Timelessness, dance trance, homosexuality, becoming Buddhist, and the World Cup

All the pink in this painting is for Chris Romain.

Here are some children picking up large pebbles at their school.

A TV crew came to my middle school today to film the students yelling “gambare!” to one of the World cup players (Fukunishi Takashi) who is from Niihama and went to this school. (I pass by his parent’s house almost everyday, actually. Doest that make me cool?) The big game starts in an hour. It's unlike me, but I really want Japan to win.

This morning I woke up at 5:00, exactly one minute before a big earthquake hit Niihama. It was very exciting at first, but then got a little scary after what seemed like a minute. Do I get out of bed and hide under my table? I stayed in bed, hoping the ceiling wouldn't fall on me making this my last morning in this sore body

Boy am I sore today. Saturday night I went dancing in Takamatsu until morning and totally forgot my past and future.

Let me take this opportunity to tell you about becoming Buddhist.

When I officially became Buddhist almost 5 years ago (which, being one who doesnt believe in organized religion, seems kind of fishy, I know. But at the time I intellectually understood why having the support of a 2,500 year old tradition would induce certain psychological changes inside me, and so I felt I was ready to enter into that large river.) I was given a new name by my teacher Khamtrul Rinpoche and a “direct transmission” of some “secret” dzogchen teachings passed on verbally from teacher to disciple all the way back to the time of the Buddha. In this ceremony he also cut my hair symbolizing rebirth into a new body.

One meaning of this ceremony is to give you an opportunity to forget your history, your personal story that you carry around with you and look to constantly solidify who you think you are. It's not who you really are. You're not that idea, that image, that memory. You are the presence which is aware all those passing concepts. You don't have to be that historic person. You can be a new person, with a new name, who has just been born, and that, from now on, will be reborn everyday. So that is one reason for the ceremony: Not just formally entering into the Buddhist lineage, but also formally receiving an identity that has no past.

Anyway, dancing to James Brown mixed with a phat beat, I suddenly found myself in a dance trance.

A sense of the Sacred descends from within. I am entirely here, without past, without future, entirely focused on the present, on the Real, on the music, on the body. I know without a doubt that in my direct experience there is no time, no future and no past, no past sounds, no future sounds, no past selves, no personal history. I am only and always alive Now, already living timelessly because I am already living in a timeless moment, not timeless because it lasts forever, but timeless because it never had a past or a future. Right now is Eternal, or existing above time. And, because I know it is impossible to live outside the present moment, it is also impossible to live outside Eternity. The Eternal Present Moment, happening right now, and now, and now, is impossible to avoid. I think of the famous poem “Footsteps.” Even when you think you are alone, the Eternal Presence is with you. Alone with the Alone.

Feeling deeply into this present moment I feel into Eternity itself, the Omnipresent One, into the presence inside me and around me that will never die. I feel into the part of me that is unborn and undying, the presence I am before I was born, before this universe was born. I can actually feel into that part of me that existed before I was born. and so can you. Of course, it’s not a part of me, but is the whole Me, in a fundamental sense.

Dancing, beautiful sexy people synchronize their bodies with my own, the pulsing of our muscles. The women keep their distance, a very sexy move, and the men rub their bodies against mine, their hands touch my chest and my hips. These men are not homosexuals, but this is homosexuality. Our soft but swelling cocks touch. Our bodies hump the beat, making the beast with two backs. I am entirely here, focused on the stretching muscles, on palms and penises, on the heat and sweat wetting my back and chest, on the eyes looking into mine, and the smiling teeth, glowing in the black light, hovering magically in the space in front of me. I feel a sense of adoration, of ecstasy. I am thankful for being alive. For being alive here, now. And as a Being saturated with the present, thick in the moment, i realize I do not pass through time, but time passes through me, just as music passes through me, and fingers pass through my hair.

