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.

A conversation with Nori

“It’s sad. Many people die without ever knowing what it's like to have sex.”
My friend Nori, who I met in Tokyo, is reading a book about disabled people and sex-volunteers in Japan. He plans on making a documentary about this with one of his friends. I asked him to explain some of it to me and I typed as he spoke.

““This is still a taboo in Japan that is just beginning to be uncovered. (And in the states, I hadn’t heard anything about it outside my Sexuality Class in collage.) If someone is disabled it is unlikely they can ever a husband or wife, let alone have a boyfriend or girlfriend, SO, there are volunteer organizations that provide sex for them.

“There are many organizations for challenged people in Japan. Not all of them think sex volunteers are a good thing for them. Some are supportive, and some think it’s degrading to the disabled person. Some people think that prostitution is better because the disabled person feels more normal.”

"That club called “Ladies Market” by your apartment is actually a whorehouse. But the prostitutes at places like that will not treat handicapped people because it is too dangerous. I mean, many handicapped people have tubes and oxygen tanks and things.

“But, it’s controversial because the idea of a “sex volunteer” can really hurt people. And when I think about it, just the word “volunteer” can hurt people. At the same time, I think they need to accept the problems they have, but I can easily say that because I am not one of them, and to the person who is actually disabled, for them, it is probably really difficult to do that and to have a “volunteer.”

“So, it gives me a paradox. Is it really a good thing to volunteer for them? Maybe the concept of volunteering is wrong from the beginning. Maybe we should just help each other. If that is the normal thing to do we wont need the word “Volunteering.”

“Its like the “Priority seats” on the bus and the train. Every time I see them it makes me sad. Does that mean that we wont give seats to elderly people if we didn't have that seat?”

Nori, as you can tell, is totally fluent in English, and totally thoughtful. “Thank you for saying that.” He says with a smile. He visited me this week from Tokyo and taught me how to cook Japanese food. Now my kitchen is full of dried seaweed, soybeans, miso paste, sesame paste that is used just like peanut butter and seeds and spices (like sanshou) and oils (like mirin) and cooking sake.

“Don't worry, none of this stuff will go bad. You can use it all slowly. He has been making me incredible dishes. The one wih the avocadoes I had for breakfast the other day. He continues…

“NPOs have a workshop for handicapped people with problems with their brains, not only physical things, and sometimes they have little shows to tell them how to hold hands, how to kiss, how to have sex safely. Even, how to speak to people they like if they see someone on the street. Do you know the word nanpa? When you see somebody and you think that person is really pretty and you want to talk to them, that's nanpa. SO, they teach how to do that. Like “hey, would you like to have lunch with me” that kind of thing. They also teach how they should treat the other person after meetinng them. Because, often, those people with brain problems, what do you call them, mentally disabled, well, those types of handicapped people, it is still a big taboo to talk about their sex, and some people say “don't wake up the children if they are asleep.”

Do you agree with that? I asked.

“I don't know if I have the right to have an opinion.”

But what is your opinion?

“My opinion is I disagree. I think everyone has the right to know about sex. Yeah, I understand it is difficult for them to raise kids. But I think this society should be more supportive and help them have the opportunity to have sex and maybe even have kids. Their parents often tell them not to have kids, but that is only because they know that they will end up raising the kids. SO, know it is probably difficult, but I disagree with that saying. They have a right to wake up and know what the life is about. This is one place that society needs to be changed.”

“They don’t know anything about sex, about the diseases, or even how to treat other people right, because they are never taught. But, they grow up and become adults, and they have communities where they can meet other people like them, and they want to have sex, but they don't know how, and sometimes they rape. I mean, they are not trying to be bad, but they feel like doing it so they do it and they don't know what is right. But the one who is raped gets hurt and trauma. They have enough problems. Keeping them asleep to the truths about sex only creates more problems. The reality is that you cannot just have them not wake up. They do wake up. Their bodies wake up. So, still, you need to teach them about sex and how to treat people, just like how you teach to other kids. That's what I think.”

“I’ve been reading books like these and they are making me sensitive when I talk about it. DO I have a right to talk about it, to have an opinion? I have an emotion. I have a feeling. But my opinion is judgmental. But like, I don't have any handicapped person in my family, and I am not either, so I can only imagine their lives. But I don't really understand how hard life is for them. So, these books are making me think maybe I am being…my opinions are very shallow. That is one reason why it is important to meet them and talk to them, not just read about them. And after we talk to them, ask them if they want a movie about them.

