I have a pair of paper boots.
They get soggy after puddle-jumping,
and we make new ones from old newspaper.
Inhaling the inky smell, our laughter louder than the crinkling,
we steal kisses even as we dodge thrown mittens, still wet from brown snow.
Hung to dry over the mantle, bursting into flames,
we notice only the ashes later as our twin fires burn low,
exhausted energy spent on one another.
I kiss your fluttering eyelids to sleep,
and you murmur softly in your dream-world,
far from snow and fire,
while I marvel at the stillness of your face,
the slight part of your lips,
the soft curve of your back in my hand.
As many lights in the sky as sparks from a log;
the bricks stacked to shape our fire glowing with an inner heat;
we two make more light than God
in this moment, our moment,
and rest when our day is done.
This is a world where few are found,
and we are a privileged few who dwell here.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Inconstancy
God speaks to each of us before we are,
Before he's formed us — then, in cloudy speech,
But only then, he speaks these words to each
And silently walks with us from the dark:
Driven by your senses, dare
To the edge of longing. Grow
Like a fire's shadowcasting glare
Behind assembled things, so you can spread
Their shapes on me as clothes.
Don't leave me bare.
Let it all happen to you: beauty and dread.
Simply go — no feeling is too much —
And only this way can we stay in touch.
Near here is the land
That they call Life.
You'll know when you arrive
By how real it is.
Give me your hand.
Rainer Maria Rilke
-Thursday, January 8th, 2009
The Origin of a Love Story
Lost in thought in the early dawn,
watching the sunrise spread 'cross the lawn,
I wished for a seed to grow to a tree -
a home to hang your candles from.
The bark would bear your name and mine,
letters twisting round the trunk, entwined;
before it burns away, we'll see
a smoky branch wave it's leaves towards the sky.
watching the sunrise spread 'cross the lawn,
I wished for a seed to grow to a tree -
a home to hang your candles from.
The bark would bear your name and mine,
letters twisting round the trunk, entwined;
before it burns away, we'll see
a smoky branch wave it's leaves towards the sky.
Rough Sketch for a Future Funeral
I had the great fortune to know my grandaddy throughout three phases of my life.
As a child, I was captivated by his rapt attention and unconditional love; his enthusiasm and sweet nature expressed in "tastes like cinammon" earlobe-nibbles, remembering my favorite Archie comics, and old videotapes of The Little Rascals.
As a teenager, I benefited from the wisdom of his advice, some of which I sought, some of which was not, but which was always readily available and freely given, and most often better headed than not.
And finally as a young man, fresh in the "real world" and adventuring with a newfound sense of independence (even though I had recently moved back in with my parents), I benefited again on account of his open and frank recollections about his own exploits as an adult, and how sometimes it is wiser to swallow your pride than to risk two weeks in a hospital by swallowing a bottle.
Grandaddy demonstrated the power of "till Death do us part" in his later years, showing a deep devotion, love and care for his beloved, sometimes in contrast to his own health. This is a comittment we in the current Western world are seldom exposed to, the power, sincerity and import of which cannot be denied.
As he believed in "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," so too deep in my soul is the belief that he is bound for somewhere greater, somewhere restful, and somewhere good where he may be at peace, a well-earned repose from a life poured into his family, and that he is greeted by our smiling Creator, welcoming him with open arms and whispering, "Home again, home again, jiggity jog."
He had a powerful love for us all, and the man I knew lived with few regrets. I therefore invite you to not to shed your tears, but to celebrate with me the life of Ross Kern.
As a child, I was captivated by his rapt attention and unconditional love; his enthusiasm and sweet nature expressed in "tastes like cinammon" earlobe-nibbles, remembering my favorite Archie comics, and old videotapes of The Little Rascals.
As a teenager, I benefited from the wisdom of his advice, some of which I sought, some of which was not, but which was always readily available and freely given, and most often better headed than not.
And finally as a young man, fresh in the "real world" and adventuring with a newfound sense of independence (even though I had recently moved back in with my parents), I benefited again on account of his open and frank recollections about his own exploits as an adult, and how sometimes it is wiser to swallow your pride than to risk two weeks in a hospital by swallowing a bottle.
