And not just in the Village at 3:00am. No, for the price of donation you can visit the Museum Of Natural History on the upper west side and get your safari on. My daughter Ella, is two and a half and she's been stalking big game there (and their butter cookies from the cafeteria) since she was a crawler.
Now, as the winter months approach E and I will be spending more and more time there, since on any cold frozen weekend, the museum's a pretty cool place to graze. But the deal is, we're not the only Animal Kingdom buffs looking to avoid frigid Jan temps looking at water buffalo.
Nope, come any Sunday from now until April and any trip you take to MNH you are taking your life in your hands. In addition to the already naturally occurring masses of animals which populate the place, there's a number of holiday-season migratory clusters of beasts you won't find gaily depicted in your Audubon guide.
For starters, there's Touristo Maximus. You'll see them congregate in large groups, moving in mind-numbing slowness from exhibit...to exhibit...to exhibit. Note the large size of the males, fortified against the cold from a steady diet of high calorie sticky-carbs---buns, bars 'n cakes.
And be on the lookout for Pre-Teenus Destructus. These fast moving candi-vores drive en masse from one brightly colored exhibition to the next, sweeping away debris, people, stuffed alligators and whatever else stands in their way. Typically innocuous, they march steadily like a army ants pausing only when in proximity to the next sugar-laden snack they encounter. Do not, I repeat do not try and hide any solid or liquid containing sugar on your person if you find yourself in the oncoming path of PTD's. I have seen grown men stripped of all clothing and pride, leaving nothing but a crumpled Snickers wrapper on the floor where they once stood proudly.
Also to be wary of is Mom-us Overstressus. This species wears a clever kind of camouflage, draping their entire body in children's coats, mini-strollers and Dora The Explorer action figures. If you look closely however, you can just make out a single arm protruding from the mass attached to one of their 1.4 to 2.5 offspring. The female (they travel alone, males are rarely seen) can be marked by her call--a desperate, high-pitched call of alarm, which sounds something like "INEEDADRINK--INEEDADRINK".
So, in to that teeming sprawl of urb-animals, E and I are making the rounds. In fact, we're just coming out of the Ocean Hall Of Life, when she wriggles away from me and jets off. Now, I don't know if its the proportion of her two and half year old's body, maybe the low center of gravity combined with the piston like action she generates with her legs or perhaps its being around those feline jungle cats--but that girl is fast. Not to mention, her closing speed i.e., her speed of acceleration+the cookie/cool thing she sees=is incredible.
And that's exactly what happens. I put her down, she decides she's going to check out the Mountain Gorillas and hello closing speed aka Warp Factor Ella. So off she goes like Road Runner, my eyes doing the quick L-R scan for trouble, when my radar picks up a variable--a lone animal has strayed from its pack. Grampus Oldtimerus.
And he's moving s...l...o...w. And Ella's headed right for him. Now parenting, if nothing else is a constant crash course in engineering, physics, and a buncha other sh*t I missed in high school. But you do learn this--a well aimed toddler, moving at x amount of speed can take down an object as least five times their height (not weight) if they are applied properly to a structurally weak area. In this case, the structure was an 80 yr old. Unaided by any kind of walking support device.
And even though Ella's only five feet from me, they are on a perfect course to intersect one another. I mean, she's headed straight for the knees, classic position to drop him like a bad prom date. And to add a little more suspense--he's a bull Grampus. Even hunched over, he's easily six feet tall. Now, I'm watching the whole thing in 'ProtecoDad-Vision', which is a highly developed kind of sight that captures events at 1000th its normal speed so you can begin to experience the soul-crippling trauma a hundredth of a second before it actually occurs.
Which is right, about...now.
Ella hits his knees, just as I get there to grab him by the elbow to keep him from 9/11'ing to the floor, as he just-that-moment feels Ella beneath him and hits r-e-v-e-r-s-e. Now, things slow down even more and I watch Ella carom off his knee, but never lose her balance, giggle and keep running. Disaster number one, avoided: child is alive. Repeat, child is still alive. But I still have him by the elbow, in case he falls. And E's still running...away. So I get another hand on his opposite arm so I can keep him both a.upright and b. move past him.
So now I'm holding him and he's holding me and we're locked in some kind of dance neighter one of us expected to be in my own momentum pulling me past him as I mutter 'I'm sorry, my fault, my fault...'.
And now he's fully aware of what almost happened so he's holding on to my arms, and he repeats 'my fault, my fault'. And then, he starts laughing. Old Timer is laughing. That kind of old, deep, seen-it-all laugh that's like, older than most of the exhibits there.
There we are. Face to face. Holding each other. And he looks right at me and says 'Its no one's fault. And he looks over at Ella, beautiful little unsuspecting Ella with her pigtails and he goes "Lucky you...", and then my momentum carries me away and a moment later I'm holding Ella and I can hear his voice echo in my ears, down the hallway, in to every exhibit there "Its no one's fault".
And I get it. Its no one's fault. All of it, none of it, some of it. Its no one's fault. So yeah, its a jungle out there. But if you're lucky, every once in awhile you get face to face with one of those truly real encounters with nature.
Those painfully too real moments we try to avoid like 'chasing-down-my-dauther-I-found-myself-waltzing-with-a-six-foot-two-eighty-year-old-man'. But in those moments full of tigers and lions and bears oh my, sometimes you can find out just what kind of creatures we really are.
Nov 20, 2006
Jul 24, 2006
My Two Year Old Daughter Is Michael Jackson...
...okay think circa ten year old Michael, not the shiver-up-your-spine mental picture of the Thing which calls itself MJ and looks decidedly less life-like than its wax counter part at Madame Tussaus. And no, I will not be purchasing Ella her own personal chimpanze to do her every bidding. That's my job.
So, how exactly did my bubbly little Elmo-loving toddler become an "Automatic systematic, full of color self contained, tune that shadow to your vibes..." Dancin' Machine? Well, "Blame It On The Boogie"(Warning: MJ song reference). Okay, I had to do that, sorry.
So El's in her high chair giving a bowl of peas and carrots the once over when suddenly she stops cold--I thought she'd traffic-jammed a pea/carrot in her throat. Well, I'd left itunes playing on the IMac--pretty diverse collection of stuff--U2, Aretha Franklin, Bach and lo and behold, The Jackson Five singing their 1970 hit, I Want You Back (When I had you to myself, I didn't want you around. Those pretty faces always made you stand out in a crowd....I want you back!). You'll see in a minute why I can now recall lyrics with the same dazzling speed I could once down an entire frozen margarita, read on.
Ella just freezes and listens to the song, looks at me and goes "Ella dance with dada...". Being a lifelong RB/Motown fan and not especially a tireless advocate of mixed vegetable medleys I lift El out of her seat and she kind of dances/runs around in circles in front of the computer. Song ends, Ella points to the IMac "Morrre".
So I hook her up. More circles. I tell her its Michael Jackson, then the questions "Dada, talk more about Michael Jackson". I decide any conversations detailing MJ's tragic lapse from childhood prodigy to anorexic, wax-faced pedophile, home zookeeper are better left to her mother. I foocus on happier times telling Ella about little Michael and his brothers, Randy, Jermaine, Tito and Marlon.
Well, we listen to I Want You Back about five times in a row. She's showing no signs of let up so I figure maybe I can find a video of her new friend. Well, easy as "ABC, 123" (yeah, buckle up I'll be cleverly inserting song titles in to the rest of this entry now that I've found a thematic narrative device to drag you along...) I find the Jackson Five singing their hit I Want You Back on the Ed Sullivan Show, 1970. The clip comes on and you'd think Tickle Me Elmo had suddenly appeared in the room. El goes ab-so-lutely quiet.
There's little Michael all of ten years old in flare bottom pants, boots a vest and purple hat pulled down over his 'fro. His brothers are there, the five of them hitting each choreographed dance step like they were born to be doing this Michael even at ten, more effortless than his siblings. And El is transfixed. It ends. She just goes "Morrre".
I hit play. We watch it eight times in a row (I'm not kidding) before she comes up for air. I download another video, The Jackson Five ten years later doing Dancing Machine on Soul Train. Armed with both videos for reference, El immediately constructs her own Michael timeline divided in to "Little Michael" (e.g. I Want You Back) and "Big Michael" (Dancing Machine).
Two days later it starts. We're laying in bed and hear Ella rustling in her crib. I look up, as she pulls herself to standing position and her first words of the morning are "Ella Michael Jackson wants juice...". My wife's eyes pop open. Yeah, you heard her right. Your two year old daughter now refers to herself as Ella Michael Jackson as in: Ella Michael Jackson hungry/wants to go out/is tired.
That lasted weeks. Months? Times a blur when you live with a celebrity. Daily viewings of the videos become so frequent my wife and I began to speak in clipped lyrics, she: "When I had you to myself...", me: "Now its much to late for me...".
Ella discovers if she whacks hard enough on the IMac's keyboard the vid starts up from the beginning. So essentially, after week two she really only needs her parents to prepare meals and download more videos. One morning my wife decides to draw a line in the sand with her gloved hand.
As the last chorus of I Want You Back fades, Ann says "Okay Ella no more Michael Jackson this morning...", at which point Ella bursts in to tears and melts in to a toddler-pool of swirling hysterics not unlike the Wicked Witch when Dorothy hosed her down.
Ann turns to me, face awash with motherly concern and asks "What should we do?". At this point we're in to like a month straight of Ella Michael Jackson. The metamorphasis has become complete. I figure soon she'll be moon walking to her play dates, next step find her some back up singers.
I look at Ella on the floor inconsolable, crying. See the real worry etching itself on to my wife's lovely face. And I realize its time to step up and be both a strong father and a supportive husband. I take Ann's hand, "You need to turn down the treble on I Want You Back, Michael sounds pitchy...".
You know, parenting is all about patience and understanding. We've managed to ration E down to about one viewing a day of MJ. And its only vintage, adorable "Do You Remember The Time?" lovable MJ. When the time comes to explain to E that she and her videotic best friend both share a similar penchant for furry chimps and five year old's on play dates, well as I said before her mother will explain.
And we've expanded E's dance repertoire. To her concentric circle-running and one legged jumps for I Want You Back I added the robot. At the first bridge to Dancing Machine Ella hits it perfectly, old school style. Moves her little arms up and down and her head back and forth while keeping her eyes still.
I don't think there's any hyperbolic sleep chambers in her future and since we can't install a full-size ferris wheel in our one room apartment any aspirations for an Upper West Side version of Neverland Ranch will go unrealized.
There is however a really cute three year old friend of E's, Shayna. Natural sense of rhythm and totally adorable. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd ever exploit my own daughter's innocent love of dance and song in to something crass and commercial. I'm not even suggesting that there's a market out there for a song/dance group of two to three year olds who, with the right supporting father behind them could leverage a development deal with say Disney for a demo cd with either a product tie-in like "Grrl Group Barbie" or a promo give away like free Magic Pony's who sing the group's first ballad "Pamper Me..." when you pull their tail.
No, I'm not suggesting that. But if you're the parent of a two or three year old who can clap to the beat and sing back up, email me....
So, how exactly did my bubbly little Elmo-loving toddler become an "Automatic systematic, full of color self contained, tune that shadow to your vibes..." Dancin' Machine? Well, "Blame It On The Boogie"(Warning: MJ song reference). Okay, I had to do that, sorry.
So El's in her high chair giving a bowl of peas and carrots the once over when suddenly she stops cold--I thought she'd traffic-jammed a pea/carrot in her throat. Well, I'd left itunes playing on the IMac--pretty diverse collection of stuff--U2, Aretha Franklin, Bach and lo and behold, The Jackson Five singing their 1970 hit, I Want You Back (When I had you to myself, I didn't want you around. Those pretty faces always made you stand out in a crowd....I want you back!). You'll see in a minute why I can now recall lyrics with the same dazzling speed I could once down an entire frozen margarita, read on.
