Bloody Monday

One of "those days." Got up out of the wrong side of the bed. Found TWO copies of the New York Times outside our door--after now six months of nightmare menu calls to correct delivery problems. Made another nightmare menu call to register the problem. Made the mistake of reading one of my two copies. Put my back out, lifting George to the counter-top to give him his eye drops. Got into a snit over a bank account and spent hours trying to sort it out. Missed a date with myself at the gym. Got on the bathroom scale--another big mistake. Did my blog entry on the cheap. Ellie having much the same disaster of a day. Went down to the studio and screwed things up down there. Tripped up over George's leash and bashed her head.

Ah, but... I booked myself in to a wonderful deep massage, which left the tense old body dripping with relaxation. And somehow found myself still breathing at the end of the day. So much to be thankful for...

Laguna Beach: Twilight, Clear Skies

From my I-Phone...

Rich, Anyone?

I read Frank Rich's column every Sunday in the New York Times. He depresses me more each Sunday, mostly because he hits the proverbial nail on its proverbial head. This week, he writes about the baleful influence of money on our political system.

I subscribe to a conspiracy theory. It's this: that those who actually run this country--i.e. those with unimaginable financial resources and the unswerving commitment to enrich themselves still further--have realized that it serves their ends to create and foment distractions that deflect the righteous anger of "the people" of this country. Easy enough to recognize on the right. We lefties love to castigate the Tea Party for what we deem their ignorance and stupidity.

But here's the thing: we lefties are being similarly manipulated, and we refuse to recognize it. Take, for example, the recently receding airport security, "don't-touch-my-junk" kerfuffle. I wrote a piece called "Pat Me Down" which allowed, albeit reluctantly, of what I saw to be a reasonable need for personal scans and searches in the light of new terrorist strategies that seem to involve multiple small-scale attacks rather than big, ambitious ones. (The news, yesterday, of a planned bombing with the unlikely target of the annual Portland, Oregon Christmas tree celebration is another in a series of mercifully--and narrowly--averted such attempts.)

I cross-posted the piece I wrote to my site at the Huffington Post, and was surprised by the immediate, mostly angry, and almost exclusively negative response. The responses this time came from those with whom I would for the most part agree--liberal or progressive thinkers, provoked by what they saw to be a threat to their individual rights and liberties. These are the same people, I believe, who are also now abandoning the president they elected in droves, disappointed that he has failed to meet their expectations and bring about the changes that he promised as a candidate...

It's my conspiracy theory that (to my mind) trivial issues such as this are being put out as glittering lures for those who, like myself, long for substantive action on broader and more important issues--like social justice; an economic system that benefits all, not just the fortunate few; the basic right to health care and freedom from hunger; our deteriorating education system; the rapidly decaying national infrastructure; and so on. The left is being co-opted by skillfully manipulated strategies to distract, divide and conquer, offering red meat bait to rile them up and then exploiting their discontent when it comes to election time. The winners, every time, are those who cash in on the work that Congress does at their behest. The losers are the rest of us.

It's worth noting that the distractions are not all calculated to provoke outrage. William and Kate will occupy much of our press and television time in the coming year. And, reliably, there's the "Holiday Season" with the illusion of bargains at the stores. But, sorry, friends--I hate to sound cynical in the pages of "The Buddha Diaries"--this is what it has come down to, in my view: shameless exploitation, by which our even our most basic instincts and our finest ideals can be manipulated with apparent ease to work against our interests and allow the well-oiled wheels of the oligarchy to turn smoothly.

As I see it, there's something of an irony in screaming "don't touch my junk" in the airport security line while terrorists have us by the balls--and are left at liberty to squeeze. And I mean not only the terrorists who threaten us from afar, but more particularly our own homegrown variety, the ones who drove us to the brink of economic ruin and seem intent on continuing the chicken run beyond the edge of the cliff. It's in their interest to have us boiling mad with the government about things that don't affect their profits.

Little Buddha, Jade Gate

What to make of this book, which unabashedly proclaims its association with the Buddha in its title but which, to one who has come to understand the principles of the religion in such a different--and certainly more fundamentalist--way, seems so profoundly un-Buddhist? The book is called Tantra of the Tachikawa Ryu, and its subtitle is "Secret Sex Teachings of the Buddha." It was written by John Stevens, who is described as a Buddhist priest (Zen, I'm guessing), and a long-time professor of Eastern philosophy and Aikido instructor at Tohoku Fukushi a private university in Sendai, Japan; and published by Stone Bridge Press.

