Six Perfections

To My Old Master

2012-02-01T15:49:00.000-08:00

I loved this story so much that I posted on facebook, twitter, and now putting it on the blog. This is from the excellent website, Letters of Note.

In August of 1865, a Colonel P.H. Anderson of Big Spring, Tennessee,wrote to his former slave, Jourdan Anderson, and requested that he comeback to work on his farm. Jourdan — who, since being emancipated,had moved to Ohio, found paid work, and was now supporting his family —responded spectacularly by way of the letter seen below (a letterwhich, according to newspapers at the time, he dictated).

Rather than quote the numerous highlights in this letter, I'll simply leave you to enjoy it. Do make sure you read to the end.
(Source: The Freedmen's Book; Image: A group of escaped slaves in Virginia in 1862, courtesy of the Library of Congress.)

Dayton, Ohio,

August 7, 1865

To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgottenJourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again,promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often feltuneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long beforethis, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they neverheard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldierthat was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at metwice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, andam glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to thedear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen,Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hopewe will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have goneback to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, butone of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he evergot a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to giveme. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month,with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—thefolks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, andGrundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy hasa head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and meattend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhearothers saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. Thechildren feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it wasno disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeyswould have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if youwill write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better ableto decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to begained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from theProvost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says shewould be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed totreat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test yoursincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we servedyou. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on yourjustice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully forthirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars amonth for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings wouldamount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to thisthe interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deductwhat you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, andpulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are injustice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams's Express, in careof V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithfullabors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in thefuture. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongswhich you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making ustoil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wagesevery Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day forthe negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will bea day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety formy Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls.You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would ratherstay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girlsbrought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters.You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for thecolored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life nowis to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,

Jourdon Anderson.

At the Beach with Lama

2012-01-31T11:15:00.000-08:00

I am aware that an African American man talking about alternative spirituality and mystical experiences isn't normal. That kind of thing is reserved for hippies, sweat lodges, and people from other countries. We are not granted the right to act on and speak of angels without robes or a pulpit. In short it falls under the category of 'crazy white people hobbies' along with sky diving, vision questing, and Burning Man festivals.

To be a Black gay man delving into mysticism without partaking of activism or performance enhancing drugs is something I don't normally see.

Venerable Lobsang Chunzom has been in deep silent retreat for over a year. She is my Lama and a high and holy Buddhist nun embarking on a 3-year silent retreat.

When she went into deep retreat a lot of people were sad or worried about what they were going to do without their teacher. The departure left me feeling confused. I wanted to feel sad but at the same time I figured I would hear from her in deep retreat. There are ways to hear and feel people without them being there. I have personally experienced this countless times.

Over the course of the past year there have been little hints, notes, and messages left around. Most are sacred and personal, so I keep those private. Other times I have just been prompted to push or move in a particular direction at a moment in time. In one case when our not-for-profit donations were down I was pushed to pay visit to a friend's house. I didn't want to go but the pull was so strong that I ended up taking a train out to visit this person. In turn she ended up writing donations checks for $28,000 to the organization that day. Nothing prepared me for that except a strange push coming from something that was far beyond my comprehension in that moment.

The most mystical experiences have happened in dreams or around them.

In the whispers of my waking I was prompted to explore the beach. The beach was a constant refrain in Lama Chunzom's teaching. Personally I have never felt either affinity or malice for beaches. I grew up in Miami and took them for granted like a New Yorker takes the Statue of Liberty as just a green lady on an island. I happened to be down in Miami helping out my parents. I met up with a visiting friend in the sterile Aventura Mall. She lamented that she didn't like this area, as it was too mean and artificial in its community and people. I had never thought about Aventura in that light because I went to school in the area and excepted the luxury cars and scowling jowls as a plastic surgeon's playground. She mentioned that her husband and her went to Haulover Beach, a place I've heard of it but had never been. It was a nude beach.

"Oh, I would never do that-"

I caught myself and cursed under my breath. I have a little agreement with myself. Whenever I find myself blurting out the words 'I would never do (blank)' then that is what I must do. It has to be done, otherwise that 'unwilling action' will linger in my mind. This doesn't mean I'll rob a bank or kill a man. Those are things typically not aligned with spirit (although Lord Buddha's Jataka Tales has several interesting tales that counter this). Often my 'I would never' statements are just in relation to things that scare me or challenge me. And I don't want anything 'safe' on my unwilling list.

On the next Buddhist holiday I knew what I had to do. Haulover Beach here we come! When I arrived I stared around self-consciously. Yep, this is the nude beach. Leathery tans, brown bottoms, and jiggling bodies moved on the white sand. It was a blur of caramel flesh. I walked to a quiet section and wondered if maybe this wasn't the right thing, as if there was something wrong or shameful with being nude. At times of uncertainty I look around for auspicious signs. And then I saw her/him. Walking down the sand toward me was a hermaphrodite. Tall, slender, nude, and talking on her cell. She had female breast and male genitals. It was such a strange sight that it had to mean something. How many times do you see a hermaphrodite? For me the answer is never...until now.

She crossed my path and continued in her conversation. Well they say angels are neither male nor female but a combination of both energies. I was looking for an auspicious sign and it doesn't get more attention-getting than that. I set up my blanket and altar with offerings.

I took off my shirt, shorts, underwear and sat down. In the buff, Au naturale, as I was born. Then I noticed something. No one cared. There wasn't gasps, laughter, screams of horror, whistles, catcalls. There wasn't anything except sound of the ocean and seagulls. Families strolled around holding hands, couples put suntan lotion on each others, old guys were sipping on beer. They were just doing it without clothes and no one cared.

I read my prayers, meditated, and went for a swim. I didn't feel dirty or shameful. My self-consciousness melted away after a few minutes. I was free. My mind was the beach. Sun, joy, freedom, nothing hidden.

Shortly after that day the dreams started flowing even more. More hints and suggestions. I asked aloud without pretense or ambition about what I should do. Then I waited. My phone rang and I was invited to partake in my own silent retreat for a month in Nicaragua. Never been, all sorts of questions, many reasons to say no, many reasons to wait until I felt more comfortable. So I had to say yes. Yes, to a month-long silent retreat, to Nicaragua, to unexplored territory.

When I finished my Nicaragua retreat with some time to spare I knew what I had to do. I went to the beach. No nude beaches. Clothing mandatory but it was still where I had to go. I brought my prayer book. I prayed, swam, meditated and waited. The beach was empty. Out of thin air, a man appeared. He walked up to me and started talking about miracles. Certainly an auspicious sign after a deep retreat and on the beach of prayer. He sat down next to me and let me listen to "A Course in Miracles" on his iPod while swam.

When I came back to the United States I picked up "A Course in Miracles" and dove further into my quantum physics studies. It all blends together. There is nothing different except the terms. The miracle is right here, right now. When I awake to it there is nothing to do. I just have to allow. It is like coming out of a dream. There is no effort made by the dreamer. They arise as naturally as the sun. And there is a beautiful power in this unforced ease that can only be described as grace. Grace is the allowance of saints and angels. It is what fills my heart/ And the wages of my days are being paid with this grace.

And despite it all doubt still arises. That voice pops up to offer self-consciousness, cynicism, and second-guessing. Maybe it was all a bunch of magical thinking? This couldn't have happened. Doubt flows through my day in what I am and what I am seeing. It couldn't be that special? Because it was then that would mean that I, too, was on that same level. How egotistical of me to think that the universe is actually speaking to me, that my Lama is talking just to me throughout my day. Doubt screams that the rainstorm, the sun, the beach, this planet has nothing to do with me. I am just a rounding off error in some grand equation. How could it be that the beach was made for me, that the wind blows just to cool my face, that the sun shines just to light my day, that Buddhism and my Lama came just for me? Perhaps that is why the miracles come to me again and again like waves that wash over the boulders and wear them down into sand and dust. In time the softness of grace wins over the hardest doubt.

In my dreams, my Lama came to me. I, the dreamer, gave prostration and she taught the finer points of what that action mean. The dreamer prostrated again after the lesson. When I awoke I became aware that my prostrations were missing the key points taught in the dream. Maybe that is why I received that lesson. I prostrated that morning before meditation with the new information in my heart. That was a teaching transmitted purely through the yoga of my dreams.

I surrender to these lessons and ask for greater space in my heart. May there be enough room in my heart for the dharma to continue flowing in my dreams and waking life. May I take the beach with me where ever I go.

OJ and Me

2012-01-28T13:17:00.000-08:00

We leaped into the air. Fists pounded desks and high-pitched shrieks pierced my ears. For a split second I felt a sharp electric jolt ripple across my chest. I think I pulled a muscle as I leaped out of my body and senses. Beyond comprehension, time and space. It remains one of the oddest transcendent moments in my life. The entire experience lasted a few seconds. And it all revolved two words: not guilty.

Our teacher, Mr. M, slammed off the TV and -with it- a packed Los Angeles courtroom gasping for air and OJ Simpson flickered to black. Mr. M was red-faced, shaking and his trademark spittle gathered in white frothy globes on the side of his mouth.  I had never seen a teacher so angry in my entire life. Staring at his hunched and gasping frame, I came back to my senses and spot in the universe. North Miami Beach High School. Basic psychological class October 3, 1995. Fifth period after lunch.

I looked down at my own body. I was standing on my chair. How did I end up on my chair? What was I doing? What were we all doing?

Our collective explosion shocked no one more than us. Some students were contorted into frozen statutes of ecstasy while others had tears in our eyes. Waves of laughter rolled through the classroom. We looked ridiculous. Mistaking our laughter for joy instead of its real response -shock at our spontaneous eruption- Mr. M screamed at us. I have no idea what he was saying. Our laughter drowned out his tirade.

Let me be completely clear: I didn't care about the OJ Simpson trial. I had no investment or interests in him as a person or anyone involved. I avoided stand-up comedians, trial reporters, and Jay Leno's skits that found endless humor in a double murder trial. And few of my friends even talked about OJ, the trial, the surprises and reversals. Even the trial of the century and media maelstrom didn't stand a chance against the narcissism of high school students. This isn't about OJ Simpson. This is about our bizarre occurrence in that tiny high school classroom where, for one moment, a small group of mostly Black students lost their collective minds.

On June 16, 1995 I had nothing better to do with my life than watch one of the most boring NBA finals ever televised. Houston Rockets vs. New York Knicks. Pat Riley was a mythical figure in silk suits and slicked-back black mane. He oozed New York power and murderous charm. I loved Pat Riley, but I hated watching his Knicks team play. They bludgeoned, elbowed, and dragged the game's pace down. I rooted for this Knicks team because I wanted to see Riley win but, at the same time, I hated most of actual players responsible for winning a championship. I digress in this set-up only to explain my ambivalence in watching this free-throw contest posing as an NBA finals.

As I watched Knicks hack another Rockets player, I muted the sound and went to fridge to scavenge. When I came back, there was a split screen with the game on one side and that now infamous White Ford Bronco on the other side. I thought it was another made-for-LA news car chase. I turned up the sound and Tom Brokaw was in mid-sentence. He was hyping up the image of that very slow-moving truck dribbling down the highway. Breaking news used to be reserved for acts of war, assassination, and natural disasters. This wasn't breaking or news. This was gossipy anticipation of a tragedy. Chopper cameras hovered overhead.

The truck continued creeping down the hallway joined by a convoy of police car. The ticker scrolled breaking news about a car chase in progress. Car chase? This wasn't a car chase.This was a tragic celebrity parade with a two-person float being watched by millions around the world. This was TV spectacle posing as news.

And yet the image was completely riveting because it was so mundane. The white bronco slowly trotting down the parade route was surreal. The car chase didn't have enough chase, which is exactly what made it such a silly and sad site.

My eyes darted back and forth between basketball and a nation waiting for a sports hero to kill himself. They recounted OJ Simpson's life, his glorious career, his movie acting, his marriage. He was now cowering in the back of a car. Did he have a gun? Apparently he's under a blanket. So sad. Terrible tragedy. So when is he going to do it and please pass the popcorn.

Just out of curiosity I flipped to all the major networks and new channels. One by one they all began switching over to the OJ suicide parade. Commentators piling on, spurious news, alleged suicide notes. There was an argument with his ex-wife and murder victim. There were fights, he was at their children's recital the day before. Did they talk and what did they say? Was it jealousy?

He was, of course, guilty. The narrative, insinuated tone, and direction of the conversation flowed from that premise. At first it didn't effect me much. But I felt something stirring in my mind like a low-frequency buzz. This just didn't feel right and I had no idea why.  It was wrong but very familiar to my mind. The presumption of guilt felt like some essential paradigm that was both fundamentally flawed and thoroughly ingrained.

To complicate the matter, I found OJ's profile to reflect an unsympathetic jock at best and at worst, a nefarious bully and sociopath. My Dad had a signed letter from OJ in his office. In the note he was declining an invitation to speak to a group of students. My Dad kept this snub in his personal files for years, even though I found the tone of the letter dismissive. He wanted nothing to do with Black kids in the inner city, motivational speaking, or being a role model. The letter was a polite door being shut in my Dad's face and he cherished it like a nerd who mistakes a slap by the school cheerleader as foreplay. OJ had movies, commercials, and mansions to tend.

The suicide parade continued down its mysterious route.  Drivers stopped on the overhead streets and cheered on the Bronco. They held up signs. RUN OJ! The cameras drank in the scene they were trying to paint as a national crisis but that kept getting undercut by rubberneckers, shameless OJ fans, and curiosity seekers. The gravitas of Tom Brokaw's voice eluded these supporting actors and extras.

The split marked a zenith moment in pop culture irony. One side showed the rewards of violence and aggressiveness as Knick players pushed and shoved their opponents into the ground. The other side of the screen showed the tragedy. Both sides of the TV streamed real-time the cheering fans, commercial breaks, and color commentators.

But OJ didn't kill himself in the parade, even though that was the intention of a nation's voyeuristic gaze. The public snuff movie lacked a dramatic conclusion as the star running back slowed to a dead stop. He was arrested and we waited for the next visual: the mugshot.

After the parade, I thought the story would trickle down to the level of People magazine and National Enquirer. I vastly underestimated the savvy intelligence of mass media and overestimated the decorum of national conversation.

The ratings came out. Through the roof. CNN, NBC, everyone. The magazines hit the news stands and Newsweek and Time set records. OJ was a one-man economic recovery plan. Talking heads, pundits, news graphic artists, camera men, photographers, courtroom reporters were snatched up. Criminal lawyers were hired to give their opinion and then, in a meta-media moment, some of the lawyers left the TV screen to join the trial. And it was such a bright, hopeful, and happy double homicide case. Everyone on screen was so beautiful, perky, and well-fed. With every passing day, a new titillation was leaked. The domestic violence in OJ's past, the timeline, Nicole's relation to other men, the hapless waiter, Mexican maids, and mooching house guests.

Somewhere in between darkening Simpson's mugshot and the Dancing Itos on the Tonight Show, that low-level irritation turned into resentment. That summer there was nowhere to turn to without hearing about OJ. Football training camp offered a brief respite. I immersed myself in the weight room and practice field. I used the controlled violence of football to shield myself from the murder case.

When school started that fall, there was an error in my class scheduling. I was an honors student placed in a 'regular' psychology class. When I tried to make the switch to honor psych, the administrators blocked me. Regular classes scared me. Although I loved hanging out with football players and athletes, I did not want to be in a classroom next to them. Honors students heard horror stories of 'normal classes' filled with rioting students and teachers swinging baseball bats.

My imagination went into overdrive as I pictured painted and tattoo'ed cannibals boiling the head of a substitute teacher in a witch's cauldron heated by a fire pit filled with textbooks and course plans. I enjoyed the occasional academic safari where regular students were mixed with the honors for a physical education workshop or school assembly. I got to see what passed for 'normal' education in Miami, shake my head, sigh, and then return to what I saw as the legitimate classroom with high-achievers and PhD trained teachers. Almost as punishment for my arrogance, I was blocked at every turn. Administrators wouldn't budge, couldn't be plied or persuaded.

Our teacher was a lovable burn-out. Balding with a fence of white straw hair around his head, Mr. M was a year away from retirement. He didn't mind telling students that on the first day. Basic psych was a warehouse, or a place to put undesirables, troublemakers, and students locked out of their preferred class. Almost all the students were Black with a few Latinos sprinkled in for diversity. The class called for a small reading list but we had no text books, manuals or workbooks. Mr. M said he was working on getting us our material and his promise felt meaningless. I knew that there would be snow on South Beach before we had our text books. I decided to observe this 'normal' group of students and a teacher counting down his days. Mr. M saw my transcript and knew that I didn't belong here. In his eyes I became his confidant, intellectual equal, someone he could turn to when the class got too rowdy. I just wanted my A+.

Mr. M tried relating to his mostly Black student population. He was Jewish and he noted that Black and Jews had a special relationship in this country. Jazz music, the civil rights movement, liberal politics were our people's link. The Black students looked at him at him like he was crazy before bursting out into laughter as if to say 'look at this old White fool.' I stayed neutral.

Students and teacher settled into mild acceptance after a few days. He would ask us to do as little work as possible and they would negotiate him down from there. Most days Mr. M was happy to oblige us in using the TV as our babysitter. He would play a documentary and then give a short pop quiz on basic psychological terms. In between TV shows he managed to slip a few facts about BF Skinner, baby ducks, and Pavlov's dog.

Things first came to a head over a Holocaust documentary. Mr. M intended on us watching a documentary about Nazi concentration camps. Students moaned, sucked their teeth, and sighed. When he asked if there was a problem he probably wasn't prepared for the response. They were tired of hearing about the Holocaust. They were tired of getting World War II shoved down their throats. Enough with Anne Frank. Enough with the Holocaust.

Mr. M looked over at me as if to say 'can you believe these guys?' The students were aware that I was an honors student and debate captain. They looked to me to back up their arguments. I maintained my Swiss neutrality. 'M' grew visibly upset and red splotches dotted his face. He simmered.

'What would you like to see then?'

"Something about Black history. What about our story?"

"Okay, we can watch 'Roots' if you want?"

"Damn! Nevermind!!"

But it was too late. Feelings were hurt. There would be no "Roots" or Holocaust movie. He made us take out our folders while he wrote on the board. As our punishment, he was going to teach. Students moaned and sucked their teeth even louder.

A few days before the OJ verdict, our basic psychology class had a discussion abou race that went something like this. It was, once again, the students vs. Mr. M. The discussion went something like this:

You don't really think he's innocent do you?

Black people get wrongfully convicted all the time.

Yes, but OJ is rich. And look at all the evidence.

Crooked cops do whatever they want. They can plant evidence.

But he fits the profile or an abuser. Don't use your emotions. You have to think.

Just because I don't think what you want me to think doesn't mean I'm not thinking.

But at the end of the day he'll probably be convicted.

Fuck the police. Fuck the judges, fuck this whole system. And fuck this class and school too.

We didn't talk about OJ any more. The only thing everyone agreed on was that he was going to be convicted and the punishment in the media and in the halls of justice would be even more severe for him. A few Black females hissed that the only reason people care about this so much is because it's a White woman. Some others called it as a circus lynch party, and I immediately thought back to Clarence Thomas's 'high-tech lynching' comment. If ever a thing like that existed, then this was certainly it.

On that day after lunch on October 3rd, Mr. M agreed to let us watch the OJ conviction verdict. He told us that he didn't want any yelling or hurt feelings. No anger , no 'fuck this school.' And it seemed as if many officials were bracing for a Rodney King style riot, begging for calm.

Sullen Black faces stared at the screen. It wasn't about OJ. I finally got it. My resentment, their anger wasn't about whether he did it or not. It was a slow seething rage against the arrogance of power. It was an arrogance of having justice always on one side. Black people live under this arrogance every day. This was unquestioned and unmentionable cloud that hung in our classroom and in our young lives. You were a presumed suspect from the start.

Something happened in that internationally televised moment. People paused in lobbies, cafeterias, and classrooms across the country. No more jokes, no more comments, and hypotheticals. The long scythe of justice was slicing through the air and we were all silently waiting. Anticipating the tragedy like we did in June as we watched the White Bronco in OJ's suicide parade.

And then he got away. They had the party ready, the coffin finished and the noose braid was oiled. Cotton candy had been sold, peanuts were boiling. The crowd gathered from around the world to see this Black man suffer, repent, and a blubber. To watch a symbol of power, wealth, and sports get down on his knees and beg for his life. Of course he would still be executed and eternally condemned but the begging just sweetened the voyeuristic pleasure. And then the unexpected happened: that nigger got away. That arrogant, rich, white-woman-loving nigger got away. I had never seen such a thing in my life. No one had.

The surrounding classrooms were silent. The teachers and administrators looked like they had 10 years taken off their lives. Janitors and security guards snickered and smiled 'have a nice day' to their fuming bosses.

The OJ trial was not a victory for Black people. There were no reparations won or rights restored. Black children were no better or worse for the scandal, and our basic psych class did not get our text books then nor ever. The OJ trial was a victory for OJ.

For the rest of us, the OJ Simpson was just another branch grafted on to a poison tree. A tree planted centuries ago and watered by the blood of many. If you are a person of color in America you have tasted the harvest. But for one moment, the bitter fruit was forced into the mouths of all those talking heads and bloviating pundits. And with a shocked look, they had to eat their words.

Makeshift Wheelchair

2012-01-26T14:35:00.000-08:00

My mom walked in and threw her purse on the chair. Her eyes were cast downward as she looked past me. She looked beat. It was another long afternoon at the doctor's office.

My Dad was in the car. I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled it down the ramp and set the brakes down so he could get out.

"What happened?"

"The doctors wanted him to go to the hospital but the insurance company refused. They were arguing over the phone so I told him we were going home."

My Dad has been plagued with a severe infection the past few months. He's bed-bound and spends the whole day looking at TV. He was in the hospital two months ago and given antibiotics. After a month of taking the pills, the infection still persists. His doctor set up an appointment this afternoon to get him admitted into the hospital to receive medicine intravenously. The insurance company says they won't pay for it because he doesn't need it.

My Dad sat down in the wheelchair and we backpedal up the ramp into the house. I have to keep my hands on the rubber handles because they slip off easily. It's a makeshift wheelchair. His actual wheelchair broke a year ago and the insurance company refused to honor payment for a new one because they said it was unnecessary. A family friend went out and found a used and damaged substitute. He fixed it up and brought it over that day and we've been using the same wheelchair ever since.

My mom looked ahead wearily. She fixed the bed and prepared dinner. After four years of work, they're realizing that they have makeshift health care. Like the wheelchair, their coverage has to be handled gingerly as it has been patched together. It breaks, it leaks, it collapses under the weight of its responsibility. The health care was built for earnings, not patients.

I wish to seem them living better. I'm no longer upset at the insurance industry. Where there was once animosity is now just sadness. We look forward, weary and sick of fighting.

How to Play with Boys

2012-01-26T13:55:00.000-08:00

Who were these creatures? Small, mean, and mad animals who delighted in torturing insects, small rodents, and each other. I didn’t understand how we were in the same species. They appeared to be the most excited when causing harm. I observed kindness mostly between adults and even then this exchange occurred infrequently; when a person was in danger or severe tragedy. The holding pattern for most boys was silent hostility and indifference.

When I was kindergarten a teenager from Highland Oaks Middle School would cross over to our grounds after school to push me down into the dirt, beat me up, and call me all sorts of names until I burst into tears. I was a faggot and it was his duty to hurt me. When I went to the teachers I was informed that I needed to change. Their advice was to stop playing house with girls, join the boys, try to fit in. My bullying was of my own doing. I needed to toughen up. I was 6.

I liked playing house, I enjoyed the company of children who preferred imagination and role playing instead of competition and fear. There was no pushing, no worries when playing house. If I raised my voice in confrontation this would make most of the girls burst into tears or run to the teacher. So we played house with delicate voices and concern for each other’s feelings. Wasn’t this a virtue? Shouldn’t I be praised for having some modicum of kindness and love? And besides, I was one of the only boys in class who actually preferred playing house. When boys were selected to stay inside and work with my imaginary stove and pots, they hated it. They banged the pots, would try to break the chairs, and send girls running away in tears. When I had to stay inside I celebrated. Although I wasn’t crazy about the whole taking care of a baby, I enjoyed the fake meals, cleaning, creating a domestic soap opera.

But if what the adults were saying was true, then playing house could be my downfall. I couldn’t stand the thought getting beaten up for years. My fear of my teenage tormentor won out over my love of playing house. The first time I voluntarily choose to play outside the teacher was startled. Then she smiled as if something proper and righteous had been restored in my action. I was going to give this a try.

Dense blankets of red and brown leaves covered Highland Oaks Elementary school grounds. These musty leaves could be kicked up, thrown around, used as burying material for another kid or gathered in a giant pile to be run through. I was amongst the cavemen now. The boys looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t know whether this experiment was going to work. Once we were outside everyone dispersed into the woods, running around buildings, screaming, climbing up poles, ripping the bark off trees. This was my play now.

The playing was free, chaotic, often destructive, combative, competitive. Playing with boys was both immensely freeing and depressing. On the one hand I found most of our play to be idiotic and confusing. We would create rules but quickly break them whenever it was convenient. I knew enough not to be that know-it-all kid trying to correct others. I stayed back and watched how the dynamics played out. Games would pop up and then quickly end. On the other hand, playing with boys made me more observant of competition, games, arguing, and fighting for a cause.

Our play seemed to divided into 5 or 6 boy tribes. You were expected to play, eat at lunch, and hang out with your tribe. The strongest or most popular kids had veto powers over anything and could sometimes go over into another tribe and temporarily take it over. Highland Oaks was a public school with a mostly Jewish student body. Each tribe had a different level of social power not only with the students but even the teachers. The lowest group was composed of Latinos, Blacks, and some effeminate boys. Although they welcomed me into their games on my first day on the playground, I made sure to never play with them again. I was trying to improve my social standing. The bottom tribe wasn’t worth the effort. The teachers frequently punished them and they were prey to all the boys.

The next two groups up from the bottom was comprised mostly of the same kind of mixture but had less gays and a few outspoken leaders. The highest tribe was the gold stars, filled with alpha dogs, mostly Jewish kids who played together at the JCC, came from wealthy families, and were extremely outspoken and combative. Often it was difficult to tell if these boys even liked each other. They spent so much time trying to outdo themselves, get around teacher rules, and harass the girls that I knew I couldn’t be a part of their tribe. It would be too much of a betrayal to my girls to go from playing house with them to putting gum in their hair. Furthermore, I knew they probably wouldn’t let me in. Therefore I aimed for the silver medal.

The silver tribe had a Latino kid in it. The leader seemed strong but not too mean. I would be the Black kid in their group, offering my unique perspective. When I first approached them, I put on my most casual stroll and walked into the middle of their games. I looked around, smiling, looking for an invitation. None was forthcoming. In fact, their leaders pulled the tribe away from me and into a different part of the woods. This was going to be more difficult than I thought. I wandered through the woods fighting back my tears. I wanted to go back inside for a nice cup of fake tea and a bowl of fake soup. I trudged around thinking, my feet kicking massive piles of leaves. One of the boys from the silver tribe came over to me and started kicking leaves at me. I realized this was some sort of aggressive ritual invitation to play.

I kicked some leaves back at him. He picked up and giant pile and I picked a giant pile. Pretty soon we were hurling these mud-covered lumps of leaves at each other, laughing and running around the trees. I pretended to enjoy myself by screaming in my loudest outdoor voice and waving my arms around. I was faking it. Soon two silver tribesmen came over and joined in this chaotic mess. I discovered that I had some outstanding traits: I was quite fast and strong in comparison to my fellow classmates. Perhaps this Black thing was already working to my advantage. I could jump and outrace most of the kids on the ground. Furthermore I could add in some of my role playing skills from my times playing house. The leaf toss became a battleground and I was leading the charge.

I made sure to advertise how much fun we were having to others. When an effeminate boy from the lowest tribe tried to join in, I ignored him and pushed our game farther in the opposite direction. I couldn’t risk my entrance by associating with my own kind. Pretty soon we were making so much noise that I had dragged away half the tribe to my side. Fearing a mutiny, the leaders joined in my game. I keep changing roles, new story lines when the boys started to get bored, I added in an interesting rule or a twist. And I could outrace them to the gun warehouse (i.e. where we stocked our special leaves) and back to the front lines.

My time playing with girls greatly benefited me. I used my attuned sensitivity to manage relationships, avoid conflicts before they started, and practiced playground diplomacy between different tribes. I also stood by silently when effeminate boys were beaten up. My loyalty in the boy's club would have been threatened by any signs of compassion for the weaker kids: the faggots, freaks, and unattractive girls. The teenager stopped beating me up. A few years later we played basketball together. He considered me a friend and confided in me his girlfriend decisions. I could barely contain the desire to stomp his face in when he smiled at me.

Playing with boys helped me learn to stop crying. Pain was something to endure. My feelings and emotions weren't discussed or considered. Power was the only currency honored. Underneath my skin, I burned. My childhood was filled with fevers, flu bouts, phlegmatic congestion, headaches, and electric fire that rippled through my little hands and feet. No one knew how my often my physical body ached from psychosomatic rage. I consumed the fire.

Suicide became a viable option by the end of the 6th grade. I was fascinated with my final solution. The idea seemed easy enough. The devil was in the details. I didn’t know enough about poisons, hanging looked gruesome, and slitting wrist appeared to be unsuccessful most of the time. The easiest way was with a gun. My Dad had at least two stored in his closet, high above the raincoats and sports jackets. Gun one was a black and dense. The snub-nose reminded me of my favorite novels. James Bond, however, probably used something which was thinner and not and with a lighter trigger. Gun two was a shimmering chrome revolver with a cream colored handled. The Lone Ranger would holster a gun like this. I felt heroic when I held the Lone Ranger pistol in my hand. Death didn’t seem so flawed. The voices encouraged my hobby.

You will always be alone.

You are disgusting.

How could anyone ever love you?

Planning satisfied the voices and kept me occupied. How does an adolescent prepare for death? You have to map these things out very carefully. I agonized over the location. The living room, my bedroom, the bathroom.

What about the note? What should I say? What could be said? I was unhappy, but who commits suicide in a festive mood?

When I turned 13, I made an agreement with myself. One year. If my life didn't improve in one year, I would kill myself. Six years of this fire was enough. I began shutting down, seeing how long I could go without saying a word in class or at home. Some times I lasted for days.

I began thinking about my last year and what I wanted to see out of my life. My interests in music faded. I quit playing the violin and stopped listening to the radio. Oblivious to my thoughts, my parents left me at home and I stewed in my last year, clutching my Dad's guns, writing out notes.

Then I discovered the aerobics tapes my sister left behind. I started working out that summer, first for 30 minutes, then an hour, and pretty soon 3-4 hours a day. One aerobics tape after another, all day long. The living room smelled like sweat. No violin, no music, no friends. It was just me and Charlene Prickett. She was my saint. I listened to her every day as she pushed through these bouncing dance moves with her two disciples, standing on opposite sides. We worked cardio, floor pilates, abs. Discipline. I discovered self-discipline in figuring out foods to eat. I quit eating candy. I stopped drinking soda on a whim one day (and have never picked it up again). My own private boot camp prepared me for my last year and the beginning of school.

When I returned to junior high school something had shifted. I was still pudgy and soft around the edges. But my beer belly was gone. I could take my shirt off in basketball without gasps of laughter and falling rolls of flesh. I found refuge once again in play. Sports equalized myself and the bullies.

In basketball I was a tough rebounder, shot blocker, and would rip the ball out of opponents hands like I was picking oranges. In football, I scored every time I caught the ball because no one suspected the dough-soft Black kid had any speed or skills. In boxball I beat all challengers. My hands and feet were quicker and stronger most challengers from hours of aerobic workout tapes and I used those appendages to their fullest. The teasing lasted only as long as it took to change in the locker room. I wouldn't have to see these kids in my honors classes. I just had to endure them in short bursts. I managed the fear.

Honing myself year after year, I became an award-winning tennis player, then all-state wrestler and football player in high school. I sought validation in the very boy's club I despised. I picked up with my music listening strictly from what was played on team buses and before games. Gangsta rap and grunge music. The fade was pitch perfect for my feelings. Years before Columbine I imagined walking through the lockerroom and school gyms with submachine guns blazing. I saw blood explode out of their mouths as I gunned down my own teammates over a soundtrack of Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre. Nightmares were frequent.