Ella just freezes and listens to the song, looks at me and goes "Ella dance with dada...". Being a lifelong RB/Motown fan and not especially a tireless advocate of mixed vegetable medleys I lift El out of her seat and she kind of dances/runs around in circles in front of the computer. Song ends, Ella points to the IMac "Morrre".
So I hook her up. More circles. I tell her its Michael Jackson, then the questions "Dada, talk more about Michael Jackson". I decide any conversations detailing MJ's tragic lapse from childhood prodigy to anorexic, wax-faced pedophile, home zookeeper are better left to her mother. I foocus on happier times telling Ella about little Michael and his brothers, Randy, Jermaine, Tito and Marlon.
Well, we listen to I Want You Back about five times in a row. She's showing no signs of let up so I figure maybe I can find a video of her new friend. Well, easy as "ABC, 123" (yeah, buckle up I'll be cleverly inserting song titles in to the rest of this entry now that I've found a thematic narrative device to drag you along...) I find the Jackson Five singing their hit I Want You Back on the Ed Sullivan Show, 1970. The clip comes on and you'd think Tickle Me Elmo had suddenly appeared in the room. El goes ab-so-lutely quiet.
There's little Michael all of ten years old in flare bottom pants, boots a vest and purple hat pulled down over his 'fro. His brothers are there, the five of them hitting each choreographed dance step like they were born to be doing this Michael even at ten, more effortless than his siblings. And El is transfixed. It ends. She just goes "Morrre".
I hit play. We watch it eight times in a row (I'm not kidding) before she comes up for air. I download another video, The Jackson Five ten years later doing Dancing Machine on Soul Train. Armed with both videos for reference, El immediately constructs her own Michael timeline divided in to "Little Michael" (e.g. I Want You Back) and "Big Michael" (Dancing Machine).
Two days later it starts. We're laying in bed and hear Ella rustling in her crib. I look up, as she pulls herself to standing position and her first words of the morning are "Ella Michael Jackson wants juice...". My wife's eyes pop open. Yeah, you heard her right. Your two year old daughter now refers to herself as Ella Michael Jackson as in: Ella Michael Jackson hungry/wants to go out/is tired.
That lasted weeks. Months? Times a blur when you live with a celebrity. Daily viewings of the videos become so frequent my wife and I began to speak in clipped lyrics, she: "When I had you to myself...", me: "Now its much to late for me...".
Ella discovers if she whacks hard enough on the IMac's keyboard the vid starts up from the beginning. So essentially, after week two she really only needs her parents to prepare meals and download more videos. One morning my wife decides to draw a line in the sand with her gloved hand.
As the last chorus of I Want You Back fades, Ann says "Okay Ella no more Michael Jackson this morning...", at which point Ella bursts in to tears and melts in to a toddler-pool of swirling hysterics not unlike the Wicked Witch when Dorothy hosed her down.
Ann turns to me, face awash with motherly concern and asks "What should we do?". At this point we're in to like a month straight of Ella Michael Jackson. The metamorphasis has become complete. I figure soon she'll be moon walking to her play dates, next step find her some back up singers.
I look at Ella on the floor inconsolable, crying. See the real worry etching itself on to my wife's lovely face. And I realize its time to step up and be both a strong father and a supportive husband. I take Ann's hand, "You need to turn down the treble on I Want You Back, Michael sounds pitchy...".
You know, parenting is all about patience and understanding. We've managed to ration E down to about one viewing a day of MJ. And its only vintage, adorable "Do You Remember The Time?" lovable MJ. When the time comes to explain to E that she and her videotic best friend both share a similar penchant for furry chimps and five year old's on play dates, well as I said before her mother will explain.
And we've expanded E's dance repertoire. To her concentric circle-running and one legged jumps for I Want You Back I added the robot. At the first bridge to Dancing Machine Ella hits it perfectly, old school style. Moves her little arms up and down and her head back and forth while keeping her eyes still.
I don't think there's any hyperbolic sleep chambers in her future and since we can't install a full-size ferris wheel in our one room apartment any aspirations for an Upper West Side version of Neverland Ranch will go unrealized.
There is however a really cute three year old friend of E's, Shayna. Natural sense of rhythm and totally adorable. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd ever exploit my own daughter's innocent love of dance and song in to something crass and commercial. I'm not even suggesting that there's a market out there for a song/dance group of two to three year olds who, with the right supporting father behind them could leverage a development deal with say Disney for a demo cd with either a product tie-in like "Grrl Group Barbie" or a promo give away like free Magic Pony's who sing the group's first ballad "Pamper Me..." when you pull their tail.
No, I'm not suggesting that. But if you're the parent of a two or three year old who can clap to the beat and sing back up, email me....
Jun 28, 2006
News Flash: Three Iced Mochas, Bad Customer Service And A Stranded Space Ship.
Couldn't leave with out posting this. Must vent. Okay, from the beginning. So look, yesterday it was warm and sunny, I was wearing cotton pants, there was a nice breeze and somehow I got it in to my head I'd deviate from my daily, trusted and loved elixir of an iced mocha and try an iced white chocolate mocha. Okay, let's just let this topic die and I promise not to bring it up again. I mention it only now as it plays a role in the events which follow. I know, I know--white chocolate mocha. Sweet baby Jesus, what was I thinking.
Okay, so it was actually my second drink of the day. Then of course, to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to get another iced mocha. So yeah--read on knowing I was pretty fueled and accept partial responsibility for what ensued.
Get home after work and decide Ella needs to see Big Lizard. So we head to Toys R' Us, my precious little 30 pounder in my arms, carrying our flying saucer. Flying saucer rocks. Its foam, 'bout ten inches in diameter, radio controlled. Flies thirty feet in the air. Or in our case, eleven feet in the air in to the ceiling of our apartment. But its not charging properly so I throw it in a bag and we head to Times Square. Slow train, so by the time we hit the Square, El's already yawning. Its like quarter to seven which means its her dinner time, bath time in bed by 8:30pm.
I go directly to customer service, hand over the saucer. Indifferent sales girl looks it and me over, asks what the problem is. I tell her it won't hold a charge. She must work extremely long hours and be incredibly fatigued because it takes her tremendous physical effort and copious amounts of mental exertion to lift the nine ounce foam toy, carry it approximately three feet away and plug it in to the wall.
I can tell she's fatigued because she's constantly rolling her eyes and exhaling. Three minutes go by as she stands there, not saying a word and fixing her hair. Then she looks at me like I just farted. "You need to go get a replacement...". Oh, thanks for telling me when I first arrived instead of waiting three minutes. By the way, love the hair. So now I have to lug baby-girl back up to the second floor, fight through the crowd and grab a replacement. I should've known things were already going downhill and not going to get better.
Ten minutes later I get back, wrestling with Ella who's now officially not having fun, put the new box on the counter and the girl turns to me like I'm Rain Man and couldn't possibly tie my own shoes much less guess how many matches are in a box and snarls "This one ain't even broken. It works fine". Did I tell you about the part where I'd had three iced mochas? Yeah, this is where that whole caffeine thing comes in to play.
Ella's squirming, bitch-salesgirl and her posse of one other evil-retail wench are eyeing me and I feel my lip begin to quiver. Quiver like I'm morphing in to the Hulk. In fact, I can feel my pants and shirt begin to shred as my body mass increases and I start turning green. Really angry, pissed-off how-dare-you-fcuk-with-me green. Now Hulk must hurt puny humans.
Instead, I ask for a manager. Andrew shows up, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Blah, blah blah. Immediately, these girls start going in to how the product isn't defective, but "Works fine...". More hair fixing and exhaling as Andrew fidgets, caught between an irate customer and uncaring staff. Long story medium, I leave there with a new flying saucer, ensuring Andrew I won't be back.
Of course, when I get home tonight Ella will jump in to my arms and shout "Big Lizard" and of course I'm not about to tell her Toy's R Us is a giant corporate entity with huge profit margins who could less about whether a small family on limited income gets a refund on their $19.99 flying saucer. So I'll probably see Andrew tonight, but the good news? I've only had one iced mocha so I should be fine.
And the moral of my story is this. I'm no better than anyone else. I walk by people every day, see them clawing and scratching their way through existence and as I pass throught the toxic vapor trail of their anger think to myself "Relax dude, its just a flying saucer. Take a deep breath and just chill, you're overreacting". But truth be told, when push comes to shove I'm getting a new, working godd*mn, flying saucer. Even if it takes me three iced mochas.
Okay, so it was actually my second drink of the day. Then of course, to get the taste out of my mouth, I had to get another iced mocha. So yeah--read on knowing I was pretty fueled and accept partial responsibility for what ensued.
Get home after work and decide Ella needs to see Big Lizard. So we head to Toys R' Us, my precious little 30 pounder in my arms, carrying our flying saucer. Flying saucer rocks. Its foam, 'bout ten inches in diameter, radio controlled. Flies thirty feet in the air. Or in our case, eleven feet in the air in to the ceiling of our apartment. But its not charging properly so I throw it in a bag and we head to Times Square. Slow train, so by the time we hit the Square, El's already yawning. Its like quarter to seven which means its her dinner time, bath time in bed by 8:30pm.
I go directly to customer service, hand over the saucer. Indifferent sales girl looks it and me over, asks what the problem is. I tell her it won't hold a charge. She must work extremely long hours and be incredibly fatigued because it takes her tremendous physical effort and copious amounts of mental exertion to lift the nine ounce foam toy, carry it approximately three feet away and plug it in to the wall.
I can tell she's fatigued because she's constantly rolling her eyes and exhaling. Three minutes go by as she stands there, not saying a word and fixing her hair. Then she looks at me like I just farted. "You need to go get a replacement...". Oh, thanks for telling me when I first arrived instead of waiting three minutes. By the way, love the hair. So now I have to lug baby-girl back up to the second floor, fight through the crowd and grab a replacement. I should've known things were already going downhill and not going to get better.
Ten minutes later I get back, wrestling with Ella who's now officially not having fun, put the new box on the counter and the girl turns to me like I'm Rain Man and couldn't possibly tie my own shoes much less guess how many matches are in a box and snarls "This one ain't even broken. It works fine". Did I tell you about the part where I'd had three iced mochas? Yeah, this is where that whole caffeine thing comes in to play.
Ella's squirming, bitch-salesgirl and her posse of one other evil-retail wench are eyeing me and I feel my lip begin to quiver. Quiver like I'm morphing in to the Hulk. In fact, I can feel my pants and shirt begin to shred as my body mass increases and I start turning green. Really angry, pissed-off how-dare-you-fcuk-with-me green. Now Hulk must hurt puny humans.
Instead, I ask for a manager. Andrew shows up, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Blah, blah blah. Immediately, these girls start going in to how the product isn't defective, but "Works fine...". More hair fixing and exhaling as Andrew fidgets, caught between an irate customer and uncaring staff. Long story medium, I leave there with a new flying saucer, ensuring Andrew I won't be back.
Of course, when I get home tonight Ella will jump in to my arms and shout "Big Lizard" and of course I'm not about to tell her Toy's R Us is a giant corporate entity with huge profit margins who could less about whether a small family on limited income gets a refund on their $19.99 flying saucer. So I'll probably see Andrew tonight, but the good news? I've only had one iced mocha so I should be fine.
And the moral of my story is this. I'm no better than anyone else. I walk by people every day, see them clawing and scratching their way through existence and as I pass throught the toxic vapor trail of their anger think to myself "Relax dude, its just a flying saucer. Take a deep breath and just chill, you're overreacting". But truth be told, when push comes to shove I'm getting a new, working godd*mn, flying saucer. Even if it takes me three iced mochas.
Jun 27, 2006
The Blog Goes On Vacation...
...I know, I know--Bloggie just returned. But that was from a bad virus, now Blog gets a vacation. So, this is the last post until "Return Of The Blog 2" (I'll have to cast the sequel with a bunch of B actors like, Corey Feldman) around July 10th. But the whole vacation thing got me wondering, vacation from what?