Now, I'm fully aware that Buddhism has branched out in many different directions over the centuries, and that its practice has many different manifestations. Tachikawa Ryu is described as a "legendary secret Buddhist sect that taught: The highest spiritual attainments are best achieved through the physical act of sex." Stevens's short, seductive, and charmingly lyrical book is based on this esoteric tradition, as revealed in the erotic story of the Shingon monk Dai-en and the courtesan--and later Zen practitioner--Lady Hotoke. A footnote explains that it is "based on actual events, real historical figures, and authentic Tantric tradition in Japan."

My nutshell--and therefore certainly simplistic--understanding of the Tantric tradition is that the ecstatic coupling of male and female represents the ultimate human experience of non-duality, the mystery of creation, and union with the cosmos. And surely most of us have experienced that blissful moment at some point in our lives. I wonder, though, whether the Buddha himself would see this as a true path to awakening, or simply as another of those delightful illusions to which we like to cling?

Is the road to enlightenment paved with orgasmic experiences? Did the Buddha actually teach the practice of Tantra, as the book's title suggests? Or was this the construction of some of those who added their own slant to his teachings? Would he have approved of their adaptation? I'm actually unqualified to answer these or any of the other questions Stevens's book raised, but I remain skeptical. The basic test I have learned to apply to sexual activity, in the Buddhist tradition that I follow, is this: does it cause harm to myself or others? If it does, don't do it.

What Stevens (seductively!) describes is love-making as a religious ritual act, both between two consenting individuals--monks and nuns, whose strict training is a part of the narrative--and among freely interchanging groups of lay people. Well, I love ritual. I love sex. But to take it out of the bed (or where ever else we mortals choose to do it) and into the sacrosanct precincts of the temple is to turn it into an idealized, spiritual experience rather than the profane expression of simple and delectable lust--or the desire to procreate. This risks sublimating its fallible, human aspect and, with it, the emotional context in which it is most frequently performed. Between highly-trained, Zen-focused monk and nun, such a pure, dispassionate consummation may be possible. For us lay folk, though--and for the villagers Stevens describes as participating in free-love, consort-sharing sanghas--I suspect that the emotional context is unavoidable, with all the accompanying possessiveness, jealousy, gossip-mongering, and the consequent harm such sexual profligacy involves.

Is it possible to achieve such generous, esoteric, pure-hearted not-selfness when it comes to sex? Could it be practiced in this way without causing harm? Am I alone in my skepticism? I confess that the book challenged, interestingly, all my inbred Puritan instincts, and I needed to separate these out from an authentically thoughtful, critical response. I would not have missed the chance to read this book, even though--well, actually because--my gut reaction fought against it.

I had a couple of other reservations about "Tantra of the Tachiwara Ryu." The first has to do with the fact that the physical aspect of its subject matter is awfully difficult to write about without getting coy. The image of "the little Buddha" entering "the jade gate" is a little quaint for my own taste, as are numerous other euphemisms for the organs and postures involved in the coital act. Good eroticism is more difficult to effect in words, in my opinion, than in pictures. My second reservation has to do with the absence of historical and cultural context for all this. While the book's back cover informs us that "the sect was banished in Japan and went underground hundreds of years ago"--I wonder why?--it suggests, rather coyly again, that "many believe it is still active" to this day. Surely, in the wake of all this titillation, we are entitled to a more honest accounting of the sect's history and its current standing? Some of us, after all, might want to join it...

Memo to Self

Be more like George. His pleasures are simple: sleep, eat, walk, play with ball, give and receive love. His worries are few. Well, none, actually, that I know of. He does not worry about the Republican majority in Congress; nor about the national and global economies; nor about being patted down at the airport. He does not worry too much about the weather, though I suspect he's a bit uncomfortable with the heat. He's a bit irritable with small children, but that's understandable. And he's keen to defend us from the threatening presence of other canines. Right now, he's asleep in his bed under the dining room sideboard, chin propped up for comfort on the edge. And they call it a dog's life...

Happy Thanksgiving...

One of the many reasons to be grateful in my life is having you as readers, and this seems like a good moment to say thank you. You are scattered throughout the world. Some of you, I know, check in to The Buddha Diaries regularly; others once in a while. A few choose to comment, and many not. Know that you are all appreciated. Not many years ago, it would have been impossible for a writer to imagine such a possibility to reach out and touch so many people, unless with one of those bestsellers most of us can never expect to write. It feels like a great privilege to be able to connect in this way, as well as a great pleasure. On this Thanksgiving Day, I'm fortunate to have this medium that allows me to send out metta to all. May all of us find many reasons to be grateful for the blessings in our lives. And for those suffering at this time from misfortune of any kind, let's join in sending out heartfelt compassion.