At the end of the year, I found myself tolerated by most, liked by a few, and grudgingly respected by the bullies. Maybe I could wait another year to decide? No, I had made an agreement with myself and I was determined to keep in strict adherence to the contract. Discipline is needed for these types of situations. It was either all or nothing. Suicide now or never. But what had I been doing this whole time but killing myself through abusive negation and self-disgust? It wasn't suicide now or never. It was suicide: slow or fast? For most of my childhood I had been choosing slow.

Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe I was asking the wrong question. Instead of choosing the method and speed of suicide, maybe I should make a decision between this way and life? What would a life look like? I may be alone, I may be unpopular, but what do I want in my life? I didn't want peer approval. I found it thoroughly unsatisfying to judge myself according to the opinion of others. These were cavemen, boys who still enjoyed torturing little animals and humiliating themselves. After all these years I had no more respect for them now then when I was in kindergarten. So what did I want? Not ten years from now, or next week, what did I want right there in that moment? Music.

I haven't listened to my own music all year. Not locker room, pre-game songs blasted out on a stereo. My music. I turned to MTV. Soulful cooing and up-tempo grooves blasted out of the speakers. A woman in a baseball cap and spandex shorts was dancing around in a group. She was searching for a 'real love." To this day I always remember what the song I broke my music celibacy to: Mary J. Blige's "Real Love." Nothing could have been more appropriate. Every time I hear that song I think about that day when I was trying to decide between suicide or life.

Then it was Guns N' Roses "November Rain" and a flurry of songs that were all about the same thing: love. The issue was settled then. No more suicide, not now or ever. Not fast or slow. I wanted music, friends, and a chance at real play. Not competition, not blood sport. Real play. Joy, fun, doing what kids do. School became different. The teasing that once tortured me, now rolled off my back. I was a little fat. So what? I was gay. There had to be at least someone else in history who was also. There had to be others. Someone else out there has to be having a similar experience of alienation whether gay, straight, Black or White. Maybe one day we'll meet. Maybe I can seek them out. And then we can learn how to love and play.

Obama Syndrome

2012-01-21T22:44:00.000-08:00

I stood before my classmates with a clean shirt, adjusting my cardboard-stiff collar. Anxiously flicking some cards in my hands, I looked for somewhere to place my eyes. Searching my audience, most faces were blank, some hostile, some beaming. None were Black. I was 9-years-old and running for class secretary.

My teacher smiled and urged me to step forward. I edged away from the blackboard and delivered my 'stump speech.' I didn't even use the note cards as my blasted through my speech from sheer adrenaline. My classmates were stunned. For a second-grader to regurgitate a 2-minute written speech without uttering an 'um' or stutter was the equivalent of the Gettysburg Address. For the only Black student in class to do this was like delivery the Gettysburg Address while juggling flaming knives.

Waves of applause and smiles. One of my opponents shuddered and slumped in his seat. My other rival quickly raised his hand as soon the applause subsided. He was withdrawing. My slumping opponent quickly added a motion to invalidate his candidacy.

The following year the same thing happened. Applause and opponents running for the exits.
In elementary school, high school, and college I ran for various offices. I never lost. My victories came in landslides, often with the opponent withdrawing their bid. My standard speech guaranteed competence, communication, and working with others. Hardly riveting material but I realized at an early age what a professional salesman learns: it's more effective to sell yourself than a product. I crafted myself but realized that I didn't have complete control over my narrative. Often the audiences came with their own.

I call it Black articulitis but it could easily be renamed the Obama Syndrome. They see me as a blank slate for dreams and nightmares. Post-race America offers a dangerous conundrum for Blacks. Freed from the civil rights movements, most of my friends don't think in terns of overt race and class status. It is,however, a mistake to then declare all things being equal. There is an identity vacuum for young Black adults. And this is being filled, oddly enough, by White mainstream culture. Blackness has become a white canvas that everyone paints on except Black people themselves. It's no coincidence that you have 60-year-old white male politicians coming forward with how they would act if they were Black. It's also no coincidence that youth culture funnels its lingo, clothes, and music directly from hip hop with no awareness. It's arrogance taken to a new level. Black culture and Blackness has more to do with people's false fears and delusional hopes than actual history.

From the benevolent but condescending left-wing perspective, the Obama syndrome means that they identify with their progressive roots by aligning themselves with Blackness. There's a secret thrill in validating their Black friend that turns the latter into a puppet. The actual views of said Black friend aren't really as important as their face and presence in the room. I have often felt as if I was an intellectual mascot sitting in on important decisions.

At North Miami Beach high school I was chair of our congressional debate team. In every tournament I competed in I won. Our school also won the Harvard Debate Tournament that year. When I began sweeping every tournament I entered, I remember a classmate turning to me and saying 'man I should really try out this congressional debate thing.' He wasn't asking for advice or guidance from an award-winning debater. He was, in effect, saying 'wow, if YOU can win, then it must be easy. I should try that out.' This person never sought my advice even though I was the chair of the debate section he wished to enter. He was stunned when he learned he would actually have to answer to me. It's fine to have a Black mascot but it's another thing when you have to take orders from one. Even more astonishing to his ego, he wasn't that successful in his debates. Unable to compute how I could be skilled at something he failed at, he quit and became a backbench critic of what I needed to do.

In our senior year we were encouraged to post our college of choice on a giant poster. A few debaters really wanted to go to Northwestern. I had never heard of the school but I applied, got some scholarships, and decided to go. I walked up to the poster and -with a purple marker- wrote Northwestern by my name.

"Oh. Wow. That's...great.'

They had an odd way of congratulating me. In fact it was so uncomfortable I felt as if I was the new kid in school who came in had stolen their dream girlfriend. I didn't want to talk about my alma mater because the questions would start.

"Is it a football scholarship?"

"Well you know the only reason they picked you is because you're Black. Hahaha! Just kidding."

At Northwestern University I worked for the school newspaper and was one of the few freshman students who had actually been paid as a reporter in high school. At the end of the year, the arts editor wanted me to take his place in the film section. There was another writer who wanted that position and was shocked that he has been passed over. He was a White man from a rich family. He came to me and suggested we co-edit the arts section. When I politely declined to share a position I was promoted to, he seemed outraged. He claimed that he was owed it. If I suggested that I was owed something, my parents would have beaten me. But to him, it was outrageous that he wasn't given his rightful due. I was being the uppity one and, in a phone conversation, he tried to put me in my place by suggesting my selection had more to do with articulitis than talent. He wasn't doing it as a favor to me. He could offer the 'skill' part of being the editor. As my knuckles turned white, I controlled my voice in biding my friend a goodbye.

I wasn't being seen. These were liberals, many of them my friends. l was their proof of racial inclusiveness, but it was only on their terms. When I excelled past the acceptable point I went from being a hopeful sign to a government quota, and then I had to be put in my place.

From the right-wing perspective the Obama syndrome causes mass paranoia, suspicion, and delusions of impotence. To a poor White audience, an articulate Black man embodies all their failures. They can acknowledge his success, but are quick to 'put him in his place.' It is, of course, their job to do this. And they love their job.

When Barack Obama came to the national stage in 2004 I found him charming. I wasn't prepared for mainstream drooling over his sharp, crisp demeanor. Granted, I think he's one of the best orators of our generation. But in 2004 most of this was unfounded. He was being compared to JFK, RFK, Lincoln, and Black Jesus all rolled into one.

Barack Obama was also a Muslim, radical Islamo-fascist, Madrassa-educated, Chicago socialist, radical totalitarian. He was going to take away our guns, our God, and our beloved capitalism. Nothing in Obama's words or actions suggests Jesus or Mussolini. And yet the drumbeat of insanity continues. He has no control over his identity, his Blackness is the storm wall for graffiti artist from different gangs: constantly shifting, edited, embellished, and contradicted.

Barack Obama both fascinates and scares me. As he ends his first term in office, many of my concerns about his leadership have been justified, many of my hopes for his vision have been dashed, and some times I wonder if I made the right choice. The old nagging reactionary liberal voice screams 'should've been Hillary" as I watch with embarrassment as a great leader feels so much smaller in daily political discourse than in my dreams.

But there is no way he could have lived up to all my dreams and nightmares. I find myself falling under the same syndrome I have been a victim of in my life. I bought into the 'magical Negro' and there is nothing to suggest Obama was selling this. He's a moderate, competent, intelligent leader who happens to be Black. He's not Moses and nothing in his biography suggests a Biblical leader delivering us from our problems. And to be quite honest, if Barack Obama was Barry O'Donald from Kansas I doubt he would be this hated, this put-upon. Then again, Barry probably wouldn't be as dynamic and interesting as a public inkblot test.

A few years ago I applied for an editing job at a financial journal to practice my resume and cover letter skills. To my surprise they called me in for an interview. I was thoroughly unqualified for the position but I was told to never turn down an interview. I put on a clean shirt and adjusted the stiff collar as I sat in the waiting room. When the managing editor, a British woman, saw that I was the one being interviewed, her face showed a slight confusion that turned into a smile. We went into the room and her looked over my resume as we talked. She knew I wasn't qualified and I didn't care; I wanted to practice my interview skills. I wondered if I still had that second-grader inside of me, able to tap into articulitis.

When she hinted that I didn't fit the background they were looking for, that made me even more determined. I was spinning the most creative answers from thin air and making them seem solid. What should have been a 10-minute interviewed stretched on for 30, 40 minutes and an hour. I was holding court, dazzling, joking, giving astute answers for a field of financial journalism I knew nothing about. Doubt crept into the editor's face. Maybe she had judged me wrong.

I was leveraging the Obama Syndrome, wrestling it back from her wary and mistrustful assumptions. I sold myself like a door-to-door insurance policy. I am the magical Negro. I articulate, gesticulate, and conversate at an A+ level with no hint of anger or animosity. I am aware of history but find it rather amusing instead of condemning. I am this company's best Black friend. Don't bother to read the fine-print. You must love me. Loving me means that you are forgiven. All will the dirt will be washed away once you sign on the dotted line and don't bother to read the fine print. Don't you want to feel clean and absolved of any nagging sense of privilege? Don't you want to be saved?

Adrenaline rushed through me as I fell under the spell of self-creation. We were both madly in love with a 3rd person, a scrappy, young, fierce (but not angry) outsider called "Aurin Squire." No, this was becoming something much bigger than an insurance sell. This was my beast and my baby. I looked at this noble statue-esque figure, warmly smiling with his head thrown back and eyes pointed toward the sunrise. My God, he was beautiful. I wanted to applaud. Like Dr. Frankenstein, I wanted to hail my creation, this lumbering child-like beast composed of a patchwork parts from the Sidney Poitier Cemetery of noble Negros. Sure this creation might scare some of the villagers into hysteria but I found it beautiful. And yes, this Frankenstein-ian being might find itself un-loved and un-approachable but look at how strong and big it looks compared to its inventor. I, the creator, am so much less. Filled with doubt, sarcasm, malice, and arrogance, I am merely human. But my frailties are viewed that much more unfavorably because I happen to be Black. And so I created in my image, this "Aurin Squire."

The editor rushed out of the room and quickly brought back another editor. Two more people came into the room. British who, no doubt, viewed their open-minded nature as superior to their gun-toting, cross-burning, slave-owning American counterparts.

"When can you start?"

I deflated. What? You want to hire me? But I don't even want or need this job. I just wanted to prove you wrong. Reality returned like a splash of cold water. I sobered up. I looked around at this room of smiling White faces. I began to stutter as 'ums' and 'ahhs' entered my now mundane vernacular. I was back to being just me. I told them I was just ending a job right now. Yes, of course, someone as epic as "Aurin Squire" doesn't just start tomorrow. Planets orbit around him and you can't expect him to drop his plans on the spot any more than you could expect the sun to shift its axis on a whim.

A pang of consciousness started beating in my chest. It grew louder and louder. I lead these people on out of my anger, out of my arrogance, and out of my fears of being rejected. I delayed and said I would have to think about it. The editors showed me around the office, where my desk would be, the co-workers who looked on approvingly. I felt as if I was the main float in a parade. Exiting the office, the beating grew louder in my chest. Acid ate at my stomach as I descended into the subway.

I wanted a short meaningless fling and they had their wedding dress on and were waiting at the chapel. But you don't enter into a relationship with the "Aurin Squire" I invented. You can't because my creation isn't real. There's no heart, no emotion, but just a patchwork of mythical parts. You wed yourself to that myth and all you'll have for your honeymoon is...me. And 'me' isn't mythical or epic. I mutter, I stutter, and have doubts. My anger runs hot and cold, I'm impetuous and aggravating. And I lead people on. People who are vulnerable, depressed, looking for something or someone to be hopeful about in their life. I use the blank canvas of my Blackness as a con game because it has been used against me so many times. I deceive people who are looking for nobility and honor in a world full of groundlings and serfs. I conjure Black magic for people looking for excitement. People like you.

Some times I feel like a chameleon who has changed so many times to suit so many different environments that he has forgotten his original skin. I wonder if President Obama ever sits up at night worrying about who he has to be tomorrow? What to paint on the canvas of "Barack Obama?"

Whenever I start to feel drunk on grand delusions, I catch myself. I am not magical, nor am I the devil. I don't have to be my own God and yet I can live in grace. Black articulitis is not a lifelong sentence, only a passing flu. I just hope I'm not passing it on to others.

Dreams: Impotent Justice

2012-01-20T12:24:00.000-08:00

Last night I had several haunting dreams flow together into a funeral. Before going to sleep I a series of auspicious and unusual things occurred.

First off, the lock on the front door broke. This lock has been there for decades. My mom came home and was struggling with the lock. I went to open it and found that I couldn't either. The seal had been broken and now the lock just turned, around and around with the key, never settling down. I had to open the storage room side door.

The next thing that was unusual was my general mood that could be described as anxiously nauseous or resentfully uneasy. To alleviate this I swam in the gym pool, also out of the norm for me. For the last two days I have been annoyed at what I perceived were personal sacrifices on my time. Resentment sickened and sapped my mind. I was not in a happy Buddha space, but in resentful martyr mode. None of my old appetites appealed to me. Hence, my trip to LA Fitness.

I jumped in the empty pool and began doing leisure backstrokes and froggies. My glasses were in my locker so I could only see the colored blurs swirling around the pool. I stared up as the ceiling as I swam and thought. This resentment was not healthy. It was not real. I felt I was being asked to do too much, from too many people, for too little in return. I rattled off my lists and thought of the daily meditation. Letting go of grievances. Thus, I was presented with my litany today and then told that my schedule would have to change to accommodate the plans of others.

God's law is the only law.

I thought about all that people were expected to do for me. All the things that I thought were owed to me. These were my laws and when they were broken, my ego demanded punishment. But unable to find and inflict punishment on anyone, I just seethed. Not a lot and certainly not at the point of rage. But just enough anger to keep my mind nauseous with resentment. I was the courtroom with no power. I was bringing up charges against criminals, sentencing them in absentia, and then watching them walk around right outside my window. Screaming would be beneath the judge, so he just sit in the room, sneering at all the convicted criminals roaming around outside.

My laws, my judgment, my resentment. What would it be like if I didn't have that? I am so tired of this courtroom. What if it didn't exist? What if no one owed me anything?

I swam for a half hour before another swimmer jumped into the lane right next to me. He was gliding through the water, zipping up and down the pool, splashing me with water as I leisurely swam. I looked at how fast he was moving. My mind started commentary: he's a much better swimmer than you are. He's showing off. Did he have to get in the lane right next to me and start splashing around like he's Michael Phelps? Asshole.

Enough. God's law is the only law. The guy isn't showing off. I don't even know if he's a better swimmer than me. I don't even know if he's a man. I just see a blob. That's my story. I created all of that instantly. I continued swimming along. After an hour my hands were prunes and raisins. It was time for bed.

I fell asleep more at ease on the surface than when I began swimming. But obviously my mind had other ideas that night as a series of bizarre dreams crept up.

In one setting I am driving around looking for a drive-thru. I'm not finding any places and there are no signs. The roads are empty and the hedges run along both sides. I turn into a Burger King parking lot. The building is colored chalk white and looks to be under construction. There is a giant truck blocking the drive-thru lane. Staring at the building from my car I determine that the place is empty. As if to defy me, a light flickers on. I zoom in closer and see that it's a flame burning inside. There is someone in there cooking. I could go in. I get scared and decide to keep driving.

And I moved into giant procession. I have lost my car. There are pilgrims migrating toward a great site. I notice some men in orange tunics, others in maroon robes. This must be something holy. I follow the crowds who have orange paint on their faces and move toward a structure that can only be described at this time as mountain-building hybrid. The steps are carved into the earth and people are seated on them. I stop at the outskirts of the sitting assembly. A monk in maroon robes looks at me. His face changes from curiosity to dislike. I'm hurt. What did I do to him? There is another man in orange robes, who may be a monk or jut a pilgrim. His face shows neither like nor dislike. He just looks at me. I make my way through the crowd but I'm scared. Singing, chanting of unknown origin is going on. Suddenly an intermission is called. Significant amounts of people wander away, some turn to their neighbors. The break in group concentration gives me the courage to move forward.

As I get closer to the front I see there is a coffin there. I feel sick and sad. Some poor, great saint has passed on and now people are honoring him. I intuit that this would be someone I never met. At the front of this structure which has now shifted into resembling an open-air temple, I see a friend who I shall call Ross. Ross is grieving. She says the name of the deceased and I'm shaken. It's an old friend from college who I shall call -for the sake of anonymity- Nathan C.

The dream has become frightening. This feels very real. In fact when I woke up this morning I instantly went to the computer and checked my old college friend on Facebook. I went to his status and made sure no one had posted any condolences. Apparently he is still alive. In the dream he was not. I didn't want to know any more. Suddenly I wasn't an observer. I wanted to cry and mourn. I recalled all the great times we had together. Nathan was such a free spirit and always made me feel better. When I lived in the dorms at Northwestern I would go to Nathan when I was depressed. Now he was gone, his life ended abruptly and much too young.

Ross informed me that the cause of death was impotence. Or to quote verbatim from my own dream, Ross said 'He died from impotence' and continued crying. Wait. No one dies from impotence. This is still a dream. I reassured myself that no one dies from impotence. This is a dream, yet the power of the setting was so strong that I kept slipping back into depression about Nathan's death.

When I awoke this morning I checked my phone for messages. Then I went to the computer to make sure Nathan wasn't dead. After my senses had been restored I began thinking what that was about.

It's very unusual for anyone to say something in my dream that I would remember. But I definitely remember the 'he died from impotence' line. It was too Freudian to forget. If I read it in a dramatic script I might roll my eyes as the psycho-babble.

I went to acupuncture and then the beach. That line and the dream have haunted me all day. What died? Perhaps some of my resentment died, unable to exercise its power any more of my subconscious. Perhaps some of my anger perished in my search for Burger King. Or were they memories of past wrongs, drained of their ability to enrage me. It seemed like a happy impotence.

The overwhelming feeling last night and throughout the dream was nauseous and anxiety. I kept thinking "I feel sick,' and then I'm in a funeral dream talking about impotence-induced death. Maybe I don't have to judge as much today. I can surrender my impotent law to a higher power.

Moby Dick: Tahiti

2012-01-19T05:51:00.000-08:00

For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return.
-Herman Melville

No More Leaving (by Hafiz)

2012-01-18T19:20:00.001-08:00

Some point

Your relationship

With God

Will

Become like this:

Next time you meet Him in the forest

Or on a crowded city street

There won't be anymore

"Leaving."

That is,

God will climb into

Your pocket.

You will simply just take

Yourself

Along!

Fear Is The Cheapest Room In The House

2012-01-17T22:24:00.000-08:00

Fear is the cheapest room in the house
I would like to see you living
In better conditions,
for your mother and my mother
Were friends.

I know the Innkeeper
In this part of the universe.
Get some rest tonight,
Come to my verse tomorrow.
We’ll go speak to the Friend together.

I should not make any promises right now,
But I know if you
Pray
Somewhere in this world-
Something good will happen.God wants to see
More love and playfulness in your eyes
For that is your greatest witness to Him.

Your soul and my soul
Once sat together in the Beloved’s womb
Playing footsie.
Your heart and my heart
are very, very old
Friends.
-HAFIZ

Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas: The Art of Scandal

2012-01-14T15:03:00.000-08:00

The most exciting time in a boy's life is when you hear the words 'pubic hair' on the evening news. No county fair or ice cream sundae can outshine the surreptitious joy of seeing grown adults utter phrases like 'Long Dong Silver' while reading from a teleprompter. These words are candy and Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas was like a Willie Wonka amusement park of sexual taboos.

America makes scandal. It is the one of the few products we still control. The jobs created from our scandals can't be shipped away, or downsized. Our semiotic-based economy runs on images, and our images tell stories. We are in the renaissance of scandals. If you need proof look no further than reality TV, which is a systematic scandal factory. Every week audiences are ensured of a new storyline, revelations, fights. The Real Housewives franchise, The Kardashians, Basketball Wives, The Bachelor, Bad Girls Club, Court TV, Talk Soup, Nancy Grace. These are our nation's factories, our commodities, like frozen orange juice or steel. We export our celebrity sex tapes, reality TV, and scandal news around the world into billions of phones, computers, and TVs.

But there is another side to the production of scandal. It is art. Granted the artistry doesn't endure like a statue, but it blossoms and fades. Scandal is live multimedia performance. It is a theatrical art form involving craftsmen, actors, layered stories, cameras, commentators, analysts. The stage setting takes place in a court room, at a hearing, over the course of an investigation while the real trial takes place on the screens. Part media product and part community crafted performance, the American scandal defines my generation's contribution. And we learned at the feet of OJ Simpson, Monica Lewinsky, and the Clarence Thomas hearings.

At the start of the 1990s you didn't talk about sex on the evening news or front pages of newspapers. A sex scandal was something that was only hinted at from the fringes. When even the whiff of sex or drugs was linked to a politician they were expected to promptly resign and disappear. This wasn't a temporary disappearance to rehab before returning with a book and round of talk shows. It was their unspoken duty to become invisible. Forever. The politician in question was almost always white and male. Women public figures and Blacks were strictly off-limits for sex scandals. When a woman was attached to a philandering politician, they were kept faceless and anonymous.

The Clarence Thomas hearing was the perfect storm. All the right conditions were in place. There was suspiciously unknown Black man with questionable credentials. There was the bipartisan boys club mentality on the Senate committees that was starting to fracture. Even the Black community was shifting away from blind allegiance to any public official just because of race.

The Right Conditions
Black middle-class households expanded to its largest number in decades. We were less interested in the traditional civil rights arguments and more drawn to the fixtures of American bourgeoisie: sex, relationships, apolitical entertainment, therapy, taboos, and titillation. Hip hop culture migrated from social protest and toward individualism, with an emotional split between bravado and neurosis. No longer in the struggle for greater Black power, the message was individual glory, excess, paranoia, and endless self-reflection.

The start of the decade also marked a shift in our cultural heroes. Michael Jordan just won his first of six championships and the superstar athlete embodied the cultural shift away. America was all about the highlight reel slam dunk. The exorbitantly-priced Air Jordan's were trophies to tongue-wagging, 360 dunk of consumerism. Manufactured in sweat shops for pennies, the shoes weren't great feats in podiatric engineering. Rain and bad weather betrayed Air Jordan's cheap third-world construction and penny material. But the shoes said what the owners wanted: 'I can put $200 on my feet.'

After that Anita Hill testimony we were forever altered in how we dealt with the private lives of public officials. Anita and Clarence were the launch pad for the sex-scandal crazed decade of resignations, special prosecutors, apologies, mistresses, and impeachments.

CNN and the 24-hour news network was hitting its stride. It's one thing to avoid sex scandal when all the news is compressed into 30-minutes on 3 networks aiming for the broadest possible audience. It's quite another thing when you have cable news streamlining all the time to a small segment of the population. CNN was for politicians and other news wonks. It was one step above C-SPAN and the no-frills delivery of information gushed forth every minute of the day. What's one man's oil strike is another man's busted sewer pipe. And the scandal that spews underground slowly works its way up through the tabloid gutters and media pipelines trickling upward from the lower depths. You could smell it and feel the damp fetid warmth before you actually see the revelation on the esteemed network news. CNN changed the scandal rule out of necessity for content. Sex for cable news are like hurricane season for the Weather Channel. A gold rush of ratings.

Thomas was Black mediocrity incarnate. He was elevated above his level due to racial sycophancy. Embodying both the lower-intelligence and lower-skill level many conservative men expected out of Blacks and managing to stay completely quiet and unremarkable until called upon were Thomas's strengths.

The Token Villain
Down in Miami we had our own Clarence Thomas. Arthur Teele was a Reagan appointee of average skill and success, but fit the Black conservative archetype. He was quiet, highly deferential, and thoroughly corrupt. The political powers had enough dirt on Teele to keep him as a docile token. Teele reeked havoc on the Miami Black community. Entrusted with re-investment strategies, he used his platform to establish a network of cronies that rotted out the guts of Miami government for years. Downtown Miami and Liberty City became a sea of empty, newly paved parking lots with Teele at the helm. This wasn't an accident. Teele would leverage his position to bulldoze churches and small business, and then pay his crony building contractors to pave parking lots in its place. Statistically this showed up as a new building and also a reduction in crime. Of course this was also a reduction in community and long-term growth.

Damaged by poverty, slums, and riots, Liberty City now had Teele. When he tried to run for a Miami commissioner position, enthusiasm for his candidacy in the Black community was non-existent. As my first foray into politics, I volunteered for his phone bank. My Dad thought it would be good for me to help out a Black Republican. Both of my parents were turned Republican by Reagan, but finding other Black professional GOP'ers was still a rare find. Teele represented a conservative Black Miami man.

Although I was only a child, I was shocked at how disorganized and indifferent Teele's campaign was when I volunteered. I made a dozen or so calls and then was told to relax and not work so hard. Only one other person worked the phones and she left early. I wandered around the cluttered office with dim lights and then the man himself walked in. Teele was tall, dark, and regally bald. I vaguely recall he was crouched in by a low ceiling. His secretary pointed to me and whispered something in his ear. Teele walked toward me and shook my hand. He said a few unspectacular words about a young person getting involved in the campaign and moved along.

My instant adolescent reaction was flight. I wanted to get away from this man and his office. After the handshake I checked my palm which felt as if it had been greased. I remember thinking 'wow, politicians really ARE slimy.' I politely waited for him to turn his back before wiping my hands on the inside of my pants pocket. When my Dad came to pick me up, I carefully choose my words. I knew he wanted me to be impressed and endeared. I informed him that I appreciated the campaign experience and didn't feel the need to come back to the Teele headquarters.

Years later, Teele stormed in the Miami Herald downtown headquarters, after a drug and sex-fueled rampage across town. With the FBI closing in on his ring of prostitutes, drug dealers, and crony friends, Teele was being tailed by federal and local law enforcement. Paranoid, desperate, and armed Art Teele committed suicide with his own gun in the Miami Herald lobby as arresting officers waited outside. Even though I found him thoroughly unlikeable in person and he displayed a cartoon villain-level of corruption that kept their boots firmly pressed on the neck of Liberty City, Teele was the last of his kind. A former Marine, he was a part of the wave of Black professionals flirting with conservatism in the 1980s, enamored by Reagan's charm and common-sense talk. Clarence Thomas was a part of these new wave Black republicans.

The Scandal

Due my personal history with Black Republicans who I didn't address as Mom or Dad, I had an immediate suspicion of Clarence Thomas. What was in it for this man to promote a cause which hurt people who looked like him? At least Teele had a legacy of parking lots, prostitutes, and kickbacks. His corruption -though slimy- made sense. Thomas's tokenism seemed to be about something a lot more frightening than just another corrupt Black politican trying to 'get over.'

I first heard about Anita Hill on CNN. It was an uneventful fall season of news. The newscaster began by claiming there was a woman who had allegations against Clarence Thomas. A drop of blood in the water. I leaned in, intrigued. The cable news strip tease was underway. CNN ran their alarming 'Breaking News" graphic to report an unnamed, non-specific allegation against a Thomas. Although the dance is slightly different each times, the steps usually go like this: the anchor reports with heavy gravitas almost nothing, just a hint of news. Then there is a cut to another reporter, who throws the bucket of chum into the water by reading the actual claim. Visually, they're often reading from a page, which makes it seem more 'urgent' and fresh to the audience. The anchor and reporter engage in a back and forth conversation, even though they're both already informed about the scandal. It helps if the TV news can refer to a newspaper or magazine or on-going investigation. Now it's a race between the different medias to see who can give the most details and the most updated information. Amidst the churning red waves, a reporter will occasionally throw in a 'by the way, none of these claims have been confirmed' reminder just to keep a sliver of accountability alive before returning to the chum buckets. The news graphic crew frantically scrambles for images to attach to the story because without any footage, there is no buzz. The initial footage is anything they can find, and has little to do with the scandal. It's high school photo, wedding video, dirty socks, anything really.

Cable news orchestrated the Anita Hill news break like a beautifully orchestrated ballet. It is still the masterpiece of sex scandals with plots, characters, and rising tension. Hill's actual identity first came out as someone who worked with Thomas. Of course, she could be just some crazy woman who became envious of Thomas. It's very common to counterstrike against sexual harassment claims with the 'sluts and nuts' retort by casting the woman as jealous, deranged, "Fatal Attraction" femme fatale. Then the catch came out: she was a professor of law at the University of Oklahoma. Not exactly someone who fits the profile 'boil your bunny' profile.

I had never seen a powerful Black man in pitted against an educated Black woman. These things just don't happen in my world. We are taught to circle the wagons, unite, keep our secrets. Black women don't speak out against Black men without incurring the wrath of other Black women, the ridicule of men, and the confusion of Whites.

Anita Hill was challenging the taboos of Black female suppression. It didn't matter that she had no desire to testify and was only seeking to tell her story, a story which seems more and more probable with the passing of time. The act of her speaking in private to the Senate investigators was enough to kick off a wave of claims and increasing buzz. I think if it wasn't for cable news and salacious leaks, Anita Hill might have never been called to Washington. Reporters forced the hand of reluctant Senators, who no more wanted Anita Hill talking about unspoken workplace harassment women put up with every day than they wanted to revisit the politics of the Vietnam War. This was a Pandora's Box America, the Black community, and our government was being forced to open it.

Black Leadership Follows

Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and other people who are confusingly listed as 'Black leaders' were called upon to comment on this issue. You had a political token in Thomas, who believed in everything Jackson fought against: repeal of affirmative action, the dismantling of welfare, weak enforcement of discrimination laws. Conversely, Hill fit into the mold of progressive, liberal. When Jackson and other so-called Black leaders came out in guarded support for Thomas I knew the fix was in. They just wanted a Black face on the bench, regardless of views, skills, or beliefs. That's fine, but did they have to support the worst in us, in the hopes

Thurgood Marshall resigned from the Supreme Court, leaving a slot open that conventional wisdom stated should go to another Black judge. The question was how to find a Black candidate who was also a conservative Republican. Bush was looking for a Trojan Horse Black: someone who could be sneaked through a Democratic majority in the Senate. Clarence Thomas fit the bill. A Reagan appointee whose lone distinction was to lead the Equal Employment Opportunity Committee into a decade of ineffectiveness, Thomas woefully unfit. Thomas lead the charge that gutted the EEOC in the 1980s, and left racial discrimination claims unchecked. Thomas was then shuttled into other positions and was relatively unknown. Thomas's law grades and job record was unremarkable.

It was the first time I saw the strong suggestions of misogyny within the decaying Black civil rights movement. No attempt was made to reach Anita Hill before the Black male leadership cabal hit the airwaves to add their spin. Black men and White men were finally working together...to shut this woman up. Certainly this was not the mountaintop moment we had been working toward as a country.

'That Woman' Arrives

By the time Anita Hill came before the cameras she was Joan of Arc to some and Lady Macbeth to many others. I would come home from school and immediately turn on the TV to get my daily fix.

Her voice was strong and feminine. She looked attracted but very professional. l remember Hill's posture, as she sat through hours of grilling. Her chest would cave ever so slightly, diminishing herself while her voice would quiver at the higher register. She was thoroughly believable in her personal integrity and salacious claims. Hill never wept for pity or dramatically played on her womanhood. that would have been too cheap. She was cool, factual, and smooth.