I mean, if say, Blog is doing what it enjoys most--blogging, then why would it need a break? Guess that's as close to rhetorical as I can get without s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out. And yes, in this instance Blog is a metaphor for you-know-who. But let's pretend the Blog is a real, animated entity then if this little spiel goes sideways I can flame away on Blog and not feel too bad about myself.
Okay, look I'm a hardworking guy. Uh, I mean Blog is a hardworking blog. It has a wife, daughter, has aspirations, hopes and dreams. Is currently not exactly in its dream job (hmmm, the blog metaphor is crumbling, I mean if a blog's dream job isn't to blog, what is it? Waiter at a hip Tapas bar?).
Here's the point I'm not getting to--if a vacation for me is a chance to spend more time with my wife and daughter, great. If there's hidden undertones of needing to escape from certain elements of my life--than really, how long can anyone live like that?
I mean, just do the math. Two or three weeks a year to decompress can't be a healthy formula for living. What's going on the other fifty weeks of the year? And I guess to leapfrog over any BS I might try and fill space with, how long will I wait before doing the kind of work, really meaningful to me work that I want to do?
And does it, this transition require some kind of superhuman effort of will? Or just more caffeine? Dare I order a Vente anything? Have you seen a Vente, I mean up close? Really stopped and just filled your eyes with just how much caffeniated anything can fit in a cup that size?
Urban Tale digression: At Starbucks the other day, guy's standing there, undecided. The barista's this interesting black guy--like, 6'3", glasses--very articulate, very sharp. So, our unable-to-decide patron's trapped in the oncoming headlights of the drink menu when my guy (amiably, but with much gusto) jumps in to save him. "Hey, you need some help?". Well, patron's not quite up to speed yet right? I mean, that's why he's at Starbucks.
And believe me, he does not know what's about to hit him. He half nods like, "Uh, you're my barista, you know what I need--right?". Wrong. Don't misunderstand. This particular barista is one of the better I've seen, but that a.m., he was clearly on a mission. He just picked the wrong soldier to send to war.
Barista says, "You want something cold?! And chocolate?! Something that'll wake you up!!". Now, I've seen this barista whip up custom stuff on the spot, seen him sell a new concoction like it was the latest Manolo Blanik--but in this case, he was grossly underestimating his customer's tolerance for the Evil Bean--nothing good was going to come from this little dance with the Devil and all I could do was stand there and wait for the caffeine to hit the fan. Actually, I could've stepped up and said "He knows not what you offer, Mighty One. Give him a latte, grande extra hot--and let him be on his way". But what fun would that be?
By now, patron has no idea what he's in for. Far as he's concerned nicest Starbucks guy on the planet's 'bout to whip up something special, just for him. Just like Dr. Jekyll whipped up a little "something special" for Mr. Hyde. And guess what our barista makes him? I know, because he couldn't contain his excitement and shouted out the order, to himself--ready? "Quad Vente, Iced White Mocha". You get that? Quad. Four shots. That's enough to drop a charging rhino mid-stride, leave it on its back legs kicking air ready to be turned in to a nice handbag.
That was last week. I have no doubt poor ba*tard is sitting on a curb somewhere in the city, empty Starbucks cup at his feet, mumbling to himself "Mocha...vente...quad..."..
So here's my point--yes the "Man" is keeping me down but guess what? Turns out, I am the Man. I'm keeping me down. That sucks. No one to blame. If I never, ever actualize what I want? It's cuz I didn't man up and get 'er done. Dammit. Its on me. That's why I hate/love/watch/avoid those stupid Movies Of The Week, the ones with titles like "The Man-Boy Who Wanted To Be A Writer--But Held Himself Back Until He Just Couldn't Stand The Voices In His Head Anymore--And Then Realized It Was Up To Him. And Him Alone". You know, those MOW's?
So there you have it, my new years resolution. For my summer vacation. Like that segue? And what's the resolution again? To not blame the Man, including myself but to work at what I want. To aid me in this endeavor I can utilize as much a. Caffeine b. Family/friends support c. Caffeine, as necessary. But I cannot make any more excuses. And I cannot have any Starbucks drink that contains more than two shots of Espresso in it or that comes in a size larger than an industrial toxic waste drum.
See you after vacation.
Blog and friend of Blog.
I mean, if say, Blog is doing what it enjoys most--blogging, then why would it need a break? Guess that's as close to rhetorical as I can get without s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g it out. And yes, in this instance Blog is a metaphor for you-know-who. But let's pretend the Blog is a real, animated entity then if this little spiel goes sideways I can flame away on Blog and not feel too bad about myself.
Okay, look I'm a hardworking guy. Uh, I mean Blog is a hardworking blog. It has a wife, daughter, has aspirations, hopes and dreams. Is currently not exactly in its dream job (hmmm, the blog metaphor is crumbling, I mean if a blog's dream job isn't to blog, what is it? Waiter at a hip Tapas bar?).
Here's the point I'm not getting to--if a vacation for me is a chance to spend more time with my wife and daughter, great. If there's hidden undertones of needing to escape from certain elements of my life--than really, how long can anyone live like that?
I mean, just do the math. Two or three weeks a year to decompress can't be a healthy formula for living. What's going on the other fifty weeks of the year? And I guess to leapfrog over any BS I might try and fill space with, how long will I wait before doing the kind of work, really meaningful to me work that I want to do?
And does it, this transition require some kind of superhuman effort of will? Or just more caffeine? Dare I order a Vente anything? Have you seen a Vente, I mean up close? Really stopped and just filled your eyes with just how much caffeniated anything can fit in a cup that size?
Urban Tale digression: At Starbucks the other day, guy's standing there, undecided. The barista's this interesting black guy--like, 6'3", glasses--very articulate, very sharp. So, our unable-to-decide patron's trapped in the oncoming headlights of the drink menu when my guy (amiably, but with much gusto) jumps in to save him. "Hey, you need some help?". Well, patron's not quite up to speed yet right? I mean, that's why he's at Starbucks.
And believe me, he does not know what's about to hit him. He half nods like, "Uh, you're my barista, you know what I need--right?". Wrong. Don't misunderstand. This particular barista is one of the better I've seen, but that a.m., he was clearly on a mission. He just picked the wrong soldier to send to war.
Barista says, "You want something cold?! And chocolate?! Something that'll wake you up!!". Now, I've seen this barista whip up custom stuff on the spot, seen him sell a new concoction like it was the latest Manolo Blanik--but in this case, he was grossly underestimating his customer's tolerance for the Evil Bean--nothing good was going to come from this little dance with the Devil and all I could do was stand there and wait for the caffeine to hit the fan. Actually, I could've stepped up and said "He knows not what you offer, Mighty One. Give him a latte, grande extra hot--and let him be on his way". But what fun would that be?
By now, patron has no idea what he's in for. Far as he's concerned nicest Starbucks guy on the planet's 'bout to whip up something special, just for him. Just like Dr. Jekyll whipped up a little "something special" for Mr. Hyde. And guess what our barista makes him? I know, because he couldn't contain his excitement and shouted out the order, to himself--ready? "Quad Vente, Iced White Mocha". You get that? Quad. Four shots. That's enough to drop a charging rhino mid-stride, leave it on its back legs kicking air ready to be turned in to a nice handbag.
That was last week. I have no doubt poor ba*tard is sitting on a curb somewhere in the city, empty Starbucks cup at his feet, mumbling to himself "Mocha...vente...quad...".
So here's my point--yes the "Man" is keeping me down but guess what? Turns out, I am the Man. I'm keeping me down. That sucks. No one to blame. If I never, ever actualize what I want? It's cuz I didn't man up and get 'er done. Dammit. Its on me. That's why I hate/love/watch/avoid those stupid Movies Of The Week, the ones with titles like "The Man-Boy Who Wanted To Be A Writer--But Held Himself Back Until He Just Couldn't Stand The Voices In His Head Anymore--And Then Realized It Was Up To Him. And Him Alone". You know, those MOW's?
So there you have it, my new years resolution. For my summer vacation. Like that segue? And what's the resolution again? To not blame the Man, including myself but to work at what I want. To aid me in this endeavor I can utilize as much a. Caffeine b. Family/friends support c. Caffeine, as necessary. But I cannot make any more excuses. And I cannot have any Starbucks drink that contains more than two shots of Espresso in it or that comes in a size larger than an industrial toxic waste drum.
See you after vacation.
Blog and friend of Blog.
Jun 23, 2006
Now That's A Big Lizard...
...took my two year old daughter to Toys R Us in Times Square. First event was the Square itself--Ella loved it. We went at night, lit up like a Christmas tree. We step out from under the subway entrance, Ella looks around wide-eyed. I go "This is Times Square, E". She takes it in, replies "Times Square make Ella awake". So far, so good.
Next stop, the five story, multi-level Mecca of toys known as T's R Us. First encounter? Guy dressed up as a Giraffe. El goes nuts. Giraffe goes nuts, big hug fest. So, on we march checking out Lego sets and train sets and dolls (no real interest in Barbie yet) and stuff in general and a few hundred yards away I can just make out what appears to be a giant, life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, fully articulated with audio. Loud audio. Like, cover your ears-from-the-concussive-force-of-his-RRROOAR loud.
El sees me look over, hears the sound and says "I see that...!". I pick her up, we head over and I'm thinking "Hope this isn't that seminal moment in her childhood which sparks a lifetime of therapy...". So, we're walking over and El sees this giant, jaw-snapping monster ahead and gets quiet. I stop about, oh forty yards away and we just stand there. T lets our a mighty, really loud RRROOOARRR. El's watching, just watching then turns her hands, palms up (which is her gesture for like, "get it?") and says "Big lizard not real".
No we go regularly. She's never flinched. Just runs like a little pony right by Big Lizard to the toys while unsuspecting Japanese tourists spit up their bottled water every time T-Rex lets a roar fly directly overhead.
Which got me to thinking--no, not why aren't Japanese tourists immune to the whole T-Rex thing having grown up with Godzilla stomping their villages in to matchsticks, rather--how do we lose that innocent yet acute sense of perception? That simple, wholesome and fresh perspective which sees things for what they are? Or aren't?
Example, I get on the subway in the a.m., and there's a bunch of T-Rex's roaming, roaring and jaw-snapping inside my head. They roar "You're gonna die poor, alone and unhappy!". They bellow, "You'll never have a job you like". Sometimes they snap their jaws, clicking "You know squat about the dharma, quit trying to act like you can change who you are!".
And you know, a lot of times I just stand there, not even hearing the music from my ipod (Lots of Kanye West these days and some old school--The O'Jays, Chaka Khan) just deafened by the roars, nodding my head "Yes, you're right--I cannot change, I'm stuck with who I am and all my sh*tty, self-doubting, dysfunctional ways...".
But sometimes I remember, "Big lizard not real". And I just stay in my body--feel rooted and don't get freaked by the loud roaring in my head. I can feel the subway jostling back and forth. Hear the O'Jays in my ears old school Philadelphia style, telling me to "...get on board the love train, love train c'mon...", and I choose to not get rocked by any old monster in my head.
So, the weekends here. Will probably make a trip to Times Square, E and I are due to check out her boy, T. His days are numbered. Too expensive to keep the hydraulics maintained. Staff says back in the day, in fact the very first day they turned him on two years ago, hydraulics all new, limbs all fresh and mobile--well, he was so life-like people ran out screaming and they had to turn him off.
I guess everything wears out after awhile, even Big Lizards.
Next stop, the five story, multi-level Mecca of toys known as T's R Us. First encounter? Guy dressed up as a Giraffe. El goes nuts. Giraffe goes nuts, big hug fest. So, on we march checking out Lego sets and train sets and dolls (no real interest in Barbie yet) and stuff in general and a few hundred yards away I can just make out what appears to be a giant, life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex, fully articulated with audio. Loud audio. Like, cover your ears-from-the-concussive-force-of-his-RRROOAR loud.