Suddenly, without warning, the sacred prayer arrives at my lips. “May I use this ecstasy to benefit others. May I not keep it to myself. May all beings be free.” The holy wish outshines the music and ushers me into the secret room where I commune with the Great Heart and Mind of Love herself, the heart of Compassion, the heart of the Deity with a thousand caring eyes and hands.

the music is invisible. I move to the music. I finger and hump the invisible beat, i drink the rythms flooding the room, the invisible rivers washing the inward room of its time and personal past. I arrive and arise out of the luminous womb, the pregnant Now from which all universes always come and go and sing and dance to the song of creation. I dance, the stars dance, the universes dance in a blink of the Eye of God, in the I of God, in the Hallway of eternity where we all dance dead already and eternal already. And today I'm sore as hell.

light in light/hikari no naka no hikari

Biking home I heard some crows barking above me. I saw two crows on the power lines screaming madly and at first I thought they were screaming at me. Did I do something wrong? Then, I looked down and right below them on the street was a big, dead crow, black wings and head twisted with red blood coming out of its mouth. I sighed, and admired the scene. The crows continued to yell away, their litany of cries fading into the distance as I peddled home.

I used that experience as a death omen and felt the sun shine a little brighter on my face. I smiled and said hello to an old lady walking with her walker.

People usually misinterpret death omens, in my opinion. I mean, sure, if you see a death omen, it usually means you are going to die. But not necessarily soon. It just reminds you of the fact that one day you will die. And, if you use the omen correctly, an amazing wave of appreciation and excitement can suddenly appear inside you. You realize that your time here is limited, and so, every day must be lived as if it's the last. Everything looks a little brighter than before.

You might see that all things die, all things change; it is just one of the marks of this world. You might even see that the death is a birth, that every ending is also a beginning. And, if you listen closely to the silent core of your own heart in this moment, you might even discover that part of you which will never die. Because it was never born. That Unborn, unformed center of awareness that forever and ever simply is and already is Free and Full and Present as the open, spacious present moment. The I AM.

And then, awake and alive as an unborn, unchanging presence, you might gaze dreamily at the world arising all around you. Now, a brilliant transparent clarity shimmers and glows as the true condition of all manifestation, forms of Light in light. Radiance, and subtle luminosity, all erupting and dissolving in a dance of rainbows against a vast, vast Emptiness.

So, when I rolled into the bike parking lot of my apartment building, I saw one of the little boys I usually see playing outside squatting, eyes fixed on something small on the cement. I approached curious and found a big, beautiful, blue and green and orange hairy caterpillar with wet slime coming out of its end. “Oh no!” I said. “What happened?” (Even though, I already knew what happened.) I looked at the boy, holding a tiny stone in his hand. Suddenly the little boy burst into tears. Balling. Crying his eyes out. I comforted him, put my hand on his back, but also took this opportunity to do what my mother did to me once. I asked him if he liked animals. He nodded. Then I asked him why he would want to hurt one like that. “You know, it will be a butterfly soon. Did you know that?” He nodded his head and cried some more. Now I felt bad. So I said, “hey, look, it’s still alive. Don’t worry.”

A vision of the past suddenly flooded into my awareness. I was 6 or 7, same age as this kid. I used to climb trees and steal eggs from nests, take them home and dissect the dying fetus under my desk light in my room. So, one day, my mother caught me dissecting a stolen robin’s egg under my desk lamp. Gleaming with pride I peered up at her, smiling, being an accomplished scientist and all, but I did not meet a happy face, no. She glared in horror at the slimy mess on my desk, shocked. “How could you?" she said in a cold, serious voice. “I thought you loved animals!”
I immediately burst into tears and yelled, “I do love animals!”
“Well, imagine how that baby bird’s mother feels now. Or what kind of pain that little bird is feeling on your desk.” We both stood silent for a moment.
My mother then said the coldest, cruelest words I will ever hear. “I am very disappointed in you.” She turned and left, and I was alone, crying, with a dying fetus on my desk. I never did it again.

The worst thing I have ever done to an animal I think (besides buying tortured meat) was when I was about 10 and some friends and I caught a huge bullfrog at the creek and then I threw it into the street to see it get hit by a car. Almost immediately, before my very eyes, a car smashed into the frog just as it hopped, and somehow it was flung to the curb directly in front of me, it’s entire insides enclosed inside a slimy white sack now hanging out of his mouth. The frog was still moving, twitching. I was disturbed, uneasy with the fact that I did that to him. Although, I think I laughed and acted fascinated at the time.
My friends and I did some weird ass shit at that creek.