When she couldn't recall a particular detail, Hill would bluntly tell the Senate Committee that she had no information. When they insisted, prodded, attempted to humiliate, she didn't get emotional or lash back at them. Hill simply wiped the dirt off and continued with her testimony. She was Claire Huxtable. Black womanhood as it had never before been seen outside of fiction, was now being piped into the homes of millions.

The esteemed all-male Senate panel barely contained their loathing and fear of Ms. Hill. They openly sneered at her answers, shook their heads before she would finish, telegraphed their paternalistic disapproval. Senator Arlen Specter and Joe Biden were the most egregious in their kabuki acting. The duo played a starring role in contemptuous male chorus.

Seeking to embarrass or stutter her calm demeanor they lingered over the most infamous claims. Pubic hair on Coke, discussions over women's breast size, and recounting porn star Long Dong Silver. Hill didn't gasp or pause as she reconfirmed the allegations. She drove ahead, even more determined by the attempt to shame her. This is startling because shame is often the cause of silence. The abused often keep quiet from shame. There were others who made harassment claims against Thomas, but almost all of them kept silent. Hill's calm delivery spoke loudly to millions. She was not ashamed, she did not need to apologize, she would not go away.

It was the senators who ended up blushing and stuttering. While they faltered, she shined. The cameras devoured Hill. Now I understood why senators, presidents, and Black leaders were scared. Truth is scary when you're living a lie. And the confirmation hearings were the centerpiece of this untruthful culture of politics and noise. Anita Hill cut through this in a few short days of testimony. Her outrageous allegations fed the scandal, but Hill's presence superseded it.

High-Tech Lynching

Although he had been in high-level government positions for over a decade, there were no co-worker or managers who were coming out to praise Clarence Thomas. "Yeah, he worked here" seemed to be the general praise toward the nominated judge. Not encouraging. When Thomas's underwhelming grades came out I finally recognized who he was.

I went to school with students like Clarence Thomas. They were picked on by other Black kids for being too dark, too ugly, too dumb, too slow. The White teachers would show them charity them and shield them from their own people. Mistaking pity for love, these Black kids became devoted teacher pets and vicious attack dogs. Their harshest attacks were reserved for other Black students. Failing at looks and brains, their man assets were fealty and cunning. They held their appointments through sycophancy and fiercely protect their territory against other Blacks. These kids grew into young adult whose main aspiration was to join the Young Republicans or manipulate their way up the ladder, while kicking down any other Black competitors. And when they were backed into a corner, they played the proverbial race card. They would scream 'racism' to the white hierarchy if exposed as frauds and then demand racial loyalty from other Blacks in their fight. Once their survival was ensured they would return right back to their token pet/attack dog dual status. Their main excuse for their ruthless traits was that everyone was secretly like them.

True to form, Thomas declared that he was the victim of a 'high-tech lynching.' Those three words made the Senate committee melt. The tough questions, the other women who made similar claims against Thomas, the issue of sexual harassment in the workplace all evaporated. Thomas righteous indignation was so strident and vigorous that you could feel the balance of the hearing shift.

Gender expectations were also switched. Hill offered coolness and precision that many didn't expect out of a Black woman. Thomas emoted white-hot anger, blanketed denials, and hysterical language. I deeply dislike emotional manipulation that shuts down debate. But as I watched Thomas's nostrils flare and eyes narrow it was hard not admire the performance. He knew that he couldn't stand days of follow-up testimony that would revolve solely around these allegations. If the confirmation hearing was drawn out, more of the allegations would come out. As more doubts arised, the Democratic coalition might rediscover their spine. Thomas's name and the Bush administration might face permanent damage.Your name can only be associated with 'pubic hair' so many times before people stop thinking you're the rightful inheritor of Thurgood Marshsall's legacy.

After Thomas's late-night performance it was a done deal. The vote was close but enough Democratic Senators were scared into confirming the nation's second Black Supreme Court justice. Anita Hill didn't go on talk show circuit. Thomas cloaked himself in the regal black robe of justice and disappeared from the cameras. And still there was a sense that almost nothing had been resolved.

The Aftermath

The fact that Clarence Thomas was one of the most under qualified nominees to the Supreme Court has been forgotten. No one remembers test scores and bar exams. Everyone remembers pubic hair being discussed in the Senate. It was a fitting start to the decade of sex scandal. It seemed like every few months there was a new official being charged, being accused, resigning, and apologizing to their wife. Most were mid-level politicians. Then there were the big names. Bob Packwood, Bill Livingston, Newt Gingrich and, of course, Bill Clinton.

These days there is no shame. Politicians don't go away when allegations surface. Networks don't shy away from vivid details. We seamlessly bounce from celebrity trial, to sex tapes, to corruption charges on our screens. In recent years we've added disaster pornography, child murder cases, and missing White women to our scandal industry.

Our politics and news are scored by who's winning and who's losing, instead of what is actually happening in the world. And few seem to notice, and even less seem to care. The mindset has overtaken us and we're in a perpetual group performance, loooking for the camera to validate our experience.

As a child I enjoyed the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas controversy. The scandal highlighted many hypocrisies in Black culture and the American political system. As an adult I dread what was created in its wake.

Dancing With My Music

2012-01-13T10:18:00.000-08:00

The NYTimes has an article offering the devil's advocate position that yoga does more harm than good. It interviews several teachers and students who have experienced injuries from yoga and concludes that yoga might not be for most people. I could do the same thing by interviewing builders who have gotten into workplace accidents and then asking if hammers are dangerous?

Yoga is a physical tool. The use of it is up to the individual. I find it really bizarre that some people expect yoga to have some Eastern magic in it that shields them from injury, ego, greed, or anything else that people carry with them all the time. Certainly I think yoga is one of the better tools for opening the body and have experienced that personally. But I also love studying healing and matrix energetics. Dr. Richard Bartlett of matrix energetics ridicules yoga from the belief there is some self-existent good. I'm listening to his series in the car and he repeatedly makes fun of Buddhism and chakras, but then clarifies "I don't believe in chakras. I also don't believe in trees. They are constructs."

More and more I'm finding in movement practice my body does somethng. I went to yoga again last night and then went out dancing. Previous night I went to zumba dance class and then went out dancing. Today I had acupuncture and I will probably dance tonight. For dance, I used to be able to dance for hours and I would find my body discovering new contortions and motions. The more I danced, the more free my body became by creating new pathways in the mind.

Getting back into dancing now I find that it takes me about 10-15 minutes to get warmed up creatively. At first my body will bob in a monotonous holding pattern or shift back and forth into some basic moves in my tool kit. And that's when people usually stop dancing either out of getting bored or tired. I find that monotonous holding pattern is the launching pad for breaking out. Similar to when I break through the first 15 minutes swimming in the ocean and then find I can swim for an hour non-stop. The mind gets free and taps into a larger source of potential. Medtation happens the same way for me. There's very little difference between doing 20 minutes and doing 90 minutes because once I pass a certain pre-conditioned threshold, I let go and fall into another larger pool.

I'd like to get back to that point in yoga. When I was in Nicaragua I was doing yoga every morning and I got to a certain point where certain moves that were in the past difficult to hold for a minute, no longer even made me sweat. At that point my body and mind began to play with the movement once I had passed that habituated threshold. I was doing these things with my body that I couldn't have imagined only a month prior to that. And then it becomes real yoga, which is 'educare' from sanskrit of self-education: the body self-teaches the movements it needs. Similar to when I'm dancing, the primordial mind begins to put itself into new postures that unlock tensions. That's why a lot of yoga poses are named after animals, from tapping into that primordial flexibility, or just the natural flexibility of a healthy child's body when it comes into the world. The well-trained yoga teachers (especially the older ones) all emphasize that these movements or asanas are suggestions. The dharma move the body into the direction of self-education b/c that's the only way it really works. Yoga doesn't work b/c I can force myself into a headstand or try to impress and push myself into a bridge pose b/c everyone else is class is doing it.

I've seen ppl in dance classes hurt themselves b/c everyone else is doing a cool move and they want to do it. But in African and Indian dances the movements are suggestions. The end of each class at Alvin Ailey is freestyle and it's amazing what a flowing body can do once it's warmed up. These are accountants, lawyers, and school teachers in the middle of the urban jungle who can suddenly tap into something yearning to get out. As Wayne Dyer said 'you don't want to die with your music stil in you.' It feels like their internal music is being released in these classes and there is just this joy (usually followed by self-conscious embarrassment that they were so free for a moment)

One day at the end of dance class I found myself freestyling Congolese in perfect synchronicity to the drums. I responded and they responded and it built in this jazz-like flow. And then I ended right when I needed to. I wanted to go on dancing but my body was like 'this is the end of this set.' The drummers read that and ended right on the mark, without me signaling them. They were reading my body and energy and I was reading their rhythms. Looking on was a group of black teenagers and kids cracking jokes. Part of my mind said 'oh no, are they going to make fun of me or laugh at this big guy moving around.' And when I stepped into the circle I said 'fuck it.' I just couldn't be concerned, my focus was on talking to the drums not my fears. When I finished I looked over the teenagers had this grudging respect. I had danced like a free man, something I doubt they were experiencing in their 'back against the wall' sarcasm. My music was flowing out of me.

The obvious chicken and egg question: who was reading who first? Was I initially reading the drums or where they reading me? The dancer answer: who cares?!? The Buddhist answer: when there is no duality there is oneness. There is no first or last read. Buddhist dancer answer: The drummer and dancer continually interacted long before and long after the class. The drums of the heart, pulse, feet, and other percussions flow on and intertwine with external drums.

Obama's Humor

2012-01-11T18:24:00.000-08:00

Over the last 50 years there is one thing that has united all Americans, regardless of political persuasion, social views, or class status. We like funny presidents. It's not impossible but it's very hard for a national figure to last in America without a sense of humor. Thanks in large part to the age of TV politics, our presidents must be tolerably good-looking (but not gorgeous), have gravitas (without being overbearing), seem informed (but not a nerd), and be able to tell jokes.

Comedic timing wins us over. When an Iraqi journalist hurled his shoes at then President George Bush, he quickly quipped "I could see into that man's sole" which was both a reference to his infamously incorrect assessment of Vladimir Putin's belief in democracy and defused a tense situation caused by the chaos, corruption, torture, and terrorism unleashed by the Iraq war. There are very different types of humor, some of which I don't understand. But people need to feel some sense of comfort, ease with others, and softness.

Humor is a great balm against defeats, setbacks, and the inevitable slides. When Ronald Reagan was beaten by President Ford in the 1976 GOP primary, it was his grace and humor that saved him. Reagan's folksy charm and ability to make fun of himself set up his next run in 1980. When a young Arkansas governor gave the worst speech of his life at the 1988 Democratic Convention, many thought it was the end of his career. Bill Clinton dealt with the setback with acknowledgment and comedy, making fun of his long-winded, wonky speech patterns. Clinton licked his wounds all the way back to Little Rock, shortened his speech patterns, and learned to throw in a few jokes. In the middle of challenging 1992 primary when he was being dogged on all sides by scandals, allegations, and his campaign was sinking, Clinton could still be found braving the cold New Hampshire nights, shaking hands and endearing himself to the proverbial thick-skinned granite state residents.

I remember watching C-SPAN (yes I was a political wonk as a child) broadcast a regular stump speech Clinton was giving a excited crowd while storm clouds gathered over head. Clinton was hitting his stride, the applause lines were getting cheered, but you could tell that this was an old speech he was tired of giving. Thunder erupted overhead, interrupting the applause. Without missing a beat in his delivery, Clinton announced 'now before you drown, I want to tell you-' and the audience burst into peals of laughter. To this day I have no idea what Clinton's last point was or how he ended the rally. I remember that joke.

At the time I didn't know much about the Arkansas governor with a ruddy face, raspy voice, and traveling dirt storm of scandals. But my instant sense was that this was a man who was very smart, very tired, and still managing to slip in a gag line about the approaching storm. I had never seen that pliable humorous side to the much-lauded Paul "I am not Santa Claus" Tsongas. When Clinton took almost all of Tsongas's economic plan and slapped his name on it, the esteemed Senator went after Clinton and slammed him in the debates. Even though he was completely correct in his charges, Tsongas came across as brittle, dry, rigid, and a nerd whining about someone trying to steal answers from his test. Clinton turned his economic forgery into a joke, smile, and a wink. His seductive smile at the audience while being attacked siad 'I'm a rascal, but at least I'm fun.'

One startling commentators don't make about presidential elections: the un-funny guy almost always loses. Examining the losing candidates in the TV age reads like a list of the overly serious, boring, humorless, and stiff.

John Kennedy's Harvard charm over Richard Nixon's self-loathing. Lyndon Johnson's Texas good ol' boy backslapping over the rhetorical straitjacket of Goldwater. Nixon was made funny only in comparison to his utterly hopeless challengers. Carter's peanut farm wit over the stiff Ford. Reagan's avuncular demeanor trumps Carter and Mondale. Dukakis's fascination with mushrooms makes George Bush Sr seem like an Apollo comedian. Clinton beats Bush. Then Bush Jr. beats Gore. And finally Obama easily surpasses the cranky McCain.

Barack Obama's humor is perhaps his greatest strength. Obama's biography reads like the archetype of the noble, but singular Black person in high positions. He's used to being on the only Black guy in the room. It goes without saying that there has never been a president who has had to do more to make people feel comfortable about him on a daily basis. He serves as an important case study for any minority or 'other' who finds themselves playing the ambassador.

There are times when I watch Obama and I want to scream: come on! Get angry! Throw something! His coolness can infuriate me. But behind his professorial detachment is a dry, sardonic wit. His 2011 White House Correspondence dinner speech trumped the hired comedian, Jay Leno. The next day, the media reports expressed surprise at how funny Obama was at the dinner. We now know that he was also overseeing the special ops high-risk raid on Osama Bin Laden's compound that same day he was joking about his birth certificate, deriding Donald Trump, slamming Leno for kicking Conan O'Brien off NBC, and Matt Damon for his performance in "The Adjustment Bureau." Yet it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Obama can be glib, charming, sarcastic; often in the same sentence while keeping a cool poker face that doesn't betray a hint of worry.

When I was working on the Obama campaign in 2008, the staff had a problem with the Cleveland police. They were getting harassed by patrolmen. When the office opened and the staffers went to pick up the campaign van, the police pulled the vehicle over and confiscated when it was only a few minutes into its maiden voyage. The stories of police harassment became the stuff of folklore around the office. Rather than outrage, most people were tickled by the idea that they were doing something so important that it would attract what seemed like a concerted effort of law enforcement.

One night after another long day at the campaign office I was checking out at 2 am. I agreed to drive a fellow worker home so he wouldn't have to wait for the bus. As I drove out of the parking lot I noticed a car was trailing us. I made my way down the backstreets of Cleveland and became aware that it was a patrol car. My initial thought was 'nooo! Not tonight. It's 2 am.' The sirens started and the lights flashed. We were in a dark stretch of roads, covered by dense foliage. I drove a few hundred yards until I found a well-lit area and pulled over. I rolled the electronic windows down, took the keys out, aplaced my hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. I know the drill and didn't intend on getting an errant bullet for trying to grab my wallet. The officer and he asked 'why didn't you stop when I signaled?'

"I wanted to pull over into a well-lit area."

"You stop when I tell you to stop!"

I looked up at him for the first time. He was very young, no older than 25, white cop riding solo. His screaming didn't show power, but his worry and concern at pulling over a car with two passengers by himself at 2 am. Right then and there I became aware of his side of things. His fears, the bravado it took to walk up to a car at night, not knowing what or who is in it. Fortunately he had me and I had him.

I smiled confidently and handed him my license without saying a word. My passenger, a Black man, turned to the officer with rage.

"Is there a problem officer? What did we do?"

I shot my passenger a smiling 'shut the fuck up' glare and quickly returned my eyes to the young officer. He went to his car to run my identification.

While we were waiting, the two of us -both Black men- had a heated discussion. My passenger was from Trenton, New Jersey. He grew up around police brutality, had been harassed, unfairly handcuffed and humilitated. He couldn't understand my cool handling of the situation. I explained to him that I was and still am a Buddhist and a pacifist. I believe in karma and that everything happens for a reason. I explained to him what that young officer might be thinking every time he pull someone over, regardless of race. The fear, the anxiety, maybe he thinks of his wife and wonders if this is the last traffic stop. He is without a partner. It is 2 am, we are in a dangerous neighborhood with a high-rate of crime. In short we three men find ourselves on this dark road. And all of us just want to get home. We are doing the best we can. Furthermore I react with innocence because I have not done anything except to drive home as a law-abiding citizen exercising his constitutional rights of participating in an election. In fact, it is this officer's job to protect me. It is his job to make sure I get home safe, and I expect him to do that. If there is anything that comes up, then I purify and rejoice.

This is an excellent opportunity to practice my 6 perfections: giving, morality, patience, effort, concentration, and wisdom. We are practicing all of them right now in having this conversation. There are no accidents. We are learning. My passenger looked at me skeptically with a look that said 'yeah, we'll see negro!'

I cracked a joke about the police and about how we wouldn't have to go to work if we went to jail. Maybe we'd be able to sleep until 9. We started laughing. To myself, I did my mantras and mental purification.

When the officer returned, he was a completely different person. He was smiling, friendly, and moseyed up to our car with a sense of relief. He handed me my license back and claimed that my lights were too dim. They weren't but I went along with it, seeing that he needed some reason to save face. I allowed him to show me how to increase the lights on the rented car. I thanked him. He was smiling, I was smiling. My passenger looked like he was seeing a mircacle. We would all get to go home one more night.

As we pulled away, my passenger turned to me and exclaimed 'THAT. WAS. AMAZING." I thanked him for offering me a lesson by letting me drive him home. This was a very important night. We take for granted the miracle of safety, going home to our families, being Black in America. Tonight, we were grateful.

I think Obama's humor rubbed off on his national staff and trickled down on every level. I have never worked on a campaign where people dealt with continued adversity with aplomb and an almost British stiff-upper lip wit. These were Blacks, Whites, Indians, Latinos, married husbands, single mothers, gays, lesbians, rich New Yorkers who flew in, local who lived in squalor. There was this lightness and grace. What's even more shocking is that I never heard one person say a nasty thing about John McCain or the Republican party. These people were too busy working for change. I happily drove my co-workers home, ran errands with them, dined at Korean restaurants, engaged in vigorous political debates, and laughed.

The lightness of humor is a miracle. It is often forgotten but never lost. Obama's humor is that of Reagan, Clinton, and all enduring leaders. We can take encouragement that we all have this warm light of humanity. Humor is a gift.

Miami Heat's Title Run: Do or Die

2012-01-07T13:27:00.000-08:00

No, we really mean it this year.

That should be the motto of the Miami Heat organization for its 2011-2012 campaign.

It would be a mistake to call Miami the most hyped team in the history of basketball. The Miami Heat are the most hyped team. Ever. Last year the expectations were to start off directly with a ring ceremony and then play the season as a 100 game victory lap. And they fell two games short of accomplishing just that.
Now that it's the start of an exciting new season, both Miami Heat fans and basketball aficionados can only say one thing about last year's failed title run: Thank Goodness.

Thank Goodness that the Miami Heat weren't reward so early for a half-finished product.

Thank Goodness Pat Riley's penchant for casting senior citizens in supporting roles wasn't justified.

Thank Goodness Erik Spoelstra's attempt at letting stars dictate coaching didn't get him a ring.

Thank Goodness King James didn't earn his crown for playing the villain.

Although we're still early into the new season, this year's Heat team has one important distinction from last year: it actually looks like a team. From top to bottom, changes have been subtly and overtly made to give a feel that the starters as well as bench players are working on the same goal.

Starting from the top, there is Pat Riley breaking free from the NBA nursing home and actually keeping young, bench players on the team. Terrell Harris, Norris Cole, Dexter Pittman and even the injured Mickell Gladness are aggressive, un-jaded and growing talent. At the gym you can imagine the difference in having the Big Three practice with players that actually want to learn and grow.

Much credit has been given to Norris Cole and he deserves it for his non-stop engine and play making. But another reason he's also playing beyond his expectations is because he's a 20-something guy from Cleveland State who is playing with freaking LeBron James and Dwyane Wade! That's like a community college graduate getting their first job at the White House. Cole is playing with the best and giving veterans new looks they haven't seen before, reminding them of what it looks like to go at 100 mph in practice.
During the monotonous grind of an NBA season, rookies need veterans to learn how to adjust. Veterans, however, need rookies to remind them of—as the motivational speakers would phrase it—an attitude of gratitude.

Last year's Heat often looked bored, tired and annoyed with the regular season. Yes, that feeling was mostly because of all the animosity they received on the road. But it didn't help that you had a team of veterans who had seen too many road trip grinds to care about the Washington Wizards, or even their first round playoff opponent. When Gladness gets healthy they will have another big, young body to push the pugnaciously pudgy Eddy Curry in practice...and maybe even toward the salad bar.

And still old habits die hard (along with Juwan Howard's career). Riley didn't completely overhaul his elderly cravings. He kept Howard as a statesmen and tutor and added the much-lauded Shane Battier. Some times the Battier compliments feel excessive. Yes, he likes to study and he works on his game. Big deal, that's what he's supposed to do. But then you watch the slow-motion replay of his overtime shot block against Joe Johnson and something sticks out. The positioning of his body, the movement toward the basket, the elevation at just the right time. Everything is perfectly played.

While Mario Chalmers is the gorgeous woman with bad makeup, a trashy dress and questionable decision-making skills, Battier is the cute girl who does everything right, even down to her picking the right nail polish. His game is tight and right. His meticulousness will certainly benefit the rookies. Even Chalmers, who shows signs of brilliance amidst bizarre turnovers and missed assignments, might accidentally pick up on Battier's consistency. If that happens he would become an All-Star point guard (stop laughing). That alone would make Battier's contract one of the best steals in recent history.

The next part about being a true team is having a team coach. Much maligned and denigrated, Erik Spoelstra is a warrior of consistency. If anything he some times sticks to his game plan too long. There was a rigidness to his approach that bordered on OCD. When it was clear that the Heat would need a full-team effort, he stuck by his preseason reasoning of letting the Heat's speed and athleticism win out. In 2010 preseason interviews he confessed to scrapping his offensive designs when he saw in practice the cool toy Pat Riley had created. That was a shame because here is a little known secret about Spoelstra: he's actually a very good coach. He's certainly farther along in his coach learning curve than legends like George Karl or even Phil Jackson.

Spoelstra was in awe of the Heat's fast break potential and made a well-documented promise to his team: if you get a rebound or turnover you could do whatever you wanted at the offensive end. This incentive made Miami one of the best defensive teams and gave fans hours of alley-oop highlights. But the long-term effects were clear in the post-season.

In many games last year the Heat would go into an half-court freeze. LeBron or Wade would dribble the ball around for 18 seconds and then hoist up a dazzling but high-risk shot. During the timeouts, Spoelstra would try to gently direct his stars toward running an actual offensive set. The stars would humor the coach for a possession or two. Often, however, they would return to their highlight reel basketball. Against well-coached defenses the cracks became more apparent. This year is only nine games in and the Heat have yet to face a healthy Boston or Chicago, but there are encouraging signs that they won't return to xBox hoops.
Spoelstra has the potential to be a legend in his own time, instead of just Riley' mind. For proof of that check out the recent Heat-Atlanta Hawks game. With Wade and James on the bench, it almost seemed as if the coaching staff remembered what it looked like to design plays again and expect them to be run as is.

The Heat-Hawk's fourth quarter and overtime were a thing of coaching beauty, as Spoelstra smoothly switched between pick-and-rolls, double screens and iso-sets. You could see how one possession would set up the next...and the next. The Hawks players would take defensive gambles that played right into the Heat's play calling.
In a game that should have been a blowout win for the Hawks, they were schemed into a hard-fought tie at the end of regulation. That, by itself, was a moral victory, but then they kept scheming. If it wasn't for two consecutive Chalmers mistakes and rookie lapses, the Heat would have closed the game out in the first overtime. Instead it took an extra two periods and the Hawks surrendering at the end for the Heat to win. And it was a team win with an offensive and defensive game plan that back-ups carried out.

Better and more imaginative zone defenses won't allow for Heat freelancing this year. Spoelstra already knew this and the rest of the league is very aware. Finally it's the Heat players who are the last to receive the news. You have to play team offense almost all the time now. Call it pace-and-space or whatever you want, but fast-break and half-court offense has to fit into an overall vision to beat athletic, big-body teams that will clog the paint.

LeBron will have to put his Hakeem Olajuwon summer camp skills to use. The consistent post-up plays will be necessary to break the zone. And Bosh ain't doing it, so stop asking. The only one who has the body frame, vision and passing skills to do this is LeBron and he has taken up the challenge. While no one will mistake him for Karl Malone, King James has shown encouraging signs of basketball IQ growth. He's listening to his coach and it's paying off.

Last year was fun but left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. The Miami Heat were the cool, James Bond villain with amazing gadgets and a plan for world domination. They were fascinating, clearly intelligent and superior to almost everyone. But at the end you want 007 to beat the villain. The Dallas Mavericks were the slightly-goofy Bond with a license to kill the cackling Riley and his diabolical super team. Cuban and the Mavs played their part in a riveting drama that gave the NBA some of its highest ratings. But as basketball fans, it's always more fun to root for a team than to root against someone else's success.

This year the Miami Heat have a team that basketball fans can love and appreciate. They have youth, heart and ambition that could make a Cleveland fan stand up and cheer. Or at least grudgingly give a nod toward South Beach.

40 acres, Mule, and a Headache

2012-01-06T12:46:00.000-08:00

My family has an itch for owning land. It's a traditional view of economics and wealth. We are told that real estate is always a solid investment. But it can also be a headache and a nuisance. Mema passed away a few years ago and left her house deed in the name of me and my sister. She was a hotel maid who worked tirelessly for decades, saved wisely, and was able to buy a house, retire, and live for another 30 years. My grandmother thought she was doing us a favor by leaving us the house. Yet me and my sister want nothing to do with it. We don't claim it on our tax forms, we don't have any desire to renovate or fix-and-flip the land. We have remained silent owners in technical name only while my Mom handles the house. Growing up we got a taste of what it takes to own property and to be a landlord.

There is something about the Squire name and owning land. We seemed fated to be in possession of land, lose it, and then get it back again almost against our will. The Squires were one of the few Black families in Florida to own significant amounts of property in Central and Northern Florida at the turn of the century. My great grandfather owned tracks of land that he developed into rough-hewn shotgun houses. He would set up a few tables, a simple bar, a piano and then be open for the business. Weekend and migrant farmers looking to drink, sing, and eat the weekend away would go to these makeshift houses.

My great grandfather would stock the houses with stacks of fried fish sandwiches, cheap liquor, and basic pianist. In a short amount of time he earned quite a lot of money, much to the annoyance of White families and farmers in the area. You could save he was rich in the traditional sense of the word: he owned land, houses, and had several successful businesses. But his life ended too soon. Mema said that her Dad got unexpectantly sick, while my other relative -Aunt Dolly- said that White people in town arranged to have taken care of in a discrete manner. Whatever the reason, the Squires were left without a patriarch and were accustomed to high-living. The property was quickly sold off, the businesses dispersed, and my great grandmother badly invested the money. Although they well-off they were never rich again. The children scattered across the Florida peninsula to different places. Mema (or Lynn Maddox) came down to Florida and began working as a maid in hotels. She purchased a house in Liberty City back in a time when the prices were cheap and the neighborhood was poor but safe.

Mema paid the mortgage off and was quickly in possession of property that took a price hit with the surge of riots and violence in the 60s and 70s. And the 80s. Liberty City was decimated but an enclave of older Black women still held on to their property through the chaos and violence. My grandmother was a part of that generation that is coming to a close right now. Emboldened by how deceptively easy it is to purchase Florida, Mema purchased some more land in more upscale Broward County. It was just a half acre with two houses built on it. She would collect rent from tenants. In theory this sounded like a good idea.

In 1973 my Dad bought 3 acres of land in the depth of South Florida. The land was so far south that the streets were numbered in the 300s and 200s avenues. No personal addresses, just numbered plots. Once the highway ended, the drive was made on dirt and mud roads. His thinking was that development would be coming to South Florida's nether regions pretty soon and he could turn a profit by selling or developing it. Purchase price: $3,000. Given that it was $1,000 for an acre that was a very shrewd move on his part. In theory this too sounded like a good idea.

But what some times is a nice theory makes for messy business. By the time I was a teenager, my Dad dreaded going to see the land. He was also now in charge of my grandmother's land.

Going to see the land involved steeling oneself. Occasionally my Dad would bring me along and try to make it fun or at least have someone to talk to on the ride over. The first time I went to see my grandmother's land I was shocked. It was a short ride from our home. Yet I wasn't even aware of it until I was almost a 10. We pulled up to the property and I was stunned. The houses looked like run-down shacks. I could feel the tension in the car, some times he would even take out a cigarette. He always kept a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment or in that no-man's land between the driver and passenger seat. Seeing him smoke was like seeing a full solar eclipse: something that only happened once every few years. If he was smoking, that meant something was working on him at a deep subconscious level.

I got out of the car the first time and didn't even want to enter on to the property. It was so awful, like some rickety dungeon erected in the middle of slum. But we opened the laughably pointless gate and walked up the steps. He knocked on the door and what emerged was some awful ancestor, some throwback to antebellum. An almost toothless Black rag of a woman emerged with a Southern accent so thick I thought it was another language. My Dad asked about the rent. Apparently they hadn't paid for a few months. The woman mumbled some excuse and my Dad nodded, not listening while both our bodies hedged backwards, hoping to end this exchange as quickly as possible. Then my Dad knocked on the second house. No one was home or they weren't coming to the door. Satisfied that he had fulfilled his landlord obligations, he circumambulated the houses. I asked what he was doing and he said he was checking for damages. Damages?!? The place was a disaster and he was looking for mold on the Titanic.

We got back into the car and left. I only visited the property a few more times before my Dad sold it on behalf of my grandmother. Good riddance. The city was beginning to fine and question them about the property. The owners were rightfully held responsible for the conditions but the tenants weren't making any payments. There was a minimal amount of money going out to fix the place, but no money coming in. It was real estate trap.

When my other grandmother passed away it was my Mom's turn. Yvonne was now in possession of this oddly shaped duplex. Annie Boston (on my mother's side) also worked cleaning houses when she moved to South Florida. She too bought land and home in Liberty. She too lived through the downturn and 30 year collapse of the Black middle class in South Florida. Her tenants were right next door. She divided her large house and had a wall put up that gave away a third to a needy renter. For most of her latter years she had reliable tenant living right on the other side of the wall. Grandmother Annie's reasons for buying were more interesting.

She moved to Miami from South Carolina, fleeing an abusive and deranged husband. In South Carolina she worked and earned a good living as a cleaning and laundry lady. They lived in a poor town, where the divide between Whites and Blacks was actually quite minimal. Everyone was too poor to care about race. They would hang around each other, Black kids and white kids, Black mothers and White mothers struggling to make a living. They would have stayed in South Carolina if it wasn't for Annie's husband. In retrospect, my mom said the man was probably clinically insane. He would bribe little Yvonne to make up lies about her mother and then fly into a rage at the contrived injustices before viciously beating his wife. One day when my mom was trying to remember the details about him she simply shook her head and repeated again and again 'that man was not well."

They left town late one night, hiding in the back of a pickup truck. I imagine her little boy laying down on the flatbed and staring up at the South Carolina sky one last time as a scared driver sped out of their small town and didn't stop until Miami. My grandmother got set up in a housing project and, being the entrepreneur that she was, began selling bathtub gin. The moonshine business was quite profitable for them and jealousy ensued as well as fear of having the cops raid their apartment. At that point, my grandmother decided it would be a wise time to invest that bathtub gin money into some real estate.

She bought a home and continued on with her entrepreneur'ing ways, free from the snooping eyes of apartment moms. By the time I was born the only thing I saw her selling regularly from her home were pig feet, pickled eggs, and candy. But I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't some gin business going on. The only problem with the bathtub gin business in the 70s and 80s is that the government and corporations had taken over that racket in the Black community. There would be no room for 'bath brewers' when you could get the bodega down the block and get the commercialized stuff with the approved seal on it.

