David Guterson's new novel "The Other." Guterson, best-known for his richly evocative bestseller "Snow Falling on Cedars," once again sets his story in the Pacific Northwest. Neil Countryman, the narrator, comes from a blue-collar family and becomes a schoolteacher; his closest friend, John William Barry, is Seattle royalty—born into a fabulously wealthy dysfunctional family. Brilliant but increasingly eccentric, John goes beyond drugs, quasi-mysticism and so much else that was fashionable in the 1970s to dropping out of society altogether, living as a hermit in a cave in the woods. His co-conspirator is Neil, who initially believes this is only a passing phase but then can't summon the will to try to save him by breaking his vow of silence about his "disappearance."
from review by Andrew Nagorski Newsweek
This is my book review of sorts :
The Ohter by David Guterson
The book covernotes say this "...is a novel about youth and idealism, adulthood and its compromises, and two powerfully different visions of what it means to live a good life." I found this book profoundly affecting. Possibly because the two main characters are of my generation and and come of age in '70's which revives many reminisces of my own life. One character,the narrator adapts to the pressures of the times and life to become an English teacher, marry, have two children and be generally happy and adjusted. The other, with a Thoreau-like uncompromising contempt of American materialism and ecological blindness, withdraws from society by living a hermit's life in an Olympic mountain cave near the Hoh rain forest. The hermit has a $400 million trust fund.
The narrator notes the irony of his becoming a teacher: '..i made my living opening my mouth. And all the while I privately preferred silence.' The new year's first snow/how lucky to remain alone/at my hermitage is from Basho . He taught this haiku which bored his high school students but spoke for him. I identified with his sense that even though he succeeded in worldly terms he severely compromised his true values. Without revealing any of the plot I will quote from the narrator's lyrical meditation near the end of the book: "..the truth is that truth is too complicated. If I extrapolate from myself there is a lot of deceit in the world without a beginning, middle, or end. The way it really works, a lot of the time, is that you suffer from the weight of what happened, from what you said and did, so you lie as therapy. Now the story you make up starts to take up space other-wise reserved for reality. For phenomena you substitute epiphenomena. Skew becomes ascendant. The secondary becomes primary. When it comes to confess, you don't know what you're saying. Are you telling the truth, or do you confuse your lies with reality? The question is comical. The answer is lost in the maelstroms of consciousness. It's even possible to pretend, eventually that the question wasn't asked. You've been kidding yourself about yourself for so long, you're someone else. Your you is just a fragile fabrication. every morning, you have to wake up, assemble this busy, dissembling monster, and get him or her on his or her feet again for another round of fantasy. Is this what some sutras by Buddhists are about? ...
I don't know much about myself...but I'm glad to still be breathing, to still be here with people, to still be walking in the mountains, and to be still uncertain....I'm a hypocrite, of course, and I live with that, but I live."
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
2008 New Year's resolutions review
in January 2008 I made 12 resolutions which were to summarize (for more detailed list see archive) :
1) read 10 non-fiction books
2) read 10 books on Buddhism and Mediation
3) resee 10 film classics
4) Attend 10 live concerts
5) see live theatre when possible
6) Travel - see friends, wildlife refuges and nat'l parks
7) See 10 bird species
8) write 10 bad poems
9) Make CD compilations
10) laugh as much as possible (with of course not at)
11) lie less (except to produce laughs - see #10)
12) lose 30 pounds
I am happy, even proud to report that i accomplished 11 of the 12. That's 91.666 per cent. My only failure though it was an utterly complete failure was #11 .
1) read 10 non-fiction books
2) read 10 books on Buddhism and Mediation
3) resee 10 film classics
4) Attend 10 live concerts
5) see live theatre when possible
6) Travel - see friends, wildlife refuges and nat'l parks
7) See 10 bird species
8) write 10 bad poems
9) Make CD compilations
10) laugh as much as possible (with of course not at)
11) lie less (except to produce laughs - see #10)
12) lose 30 pounds
I am happy, even proud to report that i accomplished 11 of the 12. That's 91.666 per cent. My only failure though it was an utterly complete failure was #11 .
