Porn on the Subway

Three black boys were sitting on the subway watching porn on their phones when I walked in. The car was mostly silent except for the porn noise from the phone and their laughter and commentary.

THAT'S HOW ALL MY BITCHES DO ME!

SHE MAKES HER BOOTY CLAP, HAHAHAHA!!!

The loud color commentary continued as I sat down. The participants were probably no older than 13 and 14th and watching videos on two cell phones. One had saggy jeans to reveal dingy, stained four-leaf clover boxers. The one kid without a cell phone was obese, with rolls of fat falling down his sides. It was one of those 'I'm embarrassed for my race and for human kind in general' moments that happens on the subway.

A few adults stared at the floor. It would be within my chivalrous code to remind them that they're on the subway, shouting back at them, and getting the people on my side. It was also something I've never encountered. I could also just move to another car, ignore them. Instead I decided to sit and observe.

The way the boys were talking was to draw attention to themselves or without care or regard to other people's audio-privacy in a public space. They shouted, screamed at camera, commented on the male porn actor's squirming faces, and repeatedly called their dream girlfriends 'bitches' who they got to act like porn stars.

When I drew my eyes up and focus on them, they seem to get quieter. I know what I look like when I want to: I'm a big, African-American male with muscles who is often mistaken for a cop or security guard. I can -when I want to- shift my presence and facial expression to look like a stern authority figure or their Dad (or what they would think their Dad might look like). The boys pretended not to notice me but I can feel the glances out of the side of their eyes. I soften my look to be less accusatory or enraged. I just want to look at this and see. This was a time for equanimity practice.

I have been on subways where guys are watching cell porn. Mostly they're doing it by themselves, or in a corner. I catch the reflection of flesh on their glasses or in the windows of the subway. I politely distance myself from their experience. The watchers are always by themselves and are not talking, whooping, laughing, or offering commentary. And still they are watching porn in a public space: New York City's most public space. We all pretend to ignore each other, old women hedge away from these watchers. I wonder what was the impetus for cell porn on a subway?

There are other private things to do that people enact on the subway. For instance, eating food, especially smelly food. Last week I ate dinner on the subway. I was coming back from the gym and extremely hungry. I popped open my raw vegetables and marinated mushrooms and began eating them. I had weighed the options in my head. The meal wasn't that smelly, it wouldn't be that much of an imposition on people's senses, I was sitting in a corner. My body language shifted as I curved my back and hid the plastic box. I wasn't smacking, licking my lips and saying 'DAMN, THESE ARE SOME TASTY DELIGHTS IM EATING, MUTHAFUCKA!'

Two French gay tourists were sitting near me. They looked out of the side of their eyes. I felt bad but then I rationalized 'it's only vegetables and some lentils.' I judged that they felt this was fair too as they resumed their conversation.

Women reading erotic literature on the subway is another thing my roommate cited. I had never thought about it but she said reading erotica is a very private thing for women. And to do so on the subway robs the experience of its erotic thrill. It has to be a little less enjoyable when reading erotica or watching porn in public with others and you can't achieve the material's intended purpose in public: which is to get off. It's both gross and confusing.

I have seen people work out on the subway, break up relationships, do push-ups and pilates, file through their mail, urinate in a bottle, sleep, passionately make-out, reveal personal gynecological details in loud conversation. I suppose there has been a breakdown in what is not supposed to be done in public spaces. I guess it was inevitable when I walked in at the Union Square stop one day and caught the dancing reflection of porn in a man's glasses. He was seated in the corner of the subway. There was an empty seat across from him. I sat down and noticed that his glasses were lit up with the fleshy reflections of breasts and bush. I did a double take. And the reflections were images from a movie he was watching on his phone. I furrowed my eyebrows at him and then quickly looked away. I felt embarrassed and imposed upon.  The watcher's eyes shot up for a second to look at me and then -noticing that I had looked away- slipped back down into his porn. He held the phone even tighter and closer to his body. In a few other instances, I have caught solitary watchers crouched over their phones in guilt.

Yesterday was the first time when a group of kids loudly celebrated their accomplishments of porn watching on the subway. There was no protocol for how to chastise or react. Could the conductor be called, should parents be notified, should social services be called? Two of the kids got off a few stops into my ride. The only one left was the boy in dirty boxers. Now that he was by himself, he became very quiet and quickly switched off the porn and put in his headphones. He was now listening to music. Oddly enough he had the courtesy to put in headphones so as not to disturb other passengers. So was the porn watching just a communal buddy act they did together? A dare? A bonding moment?

