There is tragedy in this life. It is tragic, most often. We are confronted with the reality of the suffering of cyclic existence. This does not mean the tenet of some eastern philosophy of reincarnation. We can, if needed, apply it to the single life of a being. All that it does, will do, will come to an end. All the great and powerful aspects of their doing will fall apart. The Truth of composite things are that they fall apart. Anything that is put together, be it your child or your work, will fall apart. This is an aspect of suffering, the suffering of change-also, in this life, there will be evident suffering, that which hurts and is easily identified-the death of a loved one, the brick on your toe, etc. The question, we all know, is not if this will happen but when. The end of our life is already written, perhaps not the how (even though we know pretty well via stats how it will go) but that it will end is inescapable. That we will, probably, be sick for a stretch, possibly a long stretch, I have read recently with the extension of our lifespan we are seeing the extension of illness. Despite this, and I know what is expected in this moment is a but this is...beautiful

(I remember a moment in India-where I did chora around a holy site, and on one side of the pathway was a cliff. The cliff fell off, at a gradual rate for a cliff, down to a river. Alpine pines marched down, a smattering of tall rhododendrons, some unnamed bushes, all hidden in shadows as I walked. The shadows were long though, for a night, and it was because the moon was full. It glimmered a diamond blue as I walked. I swore I would remember that moment. I had forgotten it till just a moment ago.)

But I will not. The trite of the beautiful is the external vision, the visage, which is arbitrarily beautiful. The desert sun rising is, to me, beautiful but to the dessicated man in the sand it is the beginning of torture, the watery expanse that I meditate in front of is calm and a place of focus for my safe body but to a victim of a sinking boat it is terrifying. I do not want this. 

What goes for the inner beauty-their service, their 'love', their 'kindness' is often flawed. It is biased. It is focused on a child, a spouse, a parent. This is capitalism-a tit for tat-and that we don't practice this often is a testament to our rude existence rather than to our transcendent natures. That it is seen as such is because of even this low rarity of service. But let us not be swayed by this. This is not the beauty of love, the Christ on the cross is a beauty of service that was a model for Human behavior not a testament to the divine's ability. 

Life is tragic and in this tragedy there must be found meaning. What goes for meaning, often, now, in this mass neurosis is of nihilism. We shrink ourselves into little boxes to make dependent meaning in relation to those arbitrary boundaries. This is not meaning. This is not beautiful. It is weak and shrunken, it is flaccid and impotent, it is despicable-that it is better than what goes for a norm has no words to describe it. Meaning demands universal, unbounded meaning that are translatable to functional, daily, practical acts. In the face of unmeaning we must, bravely, call out meaning-not some airy, weak argued position, but a strong, sound, powerful call that will lead us in this world of woe. 

That life, human life included, has a dignity to it that even the bearer of it cannot take from it. A universal dignity that cannot be marred by anything or anyone. The understanding to do so is a reflection of the one bearing the weapon to do so. That this dignity is upheld by reason, logic, is a sad testament to the faithlessness of those who are told this. What this looks like in action toward this life is in the bearing of ignorance of the bearer, that, at its roots, every being can attain the highest and we cannot fathom which will do so. We are not allowed to bind this. This does not mean that all behavior is accepted, and that one must state this is a testament to how far we have come. But the reasonable access to this understanding should always be there. 

Conceptual imputations, of even this cup here, must be done with humility. That understanding that we are removed from the truth as we impute. That is why it should be done at need, when necessary, not on a whim for it is dangerous. Why is it dangerous to say this is a cup? In this world of strife we impute not only a cup but emotions and feelings about the cup when another person has opposed views, strife begins. We fight over a definition that is false on both accounts and is only true in the functional sort of way. How dare we apply this definition, conception, upon a being? How much more dangerous to do so?

Let us be strong, let us serve, let us see our worst enemy as our greatest teacher, but even barring that Truth, lets us even serve those that have served us; our parents, our children, for, frankly, we have not even been able to do this low service. 

 

Be well

G

The years have gotten so fast.

 

They fall by the wayside. They become litter. No different, in most regards, than the soiled Payday wrapper caught in the storm drain grate. The brown on the wrapper, I hope, is old chocolate but am pretty sure isn’t.

Those years.

 

My wife, and my children, I met them so few years ago-I am sure-but then I look and count up the hash marks on my cell. It has been half a decade for my children and over that for my wife. Decades. Merging into centuries?

How much time is there between two seconds? How many fractions between two points? An infinity. How can time move? How can objects move. Finite objects cannot travel and infinite amount of space.

 

I get a touch of this with my family. It is eternal time.

 

But then it is not. Well past my mid life. I sit here. Looking out the window at a tree that could be a holy one in the Game of Thrones. White as bone, the first buds erupting from the twig branches.

 

It is all so dissatisfying.