Anyway, I took a picture of the boy crying (if you look carefully you can see the caterpillar's long trail of slime.) and then went up to my apartment. For the first time in ages, when I got home I did not immediately go over to the computer to find out if anyone had emailed me. I didn’t go outside to work on my frames either, even though I have less than two weeks to finish them all. Instead, I turned off my cell phone, went into my studio, opened the windows to let in the cool evening air, and spent the remainder of the night painting.
Can you find the caterpillar and the Buddha?

Haditha

I just read about the Haditha massacre. I also found this painting by Brawley i have never seen. It's called "Gnosis."

Java

Sunday morning my friend Kamaji and his mother picked me up and took me to Zazen. It was both of their first times. Sunday night Tricia threw a wonderful dinner party. Can you tell how wonderful all these people are? I was surrounded my deities all day.
And the newspaper website kept me informed about teh deaths in Java. i found this quote:

"To surrender oneself is something more than to devote oneself, more than to give oneself; it is even something more than to abandon oneself to God. To surrender oneself is to die to everything and to self, to be no longer concerned with self except to keep it continually turned towards God. Self-surrender is no longer to seek self-satisfaction in anything by solely God's good pleasure. It should be added that self-surrender is to follow that complete spirit of detachment which holds to nothing, neither to persons nor to things, neither to time nor place. It means to accept everything, to submit to everything."
-Saint Therese Couderc

Java. How can I even begin to feel the suffering? There is so much in the world. Over 4,900 people killed in Java. How many children are homeless now? The pain in this world is so great; I can’t begin to imagine it, or to feel it. How do I even begin to feel this much pain?
I might close my heart. For even the smallest whisper of suffering existing in this world would rip it apart. wouldnt it?

The painful kiss of the Lover breaks the crystal egg open.

I pushed ink
the chaos pushed me,
Through my human nervous system, the
The Presence got its way,
And now maybe I can
Open as love, and cry with the rest.


It’s so sad.
Help me God. Help me accept this pain and transform it into compassion. Help me submit to everything.

I surrender.
The pain like a river begins to fill up my mind and soul. The crying, the pain of broken bones and scratched eyes, of dead and dying children and mothers and fathers. And the rain. As if the earthquakes were not enough, the rain pours down on the homeless and broken and beneath this vision a lukewarm, watery sadness rises up through my stomach and lungs, up into my throat, horrible sounds and black tarry smoke swells. I swallow it down, into my heart, which breaks open releasing an explosion of crystal clear light. Like wind, the warm light races across the fields of mind, touching all the memories and tears and bodies and fears and faces of everyone suffering. no, no, the pain is too loud. And just when I think the door of my heart is about to close again, the Divine Thought, the Holy of holies, the desire to help alleviate everyone's suffering arrives on a white horse, descending from the highest height within the Presence, this savior made of light, my own highest Self, arrives effortlessly to open the door of my heart and keep it open. Unable to turn back, the pain and compassion flows in an out of me, like an endless geyser at the bottom of the sea.

kobe

I wake up extra early, the sun is already up. Meditate, iron some shirts and pants. I pack my backpack, water my plants, (the sunflowers I planted only a few days ago are already so big), clean up a little, do the dishes, put out the trash (today is plastics). I eat some cereal, protein powder and soymilk, put away my futon, and vacuum my tatami. 8 AM, I ride my bike to the train station, sun in my face, backpack sweating my back, I have my shirt and tie on, my nicest shoes. I park my bike and sit down on the bench in front of the station. A dirty blond dog walks over to me, looks into my eyes, then plops down in the sun and falls asleep. I open Kafka on the shore, read a few pages, until a boy who looks a little mentally handicapped sits down next to me. ‘Hello” I say.” Hello” he answers. I return to my book, not really wanting to talk to anyone right now. I periodically raise my head and open my mouth to drink the sunlight.