I watched his behavior as he switched to music listening. He crouched over his phone and his head bent down. He would not look up for the rest of the ride. Did he have some sense of shame over the previous incident or was he oblivious and just wanted to listen to his music. At that moment I wish I had a boombox so that I could sit next to him and begin blasting my favorite dharma lectures. I would, of course, offer a loud color commentary to interrupt his music-listening:

DAY-UM, THIS IS SOME DEEP BUDDHIST STUFF!!!

AWWW MAN, DALAI LAMA KICKING OL' SCHOOL!

How would he react? Would he shoot me a look, get up and leave? Perhaps he would take off his headphones and say in his finest British accent, "excuse me dear sir, but I'm trying to listen to my music.'

Paula Deen is Trying to Kill Me

Juust let thaat cook ova' sum' buttah. 


Izzzn't thaaat juust wuunderful?!?

One of my friends has a theory about Paula Deen that occurred while watching her show. A few years ago my friend -a Southern woman- was sitting there in front of the TV with her sister watching Paula Deen on a lazy weekend. As she watched this silver-haired Southern grandma prepare a hamburger she saw something go terribly wrong. What she saw required confirmation from her nearby sister.

Did Paula Deen just take the grease from fried pork and put it in a skillet to fry some burgers?


Yes, she did.


That's funny cause I thought ground chuck and most beef has more than enough fat in it.


It does. That is true.


Did Paula Deen just take the refried grease from the pig and now beef and use it to fry something else in there?


She did.


Is Paula Deen trying to kill me?


Yes, I believe so. 

As she watched several more episodes, that became their mantra. It was a phrase that made them sit up and pay attention whenever Paula winked while adding another layer of grease to her pork chops, giggled while scooping another teensy vat of sugar to her sauces, or uttered a sassy Southern aphorism over a floating glob of butter sinking into the desserts.

Paula Deen is trying to kill me.

I love Paula Deen's cooking shows. The classics episodes, the home cooking, the special guests or road trip specials. I love it all and her family too. I watch them mostly at the gym. When I'm on the bike or elliptical machine, I can't tolerate the local news, judge shows, or talk shows where people are screaming at each other. Food I can handle. There is no (overt) violence, no politics, blood feuds or scandal to cooking shows. Food is something we can all agree and unite around. We like food. Humans love thinking about new and fascinating ways to prepare it. I'd be willing to bet that food has stopped wars, brought families back together, nourished souls to enlightenment. No matter what country you're in, what religion you practice, when you see someone preparing food on a TV screen you stop and think:

Do I want that in my mouth?

It is a very simple question that only requires a gut-level reaction. Either you want what's being cooked in your mouth or you don't. And just because you don't want it in your face hole doesn't mean, it can't still be appreciated. My grandmother was a Food Network junkie. Mema knew all the chefs, watched the shows, gave a running dialogue with the preparation. The only issue was that toward the end of her life Mema didn't really like to eat. She had to be reminded, prodded and cajoled into eating just one balanced meal and a snack once a day. Her response was usually the same 'I'm just not that hungry.' One afternoon as I noticed that the Food Network had been on during my entire visit. Mema was eyeballing the sizzling pans and smoke with quiet reverence.

How often do you watch the Food Network?


All the time.


Doesn't it make you hungry?


No. Not at all. 


You're telling me that you don't want to eat that stuff. 


No, baby. I just like to look. 

And truly she did. Mema could sit there for hours watching smoked ribs, towering cakes, bubbling sauces and forget to eat even a sandwich. When reminded of her body's need of nourishment, she would reluctantly shove something in her mouth, usually whatever food was around and easiest to prepare. Mema had no concern for taste any more. It just didn't register in her concerns. What did register were the colors and sounds of cooking. That had become her nourishment. Mema's owl eyes did all the eating for the stomach. I thought that was the most ridiculous thing until I found myself eyeballing Paula Deen's show.

