The Hipster Hillbilly

               The wind is sharp and bitter now, as if it sports a razor’s edge that bites through flesh and skin until it gnaws at your bare bones.  Everything has lost is luster.  Fall’s vibrant clash of reds and oranges has faded until the earth is covered in blankets of dull brown---the leaves fallen to the ground from barren trees, the dormant grass.  One might think that all life has died.  But it is just a transition, the changing of the seasons.  What lies dormant arises again.  Per Deleuze, we are in a constant state of becoming. 

               Such is life…

               Summer becomes fall, fall becomes winter, and so on.  Our lives are similar.  I recently turned 38.  My hair, now grown out, is peppered gray around the sides.  The spring of youth is in a state of becoming middle-aged.  Stories I tell find their origins almost twenty years ago.  I graduated high school twenty years ago this year.  But middle-aged is not an end, but only a beginning, a transition like the seasons.  Perhaps the things inside me that have laid dormant all these years may arise like the first buds sprouting on a maple tree?  For every death, physical or symbolic, birth follows.  Parts of us we must let die so that others may evolve.  Uncertainty may follow, but we must embrace our discomfort and grow…  

The year in review

There were many things I was unable to accomplish this year.  I simply did not have the time.  Ango, for example, I had to forgo, as well as the second Buddhist ministry program.  A full-time college schedule on top of a full-time job was unfortunately more than I could handle.  But what I did achieve leaves me with a sense of pride.

               The college semester ended within the past few days, and I finished with somewhere around a 3.6 GPA.  One A, two A-, and a B+.  I passed my writing course with a 99.98%.  Hot damn!  I have only five classes left to finish for a bachelor’s degree in sociology.  At the beginning of this semester, I often sarcastically quipped how I was studying for a degree with no real-world application.  But around the halfway mark, I stumbled onto a plan.  I want to go to graduate school and complete a masters.  This will open the door to becoming a college professor.  However, this also limits the institutions at which I could find employment as most universities require a PhD.  But technical schools and community colleges are equally as necessary for post-secondary education.  After all, that is where I first took a sociology course and became introduced to the discipline.

               The end of this month also finds the completion of my Buddhist studies program, a year-long adventure I undertook on New Year’s Eve of last year.  What is unique among American Buddhism is that it attracts the middle-to-upper classes---professionals such as psychologists, healthcare workers, researchers, lawyers, etc.  What sociologist Musa al-Gharbi would classify as symbolic capitalists.  I, on the contrary, am somewhere in the middle of the working class.  And being a butcher during the holiday season finds me working almost two weeks straight until Christmas.  Everyone voted for the graduation ceremony to take place this Saturday as symbolic capitalists generally have weekends off.  Not me, though!  The thing about the working class is that, per Dropkick Murphys, the “worker is working while the fat cats about.” 

               To recap this year, I completed 10 college classes between May and December, a Buddhist studies course, maintained a full-time job, moved out on my own again, spent a total of six months completely sober, received a clean bill of health from my doctor, went on multiple hunting trips (though I shot no big game), had a few cookouts with friends, went on fishing trips, read countless books on philosophy, sociology, psychology, Buddhism, and politics, sat a lot of zazen, and did a lot of writing.  I consider this a successful year. 

A Sociological Study of "Gang Leader for a Day"

A few notes:

For a class on social inequalities, we were required to read Gang Leader for a Day by Sudhir Venkatesh.  Posting it here, I have edited a certain racial epithet out which I quoted verbatim (from the book) in my original paper.  Also, my concluding paragraph discusses selling drugs.  For context, when I was in my early twenties, my friends and I formed a small "anti-fraternity fraternity" which I here describe as a "gang" in quotes to represent its impotence in relation to the gang lead by J.T., Sudhir's main character in this study.  Like the young college students we were at the time, we dealt in weed and adderall.  While not attempting to brag about my former exploits in deviancy, I found it relevant due to the fact I was attracted to reading this book back then because of the lifestyle I was leading.  Thus, I could personally identify, somewhat, with the contents of Sudhir's study.

 

Gang Leader for a Day

 

In Gang Leader for A Day, graduate student Sudhir Venkatesh explores the underground economy at work in Chicago’s Robert Taylor complex, a series of public housing units under the control and watchful eye of the Black King’s charismatic gang leader, J.T.  Within this spectacular, nearly decade-long study, Venkatesh highlights the complex network of power struggles over limited resources, a view prominently argued by conflict theorists.  The aldermen seek to pocket hush money from gangs scrabbling over “turf” upon which to distribute and sell crack cocaine.  Corrupt housing officials overseeing these projects solicit dues from the gangs operating in their communities.  The police pilfer from the gangs and the lower echelon which, at the very bottom, consists of the gang’s foot soldiers as well as hustlers selling sex, services, food, metal scraps, clothing, etc.  Despite the few opportunities and spartan resources, everyone is complicit in this game, just looking for their own coveted small piece of the pie.

Sudhir begins to note the disparities of race and wealth literally right across the street from his cozy University of Chicago campus and longs to understand more.  A short walk away in Washington park, he befriends a man named Leonard Combs whom he refers to as “Old Time.”  Sudhir presses him about his views on race relations (6).  What he learns, Old Time sums up succinctly as “we live in a city within a city.  They [whites] have theirs and we [blacks] have ours.  And if you can understand that it will never change, you’ll start understating how this city works” (7).  Another elderly gentleman, Charlie, suggests Sudhir “should probably speak to the people you really want to talk to---young men”.  Intrigued, he sets out “looking for young black men” by searching the University library for census records indicating where such reside (8).  This points him to the Lake Park projects (9).

Meandering around the high-rise projects of Oakland, which sport “commensurately high rates of unemployment, welfare, and crime” and a “population that was overwhelmingly black,” Sudhir arrives armed with a survey and clipboard (9-12).  Here he first meets J.T., the local leader of the Black Kings.  When pressed as to why he is there and who he “represents,” Sudhir nervously rolls off a question from his survey.  “How does it feel to be black and poor?”

“I’m not black,” J.T. boldly retorts.

“Well, then,” Sudhir regroups, “how does it feel to be African American and poor?”

This is where Sudhir begins to learn there are disparities within disparities, such as Old Time’s explanation of a “city within a city.”  All this is coarsely expressed in J.T.’s affirmation, “I’m not African American either, I’m a n----.”  This illustrates Sudhir’s naivety and the greenhorn approach he comes across with in his survey questions.  However, J.T. quickly and properly schools him in the world Sudhir wishes to study.  “N----- are the ones who live in this building.  African Americans live in the suburbs.  African Americans wear ties to work.  N----- can’t find no work.”  Moreover, flipping through the questionnaire and exacerbated, J.T. finally exclaims “you ain’t going to learn shit with this thing” (16).

This interaction points to Sudhir’s immediate folly and arrogance.  He comes into a situation he knows little about, armed with little background knowledge, with a half-cocked series of questions, and winds up a near hostage because of it.  This would be the first of many mistakes he makes through the course of this study.  However, much to Sudhir’s great fortune and luck, J.T. is a different breed of gangster.  He’s educated.  “I had a few sociology classes in college” he recalls.  “Hated that shit” (19).  He nonetheless takes an interest in Sudhir and his work, imploring him “you shouldn’t go around asking them silly-ass questions.  With people like us, you should hang out, get to know what they do, how they do it.  No one is going to answer questions like [how does it feel to be black and poor?].  You need to understand how young people live on the streets” (21).

Sudhir takes this suggestion as an olive branch.  He returns to the building a few days later.  “Beer?” he asks, “tossing [J.T.] a bottle.  ‘You said I should hang out with folks if I want to know what their life was like.’”  This is where his nearly decade-long relationship with J.T. begins.  All of which takes off with a simple “all right, the brother wants to hang out, let him hang out” (23).  Through this small gesture and putting himself out there, Sudhir finds an opening into an entirely new world still segregated from mainstream society, a shadow economy, a closeted culture located within the confines of small neighborhoods, isolated high-rises, the clustered specks of poverty seen that he can now study in-person as opposed to charts and the top-down perspective of a demographic map.  He’s in!

Throughout the course of his study, Sudhir’s relationship with J.T. evolves.  But J.T. is relatively open from the beginning, though, with respect to his position, certain segments of his life he reserves until Sudhir proves his trust.  At first, J.T. opens with the fact that he went to college but “felt that his chances of success were limited because he was black; he got angry when he saw white people with lesser skills get promoted ahead of him” (27).  He grows to develop an almost paternalistic view of Sudhir, looking out for him and protecting him.  Often, he finds himself shooting him a “shut the fuck up glance” when Sudhir wades in over his head (128).  One prominent issue, however, is that J.T. wishes to sugar-coat his work and funnel it through a narrow window of what Sudhir is allowed to witness and interact with.  Sudhir laments later how “I hadn’t forgotten how agitated J.T. became when he saw me branching out into the community” (114). 

J.T.’s level of trust in Sudhir is evident when he allows him to take on the role of gang leader for a day.  This begins when Sudhir challenges, J.T. by exclaiming “I don’t see what’s so difficult about your job.”  “All I ever saw him do,” he explains, “was walk around and shake hands with people, spend money, drive nice cars…and party with friends” (116).  To this, J.T. responds with “the offer of a lifetime.”  That is, Sudhir will take over his role beginning at 7:30 the following morning (117).  In classic stance, entirely out of his element yet still cocky, Sudhir feigns confidence by critiquing J.T.’s leadership style.  “Fear, huh?” he mutters, “very interesting, very interesting” (130).  Soon, however, he finds himself overwhelmed with a constant flow of problems.  He has to appease Ms. Bailey who oversees the Robert Taylor projects.  He has to book a building from Pastor Wilkins for a gang meeting.  A store owner has a conflict with the Black Kings.  Foot soldiers are stealing money and cutting their crack to pocket the extra funds from stretching the cocaine (121-140).  At the end of the day, Sudhir recalls his stint as leader was “more banal and more dramatic than I could have envisioned.  I was exhausted.”  He learns that J.T.’s style is equal parts discipline and positive reinforcement.  He witnesses him dealing out punishment as well as providing bonuses to teams with above-average sales (142).  From here he transitions to learning from “the second-most-powerful force in my orbit, the woman known to one and all as Ms. Bailey” (143).

Unlike J.T.’s near fatherly interest in Sudhir, Ms. Bailey is more condescending.  “You got a lot to learn, Mr. Professor” she admonishes him (147).  She gives him the run-down on life in the projects as if he, despite being a graduate student in sociology---a discipline that prides itself in uncovering inequalities and the Foucauldian power structures at work in modern society---is a witless amateur.  First, she expounds upon how one must both feed one’s family and stay in school.  But how can one stay in school when they must work to feed their family?  Feeling that she won the conversation she derides, “so…you said you wanted to talk with me about high-school dropouts?”  Sudhir refers to her tone as “Socratic browbeating” (149).  He joins her on a “run,” during which he witnesses the altruistic and self-serving nature of her work.  She receives donations which she trades for other products all down the line presumably to benefit her tenants.  Each item she receives, she flips the item for another or utilizes it later as a form of bribery and pocket-lining.  What excesses accrue, she pockets (150-153).  A source of Ms. Bailey’s power is the repetitive denigration of the political and social forces around her.  “The CHA ain’t doing nothing.  So I have to find ways to take care of it” she affirms.  By criticizing the local elements, she reifies her position (162).

Ms. Bailey has many sides to her position and personality.  In one aspect, she is a protector of women, which the tenant Catrina expounds upon to Sudhir.  “You watch what she does when she helps women” (165).  This is further illustrated when Ms. Bailey addresses the domestic abuse of Taneesha.  She both addresses Taneesha’s situation and has her taken to the hospital while Bee-Bee, the perpetrator, is physically beaten and dropped off outside of the projects (170-172).  Sudhir finds himself in conflict with J.T. over this incident.  J.T. views him as “with him” while the residents begin viewing Sudhir as with Ms. Bailey (179).  What Sudhir eventually learns of Ms. Bailey, he recounts as “I was left discouraged by the sort of power bestowed upon building presidents like Ms. Baily.”  He expands upon how she controls when tenants receive a new front door, or if and when ambulances or police will show up.  She asserts her authority and frightens people from calling local services, then explains that they would not show up anyway, likewise reinforcing her own power to control the destinies of her tenants. 

Sudhir has nuanced conclusions about the gang life.  J.T. however, continues with his social perspective of it.  “You need to understand that the Black Kings are not a gang; we are a community organization, responding to people’s needs” (249).  But, as Sudhir admits, he grows “evasive and withdrawn---in large part out of guilt” in the end.  Mostly because he had hoped “to contribute to the national discussion on poverty” but he understands this will not ever specifically benefit someone like J.T. (277).  Though he maintains connections with J.T., he feels he never contributed anything meaningful in theory or study to negate the resurgence of the life J.T. led, the power of Ms. Bailey, or the motivations for gang-banging in other forms, in other people.  The structures that allow this to manifest remain in place (283).

While conflict theory resides at the heart of many of Sudhir’s interactions with the gang, J.T., Ms. Bailey, etc., my own perspective on this book comes from personal experience.  I read this book over a decade ago when I was likewise involved in the underground economy.  I once remarked “I can make more from one deal than an entire shift at work.”  I gravitated to this book at the time because I was equal parts intellectual and a college student and equal parts a deviant and a criminal.  I operated a small “gang” that sold drugs.  Thus, Gang Leader for a Day stimulated both parts of my personality.  Now, however, I can look back on both from the sociological perspective and view much of it through conflict theory.  While the characters in the book and my small “gang” viewed society as riddled with contradictions and geared against them, we all undertook a venue to, as I previously stated, try to gain our “own coveted small piece of the pie.”  The triumphs and failures of capitalism are well on display in the underground economy.  Everything has a price.  Expansion is paramount.  J.T. wishes to expand his area as Ms. Bailey wishes to expand her influence.  And I, during that time, wanted to earn more money.  The sociological imagination can take us many places and uncover various structures at play in our day-to-day.  What I learned from this book, and from my first-hand experience, is that sometimes the more lucrative avenues are the riskiest.  When you have nothing to lose, you have everything to gain.

 

  

Doomed Deer hunting

               The eerie silence of predawn suddenly erupts in vibrant bursts of life as the sun edges above the horizon casting its rays to dance about the mist set adrift across the chest-high grass.  Birds like Greek sirens, enchanting and captivating, their songs echo through the dismal swamp in sharp contrast to the tannin-dyed murk of the stagnant water.  While everything around appears dead and in decay---the overgrown trail, the lifeless trees ripped open by rummaging bears digging for grubs---the birds remind us that this forest is still alive, breathing, and flourishing.  And within that, there is promise.

                 The swamp takes quick note of us two orange-vested strangers toting rifles.  First, the mosquitoes.  Vast swarms like clouds of dust envelop our shadowy figures in the twilight, their buzzing inciting hasty swats as they encircle our ears to feast on the soft ample flesh behind.  These are different kind of vermin, the dreaded swamp skeeter.  Nothing known to modern man, not even the typically efficient Thermacell, can deter these pests.  We are intruding into their home, and like guerrilla warriors they amass their steady attacks from the dense brush as if to reinforce our lowered status in the food chain.  I slap at one on the crook of my hand and smear crimson streaks across the cluster of swelling lumps.  One can only think despairingly in hopeless moments like these: so it begins…

               We press along eastward toward the rising sun.  Dew glistens on the marshland grasses as a passing wood duck soars overhead.  The squirrels are next to recognize the presence of foreigners on their sacred soil.  They scurry up the trees on either side of an old logging trail to bark and fuss and voice their absolute disgust as they caution their neighbors to be wary.  Just a few dozen yards into the woods a large bear track greets us in the center of a mud puddle.  “Fresh,” I think silently.  From all appearances, probably a solitary boar.  I catch the faint scent of cattle wafting through the air, a smell I was told in my youth signified the imminent presence of a bear.  Even, maybe it is just my imagination, but I think I hear a disgruntled moan emanating from the bowels of the swamp.   

My compatriot’s 30-06 rounds jingle in his vest pocket as so many Christmas bells that will soon haunt the radio station on repeat at our workplace for the next two never-ending months.  It’s only November, the morning after Halloween, but the entire Western world is already in fits of the holiday season, afflicted with that vile contagion known as the “Christmas spirit.”  I try not to think of it.  Of the shape of society to which I will return at the day’s end.  Otherwise, it will dampen my resolve and dull my senses.  And in bear-infested woods, one must remain sharp.  But…

               I’m not in the best condition for this hunt.  My pack digs into scrawny shoulders and my hands display a slight tremble from too much tequila the previous night.  Dark heavy bags form under my eyes, a symbol for all to recognize that, out of anxiousness for this day, I awoke shortly after midnight and could not fall back to sleep.  Hungover, sleep-deprived, bug-bitten, and soaked in sweat.  And we’ve only been in the woods for twenty minutes and scarcely out of sight of my silver pickup parked at the gate.  The day has just started.  But will I survive?      

               Out of the forty permits available for Suggs Mill game land, J.R. and I surprisingly managed to snag the two, three-day hunts we requested.  Which leads to two possibilities.  Either we were just extremely lucky…or no one actually applies for these hunts.  Given that only sixteen deer were taken on these ten thousand acres last year, this leads to three uncomplex possibilities.  One, there simply aren’t a lot of hunters.  Two, there aren’t a lot of deer.  Or three: both.  The lack of deer explains the lack of interest in the lottery drawing.  In any case, we are here.  And we only have enough visibility to see forty yards ahead of us down a narrow, overgrown trail.  Here’s to hoping for a swamp bruiser to burst out of cover with towering antlers and the body of a fattened fall pig. 

               I know nothing of this area aside from having a buddy who lives adjacent to the game land.  That being the rationale for signing up for the drawing.  I had all the local experience and expertise of shooting skeet on his property a few months prior.  Between our conflicting work schedules and a midlife crisis prompting my return to college, J.R. and I have not found the time to conduct any scouting of the area.  We are going in blind.  And for me, half deaf, and collectively, possibly dumb as well.

               By the time we find ourselves at the intersection of two dirt access roads, the woods are illuminated by the morning light well enough that we have limited viewing distance.  We position ourselves in the woods next to the intersection and wait.  And wait.  Seeming flocks of woodpeckers scatter like coveys of quail, latching onto one or another of the looming pines and pecking away in incessant taps.  Aside from the birds, the woods are still.  Not a rustle, a rumble, a snapped twig.  I notice no signs of deer activity---no scat, no scrapes or rubs, no tracks.  That’s when it finally clicks.  WHAT ARE THEY EVEN EATING!?  Everything is swamp and pine, which provides perfect cover for bedding and movement.  But, if they are even here, where are they moving to, and moving from, I wonder?  And why?

               Time to press on…

               Packs on.  Rifles at ready.  Pull out the phone and load OnX maps.  On the screen, I notice what looks like a clear cut along a powerline about a mile away and figure that may be a good spot.  And so off we trek.  Slowly, one small step at a time.  Don’t want to spook the nonexistent game.  They could be lurking in the brush just feet off the road and we would never know it.  I take a few steps, stop, and scan with my eyes and rifle scope.  At each turn or intersection I expect to see a truck and multitudes of orange-emblazoned nimrods.  But no.  Nobody is here to even criticize my hasty notion of still-hunting, my restless fidgeting, or vaping.  Where is everyone?

               The grass becomes dirt and the dirt becomes gravel beneath our boots.  This is now a public road.  Any moment I expect some deranged redneck blaring Johnny Rebel to plow through with Confederate flags waiving in the breeze, hang his MAGA hat adorned head out the window, and spit a long stream of tobacco juice on us as he presumptively implores us to “Get off mah property!”  But not even my nefarious daydreams come to fruition.  And suddenly we are at this “clear cut” which is neither clear nor cut but overgrown with chest-high grass, shrubs, and briars.  I can barely see fifty yards while standing!  God help me if I want to crouch down and reduce my outline.  Still, we sit for a spell.  And I keep asking myself: if they are moving through here, why?  What are they eating?  Why even come to this dense wetland if not solely for cover?  And if for cover, then why show themselves in these so-called “clearings?”  Again, I grow frustrated and back down the road we walk to investigate another side road.

               What the map lists as a “road” is just white sand with faint tire marks to indicate that at least once in the past few months a motor vehicle has christened it with purpose.  But the white sand is like a crystal ball.  The deer tracks on the road demystify direction, frequency, and traffic enough to glimpse into the future and make predictions.  The road is about three quarters of a mile long and curves around a bend at the end leading to private land which is off limits.  We walk the entire length.  Halfway down, the sign indicates a plethora of activity transitioning from the wetlands between here and the clear cut to our left and the pine thickets to our right.  They cross in one direction only, curiously enough.  They never traverse back the way they came.  Which leads to another question---how are they getting over there (the wetlands next to the clear cut) in the first place?

               We continue walking and just as we ease to a portion where years ago they had logged the land and left small pines as cheap replacements for the forest, I notice turkey tracks traversing down the middle of the road as well as signs of a black bear sow and cub.  When we come around a small bend, two big gobblers erupt in flight and soar to the safety of the tree line.  The entire field they were in shows symptoms of what appears to be hog rooting.  I mean, the whole field looks like it was recently tilled it is so disheveled and torn up.  But there are no wild hogs here.  Upon closer inspection, I notice claw marks.  Bears have ripped up the crops to munch on the roots.  Again, if this food plot is not providing enough sustenance that the bears must resort to absolute destruction to get at the roots, why are there deer here?  What’s luring them here; what’s keeping them here?   Answer: nothing.

               This whole area is a transition zone.  Where they feed is an absolute puzzle that will plague mankind for millennia.  The human race must bear the burden of a plentitude of unanswerable dilemmas.  Why are we here, for example?  What is our purpose?  What happens when we die?  And, most importantly, WHAT THE FUCK ARE THESE DEER DOING ON SUGGS MILL!?  The hell if I know.  All I can gather is that they come through here at some point and go the fuck somewhere else to do whatever the fuck deer things they want to do in the deer time they have been given by the omnipotent deer god.  With that bit of insight, as the time is nearing noon,  J.R. and I decide to return that evening to catch these phantoms as they cross the road.  So…we walk a mile and a half back to the truck, defeated yet wishful.  While the past morning sucks, our present sucks, we find our loyalty in the prospects of a brighter future.  Of this evening, of tomorrow.  Of the hope in a world that has yet to be.  As Deleuze writes, we are in a constant state of becoming.

               After naps, a Burger King lunch, and a resupply on Thermacell paraphernalia, we are back on the white sandy road by 3:30PM, positioned like rebel fighters in the brush.  I identify with the Mujahadeen now.  I have the motivation of a religious zealot.  I’m blood-thirsty, trigger-happy, and eager.  Point me to the infidel!  I drop J.R. off in the “good spot,” or rather the spot with the most tracks.  I move further down, just before the field torn up by bears.  There we sit for three, motionless hours.  The sky transitions from afternoon to evening, then finally to dusk.  No noise.  No rustle or flick of a tail, no disinterested snort or wheeze, nothing.  I am familiar with this scenario.  In Zen practice, sitting zazen is much the same---staring blankly at a wall.  And this hunting situation, if nothing else, is zazen (meditation), in that only the mind is aware and changing; the environment around is stationary and seemingly unchanging like the blank canvas of a wall.  One is only aware of mental states within this +-stagnation and the mind’s fluctuations.  I watch passing thoughts like clouds in the sky, growing my practice by not clinging to preferences, of binaries of good (shooting a deer) and bad (seeing nothing/being eaten by a bear).  But somewhere I fail.  I am a liquor-drinking, meat-eating, vaping, deer-hunting Buddhist after all.  A walking contradiction.

               But the contradiction is not solely from within, but without.  The main contradiction to Zen’s aphorisms is that the present moment is not always a place of comfort and solace.  When ridden with mosquito bites that flare up (I’m allergic), one can’t help but contemplate a future or relish a past when not incessantly scratching in constant irritation.  I’m reminded of the Dalai Lama’s words that an individual person can make a difference in the world when one imagines the difference one mosquito makes when trying to sleep.  Jesus fucking Christ…I am dying!  I think.  Just constantly scratching behind my ear and on my neck.  My face is now reimagined, re-envisioned, and reborn as a sixteen-year-old with prolific cystic acne.  I’m not sure if the blood on my fingertips is from the engorged insects I’m swatting or from clawing my flesh to ease the perpetual itch.  In sum, I am physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually irritated.  At dusk I walk back to collect J.R. and head to the truck.

               When I reach J.R. he seems excited.

               “I heard a crash over there,” he says pointing to the thick wetland brush separating the clear cut from our road.  “I guess it heard me or saw me.  I don’t know what it was.”

               He postulates it may have been a deer or a bear.  Something big!  And definitely not a squirrel.  With our hopes a bit higher, we return home with the plan to return first thing in the morning when the wind is more in our favor.  That is, blowing off the wetland and into the pine thicket as opposed to the conditions we faced that evening where the opposite was true. 

               At home, I study maps of the area, the wind patterns, weather, and theorize about deer movement.  What would Nietzsche say about early rut hunting strategies, I ponder?  Does Foucault have anything to say about power relations between hunter and prey?  I drink tequila.  My legs are sore; my shoulders weary.  I cover my face and neck in calamine lotion until I become a living visage of GameCube’s vintage Kirby.  I’m puffy enough to say the least.  I fix a sandwich, drink more tequila, complain to my roommate.  At some point I fall asleep and begrudgingly wake up, swallow a cocktail of antipsychotics, anxiety medication, ADHD pills, and beta-blockers with a Ghost energy drink and lay in bed vaping and contemplating my life choices.  Do I really have to go out and “be” and “do?”  Can’t I just kill a deer from the comfort of my covers?  What the fuck ever happened to the me of my twenties who hunted for years without a deer, pushed forward through briar patches and up and down ravines like a hardened veteran of Pickett’s charge?  Have I become a pussy?  Have I succumbed to the generation of instant gratification, the screen age, the clicks and likes and the “I wants” right the fuck now?  I remember how, after my dry spell, I killed four deer in one year.  I had fortitude, determination, drive.  But I was also fifteen years younger and on enough amphetamines to kill a bull elephant.  How do we do this hunting thing anymore, I wonder, as I drag myself out of bed, stare at my ghastly reflection in the mirror, brush my teeth, and shave the section between my eyebrows. 

               I pick J.R. up and we return to the white sand road.  The twilight blankets the forest in a certain mystery.  What is behind that shadow?  Is that a bush or a deer?  A stump or a seven-fanged monster ready to pounce and devour my sorry ass?  The twilight of early dawn lingers as a great question mark on the senses.  It upends you, disorients, and confuses.  But somehow we find our places before the sun knows we are there.  I’m lighter today.  No bag or hydration pack.  Just a blaze orange vest, a bottle of water, and a shooting stick.  I walk past J.R. and position myself leaning against a pine.  I don’t know what has happened since my twenties.  I was fat, now I’m skinny.  And in that process I lost a really prominent ass.  I can’t sit beneath a tree anymore.  My tailbone aches and my legs fall asleep.  Does your entire body just fall apart as you age?  I fucking guess.  So I’m standing, leaning, growing bored.

               After an hour I elect to still-hunt and press on down the road, stopping for ten or fifteen minutes every few dozen yards.  The first thing I notice is there are no new tracks on the road.  The white sand is not a frequent rendezvous I determine.  All the way to the end I see the trail until I can (legally) go no further.  I turn back.  Slowly, of course, taking as much care and grace to move without sight or sound like some phantasm wafting through the breeze.  But no amount of caution is required when there simply are no deer to potentially spook.  They aren’t here.  Are they anywhere on this property, I wonder?

               Meeting up with J.R., he’s seen nothing.  Heard nothing save for a few frisky squirrels trying to get it on.  I determine we need to find a NEW different spot.  So, in the truck we plop, free of the mosquitos…almost.  As we drive down the road to the next public entrance, I violently smack mosquitos on my windshield and chase after them with my palm in the truck.  I have new bites, itchy bites, and I hate this land.  I curse the government for cultivating this land, I curse the white settlers for stealing this land, and I hate the native tribes for inhabiting this land.  It is a cursed wasteland, I affirm quietly.  Nothing can live here except vermin and pests.  Which should make it habitable for me…but even I can not subside on that level of depravity apparently.

               Fifteen minutes down the road we arrive, on a Saturday (the big hunting day), to an empty parking lot.  Another ill omen.  We charge a round, sling over our rifles, and tread down the path.  Quickly we realize this section is nice.  There is visibility, no swamps, and fewer mosquitos.  At the entrance, and even in the parking lot, deer tracks litter the sand.  This looks promising, I think.  I mention this to J.R.  This will be a good spot to hunt next week on our next three-day deer hunt permit.  We walk down to the fork in the path satisfied with new prospects, a new look on life and our hopes for bagging a deer.

               Fast forward a week.  It’s Thursday. We return to the empty parking lot with elevated hopes.  A soft rain trickles down.  But we have prepared.  We don ponchos and cover our rifle muzzles with “finger condoms” ---the nitril coverings for individual finger wounds---stolen from work to keep moisture out of the barrel.  The weather is hot and muggy, overcast, and uninviting.  Despite it all, we march on.  Past the gate and down the road, passing the dove field on our right, a true clear cut power line on our left, and further into the manicured public land of visibility and accessibility…yet…with little game sign.  We walk for a mile or two until we arrive at a fork in the road and I take a piss. 

               “I haven’t seen any tracks.” I whisper to J.R.

               “No scat.” He retorts.

               We figure it’s best to head back to the clear cut and curve around the outside adjacent to an oak grove.  Then, maybe, scout out a different spot. 

               A trail cuts in behind a large clearing with a sign promoting the National Wild Turkey Federation and venerating their funding.  We follow along and there is definite sign.  Mostly from an ATV.  But occasionally I discern deer tracks or turkey prints.  It’s an oak stand to our right and the game obviously resides within that boundary.  Nothing exists outside to lure them from their haven.  Why would they expose themselves and cross the field when their food and cover is right there?  We walk to the end and posture up, scanning the horizon for prospective deer traveling from the pine thickets to their feeding area.  But no brown hides show.  Not even a flicker or broken twig.  I motion to go on further and sit at the crossroads of the oak grove, clear cut, and adjacent dove field.  Deer love corners and transitions, edges.

               At the end we kneel down and still have enough visibility to cover hundreds of yards.  I regret leaving my heavy shooting stick in the truck.  Feeling relaxed and covered, I take hits off my vape and swallow some water.  We sit for about twenty minutes when movement catches my eye on the dove field.  Something brown runs across.  I raise my rifle and peer eagerly through the scope.  It’s a fucking dog.  A fucking dog with a fucking GPS collar.  All morning long we heard barking and yelping coming from that corner near the entrance.  And here is this fucking dog on a fucking deer trail, racing across the field, back, and in circles following the scent.  This reads like a book.  Deer were here.  But no longer.  They are gone.  And obviously will not return with a yelping hound chasing them further into the thick of it.

               “They’re running dogs,” I explain to J.R.  “There goes our hunt.”

               My brilliant plan is now, upon returning to the truck, to find yet another public entrance into this troubling game land.  I utilize my printed-out map, OnX hunt, and the navigation system on my phone.  Sixteen minutes away is our promised land.  Or so I hope.  I’m pretty much done with this place.  There’s no sign, no deer.  I even pulled up the game harvest stats on the internet only to learn that between September 1^st and November 3^rd, there was only one deer shot on this property.  That’s 10,000 acres!  A thousand score and one deer is a piss poor ratio!  But I know J.R. was looking forward to this hunt.  So off to the next gate, I figure.