“The Yamane bus” the boy next to me suddenly says in a louder than expected voice as a bus pulls away from the station. “Yup” I replay, and then look back down.



A moment later, without warning, he says “The Matsuyama bus.” I look up and see him smiling at me. I think he might be telling me what busses are coming so as to help me not miss mine. I smile; loving him, feel kindness inside. The dog next to us gets up and moves a little closer to our bench. The boy’s bus arrives and he says goodbye. I wave, put my book down, close my eyes, look up at the sun and stare into the pink insides of my eyelids. I imagine the sunshine filling me up with light and pure energy. I breathe in a deep breath of sun and space, breath out with the wind.

When my bus arrives, I see in the window high above the ground my friend Richard, who lives a few towns over, holding the book “Kafka on the Shore” up to the window, laughing. I hold up my copy, laugh, and then get onto the bus. A great surprise, I must say. Not only because Richard is on my bus, but also because we are reading the same book. We are even at about the same part.
For the next three and a half hours we talk about all sorts of things. I tell him about the Big Mind therapy session I watched on Integralnaked.org and how amazing it was. The bus soars over the huge bridge connecting the island of Shikoku to the mainland Honshu. We are taking the same rout Kafka takes in the book sitting in our laps. How odd.

Arriving in Kobe, I see a hundred foreigners at the bus stop. Almost everyone looks so happy, loud conversation and laughter hanging in the air above the quite Japanese people standing near by.


Kobe is a big, beautiful city sitting between the mountains and the sea. It is clean and bustling with all sorts of people, young and old. I smell waffles and hear music. I immediately like this city, don't know why. Maybe everyone is moving at a slightly slower pace than I expected. Everyone seems to be more relaxed. I can’t explain it, really. And there are a lot of friendly young people, many of whom I met on the train and at the bars.



The conference is at a very nice hotel, must of cost a fortune putting up about a thousand foreigners there for two days. After checking in I am surprised again to find that Richard and I are roommates. odd again. Outside our window sits a deteriorating old amusement park and the bay. Turning my head, a corner of city and the mountains.

















The first workshop I go to is called “Issues Facing Female Jet’s.” I’m one of four guys attending with about 50 girls. One asks me why I'm there. “I want to increase my sensitivity,” I say with a smile. I feel like a smartass for saying that.

A very energetic, beautiful woman presents infromation, periodically interrupted by an older woman in the audience complaining about her generalizations and exaggerations. The workshop was really fascinating. Did you know that only about 1% of Japanese women use birth control pills, while over 50% of Americans do? Also, in Japan an individual has sex an average of 45 times a year, as apposed to most other countries that have sex from 100 to 120 times a year.

Another interesting Workshop was called “Global Issues in the Classroom” which was presented by a beautiful Chilean man from Okinawa who reminded me of my friend Damien. This workshop proposed different ways to incorporate global issues (such as war, the environment, violence, discrimination, poverty, aids) into a language lesson or warm-up game.

The last workshop I went to was called ‘Trading Places-Thai,” which was an introductory Thai language class conducted completely in Thai, with a little bit of Japanese. This was supposed to show us what it’s like to be in an English class for many Japanese students. made me realize I really need to slow down in my lesson, and repeat more.

I also went to a workshop given by a Psychologist. He said that when we return to our home country we will naturally gravitate toward other people who have lived in another country, for they will have a reference point to understand our experiences. Other people will not really know that there are different ways to organize the world. And not just the social world, but also the inner world. It’s not their fault, of course. The Doctor reminded us that its because they will have absolutely no point of reference.

“Also, you will notice that most people, after asking you “so, what was it like living in Japan?” after about five seconds will loose interest and you will see their eyes kind of glaze over.” Interesting. He adds, “You may also find that although your family is happy to see you, they will also be a little frustrated that you weren’t there with them during some important family events.”

He also told us good ways to prepare for leaving Japan. Giving people we love the right amount of attention and closure. He said that it is common for people to pull away from you sometimes months before you actually leave, while others will cling to you closer than ever until the moment you leave. Some people started to cry.

