Saturday, January 31, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Vegetarians are better lovers
PETA's Super Bowl ad got pulled for being too provocative (a.k.a sexy)
Still the truth can not be suppressed...
Still the truth can not be suppressed...
Saturday, January 24, 2009
reach deeper into your love
Sigh.
My google-fu is letting me down.
I was listening to an interview the other day on NPR of a man who, in his youth, had been a friend of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He recounted a story of how upon leaving a meeting with several (white) people he was jumped and beaten. Some of the perpetrators had been present at the meeting moments before. Dismayed he had gone into Dr. King's office and asked "How do you love your enemies?"
Dr. King, who was about to take an important phone call looked at him and said simply "You have to reach deeper into your love."
I can relate to this. I struggle with accepting others as they are. Sitting In church last Sunday I was talking to the group about being more accepting of the religious right, when suddenly I realized I had to admit my struggles lest I fall into the trap of hypocrisy "I mean I HATE them, but I try..." I could feel the energy in the room shift. I felt ashamed for being so honest. "I'm just joking" I tried to mutter. "No your not" some one said.
Bart: I think sharing is overrated... And helping others. And what's all this crap I've been hearing about tolerance?
Homer: Sir, your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter.
"'God is Love' is THE central tenant of Christianity." said the associate Pastor to me as we debated the question of God's goodness a few months ago.
"But what does that mean?" I thought to myself.
"We may say quite truly and in an intelligible sense that those who love greatly are "near" to God. But of course it is "nearness by likeness." It will not of itself produce "nearness of approach." The likeness has been given to us. It has no necessary connection with that slow and painful approach which must be our own (though by no means our unaided) task. Meanwhile, however, the likeness is a splendor. That is why we may mistake Like for Same. We may give our human loves the unconditional allegiance which we owe only to God. Then they become gods: then they become demons. Then they will destroy us, and also destroy themselves. For natural loves that are allowed to become gods do not remain loves. They are still called so, but can become in fact complicated forms of hatred." -C. S. Lewis
I'm not sure that I can accept this definition. I mean I understand what Lewis is saying, but isn't that slow painful approach the way that we build up spiritual discipline to help reduce susceptibility to temptation in the future, to exercise self control, and to avoid being enslaved to one's desires, (need love as Lewis calls it)
Lewis talks about the different types of Greek loves, as if these are the only definitions of love that can exist.
"God is love." It is bouncing around in my head like a pinball. I feel like a snake sloughing off old skin. I am beginning to realize I don't know what Love is. I know, I know. But really I think I have been wearing around other people's definitions of love like so many old hats.
"Mindfulness relieves suffering because it is filled with understanding and compassion. When you are really there, showing your loving-kindness and understanding, the energy of the Holy Spirit is in you." -Thich Nhat Hanh
I think about this for a minute. Finally I blurt out "What if love is...detachment?"
"Love is Detachment" said J. "at least a component of it anyway. I think so too."
My google-fu is letting me down.
I was listening to an interview the other day on NPR of a man who, in his youth, had been a friend of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He recounted a story of how upon leaving a meeting with several (white) people he was jumped and beaten. Some of the perpetrators had been present at the meeting moments before. Dismayed he had gone into Dr. King's office and asked "How do you love your enemies?"
Dr. King, who was about to take an important phone call looked at him and said simply "You have to reach deeper into your love."
I can relate to this. I struggle with accepting others as they are. Sitting In church last Sunday I was talking to the group about being more accepting of the religious right, when suddenly I realized I had to admit my struggles lest I fall into the trap of hypocrisy "I mean I HATE them, but I try..." I could feel the energy in the room shift. I felt ashamed for being so honest. "I'm just joking" I tried to mutter. "No your not" some one said.
Bart: I think sharing is overrated... And helping others. And what's all this crap I've been hearing about tolerance?
Homer: Sir, your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter.
"'God is Love' is THE central tenant of Christianity." said the associate Pastor to me as we debated the question of God's goodness a few months ago.
"But what does that mean?" I thought to myself.
"We may say quite truly and in an intelligible sense that those who love greatly are "near" to God. But of course it is "nearness by likeness." It will not of itself produce "nearness of approach." The likeness has been given to us. It has no necessary connection with that slow and painful approach which must be our own (though by no means our unaided) task. Meanwhile, however, the likeness is a splendor. That is why we may mistake Like for Same. We may give our human loves the unconditional allegiance which we owe only to God. Then they become gods: then they become demons. Then they will destroy us, and also destroy themselves. For natural loves that are allowed to become gods do not remain loves. They are still called so, but can become in fact complicated forms of hatred." -C. S. Lewis
I'm not sure that I can accept this definition. I mean I understand what Lewis is saying, but isn't that slow painful approach the way that we build up spiritual discipline to help reduce susceptibility to temptation in the future, to exercise self control, and to avoid being enslaved to one's desires, (need love as Lewis calls it)
Lewis talks about the different types of Greek loves, as if these are the only definitions of love that can exist.