Sunday, December 28, 2008
the history of forgetting
Man is the Only Animal that Blushes. Or needs to.
Mark Twain, Following the Equator (1897)
to paraphrase mark twain:
man is the only animal that forgets or needs to.
here is a good poem by lawrence raab:
The History of Forgetting
When Adam and Eve lived in the garden
they hadn't yet learned how to forget.
For them every day was the same day.
Flowers opened, then closed.
They went where the light told them to go.
They slept when it left, and did not dream.
What could they have remembered,
who had never been children? Sometimes
Adam felt a soreness in his side,
but if this was pain it didn't appear
to require a name, or suggest the idea
that anything else might be taken away.
The bright flowers unfolded,
swayed in the breeze.
It was the snake, of course, who knew
about the past—that such a place could exist.
He understood how people would yearn
for whatever they'd lost, and so to survive
they'd need to forget. Soon
the garden will be gone, the snake
thought, and in time God himself.
These were the last days—Adam and Eve
tending the luxurious plants, the snake
watching from above. He knew
what had to happen next, how persuasive
was the taste of that apple. And then
the history of forgetting would begin—
not at the moment of their leaving,
but the first time they looked back.
Lawrence Raab
New Ohio Review
Fall 2008
Mark Twain, Following the Equator (1897)
to paraphrase mark twain:
man is the only animal that forgets or needs to.
here is a good poem by lawrence raab:
The History of Forgetting
When Adam and Eve lived in the garden
they hadn't yet learned how to forget.
For them every day was the same day.
Flowers opened, then closed.
They went where the light told them to go.
They slept when it left, and did not dream.
What could they have remembered,
who had never been children? Sometimes
Adam felt a soreness in his side,
but if this was pain it didn't appear
to require a name, or suggest the idea
that anything else might be taken away.
The bright flowers unfolded,
swayed in the breeze.
It was the snake, of course, who knew
about the past—that such a place could exist.
He understood how people would yearn
for whatever they'd lost, and so to survive
they'd need to forget. Soon
the garden will be gone, the snake
thought, and in time God himself.
These were the last days—Adam and Eve
tending the luxurious plants, the snake
watching from above. He knew
what had to happen next, how persuasive
was the taste of that apple. And then
the history of forgetting would begin—
not at the moment of their leaving,
but the first time they looked back.
Lawrence Raab
New Ohio Review
Fall 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
alternative medicine
i've been trying some alternative remedies for some of my health issues: acupunture,
massage, chinese herbs and meditation. after reading this woody allen story i realize i need to be aware of the law of unintended consequences. i need to beware of getting too well.
Think Hard, It’Ll Come Back to You
by Woody Allen November 10, 2008
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner.Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car? ♦
massage, chinese herbs and meditation. after reading this woody allen story i realize i need to be aware of the law of unintended consequences. i need to beware of getting too well.
