Meditation is slow business. I recognize how bad I am at it, which I am not supposed to judge, making me even worse. Images the word "meditation" brings to mind: sitting in the balcony at Gethsemane, the monastery where Thomas Merton once lived; the rough-cushioned pews at the Friends meeting house on east 16th street; Elizabeth Gilbert's sappy prose in Eat, Pray, Love; the small, blonde Vipassana teacher at my church in Louisville; Eduardo, the bald, mustachioed yogi who first taught me to meditate in a cold room in Benares, India. I smell dust in the small "chapel" room at the University of Essex, with old, utilitarian campus chairs--wide seats, with outdated upholstery and curved wooden arms and legs, where I sat with a Quaker woman who worked for the school under flourescent lights. I sit on a lumpy cushion in a carpeted room upstairs at James Lees Presbyterian Church in Louisville, the youngest Vipassana participant in the room by far. Our teacher of indeterminate age wears scarves and yoga pants, and tells us what it means to sit. I remember the supreme discomfort of sitting for so long, and the self-consciousness brought on by others listening for your motions, the disgrace in moving to scratch a nose or adjust a leg that has achingly fallen asleep. She taught us walking meditation downstairs in the aisles of the sanctuary, which were on an incline, so i traversed the musty red carpet in my socks, not yet dark outside, with the sun beams settling on the golden stained glass window that portrayed Jesus alone, on his knees, looking up to the sky. I always wanted to stay and keep going long after the class's exercises had reached an end. Did that make me more holy? Crave more? Somehow, a misplaced naivete. Young yearning. It's a wonder the older, retired participants did not look at me with overwhelming pity. So earnest, but arrogant in my expectations. A regular Simone Weil.
There was another class that met in the same room--still old people except me, but in assorted wooden chairs rather than lumpy cushions on the floor. We were there to learn about the life of Thomas Merton, and from the first session, I determined that our teacher was simultaneously elitist and ignorant. He had the air of a know-it-all professor, wore a tidily trimmed gray beard, and brought a grande Starbucks coffee to each class, which was at night. How can one learn about the life of a holy man while jacked up on caffeine? Weren't we supposed to have a few minutes of prayer and meditation at the end of every class? God does not want our thoughts racing, or at least, if they are, they should be fueled by fair-trade shade-grown beans, not a corporate plutocracy. As much as I remember disliking the man, I cannot recall the specifics as to why--a talking down to us, or an air of being privy to information that we the novitiates could not have known. Probably, it was my recent escape from college and need to prove myself as both smart and spiritually mature. Having Merton dissected as a man, with faults--large faults--following his youthful meanderings he himself exposed in Seven Storey Mountain was not the enlightened life I wanted to understand. He travelled to Asia, embraced Buddhism. Wrote from the hermitage he was eventually granted in the woods. Still had a drinking problem, and probably an illicit relationship with a woman in his later years. I cringed at the image of him dying by electrocution in a bathtub, perhaps the least glamorous or spiritually enlightened way to meet one's end. I often think of Merton now, those laughing eyes, the white and black cassock and leather sandals, hidden ink stains on his fingers, piles of chopped wood. Gethsemane has no doubt benefited greatly--financially--from Merton's fame. Why must everything and everyone, spiritual or striving to be, be so muddled and sullied? Why must I focus on the flaws within myself and others, and not have the grace to accept them?
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
mise en scène: think coffee, union square
at think coffee south of union square. i like the décor: old, dark, worn wooden floor, tin ceiling painted white, dark wood and upholstery, marble-topped tables, spare lamps, gray walls. rihanna disconcertingly echoes from white speakers in the corners. i attempt dancing on my high wooden stool until i catch ryan's eye and he gives me a look, feigning embarrassment.
