Last night, I finished reading Anne Cushman's Enlightenment for Idiots. I have to say that for the first 30 pages or so, I thought I'd made a big mistake. I didn't know if I'd make it through the book. I realized after a few pages that I was reading what is essentially Buddhist chick-lit. I didn't see it turning out well. It was looking like Sex and the City, with yoga and ashrams and 10 day Zen retreats.
And well, that kind of is what it is. But somehow, it's that, and it's a really good book. I enjoyed it thoroughly. It's funny, and a little sad at times, and thought-provoking, and kind of clever.
It's a good book.
2010 was, for me, a good year for good books.
I read an awful lot this year. Some of what I read was really, really good stuff.
Like Enlightenment for Idiots.
And like Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises. Go figure, but that Hemingway guy was a heck of a writer. He was exactly as good as all the hype.
Noah Levin's Dharma Punx and Against the Stream. The first is the memoir of the street-punk criminal turned Buddhist; the second is his "manifesto" for spiritual revolutionaries. Both were great.
Brad Warner's Sex, Sin and Zen. He's another punk Buddhist, the guy who wrote Hardcore Zen. Sex, Sin and Zen is about, well, sex, sin and Zen. A good book. I didn't necessarily find myself agreeing with everything Warner had to say, but overall, it was a good book for anybody who practices Zen, likes sex, and is worried about "sin."
Then there was Voltaire's Candide and Dostoevsky's The Brother Karamozov, two books I've wanted to read for an awfully long time. And, yeah, of course, there are reasons why these are classics. Especially that Dostoevsky book. Holy crap, but that's good reading.
And smart stuff, like Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs and Steel, all about why Europeans conquered Asia and Africa and the Americas, instead of Native Americans colonizing Europe, etc. Really interesting stuff that makes you feel that you're somehow in the know when you're done with it.
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, which is just an absolutely brilliant page-turner. I haven't seen the movie, and I'm not sure if I want to. The book was outstanding.
David Sedaris' twisted, hilarious Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. Read that. Really. It's short. You'll get through it quickly, and you'll like it.
Thich Nhat Hanh's The Art of Power, which, really, is a lot like most of Thich Nhat Hanh's other books, but has a terrific section on The Five Precepts, which Thich Nhat Hanh calls The Five Mindfulness Trainings and I have taken to calling The Five Freedoms. I have a lot to say about that, and keep meaning to say it, and eventually will. That book helped push me a little further down a path I've been crawling down slowly, and I appreciate the help.
And, hey, what about Stephen King? I loved Stephen King when I was a teenager, but haven't read much of his stuff in a long, long time (Cell a couple of years ago, nothing else in probably 15 years, easily). I read Firestarter this fall, and thoroughly enjoyed that. Then I ran to a used book sale and picked up a pile of Stephen King classics, which I hope to enjoy just as much in the coming months.
And there were those books my brothers made me read by buying them for my birthday. Robert Jordan's The Eye of the World, straight-up nerd fantasy stuff that goes on in sequels for another 10,000 pages or so. It's a long-term commitment. He gave me book two for Christmas, so I guess I'm sort of hitched. And Mark Vonnegut's memoir, Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So. It's not quite as good as The Eden Express, but then it's not trying to be The Eden Express. And what it is is good enough, although reading it might change your opinion of both Mark and Kurt Vonnegut, so approach with caution (neither comes out seeming like a swell character).
Somewhere in there was a good collection of excellent Hermann Hesse stories, a great collection of Dostoevsky shorts, some more David Sedaris, some snotty philosophy, that radical activist book Burning Rage of a Dying Planet, some social change activism stuff, an eco-team source book/work book thing, lots and lots of mindless lowbrow fiction, an unintentionally hilarious tract called Children Can Be Taught to Obey (I wish I could find a link; it's part of a series that includes volumes on how wives can be more submissive to their husbands). And so much more.
A good year for books.
A good year in a lot of ways.
Almost done. We'll celebrate the passing with some Strong Hearts pizza, board games, and smoothies. And probably hit the sack around 9:00.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Kind Of At A Loss For Words
No, that's not even right. That's not the way to say it.
