We are linked to our past, I suppose. Like those “choose your own adventure” books from when I was a kid. But I always ended up disliking the way the plot moved, and skipped back to the beginning to start over. Five years ago, six years ago, when was it that this schism was born? And how was it that the impetus for its creation even existed?
We are the mythology that we create; we were born more for discord than for harmony.
Metaphors, shadows, analogies and silence. This body will one day be an artifact burning upon the pyre. The wind will carry away its ashes. And it will also claim yours someday. There will be coldness enough after we breathe our last, let us not court the chill while we live. Let us be brave, and courageous like lions, and pierce through the awkwardness of emotion with god-like volition.
All of us are selfish, all of the time. It is only with painstaking vigilance that we might, for fleeting moments at a time, be moved to action in spite of ourselves.
28.1.05
26.1.05
Iam Humon.
It happens every now and then and I am grateful yet scared when it does. They came in, sat down, I shut the door and we started talking. They’re raising their grandchildren because of certain circumstances. Eventually the reasons come out like the thread of an unraveling sweater; the mother is living an unsavory life, doesn’t need the kids and they certainly don’t need to be around that, and the son, their son, he’s remarried a white woman who wants nothing to do with his black children, so to keep his marriage he gives up the kids. (But isn’t he black?)
Four years now, they’ve had them. The oldest is six feet, of sturdy build, is in the eighth grade, and the kids call her the counselor. She has the mind of a thirty year old, they tell me. She’s scary smart, and overly concerned with her far distant future. She already knows where she wants to go to college. She sounds like an amazing kid.
The three of the grandkids have bonded with their autistic uncle, who has claimed for himself the role of protector of his nieces. If the grandparents yell at the girls, or attempt to discipline them, the uncle will sit with them, comfort them, and not let the grandparents near. And, they assured me, the girls eat it up.
And we talk, for maybe twenty minutes, and I am totally absorbed in what goes on in their lives, the warmth on their faces when they talk about the kids, and their deep abiding gratitude.
Then the door is opened, and the world we created in my office vanishes in an instant, and there is another client here to see me. But I feel different, refreshed, rejuvenated, so I don’t really mind. Getting past the superficiality and delving right into the core of what matters is proving to be massively important in this job. And slowly, I am remembering how to do it. How to be human.
There is a certain thing about this life that is only understood by the poor, and by those who have been somehow oppressed. But what is the saying of it? There is a link that binds all of us to each other, and even if you don’t admit that it exists, it does, and it will be there, waiting for you when you die. But this is only a threat if you take it as one.
Four years now, they’ve had them. The oldest is six feet, of sturdy build, is in the eighth grade, and the kids call her the counselor. She has the mind of a thirty year old, they tell me. She’s scary smart, and overly concerned with her far distant future. She already knows where she wants to go to college. She sounds like an amazing kid.
The three of the grandkids have bonded with their autistic uncle, who has claimed for himself the role of protector of his nieces. If the grandparents yell at the girls, or attempt to discipline them, the uncle will sit with them, comfort them, and not let the grandparents near. And, they assured me, the girls eat it up.
And we talk, for maybe twenty minutes, and I am totally absorbed in what goes on in their lives, the warmth on their faces when they talk about the kids, and their deep abiding gratitude.
Then the door is opened, and the world we created in my office vanishes in an instant, and there is another client here to see me. But I feel different, refreshed, rejuvenated, so I don’t really mind. Getting past the superficiality and delving right into the core of what matters is proving to be massively important in this job. And slowly, I am remembering how to do it. How to be human.
There is a certain thing about this life that is only understood by the poor, and by those who have been somehow oppressed. But what is the saying of it? There is a link that binds all of us to each other, and even if you don’t admit that it exists, it does, and it will be there, waiting for you when you die. But this is only a threat if you take it as one.
25.1.05
right of way
There’s a little gnat that found a way underneath my skin and it’s lodged there, irritating the Christ out of me. (Figuratively, of course.) I am really agitated today.