After the 3-day conference, one of my friends, excited to leave, said, “Yes, get me away from all these foreigners and back into my secluded Japanese town where I belong.” It was quite a change for most of us, spending almost a year surrounded by only Japanese people, and then, suddenly, being expected to be social and friendly to a thousand foreigners. And to others it was a big relief, a party.

I met some amazing people. A beautiful man from South Africa. A shining woman from Jamaica. And, on my last day, I spent time with this beautiful dark black woman from South Africa, Fumi. She reminded me of Osceola, a nanny that helped raise my entire family. She said she was fifty, but I didn't believe her, She looked more like she was about 35. After the conference Fumi, Robert and I follow Richard to the bus stop to buy his ticket and while waiting we play with legos at a kid’s table. Fumi takes my hand and begins rubbing it, squeezing it, pulling and squeezing my fingers. Then, she brings my hand up to face and presses the back of my palm against her cheek.
This felt amazing. And for her too. She said in her deep, warming voice, “doesn't it feel great to touch hands after so long!”

On the bus ride home I meet Ken, a beautiful Japanese boy sitting next to me, 22 years old. He is reading a book called “200 greatest Motown albums.” I strike up a conversation and we talk all the way to Ehime. He works in Oosaka for a nursing home, says he loves helping grandma and grandpa (the words for old lady and old man in Japanese are grandma and grandpa.). He says that most of his grandparents are in their 90s. He helps them eat and bathe and exercise. I obviously fall in love with this man who's got a huge heart. Every year he goes home for three days to see his family. Ken speaks no English, so I learn more Japanese on that three-hour bus ride then I think I ever have. I took many notes and he filled in the kanji.
Ken got off in Mishima, the stop before mine. He gave me his address and asked me to write him a letter. I will.

After the bus arrives in Niihama, I spend a few minutes finding my bike in the dark lot next to the station. It was moved so I had a little trouble finding it.
I usually sing while I ride my bike, and to my pleasure, I find that the girl riding a few meters in front of me is also singing into the night. I listen secretly.





When I get home, I find a letter from Eli and one from Molly waiting for me. I almost cry with happiness. Eli sent me this photo of a cicada drawing I sent him transformed by Kansas rainwater. "I am going to put this in my show," i think. I make some herbal tea, draw some crows; listen to the mix cd Eli made me, and then fell fast asleep.

Kobe

Im going to Kobe for a couple days for a reconntracting conference tomorrow. here are two pictures i took of the sky outside one of my schools. talk to ya later.

I splash and play in the fountian of warm, orange light

Saturday night I went to a bbq/birthday party in the neighboring town, Doi, and I was confronted again and again with my and other’s sexuality. I brought to the bbq some ingredients for miso soup. TO my luck, some nice Japanese friends taught me top-secret techniques in making miso soup. Now I know. I ate miso soup three times today.
I spent the night in Doi, waking up with Abbie at 6:30 to take the first train back to Niihama, where Yasu picked us up to go to zazen. I was surprised to see so many students on the train that early on a Sunday. I kept dozing off during meditation, I was so tired, and one time when I was particularly comfortable, without warning, CRACK! The zen stick slammed down on someone close to me and I felt a shock, an electric shock of energy explode throughout my entire body. Awake, alert, heart pounding, skin tingling. I arrive again and again, being and becoming, bringing the small spot on the wall before me in and out of focus, again and again. Around me/within me, a shower of birdcalls and bells, a subtle smell of incense and honeysuckle, an itch above my right eyebrow, and a warm, sleepy feeling inside my legs and tummy.
Once home, Abbie gave me something that moved me very deeply. It was something that I had lost long ago. Something that I had missed dearly for some time, but which, like so many important things in my life, I had forgotten. She gave me Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The Cheesiest. Original flavor. Double the calcium. This was the highlight of my weekend. I ate it slowly, savoring espeacially each of the secret little clumps of undisolved cheese powder. I licked the bowl with my orange tongue and then I was done.
Then we went to see The Da Vinci Code. I thought it was ok. And kinda like the macaroni and cheese. But the book was cheesy too. Don't get me wrong. I couldn't put the little devil down. It was a great ride. Similar to how Macaroni and Cheese is a great ride.

eleven

These are some of the health posters at school. They're all over the place. Some of them are disgusting. But true.
My friend Koji came over and showed me some of the things his company sells. I held a fake hip in my hand. I got to play with a fake knee. Fascinating design, the knee. One of my best friends had her hips replaced with something like this. Amazing, I think to myself. At school I found this wonderful t-shirt, asked to take a picture of it, and then the other kids wanted to show me their t-shirts too.