As a vegetarian I watch the Food Network shows with keen interests. My emotions are usually a mixture of horror, amazement, and spiritual awe. It's like watching daredevils climb dangerous mountains, handle deadly animals, or run through dancing flames. When Bobby Flay goes around the country to nations diners and BBQ joints and shoves piles of bubbling pork into his mouth, I don't feel the slightest bit of envy. I think 'wow, look at all that hot pork that just went into that guys' mouth!?! What's going to go in there next?' When the Barefoot Contessa informs the audience in her patented low-key voice 'I hope Robert likes this' as she scoops out pan seared chicken I think 'Robert is a lucky man!' Not because of the sizzling chicken, but just because someone is cooking and thinking about him. It is comforting and nice. And the Food Network's queen of comfort and niceness is Paula Deen.

Paula Deen is like comfort food that has come to life. She's warm, sweet, carb-heavy, vitamin-deficient, sugary nonsense, with a hint of spice. She's a walking Southern danish, an animated pork chop. You know she's not good for you but she just smiles, winks, laughs. She's the sly, funny food devil that sits on your shoulder.

My eyes and ears devour her comforting meals as completely impossible to actually eat by but still emotionally assuring. Perhaps it is the bubbly voice and her cartoonish Southern accent when she giggles 'thaaat raaigght, ssssuggaaah' or the shoulder wiggle move as she taste a deadly dessert and sings 'oooohhhweee, hunney!' Paula Deen could probably run for governor (southern state of course) and win just on her laughter and home cooked meals. She's a food minstrel who squeals with girlish delight, hums a tune, clowns on camera, sasses America to take off its shoes and unbuckle their belts, while promising to serve them after the commercial break.

A few days ago I was on the elliptical machine when Paula Deen came on my TV. Great, some comforting sights and sounds to get me through this workout. Deen had a guest: Carol Fay Ellison from the Loveless Cafe in Nashville. Two Southern women cooking soul food. This was going to be great. I hunkered down into my workout, prepared to go well past my scheduled time on the elliptical just to catch the entire episode.

Carol Fay and Paula Deen laughed and cooked up a storm. Ham that glistened with peach glaze, corn relish, and something called a "Southern Buttermilk Biscuit and Blue Cheese Bread Pudding." The latter recipe filled me with a mix of spiritual awe and dietary horror. I had nothing but the deepest respect for anyone undertaking such a harrowing concoction as combining blue cheese and biscuits into a dessert.

Carol Fay and Paula were like twin spirits as they sang, strutted, and cooked for America. At the end of the episode they piled their plates with the notorious biscuits and blue cheese dessert. My eyes grew to the size of saucers as I thought 'this is the moment.' This is finally the period when Paula Deen is going to break character and reveal her secret plot to kill us. As she lifted that fork of bubbling mess to her mouth I expected the famed chef to look at the camera and then burst out laughing in a snarky New York accent 'just kidding America. What, you think I'm fucking nuts enough to eat this?' Fuggetaboutit!'

But they ate the dessert. And then they ate another piece just to prove that my eyes didn't deceive me. I stared on as my legs pumped up and down on the elliptical machine. Wow, they just ate that. A rush of adrenaline flooded my body. I felt more alive just by being so close to death. I giggled maniacally and then self-consciously looking around to make sure no one heard my Dr. Evil chortle.

Yes, I want to see you eat more. Eat the whole thing, right now!!! Do it!! Sadly that was all the time they had. At the end of the show they flashed a picture of Carol Fay Ellison and it said 'In Loving Memory.'

I sobered up very quickly. My smile faded as I processed that. I went home and looked up her name. Carol Fay was only 48. On TV, she was sweating and looked morbidly obese while cooking. Paula just affectionately patted her friend's brow with a napkin and asked what the next step was in their plan.

The Food Network wisely followed that classic Paula Deen show with a new episode where she was cooking vegetable lasagna and lots of light, healthy food. The TV executives weren't stupid. They knew what we had just witnessed and quickly countered with an episode of Paula Deen surrounded by fruits and green vegetables while talking about healthy eating.  Nice try!!!

But still she was as delightful and charming as ever. Around vegetables, Paula is a bit more sober and responsible. There isn't any dancing or singing. But then she mentioned dessert. And the little smirk and glint returned to her eyes.  I imagined myself in Paula's kitchen as she prodded me with blue cheese and biscuit pudding.

'Oh Paula, I can't stay mad at you! Even though you are trying to kill me.'


'That's right sugah! Now how 'bout we add some more butta to thaat steak?'


'Paula, that is a terrible idea. But you are so cute.'