Pat Me Down

Color me paranoiac, if you will, but I'm convinced the current media panic-fest over airport security is politically driven. Americans are being whipped up into yet another absurd frenzy over an issue that, in view of the problems we face, strikes me as entirely trivial and peripheral. Given the history of shoe- and underwear-bombers and the highly publicized intentions of Al Qaeda to personalize their attack strategy, it seems to me reasonable to respond in kind. Unhappily, the situation in which we live requires constant vigilance. If that means a full body scan in the interests of preventing potential bombers from boarding commercial aircraft and, in some cases, pat-downs, so be it. I am less concerned with the sanctity of my private parts than I am with getting to my destination with safety.

The fact that this has been a major 24-hour news story for several days plays on our inability, as a nation, to make discriminating choices. It seems, on the one hand, that we are unable to tolerate the least insecurity in any aspect of our lives; we demand protection from the slightest threat. And that, on the other, we scream bloody murder if we are asked to make the smallest sacrifice to ensure the security we crave. Despite indisputable and centuries-old evidence that we are, and will remain vulnerable creatures, no matter what we do to protect ourselves, we act in the expectation that in our case it will be different.

I wonder, too, about the dread fear of being touched. It's obviously not something that I crave, from strangers, but the security pat-down--and I myself have been subjected to this treatment, and survive to tell the tale--is sexual only in the imagination of those who fear it so. To have the fleeting, professional, impersonal, and hopefully skillful touch of searching hands is surely no worse than a visit to the doctor's--and could prove as life-saving to oneself and one's fellow travelers. I understand that there are those who have more reason than I to object viscerally to this kind of invasion--I think of rape victims, for example, or of people of color who associate it with the too-familiar humiliation of encounters with authority. I sympathize with them. Still, we are dealing with something broader and more potentially life-threatening than personal dignity or phobias.

So who, I ask myself, stands to gain from inflating this issue into something far greater than it ought to be? Politicians, that's who. They are grateful for any distraction from their own costly and disastrous failures. Those on the right--this is my unhappy belief--will exploit the slightest opportunity to foment discontent and rage against officialdom. It is to the advantage of some politicians, then, and of those who use them to further their financial interests; those, I mean, who can afford to buy politicians to do their bidding. And, sorry, yes, the media, too, who have a vested interest in controversial or sensational fodder for their news cycles, and who also have their bottom line of corporate profit to ensure. Those who stand to gain the least from the furor--or lose--are the airline patrons, who will find themselves standing in longer lines behind noisier and more quarrelsome fellow-travelers, whose objections to routine security will be validated by the current frenzy.

So yes, pat me down. Please. Scan me, by all means. And move me on with the assurance of safety toward the gate.

Living As a River

Sometimes I wonder what the New York Times bestseller list would look like if it reflected true quality of writing and the substance and value of important and challenging ideas, rather than celebrity, noisy political rhetoric, easy answers to complex questions, and of course the money that flows freely in commercial hype. I wrote a while ago about a novel, Driftless, by David Rhodes, a profound, thoughtful and beautifully-written book, broad in its sweep and understanding of humanity, which should rightfully have been close to the top of that list. So far as I can tell, it did not even warrant a mention. I’m just now finishing another book which to my mind should be at the top of the non-fiction list. But isn’t.

A while ago, before leaving on our trip, I mentioned the book in an entry in "The Buddha Diaries." It’s called Living as a River: Finding Fearlessness in the Face of Change, and it was written by Bodhipaksa, a Buddhist author and teacher who runs Wildmind, a site for meditation studies, and practices at Aryaloka Buddhist Center in New Hampshire. Distracted by our travels, I put it aside for further reading on our return, and I have been chewing on it slowly since then. This is not the kind of book you read from cover to cover and put back up on the shelf when you’re done. It’s the kind of book that needs closing frequently along the way; it requires the allowance of time for reflection and a practical testing of the ideas that its author proposes. You need to work them through, to see how they work for you.

That said, I have to admit that I myself did not, actually, read the book slowly enough. In my judgment, that would take a good few weeks—including the not-reading time, of which I had little at my disposal. Or else it could be the subject for a ten-day retreat, with no other commitments to divert the attention from its themes. Read properly, it is a life-changer, and is intended as such.

We are much concerned, in our culture, with what we are pleased to imagine as our selves. We spend a great deal of energy cultivating and maintaining them, too often without remembering that they are merely the fabrications of our own needy minds. Put simply and in a nutshell, this book brings our attention to the ways in which we construct these selves, how they cause us suffering when we cling to them and, most importantly, how we can live happier, healthier, more productive, more compassionate lives if we learn to deconstruct them.