El sees me look over, hears the sound and says "I see that...!". I pick her up, we head over and I'm thinking "Hope this isn't that seminal moment in her childhood which sparks a lifetime of therapy...". So, we're walking over and El sees this giant, jaw-snapping monster ahead and gets quiet. I stop about, oh forty yards away and we just stand there. T lets our a mighty, really loud RRROOOARRR. El's watching, just watching then turns her hands, palms up (which is her gesture for like, "get it?") and says "Big lizard not real".
No we go regularly. She's never flinched. Just runs like a little pony right by Big Lizard to the toys while unsuspecting Japanese tourists spit up their bottled water every time T-Rex lets a roar fly directly overhead.
Which got me to thinking--no, not why aren't Japanese tourists immune to the whole T-Rex thing having grown up with Godzilla stomping their villages in to matchsticks, rather--how do we lose that innocent yet acute sense of perception? That simple, wholesome and fresh perspective which sees things for what they are? Or aren't?
Example, I get on the subway in the a.m., and there's a bunch of T-Rex's roaming, roaring and jaw-snapping inside my head. They roar "You're gonna die poor, alone and unhappy!". They bellow, "You'll never have a job you like". Sometimes they snap their jaws, clicking "You know squat about the dharma, quit trying to act like you can change who you are!".
And you know, a lot of times I just stand there, not even hearing the music from my ipod (Lots of Kanye West these days and some old school--The O'Jays, Chaka Khan) just deafened by the roars, nodding my head "Yes, you're right--I cannot change, I'm stuck with who I am and all my sh*tty, self-doubting, dysfunctional ways...".
But sometimes I remember, "Big lizard not real". And I just stay in my body--feel rooted and don't get freaked by the loud roaring in my head. I can feel the subway jostling back and forth. Hear the O'Jays in my ears old school Philadelphia style, telling me to "...get on board the love train, love train c'mon...", and I choose to not get rocked by any old monster in my head.
So, the weekends here. Will probably make a trip to Times Square, E and I are due to check out her boy, T. His days are numbered. Too expensive to keep the hydraulics maintained. Staff says back in the day, in fact the very first day they turned him on two years ago, hydraulics all new, limbs all fresh and mobile--well, he was so life-like people ran out screaming and they had to turn him off.
I guess everything wears out after awhile, even Big Lizards.
Jun 15, 2006
When Only The Hora Can Save You...
...or how I officiated a wedding for 170 stunned Jewish friends and family members. Dear friends of mine asked if I would, as an officially sanctioned "Buddhist Minister" (in the state of NY, registration number 71747!) officiate their wedding. I'm touched to tears.
Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.
Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.
Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.
Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.
Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.
So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.
People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.
Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".
He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.
I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.
Wedding was end of May, 'bout three hrs out of the city. Bought a new suit (three button, linen, flax-colored. Went with a French blue spread collar shirt and an Aboud tie--copper red/orange with angled blue stripes). Rented a car so I could drive home same night and wake up next to my daughter. So far, so good.
Kind of wasn't exactly clear on the whole backstory of how the family and their 170 closest friends who'd flown in were ready to burn me at the stake upon arrival since I was a. Not Jewish. b. Not a Rabbi. c. A Buddhist. Found that out when I met the parents an hour before the 5:30pm ceremony. Nothing like upping the ante.
Given I couldn't exactly jump back in my car and bail, I figured my only real options were a. Pray to Yahweh or b. Hit the bar. I head over to the caterers, but they were sweatin' set up and weren't about to slip me a Corona from the cooler. So I did what any self respecting Buddhist would do--walked over to a far off corner of the huge field where the ceremony would be and prayed for help. Still could've used that Corona.
Showtime. We're outside, bride and groom look great. Behind them, 170 pin-drop quiet friends/family waiting for me to pull a goat from a burlap sack and start the proceedings with a traditional sacrifice. See? If they'd done their homework they would've known Buddhist are vehemently opposed to taking life. And that Buddhists love an icy cold cerveza con limon before important rites of passage god dammit! Oops.
Did I mention the ring bearer was an active Marine just back from his second tour of Iraq? He was there in dress blues, sizing me up I'm sure and figuring out whether to go for the straight choke-hold or go WWF and take me out with a folding chair to the back.
So away we go. Readings, vows, rings exchanged, kissing, pronouncing them 'Husband and Wife', off they go happily married and next thing I know there's mom and dad crying and hugging me heartily with thanks for such a beautiful ceremony. Could've been the suit. The suit was hot. Now may I have a Corona? Apparently not. Nice woman walks up, says "I have to say, I came here ready to be very disappointed with you/Buddhism/the ceremony but I was surprised/inspired/grateful/touched. I hyphenate because I care. And because, for the next hour every single person who came up to me said just about the same thing.
People really met what they said but after like the thirtieth person, I had to catch some air. I grab a beer and walk down the dirt road, jump in my rental hit the a.c. and decompress. Should've grabbed two beers. Will next time. By now its dark dinners served and I figure I'll just be another shadow under the big tent reception. Kill my beer (St. Paulie Girl--not my fave but its what stuck to my hand when I blindly grabbed whatever the cater-guy pulled from ice) and walk over to eat.
Okay, despite the storied and difficult legacy of suffering I will say this about the Jewish tradition--it is unbeatable when it comes to stocking a reception dinner. I'm about to fill my plate when my Spidey-sense starts tingling. I turn and looking right at me is this elegant, snowy haired eighty+ yr old gentlemen. He reaches over, takes my hands in his. "I vanna sank you for your words of love. Your vords of beauty. Nevah stop what you are doing. You bring the most important message of all, the message of love. And I should know, our world? It needs love more than evah".
He leans in, puts his mouth right up to my ear, I can feel his breath--and it moves right through me "I should know, I'm a survivor--Auschwitz. Don't forget us, we die one thousand every week". He gives me a the most gentle lovely, kind kiss then walks away. I'm standing there with an empty plate, just basically blinking like a stuck brake light. I head right to the bar, double up on a Grey Goose. My mind racing nowhere all at once. I sit on the grass watching people dance. Think about Auschwitz, think about "Schindler's List" which amounts to just about everything I know about the holocaust. I drink two more doubles, but can't get drunk.
I feel, grateful? Inadequate? Phony? D. All of the above. I think about another drink and remember I still have a four hour drive home to Manhattan. I put my empty glass on a table and mom walks up to me. Gives me a hug and says "Come...". On the dance floor everyone's in a circle, just starting the hora. We walk over the circle opens and we dance. And every few turns of the circle, I'm looking for that little man. And I can't find him. He's nowhere. And everywhere. But I can't see him. And can't forget him.
The Blog Is Back...
...phew, long six weeks. Or whatever. Okay, that's my excuse but never fear I'm back with a whole new series of real life encounters with reality, including but not limited to:
1. The wedding I performed for a couple whose 170 person guest list was extremely unamused I was a. Not Jewish. b. See "a". c. Muliply axbx one hundred.
2. My two year old's encounter with a Tyranosauras Rex and how I learned to not fear "The Big Lizard".
3. How our friend Randy a girl half my size with twice the heart kicked me in the pants and got me "back on blog...".
4. More, lots more. Read on.
1. The wedding I performed for a couple whose 170 person guest list was extremely unamused I was a. Not Jewish. b. See "a". c. Muliply axbx one hundred.
2. My two year old's encounter with a Tyranosauras Rex and how I learned to not fear "The Big Lizard".
3. How our friend Randy a girl half my size with twice the heart kicked me in the pants and got me "back on blog...".
4. More, lots more. Read on.
Apr 26, 2006
Starbucks Patrons Assaulted By Toddlers...
...well, more or less. I take my two year old daughter to a gym class every Saturday a.m. After class, a bunch of us load up our strollers with our writhing toddlers and head over to Starbucks to re-fuel. Typically, there's about four parents. Three of 'em are packing doubles--two kids each. That means seven little ones, twelve to twenty-three months of crying, happy, laughing, jumping, playing todds.
Yeah, you should see the looks we get when we roll in, pushing our convoy of strollers. People shake heads, roll eyes, guffaw, tsk and generally wet themselves at the site of our arrival. Now I know what the Romans felt like when the Vandals showed up ready to sack the place.
Of course, not so long ago I was on the other side of that $4.00 grande two-shot, extra-hot skim cappuccino. Now, its like "any port in a storm". I mean, once you become a parent its like you're viewed as an escapee from a leper colony. You know, you keep showing up at all the places you used to go, but people kind of turn their heads, avoid eye contact and ignore you? Same deal at Starbucks. People stare across the top of their java at you like you personally just brought in a batch of fresh Ebola virus spores and dumped 'em to the ventilator shaft.
But like any self-respecting leper, you learn to ignore the nasty looks, pick your diseased limb off the ground and shuffle along back to your cave. Only problem is, before you do that--you have to secure a table for you and your co-lepers so you can suck down over-priced scalding drinks while simultaneously toddler-wresting a wriggly two year old, save them from asphyxiating on handfuls of lemon pound cake, keep from kicking over the table and carry on meaningful, interesting conversations with other adults who are also living on rationed sleep.
So we roll in to the 'bucks and can you believe it? I spot a free table. Starbucks, 10:30am Saturday morning--primo caffenation hour and I find a free table. Only problem is, the table's in the middle of the room which means we won't be able to fit our strollers next to us. But the table next to it only has a dad and his five year old son--and next to them there's no tables. Just wide open free space. A welcoming plateau of stroller-accommodating grazing land. Our Mecca.
I make a bee-line to dad and his boy, and roll up just as he gulps down the welcoming sip of his java-juice. "Hey, any chance I could switch tables with you guys?". I mean, I'm asking him to relocate all of two feet. Well, angry-dad gives me this look like I just shoveled glass shards in to his drink. He doesn't even reply, just looks me up and down...then up and down. Finally, he makes this big show of like, swallowing his sip, glares at me and goes "Because you have...a stroller?!".
Okay, so I'm like a Buddhist forever, right? So this stuff is supposed to just roll of me like water/duck. But honestly, I can be kind of confrontational (Hmmm, wouldn't have anything to do with DRINKING TOO MUCH COFFEE WOULD IT?) when pushed. And this is exactly the kind of situation where I can justify my self-righteousness (protective father, a helping friend, blah/justify/blah/justify) and go right back at someone.
But the wildest thing happens. Nothing. I mean, this guy fires a hate-rocket at me and it just...passes right through my body. Zoom. Right through. I feel nothing. Nada. Zip. No anger. No impulse to attack/defend/repeat. My mind doesn't even do a double take, you know where I hear myself go after someone then have to talk myself down before I come up with some faux-polite response? Just big, vivid alive space. There isn't even a jet trail from the hate-rocket, just space.
So Space-Dana replies, "No, there's a group of us". Its almost like I'm having this really civil conversation with myself, he's not even an obstacle--he's just kind of this non-threatening outline/cut-out of a person and I've chosen to not color in the cut-out with my projection of anger/threat/obstacle/fill in the emotion. Turns out he's a one-rocket guy and the next thing I know he switches tables and bingo--everyone's has what they need, sans hostility. For the most part.
What hit me right between the eyes most keenly is how much healthier it is to not project. It hit me because I felt different. What I felt was normal. Not like I just had some kind of flame-out which had left me charred, the burnt stench of which I'd be feeling and smelling for hours/days to come. So there 'ya go. My advice? Don't grab on to your own solid state of mind so tightly it gives you agita. And even if you're sure the other person's your problem, bear in mind just for fun, it could be a whole self-imposed smoke and mirrors thing.
Oh, the big bonus of the whole thing? Two tables away there was a family of three? Their kids were screaming so loud it was blowing the plastic lids off people's lattes and no one even noticed our happy little table of Gremlins.
