Friday, February 28, 2014
Starlight
This morning I had my first doctor's check-up in almost two years. It's good to be healthy. To maintain this health, I'm going to have wear a lot of clothes in an hour when I go on a walk under the stars, because it's four degrees outside. There tend to be just a few more stars in these skies than in the same ones I see from the city.
Their beauty is worth enduring the freezing weather, which is a mere nuisance compared to the wondrous treasure shining so freely.
Their beauty is worth enduring the freezing weather, which is a mere nuisance compared to the wondrous treasure shining so freely.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Who Knew There Were Green Trees and Blue Waters Around the Corner?
It has been a very happy week. Yesterday evening I re-discovered Riverside State Park one block from my apartment. I first discovered it soon after I moved here in early January, but
it was night time then, and the gates were closed. Since then it has been incredibly cold and often cloudy, so I haven't been in an exploring mood. Instead it's felt like more of a hibernation mode, in that I've been adjusting to the job and life in NYC again, and waiting for the cold to subside before numerous adventures around the boroughs resume. And I do love bear metaphors.
In the afternoon I finally moved my car from Queens to Harlem, and then decided to keep walking after parking. Just before sunset I saw the park gate open, crossed a bridge over the highway, and saw at least four basketball courts, a baseball diamond, and plenty of spots to look over the railing (as opposed to the large fences on the rest of the road to prevent jumping and clear visibility of the water). I walked over to the railing and was greeted by the vast expanse of the Hudson River, the same river I often ride along when traveling between home and the city. And of course, after listening to Broken Social Scene's "Capture the Flag" and "KC Accidental," Sigur Ros's "Untitled 4" came on. I can even see the final bridge in the NYC area before the river curves around the bend and leads the way home, connecting the city to Albany, where my father used to work and many of my friends used to live. Right now there are many leafless trees in the park, and spring is just around the corner. It looks like I found this place just in time.
Later I took a ride down to the Empire State Building to listen to a few songs and take a few pictures of photographs. I got the idea the previous night while walking home from happy hour and seeing the most iconic skyscraper in the world all lit up bright blue and green, my favorite color combination. As I've said before, they are the Seahawks' colors, which also happen to be the Earth's colors when viewed from space. The Seahawks are from Seattle, just like two of my favorite artistic heroes: musician Jason Webley and writer Tom Robbins. In fact, Robbins, now in his 70's, still lives in and around the Seattle area, where he has been for decades. That means many of my favorite books were created in the Seattle area.
In the afternoon I finally moved my car from Queens to Harlem, and then decided to keep walking after parking. Just before sunset I saw the park gate open, crossed a bridge over the highway, and saw at least four basketball courts, a baseball diamond, and plenty of spots to look over the railing (as opposed to the large fences on the rest of the road to prevent jumping and clear visibility of the water). I walked over to the railing and was greeted by the vast expanse of the Hudson River, the same river I often ride along when traveling between home and the city. And of course, after listening to Broken Social Scene's "Capture the Flag" and "KC Accidental," Sigur Ros's "Untitled 4" came on. I can even see the final bridge in the NYC area before the river curves around the bend and leads the way home, connecting the city to Albany, where my father used to work and many of my friends used to live. Right now there are many leafless trees in the park, and spring is just around the corner. It looks like I found this place just in time.
Later I took a ride down to the Empire State Building to listen to a few songs and take a few pictures of photographs. I got the idea the previous night while walking home from happy hour and seeing the most iconic skyscraper in the world all lit up bright blue and green, my favorite color combination. As I've said before, they are the Seahawks' colors, which also happen to be the Earth's colors when viewed from space. The Seahawks are from Seattle, just like two of my favorite artistic heroes: musician Jason Webley and writer Tom Robbins. In fact, Robbins, now in his 70's, still lives in and around the Seattle area, where he has been for decades. That means many of my favorite books were created in the Seattle area.
"There has to be magic, and poetry, at every level."
Even Cowgirls Get the Blues by Tom Robbins
Now I am at home for the weekend, about to go to sleep
in a room without heat on a night when the temperature is supposed to
reach -5 on the Fahrenheit scale. Blankets galore. And I'm very happy that I wasn't involved in any of the five car accidents I saw and had to drive around on the way up here through the snow. Even so, it felt great to drive again.
Thank you life for keeping me alive.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
"The Best is Yet to Come..."
It is 11:41 pm. I just removed my tie a minute ago. This is a rarity. A tie at 11:39. Had my first day of training at my extra job today. Happy hour with my friends. Just enough time to write the book, get in touch with important parts of the past, and write about some music.
We talked about just how lucky we were to have access to so much music compared to when we were younger. We traced the stages of Walkman's, discman's, generic iPods and the thing everyone has now that pretty much does everything they need to perceive.
Then we talked about how we used to get music when we were younger. We had cassette recorders and listened to the radio, and would wait for our favorite songs to come on and then rush to the recorder and slam down both necessary buttons to physically record the awesome melodies we were hearing on physical tape that was winding itself together right before us. I remember I started doing that when I was 12, at the beginning of seventh grade.
The first time I recorded a song was toward the end of the summer of 1997. I heard this song by the Smashing Pumpkins everywhere, because I'd heard it many times on the school bus and a few times on the radio, and I really wanted to know what it was like to always have access to music from my generation. I already listened to serious music, but I mostly listened to funny stuff from ages 9-12.
Anyway, the first song I recorded on the radio came on when I was in the shower. I had actually suspected that they might play it at any minute, so I brought the cassette boombox into the bathroom (but not the shower, obviously) and turned it up so I could hear it over the water. I went racing out of the shower as soon as I heard those ultra-smooth opening notes to "1979," which was on the bus all the time that year. That double album later became the first alternative rock album I ever owned.
We moved from there to when we were going to college, and how we finally started owning personal computers. We had a family computer until I went to college and they recommended every student at least have a desktop for school purposes. So that's how I got a Dell through a school discount, and realized I had the power to make playlists from my pretty large CD collection and then burn, or, rewrite them onto blank CD's I had purchased. That's how I enhanced most of my walks around campus that first year. The summer before was when I started using my Walkman.
Before I had a computer and hi-speed internet (we had dial-up in the country in 2002) I was lucky enough to have friends who did and offered to make me CD's of any songs I wanted. I remember that the first mix CD came from my musician friend, probably when I was 15 or so, and it had the song "Prizefighter" by Bush on it. I never really liked that song, although I did like Bush. But then I worked at the vineyard a couple years ago and realized just how much music I had to play, and it took on a whole new meaning after a long day (and usually night) of hard satisfying work.
Anyway, a great way to deal with all of that hard work to learn and understand and involve and evolve your personality with the world you help create through what you do is to experience many ways to be you. And one of the best ways is to laugh and love and imagine the most extraordinary scenes possible. And after the first entrance into the ecstatic understanding of the power of music, I began to combine it with one of my first love's: imagining anything, and once that was extensive, having fun with it. I loved and still love weird crazy funky energetic large hearted but nevertheless crazy imagination for what the world could and should be. Then again, I'd already been fed quite a bit of insanity from the TV and suburban America of Long Island all around me. But more about that tomorrow.
Until then, "the best is yet to come"...
Monday, February 24, 2014
2/24
"The Equator" by Tortoise
I grew up at 224 Munsell Road. Even though we left in 1995, I still think of "home" when I see that number. And we didn't just leave. We left the suburbs of New York City and Long Island for the countryside of Washington County, near Vermont and Massachusetts. But that was a long time ago.
These thoughts of the past bring on the most pleasurable form of nostalgia: MUSIC. Who did I listen to when I was learning what the world was as a kid? Or, more like it, who did other people choose for me to listen to before I got a sense that I could decide who listen to on the ride?