Bodhipaksa’s study centers on the traditional Buddhist Six Element Practice, an analytical study of the self in the form of “a reflection specifically designed to undermine our delusions of separateness and of having an unchanging self. It’s a practice of letting go.” The first step in letting go, of course, is a clear understanding of the nature of our delusion, and Bodhipaksa brings a wealth of scientific knowledge to demonstrate, persuasively, that all of our perceptions are illusory and that everything about us is transitory. Examining each of the six elements in turn (earth, water, fire, air and, in Buddhist thought, space and consciousness) as they exist in both the external world and the internal world of the mind-body complex, he exposes the fallacy of our sense of a “self” as distinct from the flow of the river of perpetual change. The metaphor for the self to which he constantly returns is that of the eddy, which may appear to have a distinguishable form but which is in reality no more than the illusion of a form, never the same from one moment to the next and inseparable from the water whose flow defines its fragile existence.

No scientist myself, I can only marvel at Bodhipaksa’s easy dance with both the history of scientific knowledge and its most current advances. His is essentially a phenomenological study of the elemental structures of reality, of our nature as human beings in the world, and of our place in the universe; in the course of it all, he ranges happily from esoteric physics (Loop Quantum Gravity, anyone?) and biochemistry to the intimate functioning of the human body (ever wonder why shit is brown?) and the brain, and out into the cosmic view of astrophysics. He is equally familiar with a great range of current social science research and with the history of human thought from the Buddha and (who else?) Heraclitus, to this day. He amasses his evidence patiently, and brings his reader along with a light touch, clear explanations, and a lively pace.

Unqualified to judge the quality of Bodhipaksa’s science, obviously, I’m comfortable in asserting that it’s always persuasive—and enjoyable to read. And always the bottom line is the mantra to which I myself return frequently in my own meditations: This is not me, this is not mine, I am not this. (I actually learned a slightly different construction: This is not me, this is not mine, this is not who I am.) It's at once a humbling and empowering realization. When arrived at with full understanding, it has a wonderfully liberating potential, releasing us into the stream of a reality where our experience is no longer hampered by that dualistic distinction between “self” and “other” that is the cause of so much human suffering and confusion.

Had I such power, I would make “Living As a River” mandatory reading for all those whose delusional egos dominate our discourse and the direction of the world in this day and age. And that would include the vast majority of political, business and religious leaders whose self-important selves inflict their own certainties and absolutes on others, to the detriment of our species and our planet. Alas, I have no such power. But I do recommend this book to anyone engaged in the genuine search for a release from the suffering we all experience. If your goal is freedom and serenity, if you're looking for a conscious and fearless path forward toward the end that meets us all, there's no better place to start. As I said earlier, this is a book that is capable of changing lives.

Head in Sand?

For the first time I can remember, I could not bring myself to read the newspaper this morning. I got as far as the Frank Rich op-ed piece on the unstoppability of Sarah Palin and took a quick glance at the other headlines before deciding that I'd go no further. Perhaps it was in part a hangover from having watched a recording Jon Stewart's brilliant parody of a Glenn Beck report from the other night, purporting to expose George Soros's plan to overthrow America. I am so distressed and angered by this country's self-congratulatory decline into ignorance, self-interest, prejudice and fear that I could read no further. I'm just about ready to bury my head in the sand.

What's a Buddhist to do? Practice metta? Send out goodwill and compassion with the outbreath while meditating? I guess it's really a matter of sending out goodwill and compassion with each breath, no matter whether in meditation or not. Everyone, in the Buddhist view, is looking for happiness, each in our own way. It becomes a matter of deciding in what true happiness consists. Keeping Barack Obama in the White House? For many of my fellow citizens, it would seem to consist in putting Sarah Palin in there. Ellie was distraught, this morning, imagining the elegant Obama family moving out to make room for the rowdy and dysfunctional Palin gang.

So what's the "truth"? Where's the "true happiness"? For me, a part of it must include the well-being of other living beings--and not only the human species, but the millions of others with whom we share breathing space and whose lives we affect with the sheer dominance of our presence. I can only be "truly happy" when my personal happiness does not impinge on that of any other being. The political agenda of those currently in power, and those coming to power in Washington does not align with that definition. It's all about money and manipulation, about who can best whom and who can accumulate the greatest power. To our great detriment, we/they have lost sight of the common good.

All evidence to the contrary, it's hard for me to accept that I am powerless. To believe it means that I become the victim, a role I adamantly reject. I think about this in my daily practice, reciting in my mind those two phrases from the Sublime Attitudes: "May I be free from animosity; may I be free from oppression." I think of these two as opposite sides of the same coin. Animosity is what I put out into the world; oppression is what comes at me from out there. I need to find that place where I am equally free from both--the blame I lay on those with whom I disagree, including the Sarah Palins of this world; and allowing myself to become their victim.

