July Haiku

For my brother, whose birthday is in July.

Mid-July
Late afternoon heat
Tired sun lingers

Hot days
All-quiet skies
Buzzing bugs

Evening sun
Shadows stretch to follow
Until they part

July breeze
Always late, but
What an entrance!

Sleeping fields
Two crows quarreling
Breaks the silence

DQ

Postmodernism and PC

In the shadow of postmodern excess and political correctness.





The modern era, led by its fantasy of a perfectly ordered, rational world, its vision of utopia, and its grandiose scheme of order, was personified by structure, progress, and most importantly, Truth. There was a master plan, a prototype structure, and a universal law.

The backlash was an attack on such stringency, such glaring pomposity, and the very assumption of what the academics called, "a grand narrative." Afterall, who defines the Truth? Who gets to be the judge? And what about those whose story was conveniently unheard?

Out of this offensive, the postmodern movement was born, with its desire for plurality, multiplicity of voices, and inclusion. They touted the idea of identity through difference. And as always, our artistic output reflected the trend, most noticeably in architecture, with its new playful facades, juxtaposition of many styles at once, and an abundance of ornamentation. Anything in Las Vegas is the perfect example, as is the corner strip mall, with its ironic, useless clocktowers, propped up by enormous, out of place, tongue-in-cheek, Greek columns.

The postmodernists were questioning the very notion of truth, of a universal voice, of a single rule, which they declared was nothing but a fiction, and worse, an injustice. But our assumption of Truth was the inevitable result of our way of thinking, a tendency so deeply ingrained so as to be nearly a part of our brain's makeup. It is what molds our picture of reality.

We have been shaped by a lifetime of looking at the world through the framework of a hierarchy, in which all categories of reality are divided in two, such as in the division between black and white, or man and woman, right and wrong, and even east and west. These false divisions prioritize one part of the equation, leaving the other to the status of supplement. In summary, these oppositions entail hierarchies of values that imply the false guarantee of truth, and lead to injustice.

By uncovering this offense, by deconstructing, or breaking down the system of opposites, and exposing the folly of it, the postmodernists hoped to restore justice to our art, our politics, our history texts - all of which reflect the inequitable hierarchy - but most importantly, our way of thinking. Let all the voices be heard, and let's refrain from judgment because judgment assumes a judge, as well as an assumption of power, and power is the most suspicious of all things suspect in the context of a major deconstruction.

More farcical - and here's my point - than the hierarchy they were trying to undue, was the resultant excess of censorship commonly known as political correctness. For, speaking is fine; just don't make a judgment call. But rejecting the absurdity of PC, means asking whether we can have our relativity, our plurality, our anything goes, and our standards at the same time.

I am reminded of a quote I heard a long time ago, by one of my old mentors, quoting one of his own: "Permission granted, but not to do whatever you want." (Art historian, Arthur Danto)

Postmodernism. It was a noble attempt, but thankfully, the pendulum continues to swing, and time ticks away in the empty clock tower.

Confidence in the Enlightened One

My spiritual teacher in the Yoga tradition, is a direct disciple of India's cherished Yogi, Krishnamacharya. I am forever in gratitude to be a part of this lineage.







One of the common threads running through the different eastern wisdom practices is their lineage based tradition of discipleship, in which the seeker finds, sometimes after a painstaking search, a guru. It is the one who removes darkness, the one who points the way out of illusion, the enlightened one. It is not a priest, or a rabbi, not a go-between, not someone who councils you on the merits and ways of a righteous life so as to be positively judged by God, but rather an embodiment of the divine, himself, or herself, since, although the history of the female guru is shadowed by cultural male dominance, many a story is told of awakened female masters.

In the absence of a hierarchy, there exists a treasured bond and great trust between student and teacher, one that is guided not by blind faith, but by the student's confidence and reasoned conviction of the spiritual teacher's awakening. It is the covenant of dedicated perseverance along the path to liberation and presence of mind.

What follows is a translation of the ancient Vedic chant, known as Sahanavavatu, which is to this day, recited by both teacher and student together, before study. I received the eight timeless vows from my own Yoga studies within the tradition of the master Indian Yogi, Krishnamacharya.

Here in the West, we are disinclined to nurture a reverential attitude toward anyone, with its associations of suppression and tyranny - a lamentable deficiency, as the humility it fosters opens the way to spiritual growth and maturity.