There are three main characters in my next story: Me, a 15-year-old boy named Masako, and his cats. ON Thursday, around 7:00pm, my doorbell rang and I fond four 9nth grade boys, some of the more loud and confident ones at one of my schools, smiling happily. Earlier that day, one boy, Masako, who likes me a lot, had asked where I live and I told him. And now, there they are, stopping by on their way home. I invited them in, made some tea, put on some music. They walked around the house looking at everything; my books, cd’s movies, they went into my room and looked at the shrine, my closet. “He practices Zazen, you know.” Masako proudly tells his friends from the other room. All in all they were regular, nosey kids. They looked around at the paintings and pictures and ooed and awed, and asked questions. I felt like my house had turned into one big artistic environment, giving the kids, or whoever’s inside it, new ideas. I have a picture stuck to the screen of my TV (I don’t watch any TV, no time) and they thought that was funny but cool. We listened to music. Some ween. Masako liked "Johnny on the spot" the best and sang along with the chorus. They spilled some tea, laughed, played with a weight training thing i have. And I had a fuckn blast. Part of me is still in high school, I know it. Masako then asked me if I would come over to his house tomorrow night and eat dinner with him and his mom. "I want you to meet my mom.” I said sure. The next day in the hall the kids told a teachers that they came over to my house. The teacher thought it was great, but also said to the boys “that's a little rude, don’t you think.” it was actually really fun, i said. Masako asked if they could come over again. I said ok. "we’ll come over after school same time, and then around 7:30 my mom will have dinner ready.”






SO, after the kids come over, with one new boy, whose English is the best in the school maybe, they took pictures with my cell phone, sat in my living room looking around at all the paintings and things, and relaxed. After about 30 minuts we went over to Masako’s house, which was just down the street, for dinner. Masako’s father died recently (like a few months ago) from cancer I think, so I was a little surprised to see another man in the living room when I arrived. It was her brother, they immediately told me. After introductions, his mother- a beautiful, strong looking woman-said “sit down please, all of you, and eat up!” The table is already set and full of food. The boy that's great at english, and is also the smallest and yongest lookinng, then walked into the room with a case of beer and some wine. "A gift from my father" he casually said. We all laughed. She then looked at me and said, “You are a vegetarian, aren’t you?” I said yes. “Oh, I thought so” she replied (in an “oh, I was afraid of that” kind of way). And Masako chimed in “I told you he was, mom.” And she said, in Japanese, (this is all in Japanese, by the way,) "I know what you said but I didn’t know if he truly was one.” I look down and see multiple plates of meat on the table, along with salads and rice and things. I immediately say “oh, don't worry at all. I’m not a strict vegetarian. I’ll be fine. Everything looks delicious.” She was still concerned though, and halfway through the meal she gave Masako some money and he left the house. When he came back he had a huge plate full of tempura he must have picked up at a little restaurant near by; tempura, the food that I said thirty minutes ago was one of my favorites, and he also had another bowl of cut vegitables and salad. I am already full, and totally overwhelmed by their care and generosity, but I eat all I can, love growing inside.



