mark key things one would figure obvious on a test. This was different, this wasn’t about the test, this was for me, and all of it was fascinating. I was able to set my ego aside, which I later found out was trying to destroy me, and I could just listen to all of this information about a time and place and a people and culture that I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d learn anything about.
The access this single class granted me was fifteen thousand fold; it allowed me to open and listen, it took me out of myself, it gave me the opportunity to see that I could learn about mundane topics and anything at all really, it piqued my curiosity to listen for and learn more, it reminded me that I didn’t know anything at all really, it gave me the mind it would take to throw myself into events perceived as difficult, or tasks that I would normally be so very afraid to tackle, it showed me that if I try to detach fear that I can learn, listen, walk and speak with a little more lightness through this life.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
"IF ONLY..."
If only I were a fish, I would have been eaten by now and would have fed so many others. My purpose would have been fulfilled. If only I were a cloud, I could have an aerial view of the earth below me and nice peek at the space above, I could watch the other clouds around me, and feel the wind whispering behind. If only I were this, that and the other thing, I could revel in my regret, celebrate my what if’s, pontificate my past. But this is no luxury; this all serves me very little.
Some have posed the idea that if we even open our minds to the possibility of a different thought or decision, that thought or decision begins to play out…that parallel life begins and travels it’s own path. We may at any given time have over 3 million parallel lives happening at once. If that is so, why do most of mine lead to lurid sex acts? Or an ol’ fashioned gunfight outside a saloon? Why do most of my parallel lives find me in the end all be all battle of the robots? And why do I always win? Yes, I will always win! When will the robots learn? When will my subconscious learn, that my will is too strong for me not to fail?
If I were a hammer I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the wheat fields all over some ham. I’d hammer in snow-time, I’d hammer in the bathhouse, I’d hammer in the toes and the glow sticks, my hamsters and my possums, all over this ham.
What happened yesterday was this, and this I cannot change, so I can’t live in the remorse or disappointment of it. If it were a victorious day, I wouldn’t be able to live in the celebration of it, but maybe I would try. That is something I like to do actually. I like to hang onto my hallowed occasions; those are some of the things I like to fill my mind with in my day. But then they fly away, those feelings of accomplishment, of pride, of ego being fulfilled and then new feelings come in, some of desire, some of fear, some of contentment in just this moment right now.
Some have posed the idea that if we even open our minds to the possibility of a different thought or decision, that thought or decision begins to play out…that parallel life begins and travels it’s own path. We may at any given time have over 3 million parallel lives happening at once. If that is so, why do most of mine lead to lurid sex acts? Or an ol’ fashioned gunfight outside a saloon? Why do most of my parallel lives find me in the end all be all battle of the robots? And why do I always win? Yes, I will always win! When will the robots learn? When will my subconscious learn, that my will is too strong for me not to fail?
If I were a hammer I’d hammer in the morning, I’d hammer in the wheat fields all over some ham. I’d hammer in snow-time, I’d hammer in the bathhouse, I’d hammer in the toes and the glow sticks, my hamsters and my possums, all over this ham.
What happened yesterday was this, and this I cannot change, so I can’t live in the remorse or disappointment of it. If it were a victorious day, I wouldn’t be able to live in the celebration of it, but maybe I would try. That is something I like to do actually. I like to hang onto my hallowed occasions; those are some of the things I like to fill my mind with in my day. But then they fly away, those feelings of accomplishment, of pride, of ego being fulfilled and then new feelings come in, some of desire, some of fear, some of contentment in just this moment right now.
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