"God is love." It is bouncing around in my head like a pinball. I feel like a snake sloughing off old skin. I am beginning to realize I don't know what Love is. I know, I know. But really I think I have been wearing around other people's definitions of love like so many old hats.
"Mindfulness relieves suffering because it is filled with understanding and compassion. When you are really there, showing your loving-kindness and understanding, the energy of the Holy Spirit is in you." -Thich Nhat Hanh
I think about this for a minute. Finally I blurt out "What if love is...detachment?"
"Love is Detachment" said J. "at least a component of it anyway. I think so too."
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Shake my hand Brother Prophet
"Daddy, S. knows baby talk."
"Really? How do you know?"
"Well the baby said 'whoa whoa' and I said 'S. do you know what the baby said?' and S. said 'Whoa whoa whoa your boat, gently down the stream.' See? she speaks baby talk."
We have been talking in church about spiritual gifts.
"6 Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, let us use them: if prophecy, let us prophesy in proportion to our faith; 7 or ministry, let us use it in our ministering; he who teaches, in teaching; 8 he who exhorts, in exhortation; he who gives, with liberality; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness." -Romans 12
You look at the lists that Paul provides in different places and it reads like a whose who of Pentecostals: prophecy speaking in tongues, healing. Some seem plausible others not. Is my prejudice showing? In class no one seemed ready to defend these gifts, probably because they have been abused, misused by charlatans and "false prophets" to deceive and mislead. I suspect this is a problem as old as time.
Would I even know a prophet if I saw one? Am I willing to believe? With the revelation of Jesus did prophecy end or are manifestations of god (as some call prophets) all around us? I mean, prophecy can be pretty vague stuff, If there are prophets and prophecy, how do you know when it is fulfilled? Somewhere I read a list of seemingly unfulfilled prophecies from the old testament including Jonah 3:4, 2 Samuel 7:5-17, and Judges 13:5.
I guess I have never really thought about what a prophet is. I suppose I like think a prophet as a kind of fortuneteller, one that foresees doom and gloom, but the more I think about it, a prophet is one that perceives consequences more than futures, consequences of our disconnect with the divine. In a sense, one could consider a prophet as a kind of a witness, one with insight that sees things that have been hidden or ignored.
When I think about prophecy in this way I am sure there are prophets, and that they are all around us. We have all had moments of insight. Is that prophecy? If you know me at all you probably know that I am going to say it is. Sure some will argue that prophecy is more than just insight, but I think that is where we get into danger, elevating gifts over and above one another. Prophecy is is as much a gift as healing, or preaching or sorting out the laundry. So shake my hand brother prophet. (lets hear those prophecies)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Muted Thoughts
There is no way to paraphrase what I have heard,
no way to tell you what was said was this and what was meant was that
rather I would show it to you if I knew how
all the things that were said and all the voices that said them.
What is this thing that we hold here in our hands?
The gift of prophecy and exhortations, of showing mercy and interpreting tongues.
There is a place where the portal meets the door and the mountain rises from the land.
There is a place where some things come together and other things are broken
and when we gather together to join them someone will say
"I think that these things are separate" and others will say "they are together"
Many voices will rise and fall like the waves of some great ocean.
Like the poet says "these are not the memories that have passed each other
nor the yellowing pigeon asleep in our forgetting"
they fall around us like stars raining down on a dewy night and capture our breath and choke the sense from us till we are left dazed and wandering.
There are things that I would tell you about these things that I am not able
There are places that we should go and view these things together where we cannot go
there is a dry desert mesa that stretches into the horizon and a low pass that leads to the top
climbing together we might stop for a drink of water and prick our hands on the cactus and the bramble and become afraid and turn back before the sun began to set.
There is an forest where the sounds of the evening and the quiet of the morning pierce our hearing and drive us frightened like children before the pipes of pan till we lay gasping and terrified on some far away knoll and would look at each other in exasperation and say "was that you" and "was that you."
Here there are things that we can see together and call our own
The mine and the mine and the ours and the mine
that bleed together and dissolve into the white hot static of our sometime humdrum existence.
Someone is laughing and someone else is crying
there are voices here that try to guide us,
so many voices that they all seem to talk at once
come into the light and come into the light and come and come
there is a hand that covers my hand and a heart that covers my heart
there is a place where all these things are revealed
where all these things are known
But I cannot talk about it here, and I cannot talk.
no way to tell you what was said was this and what was meant was that
rather I would show it to you if I knew how
all the things that were said and all the voices that said them.