I've been listening to much of the music I loved when I was growing up during the teenage years. Lately, as I put this novel together in a very chronologically spiraling style that examines the experiences I know from some intensity of life that shines the light, I've also been trying to understand where I came from. I know that ultimately I came from music, because I'm still in the music, so what better place to start figuring out how it came to be that I grew up at 224 Munsell Road, a quiet suburban street, and found myself in India.
It's like Popa Wu says, "If you don't know where you came from, you damn sure don't know where you're going."
Or, at considerably more length, Joseph Campbell says in Pathways to Bliss:
Artists are magical helpers. Evoking symbols and motifs that connect us to our deeper selves, they can help us along the heroic journey and our own lives.
It is a popular game among literary critics and graduate students to discuss a particular writer’s influences—who they got their ideas and style from. Well, when the operation of creation is in play, an author is surrounded by an ambient of everything he has ever experienced—every childhood accident, every song he’s heard, and, too, every book and poem and pamphlet he has read. His creative imagination pulls these things out and puts them into a form.
Now, all these myths that you have heard and that resonate with you, those are the elements from round about that you are building into a form in your life. The thing worth considering is how they relate to each other in your context, not how they relate to something out there—how they were relevant on the North American prairies or in the Asian jungles hundreds of years ago, but how they are relevant now—unless by contemplating their former meaning you can begin to amplify your own understanding of the role they play in your life.
I'm always aware of the writers and thinkers who have influenced my perspectives and decisions, and I've documented many of them so that I can always go back to finding their words for reference and solace.
Music is unique as language. I have am so grateful and privileged, blessed really, to have so much magical music. I know I use the word "magic" a lot, and I mean it. How can you argue against music? How do you reply to beautiful vibrations of emotion and excitement?
If I wanted to listen to all of my music, it would take me 46 days straight to complete such a musical journey. Now, I know that some people have much more music than that, and other people would question my total as a mere collection instead of a truly diverse base of constant musical joy. The truth is, I love, at the very least, 95% of the music I own. There are probably a few albums that someone shared with me and I've only listened to once or twice, but for the most part, I loved all of the music at one point, and still love most of it, even if my perspective and preference has changed with time.
If I wanted to listen to all of my music, it would take me 46 days straight to complete such a musical journey. Now, I know that some people have much more music than that, and other people would question my total as a mere collection instead of a truly diverse base of constant musical joy. The truth is, I love, at the very least, 95% of the music I own. There are probably a few albums that someone shared with me and I've only listened to once or twice, but for the most part, I loved all of the music at one point, and still love most of it, even if my perspective and preference has changed with time.
One of my favorite things to do every few years used to be listening to all of my CD's in a row, whether alphabetically, randomly, or chronologically. It usually took a few months, often combined with mundane tasks such as organizing papers at an office job, mowing the lawn, or painting our house. When I worked at a law firm for my first college summer job, they told me that they appreciated my hard work and organizational skills, yet were a little amused by "the first" experience of having an employee who wore headphones most of the time. How else can you stand looking at law suits describing symptoms of infamous E. Coli outbreaks, some of which affected people I knew?
I'm not attempting anything close to that now, but I do have a playlist of "My Generation" that begins in 1988 and continues until the present day. I am currently in the year of 2002. I selected a few songs off of each album, in chronological order (I made the original chronological playlists of my music a few years ago, a little each day), so I could feel the evolution of music in my lifetime. Some of it has been nostalgic, and some of it has involved listening to songs that I listen to now anyway. A few songs have taken on a whole new meaning after all of my experiences, emotions and ideas, many of which I couldn't fathom at age 13-19.
It's taken a few weeks to get this far in the playlist because I only listen to it when I'm walking or doing some task that doesn't require too much concentration. For example, when I'm working on the book, I can't have music going unless I need a little atmospheric inspiration, which can only last so long before I get into a zone and need to focus. Speaking of which, the book is still moving, just slow and steady. There's a lot going on in India, and I was fortunate to experience a spectacular dose of it by being there and recording as much as I could for memory. Not to mention the rest of the story, which is also coming back to me in flashes and bits through notes and quotes. I'm finally getting my feet under me, and jogging just a little more energetically and confidently, sensing the return of sunny warm green to the New York scene. I am steadily pacing with the green tortoise: slow and steady wins the race.
I wrote 3410 words today. Many of them are good words, and some of them even get along really well with each other. I'm still very enthusiastic about this project, and moreso now that I am starting to get my feet back on the ground. More focus means a better flow.
(I have no idea what the music video is about, but I love the song)
I wrote 3410 words today. Many of them are good words, and some of them even get along really well with each other. I'm still very enthusiastic about this project, and moreso now that I am starting to get my feet back on the ground. More focus means a better flow.
Now that I've put in extensive time, imagination and energy into India and the journey, I would enjoy publicly sharing some of my favorite experiences of music. We're going to have to go much further back than my teenage years. We're going back to the mid-1980's, when I didn't have any choices about the music I heard, and simply had to consume the sounds that my mother played in the car or my sister demanded she play for us. They're the first songs my brain thought worthy of storing in memory, and I still have them with me, on a machine and a little thin box in my pocket that brings me musical joy whenever I feel so free.
The first music that comes to mind from those days is the New Seekers' "Free to Be You and Me." I think my parents thought that was a suitable song for children, so that entire song is etched in my memory forever. The merits of the message to a young soul are self-evident.
After that I recall the unforgettable voice of John Prine, and how his songs always seemed to accompany a feeling of warm fun and sunshine. His is one of the earliest musical voices I can remember:
"Father, forgive us for what we might do
You forgive us and we'll forgive you
We'll forgive each other 'till we born turn blue
And we'll whistle and go fishin' in a heaven."
-"Fish and Whistle" by John Prine
And of course, if the voyage was an hour or more, we definitely heard some Taj Mahal at that point, if we hadn't started it all off with him to begin with:
"Betcha going fishin' all the time,
baby goin' fishin' too.
Bet your life, your sweet wife is gonna catch more fish than you
Many fish bite if you've got good bait
Now here's a little tip that I would like to relate
Many fish bite if you've got good bait
Cuz I'm a goin' fishin', yes I'm goin' fishin'
And my baby goin' fishin' too."
-"Fishin Blues" by Taj Mahal
Although it was there all along, for some reason Paul Simon's Graceland displayed a remarkable dominance in playtime ages 8 to 11, when my sister was 10 to 13. It enjoyed a resurgence in later years, but I rode in the car with my mom and sister less by then, so I was subjected to it less often. Even so, I'd been hearing "You Can Call Me Al," "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes," "Graceland," and "Boy in the Bubble" my whole life:
"I do believe these are the days of miracle and wonder"
I'm sure there were many other bands we heard more often than not, and many beloved songs, and styles of music that we were introduced to, but there's really only one other artist and album that resonates strongly with my memories of those days growing up at 224.
"I was made for America, I have prayed for America,
it's in my blood and in my bones"
it's in my blood and in my bones"
-"For America" Lives in the Balance by Jackson Browne.
My mom really loves Jackson Browne. She was a social worker who leaned a little to the flower-child side of her generation. She wasn't much of a party person, but instead more of a helper and healer. Whatever Jackson sang about, whether it was love relationships, young angst or complex violent political situations, he always did so with incredibly moving, informative and passionately honest words vibrating on the waves of intense instrumentation.
Actually, now that I listen to more of this playlist, I realize that there is another brilliant politically passionate poet given the extra gift of musical talent. All who possess this talent can know that they are the greatest harbingers of joy on the magic spin ball.
"Talkin About a Revolution"
-Tracy Chapman
We heard that album all the time in kindergarten and elementary school. "Fast Car" reminds me of many a ride under the highway lights en route to some widely populated area on the Eastern seaboard.