Yeah, you should see the looks we get when we roll in, pushing our convoy of strollers. People shake heads, roll eyes, guffaw, tsk and generally wet themselves at the site of our arrival. Now I know what the Romans felt like when the Vandals showed up ready to sack the place.
Of course, not so long ago I was on the other side of that $4.00 grande two-shot, extra-hot skim cappuccino. Now, its like "any port in a storm". I mean, once you become a parent its like you're viewed as an escapee from a leper colony. You know, you keep showing up at all the places you used to go, but people kind of turn their heads, avoid eye contact and ignore you? Same deal at Starbucks. People stare across the top of their java at you like you personally just brought in a batch of fresh Ebola virus spores and dumped 'em to the ventilator shaft.
But like any self-respecting leper, you learn to ignore the nasty looks, pick your diseased limb off the ground and shuffle along back to your cave. Only problem is, before you do that--you have to secure a table for you and your co-lepers so you can suck down over-priced scalding drinks while simultaneously toddler-wresting a wriggly two year old, save them from asphyxiating on handfuls of lemon pound cake, keep from kicking over the table and carry on meaningful, interesting conversations with other adults who are also living on rationed sleep.
So we roll in to the 'bucks and can you believe it? I spot a free table. Starbucks, 10:30am Saturday morning--primo caffenation hour and I find a free table. Only problem is, the table's in the middle of the room which means we won't be able to fit our strollers next to us. But the table next to it only has a dad and his five year old son--and next to them there's no tables. Just wide open free space. A welcoming plateau of stroller-accommodating grazing land. Our Mecca.
I make a bee-line to dad and his boy, and roll up just as he gulps down the welcoming sip of his java-juice. "Hey, any chance I could switch tables with you guys?". I mean, I'm asking him to relocate all of two feet. Well, angry-dad gives me this look like I just shoveled glass shards in to his drink. He doesn't even reply, just looks me up and down...then up and down. Finally, he makes this big show of like, swallowing his sip, glares at me and goes "Because you have...a stroller?!".
Okay, so I'm like a Buddhist forever, right? So this stuff is supposed to just roll of me like water/duck. But honestly, I can be kind of confrontational (Hmmm, wouldn't have anything to do with DRINKING TOO MUCH COFFEE WOULD IT?) when pushed. And this is exactly the kind of situation where I can justify my self-righteousness (protective father, a helping friend, blah/justify/blah/justify) and go right back at someone.
But the wildest thing happens. Nothing. I mean, this guy fires a hate-rocket at me and it just...passes right through my body. Zoom. Right through. I feel nothing. Nada. Zip. No anger. No impulse to attack/defend/repeat. My mind doesn't even do a double take, you know where I hear myself go after someone then have to talk myself down before I come up with some faux-polite response? Just big, vivid alive space. There isn't even a jet trail from the hate-rocket, just space.
So Space-Dana replies, "No, there's a group of us". Its almost like I'm having this really civil conversation with myself, he's not even an obstacle--he's just kind of this non-threatening outline/cut-out of a person and I've chosen to not color in the cut-out with my projection of anger/threat/obstacle/fill in the emotion. Turns out he's a one-rocket guy and the next thing I know he switches tables and bingo--everyone's has what they need, sans hostility. For the most part.
What hit me right between the eyes most keenly is how much healthier it is to not project. It hit me because I felt different. What I felt was normal. Not like I just had some kind of flame-out which had left me charred, the burnt stench of which I'd be feeling and smelling for hours/days to come. So there 'ya go. My advice? Don't grab on to your own solid state of mind so tightly it gives you agita. And even if you're sure the other person's your problem, bear in mind just for fun, it could be a whole self-imposed smoke and mirrors thing.
Oh, the big bonus of the whole thing? Two tables away there was a family of three? Their kids were screaming so loud it was blowing the plastic lids off people's lattes and no one even noticed our happy little table of Gremlins.
Apr 21, 2006
How Silly Am I?
I mean, really. I just caught myself in the reflection of my own appearance and I'm like, walking, talking, moving, reacting, speaking, thinking, moving, distracting, avoiding, perverting, grasping, presuming and commenting on every thought in my brain. And that was just in one split second of a moment.
If we can just step back for a moment, detach from our own appearance just ever-so-slightly and look at ourselves--its pretty funny. Last night my foot hurt. I've developed a callous from running. I looked at the callous, fingered it, felt some pain--then put my shoe back on and ignored it.
Because even though I know from direct experience its just skin and the moment I wear it down with a pumice stone it'll stop irritating me--there was this moment after I perceived it, just this little itsy-bitsy moment where I formed the thought "that callous is part of me--I could be in pain if I remove it".
Despite the fact I've ground away these suckers before, and I know it won't cause me pain, know in fact that the way to stop the pain (as I've personally and directly experienced myself) is to simply remove the callous--I cooked up the thought that some solid part of me was being threatened and in response to the threat, the callous is still there.
And that's exactly what I do with my thoughts. I don't even not see them as part of me--that's too discriminating, too courageous. I simply create my identity with the thought as it simultaneously forms/arises/appears. Which really, is more economic. You cut out the middle man so to speak, which is objectivity/space--you just go directly from appearance to identification. My foot hurts/I am my foot.
This student once went looking for his teacher--when he arrived at their typical meeting place he found a note "Gone to the freak show". Well, I guess in 10th c. India there wasn't a freak show around every corner, so this student was like totally WTF? He searches all over, finally makes his way to town.
In to the main market area--bustling with activity--people selling, living, dying, stealing, arguing, loving--and he sees his teacher, sitting down just watching all of this frenzy and action going down.
The teacher's just sitting there, frog on a log. Not doing a damn thing. And the student gets it *lightbulb*. This is the freaskshow. This is the circus, the carnival. We all paint ourselves up with this mask of presumed identity and then go running around reacting to everyone else's mask.
Voltaire said "Life is a drama for those who feel, a comedy for those who think". Most of the hardcore, real deal teachers I've ever encountered have at some point absolutely just stunned me at their instantaneous ability to convulse with laughter in the midst of what I perceive to be well, drama.
Once spent a week with this very revered, elderly Tibetan lama. Very serious stuff. First night, at dinner--he goes around the table asks everyone where they're from. You know, getting to know us. With every response he beams, nods in gentle understanding, repeats the person's cherished home "Oh, Mic-hi-gan?". Very grandfatherly, clipped Tib-English pronunciation.
I'm sucking it up. Loving this Lama. To me he's the Burl Ives of Lamas. I just want to curl up with him and watch that "Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer" special and just be cuddled by this kindly little old soul. He gets to me, I reverently whisper "Californi..." don't even finish the sentence he laughs out loud, like hysterically "Mickey Mouse!".
Everyone stops, he stands up, points at me and still, laughing his ass off shouts "Mickey Mouse!". Well, ain't I suddenly the most popular guy to humiliate at the table. Of course, everyone cracks up and now the whole table like, ten people are pointing and laughing, "Mickey Mouse!". And everyone is having this total moment with Burl Ives lama, but me.
I'm of course, smiling playing the whole thing off like "Oh, I get it...California, Disneyland--Mickey Mouse". But inside I'm like "Are you fcuking kidding me? Dude, we were gonna rent the Rudolph special together?! Hang out, cry when Rudolph's nose won't light...". I'm dying. But you know, to him my drama was his comedy.
Oh and it goes on. I'll give you the cliff's notes, but the next acts of the comedy were Act 2: Dana awakens in the middle of the night to discover everyone's shoes have been laced together then tied to his arm while he was asleep in the hopes that he'd move his arm and drop twenty pairs of shoes on his head. Act 3: The day we depart, the entire staff receives the most loving blessing from Burl Ives Lama who promptly turns to me and head butts me. Not head butt like, oh here's the traditional Tibetan greeting with a little extra oomph, head butts me like he's an English soccer player for Manchester United after like, twenty pints of Guinness.
So anyway, for what its worth--if you happen to catch your own reflection in the mirror--any mirror and for just a split second you have that odd feeling like your watching some television show and you spaced out and when you came back you felt like even though you just missed part of the show it didn't really matter because what-the-hell-is-this-about-anyway-and-why-am-I-watching-it?
Well, either turn the volume way up so you don't notice you're spacing out anymore or get ready for some sleepless nights. 'Cuz once you start questioning what's really going on around you...well, things take a turn for the interesting.
If we can just step back for a moment, detach from our own appearance just ever-so-slightly and look at ourselves--its pretty funny. Last night my foot hurt. I've developed a callous from running. I looked at the callous, fingered it, felt some pain--then put my shoe back on and ignored it.
Because even though I know from direct experience its just skin and the moment I wear it down with a pumice stone it'll stop irritating me--there was this moment after I perceived it, just this little itsy-bitsy moment where I formed the thought "that callous is part of me--I could be in pain if I remove it".
Despite the fact I've ground away these suckers before, and I know it won't cause me pain, know in fact that the way to stop the pain (as I've personally and directly experienced myself) is to simply remove the callous--I cooked up the thought that some solid part of me was being threatened and in response to the threat, the callous is still there.
And that's exactly what I do with my thoughts. I don't even not see them as part of me--that's too discriminating, too courageous. I simply create my identity with the thought as it simultaneously forms/arises/appears. Which really, is more economic. You cut out the middle man so to speak, which is objectivity/space--you just go directly from appearance to identification. My foot hurts/I am my foot.
This student once went looking for his teacher--when he arrived at their typical meeting place he found a note "Gone to the freak show". Well, I guess in 10th c. India there wasn't a freak show around every corner, so this student was like totally WTF? He searches all over, finally makes his way to town.
In to the main market area--bustling with activity--people selling, living, dying, stealing, arguing, loving--and he sees his teacher, sitting down just watching all of this frenzy and action going down.
The teacher's just sitting there, frog on a log. Not doing a damn thing. And the student gets it *lightbulb*. This is the freaskshow. This is the circus, the carnival. We all paint ourselves up with this mask of presumed identity and then go running around reacting to everyone else's mask.
Voltaire said "Life is a drama for those who feel, a comedy for those who think". Most of the hardcore, real deal teachers I've ever encountered have at some point absolutely just stunned me at their instantaneous ability to convulse with laughter in the midst of what I perceive to be well, drama.
Once spent a week with this very revered, elderly Tibetan lama. Very serious stuff. First night, at dinner--he goes around the table asks everyone where they're from. You know, getting to know us. With every response he beams, nods in gentle understanding, repeats the person's cherished home "Oh, Mic-hi-gan?". Very grandfatherly, clipped Tib-English pronunciation.
I'm sucking it up. Loving this Lama. To me he's the Burl Ives of Lamas. I just want to curl up with him and watch that "Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer" special and just be cuddled by this kindly little old soul. He gets to me, I reverently whisper "Californi..." don't even finish the sentence he laughs out loud, like hysterically "Mickey Mouse!".
Everyone stops, he stands up, points at me and still, laughing his ass off shouts "Mickey Mouse!". Well, ain't I suddenly the most popular guy to humiliate at the table. Of course, everyone cracks up and now the whole table like, ten people are pointing and laughing, "Mickey Mouse!". And everyone is having this total moment with Burl Ives lama, but me.
I'm of course, smiling playing the whole thing off like "Oh, I get it...California, Disneyland--Mickey Mouse". But inside I'm like "Are you fcuking kidding me? Dude, we were gonna rent the Rudolph special together?! Hang out, cry when Rudolph's nose won't light...". I'm dying. But you know, to him my drama was his comedy.
Oh and it goes on. I'll give you the cliff's notes, but the next acts of the comedy were Act 2: Dana awakens in the middle of the night to discover everyone's shoes have been laced together then tied to his arm while he was asleep in the hopes that he'd move his arm and drop twenty pairs of shoes on his head. Act 3: The day we depart, the entire staff receives the most loving blessing from Burl Ives Lama who promptly turns to me and head butts me. Not head butt like, oh here's the traditional Tibetan greeting with a little extra oomph, head butts me like he's an English soccer player for Manchester United after like, twenty pints of Guinness.