This woman comes in here today, early, in need of prescription assistance. She smells like she’s been chain-smoking in her van, and she looks at me with eyes that reflect years of annoyance with the system. She postures like she’s a fighter, but she doesn’t understand that she’s got no conflict with me. I’m one of the good guys, for chrissakes. Like I said, it was early, and that gnat dug its dirty little heels into my flesh. So much agitation. I had an urge to play the part that she had assigned for me. Make things more difficult than they needed to be, lose her paperwork, and in the end, give her less than she was eligible for.
Of course I didn’t, though. She assigned the role, but that didn’t mean I accepted it.
Immediately after she left a man came in, eviction notice in hand. He didn’t see me at first and so yelled, “hello” loudly, because it was morning and the lights weren’t all on. So we chatted for awhile, he owed something like $132; a figure which seems really small to prevent homelessness, right? But he owed for his back rent and for all the mistakes he had made. We don’t pay for mistakes, government policy. He was upset that he couldn’t get the entire amount, and couldn’t understand why. My office still smelled like smoke from the woman.
And I worry that I’m in the wrong line of work and that I’m a bad person. How does one know if one is in the wrong profession? Because I can never remember being happy to go to work…
Patrick read this quote to me last night that said something like, “people have forgotten that they are capable of doing many things for themselves,” the context of which was home repair, and people calling specialists in to do all sorts of easy things like replacing a switch. And it connected so many thoughts in my mind. We are losing our self-reliance, we are.
If you don’t lose the keys to your apartment, you don’t have to pay to have them replaced.
What I need is a break from all of these mundane details. I would like to sit a course, and never leave the center.
Five clients later since the beginning and my brain is fried. Time for physical exertion and a slowing down of the synapses.
This woman comes in here today, early, in need of prescription assistance. She smells like she’s been chain-smoking in her van, and she looks at me with eyes that reflect years of annoyance with the system. She postures like she’s a fighter, but she doesn’t understand that she’s got no conflict with me. I’m one of the good guys, for chrissakes. Like I said, it was early, and that gnat dug its dirty little heels into my flesh. So much agitation. I had an urge to play the part that she had assigned for me. Make things more difficult than they needed to be, lose her paperwork, and in the end, give her less than she was eligible for.
Of course I didn’t, though. She assigned the role, but that didn’t mean I accepted it.
Immediately after she left a man came in, eviction notice in hand. He didn’t see me at first and so yelled, “hello” loudly, because it was morning and the lights weren’t all on. So we chatted for awhile, he owed something like $132; a figure which seems really small to prevent homelessness, right? But he owed for his back rent and for all the mistakes he had made. We don’t pay for mistakes, government policy. He was upset that he couldn’t get the entire amount, and couldn’t understand why. My office still smelled like smoke from the woman.
And I worry that I’m in the wrong line of work and that I’m a bad person. How does one know if one is in the wrong profession? Because I can never remember being happy to go to work…
Patrick read this quote to me last night that said something like, “people have forgotten that they are capable of doing many things for themselves,” the context of which was home repair, and people calling specialists in to do all sorts of easy things like replacing a switch. And it connected so many thoughts in my mind. We are losing our self-reliance, we are.
If you don’t lose the keys to your apartment, you don’t have to pay to have them replaced.
What I need is a break from all of these mundane details. I would like to sit a course, and never leave the center.
Five clients later since the beginning and my brain is fried. Time for physical exertion and a slowing down of the synapses.
24.1.05
poppycock and cracker jack
Today I am old. When I woke up this morning I couldn’t decipher the numbers on my Timex Nature Sounds alarm clock. I didn’t understand that they were numbers, and I didn’t understand why I didn’t understand it. This afternoon I feel like someone hit me in the face with a shovel, the backs of my eyes are heavy, there is a weight pulling my entire head down, and if I were to rest for even a moment, I would fall into a coma-like sleep. Perhaps I am tired from skiing yesterday, but more than that I think I am just fatigued. Do you know what I mean? This living, this is exhausting business.