               Down White Oak road we arrive at this small entrance in front of a closed gate.  Everything is open and welcoming like a bar whore with open arms who only wants to entrap you with sexually transmitted diseases.  There’s a reason no one rushes to her embrace, the same as no one fought us over this spot.  I was through with hunting for the day, so I considered this a scout.  Step by step we edge our way into the woods, down this trail, until feet transition to yards and yards to miles and we pass all of this land with great lanes of visibility but little deer sign.  Maybe they just aren’t traveling the path, I figure?  Even though deer typically take the path of least resistance.  We pass food plots but no marks of activity until finally arriving at an entire forty acre plot cut and plowed of every source of vegetation---no trees, no grass, no brush.  I can see for hundreds of yards.  Here, if anything, we might see a deer.  If for no other reason than we have a lot of ground we can cover. 

               At home that evening, I punch everything into OnX, add “layers” of acorn producing oaks, food plots, etc.  At the end of this trail, there is a stand of oaks.  I think that will be the best spot to hunt.  But thanks to the Google, I realize this is where the handicapped blind is located.  I would hate to interfere with their opportunity. But God, it looks good on paper.

               The next day I wake up, punch the digits into my phone and come to the horrid realization that the wind is going to blow our scent straight down the trail.  In fact, there is no public access area where the wind is not going to fuck us.  I cancel the hunt and drink 3/4ths of a bottle of tequila with little to no effect.  Maybe I have a problem?  Oh well, in any case, we always have tomorrow.

               On our last day of the permit hunt, I wake up disenchanted.  I don’t want to hunt.  I don’t want to get out of bed.  I definitely don’t want to return to that cesspool they call Suggs Mill.  But I think about J.R. and his first deer season.  He will want to hunt.  So, I drag myself out of bed, into my mouthful of pills, an energy drink, and a shower.  And before I even realize it I’m sitting outside J.R.’s house.

               To my surprise he doesn’t seem anymore eager than me.  If I had canceled, he explains, he would gladly have gone back to sleep.  But here we are.  On a trajectory…whatever that may be.  Our last day.  So we must see it to its end.  And so off we go to Bladen county.  Down through Parkton, Tar Heel, and into the thick forest of bears and farmers and turkeys.  But deer?  I think of the owl on the Tootsie pop commercials:  “the world may never know!”

               We arrive just a hair shy of thirty minutes before official sunrise.  We gather our Thermacells, adorn the blaze orange vests, load our rifles, and edge past the closed gate.  Suddenly, just at sunrise, the woods erupt as if a war zone with repeated gun fire.  BAM-BAM-BAM!!!  POW-POW-POW!  All the way in we saw pickup trucks with dog kennels in back.  The weekends are dog running time.  And the constant gunfire reflects this.  Also, it points to why we saw little sign.  The deer are pressured, run, exhausted, and spent.  They ring out of a 50 acre stretch every doe, buck, and fawn, and shoot them on sight for the crime of having brown fur.  I stop in my tracks as I hear gunfire coming from where I intend to hunt.

               “I don’t feel like dying today,” I explain to J.R.

               He agrees.

               We return to the truck, absolutely defeated, and resolve to never hunt Suggs Mill again.  What a waste.  Of time, money, effort, whatever.  We leave broken and lost.  Juxtapose our bright-eyed visions for the future just a week prior to our sullen, drooping eyes solely fixated on home and the not-here, not-this-place.  I will never fill out another draw for this tag.  They can have it, keep it, and shove it up their ass.  God rained down his wrath on this venture.  Through pestilence and plague.  Through bad luck and bad winds.  Divine providence was not on our side.  All I can hope, at this point, is that our bad luck will not follow us to the coast…to our bear hunt at Holly Shelter or deer hunts at Croatan game lands.  Let’s leave this luck in Bladen county.  And never go there again…   

Cancel Culture: Argumentative Essay

INTRODUCTION

            So-called “Cancel Culture” is a modern form of public shaming that predominantly utilizes social media or other online venues as its preferred medium.  This takes the form of attempting to have someone fired from their job, removed from their position of power, or their artistic creations boycotted when said individual steps outside the boundaries of social norms and says or writes something contrary to a commonly and widely accepted narrative.  While in America, the typical perception is that this phenomenon is a method to establish group cohesion and conformity among left-wing/liberal talking points, in reality, cancel culture knows no political allegiance.  What this argument seeks to prove is that, regardless of what political leaning cancel culture embraces, or where geographically or demographically this phenomenon takes place, it always has negative social implications.  Many often assume that cancel culture offers a net-positive benefit for society.  This phenomenon, many argue, speaks truth to power, holds authority accountable, and establishes a larger understanding of morality and common decency.  However, this essay seeks to affirm the opposite.  The negative impacts of cancel culture outweigh all the positive aspects I next outline.

COMMON MISCONCEPTIONS (THE COUNTER-ARGUMENT)

            Wong (2022), notes that “more US adults see cancel culture as something desirable (e.g., actions that create accountability) than undesirable (e.g., mean-spirited actions).”  He further illustrates “that [in] any society, we try to distinguish between ‘good’ and ‘bad,’ and we discourage certain acts by penalizing performers of acts we deemed ‘bad.’”  In a sense, per this narrative, cancel culture is an extension of the moral compass of the greater populace.  It creates the checks and balances for appropriate social discourse and behavior.  Ramsey-Soroghaye et al (2023) note that among their research group the “participants also noted that cancel culture has positive impacts.”  Lokhande and Natu (2022) implore us that “it [cancel culture] has to be investigated as a phenomenon in order to aid us in making better decisions.”  Indeed, they continue, “in this context, cancel culture can be viewed as a tool for marginalised [sic] groups to seek justice, a way to resist abusive behaviour [sic] and power exploitation, and a vital corrective to the state's inability to protect its inhabitants.”  In short, the positive benefits of cancel culture are that it streamlines morality, protects exploited and disenfranchised groups, and places checks and balances on power.  However, as Ramsey-Soroghaye et al note, “when taken to the extreme it [cancel culture] negatively impacts the canceled and to a large extent their family leading to mental health issues such as isolation, loneliness, depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and mental health problems.”  This will be discussed further.

SOCIAL CONSEQUENCES OF CANCEL CULTURE

            Cancel culture creates a groupthink, a mob mentality that extinguishes nuance and independent thought, it seeks to eradicate all contrarian views.  When viewed in the context of an American conservative lens, this could entail “canceling” all Republican dissent for those figures opposed to the nomination of Donald Trump as a presidential candidate.  From a left/liberal American perspective, this could embody all who criticize the Democratic party’s emphasis on identity politics above economic agendas (limiting the constraints of neoliberal capitalism).  For a more nuanced portrayal, Fikri (2023) emphasizes how cancel culture in the Islamic world contrasts differently than its political orientation in the West.  In that region, the “cancellations” are for religious reasons---to root out heretics and decry as infidels any who question established cultural norms regarding the teachings of the prophet Mohammad or mainstream interpretations of the Quran.  Moreover, Fikri (2023) observed that when the public backlash enters into the arena of ethnic or racial groups, the public shaming acted to negate the protections these groups hold within the frame of Islamic law.  On this same note, Lokhande and Natu (2022) argue that in India, while “initially meant to call out the wrong doings of the people in powerful positions and hold them accountable for their actions, [cancel culture] is now also seen as a tool for further exploitation of the marginalized people.”  Moreover, they also observed that while those in power often survive cancellation, those of lesser social standing are essentially ruined.  Thus, despite the intended purpose of speaking truth to power, instead, cancel culture instead becomes a vehicle for further disenfranchising the already disenfranchised and proves itself a net-negative implication on society.

CONCLUSION

            While cancel culture, per Wong (2022), has a positive image in American society, the implications are far more negative.  As Fikri (2023) illustrates, this phenomenon can impact groups along the lines of ethnic and racial categories despite their protection under the law.  Moreover, as Lokhande and Natu (2022), cancel culture acts to disenfranchise already subjugated groups.  In addition, they surmise that this groupthink limits the populace’s capacity to think of new possibilities.  “To break free from the constraints of social media's restricted algorithm, which limits our knowledge,” they write, “we must extend our views and consider perspectives that are different from our own.”  Ramsey-Soroghaye et al (2023) consider this phenomenon from the perspective of mental health where they observe that targets of cancellation often experience depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses.  Thus, what may at first appear as a positive benefit for society, this grand establishment of cultural morals and appropriate speech only acts to limit that speech, constrain expanded thought, persecute already marginalized groups, and detrimentally impact mental health.            

References

Fikri, Mohammad. 2023

“Cancel Culture: Islamic Law and Public Policy Challenges in the Digital Age.” Environmental and Social Management Journal

Lokhande, Gayatri, Sadhana Natu. 2022

“’You Are Canceled:’ Emergence of Cancel Culture in the Digital Age.” International Journal of Social Sciences Review

Ramsey-Soroghaye, Blessing, Chinyere Onalu, Precious Anyaegbu. 2023

“Perceived Impact of Cancel Culture and the Mental Health Challenges Associated With the Aftermath: A Discourse for Social Workers in Nigeria.” Journal of Social Service Research

Wong, Ryan. 2022

            “Revisiting Cancel Culture.” Contexts 21, 69-73

 

           

Cancel Culture: Annotated bIbliograpghy for Class

INTRODUCTION

            Few have survived this far into the new millennium without being profoundly aware of this strange modern phenomenon known as “cancel culture.”  The basic framework of how this operates is that an individual says or writes something that runs counter to a contemporary metanarrative and receives public outrage.  The offended masses rally together to decry said individual as a “heretic” and demand they be fired from their job, removed from their position of authority, or their music or writing boycotted.  Historical figures can likewise find themselves at risk of being canceled as their outdated codes of morals/ethics and sense of values no longer align with our current standards.  What is the impact of cancel culture on our society?  Have we digressed to the point of returning to the mass hysteria popularized by European and American witch hunts during the 15^th to 17^th centuries?  Or, on the contrary, is this form of public shaming a positive feature that establishes a larger sense of collective morality within a society and holds those in power accountable?  My thesis is that cancel culture is a negative phenomenon which elicits a sense of mob rule.  To further explore this option, I analyze three studies concerning cancel culture outside of the Western context.  Thus, one can explore this phenomenon from a nuanced perspective distant from the predominantly progressive/liberal standpoint often associated with cancel culture in European and American societies.

Ramsey-Soroghaye, Blessing, Chinyere Onalu, Precious Anyaegbu. 2023

“Perceived Impact of Cancel Culture and the Mental Health Challenges Associated With the Aftermath: A Discourse for Social Workers in Nigeria.” Journal of Social Service Research

A qualitative research study by Ramsey-Soroghaye et al focuses on the awareness and effects of cancel culture on twenty-five graduates from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (2016, Journal of Social Service Research).  The researchers conclude that social media acts as a catalyst for this phenomenon and while cancel culture has some redeeming qualities, when taken to extremes it can cause various mental health issues in the targeted individual including anxiety, depression, and isolation.  As such, measures were taken among social workers to impart a mandated “zero-tolerance” stance toward this social media trend.  Cancel culture’s negative impacts, the study claims, outweigh its positive aspects.  “Call-out culture, online shaming, or public shaming” are various terms for cancel culture.  All of these reflect a “mob mentality” that stifles free speech.  Canceling is defined as “taking a public stance against an individual or institution for actions considered…offensive.”  The article claims this is “bullying” which “thrives on heavy emotional blackmails, collective rage, double-faced morality, and pure mortal hatred.”  Victims are rarely allowed to be heard or understood and thus, being canceled can even lead to such social ostracism that it manifests in suicidal ideation.  While the participants in this study contribute to the overall conclusions, the research is limited in that it only focuses on certain graduates from one particular university.  The study suggests a replicated form of this research be conducted to compare the results.

 

Lokhande, Gayatri, Sadhana Natu. 2022

“’You Are Canceled:’ Emergence of Cancel Culture in the Digital Age.” International Journal of Social Sciences Review

Research conducted by Lokhande and Natu further illustrates the mental problems associated with cancel culture while also providing evidence of the exploitation of already marginalized groups (2022, International Journal of Social Sciences Review).  Furthermore, while the research suggests that this phenomenon began with the best of intentions of speaking truth to power and holding institutions accountable, this has trickled to the social exclusion of groups that have a “history of oppression” in Indian society.  Lokhande and Natu suggest that cancel culture is a form of “digital activism” and that people act differently online versus offline.  Like the previous study, these researchers note the positive qualities of this online activism and how it empowers disenfranchised groups by giving them a collective voice in which to assert their needs and to “seek justice.”  A key issue here in contrast is that the “canceled” who already hold powerful positions find it easy to maintain their standings economically and socially.  However, those with lesser degrees of social standing run the risk of losing everything if canceled and cannot recover.  Moreover, the study concludes that by labeling individuals through online shaming, this limits expression and constrains the “exploration” of new possibilities.  What must be done, they argue, is to maintain a balance between the negativity of canceling against an ideology one opposes and positive canceling to promote a more just society.  Secondary data is used in the writing of this study, including books, and internet and journal articles.  The limitations of this research extend from a lack of first-person resources and the fact it focuses predominantly on Indian society. 

 

            Fikri, Mohammad. 2023

“Cancel Culture: Islamic Law and Public Policy Challenges in the Digital Age.” Environmental and Social Management Journal

            Mohammad Fikri’s study contrasts the competing forces of Islamic Law and cancel culture (2023, Environmental and Social Management Journal).  What the research finds is that cancel culture’s emphasis on justice issues conflicts with these same values already present in Islamic Law.  Values such as “justice, forgiveness, [and] the right to individual privacy” are key components of such law yet are being eroded by online shaming.  This study sheds light on how cancel culture manifests in the Muslim world.  While many attributes are the same as in the previous studies, more emphasis is placed on mob rage against supposed religious transgressions.  As shown with in prior studies, this public shaming can lead to social isolation, loss of social status, and financial losses.  Moreover, when cancel culture verges onto racial or ethnic grounds, this can run counter to the legal protections of these groups against discrimination.  The author views modernity’s dive into the digital world in Baudrillardian terms, expressing the desire of individuals to retreat from the perceived unfreedom and harshness of the real world into the safety of the digital world’s “simulacra.”  From this digital basis arises collective outrage against perceived failures of justice which has the potential to undermine democratic institutions as well as academic progress (as the latter’s theories may run counter to the opinions of the online masses).  The author utilizes qualitative methods including literature and case studies.  The limitation of this research is that it is narrowed down solely to a focus on the Islamic world.

CONCLUSION

            Each of these studies reflect the reach of cancel culture into areas outside of Europe and America.  Ramsey-Soroghaye et al (2023) illustrates the universality of this phenomenon’s characteristics through its impact on Nigerian students.  Lockhande and Natu (2022) study cancel culture from the standpoint of Indian society, while Fikri (2023) speaks from the perspective of the Islamic world.  What all three share is a consensus of what cancel culture is, though they differ on how it manifests within their given cultural framework.  Each describes this phenomenon as a virtual or online form of activism that seeks to publicly shame and disempower individuals or institutions who run contrary to socially accepted norms of justice.  They also generally agree on how cancel culture is originally born of the best of intentions as a vehicle for giving voice to the disenfranchised and downtrodden.  However, as both Lockhande/Natu (2022) and Fikri (2023) note, as cancel culture evolved, it has voiced moral outrage against groups already marginalized by caste, class, race, or ethnic background.  Moreover, Lockhande and Natu (2022) discover how those who wield power or status can recover financially or socially from being canceled.  Thus, many of the “canceled” power structures remain in place while those with lesser social status, power, or wealth are essentially ruined and destroyed.  Though cancel culture has universal overtones throughout the globe, each manifests culturally with its own nuances.  This is best shown by Fikri (2023) in the Islamic world’s use of religious transgressions as the basis for many cancelations juxtaposed to the common misconception of the West that this trend is entirely an extension of left/liberal politics.  All three studies conclude that being a target of cancelation causes mental health issues and that cancel culture has a negative impact on society by slipping from a dependence on democratic policies which afford due process under the law to degeneration into mob rule.  What this research illustrates is that cancel culture is not a unique European or American phenomenon of the political Left, as is often assumed.  Rather, it is symptomatic of the mass acceptance and use of online platforms globally.  Despite where it manifests, whether in Western societies or Eastern nations, cancel culture has a negative impact on society and democratic institutions.    

The market manager does not exist

               The philosopher Jean Baudrillard wrote three essays in the early nineties arguing first that the Gulf War would not happen, then that it was not happening, and finally that it did not happen.  His argument was not that it physically did not take place, rather it was that all we experienced of it was through images.  And even more so, images of images, reports of reports.  Thus, we could not claim that the war took place as we had not physically experienced any of the atrocities associated with the war.  This is an extension of his thought in Simulation and Simulcra in which he argues we exist in a hyperreality---images of images with no physical representation existing upon which these copies are made.

               Borrowing from his work, this had led me to conclude that my market manager does not exist.  Here’s why…

               My market manager spends all day standing in the office watching Tick-Toc videos on his phone.  He considers this “work.”  From which he will take multiple breaks, each between thirty minutes and an hour and a half.  Of course, per policy, he must also take a thirty-minute lunch on top of all these breaks.  Each of his seven meat cutters have complained to upper management.  The resounding answer from management is that “his [the market manager’s] numbers are good.”  How can you have good numbers if you don’t actually do any of the work that creates those numbers?  Simple.  The market manager does not exist.  We, the employees, cut and wrap all the meat, stock the shelves, and even (often times) fill out the audit-like paperwork declaring that safety measures are followed, sanitation is up to par, etc.  All that exists of our dear manager is an image of an image, a representation.

               What exists is a manager on paper, a name, and a nametag that reflects his title.  These are images projected of a body that is little more than a ghost, a hollow shell.  A bank account exists into which enter a higher salary each week than any of us make.  That, too, is a representation.  When the “shirts” come in to inspect the market during holiday walks, sanitation audits, etc.  the market manager appears as a representation of himself---barking orders, complaining about us being “children,” and how we are incompetent.  Still, he performs no actual work.  But what these “shirts” and auditors see are the results of our hard work which they then attribute to the manager.  In a sense, then, he becomes an image of an image with no original: a simulacra.

               Our hard work creates the original image which is then attributed to the management practices of our dear leader, which is likewise reinforced in the numbers reflected in inventories, gross profit, labor, and sales.  What all these images of images create, thus, is a mirage of a manager.  Someone and something that simply does not exist.  He too is nothing more than an image, a representation of himself as he does not exist in an original form of a manager if we define a manager as someone who is present, who works, and well, manages.  These images of images on top of one another create not only a hostile workplace, but a hyperreality where a manager can exist on paper, even so far as receiving a paycheck, when none exists in this material world, our physical reality.

Incipit Vita Nova

Incipit vita nova

“Here begins the new life”

               In his new book, The Spirit of Hope, Byung Chul Han writes in depth about the necessity of hope.  This sense of hope reaches out to embrace a future that is unknown and uncertain, full of possibility.  This differs from optimism which only conceives in terms of the immanent now, never a transcendent tomorrow.  It references certainty and prediction.  But to reference Deleuze: do we even know what a body is capable?  Optimism does not recognize the possibility of an event.  Something that upends all pessimism and optimism and pushes into the great unknown.  All that rambling aside, what does this have to do with me?

               For the past decade, I could only conceive of my life in either the positive or negative, entirely devoid of hope.  In the former perspective, I would be a market manager and live a stressful, yet comfortable, existence.  The latter would find me cutting meat, jumping from company to company for increasingly lower wages as I desperately attempt to evade the impending introduction of prepackaged meat and the dissolution of my trade.  Neither predicted the event---the return to college.  Just this evening I received an email from my advisor informing me that, after this semester, I have only five classes left to graduate.  In this, hope inserts itself.

               What will I do after graduation?  Where will I go?  Who will I be?  What will my life be like?  It is within this great uncertainty that hope arises.  There is no foreseeable future, no predictability, no known path to tread.  What is born is multiplicity, opportunity, risk, and adventure.  I no longer feel resigned to the positive or negative.  Per Deleuze, this is my line of flight, the machinic nature of this self searching out other machines to connect with, an act of becoming, of what-might-be, what-could-be.  It is an abyss not saturated in darkness, only shadows, with light trickling in from every crevasse, guiding me onto the untraveled path.  The road into the future. 

               I feel like a snake shedding its skin.  The past I have worn before the world’s gaze is slowly falling from my being both cosmetically and spiritually.  What I have embraced as my identity I now disregard.  I was fat and now thin.  Lazy and now a daily runner.  An alcoholic now a teetotaler.  Long curly hair now shaved smooth.  Contacts will soon replace my quintessential thick-rimmed glasses.  A college dropout soon to be a college graduate.  Once depressed now hopeful.  A loner now with friends.  And I don’t even know of what a body is capable.  Daydreams of a future of contentedness and well-being.  I bought nice cologne, whitened my teeth as I imagine the potential for connection and romance.  To not continue in this singularity in this all-too-huge world.  What is too late?  Too old?  Too far gone?  Hope lacks the fixed certainty of pessimism.  Hope lacks the permanence of a fixed self, of a set future, of despair.  Hope embraces, extends, reaches, grasps, dreams, envisions, delights, smiles, seeks, searches, and never submits. 

               I’m not sure what is out there.  But I know whatever it is, it’s waiting for me…

Never be boring

            I decided to try therapy again.  After all, it was a therapy session that inspired me to return to college.  What I want to work on is my fear of public speaking and general social anxiety.  Whatever rests ahead of me in the future, public speaking and dealing with people will most likely be part of that.  So, I need to do the work now to prepare.

 

            What we uncovered in our session is that I do not care what other people think of me.  All my anxiety and glossophobia extend from how I perceive myself in those situations and how I think I come across to others, not their actual opinions.  To be more precise, I’m concerned with my own reflection.  My therapist suggested that this will take more than mindfulness techniques as I am self-aware of this quirk.  We must investigate cognitive behavior therapy practices to rewire my brain and thought process.  Sounds interesting.

 

            A funny point in my session was when my therapist suggested I become a therapist after college.  She was impressed that I articulated how I used replacement theory to successful quit alcohol.  “Where did you learn about that?” she asked.  I didn’t remember.  I read so much random shit.  But it worked.  Simply by replacing drinking with running.  “I left the mechanisms of addiction unaddressed and simply rerouted the object of my addictive personality.” I explained.

 

            I’m curious to see where these sessions lead.  What other inner discoveries we can uncover to at last mold me into a somewhat functional human being.  Some of my neuroses I want to keep, however.  Certain quirks I enjoy.  They make me interesting.  And I like to be interesting.  Not so others can find me interesting.  But because being interesting entertains me.  I enjoy being weird, odd, peculiar.  That way I don’t get bored of myself.

The Coffee Cup

            Sometimes, we need symbolic gestures to mark a departure.  Man conceives of the world in forms, signs, symbols.  Language is among those, ritual another.  A coffee cup is just a piece of glass formed into an empty center in which to fill hot liquid.  Then again, it can be more.  It can represent a person, a place in time and space, an action, a memory, an emotion, etc.

 

            The other day I was sipping on a cup of beef bone broth.  I took a moment to examine the cup.  It was clear glass, the inscription “World’s Best Cat Mom” faded away and worn until only its absence remained.  After finishing the broth, I asked my roommate, “do you have any coffee cups?”

 

            “Yeah.” He replied.

 

            I immediately threw my cup in the trash. 

 

There was nothing wrong with the cup.  Once, it was a treasured birthday gift.  My favorite cup.  But I remembered who gave it to me.  My feelings toward the cup extended beyond its physical boundaries and into its symbolism.  The gesture of discarding it was likewise symbolic and not a rash decision made out of anger or bitterness.  Simply, it was an act of letting go of my past.  A severing of all attachment to that portion of my existence and the feelings I hold toward that period in time and the people involved.

 

            Whatever the future may hold, those people from my past will never be part of it.  And I don’t even want the hurt or anger to linger.  It’s not even about them, really.  Rather it’s how I feel about and toward them.  I no longer want to hold onto that attachment, I want free of it.  They didn’t create the way I feel.  That’s all on me.  As such, I had to let go of those attitudes and erase everything from my life that triggers that reaction.  I cleaned out my email and text messages, deleted photos, and tossed away the innocent coffee cup.  I want nothing physical to bring up these feelings as I edge into new possibilities, new connections, new adventures.  I don’t want to carry these negative emotions with me or allow them to warp my perception in these new endeavors with skepticism and pain from the past. 

 

            It takes far more effort to carry these burdens than it does to put them down and move forward…or…simply throw them away…

It's happening!

               So much is happening and it’s both exciting and terrifying.  Sunday starts orientation for my new Buddhist ministry course, a two-year program.  I’m all signed up with the login credentials, introductory paragraph, and all that good stuff.  Tuesday, my new college semester begins.  My books recently arrived in the mail and I’m ready to go.  I’m going to be busy!  And that’s not even all of it.

               I decided to not only participate in Ango, but to take Jukai as well.  That begins next month.  So does dove season.  I have a hunt planned for the day after Labor Day.  Deer season starts in October.  Did I mention the other Buddhist class I’m already in?  Maybe I’ve put too much on my plate?

               Oh, and then there’s the meditation that goes with all the Buddhist stuff.  During Ango, I need to sit zazen for an hour each day, four hours each Saturday, and two full days in December.  On top of sewing a rakusu.  Then there’s my exercise routine to account for.  I’m pretty solid about maintaining a three-mile run each day and weights every other day. 

               At work, this part of the year leads into our busiest season---the dreaded holidays.  From early November until January 2^nd, everything is going to be wide open.  How will I work everything into my already full schedule?  I’ve also recently started doing yoga, which is a fucking beast.  I didn’t realize all those poses were so hard.

               I guess I’ll take a break from everything when I close my eyes to sleep.  Then wake up, chug an energy drink, pop in a nicotine pouch, and go, go, go.  I like to keep busy.  Boredom catalyzed my alcoholism and now I’m seven weeks deep into sobriety.  Maybe this new sense of purpose and focus will follow me into all my impending projects?

Immersion

               A year ago this month I deleted my social media, canceled all subscriptions to streaming services, and focused on a spiritual and intellectual journey of studying religion and philosophy.  Essentially, I wanted to eliminate distractions.  I wanted rid of the endless doom scrolling, the binge-watching, mindless killing of time.  When I took a Sociology of Popular Culture class this summer, I realized my mistake.

               How can one hope to understand the world by intentionally separating oneself from it?  We share our values, beliefs, and ethics through the medium of art---be it television shows, movies, music, etc.  To understand the world, one has to immerse themselves in it.  Sure, maybe don’t spend three days binging a Netflix series.  But these art forms are integral in how we express ourselves as a society, how we understand ourselves.  I can analyze these shows from a sociological or philosophical aspect and grasp what ideas are at play within these series.  Displays of power structures, economic systems, mores, norms, roles, etc.  By watching these I can look to what defines us. 

               No more renunciation.  Full immersion.  Well…kind of.  Still not jumping on the social media bandwagon, though.  That’s where I draw the line.  I enjoy being shrouded in mystery and remaining elusive to the Facebook search bar.

first step

               The toughest part of beginning a routine or maintaining it is simply starting---that very initiation of the process.  Perhaps I’m just a procrastinator?  Everything I do isn’t very hard except actually taking that first step to actually do it.  I like to take my time as well and not rush anything.  And all along the way there’s this little voice in my head whispering that I can just take the day off, put this or that off until tomorrow, take care of it when I get home.  At this point, however, I know a small portion of my mind well enough as well as my habits and understand that, if I don’t do it right then and there, I’ll never do it.

               Case in point: waking up in the morning.  I used to wake up at the last minute and race out the door only to arrive late to work…again.  My mornings are a lot longer now, and more relaxed.  I wake up, walk to the fridge and grab an energy drink, take my medication, then immediately return to bed.  For about an hour I spend my time just absorbing the new day.  I’ll check my emails, read the news, maybe write a bit.  This is followed by another energy drink and more of the same until I finally crawl out of bed.  All along that little voice pushes me to call out of work and take the day off, just go back to bed.  Or stay in bed longer and don’t do anything besides get up in enough time to go to work.

               But somehow I push through it.  I fix breakfast and depending on my shift that day, I either meditate or go for a run.  The hard part, though, is simply getting out of bed in the first place.  Then the secondary hesitations begin.  I think maybe I don’t want to run, or I’ll do it after work, or maybe I’ll just meditate later.  The second I reaffirm to myself that this is my routine and these things need to be done before I leave the house and actually commit to the practice, it’s all fine and good.  Once I’ve started off on the treadmill or once I close my eyes on the cushion, that hard part is over.  Whatever it was I didn’t feel like doing was never hard to do, simply it was a struggle to initiate the act.

               The same happens after work as well, whether it’s doing the dishes, exercising, meditating more, writing or reading for class, etc.  I give myself time to unwind first of all.  I tell myself that after I eat, I’ll start on such-and-such.  But there’s that voice again suggesting I watch another Youtube video and write that report tomorrow when I’m off.  Or maybe we can consider this a rest day and not lift weights?  I look to whatever action I need to do with grimace and loathing.  But the minute I’m in the act of doing, everything is fine.  And I’m left thinking: you know, I could run a little longer, I could incorporate a new exercise on the machine, I could meditate more, I could finish this assignment and start on the next one.  As soon as I’m beyond that phase where my mind concocts endless possibilities of what I could be doing to avoid what I should be doing, everything falls into place.  And in that moment, I realize there was never anything to struggle against outside of my own mental fabrications, my mindset.

               Maybe more of my life is an extension of this problem?  I hesitate.  I procrastinate.  I avoid.  If I can learn to apply to greater portions of my existence what I’m learning in this microcosm of routine, perhaps I could find more complacency?  Maybe actually go out and find that new job?  Meet new people?  Date again?  There’s nothing hard about any of this outside of taking that first step and not coming up with excuses as to why I should avoid or postpone it.  All we ever have is this duration of time that we experience.  There is never a future, really, and we will never be the same person then as we are now if and when we do meet that future expectation.  The old cliché “there’s no time like the present” seems to ring true.  And maybe all we need to do is take that first step and commit to the process.  Because once there, the hard part is over.

ANGO!!!

               It’s Ango time!

               What is Ango?  Ninety days of intense practice in the Soto Zen tradition with increased emphasis on zazen.  During this period, I will be expected to give something up just like Catholics do during Lent.  I’m just not sure what.  I can’t give up much more than I already have.  I don’t know what else to give???  Maybe energy drinks?  Vaping?  It has to be something hard to reflect the importance of the spiritual path. 

               Each day, one is expected to extend their meditation practice by a few minutes, participate in four-hour Zazenkai sittings each week, all of which culminates in a two-day Rohatsu retreat---a period of all day sits---in December.  I’m debating about taking the precepts and sewing a rakusu.  I’m just not sure if I will have the time to dedicate to it with school, my two other Buddhism courses, and hunting season right around the corner.  I enjoy staying busy, but I don’t want to become too overwhelmed.  I guess I’ll figure it out in the coming days. 

               I need these formal structures in my life to help me establish and commit to a practice.  Just as my online physical education class, which required me to exercise 90 minutes a week, allowed me to create and maintain a solid exercise routine, so will these activities afford a basis to establish and commit to a spiritual path.  I just need to not take on too much at once and burn out on spirituality altogether. 