SAHANAVAVATU

1. May we both be protected so that there will be no hindrance in the process of learning.
2. May we both enjoy the process of learning- may we look forward to every meeting between us.
3. May there be more and more enthusiasm and strength in both of us for this learning
4. May there be clarity in both of us - in learning and understanding on the part of the student and in teaching on the part of the teacher.
5. May there be no hatred or jealousy between the teacher and the student. May the relationship be one of total friendship.
6. May we not be agitated by internal factors from within us, by environment or by some forces beyond our control
7. May there be no agitation in body, mind or speech
8. May the symptoms of all obstacles be reduced.

Joni's Voice

This morning I heard Joni Mitchell's voice, and I closed up my work, and walked fast through the city, and through the park, past the squirrels, and the mothers with kids, and around the morning traffic. I passed an old man taking his own morning walk, and we smiled to each other. I made his day, and he made mine. The sun was bright, shining in my eyes, and I closed them for a moment while I walked. I walked with my eyes closed, smiling, then I saw blue and white sparkles and bubbles against my eyelids, and when I opened them, a hawk flew past me, and up into the biggest ficus tree I've ever seen. Galloping again past the children in the park, and the squirrels and the birds, I walked on top of the wooden balance beams like a circus girl, and hopped around the toy tires, and Joni Mitchell's voice continued to play, and it lit up the universe.

Japanese Death Poems

Today is a good day for Jisei, which in Japanese, is a farewell haiku poem to life. In older times, it was customary for poets and Zen monks in Japan, to write one in the moments just before death. In their charming spareness and informality, the words betray serenity, acceptance, and even humor.


I cast the brush aside -
from here on I'll speak to the moon
face to face.

~Koha (1897)


Willingly
I fade away within
the heatwave.

~Shizan (1775)


I go back
to the void where frost and snow
won't bother me.

~Tojaku (1799)


My body, useless
as the last persimmon
on the tree.

~Seisa (1722)


My body in its autumn:
a ragbag as rough as gourdskin.

~Ra-in (1779)


-dedicated to Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.

The Presence of Grace

In China, Kwan Yin is a mythical being, symbolizing compassion and kindness. In Buddhism, such an enlightened being is called a Bodhisattva.

Sometimes they walk among us.






There are certain words, like saint, and grace, which are often used lightly. But their referents are rare. Being in the presence of true grace can be disarming.

The effect it has on you might take you by surprise. It can evaporate a composed and cocksure exterior, melting it as surely as a flame melts a candle, transforming its strength and swirly designs into running streams of softened wax.

Your interior reads what the brawnier senses on the outside miss. Those hidden senses recognize inherent goodness, as the wandering Monarch butterfly recognizes the southern lands without ever having been there. And the knowing One can see through all masks, even when the wearer was unaware of such invisible garment being worn.

I have had such a blessed experience twice.

The first was when I met Jane Goodall, who is in every possible estimation, a Saint among the rest of us, embodying the rare combination of gentleness, courage, indefatigability, and infinite compassion. It was long ago, and I didn't expect to meet her that night, but when I saw her signing books through the windows of a neighborhood book and art store, and joined the others in line, I felt myself, or what I thought was myself, disappearing, dripping away to nothing, overcome. But to a Bodhisattva, whoever you are and whatever you present, is of no consequence; she knows.

The second experience was the first meeting I had with Roshi, my Zen teacher. Blotting the line between ordinary and extraordinary, his eyes see what you didn't have to show, and his ears hear what you never had to say. What else can he perceive in a glance, as a flash of sunlight illuminates all the unseen, floating dust in the room? Fortunately, I am still ill at ease in his presence.

In Retrospect: Twenty Five Great Songs

Lingering thoughts about last night's post (below):

1. If you didn't know Genesis' "Blood on the Rooftops" before, listen to the whole thing. The tender classical guitar intro is like a fragile leaf buoying up a bird ready to fly. And all the world conspires when it does.