So anyway, for what its worth--if you happen to catch your own reflection in the mirror--any mirror and for just a split second you have that odd feeling like your watching some television show and you spaced out and when you came back you felt like even though you just missed part of the show it didn't really matter because what-the-hell-is-this-about-anyway-and-why-am-I-watching-it?
Well, either turn the volume way up so you don't notice you're spacing out anymore or get ready for some sleepless nights. 'Cuz once you start questioning what's really going on around you...well, things take a turn for the interesting.
Apr 20, 2006
The Week of 4/17: Suffering Goes Big!
In the last four days--sister in law diagnosed w/cancer. Surgery today. Co-worker's baby rushed to ICU with life-threatening low-level hemoglobin count. Thirtysomething friend, newly wed--killed in a car accident. Her husband's teen son, also in the car now in an induced coma.
So here I am praying away for people, doing tonglen. Even went to St. Bart's church on 50th and spent my lunch hour with the "Angel". Saw it/her there years ago when there for a Sakyong Mipam talk. She's in a small room, a larger than life-size Angel in alabaster.
And no I don't watch re-runs of "Touched By An Angel" and I do not, I repeat do not have a pewter angel on my key chain. But I'm telling you, you step in to a small room with a thousand pound, white Angel? Hey, sh*t happens.
Then it hits me--I'm one of six billion people on the planet. Doing my scrawny, undernourished, distracted tonglen practice--who's covering the other 5.97872 billion peeps? Okay, so not all of us are suffering. But if you just stop for a minute and think about the war fare, poverty, disease, famine--at any given moment there are a lot of people in real distress.
And that's just counting the humans. How many beings are in the animal kingdom? So what to do? It seems insurmountable, the amount of suffering being experienced at any given time. Given all that, here I am at work sleepy from waking at six a.m. PTT (pre-toddler time) to practice, but mentally whining because I want an iced mochacino.
I remember when I lived at a Dharma center. There was a Tibetan teacher visiting, waiting just outside the shrine room, ready to go in and give a talk. There was this really sweet family from Montreal there, well they come down the stairs, late for the talk--and see the lama there, ready to go in.
But the little boy (he was about thirteen) was just crying a river. This teacher looks over and the boy's sister says, with that kind of perfect, child's lack of pretense--"He just found out his grandmother dies. He misses her". And man, this teacher's whole face, like the molecular structure of it changed. It softened and re-formed and melted and tears just started streaming down his cheeks.
And he walks over to the boy and puts a hand on his shoulder and the little boy didn't think twice he just grabbed this Lama and hugged him and folded his whole little body in to him and they cried and the boys snot flowed down these monk's crimson robes and they stood there together. And that teacher wasn't going anywhere. A hurricane couldn't have moved him from that boy's side.
I haven't thought about that for a long time. Could I ever care for a stranger like that? I'm going to get an iced mochaninco. I'm going to keep getting up at PTT--something about that feels right. I'll probably forget about other people's miseries until something jars me back to that reality. I'm glad my family's safe.
That teacher? One of the strongest, kindest, wisest most straightforward humans I ever had the good fortune to be around. His ability to be truly present was the result of hard work. A lifetime of literally reshaping his intention. He died a few years later in a car accident in India.
Apr 19, 2006
Transparency Of Concept(s)
From Chogyam Trungpa
In the absence of thoughts and emotions, the Lords (the forces of materialism) bring up a still more powerful weapon, concepts. Labeling phenomena creates a feeling of a solid, definite world of "things." Such a solid world reassures us that we are a solid, continuous thing as well.
The world exists, therefore I, the perceiver of the world, exist. Meditation involves seeing the transparency of concepts, so that labeling no longer serves as a way of solidifying our world and our image of self. Labeling becomes simply the act of discrimination.
In the absence of thoughts and emotions, the Lords (the forces of materialism) bring up a still more powerful weapon, concepts. Labeling phenomena creates a feeling of a solid, definite world of "things." Such a solid world reassures us that we are a solid, continuous thing as well.
The world exists, therefore I, the perceiver of the world, exist. Meditation involves seeing the transparency of concepts, so that labeling no longer serves as a way of solidifying our world and our image of self. Labeling becomes simply the act of discrimination.
Apr 18, 2006
Bonus Points...
...for anyone who clicks on the death/impermanence link under dharma teachings. I dare 'ya...
Am I Enlightened Or Just Really Pissed Off?
From Chogyam Trungpa:
EMOTIONS AS THEY ARE
"In the practice of meditation, we neither encourage emotions nor repress them. By seeing them clearly, by allowing them to be as they are, we no longer permit them to serve as a means of entertaining and distracting us. Thus, they become the inexhaustible energy that fulfills egoless action".
Which got me to thinking, how do I know when I'm "...fueling egoless action" or just being an @sshole? You know, there's people (okay, mainly NY'ers...) who fear getting in to Buddhism 'cuz they don't want to "Lose their edge and go soft", despite appreciating the newly-won sanity of their friends who've gotten in to meditation.
So which is it? R we getting truly righteous or just ridiculous? Are we serenely finishing our lite beers and leaving the bar before the good brawls start as our friends laugh at us behind our backs? Do we need the edge? Can we have our cake...and smash it too?
EMOTIONS AS THEY ARE
"In the practice of meditation, we neither encourage emotions nor repress them. By seeing them clearly, by allowing them to be as they are, we no longer permit them to serve as a means of entertaining and distracting us. Thus, they become the inexhaustible energy that fulfills egoless action".
Which got me to thinking, how do I know when I'm "...fueling egoless action" or just being an @sshole? You know, there's people (okay, mainly NY'ers...) who fear getting in to Buddhism 'cuz they don't want to "Lose their edge and go soft", despite appreciating the newly-won sanity of their friends who've gotten in to meditation.
So which is it? R we getting truly righteous or just ridiculous? Are we serenely finishing our lite beers and leaving the bar before the good brawls start as our friends laugh at us behind our backs? Do we need the edge? Can we have our cake...and smash it too?
Apr 11, 2006
Tonglen Posse: Saddle Up...
...hi all. A good friend's baby just went in to ICU last night. Still doing tests, but looks like a pretty virulent form of Anemia where the red blood cells are attacked by the bodies own immune system.
The little girl's name is Daya, she's about sixteen months old. It would be very appreciated and helpful if you could include her in your practice. The mother's name is Limor--I'm sure a few healing thoughts in her direction wouldn't hurt either.
New link below--a talk on Tonglen by Pema Chodron.
Thanks all.
The little girl's name is Daya, she's about sixteen months old. It would be very appreciated and helpful if you could include her in your practice. The mother's name is Limor--I'm sure a few healing thoughts in her direction wouldn't hurt either.
New link below--a talk on Tonglen by Pema Chodron.
Thanks all.
Apr 6, 2006
You Talkin' To Me?
"Fear is one of the weapons of our ego. It protects the ego. If one reaches the stage where one begins to see the folly of ego, then there is the fear of losing the ego, and fear is one of its last weapons.
Beyond that point fear no longer exists, because the object of fear is to frighten somebody, and when that somebody is not there, then fear loses its function. You see, fear is continually given life by your response, and when there is no one to respond to fear - which is ego loss - then fear ceases to exist."
Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche
Beyond that point fear no longer exists, because the object of fear is to frighten somebody, and when that somebody is not there, then fear loses its function. You see, fear is continually given life by your response, and when there is no one to respond to fear - which is ego loss - then fear ceases to exist."
Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche
Another Day, Another Dharma
So, there's a section here called 'dharma teachings/talks'. For now, I'm adding links to articles about topics raised on the blog--the skandas, the 12 nidhanas, karma.
If there's a topic you'd like to know more about, just let me know (my email addy's available under 'view my profile').
Also, pls feel free to send this blog to friends, family, extraterrestrials. Any and all are welcome.
If there's a topic you'd like to know more about, just let me know (my email addy's available under 'view my profile').
Also, pls feel free to send this blog to friends, family, extraterrestrials. Any and all are welcome.
Apr 5, 2006
Schmidt Happens...
...back in the day, during his teachings Trungpa Rinpoche would sometimes reference "Joe Schmidt". In his marrow-piercing high-pitched thunderbolt of a voice, Trungpa would say something like "So, just suppose Joe Schmidt comes along...".
Of course, Trungpa's mantra power being what it was, he somehow actually conjured up Joe Schmidt. Despite the fact no one's ever actually seen Joe Schmidt, he now has his own blog. There's a link to it, bottom left...
Of course, Trungpa's mantra power being what it was, he somehow actually conjured up Joe Schmidt. Despite the fact no one's ever actually seen Joe Schmidt, he now has his own blog. There's a link to it, bottom left...
Feeling Pretty Sassy...
...humbled by no HTML experience, but driven by a large Cafe Mocha and the words of a good friend who said "Any monkey can figure out how to put links on his blog...", I've managed to create links on the blog.
1. The Chronicles Project: first hand stories about Trungpa Rinpoche.
2. The Konchok Foundation: the rebuilding of the Trungpa Rinpoche's home monastery (Surmang) in Tibet.
3. The Dharma Ocean Center: dedicated to the study/preservation of the teachings of Trungpa Rinpoche. Started by Dr. Reggie Ray, Author "Indestructable Truth". *this site has downloadable MP3's of some guided meditation practices.
1. The Chronicles Project: first hand stories about Trungpa Rinpoche.
2. The Konchok Foundation: the rebuilding of the Trungpa Rinpoche's home monastery (Surmang) in Tibet.
3. The Dharma Ocean Center: dedicated to the study/preservation of the teachings of Trungpa Rinpoche. Started by Dr. Reggie Ray, Author "Indestructable Truth". *this site has downloadable MP3's of some guided meditation practices.
Apr 3, 2006
The Water Just Got Deeper...
"...reviewing the buddhist view of consciousness and feeling, including how consciousness forms, how it relates to feelings, and how thoughts and attitudes spring out of that process. The abhidharma or buddha’s teachings on this go into incredible detail.
The twelve nidanas, it turns out, describes how moment to moment our consciousness forms from nothing, reacts to the perceptions of phenomenon, forms a positive, negative, or neutral opinion of that phenomenon, then jumps to a conclusion about how things should be and habitualizes the result.
We also studied the five skandas, each a mental process which all combined make up what we typically consider self or ego. the formation of the skandas is part of the nidana cycle, the fourth nidana in fact, before sense perceptions start to make contact with the phenomenal world. the consciousness skanda is paramount, but is supported by the skandas of form, feeling, formation, and perception.
Form constructs distinct views of the world, feeling just provides a very basic positive, negative, or neutral opinion of things, perception processes what we perceive, and formation pigeon-holes things into categories for us.
The importance of these teachings is deep. When Pema teaches about ‘learning to stay’, this comes from the wisdom that the cycle of karma can only be interrupted between the seventh and eighth nidanas - between feeling and craving. Once we’ve gone from feeling to actually thirsting for something then we’ve continued a cycle that ends with a further strengthening of ego and solitification of our world view.
But if we can learn to rest in feeling (the seventh nidana) then we can interrupt the habituation of ego. In fact, that’s the only way we can work with it and stop the karmic momentum. By karmic momentum I mean the quality that our feelings lead us to action which then sows the seeds of future suffering - in this case the habituation and solidification of our ego-centric view of the world.
Trungpa rinpoche also gave an interesting teaching on the skandas and enlightenment. He taught that the skandas in an enlightened being are still there. what’s different is that they aren’t connected. Meditation cuts the tight connection between the skandas. Then he went further to say that it’s not really a connection that you’re severing. Really the skandas are just crammed together by our speed.
We hate to experience space, our world feels unsolid in space. so we keep our mind running quickly so we don’t notice that there is a small gap between each skanda. so meditation lets us slow down, and then increase the gap between the skandas or in other words so we can see the large expanse of space which is already between them".