Here. There's this, sort of by way of comparison.
I've never been able to write a complete song about my wife. In eight and a half years, I've never had a beginning to end, playable, singable song about the lady I love and live with. I've got bits and pieces and fragments, a line that I think sounds good here, a cool little guitar intro there. Now and then, I've thought about finishing something, I've pulled out the four-track, done a little doodling, and lost interest. Or motivation. Or creative purpose. Lost something.
In the years before I met my wife, I wrote about 30 songs about various exes. Not just about them, but 30 or so that at least somehow in some way dealt with them. 30. At least. Some of them not too bad. Some that I still can pull out the guitar and play through and enjoy.
And I think there are a couple of reasons for that.
One, I was a little younger, I had a little more free time, and, more significantly, I was spending a lot of my time playing in bands, hanging out with other song-writers. I was sort of in a "culture" and lifestyle wherein pulling out the guitar and putting every experience to music was sort of routine. When I met my wife, I was a little older, I had the beginning stages of a real career going, I was still playing in a band but only on the weekends, hardly saw those guys in between practice days, etc. And then eventually there came the house, the more challenging job title, the child, the commute. Less time for creating those songs. A different culture, context, lifestyle, one wherein doing the dishes and paying the car loan were more important than writing the chorus.
But that's not really it. That's just sort of the "other" reason.
I think the real reason, the main reason, I've never been able to write a full, complete, beginning to end song about my wife is this: I like her. I'm happy being around her. We have our moments, sure. I've seen the look in her eye from time to time: "Who the hell is this ridiculous man and why is he still talking at me like a damn fool?" But the basic tone of the past eight and a half years, as far as feelings between me and and my wife are concerned, has been happiness.
That's cool. That's great.
But it turns out I'm not terribly good at writing about happiness. Happiness doesn't stir the same kind of desire to create as all those less happy feelings do.
Creating, I guess, has always been, to a certain degree, sort of an escape for me. Or, if not exactly an escape, then a way of transforming the bad stuff, processing it, making it understandable, working through it.
All those exes gave me a lot to write about. I was miserable often-- sometimes because of my own stupidity, sometimes the bad choices of others. But there was plenty there that sent me to my room, to my guitar, to my four-track to play through, write through, vent on to a tape, play later as a reminder.
In a happy relationship, well... This isn't a complaint, not at all, exactly the opposite... In a happy relationship, rather than spend hours writing songs about why I like my wife an awful lot (or why I like my son an awful lot, so on), it's just easier, better, way more fulfilling to be there. To sit up late into the night having a conversation. To sprawl on the floor playing blocks with my boy. To sit at a table and eat dinner together. At the end of the day, there's rarely anything I want to vent or work through or understand as far as those relationships are concerned (which is not entirely accurate; there's always more to understand and work through and grow into, but it's not the same sort of stuff, not the same all-consuming stuff).
And so, eight and a half years in, I don't have any songs about this relationship. None.
I've just got eight and a half awesome years.
All of which is to say, I haven't been writing much. Blogging here, writing anywhere.
And as in the case of my wife, it's not because I don't have anything to say (I have enough to fill a hundred songs about our wedding day, about the day we discovered she was pregnant, about the day our son was born, on and on and on). Lately, I've had a lot on my mind. A lot of posts I'd like to write here. I've had things to say about the ways of the world and about sweatshops and about vegans and about Glenn Beck and about politics and about Christmas and about my job and on and on and on, and at least a dozen stories and a half dozen novels that I want to start in notebooks late in the night. Lots to say.
But, at the end of the day, even though there's a whole lot I'd kind of like to say, I just... I don't know. I just don't really feel compelled to say it. As the night winds down, Sam is in his bed, Jen is in her pjs, the urgency fades away. The words seem like they could wait. Or maybe just not come at all.
Lately... I don't want to say I'm content. That's not it, not quite.
But, something.