Of course, since then, I have developed new relationships with these songs and artists. One of my greatest memories of Graceland is riding around the north island of New Zealand in a camper van with three other new American friends, winding around cliffs as my friend popped in the CD without telling me. Not to mention driving down to Bonnaroo in Tennessee while listening to the song "Graceland":
"If you'll be my body guard, I can be your long last pal,
I can call you Betty, and Betty, when you call me,
you can call me Al"
you can call me Al"
Perfect words for cheering up.
"I'm going to graceland, graceland, Memphis, Tennesse,
I'm goin' to graceland!"
I'm goin' to graceland!"
Perfect words for driving my friends down to one of the greatest parties in the history of anything.
"A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen and Hallelujah!"
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen and Hallelujah!"
Perfect words.
Of course, John Prine came back to the scene when I explored all of the family's classic rock albums from the 60's and 70's during college. It doesn't take long for any human to identify with this next song, but the years of experience have given me more opportunities to appreciate it on new levels:
"That's the way that the world goes 'round, you're up one day, the next you're down,
It's a half an inch of water and you think you're gonna drown
That's the way that the world goes 'round."
-"That's the Way That the World Goes 'Round" by John Prine
-"That's the Way That the World Goes 'Round" by John Prine
And of course, Jackson Browne's wisdom has made a lot more sense to this well-traveled 29 year old than it did to the totally protected child who was to bear first witness to his insights:
"Before you ever saw your chances,
you were gonna burn this city down,
you were gonna burn this city down,
Tired of the fashions and the dances,
tired of the people standing 'round.
tired of the people standing 'round.
Time running out, time running out,
for the fool wondering what his life is all about."
-"Black and White" by Jackson Browne
for the fool wondering what his life is all about."
-"Black and White" by Jackson Browne
Taj Mahal has somehow become even more fun over the years, which is impressive considering he made a lot of children's and world music albums later in his career, which we all loved as very small kids.
Now I've seen the real Taj Mahal's, the man and the building, performing in Central Park and standing incredibly still in Agra, India, although I can't remember which one did which.
Great for driving anywhere in the country with the sun shining
Great for driving back to New York from California in six days:
Great
Check out the piano solo at 5:38...
World, I sure love your music videos, whenever you so kindly share...
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Run, Don't Rush
Today was another fifty-something sunny day in Harlem.
I've noticed from my modern music playlist that the 1990's were mostly depressing alternative songs or angry heavy metal songs. Yet as I approached the new millennium, the songs became more focused on being artistically riveting than on being angst-ridden. Every so often the sun peaks through the clouds with a positive upbeat tune here and there. The Smashing Pumpkins are closing up shop, Kurt Cobain left the arena long ago, and Metallica has one more covers album worth canoeing across the sea to, like some sort of supersonic power chord fueled viking. Tool has transformed from playing so hard and loud and fast and weird and mind-blowing that it tore a hole in the universe, and moved to greener pastures where it repairs the universe into a finely tuned spooky metallic harmony by doing the exact same things. The soothing melodic whines and roaring distorted guitars of Radiohead have completed their first act of awe-inspiring adventures in audio and are now giving way to their future as uber-hip ethereal edgy explorations of uncharted electronic landscapes in the tundra of the 90's frozen emotional ebb from previous generation's loving flow. The Chili Peppers are just as wild, but slightly more contemplative, artsy, and experienced than before. Powerful, angry and excellent hardcore exercise assistants like the Deftones are taking a bow and motioning The White Stripes onstage for another reinvention of rock and roll music, yet one that goes back in time to its eternal ever-manifest roots, realizing the sublime sense of tuning into its present vibration through the once future media that is now. The Offspring is done complaining about everything with clever observations and "Nitro (Youth Energy)," and now Modest Mouse is starting to break away from the same by flying us from Antarctica to the moon and back. The Flaming Lips have triumphantly entered the scene with heart-wrenching mind-expansion of the cosmic solitude enforced by inherent temporal existence fluctuating between pleasure and pain, love and fear, and will soon arrive here with a butt-kicking Japanese beauty named Yoshimi, who, by nature of her will and spirit, will kick the butts of any pink robots who dissuade the steady progress of confidence, courage, bravery and soulful ecstasy. Like the ones that require working on a Sunday morning.
This morning I walked through the turnstile listening to The White Stripes' "We're Going to Be Friends" when I felt someone patting me on the back. I turned and saw my friend Glenn. He was on his way to breakfast, and I was on my way to work. I've known him since we met on the school bus in kindergarten.
During class we read about mistakes and problems in order to practice grammar: should have, was supposed to, had to, needed to, could have, might have, shouldn't have, wasn't supposed to etc. We discussed mistakes we had made in the past, although nobody really felt like opening up.
I've been reading over all of my 2013 web log pieces the past two weeks. I've found glaring grammatical errors, tiny typos and stylistic faux pa's which called out to me for repair. I've also given greater consideration to writings I have recently produced.
The other week I wrote "do no rush for your train." The train is the dream. I did not mean don't go for your dream or work hard for your dream. I just meant don't rush, because you make mistakes, like forgetting that your iPod might fall out of your pocket if you start running. Many of the web logs had grammar mistakes and typos because I was rushing. Running is just fine, because running implies prepared intent. I have decided to go fast, but my pockets are zipped up and I can't lose anything. Rushing is impulsive, without considering all the possibilities. For example, I rushed a sentence saying that my iPod was my most unnecessary possession, which couldn't be further from the truth when considered amongst my possessions. I just meant to say it was a thing, and things aren't important. The music is essential, but the device is not, because the music still exists from another source.
I also wrote about seeing agents at a graduate program. Perhaps my tone was too hasty to appear to put down such programs. I'm sure they are all fine programs. Many of my favorite writers have taught or attended such programs. Beyond writing, there are dazzling, extraordinary masters of art and music who refined their crafts and learned essential techniques at schools of higher learning. All I was really saying there was that I already paid a lot of money for college, and am still paying money, and the best teacher I had there told me that the best you could do was to write honestly about something you knew. Once you knew the grammar and the basic mistakes to avoid, all that's left is feedback from reputable readers. Sometimes programs help, but in my experience, they haven't. What can an inexperienced writer who loves fantasy stories about dragons and kings really say to someone writing new journalism style about a work experience? With music and art you can find others to collaborate, but prose writing is a solo endeavor. It would have been nice to stumble into a gathering of agents under different circumstances; i.e., without lying about my identity and stealing some other hardworking person's name tag.
Another rush involved quoting Abraham Lincoln that writing was the "greatest invention." To be specific, I wouldn't agree that it is the best experience, endeavor or even method of communication. Most of the best religions hint at truth that is beyond words. The greatest moments in life are often created by magically making eye contact, or a simple touch. The "hello" is the one who breaks the spell of the mystic silence by turning the knob to open the door to something more. I wouldn't call any of those inventions. Music isn't an "invention," even though artists invent songs. Music is the way of the world. It's the fabric of existence, a fluid spark akin to electricity: it was already there, so it couldn't be invented, but if properly respected and understood, could potentially be harnessed and transmitted by worthy heart-mind-bodies in new beautiful ways to benefit as much of life as life feels wondrously apropos.
Running is fun and can get the job done. Just don't rush.