Think Hard, It’Ll Come Back to You
by Woody Allen November 10, 2008
As health-food stores go, the Hardened Artery is as steady as any. Perusing its pricey nutrients last week in quest of some vitalizing herb or root to flush out a family of free radicals that had built their nest in my chassis, I came vis-à-vis a bottle of red fluid nestled like a krait between the ginseng and the echinacea and sporting the Ray Bradburyish title “Brainiac.” Plucked from its niche, it claimed to be a thirst quencher chockablock with gingko biloba and sundry antioxidants reputed to enhance memory. “Think quick,” the label copy spieled. “Where are your car keys? Cue television game-show music. The mind docs at Function developed Brainiac to help in these situations.” On the label, in letters clearly visible to anyone possessing an electron microscope, followed the sheepish admission that the claims of the miracle apéritif had not yet been examined by the Food and Drug Administration and “the product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.” Whether it might be used to remove gravy stains or unclog a drain remains untested. Still, this notion of a neuron-recharging elixir brought to mind thoughts of my esteemed colleague Murray Cipher, as he prepared to go out for dinner.Mustn’t be late to the Wasserfiends’ party. Classy crowd. No lungfish caviar tonight. Upward mobility? Vice-presidency for old Murray? Imagine—twenty-four exterminators working under me. Mind-boggling. How do I look? Only great. New necktie should wow ’em, although the pattern of multiple G clefs may be too hip for the room. Searched for the perfect birthday present for Mr. Wasserfiend. Amazing, but Hammacher Schlemmer is the only place in town that carries a Jarvik Heart with a compartment for fish hooks. But, look at this, in my haste to be on time I almost bolted out the door without his gift. Let’s see, where did I put it? Hmm. Was it on the foyer table? Not here in the drawer. Did I leave it in the bedroom? Check my night table—so damn cluttered. Reading lamp, alarm clock, Kleenex, shoe horn, my copy of Hui-Neng’s “Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.” Glove compartment of the Saab? Better race out and see. Raining. Oh, brother, a scratch on the fender. Damn rabbi on his unicycle. Wait a minute, where are my car keys? Could have sworn I left them in this pocket. No, just some loose change and ticket stubs from the all-black version of Elaine Stritch’ s one-woman show. Did I check my desk? Better go back inside. What’s in the top drawer here? Hmm. Envelopes, my paper clips, a loaded revolver in case the tenant in 2A begins yodelling again. O.K., let’s reconstruct. This morning I drove to Smallbone’s to have my toupee steamed, stopped off at Stebbins’s home to return his arch supports, then to my bagpipe lesson.
Hey, wait a minute, that little starlet I shacked up with who always took melatonin to prevent jet lag when we had sex—she used to nosh some kind of Buck Rogers health snack. Yes, Cranial Pops. Supposed to zap the memory. Could she have even left some in the cupboard? Ah, here—what does it say on the bag? “Untested by Food and Drug Administration—May cause drowsiness in men named Seymour.” I’ll just try a few. Hmm, nice flavor. I love the taste of soy phosphatidylserine. Have some more?
Now, where was I? Oh, yes, of course, I left Mr. Wasserfiend’s gift at the office. My secretary, Miss Facework, to meet me with it at the party. Car keys in gray cashmere cardigan on second hanger in hall closet. Remember the day I bought that cardigan, sixteen years ago. A Tuesday. I was wearing beige slacks and a Sulka button-down oxford shirt. Gray socks. Shoes from Flagg Brothers. Had lunch with Sol Kashflow, the hedge-fund whiz. Sol ordered the halibut with buttered peas and julienne potatoes. His beverage white wine, a ’64 Bâtard-Montrachet, which I recall was a tad fruity. Finished off with lime sorbet and two after-dinner mints—or was it three? Funny thing, he hardly touched his meal. Too excited because Amalgamated Permafrost had just merged with a company that had developed a process to make steel into henbane. To celebrate I got the check. Fifty-six dollars and ninety-eight cents. Hardly worth it, since my langoustines were overcooked.
To the Wasserfiends’ party at last. Just on time. Everybody well dressed. Champagne flowing. Cocktail pianist. “Avalon.” Same song playing that night in Vineyard Haven with Lillian Waterfowl. Slipped out of her bathing suit. Naked goddess. Tore off my clothes with her long nails. Our two bodies straining with desire. Moved in on her like a panther. About to consummate passion, when suddenly my leg cramped. Left calf? No, right. Let out piercing shriek, leaped off her. Hopped around room, face contorted with pain. What struck her so damn funny? Christ, the woman was doubled up with laughter. Accused me of ruining the moment. Schlemiel, she called me, nudnik. Couldn’t run to the phone fast enough to share the story with our friends. Let her rot with her embezzler husband. The man tries to hide six million dollars in small denominations in his shoe.