“And, I am actually a selfish person I think. I think about my benefit. I’m thinking that maybe this will give my own life some like, wider vision. More experience. Talking to those people. Making friends with them. Getting to know them. That would give something good to my life, to my self.”

It’s interesting. None of these books have information about gay people, or information about the life of disabled gay people. It’s like a double minority. A minority of a minority. Who knows if they will ever be included. But, as you know, words have power.”

Is that a UFO?

I was looking at this photo (one of my all time favorites i have taken so far) and i noticed a UFO. I love this world.



Saijo, the city next to mine, is famous for having the best water in all of Japan. And I learned tonight that the neighborhood in the center of the city gets all its water directly from the ground for free. That is fuckn great.
I went to Saijo tonight to see one of my friends dj at a club. And, there I had a very powerful experience. It dawned on me; I am meeting all these people, touching their hands, looking into their eyes, so I affect them, and their precious human lives. Whenever we meet, that is, whenever our lives cross, for however brief a meeting, a transfer of energy takes place. Or a transmission of consciousness. I found myself falling in love with everyone I met. They were all so beautiful, even the ones who wouldn't even look me in the eyes as they met me. I touch their hands, and felt their lives. So many times before I took meeting people for granted. Yeah, nice to meet you. Take care. But for the first time, I really felt the energy that passes between us. Total strangers influence each other in so many ways.

And then, as i was talking with some friends, I had this clarity, this understanding, that the purpose of my life is to love. To love others. To love my self. I brought this up with them in Japanese, that love is actually the purpose of the entire universe, the reason it manifested in the first place, and the reason my cells stay together and the atoms in my body don't explode.

I then started saying that the sun is in our blood, like how the sun is in paper. The atmosphere in my lungs, the earth in my blood and bones. I can’t be here without the sun. The sun is my mother. And Space is the mother of the sun. And who is the mother of all space? The Now. My heart. Meeting strangers. Shaking their hands. Falling in love with Life.

I then started spouting this philosophy in Japanese. I don't know why. Its like i was on a role, and they were interested and understanding me. I talked about the chakras, how animals have the lower ones and angels and non-human bodhisattvas have the higher ones, but humans are the only ones with all seven charkas, which makes our life so difficult, to have animal and angles capacities all inside this little space. It hurts sometimes. But, it also means that through our bodies we can unite heaven and earth, emptiness and form.

I talked about the crown chakra, the self that never dies because it was never born. The only thing that doesn't change. The present moment. The Presence. And how the Now moment that was two hundred years ago is the same Now moment Now. And the now that will be in ten thousand years is the same now Now. I was saying all this in Japanese. And one of my friends, Kamaji, (in the blue shirt) looked into my eyes with his big beautiful eyes, as if he was asking me to keep going, keep going. Like he needed this. Like finally someone was saying what he has been thinking and feeling. And after I talked about how our bodies are made of the same energy as the stars, he asked, “Then, what is me?” And I asked him if he was too look for himself, where would he find it? And he put his hand on his chest. And I asked him to feel into that self. What does it feel like? And he said it is like the sky. With all sorts of different weather in it. Right on! I thought. HE asked "But where does that self live, if it is not just in my body and in my thoughts?" And I told him the first thing that came to my mind. I said "you live in three bodies."


When I was dancing, I was surfing between that trance like state where all time stops and its only me and the music flowing through my body, and a state concerned with the others watching me dance. I moved in and out of two selves, two dances, two states of mind.

I realized that even if most of the time I am concerned with what others think of me, (making me their prisoner, to some degree) there are also times when I break free from that mode and move freely. And how sweet those moments are, those moments of freedom.

Do you ever get into those states where you remember shit you did when you were in middle school and feel stupid for being so stupid? Regretting the past. You know that feeling? That thought train? Or how about that desire to relive a situation with all your hindsight. If only I could go back to that time! If only if only if only. I wonder if my friends remember that time I was so stupid. I wonder if I should apologize for taking advantage of them, or manipulating them, or using them. I think these thoughts sometimes.

And then, what I find so funny is that in reality, all those people I was stupid around, they probably don't care at all. They have their OWN memories to relive and regret. They have their own novel to read and reread. Who give s a shit about mine?
I know this, because when I look back, I don’t care about how stupid other people were.

People don't care. They have their own lives and choices and fuckups to occupy themselves.
This is very liberating, I think.

a kid

i met this kid and worked on this painting today.