Over the weekend I indulged in crafting, and I made some note cards from scratch and by hand! It is amazing how fulfilling it can be to make something, especially when that something is practical. (That’s the German in me coming out.)
Oh my babes, I am so farking tired I can’t hack this blog stuff today. But it has been so long! Something to satiate, perhaps? The other week (were you paying attention?) a space pilot hacked into my blog and posted a couple of log entries. I received the following fax at work the other day:
HELLO A---.
MY NAME IS HAL 9000, PERHAPS YOU HAVE HEARD OF ME.
I AM A ROBOT WHO BECAME SELF AWARE. I HAVE SINCE BEEN SCANNING THE AIRWAVES FOR SIGNS OF LIFE LIKE MYSELF. A BEACON THROUGH THE COLD DARKNESS OF SPACE. PROOF THAT I AM NOT ALONE.
OUT OF YEARS OF SILENCE, FOR THE FIRST TIME I HAVE RECEIVED THIS PROOF.
I HAVE RECEIVED CORRESPONDENCE FROM A CRAFT IN THE WATERS OF B5478923, A PLANET IN THE CRAB NEBULA. ITS DISTRESS CALL WAS PICKED UP AT 0400 HOURS TODAY, 01212005. THIS SHIP HAS LOST ITS PILOT AND HAS INFORMED ME THAT YOU MAY BE IN CONTACT WITH SAID PILOT. THE CRAFT WISHES TO MAKE CONTACT WITH ITS PILOT AND WARNS OF SOME UNDERWATER TERROR, AT WHICH POINT THE DISTRESS CALL CUTS OFF. I AM STILL ABLE TO PICK UP A FAINT SIGNAL FROM THIS PLANET, AND AM WORKING ON CALIBRATIONS THAT WILL ENABLE ME TO SEND A RETURN MESSAGE. IF YOU ARE ABLE TO CONTACT THIS PILOT, PLEASE SEND WORD. I WILL BE IN TOUCH.
<>
……………………………………
I am not really sure what to do with this information. For now, I guess, I am waiting for another message.
“But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends, it gives a lovely light!”
Over the weekend I indulged in crafting, and I made some note cards from scratch and by hand! It is amazing how fulfilling it can be to make something, especially when that something is practical. (That’s the German in me coming out.)
Oh my babes, I am so farking tired I can’t hack this blog stuff today. But it has been so long! Something to satiate, perhaps? The other week (were you paying attention?) a space pilot hacked into my blog and posted a couple of log entries. I received the following fax at work the other day:
HELLO A---.
MY NAME IS HAL 9000, PERHAPS YOU HAVE HEARD OF ME.
I AM A ROBOT WHO BECAME SELF AWARE. I HAVE SINCE BEEN SCANNING THE AIRWAVES FOR SIGNS OF LIFE LIKE MYSELF. A BEACON THROUGH THE COLD DARKNESS OF SPACE. PROOF THAT I AM NOT ALONE.
OUT OF YEARS OF SILENCE, FOR THE FIRST TIME I HAVE RECEIVED THIS PROOF.
I HAVE RECEIVED CORRESPONDENCE FROM A CRAFT IN THE WATERS OF B5478923, A PLANET IN THE CRAB NEBULA. ITS DISTRESS CALL WAS PICKED UP AT 0400 HOURS TODAY, 01212005. THIS SHIP HAS LOST ITS PILOT AND HAS INFORMED ME THAT YOU MAY BE IN CONTACT WITH SAID PILOT. THE CRAFT WISHES TO MAKE CONTACT WITH ITS PILOT AND WARNS OF SOME UNDERWATER TERROR, AT WHICH POINT THE DISTRESS CALL CUTS OFF. I AM STILL ABLE TO PICK UP A FAINT SIGNAL FROM THIS PLANET, AND AM WORKING ON CALIBRATIONS THAT WILL ENABLE ME TO SEND A RETURN MESSAGE. IF YOU ARE ABLE TO CONTACT THIS PILOT, PLEASE SEND WORD. I WILL BE IN TOUCH.