I've noticed from my modern music playlist that the 1990's were mostly depressing alternative songs or angry heavy metal songs. Yet as I approached the new millennium, the songs became more focused on being artistically riveting than on being angst-ridden. Every so often the sun peaks through the clouds with a positive upbeat tune here and there. The Smashing Pumpkins are closing up shop, Kurt Cobain left the arena long ago, and Metallica has one more covers album worth canoeing across the sea to, like some sort of supersonic power chord fueled viking. Tool has transformed from playing so hard and loud and fast and weird and mind-blowing that it tore a hole in the universe, and moved to greener pastures where it repairs the universe into a finely tuned spooky metallic harmony by doing the exact same things. The soothing melodic whines and roaring distorted guitars of Radiohead have completed their first act of awe-inspiring adventures in audio and are now giving way to their future as uber-hip ethereal edgy explorations of uncharted electronic landscapes in the tundra of the 90's frozen emotional ebb from previous generation's loving flow. The Chili Peppers are just as wild, but slightly more contemplative, artsy, and experienced than before. Powerful, angry and excellent hardcore exercise assistants like the Deftones are taking a bow and motioning The White Stripes onstage for another reinvention of rock and roll music, yet one that goes back in time to its eternal ever-manifest roots, realizing the sublime sense of tuning into its present vibration through the once future media that is now. The Offspring is done complaining about everything with clever observations and "Nitro (Youth Energy)," and now Modest Mouse is starting to break away from the same by flying us from Antarctica to the moon and back. The Flaming Lips have triumphantly entered the scene with heart-wrenching mind-expansion of the cosmic solitude enforced by inherent temporal existence fluctuating between pleasure and pain, love and fear, and will soon arrive here with a butt-kicking Japanese beauty named Yoshimi, who, by nature of her will and spirit, will kick the butts of any pink robots who dissuade the steady progress of confidence, courage, bravery and soulful ecstasy. Like the ones that require working on a Sunday morning.
This morning I walked through the turnstile listening to The White Stripes' "We're Going to Be Friends" when I felt someone patting me on the back. I turned and saw my friend Glenn. He was on his way to breakfast, and I was on my way to work. I've known him since we met on the school bus in kindergarten.
During class we read about mistakes and problems in order to practice grammar: should have, was supposed to, had to, needed to, could have, might have, shouldn't have, wasn't supposed to etc. We discussed mistakes we had made in the past, although nobody really felt like opening up.
I've been reading over all of my 2013 web log pieces the past two weeks. I've found glaring grammatical errors, tiny typos and stylistic faux pa's which called out to me for repair. I've also given greater consideration to writings I have recently produced.
The other week I wrote "do no rush for your train." The train is the dream. I did not mean don't go for your dream or work hard for your dream. I just meant don't rush, because you make mistakes, like forgetting that your iPod might fall out of your pocket if you start running. Many of the web logs had grammar mistakes and typos because I was rushing. Running is just fine, because running implies prepared intent. I have decided to go fast, but my pockets are zipped up and I can't lose anything. Rushing is impulsive, without considering all the possibilities. For example, I rushed a sentence saying that my iPod was my most unnecessary possession, which couldn't be further from the truth when considered amongst my possessions. I just meant to say it was a thing, and things aren't important. The music is essential, but the device is not, because the music still exists from another source.
I also wrote about seeing agents at a graduate program. Perhaps my tone was too hasty to appear to put down such programs. I'm sure they are all fine programs. Many of my favorite writers have taught or attended such programs. Beyond writing, there are dazzling, extraordinary masters of art and music who refined their crafts and learned essential techniques at schools of higher learning. All I was really saying there was that I already paid a lot of money for college, and am still paying money, and the best teacher I had there told me that the best you could do was to write honestly about something you knew. Once you knew the grammar and the basic mistakes to avoid, all that's left is feedback from reputable readers. Sometimes programs help, but in my experience, they haven't. What can an inexperienced writer who loves fantasy stories about dragons and kings really say to someone writing new journalism style about a work experience? With music and art you can find others to collaborate, but prose writing is a solo endeavor. It would have been nice to stumble into a gathering of agents under different circumstances; i.e., without lying about my identity and stealing some other hardworking person's name tag.
Another rush involved quoting Abraham Lincoln that writing was the "greatest invention." To be specific, I wouldn't agree that it is the best experience, endeavor or even method of communication. Most of the best religions hint at truth that is beyond words. The greatest moments in life are often created by magically making eye contact, or a simple touch. The "hello" is the one who breaks the spell of the mystic silence by turning the knob to open the door to something more. I wouldn't call any of those inventions. Music isn't an "invention," even though artists invent songs. Music is the way of the world. It's the fabric of existence, a fluid spark akin to electricity: it was already there, so it couldn't be invented, but if properly respected and understood, could potentially be harnessed and transmitted by worthy heart-mind-bodies in new beautiful ways to benefit as much of life as life feels wondrously apropos.
Running is fun and can get the job done. Just don't rush.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
The Meaning of Ice Skating
My cousin and his wife cooked me an amazing dinner and gave me a Beatles shirt, tea mug, tea strainer and delicious loose leaf green tea for Christmas, so I decided to return the favor somewhat by cooking them dinner at their place in Hoboken tonight.
Afterward we watched the Olympics and saw the figure skating portion. We talked about The Beatles and figure skating because my sister was obsessed with both the first time I saw the Winter Olympics, in 1994. I remember pretending to cry about Nancy Kerrigan losing the gold to Oksana Baiul because my sister cared and was crying about it. I also remember seeing an exhbition at Nassau Coliseum where this African-French woman named Surya Bonali did a back flip and a Frenchman named Philippe Canderloro did back-to-back back flips, and being very blown away. I also remember this really cute Japanese woman who finished fourth, Yuka Sato, and seeing her on television in Japan during my first week in Tokyo. We were channel surfing and she just happened to be doing an exhibition, seventeen years later.
We talked a lot about The Beatles and Billy Joel, because the first CD I ever owned and received as a gift was by Billy Joel. I had been bobbing my head to one of his radio songs while riding in the Nissan Quest in Baltimore, and my parents decided to give me his newest album for Christmas that year. Never mind the fact they were giving an album about a mid-life crisis to a 9 year old. Even though I secretly knew The Beatles were better overall, I viciously defended Billy Joel against the attacks of my imposing stubborn older sister, much to the amusement of fellow diners at many a rest area along the eastern seaboard.
We also talked about the first year I cared about sports, because the Olympics were on and the first year I saw the Olympics was also the first year I cared about professional sports. Every team that I seriously honest-to-God rooted for with all my heart finished second that year. That is, with two exceptions. The first was the New York Mets. They were the worst team in baseball, and the first team I seriously followed after becoming a Buffalo Bills fan right before they lost their third straight Super Bowl. The Notre Dame Fighting Irish finished ranked #2 in NCAA football, even though they'd beaten #1 Florida State during the regular season. Then the Buffalo Bills lost their second straight Super Bowl to the Dallas Cowboys, after leading at halftime and beating them in the regular season. The 2 seed Duke Blue Devils, led by #33 Grant Hill, lost the NCAA basketball championship to the 1 seed (and favored) Arkansas Razorbacks by four points. And the New York Knicks lost the NBA Finals, led by #33 Patrick Ewing, to the Houston Rockets. In seven games. After leading 3-2.
But there was one exception. The New York Rangers, my favorite ice hockey team, won the Stanley Cup for the first time in over 50 years. In seven games. Over Vancouver. I had only played ice hockey once at that point, on a pond near my grandfather's house in upstate New York. Pretty much by myself too. I wore their t-shirt in my school picture for seventh grade. I keep that picture in my wallet behind my driver's license so I remember where I came from. I forgot about the symbolism of the Rangers. Also, my cousin's and my grandfather, Ted, was a New York Ranger. Not a hockey player. A real ranger. Although he did play just about every sport.
When my cousin asked me which winter Olympic sport I would choose to play given the chance, I said ice hockey, even though they would all kick my butt in three seconds. I've played it the least out of any of those sports, but it's always been my favorite to play.
After the Rangers I admit that I never really cared about watching hockey. Also, I couldn't even watch that championship live, because we didn't have cable. We heard about it on the news afterward, so we knew when it happened, but it wasn't the same as watching it.