What is this thing that we hold here in our hands?
The gift of prophecy and exhortations, of showing mercy and interpreting tongues.
There is a place where the portal meets the door and the mountain rises from the land.
There is a place where some things come together and other things are broken
and when we gather together to join them someone will say
"I think that these things are separate" and others will say "they are together"
Many voices will rise and fall like the waves of some great ocean.
Like the poet says "these are not the memories that have passed each other
nor the yellowing pigeon asleep in our forgetting"
they fall around us like stars raining down on a dewy night and capture our breath and choke the sense from us till we are left dazed and wandering.
There are things that I would tell you about these things that I am not able
There are places that we should go and view these things together where we cannot go
there is a dry desert mesa that stretches into the horizon and a low pass that leads to the top
climbing together we might stop for a drink of water and prick our hands on the cactus and the bramble and become afraid and turn back before the sun began to set.
There is an forest where the sounds of the evening and the quiet of the morning pierce our hearing and drive us frightened like children before the pipes of pan till we lay gasping and terrified on some far away knoll and would look at each other in exasperation and say "was that you" and "was that you."
Here there are things that we can see together and call our own
The mine and the mine and the ours and the mine
that bleed together and dissolve into the white hot static of our sometime humdrum existence.
Someone is laughing and someone else is crying
there are voices here that try to guide us,
so many voices that they all seem to talk at once
come into the light and come into the light and come and come
there is a hand that covers my hand and a heart that covers my heart
there is a place where all these things are revealed
where all these things are known
But I cannot talk about it here, and I cannot talk.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Home Remedies
"You really hurt yourself last night."
"I did. It's really surprising."
"Oh, I don't know. It seems like it happens about once a year."
"It's my yearly detox. Some people like to take steam and fast for three days, I on the other hand like to stay out all night and drink until I am sick. It really gets the impurities out."
While not hungry this morning, quite the reverse actually, I find myself becoming more and more ravenous as the day goes by. I suspect the body is trying to restore vital minerals to counteract the effects of alcohol poisoning. One of my favorite things to do if I am feeling the effects of late night debauchery is to eat pho the next day. The combination of salty, spicy and noodley presented in the form of a hot soup it just what the doctor ordered, and while I know there are really no such things as bona fide hangover cures, pho is about as close as you can get. Well, that and hatch green chili that's been slow roasted to perfection and comes served on a breakfast burrito, over cheesy enchiladas or in a hearty black bean stew.
Other homespun rustic cures include one sure fired way to beat the common cold. Not many have taken me up on it, but I swear to the lord almighty that it works when done properly. First, and this is the most important thing of all, you have to administer the cure immediately upon detecting the first symptoms of the on coming malady. If you wait, you might as well forget it. The first sniffle, the first tightness in the back of the throat, or first indication of dry, sore eyes, needs to be heeded if the cure is to work. Otherwise most colds last ten to twelve days, so be ready.
The actual cure is simple. You eat three or four whole cloves of fresh garlic and chase it down with as many oranges as you can stomach (since the oranges will taste like garlic) I find it helpful to imagine that I am eating some elegant french soup with an orange/garlic base, but whatever you have to do to get it down works. You can sliver the garlic or cut it into bite sized pills or just nosh on it, but remember to free the essence of the garlic as the oils within carry the healing powers. Much to the chagrin of my wife, garlic tabs do not carry the same efficacy. Parsley based breath fresheners can help but you will sweat garlic from your pores for the next two days so you might want to stock up on air fresheners as well. However that same sweat is the vehicle that is pulling the sickness from your body so appreciate it.
No one has ever taken me up on this, but it works if you are quick, no one that is except perhaps my one friend living in Albuquerque and he has stores of green chili a plenty that can also be used in lieu of oranges. You might take comfort in the fact that most people can't smell themselves and most others are far too polite to tell you that you stink, so what you really need is a patient soul mate that understands that a few days of stink beats ten or twelve of whining and moaning and sniffling and so forth. Even then, patience can be tested so use it wisely!
Never know how much I love you
Never know how much I care
When you put your arms around me
I get a fever that's so hard to bear
Chorus:
You give me fever, when you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
Fever in the morning
Fever all through the night
"I did. It's really surprising."
"Oh, I don't know. It seems like it happens about once a year."
"It's my yearly detox. Some people like to take steam and fast for three days, I on the other hand like to stay out all night and drink until I am sick. It really gets the impurities out."