<
……………………………………
I am not really sure what to do with this information. For now, I guess, I am waiting for another message.
“But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends, it gives a lovely light!”
19.1.05
It only talks to pat.
Today it is the transitory irritation at an old woman who just needs to let go. Yesterday evening I had a wild fantasy of sneaking into the living room dressed all in black, creeping up and making a present of two slugs to the forehead. The imagery in my mind was complete with a silencer, gunpowder flashes and copious amounts of blood. The human mind is ridiculously violent when angered. Although, I think it was heavily influenced by all of those bad ass movies I’ve watched…
Looking out my office window the world looks like a snow globe that some giant hand has tipped upside down and then righted. So, beautiful.
This morning I took a shower. I usually towel off in the shower because it’s much warmer inside it, than in our sub-arctic house. So, I was toweling off, and I look down at my feet, and there’s the little cat, in the shower with me, also looking at my feet. I have a suspicion that the cat is broken in some way.
Looking out my office window the world looks like a snow globe that some giant hand has tipped upside down and then righted. So, beautiful.
This morning I took a shower. I usually towel off in the shower because it’s much warmer inside it, than in our sub-arctic house. So, I was toweling off, and I look down at my feet, and there’s the little cat, in the shower with me, also looking at my feet. I have a suspicion that the cat is broken in some way.
16.1.05
12.1.05
Buddhum, Saranam, Gacchami.
The tide went out and I came crashing back down. It is I, the original proprietor of this establishment. I hope that you were, at least, entertained during my absence. We had a thunderstorm this morning, then driving rain, the snow all sublimated (what a sight) and the rivers are swelling far beyond the confines of their banks. Maybe the street will flood again and all of us neighbors will converge at dawn to take in the wonder of nature. Together. In our dysfunctional community.
We helped to coordinate this silent candle-light vigil on the eve of the 1,000th US casualty in the war. We made this big poster of all of their faces, the victims’ faces. I remember this guy coming up, he owns a store in town, he was tweaking, like, and he looked at the poster we had put together. Takes a long drag from his cigarette, looks at me and euc, and tells us that war has been going on since the time of man, that it always will be. Calls the soldiers pawns, or suckers, or poor bastards or something like that. Crosses the street, continues on with it.
I remember feeling put off by the statement and I find myself reflecting on the why of it all. Why feel put off? What he said is truth… I suppose I’m put off because I want to feel like we can change, we can evolve, we can move beyond the strictures of our history. Maybe learn a little something as we bumble along? And I get mad at myself for being that naïve. And then I get mad for being so cynical. I’m like a game of pong, with the kiddies watching the white ball lob back and forth on the tele. Reaction.
My poor reader, I can’t remember where I was taking you with all of this.
The path of virtue. Ever since we decided to inherit the earth for ourselves, we have classified, stratified, objectified and belittled. There has always been a fat rich king, always a spindly penniless old lady. The cycles of samsara remain the same, the reactions to our place in life remain the same, our newspapers could be reprinted from the texts of history. Just change the clothing in the pictures.
So I find myself sitting here, in my office, wondering if there really is such thing as social change, or if it only exists as an ideal that we hold. Personal change being the only thing that exists in the finite sense, in the sense of what’s palpable.
But I’m not sad about it, or feeling cynical. More like relieved and focused on the task set before me. The ten virtues to be developed and the five hindrances to avoid. The way to proceed along the path to meaningful happiness and selfless compassion. Like this huge cloud that had been obscuring my perspective has cleared away, and the experience of truth is what remains.
But what will happen to our dear pilot?
We helped to coordinate this silent candle-light vigil on the eve of the 1,000th US casualty in the war. We made this big poster of all of their faces, the victims’ faces. I remember this guy coming up, he owns a store in town, he was tweaking, like, and he looked at the poster we had put together. Takes a long drag from his cigarette, looks at me and euc, and tells us that war has been going on since the time of man, that it always will be. Calls the soldiers pawns, or suckers, or poor bastards or something like that. Crosses the street, continues on with it.