Grandaddy demonstrated the power of "till Death do us part" in his later years, showing a deep devotion, love and care for his beloved, sometimes in contrast to his own health. This is a comittment we in the current Western world are seldom exposed to, the power, sincerity and import of which cannot be denied.
As he believed in "ashes to ashes, dust to dust," so too deep in my soul is the belief that he is bound for somewhere greater, somewhere restful, and somewhere good where he may be at peace, a well-earned repose from a life poured into his family, and that he is greeted by our smiling Creator, welcoming him with open arms and whispering, "Home again, home again, jiggity jog."
He had a powerful love for us all, and the man I knew lived with few regrets. I therefore invite you to not to shed your tears, but to celebrate with me the life of Ross Kern.
The Meanings of Life
Life and love and life and love,
a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets,
and to drag in the idea of a point
is to ruin everything. Live and let live,
love and let love, flower and fade,
and follow the natural curve,
which flows on, pointless.
-D.H. Lawrence
'What is the meaning of life?' is a stupid question. Life just exists. You say to yourself, 'I can't accept that I mean nothing so I have to find the meaning of life so that I shouldn't mean as little as I know I do.' Subconsciously you know you're full of shit. I see life as a dance. Does dance have to have a meaning? You're dancing because you enjoy it.
-Jackie Mason
Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
-Kurt Vonnegut
We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.
-Charles Bukowski
a bunch of violets is a bunch of violets,
and to drag in the idea of a point
is to ruin everything. Live and let live,
love and let love, flower and fade,
and follow the natural curve,
which flows on, pointless.
-D.H. Lawrence
'What is the meaning of life?' is a stupid question. Life just exists. You say to yourself, 'I can't accept that I mean nothing so I have to find the meaning of life so that I shouldn't mean as little as I know I do.' Subconsciously you know you're full of shit. I see life as a dance. Does dance have to have a meaning? You're dancing because you enjoy it.
-Jackie Mason
Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
-Kurt Vonnegut
We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that death will tremble to take us.
-Charles Bukowski
Quarter Past Three
There's no Dab sitting on my chest. At least none of the old ones. But the insomnia seems to be back, and it's winning. New worries, new anxieties, but few ways to block or re-route them so I can get some sleep.
Last night, I was up till 4 a.m. and woke up at 8:30. It's 3:15 a.m. and we're looking at a double-feature. Been reading for one and a half hours; maybe part of the problem is too many books? I've got three at the moment: "The Art of Happiness", "Infinite Jest", and "The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense." Actually, I've four if I'm counting the Psychology textbook on loan from Ryan. Oddly enough, the entire chapter on dreams goes into fascinating detail about the various stages of sleep, the Event Horizon of consciousness and unconsciousness, and yet fails to mention basic remedies, ideas, or solutions to insomnia, instead listing a brief definition while skimming some of the mythological superstitions surrounding the subject in art, history and poetry.
Damn schools; what are they teaching kids these days? No self-regulating form of behavior? No corrective measures against a severely debilitating, mentally unsound, physically damaging psychological hindrance? Nah. How 'bout a painting that looks like a 17th century Emo rendition of a demon sitting on a woman's chest, laughing? Great. Just great. This is why I prefer the performing arts.
I think I'm in a Kafka mood too on account of seeing Synecdoche, New York, the new Charlie Kaufman film starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Diane Wiest. Interesting beyond a doubt, provoking in it's ability to ignite abstract meaning in it's overtly metaphorical imagery, and breathtakingly grand in scope. It does, however, leave you feeling as if you just stepped into a person's very disturbing, very private dream. I couldn't shake the feeling halfway through the film that I had fallen asleep, and was watching instead a vivid hallucination sparked by my own lack of rest.
Anyway, I'd highly recommend the film. I'm sure some actors and directors (and writers, especially) will be hailing this movie as one of the epic hallmarks of the cinema, which is like saying Surrealism is the deepest and therefore truest genre of art.
F*ck. I need sleep. I have auditions and filming tomorrow.
-Wednesday, November 12th, 2008
Last night, I was up till 4 a.m. and woke up at 8:30. It's 3:15 a.m. and we're looking at a double-feature. Been reading for one and a half hours; maybe part of the problem is too many books? I've got three at the moment: "The Art of Happiness", "Infinite Jest", and "The Gentle Art of Verbal Self-Defense." Actually, I've four if I'm counting the Psychology textbook on loan from Ryan. Oddly enough, the entire chapter on dreams goes into fascinating detail about the various stages of sleep, the Event Horizon of consciousness and unconsciousness, and yet fails to mention basic remedies, ideas, or solutions to insomnia, instead listing a brief definition while skimming some of the mythological superstitions surrounding the subject in art, history and poetry.