While not hungry this morning, quite the reverse actually, I find myself becoming more and more ravenous as the day goes by. I suspect the body is trying to restore vital minerals to counteract the effects of alcohol poisoning. One of my favorite things to do if I am feeling the effects of late night debauchery is to eat pho the next day. The combination of salty, spicy and noodley presented in the form of a hot soup it just what the doctor ordered, and while I know there are really no such things as bona fide hangover cures, pho is about as close as you can get. Well, that and hatch green chili that's been slow roasted to perfection and comes served on a breakfast burrito, over cheesy enchiladas or in a hearty black bean stew.
Other homespun rustic cures include one sure fired way to beat the common cold. Not many have taken me up on it, but I swear to the lord almighty that it works when done properly. First, and this is the most important thing of all, you have to administer the cure immediately upon detecting the first symptoms of the on coming malady. If you wait, you might as well forget it. The first sniffle, the first tightness in the back of the throat, or first indication of dry, sore eyes, needs to be heeded if the cure is to work. Otherwise most colds last ten to twelve days, so be ready.
The actual cure is simple. You eat three or four whole cloves of fresh garlic and chase it down with as many oranges as you can stomach (since the oranges will taste like garlic) I find it helpful to imagine that I am eating some elegant french soup with an orange/garlic base, but whatever you have to do to get it down works. You can sliver the garlic or cut it into bite sized pills or just nosh on it, but remember to free the essence of the garlic as the oils within carry the healing powers. Much to the chagrin of my wife, garlic tabs do not carry the same efficacy. Parsley based breath fresheners can help but you will sweat garlic from your pores for the next two days so you might want to stock up on air fresheners as well. However that same sweat is the vehicle that is pulling the sickness from your body so appreciate it.
No one has ever taken me up on this, but it works if you are quick, no one that is except perhaps my one friend living in Albuquerque and he has stores of green chili a plenty that can also be used in lieu of oranges. You might take comfort in the fact that most people can't smell themselves and most others are far too polite to tell you that you stink, so what you really need is a patient soul mate that understands that a few days of stink beats ten or twelve of whining and moaning and sniffling and so forth. Even then, patience can be tested so use it wisely!
Never know how much I love you
Never know how much I care
When you put your arms around me
I get a fever that's so hard to bear
Chorus:
You give me fever, when you kiss me
Fever when you hold me tight
Fever in the morning
Fever all through the night
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Ode to Patience
J., D. and I were watching Bourne Supremacy last night. One of the characters realizes that all is not kosher in spy-land and makes a privy call to the Director. Cut to the the Directors office. He picks up the phone. It is his secretary telling him that the lady is on the line. "Tell her I am unavailable" he says. Cut back to the woman sitting in her office. She looks disappointed but resolutely sets the receiver down and begins to explore other options.
At this point my suspension of disbelief breaks down.
What? She doesn't call him back twelve more times in the next twenty minutes? Send him and email, fax him, send smoke signals? Drive by his house late at night? She just gives up? Clearly this is a fictional character that has no basis in fact.
When did I become so impatient? I think of school, of finishing my degree. I am not exactly patient, but I want to be. I want it very much.
Think of patience, think of patience. Images of some quiet still pond somewhere leap into my mind. "Yeah, why am I not more like that." I think sarcastically. The problem with the image of the pond it that it doesn't engender the physical pain that that I feel when I have to be patient.
I need a new image. I press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets. Think. A toddler dancing on one leg in front of a restroom door with an out of order sign hanging on a nail comes to mind. Better. Now imagine the toddler as a miniature version of me. No, no. too creepy.
Back to the toddler. Do I have this right? Is Patience endurance? In Buddhism it is one one the paramitas, one of the perfections. Not just "good things come to him who waits" but a profound way to cultivate and purify the soul.
It is hard to imagine patience as purifying. I try to think in this way. My mind shifts back to the pond. I think I gave up on this image too easily. Maybe if I were sitting by the pond?
I imagine myself cross-legged by the silvery waters, dark ripples roll through my thoughts.
There is an ode forming in my mind that starts out something like "Oh to have patience, would that it were given to me, but mine is the hand that trembles, mine is the voice that shakes. obligated to act I am asked to sit, mine to offer rather than receive, patience is the gift to give, not the reward I seek."
At this point my suspension of disbelief breaks down.
What? She doesn't call him back twelve more times in the next twenty minutes? Send him and email, fax him, send smoke signals? Drive by his house late at night? She just gives up? Clearly this is a fictional character that has no basis in fact.
When did I become so impatient? I think of school, of finishing my degree. I am not exactly patient, but I want to be. I want it very much.