2. I don't want to alter the list now, but I wish I would have put Radiohead's "Optimistic," instead of "High and Dry."

3. And I'd specify that it's Neil Diamond's "Mr. Bojangles" that I love best, better than the Walker original.

4. If I could add five more:

1. Right. David Bowie
2. Isn't it a Pity. George Harrison
3. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. Crosby, Stills and Nash
4. Maybe Tomorrow. Stereophonics
5. La Vie en Rose. (Grace Jones' version; 7.25 minutes)

Twenty Five Great Songs

Haunted by a sense of injustice for not including my favorite Beatle, I nonetheless present my top 25 songs (mixed genre):







This is my own prize post, my personal pick, the chocolate lava cake at the good restaurant. I take it so seriously I fretted for a half hour over whether or not to lump different genres together, or separate them (I lumped them together). I left the project with a heavy heart for choosing Genesis' "Blood on the Rooftops" over George Harrison's "Isn't it a Pity" for the final pick. I left out Crosby, Stills and Nash. But regretfully, it had to be. I sampled, I made notes, and I skipped going to the movies tonight.

Limiting the list to 25 meant leaving out many truly great songs. It meant narrowing down my Beatles picks, and passing over my personal favorite, "You Never Give Me Your Money," in deference to "Dear Prudence," which is arguably a better song, and then saying ^*#! it, and reverting back to "You Never Give Me Your Money" because, well, this is my list.

Rolling Stone Magazine once named Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" the greatest song ever. I love the song, and I love Al Kooper's story about how he slid in the simple, but catchy keyboard riff that ended up defining the song. But I left it off my list. If I was going to add Dylan, it would be "Lay Lady Lay," anyway.

Neutrality is impossible since music is woven through our personal memories, and is forever associated with the events in our lives. But if there was a realm of objectivity, to what degree could I penetrate this opaque universe? Could I capture the source of the song's force? The wistful melody, the way the floor tom drum comes in right there, the perfectly placed acoustic strum, or the sudden drop to minor key, which floods your soul with all the sadness in the whole world. And of course, the space, the origin of tension, which unfurls into the most gratifying splendor.

For all of these things, for capturing life in its glowing brightness, its inevitable somberness, for comforting us, riling us up, capturing entire eras in sound, for wrapping themselves around a movie so perfectly the two couldn't live without each other, and for making us feel, I selected the following songs.

1. Waters of March. Antonio Carlos Jobim
2. The Weight. The Band
3. Hello It's Me. Todd Rundgren
4. Junk. Paul McCartney
5. Someone Saved My Life Tonight. Elton John
6. Waltz #2. Elliott Smith
7. Antes Que Seja Tarde. Ivan Lins
8. Theme from the 400 Blows. Jean Constantin
9. Ten Years Gone. Led Zeppelin
10. Theme from the Thomas Crown Affair (The Windmills of your Mind). Michel Legrand
11. Mr. Bojangles. J.J. Walker
12. Old Man. Neil Young
13. Pink Moon. Nick Drake
14. Aguaplano. Paolo Conte
15. You Never Give Me Your Money. The Beatles
16. Speak to Me/Breathe. Pink Floyd
17. Taste. Rob Crow
18. You Can't Always Get What You Want. The Rolling Stones
19. More Than This. Roxy Music
20. Aishiteru. Ryuichi Sakamoto
21. Trois Gymnopédies #1. Satie
22. High and Dry. Radiohead
23. Sour Girl. Stone Temple Pilots
24. Two Hearts Beat As One. U2
25. Blood on the Rooftops. Genesis

No-Self is Not-Lofty

British poet William Blake seasons the era of Romanticism with a dash of Zen:

Am not I a fly like thee?
Or art not thou A man like me?

Departures

We wanted to see the Japanese movie Departures, but it was only playing in one theatre, and then it was gone. Last night we noticed it listed at another local theatre for limited engagement only.

"What you thought was your dream turns out not to be your dream, afterall."

These were Daigo's words after selling his cello, and walking away from the now defunct orchestra that kept him just arms' length from debt.

The job he takes on next is accidental.

Having moved back to his childhood home, in rural Japan, he finds himself under the apprenticeship of Ikuei, learning to prepare corpses for cremation. Despite himself, and the shame he first feels for his new vocation, he realizes grace and dignity in what he's doing. He finds the willingness to accept life, even if it includes death, and ultimately, to accept people, just as they are. He sponges the bodies of the newly deceased with care, cleansing them in attentive ritual, for their voyage beyond, and through this act of gentleness, he purifies himself of the demons that hinder his own voyage here.