my latte is delightfully creamy and bitter with white feathers of foam across the top. the woman working the latte machine is dark like chocolate, with a red patterned head scarf and a large, fuzzy, caftan-like draping. i don't know how she can stand the heat. she says "an order of dumplings" in a clear, booming voice. a pale girl with a curly, tawny mohawk sits at a back table in a black hoody with a skull drawing on it. the skull has its own green mohawk. she wears all black clothes, not torn, but with lots of zippers. she has cultivated a determined androgyny. i do not doubt she is a girl, though--is it her mannerisms? her long-fingered hands? she has tiny spacers in her ears. i strain to see her textbook, but it is too far away. no pictures. i imagine it must be literature, anthropology, political theory. i want to be proved wrong, but know that we are of the same cloth, to an extent.
two french-looking dudes in stripes with tan, grizzled faces just left. a small man remains at their long table who reminds me of a jewish wes anderson--but wouldn't that be jason schwartzman? he wears a blue checked button down tucked into jeans, a brown belt, and has a black wool coat draped over his chair. brown lace-ups that look like an expensive bar in brooklyn, with visible white socks covering the space between his shoes and the hem of his jeans. he stands: skinny jeans. he has round, reddish-brown plastic glasses that are slightly horn-rimmed, and a navy totebag that says "melville house/the art of the novel" in skinny white capital letters, in a sans serif font.
almost everyone in the back row has large, dark, visible tattoos. the exception is one woman who looks like she just came from the gym. she is drinking orange juice and has hot pink ribbing on her zip up sweatshirt. she might be a law student. mohawk girl removes her hoody to reveal a loose black tank that says "no age" in red, over a black tube top. next to her is an older, mid-30s mixed race/asian guy, with a white pearl button shirt with slanted brown stripes, a black toque, and stubble. he has delicate features, and his early beard reminds me of the girl playing boy drummer in the hedwig movie--the one who leaves to join the cast of rent. he is drinking coconut water. i am conscious of myself observing, part of this scene.
a tall light-skinned black man walks by with a pleasant expression. his face looks like an herbivorous dinosaur, or a platypus. like a billed dinosaur. he has long, well-kept dreads that are tied back, and he wears a checked brown wool blazer with elbow patches. he is clean shaven and there is a scar across his chin. i shift my gaze to the bad collage art on the walls. there are painted sketches on mostly blank squares of canvas. the artist is maria marshall. her email address is on a chalkboard over the bar. i will not email her.
my latte is delightfully creamy and bitter with white feathers of foam across the top. the woman working the latte machine is dark like chocolate, with a red patterned head scarf and a large, fuzzy, caftan-like draping. i don't know how she can stand the heat. she says "an order of dumplings" in a clear, booming voice. a pale girl with a curly, tawny mohawk sits at a back table in a black hoody with a skull drawing on it. the skull has its own green mohawk. she wears all black clothes, not torn, but with lots of zippers. she has cultivated a determined androgyny. i do not doubt she is a girl, though--is it her mannerisms? her long-fingered hands? she has tiny spacers in her ears. i strain to see her textbook, but it is too far away. no pictures. i imagine it must be literature, anthropology, political theory. i want to be proved wrong, but know that we are of the same cloth, to an extent.
two french-looking dudes in stripes with tan, grizzled faces just left. a small man remains at their long table who reminds me of a jewish wes anderson--but wouldn't that be jason schwartzman? he wears a blue checked button down tucked into jeans, a brown belt, and has a black wool coat draped over his chair. brown lace-ups that look like an expensive bar in brooklyn, with visible white socks covering the space between his shoes and the hem of his jeans. he stands: skinny jeans. he has round, reddish-brown plastic glasses that are slightly horn-rimmed, and a navy totebag that says "melville house/the art of the novel" in skinny white capital letters, in a sans serif font.
almost everyone in the back row has large, dark, visible tattoos. the exception is one woman who looks like she just came from the gym. she is drinking orange juice and has hot pink ribbing on her zip up sweatshirt. she might be a law student. mohawk girl removes her hoody to reveal a loose black tank that says "no age" in red, over a black tube top. next to her is an older, mid-30s mixed race/asian guy, with a white pearl button shirt with slanted brown stripes, a black toque, and stubble. he has delicate features, and his early beard reminds me of the girl playing boy drummer in the hedwig movie--the one who leaves to join the cast of rent. he is drinking coconut water. i am conscious of myself observing, part of this scene.