I wake up in the morning. If there's time, I do some yoga, maybe meditate for a few minutes. I have a little breakfast, walk my foolish dogs, kiss my family. I go to work and I sort of enjoy being there. At lunch, if there's time (usually there's not), I'll read a good book. After work, there's the Zen Center for a couple hours of meditation, or yoga class for some pretty intense stretching, or Christmas songs on the radio as Sam and Jen and I sit on the couch in the glow of the lights of the tree, or a snowman in the yard. Dinner with the family. A good book at night (right now, Enlightenment For Idiots). More yoga, more sitting meditation. A sort of content, ready for bed, nothing urgent to keep me awake feeling as I put my head on the pillow.
It's like, in some small way, that quest for peace and truth and understanding and equanimity is paying off. I'm miles from enlightenment, sure. I'm pissy, moody, greedy and self-involved. But somehow, just sort of okay with things more than I've been in the past.
Which is totally fucking up my ability to get anything on to paper, on to the screen.
I swear, I've really got things I want to say. Brilliant things. Wonderful things.
But, then I stretch a little, and really, what's the rush? There's a cup of vegan cocoa waiting for me in the kitchen. The snow looks pretty outside the window. It's Christmas Eve. My boy is singing "Deck the Halls" again.
Here. There's this, sort of by way of comparison.
I've never been able to write a complete song about my wife. In eight and a half years, I've never had a beginning to end, playable, singable song about the lady I love and live with. I've got bits and pieces and fragments, a line that I think sounds good here, a cool little guitar intro there. Now and then, I've thought about finishing something, I've pulled out the four-track, done a little doodling, and lost interest. Or motivation. Or creative purpose. Lost something.
In the years before I met my wife, I wrote about 30 songs about various exes. Not just about them, but 30 or so that at least somehow in some way dealt with them. 30. At least. Some of them not too bad. Some that I still can pull out the guitar and play through and enjoy.
And I think there are a couple of reasons for that.
One, I was a little younger, I had a little more free time, and, more significantly, I was spending a lot of my time playing in bands, hanging out with other song-writers. I was sort of in a "culture" and lifestyle wherein pulling out the guitar and putting every experience to music was sort of routine. When I met my wife, I was a little older, I had the beginning stages of a real career going, I was still playing in a band but only on the weekends, hardly saw those guys in between practice days, etc. And then eventually there came the house, the more challenging job title, the child, the commute. Less time for creating those songs. A different culture, context, lifestyle, one wherein doing the dishes and paying the car loan were more important than writing the chorus.
But that's not really it. That's just sort of the "other" reason.
I think the real reason, the main reason, I've never been able to write a full, complete, beginning to end song about my wife is this: I like her. I'm happy being around her. We have our moments, sure. I've seen the look in her eye from time to time: "Who the hell is this ridiculous man and why is he still talking at me like a damn fool?" But the basic tone of the past eight and a half years, as far as feelings between me and and my wife are concerned, has been happiness.
That's cool. That's great.
But it turns out I'm not terribly good at writing about happiness. Happiness doesn't stir the same kind of desire to create as all those less happy feelings do.
Creating, I guess, has always been, to a certain degree, sort of an escape for me. Or, if not exactly an escape, then a way of transforming the bad stuff, processing it, making it understandable, working through it.
All those exes gave me a lot to write about. I was miserable often-- sometimes because of my own stupidity, sometimes the bad choices of others. But there was plenty there that sent me to my room, to my guitar, to my four-track to play through, write through, vent on to a tape, play later as a reminder.
In a happy relationship, well... This isn't a complaint, not at all, exactly the opposite... In a happy relationship, rather than spend hours writing songs about why I like my wife an awful lot (or why I like my son an awful lot, so on), it's just easier, better, way more fulfilling to be there. To sit up late into the night having a conversation. To sprawl on the floor playing blocks with my boy. To sit at a table and eat dinner together. At the end of the day, there's rarely anything I want to vent or work through or understand as far as those relationships are concerned (which is not entirely accurate; there's always more to understand and work through and grow into, but it's not the same sort of stuff, not the same all-consuming stuff).
And so, eight and a half years in, I don't have any songs about this relationship. None.
I've just got eight and a half awesome years.
All of which is to say, I haven't been writing much. Blogging here, writing anywhere.