Think of patience, think of patience. Images of some quiet still pond somewhere leap into my mind. "Yeah, why am I not more like that." I think sarcastically. The problem with the image of the pond it that it doesn't engender the physical pain that that I feel when I have to be patient.
I need a new image. I press the palms of my hands into my eye sockets. Think. A toddler dancing on one leg in front of a restroom door with an out of order sign hanging on a nail comes to mind. Better. Now imagine the toddler as a miniature version of me. No, no. too creepy.
Back to the toddler. Do I have this right? Is Patience endurance? In Buddhism it is one one the paramitas, one of the perfections. Not just "good things come to him who waits" but a profound way to cultivate and purify the soul.
It is hard to imagine patience as purifying. I try to think in this way. My mind shifts back to the pond. I think I gave up on this image too easily. Maybe if I were sitting by the pond?
I imagine myself cross-legged by the silvery waters, dark ripples roll through my thoughts.
There is an ode forming in my mind that starts out something like "Oh to have patience, would that it were given to me, but mine is the hand that trembles, mine is the voice that shakes. obligated to act I am asked to sit, mine to offer rather than receive, patience is the gift to give, not the reward I seek."
Monday, January 12, 2009
dialouge on compassion
As much as I like to reiterate conversations that I have been a part of, especially the ones that float around in my brain for days, I am having difficulty with one I had recently. Try as I might I can't find a way to repeat the conversation. Well, first, it wasn't a conversation, it was an email, and secondly, the contents, being what they were, might harm others, even in paraphrase. So I am left with telling you where it cut off and you will have to imagine the back story. The words in the email that caught my attention were "summon compassion."
Jogging on the elliptical I found myself wondering what compassion was and how one would go about summoning it. That conversation you can hear, as it went something like this:
"It's a feeling. Well more like a shared feeling."
"But isn't that just empathy? Is empathy the same as compassion?"
"Right the co- is 'with' right? With passion."
"But isn't compassion more of an understanding?"
"So deeper than empathy, something that transcends the feeling?"
"Good. That makes sense. A profound understanding of.. of what? Feeling?"
"I suppose. Are we compassionate with the truly happy? Or just the sad?"
"The sad I suppose."
"So a compassionate person is one that has a profound understanding of another's sorrow."
"That seems to follow."
"Misery loves company."
"Birds of a feather."
(Pause)
"By that last one, do you mean to say that in order to have this shared feeling you have to have already experienced the feeling and are now sympathizing with another?"
"Hmmn. That doesn't sound right. But it does seem to follow that if you have had a bad experience, you might be more likely to be compassionate with those who are going through the same thing."
"Is that where the 'profound understanding' comes from?"
"Well, it might explain how someone is able to 'summon up' compassion. I mean, if they have had the experience, they would know what the ramification of the experience were."
"True. But , as the Buddha says 'Life is suffering' is it enough to extrapolate that the person is just 'suffering' regardless of why they are suffering and to thus have compassion for them without the intimate details of why they are suffering?"
"Well, would that meet the criteria for having a profound understanding of the feeling?"
"I suppose it depends on how one understands suffering. If you only understand suffering on a case by case basis, then you probably wouldn't have a profound understanding of someone else's suffering unless it immediately related to your own case. On the other hand, someone who has, well, thought a great deal about suffering..."
"You mean like the Buddha?"
"How about saying 'the examined life.'"
"I like that."
"Well if someone has in a thoughtful way come to the conclusion that suffering can be caused in many ways then perhaps they might be more easily swayed by compassion."
"So then, when you find it difficult to find compassion for another, it is because you have not made the connection between their situation and their suffering?"
"I think that is right."
"You make it sound so... intellectual. I think of compassion as sympathy whereas they way you describe it, one would really have to be detached to be compassionate."
"Well, I don't think you have to take on another's pain to know that they are suffering and feel compassion for them. I guess in that way there is a kind of detachment, but by detachment I don't mean distant or aloof, only... objective."
"So compassion is a profound understanding of another's sorrow arrived at by an objective discernment of the nature of suffering and the human condition."
"I think that is right."
"So summoning compassion is an objective discernment or actively thinking about another's situation in place of your own ?"
"Again, I think that is right."
"Well its a good start, but it sounds like a lot of work."
"It always is, it always is."
Jogging on the elliptical I found myself wondering what compassion was and how one would go about summoning it. That conversation you can hear, as it went something like this:
"It's a feeling. Well more like a shared feeling."
"But isn't that just empathy? Is empathy the same as compassion?"
"Right the co- is 'with' right? With passion."
"But isn't compassion more of an understanding?"
"So deeper than empathy, something that transcends the feeling?"