Much though I'm tempted, I cannot bury my head in the sand. That, too, will not lead me to the kind of happiness I'm looking for in my life. Denial is not the answer. Clear-sightedness is--when accompanied by the ability to find equanimity. To observe these events calmly, perhaps, without attachment to the outcome. Which is not a feat that comes easily or naturally to me. It requires hard work, assiduous application.

Thanks for joining me in my rather sorrowful reflections on this Sunday morning. May we all find true happiness in our lives. May we all find the wisdom to recognize the seriousness and profundity--and the generosity--of that wish.

The Big Time?

I was utterly astounded--and of course delighted--to find a mention of The Buddha Diaries, prominently placed in the lead-in to a featured article in the New York Review of Books by Janet Malcolm, "Comedy Central on the Mall." It refers to my entry on November 1st about the Jon Stewart Rally to Restore Sanity, and occupies the first two paragraphs of the article. Reading the whole piece, I regretted only that Malcolm had not read the follow-up article I wrote on 11/11, after seeing a recorded version of what took place onstage--a disappointing affair, I thought. Still, wonderful to find so prominent a mention of the blog. I hope you'll help me celebrate by forwarding the link to others who might be interested. I would perhaps not have stumbled across this without a tip from my friend and fellow blogger, Bill Harryman, at Integral Options Cafe. My thanks to him!

Sudden Death

As readers of The Buddha Diaries are by now well aware, Ellie and I lost a treasured friend recently, after her years' long and courageous battle with illness. This past weekend, in Laguna Beach, we were shocked to hear of another death. A woman, still relatively young, with whom we had sat at the local cafe and chatted only days before leaving on our East Coast trip, had died before our return. We know little of the cause of her death--we understand that it was an aneurysm of some kind--only that it came suddenly and without warning. It seems that she felt ill only hours before she died.

We did not know Karen well--just well enough to know that she loved books, loved literature, and spent her working life in libraries and bookshops. I believe, too, that she championed the cause of literacy. She was working in a bookshop in Laguna Beach at the time of the publication of one of my books, and took a friendly interest in my efforts to promote it. Just a couple of months ago, shortly after completing a draft of my new book of essays, I ran into her at our local Zinc Cafe and she agreed to give it a preliminary reading and some feedback. I brought her the manuscript, which was found by a friend among her belongings after she died and kindly returned to me. This was, indeed, how we heard the distressing news.

Death, then, has been much on my mind in the course of these past few days, along with the reminder that it can come in a multitude of ways--expected or unexpected, after long illness or with shocking suddenness. I cannot predict how mine will occur, or when. I can only predict with absolute certainty that it will come. All the more reason, then, to be grateful for the meditation practice that helps me in some small measure to prepare for that event, and for the teachings that help me to make sense of it all and to put my own prospective death into the larger perspective of the flow of inevitable change. My head and my heart and my gut do not necessarily agree on the prospect of this human life coming to an end, nor do I have any clear understanding or belief about what might then ensue, if anything. But I do have the comfort of the breath to fall back on, with the knowledge that this present moment, if I manage to be in it, must suffice.

Walking Under Trafalgar Square

Once again, I feel impelled to refer you to these magnificent photographs by Jean, at Tasting Rhubarb. Don't miss them. They're a delight for the eye, and a dizzying challenge to the mind.

MORE ABOUT MIRIAM

Yesterday, a magnificent celebration of the life and work of our friend, Miriam Wosk. The event was held in her home, an environment she had created with great passion, a sure eye for aesthetic pleasure, and an embrace of uninhibited excess. Her studio had been hung, salon-style, with the very best of her work, and every available surface--tables and shelves--was put to work to display the glittering and multi-colored objects she delighted in making: everything from knitted shawls and sweaters to hand-painted shoes. Her spacious library, stacked floor to ceiling and tabletop to tabletop with the books she loved, was a reminder of her voracious appetite for the collective knowledge and creativity of our species. It was a treat to wander with a familiar sense of wonder through the living areas, and to be inspired by the restless urge for beauty that created them.