The twelve nidanas, it turns out, describes how moment to moment our consciousness forms from nothing, reacts to the perceptions of phenomenon, forms a positive, negative, or neutral opinion of that phenomenon, then jumps to a conclusion about how things should be and habitualizes the result.
We also studied the five skandas, each a mental process which all combined make up what we typically consider self or ego. the formation of the skandas is part of the nidana cycle, the fourth nidana in fact, before sense perceptions start to make contact with the phenomenal world. the consciousness skanda is paramount, but is supported by the skandas of form, feeling, formation, and perception.
Form constructs distinct views of the world, feeling just provides a very basic positive, negative, or neutral opinion of things, perception processes what we perceive, and formation pigeon-holes things into categories for us.
The importance of these teachings is deep. When Pema teaches about ‘learning to stay’, this comes from the wisdom that the cycle of karma can only be interrupted between the seventh and eighth nidanas - between feeling and craving. Once we’ve gone from feeling to actually thirsting for something then we’ve continued a cycle that ends with a further strengthening of ego and solitification of our world view.
But if we can learn to rest in feeling (the seventh nidana) then we can interrupt the habituation of ego. In fact, that’s the only way we can work with it and stop the karmic momentum. By karmic momentum I mean the quality that our feelings lead us to action which then sows the seeds of future suffering - in this case the habituation and solidification of our ego-centric view of the world.
Trungpa rinpoche also gave an interesting teaching on the skandas and enlightenment. He taught that the skandas in an enlightened being are still there. what’s different is that they aren’t connected. Meditation cuts the tight connection between the skandas. Then he went further to say that it’s not really a connection that you’re severing. Really the skandas are just crammed together by our speed.
We hate to experience space, our world feels unsolid in space. so we keep our mind running quickly so we don’t notice that there is a small gap between each skanda. so meditation lets us slow down, and then increase the gap between the skandas or in other words so we can see the large expanse of space which is already between them".
Real Life. Real Strange. Really.
Okay, true story. The other day my wife is at the subway station and overhears someone firmly, emphatically say "No, here's how it goes. The inside story? 'We, you?'...do not exist". She turns around to see a nine year old boy saying this to his little brother.
Mar 31, 2006
To Drink Like Men...In A Gay bar.
My friend Joe Mauricio (not his real name) and I went out last night to an Irish pub--in Chelsea. Which meant--you got it--place was filled with tall lads in soccer jerseys sporting a lisp. And boyfriends. Then again, Joe and I were there--which says, what? Say what?
Anyway, jealous as I am to admit it--Joe (again, not his real name) is a class A funnyman. He's an actor, working comedian and one of my dearest friends. So, over the course of a Guinness (whiskey for Joe, he said he's "on a diet") we talked about what it means to be living, scrapping and keeping our heads above water in NYC.
As we compared notes, one thing became clear. Its kind of tough doing the "right action, compassionate thing" in a city where people are elbowing each other on the subway. Turns out Joe (okay, okay his real name) and I are right there, pushing and shoving with the best of 'em. But aren't we supposed to be versed enough in knowing our minds to not believe the hype and get sucked in?
Maybe. Maybe not. So what's my point? I don't have one, I'm hoping like the next subway if I hang around one will show up. My non-point is maybe this city is just too hectic and no matter how much mediation you do, its not enough to keep from barely not elbowing that guy who just dug his in to your rib cage.
Or, and this is the embarrassing admission section--maybe I'm just not working hard enough at my own practice and using the energy of the city as an excuse to foster my own pent up frustration. Bit of an urban-spiritual chicken or the egg deal, in a way.
As I see it, my choices are: a. Don't hang out with Joe. He's clearly the Devil. b. Don't ride the subway. Its clearly the preferred mode of transportation for...the Devil. c. Put my money where my Guinness is and don't elbow back. Cuz elbows are...damn, the Devil thing doesn't work with elbows.
So, since Joe's the only friend I have and I can't afford taxi's, looks like I'm going to have to put on my big-boy pants and actually walk the walk I keep yapping about at those fancy classes I teach on Buddhism. So there it is. I have to stop looking for reasons to throw elbows and start making room for people, in my mind and heart. Either way, looks like its going to be a long trip.
Would've been so much easier if Joe were the Devil. There's nothing like a warm excuse to curl up with and ignore everything around you.
Anyway, jealous as I am to admit it--Joe (again, not his real name) is a class A funnyman. He's an actor, working comedian and one of my dearest friends. So, over the course of a Guinness (whiskey for Joe, he said he's "on a diet") we talked about what it means to be living, scrapping and keeping our heads above water in NYC.
As we compared notes, one thing became clear. Its kind of tough doing the "right action, compassionate thing" in a city where people are elbowing each other on the subway. Turns out Joe (okay, okay his real name) and I are right there, pushing and shoving with the best of 'em. But aren't we supposed to be versed enough in knowing our minds to not believe the hype and get sucked in?
Maybe. Maybe not. So what's my point? I don't have one, I'm hoping like the next subway if I hang around one will show up. My non-point is maybe this city is just too hectic and no matter how much mediation you do, its not enough to keep from barely not elbowing that guy who just dug his in to your rib cage.
Or, and this is the embarrassing admission section--maybe I'm just not working hard enough at my own practice and using the energy of the city as an excuse to foster my own pent up frustration. Bit of an urban-spiritual chicken or the egg deal, in a way.
As I see it, my choices are: a. Don't hang out with Joe. He's clearly the Devil. b. Don't ride the subway. Its clearly the preferred mode of transportation for...the Devil. c. Put my money where my Guinness is and don't elbow back. Cuz elbows are...damn, the Devil thing doesn't work with elbows.
So, since Joe's the only friend I have and I can't afford taxi's, looks like I'm going to have to put on my big-boy pants and actually walk the walk I keep yapping about at those fancy classes I teach on Buddhism. So there it is. I have to stop looking for reasons to throw elbows and start making room for people, in my mind and heart. Either way, looks like its going to be a long trip.
Would've been so much easier if Joe were the Devil. There's nothing like a warm excuse to curl up with and ignore everything around you.
Suffering: Apply. Wait. Reapply.
Mi amiga Roberta once said "Pain is mandatory, suffering is optional", which I'll use as a clever segue to how I got in to an email fight with someone. Why is it that email is completely inadequate at capturing mood, tone and emotion--until someone writes and tells you to go *&%^$#! yourself?
So what did I learn other than getting flamed in an email is pretty much like getting flamed in person? I learned that NY State law restricts the possession of semiautomatic assault weapons that hold up to 100 rounds. In retrospect, probably a good thing. I'd been the victim of a an email drive-by and there was little I could do but suck toxic tail-pipe fumes as they drove away.
Problem is, while you're choking down someone else's anger-laced carbon monoxide, you tend to keep replaying the events in your head. It becomes one giant loop reliving itself, the ultimate inner, "He said, she said". And the next thing you know, circumventing the state mandated six month waiting period for a handgun seems, well reasonable. And that's when you better wake up and smell the karma.
Because the more I replayed the events, the bigger more life-like and real the whole thing seemed. I was feeding my emotions big double-handfuls of self-justified anger-kibble and they were quickly growing up and out of control. They had become Rage-Zilla, foot-stomping to matchsticks whole villages of reason and patience.
And then an ancient Buddhist saying came to me, "Dude--shut up". And I realized that it was up to me. To shut up, to stop replaying events, to seal up the bag of anger-kibble, to tear up my registration form for an assault weapon and to just, stop. So I did. And lo and behold Rage-Zilla tucked his tail and vanished.
I realized it'd be wiser to spend the next six months being grateful for a lovely wife, family and life rather then put on one of those semi-knit trucker's hats made from beer cans, waiting for my Fed Ex delivery of a semi-auto handgun. I mean, someone has to stop the madness, why not me?
There's a great quote from one of those old Buddhist Yoda's, about what not to do with one's thoughts. It starts out "Do not imagine, think, deliberate, meditate, act but be at rest...". This doesn't mean "Go zombie" whenever trouble arises, but rather, "...at rest" means to let mind rest in its own ability to be present, intelligent. Don't crank anything up. For that matter, don't crank anything down.
Oh, the other thing I learned is that email is probably the media-crack of the millennium marketed by self serving corporate interests to undermine the necessity of human interaction and create an unhealthy dependency on technology.
Then again, maybe I just need to learn to not type whatever comes out of my brain.
So what did I learn other than getting flamed in an email is pretty much like getting flamed in person? I learned that NY State law restricts the possession of semiautomatic assault weapons that hold up to 100 rounds. In retrospect, probably a good thing. I'd been the victim of a an email drive-by and there was little I could do but suck toxic tail-pipe fumes as they drove away.
Problem is, while you're choking down someone else's anger-laced carbon monoxide, you tend to keep replaying the events in your head. It becomes one giant loop reliving itself, the ultimate inner, "He said, she said". And the next thing you know, circumventing the state mandated six month waiting period for a handgun seems, well reasonable. And that's when you better wake up and smell the karma.
Because the more I replayed the events, the bigger more life-like and real the whole thing seemed. I was feeding my emotions big double-handfuls of self-justified anger-kibble and they were quickly growing up and out of control. They had become Rage-Zilla, foot-stomping to matchsticks whole villages of reason and patience.
And then an ancient Buddhist saying came to me, "Dude--shut up". And I realized that it was up to me. To shut up, to stop replaying events, to seal up the bag of anger-kibble, to tear up my registration form for an assault weapon and to just, stop. So I did. And lo and behold Rage-Zilla tucked his tail and vanished.
I realized it'd be wiser to spend the next six months being grateful for a lovely wife, family and life rather then put on one of those semi-knit trucker's hats made from beer cans, waiting for my Fed Ex delivery of a semi-auto handgun. I mean, someone has to stop the madness, why not me?
There's a great quote from one of those old Buddhist Yoda's, about what not to do with one's thoughts. It starts out "Do not imagine, think, deliberate, meditate, act but be at rest...". This doesn't mean "Go zombie" whenever trouble arises, but rather, "...at rest" means to let mind rest in its own ability to be present, intelligent. Don't crank anything up. For that matter, don't crank anything down.
Oh, the other thing I learned is that email is probably the media-crack of the millennium marketed by self serving corporate interests to undermine the necessity of human interaction and create an unhealthy dependency on technology.
Then again, maybe I just need to learn to not type whatever comes out of my brain.
Karma: Not A City In Thailand....
Karma (Sanskrit: कर्म, from the root kri "to do") is an active verb. So you could approach karma from the p.o.v. of "What are/were my actions" as opposed to, "Why am I experiencing this or that effect?". According to Buddhism karma's a law, the enactment of a principle as opposed to any kind of moral governing.
The thinking goes, if we realize that the pain we sometimes experience is the effect of our own misguided actions, hopefully, eventually we'll stop creating those actions. In other words, if we can generate a little awareness in our lives, it might help us see that we're the ones whacking ourselves in the head with a hammer--its not the result of some unknown, mysterious force.
Speaking of blunt force trauma, time for another coffee...
The thinking goes, if we realize that the pain we sometimes experience is the effect of our own misguided actions, hopefully, eventually we'll stop creating those actions. In other words, if we can generate a little awareness in our lives, it might help us see that we're the ones whacking ourselves in the head with a hammer--its not the result of some unknown, mysterious force.
Speaking of blunt force trauma, time for another coffee...
Mar 30, 2006
Am I A Bad Person?
I lobbied for a new espresso machine at work. Nothing outrageous--its a Bodum. Simple design, ruthlessly efficient. Makes a great cup--first time every time.
So for the first week we all stood around, whipping up espresso drinks, discussing the perfect crema color and the joys of perfectly steamed milk. It was a beautiful thing. One happy family.
But that changed. People started drinking more. A lot more. Our salesperson Tim, who shall remain anonymous went from having (seriously) a single cup of deli-brew a day to three double-espresso drinks. That's six shots of espresso. A day.