42 days

Forty days is where I fell off the wagon sometime in September or October of last year.  And I understand now why I failed.  I viewed this landmark as an achievement, a completion of a goal instead of reconceiving this newfound sobriety as a lifestyle change.  In my mind, I saw it out to its end, then reentered into the wheel of samsara, the cycle of suffering.  I had been born again, free of delusions (so I thought), but had not reached nirvana.  That term means “blowing out.”  My addiction had not ceased, been snuffed, or “blown out” like a candle flame, only the life of sobriety I had attempted until I was once again reborn in this vicious circle of habitual reactivity---of searching for meaning in drink, of surrendering to craving and desire.

Maybe this time will be different?  I don’t view forty days as an accomplishment or the achievement of a goal, but just another point on the map marking my departure.  I’ve come too far to give up now.  I enjoy my routines and everything I’ve established within this period.  I finished six classes over the summer semesters and have a 3.65 GPA.  I’ve lost nine pounds.  My walking heart rate is now at the level my resting heart rate was a month ago.  I’m curious to see where this goes.  As Gilles Deleuze writes: we do not even know of what a body is capable. 

Sobriety represents my line of flight, a deterritorialization, which provides an alteration or change in my possibilities as it opens the door for new connections to occur and form.  From those connections, new opportunities arise.  New possible futures established in the past (my choosing to quit drinking) are born into the present duration of time.  It is the actualization of the past.  Now, where to go from here?

I begin the fall semester around two weeks from now.  My Buddhist ministry program also starts soon.  Where will these connections take me?  Per Deleuze, we are machines seeking to connect with other machines to create new possibilities.  Again, do we even know of what a body is capable?  This new path leads to uncertainty where nothing is given or fixed.  Where and who will I be in five years?  Who and what will I know then that I do not know now?  What things will I experience?  Everything is as equally terrifying as it is exciting. 

Wednesday musings

               I have a brief window of freedom, devoid of responsibility.  The final summer semester ended today and the new semester does not begin until August 6^th.  I now have time to read whatever I like.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll finally get through this introduction to Deleuze?  For the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to continue my personal studies through audiobooks.  I’ve listened to The Coddling of the American Mind, Left is not Woke, Technofeudalism, Escape from Freedom, and To Have or to Be?  Mostly I enjoy these while driving, at work, and while doing schoolwork at home. 

Audiobooks lack something, though.  Mostly my undivided attention.  Too often I zone out and hear the words without attaching to their context or meaning until they become nothing more than noise emanating from my earbuds.  With all my studies, however, I find myself walking away from a book with one lone idea of the work ingrained in my mind.  After everything cited in The Coddling of the American Mind, for example, the sole thought that arises is that feelings should not be “safe.”  Safety is a physical aspect, not an emotional one.  I don’t recall the lengthy list of recommendations for education in the final chapters, though I remember the narrator going through the bullet points.

In any case, it will be good to return to the physical copies in my book collection.  To wrap up in my electric blanket like an aged grandmother, crack open an energy drink, and enjoy my vape as I flip through the off-white pages.  One thing I pride myself with, in the shadow of my towering stack of Byung-Chul Han’s books, is to not imbibe solely in the vita activa and allow myself time for simple reflection, moments of doing absolutely nothing.  Sometimes I just sit in the empty room and gaze off, lost in thought, as the time passes without little notice.

What was this scourge of ennui I once feared, always constantly drowning the demon in spirits?  These pauses are fulfilling.  In the Buddhist sense, there is fullness in the void, in the emptiness of existence.  There is no excess and nothing lacking.  Everything is perfect in its simplicity.  My life is boring and yet I feel nothing missing.  Even the empty house is full of possibility.  I wake up at 3:00AM, read the news, go for a run, fix breakfast.  I mow the lawn, tend to my garden, watch the birds peck for seeds in the backyard and the squirrels scurry about, load the dishwasher, wash my clothes, clean the kitchen, vacuum and mop the floors, listen to music, read, write, listen to podcasts, lift weights, fix lunch.  And in all the moments passing in between, I just live within the duration of time as if it has no beginning and no end, as if it were fluid like a brook passing through an Alpine crevasse.  I glance around the room, never fixating on any particular object; my gaze runs through all as if they were nonexistent.  Just a man, alone with his thoughts, a mere speck in this all-too-huge world. 

And I think about the world outside these four walls.  Of people far away and those close by.  But there is no longing for that world.  I enjoy my solitude…without the presence of loneliness.  Ennui comforts me.  I like to think about the world, but I’m not sure I want to be part of it, though I recognize I can never truly exist outside or apart from it.  I am the world and the world is me.  Every view, idea, or belief that surfaces in my mind reflects the imprint of society, culture, upbringing, genetics.  My sense of self is a mere construct of everything outside of myself, gently reminding me that I can never disconnect from the other.  For, in a sense, I am the other.  I am comprised of otherness in my mannerisms, tastes, preferences, morals, and ethical codes.  But here, in my home, I can feel my singularity without succumbing to narcissistic self-centeredness.  I can sit here and make sense of everything not-me about me until I lose myself to myself, realizing that no self exists when I dig deep enough.  There is no fixed self that prefers solitude, no self that craves social connection.  No regrets or failures, pride or triumphs.  In a sense, within this empty space I discover balance

Water in the fish tank trickles through the filter, splashing drops onto the surface in a comforting splatter.  The roar of the ancient air conditioner fills the room with a constant rumble that I often forget to even notice.  Occasionally large trucks or motorcycles rev their engines on the street or the house shakes from artillery rounds at one of the local military bases.  Birds chirp outside the window and a text message dings on my phone.  But beyond this “noise,” if you sit still long enough, you can pierce into the silence and embrace the stillness of the world until only your heartbeat thumps to jolt you into the awareness that this might be all there is.  Though the world is out there, it is without you in it.  If you do not perceive it, does it truly then exist?  If you do not experience it with the senses, can you point to where you end and the it begins?  And if this grand blue ball with white sandy beaches and crystal clear water, its looming marshmallow-capped mountains, and vast evergreen forests is just an illusion, might I content myself with whatever small slice of the pie is within my grasp? 

The only Zen you find in the secluded cave on the far side of the mountain is the Zen you bring with you.  You will never find anything in yourself out there, you have to discover it within first.  Only then can you bring it into the world as Nietzsche’s Zarathustra so nobly did when he brought the Übermensch to the town below.  I began this journey last year and gave up on it for a while.  I thought I found what I was looking for a few times, only to realize I had missed the mark.  And here I am again, almost a year later.  Maybe now I won’t focus on finding anything, but just embrace the journey.  What is life without desire?  Some desire to see the world, to fall in love, to be successful.  What I desire is substance, something transcendent and spiritual in a world you can only transcend by recognizing its immanence.  To go beyond you must understand there is no plane beyond to reach, just the innate beauty of what surrounds you for all the pain, toil, and heartache.  To find that is to enter into the sublime.  To achieve peace.

Day 30

               Day 30.  It’s hard to believe I’ve made it this far.  Tomorrow will be a month.  Everything, at this point, has become routine.  I can’t conceive of my life any other way.  Which is interesting when I think back to when I first started this, that initial decision not to drink, and how hard it was to even begin.  For about a month prior, I adamantly affirmed I was going to cut back or quit, but it took weeks to take that first step.  Now when I think about alcohol, I think of it as a poison.  Each of my health problems were directly linked to my daily drinking habit.

               When I woke up this morning, I checked my pulse.  My resting heart rate was 67 and walking average was 88.  Since 2021, I have been treated with beta-blockers for tachycardia.  At the cardiologist that year, they clocked my resting heart rate at 110.  That’s a considerable difference.  When I take my medication now, my resting heart rate sinks down into the 50’s and will soon edge into the 40’s, meaning I need to wean off the pills to prevent bradycardia. 

               I was experiencing panic attacks simply walking into work.  Of curious note, I observed this happened the morning after heavy drinking.  When I spoke to my psychologist last, she agreed to up my anxiety medication by five milligrams.  This had little effect on my panic episodes.  But after about the third week of sobriety, my anxiety sharply decreased.  Sure, I may become nervous in public settings occasionally, and my heart rate might spike, but the physical symptoms don’t manifest in sweating, profuse trembling, or heavy breathing.  Mentally, I’ve changed the way I address these scenarios which is an extension from my Buddhist practice.  Instead of trying to stop the attack, I tell myself it’s alright.  So what if someone sees me shaking?  It will only last for a few minutes.  What do I care what they think?  I recognize that I feel nervous, I accept that I may have a panic attack, and note the manifestations in the third person.  “It [the mind] feels anxious.  It [the body] shakes.”  When I conceive of these aspects through the concept of no-self and look at them as mere feelings or perceptions and no “I” experiencing or perceiving them, I feel calm.  Again, not by attempting to avoid the situation, but by embracing it.

               When I drank, I woke up multiple times during the night.  And no matter how long I was in bed, I felt groggy waking up the next morning.  Now I go to sleep sometime after 7:00PM and wake up, without an alarm, around 3:00AM.  I feel completely rested and don’t experience lethargy during the day.  Why do I wake up so early?  Most days I have to be at work by 5:00AM.  And I enjoy a solid morning routine.  Immediately upon waking up and using the restroom, I take my medication and return to bed to drink an energy drink, read the news, check emails, do schoolwork, and write for my Buddhist studies class.  Then I run or lift weights depending on the day, drink a protein shake, shower, and go to work.  Sometimes, if I’m having a rest day from exercise, I meditate.  At work I feel energized and prepared for my day instead of dragging through until the clock hit 1:30PM and I could drive to the liquor store for another pick-me-up.

               Work used to tire me out.  But now I barely even consider it a workout.  Most days I walk between four and six miles during a shift.  By the time I got home, I would just want to sit in my chair and become one with the couch.  Anything I needed to do around the house, I would put off for my next day off work.  Now I have so much energy as a result from exercising and eating healthy that I come home, do the dishes, wash my clothes, clean up, then hit the garage for a two or three mile run or a weight lifting session to tire myself out so I can relax. 

               Looking back on my alcohol use, I see where it affected my mental state outside of my anxiety spells.  I focused so much on the past, on betrayals, on rejection, failure, and I became bitter against those people and situations.  Now it all rarely comes to mind.  It’s perplexing how these insecurities bothered me.  My life has all new people in it, and I often wonder why I allowed these negative thoughts to consume me.  What does it matter what happened?  Why did I still care?  I’m proud and excited of the path I’m on.  Too bad for those who didn’t stick around to see it.  That’s their loss.  I guess I had such a low self-image that I centered in on these people and felt deserving of their betrayals and rejections, of how I was treated.  But at the end of the day, this bitterness and depression were never their doing.  I did it to myself.  They didn’t force me to feel a certain way, that was all on me.  I was creating my own negativity and attributing it to being caused by past events when it was my own internal rumination that manifested these mental conditions.

               What I have concluded in all this was that alcohol was my keystone habit that I needed to break.  Everything in my life fell into place after severing that one addiction.  I didn’t have to strive to alter all aspects of my life, I just had to change one.  Now I think of alcohol as a poison and every time I wish for a drink, I think of the anxiety it causes, the panic attacks, depression, tachycardia, sleeplessness, lethargy, headaches, trembling, craving, frivolously spending money, binging fast food, laziness, slovenliness, oversharing, worrying people, etc.  I think of that one drink in terms of: would I be willing to trade how I feel now for a few hours of bliss only to return the next morning to how I felt then?  No.  And that keeps me on track and moving forward.

Twenty-Eight Days later

            All my classes this semester focus on health—community health, health and wellness, social problems.  When I first started these, I was disappointed.  All I could think about was Byung-Chul Han droning on and on about our cult of health and how this neoliberal fixation on the self devolves us into our basest instinct of survival mode.  Essentially, we return to animalistic mindsets and habits.  And I don’t disagree with his critique.  But I took his message the wrong way originally.  I was too content to drink bourbon and DoorDash chicken wings until I felt physically and mentally terrible, only to repeat this the next day to briefly feel good for a few short hours before bed.  While not allowing yourself to succumb to the cult of health, you can still embrace wellness if, for nothing else, simply the quality of life it provides.

 

            Had I kept drinking, I would have been dead in the next ten years.  Leading up to that, I would have been in pain as I watched my body deteriorate and my mind drown in some alcoholic delirium.  Wellness allows us to feel good just as the drinking made me feel good…albeit the alcohol bliss was only temporary.  Wellness, however, has more lasting value.  By running for 45 minutes to an hour five to six days a week and doing a full-body workout every other day, I feel fucking phenomenal.  In the last four weeks, I’ve lost seven pounds.  Not only do I feel great physically, but I feel good about myself and my body.  My confidence has increased.

 

            Physical health intertwines with mental health.  I’ve dug out of my depression, my anxiety has decreased drastically, and I’m better prepared to handle stress.  It’s simply amazing the negative affect alcohol was having on my mind and body and now, twenty-eight days later, how much of an impact sobriety has played on my well being.  One thing I’ve been doing is pushing myself to achieve new goals.  Whether it’s in my workouts, such as increasing the weights or running an extra mile.  Or in my studies where I tell myself I do, in fact, have enough time to work ahead and get all of my assignments done on my day off so I don’t have to juggle work and school the following day.

 

            I’m also learning moderation and self control.  Where I was drinking bourbon until I fell asleep and eating twelve chicken wings, a large fry, and a plate of shrimp from Popeye’s, I now manage my calories each day, allowing no more than 1,600.  This may mean holding off the steak until the next day if I’ve already had a big breakfast.  Or turning down the bag of Hot Mustard Doritos at work.  Maybe eating a can of sardines for lunch instead of sushi at work when it’s on sale.  Most of the time it means eating well balanced, low-calorie meals early in the day to allow for a large meal after my workout in the evening when I need that protein boost and to feel satiated when I’m bored and prone to endless snacking. 

 

            The cornerstone in all of this is to bear in mind, the goal is not to prolong life or ignore the fact that we all die in the end.  We must refrain from embracing the cult of health.  But it’s to improve the quality of life we have while we are still here.  Who wants to feel like shit all the time?  That’s all drinking ever did for me.  The thing about it is to conceive of this not so much in the terms of goal setting, but to reevaluate it as a lifestyle change.  We are not projects that need continuous work, we are complex creatures that need certain nutrients, environments, and stimuli to properly function.  Just as we require food, water, and shelter, we need the ingredients that wellness provides to live our finite time peacefully and happily.  For all the momentary bliss alcohol afforded, it pales in comparison to how I currently feel in body and mind in its absence. 

 

Why do I run, lift weights, meditate, eat healthy?  Am I going to live forever?  Do I want a killer body?  In a sense I’m still an addict chasing Dionysus in that I’m doing all this exceedingly painful work to feel good.  Running makes me feel good.  Lifting weights.  A healthy diet.  At the end of the day, it’s not for the gaze of the other, it’s for myself and how I feel mentally and physically.  It’s in the pursuit of pleasure, the middle-way of neither excess nor asceticism, that I find purpose.

Day 18

            The addictive nature of smart phone apps is becoming increasingly apparent.  After spending months reading almost all of Byung-Chul Han’s work, I had taken on a negative view of social media and smart devices.  But for the recovering addict, they can be extremely beneficial.  When replacing a bad habit with a healthy one, an individual needs certain reward mechanisms in place, which these apps provide.  For example, it’s not enough to simply exercise every day.  There must be some measurable goal, a reward, a means of establishing progress to provide motivation and a return to the exercise routine itself.  Apps provide this.

 

            The incentives that motivate me daily to run, lift weights, eat healthy, and not drink…yeah, I’ve got an app for that.  Apple Health informs me of how many calories I burn through running, walking at work, and traditional strength training.  Moreover, it tracks my decreasing resting heart rate and rate of breathing.  During meditation, I can slow my breathing rate to between 8-10 breaths per minute.  Each day I start out with a goal of burning between 800-1,000 calories between work and exercise.  When I reach these goals, my watch rewards me with an achievement or notification.  One thinks in terms of “I need to close my rings” or “I’ve got to get my steps in.”

 

            Lose It! tracks my caloric intake and motivates me by reminding me that, if I stay on track by eating no more than 1,600 calories a day, I can get down to 165 pounds by August 24^th.  That’s just a little over a month away!  Sobriety Counter tracks how many days (18) I’ve gone without a drink, how many drinks I’ve passed (220), how much I’ve saved ($294), how many empty calories I’ve missed (25,259), how much weight I’ve lost (5 pounds), and how much my health has improved (44.18%).  In addition, it rewards me with a notification for how long I abstain from alcohol.  So far, I have 40 out of 110 achievements. 

 

            All these apps measure effort, progress, and cement short-term and long-term goals within the psyche.  Even on days where you may not feel motivated, you’re sore or tired, lethargic, these things inspire you to stay on the path.  They put things in perspective.  Such as, when I get the urge to DoorDash Popeye’s chicken wings, I look at the calories in that meal and think in terms of wow, I’d have to run for two hours to burn all that off.  Yeah, I’ll pass.  The apps make it clear how much effort you need to put in and how much energy you’ll have to expend to appease unhealthy cravings.  And, for the most part, you don’t want to give in at that point.  Because then you’ll look to these apps and see where all your progress halts.  You don’t want to start back over.  You’ve come too far. 

 

            Of course, the downside to all this is that each of these apps collect and sell my data.  There’s some analyst sitting in a cubicle out there who knows my eating, purchasing, and health habits better than me.          

Day 17

“One should not neglect one’s goal

For the goal of another, even if great.

Knowing well his goal,

Let him be a person who pursues

The true goal.”

—Buddha, The Dhammapada

 

A keystone habit is one which, when changed or altered, has a domino effect on interconnected habits.  That was drinking for me.  Now, everything else in my life is falling in line, all because I replaced the bottle with exercise.  There’s just this chain-reaction.

 

Wanting to lose weight, gain muscle, and get in shape through exercise, this has edged into my eating habits.  No more DoorDashing Popeye’s chicken wings, cheap Chinese food, or pigging out on Doritos at work, my plates now consist of lean protein and leafy greens.  To increase my cardio fitness, I’ve been weaning off the vape.  The physical strain of the workout finds me going to bed earlier, sleeping more soundly, and waking up earlier to get in a run before work.  To come down from a workout and stabilize my heart rate and breathing, I meditate before going to bed.  I have more money in my bank account as well now that I’m not spending $40 every two days on a bottle of mid-shelf bourbon or good tequila.  I’m more focused on my schoolwork, less distracted, and have been able to manage my time to not procrastinate with chores around the house.

 

Just this one factor was all that needed to change.  I had to put down the bottle to find balance in my life.  Now, just as soon as I finish this energy drink and bowl of Greek yogurt with chia seeds and protein powder, I’m going to lift weights for a half hour, run for a half hour, then meditate and go to work.  It’s amazing all you can get done before a 6:00AM shift when you wake up at 3:00AM every morning.  Happy day 17.

Paranoia and medical studies

               Day 15.  That’s half a month sober.  The lab received my blood test and after being notified of this in the middle of the night, the anxiety surrounding the results manifested in my dreams.  I’ve essentially scared myself stupid watching YouTube videos of former alcoholics with advanced liver disease.  Some of them are around my age.  I don’t, however, have any symptoms aside from my nails---no varices, swelling, vomiting, jaundice, tarry stools, etc.  My toes definitely have Terry’s nails, except for my big toes.  I read in a peer-reviewed study of COVID-19 diagnoses in India that Terry’s nails on the toes only was reported in a large portion of those affected.

               On my left hand, my pinky finger exhibits the beginning of Terry’s nails.  While the lunula is present, the nail plate itself is pale except for a thin red line at the distal edge.  Pale nails can also be the result of iron-deficiency as well as diabetes.  My medication causes me to be prone to both of those issues as it decreases iron absorption and causes my body to not properly metabolize glucose.  Per my last blood panel, my blood glucose was 117 (hypoglycemia).  I think 125 is where it begins to evolve into full-blown diabetes. 

               Another key point from anecdotal evidence as well as reading statements from doctors, is that Terry’s nails typically show after other noticeable symptoms.  Basically, you would know you’re sick long before your nails turn white.  My ex-girlfriend’s mother is dying of liver cancer, for example.  She was diagnosed over a year ago and given approximately five years to live.  Her nails only recently turned after the cancer spread as she was undergoing chemo treatments.  Another peer-reviewed study I read stated that it is unusual for one hand to exhibit leukonychia (whitening of the nails) while the other hand is normal.  This has only been documented one time, per the article, where an individual had apparent leukonychia on the left hand while the nails on the right hand were fine.  All blood panels revealed normal levels.  So, the nails on my left-hand turning pale is an anomaly.

               The bottom line is: why don’t I just go to the doctor?  Basically, I’m afraid.  I want answers, but the thought of being hooked up to machines, going through scans, drawing blood, is too much for my anxiety to handle.  As I come from an older family, I witnessed my grandparents and great-aunts and great-uncles die while I was young.  I associate doctors and hospitals with death, causing me to experience “white coat syndrome” even when I go in for a routine physical.  I experience a panic attack which elevates my heart rate and blood pressure during the screening, and this causes the doctors to grow concerned despite the fact that my resting heart rate, when I’m not experiencing panic, is in the low 60’s.  Basically, it creates the illusion of illness when none exists except for psychosomatic manifestations of anxiety.

               In any case, I’ll probably be glued to my email all day awaiting the lab results.  Still, somehow, I’m proud of myself.  I spent an entire week at home and didn’t drink.  Being at home is a trigger.  I would pour a bourbon as soon as I walked in the door and it accompanied me the rest of the evening as I read, studied, wrote, did schoolwork, and cooked.  Returning to work, this urge will become even easier to control.  I won’t have a full day to kill, but rather a few hours after my shift to be alone at my house.  I can utilize that time for school or exercise, meditation, etc. 

               My sleep has definitely improved over the last 15 days.  Except I’m so tired from working out that I go to bed before 7:00PM and wake up around 3:00AM without an alarm.  Tonight is going to be rough.  I have to close.  I not only have to be awake two hours past my bedtime, but at work, then I have a thirty-minute drive home.  Oh well, life doesn’t always give us what we want.  I guess I’ll start my day with twenty minutes of meditation and 45 on the treadmill to get everything going. 

Clinging and aversion

            I never thought I’d learn something from Thich Nhat Hanh.  For me, he’s always represented the touchy-feely neoliberal influence on modern Buddhism.  I don’t get off on his fetishism for the “present moment” as I agree with Gilles Deleuze that we only experience a duration of time, not an absolute present.  Listening to a Buddhist podcast last night, the interviewee expanded upon this notion in relation to physics.  For that discipline, time does not exist and he too phrased the present as a “duration” that could be broken down into multiple parts, each smaller than the last.  In any case, I was proven wrong while reading The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching for class.

 

            In the chapter discussing the twelve links of interdependent co-arising (dependent origination), something stuck with me.  The seventh link is feeling, which Hanh describes as “grasping and rejecting in the cycle of the deluded mind, and freedom in the cycle of the true mind.”  I thought about this in the context of my drinking.  I’m either grasping for the next drink, or attempting to reject that lifestyle altogether.  There is no balance, just a dichotomy of extreme polar opposites.  As with the quote, it is a cycle.  I need to reach the point where I achieve freedom and neither grasp nor reject.

 

            That’s my criticism of these twelve-step programs, their basis extends from both grasping and rejecting.  They grasp at a clean, sober lifestyle while constantly and continuously rejecting intoxication.  In a sense, they are never free from the cycle; they never attain true freedom from their addiction.  My roommate, on the other hand, drank a handle of cheap vodka a night for years.  One day, he decided to quit and has been sober for almost two years.  For him, no grasping or rejecting exists.  He never thinks about alcohol, is never tempted when around others imbibing in beverages, and has no clinging nostalgia for his past habit.  Unlike the addiction survivor stories I’ve read or watched online, he is truly free.  And I don’t think this is attainable through the constant rumination over past habits, former lifestyles, embarrassing moments, humiliations, and rock bottoms.

 

            For me, achieving this notion of true freedom means accepting my past identity as a partier, a drunk, an alcoholic, a drinker while not allowing that history to define me.  I shouldn’t shy away from it, as it was a large part of my life.  But I cannot be fixated on that being the sole factor that encompasses my very being.  I can’t relish in the identity of being an addict.  At some point you have to move past it and let it go.  You must evolve and progress or remain stagnant, complacent, and perish.  Many issues with me extend from being stuck in the past, regurgitating my failures, hardships, and losses as if they were happening in this very moment.  And doing so, I feel the same way I felt in those situations years ago.  This is something I need to work on because this mindset (feeling—the seventh link) not only affects my outlook on life, but how I will handle this new task of maintaining sobriety.

 

            I can no longer drink to cope with negative mental states.  I have to address them, accept them, and let them go.  Just like the alcohol.  All it has ever done is alleviate the symptoms while leaving the underlying conditions in place, only to resurface the next day.  A lot of what I learn from Buddhism is what I’m doing wrong and need to correct.  For the Buddha, even when we are cognizant of our wrong view, that in and of itself expresses “Right View.”  When we are aware of coming up short, we then recognize the right path to follow.  That’s why, he said “Right View comes first.”

 

            And with that, I celebrate a full two weeks.  Tomorrow will mark half a month…

Day 13

“What laughter is there, what joy,

When all is perpetually ablaze?

Enfolded in darkness,

Do you not seek a lamp?”

—The Buddha, The Dhammapada

 

Day 13.  I’m sore from working out.  I took yesterday off as a rest day, and with the way my body feels, I decided to take today off as well.  Rest is just as important as effort.  The cravings are there during this lull, though not as intense as in the beginning.  I woke up at 2:30 this morning and spent around five hours on schoolwork, meditated for twenty minutes, cleaned my house, and have been doing a whole lot of nothing ever since. 

 

            I decided not to attend Recovery Dharma the other day.  After researching it, and thinking on it, I felt it wasn’t right for me.  I don’t want to go to meetings the rest of my life.  In a sense, this would be allowing alcohol to continue to consume my identity.  I would never be free from it.  A clinging to the addiction exists within these groups.  In Zen, there is the concept of Buddha nature.  That is, we already have within us all the tools for enlightenment and the achievement of Nirvana.  It’s an inherent part of our very being, we just have to awaken.  So too is sobriety for me.  Just as I had everything in me to drink, so do I wield that part in myself that doesn’t need alcohol, that doesn’t need intoxication.  I have the capacity to independently determine to see this thing through.

 

            Tomorrow will be two weeks.  Hopefully I will learn the results of my blood test soon.  I took an at-home urine test, and everything was within normal parameters.  In the meantime, I’m devoting ample time to meditation.  This time it hasn’t been zazen.  I’ve been practicing close-eyed mindfulness techniques where I count each exhalation of breath backward from ten.  Tonight, I’m going to experiment with analytical meditation and focus on the why of drinking.  How did it all start?  Why did I continue?  What has it done for me?  Let’s get to the bottom of this.     

           

Day 12

            Day twelve.  That’s almost two weeks where before I couldn’t even go a single day without a drink.  Most people don’t have this issue, but for me, this is an impressive feat.  I’m proud of myself.  The thing I’ve found most useful in this endeavor is to keep busy, physically and mentally.  Whether it’s exercise, pickling vegetables, doing homework, reading a book, watching YouTube videos, meditating, cleaning, listening to music or podcasts, or whatever…it’s good to remember that idle hands are the Devil’s plaything.  As long as some sort of stimulation exists, it drowns the urge to simply drive ten minutes down the road and pick up a bottle.

 

            At this point, what is essentially happening is a retraining of the brain.  Every habitual reaction associated with alcohol must be broken and reframed.  When I cook, for example, I usually do so with a bourbon.  Now, when I cook, I substitute a glass of kombucha to fill this void.  It’s replacement therapy.  This can be detrimental if used improperly.  Some people, for example, replace their addictions with more unhealthy addictions, such as binge-eating.  For me, I allow myself certain healthy “treats.”  And some…eh…not so healthy.  Where I’m used to drinking while I read, write, and do schoolwork, I replace this with an energy drink in the early afternoon.  I fulfill the urge to drink something without consuming alcohol.  Moreover, this habitual urge to constantly have a drink in hand I’ve managed to trick my mind by consuming lemon water.  Sure, the craving for alcohol is not met, but that oral fixation of needing to consume some beverage is achieved.

 

            The not so healthy habit that has increased is my vaping and use of nicotine pouches.  A point to be made is that you cannot drop multiple bad habits at once.  It’s too much.  Focus on one and get it under control before you move onto the next.  For anecdotal evidence, note that the founders of AA, while they may have become teetotalers the remainder of their lives, died of emphysema from smoking.  Find your worst habit that affects your life and focus on that before expanding to other areas.  An addict will commonly replace one addiction with another.  An alcoholic might become a pothead, a pothead might become an alcoholic.  The key in all this is to focus on one area and address that issue by giving into your addictive personality, in healthy ways.  Such as replacing your drinking time with exercise or meditation.  Get hooked on something good and wholesome…just don’t overdo it.  Instead of going to the bar, go fishing.  You know, find a hobby.

 

            Today, for example, I’m shooting skeet with my work friends who don’t drink.  I don’t associate shooting with alcohol.  So, it will be a good experience to clear my mind in a scenario where drinking has never come into play.  And that’s another good point.  Look for activities that, while being an alcoholic, drinking was never involved.  For me that has always been hunting, shooting, work, driving, shopping, exercise, meditation, hiking, and to a lesser extent fishing.  The latter I would bring alcohol to, but I would catch so many fish it made it hard to keep up with the drinking and I’d often start and finish a trip relatively sober.  The point is, two things need to take place.  First, a retraining of the brain by replacing habits.  And second, the creation of a life in areas, old or new, that do not or never have incorporated your bad habit of choice.

 

            And that’s where I’m at today.  Reframing, retraining, and expanding my options…

Feeling good

Results are motivating.  After being sober for eleven days and devoting my drinking time to exercise, I’m noticing results.  In such a short time, I’ve doubled the weight I’m able to lift.  Imagine the results six months or a year from now if I continue down this path!  The first day, naturally, was horrible.  I woke up the following morning sore and exhausted.  And a little disappointed I could lift a fraction of what I was capable of only two years ago.  But I kept at it, save for two rest days where I solely walked.  Now, sure I feel a little sore at the end of a workout, but it’s nowhere near that first day.  I feel good after a workout.  I feel great the next day.

 

My whole outlook on life, my body, my mind is transforming after a mere two weeks free of the bourbon and tequila.  My resting heart rate has decreased.  I’m losing weight.  I’m motivated to meet my responsibilities instead of procrastinating.  Moreover, exercise fills that hole that alcohol left---that craving to pacify boredom. 

I’ve spent a lot of time watching sobriety videos on Youtube and listening to people’s stories of overcoming addiction.  They’re inspiring.  According to my sober tracker app, so far I’ve saved almost $200, passed 138 drinks, and avoided 15,817 empty calories.  My sleep is better.  I have more energy. 

 

I don’t feel depressed anymore, or lonely.  Even with my roommate working closing shifts and being at the house by myself, I don’t feel the isolation or seclusion.  I’m expanding my circles into things I’m interested in.  Should I give Zen another try?  Have my doubts subsided and been able to reframe what this tradition is in my mind?  Relying on Buddhist concepts is what has helped me so far on this journey.  Could I get involved and take jukai this year?  Participate in Ango and Rohatsu?  What’s holding me back?