None of my other favorite teams won a championship until I was 16. Duke had already broken my heart two years earlier by blowing the championship against Connecticut, but then they won the NCAA finals against Arizona in 2001. Now that I think of it, I was thinking about that game earlier today for some reason. They had pulled off an insane rally against arch-rival Maryland in the semi-final to make it there. They were down 39-17 in the first half, and I was involved in the school play Anything Goes in the role of a Chinese gambler at the time, and we kept rushing to the rehearsal room in between scenes to get updates on the game, and I got home just in time to see them win and advance to the final, completing one of the greatest comebacks ever. And for the record, Duke does not represent the evil empire, because North Carolina has historically been better, and even had Michael Jordan, and was much better than Duke when I started rooting for Duke, and it took five years of my rooting for them for Duke to become better than North Carolina. Anyway, after Duke won that game, I stopped caring so much about the outcomes of games over which I had absolutely no control, and in the process, appreciating the show taking place in front of me that much more.
When the Red Sox made history by being the first team to come back from a 3-0 series hole against the Yankees in the ALCS baseball playoffs, it was extra magical not only because I detested the Yankees, but because my friend wanted them to win, and it was almost even better to see my friend's team beating the Yankees and ending their curse (which my team, the Mets, had helped to extend) than it would have been to see the Mets doing the same thing. That was years ago, and now I just appreciate the athletic displays of finesse and power, and get pumped up to enjoy my own body's abilities, however long they may stay with me.
Think about this: the two worst teams in football during the first year I watched were the Seattle Seahawks and New England Patriots, both going 2-14 in 1992-93. The Patriots went on to become one of the greatest dynasties in football (even though I hated them and it's been documented that they completely cheated during their championship years) and the Seattle Seahawks are finally the reigning champions, having just dominated Denver.
Anyway, during all of these discussions we saw a woman figure skating in the short program, and she was absolutely boggling our minds with her graceful acrobatic spins and twirls and stretches when she attempted a jump, spinning in the air like an angel... and then fell, tumbling onto the ice... and then effortlessly got back up again... and commenced to swirl and twirl and bend and fold her body into beautiful positions while spinning at light speed with divine GRACE, making us realize that we didn't give a flying **** that she had fallen a few seconds earlier. I loved her more than the perfect ones. She showed me the true meaning of life.
Then I rode the bus back home from Hoboken to Manhattan. I was listening to Iron Maiden, having reached the year 2000 on my chronological "my generation" playlist. Next, the song "Farmhouse" by Phish came on right as I saw a sign that said "Burlington." I am going to visit home next week for the first time since Christmas. Only a few more months until the lake.
Dance on the ice and jump even though everyone in the world might see you fall, and get back up again and blow us all away. We'll love you more for it. Trust me. It's more fun to root for the ones who make you wonder if they're ever going to win it, and it's that much more magical when they finally do.
Afterward we watched the Olympics and saw the figure skating portion. We talked about The Beatles and figure skating because my sister was obsessed with both the first time I saw the Winter Olympics, in 1994. I remember pretending to cry about Nancy Kerrigan losing the gold to Oksana Baiul because my sister cared and was crying about it. I also remember seeing an exhbition at Nassau Coliseum where this African-French woman named Surya Bonali did a back flip and a Frenchman named Philippe Canderloro did back-to-back back flips, and being very blown away. I also remember this really cute Japanese woman who finished fourth, Yuka Sato, and seeing her on television in Japan during my first week in Tokyo. We were channel surfing and she just happened to be doing an exhibition, seventeen years later.
We talked a lot about The Beatles and Billy Joel, because the first CD I ever owned and received as a gift was by Billy Joel. I had been bobbing my head to one of his radio songs while riding in the Nissan Quest in Baltimore, and my parents decided to give me his newest album for Christmas that year. Never mind the fact they were giving an album about a mid-life crisis to a 9 year old. Even though I secretly knew The Beatles were better overall, I viciously defended Billy Joel against the attacks of my imposing stubborn older sister, much to the amusement of fellow diners at many a rest area along the eastern seaboard.
We also talked about the first year I cared about sports, because the Olympics were on and the first year I saw the Olympics was also the first year I cared about professional sports. Every team that I seriously honest-to-God rooted for with all my heart finished second that year. That is, with two exceptions. The first was the New York Mets. They were the worst team in baseball, and the first team I seriously followed after becoming a Buffalo Bills fan right before they lost their third straight Super Bowl. The Notre Dame Fighting Irish finished ranked #2 in NCAA football, even though they'd beaten #1 Florida State during the regular season. Then the Buffalo Bills lost their second straight Super Bowl to the Dallas Cowboys, after leading at halftime and beating them in the regular season. The 2 seed Duke Blue Devils, led by #33 Grant Hill, lost the NCAA basketball championship to the 1 seed (and favored) Arkansas Razorbacks by four points. And the New York Knicks lost the NBA Finals, led by #33 Patrick Ewing, to the Houston Rockets. In seven games. After leading 3-2.
But there was one exception. The New York Rangers, my favorite ice hockey team, won the Stanley Cup for the first time in over 50 years. In seven games. Over Vancouver. I had only played ice hockey once at that point, on a pond near my grandfather's house in upstate New York. Pretty much by myself too. I wore their t-shirt in my school picture for seventh grade. I keep that picture in my wallet behind my driver's license so I remember where I came from. I forgot about the symbolism of the Rangers. Also, my cousin's and my grandfather, Ted, was a New York Ranger. Not a hockey player. A real ranger. Although he did play just about every sport.
When my cousin asked me which winter Olympic sport I would choose to play given the chance, I said ice hockey, even though they would all kick my butt in three seconds. I've played it the least out of any of those sports, but it's always been my favorite to play.
After the Rangers I admit that I never really cared about watching hockey. Also, I couldn't even watch that championship live, because we didn't have cable. We heard about it on the news afterward, so we knew when it happened, but it wasn't the same as watching it.
None of my other favorite teams won a championship until I was 16. Duke had already broken my heart two years earlier by blowing the championship against Connecticut, but then they won the NCAA finals against Arizona in 2001. Now that I think of it, I was thinking about that game earlier today for some reason. They had pulled off an insane rally against arch-rival Maryland in the semi-final to make it there. They were down 39-17 in the first half, and I was involved in the school play Anything Goes in the role of a Chinese gambler at the time, and we kept rushing to the rehearsal room in between scenes to get updates on the game, and I got home just in time to see them win and advance to the final, completing one of the greatest comebacks ever. And for the record, Duke does not represent the evil empire, because North Carolina has historically been better, and even had Michael Jordan, and was much better than Duke when I started rooting for Duke, and it took five years of my rooting for them for Duke to become better than North Carolina. Anyway, after Duke won that game, I stopped caring so much about the outcomes of games over which I had absolutely no control, and in the process, appreciating the show taking place in front of me that much more.
When the Red Sox made history by being the first team to come back from a 3-0 series hole against the Yankees in the ALCS baseball playoffs, it was extra magical not only because I detested the Yankees, but because my friend wanted them to win, and it was almost even better to see my friend's team beating the Yankees and ending their curse (which my team, the Mets, had helped to extend) than it would have been to see the Mets doing the same thing. That was years ago, and now I just appreciate the athletic displays of finesse and power, and get pumped up to enjoy my own body's abilities, however long they may stay with me.
Think about this: the two worst teams in football during the first year I watched were the Seattle Seahawks and New England Patriots, both going 2-14 in 1992-93. The Patriots went on to become one of the greatest dynasties in football (even though I hated them and it's been documented that they completely cheated during their championship years) and the Seattle Seahawks are finally the reigning champions, having just dominated Denver.
Anyway, during all of these discussions we saw a woman figure skating in the short program, and she was absolutely boggling our minds with her graceful acrobatic spins and twirls and stretches when she attempted a jump, spinning in the air like an angel... and then fell, tumbling onto the ice... and then effortlessly got back up again... and commenced to swirl and twirl and bend and fold her body into beautiful positions while spinning at light speed with divine GRACE, making us realize that we didn't give a flying **** that she had fallen a few seconds earlier. I loved her more than the perfect ones. She showed me the true meaning of life.