a tall light-skinned black man walks by with a pleasant expression. his face looks like an herbivorous dinosaur, or a platypus. like a billed dinosaur. he has long, well-kept dreads that are tied back, and he wears a checked brown wool blazer with elbow patches. he is clean shaven and there is a scar across his chin. i shift my gaze to the bad collage art on the walls. there are painted sketches on mostly blank squares of canvas. the artist is maria marshall. her email address is on a chalkboard over the bar. i will not email her.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
i don't care that whitney houston died.
my husband sleeps, my cats lie in wait, and the squirrel in the roof has temporarily ceased scratching. i keep running across that quote from flannery, that writers must not save the world, but save the work. save the work. i think (thought? think?) that was the path i chose when i left the advocacy world, left working for the church for good. the action alerts in my inbox go largely unheeded. lunch hour forays into the sadder news of the times preys upon my already troubled mind. last week: an artist who lived in the subway tunnels died in a fire. he had co-authored a graphic novel about his life underground. what stuck out most was mention of the childen's home where he was raised, it said, "after his parents abandoned him." there is enough sadness in those five words to make me want to hide from the light of day, hide, hide. but i am not emily, i don't like wearing white, and i like people too much to stay solely in my garden, my kitchen, my room.
if i were emily dickinson i would wear deep gray and leave my house at least to observe the townsfolk from nearby woods, and visit a friend or two by cover of darkness.
if i were merrill garbus i would wear cerulean face paint, and let my hair even out, and give myself a big pat on the back.
if i were flannery o'connor i would spend time watching the peacocks through my window, and cover my room in silver saints, and not let the darkness scare me.
if i were susan sontag i would try not to be so elitist, and dye my white streak hot pink every once in awhile, and visit all of the french speaking countries, and try to master patois.
but i am me. with a dull headache, a confused sense of self, a need to write, a lack of time, and an aversion to routine. i wish i had a room upstairs with a large window overlooking an evergreen tree. i will have to write it into existence.
if i were emily dickinson i would wear deep gray and leave my house at least to observe the townsfolk from nearby woods, and visit a friend or two by cover of darkness.
if i were merrill garbus i would wear cerulean face paint, and let my hair even out, and give myself a big pat on the back.
if i were flannery o'connor i would spend time watching the peacocks through my window, and cover my room in silver saints, and not let the darkness scare me.
if i were susan sontag i would try not to be so elitist, and dye my white streak hot pink every once in awhile, and visit all of the french speaking countries, and try to master patois.
but i am me. with a dull headache, a confused sense of self, a need to write, a lack of time, and an aversion to routine. i wish i had a room upstairs with a large window overlooking an evergreen tree. i will have to write it into existence.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
black to green
oranges sit in the wooden bowl on the counter, obscured by piles of dirty purple dishes. the scent of fresh blueberry muffins lingers above the oven. i consider decorating the pale yellow wall with postcards, their edges frayed, backs ripped where tape has been before. silty french roast coffee burns my tongue. i think of an hour ago, before the muffins, my eyes still full of sleep and stomach rumbling, an aching void in my middle. my mind is full of dark cracks on the weekends, the unstructured hours prone to let putrid vines creep in, squeeze my synapses, criticize my appearance, doubt myself. compare myself to ephemera that this behemoth city pretends is real. the vines creep through my skin, shades of bruised purple, black, yellow-green, orange-red. their myriad voices convince me i am inferior, that everyone knows. that everyone sees the dark flaw vines under the translucence of my pale-flour face.
how narcissistic to think they would care.
i want to embrace the vines. celebrate so-called imperfection, radiate light, voice uniqueness and vision. how difficult, at times, to see so much, without a funnel through which to filter it. i want to be honest above all, with you, gentle reader, with myself. and my best self tells me to write, to use my fingers, stretch my brain, break the poison vines until they recede, allow green healthy shoots to expand and flourish and nurture my thoughts. hot pink flowers burst in my head, expand through my ears, tangle in my hair. petals fall in my wake, and their soft pink light radiates around me, colors my gray streak with rosy light. the green tendrils will expand beyond my fingers, connect to the earth, exit my toes to reach for water in soil.