Brings to mind Hornblow evening. Haven’t thought of it in fifteen years. Watched Effluvia Hornblow baking in her kitchen. Asa Hornblow in the other room bombinating his chums about the Red Sox. They split a doubleheader with the Tigers that day, taking the opener, 6–2, then dropping the nightcap, 4–0. Heard their voices, good old boys arguing balls and strikes. Bent her over the sink to lance my tongue between her smoldering lips. Suddenly necktie caught in the Mixmaster. Switch jammed, wouldn’t turn off. Plug inaccessible behind refrigerator. Kept snapping my head against the marble backsplash. Remember witnessing birth of the great Crab Nebula. Emergency Squad. Taken away in an ambulance. For two weeks could speak only in rhymed couplets, smiled often, plus every ten minutes greased my body for a Channel swim. Hermès tie it was. Sixty-nine ninety-five, and that was then.
Look at Mrs. Wasserfiend sitting there, so elegant. Black Armani dress, simple pearls and those dramatic earrings—two Jivaro shrunken heads with their lips sewn together. Makes me think of Grandma. Always sitting there playing cards with Grandpa. Cheated him blind. Finally he went blind in one eye and she could only cheat half of him. Grandpa very brilliant, spent fifteen years translating “Anna Karenina” into pig Latin. Remember the day Grandpa collapsed, June 8th, 6:16 P.M. Misdiagnosed as dead and embalmed despite his clear ability to shimmy and sing “Rag Mop.” Grandma sold the house and devoted her life to serving God. Applied for sainthood but was turned down because she couldn’t parallel park.
Pianist is playing “You Made Me Love You.” Remember always hearing that song when Mom was pregnant with me. Dad used to sing it to himself in the mirror all day long. Recall Mom giving birth to me in a taxicab. Meter ran four-eighty. Cabbie was Israel Moscowitz. Talkative. Referred to his wife as a fat pot of kasha. Remember my parents expected twins. Crushed when there was only one of me. Couldn’t deal with it. First few years dressed me as twins. Two hats, four shoes. To this day they still inquire about Chester.
Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mrs. Wasserfiend. Oh, and the name you were trying to think of when we were discussing the life of Emily Dickinson before was Bronko Nagurski. Out of there just in time. Cranial Pops starting to wear off. Still, no question I was the hit of the party. Came up with Gouda cheese. Lava soap. Got Leo Gorcey and Julien Sorel. Managed to recite the Philippics verbatim. Recalled the Schrafft’s on Fifty-seventh and Third. Hummed Mousie Powell’s theme song. Got Menachem Schneerson, the Sons of the Pioneers. Gyp the Blood. Now, where the hell did I park my car? ♦
Saturday, November 22, 2008
education
i think this poem speaks more eloquently about education than i ever could.
note : Alexis Rotella is now a famous poet.
Purple by Alexis Rotella
In the first grade Mrs. Lohr
said my purple teepee
wasn't realistic enough,
that purple was no color
for a tent,
that purple was a color
for people who died,
that my drawing wasn't
good enough
to hang with the others.
I walked back to my seat
counting the swish swish swishes
of my baggy corduroy trousers.
With a black crayon
night fall came
to my purple tent
in the middle
of an afternoon.
In second grade Mr. Barta
said draw anything;
he didn't care what.
I left my paper blank
and when he came around
to my desk
my heart beat like a tom tom.
He touched my head
with his big hand
and in a soft voice said
the snowfall
how clean and white and beautiful.
note : Alexis Rotella is now a famous poet.
Purple by Alexis Rotella
In the first grade Mrs. Lohr
said my purple teepee
wasn't realistic enough,
that purple was no color
for a tent,
that purple was a color
for people who died,
that my drawing wasn't
good enough
to hang with the others.
I walked back to my seat
counting the swish swish swishes
of my baggy corduroy trousers.
With a black crayon
night fall came
to my purple tent
in the middle
of an afternoon.
In second grade Mr. Barta
said draw anything;
he didn't care what.
I left my paper blank
and when he came around
to my desk
my heart beat like a tom tom.