My mom said that she was sent money from Grandma Annie for her entire four years of college. Money would mysteriously come in the mail to cover her extra needs. When she asked where it came from, Grandma Annie claimed to have hit a lucky four-year streak of playing the numbers. I find that highly unlikely but I respect the testimony of the dearly departed. I will leave it alone out of love of my family. Besides, the main point is that after her passing, my mother inherited the house that had several cousins living in it. A simple agreement was made: just pay the bare minimum, the monthly fees to cover lights, water, and property tax. This came to roughly $400-500/month for a giant house with several bedrooms. My cousins couldn't keep to the promise and after almost 2 years of paying out of pocket, my parents were looking to get out of the landlord business. One of the deepest regrets is that a better way couldn't have been found in this situation. But my Dad was growing angrier by the month at the expenses and then the call for repairs which would cost in the thousands. He had my cousins evicted and then sold the property. His anger was frightening but his timing was perfect. The house was sold only a few months before the economic implosion. What was a $200,000 would only be worth $70,000 in a year. They managed to get out ahead this time and pay back all the expenses. The land went to a Dominican family as the Latino population is now the one buying up plots of land in Liberty City. There was no profits but there were also no deficits. And the only losses were our family connection to cousins who I haven't heard or seen in years. Apparently they live in far-flung southern areas of Dade county, almost near my Dad's 3 acres. But even that must go.

Unwilling to keep visiting the 3 acres and tired of waiting for that 'inevitable real estate boom' he sold the last of the family property to our Cuban mechanic who was homesick for a patch of land to farm. Apparently the land is now being put to use for the first time in decades. One day I would like to taste the fruit from that farm and know that in some small way I am connected.

Mema passed away and left the house to her grandchildren. Toward the end of her life, a man named John moved in as a roommate. John was a veteran kicked out of his house by his own kids. Mema took him in and let him sleep on the couch. She even encouraged him to fix up the bedroom of her husband. John preferred the couch and my Grandfather Opa's room remains a spooky mausoleum to this day. John saved Mema's life numerous times when she blacked out or her sugar sent her into a coma. This obviously endeared him to my parents and the rest of the family. When Mema passed away I dreaded the thought of having John move out against his will. My sister didn't want that eviction on her conscience either. At the same time we didn't want responsibility of up keeping the property he lived on, which is technically in our names.

For now the property is in limbo. John is able to scrape together enough money off of his meager benefits to pay for basic stuff. My mom splits the maintenance cost with him. Last year when a water line burst outside the house and flooded the garage, it took John days before he called. I can still hear the perplexed and peeved voice of my mom on the phone talking to this elderly and forgetful veteran. Those extra days wait costs hundreds in clean up and repair. When the cable stopped working or when city inspectors required the walls of Opa's vacant room to be gutted and reconstructed from hurricane damage, it was my Mom's responsibility to find the repairman, research costs, equipment, and then ensure the repairs were done properly.

If the responsibility of this land falls to me I wouldn't know what to do. Despite all my bluster and bravado, I turn back into that little boy when it comes to real estate: I find myself slowly hedging away from that dungeon.

H.N.I.C: Head N***a In Charge

2012-01-02T18:55:00.000-08:00

Who is the HNIC? The acronym stands for "Head Nigga In Charge" and I must have heard it dozens of times a day from elementary school through junior high. On the school bus, in the parking lot, in the hallways. You had to prove you were THE Head Nigga in Charge. The contest was played among us Black exiles. We were the few, rare, M&Ms going to mostly non-Black schools in upper-class neighborhoods. I didn't find out what M&Ms meant until I became an adult, but apparently it stands for "mentoring minority' students. Far from being mentored, it felt like many of us were every day dropped off to fend for ourselves. Lacking any sort of social strata, we created our own with HNIC game.

I attended Highland Oaks Elementary and Junior High School. The elementary school was mostly Jewish, upper-middle class located in Aventura, Miami suburb located right on the county line. Going to school at Aventura afforded me the opportunity to receive honors-level education in a non-threatening environment. Since I was often the only Black person in the honors and advanced classes, most of my school friends were Jewish, Latino and a few wandering WASPs. I would arrive at school and partake on a weekly basis in two arts classes (painting and more creative construction), two music classes, advanced science, math, and even the physical education class had 'thinking' elements to it with learning new games and team structures. But all of my bus friends were Black.

Black parents chartered their own bus and paid the owner $20/week for each student. We had our own Jitney, or bootleg bus system. These buses were run by Black school administrators and teachers trying to make some extra money on the side. You get 20 students at $20 a week and you're talking about an extra $1,600 for a teacher struggling to get by on their salary or looking to purchase some Florida real estate to remodel and flip for a profit. There was a whole economic subculture to busing M&Ms that formed out of being the 'odd kids' out of place.

The bus ride to school would often take 1-2 hours, which meant I had to be up 2-3 hours before most kids to get ready and wait. The chartered van would pull up in the driveway and honk the horn. I would walk out and begin peeking into the window to search out the available seats. The drivers would pack us in so a modified van meant to hold 10 people, would often have 15 or 20+ students packed in tight. You were lucky if you got in early enough on the route because you could take a backseat. The seat farthest away from the driver afforded the most opportunities for card games, petty gambling, slap fights, and illicit show and tells. I remember one time a student on the bus brought a gun to junior high school. There was no malicious intent, but it was merely to prove how they were the HNIC. The news quickly spread when we arrived and by the afternoon the gun-possessing HNIC student was found by administrators. He was quickly expelled and never heard from again. It was, as Dave Chappelle would say, an example of what happens when 'keeping it real goes wrong.'

Most of the time the HNIC game never got to the level of guns or drugs. A student would declare "I'm the HNIC" and then have to back-up his statement with the action. Some times HNIC would involve telling the dirtiest joke or reciting the hottest rap lyric. HNIC would some times involve trying to shoplift from a convenience store the bus driver would stop at for a Big Gulp. This happened on two occasions by other students who were almost caught by the store clerk. The escape was seen as a victory for HNIC status. I never contributed to the HNIC game. I played the violin, attended honors classes, spoke in a non-regional racially neutral tone. There was no chance of me being the HNIC. No question, no debate, no possible challenge to the throne. I was an observer to the HNIC and would occasionally offer comedic parodies of my fellow busmates by pretending to shot someone, impregnate my cousin, and snort imaginary cocaine and then wipe my nose while deliriously screaming "I'm the HNIC!!!!' would laugh before quickly resuming their contest. I was comfortable with this and was afforded 'embedded observer' status.

What scared me about HNIC was getting caught in the crossfire. I was an easy target for others looking to prove themselves HNIC-worthy and so I had to choose my defending moments carefully. I worried that the back of my head had a 'slap me' sign and I was careful not to turn my back on anyone. The best seats on the bus were those near a window or door. A student could coolly lean against the window without fear of a covert slap, punch or kick to their backside.

I kept a mental library of comeback, cutdowns, putdowns, insults to use like a sniper. If I was attacked by 2 or more students I would learn to laugh it off and then wait to get revenge on a one-on-one basis or just go after the weakest person. In one case when a few students decided to team up on me and insult my outfit, my glasses, my academic achievements, I found the weakest person in the group and immediately began insulting him, ignoring the other attackers. I continued attacking him until he was getting laughed at by his co-conspirators. On another morning a younger student tried to score points against me the moment I stepped into the van. I was too groggy to respond and he up'ped the ante by slapping the back of my head. I came back with a barrage of punches and verbal insults that left him in tears. Blubbering, he vowed to get his older brother to kick my ass. A very un-HNIC thing to say. He ended up regretting this as other students picked on him for crying and having to get his brother to pick his fight. This student left me alone for the rest of my time on the bus and was the very same student was expelled for bringing a gun.

We admired comedians, athletes, and rappers whose actions proved they were HNIC in their own life. When TLC's Lisa 'Left Eye" Lopez burned down the house of Andre Rison, her cheating NFL wide receiver boyfriend, that was a HNIC moment. Even though she said it was an accident, Left Eye got her a place in the HNIC Hall of Fame. Tupac Shakur got his place by getting shot in the lobby of a New York recording studio and surviving.

The HNIC game became this never-ending game of insults, fights, and swagger. As a result I grew farther apart from my bus mates as we entered our teenage years. I hated their ignorance, their need for recognition through violence, and their overall disdain for reading and education. I began leading a double life, one for my honors classmates and one for my bus mates.

In class I was known as student debater, violinist, and tennis player who played in weekend tournaments and even won a few. On the bus, I was the Oreo who wore glasses, read science fiction, and spent most of my time hanging around white kids. I would imagine our bus as the zoo-mobile: an ape show of stealing, cursing, and fighting on wheels. A traveling embarrassment of all the things my parents taught me to avoid at all cost and yet forced me to ride with every school day.

The contradictions confused and enraged me. I represented "Blacks" to most of my honors classmates. I served as the friendly ambassador explaining the mysteries of Kwanzaa or rap music. And yet I hated my daily interaction with Blackness via my ride to and from school. There was no one to confide in during these years. My parents worked late and were often running around helping the community through volunteering, church work, or helping out other kids. My sister was off leading her high school life. I was left to my own devices in figuring this out. I spent most of my non-school time alone. I was expected to complete my homework, warm-up dinner, set out my clothes, and prepare my lunch for the next day.

The HNIC game carried over into high school and adult life. I see it in hip hop culture, rivarlries, Obama's 2008 presidential campaign. When I find myself in the middle of an impromptu HNIC game I run as far away as possible. I have never been or desired HNIC status. Needless to say, I have kept in contact with none of my bus mates. The moment I got my driver's license and inherited my sister's rusty Mercury Cougar I never rode Jitney or any privatized bus again. Even when the car broke down, I would take the city bus and deal with the 2 hours and route transfers to get home.

I made a vow to get as far away from 'those people' and that game as possible the first chance I got. This turned into a deep-seated suspicion and wariness of any traditional Black organizations run by men. In my mind they were all playing some form of the HNIC game behind close doors.

Now I know that my fears were delusions of a scarred and scared nerdy Black kid. There are millions of other people who were minorities living as outsiders among their own culture. There's less of a need to HNIC my status when I find others who are like me regardless of race or class. I don't have to be in charge or anybody. Thankfully it's not my game to play.

2012 Prairie Home Companion

2012-01-01T09:11:00.000-08:00

I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.
I am a brother of cornhuskers who say at sundown:
To-morrow is a day.-Carl Sandburg's "Prairie"

Winter of Peace

2011-12-26T20:16:00.000-08:00

All the US troops should be out of Iraq by the end of 2011. Rather than celebrating this news, there's barely a whimper of acknowledgment at our decade of folly, blood, and torture. In New York there are no 'Welcome Home' rallies or parties. We are too busy concerned about the next crisis to look back. The holiday spirit of exhaustion sadness seeps into every political discussion.

When I first came to the city in the fall of 2002 war was in the air and the people rallied in the street. I was ambivalent toward the anti-war protest and the anti-peace politicians. I didn't want war, but on the other hand I felt on an instinctive level that I was watching a shadow puppet play. Is this really about stopping a war, or just about being on-record about something that's happening.' Why wasn't it a peace rally? Why was it anti-?

I remember hearing New School'ers talk about going to the protest and asking me if I was going to go and I wanted to say 'yes, sure' but I was frozen. Deep down inside something kept saying 'you know you can't go. It's not going to work. Your entire being will rebel against this faux liberalism, this defeatism that's overtaken left-wing movements.' So what ended up happening is I would offer these sheepish muddled excuses about why I didn't want a war, but also wouldn't go to an anti-War protest. I didn't have the wisdom to even argue. Didn't have the scriptural logicof it but just an internal logic was clicking through my mind.

When I was in middle school the Rodney King riots erupted after the not-guilty verdict. People were enraged. The administrators organized a gathering for students to vent their anger in the last two periods. I was 12, scared out of my mind but I asked to be excused from the rally. I would be the only Black person who didn't want to sit and a room and scream about the police while LA burned. People looked at me like I was crazy, an Uncle Tom, a sellout. But something deep inside said 'you can't go to this. It will just be anger. You have enough.' I was shoved down the stairs on my way to a holding room for those students refusing to take part in the rally. I still went, knees shaking. A part of my mind observed the insanity of anger on a macro and micro level . A few angry police officers beat up another person who looks like me. This triggers other people who look like me to get angry. But people who look like the police officer are angry and they let the cops go, which triggers many people who look like me to begin burning their own houses and neighborhoods. This spreads to hundreds of cities. People who look like me and then (mostly) people who don't look like me start burning, shooting, killing, stealing because of that initial act. Cascading waves spread to each city, then around the world on TV, in newspapers. And then on the other side of the country people who look like me shove me down the stairs because I don't want to share in their anger. So Black people express their anger at racism by shoving a Black student down, by burning Black businesses, and homes. It occurred to me 'but this is the way it's always been going for Blacks, Whites, all people.' This. is. insane.

I left my body and observed this, bookmarked it in my memory as a short, fat, asthmatic 12-year-old nerd gingerly walking (fearing my legs would collapse from under me) toward the holding room for people who didn't want to attend the school venting session. After school people exploded out of the auditorium, screaming and shouting, faces twisted in anger. Windows smashed, police were called, and a new cycle was formed: people who look like me battling people who looked like 'them' that began years ago in LA with a traffic stop. I and the other people in the holding room ran, fearing for our lives, fearing that we would get swept up in 'government-sponsored' hate session that now flowed out into the parking lots, streets, and buses of Miami.

That's when I realized there was that voice that would pop up occasionally and tell me, provide refuge. I don't know where the strength came from to move, to retreat, to run -shaking legs and all.

That being said, I didn't insult people who went to the anti-War protest in 2002. I observed politely, quietly. I kept my head down and thought 'what's this all about?' One side screaming this, the other side screaming something else.

Then a week later my friends were at a bar and we saw the crimson fires exploding over the skies of Baghdad. Shock and Awe. The war had begun and we were watching in a cozy little Manhattan bar drinking beer and listening to songs on the jukebox. How absurd, how obscene. The bar was neither joyous in celebration nor somber. People were respectful observing, wondering how we should feel. Unsettled but not knowing what to do except drink. There was a deep feeling in that moment, in that room that we were about to enter the rabbit hole, a deep puzzling enigma of violence, pity, greed, absurdity. More drinks, more music! Seven years later we are still trying emerge from that twisted puzzle and I don't know what to call what has happened. Shock and awe.

The next morning there was a heavy blizzard that blanketed Manhattan in a hushing white coat. I went to my early morning class realizing I would be one of the few. The streets were silent and somber and mostly empty. Fresh snow was beginning to pile up in the inches. I trudged to an Alexander Class (posture and mindset). We were asked to engage in deep listening. I would listen to someone talk for a few minutes with all my body and mind. Not leaning forward, but maintaining a deep balance of listening and absorbing. We had to look each other in the eye and no touching.

My Australian friend Jono began talking about his feelings, the silence of the morning, the weariness of the start of this war, his feelings about being alone in NYC during winter. I'll never forget the deepness of his emotion, of his mind when it was just allowed to flow. I didn't interrupt him and actually listened to someone (very rare in our society to do that, you know?) With that level of honesty and connection, I could listen to someone for hours talk about their life, the war, zucchini, anything! Because with that level of honesty someone could be talking about "Star Trek" and they'd really be talking about themselves, their mind, my mind. It wouldn't matter, right? With that level of honesty, stillness, and listening a space was created. Then I spoke about my fears, the war and my conflicting feelings, the need to do something.

We were both crying. Crying and crying but connected. That turned out to be my protest. In the quiet, cold, half-empty classroom in the middle of an early morning blizzard. The day after the bombs had started falling I knew this is what I should have been doing all along. I should have been listening with deep love and honesty. Looking into the eyes and listening, absorbing and trying to remove my hate.

I'll never forget that. There was something very truthful about it. And like I said this was years before taking a Buddhist dharma class. I would always think 'how can I get back to that space, to that place in the peace, where true emotions flow and change begins to happen?'

If we could all be trained, if I could take it with me more, instill it with me more, spread that peace, that deep abiding pool of compassion, love, and openness.

Health care, Monsanto, Afghanistan, climate change, Tiger Woods. I'm tired of being outraged. It doesn't work. It's exhausting. It makes the whole world full of shouting, anger, violence, and unhappiness.

My parents watch MSNBC and I'm hearing the words 'should be outraged...' and my mind goes numb. I laugh weakly and nod as I eat dinner 'yeah, I'm outraged. Whatever it is, I'm appalled. You have my bile, my bitterness, my outrage. Add it to the stew.' Take it away from me, please. Take my outrage at others, add it to some bottomless pot and take it out into the middle of the Pacific Ocean and drop it. It would explode like some 1950s atomic bomb test. It would wipe out small islands, shake windows, send tsunami waves out for thousands of miles. And then vanish into thin air, shimmering waves of heat that would get absorbed. Or maybe my outrage would crash through the Pacific floor and strike the core of the earth. Opening up a hell mouth that would vomit up fire, forming a mountain of black marble. A stewing cauldron would be turned into a volcano bubbling up lava and ash. Creating new islands, new terra, new life from the cooling lava. Maybe that's how the world is created. From my ignorance. But ocean waves cool the lava, shape it, they outlast the heat. The great endless waves of compassion overwhelm the biggest volcano and turn all that hell into new earth. Paradise.

The Hip Hop Minstrel Show

2011-12-18T19:55:00.000-08:00

I was warned ahead of time of what I would see. I was sitting in my seat before the start of the show and my friend turned to me and said that the author likes to have White characters say 'hip hop' slang for laughs. I nodded and said 'yes, it's hip hop minstrel'ing. I've seen it before.' My friend's eyes flared up and he stared at me. "Oh my God! You're right.' It felt like I had revealed a whole new world or perspective to him.

The show started and, sure enough, the first 30 minutes were peppered with jokes derived from White cast members talking like Black rappers and thugs while swaggering around and wearing baggy clothes. Repeated peals of laughter exploded in the mostly White, older, upper-class audience as the jokes landed. Some of the jokes I laughed, some of the jokes I did not. Afterward my friend wanted to pick up with the conversation again and asked if I could go into more detail.

The key pleasure from minstrel shows was and is still about taking Black culture at its most grotesque and extreme and to reproduce for objectified laughter. Black culture at its most parodied involves violent slapstick, overly-sexualized stories, buffoonish criminality, and the malapropism of language. Those are the parameters of minstrel'ing to me and I think most would agree to those borders. No new revelations in that. What I don't understand is how come people can't connect our current culture's obsession to the past? America is the birthplace of minstrel shows and just because people aren't smearing shoe polish on their face doesn't mean we aren't still using the archetypes.

I don't mean to suggest that every time a non-Black character utters an hip hop slang or ebonics term for a laugh that it's a minstrel act. It would be a dreary world if the thought police didn't allow White characters to explore other cultures and vice versa through jokes, love, and conflict. But hip hop minstreling is the lazy, shorthand for 'otherness.' It is when a 'White character' seeks so-called freedom from the limitations of his or her tribe by adopting hip hop ebonics and clothing in a slapdash way that highlights animistic and degrading stereotypes. And it's done so for the purpose of laughter 'at' the other rather than 'with' them.

In hip hop minstrel'ing it's very important that the comedy feels like a finger-pointing to something ridiculous, savage, and denigrating. The audience then feels a certain superiority in laughing at the character who is highlighting the 'other.' But really the character is only serving as a display case for what we're really laughing at which is hip hop, urban youth, and Black life. Unable to do that directly because of social stigmas, hip hop minstrel'ing allows for the laughter of privilege 'at' the un-privileged other through the use of a White body. Since it would feel uncomfortable and self-conscious for a mostly privileged audience to be laughing directly at the shenanigans of 'darkies,' they dress one of their own up as a 'darkie' and mimic the dipping swagger, clownish clothing, and braggart slang revolving around violence and sexual satisfaction.

The story arc often works in two directions: either we begin with a seemingly 'uncool' character who is tutored into the minstrel act by a Black culture gatekeeper or the minstrel character starts off the story in full drag before 'discovering' his true roots and going back to being 'just a White guy.' In both scenarios there is usually a run-in with a Black character at some point who tests their 'minstrel skills' in a battle of slang, dance, or showmanship. Often the minstrel is put into a Black setting in which they must 'oohgaboo' and 'bugaboo' there way out of their difficult situation. When they succeed they are confirmed and validated by a Black character who welcomes them into the family. Or they fail and are destroyed. Either way the hip hop minstrel takes off the proverbial shoe polish at the end. He is wiser in his 'whiteness' and 'normalcy' for having temporarily experimented with the other.

The hip hop minstrel returns to the privilege status with an affectionate wink to the audience, as if to say 'what was I thinking?!?' We laugh and nod our heads, feeling confirmed and relieved. The reformed man may, in the future, don the ministrel act again when it suits him but it plays no part in his emotional life and development. The mask was just 'a curious phase' or a useful gadget in his Batman tool belt.

Hip hop minstrel is not limited to just non-Black characters. Upper-class and rich Black people may also indulge in 'the act' as a learning tool in their privilege. Often the character walks away with a new-found respect for 'them.'

It's not necessary for me to name countless shows, movies, skits in which hip hop minstrel'ing plays out. Besides, there is nothing gained in pointing an accusatory finger. But perhaps if we were more away of hip hop minstrel'ing we wouldn't allow it to succeed. We would demand more from our comedians, writers, and performers than poor mimicry and ape'ing. If that happened then the arts could actually explore our society in ways which enrich and expand our lives instead of calcifying of judgments of others. It would be a great day for hip hop and America if we asked for more.

Massinissa: Hannibal's friend and foe.

2011-12-11T21:06:00.000-08:00

I knew of the great Hannibal Barca, but had no idea who Massinissa was until tonight. I went to see "Massinissa" at the Poets Den Theatre in East Harlem and got to relive my love of Roman and Carthagian history. As a child I loved studying great civilizations from the Phoenicians to the Zulus, great societies are often marked by their spiritual and military contributions. The Carthagian were one of my favorite studies because of the Barca family. Hamilcar was the famous statesman and warrior. Much like Phillip of Macedonia being out shined (and probably assassinated) by his son Alexander the Great, Hamilcar has taken a backseat his son, Hannibal.

Alongside Genghis Khan and Alexander the Great, the Carthagian general stands as a man whose victories and defeats single-handedly changed the course of human history. If Hannibal would have gotten the necessary supplies and support, he could have defeated the burgeoning Roman Republic and shifted the growth of power back to Africa and the Phoenician's multicultural societies. Hannibal had a very skilled military brother, Hasdrubal who helped keep the reigns on Spain for most of the Second Punic War. What I didn't know is that he had tremendous help from a Numidian named Massinissa. And it was that shadowy figure who was responsible for turning the Second Punic War to the decisive advantage of the Romans.

Massinissa was a poor Numidian taken in by Hannibal and the prestigious military academy. He was trained and led an army at the age of 17 to defeat one of Rome's allies in Africa, the King of Syphax and his Algerian empire. Incredible to imagine a young, fatherless 17-year-old lieutenant going into battle against a feared and clever king. And winning. With a major Roman ally neutralized, Hannibal was then able to focus on his campaign into the Italian peninsula. When Hannibal was storming up and down 'the boot' it was Massinissa who kept Spain safe. And when the war began to turn, it was Massinissa who betrayed Hannibal and defected to the Romans. Thus Massinissa is a historical Brutus, Benedict Arnold, the archetype of serpentine friend.

Scipio Africanus gets the credit for the coup de grace blow to Carthage at the Battle of Zuma. But what is underreported is that riding at his side was Massinissa with his own viciously effective cavalry that played a decisive role in ending the Second Punic War. But the victor gets to write the story and Massinissa was once again pushed out of the picture. Nobleman Scipio Africanus performed the 'seemingly' miraculous accomplishment of beating Hannibal.

But there is a difference in this analysis. Massinissa was not Carthagian. He was considered lower-class and an outsider. Massinissa made clear that he had a desire to have his own kingdom and that would never happen with a Carthagian victory. He would continue to be considered the darker and more savage foreigner to the elitist Carthagian ruling class. In some ways, Massinissa becomes a sympathetic traitor who was rewarded and punished. Demanding a proof of loyalty, the Romans demanded Massinissa surrender over his new bride who was related to Syphax. Massinissa sent her poison and she killed herself rather than be dishonored. But once the sacrifice was made, the ambitious Numidian was rewarded with his own kingdom. For the rest of his life he carefully expanded his small kingdom by eating into Carthage land, always with the approval of the Romans who were seeking ways to reduce the power of their chief rival.

History doesn't look kindly on Massinissa. He's seen as duplicitous and seeking small gains as the expense of historical fortune. But it was not his history, nor his people. Take Wings and Soar's production of "Massinissa" sheds light on this unique and thrilling story.

Killing the Black Body

2011-12-07T06:47:00.001-08:00

Herschel Walker's brilliant bio-documentary ESPN's 30-for-30 series is a personal inspiration. He was fat asthmatic kid who was picked on by white kids and beaten up regularly in his town. I felt the same way growing up and struggled with my weight and asthma. Walker literally turned himself into a Superman through push-ups btw commercial breaks. It was hard not to cheer for him when you watch the old footage of him destroying defenders, walking over linebackers. But the superhero dynamic always has a flipside: they're loners, angry, and just as troubled. I think as a boys we like that dynamic of being a Superhero and w/o Black men rolemodels that is the only one to follow. Walker ended up suicidal and destroying his marriages and he admits he was so angry no one could be around him. The only thing which changed him was having a son and thinking 'I don't want this for him.'

I think as Black men in America we have historically over-identified with the body in all aspects. And this has typically resulted in some harmful causes 1) we underdevelop our emotions and meditation and prayer ability 2) we underdevelop our spiritual connections which is why churches aren't filled with six-pac ab brothers. They're filled with women, grandmothers, and kids 3) we overdevelop our sense of temporal physical things: money, body, and women which makes us unhappy, neurotic and paranoid of losing the things which always fade (check rap music's obsession with these things. the best rappers like Tupac, Biggie, Wayne, Jay-Z, Kanye West, Drake all constantly run back in forth between ballin' and how unhappy and paranoid they are) and 4) we compete for temporal status symbols which will never make us happy w/ underdeveloped emotions, spiritual connections and community understanding. This creates a violent lash effect against each other, since we see ourselves so heavily as 'bodied beings' instead of 'spiritual beings embodied."

when we were brought over in this country, that is exactly what was desired. A pure relation to the body and very strong disconnection to any intellectual or spiritual development. We were rewarded for working our body and punished for trying to learn how to read. Our spirituality was tolerated as long as it was corrupted enough with broken families, alcohol, and violent divisiveness to not get us anywhere. Our spirituality thus became a docile taming mechanism of the mind which forced black men to focus even more heavily on body-based development. You look at urban Asian kids working their family's biz or Jewish kids forced to go to Hebrew school (after normal school) and then Black kids hit the basketball court. Who's really winning in this scenario?

There's nothing wrong with working out and it does help the mind ( I love yoga and the gym). The trap is when worship falls over into vanity. Having lots of money enables us to help more ppl but that's now why we have a Fortune 500 list. We have that to worship money. Strong body helps w/ strong mind but I would say that's not why ppl want the Shake Weight or 6-pac abs.

I'm biased being Buddhist w/ middle way path. The body is very useful, but only as a vehicle to get somewhere. Once one gets to the proverbial other side of the river, you leave the canoe on the shore. Carrying it around saying 'look at how great this thing is, I put 20-inch spinning rims on my canoe' slows one down on the journey. So build a beautiful vehicle that is comfortable, easy to use, and gets you where you want to go in style. But then we all have to leave it on the shore. So how much time would I really invest in putting rims on my canoe if I knew that I was leaving it behind once my voyage was complete?

I'm not dismissing athletics. I was an all-state athlete in football and wrestling, got scholarship offers, etc. My parents also encouraged me to play violin, viola, and become a championship debater (did all of that). Now I enjoy yoga, west african dance, and Tibetan philosophy. Rhodes Scholars are ppl who excel both academically and athletically in line with the Ancient Greek concept of scholar being involved in healthy sports for the body and mind. But as Black men it feels heavily imbalanced. That's why there's ageism: b/c we overvalue the body. This isn't going to be corrected by having 60-year-old men look like 20-year-olds. Ageism is corrected at the roots of our obsessions at the risk of spiritual pursuits. Look at the page the article was written on and is there any question what is the cause of ageism? Obsession with body image leads to this fear and failure which is why Black culture in America has athletic Supermen AND rampant diabetes and obesity. It's a culture so body obsessed that we become polarized as we get later on in life. There is a stable, well-built, (6-pac ab) middle that can be achieved.

It's nice to have a flexible strong body, but it's still a body. It will fail 100% of the time. But we worship the very thing which will always let us down at the expense of developing the one thing which is eternal. Body, money, and power identification are the big lies. They never last and only increase suffering when they begin to fail. Invest in getting the mind of a 20-year-old: strong, flexible, creative, and free.

Psychic kinesis (PK)

2011-12-05T16:22:00.001-08:00

This book "Holographic Universe" is stunning. I'm halfway through it and author Michael Talbot along with many physicist confirm the higher-level of reality expressed in Buddhism and science.

The PrincetonInstitute which studies physic abnormalities and consciousness(P.E.A.R) catalogues all these things which don't fit according tostandard physics. The cases number in the thousands.

In one case scientist got in contact with verifiable hypnotists whocould hypnotize each other and sync up in their illusions. Thehypno-duo found themselves both on the same surreal beautiful beachwalking along. When the woman asked 'take my hand' the guy thenrealized that he hadn't made the illusion (or rik chi) of a hand yet.So he conjured one instantly. They reported that often when they werein this world they were just a face or disembodied self. The theory isthat this is as real as our 'usual life,' but that our minds our sotrained in conjuring up the body that we do so instantly andconstantly. Buddhist philosophy of mental images matches this perfectlyby saying there is only mental images layered on stop of stuff. If themental images are removed there isn't "necessarily" something there.

In another case I psychic was invited to a house party of scientists toperform tricks. He hypnotized a willing participant and told him thatwhen he awakes he will not see his daughter. Then his daughter wasplaced in front of him. When he awoke from his instructions he wassmiling as if everything was normal and couldn't see his daughterstanding a few inches in front of him. Literally he saw through her.The psychic then placed his watch behind the daughter's back and askedthe participant to read the inscription. The participant read theinscription effortless even though there was a so-called body in frontof him. Which lead to the belief that we don't see with our eyes. Howcould we if someone can -with moderate hypnosis- completely see througha person, unless the person standing there was a mental image. If themental image is ignored or wiped clean from the mind then there isn'tanything there and it's like staring at a watch that's being held inempty space, hence him reading the inscription without a problem.

A month ago I was meeting with an old-time TV writer about a project.He wasn't very into this sort of musing about psychics but he said hewas working on a show in the 1970s in NYC that was going to have afamous psychic on it. Before the meeting, he wanted to have the psychicguess a number in his pocket. So he wrote down his address and phonenumber, added everything up on a sheet of paper, folded the sheet andplaced it in his jacket pocket. So he goes to the meeting and forgetsabout the slip of paper in his jacket. By the way, he didn't tell hisproducers he was going to do this. As the meeting is closing, thepsychic casually says 'he has a number.' The producers look confused,'what?!?' The psychic looks over at the writer and repeats 'you have anumber that you want me to guess.' The TV writer nods and says 'that'sright.' So the psychic takes out a piece of paper and writes the numberdown which is the exact total of the writer's sheet. Either thispsychic is effortlessly able to sync up with other minds and/or he toohas eliminated certain dun chi in his mind related to objects and can-at will- dismiss the dun chi of a jacket or the dun chi of anothermind in front of him. What's interesting is that the TV writer didn'tprompt him and had also forgotten about the number, so it's not like itwas on his surface mind.

This suggests that if I eliminate or soften certain dun chi throughmeditation that it is possible to read minds, see through 'solidobjects' and see emptiness. And if one person can do it- and this booksuggests that millions can and do- then everyone can do it. It'sexhilarating and frightening to think of the real possibilities when weblend this quantum psychics info and documented testing with theancient wisdom of mental images (chi and jedrak) in Buddhism.