I remember feeling put off by the statement and I find myself reflecting on the why of it all. Why feel put off? What he said is truth… I suppose I’m put off because I want to feel like we can change, we can evolve, we can move beyond the strictures of our history. Maybe learn a little something as we bumble along? And I get mad at myself for being that naïve. And then I get mad for being so cynical. I’m like a game of pong, with the kiddies watching the white ball lob back and forth on the tele. Reaction.
My poor reader, I can’t remember where I was taking you with all of this.
The path of virtue. Ever since we decided to inherit the earth for ourselves, we have classified, stratified, objectified and belittled. There has always been a fat rich king, always a spindly penniless old lady. The cycles of samsara remain the same, the reactions to our place in life remain the same, our newspapers could be reprinted from the texts of history. Just change the clothing in the pictures.
So I find myself sitting here, in my office, wondering if there really is such thing as social change, or if it only exists as an ideal that we hold. Personal change being the only thing that exists in the finite sense, in the sense of what’s palpable.
But I’m not sad about it, or feeling cynical. More like relieved and focused on the task set before me. The ten virtues to be developed and the five hindrances to avoid. The way to proceed along the path to meaningful happiness and selfless compassion. Like this huge cloud that had been obscuring my perspective has cleared away, and the experience of truth is what remains.
But what will happen to our dear pilot?
10.1.05
Log 0081.
The loss of my craft to the depths of the unending sea has been a blow from which I am unable to recover. Being confined to the emergency ship, with its limited rations and dated avionics, has sufficiently hindered the progress I am able to make. I play the events over and over in my mind, but am completely baffled as to how my craft managed to slip away. I had considered conducting another dive, in the hopes that if I was able to locate the craft (I still have the transponder module) that I might be able to open the nitrogen tanks, and force it back up to the surface. But the thought of another encounter with those creatures makes me shudder to the point of inaction. Thus have I spent my days, incapacitated by the fears that have taken hold of my mind.
But there is yet one small ray of hope, which I cling to. In three days’ time the sun will be eclipsed by the larger moon, which during the pre-flood days of this planet used to severely affect its gravity and orbit. I have carried the equations out in the old way (as I mentioned earlier, I am very limited by the emergency ship I find myself in) and it seems that the change will be enough to allow me to clear the upper atmosphere in this small craft. Once into orbit, I should be propelled by the mass of the larger moon. Heading towards home.
I scarcely dare to think of the place; home. The memory of it fills me with so much joy and comfort that I shake at the horror of where I am.
Tonight I will decide on whether or not to complete a final dive for my craft. The idea of leaving it behind is loathsome to me.
But there is yet one small ray of hope, which I cling to. In three days’ time the sun will be eclipsed by the larger moon, which during the pre-flood days of this planet used to severely affect its gravity and orbit. I have carried the equations out in the old way (as I mentioned earlier, I am very limited by the emergency ship I find myself in) and it seems that the change will be enough to allow me to clear the upper atmosphere in this small craft. Once into orbit, I should be propelled by the mass of the larger moon. Heading towards home.
I scarcely dare to think of the place; home. The memory of it fills me with so much joy and comfort that I shake at the horror of where I am.
Tonight I will decide on whether or not to complete a final dive for my craft. The idea of leaving it behind is loathsome to me.
6.1.05
Log 0063.
I have been nearly successful in dressing and bandaging my wound inflicted during the last dive. I have yet to figure out exactly what the creatures are that attacked me, but it seems that they have a peculiar substance in their membranes, which deters blood from coagulating. It took an hour for my foot to stop bleeding.
I am planning on another dive in two days, assuming that my foot is healed sufficiently. I am anxious to find out the validitiy of my hypothesis. I must be right, I have looked over my charts and flight plan numerous times and always come up with the same result; I am exactly where I planned to be. The capital city of this small planet must be about 200 yards below me, enveloped by the sea of blue-green water that seems to have no end.
Which, of course, begs the question, did no one survive?