He touched my head
with his big hand
and in a soft voice said
the snowfall
how clean and white and beautiful.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Wabi Sabi
Like Feng Shui, wabi sabi is an Eastern idea gaining popularity in the West. Unlike Feng Shui, wabi sabi is not a technique for increasing wealth, or tapping into some unseen mystical power. It is quite the opposite. It is an intuitive way of living that involves noticing the moments that make life rich and paying attention to the simple pleasures that can be over-shadowed by the bustle and excess of our consumer society.
It started with tea. In Japan, in the Middle Ages, nobles and military leaders strengthened political alliances by throwing elaborate tea parties in which expensive teapots and tea-making utensils were displayed and given as gifts. These ostentatious events focused on expensive Chinese art and tea objects and were the exclusive territory of the rich. Zen monks, who had brought tea to Japan in the first place, continued to develop a tea ceremony called wabi tea, which emphasized a different kind of wealth. Their ceremony used rustic Japanese pottery and focused on the natural elements used in making tea. It allowed participants to connect with the pleasure of drinking tea and provided a tranquil space in which to appreciate natural beauty.
The tea masters who preformed these ceremonies situated their tea huts in the middle of gardens and crafted their ceremonies to be rich in symbolic meaning. They practiced making tea until they could do it without thinking about it. Then, when they served tea to others, they were free to focus their attention entirely on their guests without being distracted by the preparation process. The most famous tea master was Sen no Rikyu who took wabi tea to a new level of subtlety thanks to the patronage of the Shogun Oda Nobunaga. Nobunaga used both forms of tea ceremony to unify Japan. Three of Rikyu's principle students were devout Christians: Furuta Oribe, Takayama Ukon, and Gamou Ujisato. They discovered that the way of tea enriched their own faith because it provided a concrete example of selfless attention to others. By learning to serve so well that you no longer need to think about what you are doing, you are free to focus on your guests.
Sabi is a word that originated in Japanese poetry. It expresses the feeling you get in the autumn when the geese are flying south and the leaves are falling. It is a sort of somber longing that is felt in the muted colors and earthy aroma of a forest preparing for winter. This melancholy ache is a sort of hopeful sadness that recognizes that nothing is perfect, nothing lasts, and nothing is finished, but that even so, life is full of meaning. The complete term 'wabi sabi' describes a way of life practiced by those who notice and appreciate the significant moments of each day, live fully in each change of season, and connect with nature and those around them in meaningful and gentle ways.(This article first appeared in the Nanaimo Daily News - Saturday, January 24, 2004.)
Here are some examples of wabi sabi in haiku :
the morning’s snow
I can chew dried salmon
alone
xxxxxxxxx- Basho
drifting snow
lambs inside the barn
inside the ewes
xxxxxxxxx-Harriot West
rumors of war
up into a darkening sky
— a child's newsprint kite
xxxx- Angelee Deodhar
the tom asleep
on the widow's porch
is losing his sun
xxxx- William Hart
It started with tea. In Japan, in the Middle Ages, nobles and military leaders strengthened political alliances by throwing elaborate tea parties in which expensive teapots and tea-making utensils were displayed and given as gifts. These ostentatious events focused on expensive Chinese art and tea objects and were the exclusive territory of the rich. Zen monks, who had brought tea to Japan in the first place, continued to develop a tea ceremony called wabi tea, which emphasized a different kind of wealth. Their ceremony used rustic Japanese pottery and focused on the natural elements used in making tea. It allowed participants to connect with the pleasure of drinking tea and provided a tranquil space in which to appreciate natural beauty.