In another case scientists at Princeton's PEAR created a REG or randomevent generator which was a binary coin flipper of producing either a 1or 0. The motor for the REG was the most random thing in the world:radioactive decay compound that, depending on how it degenerating atany moment, would trigger a 1 or 0. The more times you flip a coin themore likely it ends up 50/50 so it should be about 50% 1's and 50% 0'sif you keep running a REG. And the results held that up. Then theyplaced a person in front of the REG and had them try to just direct themachine with consciousness to get a larger amount of 1's or 0's. Theyfound that every single person was effective in significantly shiftingthe REG through just focus. They call it psychokinesis or PK. Somepeople were better at PK than others and would get even bigger resultsin consciously making a shift. But everyone was able to shift the REG.In another REG they created a pinball device with metal balls thatwould flow down a obstacle course of pegs. Once again, each participantwas able to significantly shift the course of cascading pinballsthrough just awareness and focus.

It suggests that the steadier my mind is the easier I'm able to tapinto PK in order to sync up with a great job, partner, or just makingit to the train on time. We've all had streaks where we are just makingright on time to the subway or just a feeling of synching up with arandom machine or system (cell phones or train schedules). Converselywe've all felt out of sync of moments where we're jinx'ed with aparticular technology. So this PK suggests it's not only with otherminds but with so-called inanimate objects.

Very interesting stuff. This morning re-listened to Geshe Michael'syoutube clips about how to see emptiness (through analyzing mentalimages). It all eerily fits together.

Taking a Stand

2011-11-19T14:10:00.001-08:00

My Dad stopped eating. After years of strokes, partial paralysis, and physical loss he was making a stand. I prepared to go home and encourage him to give up the hunger strike. The suicide attempt was averted after a few days. He returned to eating, taking his pills, and being plugged into the hospital machine.

I still want to go home in the next day or two. I'll know if I can in the next day or two.

Penn State Piety and Americana

2011-11-10T16:52:00.001-08:00

This is not an objective, unbiased view. I'm biased. I'm Black and grew up in Miami during the 1980s. Like most of my friends, I was a Miami Hurricane football fan. And they were two schools that consistently shown as the anti-Hurricanes in piety, cleanliness, and Americana: Notre Dame and Penn State.

When Penn State upset the hot shot Hurricanes to win the national championship in 1987, it was seen as a victory for Constitution, flag pins, and whole milk. Reagan proudly welcomed the winning team into the White House and made sure to note the cultural purity of the Penn State players and the reason why America rallied behind them and against the loud, brash (and mostly poor and Black) Hurricane team lead by Jimmy Johnson. This wasn't just about sports. This was about culture and Republicans made sure to highlight the differences.

Miami Hurricanes were called 'trash, convicts, thugs, murderers' and scandal soon befell the school. The scandal was financial in nature as student athlete accepted bribes, cars, and loans from boosters. Very little pity or understanding was shown toward students who came from inner cities, worked diligently on the football field to make the NCAA millions of dollars, and had to worry about the Miami-Dade bus schedule to get around town. It did not matter that many students had children they had to feed, parents who depended upon them for financial support, and a variety of pressures that should not be on a teenager. What little leniency that might have been shown to the organization was crushed by Canes swagger: they liked to celebrate after plays, trash talk, and put on a show. This was deemed unfit behavior and the bribery only helped re-enforce the convict view of the Canes.
Sports Illustrated called for the Hurricane death penalty. It was too much scandal and rancor in the swamp to fix things. The Hurricanes were a lost cause and the adults in charge were just as bad as the athletes.

In contrast to Miami's coaches there was Joe Paterno. Jimmy Johnson was a trash-talking Southern hick trying to win games and Joe Paterno was a stern figure building men. Dennis Erickson was a corrupt alcoholic trying to grab as many rings as possible while Paterno was molding the future of America. Still the majority of rage was directed about the mostly Black teenager athletes, while the UM administrators and coaches got a pass in the media.

In light of the last decade of sexual scandal from Catholic-lead institutions and now Penn State I wonder if there will be any calls for the death penalty for Penn State? If poor students taking bribes is an un-Godly crime against the sanctity of the NCAA, then where on the continuum of crimes should we place a coach systematically raping boys in the locker room and an university covering it up for a decade?

And the way the story is being handled and the very fact that Sports Illustrated will not call for the death penalty for this highlights that sports is never about sports. Penn State vs. Miami was never about swagger vs. tradition. It was, is, and will continue to be about those uncomfortable things we never want to talk about in sports: race and class.

It is this very assumption of privilege afforded to Penn State that allowed its institution to believe they could actually cover these crimes committed against the voiceless. It is the exact mentality of a small select privileged group being above the law that allows a coach to set up a not-for-profit organization that funneled poor kids to him and to work out a deal with a university that worried more about its image than the underprivileged it claimed to be protecting.

When we don't talk about race and class in sports, we re-enforce old privileges and status. And while everyone was and is still bemoaning mostly poor Black teenagers wanting to have a nice car or go on a vacation, it is the wealthy adult coaches and administrators who often do far worst things.

There will be those who say that now is not the time to have this conversation. Now we should worry about the victims and the crimes committed. But that is exactly why we should be having this conversation now because this probably isn't personality-based, but systematic and socio-cultural.
Can there be any doubt that if the Second Mile were tended to privileged White kids instead of the poor, that these crimes would have come to light 10 years ago? And if the very nature in which we confront wrongdoing in sports either leads to its end or the silent allowance of its continuation, then lens through which we view sports scandal must be corrected. It can't be corrected by ignoring the hypocrisy or just scapegoating on a few bad people. This sports culture of privilege has to be changed by the media and by its leaders.

I have no doubt that a year from now LeBron James will still be hated by large portions of the country for an 'arrogant' one-hour TV special that, by the way, donated millions to the Boys and Girls Club for underprivileged children and teenagers. And after a few mea culpa interviews, a confessional book, and maybe a media relations salvage job, Joe Paterno will be returned to the Mt. Rushmore of Sports. Think about that for a second. LeBron James will be hated for the way in which he legally left a team as a free agent, but Paterno -who allowed boys to get raped in his locker room for years- will be forgiven.

Meanwhile, in other news, NCAA continues its crackdown on style of players celebrating thanks to the 'horrors' of Canes swagger. They relive the nightmares of uncouth players dancing in the end zone and holding up National Championship trophies. If only these same NCAA officials would have other nightmares of the underprivileged getting taking advantage of then maybe we could fix the lens through which we view our heroes and villains.

Strange, Supernatural, Wonderful Night

2011-11-09T21:26:00.001-08:00

I went to "John of God" documentary about the faith healer in Brazil tonight. I got in contact with him through one of John's guides, Steve. I asked about healing for my Dad and my spiritual path. Steve responded saying he too got interested in this b/c his Dad was sick. He mentioned coming to the screening and I agreed. We kept having this email 'me too' links while he's in Brazil.

I enter the luxurious apartment and lean down to register. My jade green Buddha necklace immediately becomes entangled in the event organizer's green shawl like it was magnetized to her (this does not normally happen ever). She says 'oh I'm a Bodhisattva too (Buddhist saint). Okay. Not that big of a deal about the green necklace and green shawl, but interesting.

Steve came in with bags of food and the documentary on DVD. He moved a bunch of stuff around the room and then lost the DVD. And he's repeating aloud "I lost the DVD." I found myself saying 'but I thought it was right here' and I turn around and find the DVD. It was hidden under a red folder. A bit strange since I was NOT paying attention to what he was doing and where the DVD. Yet it's like I just located it without thinking. Okay, this is getting interesting. Steve goes 'thank God you're psychic.' I laugh a little but take note of it.

Before movie the host has this pitcher of water and I started drinking it and feeling amazing but not in a peppy energy sports drink kind of way. Just felt this deep profound stillness and my whole body was filling up with this surreal energy. Turns out the water was blessed by John of God when he was here in New York. And I can't stop drinking this water. It feels amazing. Charged. Calming.

Well we watched the documentary and afterward there was this unusual connection between me and the speaker. I could feel myself interacting with him, as if my energy were calming him down. Someone suggested a group pic and I moseyed to the back of the pic and stood behind the speaker. They took a pic and we went about our business. Later someone looked at the pic on the camera and said 'LOOK! There's a orb of light right by your head." They zoomed in on the pic and sure enough, there is a white orb of light above my head and the speaker's head. Not a halo and not a lens refraction, but a round globe of light. Apparently that means we're linked in some way. Afterward Steve looks at me and repeats 'we must be linked in some way.' I nod and head out the door.

I'm heading out when the event organizer (who I got entangled with) compliments me on the jade Buddha. She notes green is in the heart chakra. I find myself effortlessly remembering several years ago when I woke up in the middle of the night and a green orb of light floated out of my chest, ascended to my eye level, levitated for a few seconds, and then shot out the window across town. Half hour later I'm trying to get back to sleep and the phone rings. My grandmother on the other side of town fell down about a half hour ago and she's been on the ground trying to get up but can't. The second the phone rang I knew 'it's grandma.'

Strange, supernatural and wonderful evening in the mystical East Village of New York.

Meals on Wheels

2011-10-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I volunteered for City Meals on Wheels. I arrived at the Actors Church on 49th Street at 8:30 am. Early, I walked to Food Emporium but came up empty on breakfast food options that didn't involve sausage or bacon glued on to sandwiches with cheese. I got by snacking on coconut water and a muffin. I went back and sat in the basement of the Church with only one other volunteer. The cold snap was keeping people away, or at least that's what the volunteer coordinator suspected as the reason for a low turn-out. Due to a lack of volunteers I would have my own cart and have to handle the entire route by myself.

City Meals on Wheels provides homebound people with food for the week. On the weekend, we usually deliver a hot meal, a frozen meal, and a cold pack of fruits/juices, milks. I grabbed my 3-tier cart and wheeled over to 11th avenue where all my drop-off points were listed.

The first building was over 20 floors of rusted iron and poverty. I didn't have to look inside to know this was public housing and low-income subsidized. Blacks and Latino overwhelmingly. I walked in and the doorman was screaming at residents stuck behind a jammed elevator door, "PUSH THE BUTTON." On his side, the doorman was trying to peel the door back with his chubby fingers. I guessed this exercise had been going on for more than a few minutes. The magnet that connects the inside elevator door with the floor-door had become de-magnetized. This meant that the lobby elevator barrier was open but the elevator door itself had not been triggered and magnetized to the opening. The elevator door was stuck with two residents inside.

HOLD ON. I'M GONNA CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT. The tone of doorman's words suggested this was a typical inconvenience of his job. I offered to help so I wedged my body in the tiny elevator crack that was opening up. The doorman yelled at the residents to keep pressing the button. I flexed and bent my knee by squatting, drawing upon the full-strength of my lower body to jack the door. Even though I was moving myself in between the wedge, the door's pistons were absorbing most of the push.

I went into meditation on this moment. I stopped trying to 'force myself' against a mechanical device that probably was built to withstand several thousand pounds of pressure. Then I let go, stood up and un-wedged myself. A second later the elevator door effortlessly popped open. The doorman thank'ed me profusely along with the formerly-trapped residents. I assured them that I didn't do anything. In fact, it was only when I stopped forcing it and acknowledged what I couldn't do that the door slid open.

The residents and I took to the other elevator while the doorman vowed to have the broken elevator shut down. I rode up to a linoleum lined floor that felt both sterile and depressing. I handed my 3 meals to a few of the listed residents and then left the building. I noticed the crowbar marks on the elevator doors on different floors that bore witness to an elevator, building, and people that were in a state of decay.

My last building was privately-owned glass tower. I could tell because it had well-dressed security, brightly lit hallways, and perfectly-tuned elevators that hummed reverentially when they zipped up and down the 30 floors. I began at the top floor and worked my way down.

The first apartment had J in it (I'll refrain from using people's names). The door was already open in expectation of the visit. J was an elderly man standing in the kitchen in a white bathrobe with the logo for Trump Towers threaded in gold on his chest. He looked confused and tired. I asked him how he was doing and he admitted in a deep, hoarse voice "not too well." He described the pains of his body and his doctor visits. The inability to sleep, the inconvenience, the dizziness, trouble walking, ease at falling, the lack of appetite. I placed the hot, frozen, and cold packs on his pristinely unused stove top as I nodded along in commiseration. My view was that he could try acupuncture and J brightened up at the word. Acupuncture had really helped him. J enjoyed it, the treatments made him feel better, but his insurance didn't cover it. But sometimes paying out of pocket is worth it, if it saves your life or improves the quality of the one you're living. He nodded along as he continued to look down at the kitchen floor in anguished contemplation.

J invited further into the kitchen to read a number magnetized to the refrigerator door. I stepped in further and noticed a brown bakery box with a half-eaten cherry pie. Many senior citizens lose their appetite and only snack, but then keep pies and cookies around as their only sustenance when they want something. This causes the body havoc. I suggested that him picking at a cherry pie for two days isn't the best way to treat his ailments. He nodded but said that he was told cherries were good for him. Yes, but you're eating a pie I reminded him. You can just go buy some cherries or get a healthier alternative than stewed and sweetened cherries under a thick buttery pie crust. He told me to take it then and give it to others. I sliced the pie up into nice slices and he gave me a paper plate.

Down the hall, a note was left on the door to leave the food on the kitchen counter. I walked in and and saw a man laying on the couch looking at TV. After leaving the meals for him and I quietly closed the door and headed to the lower floors.

On another floor I met "F," a female painter in an apartment overflowing with art. We spoke for a bit about life and art. She too noted the inconvenience of a new pains she was experiencing in her body. I found myself crying by the end of our discussion. I wished her well and went down to a lower floor.

At the next apartment, E opened the door and smiled. E is a small, petite woman with doll eyes. I placed the meals on another pristine stove top and she smiled and began whispering to me about her legs. She fell and broke her leg. It's taken her 6 month to heal. E said her daughter was stopping by in a while. That reminded me of J, who said his son was supposed to stop by later. Many of these residents seemed to live in a state of waiting for their children to arrive. E. told me how she met her husband who had a identical twin. The two brothers were tall, lean, blond Gods. Women adored them and chased after them. She often mistook one brother for the other, who looked exactly alike except for a slight dental difference in teeth gaps, which was totally unnoticeable unless both were smiling brightly. E. couldn't tell the difference between the brothers until she fell in love. By then she could distinguish the two by how her heartbeat in her chest for her boyfriend and not for the other. They married but her husband passed away after 9 years. E noted that she's been a widow for over 50 years. She is a survivor and has had the morose misfortune of burying her siblings and parents. Now she's stuck here alone in this high-rise condo against her wishes. Her sister passed away a few years ago in bed. E said she went to go shake her sister and felt the draining warmth of the recently expired.

I cried all the way down the tower. All these different residents living by themselves in their old age. All of them with severe pains and aches, disappointment, and the disease no one wants to talk about: loneliness. The incredible loneliness. None of them lacked food, clothing, shelter. But all had a sadness in their eyes, at the corner of their smiles.

I exited the glass tower with a half-eaten cherry pie and an empty cart. I walked down the street looking for someone to give the pie to but, alas, there wasn't anyone out on this cold New York afternoon.

US Student Loan Debt Hits $1 Trillion

2011-10-19T16:13:00.000-07:00

We're entering new territory. US student loan debt has hit the $1 trillion mark along with record defaults. I have many friends who are buried in debt working multiple menial jobs they don't like in order to stay current with loan payments. I know many others who have just quit the game all together. I wonder what I can do? The number 1 trillion seems so beyond comprehension. No one ever brought up student debt when the number was at $100 billion or even $500 billion. Now in a quick blurb on a website the New York Federal Reserve casually notes that an entire generation is living under $1 trillion in fees and expenses. How are they going to afford homes?

I remember how much going to college was stressed to us as children. College, college, college. One day while in high school I floated the idea of not going to college to a few of my friends. You would've thought I was suggesting torturing kittens. The look of horror on their faces was astonishing. YOU HAVE TO GO TO COLLEGE!!! I was shouted down. The fanatic reaction made me laugh and, me being a contrarian back then (which is a fancy word for a smart-ass jerkwad instigator), I pushed it a little further. What if I didn't go to college? What would happen? Would I be struck down by lightning? What was so vital about college? What was gleaned from college that was so fundamental to adulthood? I could see the malfunctioning computer freeze seize their faces. They were beyond speech. Silence. One of them sent me a note the next day saying she went home and cried at the thought of me not going to college. I wondered if my parents of Bank of America were paying her to say that.

I made a high school mental note: people are really serious about college. I have to believe this seriousness, this rigidity didn't come from them. It was handed to them by their parents and the institutions that cater to middle-class families. Somewhere along the way, going to college became a must-have for middle America. Something felt wrong. The reaction of my friends was unnaturally harsh, like they had been programmed.

Granted, I always thought I would go to college. But I was also aware that there were other routes to life. I had the grades, I'm good at solving problems, I can speak in front of people. There are millions of jobs out there for simple, fairly intelligent men and women capable of solving problems and keeping order: they're called managers. Store managers, restaurant managers, stage managers, office managers, it doesn't matter the setting. A manager is just someone who deals with people, fills out paper, handles problems, keeps order. A very necessary function to any business or organization, but not rocket science. You don't need a college degree to be a manager. Or to be an artist, humanitarian, computer programmer. You don't even need a college degree to go into business. In fact college is a luxury for most professions and lifestyles.The only job that seems to make college education a must is teaching in college. A hundred years ago, college was reserved for those looking to further their interest in a philosophy, study religion, or teach.

I think somewhere along the way, banks got together with major universities and saw a goldmine. You have all these kids who don't know what to do after high school. Most just get a job or go into the army, or take a class or two at the local college. If we can get millions of middle class sons and daughters to buy into 4-year university experience as a must, then we're talking about a seismic shift in lifestyle and financing. Along with owning a suburban house, car, and taking summer vacations, college became the post WW II item that parents wanted in their lives. Why? Because the next-door neighbor's kid is going to college. Doesn't matter if the kids wants to or not, they're going to college because that's the kind of parents they wanted to be. Hence, the baby boomers we're pitched college as a status sign of upward mobility. Then these baby boomers had kids and became the first generation of college-educated, middlebrow workers.

My sister's generation, Generation X, was the second generation of college-educated masses. I am the third. I notice the difference between her education and mine. Her education didn't have many frills. You went to the computer lab to write your paper. A pizza party was considered high-class college life. I remember moving her out of her dorm after graduating. We could fit everything in the back of a mid-sized van. A few years later I went to college and people were backing up U-Haul trucks to the dorm entrance. You needed a computer. And a cell phone. You just did. Additionally there was all sorts of university-sponsored items and university-stamped accessories to buy. And then there's tuition. The four years in between her education and mine had a startling jump in tuition from most major schools. The average of the top 50 schools went from being $20,000 (still way too much) to being $30,000. That's a $10,000 inflation in 4 years that has not been matched by wages. Now I hear it's at $40,000.

My time in college was great. I went to a top ten university, traveled, had amazing teachers, became an artist. But if I'm really honest the $30,000 was a status symbol. Did my education (mostly writing classes where would sit around table with paper cost $30,000? No. Could I have traveled, taken a few classes at a local college, and become an artist the old-fashioned way? Yes!

Halfway through my freshman year in college my friends taped me going on diatribe in my dorm room. It's been more than ten years but I remember I was ranting about feeling cheated. The food was nice, the friends were nice, the campus was nice. Northwestern is a really nice school. But something fundamental was missing and I suspected it was missing from all of the best schools.

In the past the liberal college education was based on making better men and women. You would study ethics, law, art, history. Getting a job was not the goal. The goal was enlightenment. But now that we were paying so much money the soul of college education felt dead. Our parents wanted us locked-in to a career. No question. Okay if you want to go to graduate school but it all felt like a huge wind-up for sitting at a desk.

The world order played like a con game. Just like back in high school with my friend insisting that we all MUST go to college. Now we were in college and we were being told we MUST get a job that fits our status. And me being a contrarian, I don't take to being told by society what I must do. I don't like feeling Adam Smith's invisible hand up my ass prodding me into the marketplace of trading dreams and goals for more nice stuff. In the middle of my rant I remember stopping. It felt like I was having a revelation. That's it. First it's must-do college. Then must-do white collar job. Then must-do marriage, kids, home, mortgage, debt, debt, debt! The whole game was rigged. It had nothing to do with improving my soul or educating my mind. It was about getting the cog plugged into the machine, working it until it broke, and then replacing it with a newer cog. The entire system is a game. At the time I was 18 and had been at the top of the class my entire life. But NOW I was really learning.

After my freshman year I went through a funk. I was no longer interested in nice things. I was a radical asshole, capable of telling you everything that's wrong with enjoying your sweatshop-bought shirt, your factory-processed food, your artificially-induced bourgeoisie emotions of romance. It took me another year to move through that anti-everything phase. By the time I graduated I felt more balanced. I realized most of my friends were going off to work jobs they would not enjoy to afford a lifestyle that left them feeling more comfortable than inspired. I accepted that marriages would be made, homes would be bought, and debt would pile up. I learned to be okay with desiring success and wealth, without getting stuck in the game. Along the way, I lost money, made a lot of money, paid off most of my debt, went to grad school, and refused dozens of desk jobs.

I am 32 and I know that I can not handle settling. I would crawl out of skin if I settled into a job, relationship, comfortable view of the world. This had made for some tumult and uncertainty. Unlike most of my college friends I don't know how much money I'm earning every month. I'm a writer, producer, and artists. Some days it's great and some days it's horrendous. But I am still here. And I would never trade in this flowing, rich life for consistent crumbs.

My generation's anger over our debt is that we traded not only our money but our hopes. And we ended losing both. The lost dreams of my generation dwarfs the $1 trillion owed. The money is merely another sign that the game is not working on a financial level as well as spiritual. We have to find a better way.

Two Motivations That Run The World

2011-10-18T13:10:00.000-07:00

An artist friend asked me this morning about how does one develop motivation? I thought about it and this began a long discussion. There are two motivations which run the world.

"Doing" and "Being."

1)Doing: motivation TO DO comes from the ego thinking about all the nicethings it'll receive from acting in the world. A person's identity is mistakenly qualified by what is being done. The 'doing motivation' is never satisfied. Not because it is evil or wrong, but simply because it is based on a mirage. The thing being done is not real, the goal is not real, nothing is really there. We know this because every time a goal is reached the mirage evaporates.

The nomadic ego never arrives at its destination but keeps marching on to the next mirage. There is no home for it. Not surprisingly people driven by 'doing motivation' often work themselves to death or are forced to quit at a certain time in life when their bodies and minds can no longer 'do.'

My grandfather did just that. He died in his sleep from a massive heart attack. He never had a day off at the end of his life because his mind couldn't take it. My father is a doer. He's been crippled by massive strokes. He has lived the past several years depressed at his limitations because he can't do what he used to in the past-tense of him. He has lost his identity of what he thought he was supposed to be doing. And in this system of motivation, a 'non-doer' is a non-person. A social zero with no status or purpose. Despite our love and affection, he insists on remaining a zero. This willful, child-like stubbornness is one of the last stands of the ego. It punishes itself and refuses spiritual sustenance such as grace and love. Rather than changing its view, the ego locks down even harder on its view, causing itself suffering. It has let itself down and inflicts judgment and wrath internally and externally. Ironically this judgment is often mistaken for God's will of fate. Willful and wrathful people project their own disdain out into the world. Often this fear is masked in religion or science.

At the end the ego brings the human back to square one: what to do now? The final 'do' for the human is death or rather it is something done to it.

Doing motivation is tautological because it is the echo chamber for human existence. This person is never satisfied because they are moved primarily by fear. And if fear is the underlying engine of motivation then a person must do because they will always finds something to fear, envy, admire, or fight. The cycle is endless when you are a 'human doing.'

2) BEING:motivation TO BE comesfrom grace and joining w/ holy spirit. 'Being motivation' is above the world's roiling and fighting while moving through it. There are plenty of 'Be-motivators' in business, politics, and the arts. Many are famous, but most are not. The 'being motivation' rests in the soul, and not in the eternal sense. Soul in the 'Buddha mind' sense or the emptiness joined in all phenomena. There is an emptiness to the mind and there rests a pure soul. It is present in every moment but difficult to wake up.

The soul has a home. It is in the spirit. This spirit can be called Krishna, Christ, Buddha-mind. In Buddhism they describe the moment of a pure mind touching on emptiness as pouring water into water. Quantum physicist would refer to this force as the zero-point. Out of the zero-point field the universe arises. Native Americans might refer to it as Supreme Mother. Those daring enough might even say God.

Be-motivation requires a quiet, steady mind. The ego will try to trick this mind and create panic. Nothing is being done, the world is moving past us. We are losing! It's never clear just what is being lost in being quiet but the ego is effective at creating unrest and riot because it can't thrive with a quiet mind. A quiet mind finds stillness. And in stillness is grace and 'being.' Being what? Being here. Present-tense, simple, and clear.

Being motivation can lead to being a singer, mother, or anangel. This comes from the soul which moves toward love. The ultimate love is one which includes everyone. A 'being motivated' human can enjoy interaction with the world but doesn't compete with it. Competition is impossible because the world is an illusion. Einstein and James Clark Maxwell said so and they're considered the co-founders of quantum physics. Buddhists have been saying so for a few thousand years.

A human who is being is one who is in love with the world. They are in love because they are present. Here and now.

BEING VS. DOING RESULTS
There is no past-tense or future tense in being. Only here and now. In 'doing motivation' there is only past-tense and future-tense. The present is a constant state of anxiety at what is to be 'done.' There is no joy in human doing, only expectation. Conversely, human beings are frequently very funny, pleasant and alive. These human beings are often called spiritual but that implies that others are not. They are no more spiritual than anybody else, but they're just awake to now.

You can eitherbe motivated by fear and the ego, or motivated by love and your soul.But you can't do both.

Beinghere is the highest type of 'human being' because in 'here' there isGod. God is only here. As I write this very sentence, God is here. Godisn't in past tragedies, future plans, or the holographic holocausts ofimages presented in the news. As Gary Renard wrote in his miraculous book The Disappearanceof the Universe "God is."

Those are the two magic words at all time: God is

Underground Notes: Mad Scientists

2011-10-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

I'm seeking to track my time underground in the New York subways in verse for a running series of poems. It's an experiment foisted upon me by the lack of time, multiple deadlines, and an agreement to create/perform new spoken word.

Chapter 1: Mad Scientists

And in walks the mad scientists,

swirling incense, clicking charms and selling potions

Shouting like a Carolina Baptists,

dancing like a Blue Grass Pentecostal

begging like a saint,

eyes scouring and scanning 

for recognition, awareness. Looking for a face.

There are mad scientists underneath the city.

Cackling wild voices in echoing lairs

fall out bunkers, and hieroglyphic caves.

Mad scientists who blink their fingers

flickering lips and spittle drips from their

bursting ruby eyes,

glowing like demons.

Half-naked and shit-stained mad scientists

testing new drugs, liquids, and emotions

on the general passenger.

You see underground has the perfect test subjects

Endless variations. Nigerians dark as ebony

in white desert robes, Hasiddics fingering their curls

while reading prayers, Mongolian merchants shuffling off Canal

Korean students shoving fliers written in three languages asking 'Are you saved?'

Tattoo pierced Cross-dressed transgendered queers

and uncrossed un-pierced money-gendered Wall Streeters

shove for shoulder space inside snaking streets that never see sun.

The underground is lit by chemical torches, blinking machine red warnings, train lights, and trash fires .

And in walks the mad scientists. They must be planted at the beginning and end of each line

because they always seem to be there

waiting for me. They must know I have a busy schedule

and don't have time for the set-up. How thoughtful of them.

I'm a New Yorker, so if you're going to act

bat-shit insane I'd prefer we skip the formalities, introductions and get to the main event

Bring the Ruckus.

You have 7 subways stops to hold my attention,

scare me, thrill me, entertain me.

Afterward I will never see you again.

At Union Square, I walked into a private bedroom.

Quartered off with boxes, bags, and drapery.

He lay slumped over wrapped in loose loose

falling down loose pantaloons, half-naked.

Thin alabaster reed with a bouquet of  popping out of chest

wearing a crown of greasy string cheese. A white blindfold.

The man stood up, hands readjusting his pants in a striptease peek-a-boo

'now you see it, but you pray you won't.'

And then the zonked, blindfolded, half-naked passenger

began doing tai chi. On a moving subway from 14th St.

until the time I got at 57th St.

Naturally it wasn't a full set.

It was obscene, absurd, maybe even a bit erotic

but an experiment nonetheless. 

And in walk the mad scientists

pissing in a beer bottle

while mothers hold their children's heads

and run like they've seen a werewolf.

And in walk the mad scientists

singing a whiskey-voiced collection

of Christmas tunes...

in July, wishing everyone happy holidays

and doffing his Santa hat.

I gave him some change and he sang all the way

over the bridge.

And in walked...me

42nd Street, beginning of November

rainy night. Cold, lonely, Sunday.

My eyes pre-scanned cars as they rolled to a stop

The green wool scarf twisted 'round my neck

A bell rang and doors opened. 

A scramble for the dayglo lemon and tangerine colored seats

I didn't even look before sitting but we all know that terrible feeling

when we don't look and find ourselves sitting next to crazy.

The mad scientists was sprawled out between 3 seats plus the two window seats.

Muttering, snapping, snarling.

We flip open our hand-held device and have a stare-off with the screen

Muttering, snapping, snarling

We hold our phone tighter. Death grips around the LCD.

His eyes scan our faces. One looks up. He goes in.

Mad scientists muttering, snapping, snarling, standing.

Staggering up in the rocking cabin.

Gnarled and nappy he leans into a screen,

"WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"

Female PYT leaps up and walks down aisle, never

parting from her screensaver mask, peering religiously

down at her phone.

Mad scientists follows and I look around.

No one is doing anything!

A sick feeling begins sloshing around my stomach,

duty, responsibility, some kind of subway chivalry. DAMN!

I wait, maybe someone will DO SOMETHING.

Muttering, snapping, snarling he pursues her down the aisle.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN he shouts.

Sickened, the feeling comes over me: that dream-like, time-stilled

murderous adrenaline floods up from my stomach and leaks out of skin.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN!!?

I stand slowly, trying to control this sickness filling my head.

Taking deep sigh, I close the gap between us in a second.

My hands become hooks. I snag his jacket and yank the shit out of it.

The cabin floor jumps and mad scientist flies through the air.

So light, so effortless. My hook throws him like soup can.

In mid-air he's not yet conscious of what is going on. 

That he is flying.

I could smash him against the metal pole or fly him into the ceiling.

Instead, I bring him in for a soft landing. Both hooks guiding him to the floor.

He's stunned. I'm stunned. The passengers look up from their screens.

What does it mean, he asks softly.

He's a little boy again.

Putting on my best 'Daddy voice' I assure him just like my Dad would

that the most pressing issue is that he needs to shut the fuck up!

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!?

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

WHAT DOES IT MEAN?!?

YOU NEED TO SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I don't feel very Buddhist right now.

The young female runs out of the car when the doors open.

Suddenly embarrassed, I run too!

A hand taps me on the shoulder and a voice says 'good job!'

What does it mean? 

I need a retreat right now

I need a monastery, a refuge, a prayer.

I say a prayer, more hands tap my shoulder ascending stairs

'good job!'

No, not a good job. Very, very bad job. Stop congratulating my rage.

Adrenaline drains from me and consciousness returns.

All my awkwardness

returns twice as strong.  

I run out into the night air.

I could have smashed his skull in. But I didn't I keep reminding myself.

I could have crushed his chest underneath my feet.

But I didn't. 

But I thought it.

But I didn't.

But what about next time?

Be more prepared for the experiment.

Be more aware of the mad scientists.

Karma Kilowatts

2011-10-06T14:16:00.000-07:00

I have returned to New York to find many of my artists friends with various ailments, neurosis, and fears. Yet, i feel more free than ever. Wisely, I keep this to myself as no one wants to hear about spiritual enlightenment in the midst of their mental breakdown. If only we call all see that the enlightenment and mental breakdown are of one in the same. They are made from the same stuff and have the same potential.

So we're living in New York as young, successful artists. We have our degrees, awards, fellowships, grants, commissions, prizes, medallions, plaques, and Boy Scout badges all in order. We have our therapists, dog walkers, cat sitters, and nannies all aligned in our astrology charts streaming from our iPhone 4S. There is nothing better, we are living at the peak condition in this form. And yet this is not good enough. It will never be good enough. Panic, fear, and doubt return. These feelings can't be destroyed by they can be diverted into more running, more moving, pushing, shoving, dying. 