And as in the case of my wife, it's not because I don't have anything to say (I have enough to fill a hundred songs about our wedding day, about the day we discovered she was pregnant, about the day our son was born, on and on and on). Lately, I've had a lot on my mind. A lot of posts I'd like to write here. I've had things to say about the ways of the world and about sweatshops and about vegans and about Glenn Beck and about politics and about Christmas and about my job and on and on and on, and at least a dozen stories and a half dozen novels that I want to start in notebooks late in the night. Lots to say.
But, at the end of the day, even though there's a whole lot I'd kind of like to say, I just... I don't know. I just don't really feel compelled to say it. As the night winds down, Sam is in his bed, Jen is in her pjs, the urgency fades away. The words seem like they could wait. Or maybe just not come at all.
Lately... I don't want to say I'm content. That's not it, not quite.
But, something.
I wake up in the morning. If there's time, I do some yoga, maybe meditate for a few minutes. I have a little breakfast, walk my foolish dogs, kiss my family. I go to work and I sort of enjoy being there. At lunch, if there's time (usually there's not), I'll read a good book. After work, there's the Zen Center for a couple hours of meditation, or yoga class for some pretty intense stretching, or Christmas songs on the radio as Sam and Jen and I sit on the couch in the glow of the lights of the tree, or a snowman in the yard. Dinner with the family. A good book at night (right now, Enlightenment For Idiots). More yoga, more sitting meditation. A sort of content, ready for bed, nothing urgent to keep me awake feeling as I put my head on the pillow.
It's like, in some small way, that quest for peace and truth and understanding and equanimity is paying off. I'm miles from enlightenment, sure. I'm pissy, moody, greedy and self-involved. But somehow, just sort of okay with things more than I've been in the past.
Which is totally fucking up my ability to get anything on to paper, on to the screen.
I swear, I've really got things I want to say. Brilliant things. Wonderful things.
But, then I stretch a little, and really, what's the rush? There's a cup of vegan cocoa waiting for me in the kitchen. The snow looks pretty outside the window. It's Christmas Eve. My boy is singing "Deck the Halls" again.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
The Weather Outside Is Frightful
I'm supposed to be sitting in the Zen Center right now. Few minutes from now, anyway.
And I guess "supposed to be" isn't quite the right way to put it. I'd planned on being. Would like to be.
But I'm up against three obstacles.
One, because she had to cut out for a bit to attend a parent/teacher conference, Jen has to work late (I got to cut out and not go back to work, but she wasn't so lucky).
Two, the weather outside is truly frightful. From preschool to the co-op to home, Sam and I passed about half a dozen cars off the road, heard lots of sirens, and brought that old Paul Simon song to life ("Slip Slidin' Away..." get it? get it?).
Three-- and this is really the important one-- I'm pretty damn lazy. Really, I could have braved the weather. And Jen could have come in time if I'd asked her to. But I'm just damn lazy. Sitting in a zendo for a couple of hours can be hard work, and tonight (many nights) I'm just sort of feeling an aversion to hard work.
So, you know, this is not the weather for driving up and down Onondaga hill in the dark. And really, Jen had important stuff to do at the office. So, crap, I guess I can't make it tonight.
Instead, I'll just lazily link to two columns the local paper ran today.
One is by Kathleen Parker, who I often think is wrong about things. Usually think is wrong about things. Today, I think she got it pretty much right.
"With the exception of our military," she says, "we are a flabby lot, and I'm not just talking about girth. We are merely disgusting in that department. I'm talking about our self-discipline, our individual will, our self-respect, our voluntary order."
Exactly. A bunch of lazy punks who won't get up out of the recliner and drive to the Zen Center on a breezy night...
The other is by Thomas L. Friedman. He suggests we not hand Israel $3 billion without conditions. Makes sense to me.
Alright, back to my lazy evening. And then some shoveling. Oh lord, so very much shoveling these days...
(By the way, the verdict at Sam's parent-teacher conference was that he's a super-awesome-exceptional kid and good looking too. Just FYI.)
And I guess "supposed to be" isn't quite the right way to put it. I'd planned on being. Would like to be.
But I'm up against three obstacles.
One, because she had to cut out for a bit to attend a parent/teacher conference, Jen has to work late (I got to cut out and not go back to work, but she wasn't so lucky).
