William Burroughs identified language as a virus, and he is a (problematic) hero of mine. Reprehensible, unarguably, and yet brave in that he tried to eradicate dividing lines--to break down the way language sections off reality--break down the bonds that hold together nuclear families. Traps. "The ties that bind are barbed and spined" Joanna Newsom sang that, "and hold us close forever." No thanks.
A friend recommended "The Miracle of Mindfulness" by Thich Nhat Hanh and I am halfway through. I don't disagree with anything, but isn't Buddhist literature ridiculous in a way? Why spend all this time laying out these delineations in which you don't believe. They like to make these lists: The 8 Fold Path, The 5 Aggregates. Then they tell you there is no object, there is no subject. The object is the subject; the subject is the object. Well, then why chop it up into thousands of words in a 140 page book? Why all these sutras? Ohm, I guess.
Mr. Love was the best Buddhist I have ever seen. He spent all that time with the Roshi (the one I considered a fraud), scrubbing and polishing, humbling himself. He got aggravated on the phone if you called while he was trying to sit, you could hear it in his voice. I remember a story about him burning a bunch of his artwork, but in hindsight maybe that's apocryphal. Burning his artwork. You would have to be so far along to do something like that. Far along on the path to Buddhahood, I mean. Or maybe he was already there. Maybe he was ready when he went. He had brought the ancient, doggedly loyal sensibility of his Judaism to the practice of Buddhism and he'd elevated both. I wonder where he is now? Somewhere he deserves, I hope.
"Beyond good and evil there is a field, I'll meet you there," Rumi said something like that. The same friend I mentioned before said it to me today while we were talking. I know that field. It's the one I see in my dreams when I am running. Bounding along, not separate from the action, but running itself, as light and lean and effortless as the very essence of running. I don't even need the thrill of flying in those dreams, but running like that is enough to achieve bliss. I got a taste of it a few times last year, doing all that running. It was hard and boring until in an instant it wasn't. Suddenly, all at once I was full of breath, buoyant, gliding down a hill, but as easy as falling down, painless.
Maybe meditation is like that. I could achieve something close to that incrementally, couch to 5k style, I'd just have to stay consistent. I don't know what stops me. Osho has some passage in "The Book of Secrets" that is like an admonishment, "What are you reading this for? 'If you don't start now, you're just pretending you're going to do it, if you're planning, you're putting it off, it's just pretending." I don't know why I keep pretending. The boxes we build around things make life complicated and painful, but it's a complication and pain that's familiar. I'm attached to all my problems. Who will I be if I melt my mind away with mastery of the breath? What am I if not my problems?
Years ago I went to Ireland in the fall and stayed with a couple I had met in Wildwood the previous summer. Joe and Emir. Once we were getting drunk talking about Irish history, Joe teased Emir about her being sympathetic to the British. Emir, in a small, little-girl's voice, a lilt, looked up at him and cooed "No, Joey, I hate them, I truly do."
That was twenty years ago now and I still see her perfect, rosy Irish face, framed by glossy blonde hair. The giant eyes, the freckles. She was so sincere, fragile, but fierce. The hate she referenced was in her very DNA, she had no self-consciousness about it, no shame. Her hate was as wholesome and as natural as a head of broccoli.
How does it fit in? I don't know. Something about us only being ourselves in opposition to The Other. We can't live like this forever, I know, I can see that now, but I guess I'm not ready to give up my pettiness yet. I saw a pick-up truck parked outside today with a Trump sticker and wanted to slash its tires. I know I'm not ready yet, but I'm trying. I'm trying.
Who on the Internet hasn't made a play on 2020, 20/20 hindsight, or 20/20 vision? There's something to it, though, and my being 42, a nice even number and having been born in 77--extra lucky. The numbers will eat you alive if you let them, they're as bad as the words. But here is something true: I am starting to see, from this vantage point, the path my life has taken, the patterns, the geometry of it, how times of suffering have lead to moments of realization and healthy changes. If you zoom out, you can start to see the same kinds of patterns on a larger scale. I am starting to believe that, even in this dark time, there is a reason for this suffering, something better beyond it. Not bigger better, not ostentatious, but maybe a peaceful realization, a quiet joy, something closer to unity, some of the little boxes falling apart.