I'm going to put one of those electronic dog-collars on him so when he tries to fire up the machine he gets a jolt of electricity to the face and neck area.
And people are snippy. Everyone's short-tempered, intolerant. They stand and foot tap while the machine cranks out the java-juice, shaking thier heads dismissively 'cuz its taking too long. And no one even cares about how much crema a single shot should produce--because no one makes a single serving anymore. If you're not cooking a double, don't even approach the machine. Needless to say we now order espresso grind in bulk.
People look over their shoulder a lot. Like someone's going to unexpectedly surprise them. I don't even know if people use the cool ultra-contemporary double-walled clear glass espresso glasses I bought--I think they're just sucking it straight from the spigot.
Now, when you go to make an espresso, if someone else is there its like those monkeys in 2001: A Space Odyssey--you get this stare like you're moving in on their kill. I've seen employees keep one another at bay with the cute little sugar spoons, jabbing at each other, going for the eyes.
What have I done? Me, I don't even go near the machine any more. I go to Guy&Gallard, plunk down $4.00 and pray when I get back to work people haven't gone Lord Of The Flies on each other. But you have to admit, Guy&Gallard does make a good brew. And they don't poke you with the sugar spoon while they steam your milk.
Warning: Objects In Mirror May Not Exist....
The Five Aggregates (Skandhas)
by Charles Patton
The five aggregates (skandhas) are the scheme the Buddha chose to describe the nature of the individual human existence. It is a common doctrine among virtually all schools of Buddhist thought, being basic to the Buddha's philosophical teachings.
The remarkable aspect of it is that it describes the human existance as a combination of physical and mental elements without recourse to the idea of a soul that is distinct from the mind, and -- most especially -- does not assert any governing agent that can be identified as a self within the individual.
That is to say, each of the five aggregates is an equal component of the individual, which amounts to a conventional self only when all are present and functioning.
Briefly, the five aggregates are: the material organism (ruupa); sensation (vedanaa); conception (sa~nj~naa); volition (sam.skaara); and consciousness (vij~nana). The diagram below sketches the basic relationship between the aggregates in a human being.
The first and last (material organism and consciousness) of the aggregates are perhaps best thought of as the "stuff", or basis, of the individual, while the other three (sensation, ideation, and volition) are the internal transactions that occur between them. Matter is organized into a physical organism and animated by consciousness.
These two combine to form the body-mind substrate of the personality. The other three aggregates are forms of activity that arises in the interactions between the body and mind.
Sensation involves the process of data collection by the senses.
The six sense organs in Buddhist thought include eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and brain. The brain is included as a 'sixth' sense organ because it senses sensations (such as memories) that arise internally and not directly from an external source (though they may have come originally from an external source).
Certain emotions, such as sorrow and happiness, may also be considered mental sensations in some situations. Also, the sensations that occur in the dream state are sensed by the brain. The sensory objects of these sense organs are rendered into data, which is transmitted to the brain. There it is rendered into a mental representation. This rendering is the first step of conception.
To give an example, the retina of the eye is struck by light and it sends a data transmission through the optic nerve to the brain. The brain takes this data and converts it into colors, shapes, and images. This process produces a constant visual field (visual consciousness), so long as the eyes, nerve, and brain are all functionally properly.
Conception is the process of deriving general concepts from the sensory fields and using them as templates in abstract thought and also as a means of recognition. To give an example, the concept of redness is drawn from the visual sensations of certain hues of color, representing a certain band of wavelengths of light, which we call 'red'.
One difference between the sensation of red and the concept of red is that the sensations of red are all slightly different and are merely the red hues that appear in the visual field. A ball may be red, or there may be red on a billboard. The concept of redness, however, is an idea lifted out of the images of our vision and generalized.
It does not represent a specific hue of color, but is a very general notion that encompasses a multitude of hues that fall within a certain range of color. In essense, the sensation of red is seen, while the notion of red is thought about. By drawing a concept of redness out of the plethora of hues that we see, we are able to single out hues and recognize them as 'red'.
On a basic level, conception is an essential function of the mind if we are to make sense of the world. Without it, we would not be able to recognize particular things or to generalize about our environment. We find certain red fruits on certain trees and generalize them, calling them apples on apple trees.
Later when we find another tree with the same fruits, we know that it is an apple tree. It is because of the concept of apples and apple trees that we able to recognize it again. This is why this aggregate is sometimes translated as preception rather than conception.
Volition is that function of the mind that might also be called the 'will'. It involves an agent of action, what we typically refer to as the psychological 'I'. Volition does not merely involve intent, but simply consists of actions that originate in the mind and have an agent that performs them. This aggregate includes a broad group of activities in the commentaries from earliest times. There is a traditional litany of fifty-two activities that were considered volitional. They include things like habits, reactions, and intentional acts.
Volition is very important in Buddhist thought because it is this that is the genesis of karma. In fact, karma is itself defined as a volitional act. Volitional acts all have results, which is sometimes called the fruits of karma. Of course, these results are not always ethical in nature. If I am thirsty and choose to pick up a glass of water and drink from it, the volitional act has the result of alleviating thirst and putting water in my body. But there is probably nothing ethical about it.
If instead I come accross someone in a desert who is suffering from extreme thirst and I give him water (or chose intentionally to withold my water from him), that would consitute a karma with an ethical quality. Karmic acts are generally divided into three categories in Buddhist writings, these being mental, verbal, and physical acts.
To illustrate, if I form hateful thoughts about someone I meet, that is a mental act. If I tell the person hateful things to express those hateful thoughts, that is a verbal act. If I strike that person with a stick or fist, that is a physical act. Each of these types of acts have different consequences and gravities. Mental acts tend to function to condition our attitudes and opinions.
Verbal acts tend to condition our relationships with others, and usually will also reinforce mental conditioning. Physical acts are often the most powerful, because they can go so far as taking or perserving life. They have results that condition our physical environment. Generally speaking, though, karmic acts tend to have their seeds in mental acts that, if nutured, blossom into verbal and physical acts.
To speak and behave compassionately, on a consistent basis at least, one needs to begin with compassionate mental acts.
This is the basic scheme of the five aggregates that make up the individual personality. While it broken up into five distinct components, when we take them all as a whole, we can see it as a complete system.
by Charles Patton
The five aggregates (skandhas) are the scheme the Buddha chose to describe the nature of the individual human existence. It is a common doctrine among virtually all schools of Buddhist thought, being basic to the Buddha's philosophical teachings.
The remarkable aspect of it is that it describes the human existance as a combination of physical and mental elements without recourse to the idea of a soul that is distinct from the mind, and -- most especially -- does not assert any governing agent that can be identified as a self within the individual.
That is to say, each of the five aggregates is an equal component of the individual, which amounts to a conventional self only when all are present and functioning.
Briefly, the five aggregates are: the material organism (ruupa); sensation (vedanaa); conception (sa~nj~naa); volition (sam.skaara); and consciousness (vij~nana). The diagram below sketches the basic relationship between the aggregates in a human being.
The first and last (material organism and consciousness) of the aggregates are perhaps best thought of as the "stuff", or basis, of the individual, while the other three (sensation, ideation, and volition) are the internal transactions that occur between them. Matter is organized into a physical organism and animated by consciousness.
These two combine to form the body-mind substrate of the personality. The other three aggregates are forms of activity that arises in the interactions between the body and mind.
Sensation involves the process of data collection by the senses.
The six sense organs in Buddhist thought include eye, ear, nose, tongue, body, and brain. The brain is included as a 'sixth' sense organ because it senses sensations (such as memories) that arise internally and not directly from an external source (though they may have come originally from an external source).
Certain emotions, such as sorrow and happiness, may also be considered mental sensations in some situations. Also, the sensations that occur in the dream state are sensed by the brain. The sensory objects of these sense organs are rendered into data, which is transmitted to the brain. There it is rendered into a mental representation. This rendering is the first step of conception.
To give an example, the retina of the eye is struck by light and it sends a data transmission through the optic nerve to the brain. The brain takes this data and converts it into colors, shapes, and images. This process produces a constant visual field (visual consciousness), so long as the eyes, nerve, and brain are all functionally properly.
Conception is the process of deriving general concepts from the sensory fields and using them as templates in abstract thought and also as a means of recognition. To give an example, the concept of redness is drawn from the visual sensations of certain hues of color, representing a certain band of wavelengths of light, which we call 'red'.
One difference between the sensation of red and the concept of red is that the sensations of red are all slightly different and are merely the red hues that appear in the visual field. A ball may be red, or there may be red on a billboard. The concept of redness, however, is an idea lifted out of the images of our vision and generalized.
It does not represent a specific hue of color, but is a very general notion that encompasses a multitude of hues that fall within a certain range of color. In essense, the sensation of red is seen, while the notion of red is thought about. By drawing a concept of redness out of the plethora of hues that we see, we are able to single out hues and recognize them as 'red'.
On a basic level, conception is an essential function of the mind if we are to make sense of the world. Without it, we would not be able to recognize particular things or to generalize about our environment. We find certain red fruits on certain trees and generalize them, calling them apples on apple trees.
Later when we find another tree with the same fruits, we know that it is an apple tree. It is because of the concept of apples and apple trees that we able to recognize it again. This is why this aggregate is sometimes translated as preception rather than conception.
Volition is that function of the mind that might also be called the 'will'. It involves an agent of action, what we typically refer to as the psychological 'I'. Volition does not merely involve intent, but simply consists of actions that originate in the mind and have an agent that performs them. This aggregate includes a broad group of activities in the commentaries from earliest times. There is a traditional litany of fifty-two activities that were considered volitional. They include things like habits, reactions, and intentional acts.
Volition is very important in Buddhist thought because it is this that is the genesis of karma. In fact, karma is itself defined as a volitional act. Volitional acts all have results, which is sometimes called the fruits of karma. Of course, these results are not always ethical in nature. If I am thirsty and choose to pick up a glass of water and drink from it, the volitional act has the result of alleviating thirst and putting water in my body. But there is probably nothing ethical about it.
If instead I come accross someone in a desert who is suffering from extreme thirst and I give him water (or chose intentionally to withold my water from him), that would consitute a karma with an ethical quality. Karmic acts are generally divided into three categories in Buddhist writings, these being mental, verbal, and physical acts.
To illustrate, if I form hateful thoughts about someone I meet, that is a mental act. If I tell the person hateful things to express those hateful thoughts, that is a verbal act. If I strike that person with a stick or fist, that is a physical act. Each of these types of acts have different consequences and gravities. Mental acts tend to function to condition our attitudes and opinions.
Verbal acts tend to condition our relationships with others, and usually will also reinforce mental conditioning. Physical acts are often the most powerful, because they can go so far as taking or perserving life. They have results that condition our physical environment. Generally speaking, though, karmic acts tend to have their seeds in mental acts that, if nutured, blossom into verbal and physical acts.
To speak and behave compassionately, on a consistent basis at least, one needs to begin with compassionate mental acts.
This is the basic scheme of the five aggregates that make up the individual personality. While it broken up into five distinct components, when we take them all as a whole, we can see it as a complete system.
Up And Running...
Hey all--so my original plan was to meet with my friends+meditation students every month, hand out readings, have in depth discussions, probe the mysteries of dharmic deep space and have all of us integrate the complete meaning of the Truth in to our system this very lifetime.
Then I remembered I have a job. And a daughter to raise. So, here's the next best thing--a blog. Instructions are simple:
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Post responses like, "Dude, I have no idea what this article is talking about". Then I'll post back "Phew, neither do I".
See you here, or there.
Dana
Then I remembered I have a job. And a daughter to raise. So, here's the next best thing--a blog. Instructions are simple:
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Post responses like, "Dude, I have no idea what this article is talking about". Then I'll post back "Phew, neither do I".
See you here, or there.
Dana
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)