Two, the weather outside is truly frightful. From preschool to the co-op to home, Sam and I passed about half a dozen cars off the road, heard lots of sirens, and brought that old Paul Simon song to life ("Slip Slidin' Away..." get it? get it?).
Three-- and this is really the important one-- I'm pretty damn lazy. Really, I could have braved the weather. And Jen could have come in time if I'd asked her to. But I'm just damn lazy. Sitting in a zendo for a couple of hours can be hard work, and tonight (many nights) I'm just sort of feeling an aversion to hard work.
So, you know, this is not the weather for driving up and down Onondaga hill in the dark. And really, Jen had important stuff to do at the office. So, crap, I guess I can't make it tonight.
Instead, I'll just lazily link to two columns the local paper ran today.
One is by Kathleen Parker, who I often think is wrong about things. Usually think is wrong about things. Today, I think she got it pretty much right.
"With the exception of our military," she says, "we are a flabby lot, and I'm not just talking about girth. We are merely disgusting in that department. I'm talking about our self-discipline, our individual will, our self-respect, our voluntary order."
Exactly. A bunch of lazy punks who won't get up out of the recliner and drive to the Zen Center on a breezy night...
The other is by Thomas L. Friedman. He suggests we not hand Israel $3 billion without conditions. Makes sense to me.
Alright, back to my lazy evening. And then some shoveling. Oh lord, so very much shoveling these days...
(By the way, the verdict at Sam's parent-teacher conference was that he's a super-awesome-exceptional kid and good looking too. Just FYI.)
Thursday, December 09, 2010
I Really Just Need A Pair Of Boxers
A few pairs, actually. It's been a long time since I did a boxer run, and I could use a few pairs.
Also, I'm doing this yoga class now, and really getting into it, and I'd like a pair of yoga pants. Nothing super fancy. Just an elastic waste, somewhat stretchy material. I've been wearing my meditation pants, but they're really not yoga pants. My knees catch in the fabric for some poses, and I have to keep hiking them up lest the nice lady standing behind me see parts of me she really doesn't want to see.
So a couple of pairs of boxers. And some yoga pants. Socks would be nice too. I seem to have lost three blue socks, halves of three separate pairs. So I could use some socks.
Thing is, I watched that What Would Jesus Buy? dvd a week or two ago, and now, I just can't do it. I just can't buy something mindlessly. Thoughtlessly. No more. I can't buy a pair of boxers that were sewn by children earning a dollar or two a week, or by women in labor camps, or men who can't possibly feed their families on the bullshit wages they are paid. I can't do that anymore. I'm done with that.
The problem is, though, that it turns out it's kind of hard to buy boxers, socks and yoga pants that aren't made by children or in labor camps or sweatshops.
I've spent a good part of the night browsing eco-friendly/American made/worker-friendly clothing suppliers online (from my big 2009 National Green Pages), and I'm not having a whole lot of luck.
Seems that most of these sites are mostly for women. And babies. Women and babies. I couldn't find a single pair of yoga pants for guys. Or much of anything else.
Seems that most of the sites that do have men's clothing are selling slogan t-shirts, white undershirts, and hoodies. I like hoodies, but I've already got 4 or 5 and I really just don't need anymore. I'll be needing some white tees again eventually, so hey, great. And I like slogan shirts, buy, you know, sometimes I have to go to work and look like a grown up, I can't just strut around with "Go Vegan!" or "100% Organic" on my chest every day.
And it seems that the stuff out there that is for guys and isn't covered in activist slogans is wickedly, wickedly expensive. $50 for a pair of boxers. $118 for a pair of jeans. $20 for a plain white tee. $58 for the one pair of pants stretchy enough to do yoga in (not technically yoga pants though; I think they were "active pants").
I just don't that I can afford that. I suddenly get why Target and Walmart are doing so well. I've never really minded spending more money on food in order to have local, organic stuff in the house; but that's the difference between a $1 tomato and a $2 tomato. It adds up, sure, but it's just not so immediately staggering. It doesn't feel like the difference between $20 jeans and $118 jeans.
