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.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Monday, August 1, 2011
Nicaraguan Sonnet 2: Growling Monkey Questions
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.
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
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
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.'
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.'
Friday, July 29, 2011
Wrestling with the Devil
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.
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.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Rolling Red
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.
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.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Anger Flashback
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.
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.
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