His biggest hindrance is the resentment he feels toward his father - a man whose face he can't even remember - for leaving them when he was a child. It is heavy baggage to carry.

But like the salmon he watches from the bridge, fighting their upcurrent trek, he realizes the bigger significance of his own return. It seems a futile battle, the relentless silver fish propelling themselves on some urgent pilgrimage, risking death at any moment, like Sisyphus pushing his rock. "What is it all for?" he wonders aloud, and an anonymous wandering old man clues him in: "they're going back home."

Everything flourishes; each returns to its root
Returning to the root is called tranquility ~Tao Te Ching, 16

Home isn't always a distinct place, but for Daigo, it was the origin of the mystery, and although a solution to the mystery wasn't found, reparation was.

In a fitting ending in which we glimpse a solitary suitcase, his father's only belongings at the end, we know Daigo's own burden is lessened.

C'est Jacques

I returned from the pet store yesterday with some kitty goodies for the new member of our family, when, examining Jacques' new collar and tag, the following conversation ensued between my son and I:


Tonio: Purple? Mom!
Me: What?
Tonio: He's a boy.
Me: Oh...
Tonio: This isn't gonna work.
Me: I didn't think of that.
Tonio: You can't do that to him.
Me: Well, he's French.










PS. He's a rescue. There were four unrelated black kittens to choose from. When I asked about the coincidence of multiple black kitties from different feral litters, the woman told me the sad and ridiculous reason: The black ones often don't find homes because people are superstitious about them.

PPS. He loves to play all around my keyboard as you can see, and in his kitten crazies, pushed some key that took away the browser bar on top of the screen. If anyone knows how I can get it back, do tell!

What Makes a Mother's Heart Swell?

Nine words.






You may remember the adventure I had with my son last December, made forever unforgettable by the fluke snow storm in California, that turned our trek to Las Vegas into an accidental tour de force.

He had the chance to go to Las Vegas again this weekend with some friends from his band - his first trip alone, with just friends. But it was our wintery road trip he was referring to when he continued our running text messages last night:

Tonio: You want to know something funny?

Me: Always

Tonio: I had a better time in Vegas with you.

A Stirring Tea with E

On Tuesday I had tea with a friend who I often refer to simply as E, in my agenda book. For example, I had jotted down on that day: tea with E?

She wasn't sure about her schedule, and would call around midday. Meanwhile, I had to run some errands, first in importance being a trip to the bank to cash a check I had been waiting to cash for days, and finally got the go-ahead. Crossing off the other routine chores on my list, and with no word from E, I decided to put my dog Simba in his stroller, and enjoy a nice, long walk. I hadn't gotten far, when I noticed the little red light on my phone blinking. I called her right back:

I didn't even feel the phone vibrate!

It's 1:00 now - there's a yoga class I want to go to at 3:30 - if we meet by 1:30, we can have a nice little visit before I leave.

Who's teaching? I'll go with you! 

Great!

OK, I'll just run back home and gather my yoga things - see you soon!

So, although I hadn't gotten far, I turned the stroller around, and blew though my house like a tornado, picking up my yoga mat, and other necessities, in my wake.

When I saw E, she was just leaving the market - which is across from the coffee house - with a bag of oranges in each hand. I quickly relieved her of one bag, and we found a table on the patio with three chairs - for the two of us, and the oranges. But, it's the Marina, so after 20 minutes, it was already cold - at least for two women - and we moved inside.

We were enjoying our tea at our new table next to the window, when she glimpsed her ex, approaching the patio with a salad from the market.

Clearly unnerved, and fighting back a sense of intrusion tied to her own history with the place - a longtime personal hangout, and meeting spot - the mood was broken. We agreed that it was probably time to head to the yoga studio anyway, and planned our retreat. I saw him leave while she was in the bathroom, and watched her face when she returned and discovered the fortuitous change of scenery for herself.  

Our sigh of relief was curtailed, however, when we stood to gather our things, and I realized my bag wasn't there. 

Driven by the adrenaline that floods your veins the instant you discover something of importance is missing, I found myself at the counter asking the manager if someone had, by chance, turned in a red bag. Nothing. Next, he and E were behind me, and the three of us sprung outside, to double check the vicinity of our original patio table (next to the one the ex was using). No red bag. 