Damn schools; what are they teaching kids these days? No self-regulating form of behavior? No corrective measures against a severely debilitating, mentally unsound, physically damaging psychological hindrance? Nah. How 'bout a painting that looks like a 17th century Emo rendition of a demon sitting on a woman's chest, laughing? Great. Just great. This is why I prefer the performing arts.
I think I'm in a Kafka mood too on account of seeing Synecdoche, New York, the new Charlie Kaufman film starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Diane Wiest. Interesting beyond a doubt, provoking in it's ability to ignite abstract meaning in it's overtly metaphorical imagery, and breathtakingly grand in scope. It does, however, leave you feeling as if you just stepped into a person's very disturbing, very private dream. I couldn't shake the feeling halfway through the film that I had fallen asleep, and was watching instead a vivid hallucination sparked by my own lack of rest.
Anyway, I'd highly recommend the film. I'm sure some actors and directors (and writers, especially) will be hailing this movie as one of the epic hallmarks of the cinema, which is like saying Surrealism is the deepest and therefore truest genre of art.
F*ck. I need sleep. I have auditions and filming tomorrow.
-Wednesday, November 12th, 2008
H.O.P.E.
Health, Opportunity, Prosperity, Equality.
I was an ex-pat at two points in my life. At the age of three, my family moved to the south of France where we lived for almost three years. Later, when I was fourteen, my father's job took us to the Netherlands (or Holland, as most Americans know it.)
Living abroad as an American is an exhilarating experience. Racial/national diversity is rampant, politics are close-knit and face the constant struggle of bringing so many countries together, cultural taboos are unfamiliar, and the normal prejudices of American life towards sex, gender identity, independence, alcohol and drugs, and responsibility take a complete twist.
The sense of history between each country is the most fascinating aspect. As America borders only two countries, of which we share a meager 200 years at most, it's difficult to grasp the fact that many countries like Holland have been contending, sharing, trading, etc. with one another for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
One constant struggle for any American living abroad is coming to terms with the sense of hatred many people foster for the United States. Between 1999 and 2003, I met people from many different countries who held false beliefs about the American people; chiefly, why so many Americans seemed to support President Bush, a notion that my brother and I quickly moved to dispel.
On occasion, Clay and I were met with open hostility. In one particular incident, a Dutch student pulled up next to us on a scooter and began yelling obscenities - "Go back to America! Fucking fascists!"
My soccer team in the Netherlands had an ongoing rivalry with a team called the Woensel Boys. I played keeper, and during one game I wrapped myself around the ball while their forward followed through with his kick, connecting with the base of my skull and numbing my body for a period of half a minute, although it felt like eternity. As I struggled to take a breath, I heard him shouting at me "Stupid American fucker, get out of the way." Personally, I think he was more upset that I had blocked his shot.
This kind of aggrevation wore on and on, sometimes from the families of my close friends who were extremely loving of me, but very anti-Bush, which unfortunately translated to anti-American in their speech. As the years went by, I felt myself drawn more and more to an anti-American mindset, something easily justified by the policies and behavior of the Bush administration and by my inflated sense of anti-Patriotism; you don't take pride in a country that exemplifies incredibly narrow-minded, bigoted, ignorant behavior.
I will say that since I have been back, I have found many areas to take pride of in my country; our Constitution, our music, our awareness of social equality and our constant struggle to take bigger steps towards real equality between all people regardless of race, gender identity, sexual orientation, etc. Something's been missing - a President I can respect, admire, support and learn from.
Barack Obama has given me my sense of Patriotism back. And that's something I didn't expect to find in great quantity for a long, long time.
So thank you to the American people, for going against my lowered expectations and voting in someone with enormous potential, someone who is intelligent and yet relates to us all, someone capable of healing a great multitude who have been wounded, betrayed, and upset by our government in years past.
"...we've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope; but in the unlikely story of America, there has never been anything false about our hope."