I am not great enough to SEE it. I am not. I can understand that the IT is there, through reason, logic, prayer, meditation, I can glimpse the residue of its passing. I imagine it like a rainbow miasma on the surface of water from the gas that has condensed from the perpetual smog above our city.

 

But this Truth only brings me so much solace. I know it to be true from an ultimate unstained view but I am so steeped in my ignorance that it is almost as if it were not so.

 

The years have brought me this understanding. The silliness of my thoughts of mundane permanence. The best, in the mundane manner, I can hope for is a catastrophic stroke to end my days.

The filling up of so much shopping, eating, drinking, defecating, urinating, sex, entertainment-it has become bland for me. Like chewing on sand that a beach fire had once been on. I can taste the embers between the granules.

 

Even art, reading, inquiry, insight, have lost some luster. I still do these because they drive me to better places and I know, through my Mind, that it is the best. That it is accurate. But it still does not ‘feel’ better.

And what am I but some exposed nerve to this world? I am so caught up in the “I” and am trying not to be but am still. This “I” of selfhood, that they say is the root of my woe, is so damned strong. I want to feel.

The feeling I get is not one that I would bestow on anyone. Not myself either, but there it is.

 

My daughter, my Son

What is the best that I could do for you in the travesty of a world. I have made sure, to the best of my ability, that you will be able to conventionally take care of yourself. Eat, etc. And yet, such a pathway leads one to the inevitable end where a catastrophic stroke is the best to be hoped for. It always ends, like my father, on the floor of a bathroom, unable to get up, confused, embarrassed, pants down to your ankles, with your loved one, the one you protected, helping you up. Helping you up and trying to not show his disgust and irritation. Your low progeny.

This is all that I can give you. Now.

I sit in my cell, crossed legged, thumbs touching, hands overlapping. I am trying. I would give you more. I would give you meaning, depth....I would give you freedom.

 

If I knew that death was the end, I would end it. I know, though, its opposite. I know it as I know any scientific proof that I have studied. Be it nuclear fission, cell division, or even the construction of a water molecule. Through experimentation, logic, math, etc. I have been convinced of their processes. That is how I know this is not the end. But unlike most westerners who think that any continuance of consciousness in a semi-fortunate state-I do not think it is good.

Art is not enough.

Mundane love is not enough.
eating, fucking, shitting, and watching others

Do some derivative of this
is not enough.

 

I see now, easily, why the Buddha ran from his family to the forest. He loved them. I can understand this. If I really loved my family, and had shown an ample amount of ability, it makes sense to run from those you love. To find a way. There has to be a way out. The Buddha’s say there are. My betters say there is. I hope so.

For this merry go round of fuck’ness has gotten painfully stale. The things that used to bring me some sort of merriment are gone. The childishness in me, the naive boy, is dead. I watch him float off into the ocean upon the current that passes by me. His head bobbing above his body, his black hair plastered against his paled face. The face of Death. That is what this world has for us-death. And then you get to do it again.

I watch the sunset and I am shorebound. The beauty of that sunset is not easing to my mind, it is almost a sneer and a mocking of me, this ignorant castaway who only has the wrecks of ships to keep him company and their flotsam to feed his body.

 

Be well

G

I write this, now, before the scab of rationalization lumps over my true sight. Lets call this sight from the middle of my forehead, the third eye, where Truth arises and the untruth falls away.

 

I am a terrible man. My father, who is ill, disabled, has nowhere to go. I moved from my home, I had to foreclose on my condo because it was over 100k underwater and it was not big enough to accommodate my family and my father-his wheelchair etc.

 

I am a terrible man because, after this first night, my thought struggle toward the alternatives. Adult family home, assisted living. We cannot afford it. He cannot afford it. Medicaid? I have seen these places. My mind races to rationalize it. To justify it. I won’t let it, or try not to let it overcome what I know to be true (perhaps my only saving grace). I went and saw him twice, thrice a week, at most, when he lived with his friend’s gardener-essentially homeless.

 

I saw him everyday when he was sick, in the hospital, for almost two years, I tell myself.

MYSELF shakes His head at such talk.

 

YOU, in your mind when truth lay, begrudged it many times, did not extend your time, dropped in and got frustrated when he refused to do his physical therapy because it was ‘too much of a hassle’. You rolled your eyes, internally if not literally, when he said that he had ‘changed’ and that his mind was at rest. You, internally if not literally, frowned at the hypocrisy when he had not changed. Still, an overly proud, secretive, and often manipulative man-my father-who also was kind and generous to so many-which is so much more than I can say for myself.

 

He falls at 5 AM and quietly calls out to me. He has been sitting on the floor for an hour because he didn’t want to bother me earlier. I come down, make sure my wife and kids are still asleep-haul him to his feet, tuck him in, make sure he is comfortable. My mind is irritated. I scold him, softly, that he has to be more careful for when I am at work my wife will not be able to pick him up.

 

I am terrible, horrific man.