Showtime and the NYC Subways w/ Matt Vorzimer

Showtimeeverybodyshowtime!


Showsabouttostart!!


Showtimeeverybodyshowtime!!


What time is it?


SHOW TIME!


What time is it?


SHOW TIME!!

My friend Matt Vorzimer is an e-cusionisrt who performs at Harlem Tavern and on the street regularly. He hauls a huge drum kit up and down the subway stairs along with an electronic percussion board, sticks, CDs. He's a part of a vast network of professional musicians who earn good money on the subways.

In the underground city there are thousands of performers. They flow with the subway trains and are parked at various stops with baskets. Performers also snake through the various subways trains, doing quick sets on a swaying stage, setting up in a few seconds, and learning how to break down and run as quickly as possible.

Over the past few months on the subway I have seen numerous break dance teams, several roving mariachi bands, two electric guitarist (one who played an entire set including full version of "Hotel California" while standing against a pole), African drummers, stumbling violinists, acoustic guitar players, a celloist, bucket drummers in tandem with dancers, accordion player with his sidekick sister holding the hat, countless barbershop quartets, doo-wop groups, a few freestyle rappers/poets, and a drunk man who sings Christmas Carols all year around. Each has their own vibe, their own introduction, mini-set, and offering to give.

Parked in the 34th Street subway stop most days is an elaborate jazz bands which captures the attention of tourists from around the world. On the 42nd Street Time Square stop between the 2-3 red trains and the N-R yellow trains features a Mexican wind flute band that pops up when the seasons turn warm. And the bucket drummers of 4th Street in the village are always around to beat out a syncopated rhythm against the squealing incoming trains.

I'm pretty performing on the subway as it moves is illegal. And I see cops all the time making their way through the trains. Usually a performer has a look-out/money collector who is the sidekick that serves as security/look-out/stage clearer/promoter. It's a fascinating dynamic.

Performing in the train stations, however, requires a $100 permit/license from the city for street performing. I believer somewhere some time ago, city officials realized that street performers were going to exist in this city whether anyone liked it or not. And there was no way to tax people who took in 100% cash tips and donations. New York city figured the $100 would serve as a tax and a minimum deterrent against the absolute worst performers. I'm willing maybe half of the performers have this license. The serious ones do, the ones who have professional set-up at nice, tourist-friendly stations. The cops roam these non-stop and it would be impossible to get away with have a stage in front of the ticket booths without a cop eventually asking for permit. But the performers inside the actual subway trains probably all go incognito, dodging cops. Often you'll see survey not only the entire subway car but look through the doors and see into the next car to make sure there's no potential risks.

I tagged along one night to follow Matt to Grand Central where he was meeting up with break dancers. Street dancers are a funny bunch. They had met at a subway stop and agreed to do a show together. The logic being that a drummer and dance crew would get more attention together. There was no set routine, they were going to riff off each other for a few hours, with the dance influencing the drums, and the drums influencing the dance. To them it was no big deal, but to me I marveled at the skill and ease you must have to freestyle with a completely new person for a few hours in front of an audience.

Subway and street dance crews usually have a lot of hemming and hawing, barking and talking before any actual dance takes place. I sat in Washington Square park one day and watched a famous break crew practice. I had seen these guys on Jay Leno and other talk shows. They were probably pulling down hundreds of thousands every year, and mostly tax-free through their street performances. They were preparing for a park performance near the fountains and were bringing in a new member. The rookie couldn't get the backflip toss right. He had to be balanced enough to be lifted tossed backward, and then land on his feet and keep dancing. I watched them go through this one move dozens of times for a half hour. The rookie kept under spinning and landing on his knees or over flipping and coming down on his heels before falling to his back. They crew kept tossing him and tossing him on the soft park grass. They coached him, worked on his balance, and then got his game face right. I went about my West village life, ran a few errands and was walking back through the park several hours later. The same break crew was running through its routine, which involved a lot of talking, hyping their greatness, vaudeville jokes, audience interaction, and then some dancing. They introduced the new guy and ran through a quick dance number. The number ended with the backflip tosss. The new guy nailed it and continued dancing like he was born to do it. Having witnessed his struggles earlier in the day I admired the dance even more. The small details of the toss, his body, his land, and continued easy smile had been calibrated perfectly.