The desperation gave way to despondency, when I suddenly remembered the $500.00 in cash, inside the bag. And the credit cards. And my car key - those ridiculously expensive key fobs you have to get at the dealer. Why did I have to cash the check this morning?  

In a last ditch effort, I leapt, like a Kung Fu master, propelled, as if by magic, into the adjacent candy store. Before the words even came out of my mouth, I saw an unmistakable splotch of red canvas behind the counter. The assistant said a lady had brought it in earlier. I could only lean for a moment on his wall and thank him.

Catastrophe averted because of a stranger's honesty. This time exhaling a prolonged, unbroken sigh of relief, we reflected on how instantly the fire of panic can be cooled. As a summer breeze relieves the fever of a suffocating heat wave, a woman I don't even know, restored order to my day.

Our Yoga practice was special that day, and I was filled with gratitude toward a nameless lady. 

Two Dames on a Journey

I lifted my eyes from my book to get the last few sips of tea, when two old ladies in the near distance caught the corner of my eye. They were outside, approaching, walking slowly up the sidewalk, past the barber shop, and towards the coffee shop where I sat, partially masked by the mossy-green shutters, watching them cross the street, toward me, and toward oblivion, past the coffee shop, and past the only source of life, on this steel-toned Saturday morning. I knew they weren't coming in.

Thin, long-haired, and solemn, with eyes far-away, the two were either arm-in-arm, or walking closely, wearing no expression, looking straight ahead, into an unknown world. One, with partially darkened, patchy skin, an unwashed, graying pony-tail, and a coat too thick, and the other in a dress. In costumes from another time, donned for an event long ago, they continued their journey, stepping hypnotically into time, and out of my temporary gaze.

A Day in the Life (French Translation)

Yesterday, I looked for a French translation of The Beatles "A Day in the Life," and was surprised not to find one. So, I scratched one out myself, and now I can sing in French while my son plays it on guitar.

As with any translation, it's sense-by-sense, rather than word-by-word, but the challenge is compounded when translating songs because of the need to keep the syllable count. And in this case, it's, well, The Beatles, so there's a heightened feeling of wanting to do it justice. My hope is that I managed to keep the integrity of the song while taking necessary liberties with the language.

Considering the lack of an existing translation, my husband said I should post it. So, here it is - maybe someone who sings better than I do, and who happens to want the lyrics in French will appreciate it!

First, the English original, then in French:


A Day in the Life
The Beatles

I read the news today oh, boy
About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad
Well, i just had to laugh
I saw the photograph
He blew his mind out in a car
He didn't notice that the lights had changed
A crowd of people stood and stared
They'd seen his face before
Nobody was really sure if he was from the house of lords

I saw a film today oh, boy
The english army had just won the war
A crowd of people turned away
But I just had to look
Having read the book
I love to turn you on.

Woke up, got out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my way downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up, I noticed I was late
Found my coat and grabbed my hat
Made the bus in seconds flat
Found my way upstairs and had a smoke
Somebody spoke and I went into a dream
Ahh...

I read the news today oh, boy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather small
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall
I'd love to turn you on


A Day in the Life
Translation: Français
~DQ

J’ai vu la nouvelle aujourd’hui
Sur un homme chanceux qui reussit
Bien que la nouvelle etait triste
Bon, moi, je devais rire
j’ai vu la photographie
Dans une voiture, perdu sa tête
Il n’a pas vu que le feu changeait vite
Tout le monde le regardait
Ils connaissaient son vi-sage
Personne savait pas s’il etait un homme de la famille royale…

J’ai vu un bon film aujourd’hui
L’armée Anglais avaient gagné la guerre
Des spectateurs (s)sont détourné
Moi, j’ai du regarder
Ayant lu le livre
J’aime-rais bie-n te- pla-ire…

reveillé, et me levé
peigné vite les cheveux
descendù puis pour une tasse de thé
j’ai remarqué que j’etais en retard
trouvé ma veste et mon chapeau
monté le bus dans des seconds
j’allais sortir, m’en fumer une
quelqu’un a parlé; je metais a rêver
Ahh…

J’ai vu la nouvelle aujourd’hui
Quat(re) mille rares trous à Blackburn, Lancashire
Bien que les trous etaient petits
Ils les devaient compter
Maintenant ils savent combien de trous peuvent aller dans Le - Albert Hall
J’aime-rais bie-n te- pla-ire…