I call myself Buddhist-but in such talk I am deluding myself-in such a pathway one must give of their very flesh, cherish any harm, exultant in chance to practice, at the lowest, generosity and patience (two of the 6 perfections). I cannot even, in honesty, give of myself in good cheer to a man that made sure I had enough to eat when I was a child, cleaned me, carried me, housed me, made sure I had access to medical care.

 

I begrudge him in his infirmity. I hate this of myself.

 

I remember when we first came to America, when we lived on an 8 by 8 houseboat with no water, where my mother used to carry in a huge copper bowl of water each day. My father wobbling home from work, his hands bleeding, and my mother soaking them in the water. The blood swirling in the water like red mist in a gentle wind.

 

My friends tell me that it is ‘normal’ to feel such a way. They say, “you are a good person” with a slight twist-I can tell they don’t think it is a good idea. What of my wife? Yes, what of my wife. I don’t know.

Her friends tell her, “you are such a good person’ and because she is better than I, more understanding, they will continue, “maybe he should be in a home?”

 

Who would go see him then? My family has, for the most part, abandoned him and left only weak ol’ me. I have taken over every aspect of his life. His daughter does not come regularly. She has a new child. His friends stopped coming because he has been ill for over 2 years. They lasted six months, or so. He would be housed, shelved, left to rot until he died of some illness but mostly from a broken, lonely heart.

“They say its Normal”

I say, “who I would follow, who I would aspire to be, have never, ever, in any avatar spoken that the ‘norm’ of a time is what we should aspire to. In fact, usually, they are tortured and killed because they say exactly the opposite of that. I liken it to my schooling,” I say, “my mundane schooling. Where I grew up in America was poverty stricken, filled with drugs and alcohol, stupidity in some of its grossest forms run rampant. I eventually made my through college. Only through horrific effort, 100+ hours a week for 5 years (work and school-had to help mom keep her house), did I make it. Some of my old friends ask me, ‘how?’ and I pretend jokingly say, ‘I did the opposite of everything I wanted to do’. There is truth in this.

 

What is normal?

I know a woman who had an aged dog, maybe a hundred pounds, it got to a point where she had to carry him down stairs, up into her car, had to feed him with her hands, had to clean his excrement off of the floors, his urine off of the carpets, and she did it lovingly.

I cleaned up after my cat, its litter box, its urine in the carpet, I fed it, I stayed home because I didn’t want to go on long vacations. I paid for her medication, doctor visits, out of my savings.

 

And there, my Father, I see, and this world would say it is normal to pass him along and yet, for a dog, for a cat, we would do this? Not that the dog and cat do not deserve it. I know of a Monk that switched his clothing with that with a lice infested beggars rags. He did it because the beggar’s clothes were too threadbare to withstand the cold. His friends, co-monks, pushed him to get rid of the lice-he refused. Throughout time, he said, these lice were my precious mother’s and father’s and gave up their very bodies for me to live. What then is a bit of itching? This body is good only inasmuch as we use it, how would we use it? A poor verse comes to mind,

The flesh, the body, only so much wood
In this life, this whole life, so grindingly cold
The mind the spark
    Love the inward breath
         Compassion the outward breath

              to serve: the act of correct motion

 

In a desperate Winter
with such tools at hand

It is not even wisdom yet
to build a fire-but preservation

Who then can say its opposite?
Who has examined this life?
that is so ephemeral
That even that which we cherish-our body-
shall be the source of such woe

And thus, those of us with time left yet
what shall be our course of action?
Shall we burn our wood for that which is worthy?
Worthy of such an opportunity?

For the ineluctable sands fall
and The Lord of Death awaits behind each grain
with this adamantine truth of impermanence

    Let us Remember,
What is the compassionate Demand of our betters?

    let us forget
the wayward teachings of that which is beneath

 

I hope I can live up to what I claim to study. I say I am a terrible man not out of exaggeration or my want for the external demand that I am not. I do it to be honest. The man I want to be is not this man. He is a poor beggar, a greedy beggar, at the doorstep of the divine. I knock, I ring the doorbell, and they say, “it is open” they often throw the doors wide, “come in” and yet, and yet, I beg and beg, at the door. I cry and weep, at the door. But I have yet to walk in.

 

I treat my father poorly. In some lights, not even as good as I treated my cat. Much less than I have seen people treat their dogs. For goodness sake, they regularly pick up their feces in bags and I am mad that I had to wake up a few minutes early to pick him up off the floor.

 

My blessed Father. You are teaching me. Teaching me how far I have to go. Giving me the blessed opportunity to practice patience. Giving. And from this I will be a better man. even being a Man for the first time.

Each moment of patience is practice for the models I would be.

I love you.

And perhaps I am not worthy to say that, but I feel it, and despite all this selfishness and sick self centered behavior-I will try, with the little I have, to be better and serve you.

 

I love you

G