Matt's dance crew showed up fashionably late. Since he's a one-man operation he unpacked his entire drum kit, set up his e-cussion board, put up sign, laid out CDs, and made nice with the nearby vendors who stared at him wondering if they should be annoyed at the upcoming performance or encouraged by the audience it could attract to their store carts. I asked if I could help and he was in the zone preparing so I thought it was best to leave him alone. We were in the shiny peach marble hallways of Grand Station near the fish market.

Showtimesabouttostart!


Showtimein10minutes!!

When the dance crew arrived it was 3 kids who might have all been brothers or cousins. The leader was the oldest. The two younger kids took the leader's orders. They seemed a bit nervous performing in a main area and tentatively went through some of their routine.


Showtimein5minutes!


Showtimein2minutes!

Matt began playing and the dancers mostly nodded their heads. They would burst into a short dance step and then go back to nodding. Matt continued to drumming and looking over at the crew. Musicians take no time and have less patience for bullshitters. Dancers tend to be very finicky about their bodies and throwing it around in new places. They have to get into a rhythm. The two groups were reading each other. Matt tossed on a hot loop from his e-cussion soundboard and began drumming over it. The dancers perked up.

Showtimein2minute!

I was beginning to get impatient with this crew. They had repeated the alleged showtime of T-minus 2 minutes for the past 15 minutes. Businessmen walked by after work and saw a thrashing drummer in mid-set and a couple of kids standing around shouting...

Showtimesisabouttostart!!!


This showtime was presenting me with an existential crisis. My mind was in full "Waiting for Godot" mode, thinking of pranks and coming up with jokes for this utopian 'showtime' that always seemed to be coming and never arriving. This showtime was a mirage, where the more I chased it the more it evaporated into thin air.

The show finally did start. The dancers were fluid but also in an inconvenient space for moving. The marble floors didn't really invite breakdancing in full-tilt mode. But Matt and the crew put on a symbiotic performance and they had only met once a few days ago.

Showtime had arrived. I nodded to Matt as I made my way out of the station. It was Friday night and they would be there for a while. On the subway car heading into the village there was a beggar and a guitarist. I got out of my 14th street stop and beautiful music greeted me. Violins, screeching trains, and laughter.

The Art of Holding Fire

Groggy and sniffling, I began setting up to meditate this morning. I lit a candle and placed it down on a table. As I lazily fumbled with the lighter my thumb came down and rested on top of the flame. I blinked for a moment and raised my hand up to my face.  I stared at my thumb, which had been in the middle of the fire.  No burns, no pain. Just a slight sensation of fading heat. The flame flickered and danced.


Perhaps I didn't feel any pain because I wasn't paying attention or was too drowsy to care. But that wouldn't explain why there was no burn or even mark. The Flesh's reaction isn't dependent upon how much I care. Perhaps I had imagined what just happened. But the hot sensation on my hand seemed to indicate otherwise.

Maybe I could do it again? 

On second approach the heat from the candle's fire made my hand recoil. I began wondering about the shift in perception. Why did the flame not burn my hand when I absentmindedly placed it on to of the fire the first time and then singe it when I placed my hand just near it the second time?

Perhaps this was just a small thumb-sized lesson in mind over matter. I had seen many magicians and wizards hold their hands above flames unaffected. People walk across hot coals all the time without getting burned. The quantum physics behind the trick is the same: what appears to be isn't. One of the most dramatic things to demonstrate on is the body. And what of its biggest threats is fire.  So combining fire 'against' a body always makes audiences sit up and pay attention.

If fire is an illusion then some times it burns and some times it doesn't. Once my mind had made a second attempt at touching the flame, my old mental image of the fire had kicked in and it was too hot. I couldn't even go near it. But before in a sleepy-dream-like state, my view of my hand and fire was very fluid and loose, like the firewalkers who stomps across burning embers or those who swallow flames. The greater the awareness of illusion the more it can be played it like in "The Matrix" or "Inception."

My incident this morning was small and accidental. It's not indicative of any special powers or achievements. It is just something that made me wake up a little bit. I went through my meditation and kept my mind on the flame that does not burn.