The ceremony was as Miriam herself had planned, with the intention she brought to everything in her life. She had even, we heard, planned the ritual of her interment in Hawaii, down to the last detail. Even that last rite became her own artwork. Amazing. She had carefully chosen those she wished to speak at her memorial, and each one spoke with love, with humor, with candor--and, of course, with sadness for this shared loss. Afterwards, we were offered an abundant feast and the opportunity to meet with common friends, some of whom we had not seen for years. Miriam would have delighted in the spirit of conviviality, in the huge crowd of friends she still managed to assemble. She would have delighted, too, in the way in which her son inherited her ability to manage the event with a calm sense of the rightness of it all, and with obvious pleasure in the pleasure of those who came together in the house that is now his.

I say, "would have." But the power of Miriam's spirit is such that is was a tangible presence yesterday. We were there to honor her memory, but it was truly as though she had not left us yet; as though she herself were there, presiding with her customary joy over the event. In part, I think, it was the omnipresence of the art she left behind; in part, the persistence of her vision, no matter where you looked; in part, the piece of herself she managed to give to every one of us while she was alive. Much aware of her privilege in life, she did not readily forget the need to share it.

As you can tell, I am much moved by Miriam's death and by the example of her life. They remind me, once again, of the importance of preparing for our death in a life well lived; and of the role that generosity plays in such a life. There are many ways in which we can share ourselves with our fellow beings on this planet, and making art must certainly be counted one of them. But the greatest generosity, I think, is the gift of love. Those in attendance at Miriam's memorial were all the recipients of that gift from her and she, in turn, received as much from them. It was good to be reminded of such things.

(You'll find my tribute to Miriam either here on Persist: The Blog, or here on the Huffington Post--where you'll also find a tribute by Edward Goldman. And here is a link to an obituary that appeared in the Toronto Globe and Mail.)

A Blogging Event

Today, at my other site, Persist: The Blog, I'm participating in a blogathon of sorts, the idea of my friend and colleague Greg Spalenka over at Artist as Brand. The theme of the event is "Break On Through to the Other Side," and the question participants have been asked to address is this: "What inspired you to create a career outside the corporate world?" Well, I was never actually in the corporate world, but I was inspired to quit academia, many years ago. So I felt eminently qualified to join in. I hope you'll check in not only to my post, but also to those of the other participants. I include the links for easy access, and will be looking forward to reading the others, too.

A Bad Ending

I was much annoyed by the ending of a movie that we watched the other night. I won't mention the title (unless personally requested,) since you might want to rent this otherwise rather good thriller and what I have to say would certainly ruin your enjoyment from the start. Enough to say that, even though made a while ago, before 9/11, its theme--terrorism--is still uncomfortably relevant today. Even more so, surely, than when it was made.

My annoyance had to do with what felt like a breach of contract with the audience at the very end. The story involves a good family man who finds himself struggling with a (paranoiac?) sense that all is not right with the family that moves into the quiet suburban neighborhood in which he lives. His suspicions grow as the story progresses, and are finally proved to be not without foundation. He uncovers their plot to bomb a large office building in the nation's capital, and the last scenes depict his desperate efforts to stop them before it is too late...

He fails. The plotters succeed in destroying not only the building they have targeted, but also our hero's life, his reputation, even his innocent family.

My problem has to do with the mythic structure of the movie. When you have good guys and bad guys in your story, no matter the intervening frustrations and set-backs, the good guy needs to win. Okay, I know this is not what always happens in "real life." Too often, perhaps, the outcome is at best ambivalent, at worst contrary to what common morality and decency would hope for. But the structure of a movie is a mythic pattern which implies a tacit agreement with the audience that the social order, upset at the beginning of the story, will be restored at the end. The state of Denmark, no matter how rotten at the start, will be restored to health even if, as in the case of classical tragedy, it requires the sacrifice of the hero's life.

In this film, though, the terrorists not only managed to destroy their target, they walked away free to perpetrate another outrage on another day. This offends not my understanding of the realities in which we live--I would be foolishly naive to ignore the fact that there are terrorists at large in the world, many of them ready to attack at any time--but rather my sense of what I bargained for at the beginning of the film. I feel cheated, tricked into establishing a certain set of expectations, and violated by the eventual outcome.

The contract of true tragedy is a social one: the hero/king dies in order that his subjects may be spared the karmic consequences of his individual hubris. (My Buddhist sensibilities also are offended!) The ending of this movie is not tragic, but pathetic. Our hero dies, and his death leaves only a greater threat to the social order he had tried so hard, and with such bravery, to protect. True to "life," maybe. But not to the mythic pattern that would leave an audience satisfied. Or, in Jon Stewart's formulation, restored to sanity.