-Barack Obama
-Monday, November 10th, 2008
I was an ex-pat at two points in my life. At the age of three, my family moved to the south of France where we lived for almost three years. Later, when I was fourteen, my father's job took us to the Netherlands (or Holland, as most Americans know it.)
Living abroad as an American is an exhilarating experience. Racial/national diversity is rampant, politics are close-knit and face the constant struggle of bringing so many countries together, cultural taboos are unfamiliar, and the normal prejudices of American life towards sex, gender identity, independence, alcohol and drugs, and responsibility take a complete twist.
The sense of history between each country is the most fascinating aspect. As America borders only two countries, of which we share a meager 200 years at most, it's difficult to grasp the fact that many countries like Holland have been contending, sharing, trading, etc. with one another for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.
One constant struggle for any American living abroad is coming to terms with the sense of hatred many people foster for the United States. Between 1999 and 2003, I met people from many different countries who held false beliefs about the American people; chiefly, why so many Americans seemed to support President Bush, a notion that my brother and I quickly moved to dispel.
On occasion, Clay and I were met with open hostility. In one particular incident, a Dutch student pulled up next to us on a scooter and began yelling obscenities - "Go back to America! Fucking fascists!"
My soccer team in the Netherlands had an ongoing rivalry with a team called the Woensel Boys. I played keeper, and during one game I wrapped myself around the ball while their forward followed through with his kick, connecting with the base of my skull and numbing my body for a period of half a minute, although it felt like eternity. As I struggled to take a breath, I heard him shouting at me "Stupid American fucker, get out of the way." Personally, I think he was more upset that I had blocked his shot.
This kind of aggrevation wore on and on, sometimes from the families of my close friends who were extremely loving of me, but very anti-Bush, which unfortunately translated to anti-American in their speech. As the years went by, I felt myself drawn more and more to an anti-American mindset, something easily justified by the policies and behavior of the Bush administration and by my inflated sense of anti-Patriotism; you don't take pride in a country that exemplifies incredibly narrow-minded, bigoted, ignorant behavior.
I will say that since I have been back, I have found many areas to take pride of in my country; our Constitution, our music, our awareness of social equality and our constant struggle to take bigger steps towards real equality between all people regardless of race, gender identity, sexual orientation, etc. Something's been missing - a President I can respect, admire, support and learn from.
Barack Obama has given me my sense of Patriotism back. And that's something I didn't expect to find in great quantity for a long, long time.
So thank you to the American people, for going against my lowered expectations and voting in someone with enormous potential, someone who is intelligent and yet relates to us all, someone capable of healing a great multitude who have been wounded, betrayed, and upset by our government in years past.
"...we've been warned against offering the people of this nation false hope; but in the unlikely story of America, there has never been anything false about our hope."
-Barack Obama
-Monday, November 10th, 2008
The Great Joke From On High
"The love you withhold is the pain that you carry."
How do you un-guard your heart and not be wary?
It's scary; altogether, the situation's quite hairy.
Chase me, run and catch me; fill me full of energy!
The sustenance I suck from you is what completes me.
Vampiric, parasitic, co-dependent, needy...unhealthy.
On the seventh day, God laughed at Adam,
as vexed and perplexed as he was by his madame.
Children from that confusion union? Should never have had them.
-Monday, October 20th, 2008
How do you un-guard your heart and not be wary?
It's scary; altogether, the situation's quite hairy.
Chase me, run and catch me; fill me full of energy!
The sustenance I suck from you is what completes me.
Vampiric, parasitic, co-dependent, needy...unhealthy.
On the seventh day, God laughed at Adam,
as vexed and perplexed as he was by his madame.
Children from that confusion union? Should never have had them.
-Monday, October 20th, 2008
Chasing a Dream
Checking in, noting nothing's changed - everything is pretty much the same.
Different day. The sun looks dimmer, it sets a different way.
When you were young, you talked with yourself. Promises were made,
dreams were forged at night, then realized at the break of day.
Oftentimes, when nothing goes your way, you say your dreams have made you pay.
Now and then, desire leads you to walk astray, make mistakes.
Swim alone through tides of strain, or face the truth and walk away;
success in matters of the heart are for another day.
Cities have a habit of holding joy at bay.