So, man, I just don't know.
But I do know. I do know that I can't walk into Target or Old Navy and put down twenty bucks for a shirt that cost some teenage girl her fingers. I can't do that.
What I'll do in place of that I'll have to figure out. I think maybe I better get really well acquainted with the second-hand shops in my new neighborhood. And start line-drying some clothes to make them last forever and ever and ever. And stick to my diet, so I can fit into my skinny clothes again rather than buy new stuff. And then, occasionally, because I just can't make myself wear second-hand underwear, I'll have to shell out a few extra bucks to one of these companies and forego the pizza or movie or cd I had planned to indulge in over the weekend.
Man, paying attention sucks. Trying to live right is a wicked pain in the ass.
Also, I'm doing this yoga class now, and really getting into it, and I'd like a pair of yoga pants. Nothing super fancy. Just an elastic waste, somewhat stretchy material. I've been wearing my meditation pants, but they're really not yoga pants. My knees catch in the fabric for some poses, and I have to keep hiking them up lest the nice lady standing behind me see parts of me she really doesn't want to see.
So a couple of pairs of boxers. And some yoga pants. Socks would be nice too. I seem to have lost three blue socks, halves of three separate pairs. So I could use some socks.
Thing is, I watched that What Would Jesus Buy? dvd a week or two ago, and now, I just can't do it. I just can't buy something mindlessly. Thoughtlessly. No more. I can't buy a pair of boxers that were sewn by children earning a dollar or two a week, or by women in labor camps, or men who can't possibly feed their families on the bullshit wages they are paid. I can't do that anymore. I'm done with that.
The problem is, though, that it turns out it's kind of hard to buy boxers, socks and yoga pants that aren't made by children or in labor camps or sweatshops.
I've spent a good part of the night browsing eco-friendly/American made/worker-friendly clothing suppliers online (from my big 2009 National Green Pages), and I'm not having a whole lot of luck.
Seems that most of these sites are mostly for women. And babies. Women and babies. I couldn't find a single pair of yoga pants for guys. Or much of anything else.
Seems that most of the sites that do have men's clothing are selling slogan t-shirts, white undershirts, and hoodies. I like hoodies, but I've already got 4 or 5 and I really just don't need anymore. I'll be needing some white tees again eventually, so hey, great. And I like slogan shirts, buy, you know, sometimes I have to go to work and look like a grown up, I can't just strut around with "Go Vegan!" or "100% Organic" on my chest every day.
And it seems that the stuff out there that is for guys and isn't covered in activist slogans is wickedly, wickedly expensive. $50 for a pair of boxers. $118 for a pair of jeans. $20 for a plain white tee. $58 for the one pair of pants stretchy enough to do yoga in (not technically yoga pants though; I think they were "active pants").
I just don't that I can afford that. I suddenly get why Target and Walmart are doing so well. I've never really minded spending more money on food in order to have local, organic stuff in the house; but that's the difference between a $1 tomato and a $2 tomato. It adds up, sure, but it's just not so immediately staggering. It doesn't feel like the difference between $20 jeans and $118 jeans.
So, man, I just don't know.
But I do know. I do know that I can't walk into Target or Old Navy and put down twenty bucks for a shirt that cost some teenage girl her fingers. I can't do that.
What I'll do in place of that I'll have to figure out. I think maybe I better get really well acquainted with the second-hand shops in my new neighborhood. And start line-drying some clothes to make them last forever and ever and ever. And stick to my diet, so I can fit into my skinny clothes again rather than buy new stuff. And then, occasionally, because I just can't make myself wear second-hand underwear, I'll have to shell out a few extra bucks to one of these companies and forego the pizza or movie or cd I had planned to indulge in over the weekend.
Man, paying attention sucks. Trying to live right is a wicked pain in the ass.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Heavy Metal Vegan Cooking
I think I just found my new favorite website.
Heavy Metal Vegan Cooking.
It's a guy from Syracuse, from what I understand.
Here are a couple of episodes, one new, one old.
Heavy Metal Vegan Cooking.
It's a guy from Syracuse, from what I understand.
Here are a couple of episodes, one new, one old.
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