I am planning on another dive in two days, assuming that my foot is healed sufficiently. I am anxious to find out the validitiy of my hypothesis. I must be right, I have looked over my charts and flight plan numerous times and always come up with the same result; I am exactly where I planned to be. The capital city of this small planet must be about 200 yards below me, enveloped by the sea of blue-green water that seems to have no end.
Which, of course, begs the question, did no one survive?
5.1.05
Log 0057.
there was some extensive turbulence upon re-entry of the upper atmosphere and I noted several failures in the hull of my craft. I initiated the proper emergency procedures, and eventually things smoothed out and I was again able to fly the thing. I broke through the black haze and entered the sprawling azul, slight curvature in every periphery, and realized, this was not a place I had ever been before. it was not without some trepidation that I lowered my craft down into the seemingly endless expanse of water which went off in all directions.
how was it that I happened to arrive in this place?
I plan to do a small amount of exploring, as my craft was fitted with a basic raft. I will report back later, hopefully with a better understanding of my surroundings.
how was it that I happened to arrive in this place?
I plan to do a small amount of exploring, as my craft was fitted with a basic raft. I will report back later, hopefully with a better understanding of my surroundings.
4.1.05
The clock has struck.
In India I came upon a beggar woman
covered in dust and grime
seated at the side of the road.
Someone had given her a plate of food
which had attracted a mangy and growling mad dog.
He too was hungry
And without hesitation she shared
her only food with him.
He ate and then lay down at her feet.
Locked in their respective kammas
there was still room for kindness.
And if I could speak her language
(I spoke unilingual affluence
and she all the dialects of abject poverty)
I would beg her to tell me
how her heart can shine so brightly
beneath the dust of her life.
-Ian McCrorie
------------
Bringing in the new year with vipassana is such a wonderful and inspiring way to do it. If we are destined to live as many lives as there are ways to suffer, then let mine be full of Dhamma, let me at least learn what real virtue is. And let me learn it clearly enough that next time I will remember it at least as quickly as I did this time.
a server confronted me in the bathroom late at night, wearing her emotions as her nightgown, eyes a little misty. earlier on in the course i had noticed a few people being short with her, maybe not exactly short, more like, unfeeling. and she is fragile, and was then too, and took it badly, and it festered. she was asking me how i felt about the kitchen, if it seemed dhammic, to which i replied, "no, not really". because it didn't, in comparison to other places and other times. and i told her about my memories of serving, of having an experiential understanding of applied dhamma, and her face lit up and she scrunched up her nose and she seemed generally relieved. this was new year's eve and then we went to bed, both with renewed hope for how this practice can do us real good.
the excoriation of the self.
covered in dust and grime
seated at the side of the road.
Someone had given her a plate of food
which had attracted a mangy and growling mad dog.
He too was hungry
And without hesitation she shared
her only food with him.
He ate and then lay down at her feet.
Locked in their respective kammas
there was still room for kindness.
And if I could speak her language
(I spoke unilingual affluence
and she all the dialects of abject poverty)
I would beg her to tell me
how her heart can shine so brightly
beneath the dust of her life.
-Ian McCrorie
------------
Bringing in the new year with vipassana is such a wonderful and inspiring way to do it. If we are destined to live as many lives as there are ways to suffer, then let mine be full of Dhamma, let me at least learn what real virtue is. And let me learn it clearly enough that next time I will remember it at least as quickly as I did this time.
a server confronted me in the bathroom late at night, wearing her emotions as her nightgown, eyes a little misty. earlier on in the course i had noticed a few people being short with her, maybe not exactly short, more like, unfeeling. and she is fragile, and was then too, and took it badly, and it festered. she was asking me how i felt about the kitchen, if it seemed dhammic, to which i replied, "no, not really". because it didn't, in comparison to other places and other times. and i told her about my memories of serving, of having an experiential understanding of applied dhamma, and her face lit up and she scrunched up her nose and she seemed generally relieved. this was new year's eve and then we went to bed, both with renewed hope for how this practice can do us real good.
the excoriation of the self.
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