Their bright lights, dens, denizens looking for their next lay,
are dumb to what holds you in your part. This is an ill-begotten play,
so save face; best leave it to the players.
-Thursday, October 2nd, 2008
Different day. The sun looks dimmer, it sets a different way.
When you were young, you talked with yourself. Promises were made,
dreams were forged at night, then realized at the break of day.
Oftentimes, when nothing goes your way, you say your dreams have made you pay.
Now and then, desire leads you to walk astray, make mistakes.
Swim alone through tides of strain, or face the truth and walk away;
success in matters of the heart are for another day.
Cities have a habit of holding joy at bay.
Their bright lights, dens, denizens looking for their next lay,
are dumb to what holds you in your part. This is an ill-begotten play,
so save face; best leave it to the players.
-Thursday, October 2nd, 2008
Between the Lines
There's a New York actor who feels on Fear Factor
When love is in the air,
He can talk through Shakespeare
"Oh how I love you my dear"
but the real thing's such a scare…
So he prayed to Marlon Brando, Meryl Streep, Al Pacino
and found his answer in the stars -
ain't no lines to read
when the words come straight from the heart.
Tell her how you feel,
speak your dream and make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show,
if all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
A week of rehearsing, no sleep and no working,
Casanova takes five to prepare;
but the words get stuck like wet shoes in the muck,
and he's purple from a lack of air.
Then she smiles and laughs and she claps claps claps
'cause they're made for one another like swans,
she says "I love you too,
and this show has to go on."
Tell her how you feel,
say the words to make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show
If all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
One year ahead, they climb out of bed,
and kiss each other good morning.
She teaches kids at school that they're exceptions to the rule
and he's grown tired of auditioning...
'cause Romeo is moldy, Hamlet's young and Troilus phony
when true love is here to stay!
All the world's a stage
but that doesn't mean it's always a play.
So tell her how you feel
break your heart to make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show
if all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her,
we all need a muse,
and I want her so bad,
we all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
-Tuesday, August 26th, 2008
When love is in the air,
He can talk through Shakespeare
"Oh how I love you my dear"
but the real thing's such a scare…
So he prayed to Marlon Brando, Meryl Streep, Al Pacino
and found his answer in the stars -
ain't no lines to read
when the words come straight from the heart.
Tell her how you feel,
speak your dream and make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show,
if all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
A week of rehearsing, no sleep and no working,
Casanova takes five to prepare;
but the words get stuck like wet shoes in the muck,
and he's purple from a lack of air.
Then she smiles and laughs and she claps claps claps
'cause they're made for one another like swans,
she says "I love you too,
and this show has to go on."
Tell her how you feel,
say the words to make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show
If all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
One year ahead, they climb out of bed,
and kiss each other good morning.
She teaches kids at school that they're exceptions to the rule
and he's grown tired of auditioning...
'cause Romeo is moldy, Hamlet's young and Troilus phony
when true love is here to stay!
All the world's a stage
but that doesn't mean it's always a play.
So tell her how you feel
break your heart to make it real;
you know you have to let her know,
don't wanna be alone in a one-man-show.
So what if you're a star in your one-man-show
if all you can perform is the one-man blues?
We all need a muse,
and I want her,
we all need a muse,
and I want her so bad,
we all need a muse,
and I want her to be mine.
-Tuesday, August 26th, 2008
Respecting Your Elders
Where is the line between respect and obedience?
And what is the age at which you become your parent's peer? Is this even attainable?
-Tuesday, July 15th, 2008
And what is the age at which you become your parent's peer? Is this even attainable?
-Tuesday, July 15th, 2008
Wall-E
If there is a film that will affect our generation's later years in life in the same manner that Disney accomplished for our childhood, it will be Wall-E.
A touching film that keeps reminding us of the importance of each other, Wall-E is ultimately a film about two people quite unlike ourselves who have to show the human race how to love itself again.
If you are five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, fourty or fifty+, you will be affected in ways unlike anything you've experienced in a cinema in recent years. And, I will admit, thanks to George Lucas and Industrial Light and Magic for redeeming themselves a notch with a wonderfully whimsical story.
-Saturday, June 28th, 2008
A touching film that keeps reminding us of the importance of each other, Wall-E is ultimately a film about two people quite unlike ourselves who have to show the human race how to love itself again.