i move slowly through the earth like tolkien's trees. it is difficult to move, painful even, my wooden trunk cracking, breaking the rigid patterns that have upheld me for ages. i smell the churning dirt, the clear, clean air after rain in the desert, bringing a blue hush to the haze of nearby mountains. i see green bursts in the rocky soil. i will not tolerate thorns. everything is welcome to approach me: the wombat, the rattler, the man with the intolerable smell on the metro, bugs in his hair, red eyes, sores on his legs, mumbling indiscernably. i am not sure if the green can reach him, for i am not a healer. but i tell what i see, his filth i smell, making travelers dry heave and click through the interior doors to another car. i stand, broken, growing, with arms outstretched.
how narcissistic to think they would care.
i want to embrace the vines. celebrate so-called imperfection, radiate light, voice uniqueness and vision. how difficult, at times, to see so much, without a funnel through which to filter it. i want to be honest above all, with you, gentle reader, with myself. and my best self tells me to write, to use my fingers, stretch my brain, break the poison vines until they recede, allow green healthy shoots to expand and flourish and nurture my thoughts. hot pink flowers burst in my head, expand through my ears, tangle in my hair. petals fall in my wake, and their soft pink light radiates around me, colors my gray streak with rosy light. the green tendrils will expand beyond my fingers, connect to the earth, exit my toes to reach for water in soil.
i move slowly through the earth like tolkien's trees. it is difficult to move, painful even, my wooden trunk cracking, breaking the rigid patterns that have upheld me for ages. i smell the churning dirt, the clear, clean air after rain in the desert, bringing a blue hush to the haze of nearby mountains. i see green bursts in the rocky soil. i will not tolerate thorns. everything is welcome to approach me: the wombat, the rattler, the man with the intolerable smell on the metro, bugs in his hair, red eyes, sores on his legs, mumbling indiscernably. i am not sure if the green can reach him, for i am not a healer. but i tell what i see, his filth i smell, making travelers dry heave and click through the interior doors to another car. i stand, broken, growing, with arms outstretched.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
strange weather
"he was a sailor/a sailor at sea and a sailor of love/and he thought he could save her/save her from innocence up and above" -sailor and widow
the lights sparkled up through the giant window, reflecting spectres of dark cars signified only by headlights caught in a rotary, circling and circling the statue of the genocidal maniac some still revere. within the tiny auditorium, hot pink lights illuminated the audience, turning my yellow dress to orange. the string quartet was chic in black; v-necked caftan on the cellist, sequined top behind the viola. the first violin was tiny and white-haired and french in a suit.
keren ann took the stage, stepping up carefully in black ankle boots. not expecting much, i anticipated shoulder pads and severe hair cut and dramatic make-up more befitting a pop star wielding a gun. instead she was small and soft and parisian, with hair in gentle waves approaching her waist, parted in the middle. she wore a simple black dress with a pleated skirt, which, along with black electric guitar, easily concealed her early pregnancy. only the wine glass full of water rather than whisky hinted at healthful discretion.
she quietly commanded the stage, presenting subdued arrangements of her dancier hits. there is something perennially sexy about a dress behind a guitar. the strings bowed in unison, out of unison, the cellist with deep and sultry highlights. the french lilt of the singer's english did not penetrate her lyrics, only the gracious chatter between songs. i thought about effecting the accent myself, if i could pull it off, but sometimes i feel too tall and conspicuous to be a curvy french ingenue.
later, escaping the dark pools of the strings and the french singer all in black, i reentered the l.e.d. light of the nighttime streets of new york. i rode the flourescent train with a yawn, the tired eyes of queens neighbors silent and staring. back in my room, her recording would sound tinny and false, with none of the simplicity of her live singsong voice, the gentle whispers introducing the quartet, lingering on the short 'i'. does she sound familiar because this music is inherent to me, or because she is merely a collage artist of others' notes and thoughts? a '70s song i can't place emerges behind 'not going anywhere.' my dress, a dim shade of yellow, hangs limply on the back of my rocking chair.