As I'm eating a particularly warm and crispy piece of sweet potato tempura, his older sister comes into the room holding a fat, orange and brown striped cat that looks just like my old cat Boris. My heart swells with the smile on my face and before I know it she is handing me the cat and it begins to purr in my arms and I am very happy. Masako says “eleven” and I think he means the cat is 11 years old. So I say, “oh, hello grandmother. How do you do?” And he says ‘no, not grandmother. Mother.” And I’m a little confused. Until another cat comes over. And then another. And then Masako takes me by the hand and pulls me into the hallway and I see 8 other cats lying around chairs and boxes, and he then says, again, “11.”
Joyfulness erupts into my being like a fountain of warm light, and I am a little kid playing and slashing in the fountain. I squat to the ground, open my arms, and meet the handfull of cats that got up to meet me. Talking to them, petting them, meeting. I must have looked kind of crazy.
But the cats were so friendly. He points to a gray cat, a beautiful, cool peal gray that almost look silver, laying inside one of the boxes, and he says “that’s grandmother. She is my favorite.” He picks her up and she lightly meows, but more out of habit than out of discomfort. After I went back and talked to his mother and uncle a bit longer, he showed me into his room with two of his friends. There, we watched a Slipknot DVD with cats in our laps, (Slipknot is a hardcore band that wears demon and ghoul masks and makeup during performances, making the show kind of like a haunted house, with satanic symbols and lyrics and red lights and all. it looked like a bad dream, actually, or a violent cult, and the music had so much screaming and double bass that it was very energizing. And I felt a bit of nostalgia. In middle school and high school I never went done the hardcore path, but I did use, and still use punk for virtually the same effects. Id say that the fast, loud music is used to express a specific voice within us, that ecstatic demon, that angry, excited, energized teenager that needs to run around and scream and be expressed and acknowledged in order to relax.
It's the music that comes primarily from (and acts to help open and expand) the stomach and root chakras, perhaps.

I showed him what a "slipknot” is and he became very happy to finally know. He told me a lot about his older sisters, and he also talked a lot about me to his mom. Like bragging, he talked about my art and how I've been to India and that we like the same music. Back in his room he got on a chair and took out of a storage closet an old wooden artists box, filled with oil paints, and brushes, and an old pallat, all used, all old. He said, “This was my fathers. I found it after he died. I knew he was a painter, but I never knew he had this. Do you want it?"

I almost started to cry. "Thank you, but no, i dont need this. It is yours. That's so great that you found it. Can i see his paintings?" "I dont know where they are." he said. We examined everything in the box together, got a little bit of paint on our hands.
As the evening closed Masako’s mother told me to "please come over whenever you want. We live so close. You are always welcome here." i nodded and said i would return and that it felt really great meeting you all and i am stuffed with all the great food. She thanked me again for the lillies.

Then Masako walked me home, said I was one of his best friends, and asked if I would come over again sometime.

Today, Saturday, my friend Robert stopped by. He lived in India for a year and so we always have great conversations. We ate pancakes.

Anchor

Well, the time has come now to panic about my show a month away. I’m not really panicking, I'm just busy, and sometimes have the small, sour, fart of a thought; maybe I bit off more than I can chew. I’m sanding wood, fitting forty-five degree angles together that never quite fit right. I’ve got wood and supplies all over the place. I miss my friend Nori, who left on Sunday. I miss coffee and chocolate. I miss my family and friends. And I really want to draw a new graveyard drawing, but I just don't have the time. Or maybe I just don't want to get involved in another project until this framing business is done.

I finally finished the Ender’s game series. Highly recommend!


And, the other day after school I participated in the tea ceremony club, me and about five girls, and an old lady tea master. I have been a guest in a tea ceremony, but never have I learned how to actually prepare the tea.
The attention to detail…how you sit, which leg gets up first, how you place your hands when you bow. How you hold the teacup and bamboo whisk, how to clean it, where and when and how to place each item. There is a ritual hand dance with unfolding and folding the red handkerchief, wiping the teacup. My mind and attention were unable to wonder away from the present. The ritual was like an anchor holding my attention into the present moment, into my body and my actions. However superficial and controversial the actual origin of this or any other ritual or ceremony might be, the power it contains to anchor one into the present moment is undeniable.
And next to me, an old woman kindly but sternly giving direction in Japanese, sometimes touching my hands when I cant quite translate. In front of me, a single dying tree branch cuts into the space, out of an old brown vase, telling us all the truth.