The tea masters who preformed these ceremonies situated their tea huts in the middle of gardens and crafted their ceremonies to be rich in symbolic meaning. They practiced making tea until they could do it without thinking about it. Then, when they served tea to others, they were free to focus their attention entirely on their guests without being distracted by the preparation process. The most famous tea master was Sen no Rikyu who took wabi tea to a new level of subtlety thanks to the patronage of the Shogun Oda Nobunaga. Nobunaga used both forms of tea ceremony to unify Japan. Three of Rikyu's principle students were devout Christians: Furuta Oribe, Takayama Ukon, and Gamou Ujisato. They discovered that the way of tea enriched their own faith because it provided a concrete example of selfless attention to others. By learning to serve so well that you no longer need to think about what you are doing, you are free to focus on your guests.
Sabi is a word that originated in Japanese poetry. It expresses the feeling you get in the autumn when the geese are flying south and the leaves are falling. It is a sort of somber longing that is felt in the muted colors and earthy aroma of a forest preparing for winter. This melancholy ache is a sort of hopeful sadness that recognizes that nothing is perfect, nothing lasts, and nothing is finished, but that even so, life is full of meaning. The complete term 'wabi sabi' describes a way of life practiced by those who notice and appreciate the significant moments of each day, live fully in each change of season, and connect with nature and those around them in meaningful and gentle ways.(This article first appeared in the Nanaimo Daily News - Saturday, January 24, 2004.)
Here are some examples of wabi sabi in haiku :
the morning’s snow
I can chew dried salmon
alone
xxxxxxxxx- Basho
drifting snow
lambs inside the barn
inside the ewes
xxxxxxxxx-Harriot West
rumors of war
up into a darkening sky
— a child's newsprint kite
xxxx- Angelee Deodhar
the tom asleep
on the widow's porch
is losing his sun
xxxx- William Hart
Thursday, October 23, 2008
lovesickness
Evidently based on the spam i receive there is a rash of male love sickness going around ever since Sarah Palin came on the scene. However thanks to the
compassionate drug companies we do not have to suffer:
New study declares Love a disease; medication may be available
Doctors from the University of Allopath have announced that Love is a curable disease. It is characterized by abnormal heart rhythms, sweating, impaired brain function, incoherent speech patterns and loss of sleep, among other signs. Thanks to this pioneering work from researchers sponsored by the leading drug firm Pferck, researchers have learned that love is a common biochemical disorder affecting both men and women of all ages.
Fortunately, it is treatable with prescription drugs. A new drug, Miserexa, combines beta blockers and antidepressants to alleviate the symptoms of Love. This drug slows the heart and helps patients feel detached from reality, counteracting the unhealthy neediness of Love.
The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved the new drug this week. In a press conference, chief FDA drug approval scientist Dr. B. Fuddle said, "We are declaring war on Love, and doing everything in our power to eradicate Love from the world."
The market for Miserexa is expected to reach six billion dollars annually. "Love has reached epidemic proportions", explained a public relations representative of Pferk. "If we do not act immediately to thwart the spread of this disease, Love will run rampant, and we will be facing an epidemic of Love in the world."
Health researchers first became aware of the disease after being alerted to symptoms of Love by the psychiatry community, which has been instrumental in the detection and aggressive treatment of this dangerous condition with brain-altering drugs. "We were seeing it in an alarming number of patients", explained one psychiatrist, "and it was causing untold suffering in their lives. Fortunately, the condition can now be chemically corrected."
Further study revealed that Love is highly contagious. It can apparently spread from one person to another, although the mechanism of transmission is currently unknown. Love also spreads easily from mother to child, especially in newborns. Interestingly, Love has no effect on landlords and corporate CEOs, who seem to possess some unknown immunity to the disease.
Given the expanding threat of this disease, doctors stress it is important that all adults get screened for Love as soon as possible. Hospitals and clinics are now setting up Love screening programs in the hopes of catching the disease early and treating it aggressively with targeted pharmaceuticals. "Nearly half the population may now be suffering from Love", said Dr. Fuddle, "and we estimate more than 90% of the carriers are currently going without treatment. It is important that we provide screenings and treatment on a population-wide basis."