Oaziz

OAZIZ 2012

Dance of Anger

Those who, having been dismissive of suffering,
Destroy the enemies, anger and so on,
They are the heroes who have gained the victory;
The rest (merely) slay corpses.
-Guide to The Bodhisattva Way of Life, by Master Shantideva
Chapter 6, The Art of Patience

The convicted Lockerbie bomber passed away. Libyan national Abdel Basset Al-Megrahi was the only person convicted of detonating bomb that killed hundreds in mid-air over Lockerbie, Scotland. For years he maintained his innocence. A few years ago the doctor said that Abdel only had a few months to live because of an aggressive form of cancer. The Scottish judge then did something almost unheard of in the annals of Western justice: he let him go.

Abdel was allowed to go home and an international outrage exploded. The reasoning of justice was that he only had a few months to live. Abdel was a walking corpse. He was greeted as a hero by Libyan dictator Moammar Gaddafi and a sign of a moral victory over Western powers. American and British media seethed. Reporters interviewed the family members of the Lockerbie victims, ambassadors, Senators, Congressmen. Everyone expressed the same blanket outrage that Abdel was now being treated as a hero and, despite the doctor's promises, he kept on living.

He lived longer than 3 months. While dictators fell, celebrities overdosed, children starved, Osama Bin Laden was shot in his Pakistan mansion, Abdel kept on living with his family. Gaddafi himself was hunted down in a sewer pipe, paraded around in tattered rags, anally raped with batons, bludgeoned over the head, and finally shot to death, and all on TV for our viewing pleasure. Abdel was nowhere in site. In the midst of the revolution his family said he was passing in and out of comas. His government doctors had fled, his medicine was looted. The conquering hero/walking corpse was silent. There were calls for him being sent back to his Scottish prison. He was surrounded by family. He was allowed the dignity of privacy and intimacy in a world gone mad. He was a monster afforded the luxury of compassion. Abdel was taking too long to die.

Now he is dead. Two years later than expected. The media response has been a mix of satisfaction at his demise and a slow simmer that he had continued to live for so long.

I read the responses. His family's continued claim the he was innocent, and observers curses his cancer-riddled corpse to the hell, while other justified the attack. As volleys of anger, post-life revenge, pleas of innocents go back and forth, Abdel can not speak on the matter.

Tears began to fall from my eyes. I don't know if it was for Abdel or for the ridiculous parade of violence. Suddenly a few words from Bodhisattva vows popped up in my mind:

"The rest just kill corpses.'

I didn't know where the in text it said that, but I was sure it was in there. I google searched that phrase and it was under the chapter on anger. The teachings are hazy in my mind but I interpreted the context to be about the real accomplishment is conquering my own anger. All other military victories, business conquests, and triumphs are like killing things that are already dead.

The world is a burial ground of bodies with different names, labels, nationalities, religions, notoriety, infamy. We pile the bodies up in different categories and the few walking corpses run back and forth between the writhing hills to stab at the lifeless bodies, planting flags, retrieving treasures to take back to its pile, set fire to others, and claim victory. And soon the walking dead fall inanimate with their treasure still in hand. And someone else runs over to their pile, stabs them, steals the treasures, spits on them, and runs back to their pile to fall dead. And this goes on and on since the beginning of perceived time. The jewels are covered in mud and eventually get lost underneath the corpses or destroyed in the transfer from one pile to another.

It's not sexy to talk about life in this way. We disguise the corpses' perfume with distractions. Games, lights, accolades, and future plans. I have won many of these things and for the life of me I can hardly remember anything at all about all the awards I have been given. I don't even look at them or think about them any more.

This weekend was a time of patience. I got angry at a friend, they got angry at me back, and I got angry at their anger. At a certain moment, it just made me sick. We both rushed to apologize, paper over the differences, but I wonder if the problem has been fixed. I vowed to be more patient for the rest of the day and to practice the art of avoiding anger. On the crowded subways and streets, I planted that seed in my head. I went to dance class and the teacher dedicated the period to Donna Summers: legendary singer who is now gone because of cancer.

We danced to Donna's hits. At the end of class, each person ran into the middle of the room and improvised a dance to a Summer's song before bowing in her honor. It was a brief moment on stage to do something. When my turn came I ran out to a slow ballad croon and swayed to the rhythms. By the time I hit my mark the song had switched to uptempo disco. I changed my dance into a groovy disco motion with slides, spins, and something that felt stolen from a figure skating routine. The class erupted into cheers. I bowed to Donna and ran off stage. The entire performance was no longer than 20 seconds.