The List

We're back in Laguna Beach after a month's absence. Yesterday, our neighbor Debra gave me a long-overdue haircut at the salon where she works down in the village; and we stopped for an early dinner at what was Pomodoro when we left but is now Alessa, a whole new restaurant. Everything changes, Pomodoro just as much as the hair on my head. We made friends with good people at the next-door table. Then back home to watch Bill Maher's last "Real Time" for the current year. Politics gets more and more sickening; but we were happy to see Michael Moore en pleine forme. We were also happy to be distracted by the sight, from our balcony, of the high school football field, neon green under the floodlights, and by the cheers of the fans and the raw music of the band. Very Norman Rockwell, and a reminder that the TV screen, after all, is just another slice of unreality...

Anyway, my friend, reader, frequent commenter and artist Gary at CHISPHERE (read about his currency pup tent in the "Comments" to my 11/11 entry!) has let me off the hook for this Saturday. He sent me this list and dared me to post it on The Buddha Diaries. Thought you might enjoy it. It's pretty breathtaking. If you were Jerry Brown and had promised to start cutting, where would you begin?

> WHY CALIFORNIA IS BROKE AND WILL REMAIN BROKE!!
>
> LIST OF STATE OF CALIFORNIA AGENCIES:
>
> California Academic Performance Index (API) * California Access for
> Infants and Mothers * California Acupuncture Board * California
> Administrative Office of the Courts * California Adoptions Branch *
> California African American Museum * California Agricultural Export
> Program * California Agricultural Labor Relations Board * California
> Agricultural Statistics Service * California Air Resources Board (CARB)
> * California Allocation Board * California Alternative Energy and
> Advanced Transportation Financing Authority * California Animal Health
> and Food Safety Services * California Anti-Terrorism Information Center
> * California Apprenticeship Council * California Arbitration
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This Friday...

... please go to Persist: The Blog to read a tribute to my friend, the artist Miriam Wosk.

11/11

Today marks the 38th anniversary of the day on which Ellie and I made the trip down to City Hall in Los Angeles to be married by a local judge. Afterwards, at eleven minutes past eleven on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, we sat with our neighbors, who had been our witnesses, and raised a glass of champagne to mark the moment. The significance of the date and time may escape some of my younger American readers who do not, I believe, celebrate Armistice Day--the day on which the official peace treaty was signed at the eleventh hour to put an end to the "war to end all wars," World War I. How many have we had since then?

Today also marks the beginning of the New Reality Transmission, an eleven-day, world-wide effort to shift the global consciousness into a more peaceful and compassionate direction through shared, eleven-minute meditation sessions. I have been hearing about this event from various sources, and intend to join the effort as I can. I'll commit eleven minutes of my daily meditation practice to that intention, with the hope that millions throughout the world will join in. I do believe that intention can and will make a difference.

Which brings me to another topic. Last night, nearly two weeks after the event, I watched a good part of the Rally to Restore Sanity, which we had recorded on our television at home. I found it, frankly, disappointing. It did not represent why I had gone to Washington; nor, I think, why hundreds of others did the same. As a three-hour show, it was not terribly entertaining and not terribly funny. Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert do well in their half-hour routines. This event could not decide what it wanted to be: a concert, a comedy, or a sermon. And in my opinion, it dragged from pretty early on. Forty-five minutes of music from Roots was not a promising start for what most of us understood to be the promise of the event.

But I'm not interested in writing a critique of what happened on the stage. I'm interested, rather, in what didn't happen. I think the vast majority of us who attended were attracted by the promise of forum in which our "sanity" could be heard. And that sanity included not only the tenor of political discourse--the focus of Jon Stewart's intention--but also the content of that discourse. I watched Bill Maher's comments about the rally on his show, "Real Time," last week, and found myself in agreement with his take: the event missed its implied target, the insanity that infects and paralyzes our political life. As Maher pointed out, there is no equivalence between insanity on the left and insanity on the right, as Stewart seemed to be suggesting. The insanity, friends, is in the far too influential far right wing; the "reasonableness" he was pleading for exists, at this moment in our political life, exclusively on the left. To reduce the solution of our problems to being polite to each other and tolerating others' views is to miss the point.

What happened up on the stage in the "Rally to Restore Sanity" was, in my opinion, irrelevant to why most of us were there. Which is why it was fine that the vast majority of us saw nothing of it, heard nothing of it, and were glad to be there anyway. It was about showing up and being counted. Or rather, not being counted, because I continue to believe that every published estimate of the crowds--the most frequently cited, I believe, is 215,000--was a distortion of the reality. I know, from earlier comments, that there are those who disagree with me, but I believe that it served the media--who after all serve corporate interests--to minimize the event, particularly in view of the subsequent election.