The question isn't the world or what is to be donein it, b/c this is all an illusion. It's the way and with whatintention I interact with the illusion. If I interact in a way likesomething is out there that has to be won, fought, overcome, run down,then the energy I'm expending is for something that isn't really there.If I recognize it's not really there then I move differently. I dancewith a shadow then I'm not trying to 'get anything from the shadow'because I can't. It's not real. But I will then pay more attention tothe way I move and why. 

If Plato, Buddha, Jesus, Einstein, and Lao Tzu were right, then theworld is just a shadowy illusion. There is no boyfriend from his ownside to win or fight, there is nothing to be run from or toward. I amplaying with the illusions created by my consciousness. It takes someof the 'seriousness' out of my attitude and accomplishments as well asfailures. it even takes the seriousness out of my religious practice,my vegetarianism, my so-called altruistic side. Now I'm beginning tounderstand why the Dalai Lama laughs so much.

 I was thinking about that last night walking down the street, takingmy fancy herbs, and holistic juice drinks, and vegan this and in myhead I started having a running, joking conversation with my NYC artistfriends...'yeah, I'm collaborating with Yo Yo Ma on a lil thing...''cool, well I'm just polishing off a tiny musical or Sondheim,' 'rad, Ijust finished editing a book for Anne Wintour...a lil chat book' And Ibecame aware that I have artistic friends in several different parts ofthe country. But NYC is the only place where my friends are all doingmultitasking on top of multitasking. 

I came back into this city to chill and have been handed a bookrevision and editing job, writing script bible for webisode series,show about blues musician, meeting with a TV producer/writer about hissitcom, doing consultation for new studio opening in Harlem.

I've beenhere two weeks!!!  And I'm really not trying or pursuing these things.This is stuff people come up to me and ask me to work on. It feelslike NYC magnetizes me and us, projects seem to come and stick to our skin.This is my illusion. I'm grateful for it but I know it's just a shiftin consciousness. There is no need to struggle with it. Btw I oweproducers 3 script revisions for 3 different plays ppl want to produce.This would have freaked me out years ago. Now I laugh. It'll get donewhen I feel like it, when the energy moves.

Karma popped into my thoughts. Not the mystical thing, but just theunit of energy, the wattage, the literal physics definition of a karma:a unit of energy arising out of a past action. How many kilowatts ofkarma does it take to live and be in this city as oppose to others. Andmy mind began making mysterious calculations like ' 1 week of good NYCliving burns as much karma as living well on Miami Beach for 3 weeks. 1week of NYC burns as much karma as 3 months in Iowa.'  

And maybe that's why I see the illusion of so many of my high-flyingNYCers with ailments, weird knee injuries, pains, psychic pains, andother stuff that a general population in their 20s and 30s should nothave. The kilowattage is extreme and it's so b/c I believe there issomething to do. Out there. 

But then it is possible to live like a monk in the midst of Manhattan,to keep that -as Melville wrote- 'solitary Tahiti' in us safe. It's ahigher form of awareness people have been coming up to me and tellingme, teaching me. It is quite amazing. Every time I feel the prod ofbuying into that old illusion, the pride of new things, the agitationof constant comparison to other artists, I get a little message: it'snot real. How can I feel the pressure to achieve or the fear offailure? These things are nothing.

I am learning to give up on nothing in order to gain everything. And asa result I get to play with the illusions of this prosperity.But I don't buy into it. It's a dance of shadow.

Red Velvet Pancakes recipe

2011-10-04T10:20:00.001-07:00

From Food Republic

Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda

1/4 teaspoon salt

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder

1 egg

3/4 cup buttermilk

1/4 cup sour cream

1 tablespoon red food coloring

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

3 tablespoons butter, melted

Directions:

Whisk flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, sugar and cocoa powder in a large bowl.
In another large bowl, beat egg with buttermilk, sour cream, food coloring and vanilla extract until smooth.
Slowly whisk in the flour mixture, adding melted butter in gradually as well, until all lumps are out.
Heat a large nonstick pan over medium heat, then drop in batter 1/4 cup at a time to form pancakes.
Flip when bottoms are set and bubbles are forming on top and cook until firm and fluffy all the way through.
Serve warm with cream cheese or syrup.

Art with Spirit

2011-09-06T09:03:00.000-07:00

Art without spirit is circus: mirrors, contortionists, firecrackers, clowns, and lots of elephant shit. This thought occurred to me as I dived back into the writing and post-Labor Day projects.

The impending push of projects are starting to pop up. On facebook and emails, phone calls, and the repeated question 'when are you coming back?' I love projects, people, and New York. But I also fear backsliding into a spiritless fall season, consumed by 'getting stuff done.' I've been going to the beach and even there, they can reach me. The cell phone buzzes and wails in my little orange mandala bag. I think this through: I could shut off the phone. And yet I can't will myself. The curious devil in me wins out by playing the 'what if' game. What if it's a big producer, what if it's your mom needing help, what if what if what if. Like most Americans, I simply do not shut off my phone. It is a tether into the universe now equipped with email, text messaging, twitter, and facebook status updates.

Wearing the armor of renuciation, I'll begin to get back into the flow of New York City and my wonderful friends. With the right state of mind, these projects can shift and become teaching experiences for me.

The acrobats walk the tight-rope with the glee of challenging death for no reason other than to feel alive. And the crowd watches with a gleam in their eyes, thinking of tragedy. But with if the acrobat could fly? There would be no need for a tight rope, sweaty concentration, precise perfected steps with death on both sides. There would only be wonder and freedom.

Quantum Physics and Buddhism

2011-08-28T09:53:00.000-07:00

Before going into retreat I began studying a quantum physic tool of consciousness called Matrix Energetics. I found it very inspiring and easy (just make measurements and collapse waves of information, while noticing). Before retreat I tried it out on my friend who found out she had a cyst in her eye. Several cysts, in fact. I called her from Miami and asked which eye and we played with some 'two-point' work. We then collapsed the waves of consciousness, stepped back, don't place judgment, and let go. I asked her a week later how she felt and she said the cysts were gone. Okay, I thought, maybe this is a new tool kit in my spirituality. Then I went to my friend who just badly broke her ankle. Once again. We noticed, collapsed and stepped back. She said her ankle felt shifted. By the way, I wasn't in the room. Both situations we talked over the phone, got a visual, drew it up, and played with it. For the ankle I was, in fact, laying on Haulover Beach with the Matrix Energetics book on my blanket and collapsing measurement over the phone. After all, it's quantum physics and time and space are 100% malleable. Perfect for Buddhist, where all is empty.

Well while in retreat I fell down the stairs. Badly. Really badly. I was laying on the ground and it's a silent retreat so it's not like I can scream or even call for help. Searing pain stifled into deep gasps. I drew up the matrix energetics and created portal back to when I first woke up. Then I kept stepping through to that time when my back wasn't screaming. I managed to get up. Felt a bit better. Kept stepping through that door, making 2-pt measurements on my back, collapsing measurement. Things shifted, an hour later I was back on meditation cushion for another 3-hr session. Meditating for 12-16 hrs a day and things just flew. True, I had an enormous lump on my back, but it didn't hurt. It was just fluid. This sounds crazy but falling down stairs was one of the best things that ever happened to me. My meditations became intense, focused, my purpose clarified, and things just flowed. Everything shifted. I also played with my Dad who had a lot of blood clots in his legs that caused him pain. I played with it, drew up some holograms, and sat back. When I got back to Miami my mom said 'what bloodclots? Doctor says he doesn't have any blood clots.' I asked my Dad and he looked at me confused, no, not hurting.

After retreat I taught some meditation and dharma at Aqua Nicaragua, resort my friend works at, and toured around the country for a few weeks. Another matrix energetics thing was that were in the jungle. Constant insects and animals. Everyone getting bit, stung. Nothing is happening to me. Well, the insects would fly on me and I would politely remove them or wag my finger like at a mischevious child. One day a guy asked me as he swatted away mosquitoes and batting a pesky wasp, 'how come you're not getting stung?' I shrugged. I have no idea. Glorious thing about Buddhism and this quantum physics stuff is that both state explicitly: you don't have to know how it work for it to work. I have no idea why people are getting stung, putting on repellant, and I'm just sitting there. Ironically, you know when I did start getting annoyed at mosquitoes? The few times I put on insect repellant offered at the resort. You can guess what I did? Stopped putting on insect repellant and then returned to the state of being unharmed.

We then went to the Poconos for some fire purification and closing ceremonies. My asthma would kick up again at night. Pollen, hot summer, dust in cabin. I two-pointed my chest and fell asleep. Next night, my chest was a little bit looser. Still I two-pointed it and dropped off to sleep. By the end I wouldn't even have to physically two-point. I would just draw it up in my mind and fall asleep. I'm beginning to think that this 'healing stuff' and shammanistic stuff and Buddhist stuff and Quantum physics stuff is all related. If we're all just patterns of light and information, then things can shift by measurements and creatvity. Of course, the karma is needed to shift but karma is also just patterns of light and information. If the karma is there, then the world is amenable to suggestions. Note, not my control. But things can be amenable to commands and suggestions, followed by getting out of the way and letting it go.

And just a few weeks before all of this started I was laying on Haulover Beach and asking open ended questions aloud (they say if you ask aloud open ended questions, answers will begin appearing). Suddenly, it was Nicaragua, teaching, meditation, Poconos, purification, matrix energetics. Like a tidal wave of answers to one question I asked aloud and let go of like a balloon.

Now I ask the question: what next? What next can I do to help, expand knowledge, and teach? Of course, I also say thank you. Enormous thanks for what was given. My Dad appears to have been stricken by several strokes over the last few years. I begin asking open ended questions: what if it were different? Hell, what if it wasn't even a stroke? What if this was some great big cosmic joke and what he really had was something entirely different. Just 'what if.' Not saying he can be 'cured' or that I will do it, or that praying will do it. But what if things aren't what they seem? After all a stroke is just an electrical disturbance of the mind caused by blockage. So what if things were to unblock? What if the electrical disturbance shifted? I take the measurement and let go.

I came out of the Poconos and had a 1 1/2 day stopover in NYC. Coincidentally it was the one day of the so-called earthquake. I taught mandala creation in the morning and went to lunch in midtown while the shockwaves were flowing. I didn't feel a thing. And then I left. Now I'm back in Miami for a few weeks and see a Hurricane about to hit NYC. Very surreal.

When I arrived back I went to my spot on Haulover Beach, which has become this free, tranquil spot. I laid there and asked what's next. I waited for my signals and then got in the water. I feltt the enormous charge of the ocean. I walked through the water. Little fishes began darting through my legs, following me as I walked through the crystal clear. This is different I thought. I kept walking and meditating. Things were bumping against me. Soon I realize, they are jellyfish. No stinging, no pain, just bumping against me. Well, this is very different. Still I politely move away from jellyfish (don't want to be a daredevil about this). No one is in the water. Just me. Then a guy comes up and screams 'don't move!' He takes out a camera and begins filming. There's a manatee swimming alongside me. And I'm very near the shore. Now this is just surreally different, crazy! Fishes, jellyfish, and manatees. Oh my! I get out and see the purple flag. I go to the lifeguard station and see that the purple flag means 'dangerous wildlife in water.' Ohhh, so that's why I was the only one swimming.

This sounds crazy but these and many more experiences have been happening. Like kind, halo energy that attracts nice beings and protects. I am swimming in an ocean of jellyfish! A week later there's a guy next to me in ocean. He puts on his goggles. I warn him 'watch out for that jellyfish' and he dives in. Five second later he's badly stung and jumps up. He looks over at me with the question in his eyes: why aren't they stinging you? I shrug: I have no idea!

Drunken Hurricane

2011-08-27T12:59:00.001-07:00

New York City is supposed to get grazed or splattered by the remnants of Hurricane Irene. The biggest threat is flooding, although there is a slight chance Irene will still have Hurricane-force winds. I grew up in Hurricanes. I still remember going sneaker shopping in the midst of Hurricane Floyd because my Dad thought the stores would be empty. Hurricane Andrew was terrifying but our home was spared.

Now this spinning drunken storm is set to bump up against the East Coast. I find it hard to fathom massive destruction or even epic inconvenience. Storms heading north diminish in power and often break up over rockier and more moutainous landscapes.

Still, I'm glad to be in Miami. I went to the beach and laid there on white sands thinking about Hurricane Irene. The water was a placid sheer green, mocking Irene's potential destruction with beauty and peace.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 11: From San Juan del Sur to Managua

2011-08-08T15:09:00.000-07:00

The ox cart clumps by my tinted window.
Horsemen trot home heaving sacks of flour.
Families of white sheep munch pasteur and mow.
Nicaragua notes of few last hours.

A Mom scrubs child in a metal basin
swollen brown rivers gush across our path
Smoldering volcanoe hypnotized gazing,
belching red hell of Gods´bottomless wrath

Pushing past sentimental snapshots retrieved
and leaving my hypochondriac fear.
The unwritten amongst the notes conceived
is deep in my heart, there is a love here.

Waiting in hotel for my Managua flight,
into the air and Nicaragua night.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 10: Venerable Lobsang Chunzom

2011-08-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

Wearing the curved yellow hat of wisdom

ultimate and deceptive reality

sandalwood fires the swirling red chunzom

characteristics of the quality.

Rik chi radiates shimmering light

Ineffable and indivisible

paradise bodies suspended in flight

withdraw rainbow prisms invisible.

Untouched by ticked time and fenced space,

Lobsang in quiet crucible beyond.

Wandering amidst the burial place

Eyes gazed on Those Already Thus Gone.

Enter through the heart strings strung tight

joining our hands, we dance through the night.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 9: 3am, Upstairs

2011-08-06T05:42:00.000-07:00

Arising was harder than usual today.
Wasp clips my head in warning.
No more fussing and stop the delay.
Upstair I stagger meditation morning.

The sleep was ocean deep and mountain calm
as I meditated on goodness alone.
Shaking off the bird coo and hissing wave balm,
as cold shower streams pierce my waking bones.

The Nica forest quiet and asleep
fill my offering bowls overflowing.
Incense, prostration, posturing my heaps.
Enfolded anchors against winds blowing.

Embouchuring my cracked lips with great saints.
Worlds born from colors, these prayers are my paint.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 8: Jesus on the Beach

2011-08-05T16:41:00.000-07:00

We are in a beach conversation when he informs
he is Jesus. There are 144.
Walking the earth as Jesus in shapeshift form.
An everyday Jesus walked through my door.

That's a lot of Jesus variation
but then again, maybe too few.
Why not a million or a nation?
Is 144 a small crew?

I didn't ask him to walk on waves
just talk to me more about the Jesus
The Dalai Lama is one and quite brave
a man in Delaware is among us.

I asked Jesus to recommend me a book
A Course on Miracles is one he took.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 7: August Tola

2011-08-05T16:13:00.000-07:00

Tropical languor on a breezy day
Even jungle creatures resist instinct.
sulking in trees, the damp underbrush lay
too humid to growl, two dazed eyes unblink.

low tide in the rock pools, tea cups unstirred
high noon in the coast mountains, bleached rocks burn
liquid clear heat waves ripple the horizon blurred.
leaning sideways into August downturns.

Thoughts smear and stick to the hollow gray skull
'I love you's become a shrug and limp smile
brown bodies hammock'ed into rusted hulls
summer days test our reptilian wiles.

Steam tingles the neck, emotions uncorked
our mouths blossom serpentine red tongues forked.

Understanding Wealth Abroad

2011-08-04T12:13:00.000-07:00

For the past several weeks I have been in Nicaragua. The people are nice and friendly. The country is somewhat open in that as a foreigner I'm not secluded off to the resort section. I can wander freely and often see Americans and Europeans in the mix with Nicaraguans in the markets, living alongside them in the slums, and jogging in the jungle with their iPod as if it was Central Park.

Ironically this freedom of movement has made me more aware of the creeping realities of wealth and privilege. In most 3rd world and even many 2nd world countries, there is that buffer between tourist and reality. As an American sitting here writing on a thousand dollar laptop, worth probably 20,000-40,000 cordobas (someone's salary in these parts) there is this invisible internet of wealth. It's there all the time, 24 hours, I just have to turn on and plug in. It's clear and as real as gravity. In this internet of wealth there are several dozen people whose job is, in some way, to take care of your immediate needs. And most of these helpers don't look anything like me, nor do they speak the language. This is not the life of a rich American. This is middle-class to lower-class Americans. The wealth that is indivisible from my passport isn't related to money. It's a cultural and social wealth.

America is still the nation that dominates people's imagination, TV, and internet. It is still the place of education In the general world, America sits at the top but in the Western hemisphere it's even more dominant. There is a trickle down effect with being associated with the country known for fun, dreams, hedonism, and generous tipping.

The dollar is accepted everywhere as was expected. It's worth about 18 times the cordoba roughly. Merchants sell bootleg copies of all the latest movies and TV shows on the streets. Americans wander around here with almost no fear, wrapped in a shield. And yet all the Americans I've met are nice, young, energetic, and appear to be doing creative things out here. They take the time to know some words in Spanish, are generous, and well-liked. Many are artist and philanthropist who have found working abroad easier. Perhaps these are the flocks of people who would have lived in Greenwich Village 30 years ago or Haight and Ashbury.These are also the people who might have been in Costa Rica 10 years ago when Americans started flooding in. Now Costa Rica is high-end. Honduras and Nicaragua are next on the list.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 6: How I Got Here

2011-08-04T05:51:00.000-07:00

First met Lama for Ganden Hlagyama
1,000 Angels in Heaven of Bliss.
Over my birthday, learning a mantra
attended all class, not one did I miss.

While reciting prayers for a rain to bless
spring storms thundered and shook around us
began pouring down the walls of address
3 Jewels dripping in reverential hush.

Five years now passing, awaking at 3
in my wild and surreal Elysium
Meditate with waves and rustling trees
blessed by Her prayers ad infinitum.

Nothing higher than finding a teacher
14 lines on why we never leave Her.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 5: Vulture and Fishermen

2011-08-03T15:59:00.000-07:00

Vultures guard boats hauled from sand to surf
as fishermen roll logs beneath the hull
unspool nets cross Gigante sloping turfs
Standing between the grooved lull

A strange marriage between man and bird
Circling above and walking embankments
swinging bent necks in a morose herd
Hunchbacked witches in black dress flap garments

Their perfumed bodies lure hungry lovers
drenched in the salt and blood bill
flecks of flesh tangled in hair of others
dancing in the sky, eyes on the kill.

They call, they come, then sit, and so wait.
praying on red flotsam and grizzled bait.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 4: Gigante Beach

2011-08-03T07:05:00.000-07:00

A fallen tree trunk belts the entrance,

bleached by the sun, salt and sand.

Long beach dunes, not a single footprint

Gigante begins where the fishermen land.

American surfers roam through the inns.

parking their boards outside the shops

Drunken Marine slurs Tona with sly grin

to the plump brown matron un-bottling hops.

Hungry black dogs saddle up to your knees

Locals eye newcomers with a quiet suspicion

who suddenly appear like forest breeze

a bloodless and dark apparition.

Maybe you turned a ghost in translation

No dune footprints marked, no human relations.

Dream: Socks in the Trees

2011-08-03T06:14:00.000-07:00

In this dream I was driving through a network of highways with others, who I can't remember. We're driving down a ramped road and pass by a tree. They're white socks hanging on the branches. I'm aware that they're my white socks and I panic. I pull the car over and very agitated. This is my missing stuff. They're socks and underwear and shorts hanging up on this wall of tree branches. There are several more trees in a line underneath the ramp. In particular there are my pink shorts that I brought here to Nicaragua, my checkered shorts and some t-shirts. Also hanging up on this wall of branches are several beautiful oil paintings of jazz musicians. I begin snatching my clothes and paintings I find particularly attractive. I feel more at ease now as I gather all of my clothes back together in a pile. I don't remember how this dream ends by I walked away with some beautiful artwork.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 3: People on Roads

2011-08-02T06:27:00.000-07:00

Native hitchhikers thumb orange dirt roads
Piling in back of trucks, vans, and 4 X4s
public transport is a simple code
a smiling gesture, a knock on the door.

Red eyed kids drink Tona on crouched toes.
chucking the glass into lush canopy
rocking and reeling from jarring blows
as dented dirt roads flow to the sea.

Toothless frail wisps and jelly round women
wave rides to Rivas, Tola, and San Juan.
Stuffed with babies, cabbage, and liters of gin
Holding their carriage with breath held and drawn.

Rolling waves of masses run to the city
carrying cargo of hope, hunger, and felicity.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 2: Growling Monkey Questions

2011-08-01T18:20:00.000-07:00

Are the monkeys called howling or growling?
Cant remember but theyre getting closer to the kitchen.
They dont eat people or pets out prowling?
Probably best to keep all trash in sealed bins.

Was that a scorpion in my shower this morning?
Theyre more scared of you than you are of them.
That one behind microwave is giving me warning.
Morning coffee never seemed so dangerous and grim.

I heard there were black bats in this forest.
that have rabies, syphilis, and the clap.
Theyĺl nick the wallet of American tourist.
Dont smile at that bird, its all a clever trap.

Such a relaxing time on vacation reprieve.
From bolted up bedrooms we never did leave.

Nicaraguan Sonnet 1: Rain Season

2011-08-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

White foam skiffs dock cliffs moss green

rolling fingers arise, recede, and release,

snatching stragglers to the dark blue sheen

down to the bottomless cold surcease.

Red Villas dangle over cresting booms

rocky crags echo the quaking earth

rainbow crabs scuttle into cupola rooms

plummage mists into dawn birth.

Vermillion flames fan up empty sky

Spilling down crushed emerald mountains

suffusing the salt air in a crimson dye

horizon melt into whirling jeweled fountains

A royal seat of water and fire,

Lost Mayan kingdoms and ivory husked pyres.

Two Dreams

2011-08-01T05:44:00.000-07:00

I actually had 3 dreams last night that I can remember. But the first dream consisted of me roaming through a bunch of different rooms in this run-down motel, sort of a Hotel California situation. The details have gotten lost in the transition from sleep to waking. The other two dreams I do remember somewhat better.

In the first dream, I'm in a city that has skyscrapers with clipper ships levitating at the top of them. Some of the ships are aligned in the upright position, but many of the ships are sideways or upside down. Each of the ships has a different color aura around it: red, blue, green, etc. There is also a marina with actual yachting ships pointed up, down, sideways, in many different directions. In general all the ships have the same white sails and white body with different color auras.

My Lama has just gotten out of retreat. I'm looking for a building for Holy Lama to do a teaching in. The building has to have a yacht on top that is facing upside down. I walk through the town and there are some good candidates. The one that feels most likely is, in fact, a very small building in the harbor with a nice little upside down yacht with a red aura. I talk to what I believe is the owner and/or manager of the building. Then I make my way to the teaching.

The teaching has the usual students and some unusual students I've never seen before. There are two older females, twins in fact. Both are dressed in brown colors with chopped brown hair. They look masculine and sitting on both sides of me. There are many many plates of offering, mostly cookies and cakes. I am sitting there listening to the teaching. She has an aura, either clear or rainbow.

Holy Lama goes into the other room to begin seeing students privately. People are eating the offerings which I find too sweet to even grab a plate. There is a camera sitting on a chair next to me. I pick it up and begin browsing through the digital pictures on the screen of my Holy Lama in retreat or on vacation. One of the twins tells me, quite harshly, that it's not my camera. I put the camera down for a second and then a few moments later pick it up again. Then the other twin roars at me "PUT THE CAMERA DOWN." Stunned and scolded I put the camera down. I start a mini-argument in my head of what clever and cutting things I could have said in response. But there's nothing to be done. I realize I was wrong and feel even more embarrassed. I go to the table of food and feel sickened by all the cakes and cookies.

An urge rises up in me: I need to leave so I need to see the Lama immeditately. I'm aware that I'm usually the last one to see Lama but now I want to be first or nearly first. I then see a bunch of students arguing about who can go first because others have to leave early too. I get upset because it's the same lackadaiscal, late-comers, early-leavers who are in line first and fighting with each other. Then I feel hopeless. I'm not going to get to see her first. I decide to leave and convince myself that I'll see her tomorrow to report on the different building options for the teaching. My Lama comes out and asks 'where are you going?' I give the excuse that I have to do work, look for buildings, and that I can come back tomorrow with a report. Surprisingly, she seems satisfied with this and I quickly exit. I'm walking down the street at night with all these building auras lit up. The clipper yachts are levitating and turning slowly at the crowns of all the buildings. I feel alone and strange. There is no grand ending to this dream. I am just walking down a quiet city street feeling 'out of sorts.'

In the second dream I'm in a church. The pews are angled in criss-cross directions with different sizes so that there is actual floor space in the middle of the pew maze. I am on the middle left section of pews that is parallel to the stage. Further in are 3 guys in red (at least 2 of them were wearing red shirts I'm sure); all of them I perceive as being gay. I am trying to pray but also eavesdrop on their conversation. They're talking about relationships. One of the men is looking directly at me while talking, while the other is facing away. In fact the latter never turns around. The third guy has his back to the stage so we can see each other but don't make eye contact.

The man with his back turned to me is talking about his marriage. I become sort of uncomfortably aware that he's talking about his marriage to a woman. The other two seem nonplussed. There is a service which makes me feel very strange and then a woman with reddish blonde hair comes out on stage and motions to me. I stand up and go to her. She holds what looks like a Bible and points to particular sections while whispering to me to introduce the next preacher. I'm completely confused why I'm introducing the next speaker and who is speaking, why is she pointing to particular passages in the Bible. The conversation is jumbled. I keep asking for clarification: now WHO is speaking? Okay, who are they? I'm starting to get annoyed with myself for not being able to understand her. She is calm and continues to whisper and point at the passages. I become worried that the guy with his back facing away from me is the next speaker or the son of the next speaker. Then I understand quite suddenly.

My job is to introduce the next preacher who is waiting in the wings. He has reddish blonde hair and a ruddy complexion. He is, in fact, the father of one of my friends (who I won't name here). There is a window next to the pulpit and I can see my friend -who has very dark hair, glasses, and looks nothing like his father- outside smoking a cigarette while it rains. He's facing me sideways and leaning up against a yellow island wall outside the window.

I give perhaps one of the shortest introductions ever. I simply say "the father of so and so.' There are some applause and then I go back to my seat. The pew behind my seat is very close and there's an Asian woman who is annoyed that I'm sitting there. But I was sitting here first, I think to myself.

There is strong awareness that this is a Protestant church and that this unassuming man in a brown suit with ruddy features is Roman Catholic. He comes up to the lectern and starts with an incantation. He starts chanting. I just assume it's Latin, but when I listen it sounds very strongly like Tibetan. He's chanting and chanting. I start chanting with him and I'm following him while being aware that I know what he's going to say next. We are, in fact, doing some Tantric Buddhist mantras because I can pick out a few words which aren't in the open teachings. There is one chant in particular that keeps getting repeated.

At some point either here, or when I stand up, I am removed of all clothes except for my underwear. I'm aware that I am without clothes and feel ambivalent. On one hand, I know that I should sort of have clothes on, but on the other hand I look kind of good without them. I'm in the church hallway chanting bent over a table. My friend are coming and going in the hallway. They're talking about where they're going to eat after the service, gossip, and I become really sad. I start sobbing. It's a dry sob and tears come a bit later. Everyone becomes quiet and aware that we're in a church. They're apologizing to me but I don't want their apologies or silence. I keep saying again and again 'it's just so sad.' Someone brings up Amy Winehouse and I keep sobbing while saying 'It's so sad.' Amy Winehouse, the gossip, the ridiculous conversation about what songs they want played on their wedding. It's all just so sad. I cry and wander up and down the hallway saying 'it's just so sad.' And that was the end of that dream.

Recalling these two dreams makes me remember the vague fossils of several other dreams I failed to write down the past week. Many of them involved rooms and going through chambers.

Before falling asleep last night I was reviewing rik chi and dun chi's in Buddhist logic. The car'ness vs. 'a car.'

Wrestling with the Devil

2011-07-29T20:04:00.001-07:00

My first wrestling match was in my junior year of high school. I was participating in this to stay in shape for football in the off-season. Through a series of unfortunate incidents I went from being the 4th string heavyweight wrestler to starting in a few days. Suddenly the cushy, aerobic training was now real and in front of crowds.

There's an entire world of rituals, ethics, and shorthand to a wrestling tournament. I was thrown in the middle of this all and tried to just blend in. My opponent looked like some horrible villain from The Hulk. Black, dark, shadowy, he was a stereotype of African American male animal power. He was 6'5 230 lbs of savage ripped muscle spread out across shoulder blades that were Stonehenge-like and ribs as massive as an airplane hangars. I stood at a very flabby, pear-shaped 5'11 with thick glasses and a nasal drip.

My coach didn't even bother looking at me or offering me advice before the match. I went out to the center of mat to shake hands. He grabbed my hand and growled "I'm gonna kick your ass." I curtly nodded and whispered under my breath 'probably.' Then a whistle sounded and a flurry of motions. His arms were moving like windmill blades. I stuck my hand in to the vortex and felt an intense chopping pain so I quickly withdrew.

There was no fear in this moment because the challenge was so impossible, so ridiculous that I was whimsically resigned to my fate: death by pulverization. Feeling light and almost giddy with expected defeat I locked up with him at the shoulders and experienced an intense crushing sound. It was the sound of my shoulders and chest cavity being compressed into soup can. My mind made a quick mental note -this ain't good- and I leaped back to safety.

Assured of his superior strength, speed, confidence, and pure rage my opponent took a step back and charged me like a bull. In one of the most brilliantly simple and instinctive reactions in my life I did one thing: I ducked.

Time slowed to a crawl. It happened just like in the movies. The sound of the crowd faded, the spotlight drew tight around me and my enemy. In ducking I managed to put a hand up over my head and touch his shoulder, guiding him quickly on the arc of his flight. As he floated by my face I could see the rage in his face slowly turning to confusion. Confusion turned to surprise as he landed on the mat.

There was an audible gasp from the crowd. And my coach looked like he just saw me grow a second head. I shrugged my shoulders. Cheering quickly returned and I looked around asking 'what do I do now?' The villain got up enraged. He charged with again with more speed and force. Once again, I ducked and tossed him over my shoulders. This time I got on top of him to score points from the referee.

That was the general flow of the match. He would charge with increased frustration. I would duck, sidestep, pivot, and try to avoid getting decapitated. Eventually the match was called. I looked around confused as the referee motioned toward the scoring table. I had scored so many points that the automatic forfeit rule kicked in to prevent further humiliation.

The referee grabbed my hand to declare me the winner and my instinct was to duck and toss him too. I resisted him for a moment, but he got a solid grip and raised my hand in victory. No one had ever raised my hand in victory. I felt very silly and suppressed my urge to burst out laughing.

My opponent sulked away from the mat. He wasn't the massive action movie villain. He was just some big kid like me. Later that year I faced him in the division championship final. My coach tried to juice me up by telling me that my opponent was bragging about how he was going to destroy me. When we met in the center of the mat to shake hands he growled "I'm gonna kick you ass." I nodded again but didn't whisper anything this time. In the first minute he got me in very painful headlock and began trying to wrench my head from my shoulders. I knew I just had to keep my balance and not panic. I got free and proceeded to win the match on agility, sidesteps, and using my opponents strength against him. To this day whenever I face something impossible I think of wrestling with the devil. All I have to do is step to the side.

Recently I completed a silent month-long retreat in Nicaragua. It was one of the most painful, blissful, insane, satisfying moments in my life. There were times were I thought I couldn't make it and I had to keep surrendering. Keep asking for help.

I step to the side of my own demons and afflictions. They are wild, strong, savage beasts. There is no way I can out-muscle them. They will pulverize, crush, and chop me up. But in that moment I surrender and that light giddy feeling returns. I am being helped. I just have to get out of the way.

Rolling Red

2011-06-11T07:48:00.000-07:00

I had an anger flashback last night and recalled some very small moments of outburst. This was followed by profound sadness, regret, and shame that I think sit in for a while. In the past I would promise to change, promise to move forward and then not do anything.

I remember being lodged in a motel in Albuquerque for a few weeks. And I felt very awkward whenever I spoke to the front desk clerk. My chest would tighten and a forced smile appeared on my face. I tried to be pleasant, never complained about the ranting veteran in the next room, who they said rented out a suite for a few days at a time to get drunk and scream. In fact, I found the rants interesting. They were indecipherable through the walls but I responded more to just the poetic nature of someone renting a room for a few days to drink and scream. There was a part of me that wondered why they put me up in a room so close to this man when 90% of the motel was vacant.