"Good. That makes sense. A profound understanding of.. of what? Feeling?"
"I suppose. Are we compassionate with the truly happy? Or just the sad?"
"The sad I suppose."
"So a compassionate person is one that has a profound understanding of another's sorrow."
"That seems to follow."
"Misery loves company."
"Birds of a feather."
(Pause)
"By that last one, do you mean to say that in order to have this shared feeling you have to have already experienced the feeling and are now sympathizing with another?"
"Hmmn. That doesn't sound right. But it does seem to follow that if you have had a bad experience, you might be more likely to be compassionate with those who are going through the same thing."
"Is that where the 'profound understanding' comes from?"
"Well, it might explain how someone is able to 'summon up' compassion. I mean, if they have had the experience, they would know what the ramification of the experience were."
"True. But , as the Buddha says 'Life is suffering' is it enough to extrapolate that the person is just 'suffering' regardless of why they are suffering and to thus have compassion for them without the intimate details of why they are suffering?"
"Well, would that meet the criteria for having a profound understanding of the feeling?"
"I suppose it depends on how one understands suffering. If you only understand suffering on a case by case basis, then you probably wouldn't have a profound understanding of someone else's suffering unless it immediately related to your own case. On the other hand, someone who has, well, thought a great deal about suffering..."
"You mean like the Buddha?"
"How about saying 'the examined life.'"
"I like that."
"Well if someone has in a thoughtful way come to the conclusion that suffering can be caused in many ways then perhaps they might be more easily swayed by compassion."
"So then, when you find it difficult to find compassion for another, it is because you have not made the connection between their situation and their suffering?"
"I think that is right."
"You make it sound so... intellectual. I think of compassion as sympathy whereas they way you describe it, one would really have to be detached to be compassionate."
"Well, I don't think you have to take on another's pain to know that they are suffering and feel compassion for them. I guess in that way there is a kind of detachment, but by detachment I don't mean distant or aloof, only... objective."
"So compassion is a profound understanding of another's sorrow arrived at by an objective discernment of the nature of suffering and the human condition."
"I think that is right."
"So summoning compassion is an objective discernment or actively thinking about another's situation in place of your own ?"
"Again, I think that is right."
"Well its a good start, but it sounds like a lot of work."
"It always is, it always is."
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Birthdays
The Giant Sundial of Jantar Mantar in Jaipur, India, is also known as the Samrat Yantra, or The Supreme Instrument. It stands 27 meters tall. Its shadow moves visibly at 1 mm per second, or roughly a hand's breadth every minute.
“When was the beginning of modernism?” Silence. “Anyone?” We all sort of collectively shuffled our feet.
“The industrial revolution?” said a mousey voice from the front of the room.
“An excellent guess. The industrial revolution took place in the nineteenth century, and as the 19th century progressed, the exercise of artistic freedom became fundamental to artist. That is a very good guess, but it is not the only one. Anyone else?”
“The French Revolution.” I said flatly.
“Excellent, Enlightenment thinking and the notion of freedom contributed to the idea of modernism; liberty was declared one of man's inalienable rights. It is in the ideals of the Enlightenment that the roots of Modernism, and the new role of art and the artist, are to be found. Anyone else?”
Quiet.
“Well believe it or not I was asked this same question when I applied for a job at the University of the South some years ago. I gave the answers you did, and expounded on them. Finally, when I was through, one member of the panel chimed in and said ‘We believe it was in 1648 with the founding of the Ecole des Beaux Arts...”
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
...
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
“What was the name of the guy that discovered the chicken?” asked D. taking another bite of dinner.
“What honey?”
“You know, who was the first guy to eat a chicken?”
“You mean who looked at a chicken and thought ‘Mmmmmmn, that looks good.’” asked J.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know.” said J., then, looking at me “Do apes eat meat?”
“Sometimes.” I said, pulling the shrimp tail out of my mouth.
O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! -Henry the VI, Pt II
“When was the beginning of modernism?” Silence. “Anyone?” We all sort of collectively shuffled our feet.
“The industrial revolution?” said a mousey voice from the front of the room.
“An excellent guess. The industrial revolution took place in the nineteenth century, and as the 19th century progressed, the exercise of artistic freedom became fundamental to artist. That is a very good guess, but it is not the only one. Anyone else?”
“The French Revolution.” I said flatly.
“Excellent, Enlightenment thinking and the notion of freedom contributed to the idea of modernism; liberty was declared one of man's inalienable rights. It is in the ideals of the Enlightenment that the roots of Modernism, and the new role of art and the artist, are to be found. Anyone else?”
Quiet.