 

I feel, not so much optimistic, but rather hopeful---a sense that there is something more out there for me.  If only I reach out and grasp the opportunities as they present themselves.  This notion struck me when I opened my school email to a message informing me that my student loans were approved for the fall and spring semester.  I was stressed about how I would afford that if the loans were denied.  I’ve come too far to give up now.  Again, results are motivating---good grades, financial aid, progress.

 

Instead of sitting here drinking, ruminating over everything my life is not, I can look at what my life could or should be.  Like I’ve always preached.  What changes can I make to not feel the way I was feeling?  What actions do I need to take?  Why feel bad while leaving everything in place, stagnant, and complacent?  Why not apply the same challenge to other aspects of my life as I applied to my career by returning to college?

 

Sounds familiar doesn’t it?  This is the same snake oil I peddled back in August when I quit drinking for two months.  Maybe, if I dig in deep, I can maintain this mindset and stay sober.  I like this frame of thought.  I could have been doing this the whole time but I gave into my cravings and returned to the bottle.  I think back on nearly a year I could have explored this aspect of myself without drinking.  In a sense, I feel like this past year was a waste.  But then again, I can’t ruminate on the past and just let it serve as a lesson and press forward.  And to move ahead, I need to take one day at a time.  Reaffirm the commitments I’ve made for myself, and keep at it.  Tomorrow is day twelve...

New things

               Tomorrow I’m going to try something new.  I’m going to a meeting.  Not AA, but Recovery Dharma.  And not in person, but on Zoom.  I’m serious about quitting this time.  I’m tired of the circle, of always coming back around to drinking thinking it will somehow be different…this time.  It’s like a bad relationship that is better off to end and move on than try to work it out.

               At least this program is Buddhist-centered and doesn’t require me to submit to a higher power or label myself negatively as an “alcoholic.”  They don’t require you to feel helpless and find comfort in the other in an almost cult-like manner.  Rather, they empower you with the tools to do the work on your own.  Because only you can do that for yourself.  Sure, you may need a little help along the way, and that’s what they are there for---to assist you on your path.

               This is something I need to do for myself.  I’ve read the horror stories of recovering addicts and my life is nowhere near as wild and crazy as theirs.  I drink because I’m bored.  I drink at home.  My habit does not affect my relationships, family, job, school, or anyone or anything besides myself.  And that’s what concerns me.  I’m really worried I have the symptoms of the early stages of cirrhosis.  It’s not far-fetched.  Six drinks a day for a decade is all it takes.  And I’m well beyond both of those.  One in four heavy drinkers develop cirrhosis.  And I’m at the right age.  I’m not twenty anymore.

               I’m off work for six days and I’m trying to keep myself busy.  Even with all this going on, I still crave a drink to pass the time.  I’m not physically addicted to alcohol, but there is definitely a psychological dependency.  When I get an urge, I go for a run.  I’m working-out around one hour each day.  I’m eating healthy, meditating, reading, and writing.  I took an at-home blood test that checks my liver function so that I can mail it off to a lab and load the results on my computer.  Given the results of that test, I’ll then decide if I need to seek immediate medical attention or if these supposed symptoms are the result of something else---a leftover from COVID, medicine-induced diabetes, iron-deficiency, etc.  At this point, it’s the uncertainty of it all that’s creating unbearable anxiety.

               This anxiety is even more intense due to my classes.  This semester I have a class on social problems (apparently drinking is one of them), community health (yeah, the health effects of drinking are mentioned there too), and health and wellness.  Guess what they talk about in that last one?  Yeah…drinking.  So, I’m just bombarded by all the negative consequences of alcohol on a daily basis on top of my current struggle and all my hopefully hypochondriacal paranoia.  I like to be right.  But for once, I hope I’m wrong.

Day TEn

            Day ten.  I’m committed to making this sobriety thing work…this time.  At 37, I’m too old to be an alcoholic when the life expectancy of a heavy drinker is only another ten years.  I noticed I still own a copy of Noah Levine’s Refuge Recovery which is a Buddhist alternative to AA’s twelve steps, entirely devoid of submitting to a higher power.  Each day I have to wake up and recommit to this process, and a program like Levine’s “Recovery Dharma” might just be a tool I need to utilize.  Something that reaffirms the path. 

 

            Drinking makes me regret my actions and feel embarrassed.  It makes me depressed and anxious.  I’m tired of having panic attacks, of not feeling right in the morning until I have a drink that afternoon, of thinking about that drink the entire day, of shooting home a swallow of tequila first thing on my day off to curb the hangover pangs after an overly indulgent night.  I’m done with depending on alcohol for creativity, focus, entertainment, humor, and to cure boredom.  I no longer feel the freedom I once felt in intoxication, of surrendering myself to Dionysus, of numbing the pain and relishing in brief pleasure.  What am I running from?  What can I not face?  What do I want out of life?  Who do I want to be?  Or even more…who am I?  What am I?  What is this?

 

            I’ll never find the answers to those questions in the bottom of a bottle…

Day Four

            I know this lesson all too well, though it seems I’ve never learned it.  Alcohol is not good for me.  I use it to pass the boredom, a substitute for connection and to feel less alone.  But after a night of hazy memory a few weeks ago followed by another last week of being so hungover I needed a couple shots to feel “right” enough to start the day, I knew I desperately had to make a change.  My life seems to operate in circles.  I always hit this point, make lifestyle changes, only for it all to circle back around to where I was at before thinking I can control it this time.  How long will this new kick last, I wonder?

 

            Day four.  The first day was the worst.  I either sleep too much or too little.  I’m constantly tired.  And cold for some reason.  My heart rate is elevated.  But I’m starting to feel better.  Physically, at least.  I’m at that stage in withdrawal where I’m overwhelmingly depressed as my mind focuses on negative thoughts about myself, where I’m at in life, where I’m going, as well as past failures in jobs, friendships, relationships, etc.  Nothing I haven’t been through before, but today has just been terrible mentally.            

 

            My panic attacks are less frequent at least.  While these had gone away, drinking brings them back.  A scientific reason exists for this.  The stress hormone cortisol increases the day after drinking and whatever the chemical is that regulates stress is diminished.  For those of us who are naturally shy and anxious, this “hangxiety” manifests in severe symptoms such as panic features.  I was at a point where I had a panic attack simply walking into work.  Now, after just four days, I’m more confident and these beasts are less intense.

 

            For four days I’ve exercised.  A lot.  Somewhere around 155 minutes of cardio and weight training.  I’m caught up on my schoolwork.  My house is not cluttered with dirty dishes piled up in the sink and stains on the stove.  I’m more productive at work.  Drinking makes me a lazy sack of shit.  I also don’t feel exhausted or shaky, craving the next drink when I get home.  The main issue with me and drinking is that I never have a problem turning down the first one.  It’s the second, third, and tenth I can’t say no to.  Whatever I have access to, I will consume until I fall asleep.  This is why, in the past, I purchased only mini-bottles so I could limit myself as well as keep track of how much I was consuming.

 

            I’m actually considering seeking professional help this time.  Not AA, because I don’t want to accept a higher power.  But the Buddhist version of this—Recovery Dharma.  That way I have a support basis.  My roommate refers to drinking as stealing happiness from the next day.  And that’s all it’s doing for me.  I feel good in the moment, but the consequences the following day are terrible and leave me craving that next drink solely to feel “right” or “normal” again.

 

            I’ve returned to meditation, which helps.  My roommate says I’m not an alcoholic and that I only typically drink casually in the evenings to relax after work.  But it’s progressing to beyond that point.  I shouldn’t feel “off” simply because I haven’t had a drink.  I shouldn’t feel like shit just one day off the sauce.  I shouldn’t drink on my cookouts to the point I’m sick the next morning.  I have shit to do.  Responsibilities.  I have to make a conscious decision to establish priorities.  I need to focus on college, and to do so, I need my full mental capacity.  And to achieve my max potential, I need to be healthy, both physically and mentally.  That means meditation, exercise, a healthy diet, and no alcohol.

on confabulation and brain injury

            My confabulations follow a common pattern and express common themes whenever I experience them.  First, they extend from a night of heavy drinking where lapses in memory exist followed by a trigger such as stress.  During these episodes, my mind jumbles the data as it formulates memories, creating false memories of events. 

 

For example, say my boss and I are discussing a restaurant downtown he recently ate at with his significant other.  I mention that my last girlfriend and I ate there once, and it was really good.  I notice my boss is on his phone during the conversation.  By the time this event gets tucked away into memory, it connects the discussion of an ex-girlfriend with the phone my boss was scrolling on, creating a false memory of: I called my ex-girlfriend.  Being that I haven’t seen or talked to this person in two years and the fact they clearly want nothing to do with me, the possibility of contacting them creates a panic over the thought of such an embarrassing and pathetic occurrence.  Essentially, these false memories (which are always worst-case-scenario events) create panic attacks and anxiety spells where I’m thinking I said or did something stupid and humiliating.

 

Two Sundays ago, I was angry at my boss, rambling on heatedly to anyone and everyone I came in contact with.  This was my trigger.  As I worked, intrusive thoughts began to fill my mind of when I got drunk that Wednesday.  My mind created memories of posting nonsense and videos to social media.  When I questioned people who were present if this happened, they denied it.  That was when I realized I was experiencing confabulations.  Because here’s the thing: when you’ve been drinking, the lapses in your memory can never be suddenly retrieved.  They don’t exist.  Your brain was in a state where it was unable to formulate memory, so what it does instead is connect the pieces and intertwine them to make sense of the fragments.  Just the same way we see shapes, animals, and people when staring into the clouds, our mind naturally searches for meaning through the creation of symbols and connections.

 

            The common theme during these episodes is that I believe I contacted someone from my past who I have mixed feelings about or that I contacted someone at work which would affect how I am perceived by my coworkers.  Essentially these reflect my sense of self, reputation, and social standing.  These occur because my mind remembers talking about certain people from past and present, but it doesn’t recall the context.  In these lapses my brain creates fictional scenarios of how and why they were brought into conversation and where these discussions led.  One thing I am prone to do when drunk is, as I don’t have social media, have someone search on their account for people in my past.  Not trying to be a stalker, but sometimes I’m curious as to how these people are doing, what their lives are like, etc.  Sometimes I do this with old friends I’m no longer in contact with only to discover they’ve died, gotten married/divorced, their family members have passed, etc.  It’s essentially an urge to stay connected to these people despite time, distance, and the course of our lives diverging and placing us on separate paths.

 

This quirk began from a friend who, when we were drinking, would search my ex-girlfriend’s accounts to humiliate me with the comments they’ve posted about our relationship or explain how I never meant anything to them because, though they discuss all their other romantic partners, they’ve never once mentioned me positively or negatively.  And I remember having a buddy scroll through a few people’s feeds to appease my curiosity.  My mind then created worst-case-scenarios of contacting these people.

 

I don’t have their numbers, but I realized I had their emails still saved.  My mind then created “memories” of having emailed them, so I checked my sent messages only to discover it was empty.  You would think that would suffice, but it does not.  My mind then creates additional memories to explain the absence of messages—I deleted them thinking, in my alcohol-soaked mind, this would unsend them.  Extremely detailed “memories” emerge as to precisely who I contacted and what the context the messages entailed.  This causes me to have panic attacks.  The difference between confabulations and delusions is that with the former, falsification through empirical evidence will make this false memory go away.  With a delusion, the individual continues to experience the false perception of reality despite evidence to the contrary.  Moreover, a delusion involves a false concept of the present or future, a confabulation involves a false memory of the past. 

 

I go to extremely insane lengths to falsify my confabulations.  They are persistent and overwhelming even when I believe them to be false.  My mind obsesses over them and creates anxiety until I can prove them wrong.  How I falsified the email confabulation is that I discovered that the “ALL MAIL” feature seemed to even list deleted messages.  So, I emailed my school account, deleted the message, then searched the “ALL MAIL” section and sure enough, there was my deleted email.  I then scrolled back to Wednesday and to my delight, no sent emails existed.  Immediately, these intrusive thoughts vanished, and I felt relaxed, though these episodes leave me mentally and physically drained.  At that point, it is even difficult to recall the details of those “memories” once they have been falsified.

 

In my Buddhist Studies Class, I wrote about how these confabulations referenced the teachings in the chapter that week.  A classmate who works in the medical field responded that it was “impressive” the self-awareness I have of these mental states and my ability to not only address them but articulate my needs to others.  For example, for over a week I asked a few people really strange questions.  I understand I come across as crazy, but I need my false memories to be negated so my mind stops obsessing over them.  They become so overwhelming I can’t focus and often will stare off into the distance while someone is talking to me.  I can’t disconnect from what’s going on in my mind.  Also, I understand these are most likely false memories, but I need validation from others that these are not true.

 

There is a bit of truth in all this madness.  In the past, I have contacted old girlfriends, coworkers, etc. during a night of heavy drinking.  So, an inherent anxiety persists when I’ve had a bit too much.  This is why I rarely, if ever, delete texts, emails, or calls so the “hangxiety” the following morning doesn’t manifest in confabulations.  Most of the time, these episodes are mild.  One occurred after a party with my ex.  I remembered her hitting a delta-8 pen and, knowing that I would have to take a drug test at my new job, I grew anxious thinking I too hit the vape.  To falsify this thought, I went so far as to purchase an at-home drug testing kit.  All in all, this episode lasted less than 24 hours.  The latest episode lasted two weeks. 

 

I have not had an experience this bad since 2019.  What triggered that was that I worked every day for 3.5 months straight.  Multiple stress factors existed.  I didn’t have an assistant to make out orders, so I had to work every day, plus we had lost a few employees and were short-staffed.  In addition, I was sent to help out another store for a big sale which consisted of driving an hour to my store to make an order, an hour back, then working at this other store for ten hours multiple days that week while being criticized for not staying the full 13 hours the sale lasted each day.  I was stressed to the max.  Then you factor in workplace drama, meetings with the company director who screamed at us and told us we were all “replaceable.”  I grew paranoid and felt my job was on the line each day and had to constantly be better so as to not be replaced.  When I discussed my feelings about upper management to my employees, they spread the rumors to their family members who worked at other stores, who mentioned this to their bosses, and up the chain it went until I was confronted by my criticisms.  I tried to quit.  I found another job and put my two-weeks notice in.  They gave me more money to stay, though I never confirmed or denied this when asked by my employees.  They were not stupid.  My employee’s brother-in-law applied for the same company in order to get a raise.  This caused me to be chewed out by my immediate supervisors and threatened with “that’s the last raise you’ll ever get!”  Yeah, just an all-around unhealthy environment.

 

I experienced confabulations for two months.  My manager grew upset with me because I was meeting with a psychologist a few times a week to address this issue and needed to take time off work, leave early, or come in late.  I did not feel comfortable discussing my issues, so I simply described them as “I’m having some health problems.”  To which he replied, “don’t you think you need to reschedule your doctor’s appointments?  Who’s going to cut pork today?”  And I rescheduled a lot of appointments, which really didn’t matter.  My doctor just said I worked in a stressful environment and no amount of medication would change that. 

 

I simply stopped talking to anyone at work for weeks straight, afraid that anything I said would come back to haunt me.  I responded to questions, quickly and to the point.  That’s it.  Finally, one day I was working, and it was like a burden had lifted off my back.  Suddenly all the confabulations vanished, and I began laughing and joking with people again.  I remember an employee saying, “we were worried you didn’t like us anymore.”  I explained it as “sorry, I had a health issue I thought was over but it resurfaced.  I’m back to normal now.”

 

There’s nothing that can be done when these episodes occur.  They pass on their own.  It’s just something that arises from time to time as a result of a traumatic brain injury.  The can, however, be prevented.  I can’t drink heavily, and I need to limit the amount of stress in my environment.  I’m not sensitive to stress, but an extreme situation can become a trigger.  At no point am I a danger to myself or others, though the social stigma of explaining this quirk to others comes at a cost.  I become perceived as crazy, unstable, scary, or dangerous.  Yet at the same time, I need to falsify these “memories” through others.  So, it’s a double-bind where I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

 

For years I never talked about my head injury aside from mentioning I had experienced one.  I’ve become more open about it recently.  Mental health should come with no less stigma than someone having a physical ailment, be it a cold or cancer.  I’m hesitant to discuss the issue to most people, but sometimes it does help to explain it to others.  This may cause them to worry, but by being open it can define the issue and not leave them wondering why I’m acting weird, asking strange questions, or being quiet.  When you pin-point the issue, it eliminates the fear of the unknown. 

 

But now that this is over with, I’ve got a lot of housework, classwork, and chores to catch up on.  Thanks for diving into the complexities of a brain damaged mind…

Mental Health

In the old days of the industrial age, we locked up the crazies in madhouses, removed half their brain, wrapped them in a straight jacket, and hid them away from civilized society.  Now, everyone is mad.  Just they are so drugged up into behaving according to social and cultural norms, devoid of feeling, passion, and hope that the drugs prevent them from sticking out, of appearing abnormal.  The ancient cultures had a different approach to mental illness.  They considered them “touched by God.”  Whereas modern society detests mental illnesses as a social pariah, mechanical societies with their interconnectedness and homogeneous nature incorporated them into the communal spectrum. Even the crazies had their place.  Now, within our organic social structure, we are so individualistic we have no place for the “vermin”: the schizo, the man with visions, the depressive, the anxious or melancholic soul.  Once they were the great creators of art, invention, catalysts for the evolution of society itself, because they were capable of seeing through the veil of the status quo.  But no more…

 

I don’t know where I fit into all of that.  I am “touched by God” but I don’t like his touch.  I think of the Renaissance painting of the man reaching out to touch the divine and I abhor it.  If you read the Old Testament, every one of God’s gifts is likewise a curse.  Job was favored because he was faithful and devout, so he was punished.  Lucifer was cast out of Heaven for his gift.  Moses never stepped foot in the Promised Land.  God literally placed a tree of forbidden fruit (the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil) to tempt Adam and Eve and he condemned them for their “sin” by their giving into the very temptation he created for them.  The serpent was never the tempter in this scenario.  God wanted an excuse to condemn man to toil, heartache, despair, loss, violence, and death.  The same goes with his “touch.”  I have never been more creative or inventive with writing until I was in the midst of a psychotic episode where I lost touch with reality.  Then I deleted everything because I grew paranoid.  God gives gifts with a curse.  Think of every vice.  Drunkenness comes with a hangover.  Sex comes with pregnancy or STD’s.  Eating spicy food upsets your stomach.  Even to give birth to a child is the same as condemning your child to death.

 

I take my pills dutifully—.05 in the morning, 2 milligrams at night.  I gained 85 pounds the first year.  I have to literally starve myself to maintain a healthy weight.  Oh, and I might be able to grow boobs and lactate!  Can’t wait to put that on my dating profile!  I also don’t experience pleasure like I once did.  The only time I can experience deep emotion or bliss is when I’m drinking because the dopamine increase of the alcohol counters the dopamine-antagonist of my drugs.  Most times, I feel like a zombie.  I wish I could go back and just be crazy and never have taken these stupid pills I was coerced into taking.  “If you don’t take your meds, you’ll have to stay here longer,” they told me in the hospital.  In robes that never fit. Being woken up every hour on the hour at night to check if I was asleep or had a bowel movement, to take my blood at 3:00AM, just driven to extremes of madness from sleep deprivation.  Terrible food and the orders always wrong.  I would just as soon die than go into a Psych Ward again.  They do not exist to help people; they exist to exacerbate your symptoms to justify their existence and the drugs they con on the public.  They are a means of subjugation, of rendering you less than human, not even the bolt-gun of the slaughterhouse achieves that level of depersonalization with an innocent animal. 

 

And here I am, eight years out of the madhouse where I celebrated my 29^th birthday with an MRI scan, drugged up to the neck, and I’m still experiencing issues.  Especially recently.  Drugs don’t cure, they treat symptoms.  If we ever could find a cure, it would be subverted to perpetuate the pharmaceutical industry’s bottom line.  Want to know how much therapy costs after insurance?  Almost $200 a week.  That’s $800 a month.  You’ve got to have a good paying job to keep up with therapy.  But that too is a con.  They want you to keep coming back.  That keeps them in a job.  So long as you are dependent, like the working class on their employer, the welfare recipient on the government, they keep you in check, in line, complacent and they are ready to accept their reimbursement in the form of capital, votes, or labor.  Everything, even mental health, is an extension of our economic system.  It’s all about money.  The more you can pay, the better you are treated.  And no one cares about the working class.  The whole purpose of the mental health institution is to return workers to work, at any cost.  Can’t get it up or ejaculate with your new meds?  Hell, that’s fine as long as you can put this bolt in a carburetor and tighten the nut.  Your family doesn’t matter.  Do your pills make you experience absolute apathy?  WELL, THAT’S GREAT!  Boy, do we have a job for you at the Ford plant!  Gained fifty pounds from anti-psychotics?  Join this program for $100 a week to learn how to eat healthy and lose weight!  Or, better yet, take these other drugs that have equal or greater side-effects that decrease your appetite.  Look, these Big Pharm CEO’s need new jets and private islands.  Learn to sacrifice for the greater good!

 

With this rant, I think what I’m getting at in my current struggle is that I don’t know where to turn to for help.  If I talk to my doctor, they will up my meds.  That will increase the current plethora of side effects I already experience and turn me into even more of a zombie.  If I refuse to take these meds after explaining my symptoms, they will put me into the psych ward where I will grow even more psychotic than my current state, forcefully feed me even more meds, and…yeah, the same result in the end.  It is better to live free than in a cage, even if that freedom is full of angst, anxiety, fear, depression, and trepidation.  All these delusions, confabulations, and paranoia I will gladly take in favor of one day in the mental health system.  At least crazy I can maintain my autonomy and liberty.  They won’t confine me, place me behind barred windows and talk to me like a child.  God, give me everything you can throw at me with your “touch” and I will bear it so long as I never have to step another foot inside that dehumanizing institution ever again.  I will play dumb, I will play smart, I will lie, deceive, tell my doctors whatever they want to hear.  I want to face this enemy on my own terms, in my own stride, free of constraint.  Give me all you got.  I will overcome it.  I always do.  According to the mental health professionals, I am an “anomaly” and “highly intelligent.”  They never could figure out what was wrong with me.  I know when I’m experiencing a delusion.  I know when I’m experiencing a confabulation.  That doesn’t make them feel any less real, but I know how to counter them.  I can’t go back.  Jail provided a more positive atmosphere.  At least there I had “rights” which they strip away in the Ward.  As the line goes in the film Elephant Man, “I am not an animal!  I am a human being!”     

The last three posts for my buddhism class, studying “The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching” by thich nhat hanh

Post 3: “Right Livelihood”

 

I thought a lot about Hanh’s chapter on Right Livelihood.  What I do for a living has historically been frowned upon, explicitly, in Buddhist doctrine.  Then again, within our modern “organic society” (sociological term), the profession of butcher is broken down to alienate the butcher from the actual act of slaughter, delegating that intimate relationship to some unnamed individual at an industrial processing facility.  I don’t kill the animals I butcher.  But I can tell from the quality of the primal (the whole connected muscles) how they were treated prior to death.  A stressed animal results in the industry term “dark cutter.”  With all the adrenaline and other stress hormones running through their veins, it leaves the meat with a dark purple hue that doesn’t change after the introduction of oxygen.  There is no “bloom” which creates the oxymyoglobin that produces that bright rose coloration.  This is common in industrial farming practices.

 

            As Hanh states, without the demand for meat, there would be no butchers.  So long as we consume meat, we cannot blame the farmer, the truck driver, the meat cutter, or the kill-floor “butcher” for being part of this system.  Everyone who consumes meat literally has blood on their hands.  I’m personally torn about the issue.  I do believe that being vegan is the proper way to live from a philosophical and ethical view, yet at the same time recognize (having lived on a farm) that even farming vegetables and fruit, we kill a lot of living creatures in the process.  Though, this, unlike raising and slaughtering livestock, is done without malicious intent. 

 

            From an evolutionary perspective, we are born with canine teeth.  We require a large amount of protein to sustain our muscles and health.  We are physically adapted to consume meat.  Not consuming meat is, in a sense, an expression of privilege being that in developing nations, this option does not exist.  You either eat meat or stave.  My own “middle way” is that I foremost prefer to eat meat I harvest myself through hunting or fishing.  A respect exists for the animal.  You literally watched it die and were the cause of its demise.  Every part of it you try to utilize and not waste.  Within that framework, a connection exists between you and your food source.  It’s not a package of wrapped meat in a grocery counter that you can complain about being too fatty, too lean, not big enough, too big, or “just don’t look right.”  You pursued that animal, you took its life, and you bear a responsibility for your place in the food chain and to perpetuate your own existence by consuming every possible bit.

 

            Probably a more barbaric “sport” than hunting is fishing.  Everyone thinks of it as a commonplace thing, but it hits me in my Buddhist stomach of “do not cause harm.”  Yesterday I was on the pier in Myrtle Beach fishing.  Parents took their kids out to fish, stringing up shrimp, mullet, squid, etc. onto their hooks.  When you think that every bit of that bait was once a living creature that was killed to catch other living creatures to kill and eat, it puts things in perspective.  For my part, my buddy caught a small croaker.  Wanting to catch a bluefish, I killed the croaker by severing its brainstem with a knife and chopping it into cut bait (the only humane way to kill fish, amphibians, and reptiles is though the brain, not beheading).  What once was simply a part of the fishing experience, I though about it from a Buddhist perspective.  This fish did not merely exist to be bait for a supper of Thai bluefish balls dipped in hot chili sauce, it was a living creature.  And I took its life as if its sole purpose in existence what to serve my immediate ends.  And I didn’t even catch a bluefish.  Nothing bit my line.  So, in the end, it died in vain.

 

            I guess where I’m going with this is that, for those of us who consume meat, think about the previous chapter on mindfulness.  When you see that rose-bloomed pack of ribeye in the meat counter, think of everything that went into it being there.  Not just the meat cutters or the farmers, but the cow that had to be born, raised, fed, nurtured, then slaughtered.  Don’t pick up the pack then throw it back into the counter because it has too much fat for your tastes.  It died the best way it could and gave all it could give.  Show the same respect of a hunter…or even a butcher.  Think about how your next breath is dependent on that animal’s last.  And know, that unlike you or any deer I’ve ever shot, that cow lived its life never knowing the slightest bit of freedom, contentment, or happiness.  It was born for your red-wine reduction, side salad, baked potato, and that cliche photo on Instagram.  

And with that rant, I wonder—is my profession not “right livelihood?”  When, only through it, do I recognize the consequences of my consumption?

 

Post 2: “Mindfulness”

Right Mindfulness: “grant to us the serenity of mind to accept that which cannot be changed, courage to change that which can be changed, and wisdom to know the one from the other.”

 

            Right Mindfulness is an important part of the Eightfold Path.  But it does not come without its caveats.  Its positive points can be illustrated in the problematic use of social media and smart phones.  When I visit my parents, for example, my father is always on his iPad or phone—texting, calling, liking, posting.  Little conversation exists.  After a short time, I grow frustrated and tell him “I’ve got [such-and-such obligation] back home” to attend to.  “Oh!  You’re leaving so soon!?” my father laments.  And I’m just sitting there thinking: you didn’t even notice I’ve been here for the last hour, why would I stay any longer?  

 

            Had my father been mindful and engaged in conversation or even paid attention to anything I said, I might have been inclined to stay longer.  But being given secondary status to screens and social media, little difference exists between being with my parents and being alone at my house.  At least at my house I have all my stuff to interact with.

 

            An annoying aspect of my last girlfriend was that her pocket always “dinged” or “beeped” from near-constant social media messages.  But to her credit, whenever we were together, she rarely checked her phone.  She practiced mindfulness without knowing she was doing so.  When we were together, our focus was on each other.  Everything else was a mere distraction and secondary…something to do after the date.  That’s the positive aspect of right mindfulness, of being in the moment, of giving the person or action your full attention, of completely absorbing yourself into, as Gilles Deleuze writes, the duration of time.  

 

            Right mindfulness is helpful when performing routine, repetitive, and boring tasks that must be done.  Hanh mentions washing the dishes.  If you focus on the task at hand with the right mindfulness and not daydreaming of being elsewhere, you can actually enjoy a mundane task when your mind would otherwise scream out for relief.  For example, I worked for a company where I thought everything was so dumbed-down, repetitive, and boring that I sought out self-help to get me through the day.  Literally, we had to follow a “sequence of events” that detailed what we should be doing during each hour of the day, plus endless checklists, other paperwork, etc.  I bought Hanh’s book Work.  And I really did grow through focusing on the moment and the breath, to not only accept, but enjoy the workday.  

 

            Here’s where my caveat comes in.  Right mindfulness can lead us to accept and enjoy things that we could otherwise change and not have to resort to accepting.  We could actually be happy instead of altering our minds to redefine our definition of happiness.  For example, I was once in a toxic relationship.  My then girlfriend suddenly stopped taking her psych medication and all the bi-polar, depression, and borderline personality stuff came to the forefront.  I was young, and instead of just leaving this situation, I focused on myself thinking that I had somehow changed which caused her to alter her perception of and care for me.  I thought I was the problem, so I became “mindful.”  I cleaned the house more, fixed supper more, quit smoking, quit drinking, gave her more of my money, brought her flowers, took her out, and focused on her every wish (demand) and need.  She hated me even more, cheating, verbally abusing and gaslighting me.  She would wake up in the morning and slam the dryer, the cabinets, scream profanity, and slam the front door because even though I was still asleep in bed, she was already mad at me for something I hadn’t even done yet.

 

            The moral being, had I focused solely on Right Mindfulness, I would have focused on the moment and how I could assimilate myself to my surroundings—the appeasement, the servile and unshared housework and cooking, the cheating, the verbal abuse, etc.  But another aspect of Right Mindfulness exists outside of this.  You have to be mindful of your own feelings, not just how well you can focus on washing a dish or subordinating your desires to external realities.  This is why I incorporated the “Serenity Prayer.”  Within Right Mindfulness, we need to recognize what we can change…and pursue that option.  When taken at face value, Buddhism can point to an almost nihilistic resignation of desire, pleasure, hope, aspiration, and dream.  Again, with my previous post, is there a void in emptiness, or is it full?  It’s, as Hanh points out, a matter of perception.  

 

            I guess my point is that we need to be mindful, but we cannot ignore our own internal states that create the dissatisfaction we are supposed to use mindfulness to eliminate.  Maybe instead of being mindful while doing the dishes, mindfully dream a little bit while washing them.  Envision the job that affords you the financial freedom to purchase a dishwasher.  Change your externalities instead of simply accepting them.  But for everything you can’t change, mindfulness can and will help you accept them.

 

Post 1:

I enjoyed Hanh’s historical analysis of the sutras in the early parts of this book.  “For four hundred years during and after the Buddha’s lifetime, his teachings were transmitted orally.”  A lot can be misconstrued in oral transmission.  Those of us who played the “Chinese whispers” game as children can well attest to this.  At times, people misunderstood or misinterpreted the Buddha’s intent before his words were even stricken to paper.  By the time Buddha’s words were written down in Pali, some eighteen or twenty schools of Buddhism already existed---pointing to controversy, conflict, and critique.  