A day or two later my tightness and awkward feeling subsided with the motel clerk. I felt more at ease to express some of my thoughts. Jokingly, or at least I thought it was joking, I referenced a misunderstanding with one of my friends. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds. The clerk looked at me and said 'you are very angry. I noticed that about you.'

That's not a polite thing to say to someone trying to be pleasant. I wasn't yelling at her, or critiquing her work, or talking about someone she knew. I didn't even feel 'angry' in the moment. I continued smiling and shrugged it off because that's the polite thing to do whenever someone brings up a character flaw. I certainly didn't want to get defensive nor did I want to turn the social pleasantries into a therapy session where I spilled myself out.

I smiled against the silence. I followed up with a 'really? Angry? When did you first notice it?' I was hoping she was going to reference a social faux pas or incident in which I may have accidentally did something outside of norms because I could apologize and explain myself. Instead she gave me the worst answer possible: the first time you walked in. The first time I walked in, I did nothing overtly angry. I didn't kick the door in and slam my fist on the bell. I didn't raise my voice or make demands. I was, in fact, very loose. They asked me what room I wanted and I said whatever they thought was best. They asked me if I had any preferences and I did not. Isn't that what being nice is all about? This is what I was taught as being the opposite of angry. Angry people aren't trying to please and smiling, right?

I was down right pliable and agreeable to any suggestions. They put me next to the ranting drinker on the second floor. I rolled my bags upstairs and when I passed by his open door, I nodded at him with my tight smile. And he looked at me perplexed and wary. That would be or usual interaction over the next few weeks. His door would be open and I would walk past it toward the exit and he would look at me. In his face I also starting noticing something else: a cautiousness and possible fear. Fear of me?!? And this made me smile even tighter and start vocalizing my greetings. This really made him terrified of me.

I began to feel like a monster, some hideous creature with such a terrible disfigurement that no amount of manners could overcome my ugliness. I pictured myself as Frankenstein's monster, trying to find love and only meeting terror, running children, and snarling dogs. I layered manners and politeness over rage. When I smiled and did those things that nice people are supposed to do, I felt not only unnatural but caged up. And when I start to feel like this I get very quiet and depressed. At my job in Albuquerque I carried this tightness with me. My smile was that of a person suffering the world. I hoped to make it through my waking hours without apoplectic eruption. Success! Another day without killing these motherfuckers.

And now here is this petite Indian woman telling me that I was angry from the moment I walked in. Internally I felt destroyed and the echo of my childhood mantra 'what the hell is wrong with you?' What, Aurin, is so fundamentally wrong with you that scare a war veteran AND a little Indian woman with your smile? What is so wrong with you that you have not had a single significant romantic relationship? What is so emotionally and psychologically hideous that people won't even talk to you without putting on their wary facial guard?

Perhaps the Indian woman could read my internal thoughts because she apologized and walked her statement back. She wasn't scared of me. I didn't terrify her. That made me feel a little bit better. My back slumped and my smile softened. I softly muttered that anger was something I needed to work on. It sounded positive, progressive, and offered an ending to the conversation. But she would not relent. She asked me if I did anything? I told her that I had begun meditating. A few minutes in the morning. I set up my altar, put out my little Buddha statue, prostrate and sit down. I would get to a still place and then go through an analytical or review meditation, some times do some mantras.

She smiled and reached under the counter. The clerk handed me a small orange-colored hardback book with a picture of a wheel on the back and a blazing sun on front. "The Teaching of Buddha." That was all it said. No author or back cover summary.

But I was already practicing and studying. I didn't need this book, I was experimenting with lojong and tong-len in my practice. Didn't she know this? Instantly, my defensiveness rose up. I would explain myself, tell her that I didn't need her gift that looked like it was for a little boy. My pride battled with my manners. My pride wanted to show how smart I was, how I didn't need her book, how I was fixing the problem. My manners told me that it was a gift. In this instance, manners won out.

I tightly gripped the book and thanked her. A few defeated mutters came from me about already 'practicing' but she smiled and told me to read it. I said I would and return it to her when I finished. No, it was mine to keep she insisted.

At night I read the book. My pride whispered to me 'but we already know this' as the book went through the basic bio of the Indian prince Siddartha Gautama Shakyamuni. I squirmed against the 'homework assignment' that felt belittling. If was as if someone had read my play and handed me a Strunk and White's 'Elements of Style' and suggested that I study it.

I struggled through it but was able to follow up a few days later with a thank you. I quoted some of the text from the book to show that I was a good gift recipient.

I never met the woman again but I still have the book. I wanted to leave it behind in Albuquerque or slip it back to her at the front desk when she wasn't looking. But manners told me to take the book, read it.

The job ended and so did many of my relationships in Albuquerque. I think about the ranting drunk in the next room and wonder if there was some reason we were next to each other? He threatened other people and the few guest who arrived all requested distance from him. All except for me. Toward the end of my stay at the motel, I passed by his open door and found the room emptied of its guest. No more clinking bottles, rumpled bed with the comforter tossed on the floor.

Lit by the harsh morning sun, his room felt like a sterilized crater. The room and even hotel felt sad to be rid of its raging resident. Had he been kicked out for one rant too many, did he run out of money, or had he done everything he had come to do and decided to return back to his job as a school teacher, father, son? I had so many questions and I felt sad that my neighbor was gone. I realized that my room would look like that in a few days.

Anger Flashback

2011-06-10T23:42:00.000-07:00

I would wake up to throbbing hot headaches in the middle of the night. My head felt like an ember. And the smell. I have to remember this is how it used to be.

I was so angry. And just because I wasn't screaming didn't mean the rage wasn't there. It was always beneath the surface as aggression, annoyance, sarcasm, jealousy, social outrage.

These memories come in flashbacks, sudden and crystalline. I was folding clothes this evening and tears poured down my face. Another memory. My chest filled with steaming phlegm.

Another moment: yelling at a server, flinging a cup across a diner because the service wasn't fast enough.

These were people helping me, serving me, spending their lives and time to make sure I had enough.

I stopped trusting my sense of smell. I no longer felt clean air on a normal day. I smelled smoke. This wasn't imaginary or a dream. Smoke that smoldered a gray, dry cloud. I was numb to it so much that many of my smell memories are tinged with charcoal dust. I could not smell a flower, the scent was too subtle, too easily blocked out.

I don't even remember what I was angry about. Waking up made me ready to fight. Sleeping was a battle of blocking out the day's events and hoping for a black wall of oblivion to blot out the rage. And when the wall disappeared behind the sunlight, all the anger was ready to go.

Diamond Light On Clear Water

2011-05-29T19:07:00.000-07:00

A few days ago I was walking to the bench by the SoBe Marina. I had some time before meeting friends and I decided to review my prayer book, go through some mantras and meditation. The sun was beating down on a clear bay. I took out my camera phone and snapped some pictures.

I was drawn to the view. The light was piercing and spotless, shimmering off the folds of water. The title popped in my head: Diamond Light on Clear Water.

The diamond could be wisdom, perfect and ultimate. The clear water could be my mind. There's still a boat on water and it's not perfectly still. The light can't hold itself still. But it is reflected across the folds of my mind.

Diamond is often the symbol of emptiness, totally pure, that indivisible object incorporated into all nature of phenomena, whether it be starting or stopping, coming or going, multiplying or subtracting. In all possible actions -and that list covers all of them whether it's birth or death- there is that emptiness which is unchanging. And by looking at and holding that matchless diamond, my mind is imbued with it. I become aware of my mind's emptiness.

I began meditating on this diamond light and imagining my mind as the clear water, trying to still it, less and less. And I felt this enormous ease.

Songs and Dreams

2011-05-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

I drove my Dad to the blood doctor's office. I turned the radio to an oldies station and his eye lit up. 'Oh yeah!' I asked him if he recognized songs and prodded him to sing some of the lyrics to "Let the Sun Shine In," Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover," and Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff."

I parked the car and wheeled him out into the sun. We were early so we circumabulated the doctor's coral pink office building. Then we went inside. The waiting room was completely empty. A nurse was reviewing a lunch order from a delivery man. I spun the wheelchair around and sat down next to my Dad.

We got an open room, but they were almost all open. I've never been in an doctor's office this empty of patients. I guess people don't like to have their blood taken on a Friday afternoon.

The nurse tried to withdraw blood from my Dad's left arm. I warned her that his blood doesn't flow easily. It's think and stubborn. His Polysythemiavera (red blood cell cancer) has made many nurses give up. The blood is like heavy, north sea crude oil. After two different nurses they left hopeful that the few drips they got were enough.

I took out my dharma homework and thought it would be a good test if I could explain what I'm trying to learn to my Dad. They say the best way to learn is to teach.

They say there are five heaps: stream of consciousness, other factors, discrimination, emotions/feelings, and physical body. I was reading last night that it really is a break down of the process of discernment and comprehension. The first thing we do is just consciousness or an awareness. The second thing the mind does is initiate with that awareness, moving toward or backward away from. Essentially it's a movement of the mind. The third step is perception, separating one object from another. The fourth step is feelings and having a like or dislike of the feeling. And the final thing is the form.

I tried to explain it to my Dad like the songs on the radio. There is a bunch of noise going on. I turn the radio to an oldies station. The mind is conscious of a noise. But there's numerous noises and sounds going on: the car engine, the static, the outside world, his breath, my breath. Second step is that the mind moves toward the sound. The third step is that it isolates the sound and recognizes it as a song. The fourth step is that it is pleasing to the ear and we begin to figure out what the song is exactly. The fifth step is to realize it's "I Shot the Sheriff." I told him that the mind is doing that all the time: being aware, moving, perceiving/isolating object, liking/disliking object, and putting it into a form or construct.

He nodded his head vigorously as if to suggest he understood. I went on to explain that each one of these steps is completely empty. Each step is dependent upon what I've loaded into it. The space that allows for 'the loading' is emptiness. The white screen on which the movie of my life plays on is emptiness. Each one of those steps is 100% empty. I compared it like Geshe Michael Roach has in the past to a stapler and the loading part where the staplers go. That emptiness is that loading space. It's always there but it doesn't grow or shrink. Once the object is destroyed then the emptiness goes out of existence. The songs that stop on the radio have their own emptiness. Each song is an aural constructed object. It's a series of sounds that the mind constructs as 'song.' Each song is empty and some people love the song while other hate, while still others don't even see it as a song. It's form is empty. A fly would just see it as noise and possibly a giant bee or bird buzzing nearby and run away. An angel would hear the pure nectar of a heart song. Once the song stops, the emptiness of that song just goes out of existence.

He appeared to respond to this and understood. Then I moved further and said that these functions are probably best noticed when going to sleep or waking up. When going to sleep the reverse process happens. The forms begin to melt, blend, the noises and shapes soften and smear together. The feeling is pleasant and my mind wants to stay there. If it's unpleasant then I shift around, plug my ears or do something to get into that 'softened' space. Next the pleasure of falling asleep, then the perceptions of 'falling' asleep begin to melt, the mind moves in from outerspace, then finally just a consciousness of light fading. Then darkness.

Of course, once asleep a whole new series of mental functions start. But when waking up, the mind starts with the first heap of consciousness. A small light or noise off in the distance. The light grows but I still don't know my name, my place, the universe. But I'm moving toward this sun rising which is the second heap. The perception of 'sleep' returns and I realize I've been asleep. I begin to wonder how long, and piece together my location in the smallest sense: I'm in a bed. The location expands, walls, floors, Miami. Home.

I feel the need -out of habit- to get up. I fight off the discomfort for the long-term pleasure and arise. I look around and take in my world and the millions of constructs. My glasses go on and I sit up. The five heaps have returned.

But if each of those heaps are empty then they can be manipulated. My Dad seemed to understand this really well. With his health 'appearing' to be in decline the last few years, one positive side effect is sleep. He used to have serious problems getting a few good hours of sleep. Now he closes his eyes and is falling into sleep within a few seconds. No one falls easier than him. His vision is limited, but in sleep I wonder what he sees? Surely his vision is 20/20, his body is restored to full health, he is reliving some wonderful dream or nightmare. But do the constructs still work in dreams?

A week ago my mom said "I wish I could know what he was thinking." I'd add an addendum to that: I wish I could know what he was dreaming.

Boston/Miami Game 4: Observations from a fair-weather Heat fan

2011-05-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

I actually went to the gym to avoid game 4 of the Boston/Heat playoffs. I get too emotional and these games ruins my whole day. When I got to the gym there it was on all the TV screens. Normally LA Fitness keeps its channels on MSNBC and E! TV no matter what. I was counting on that and the place being empty b/c everyone would be at home watching. But someone obviously found the channel changer and switched everything to the game. So I did, in fact, watch while on the elliptical machine and doing cardio. People gathered under the TVs. I caught the last 4 or 5 minutes of the nerve wracking game while going uphill on the elliptical.

Then I went to work the chest and said 'oh forget it' and walked back to the TV to catch the last few minutes. Once safely in the tank (Boston really gave up in OT. You could see it on their face at the start of the extra period. They did not want to be there) I returned to my workout.

Bosh was pretty good although I heard he was bad in the first half (which I missed). If Miami had 2 bench players who could chip in 10 ppg they would be unstoppable.

But from a purely objective pt of view I didn't think there was a lot to gloat over. As a basketball observer I saw one team play 60% smart (the HEAT) and another team that was beat-up, old, mentally tired play about 40% smart and make mental errors at the end. Especially Rondo missing a layup, Garnett not setting a pick at the end, and then in the OT period I believe they had 3 straight turnovers. As a Heat fan I was excited but also noting 'gee, Boston is really giving it away.' Now LeBron did step up in places but he still made stupid shots and turned the ball over in THE crucial last set in regulation.

Finally FINALLY Wade/LeBron wised up and realized they could get Bosh a few easy baskets b/c they were keeping the ball solely in their hands. They set him up off an easy pick and roll. Boston had completely forgotten about him and as a Heat fan I was nervous that the Heat had also. Bosh needs to demand at least 2-3 touches in the last few minutes. He really does. This from the wings iso-stuff is so agonizing to watch.

If the Heat actually set their offense and let Chalmers handle the ball in the last few minutes and run the offense they might have won in regulation. They're afraid of Chalmers turning the ball over but Wade and LeBron do that too. So why not let the point guard actually run the offense so Bosh can get the ball or the 3-point shooters can get into the flow?

The Heat won but they really REALLY need to get some points from other areas. I'm afraid this team wins and then throws basketball basics out the window. I hope that doesn't happen on Wednesday. And the 3-pt shooting was terrible as usual. Fortunately they dominated in rebounds (thank GM Danny Ainge. Where can I send your Miami HEAT MVP muffin basket?) Either way I'll be at the gym.

The Life of Job

2011-05-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

We expect compensation for inconvenience. That's what a job is all about. If it wasn't inconvenient then it wouldn't be called work. It would be called play. And it wouldn't be called a job. It would be a hobby. If you're on this planet long enough you'll have a job and expect payment for suffering. Whether it's mowing the lawn to get an allowance or running a software company, taking up a job is what unites almost all people. In fact the concept of weighing time and energy vs. payment shapes and defines a life.

These thoughts ran through my head as I drove down I-95 toward South Beach for a lunch meeting. I have no idea what triggered a retrospective look at mankind and labor but as a freelance artists I think a lot about jobs. Before one is done there is something else that is set and ready to go. The previous night I finished a new play. 130 pages, 2 acts, an entire world completed. And now there were three webisodes, a musical, a rewrite of another play, articles due, and possibly more. Jobs, jobs, and more jobs.

I'm guessing the qualification of a good job would be proportionally favorable compensation in relation to inconvenience. And a dream job is substantially greater payment against the scale of suffering. I've had great jobs, good jobs, so-so jobs, and horrible jobs. If I actually added up all the random assignments, choirs for allowance, bartering trades, freelance projects, and salaried positions in my life so far it would probably be in the thousands.

I parked my car in the heavily towed lots on South Beach and let the engine idle for a moment as I continued thinking. I shuffled through some notecards for ACI homework and looked around. The steamy afternoon kept everyone indoors. A black BMW pulled up next to me and a lanky pale young man in black shorts and shirt sat in the tinted cocoon. I tried to guess his story. A rich kid? A car detailer whose working on some exec's car in a side lot?

He glanced at me for a moment and then looked around with pensive and slightly dissatisfied grimace. Like he wished he was elsewhere. His lanky pale frame and slight scowl gave him the look of a New York/New Jersey transplant who may have hoped for something better on South Beach. But who knows maybe he's just having a bad day.

Across from me was an older silver-haired man with his car door open and staring off into space. Then something happened that made everyone stop their thoughts for a moment. A tall, pot-bellied man in a boxer shorts, flip flops and denim bathrobe came waddling out of one of the high-rise office building/shopping center/condominium, bomb shelter chic complexes that are virally multiplying on South Beach. He had a slightly stained white t-shirt and leaned back as he walked forward. This was 'the dude' for The Big Lebowski. In fact, I have never seen anyone look more like 'the dude' than this dude. The dude walked the entire length of the parking lot and over to a Black Dodge Ram pick-up truck with the word "RESPECT" etched in silver on the rear tinted cabin windows. The dude hopped into his Dodge and peeled off, making a loop around the lot and then disappearing. Where was he off to dressed like that? Is it conceivable that 'the dude' was going to work in a denim bathrobe and boxer shorts? Or maybe a drive-in fast food joint?

After 'the dude' left, the lanky man went to the BMW's trunk and dragged out yards of blue chords. This was getting odd. He lasso'ed the chords around the left shoulder like a cowboy and walked over to the older gentleman. Lanky man began laying out the chords in different lengths and patterns on the bubbling black asphalt as the older man looked on. Occasionally their lips moved and they nodded, but for the most part this activity was done in silence. Was the job fishing, towing? The mystery, silence, and slightly odd set-up gave the whole operation a sinister feel. Several minutes passed and I had to leave my car to go to the lunch meeting.

I was hoping when I got back they would still be in their elaborate rope arrangement negotiations. But alas, two hours later there was no BMW, the silver-haired man, or the yards of blue chords. Another black car was parked next to mine. I got back in the Honda and cranked the air. The promise of another meeting from the meeting I just had. And if all goes well there will be a job at the end of that meeting.

Fable/Memory/Faith

2011-05-08T18:34:00.000-07:00

FABLE/Michael comes to palace in rags. Through luck, a well-placed uncle, and his mouth he tricks himself into a high position within the first day. Then becomes incredibly wealthy, betrothed, wearing jewels, and fine silk. And a wise man warns that he will lose everything. But he proceeds, he gains the ear of the king, people in the palace begin to fear and respect him. Then he hears that his parents are dying. The long road will mean they might be dead by the time he gets their. The short cut is filled with bandits and robbers. He takes the short-cut and is piece-by-piece stripped of his clothes, robbed, has his royal seal stolen, identity stolen. He arrives back home in rags. His parents are sick but manage to make a recovery. He's back to rags and trying to tell people how he lived but no one believes him. He's cleaning out the horse stalls, and throwing slop to the pigs. He's covered in mud and his wife comes to visit but doesn't believe it's him. No one from the palace believes its him and treats him like a peasant. No one knows except for the wise man.

The wise man laughs and shows through some special article of clothing the minister forgot to take off that it is him. And they try to welcome him back. He's back in the palace, his wife is by his side, the clothes are laid out for the day. His gems are on his finger. In the middle of the night, he slips out of the palace and walks back home. He gives his seal away to a village idiot who is shipped back to the palace.

And the man walks back home along the road.

MEMORY/A few Aunt Dolly she said a homeless came up to her on the street and said 'I know you.' And my aunt said 'I don't think so.' And the homeless man insisted 'yeah I do.' Well as it turns out they did. Back in the days when people used to ride train carts across the county there were halfway or safe spots like the underground railroad. My aunt's mother was one of those famous spots where hobos were told what to do: When the train pulled into the sleep rural Florida town they would jump from the front car and race down the street a few blocks. On the side kitchen door would be a tray of coffee and biscuits. You were told to drink the coffee and take a few biscuits and then race back to the tracks to hop back on the last car. And many people did this and this became sort of the ritual to do. My great grandmother was never robbed or beaten by any of these people. Quite the opposite, she was a brief spot. And on that particular morning that train rider ran up to the kitchen door, grabbed the coffee and was chewing on a biscuit when he saw my Aunt (as a little girl) eating her breakfast in the kitchen. And that's how they knew each other.

FAITH/Helping my Dad walk he's so paranoid when I tell him to reach back for the wheelchair b/c he's mostly blind and can't see. He's very scared of reaching back so he usually just flops backward which is very dangerous and how people get injured. So the last few days I've been refusing to let him sit unless he reaches back. I hold him with my hand while he protests 'no, no, no!!!' And I calmly try to whisper into his ear: why don't you trust me? There is a chair behind you. I am holding you. No one is going to let you fall. Just reach back.'

I try to pry his fingers from the walker as he yells 'no, no, NO!' and continue to tell him 'just reach back. Trust me.' I suppose I'm like that. Gripping on to the walker and the angels are screaming 'let go! JUST LET GO!!' and I'm saying 'no, no, no!!' like a child afraid to lose his blanket.

The Bin Laden Decade

2011-05-08T14:09:00.000-07:00

Osama Bin Laden is dead and Happy Mother's Day. The comic book villain loomed larger-than-life in my childhood. I dreamed of commando raids on his compounds, a crack team of FBI investigators bursting in and stopping a terror cell, and me playing the hero in bringing this man to justice. For me, I lived in a decade of Bin Laden. But contrary to popular opinion, that decade was the 1990s.

I was a news junkie. Couldn't get enough of C-SPAN and CNN. Prior to the dawn of countless 24 hr cable news, sports, and financial channels, most of the 1990s was CNN, ESPN, and Headline News for me. When the first World Trade Center attack occured I was riveted to the TV. A blind sheik, a terror cell, an attempt to implode a fortress skyscrapper. The news quickly returned to Clinton's scandals and his losses in the mid-term elections. I couldn't figure out if I was living in an alternative reality. There was just a terror attack of the most exotic, comic-book villainy on American soil and it was old news after a week. Well, they weren't successful and only scared us awake for a minute. When a terror cell was busted in Kansas City -of all places- the following week of the WTC truck bombing, interests was only briefly re-awakened. But to me I lived in this fantasy world of secret terror cells.

From the mountains of Afghanistan came a decree: America needed to immediately leave the holy Land of Saudi Arabia. The threat garnered a few murmurs of attention shortly before the Khobar towers were bombed in Saudi Arabia. Once again the loss of human life wasn't epic and so the media's attention was quickly diverted back to White House interns and stained dresses. For me, I instantly thought of Regan withdrawing troops from Beirut after the massive car bomb killed 500. And around this time is when I heard his name for the first time: Osama Bin Laden. There might have been a special or two about the Khobar towers and this cave dwelling villain of America's nightmares. The name stuck with me so that when the USS Cole was hit with a suicide boat, I recalled immediately the Bin Laden promise: attacks would continue until America was off the Arabian penisula. It struck me as a bit absurd: this guy in the mountains with a few ragtag suicide bombers threatening to alter American military power through small, but media-savvy campaign using 'like a movie' style terror to capture our imagination. But Bin Laden already had my teenage imagination as it ran into over drive.

I came home from school and saw the Oklahoma City towers smoldering and ABC newscaster asking if this could have been Bin Laden. My instant reaction was 'why would he bomb something in Oklahoma? No it's someone else.'

Then there was the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania and the US attempts on his life via cruise missiles. And finally the 90s ended with the Millenium bomb threats and plots. The FBI busted up all potential prospects and America promptly fell back asleep into a nice cushy, post-lunch dooze.

The 90s were clearly the era of Bin Laden and the FBI was pursuing him on several different continents. Al Qaeda was extremely active and successful and catching countries unaware and slack-jawed.

When 9/11 happened, we were fully awake. The following years was less revealing and just rehashing old points. Yes, Bin Laden had declared war on US intentions in the 90s. Wahabism is radical, he comes from a rich and extremely large family. Michael Moore thoroughly examined the hypocrisy of the Bush family and its support of the Bin Laden estate.

And last week he was shot in his compound. A compound he had been living in for several years with his family and others. Abbotobad is now a historical landmark for Westerners and Americans. A suburban area run by the military that had the world's most famous terrorist hanging out with his kids for years.

What's more interesting is the information gathered during the Bin Laden raid. The news said laptops and discs were snatched on the way out. This has far wider implications to cutting down the Al Qaeda pipeline than Bin Laden passing on.

Ten years after 9/11 and over 15 years since I first heard his name, Osama Bin Laden is gone. The whole tapestry of life is ridiculous. I tell that to my Dad as he struggles to walk and do rehab. Michael Jackson is gone but you're still here. James Brown is gone in a freak dental accident but you're still here. Natasha Lyonne passed on from skiing but you're still here. Yasir Arafat was done in by ailments after surviving multiple assassination attempts. Osama Bin Laden is gone due to Navy SEALs but you're still here. And so am I. And yet he seemed so real. And now he's gone.

It's been a week and the buzz is dying down across the nation. Within a month he'll go back to being a pop cultural reference point. For the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks his name will be trotted out again. We'll wave flags and act patriotic and then he might just fade away. Dems will surely want a return of his name next year during re-elections. I'm a Dem but I'm not looking forward to that at all. I would rather just move forward and not linger or dance on the grave. It serves no purpose but to re-stir hatred.

Unlike comic villains there is no glorious ending with credits rolling afterward. There's only slow declines punctuated by short bursts of terror. For Osama Bin Laden, it looks like he had both in the last 10 years.

Goodness

2011-04-29T19:20:00.000-07:00

A friend called today to ask me what's wrong. I had been giving one-word replies to text messages. Apparently my tight-lipped hostility comes through txt msg loud and clear. I wasn't feeling animosity toward him but was retreating into a funk. The funk was self-inflicted and mostly in thoughts. My gripes against the world were between my ears. I was polite enough not to voice them. The rejections, the silence in request of response, the seeming betrayal of what was promised, what I deserved.

My complaint list revives itself in mid-meditation or afterward. The past week I found myself with a rash-like outbreak of mental affliction. There was no logical reason for it. Perhaps it was the loneliness or being tired. I still acted in ways to help others. But there was a tightness in my help. A reservoir of resistance. What am I holding back?

The past week I've sent out job posting, grant opps, finished calling a phone list for a not-for-profit, connected LHI people together, planned appointments, and pretty much helped take of my parents needs. I shopped for them, drove to appointments, fed them, took the trash out, cleaned up, and gave and gave and gave. On the surface I was a giving machine of physical objects and love and work. On Thursday I sent away a designer jacket to be auctioned for charity. I end the week tired and feeling 'off.' I need to improve my intentions and focus on the goals. I'm doing 'the good' anyway. I might as well get the maximum benefit.

I'm re-dedicating myself. To the essence of indivisibility and the higher goals. And every day I need to renounce myself of expecting 'big name' and big thing.

Goodness is so easy to do in default. It takes more effort to move with goodness in my heart.

Help, Pray, Wait: Health Insurance

2011-04-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

Insurance needs note from doctor for therapy. Set up doctor exam and pay. Get note from doctor. Hand note to therapist company. Therapist company has to hand note back to insurance company for review. Wait on insurance's qualitative approval of the company selected. Then insurance has to quantitatively approve of the how much therapy, which insurance negotiates down to something affordable according to their financial health. Please hold.

Insurance maintains all rights to question claims from medical profession. Insurance has no medical background or license. Insurance maintains all rights to question therapist treatment schedule. Insurance has no treatment training. Insurance earnings depend on treatment limitation, not freedom. Negotiations proceed on legal grounds with insurance lawyers reaching out to doctors. Bargain for health. Please pray.

Patient gets treated once negotiations finish between lawyer and therapist company. At any point if treatment is interrupted due to further illness, insurance can suspend approval and require a new note from doctor. New note from doctor often seen as 'additional treatment' by insurance when it's a continuation of treatment suspended by insurance. Additional treatment is often rejected. Please mute.

Insurance earnings increase from banking patient payment. Banking money gets renamed as insurance capital rather than patient resource. And capital belongs to insurance. Not you. Please die.

Writing Jokes

2011-04-27T20:10:00.000-07:00

I've never written standard jokes before. Recently one of my friends asked me to give it a try. He's a Black stand-up comedian and I figured it was a way to exercise my muscle.

I texted my first stand-up comedy joke to him along with follow ups. I changed the context of the joke a little bit on here to protective its uniqueness.

Fox Joke:

So I was dating this guy who works at Fox News. And gay Republicans get a bad rap.People say they hate themselves, they're too cold, they're traitors. But Bobby was so romantic. He would say the sweetest things a gay white conservative could say. For instance on our first date whispered in my ear, 'show me your papers, nigga!'

And I just melted.On our second date I gave him my long-form birth certificate. That was foreplay. On our third date I showed him my freedom papers.

Once things started getting really hot I had him do what any black man would: cosign on my loans. Cause if I can't screw your credit, you can't screw me. Bobby was so sweet. His credit score was 190 by the end of our relationship. A sore ass last for a few days, but bad credit lasts a lifetime.

Renunciation

2011-04-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

It helps that I live by a cemetery and that my parents were always so cheap. The idea of being obsessed by objects and things isn't that strong in me. Even as a child when my parents asked if I wanted the latest Cabbage Patch Doll or the new sneakers, I would shrug. I didn't really care. I don't mind having nice things and, in fact, it can feel comforting. But I hold no opinion of a person who has nice stuff or status symbols of attaining property. I think this is why a lot of rap music these days feels so hollow to me: talking about 'stuff' is as interesting as talking about armpit hair.

It was to my great surprise when an older friend invited up to her mansion a few weeks ago. I figured I would use the few days up there to finish up a play and relax outside of New York. When I arrived there was money on the table and an empty house. I was told to make myself at home. I munched on some berries and decided to make an omelet. In my home we clean up after ourselves, so I promptly washed the pan and dish after eating a salsa omelet. I read a little bit and looked around in the kitchen and living room. In a lounge chair by the window was a huge pile of men's clothes. I was told to try them on, take whatever I could wear. I picked up a few of the shirts by the fistful and began looking at the sizes. Most were too small and then I noticed the name brands. Burberry, Versace, and other European designer clothes. I tried on a few and separated the can's from the can't-wears. Then I tried on the shoes, almost all of which didn't fit.

Still confused as to what was going on, I waited. And waited some more. I looked out on the backyard and the rolling river. I took a step outside onto the deck. When my friend finally arrived she drove into the garage blasting music on her stereo. She swept into the house calling my name and I greeted her with hugs and kisses. She took me around to the pile and told me to pick out what I could wear and I could have it. Stunned, I thanked her and then she showed me the Burberry scarves and other items that I could have and I was informed of a new plan: I was to help her. She needed help auctioning clothes and then was interested in starting up a media company. Slightly wary of what was going on, I asked for details and was filled in on her moving, needing to sell these designer goods, and having too much stuff for one person. She threw name brands and labels at me like an auction barker; most of the names I didn't recognize or even care about but it was nice to be informed. The important thing was that my help was needed.

Now I'm not a great Buddhist scholar or practitioner. I wish I could say I was above the reproach of corruption, but I'm not. I can be corrupted like anyone else. But clothes don't do it for me. Never have, never will. When I back in Miami I shop thrift and cheap and I'm quite happy to do so. I'm writing currently in white shorts and a cheap green shirt all purchased from Wal-Mart.

Then she said I could have a percentage of the profits from selling the clothes and the numbers began running in my head. I'm trying desperately to fund raise for not-for-profit organizations and helping sell high-end clothes could generate revenue to help a lot of suffering. I'm in.

I began making phone calls, getting a feel for consignment shops, selling online. I called and emailed friends furiously and got up to speed in an hour thanks to research. This felt good. I was doing something for a cause and to help others. My friend kept giving me clothes and showing me around to different parts of this giant cavernous house. I became aware of how lonely it must be to live in a house this large with all this stuff in it. Trunks of designer accessories, clothes. The aspect of showing seemed important to her, after all she spent the money to show it to people. The least I could do was feign interest in female clothes and sports paraphernalia. I nodded and said 'wow' a lot and tried to ask the right questions and give compliments because I figured that's what you do when someone is showing off.