“Well believe it or not I was asked this same question when I applied for a job at the University of the South some years ago. I gave the answers you did, and expounded on them. Finally, when I was through, one member of the panel chimed in and said ‘We believe it was in 1648 with the founding of the Ecole des Beaux Arts...”
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
...
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
“What was the name of the guy that discovered the chicken?” asked D. taking another bite of dinner.
“What honey?”
“You know, who was the first guy to eat a chicken?”
“You mean who looked at a chicken and thought ‘Mmmmmmn, that looks good.’” asked J.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know.” said J., then, looking at me “Do apes eat meat?”
“Sometimes.” I said, pulling the shrimp tail out of my mouth.
O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! -Henry the VI, Pt II
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Free Lunch
Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered that today was "report back to work" day, so on my way to the gym I picked up the phone and called the department chair. His response was something along the lines of "if your going in, punch in for me as well. " Unfortunately I did have to go in and pick up a form from the dean office. Only one of the office assistants was around but she was able to direct me to the paperwork I needed.
"Do you know what time the all college meeting is tomorrow?"
"12:45 I think"
"I guess they do that so they don't have to serve us lunch."
"Oh? You didn't get a lunch card?"
"Lunch card?" I said quizzically, enough that might suggest I had forgotten but not so much as to suggest I never read my emails.
"They are up in the provost office. Do you know where that is?"
"Yes. Thanks!"
On my way out of the office I stopped one of the student workers. "Which way is the provost office?"
I have a perfectly legitimate excuse for not knowing where the main administration offices are, I work on a different campus. Nonetheless I eventually found my way up, introduced myself to the administrative assistant at the door, and was given the choice sushi or german food. Hungrily I snatched up a sushi voucher, my eyes beaming like I had just won a major award.
On my way out of the building I ran into a few colleagues.
"Well I just got my lunch voucher."
"Us too, unfortunately all they had left was a choice between german and sushi."
"I know I said excitedly, my mouth rewatering at the prospect of my bento box. Then thinking of the german food voucher made a slight noise of disgust.
"I know" she said "Can you believe it" responding to my grunt of disgust. We spoke in unison, but had very different ideas about what was the prize and what was the punishment "Sushi" they said even as I voiced "German."
We stared at each other for a few seconds each with a look of complete disbelief at the others comment. After an uncomfortable silence there was a collective shrug of the shoulders at which they returned to their tasks and I ran off to my car, clutching my gift coupon tightly in my hand. Briefly I had a thought that one mans trash is another's treasure or some such thing, but the prospect of my favorite food as someone else's trash was too disquieting. "Nah" I said dismissing any vestiges of tolerance. "They're nuts."
'The Sea, that has no ending'
Who are we? Why are we here,
huddled on this desolate shore,
so curiously chopped and joined?—
broken totems, a scruffy tribe!
How many years have passed
since we owned keys to a door,
had friends, walked down familiar streets
and answered to a name? We try
not to remember the places
where we left pieces of ourselves
along the way, whether in ditches
at the side of foreign roads
or under signs that spell FOR HIRE
or naked between the sheets in cheap
motels. Does anybody care?
All the villagers have fled
from the sorry sight of us.
In the beginning we had faith
that the Master, who day and night
lets nothing escape the glare
from his invisible tower,
would soften at our appeals;
but we are baffled by his replies
even more than by his silences.
When we complain of the cruel sun
and the blisters popping in our skin
he turns our suffering against us:
A great wound, one you could claim
your very own, might have saved you.
Instead you let others do you in
with their small knives.
What is to become of us?
The sea, that has no ending,
is lapping at our feet.
How we long for the cleansing waters
to rise and cover us forever!
But he who reads our secret thoughts
rebukes us, saying: You cannot hope
to be restored unless you dare
to plunge head-down into the mystery
and there confront the beasts
that prowl on the ocean floor.
"Sacred monsters" is what he calls them.
If only we had strength enough
or nerve for a grand heroic action.
Habit has made it easier for us
to wait for the blessing of the tide.
It's really strange how much we miss
those people who came to gape and jeer;
we'd welcome their return, for company.
Why is the Master knocking at our ears
demanding immediate attention?
In the acid of his voice we sense
the horns swelling at his temples
and little drops of spittle
bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
This is not an exhibition, he storms,
it's a life!
- Stanley Kunitz, 'The Sea, that has no ending'
Sunday, January 4, 2009
The word is in! and it is 3
Additionally, I was shocked, shocked to discover that J. didn't immediately recall the words to Interplanet Janet
cat pooh makes you think
Ask any two year old you know and they will tell you, “poopie” is the funniest word in the English dictionary. Not one to condone potty talk (well, you know, usually), I know that the merest utterance of this word would instantaneously cause a riot of mirth to erupt from my two and five year old, while my ten year old would smile and, most likely, taking my cue, run with it.