Then I rode the bus back home from Hoboken to Manhattan. I was listening to Iron Maiden, having reached the year 2000 on my chronological "my generation" playlist. Next, the song "Farmhouse" by Phish came on right as I saw a sign that said "Burlington." I am going to visit home next week for the first time since Christmas. Only a few more months until the lake.
Dance on the ice and jump even though everyone in the world might see you fall, and get back up again and blow us all away. We'll love you more for it. Trust me. It's more fun to root for the ones who make you wonder if they're ever going to win it, and it's that much more magical when they finally do.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Pay Taxes Up Front, Get a Big Refund
Intriguing day today.
I taught the first class about trends, and the book lists renewable resources (solar, wind, hydroelectric, natural gas and nuclear energy), genetic engineering, and text messaging among recent trends.
During the second class I gave them a quick history lesson based on Presidents' Day. I asked how many presidents they knew, taught them a few more important ones whose contributions can be directly experienced even now, and explained how much power a president really has. Somewhere in there I began discussing approval ratings and how polls worked.
Later, I was in between loads of laundry when my cell phone rang and I realized it was a polling agency. I was being polled for the first time in my life, even though I've been of voting age for eleven years. They mostly asked me about New York politics, about which I knew next to nothing. Even so, they did ask me a little about national politics, my approval of the president and his health care reform, and if I supported subsidies for renewable energy resources, such as solar, wind, hydroelectric, natural gas and nuclear.
The poll was very long, perhaps fifteen minutes, but completed just in time for me to get my laundry. As I pulled the load out of the dryer, a young man next to me was making strange stressed out faces, indicating he was bothered by something. Luckily, his expression hinted that he expected I would agree with him about whatever was stressing him, as opposed to being the reason he was stressed. I removed my headphones, and he began complaining about how rude business employees are in New York City. Apparently he had asked if the dryers I was about to empty were available, and he had gotten an annoyed, rude reply from a laundromat worker. It was a little awkward because I was just rolling up my clothes and getting ready to go, but he kept going, and I let him vent about the whole city and how businesses act like they are doing you a favor by selling you something when in reality you are doing them a favor because you could easily go somewhere else to buy what you want, yet they still treat you like nothing anyway.
Soon he moved on to the whole New York City syndrome: no matter where you come from, when you move here you start walking fast with self-importance, trying to beat everyone else to the punch, and getting sucked into this "be a hard tough New Yorker" role-play that affects everyone. "Even the people who move here from somewhere totally different become like that!" I considered that point heavily. I've been back four months, and although I am adapting and inherently assimilating to some degree, lately I feel like I have been tapping into a larger energy that transcends this city and everything anybody supposed it could be.
Then he put on a humorous display of people running too fast. I admitted that I like to walk fast and run up stairs anyway, so I probably was guilty of that, but I knew what he meant.
"Everybody only looks out for themselves," I interjected.
"Yeah. Nobody helps anybody. But if you do something for someone, it comes back to you ten times over! I'm serious. The universe knows what's going on and inside, in here, you're in the right place, and if you do something, anything, good for other people, it comes back ten times over. You will get helped ten times more than just that one little thing you did for someone else." He was very passionate about this point.
While he talked I realized just how strange this was that he just started talking to me in the number one place (besides the subway) where everybody avoids speech and minds their own business, yet it made perfect sense, because he, like me, was sick of it. I realized God was talking to me through the voice of a stranger, and that this was no accident. I was structuring his life and he was structuring mine.
As we walked out I asked him his name. "Zo," he said, shaking my hand.
"Ben."
"I'm not sure if you were supposed to receive this message or believe it--" he began, but I cut him off.
"I've been to India, China, lived in California. I know what you mean, and I believe it too."
He said, "I think you just smiled at the right time or something and that's why it came to you."
Then I went home and cooked food that I don't think came from genetically modified methods, but it's hard to tell sometimes. Then I paid my taxes, making today a very citizen-themed day for sure. Even better, I am getting a large refund, the best part of having a low income.
After that my friend text messaged me a lot, which is a rare occurrence, because I'm not really a verbose guy when it comes to texting. Then again, in class earlier that day we had lauded the advantage of texting as a free way to communicate, so I guess everything fit together beautifully, yet again.
I taught the first class about trends, and the book lists renewable resources (solar, wind, hydroelectric, natural gas and nuclear energy), genetic engineering, and text messaging among recent trends.
During the second class I gave them a quick history lesson based on Presidents' Day. I asked how many presidents they knew, taught them a few more important ones whose contributions can be directly experienced even now, and explained how much power a president really has. Somewhere in there I began discussing approval ratings and how polls worked.
Later, I was in between loads of laundry when my cell phone rang and I realized it was a polling agency. I was being polled for the first time in my life, even though I've been of voting age for eleven years. They mostly asked me about New York politics, about which I knew next to nothing. Even so, they did ask me a little about national politics, my approval of the president and his health care reform, and if I supported subsidies for renewable energy resources, such as solar, wind, hydroelectric, natural gas and nuclear.
The poll was very long, perhaps fifteen minutes, but completed just in time for me to get my laundry. As I pulled the load out of the dryer, a young man next to me was making strange stressed out faces, indicating he was bothered by something. Luckily, his expression hinted that he expected I would agree with him about whatever was stressing him, as opposed to being the reason he was stressed. I removed my headphones, and he began complaining about how rude business employees are in New York City. Apparently he had asked if the dryers I was about to empty were available, and he had gotten an annoyed, rude reply from a laundromat worker. It was a little awkward because I was just rolling up my clothes and getting ready to go, but he kept going, and I let him vent about the whole city and how businesses act like they are doing you a favor by selling you something when in reality you are doing them a favor because you could easily go somewhere else to buy what you want, yet they still treat you like nothing anyway.
Soon he moved on to the whole New York City syndrome: no matter where you come from, when you move here you start walking fast with self-importance, trying to beat everyone else to the punch, and getting sucked into this "be a hard tough New Yorker" role-play that affects everyone. "Even the people who move here from somewhere totally different become like that!" I considered that point heavily. I've been back four months, and although I am adapting and inherently assimilating to some degree, lately I feel like I have been tapping into a larger energy that transcends this city and everything anybody supposed it could be.
Then he put on a humorous display of people running too fast. I admitted that I like to walk fast and run up stairs anyway, so I probably was guilty of that, but I knew what he meant.
"Everybody only looks out for themselves," I interjected.
"Yeah. Nobody helps anybody. But if you do something for someone, it comes back to you ten times over! I'm serious. The universe knows what's going on and inside, in here, you're in the right place, and if you do something, anything, good for other people, it comes back ten times over. You will get helped ten times more than just that one little thing you did for someone else." He was very passionate about this point.
While he talked I realized just how strange this was that he just started talking to me in the number one place (besides the subway) where everybody avoids speech and minds their own business, yet it made perfect sense, because he, like me, was sick of it. I realized God was talking to me through the voice of a stranger, and that this was no accident. I was structuring his life and he was structuring mine.
As we walked out I asked him his name. "Zo," he said, shaking my hand.
"Ben."
"I'm not sure if you were supposed to receive this message or believe it--" he began, but I cut him off.
"I've been to India, China, lived in California. I know what you mean, and I believe it too."
He said, "I think you just smiled at the right time or something and that's why it came to you."
Then I went home and cooked food that I don't think came from genetically modified methods, but it's hard to tell sometimes. Then I paid my taxes, making today a very citizen-themed day for sure. Even better, I am getting a large refund, the best part of having a low income.
After that my friend text messaged me a lot, which is a rare occurrence, because I'm not really a verbose guy when it comes to texting. Then again, in class earlier that day we had lauded the advantage of texting as a free way to communicate, so I guess everything fit together beautifully, yet again.
Monday, February 17, 2014
A President's Day
A president is a person who presides.
To preside is to exercise management or control; or to occupy a position as an instrumentalist.
Today is Presidents' Day.
Preside over your life.