We have more historical evidence for the existence of Jesus than the existence of the Buddha, though few scholars dispute the latter’s existence.  And even with the former and all the historical grounding, a plethora of speculations, revisions, and conspiracy theories center around the life of Christ.  Some have theorized that he never physically existed and was simply a fiction created to reinforce the power of the Roman empire by neutralizing dissent and uniting the populace beneath a single, conforming, and submissive religion.  “Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” being a prime example behind this theory.  Another theory positions Jesus as a zealot whose ultimate goal was to topple Rome’s presence in the Levant.  His line, “I come not to bring peace, but a sword” supposedly illustrates this sentiment.  Then, of course, there’s the bloodline theory that suggests Jesus had a child with Mary Magdelin and birthed the Merovingian dynasty (the book Da Vinci Code was just a cheap knockoff of Holy Blood, Holy Grail).  Then there were all the Gnostic gospels, which the Youtube channel Religion for Breakfast describes as “Christian fanfiction.”  

I am most familiar with the history of Christianity as I am the product of private, fundamentalist Christian schooling.  In fact, when studying the New Testament in Bible class and learning about all the different mistranslations in the canon, I became an atheist.  So, it was interesting to realize such controversies exist in Buddhism as well.  Perhaps even more so given the lack of written records from, or shortly after, the Buddha’s lifetime.  Hanh makes an argument for comparing the translations---Tibetan, Pali, Sanskrit, and Chinese---to develop a better understanding of what is historical and what were later revisions from within the competing schools.  He asks us to think of these schools as threads weaved within the whole garment.  In other words, they all point to the truth like a finger pointing to the moon.

Hanh invites us, like an archeologist who invites sculptors to repair a broken statue, to “recognize” and “repair the damage” in the mistranslations, misinterpretations, etc., “if we have an overall view of the teachings of the Buddha.”  This, of course, ignores the poststructuralist critique of this method.  Given that we bring our own preconceptions, ideologies, viewpoints, and cultural understandings to historical material, how do we know we are not likewise reinterpreting and misunderstanding the Buddha’s intent?  We only grasp these sutras through a rebranding of Buddhism that originated in Sri Lanka in response to colonialization by Western nations.  This “Buddhist Modernism” incorporated values from the Enlightenment, Romanticism, and other Western philosophical developments to “reform” the tradition to compete with Christian missionaries.

The trouble in all of this is that Hanh’s method is all we really have to work with.  While we may be introducing our own modern conceptions that have been skewed through Modernist reforms, what else do we have to go on beyond an examination of “original intent” by a comparison of the sutras?  Perhaps we will never truly know the Buddha’s intended truth.  But how more simplistic is “I teach only suffering and the cessation of suffering?”  (You stay out of this, Nagarjuna).  Plus, the four noble truths and eightfold path are universally recognized in each tradition.  At least we have a basis to work from.  Everything else, such as whether all phenomena are empty and whether emptiness is full or simply a void…yeah, that’s all speculative as to what the Buddha truly intended.  But it’s still fun to think about and debate.  Maybe it’s not so much the intent that matters, but the purpose, function, and utility of the teachings in their evolution to address modern needs.  It is not, nor will it ever be, the Buddhism the Buddha taught.  But it has evolved to address the suffering of every culture it was introduced to.  Including ours.

wokeness, Israel, and racism…

“Wokeness operates as a secularized religious dogma, with all the contradictions this implies.  John McWhorter, a black critic of racial wokeness, has enumerated some of them in his recent book, Woke Racism: “You must strive eternally to understand the experience of black people/ You can never understand what it is to be black, and if you think you do, you’re a racist”; “Show interest in multiculturalism/ Do not culturally appropriate.”

—Slavoj Zizek

 

            Within our “wokeness” we are treating the state of Israel, from both the right and left, with a degree of exceptionalism.  Kid gloves.  As if they, a state comprised of individuals who survived the genocide of the Holocaust, can never, themselves, commit genocide.  When in fact, that is exactly what they are doing.  Any criticism leveled against them, as a state, is funneled through the woke mind screaming of anti-semitism.  Themselves unable to differentiate between a semitic people, a religion, and the actions of a nation state.  The state of Israel does NOT represent, as a whole, either distinct groups of semitic people or their religion.  To disagree with the state does not equate to a hatred of the Jews as a religious or cultural group anymore than saying “I hate that McDonalds raised their prices on Big Mac’s.  They no longer have my business” means that I despise fast food workers as a whole.  Rather it is within the ideology and function of the regime of power, the state, where criticism rests.

 

            Are historically disenfranchised groups immune to criticism?  That is what the woke framework of our culture dictates. You will never understand what it means to be [x], if you think you do, you’re a racist!  These groups are seen as beyond reproach.  They are given a pass for whatever actions would be denied to the predominate social group on the basis that they are exceptional, and to reprimand them would bring them even more generationally-derived trauma.  Are there no absolutes!?  If action A is morally wrong, is it only wrong for faction B, or does it likewise apply to faction C and D?

 

            First, here, I am confusing the same points I criticized, so let me clarify.  Israel markets itself as a Jewish state.  But it does not represent Jewish people as a whole.  I don’t aim to misconstrue this point as the fallacy that: the Jewish people have been brutalized, therefore they think they are immune to criticism for perpetuating that same brutality on another populace.  Rather I am arguing that this is the mentality embraced by the Israeli state.  For decades they established an apartheid, sectioning off Palestine in barbed-wire borders and limiting supplies and trade.  They’ve encroached into their settlements and confiscated their land.  And whenever Palestine retaliates, they decry “anti-semitism!”

 

            I’m not condoning the October 7^th attacks.  But they do have historical context.  They are the reactions of an oppressed people.  And can no more be condoned with their violence than the slave revolts of the colonial period that saw women, children, and babies murdered.  Or for that matter, the racial oppression of the original Klan during reconstruction.  They are violent outbursts born of defeat and subjugation by the state.  Again, not condoning any of these rebellious outbreaks, just placing them in historical context.  They are a violent reaction to something.  Whether that something has moral worth, such as the fight for freedom from race-based chattel slavery.  Or something entirely immoral such as my latter example of ex-Confederates striving to maintain a white supremacist hierarchy.  Terrorism, guerrilla warfare, subversive actions—these are the traits of a conquered people.  They have nothing left but to instill a fear that they are still there, still alive, and still fighting.

 

            The latest bill that was passed in congress specifically targets anti-semitism.  But it is clearly a façade to counter the pro-Palestinian protests at college campuses.  To dissuade them with hate-crime charges and the perpetual epithet of “bigot.”  This extends from America’s, both right and left, support for Israel.  They consider it the sole source of democracy within the Middle-East.  But is it?  If it parades itself as a religious state, where does that leave democracy?  Where are the voices of the Christians, the Muslims, the ethnically Arab?  It is a democracy solely for the religious majority, and often times the conservative religious minority.  Some ultraorthadox groups are immune to military conscription while secular-leaning citizens must serve their term to perpetuate the aims of the religious state.

 

            35,000 Palestinians have been killed in this war.  Mostly women and children.  Sure, it can be argued that the military wing of their regime is embedded in the local populace.  But that doesn’t mean you blow up the entire town to get to half a dozen of these fuckers, slaughtering entire families, old men, women, and children, in the process.  That is not justification for blockading and starving a region’s entire populace.  This is genocide.  It is the calculated extermination of an ethnic group.  Even a high-ranking Israeli government official suggested killing Palestinian prisoners to alleviate the rising prison population.  Again, this is the speech of genocide.  It is not the voice of an oppressed people screaming for liberation, but an established power structure that wishes only to extend its presence.

 

            There should be no contradiction between the political points of supporting Palestinian statehood and supporting Israel’s right to both exist and defend itself.  But Palestine doesn’t have to be exterminated for the sake of Israel’s existence.  Both have rights, as states and people, to exist in their own immanence.  To criticize Israel’s treatment of Palestine and its inhabitants is not anti-semitic anymore than it would be racist and transphobic to call for a transgender bi-racial serial killer to be arrested and brought to justice for their actions.  Historical trauma does not give you a pass for breaking the law or committing atrocities.  Israel has played this line to death.  It acts as the aggressor then calls racism for reactions to its aggression, its apartheid, it’s brutality. 

 

            Look beyond labels and see, as Zen argues, reality as it is.  Which side has killed more women and children?  Which population is starving and living as a displaced people in their own land?  Our country gives Israel billions of dollars for bombs and ammunition, but what about aid for the Palestinian citizens?  Did they all, as a whole, commit the October 7^th attacks?  Or are there millions of suffering innocents that need food, shelter, and water?  Where is our heart?  Is our fear for being labeled as racist in the public eye greater than our compassion for our fellow human beings?  Is it better to be “woke” and heartless for the sake of virtue signaling to our peers?  Or is it better to be the rebel, to risk the term “bigot” to extend compassion and the right of self-determination to a people who don’t look, speak, or believe like us?  Is it racism, in and of itself, that we can’t reach a common understanding with the Palestinian people because they are so different?  And we support Israel so much because they look like the dominant social (racial) order of the West?  Is this why we care more about the plight of Ukraine than the Afghans or Iraqis we invaded and then abandoned?

 

            The best place to find racism is by looking at your own reflection instead of seeing it in everyone else.  We are all guilty, but often times not in the way we envision.  We fail to see ourselves in the other when they are fully embraced in their otherness—ethnicity, religion, culture.  Often, we don’t even recognize their humanity.  That they feel, hope, and bleed like the rest of us. Will we accept Ukrainian refugees but not Gazan’s?  Where is their aid package?  What is so differentiates them from us [looks at my pale reflection in the mirror]…oh yeah, they’re not ethnically European.

Events and time…

            What is an event?  According to Gilles Deleuze, an event is born of multiplicity.  Though these events are connected, they are simultaneously unique in their difference.  Three key events have arisen in my life.  They are connected through an underlying theme of dissatisfaction as I edge ever closer to middle-age, yet they are different in their purpose, function, and the necessary actions involved.

 

            First, I don’t want to cut meat the rest of my life.  Event number one.  So, I went back to college to study sociology.  The second event was connected to this which acted to reinforce my commitment to this decision.  Though I am in the top 5% of meat cutter wages, given the rate of inflation, with all my raises over the years, this roughly equates to what I was earning in 2016. And that was considered, at the time, “average.”  This illustrates that wages have stagnated in this industry.  To put it in perspective, if I continue to earn raises, I will only be as financially stable ten years from now as I was twenty years ago from then.  I’ve questioned all the time and energy I’ve put into this profession, which has consisted of 1/3^rd of my life.  The third event was an argument with my boss at work.  These two former events fueled my reaction to this event, which culminated in putting in for a store transfer.  Everything is connected, yet different in its own aspects. 

 

            The latter has nothing to do with not cutting meat the rest of my life, rather it emphasizes how I will spend the next few years of my life in this business cutting meat.  At the same time, it extends from this dissatisfaction with my career as a whole—a desire to change what is within my ability.  To alter the power structures that lord over me.  Essentially, it is a bandaid to placate the deeper sensations of existential dread and despair.  A means to suffer just a little less in my suffering…for the time being.

 

            What is this time being?  What is time but a fluid state?  Past, present, and hopes for the future blend together in some chaotic fusion within the psyche as we never truly experience the present before it has become past, never truly greet the future before it too has become present and slipped into the past.  Every thought we conceive exists solely for a fraction of a second before it too is rendered into a memory.  Does a present even exist?  What about a future?  Or is everything in life merely a reflection of and on the past?  As soon as I exhale, that breath is gone forever, forgotten.  A new breath enters, exits.  In every moment there is birth and death, transpiring so fast we can never truly grasp onto either—the precise time of its birth or the second of its passing.  In a sense, we are immersed in a continuous reality, ever verging into the future, leaving behind the present in the arms of the past. 

 

I’m curious as to whether a present is merely an illusion created to comprehend this constant flow.  Is there really a beginning and end to any of it?  I feel that time is like diving into a pool and being immersed in the water, there is an up and down, a left and right, but you are simply consumed in the space the water inhabits when you close your eyes.  All direction is then lost.  Perhaps instead of saying “I’m in the moment,” you are simply here in this space, this mass, that knows no end.  It existed before your birth and will exist after your death.  It is infinite and unfathomable.  To grasp at it is like trying to grab air or stop a flowing stream with an open palm.  It flows around and through you, as if you were never even there.  You come up empty handed, as we are unable to comprehend the unstoppable nature of time’s flow. 

 

Every second of my time being is presented as a temporary lull, a small step forward in a progressing series of steps toward a better future.  Each step fades into memory as it presses against the earth.  Will I even know when I’ve reached what I’m hoping to gain before that fades into the past and I look to another Everest to climb?  Get a new boss, graduate college, get a new job.  At the end of this tunnel is there satisfaction?  Or will it just birth a new monster to conquer?  Or before I understand what’s going on, will time slip away before I ever take a moment to enjoy it?  In my youth, time passed slowly toward big days.  Thirteen, eighteen, twenty-one.  Now, it passes quickly.  Where has this month gone?  This year?

 

Will I be too old to relish in my efforts by the time I achieve the desires of my heart?  Time stops for no one.  Even writing that sentence it is gone from the present, a relic of the past.  Soon I will forget ever writing it and move onto the future of this next sentence, the next unique phrasing of words, and that too will fade from memory.  Again, is all we will ever have simply reflections on the past?  Is that the only thing we can truly hold onto?  We will never know the future until it becomes present and never appreciate the present until it becomes past.  I wonder now if all I have are the glory days of my youth.  My stories.  Or will there be more stories yet to tell?

 

Time will tell… 

Outward reflections

 

                  “Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.”

—Jean Paul Sartre

 

            I can only describe my life at present as one deep seated in existential despair and dread.  As I verge ever closer to forty, I’m wondering what everything has even meant.  Why did I devote a third of my life to this profession?  Why did I care so much about my last job?  Why do I still experience this lingering feeling of failure and a bitterness toward everyone I once considered a friend?  Where will I be ten years from now?  Why do I continually let people treat me like shit? 

 

People will only do what you allow them.  Each and every one of us are willing victims in this system, in that, we place ourselves in the situations to be victimized.  We don’t assert ourselves or fight back.  We grow passive and inward, resigning ourselves to focusing on how to calm our minds in the face of adversity, how to adapt to it…never challenging the beast head on. 

 

Does our dissatisfaction reside within ourselves, or is it a reflection of the circumstances without?  Why do we accept the status quo when we have, though limited, the ability to change our situation?  What is this fear of starting over?  What we have is the Sunk Cost Fallacy—the idea that we have invested too much to break up with someone, get a divorce, find a new job, move to a different city, etc.  Despite whether the current costs outweigh the benefits.  The unknown is scary, it involves risk, but does not every action in life?  We may not conceive of it in such terms, but every action is a brush with death.  Each commute in the morning could be your last, each cheeseburger, puff of a cigarette, the exertion during sex, the daily run, even shopping for groceries.  You could, at any moment, be a victim of gun violence, theft, rape, assault, terrorism, viruses, illness, etc.  By immersing yourself into the world, you take an unconscious risk.  Just most of us don’t comprehend this and take the most important aspects of our lives for granted because they seem “safe.”

 

I’m done with playing it safe.  If I don’t like my boss but like my company, I’ll find a different store to work at.  If I don’t like my career, I’ll go back to college in hopes of a better job in the future.  The potential benefits outweigh the risks.  And the mental dissatisfaction of maintaining the status quo is definitely more detrimental than those risks.  The one thing that has stuck with me in all my reading these past few months is that: you will never change the world by changing yourself; by changing your world, only then, can you change yourself.  Confront the externalities.  It beats complaining.  Lean into the suffering of the moment for the ease of tomorrow. 

Give me my birds…

            Sitting here in almost silence, I hear birds singing in the distance.  And I think about my disconnection from nature, my fixation on the screen in front of me, absorbed in the fantastical realm of the Net.  Will I receive an update on my status at college?  I refresh my email in anticipation for a message that has yet to come.  I check the news.  No new major worldwide catastrophes to shock me back into reality and out of the neoliberal bubble of self-fixation. 

 

I think about something I wrote in my youth.  “I have become the city, the corrupter of all things free.”  Where have the birds gone?  The fireflies.  The rabbits and squirrels?  My beloved deer?  Once I was intimately connected to the natural world, to the trees and bees, elbow deep in life-giving soil, vegetable plants rising above my knees as they worshipped the sun and bloomed upward into the light, ever craving the eternity of the blue sky opened above and dotted with pillow-shaped clouds that slowly graced by, transient like my thoughts, my hopes and dreams, specks in the immense heavens of possibility.  My hands are soft now.  Where have the calluses gone?  The roughness?  I bear few fresh scars or bruises, no proof that I exist and am immersed in this huge vaulting world.  What is life without pain?  Without risk?  Shallow of substance.  Like the emptiness of a hollowed-out tree, an apparition of the living dead, still standing, its leaves fallen, only waiting to collapse in the next heavy gust of wind and rot on the ground, never again to raise its branches.

 

My hair is gray now, my youth a memory long forgotten in blacked out nights, drugs, and lost loves.  I no longer feel the urge to shave it.  Let it bloom with its salt and pepper, like the faded scars on my hands, that testify to the fact that once I lived, once I was young and wild.  I remember when I was a kid, I saw a deer in a zoo.  My face contorted as I fought back tears.  How could you cage such a beautiful creature?  It was born to be free.  I didn’t understand what sort of monster could deprive this animal of the forest, the babbling brooks, the thickets full of blackberries.  I felt sorry for it.  Tears streaming down my face, not that I wished I could hunt it, but that it had no conception of freedom, of life outside the fence.  It didn’t know what life meant.  It had no love of life or fear of death, it simply existed, grazing until the next meal thrown to it by the next visitor, until it met comfort and nothingness in sleep.  Did it dream of nature as I do now?  Did it have any knowledge that it was castrated of its purpose—to live a life different than cattle awaiting the bolt-gun?  In the wild it would fear my presence, crave its life, and flee.  But now it sauntered to the edge of the chain-link and begged for corn.  How does one conquer the king of the forest and force him to prostrate himself before man as if he were a servant, a slave, kneeling before its master?  I left in disgust.  My love ran too deep to see him in that state.  The image still haunts me.

 

I think about my life in this silence.  The social expectations I have not, and probably will never, meet.  My house will never be filled with the pitter-patter, the voices of children, or the nagging from not having checked off all the boxes on the honey-do list.  But I want my birds.  I want that connection to nature.  I ordered a feeder and seeds.  I want the sound of freedom in my backyard to remind me that somehow, I am still connected to this grand order of things.  That I do not exist outside of the interconnectedness of all sentient beings.  That I am not alone.  I am content with the things I may not ever have, but I desire the things I once did.  I want my birds, their songs, their vibrant colors as they fluster their chests in red and blue to attract love and negate their singularity in this world.  I crave what is still wild and free, what exists with hopes and dreams, something outside of myself that still believes in tomorrow, in a future, in a world of possibility and wonder.  Vicariously, through them, I want to believe again.  That I am not destined for a repetition of the mundane, of clocking in and out of work, and killing the time designated for leisure as merely an extension of labor, of denying the vita contempletiva for mindless scrolling of media in the absence of work. Refreshing pages for something to happen to remind me that life is worth living, that it is spontaneous, random, and chance meetings still occur.  That we are regulated, not by the time clock and when bills come due, but by the rising and setting of the sun, the changing of the seasons—something natural and not artificial.

 

Give me my birds.  Something uncorrupted.  Something mostly ignored in our modern routines of rush here, stare at this screen, reply to this person or that.  They do not achieve, the do not fail, they live for the sake of living.  To eat, sing their songs in the morning twilight, to love and nurture, and to be beautiful in their immanence.  Do we even notice them anymore outside of a feeling of annoyance?  Their vocalizations distract us from our distraction, from our superficial worlds.  We can’t tolerate the fact that something exists separate from us, wild, free, and loving life for all its sublime terror, magnificence, and wonder.  Because we are depleted of this.  What man has done to the world is eliminate humanity, alienated us from nature, in order to birth us again as machines—deprived of feeling, molded for efficiency, productivity, and no different than a hollowed-out tree waiting to fall.

 

Give me my birds.  So that I may still believe in wonder.  That I may experience beauty and the sublime.  Give me a glimpse of a life that could, should, or ought to be…

Weekly reflection for Class: Rebel Buddha chapters 3-5

Ponlop writes, “when we’re awake in a dream, we don’t take anything that happens in the dream too seriously.”  That aptly describes my life lately at work.  I’m often asked, “can’t you take anything seriously?  Why are you always a smartass?”  I’ve noticed that I act out and am overtly oppositional because I view the whole place, the whole system, as a joke.  The competition between coworkers fumbling to appease the boss for the best shifts, the need for recognition, seems like just feeding into the illusion that our company, or any company, actually values us.  From past experience, and being in management, I know this is not true.  As my old boss once informed us in a manager’s meeting after taking his hat off, throwing it on the floor, stomping on it, and screaming until he was red in the face that we were all idiots, “just remember, each and every one of you is replaceable!”    

    

My coworkers describe me as Loki from Norse mythology—a trickster, a beacon of chaos.  I break all the rules, play practical jokes, have a smart mouth that I often direct at the bossman, disregard company policies, show up late or early (depending on my mood), leave early, take multiple breaks, vape in the cooler, and generally do whatever I want.  And I manage to get away with it without any repercussions.  I get the best shifts and good evaluations without ever really trying.  Everyone else gets their kicks by living out their intrusive thoughts vicariously through me.  They consider me “annoying, but amusing” and many of them I consider friends. 

 

Ponlop writes, “truly direct experiences of the world are not often present in our ordinary life, we find ourselves living either in our concepts or in an emotional world of past or future.”  I believe this to be true in my case.  My rebellious attitude extends from a conceptual framework of what selling my labor represents to me in our present economic system, plus my emotional world of past experiences.  My boss and I had a recent conversation regarding this.  Questioning “why do you always have to f— with people?”  I informed him I act out because I am not challenged, I am bored; the job is too easy, so I create my own entertainment.  He suggested I become a manager.  “I’ve been the best in a company.  And I’ve been the worst.” I replied, “I’ve been a company man.  I know exactly what dedication and loyalty gets you at the end of the day.  Why love something that will never love you back?”  In other words, I’ve already seen through the illusion, I’ve woken up from the American Dream.

 

A few days later he expounded upon the meaning he derives from his position.  “There are winners and losers.  I’m a winner!  Don’t you want to be a winner?  What’s the point in living if you can’t come home to all kinds of new stuff? Materialism, man!  Cool toys!”  Ponlop’s take references my own line of thought on this.  “We may have many kinds of ordinary happiness in our life,” he writes, “but it’s rare for people to be truly content if their happiness depends mostly on material things or the opinions of others.”  I responded to my boss that I’ve been a “winner,” I’ve had all those material things, relative power and status, the “cool toys.”  I cautioned him that those things won’t make you happy.

 

Ponlop writes, “whatever our desires may be, getting the object of our desires is not the same thing as contentment, which comes from within.”  No matter how much money I made when I was a manager, I was never happy.  I was running on the hedonic treadmill—achieving some financial high and buying all kinds of new gadgets only to be just as equally dissatisfied as I was before.  The mindset my boss is arguing for, Ponlop explains as, “wherever there is mind, there is culture, and wherever there is culture, there is mind.”  Our culture demands we prove our value through success at work, through achievement, by amassing and displaying material objects.  This is where our mind derives the labels of “winner” and “loser” from within the context of our larger socioeconomic framework.  “We can’t really say” he adds, “that we are individuals or that our culture as a whole exists separately or independently.”

 

So where does that leave me?  I’m content with my simple life outside of work, of not being a “winner.”  However, I’m bored with my job.  I’ve been cutting meat for twelve years.  I spend maybe two to four hours out of an eight-hour shift actually working.  With my level of experience, it takes two people a full shift to do what I can do in half the time.  I spend the remainder of my shift playing practical jokes and being a “beacon of chaos.”  Sure, I could easily move up and be more challenged, but I also don’t want to become a manager again.  As the NOFX song goes, I don’t want to “be the best, climb the ladder/do it better, higher, faster/I refuse to participate.”

 

“Everything we do is, on some level,” Ponlop writes, “an expression of [the] desire for freedom and happiness.  We always seem to be fighting for more freedom or a different kind of freedom, and therefore the suffering is endless.”  And I guess that’s what it all boils down to: a desire for a different kind of freedom.  But I’m not sure if that desire is a bad thing or that it’s the cause of my “suffering.”  I’ve reached a point where I’ve gone as far as I’m willing to go in my career.  I want to do something different.  I spoke to a therapist about this a few months ago.  She noted that a disconnect exists between what I do for a living and what truly interests me.  “You’re an intellectual person but you’re not being stimulated or challenged because your work doesn’t engage with you on that level.  That’s why you’re dissatisfied.”  She pointed out that the majority of our conversations revolve around discussing different psychological and philosophical theories.  What this conversation resulted in was the decision to go back to college and finish my degree at 37 years old.  I was only three semesters shy when I last left off.

 

The past year I’ve focused on working on myself, trying to adjust my mindset to conform to conditions that left me dissatisfied.  Tom Pepper in Cruel Theory/Sublime Practice offers a different route.  Just as Ponlop mentions, the individual and culture are intertwined and thus, Pepper argues, you can never change your world by solely changing yourself.  You must change your world in order to change yourself.  I’ve adopted this perspective lately.  I’m no longer focusing on adapting my mindset to meet the demands of or content myself to external conditions; I’m challenging those external conditions to adapt to my needs as an individual.  I’ve repositioned my focus outward on the sources of my dissatisfaction as opposed to searching inward as if they were internal flaws as opposed to existential issues.

Why do i have to ruin everything?

            Nothing is left untouched in my fall from grace, my disillusionment with Zen and Buddhism.  I’ve grown cynical and skeptical about every aspect of my life.  What is objective and true and not simply a product of our culture, derived from our socioeconomic system?  Can we ever break free from the illusion and view these things as they are, in their essence?  Currently I’m reading the book Natural Causes.  This brings up specific criticisms I have long held of our health care system, particularly the realm of mental health.

 

            Almost a decade ago, after the effects of a head injury spiraled out of control, I voluntarily checked myself into the psych ward.  When the doctor questioned why I was there, I replied “When I have delusions or hallucinations, I…” 

 

“You’re an anomaly.  You must be highly intelligent.”  She replied.  “You’re very self-aware and coherent.  How do you know when you’re experiencing these states?”

 

“I don’t always.  But I apply logic to what I’m experiencing to figure out if they’re real or not.  I’m really scared.  What’s wrong with me?”

 

            They admitted me and kept me for five days.  The environment of the hospital and the emotional distance of the staff only exacerbated my symptoms.  They treated me like a child, and barely human.  I felt worse for having sought out help than when I was at home.  I was a pariah, something to be conceived of as a social leper and not a sentient being with feelings, fears, hopes, dreams, and emotions.  I begged to be released.  I wasn’t acting erratic or unusual, but my mind was in turmoil.  I felt physical hallucinations, such as needles penetrating my body, electrical pulses, though I never saw or heard anything that wasn’t there.  The worst were the delusions.  I was never at risk of harming myself or others, I was simply afraid.  Paranoid, I felt my life was in danger and that I was being watched and framed for a crime I had not committed. 

 

            Others with far worse physical symptoms, such as rocking back and forth in repetitive patterns, violent outbursts, and unusual behaviors came and went before I was cleared to leave.  With me, they could never figure out what was wrong with me.  That’s why I was kept so long.  At the end, they simply stamped the diagnosis of “psychosis” on my file, which refers to a temporary mental state as opposed to a life-long mental illness, on my discharge form and sent me to outpatient care.

 

            All along I was fed high doses of anti-psychotics.  I was informed that if I did not take them, I would be forced to stay in the psych ward even longer.  So, being coerced and threatened, I took them.  With my outpatient care, I met with a psychologist once a week and then later once every three months who refilled my prescription after a five-minute check-in.  It wasn’t even in-person, but the first version of tele-health before the Pandemic caused this form of visit to bloom.  The doctor constantly had to be reminded of my name and failed to recall any pertinent details of my life or my health history.  After about a year meeting with him, I asked “so, when can I wean off these meds?  They’re causing me a lot of problems.  I’ve gained sixty pounds.  They make me tired all the time.  I sleep for ten hours a night.”

 

            “You can’t ever stop taking this medication,” He sternly informed me.  “You have schizophrenia.  That’s a life-long illness that will never go away!”

 

            “I DON’T have schizophrenia,” I countered, “I have NEVER been diagnosed with that!  I was diagnosed with psychosis after a traumatic brain injury.”

 

            “Oh, you had a head injury?” he stammered, mentioning that he had never really read my file from the hospital.

 

            “What you’re telling me is that I’ve been treated for the past year for a disease I have never been diagnosed with?  I’ve been pumped with all these drugs that are negatively impacting my life because you never read my file?  I have no family history of schizophrenia.  I had ONE psychotic issue in my late twenties.  Schizophrenia has early onset symptoms beginning much sooner.  I’ve taken abnormal psychology classes.”

 

            He agreed to wean me off the medication, admitting his mistake.  And over the next few months, my dose gradually decreased.  Then, he suddenly died of a heart attack.  I was passed around to other psychologists within that system, never seeing the same one twice.  They had no interest in weaning me off my medication.  I requested my file from them.  There was no officially listed diagnosis, just a list of about ten conditions I could possibly have.  They had no idea what they were even treating me for!  Their solution was to just keep me full of meds.

 

            I got tired of dealing with them.  They were hateful and disinterested, always acting like I was inconveniencing them for doing their jobs for the five minutes that my appointments lasted.  “Do you know what day it is?” they would ask.  “Who’s the president of the United States?”  It was demeaning.  Finally, I just got used to the futility of it all and accepted the whole routine.  Until I didn’t.  I switched providers and explained to my new psychologist everything that happened to me.  The only problem was, at this point, I have been on this medication so long that it could kill me if I withdrew from it.  From what I’ve read, doctors impulsively prescribe these meds but have no understanding of how to wean people off them.  They are that powerful.

 

            So even though my new psychologist and I agree I was improperly diagnosed with a mental illness I don’t have, I must still be treated for it the rest of my life.  Because the consequences of withdrawal are too scary and risky to be undertaken after almost a decade of use.  What do we hope to cure by so easily prescribing, even life-altering drugs, for every ailment?  Think of how many times you’re prescribed antibiotics for the common cold.  It’s a ritual, not a cure.  We expect the doctor to do something.  But antibiotics treat a bacterial infection, not viral.  So, essentially, the doctor is curing nothing but creating an illusion, or as Debord described, prescribing a “spectacle.” 

 

            It’s been the same with every ailment I’ve ever had, there’s been the ritual of prescribing a pill.  Having trouble focusing?  Have some adderall.  Anxiety?  Buspirone, hydroxyzine.  Gaining too much weight because of risperidone?  Try this nerve medication that has a side effect of reducing appetite.  Headache?  Tylenol.  Depression?  SSRI’s.  Muscle aches?  Muscle relaxers.  Pain?  Hydrocodone.  For every symptom, we throw pills at it…leaving the actual cause generally untreated and unaddressed.  High blood pressure?  Beta-blockers.