It has become increasingly important for the future of this country to counter the irrationality of the far right with a modicum of sanity. This is why I went to Washington, and I choose to believe it's why that immense mass of people were there with me. Jon Stewart is not shy about accusing the Democrats of wimpiness. I believe that, on this occasion, he, too, wimped out--and badly. It's not just about being reasonable in the way we talk to each other. It's about returning to rational policies and "reality-based" plans for our common future.

Busy Work

The body, of course, has a mind of its own. Mine decided that it was still in New York at 4 o'clock this morning. It woke up, ready for the day, and refused to go back to sleep as I nicely suggested. It will take a few days to readjust. I have heard that the body needs as much as one day for each hour of time difference.

I spent the better part of yesterday trying to unbury myself from the piles of accumulated business that is the familiar and dreaded sight on the return from a two-week trip. With modest success. The junk mail and the trash is cleared away, leaving mostly the things that really do need attention. It will be a while before I get to them all, and my impatience to be done is not helpful. I am not good at shoving things to the back burner. It all stays up front, and my mind will not rest until everything is taken care of.

Today, then, there is much busy work--and at the end of the day I am committed to attend the West Hollywood Area Artists' Happy Hour, with an invitation to introduce myself to the group and join in their conversation. It's always a pleasure and a privilege to get together with like-minded people, so I'm looking forward to the event, with the hope that the energy will kick in to insure that a 4AM start will not take a toll.

The Buddha Diaries continues to pay the price for my fatigue. Please be patient!

Home Again...

We're back in Los Angeles. Arrived home late last night to heaps of mail, and a huge catch-up job this morning. We woke yesterday in Stockbridge to find something white on the ground...

... not sure if it was light snow, hail, or sleet. Here's the view from our breakfast table:

We drove back to New York City through an unpredictable mixture of all three. Plus some rain, and freezing rain. At one point, for a few minutes, it looked like a regular blizzard.

Back in the city, with hours to go before our plane was due to leave in the evening, we wandered the windy streets for a while on the Upper West Side, feeling cold and adrift. Had a so-so Italian lunch on Columbus Avenue. Then back to our soon-to-be niece's apartment for a wonderful reiki treatment, very restorative of balance and a relief for the bad back...

And off to JFK for the flight home. United Airlines, again. Don't ask. More when I recover a measure of sanity.

A Last Day...

Tomorrow we leave very early for the return to New York, and thence back to Los Angeles via an evening flight. In lieu of my usual entry, I'm simply posting a few pictures from a wonderful Sunday spent driving through the countryside with our new family-to-be. They include a few views of the nearby Shaker Village, a variety of farmland views, and a couple of pictures taken at the very fancy in at an elegant mansion called Blantyre. Forgive today's short shrift...

At the Red Lion Inn...

Curses! We set out for an early walk this chilly Sunday morning in Stockbridge, MA and I spotted a beautiful red cardinal in a red berry tree. Set against the clear blue sky, it would have made the perfect picture--but I had left the camera in our room at the Red Lion Inn.

Approaching the end of our East Coast trip, I'm feeling a bit beat-up. My back aches sorely. I'm losing things, and forgetting others. But this part of America is just so beautiful in the Fall--we're a wee bit late for the leaves in their full splendor, but the trees are still lovely, and it's a treat to walk with one's feet in piles of sodden foliage--that I feel privileged to be here.

Yesterday, our nephew Danny drove us up to Lenox, where we stopped for a rather odd breakfast, and visited the retreat center called Kripalu, where everyone was walking around with a yoga mat and a blissful smile on their face. Though sometimes even a Buddhist feels like this...

Coming in from the outside, we felt like the proverbial fish out of water, but we could see what a great place it would be to spend a week with healthy food and healthy physical activity--and, of course, meditation. A young woman at the bookstore was kind enough to take an interest in Persist, and it would be a wonderful venue for a talk or workshop. Perhaps another time...

We drove on through the lovely Berkshires landscapes (Ellie's pictures) ...

... to Williamstown...

... where our first stop was The Clark, a wonderful small museum which covers two millennia of Western art with mostly small but choice examples of virtually every style and period. Ellie had been wondering what it was that created the "Williams mafia"--a small, elite group of curators and museum directors who all came out of Williams College a few decades back--and The Clark must be at least one part of the answer. It's a perfect study museum. We also visited the college's own museum, the Williams College Museum of Art and were impressed by the quality and range of the exhibitions there. A great selection, particularly, of works by Monet and Winslow Homer...

(The one below is my own abstract art piece, a shot of the Williamstown sidewalk!)

An hour's drive back to Stockbridge at sunset...

... by which time my back was in severe spasms. Took a walk to try to relieve the pain a bit, and ended up with a bowl of soup and a shared salad in the "Tavern" at our Inn.