Elect yourself the president.
I think presidents always fascinated me not because they controlled the lives of others, but because they controlled their own lives. As a child, that seemed to be an amazing potential experience.
I am older now and realize that such a sentiment is naive on many levels. To blame the president for your reality is just as misplaced as to praise him.
And even if you are not the president, and simply preside over your perception, ask yourself: who is the I seeing through the eye? Or is it the eye seeing through the I?
The president is the chief executive.
Someone else makes the laws.
A president makes sure they happen.
To preside is to exercise management or control; or to occupy a position as an instrumentalist.
Today is Presidents' Day.
Preside over your life.
Elect yourself the president.
I think presidents always fascinated me not because they controlled the lives of others, but because they controlled their own lives. As a child, that seemed to be an amazing potential experience.
I am older now and realize that such a sentiment is naive on many levels. To blame the president for your reality is just as misplaced as to praise him.
And even if you are not the president, and simply preside over your perception, ask yourself: who is the I seeing through the eye? Or is it the eye seeing through the I?
The president is the chief executive.
Someone else makes the laws.
A president makes sure they happen.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Thursday, February 13, 2014
"Poems in Pictures"
There is a piece of paper on my desk that I can see whenever I am on my computer. There is much written on this piece of paper. It is from one of my small pocket-sized notebooks I used in Japan. I always had a notebook in my pocket back then. This page was from my final week in the country. I believe I made these notes in Osaka. Maybe some of them were from Tokyo. I remember looking at part of the page while on a train stopped in Kyoto en route to Hamamatsu and then Tokyo at the end of a week of exploring new cities before going home, but I think I'd already taken some of the notes earlier. Anyway, the notes consist of signs I saw around me. Anytime I saw an advertisement or words anywhere that caught my eye in a way that gave me a message of hope or inspiration, I wrote it down. I also wrote down any songs that synchronized with the signs.
This morning I woke up at 6 am because I am substituting for another teacher for five classes while he is on vacation. I was happy to see that even though it had snowed during the night, it wasn't currently snowing. That changed after my shower, because it was a full-blown blizzard, with horizontal fast-moving snow blowing against my whole walk to work. It even seemed to change directions ninety degrees any time I made a turn. Even so, I smiled for most of the walk. I was in a great mood. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I've been drinking more green tea each day. Maybe it's because I'm doing push ups and curls every other day. Probably it's because I've resumed hour long walks each night. Maybe it's because I've been reading over the writing that flowed through me from the mystery magic when I was deciding to move back here a few months ago. Maybe starting the week by watching several videos of The Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne got me a little extra jazzed about life again. Maybe it's because I'm reading a great book, Lunch with Buddha, the sequel to Breakfast with Buddha, the first book I read in my new apartment in San Francisco.
I love the Rinpoche character, the holy man in the book. He fills me with a mature sense of childlike wonder at the world, something I've had inside of me forever, but has become hidden at times because of circumstance. Spiritual training involves preventing that hiding from taking place, but it happens because I'm a human. The childlike wonder doesn't mean behaving like a child. It just means childlike wonder; being amazed by the beauty of being. Snowy days like today always bring back that feeling. Speaking of which, I've been listening to a playlist of all the music I used to listen to in the 1990s when I was a young teenager, partly out of nostalgia, mostly because it's good music. Strangely, I've been in a great mood even though the music is depressing. I'm focusing less on the sad or angry emotions and instead tuning into to the beats and appreciating the distorted guitars (I listened to rock music exclusively as a teenager).
The walk began with live music from Nirvana, but then segued into a few songs from They Might Be Giants' Factory Showroom, a slightly different vibe, but still full of energy. In fact, I became so energetic that I decided to just start jogging during one of the final stretches to the train. And of course--no, I didn't fall, I have amazing balance on snow--the music cut out and I knew exactly what had happened because the same thing had happened on a sunny day a couple weeks earlier, the last time I decided to jog in the snow. My iPod was no longer in my pocket. This time, there was fresh snow on the ground, so it could easily have sunken beneath. It was also a busy corner, so nobody cared that I was clearly searching frantically for something as they all walked by me, probably trampling it for all I knew. Luckily, another pedestrian noticed my predicament and asked me what I had dropped, and then began looking for it with me, swiping snow around with our shoes. After three minutes the kind stranger unearthed my most faithful spreader of musical heavens. I don't remember his name, but I do remember that he is from Azerbaijan and apparently couldn't have been in too much of a hurry. He smiled a lot, and I will remember the kindness of a stranger whenever I hear the music.
This morning I woke up at 6 am because I am substituting for another teacher for five classes while he is on vacation. I was happy to see that even though it had snowed during the night, it wasn't currently snowing. That changed after my shower, because it was a full-blown blizzard, with horizontal fast-moving snow blowing against my whole walk to work. It even seemed to change directions ninety degrees any time I made a turn. Even so, I smiled for most of the walk. I was in a great mood. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I've been drinking more green tea each day. Maybe it's because I'm doing push ups and curls every other day. Probably it's because I've resumed hour long walks each night. Maybe it's because I've been reading over the writing that flowed through me from the mystery magic when I was deciding to move back here a few months ago. Maybe starting the week by watching several videos of The Flaming Lips' Wayne Coyne got me a little extra jazzed about life again. Maybe it's because I'm reading a great book, Lunch with Buddha, the sequel to Breakfast with Buddha, the first book I read in my new apartment in San Francisco.
I love the Rinpoche character, the holy man in the book. He fills me with a mature sense of childlike wonder at the world, something I've had inside of me forever, but has become hidden at times because of circumstance. Spiritual training involves preventing that hiding from taking place, but it happens because I'm a human. The childlike wonder doesn't mean behaving like a child. It just means childlike wonder; being amazed by the beauty of being. Snowy days like today always bring back that feeling. Speaking of which, I've been listening to a playlist of all the music I used to listen to in the 1990s when I was a young teenager, partly out of nostalgia, mostly because it's good music. Strangely, I've been in a great mood even though the music is depressing. I'm focusing less on the sad or angry emotions and instead tuning into to the beats and appreciating the distorted guitars (I listened to rock music exclusively as a teenager).
The walk began with live music from Nirvana, but then segued into a few songs from They Might Be Giants' Factory Showroom, a slightly different vibe, but still full of energy. In fact, I became so energetic that I decided to just start jogging during one of the final stretches to the train. And of course--no, I didn't fall, I have amazing balance on snow--the music cut out and I knew exactly what had happened because the same thing had happened on a sunny day a couple weeks earlier, the last time I decided to jog in the snow. My iPod was no longer in my pocket. This time, there was fresh snow on the ground, so it could easily have sunken beneath. It was also a busy corner, so nobody cared that I was clearly searching frantically for something as they all walked by me, probably trampling it for all I knew. Luckily, another pedestrian noticed my predicament and asked me what I had dropped, and then began looking for it with me, swiping snow around with our shoes. After three minutes the kind stranger unearthed my most faithful spreader of musical heavens. I don't remember his name, but I do remember that he is from Azerbaijan and apparently couldn't have been in too much of a hurry. He smiled a lot, and I will remember the kindness of a stranger whenever I hear the music.
Now, about this piece of paper I can see on my desk...
The first message at the top of the paper says: "Passport around the world."
Then it says, "Takara."
My fortune cookie this evening read:
"You see pictures in poems and poems in pictures"
"
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Steps
"I had to learn, as I soon did, that one must give up everything and not do anything else but write, that one must write and write and write, even if everybody in the world advises you against it, even if nobody believes in you. Perhaps one does it just because nobody believes; perhaps the real secret lies in making people believe."
I took a walk last night and wound up at Columbia University, the same brilliant school where Barack Obama graduated from college and Jack Kerouac dropped out to have adventures and write brilliant books. I was on a long walk from the Upper West Side to Harlem when I was lured in by these beautifully adorned trees lining a promenade beyond elegant gates. I had been to Columbia before. In fact, the last time I went to Columbia was during one of my last weeks in New York the first time I lived here. I saw Christopher O'Riley perform Radiohead songs on the piano.