 

            We have quick, easy solutions to all our medical problems.  But why do we experience these issues?  Why do we have anxiety, depression, high blood pressure, ADHD?  Why do we suffer psychosis?  My delusions all revolved around culturally specific triggers.  I feared losing my freedom.  I feared institutions whose function was to deprive individuals of their freedom and autonomy.  Perhaps all this extended from my years as a delinquent, breaking the law and going to jail?  This all resurfaced in the aftermath of the trauma of my head injury.  Maybe this was a temporary break from reality, and I could have resumed my normal life with treatment outside of medication?—therapy, psychoanalysis.  After all, I was “coherent” and “self-aware.”  I was even an “anomaly.”  I still remember everything I experienced.  But now I have to live with all the symptoms of my medication though I have never since experienced any symptoms from my bout of psychosis.  The medication causes diabetes.  I literally have to starve myself to maintain my weight.  It makes me tired and lethargic which I counter with four energy drinks a day.  At 37, I go to bed like an old man at 7:00PM.  If I have anything less than nine hours of sleep, I can barely function.  Changes in my work shifts that interfere with when I take my meds affect me for days afterward, increasing my sleepiness and lethargy.

 

            What if Byung-Chul Han is correct and many of these mental health ailments, maybe even my reaction to my head injury, are products of our ideological system?  We feel depressed when we no longer achieve, for example.  We become anxious about our futures, our success or failure.  ADHD extends from us constantly being overwhelmed with stimulation from our phones, social media, advertisements, etc.  We experience burnout, stress, and even high blood pressure from the nature of our jobs.  Do we continue treating the symptoms or address the cause?  What our health care system reminds me of is Zen.  It exists to adjust us to our external conditions, to allow us to continue to function as workers and compete in and perpetuate the system.  While never addressing where these issues actually arise from.  All that we get from the health care industry is a cheap cure that makes the pharmaceutical industry a ton of money and allows us to return to and function in our jobs as some automaton, deprived of feeling, hope, dream, or emotion.  We don’t have remedies or cures for our diseases, only our symptoms are treated.  Like, so long as you’re on SSRI’s and not depressed about the inherent pointless repetition of your job, you can return to work and pointlessly repeat the motions, just now you will no longer existentially question the nihilism and deeper meaning of this career choice.

           

            Does another option exist?  Or are we so stuck within our cultural framework that we cannot envision a different path forward, a brighter future?  Have we lost hope?  Good thing we’re so drugged out on meds we can no longer experience despair.  Otherwise, we might change the world…

Eunuch Culture

            I first read Slavoj Zizek over a decade ago, panning through a copy of The Year of Dreaming Dangerously in the back of Algebra class when I should have been paying attention to whatever “x” was supposed to equal.  One line of thought that I still recall, though maybe not from that book, was that he mourned the loss of the dangers in life.  Beef was now trimmed of fat, coffee contained no caffeine, beer was alcohol free, sex was “safe,” and that every indulgence was reduced of its inherent, substantive risk.  This aligns with two other concepts I’ve been studying the past few months.  First, that our culture oozes toxic positivity, and second, that we embrace a cult of health.  What has me thinking about all this is the marketing on a six-pack of hard kombucha I purchased this evening.

 

            Each can of “Orange Peach Passion” sports an elevated 6% alcohol by volume.  This point is overshadowed by the positive, and supposedly healthy aspects of something that is simply going to wreak havoc on my liver.  It’s “organic,” as if that really means anything.  It contains “real juice” and “real ingredients” and donates 1% to first responders.  Moreover, it brags that it only contains one gram of sugar and is gluten free.  The advertising also mentions how the probiotics are great for my gut health.  So, getting drunk on this thing is somehow good for me!  How abso-fucking-posolutely is that?    

What…THE FUCK…does this say about who we are as a society?

 

The best thing to do, for your health, is to abstain from alcohol.  But if you want the experience without the risk of waking up with a headache next to your ex-girlfriend and vomiting in her shoe, there’s the alcohol-free beer option.  The hot new thing is…get this: sober bars…serving up ”mocktails.”  Jesus, take the wheel!  OH THE HUMANITY!!!  Now, there’s another option to justify still being one of those risk-takers—imbibing beneath the guise of “health.”  Like, it’s ok if I pound seventeen of these kombucha things, they’re full of probiotics and have barely any sugar!  Hell, REAL fruit juice!  In fact, I’m better for having drank them.  Maybe tomorrow I can have a solid shit and be able to process gluten?  This is the perfect thing to take the edge off after spending all day recycling one-time-use containers that will still somehow end up in a landfill or the ocean, abstaining from plastic straws, counting carbs, and ensuring that my vegan latte is cruelty free and derived from regenerative farms that pay their workers what, culturally-speaking, could constitute a living wage.  The drink complements my sugar-free brownie that’s totally progressive because it contains hemp oil and tastes like cardboard.  Did I mention I purchased it at a local farmer’s market?  These things really make me feel morally superior to all those backwoods, beer-bellied, Trump-thumping Southerners and their baby Jesus, guns, cigarettes, and fast food.  I am a beacon of the future!  Hold on, brb, I’ve got to hit up the local yoga studio for some secular “Buddhist” meditation deprived of its code of ethics and philosophy so that I can get my fetish kicks from being “spiritual but not religious” while experiencing some dumbed-down sense of otherness by immersing myself in a foreign practice I don’t fully understand.  God, I mean, just look how cool I look!  Does your car use renewable resources?  Because mine does!

 

Ok.  I think y’all get it by now.  Tangent over.  All these things act as masks to conceal the dirt beneath the surface.  They’re like when you’re a kid and your mom asks you to sweep the kitchen and all those dust bunnies get shoved under the rug.  We are hiding something from ourselves.  We’re trying to place a veil over the sheer nastiness and risk of life and reframe it as something happy, positive, healthy, and good.  We’re running from the fact that we are all going to die.  Some of us will have the unfortunate luxury of growing old before that happens and witness our body reject itself for the sake of longevity.  And along the way we will experience lapses in physical health, mental capacity, depression, anxiety, debilitating mental disorders, loss, rejection, alienation, loneliness, isolation, heartbreak, heartache, hunger, thirst, longing, dissatisfaction, etc.  Suffering.  All these are inherent, negative aspects of life that we willingly choose to ignore.  Even our very existence, for example, destroys the lives of other countless beings.  Think of how many insects, mice, voles, and birds are killed for the sake of one organic vegan salad, let alone all the cattle butchered for hamburgers.  We kill everything in our path in order to take our next breath.  Life…is…MESSY!  It is negative, in aspects that can’t and shouldn’t be ignored.

 

Things have degenerated even more since Zizek’s first criticism.  We now have vapes to replace cigarettes, nicotine salt pouches for dip and chewing tobacco.  They are popular because they are “healthy” alternatives.  We live within the illusion that we will live forever, if only we play by the right rules.  Don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t do drugs, don’t eat sugar, no fat, no grease, no carbs.  BUT…if you do…choose the “healthier” options.  Drink your kombucha, vape your pen, have a sugar-free energy drink.  Choose the carbs with the most fiber because then the net carbs won’t be as bad.  The sources of pleasure should be nullified of their pleasure.  It’s not that vaping is more satisfying than a cigarette.  The kombucha isn’t more enjoyable than a glass of bourbon.  But it provides a justification for its use.  The cult of “health,” the positivity bias that these things are the better option, represent a façade to prolong use of these products for decades to come.  By denying yourself the full exposure to the authentic product, you buy into the marketed impotence of the damage these things can and will cause.  All you buy is the allure, the brand, of them being harmless.  You purchase illusion.

 

Byung-Chul Han argues that we have eliminated negativity, particularly that of the other from our culture.  Even in our multiculturalism, we accept only an acclimated other.  We accept their different cuisines, their styles, music, and dance.  But only after they have assimilated to our society, our norms, language, and rendered themselves deprived of all otherness aside from a different variety of the same.  Chinese food at your local restaurant is not Chinese food.  It’s Chinese food deprived of its otherness, served to meet the palate of the sugar-loving, meat-centric West.  The cuisine had to be stripped of its otherness in order for it to be embraced as other.  And the result is more of the same.  Just a different style of American cuisine.  The experience of the other should result in a jolting sensation.  You not understanding them, they not understanding you.  Each should appear foreign to one another.  You experience your own otherness in their reflection.  But that no longer happens.  This negativity is countered with positivity.  We accept only that which is most similar to ourselves, thus rendering the other impotent of their affect on our own internal stability.

 

What I’m getting at is that by us stripping down and rebranding every vice, decadent pleasure, desire, and doing so likewise with the other, we are creating this utopian mindset that everything is allowed and accepted, so long as it conforms to certain rules of being uplifting, healthy, positive, and upbeat.  Good vibes only.  When life is not like that.  Cancer can happen whether you’ve ran two miles a day your whole life or smoked crack cocaine for breakfast.  You can be injured in a car accident no matter how many times you donated to charity.  Life is unpredictable.  It’s unforgiving.  Yet we act is if everything we do will forgive us of the fault for being born into this world.  The kombucha will forgive me for drinking in excess because it’s “healthy.”  The vape will forgive me because at least I’m not smoking cigarettes anymore.  The red meat won’t affect my heart because I trimmed it of fat.  I can live forever so long as I drink caffeine-free coffee and attend my yoga session every two weeks. 

 

The thing that is missing from all this is balance.  It’s ok if you want to drink bourbon.  Just maybe don’t drink a whole bottle every day?  You don’t have to switch to the “healthier” version.  Instead of eating organic salads every day so you’re not a fatass, maybe just limit your burger and fry intake to once or twice a week?  What the positivity and “health” fetish is teaching us is that we can have our cake and eat it too.  We don’t have to achieve moderation and consume less, we simply have to find “healthy” alternatives to consume.  Like, why should I not eat ten pounds of low-calorie noodles until I’m too full to walk when I can still maintain my daily calorie deficit?  If this beer is only 2.5% alcohol, why shouldn’t I drink an entire case?  In a sense, we are all hedonists in that we are all actively pursuing pleasure.  But at the same time, we are dumbing that pleasure down so that we won’t have any of the negativities of it.  Like sure, stay out all night drinking non-alcoholic beer and having sex, but just as long as you wrap your shit, you can be safe and suffer no consequences the next morning.  We are pursuing pleasure with kid-gloves on our hands.  Constantly running down the hedonic treadmill while never feeling fully satisfied with these alternative versions of the Real.

 

What we are becoming is passive and afraid.  Whenever everything becomes safe, we create a bubble, a shelter, as if nothing bad, nothing negative, could ever affect us.  But that is not life.  And when the real world comes barging in with a terrible medical diagnosis, our lover leaves us, our family member dies.  All we can scream is: but we played our cards right!!!  We ate the gluten-free bread.  We took vitamin supplements.  We did the right things.  Why me!?  Nothing bad was supposed to happen. And then we don’t know how to respond.  Because finally our illusion is shattered, and things become real.  The world was real all along, yet we were unable to see it.  Maybe instead of practicing some half-wit meditation at the yoga studio, try some death meditation.  Actually sit there and visualize your inevitable death, the deaths of everyone around you.  Allow for some negativity.  Embrace your sad thoughts.  Your hopelessness.  Your despair.  Drink a full-bodied beer without any supposed health benefits and contemplate the desire for pleasure for the sake of pleasure versus a potentially long life.  See what you decide.  Have sex without a condom with someone you love and experience euphoria at its max instead of “safe sex” with random strangers.  Stop depriving things of their otherness.  Embrace everything down to its negativity.  Its risk.  Its pain. 

 

Experience the Real.  Not some watered-down version of it.  Pain and pleasure operate off the same receptors.  Just like with gravity, what goes up, must come down.  We destroy that in our society.  We want pleasure without pain.  The up without the down.  But it is within pain that we truly understand life.  Just like the cliché goes “every rose has its thorn.”  We have to stop with the blinders and see life for what it is.  It’s beautiful and terrible at the same time.  Eliminating the risk from pleasure, thereby depriving pleasure of its pleasure, is not the solution.  If the pleasure is there, you should enjoy it.  Also, you should exhibit moderation.  That’s where negativity is important.  It defines the line as to how far you can and should go.  At what point do you put the bourbon down and not have a hangover the next day?  At what point do you not drink that next cup of coffee and have a heart attack?  At what point is the next random girl you fuck with a condom not going to give you the pleasure of an intimate relationship where you can enjoy sex within the boundaries of trust just “raw-doggin’” it?  These random sexual encounters are deprived of negativity.  There is no trust that can be broken, no feelings hurt; they are “safe” because they are devoid of emotional pain and physical consequence. 

 

We need pain.  We need negativity.  They let us know how far we can go.  They reel us back in when we venture to the fringe.  They remind us that life is fragile, finite, and impermanent.  There is beauty, euphoria, pleasure, and bliss in this life.  But we cannot focus solely on this positivity.  Likewise, we should not succumb to being one of those emo kids listening to suicidal music and rambling about their depression either.  The same with vice, we should find balance.  Moderation.  Recognize the negativity of life and not ignore it.  Also, enjoy the good things it has to offer.  Don’t get caught up in dualism.  One can only exist because of the other.  One leads to the other.  Everything is interconnected.  My criticism is that our culture has created its hill on which to die on the foundation of one dualistic perspective alone—that positivity and health are superior to negativity and death.  Every desire, thus, must be castrated on these grounds and deprived of negativity.  Yet, they are mutually inclusive concepts.  We just don’t conceive of them as such.  Everyone wants their participation trophy for sitting on the bench while never having a scraped a knee or broken a bone during the championship game.  And they want to keep sitting on that bench as long as they can because the possibility of injury in the game is too much.  They have to play it safe by not assuming any personal risk.  The thought of immersing themselves in life is too daunting.

 

What this all boils down to is fear.  We fear death, the ultimate other, the negativity of its otherness.  We view it as some foreign invader as we once did and continue to do so with immigrants, particularly the ones who don’t look like us and follow a different religion.  From within this fear we strip everything of its fearful qualities.  We tame it.  Castrate it.  And elevate it as some “healthy” eunuch deprived of phallus and testicles, unable to penetrate the world, rendering it as something harmless and pitiful.  We lack the violence of intimacy in our culture.  Eating, drinking, fucking, friendship, community—these things require a violent intimacy.  Everything we consume comes with a risk.  Every interaction with the other is a drain on ourselves, a surrender of our identity and autonomy.  For everything we take in or put out, we lose something of ourselves.  And we are afraid of this intimacy.  Because with every one of these losses, these “mini-deaths” it represents the ultimate renunciation, death itself.  Outside of our caffeine, sugar, and alcohol free fetishes, we extend this to these other areas of intimacy.  We promote hook-up culture over love, “friends” on social media over relationships with physical presence and touch, we have online communities instead of local groups within our neighborhoods.  Everything exists at a distance from its authentic form.  This, I argue, is because we are so afraid of death that we can no longer conceive of ourselves as finite, ephemeral beings…even so much as allowing our egos to die a bit in truly experiencing the other.  In truly experiencing pleasure in its natural form.  We water everything down so that we can live ignorantly of the true nature of reality.  Nonetheless, one day we will die and leave a world we were too afraid to even know.  While we were too busy playing it safe, death had already sneaked in the back door.

commodity fetishism

I was drunk a few nights ago and purchased a manual lawnmower.  My father had already gifted me his old gas-run mower a few weeks ago as he is too old for lawn care now.  But something lured me to the manual mower after spending the past few days procrastinating and coming up with multiple excuses as to why I had not yet mowed the lawn.  The thought of the loud mower, of having to fill up the gas tank, check the oil, pump the button a few times, pull the cord as if it were my lifeline on a parachute, and guide that roaring thing around the small yard, through the gate to the back, and watch as it flung dirt and grass out onto the sidewalk and road, scalped the up grown roots, just seemed excessive.  It felt intrusive.  As if loudly declaring to the neighborhood that my landscaping efforts were more important than their romantic dinner, their wine therapy after work, or their breathing exercises on the yoga mat.  Being partially deaf, I have a revulsion to things that contribute to me being even more deaf, even temporarily. 

 

Then this thing came in the mail, arriving at my doorstep neatly packaged in a box.  In ten minutes, I assembled all the parts and with sudden motivation and vigor, plunged it headlong to the foot-tall grass in the backyard while fully adorned in my work clothes.  The sound emanating from mower’s blades scraping against the guide was like a subtle cat fight.  Visibly watching the blades whack and hack at the weeds and crabgrass was a cathartic experience akin to a kid’s sociopathic tendency to pull off the legs from a grandaddy longlegs.  It was brutal.  You were not alienated from the effect of the blades; you were there to bear witness to all its destruction.  A difference exists between the generations that push buttons to commit mass murder in war and the long-gone generations that met their foes face-to-face with sword and shield.  As with hunting opposed to buying the neatly packaged portions of meat from the counter of a grocery store, cutting grass in this manner is an intensely intimate experience.  You almost feel for the grass you’re snipping as if you were cutting down an enemy in close combat with the glistening steel blade.

 

I dubbed the mower Nagarjuna for its prowess of cutting through grass in the manner that Buddhist philosopher cut through illusion.  Yeah…I’m a nerd.  I’ve developed an oppositional fetish lately against modern technology.  Everything these days is expensive and comes with Alexa-compatible functions, bluetooth, and some small screen to stare at while attempting to separate yourself from whatever experience you’re attempting not to experience.  I’ve gotten over these features.  I just want something simple, where I can embrace the experience as opposed to negating it.  I enjoy my record player more than jamming to iTunes.  I enjoy my paperback books instead of staring at the screen of a Kindle copy.  My aim is to be more connected to and immersed in the physical world and not somewhere in the Cloud, in the alternate reality of the Verse.  However, I admit, I cannot live without my smartphone or the allure of jotting my thoughts down in public on this blog.  All my bills are paid online, through some app.  Most of my social interaction is through text or email.  But, as so much of my life exists through the frame of a screen, when I am able to escape from that world, I happily do so. 

 

I just want to enjoy my manual lawn mower as if that will cure the world of all the ills and anxieties of the current technological age…

Change your world

            I wrote something for my class that really has me thinking.  “There’s a part of me that wishes I could simply return to the way things were before.”  I wrote.  That line referenced my blind faith in Zen practice before my falling out.  The price I paid for giving up the illusion is depression, existential dread, anxiety, meaninglessness, and dissatisfaction.  What the Buddha dubbed “suffering.”  All the things that were somehow magically “cured” through Zen practice.  I used the example of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden for my rant.  God banished them from the garden because they ate of the forbidden fruit, thus obtaining the knowledge of good and evil.  “Is knowledge the downfall of happiness?” I questioned.  “Is it better to be ignorant and happy than doubtful and curious?”

 

            What Zen offered was an escape from the sources of my suffering.  It pushed me to accept “reality as it is,” to avoid preferences and labels such as “good” or “bad.”  All I had to do was sit zazen and greet everything the world had to offer with open arms.  And it really did work.  I really was happy.  But when I began to see through the façade, I realized everything I was trying to escape from was still out there, looming over me like a dark storm cloud, haunting my dreams like some nefarious phantasm.  I had not escaped anything; rather, I had simply put blinders on.  All my problems were still present, my regrets, my failures.  I had not conquered my demons; I just no longer acknowledged their presence as they hovered over me begging to be seen.  All I did was look the other way.

 

            What I’m getting at is that I turned inward.  Focusing on how to content myself with mental states caused by externalities.  This was a retreat, not a confrontation.  I didn’t challenge the conditions that caused my suffering, I blamed myself and focused on “fixing” myself so that these outside factors would no longer negatively affect me.  But after months of practice, these issues were still there when I finally opened my eyes.  At the end of the day, I am still bored, unchallenged, and unhappy with my job.  I’m dissatisfied with where I’m at on the cusp of forty.  With what little I have achieved in my life.  What little progress I have to show for almost four decades on this earth.  These existential problems remained unaddressed.  My inner longer to do something more with whatever time I have left.

 

            One thing I realized recently is that dissatisfaction (dukkha), the Buddha’s “suffering,” is not inherently a negative thing.  Sure, it sucks when you experience it, but it can provide inspiration and insight in how to alleviate the conditions that create it.  Instead of turning inward to adjust myself to my circumstances, I focused outward on my environment.  What am I not content with and how do I change that?  My immediate conclusion was…go back to college!  Finish your degree!  Get a different job, a better job, and free yourself from the shackles that leave you feeling lesser than what you believe yourself to be! 

 

            Of course, my friends shot this down.  “Grow the fuck up and get over yourself!” was the general consensus.  Apparently, the key to verging on middle-age is to, like Zen, accept that your dreams are never going to come true, you’re stuck with your lot in life, and just content yourself with your reality as it is.  Embrace the suck!  This attitude is nothing short of nihilism.  I refuse to accept the notion that I cannot alter my existence.  Are not all things outside the heavens and physical earth manmade and created by man’s mind and hand and therefore capable of being changed?  Show me where in the laws of physics it states that my life should solely consist of cutting meat in a grocery store until I fucking die! 

 

            When a man abandons hope, he negates all beauty, and everything sublime in this world.  He views himself as a cog in a machine, without autonomy, without desire, devoid of dream and wonder.  Without these things, a man justifies placing a revolver to his head and pulling the trigger.  Because what has he to live for?  To aspire to?  Just daily repetition until death and nothingness.  At that point, there is nothing to even kill.  He is already dead.  I’m disappointed in my friends.  Sure, they can have a different outlook on what I want to do and wish to achieve.  But goddamn, don’t give up on life when you’re only halfway through!  To me they sound as if they no longer wish to live. What they have is what they’ve already accomplished in the present moment, that is all they desire, and as such, that’s all they ever will have.  Sounds a lot like Zen, doesn’t it?      

 

 But I want more… 

 

This draws to mind a quote from Slavoj Zizek: “I think that the only life of deep satisfaction is a life of eternal struggle, especially struggle with oneself. If you want to remain happy, just remain stupid.”  This references my line in the opening paragraph pondering whether it is better to just be ignorant and happy.  I forlornly longed for the bliss of my blind faith in Zen and the happiness I felt.  But perhaps the heartache of struggle is more liberating and fulfilling than passive acceptance, of rendering oneself stupid through ritualized practice to eliminate thought and contemplation?  Through pain and suffering, we grow.  A part of me whispers negative thoughts in my ear.  That I’m too old to start over.  I have too much established to begin anew.  How will I find time for my studies?  Will I even be able to get enough financial aid to return and finish my degree?  Will the college even accept me after a solid decade of dropped classes and bouncing from one field to the next?  Will they view me as a lost cause?  A flight risk?

I will never know until I try.  And if it doesn’t work, I can always sit zazen and learn to accept things as they are…heh.  Or…or…get this…I can find another route.  The key is to not seek out happiness.  Maybe the piece to the puzzle I’ve been missing all along is what I once discovered in my youth?  For me, satisfaction is through constant challenge, the overcoming of hurdles, struggling ever towards some Everest that continually grows taller the further I trek.  It’s like Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill each day, only for it to roll back down when he reaches the peak. And each day he repeats this process, in defiance of the gods.  Camus beckons us to think of Sisyphus as happy.  I need to be intellectually stimulated, my abilities put to the test, and in a continuous state of struggle.  That’s how I’ve always felt fulfilled.  Without at that, with this current state of coasting through life on easy mode, it’s simply not even worth the lackluster effort I put into it.  Craving is the source of suffering, per the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths.  Then again, craving is the source of every advance in society for the past few millennia—a desire for life to be other than it is, a world that could, should, or ought to be.  And that’s what I aim to achieve.  Tom Pepper argues in Cruel Theory/Sublime Practice that one can not hope to change the world by first changing themselves.  As we are all social constructs, we must change the World, thereby changing ourselves in turn.  External focus as opposed to inward.

            My craving, my desire, is to change my World…

Class Reading: REbel Buddha, Intro-Chapter 2

I’ve kind of ruined these sorts of books for myself for the very reason Dzogchen Ponlop cites in Rebel Buddha.  In the first few chapters, he argues we must learn to view reality stripped of its cultural influence.  That’s been a huge fixation of mine lately, listening to The Imperfect Buddha Podcast, reading Rethinking Meditation, Why I am Not a Buddhist, and delving into the heady works of Tom Pepper as well as Glenn Wallis (who uses Francois Laurelle’s concept of non-philosophy to reframe and critique modern Buddhist thought).  These podcasters and authors examine Buddhist teachings within the umbrella-like framework of culture and ideology, pushing the listener/reader to move beyond these contexts or to at least be aware of their influence.

 

Ponlop greets us with a mission to “free us from the illusions we create by ourselves, about ourselves, and from those that masquerade as reality in our cultural and religious institutions.”  He implores us, essentially, to find the “rebel Buddha” within.  I like this interpretation of the teachings.  It appeals to me right now.  Even though I understand that what he’s arguing for is not a step outside our cultural perspective but reflects the ideology of our culture itself.  The quest for freedom, authenticity, and inner peace extends from the Enlightenment, Romanticism, and Existentialism.  Which all come to meet beneath the shadow of Buddhist Modernism, and that exists only within the confines of our larger neoliberal ideological system.

 

What appeals to me in this book, however, is apparent in the line, “ultimately, the Buddha is saying that the solution to our doubts is not to adopt the blind faith of ‘true believers’—even, especially, Buddhist true believers.”  We need to be “rebels.”  This “blind faith” is what Glen Wallis refers to in his writing as a sufficient philosophy—a theory that supposedly explains all of reality.  Buddhism has been promoted as such in the West with a degree of religious exceptionalism in books claiming it is proven by science, backed by psychology, etc.  Ignoring that, at its heart, it’s a faith-based religion despite it teaching us to explore the truths for ourselves.  Where I am at in my practice is at the opposite end of “blind faith.”  It’s how I’ve always been, in a sense, at least per the narrative I’ve concocted in a deluded mind perceiving myself as a fixed, subjective thing.  I’ve just always been contrarian.  I’ve never sought out with the intent of being this way; rather, it’s been a reaction to a world I read deeper into only to finally see the “man behind the curtain.” 

 

I’ve always been attracted to the fringe.  The same has become true of my practice lately.  I don’t know if I still consider myself a Buddhist anymore, though I still practice and adhere to most of the core beliefs.  Ponlop cites a teaching of the Buddha where he begs us not to believe anything based on religious texts, authority, teachings, or traditions, but from “observation and analysis.”  I’ve had a major falling out on these grounds of appealing to authority/tradition with what various authors classify and label as “Buddhist Modernism.”  Within this structure, Glenn Wallis refers to the various schools as x-buddhisms.  The “x” standing as a signifier for any given tradition—Zen, Secular, Tibetan, etc.  The criticism being that each “x” instills a circular logic in its followers.  Ala, these teachings are true because it says so in the tradition.  This occurred to me while reading a highly heady dissection of Dogen’s Uji (Being-Time).  I felt stupid because I couldn’t grasp the meaning of a certain passage; it didn’t make any logical sense.  When it was explained, the passage only became true because it was explained through Zen truisms.  Outside of this line of thought, it was gibberish.  As Michel Foucault explains, a regime of truth exists within and extends from power structures. In other words, the saying was true only because the logic and beliefs of the tradition had established a regime of truth that affirmed its own reality.

 

Per Ponlop’s invitation, I guess I too am a rebel.  Just probably not the sort he envisioned.  Perhaps I am the man in the Zen parable who is having tea poured into his filled cup?  It overflows because he comes to these teachings full of knowledge, unable to open his mind to new possibilities.  But I don’t conceive of it as that.  I feel as if someone drilled a hole into my cup and everything I thought I knew is draining out as more is pouring in.  I feel “emptiness” as if I have no foundation left to stand upon.  It’s as if I were the man in Buddha’s parable who was shot by an arrow wondering who shot him, what the bow was made of, and what fletching the arrow had.  In my search for answers, I’ve only arrived at further doubt while fully aware that I will die one day and never have all the answers to my questions.

 

The sad thing in all this is that I was quite happy in my ignorance, sitting zazen one hour a day, reciting the Heart Sutra, and embracing my “blind faith” while following the Zen precepts, teachings, and traditions.  Which calls to mind the meaning behind the Biblical story of Eden.  Man fell from grace because he sinned by disobeying God and eating the forbidden fruit, thus grasping the knowledge of good and evil.  Is knowledge the downfall of all good things?  Is it better to be ignorant and happy than doubtful and curious?  To never fully perceive the Real?  My doubt has made me less happy.  And now that I know what I know, I can never go back to that state of bliss anymore than Adam and Eve could return to the garden.  Even though there’s a part of me that wishes I could simply return to the way things were. 

“Do the Right Thing”: On ethics and rebellion

 

            First, let’s explain definitions.  To be a rebel, a rebel needs a system to rebel against.  Rebellion and the system are mutually inclusive concepts.  This is juxtaposed to revolution which wishes to overthrow the system and establish something new.  In rebellion, the goal is not to topple the establishment, but to subvert it, to negate its domination and rule, to point out the failures and flaws in its existence and operation.  The end goal of rebellion is, again, not to replace the system, but for the system to correct its wrongs and fix its failures through illustrating the absurdity of how it functions.  To rebel is to assert your individual autonomy in the face of conformity and subjugation, to proclaim your being-in-the-world.

 

            My old District Manager once said, “people only do what they’re allowed to do.”  And this is the foundation of my rebellion.  Capitalism establishes a hierarchy within the businesses it produces.  CEO’s, managers, supervisors.  These all act to reaffirm the Marxist class distinctions in our society, where the lowest do the physical labor (which produce the profits) and the higher up you go, the less labor you do.  At the top, it’s not so much that they have a more intellectual position, rather it is their function to keep their subordinates in line so that the bottom tier can continue performing their labor to produce the profits that maintain a functioning corporate body.  The white-collar class exists, not because they are more educated or intelligent, but to maintain order, to perpetuate the structure of class hierarchies.  The exist to control, to maintain submission. 

 

Businesses also create an internal ethical, disciplinary, and procedural structure that supposedly defines their “culture.”  It is the job of the white-collars to maintain that these policies are followed, that everyone conforms, so that the company can roll out a mainstream product and service that does not differentiate from one store to the next, one state to another.  What they produce is the same, deprived of otherness, or exotica.  Everything is streamlined, deprived of human individuality, of uniqueness, of quirks.  In the corporate culture, one can only express oneself so far as the limitations imposed by corporate policies.  The fact that we are required to wear name tags sporting our actual names and are not referred to by designated numbers, as we were at Kmart, shows a vast progress. 

 

The problem with these internal ethical, disciplinary, and procedural policies is that they exist outside of the democratic process.  How odd is it that we live in a Democratic Republic, yet our institutions are totalitarian/authoritarian regimes?  Our bosses have more control over our lives than our representatives.  I had no part in deciding on or voting for these policies, yet I am given a sheet of paper stating that I must sign and agree to uphold them.  Where are my freedoms?  Oh, I don’t have to sign it, sure.  I can just walk down the street to the next business, who will likewise expect me to sign theirs.  These agreements exist by means of coercion.  Sign or starve!  Live free and be homeless!

 

We are expected to resign our autonomy and freedom for an occupation, a paycheck, and expected to trade our labor.  This is an act of violence.  The alternative to not submitting to these hierarchies we had no part in establishing is death.  By refusing to servile ourselves, the threat is poverty, starvation, homelessness.  Submit or die!  That is an act of violence.  Were an alternative to exist, it would not be so.  But there is no alternative.  Corporations are viewed in the context of the law as people, and have more rights than you or I.  The law exists to protect them and their interests.  Sure, labor laws exist.  But right-to-work legislation exists where you can be fired without cause.  So, to scream for your rights to be upheld against unfair practices, you can be let go without cause to keep you from stirring the pot.  With no repercussions.  Again, this is an act of violence.