One of the students asked how I just did that. I shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea. There was no thought to it. My body responded to the unexpected uptempo kick and there was no time to think or plan.  The song changed so I changed. Earlier in the day I had responded to the dance of anger without thought as well. The tempo changed and I changed without thinking. I realized the art of patience was something that had to be ingrained into me more deeply so that I didn't just have a mirror reaction when the world's song became wrathful.

I went about my business, meetings, talking about art, and hopped on a bus to New Jersey to see friends. One was supposed to be driving us to an event. At the last second he emailed to say he was canceling. I realized this was another chance at dancing with anger.

I had about three seconds to act before my impulse took over and responded to the tune change. I had traveled all the way across the river, set aside my day, got cash to help him pay for gas, the reasons for rage were already starting to cooly list all the things I had done. The immediate words of forgiveness came to my mind, but I knew that wasn't going to be enough. Anger was much more sophisticated than being quelled with simple forgiveness. I began running through my head the thoughts of Buddhist refuge and Christ-consciousness. I grabbed at "The Diamond Cutter" and the view of indivisibility, A Course in Miracle's 'pure non-duality,' quantum physics 'holographic universe' theories. I could feel the red tide of rage stirring.

All is forgiveness. 


This is not real. 


The universe is a holograph. Where could my universe come from except from me?


Maybe there was another reason. Maybe something else is going on here. 

My friend sat at his keyboard responding to the sudden cancellation. I asked if he wanted to show me around his new apartment. He sat there staring at the screen. I knew that look. It was ice-cold rage. He was going to be my refuge. My mind switched to checking in with him and trying to get him away from the computer, away from responding in the moment.

I suggested a movie and he mumbled something while he continued typing. Perhaps we could cook a meal. Or see something in the area. Finally I suggested that he not send the email just yet. Perhaps he save it as a draft in his inbox. He told me that normally he would agree with such a policy but this called for an immediate response (retaliation?)

When he finished he got up from his computer and silently sat on the couch. I went online and wrote an email apologizing to the event planner, explaining we would not be able to make it. I added the word 'flaky friend' into the email. It felt strange. The red tide was beginning to rise again in the form of inquiry.

"I wonder what happened to him?"

"Did an emergency come up?"

My friend reminded me that I was supposed to be calming him down. That's right, thank you. I switched to distracting ourselves for a bit. A movie was in order. We watched "Inception." That pretty much took up most of the night. How appropriate to watch something about dreams within dreams.

I walked back to the bus stop with my friend. The inquiry started again on my part. My anger was trying another subtle device of looking for answers in someone else, in something outside of myself. I stopped myself in mid-questioning. We stood there silently waiting for the bus. Dancing with anger was more difficult than I expected in this case. She was a very skilled partner at trying to elicit my trained reaction.

My mind switched to pity, which was another form of anger. I imagined the pain this depressed friend  must be going through to cancel unexpectantly. This pity took the form of vivid imaginings of his anguish. I didn't like where this was headed. I realized that as long as I kept the focus on 'him' that my mind was skillful enough to use every single psychological device, from curiosity, to pity, to fantasy, to demands for explanations. My anger going to twist the world back into its rhythm. By the time the bus arrived back in New York, I had a miracle. My anger hadn't erupted into a violent fantasy of torture, I didn't have curse words on my lips, I wasn't updating my facebook profile seeking 'likes' or comments. I was convinced the purpose of that trip was purification and to see "Inception." That was it. I came back home and checked on some projects online. Then I went to bed.

I woke up this morning and lay in bed for a few minutes. I thought about the message of "Inception" and this moment. Buddhism would agree that this was a dream. This body, this breath, this room. I looked at my arm. Still an arm even in a dream. But what was the purpose of this dance of illusion? Heal the rift that created the universe? Forgive? Learn to dance different?

I thought about the last 24 hours of illusions. I purified in my mind and let it go to atonement.  May I dance to a different tune. After making TV I read the news of Abdel's death and began to cry.  It feels like my anger has taken a step away from me. Now I am observing others react in anger at someone else. I feel neither pity for them or rage. It is my dream and my turn to dance differently with my illusions.

The Importance of Gifts

My roommate said she had a gift for me. I saw the text on my phone as I went into a meeting. I was intrigued. The guessing game began.

Cleaning products?


A new frying pan?