I noticed these monumental steps leading up to the library. I jogged up them just like Rocky, and was about to pump my fists when I noticed a sign on the door that said "Graduate Writing Program." I also noticed a security guard opening the door for people and asking them questions, which seemed strange for a library. I approached the door and the guard asked me, "Are you a writer or an agent?"
"Writer," I replied, without hesitation. He let me in. I realized then that this was a special event, and confirmed that truth when I saw a sign reading, "Columbia Graduate Writing Program: Agents & Writers Mixer." I knew I wasn't supposed to be there, but I figured it couldn't hurt to walk around and explore a little. Then again, I looked a little out of place. I had on my large green winter jacket, blue army issue winter cap, a neck warmer, and of course, my trusty enormous Bose headphones, which seconds before had been blaring the punk societal bashing of the Offspring.
I walked up a few steps to see two tables with name tags stationed by people running the event. Between these two tables were doors leading into the sort of fancy main room that tends to appear in most Ivy League libraries. I peaked inside and saw many well-dressed people sipping champagne and wine and doing the sort of network schmoozing that is probably pretty harmless but generally confuses me. I thought back to my classes in school, which, while beneficial, certainly had their limits. The professors sometimes gave helpful guidance, but even then, they were writers themselves, expressing their own inner truths. The best professor I had, Dan McCall, said on the first day that he couldn't teach people how to write. He said that nobody could. But we could always learn from other writers by reading them, and by living life, and talking about things we know. He also loved Ernest Hemingway:
Hemingway: "No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure."
Pender: "Can I ask you the biggest favor in the world? Would you read it?"
Hemingway: "You're novel?"
Pender: "Yeah, it's like 400 pages long, and I'm just looking for, just an opinion."
Hemingway: "My opinion is I hate it."
Pender: "I mean, you haven't even read it."
Hemingway: "If it's bad, I'll hate it because I hate bad writing. If it's good I'll be envious and hate it all the more. You don't want the opinion of another writer."
Pender: "You know what it is, I'm just having a hard time trusting someone to evaluate it."
Hemingway (leans in): "Writers, are competitive!"
Pender: "I'm not going to be competitive with you." (smiling)
Hemingway: "You're too self-effacing. It's not manly. If you're a writer [pounds the table with his fist], declare yourself the best writer! But you're not as long as I'm around. Unless you want to put the gloves on and settle it."
-from the movie Midnight in Paris
The people behind the first table asked me if I was an alumnus, and I simply stood back and motioned for the people behind me to go ahead while I checked out the other table. None of the badges had my name on them, because I never asked anyone if I could join their writing program, and I definitely hadn't paid any institutions to teach me writing since college. That is, not counting fines from the New York Public Library. I had barely been there two minutes before I turned around and walked back outside, smiling at the security guard and event coordinator who must have been somewhat confused to see me enter and leave just as quickly.
An agent is necessary, yes, but I had not been invited to that party. The debts from my previous Ivy experience have made inclusion in such an atmosphere pretty much financially impossible at this point. Besides, all that matters it that the words work well with each other. A poem e-mailed to me by a friend came to mind:
"Hide not your talents. They for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?"
Then I continued my walk up to Harlem beneath the shining moon.
- Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn
I took a walk last night and wound up at Columbia University, the same brilliant school where Barack Obama graduated from college and Jack Kerouac dropped out to have adventures and write brilliant books. I was on a long walk from the Upper West Side to Harlem when I was lured in by these beautifully adorned trees lining a promenade beyond elegant gates. I had been to Columbia before. In fact, the last time I went to Columbia was during one of my last weeks in New York the first time I lived here. I saw Christopher O'Riley perform Radiohead songs on the piano.
I noticed these monumental steps leading up to the library. I jogged up them just like Rocky, and was about to pump my fists when I noticed a sign on the door that said "Graduate Writing Program." I also noticed a security guard opening the door for people and asking them questions, which seemed strange for a library. I approached the door and the guard asked me, "Are you a writer or an agent?"
"Writer," I replied, without hesitation. He let me in. I realized then that this was a special event, and confirmed that truth when I saw a sign reading, "Columbia Graduate Writing Program: Agents & Writers Mixer." I knew I wasn't supposed to be there, but I figured it couldn't hurt to walk around and explore a little. Then again, I looked a little out of place. I had on my large green winter jacket, blue army issue winter cap, a neck warmer, and of course, my trusty enormous Bose headphones, which seconds before had been blaring the punk societal bashing of the Offspring.
I walked up a few steps to see two tables with name tags stationed by people running the event. Between these two tables were doors leading into the sort of fancy main room that tends to appear in most Ivy League libraries. I peaked inside and saw many well-dressed people sipping champagne and wine and doing the sort of network schmoozing that is probably pretty harmless but generally confuses me. I thought back to my classes in school, which, while beneficial, certainly had their limits. The professors sometimes gave helpful guidance, but even then, they were writers themselves, expressing their own inner truths. The best professor I had, Dan McCall, said on the first day that he couldn't teach people how to write. He said that nobody could. But we could always learn from other writers by reading them, and by living life, and talking about things we know. He also loved Ernest Hemingway:
Hemingway: "No subject is terrible if the story is true, if the prose is clean and honest, and if it affirms courage and grace under pressure."
Pender: "Can I ask you the biggest favor in the world? Would you read it?"
Hemingway: "You're novel?"
Pender: "Yeah, it's like 400 pages long, and I'm just looking for, just an opinion."
Hemingway: "My opinion is I hate it."
Pender: "I mean, you haven't even read it."
Hemingway: "If it's bad, I'll hate it because I hate bad writing. If it's good I'll be envious and hate it all the more. You don't want the opinion of another writer."
Pender: "You know what it is, I'm just having a hard time trusting someone to evaluate it."
Hemingway (leans in): "Writers, are competitive!"
Pender: "I'm not going to be competitive with you." (smiling)
Hemingway: "You're too self-effacing. It's not manly. If you're a writer [pounds the table with his fist], declare yourself the best writer! But you're not as long as I'm around. Unless you want to put the gloves on and settle it."
-from the movie Midnight in Paris
The people behind the first table asked me if I was an alumnus, and I simply stood back and motioned for the people behind me to go ahead while I checked out the other table. None of the badges had my name on them, because I never asked anyone if I could join their writing program, and I definitely hadn't paid any institutions to teach me writing since college. That is, not counting fines from the New York Public Library. I had barely been there two minutes before I turned around and walked back outside, smiling at the security guard and event coordinator who must have been somewhat confused to see me enter and leave just as quickly.
An agent is necessary, yes, but I had not been invited to that party. The debts from my previous Ivy experience have made inclusion in such an atmosphere pretty much financially impossible at this point. Besides, all that matters it that the words work well with each other. A poem e-mailed to me by a friend came to mind:
"Hide not your talents. They for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?"
-Benjamin Franklin
Then I continued my walk up to Harlem beneath the shining moon.
To write is to write is to write is to write
is to write is to write is to write is to write
is to write is to write is to write is to write
is to write is to write is to write.
- Gertrude Stein
- Gertrude Stein
Happy Birthday, Abraham Lincoln!
Writing--the art of communicating thoughts to the mind, through the eye, which is the great invention of the world. Great in the astonishing range of analysis and combination which necessarily underlies the most crude and general conception of it--great, very great in enabling us to converse with the dead, the absent, and the unborn, at all distances of time and of space; and great, not only in its direct benefits, but of greatest help, to all other inventions... Its utility may be conceived, by the reflection, that to it we owe everything which distinguishes us from savages. Take it from us, all history, all science, all government, all commerce, and nearly all social intercourse go with it."
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
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