If you are five, ten, fifteen, twenty, thirty, fourty or fifty+, you will be affected in ways unlike anything you've experienced in a cinema in recent years. And, I will admit, thanks to George Lucas and Industrial Light and Magic for redeeming themselves a notch with a wonderfully whimsical story.
-Saturday, June 28th, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
When You Fall
If you glance a thought the other way
and turn a pretty head,
you find that you can't move at all
for fear of doom and death.
When the fear has passed away
you see it's quite contrived;
a shackle that you've self-imposed
to keep you by your side.
If the leash is loosed and thrown
to Hell and far away,
you might just find a freer man
who's turned from night to day.
And when the day turns dark with dusk
and lingers after hours,
you find your thoughts have shifted back
from sweet to bitter-sour.
Once again, the shackles loom
and close upon your feet,
the key quite close, within your grasp,
the gold a searing heat.
And when you choose to let it go,
and throw the metal off,
you choose instead to face your grace
and spurn, point, laugh and scoff.
No freer man of 23
would wish for freedom changed,
but lasting long is not his song
and with it he is hanged.
and turn a pretty head,
you find that you can't move at all
for fear of doom and death.
When the fear has passed away
you see it's quite contrived;
a shackle that you've self-imposed
to keep you by your side.
If the leash is loosed and thrown
to Hell and far away,
you might just find a freer man
who's turned from night to day.
And when the day turns dark with dusk
and lingers after hours,
you find your thoughts have shifted back
from sweet to bitter-sour.
Once again, the shackles loom
and close upon your feet,
the key quite close, within your grasp,
the gold a searing heat.
And when you choose to let it go,
and throw the metal off,
you choose instead to face your grace
and spurn, point, laugh and scoff.
No freer man of 23
would wish for freedom changed,
but lasting long is not his song
and with it he is hanged.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
A Quick Overview of Wikipedia Linking
Starting with "Army Ants", the thread searches went as follows:
Search: "Army Ants"--->Convergent Evolution--->Assassin Spiders--->Dorsal Fins--->Icthyosaur--->Journey to the Center of the Earth--->Doctor Emmett Brown--->Mad Scientist--->Evil Genius--->Darth Vader--->David Prowse--->A Clockwork Orange--->Nadsat--->Ludovico Technique--->Blanka--->Raúl Juliá--->Don Quixote
All links were made from the immediate previous page.
Search: "Army Ants"--->Convergent Evolution--->Assassin Spiders--->Dorsal Fins--->Icthyosaur--->Journey to the Center of the Earth--->Doctor Emmett Brown--->Mad Scientist--->Evil Genius--->Darth Vader--->David Prowse--->A Clockwork Orange--->Nadsat--->Ludovico Technique--->Blanka--->Raúl Juliá--->Don Quixote
All links were made from the immediate previous page.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Seeds of Compassion
I had the privilege of seeing the Dalai Lama and a panel of other distinguished guests.
The most interesting aspect of today's talks was the equal weight carried by each member of the panel:
Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Episcopal Archbishop of South Africa,
Dr. Rob Bell, Mars Hill Bible Church, Grandville, Michigan,
Sister Joan Chittister, Benedictine Catholic nun,
Jasmit Singh Kochar, a Sikh representative,
Dr. Ingrid Mattson, President of the Islamic Society of North America,
Rabbi David Rosen, Chairman of the International Jewish Committee on Inter religious Consultations,
Pravrajika Vrajaprana, a Vendanta nun,
Moderator: Roshi Joan Halifax, Zen Buddhist Master.
While the Daila Lama and Desmond Tutu were the perceived powerhouses of the discussion, I was extraordinarily impressed with Sister Jaon Chittister and Rabbi David Rosen. While the Daila Lama and Archbishop Tutu gave reflective, humorous, insightful and introspective reflection to the questions, Sister Joan and Rabbi Rosen communicated their thoughts in a very structured, thought-out and firm manner. The differences in their discourse may have been a result of the audience's perception of Tutu and the Dalai Lama as men of higher authority and their celebrity status. However, every panel member gave astounding answers.
What I took away were the Dalai's comments on religion. I have to paraphrase until I can get transcripts of the discussion today:
"I think all religions mean [the] same thing. (Points to Archbishop Tutu) You wear outfit, I wear robes, does not matter. Essence is still the same. I truly believe this."