the lights sparkled up through the giant window, reflecting spectres of dark cars signified only by headlights caught in a rotary, circling and circling the statue of the genocidal maniac some still revere. within the tiny auditorium, hot pink lights illuminated the audience, turning my yellow dress to orange. the string quartet was chic in black; v-necked caftan on the cellist, sequined top behind the viola. the first violin was tiny and white-haired and french in a suit.
keren ann took the stage, stepping up carefully in black ankle boots. not expecting much, i anticipated shoulder pads and severe hair cut and dramatic make-up more befitting a pop star wielding a gun. instead she was small and soft and parisian, with hair in gentle waves approaching her waist, parted in the middle. she wore a simple black dress with a pleated skirt, which, along with black electric guitar, easily concealed her early pregnancy. only the wine glass full of water rather than whisky hinted at healthful discretion.
she quietly commanded the stage, presenting subdued arrangements of her dancier hits. there is something perennially sexy about a dress behind a guitar. the strings bowed in unison, out of unison, the cellist with deep and sultry highlights. the french lilt of the singer's english did not penetrate her lyrics, only the gracious chatter between songs. i thought about effecting the accent myself, if i could pull it off, but sometimes i feel too tall and conspicuous to be a curvy french ingenue.
later, escaping the dark pools of the strings and the french singer all in black, i reentered the l.e.d. light of the nighttime streets of new york. i rode the flourescent train with a yawn, the tired eyes of queens neighbors silent and staring. back in my room, her recording would sound tinny and false, with none of the simplicity of her live singsong voice, the gentle whispers introducing the quartet, lingering on the short 'i'. does she sound familiar because this music is inherent to me, or because she is merely a collage artist of others' notes and thoughts? a '70s song i can't place emerges behind 'not going anywhere.' my dress, a dim shade of yellow, hangs limply on the back of my rocking chair.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
I'll take candles over numerals any day
Well, it's been awhile.
I met a person at a party last night--a Chinese New Year party, to be exact--who is writing a book about living in Shanghai. I told him I am a writer as well, although neither of us are, yet, by profession. He reminded me about the value of blogging, if for no other reason than to get feedback from the five people who consistently read your words. So here I am, dear readers. Here I am.
Speaking of this lucky year of the dragon, 2012 is going to be our year. I say our to be inclusive, but I will outline what it means for me.
This is the year of using my voice. Writing, writing, writing. My previous goal of 300 words a day is not a bad start.
This is the year of faith. Figuring out faith in myself, in my environs (finding the perfectly just city is no easy task), in God and this world.
This is the year to seek the perfectly just city. Which is quoting Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, a paean to New York City and winter. Neither of which come naturally to this Southern country girl. So, as I am going to seize each moment here, I present you with my top nine goals for the year of the dragon:
see a play
go to the botanical garden
be published in a non-work related publication
participate in worship, regularly
go to BAM
travel to scandinavia
cut my hair like rooney mara
noguchi museum
speak out for campaign finance reform
um, quite a list. mainly, i will live in colors, live in rooms.
I met a person at a party last night--a Chinese New Year party, to be exact--who is writing a book about living in Shanghai. I told him I am a writer as well, although neither of us are, yet, by profession. He reminded me about the value of blogging, if for no other reason than to get feedback from the five people who consistently read your words. So here I am, dear readers. Here I am.
Speaking of this lucky year of the dragon, 2012 is going to be our year. I say our to be inclusive, but I will outline what it means for me.
This is the year of using my voice. Writing, writing, writing. My previous goal of 300 words a day is not a bad start.
This is the year of faith. Figuring out faith in myself, in my environs (finding the perfectly just city is no easy task), in God and this world.
This is the year to seek the perfectly just city. Which is quoting Mark Helprin's Winter's Tale, a paean to New York City and winter. Neither of which come naturally to this Southern country girl. So, as I am going to seize each moment here, I present you with my top nine goals for the year of the dragon:
see a play
go to the botanical garden
be published in a non-work related publication
participate in worship, regularly
go to BAM
travel to scandinavia
cut my hair like rooney mara
noguchi museum
speak out for campaign finance reform
um, quite a list. mainly, i will live in colors, live in rooms.
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