 

Then what are we to make of the plea to “do the right thing?”  That is, to uphold the corporate policy and maintain the mundane sameness of complacency and conformity.  If, for example, the corporate layout requires I place chicken wings in a certain slot and I choose to put burgers there.  What is to stop me?  Am I morally bound to uphold the policies I agreed to only through coercion and violence?  To maintain a hierarchical structure I had not part in establishing?  Or does the nature of that bribery forfeit any right of theirs to moral or ethical authority?  What if my immediate supervisor has nothing to say about my expression of autonomy in the matter?  Am I morally bound to uphold the corporate standard?  To “do the right thing?”  To maintain conformity?

 

What if, for example, my immediate supervisor openly rejects the policies and procedures of the company?  He shows up late, doesn’t do his job, and pawns his work off on other people?  Should I maintain the integrity of the policies in place in spite of him, outside of his apathetic gaze?  To what end?  The Rule of Law states that those in authority either creating or enforcing the law are likewise subject to it.  If the policies (the law) doesn’t apply to my immediate supervisor, why should I entertain the fallacy that it applies to me?  Why should I not, then, make a mockery of its very existence?  Rebel?

 

Let me put burgers in the chicken spot, let me hoard supplies for no other reason than the lack of supervision that would prevent me from doing this, let me show up late, leave early, call out.  Foucault argued that every manifestation of power, in turn, gives birth to a critique of power itself.  When the power structures prove their impotence, why not go to lengths to illustrate the absurdity of their very existence?  In other words, if the managerial class is not held accountable, how can and why should I be?  Their apathy proves the emptiness of these hierarchal structures, their policies, ethics, and norms.  Why give them respect in the absence of their enforcement when, again, they only exist as expressions of violence and coercion? 

 

I understand my rebellion is pointless.  It’s a nihilistic scream in the face of hopelessness, of the absurdity of our power dynamics in American society.  The problem is, I can’t take “do the right thing” seriously.  Because I see through the illusion.  I don’t place moral value on corporate policies that were derived through coercion and violence.  I don’t place value on the hierarchy of my workplace.  Who the fuck decided they were in charge?  Not me.  In a democratic society, I have no say in what happens in my workplace.  Deprived of my autonomy and freedom, the only thing afforded to me are acts of rebellion.  To express my disdain for being placed in these circumstances.  For my impotence to entertain a new, more empowering existence.

 

However, an alternative exists.  Short of overthrowing the neoliberal regime and abolishing capitalism, we can form a union.  Us workers can have a voice through concerted action to determine wages, work hours, benefits, policies, etc.  We can democratize our totalitarian environment.  Sure, it’s not popular, especially here in the South.  But that extends from a long line of misinformation from the powers-that-be which intentionally misconstrue and defame labor unions.  What unions do, in reality, is empower workers.  No longer do we allow ourselves to be coerced through violence by signing on the dotted line.  We can all come together and agree on something and only then, through expressing ourselves as free and independent human beings, agree to willingly come to terms.  Together, we are powerful and can challenge the established hierarchy.  After all, without us, who is to do the labor that creates the profits? 

 

If we don’t unite, we are left bickering with each other about our individual conceptions of “doing the right thing,” of acting out pointless rebellions, of not caring and not showing up.  We lose ourselves in nihilism.  Wouldn’t it be better to work together, toward a goal of something better?  By coming together?  Instead of each one of us down the other’s throat about what they should or shouldn’t do, what they did or didn’t do?  Doesn’t taking the risk of unionizing eliminate the pettiness and give us a voice to express ourselves and the power we wield through our labor?  Is there another alternative?  Or are we content with the baseline of coercion and violence?

Toxic positivity, relativism, and fancy words

“In the present tyranny of absolute freedom of opinion, no position can be argued for; to make an argument is to deny that all opinions are equally valid in the purely relativist world of human thought.”

Tom Pepper, Cruel Theory/Sublime Practice

 

            Relativism and toxic positivity.  Those are my two gripes of the day.  Especially in the context of my Dharma studies course.  Also, I’m a little annoyed at myself for being pedantic.  Let me unpack this. 

 

            Buddhism in the West attracts mostly a middle-class, degree-holding, liberal-leaning subject.  Many came to these teachings through the dumbed-down, touchy-feely, all-accepting embrace of Thich Nhat Hanh.  I did too.  What this presupposes is an overwhelmingly positive and upbeat (hippy-like) discourse that avoids negativity, challenge, and argument at every point.  “Feel good vibes only!”  Nothing is seen to contradict or critique a perspective or belief because everything is given equal value (so long as it fits into the middle-class, liberal-leaning ideology).  What I hear repeatedly in my class is that “there are many paths to follow.”  And while that is correct, we can’t entertain the notion that all those paths are equally valuable, valid, or true. Otherwise, we degenerate into what I can only call positive nihilism—that is, being so open-minded and accepting that you negate all value and objective truth.

 

            Negativity is shut down at every emergence of its “ugly” presence.  If I disagree with a point-of-view, it’s immediately circumvented by coddling the recipient of my criticism.  Negativity is avoided and replaced with some positive affirmation. 

 

“How brave of you!”

“Your vulnerability is inspiring!”

“Your struggle motivates me!”

“To each their own!”

“Your path is your own!”

 

            Negativity is solely expressed in the context of personal sufferings—relationships, work, existential meaning and purpose, anxiety, depression, etc.  These are mentioned only to the extent that they are an obstacle to overcome, something to suppress, to avoid.  The common theme is: “I felt a certain way about this situation, but I decided I shouldn’t feel that way, so I used this teaching to spiritually bypass the ordeal without confronting or resolving it.  I still feel a certain way, but I’m working to overcome it with more spiritual bypassing.”  The positivity is toxic. 

 

Negativity is the great instructor in all things.  When I was a child, I incessantly bugged my mom when she pulled a pan of freshly baked cookies from the oven.  “Can I touch the pan?” I begged.  Finally, she had enough.  “Go ahead!”  I was overcome with pain.  All I could do was embrace it and learn a valuable lesson to not touch a hot pan again.  In my class, the experience of pain would be nullified altogether.  Instead of embracing and learning from the experience, a focus would center on the breath to eliminate the sensation of pain.  When the pain subsided, they would avoid referencing that period of pain by centering on the present moment and ignoring the past.  They would trade positive affirmations about how they overcame their pain, though entirely ignoring the lesson to be learned had they embraced the experience.  The lesson they would take would be to avoid scenarios where pain is likely, becoming shirkers of adventure, risk, experimentation.  This would not guide them as to how to act in the world, but to withdraw from the world of pain and negativity altogether.  To hide behind a veil of positivity, as if that will prevent them from ever being hurt, physically or emotionally.  In both scenarios, the outcome is the same—neither of us will ever touch a hot pan.  But by me accepting the pain as a learning experience, I open myself to future negative situations through which I can gain knowledge.  Because I accept pain as part of life.  The opposite is true for the positivity crowd.  They will never risk experiencing pain again.  Because they believe that only feeling good is what matters.  They misconstrue the Buddhist Noble Truths, skipping the part of “life is suffering” and ending with only “there is a cure for suffering.”  And to them, that’s to ignore the first part altogether.  The goal is to reach that last part and to never suffer.

 

The cure for suffering is to embrace suffering, per the Buddhist path.  The cause of suffering is craving.  For life to be other than what it is.  But for this brand of Buddhism here in the West, the path to liberation is ignored for the illusion of positivity.  To have an upbeat attitude in all things and to reject suffering in all that matters.  Two problems arise here.  First, every great stride of man began with embracing suffering, followed by a wish for the world to be otherwise.  They changed their external conditions to alleviate suffering instead of ignoring its presence.  By crawling in bed with their dissatisfaction, this inspired them to alter the conditions that allowed suffering to exist.  They did not ignore or spiritually bypass the condition; they faced it head on.  What they understood was that suffering is not solely an internal feeling but a response to an external reality.  And they were willing to risk, to suffer more, in order to challenge those external conditions for the sake of a better future. 

 

Here is where I find justifiable criticism of Buddhism.  This fixation on the present moment and its teaching that craving is the cause of suffering render us passive consumers of experience instead of architects of its design.  By focusing on how to turn suffering into positivity in the here and now with no foresight in how to alleviate it in the future, we misconstrue all of life’s negativities as internal thought processes that can be spiritually bypassed in the present moment by not “attaching” to concepts of the world being otherwise.  It’s like a bandaid for reality.  Like, if only I can meditate and focus my thoughts, I’ll feel good for the short term.  If only I react positively to this negative experience, I can avoid suffering from it.

 

This leads me back to my point of toxic positivity and relativism.  Even when I criticize myself and the path I’m following, in my class this is met with “you need to extend yourself some compassion,” or “everyone has a different path to follow,” or “stop being so hard on yourself,” or “like that’s only one option out there, man.”  Even self-deprecation through humor is snuffed out for the feel-good vibes.  When what I am doing is growing and maturing in my thought enough to conceive of myself and my path negatively.  By justifying wrong actions or coddling it through moral relativism, this hinders growth.  Are these teachings here in the West meant to allow an individual to evolve and learn from their mistakes or simply to seek their acceptance internally as if there is no objective truth?  If life is suffering, then why can’t we allow ourselves to suffer?  To experience negativity for the sake of our maturity, self-reflection, and how we interact with others?  To suffer for the sake of a better future?

 

Finally, my last point.  A lot of my recent criticism of Western Buddhism in the class have been met with the same reactive toxic positivity and relativism.  Their responses, however, don’t seem to address the points I’m trying to make.  And this extends from me expressing my views in a pedantic manner.  The education system is broken in America.  My classmates, though they may hold college degrees and sport high paying jobs, they lack two fundamental traits—an eclectic vocabulary and critical reasoning ability.  But, what I’m arguing here, is that I believe that this mostly rests on how I am presenting my views.

 

In college, I was taught to write and speak using the vocabulary of the work I was studying.  That is, if I was studying a piece of philosophy using terms like “double-negation” or “hegemonic structures,” I was expected to incorporate those terms in my work.  “The goal is to utilize the language of the discipline.”  I read a lot of philosophy, psychology, and really heady, critical Buddhist theories that reflect the former two fields.  After spending 200+ pages in the grasp of certain terms and phrases, my writing reflects those as they have become ingrained in my mind as the proper way to express a given thought or idea.  What lacks is that, just because I supposedly understand them, I cannot expect my audience to have read those books or be familiar with those concepts.  So, when I criticize Buddhism for being another branch of “neoliberal ideology,” does anyone actually get what I’m saying?  Or do they get lost in the big words?

 

I find this annoying in my personal studies.  I don’t have an advanced degree, so when I read really technical philosophical works, the author might briefly reference another philosopher and a technical term from their work which is really important in how to understand the next subsequent chapters.  But I’m not familiar with that fucker or his terms, so I have to stop reading, research that guy and the context in which he uses a common word that he has hyphenated to differentiate it from its common usage and figure out what his specific meaning it has in this particular context.  Then go back to the original book I was reading so I can follow along with the author’s thought process as he begins to introduce his own complex vocabulary that, may be understood in post-graduate studies, but I’m not privy to.

 

What I’m doing and what this creates, is a hierarchy of thought.  Intellectuals criticize the average guy for not thinking for themselves, but how can they escape the mundane if revolutionary ideas are concealed in complex, disciplinary thought and terms?  It’s like placing a snack in the top of the cabinet and telling your toddler its their fault for not getting a cookie before bed because they are too short to reach it.  My point is, moving forward, I’m going to have to dumb down and explain my arguments more in depth in order for my classmates to understand them.  This does not mean I’m smarter or they are less smart, it’s just a matter of me being more well-read in specific areas.  And I can’t expect them to have the same interests as me and have studied the same works anymore than they could expect me to understand complex legal terms they studied while acquiring a law degree. 

 

By providing a simplistic narrative through which they can interact, maybe I can stimulate some actual intellectual discussion and break through the positivity and relativism?  The point isn’t to sound smart, but to use critical reasoning to engage the world and its plethora of ideas.  The problem is that language is not only a vehicle to carry us to new places, but it can also become a barrier.  A prime example was a study conducted on SAT scores probably over a decade ago now.  What it showed was that middle-class white students scored higher on certain parts of the test than individuals who were not of this demographic.  It was not that these other students were somehow less intelligent, but that the questions were framed in specific contexts, examples, and language that someone of a white middle-class background would be familiar with as opposed to someone outside of this upbringing.  The language and context of the questions became an obstacle and created a bias.

 

Maybe my language is doing the same? 

Class

 I really enjoyed these last few chapters.  Batchelor has a lot to unpack here.  I agree with his conclusion that Buddhism should be socially engaged, while at the same time not proselytizing itself as a sufficient philosophy—that is, something through with which to observe, view, and explain all reality.  Inherently, as he argues, Buddhism fails to explain the mind-independent world (objective reality); for that we have science.  Nor should we get lost in metaphysical questions pertaining to rebirth or karma.  But, as always, I’ve got to come off as some nerdy contrarian and mention some unnecessarily pedantic criticisms I uncovered in his arguments.

 

             In Freedom, Batchelor writes, “instead of accepting and understanding things as they are, we seek independence from them in the fiction of an isolated selfhood.”  The problem here is that two realities exist, and one bleeds into the other.  There’s the mind-independent reality (objective reality), then there is constructed reality (ideology).  Both exist as different forms of truth.  For example, daylight is longer in the summer and shorter in the winter.  This is mind-independent reality.  No matter what we do, we cannot change this, but we can prove that it is objectively true.  Constructed reality, however, is a truth derived at through society (ideology) and not falsifiable.  Such as Daylight Savings time.  We interpret mind-independent reality through the lens of our own ideology, thereby creating a conception of time that affords us more daylight for labor.  We can’t falsify this as an incorrect notion of time, but it becomes a truth by which all of us live.  We all change our clocks.

 

            So, what are we supposed to understand and accept “as they are?”  Mind-independent reality?  Or is it that we should accept constructed reality?  Or the interpretation of mind-independent reality through constructed reality?  Am I being asked, for example, to accept the celestial bodies as being what they are in their essence (objective reality), or viewing them as particular constellations resembling animals, people, etc. (constructed reality).  Or there’s even the option of applying our constructed reality onto the objective reality and interpreting these bodies as astrological signs that can predict the future.  So…what are these things I’m supposed to accept “as they are?”

 

            Batchelor writes, “when belief and opinion are suspended, the mind has nowhere to rest.  We are free to begin a radically other kind of questioning.”  But are we really free?  As I mentioned, we experience two realities.  We can neither free ourselves from mind-independent reality nor constructed reality.  Our minds are wrapped in and warped from ideology.  Even Batchelor’s infatuation with freedom is an extension of an ideological system (constructed reality) that values freedom.  In a different ideology, such as Confucianism, the collective good would subvert the desire for freedom.

 

            He adds, awakening “in refusing to be drawn into the answers of ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ ‘it is this’ and ‘it is not that,’ it lets go of extremes of affirmation and negation, something and nothing.”  But are we not “awakening” within an ideological system of presupposed, socially constructed truths?  “Fired with intensity, but free from turbulence and the compulsion for answers, questioning is content just to let things be.”  But how can we socially engage as Buddhists if we simply “let things be” and not question the truths of our ideological system?  He argues awakening “by its very nature it is free from the constraints of preconceived ideas, images, and doctrines.”  But it’s not.  We view EVERYTHING through the lens of ideology.  The very structure of Western Buddhism extends from Buddhist modernism, which has its origins in the Enlightenment which is a product of the Protestant Reformation.  Again, we are not free from ideology and “preconceived ideas.” 

 

            In pinpointing our sense of self as the disease in modern culture, Batchelor writes, “yet the very exercise of these freedoms in the service of greed, aggression, and fear has led to the breakdown of community, destruction of the environment, wasteful exploitation of resources, the perpetuation of tyrannies, injustices, and inequalities.”  This is not simply a consequence of not embracing anatman, it is a result of our ideological system.  As is this deep sense of self rampant in Western society, of individuality.  It is systematic of a larger whole of our cultural values, economic system, etc. and not an individual flaw as he argues. 

 

            In arguing for a socially engaged Dharma, Batchelor writes, “a culture of awakening cannot exist independently of the specific social, religious, artistic, and ethnic cultures in which it is embedded.”  And this is the very problem he then expounds upon.  “Through losing its [Engaged Dharma’s] inner integrity and critical edge, it could end up being swallowed by something else.”  Absolutely, YES!  Capitalism has this inherent quality that allows it to take something opposed to its existence and embrace it, allowing for its ideological system to perpetuate itself in its adversary.  What we witness now is capitalism’s embrace of the Dharma, which should otherwise inherently counter it through compassion, selflessness, and ethics.

 

            First, capitalism has commodified Buddhism.  Everyone wants those singing bowls from Tibet.  Little Buddha statues.  Prayer flags.  The bestestest zafus and zabutons are advertised in every Buddhist magazine along with expensive retreats and courses.  Robes, beads, bracelets, shirts, hats, bumperstickers, meditation apps.  The ideology implores us to express our “authentic self” materially as someone who is “spiritual but not religious,” so as to increase consumption in the multi-billion dollar “happiness industry.”

 

Second, Western Buddhism has become an inner journey to learn to accept the suffering caused by externalities (ideology) by internalizing them as personal failures.  Instead of engaging or confronting the ideology, it resigns to placating the internal suffering caused by the system through meditation, mindfulness, buying “Buddhist” self-help books, etc.  Tom Pepper in Cruel Theory/Sublime Practice argues, “we can produce a theory and practice of ideology open to endless transformation, allowing us to transform the world to reduce suffering, instead of adjusting our ‘selves’ to learn to better endure it.”  I like this argument.  While we cannot escape ideology, we can work through it the same way Debord argued we have to work through the “Society of the Spectacle” to work against it.  By reformulating our ideology from the inside, we can work against the status quo externally.  By externalizing the ethics and teachings of Buddhism, we can engage the world and change the ideological system. 

Weekly Insight for class

            With my criticism of Batchelor out of my system, his Friendship chapter touched on one of the issues I’ve had recently in regard to my practice.  This past month, I’ve spent a lot of time reading and reevaluating what I believe in and how I practice.  My doubts first extended from reading Emil Cioran’s On the Heights of Despair, which led to reading Glenn Wallis’ A Critique of Western Buddhism, and finally to stumbling across a smack-you-in-the-face line from philosopher Slavoj Zizek:

 

“Although Buddhism presents itself as the remedy for the stressful tension of capitalist dynamics, allowing us to uncouple and retain inner peace and Gelassenheit [self-surrender], it actually functions as capitalism’s perfect ideological supplement.”

           

            Let me unpack this.  I was so excited about my visit to the Zen center.  I wanted so badly to belong, to at last be an official Zen practitioner with the funny Japanese name and weird robes, that I willingly surrendered my autonomy.  This guru-student relationship that Batchelor criticizes in his Friendship chapter is alive and well in Zen.  In the fifteen-minute conversation I had with the Roshi, he determined I needed to alter my zazen routine, read a particular book, straighten my cushion, bow at a certain time, sit a certain way, face a certain way, and leave a donation on my way out.  Because that’s just how they do it in that tradition.  Ritual existed for the sake of ritual, to coerce servility and submission within a hierarchical structure.  I had to earn the right to sit shikantaza (just sitting), which had been my practice for eight years. 

 

            This rolls over into Zizek’s criticism.  At what point is Buddhism a transcendent practice if it only reenforces the status quo of neoliberal ideology?  It makes us focus on calming ourselves instead of confronting externalities.  What could I hope to gain from submitting myself to the “guru” and traditions of Zen practice aside from becoming an even more servile worker/citizen, focusing on achieving inner-peace (or satori) as opposed to challenging the negative aspects of my workplace/society from which the need to achieve inner-peace originates?  It instills a passivity, a drive to accept “reality as it is” as opposed to what it could, should, or ought to be.  Is this not a renunciation?  A withdrawal?  Are not all structures manmade and impermanent, capable of being challenged and changed?  Do the hierarchal traditions that Batchelor criticizes facilitate growth, a need to evolve, or seek to suppress it?  Only reinforcing some sense of belonging, of assimilation, of agreement, and submission?  Even to the extent that these rituals supposedly exist to negate the sense self, do they really catalyze its cessation, or merely reevaluate and redefine its presence?  Do they snuff out the self or merely the will to assert one’s former conception of self, reinventing and molding the notion of the self from within the tradition—with a self sporting a shaved head, a Japanese name, a self having taken certain precepts, following certain rules.  Is this not what the military accomplishes?  Destroying the old self to rebuild a new self from the ground up?

 

            In the chapter Resolve, Batchelor writes, “anguish emerges from craving for life to be other than it is.”  This is true.  But does this mean we become passive, disengaged, and become an island unto ourselves, instead of engaging the inequality, climate change, greed, racism, sexism, homophobia, poverty, starvation, conflict, war, etc. so present in our neoliberal ideological system?  Are we left sitting in a room, alone on a cushion, trying to assimilate ourselves to a moral and ethical structure in a world that our inner compass screams out against in rebellion?  Are we not seeking inner peace to calm our cognitive dissonance?  To suppress the experiences of exploitation, depression, anxiety, and burnout—all of which is systemic of our socioeconomic structure?

 

            I agree with Batchelor’s argument that “at times, we may retreat: disentangling ourselves from social and psychological pressures in order to reconsider our life in a quiet and supportive setting.  At times we may engage with the world: responding empathetically and creatively to the anguish of others.”  One must have a clear head with which to respond to the world.  But at the same time, we cannot stay there, fixated on ourselves.  Because if there is no self, why are we so fixated on “fixing” it?  If we solely focus on our inner needs and fail to focus on our external reality, do we not run the risk of succumbing to narcissism?  My main struggle, my doubt, rests within the question: is Western Buddhism simply self-help?  Or is it a moral and ethical system through which to engage the world?  Is it a withdraw or a motivation?  Does it reinforce every negative thing present in our society by affording us a means to stomach and accept it, or does it exist to challenge and alter those sufferings?  Or is it all of those things?  None of those things?  Something completely different than what we perceive or want it to be? 

 

Like Batchelor, I’m agnostic in that I don’t know.  I’m left with my doubt.  And seeking answers like the second arrow in the Buddhist parable.  Is Buddhism a sufficient philosophy, in that we solely need to seek answers from within the tradition?  Or do we need to seek answers outside and in contradiction to its teachings?  And not try to seek the justification of its practice through science, secularism, humanism, etc.  But to view it as only one lens through which to observe reality?  Not an all-encompassing objective truth?  I don’t know.  That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

Musings on death

“Like a cowherd driving cattle

to a pasture with a staff,

so aging and death

drive human life.”

—Buddha, Dhammapada

 

            My mind for the last few months has been overly fixated on aging and death.  I’ve noticed changes in my body.  One I will not discuss here.  The other noticeable change has been to the color of my nails.  I am not one afflicted with hypochondria.  Every time I have gone to the doctor with a self-diagnosed illness, I have been correct.  A doctor once asked me why I felt so confident in my diagnosis.  “I eliminate the zebra.” I replied.  I understand that when looking out onto a field of equines in the American midwest, logic points to them being horses as opposed to something exotic like a zebra.  Meaning, I look to the most logical, not the most shocking, cause of my symptoms.

 

            Over the past few months, I have noticed all of my toenails lose their pink hue and turn a milk-like white color across the nail bed up to the distal edge which is a reddish-brown color.  This, per all the pictures I’ve compared them to, is identical with a condition known as Terry’s Nails, which is most commonly associated with cases of liver cirrhosis.  Essentially, what has happened, is that a disruption in circulation has caused the nail plate to separate from the bed.  Now this is happening on my left hand.  My pinky is not quite white yet, but pale, with only a red band at the distal edge visible.  My ring finger is slowly turning the same.    

 

            I try to think of alternatives to liver cirrhosis.  Iron deficiency, perhaps my pre-diabetes has evolved into type II?  But all this pales to the notion of me pouring alcoholic beverages into my body almost every day for nearly two decades.  It’s the most logical cause.  And that leads me to different lines of thought…

 

            First, I can imagine myself dying of liver failure.  Being remembered with disdain with retorts such as “he drank himself to death.”  Verbal sighs of “he was so gifted, but he wasted his talent.”  A general embarrassment for my parents to explain the cause of my demise.  There would be nothing tragic about the death, it would be conceived of in violence.  It would generate anger that I had willfully forced this end upon myself.  Something that could have been avoided, something that was, essentially, done with intent.  As if it were a suicide of sorts.

 

            Second, I think about why I drink.  I don’t physically need to drink.  I started drinking because it countered my anxiety and allowed me to socialize.  After that, it became a cure for boredom.  Little actually stimulates me.  I find my job boring.  I find my home life boring.  When I was in school, I found that boring.  Most people I find boring.  I enjoy heady, intellectual stuff.  But that typically leaves me reading a book with no outlet to further explore whether I’ve grasped the concepts or failed.  I interact with them unchallenged by the other—which is the great equalizer in all things.  No one is interested in what I have to talk about.  Mostly they have no idea what I’m talking about.  Nothing challenges me.  I was disillusioned when I first went to college because I found it too easy.  I drank and did drugs for a semester and somehow found a spot on the Dean’s List for GPA.  So, I grew rebellious.  Challenging myself through procrastination to churn out some work of art at the last minute.  I arrived late to class or simply didn’t show.  I became a slacker because I found no stimulation to keep my interest.  Furthermore, alcohol allows me to engage with the other.  Sober, I have no interest in common conversations.  The bottle provides a synthetic intrigue in things I would otherwise finding boring, if only for the sake of conversation.  It makes mundane things entertaining.

 

            Third, there’s a part of me that fears death.  But another finds it interesting and engaging.  It’s the ultimate unknown, the greatest adventure.  I’m not sure I would find it unwelcoming.  My own conception of death is that it is a reentry into the place before birth—a nothingness without any notion of time, place, or being.  That would certainly cure my incessant boredom.  To exist in the absence of feeling.  Then again, being physically able to endure in this struggle known as existence also is a great unknown, an adventure.  To see it through into old age and helplessness.  To experience every aspect of this being-in-the-world.  But will I be able to?  Or have I already doomed myself with vice?  Is an option out there?

 

            I haven’t been to a doctor.  And I don’t know what that would help.  Sure, it would curb my speculation with hard, scientific facts.  But what would it help if I learned I only had 3-5 years left?  I couldn’t get a transplant.  I’m an alcoholic.  Other, more well-deserving people, need those things for the sake of their families.  Would a diagnosis cause me to live in perpetual fear, an all-consuming anxiety while counting down the days?  The whole purpose of life is living with the knowledge that you’re going to die yet ignoring its presence.  Would it not be better to pretend I will live forever and maintain my peace of mind?  That is a question as to whether to live with delusion.  But isn’t the nature of life itself a state of living in delusion?  We have to ascertain meaning in spite of the absurdity, in the face of our finitude.  Isn’t every action toward some goal an inherently futile endeavor?—deceiving ourselves of the fact that we will die and everything we strive for and build is entirely pointless.  Yet we do it anyway.  Why not embrace the illusion?  Live like I have nothing wrong, that I have a long, bright future ahead of me?

 

            I don’t know.  Part of me is afraid.  Part of me accepts whatever fate deals.  Part of me welcomes it.  But mostly I don’t know what I think or feel in totality.  I just have a mishmash of this feeling and that.  Parts that only describe a whole engulfed in uncertainty.  I feel like I’m in limbo, situated between life and death.  And I don’t feel strongly either way.  Each has potential pros and cons.  I’m not a depressed person.  I try to think things rationally.  And I can’t be afraid of death, the great unknown, when I already know the sufferings and hurdles of life.  And I can’t be afraid of life, as I don’t know if death will provide any certain relief.  I’m just stuck in the middle.  Between being and nothingness.  Playing the “wait-and-see” game.  Aloof and distant from both alternatives.  And with that, I guess I’ll pour another pint.  Vape a little.  And throw back some caffeine as a pick-me-up.  As the Bad Religion song proclaims, “We’re only gonna die!”

Alone in the crowd

            I’ve had four days off work.  For the most part, I spent those days alone.  What I’ve noticed since I’ve moved is that I feel even more content in solitude.  More so than I ever have.  In the past, many points where I dubiously claimed I preferred to be alone, that was mere posturing, a projection of my loneliness as some feigned inner strength.  But now, things are different.  I enjoy my solitude.  I enjoy being alone and left to my own devices.  Undisturbed in my intellectual pursuits, I’m no longer posting on social media from some deep desire for attention or to be liked, some need to belong.  I no longer endlessly message friends to entertain me as the hours drag by in boredom.  Ennui is not a curse now, but a welcomed friend; in its presence, I discover motivation, a compulsion to stimulate myself in spite of it.

 

            In the past two months, I’ve read somewhere near twenty books—philosophy, Buddhism, Hinduism, politics, psychology, etc.  Not to mention audiobooks, podcasts, and articles.  I finally have a space to explore myself and my mind.  What I was missing, all along, I found in rediscovering parts of me and particular pursuits I had lost so many years ago.  Whether it was in relationships, college, work, being a barfly, or lately religion, I had forgotten that I once espoused deeply held views on the world, society, and politics.  Now, when I delve into them, I’m more mature, more patient, more experienced so that I may disregard naïve views and be open enough to entertain new concepts and unravel conflicting and complex theories.  I feel more confident yet less arrogant as I was in my youth (though still quite arrogant by most standards).

 

            Even with the presence of my roommate, our shared space exists in a degree of absence.  Our varied shifts limit our interaction with each other outside of work.  But even then, we speak, only briefly, about work on our way out the door or upon arriving home.  Sometimes we discuss what we plan to eat.  Outside of that, he either plays video games in his room or silently watches anime, while I read, write on my iPad, or listen to something on my airPods.  To each other, we are little more than goldfish in a bowl.  To be interacted with when it’s feeding time and otherwise left alone and only occasionally noticed.  Our personalities are similar, in that we don’t require stimulation from the other; we are content within ourselves and our solitude.

 

            What I have noticed is, it is only in crowds that I feel alone and isolated, like an island unto myself.  The crowd instills a sense of claustrophobia, an overwhelming suffocation.  As if the walls of people smother my freedom, strangle my comfort, and shatter my calm.  I think of crowds like a raging thunderstorm that startles me from a deep sleep.  In the gaze of the other, only then do I conceive of myself as alone, as somehow separate from the world and distinct.  They are not me, nor I them.  I may exchange glances while avoiding eye contact, maintaining a physical and emotional distance.  Like me, they have an agenda, a purpose, in entering the crowd.  I don’t matter to them.  They are buying groceries, vapes, shopping for a new TV, renewing their driver’s license.  Only in their reflection do I sense my self.  Not only my insecurities but also my anonymity and how little I matter, the same as their presence matters little to me.  I, too, am there for a purpose and it is not to be concerned with them.

 

            They are random faces like specks of dust scattered on a TV screen, indistinct and, reflecting upon their gaze, I recognize I appear the same to them.  My presence is not felt by them outside of the crowd.  It is only in the mass that others are noticed like some looming rat king, each body nearly intertwined with the next, impatiently moving and scurrying in a giant mass—the horde.  Individually, people seem unimposing and easily ignored, but amassed together, they are like a line of charging soldiers, bayonets gleaming in the sun.  They induce a fear, like a wall of eyes watching your every move as if waiting for a mistake.  But then you remind yourself that you, individually, are easily ignored.  Even in the crowd, the horde, you are indistinguishable from the next featureless face.