I was raised Methodist but became an atheist during my time abroad at International School in the Netherlands. My mother, who was a devout Christian all her life, went through a similar transformation around that time. We shared our experience with each other and came to the same conclusion - even though we did not believe in a Divine Creator, we felt that the message of Christianity, and all religion, was to establish community and spread a message of love and compassion.
Being a part of Tuesday's panel at the University of Washington and seeing this idea reflected in a stadium full of people, re-iterated by the spiritual leaders who dedicated their time and love to these events, re-affirms my faith in humanity in such an incredible way.
It is difficult to express how a Sikh, a Rabbi, an Archbishop, a priest, a Catholic nun, a female follower of Islam, and a Vendata nun can successfully encapsulate one message under the arches of their individual philosophies.
Please see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXmdKWVirUA for an introductory course, led by the Dalai Lama, on the Four Noble Truths.
The most interesting aspect of today's talks was the equal weight carried by each member of the panel:
Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Episcopal Archbishop of South Africa,
Dr. Rob Bell, Mars Hill Bible Church, Grandville, Michigan,
Sister Joan Chittister, Benedictine Catholic nun,
Jasmit Singh Kochar, a Sikh representative,
Dr. Ingrid Mattson, President of the Islamic Society of North America,
Rabbi David Rosen, Chairman of the International Jewish Committee on Inter religious Consultations,
Pravrajika Vrajaprana, a Vendanta nun,
Moderator: Roshi Joan Halifax, Zen Buddhist Master.
While the Daila Lama and Desmond Tutu were the perceived powerhouses of the discussion, I was extraordinarily impressed with Sister Jaon Chittister and Rabbi David Rosen. While the Daila Lama and Archbishop Tutu gave reflective, humorous, insightful and introspective reflection to the questions, Sister Joan and Rabbi Rosen communicated their thoughts in a very structured, thought-out and firm manner. The differences in their discourse may have been a result of the audience's perception of Tutu and the Dalai Lama as men of higher authority and their celebrity status. However, every panel member gave astounding answers.
What I took away were the Dalai's comments on religion. I have to paraphrase until I can get transcripts of the discussion today:
"I think all religions mean [the] same thing. (Points to Archbishop Tutu) You wear outfit, I wear robes, does not matter. Essence is still the same. I truly believe this."
I was raised Methodist but became an atheist during my time abroad at International School in the Netherlands. My mother, who was a devout Christian all her life, went through a similar transformation around that time. We shared our experience with each other and came to the same conclusion - even though we did not believe in a Divine Creator, we felt that the message of Christianity, and all religion, was to establish community and spread a message of love and compassion.
Being a part of Tuesday's panel at the University of Washington and seeing this idea reflected in a stadium full of people, re-iterated by the spiritual leaders who dedicated their time and love to these events, re-affirms my faith in humanity in such an incredible way.
It is difficult to express how a Sikh, a Rabbi, an Archbishop, a priest, a Catholic nun, a female follower of Islam, and a Vendata nun can successfully encapsulate one message under the arches of their individual philosophies.
Please see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXmdKWVirUA for an introductory course, led by the Dalai Lama, on the Four Noble Truths.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Performing Bug
I think every performer should take a break. Maybe just once, or, preferably, every two or three shows.
If you don't have a life to live, and experiences to draw on, you have nothing to give on a stage - or what you give will feel stale, or empty.
Get out and enjoy life every once in a while, and out of the bright lights.
If you don't have a life to live, and experiences to draw on, you have nothing to give on a stage - or what you give will feel stale, or empty.
Get out and enjoy life every once in a while, and out of the bright lights.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Haruki Murakami
This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. Ask yourself if you've forgotten how to see beauty.
--Taken from http://www.mat.upm.es/~jcm/murakami-perfect.html--
On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
[Otras Vidas]
--Taken from http://www.mat.upm.es/~jcm/murakami-perfect.html--
On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning
One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.
Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.
Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.
But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.
"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.
"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"
"Not really."
"Your favorite type, then?"
"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."
"Strange."
"Yeah. Strange."
"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"
"Nah. Just passed her on the street."
She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.
Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.
After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.
Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.
Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.
How can I approach her? What should I say?
"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"
Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.
"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"
No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?
Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."
No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.
We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.