The next day I informed my friend that I would have to leave by the end of the night. I had no underwear or socks. I had only planned on spending a day or two there. She went out and bought me designer underwear socks. This would give me an extra day or two to work on this project. Additionally I began ringing up contacts in the field of entertainment to make connections and weave this all together, according to her request. And then I was corrupted.

Compliments and big name. That is my corruption point. She mentioned how great these media projects were going to be, how many people we were going to reach. I tried to stay in the present moment but found my mind drifted slowly off into grandeur. I would pull it back in and then the compliments would come showering down on me: I was such a great writer. And off my mind went to a future of power and producing projects that I cared about. There were slightly concerning and unusual signs of behavior from her but I was slightly intoxicated by the compliments. I could excuse the plants being removed from pots and dumped on the floor in random areas, the paranoia she conveyed of people stealing from her, the disheveled look of the house, the disappearances during the few days I was there to meet in DC with important people.

One night I was up trying to get some writing done and I walked to my guest room to wash my face. I heard footsteps and then a note was slipped under my door. I picked it and read that she had an emergency meeting in DC and was leaving ASAP. It was 2 am in the morning. Calmly I opened the door and called out her name. I asked about the note and she assured me that she would be back in the afternoon but she had to run off to DC. She handed me a wad of cash to get a cab ride to the mall tomorrow and buy some designer glasses for myself. To a normal person, this might seem odd. But I was, once again, living in an intoxicated state. I was an important part of her team and making moves with her. I was being entrusted with the mansion, the cars, the everything. I was important.

The next morning I woke up to the empty house, meditated, made phone calls, and got a cab to the mall. I paid the driver an enormous tip and went to the eyeglass store and picked out the finest designer glasses money could buy. I had my prescription fitted and then I had time to kill. The mall and its mountain of designer 'stuff' felt oppressive and down right depressing. I walked outside and made my way down a side street. My instinct lead me to a glorious red church. I stood there and took out some of my Buddhist literature. I did a vow, looked around, and was just happy to be in the open air by myself. The cab driver pulled up and I got back inside. We talked about the church's beauty and I confessed that I didn't know this area, church architecture or even how to drive a stick shift. He filled me in on everything. I asked if he could pull into a bank because I had also been given some checks to deposit for my personal use.

After depositing the checks I made my way back to the mansion, feeling pretty good. Lunch was made and meetings were set for the auction site and for the media projects. My friend arrived and said she was exhausted. Unfortunately the media person was already there. They engaged in an hour long conversation and she retired to bed. But before doing so, she handed me several more hundred in cash to go have dinner with the media producer. We hopped in a cab and choose Thai. My friend picked the finest steak and ordered a bottle of wine for himself. I stuck to salad, and a few veggie options, sans the wine

The next day it was more of the same and the web designer stopped by. More money was handed out and we dined at a fine French restaurant. I came back home and ordered a ticket to come back to Miami for my mom's surgery. I normally don't sleep the night before flying so I was wandering around at 3am and my friend asked me if I needed a ride back into the city. A cabbie was coming but she offered to drive me in herself in an hour. This would beat the traffic and I could wash all my dirty clothes. Deal. I showered, changed, packed the items she had set aside for me and hopped in the backseat of her Mercedes with my stuff in a box.

She drove me back into the city and I thanked her profusely. I was already planning on gift baskets and thank you notes galore. A few hours later it all changed. I was washing my clothes and I got an email asking where certain clothes were. These were items that she had given me and saw me put in the backseat of her car. And then it all hit me: the strange behavior, paranoia, memory loss, excessive giving. This was her standard method. That's why all of her friends -according to her- had stolen from her. Panicking, I immediately tried calling repeatedly. No answer, and straight to voice mail. I texted her and emailed her. No response. I took the items in question and shoved them in a bag. I frantically ran to the local UPS store and asked them ship these clothes overnight, express ASAP back to my friend's place. Nightmares of cops knocking on my door began to play out in my head.

The UPS service said they would be there by tomorrow. I could breathe again and sat at a computer and wrote her a long email. Of course it must have been my 'misunderstanding.' Yes, the clothes were shoveling at me for several days must have been a 'misinterpretation.' But I took the blame and tried to think of the karmic causes for such an odd ripening: to be given and then to be accused.

I didn't hear any word from my friend for a week. I flew back that day and my mom had surgery on Monday. Afterward I was pretty much consumed with taking care of her and my Dad, while paying bills and keeping the house in order.

A week later I call my friend's daughter and she sounds surprised to hear me. I just sent out a beautiful gift basket to my friend and was just following up. She's a bit stunned and asks if I get the email? No, what email. She forwards them to me and my jaw drops. In the email my friend accuses me of stealing from her: clothes, accessories, sports memorabilia, furs, antiques, even food. She listed things I had never heard of or seen including antique Bibles and 14th century figurines as missing and it was all because of me. I was also accused of having sex with men, whom I brought into the house, and even having sex in front of her. I also impersonated one of her relatives and gallivanted around town running up a tab in her 'good name.'

If you have ever been accused of something you never did, then you might know how I feel. Now multiply that by a billion and you begin to get a sense of how absurd and far-out these claims sounded. Her daughter informed me that her mother had psychological issues and this is par for the course. She never presses charges, but she just invites people in, showers them with gifts, and then accuses the same person of stealing from her.

In her emails I was a degenerate theft right out of a Jean Genet novel. A manipulative con man of unparalleled rank. Money, clothes, lingerie/underwear had all gone missing in my short stay there. I was from "Six Degrees" and her sentences were punctuated by multiple exclamation marks like an enraged high school girl. Her emails ended with her denouncing me but vowing to rise above it all. She would, according to her, soon be a star on youtube, seen around the world. She was too fabulous to be kept down by me or anyone else.

In a follow-up email to her friends she then said that I couldn't get enough of her and was emailing her constantly after she had already told me to stop. The only emails I had sent in the last week was a personal thank you note, a business reminder about the website, and an update of my mom's condition pre- and post-surgery condition that I blasted out to my friends. Quickly I removed her from my list of contacts and began sulking. How stupid, to have trusted! How stupid, to have believed! How could I have not seen the signs? They were everywhere. The woman was clearly out of her mind and I called her a friend (a distant one, but still) for years. I felt so low and foolish.

And then grace returned. I meditated on it and the meanings. Perhaps I should have asked, but I am learning. I emailed if any of the stuff should be returned and didn't get a reply. I've asked around and now I don't know what to do, so I've taken matters into the hands of the needy. Most of the money I have given away to charity. I am finding a way to auction off the clothes so they can go toward the hungry and others who need help. I am trying to turn this around into a way to help others.

We'll see how it all works out. I'm surrendering to the renunciation of these things. These items that so many people value, fight over, make false accusations, these silly little trinkets that mean nothing to me. I can use these trinkets to help others.

In some ways this experience deepened my faith in renunciation Imagine if I had really cared about these clothes or my name. My friend said I could file a libel suit against her and win a lot of money. But I don't care. The experience is one that ranks as the most bizarre thing to happen to me in the last several years. Live and learn.

My Favorite Injured Players: Mike and Chad

2011-04-21T11:29:00.000-07:00

There is a soft spot in my heart for the smart, alert, and reckless professional athlete. They are a sign of genius and mortality. I grew up in Miami and for 10 years watched Dan Marino quarterback the Miami Dolphins without getting so much as a hang nail. And then one season, during an unspectacular game in Cleveland it all changed. It was a 2-minute drill and the Dolphins were driving down the field before halftime with ease. Marino was at his finest, throwing a dart to a receiver, then a screen, going over the top to the middle of the field. The Brown's defense looked helpless.

Marino went back to pass and suddenly kicked his leg up in shock. He quickly dumped the ball off to a running back and collapsed to the ground. No one had touched him, the field didn't have any major dents in it. The gesture Marino made looked like someone who had been bitten on their heel by a snake. The announcers speculated as to whether he could've tripped over one of his lineman while the injured pick-up truck drove out to the middle of the field. And that was the beginning of the end for one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time: a goofy-looking kick and collapse to the ground. On a sunny day in Cleveland with no major warning signs, his achilles tendon just snapped.

Marino returned a year later but it was never the same. Injuries came with increased frequency. A player who hadn't missed a game in over 10 years was now MIA for one or two games a year. Then it was extreme soreness, declining confidence, fear of injuries, demands for better protection, better receivers, a better offensive system to protect and shield him. And then retirement. Confidence in the body can leave so quickly.

There are rare great athletes like Marino and Jordan who can play for a decade without a nick. And they're are great athletes who are the IR MVPs. From the moment they enter the league trainers have to treat them like ceramic figurines. Greg Oden is probably the most famous recent example. A tremendously powerful NBA center who keeps getting small fractures which end his season. Yao Ming also fits the description well. But for a Miami sports fan there are two recent favorites that I hold close to my heart: QB Chad Pennington and NBA small forward Mike Miller.

Chad Pennington has glass shoulder while Miller could probably dislocate all his fingers by calling a time out. Pennington came from the New York Jets and was always the smart, conservative passer with pinpoint accuracy and encyclopedic knowledge of opposing defenses. Pennington came down to Miami and had one good year. Better than most QBs. It was injury free, inspiring and a study in how a quarterback should prepare for a game. That year the Dolphins won the AFC East title only field goals and dump passes. Since then Pennington has ended each one of his seasons with injuries. He seems destined to be an astute QB coach, but his days of quarterbacking are almost over.

Mike Miller signed with the Heat last year and promptly got injured in training camp. Freak accident. His thumb got tangled in LeBron's jersey during a scrimmage. Torn muscles and done for several weeks. But there was still hope. By Christmas things would change and Miller was suited and ready to go in 2011. And then his other thumb got injured. And then his hand. And then he got sick with a terrible flu and dizziness, and then he's managed to re-re-injure his thumbs and hands each time he's gone in for significant minutes at the close of the season. And yet when Miller isn't getting taped to look like the mummy or doubled over in pain, he's a glorious player. Strong, tall, wiry, he can shoot 3-points with a feathery touch, use his long legs to break to the basket, goes after rebounds with tenacity, and has sharp court vision. The few glimpses Heat fans have had of Miller are impressive. Dwyane Wade was out a game due to migraine headaches and Miller started in his place. He hit 6 three-pointers in the first half. And he did it while assisting others, playing selflessly, and sticking to his opponent in defensive sets. In the one game Miller started all year, he set a team record for three-pointers in a half.

If Miller has another season like this one, he will be finished in Miami. He will be traded or simply released to make more room under the salary cap. A desperate team will take a shot and probably re-sign him before the fax finishes to NBA headquarters. Yet, he will always be a part of the Miami MVP IR team to me.

Radio MIA

2011-04-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

I've been driving around Miami the past few days and flipping through channels. It's a futile exercise but I suffer from phantom fan syndrome. I grew up in the best radio market in America. South Florida in the 1980s and early 90s was a Warholian echo chamber of personalities, scandals, and voices. 560 WQAM and 610 WIOD were kings. Hour after hour you could be driving around the city and find something on the airwaves that was smart, irreverent, ecclectic, and completely fitting of the Floridian's penchant for the absurd and bizarre. I wanted to be these radio circus freaks and carnival barkers. Little did I know that this was a short last gasp of an industry being swallowed up. Deregulation killed metropolitan talk radio and opened the doors for mega-media companies and their national auto-programming.

Now when I turn on the radio and flip around it's Spanish news channels, Cuban politics, and sports. Lots of sports. I flipped between different sports channels because it's something I can tolerate but even that is beginning to feel auto-programmed and bleached of personalities.

Yesterday I let the dial stop at 610. The famed-channel is about 20 years removed from its heyday. Ten years ago it was just 24-hr news repeated on the channel. Recently it's been gobbled up and now is home to nationally-syndicated Fox anchors and broadcasters. Rush Limbaugh, Glen Beck, and Sean Hannity call this former hippie-commune station its Miami link-in. It's a surreal moment because when I see 610 on the dial I experience phantom fan syndrome. I get a warm, fuzzy feeling as my mind prepare itself for the brilliance of Randy Rhodes and Phil Hendry, the caustic rants of Neil Rodgers, or the absurd buffoonery of Rick and Sudds. Then I'm suddenly snapped out of it by ads for buying gold, erectile dysfunction, and FEAR. Buy fear, sell hope. Fear is trading at an all-time high these days.

The 610 of the past were stoners, comedians, and insane Floridians with pet obsessions, and conspiratorial theories on peyote. They were men and women, rich and poor, gay and straight all united by the feeling that the world was insane, hilarious, unpredictable, and something to be joked about to take away the pain.

Now the 610 caller are mostly from the middle of the country and older white men. And the overriding theme of their calls is FEAR. They call Beck afraid of our economy, afraid of the president, of hippies, of 'inner city problems.' No wonder people are having problems with 'erectile functions' with all this fear. There is little humor to the problems or problem-solvers, but a deep suspicion and distrustfulness of any big organization (oddly enough they don't hold this same suspicion for the media comglomerate they listen to that swallowed up a lot of the smaller 610s all over the nation).

Listening to these callers makes me realize something: they are really afraid. It's not an act or a racist rant, or a cover for their prejudices. They are really scared. Of what, I'm not entirely sure. Scared of change of 'their' country no longer being 'their's?' They aren't pretending. This fear is real to them and people like Beck, Limbaugh, and Hannity help fill a role in their lives that maybe keeps them from going crazy.

What do they get from this broadcast of fear? Comfort, community, and a feeling that there is a way. Of course, I would think the way out of fear is to embrace its opposite. Still, they appear to be finding a way. The older white men right-wing radio of hate and mistrust share a field with another genre: gangsta rap. In the 80s and 90s there was a violent, mysogynistic entertainment filled with guns, jewelry, and scandal. Black men were under attack and the response to gangs, crack, and death was gangsta rap. Critics said the music was destructive, but failed to realize it was describing a destruction while not necessarily taking part in it. Yes, there was glorification, exaggeration, and rampant homophobia. But there was also some community formed from this media.

Right-wing radio has come together to offer a community balm of coercive violence, fear, erectile dysfunction cures, and hidden gold solutions to the spiritually and financially insolvent. These are men who are losing hope in themselves and lashing out. But at least they're also reaching out. It is in joining forces that they can begin to find their real problems aren't anchor babies and secret Kenya Muslims. Their real problems are much like mine. And there really is no difference. Sadly 610 WIOD has been gobbled up and all the stars are gone. Fortunately, maybe it's for a good cause to give aid to the increasingly delusional fringe few who need the station more than myself or my friends.

Birth and Dreams

2011-04-11T08:01:00.000-07:00

This morning I drove my mom to the hospital. She entered at the outpatient gate and didn't look back. I turned the car around, pointing it back to the house. She's schedule to have surgery this morning while I look after my Dad here at home. This day, 32 years ago, she also gave birth to me.

Driving home I met the nurse as she was wrapping up and quickly prepared breakfast for Dad, coffee, pills, eye drops, insulin pump. I gave myself the experiment of Cream of Rice for breakfast with berries and green tea. My facebook page is being filled up with the obligatory 'happy birthdays' and I'm getting emails reminding me that today is 'the' day.

Neither real or un-real is the feeling. Slightly numb, dazed fate guides my procedures today. It isn't the surgery. Doctors call the procedure 'minor' with a day in the hospital. It isn't the autistically ritualistic schedule my Dad has for food placement on the tray, how medication have to be set out and organized a certain way in order to be ingested. He takes care of most of the pill rituals himself carefully designing color-coordinated tabs soldiering off into his mouth. The bed has to be tilted just a certain way so that when he looks at it, he doesn't get annoyed. The food is the same, the TV shows the same, the movements are the same, just with diminshing returns. Like the red wind the carves out desert valleys in Arizona, there is something comforting in the fateful organization that erodes away the unpredictability, and carves out a monument to itself. Disease and illness tips the mind toward the comfort of order and rituals. I do my prayers and meditations every day and that too is a ritual. The facebook 'birthday postings' is a techno-ritual, both incredibly monotonous, but comforting: people know its my birthday and are able to muster 13 key strokes and hit send.

Disease and death chase me toward the ritual. Wracking up birthdays remind me of not only where I've come from but where I could be going, where many are going year by year. I'll have to do some giving from the perfections, read some scripture, and puncture the soft feeling of entombment.

In Love with Emptiness

2011-03-27T13:46:00.000-07:00

Emptiness is the key. Last week I got really excited about coming across a fantastic description of emptiness. Thanks to scholar/translators like Geshe Michael Roach I was able to read a section from Levels of the Bodhisattva.After studying for years I'm still struck by all the beautiful and more intricate definitions of emptiness.

In the middle way it's also referred to as indivisibility. From the way I understood the beautiful texts in Asian Classics Institute, there's a fine line between concocting things and discounting. Constructs and anything that doesn't exist from its own side (which is everything) are concocting or formed. Whether formed as a whole (like thinking of the color 'blue') or formed in pieces (my identity). Discounting things is to believe that nothing is there and there is nothing'ness, which can't be true because any scientist knows you can't get 'something' from 'nothing.' And somewhere between those two extremes is the definition of that indivisibility.

In the text the definition was listed as such:

Indivisibility is that object which is incorporated in the nature of phenomena, which is free of the existence and lack of existence of the 2 [concocting and discounting]. And this kind of indivisibility is what we call the 'matchless' object of the path of the Middle Way, the way which avoids both the extremes.

Like a good proof, the definition sounds so elegant and simple to me. The nature of phenomena I'm guessing to mean the appearances of what goes on in the world: birth, sickness, aging, death, love, food, etc. All the phenomena of nature has indivisibility incorporated into its core. The potential of all phenomena is therefore limitless. Infinite possibilities. Angels can tap into that limitless'ness. And the only thing I share with Lord Buddha, Angels, and every single scrap in the world is that indivisibility. That is the only thing which will continue up to enlightenment and be remarkably the same by being limitless. When I learn I'm unraveling those karmas and decpetions to tap into the core. There is no ethics out there, which is why ethics are so important. Due to my experiences I'm forced to tap into that emptiness in countless ways. I experience the subtle shifts and movements in my life based upon the deeds done. And the entire thing encapsulates the open teachings. Everything matters b/c everything is limitless.

Indivisibility and karma are intrinsically glued. And so what I see isn't shifts out there, growing seeds, deaths, pain. What I'm seeing are shifts within me that get me to respond and create more ripples, which then create more shifts, more response. The deeds fuel themselves and create.

I've been re-reading that definition again and again on the subway, during breaks, in meetings. I'm trying to constantly remind myself of this indivisibility.

Talking about "Feeder"

2011-03-17T17:47:00.000-07:00

I've known James Carter for a few years and we live in the same neighborhood. Yet it's rare to speak to other artists and writers these days. The premiere of Carter's play "Feeder" gave me the excuse to sit down with him before his show.

I had just run across town from the East Village Tompkin Square library to check-out "Secret History" a biography on Samuel Steward, an intellectual and 'sexual renegade' who chronicled his exploits with other men over several decades. On the L train back across to the West Side, I read the foreword to "Secret History" and the author's fascination with deviants and renegades. Steward fit into that mold as someone who was an artist, tattoo artist, professor, novelist, pornographer, and biographer among other things. In the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, this sort of man would certainly count as a renegade. These days, however, people chronicle their exploits on Facebook and vblogs. The shame of elicit sex and, therefore, much of the secretive thrill has also disappeared from most of my friends. There is no taboo, just human plumbing and wiring. But food is something quite different. I think food is something that garners shame in all cities, in all classes, races, and religions. Maybe that was why I wanted to sit down and talk.

"Feeder" is a great, possibly even a brilliant, play that makes me uncomfortable. The genius is in the seat squirming. The audience is left to look in on a pair of people engaging in abrnormal levels of consumption. The one question I had in the back of my mind was with all that consumption must come abnormal levels of defecation, sweat, and fluids. I didn't ask that, though, because the bigger issue was about whether these people, these feeders, are renegades of sort.

Carter said he definitely thought they could be considered outside the norm and, therefore, renegade in rejecting certain things about how we eat, think, and feel about our bodies. Then he said that the level of eating that goes into making someone gain 500-700 lbs is probably unhealthy. But isn't that what a renegade is, I asked? Sexual renegades like Steward engaged in sex at a probably unhealthy freakish amount that endangered their body and mind. Drug renegades like William Burroughs most certainly blasted their minds into pieces with abnromal use. In an age where the personal is political, isn't that a renegade? Is there such thing as a sensible revolutionary who goes to bed at 9:30 pm, eats healthy portions, maintains monogamy, and jogs 3 miles a day? Isn't that what's safe, normal, conservative? To be in the the arts or social politics and to engage in life at an extreme level probably means something mentally and physically is breaking down in search for a higher quest.

I'm fascinated by renegades because I am not one. It's better to watch. I don't smoke or use drugs, have no desire for drinking, prefer early bed times, and find the only thing more mundane than 'being naughty' is reporting on it. Yet there is a circus aspect to watching people who possess discomforting features and traits. Somewhere in my deep subconscious is a 3-ring tent of bearded ladies, manic clowns, midget twins, fire breathers, strippers, sword swallowers, and fat women. I have no doubt about this because the circus scares me. Much like "Feeder" did, the circus makes me squirm in my seat and I know that the discomfort has to do mostly with being uncomfortable with who I think I am vs. who I might actually be.

Who I think I am is a poet, writer, philosopher, and dharma student. I think I'm a potential teacher of the dharma, an inspiration, a virtuoso. I would like to believe that I am horribly disfigured from my uniqueness and that this unicorn is so special no one could understand its true beauty. Who I might actually be is just another circus gawker, a lover of tragedy and horror, another buck-toothed, horse-face country rube who slaps his knee when he laughs because he gets a kick out of the freaks because I am too scared to 'BE.' I squirm because I might not be so different from those that watch reality TV and the dirty old men who can still recall the days of peep shows.

Carter said that there is no need to go to the circus any more because we can get it streamed into our homes. And there in lies a deeper question about theatre and social spaces that are becoming extinct. There is a strange alienation which causes people to enact the circus at home and be very passive in public, almost diametrically opposed in amount to each other. Vblogging the process of gaining 300 lbs is not something that the average person would tune into. And yet there are many blogs and videos online about feeders and the lovers of the 'incredibly well-fed.' The peep show is in our living rooms and in front of the computer. Exposure in private means less risk in public. The thrill is not in the experiencing, but getting home and reporting about it online, having a debate in a chat room, interacting with comfort and distance with the world. The vicious cycle leads to more isolation and then more privately-controlled exposure to counteract alienation. How can the circus or even theatre really exist in this type of world?

I went to a concert on Tuesday and found that I was one of the few people in the audience who was not joining the band on stage to play an instrument. My friends and I were actually there to hear the music. We had made a spontaneous decision and didn't consult with critics or guides. We saw a club and went inside. The food was excellent, the music was catchy blend of French neo-soul and hip hop bouncing back in forth between Brooklyn and Paris, the band was tight and smooth. The experience existed and I felt no desire to post about it on my Facebook page or take pictures of the food and band to prove 'what a good time' I was having. It was self-evident and wholly satisfying evening of adulthood in New York City. Therefore there was no need for public validation at what a great person I was or what a crazy adventure I had in Tribeca. In order to truly have a good time in public spaces one needs inner validation. Inner validation is achieved through watching oneself interact with the world on a daily basis outside of work and getting to and from the office.

If less and less people are unable to interact with real-time life without the crutches of Twitter and text, how can they stay still for 2 hours to watch theatre, go to a museum by themselves, check out the botanical garden? If we are less able to function in the world, then how can we have a citizen-based democracy or use the 4th estate of media and opinion to keep our government in check? If the silent majority have checked out, then who is left in the public space except deviants, exhibitionists, and theatre majors (overlapping categories, no doubt)? And if the exhibitionist is the only one left, then is there really any thrill in it? People don't expose themselves to trees, recite poetry to dirt, or stage plays for the clouds. They do it to create a space-time unity with others. Come see my play, go to my website, check out my vblog where I eat an entire turkey in one sitting, watch me cut myself, ingest bodily fluids, burn myself, cannibalize myself. Please eat me up!

The aspect of people exposing themselves for free to get validation is the very concept of writing. In writing, however, there is a refinement of this desire into order and viewpoints. From that seed sprouts theories, beliefs, philosophies, religion, art, history, mankind. It is in the refinement of that pleading desire for attention that takes something very basic and elevates it. And so public spaces were created to share in a common energy of a quiet library or a hip hop club blasting French neo-soul.

If there were no vblogs and chat rooms, would 'feeding' exist as a fetish or would we just say they're food addicts? Certainly I have the tendency to look at anything abnormal or deviant and want to slap a psychological disorder on it and send in the doctors. But the very aspect of being watched, changes both the actor and the audience. If there is no one watching, is theatre just refined exhibitionism among a dwindling group of friends?

I was all over the place in our conversation and I think that was right. I feel all over the place with the issues brought up by "Feeder." We were all over the place in our conversation but I don't think we needed to be organized. There was a freedom to kicking around these ideas. There is a lightness to challenging big thoughts and to making mountains out of questions. Some times there are no answers. Just conversations with friends, observations on life, and the thrill of being.

Feeder: A Love Story and My Story

2011-03-11T12:36:00.000-08:00

On Sunday I saw a preview of James Carter's "Feeder" with my friend at the HERE Arts Center. It's a two-person show about co-dependency, love, and food. The boyfriend is the feeder. He has a love of big women and begins dating a woman who he encourages to eat more and more food so she'll gain weight. The woman is the Feed'ee I guess. She has low self-esteem that gets validated by the feeder and numbed by junk food. The two live an idyllic existence of co-dependency until the woman's body starts to break down at around 700 lbs. She's telekidnapped by a talk show hosts and sent to a weight-loss facility for the sake of a show special. The show tracks back and forth between the present misery of their separation and flashbacks to the Feed'ee gaining weight as she dates the Feeder.

I felt both compelled and repulsed by "Feeder" and that's a compliment. I think that's the vibe Carter was going for in this story. I was repulsed by the level of gluttony and sickness. There were moments when I just wanted to leave because the descriptions of the food was so enormous that it made me sick to think about someone eating all that, and aware that there are people out there doing just that. As someone who had and still has issues with food, I come from a long line of foodaphiles. In the Black community we like to sweeten things by calling it soul food and comfort, but most of what fits in that category is quite disgusting and unhealthy. The past few years I've been a vegetarian and have never felt better. That has eliminated a lot of the junk from my diet and caused me to be more conscientious about what I'm eating. But there is still sweets, which is a constant threat against meditation and wellness.

I'm not as bad as I was in the past when it comes to sugar, but I still have a ways to go. As I've grown older, some of that compulsion has gone away and now been replaced by cravings for sour and spicy foods. I satiate this in a lot of stir fry vegetable dishes and steamed meals that I garnish with pickled preserves or exotic curries. Health-ier, simple, more protein, and vitamins. I feel amazing in comparison to my early twenties when I was constantly bloated, gassy, sluggish, and tired. When I sleep I really sleep. When I'm awake, I'm mostly awake. Along with being a vegetarian I'm staying away from more breads, cheeses, and eggs. Yesterday I had a sandwich on white bread and then white potatoes that came with the banana. Wow. Not good and it made me realize how infrequently I eat white bread.

My weaknesses are still pizza and fries. But to think about where I've been and now to think that I have occasional cravings for pizza and fries, then it's amazing. The change in my diet wasn't just calorie counting. It was a change in my reaction and use of food. It's strange that it took me so long to realize this, but food is just meant for energy. That's it. If I'm not using food for energy then something is amiss.

As a child I didn't really think about the purpose of food. I was too busy eating it. And in not thinking about the purpose, I began to create my own for food. Comfort, numbing, excitement, reward, punishment, escape. These became the purposes of food for me. I escaped into it and comforted myself. The nutrients and energy was secondary to the emotional love attached to food. It was a strange compulsion and I think my parents have the same issue.

I wasn't worth love and was scared of it from other people. Food was my lover. It didn't talk to me, reject me, or criticize. I just ingested it and felt taken care of by the scents and tastes. And never fully satisfied, I would ingest more and more.

In short I was the Feeder and the Feed'ee. I was feeding myself and -as a result- imprisoning my body and my life. Fortunately I did have a saving grace: my love of sports. Tennis, football, basketball, wrestling, volleyball, I always had a natural connection to activity. At a certain point it was sports or food. And in my teenage years sports won out. I became quite lean and muscular. All-state athlete, dancer, mover. And from sports, I began exploring the energy behind it: sex. In college I made the transition and now I needed to be somewhat appealing to a partner. I couldn't just indulge in my first love because I craved the interaction of competitive sports, weight lifting, as well as sex. The gay community is very ruthless when it comes to body image, so a certain level that fascism kept me in check. I critiqued my body, deprived myself of food, not because I had figured out its purpose. I deprived myself in order to get the reward in other men.

And then from sex, I discovered spirituality. Imagine that. From the depths of my compulsion I stumbled into Venerable Lobsang Chunzom. In our first one-on-one meeting she read my mind and was commenting on sexual purity. It was done in a very gentle manner and I was scared. Could she see it on me? I had been good that week, been relatively clean. Did I smell of it or was it something in what I said or did? I'll never know. But I began taking in the suggestions, all done with laser-point skill. I began keeping a vow book, meditating, studying and then at certain point I faced another crossroad: sex or spirituality. I couldn't go on substituting sex for when I felt emotions and keep a steady meditation practice. Slowly I made the transition away from sex as a drug to mask emotions. And now it comes full circle. From food, to sports, to sex, to spirituality, all of it was done from something lacking. But they don't have to contradict each other or fight. The three S's can work together.

I dance at Alvin Ailey and love the physical aspect of losing myself in the drums and movement. To me that is both athletic and deeply sensual. Spiritually I'm mindful of what I eat, where my lustful mind wanders, and what I do with my body. Underneath it all was not feeling love and trying to feed the hungry mouth.

I'm thinking about all this as I watch "Feeder." This was my attraction and repulsion with the story. I related to it all too well. It scared me and intrigued me. There are no easy endings when it comes to the feeding. The only thing I can do is to ask myself why I'm feeding. The feeding of food, of love, of dance, of art. Is it to give me energy and life? Am I feeding in a conscious way that sweetens my mind? Or am I feeding to stop thinking, to stay numb, to escape?

At the end of "Feeder" the couple breaks up. Their relationship wasn't sustainable because it wasn't based in love. In dysfunction, the dynamic is built to fail. The parts don't fit. There is an inequality in which one side will eventually overwhelm and consume the other. In this case, the Feed'ee had to choose between her life and her co-dependent lover. If she would have chosen the lover, she would have lost her body and life. When she choose herself, the lover couldn't continue to passively entrap her through feeding. His desires were killing her. My own desires were killing me because they were based in dysfunction and compulsion. They were meant to overwhelm and consume me. But for today, I have pulled back from the brink. I am no longer letting myself be fed by dysfunctional needs. And the dysfunction can not sustain itself unless it's also fed.

Animals feed. Mindlessly and in a primal gluttony. I have the chance today to eat, to enjoy, to love.

In Defense of Scientology (WHAT?!?)

2011-03-09T21:13:00.000-08:00

I found a copy of The New Yorker on a subway bench and began flipping through it to discover a massive investigative piece of Scientology. I made my way to a party and a few of my friends were talking about this story and I've run into a few more people who have been shocked by reporter Lawrence Wright. The article's entrypoint is director Paul Haggis's defection from Scientology due to their perceived support of the gay marriage ban in California. Wright then goes on to track all the horror stories of Scientology, the defectors, the requests that people isolate from their family, the abuse within the ranks.

I read the article and found myself beginning to develop a very strong negative response to Scientology. Later on I found myself thinking negatively about the leaders of Scientology. Then at a dinner party I said a few words, in an almost-backhanded way about Scientology. The second the words left my mouth I felt incredibly stupid. Definitely breaking bodhisattva vows, in the most stupid and obvious way.

I have no idea about Scientology, nor do I seek to investigate. But if a faith or philosophy is helping people, then I should leave it ALONE. This is something I should know better by now. And this is why I stay away from most reporting and stories about religions.

The aspects of Scientology apparently helped some of these artist become very successful and has sent positive effects out into the world. There's no point in destroying something I don't know, any every benefit to praise the positive effects it has had for millions.

The ignorance has to stop and it stops with me.