I’m staring down at the yuckiest smear of cat pooh you have ever seen. “God” I think to myself, “I hope the other end of that isn’t on my shoe.” It is amazing how pooh fluctuates from almost benign to horrible.
Baby poop is cute. A two year old pooping in her panties because she didn’t make it to the toilet on time can be traumatic for everyone, and cat poop on the laundry room floor is nauseating at best.
I suppose there is something to wading around in a mess that is, at least familiar, that makes it manageable. Of course baby poop is a far cry from two-year-old poop. I didn’t even realize it until J. pointed it out to me one day shortly after the baby had been born. I suppose the gradually worsening state of the diaper situation had desensitized me to the fact that my child’s diapers were, well, gross and in comparison to a newborn the urgency to potty train became apparent.
I suppose this is how I operate, wallowing in my own crapulence until I discover by a light of some more favorable comparison that the muck I am up to my arms in isn’t just unfortunate or inconvenient, it is horrid. I like to think that I am accepting of my own faults, warts and all, but in truth I don’t think I always see them for what they are. “Those aren’t warts, they are age spots, marks of wisdom and experience.” After all, does anyone look to a situation that is worse and think “Wow! My stuff really stinks!” Or do we instead look in wonder at the awful mess that is before us and unbeknownst to our own situation; thank our lucky stars that this is not ours? I suspect that I love of myself for who I am because I am blind to my character defects. Would I be more loving of myself if I could see my defects for what they truly are? Or would the shame of them nauseate me like so much cat pooh on the floor?
Cat pooh makes you think.
I suppose the worst kind of character defects are those that disrupt our lives, the cat poop on the floor, that stops everything until the mess has been dealt with. Only slightly less disturbing is the two year old variety. Unpleasant to be sure, and just as quickly tackled, but without that soul-scarring trauma that make you feel unclean all over.
No, I suspect that most of our character defects are of the baby poop variety, unpleasant, but manageable. The kind that daily meditation and a little soul searching can clean like as many wet wipes. That, at least is comforting, that I am not some level 9 biohazard walking around waiting for someone to step in me. Comforting because in a way my character defects are a barometer of my relationship to the world, and more importantly, to my spiritual well being. They let me know both where I am at, and where I need to go next, that is, as long as I am willing.
I’m staring down at the yuckiest smear of cat pooh you have ever seen. “God” I think to myself, “I hope the other end of that isn’t on my shoe.” It is amazing how pooh fluctuates from almost benign to horrible.
Baby poop is cute. A two year old pooping in her panties because she didn’t make it to the toilet on time can be traumatic for everyone, and cat poop on the laundry room floor is nauseating at best.
I suppose there is something to wading around in a mess that is, at least familiar, that makes it manageable. Of course baby poop is a far cry from two-year-old poop. I didn’t even realize it until J. pointed it out to me one day shortly after the baby had been born. I suppose the gradually worsening state of the diaper situation had desensitized me to the fact that my child’s diapers were, well, gross and in comparison to a newborn the urgency to potty train became apparent.
I suppose this is how I operate, wallowing in my own crapulence until I discover by a light of some more favorable comparison that the muck I am up to my arms in isn’t just unfortunate or inconvenient, it is horrid. I like to think that I am accepting of my own faults, warts and all, but in truth I don’t think I always see them for what they are. “Those aren’t warts, they are age spots, marks of wisdom and experience.” After all, does anyone look to a situation that is worse and think “Wow! My stuff really stinks!” Or do we instead look in wonder at the awful mess that is before us and unbeknownst to our own situation; thank our lucky stars that this is not ours? I suspect that I love of myself for who I am because I am blind to my character defects. Would I be more loving of myself if I could see my defects for what they truly are? Or would the shame of them nauseate me like so much cat pooh on the floor?
Cat pooh makes you think.
I suppose the worst kind of character defects are those that disrupt our lives, the cat poop on the floor, that stops everything until the mess has been dealt with. Only slightly less disturbing is the two year old variety. Unpleasant to be sure, and just as quickly tackled, but without that soul-scarring trauma that make you feel unclean all over.
No, I suspect that most of our character defects are of the baby poop variety, unpleasant, but manageable. The kind that daily meditation and a little soul searching can clean like as many wet wipes. That, at least is comforting, that I am not some level 9 biohazard walking around waiting for someone to step in me. Comforting because in a way my character defects are a barometer of my relationship to the world, and more importantly, to my spiritual well being. They let me know both where I am at, and where I need to go next, that is, as long as I am willing.
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