If Love is not detected and treated in its early stages, it can advance to the point where the only solution is surgery. In such severe cases of Love, skilled surgeons perform a cardiectomy (a surgical removal of the heart). The procedure is risky, and many patients have died on the operating table, but many more have been successfully saved from the ravages of Love by the skillful blade of a compassionate surgeon.
The American Misery Association (AMA), whose mission is to find the cure for Love, is working hard to help educate the general public to watch for early signs of Love. People are urged to conduct a Love self-examination in the privacy of their own homes, and to watch out for the classic symptoms of Love: racing pulse, sweaty palms, inability to speak in coherent sentences, or confusion around certain attractive individuals. People are also taught how to avoid giving Love to others - an important step in halting the spread of this disease.
If you suspect that you or someone you know might be suffering from Love, don't wait. Treatment is available. Don't let Loved ones suffer any longer.
This press release is brought to you by Pferck, where today's rip-off drug prices fund tomorrow's profit miracles.
compassionate drug companies we do not have to suffer:
New study declares Love a disease; medication may be available
Doctors from the University of Allopath have announced that Love is a curable disease. It is characterized by abnormal heart rhythms, sweating, impaired brain function, incoherent speech patterns and loss of sleep, among other signs. Thanks to this pioneering work from researchers sponsored by the leading drug firm Pferck, researchers have learned that love is a common biochemical disorder affecting both men and women of all ages.
Fortunately, it is treatable with prescription drugs. A new drug, Miserexa, combines beta blockers and antidepressants to alleviate the symptoms of Love. This drug slows the heart and helps patients feel detached from reality, counteracting the unhealthy neediness of Love.
The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved the new drug this week. In a press conference, chief FDA drug approval scientist Dr. B. Fuddle said, "We are declaring war on Love, and doing everything in our power to eradicate Love from the world."
The market for Miserexa is expected to reach six billion dollars annually. "Love has reached epidemic proportions", explained a public relations representative of Pferk. "If we do not act immediately to thwart the spread of this disease, Love will run rampant, and we will be facing an epidemic of Love in the world."
Health researchers first became aware of the disease after being alerted to symptoms of Love by the psychiatry community, which has been instrumental in the detection and aggressive treatment of this dangerous condition with brain-altering drugs. "We were seeing it in an alarming number of patients", explained one psychiatrist, "and it was causing untold suffering in their lives. Fortunately, the condition can now be chemically corrected."
Further study revealed that Love is highly contagious. It can apparently spread from one person to another, although the mechanism of transmission is currently unknown. Love also spreads easily from mother to child, especially in newborns. Interestingly, Love has no effect on landlords and corporate CEOs, who seem to possess some unknown immunity to the disease.
Given the expanding threat of this disease, doctors stress it is important that all adults get screened for Love as soon as possible. Hospitals and clinics are now setting up Love screening programs in the hopes of catching the disease early and treating it aggressively with targeted pharmaceuticals. "Nearly half the population may now be suffering from Love", said Dr. Fuddle, "and we estimate more than 90% of the carriers are currently going without treatment. It is important that we provide screenings and treatment on a population-wide basis."
If Love is not detected and treated in its early stages, it can advance to the point where the only solution is surgery. In such severe cases of Love, skilled surgeons perform a cardiectomy (a surgical removal of the heart). The procedure is risky, and many patients have died on the operating table, but many more have been successfully saved from the ravages of Love by the skillful blade of a compassionate surgeon.
The American Misery Association (AMA), whose mission is to find the cure for Love, is working hard to help educate the general public to watch for early signs of Love. People are urged to conduct a Love self-examination in the privacy of their own homes, and to watch out for the classic symptoms of Love: racing pulse, sweaty palms, inability to speak in coherent sentences, or confusion around certain attractive individuals. People are also taught how to avoid giving Love to others - an important step in halting the spread of this disease.
If you suspect that you or someone you know might be suffering from Love, don't wait. Treatment is available. Don't let Loved ones suffer any longer.
This press release is brought to you by Pferck, where today's rip-off drug prices fund tomorrow's profit miracles.
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