I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.
Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.
Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"
Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.
One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.
"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."
"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."
They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.
As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?
And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"
"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."
And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.
The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.
One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.
They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.
Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.
One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:
She is the 100% perfect girl for me.
He is the 100% perfect boy for me.
But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.
A sad story, don't you think?
Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.
[Otras Vidas]
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Downtown Seattle
Will you look about? Open your eyes!
The city gleams gold in rainy light,
dazzling like donuts dunked in heavy cream,
and polka-dotted with rainbow sprinkles!
Carry on, upon the cement, skipping around the cracks
that cleave like spiderwebs upon your backbone!
Revel in your little-boy lust, the wanderlust that sets you
flying with dusty gravel in your wake!
Shame the land you run on, too scared to keep it's own pace,
turning it's paltry 1,000 mph, sea salt and crusty wind
scouring the pores of your face clean, washing you clean,
the dirt and grime of years of life dissolved to a beautiful, blank canvas;
Paint your expression as manic delight, flowering teeth
gleaming white, as steam rises delicately from your open mouth,
shouting challenges at seagulls who dare defy gravity while your own legs
churn up the earth like iron-pumping pistons!
Overtake the receding waves, spurred by Luna's pull,
thrust your arms into her white foam and pull up the hair of her soil,
lanky and green between your grasping, infant fingers,
laden with weighty strands of the ocean's inky depths,
Bury your face in the mirror surface, break the calm smoothness of glass,
shattering it's shards like seventy mirrors in seventy halls thrown to the floor
by every angry owner's king. Become the ruling body, adorn your head with sand,
and flow outward with the water to every corner of the bright, golden city.
The city gleams gold in rainy light,
dazzling like donuts dunked in heavy cream,
and polka-dotted with rainbow sprinkles!
Carry on, upon the cement, skipping around the cracks
that cleave like spiderwebs upon your backbone!
Revel in your little-boy lust, the wanderlust that sets you
flying with dusty gravel in your wake!
Shame the land you run on, too scared to keep it's own pace,
turning it's paltry 1,000 mph, sea salt and crusty wind
scouring the pores of your face clean, washing you clean,
the dirt and grime of years of life dissolved to a beautiful, blank canvas;
Paint your expression as manic delight, flowering teeth
gleaming white, as steam rises delicately from your open mouth,
shouting challenges at seagulls who dare defy gravity while your own legs
churn up the earth like iron-pumping pistons!
Overtake the receding waves, spurred by Luna's pull,
thrust your arms into her white foam and pull up the hair of her soil,
lanky and green between your grasping, infant fingers,
laden with weighty strands of the ocean's inky depths,
Bury your face in the mirror surface, break the calm smoothness of glass,
shattering it's shards like seventy mirrors in seventy halls thrown to the floor
by every angry owner's king. Become the ruling body, adorn your head with sand,
and flow outward with the water to every corner of the bright, golden city.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Cold Cereal and Hot Coffee
My body hates me.
Getting up at 4:30 a.m. is no way for me to start a day. Of course, going to bed at 10:30 p.m. after homemade calzone, salad and several glasses of wine is no way to turn in. Thank God for singing Journey in the shower, or else I wouldn't have had any fun.
I've decided to get myself full-time on the acting track. I'll quit my job in a couple of months, after saving an assload of money and getting some backup plans in gear. Another break from theater is what I need to get my life in order again. Acting, modeling, music and yoga need to be my goals. I've never let myself be completely consumed by my passion. I've been a weekend warrior too long, and need to give it a shot.
My hat's off to you, destiny. Here's a shot of milk and raisin bran for the occasion *slurp*.
Getting up at 4:30 a.m. is no way for me to start a day. Of course, going to bed at 10:30 p.m. after homemade calzone, salad and several glasses of wine is no way to turn in. Thank God for singing Journey in the shower, or else I wouldn't have had any fun.
I've decided to get myself full-time on the acting track. I'll quit my job in a couple of months, after saving an assload of money and getting some backup plans in gear. Another break from theater is what I need to get my life in order again. Acting, modeling, music and yoga need to be my goals. I've never let myself be completely consumed by my passion. I've been a weekend warrior too long, and need to give it a shot.
My hat's off to you, destiny. Here's a shot of milk and raisin bran for the occasion *slurp*.
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