Over the last few years my expectations for gifts has been significantly lowered. As I've gotten older, cash has replaced any and every elaborate birthday surprise. It's kind of sad how utilitarian my gift buying has become. All my creative in gift buying has been focused on my Buddhist teachers and for classes. And while that is admirable, I also lament the beauty of a gift, the actual effort to purchase something.

When I got home at 11 pm, my roommate brought out this thick stack of parchment sandwiched between navy blue covers that had been aged significantly. It was a Japanese monk's prayer book from the 19th century. What an astonishing gift!

She said it came from a Japanese antique store in Vinegar Hill by DUMBO. Items worth thousands of dollars that have dharma sprinkled throughout as decoration and hidden in desk drawers. The dharma had been retrieved from one of those drawers and sold to her and gifted to me.

I immediately remembered Geshe Michael Roach's writing on Je Tsongkapa, and how great dharma was treated. Je Tsongkapa, the founder of the Gelupka lineage in Tibet, would great all arriving dharma with bails of incense, welcoming them into his life as if they were a guest. What if I were to try that for this 100 year old book of wisdom.

What would Je Tsongkapa do to welcome this mysterious ancient package? First, he would probably wash his hands from riding the subway all day. I washed my hands and then thought: what next?

He would probably clear a space for it to be viewed.

I cleaned up the living room table, wiped down the mats, dried them and placed the monk's prayer book  on the clean wood.

What other things would Je Tsongkapa do?

He would set out offerings. It feels silly, unusual, and awkward to set out offerings for a book, but that's probably because I treat books just as product. But what if books were the dharma incarnate: the thing that could drive me, the key to opening my heart. What if books were a parchment representation of a Lama or an Angel?

I brought out my incense holder, incense, a globe filled with liquid and pure gold from Arizona, plastic flower from my Lama, a sprig of fresh Baby's Breath from flowers I purchased yesterday for the house,  some chocolate-fudge macaroons I baked for a Buddhist feast, and a tiny sombrero. My roommate came out and inquire about the row of offerings. I explained that it was going to be like welcoming a guest into a temple.

The incense was pleasing scent, the pure gold was the high gift of royalty that I personally liked because it reminds me of the Latin origins of my name. The plastic flowers symbolized eternal blossoming and the fresh flowers as a new beginning. The fudge macaroons were something to eat and a fine delicacy of coconut and cocoa. The sombrero was a nice hat or parasol.

The dew of sweat began to appear on my forehead as I rushed around. I patted my head with a napkin. The final offering is of prayer and meditation. I said the prayer of Manjushri and asked for wisdom in this matter before sitting down before my guest.

After offering the macaroons to my roommate, I sat before the guest. I opened the pages carefully. The book was composed of several different types of parchment. Rice paper perhaps, some thin and while others hardened and other paper shiny.

The calligraphy of the Japanese characters was beautiful placed in inky sky scrappers up and down the pages, which folded together like an accordion. Interspersed throughout the mantras and prayers were drawings. I'm not an expert but the drawings looked like Ladies of Gifts from the mandala as well as Avalokiteshvara and Majushri. There were also several Buddha looking figures. Of course I'm calling them by their Sanskrit names and this is Japanese Buddhism but I don't know the synonyms.

There were two different books of prayers. I began thinking about the devotion of this monk and his life a hundred years ago. How many million mantras have been whispered into this parchment and intermingled with the black ink? The dedication of a life that has now traveled to the other side of the world and is sitting in my Brooklyn living room before a tiny Mexican sombrero (made in China) chocolate from South America, shredded sweetened coconut from the tropics,  gold flakes from Arizona mines, and Tibetan incense wafting from his holder. The journey of these gifts and my guest that was re-discovered in the drawer of an antique shop in Vinegar Hill.

This is practice for how all dharma could be treated in my life. The ultimate dharma are fellow guests who stop by to enlighten me. My friends and family. What if I treated each visitor as precious dharma that has taken a long journey of hundreds of years to arrive at my door? Could there be nothing sweeter than to sit and listen to this guest and their stories?

I now see this as what I could be doing more of with not only my other books but my friends. And that is probably what Je Tsongkapa was demonstrating all those year ago. Each guest is precious and has taken the journey. Give gifts of gratitude and they will speak the nectar of truth. That is why offerings are so important. They clean my mind and prepares me for seeing the dharma in everything. From the looks of things in my life, I need to give more gifts.