 

            But the terror of perceiving the horde, of being part of it, is overwhelming.  All compulsions in your being scream for retreat, a general route to regroup in the comfort and solitude of your home.  Even immersed in the crowd, you feel like you stand out, and in standing out you feel cutoff from the other.  This sensation begs you to somehow belong, to assert your conception of self, to interact and integrate, to break down the barriers between I and though.  The self and other.  But a wall exists, an implied social imperative not to intrude on a stranger, to not disturb their purpose, to not break into their bubble.  And you feel alone, surrounded by others.  A part of the horde yet still isolated and distant, unable or unwilling to connect.

 

            As if from the outside, you observe yourself, your labored breathing, your increasing pulse, the unsteady legs connecting you to the ground, and you suddenly lose yourself inside of yourself.  Hands tremble, sweat beads on your forehead.  Perception heightens to every gaze that pierces you, even in passing.  As if not recognizing they are looking through you, beyond you, attending to their own purpose and needs.  Suddenly you become afraid of being seen, sensed, observed.  The fear sets in.  Not out of some inward shyness, but because you abruptly feel how alone you truly are.  A mere speck, lost in thought, in this all-too-huge world.

 

            It is not in solitude, but solely within the other, the horde, that I feel alone.  Not only that, but I feel lonely for the horde.  For each individual face I ignore, every body I pass walking down the aisle.  Perhaps, deep within, our souls are secretly crying out, reaching for a touch that reassures us we are still here, that we exist, that we feel the same alienation everyone else feels.  Just we are all too afraid to extend an arm, to embrace.  We shy away and withdraw into ourselves.  Neither wants to intrude or interfere, and so we exit the crowd and return to solitude.  Content only in the idea that while alone, we will always have the company of ourselves.  And in our own reflection, we know we’ll be understood and accepted.

In defense of wonder: Thoughts on mysticism 

            Diverting my attention away from Buddhism for a bit, I embarked on a study of a political topic I found profound in my mid-twenties—anarchism.  I read An Anarchist’s Manifesto by Glenn Wallis, the author of A Critique of Western Buddhism.  He referenced Murray Bookchin, who’s intimidating work The Ecology of Freedom I still had resting on my bookshelf collecting dust, unread from over a decade ago.  Having more patience in my old age, plus a good amount of zazen practice to boot, I set out to tackle that lengthy, 400+ page book.  What it is, is an anarchist argument for a different form of social organization without hierarchy.  What I didn’t expect to discover was an argument against New Age ecology movements focused on natural mysticism, paganism, etc.

 

            His arguments against oneness, immanence, and communing with the cosmos as hippy nonsense struck me with two contrary feelings I had to debate and later reconcile in my mind.  These concepts he rails against as impediments to scientific and logical discourse, I once adamantly professed and expounded upon regarding Zen.  And I don’t think either Bookchin or Zen, for that matter, are entirely correct.  I think, however, each holds a piece to the puzzle.

 

What I understood from reading A Critique of Western Buddhism was that each manifestation of Buddhism (Zen, Tibetan, Theravada, etc.) is self-referential.  They apply circular logic.  Wallis refers to the various schools collectively as “x-buddhism,” the “x” representing a placeholder for each individual tradition.  I found his argument compelling based on an example from another book I started reading but did not understand, Being-Time by Shinshu Roberts.  In a passage, she justifies Zen Master Dogen’s teaching that nothing obstructs the activity of anything else.  This is clearly false.  But she justifies this as true by self-referencing Zen’s practice of “going beyond the intellect.”  Even though it does not make logical sense, it is true because we have to think about it outside of our logical mind.  Thus, a raindrop striking a branch is not obstructed by a branch because the raindrop does not experience the sensation of being obstructed, neither does the branch obstruct because it lacks the intention of obstructing.  Which is just a bunch of linguistic wordplay.  Despite being illogical and blatantly untrue, it becomes true by justifying it through the lens of Zen philosophy.  Thus, the wisdom within Zen becomes true only through self-referencing its own tradition and processes of thought—one big circle.  Which obviously does not hold up to objective reality.

 

What we are left with is the Real being separate and distant from the practice of Zen.  The teaching creates its own subjective real instead of being created and formed by the Real.  It would be like me claiming to be a giraffe and forcing everyone to conform to the idea that I am a yellow, long-necked creature that enjoys a steady diet of hard-to-reach vegetation.  How do I know?  Because I said so!  In that scenario, I’m creating my own subjective real, as opposed to forming an identity from the Real.  Which would place me as a six-foot, 175-pound white, human male with a receding hairline.  Only from that factual experience of the Real could I then formulate notions of identity, purpose, etc.  Another example of this self reference of x-buddhist “truth”affirming its on trueth would be the argument: “The Bible is true!”  Why?  “Because it says so in the Bible!”

 

Bookchin, on the other hand, working solely from a scientific foundation, makes a valid argument.  But when taken outside the context of ecology, I think it misses out on the inherent mystery of life.  A certain mystical aspect does exist, a spiritual nature is alive within all of us, functioning as a drive for meaning, purpose, truth, and a desire to commune with something greater than ourselves.  For some, its God or gods.  For others its Tao.  And for Buddhism it is the “ultimate nature of reality,” the world “as it is.”  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, and it’s still something I’m deeply enamored with.  But at the same time, a fusion must exist as well as a separation between the two lines of thought—scientific and mystical/religious.

 

Science cannot prove or disprove the existence of God, gods, or mystical claims of people who say meditation led them to experience “the ultimate reality.”  These are metaphysical claims.  At the same time, we cannot let these beliefs create their own inner logic and circular truths and interfere with the realm where scientific experimentation establishes objective truth.  Bookchin is correct in not allowing mysticism to influence an ecological argument, though mystical beliefs I don’t feel can be disregarded altogether outside of this particular context.  They should be kept separate and distinct from science to an extent.  Certain religious beliefs can be disproven with science.  And we must accept that and move on.  But metaphysics begins where science fails.  It is from within mysticism, religious experiences, and metaphysics that we enrich our lives with the mysteries of the universe, of reality, creating art and beauty, wonder.  Each needs a little peppering of the other to be complete.  Because when science affirms that it has reached the end of knowledge, so too does wonder surrender itself.

After Buddhism

“For Western Buddhism, the flinch entails a healthy adaptation to reality, the alleviation of stress, and even the end of suffering. Of course, it also means collusion with a political and economic status quo that, like it, places the blame for success or failure, happiness or misery, on the degree to which the individual is able to recognize his or her vulnerability, adapt to the circumstances, and master resilience through an internalized practice of mindful letting go. For psychoanalysis this means the perpetuation of the disease.”

—Glenn Wallis, A Critique of Western Buddhism

 

Yesterday, upon deep reflection, I renounced my identification as a Buddhist.  I texted my coworkers and brother about it.  They presumed I was intoxicated.  That was only partially true.  My reaction was truly that of grief and mourning, as if I were separating from some long-standing romantic relationship.  And I was attempting to make light of my internal upheaval.  The conclusion I reluctantly came to in researching and contemplating the Dharma, to sever ties, was traumatic.  I spent almost a decade of my life attached to the Buddha’s teachings.  They guided me through many tough times.  I had relied on them in times of stress, depression, and disillusion.  To contemplate my life without them was akin to perceiving the dark road of single life at the end of a relationsip—a chasm, a blackhole, a void.  I experienced existential despair.

 

Nietzsche discussed this overwhelmingly empty feeling by mourning the death of God.  For, in His absence, what would become of morality?  Without universally agreed upon codes of conduct, would the world inevitably dissolve into nihilism and chaos?  Without the Dharma to guide my inner orientation, what paths will I stumble down?  By dismantling the structures around me, will I too succumb to nihilism?

 

I don’t think so.

 

Like I’ve mentioned in a previous post, I think of this breakup in the context of Buddha’s parable about the raft.  Once the raft (the Dharma) is utilized to cross the river, do you continue to cling to it (the teachings) and carry it with you, or do you leave it behind?  Recognizing it served a purpose and function in a given place and time?  I’m leaving the raft behind. 

 

There are things I still enjoy about Buddhism.  I just have come to realize it cannot be the end-all-be-all concept through which I perceive reality.  Too often I found myself attempting to fit the world into a narrow Buddhist view, which didn’t really work or make sense.  After all, it is a 2,500-year-old belief system that had no foresight to conceive of our modern society, all the technology and its problems.  In attempts to bend and mold the practice to fit within our contemporary framework, to make sense of modern reality, we necessarily pervert the teachings for our own ends by reinterpreting them to conform to our own norms and values.  As such, it becomes a passive reinforcer of the status quo and perpetuates vicious cycles of political apathy and inward fixation. 

 

What I have come to understand is that, just like various philosophies I don’t completely agree with, I can pick and choose certain key features of Buddhism that help me navigate the world without identifying with the practice as a whole.  I don’t have to be a Buddhist to take what I learned from Buddhism to be a better person.  I still do not intend to give up sitting zazen, for example.  And I probably won’t let my hair grow out.  I’ll still participate in my Dharma studies class.  So, this relationship takes on the traits of maintaining a friendship with an ex-girlfriend. 

In the end, I learned that I know very little about a whole lot.  Every new book shines a light on topics I was previously confident about discussing, only to come to terms with a new insight I had apparently been ignorant of.  My main mistake with all of this was that I fed into an internal algorithm which, like Facebook or Youtube, constantly distracted me with views and concepts I already agreed with.  Sure, maybe they had a slightly different flavor, but my palate was already open to that spice.  In studying contradictory theories, my own preconceived understandings held no weight.  And I was forced to adapt or perish in face of the real.  I had to let my idealism die.

 

I’m still distraught, in a sense, as these teachings and their practice consumed a large portion of my life and identity.  But, to grow and develop, you have to lose your baby teeth.  You have to buy new shoes, new clothes that fit, and adapt to reality as you mature.  You can’t cling or mourn what you’ve lost, because with every evolution and loss, you inevitably gain something more, something fresh and new.  Just as, when confronted with contradictory views, something within you has to change.  Otherwise, you become stagnant and ignorant.

The apostate: Texts with my brother

Me: “I don’t think I’m a Buddhist anymore.”

 

Brother: “How come?”

 

Me: “Buddhism is so well accepted in the west bc it reflects neoliberal ideology.  Depression and anxiety are no longer perceived as externally caused by socioeconomic structures but as inner ailments.  Western Buddhism preaches self-help, which works, you will be happy.  But passive and disengaged from changing the power structures that forced you inward to accept and reconcile the external conditions that leave you alienated and burned out.”

 

Brother: “First grade it for me.”

 

Me: “Have a shitty job?  It’s not the job!  It’s you!  You need to learn to accept reality as it is, just let it go.  Not attach to preferences like joy or disdain.  Learn to seek happiness through your source of unhappiness instead of changing the environment or finding contentment elsewhere.  Remember, it’s your fault for perceiving the nature of your job as shitty and unfulfilling.”       

 

Brother: “So buddhism is nihilism?”

 

Me: “Almost.  If anything it’s a renunciation.  A withdrawal from action.  By seeking internal liberation, it negates the presence of externalities.  It resigns to the status quo instead of confronting it.  It is passive inaction.”

 

Brother: “So you don’t like it anymore because it makes you feel bad?  That’s fair.  You should find things that you enjoy rather than things to tell you how you should enjoy them.”

 

Me: “It’s not that it makes me feel bad.  It makes me feel really good.  But so does drinking.  They are

both inner withdrawals that avoid confronting external realities which are hard and rough.

 

Brother: “Have you continued with a therapist?  That can also help face those realities and give you the tools to deal with them in healthier ways than religion or drinking.”

 

Me: “I’m not unhappy, depressed, or anxious.  I just had a philosophical falling out with Buddhism.  Also, those “tools” are derived from Buddhist mindfulness.  Which again disengages from externalities of actively changing your environment and focuses inwardly to allow you to accept those external dissatisfactions. In other words, if you stepped on a nail (externality), would you rather learn to accept the presence and pain of the nail (inwardness)?  Or pull it out (changing the external conditions)?

 

Brother: “I think not being okay with your surroundings is good.  Means you want to grow and do more.  There’s nothing wrong with that.”

 

I don’t think my brother gets what I’m talking about.  Nothing I’m referring to is essentially personal or referential to me.  It’s not about my job, personal depression, anxiety, etc.  Those are examples of how Buddhism does not address the true causes of dissatisfaction (suffering), dukka, but redirects it internally.  As if each individual is the sole source of their own discontent.  Not their reaction to unjust and absurd power structures, but an inherent flaw within their psyche and being.  And if there is no self, how can there be an I that internalizes suffering as their own?  An I that either succumbs to dukka or is liberated?  Again, from my previous posts, this inwardness only reinforces a redefined explanation of selfhood instead of negating it.  I suffer because I alone create my own suffering.  Externalities are ignored. 

 

            While many problems do originate in the psyche and reflect how we perceive of the world, not all is individual.  Many problems exist within our society.  And these will go unaddressed and ignored so long as we solely focus on ourselves, the things that supposedly don’t exist.  Buddhism preaches so much to be a better self, which again they say doesn’t exist, while creating the illusion that outside problems do not exist, and their influence is unimportant.  At what point does an abused spouse leave their partner instead of focusing inwardly and trying to discern how they can not cause their partner to grow angry and violent?  They inwardly teach themselves to walk on eggshells, to negate their own being-in-the-world, by appeasing the externality instead of confronting and challenging the conditions that results in their dissatisfaction, dukka. 

 

            Buddhism talks a good talk about accepting things beyond our control.  But my argument here, is that it pacifies us into believing that, like sickness, old age, and death, all things in this world are beyond our control and therefore should be accepted.  At what point do you assert yourself (this thing that does not exist).  At what point do you challenge the externalities instead of blaming yourself.  By changing yourself, you don’t alter the conditions that created this dukka.  If you don’t like eating fucking pineapples on pizza, don’t sit there and meditate until you accept them.  Pick them off.  Even in acceptance, you still don’t enjoy those damn pineapples.  So why resign yourself to them?  Put yourself into the world and not withdraw from it.  Assert, challenge, criticize, confront. 

 

            Accept what you cannot change…and have the courage to change the rest.

The cynic

For class we had to read the first three chapters of Buddhism Without Beliefs by Stephen Batchelor.  Yeah, I’m on a downward spiral, as can be noted in my writing here…

 

            I thoroughly enjoyed Buddhism Without Beliefs when I first came to this practice eight years ago.  In fact, it was one of the books that pushed me into further investigating the teachings.  In hindsight, I was operating off of a bias.  Being an atheist with an interest in Buddhism, I purposely selected a work that reflected my own aversion to religious dogma and belief structures and subsequently never challenged the assertions of the author.  Because I desperately wanted to be able to reconcile my lack of faith with a practice the majority of the world conceives of as a religion.

 

            Though Batchelor argues for a form of Buddhism without beliefs (agnosticism), he does so only by presenting certain presupposed beliefs of his own.  What he argues for here, I remember from college.  In the context of interpreting the constitution, it’s referred to as “Originalism”—that is, an interpretation of a work based on the original intent of the authors and the context of how it was understood at the time of writing.  In contrast to the constitution, however, we have no written records from the time of the Buddha.  The earliest writings existed centuries after the Buddha’s death, though they first were most certainly transmitted orally.  By presuming that original Buddhism lacked the trappings of a religion and existed merely as a secular practice, a series of “tasks,” Batchelor takes a number of personal liberties and speculation that, in turn, comprise a belief structure from which he articulates his further arguments.

 

            The main issue with “originalism” is that, despite attempting to place our mindset within the cultural, social, political, and historical context of the authors, we unwittingly do so only by reinterpreting these through our own system of ethics, values, and norms and subconsciously project them onto those authors.  In other words, we cannot escape the structures of our own environment and reality in order to purely ascertain original context, intent, and meaning.  Which is apparent in the rephrasing of the Four Noble Truths as a series of “tasks.”  This interpretation is an extension of a mind deeply absorbed in neoliberal ideology where everything is viewed in the contexts of productivity, action, and achievement—work.  It is not enough to contemplate, understand, or grasp the Four Noble Truths, work must be done.  No room exists for vita contemplativa; the vita activa of modern late-capitalist society must be appeased.

 

He asserts that “in encountering contemporary culture, the dharma may recover its agnostic imperative.”  This operates off a belief, without historical evidence, that original Buddhism was somehow later corrupted with religiosity by the time it was written, and furthermore how it was perceived as it ventured West.  While Batchelor admits “[Buddha] was nonetheless a creature of those times,” he still insists on identifying his teachings by applying the modern concept of agnosticism.  Buddha was not free of metaphysical speculation, as Batchelor suggests.  He was deeply ingrained with the Axial Age Indian notions of karma and rebirth.  (I recently read the Bhagavad Gita, which contains a lot of concepts that are reflected or rejected in the Buddha’s teachings.  Pointing to a common theme in that region and place in time.)  In fact, the whole purpose of seeking enlightenment was to find a cessation to this endless cycle of birth and death through the achievement of Nirvana (which we read in Buddha).  “This is the last birth,” Buddha claimed.  If we define a metaphysical claim as that which science cannot explain, Buddha’s assertion isa metaphysical claim.

 

My criticism of Batchelor is not his aim at secularizing the religion, but his means.  He tries to justify what is otherwise simply a natural evolution of Buddhism.  This practice has taken on the characteristics of each culture it has spread to.  Per David Hinton in China Root, the origin of Japanese Zen, for example, comes from the mixing of Indian Buddhism with Chinese Taoism, before being introduced to Japan and taking on other local quirks there.  Thus, it should be assumed that by it traveling Westward to Europe and the Americas, Buddhism would reflect the cultural dynamic of that region.  The practice necessarily should be expected to take on neoliberal values and intertwine with philosophies from the enlightenment, romanticism, humanism, existentialism, etc.  No justification necessary.

 

What I hope for in Secular Buddhism is a transparency, an admission, that the end goal is to reconcile a 2,500-year-old practice with a modern, entirely different world.  Not some attempt to justify it as its true form.  Through this secular adaption of the Dharma, we are essentially draining it through a sieve, funneling out all the supernatural phenomena, dogma, and religious ritual that was present for centuries so it can easily fit into our humanistic worldview.  In the absence of religion, it becomes a philosophy, a psychology, a practice, a science.  That needs no justification through “originalism” as, again, it’s just the natural evolution of the teachings as they ventured West.  But we have to be cognizant of what THIS is.  This Buddhism we all enjoy is not the same as what Buddha taught, precisely.  Even though Batchelor painstakingly argues such.  What we have are centuries of adaption, schisms, reinventions, and reinterpretation.  How much was lost in translation, in the transition from oral to written form?  We may never truly understand the “original intent” of the Buddha.  And we have to be ok with that.  As with the constitution, the Dharma is a “living, breathing” thing that is constantly in flux and evolving.  Even if we don’t want it to be.

Ramblings on doubt and criticism

 Firmly planted within my doubt, in further researching Emil Cioran’s understanding of Buddhism, by dumb luck I stumbled across the concept of non-buddhism (lower case intentional).  This led to the discovery of an overly expensive book, A Critique of Western Buddhism by Glenn Wallis.  Fortunately an online copy exists.  What I learned in the first thirty pages completely unraveled my 75+ books worth of Buddhist “understanding” and “knowledge.”  And I proceeded to intertwine this with what I’ve studied from Debord, Cioran, and Byung-Chul Han.

 

Something I well knew, but had only the inklings of applying to modern Buddhism, is that every manifestation of phenomena does not take place in a vacuum.  Everything exists within a particular moment in history, a context, an ideology, social structure, etc.  All these influence whatever thought, event, movement, art, music, or philosophy it produces.

 

While I understood that the secular mindfulness movement, severed from its religious foundations, only acted to reinforce and perpetuate the neoliberal status quo, I had never realized that the whole of modern Buddhism, even in its traditional Eastern forms, is a Western conception.  Though it’s well-accepted that Buddhism blended and adapted wherever it was introduced, our modern form finds its origins in Sri Lanka where European explorers brought ideas from the Enlightenment and Romanticism which intertwined with a then struggling form of Buddhism.  This new form flourished and wrestled control away from the Christian influence before spreading to other parts of Asia and then to the West. 

 

One of my main criticisms of Buddhism is that, in America particularly, it takes the shape of the ultimate self-help workbook, par excellence.  Stripped of its supernatural undertones and metaphysics, it becomes a placebo, a therapist, to counteract the alienation and exploitation of our late-capitalist, neoliberal society.  We focus on working on ourselves instead of confronting or challenging a system that drains and isolates us, destroys the earth.  We become cannibals, consuming ourselves to promote a never ending cycle of consumption.  Our society has redefined the ouroboros.  Instead of a never-ending cycle of death and rebirth, the serpent will ultimately consume itself entirely, from which there will be no return.

 

In the case of “engaged Buddhism,” we merely promote a façade of engagement while accomplishing nothing in reality.  We produce an image, a facebook photo, of revolutionary involvement which the power structures disregard by embracing and entertaining the image (the spectacle), knowing full well that the aims of the movement are empty and don’t truly agitate the powers-that-be.  It does not truly seek change, but a picturesque, neatly trimmed, illusion.  Revolution, in all reality, is not a Kodak moment; it is messy and chaotic, leaving only the ruins of a foundation from which to rebuild.

 

All that transpires, for example, is that a politician may share a tweet from one of these “engaged Buddhist” organizations or make a cameo at a rally as if they support the struggle by concocting a counter-image that these concerns are seen and heard, while meanwhile doing all they can to maintain the status quo through policy and action that not only created these factions and gave them a voice, but further fuels them, thereby creating a vicious cycle where those very factions continue their same routine, in vain, accomplishing nothing more than perpetual virtue signaling and sharing of images while the power structures maintain power.  And the situation on the ground remains the same.  In other words, the status quo produces images of protest, which are then met with acceptance, only to later be ignored.  The prescription: rewatching the same rerun that’s been airing on repeat for the last decade.

 

I agree with Cioran’s tongue-in-cheek assertion that no one every died from another’s suffering.  Compassion is insulting.  When I feel compassion, I feel pity, I observe the suffering in another while not feeling it within myself.  I only know of that suffering by witnessing it, not experiencing it.  It’s no different than seeing death and war on TV. Inside, I remain ignorant, detached, distant.  I feel for the other but I cannot conceive of their pain.  Pain and suffering are intensely personal and individual.  Each person’s trauma is their own world, in which nothing exists outside of itself.  The universe in its infinity suddenly becomes claustrophobic, the walls close in.  I definitely don’t feel that when I witness the other suffering; it is outside of my bubble.

 

One of the main tenants of Buddhism is compassion.  Hell, there’s a whole bodhisattva dedicated to compassion.  But is compassion any more than Cioran’s sarcastic assertion?  Does it really “benefit all sentient beings” like the bodhisattva vow dictates?  Or is there something selfish beneath its surface?  And if so, does that not taint the supposed selfless nature of Buddhist ethics and open it up to criticism?  Maybe not in theory, but in practice?  Let’s examine…

 

When a homeless person asks for change and I give them five dollars, this action is not selfless, it’s not altruistic by any means.  Compassion is no different than a sip of bourbon.  With bourbon you feel good at the expense of your health.  In this example of compassion, you feel good at the expense of your wallet.  As with bourbon, you don’t fully comprehend the immediate damage the drink is doing, nor do you miss its proper functioning.  All that matters is that feeling you receive.  Same with the five dollars.  It’s such a minuscule amount that most of us won’t even notice.  But the immediate gratification of feeling selfless, of doing “good,” of caring for the other, that endows us with a brief sense of moral superiority, as if we are somehow, in that moment, better than our peers.  We’re inherently doing nothing to permanently alleviate the other’s suffering, but providing a bandaid that says: we fucking care.  And that makes us feel good.  So good, we’ll show you!  Hashtag: altruism, Hashtag: helpingthehomeless, Hashtag: OneLove.  Facebook photo op with the homeless guy, anyone? 

 

We don’t really care about some random stranger.  All we care about is how we are perceived.  In other words, even in this act of expressing pity (compassion), we are only divulging our inherent narcissism, our ego, to boost our social standing and importance.  To look like a good Buddhist.  We act only to receive.  In the Hindu text the Bhagavad Gita, Lord Krishna implores Arjuna that while we are compelled to act, we cannot attach to the fruits of our actions.  He goes on to explain that those who act without focusing on the potential reward of their actions are pure, they are selfless and only acting in accordance to a higher yearning.  Those who act with regard to the implied benefits of their actions are acting only with passion.  This passion is materialistic and does not seek anything spiritual or transcending.  There is no enlightenment.  They grasp at the illusion of impermanent objects that will only decay and fade away. 

 

Is this any different from modern Buddhism?  I attached to Zen, supposedly to embrace a spiritual path.  But am I not still attached to the fruits of my actions—to appearances and signifiers?  Instead of embracing the concept of no-self, I created an alternate conception of my own ego to identify with and force others to acknowledge.  I shaved my head.  I acted with passion.  Krishna’s definition of passion is not some fire that burns for enlightenment and wisdom, but for material objects and desires of the self.  I wanted to belong to a particular sect of Buddhism and all that entailed, I wanted to claim that I had a teacher, a sangha; I wanted to become a teacher to promote my own brand, become drenched in my own self-importance and knowledge. 

 

In reality, I am no better than all the other charlatans posting pictures of them meditating against scenic backdrops.  Of the “spiritual but not religious” hipsters donning yoga pants and practicing poses in the park.  How many of them are actually in it for the spiritual part?  Or just the image of being perceived as being spiritual?  The image, after all, is more important than the experience.  The experience can’t be shared.  And in sharing, they fail to embrace the experience.

 

What I’m getting at is that I’ve come to the realization that everything I’ve read about Buddhism extends from some other lost soul, probably as equally neurotic as myself, trying to concoct an image of spirituality for either monetary gain or clout, or compensating for some inherent lack of self-worth.  They latch onto the teachings of Buddhism, not to achieve anything transcendent, but because of its novelty, the supposed otherness of its foreign origin.  And just like an image, they place a filter on it, crop the corners, and edit the imperfections, to make it conform and fit to a preconceived concept or ideology.  It’s funny how every author and self-proclaimed “master” reflects their own political and social biases in their works, boldly proclaiming that the Buddha too was: anti-gun, pro-choice, agnostic, religious, liberal, conservative, a rebel, a hippy, a punk, and he totally was for or against the war in Ukraine, and had deep convictions about the presence of pineapples on pizza.  Again, they are attached to the fruits of their actions and are not seeking true spiritual knowledge or liberation.  Everyone seeks to become the guru, to be viewed as the vessel of wisdom, of untouchable virtue.  An image they can share.

 

In Buddhism, particularly in the West, there is a lack of doctrinal criticism.  Whatever shape the religion takes on, even if conflicting and contradictory in form and practice, is generally accepted.  The only true difference appears in the sects, and those differences may be perceived as a huge thing even though they are subtle.  Underlying the traditions are certain shared values and beliefs, though they may differ in practice and form.  One preaches opened eyes in meditation, the other closed.  Some predominantly focus on meditation while others center on mindfulness in daily activities.  Some are minimalistic while others are highly ritualized.  Some are religious while others secular.  The Buddha becomes deified, even if solely through a humanistic lens, as if he were not only a sage but a scientist, philosopher, psychologist, and therapist.  The teachings, untouchable, in that they can always be reinterpreted and reformed.  How does this differ from Christianity where, the the 19^th century, the Bible was simultaneously used to promote the perpetuation of chattel slavery and also sought as its fundamental source of liberation?  Both pick and choose.

 

We have adapted the doctrines to conform to our society, but we have not analyzed them or opened them up to critique.  They maintain their position on a pedestal and every scholarly or scientific discovery only acts to reinforce their truth.  How can something 2,500 years old be infallible?  Because we present these truths through a sieve of ideology, of our own preconceived morals, ethics, norms, and whatever does not make it through that sieve is left behind.  All the supposedly critical inquiries into these teachings are from self-proclaimed followers.  That’s like asking a Taylor Swift fan to write an unbiased biography of the singer.  What we are left with is unexamined material and biases.

 

I guess what I’m getting at is I’m not happy with my cognitive dissonance.  But I am motivated to see it through to its end.  I’m still sitting zazen every day.  But I need to examine these teachings further.  My doubt must be fed.  I have questions.  And I need answers.  I’ll keep searching until I dig myself deeper, abandon ship, or reinvent the wheel.  In any case, this is a solitary path.  As Kierkegaard wrote, I’m searching for a truth that is true for me.     

More Doubt

In my class this week, we were supposed to spend seven days focusing on our meditation routine.  I…eh…drank a lot of bourbon and read a stack of philosophy books.  I even came across the concept of non-buddhism, which intrigued me as it exists as a whole critique of Western Buddhism in practice and thought.  In any case, we were supposed to write something about our week of meditation.  This was all I had to add to the conversation:

 

            “My meditation routine has been lackluster, if not nonexistent, for most all of February.  What began as simply being lazy and unmotivated evolved into entertaining some serious doubts regarding my practice after reading Emil Cioran’s On the Heights of Despair.  At times, I felt Cioran misunderstood Buddhist teachings, while at others, he made some interesting criticisms.  Now I have a bad case of the cognitive dissonance.

 

             But I decided to sit with my doubt anyhow and revamp my meditation routine.  The last two days, I sat zazen for 25 minutes before work and 25 minutes after.  With my hands resting in my lap, palms upward, my thumbs touching in the “cosmic mudra” posture, I noticed a tension evident in my practice.  The tips of my thumbs subconsciously pressed hard against and dug into one another—a physical manifestation of my mental dis-ease. 

 

I’m off work for a few days, so I’m going to approach this doubt through non-action.  By not devoting all my time and energy trying to grasp at it philosophically, but rather just to sit with it.  Spend more time in meditation and let the doubts arise, providing the time and space for them to work themselves out.  Just kind of let them ruminate without actively engaging them.  When the time is right, the answers will come.  Or I’ll be more prepared to engage them.”

 

on doubt

“In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world..

The compulsion to preach is so rooted in us that it emerges from depths unknown to the instinct for self-preservation.  Each of us waits his moment in order to propose something—anything.  He has a voice: that is enough.”

—Emil Cioran, A Short History of Decay

 

I’m experiencing a moment of doubt, self-awareness.  What am I hoping to gain from my Buddhist practice?  Why am I enrolled in a course training to become a Dharma teacher?  Bible Class in my Christian school turned me into an atheist, so too is this Buddhist studies course causing me to doubt my once steadfast belief structure in the Dharma.  Doubt is healthy, it allows us to grow and provides appropriate introspection.  The ability to change and adapt ones opinions is a mark of intelligence.  At this point I’m functioning like high level bacteria.

 

My first doubt arose from the concept of anatta, no-self.  By losing my sense of self, am I not likewise creating a new alter-image instead of negating the self altogether?  Does the I, the ego, ever cease to exist?  Or have I simply evolved to a different sense of identity, one who does not attach, does not cling, does not maintain the fixed structure of the I?  Do those negations not equate to another form of self, of the ego, a sense of clinging?  You simply rephrase the identifiers as: I am a man who does not attach or cling to objects, people, places; I am a man who does not adhere to a fixed self; I am a being in flux, impermanent, and ephemeral.  This establishes, paradoxically, a fixed sense of self within narrow constraints.  A particular conception of identity and worldview.  Anatta does not negate the self, it redefines and reenforces it.  What you are not, essentially, becomes your identity.

 

If we cannot snuff out the self, can you ever achieve enlightenment—liberation?  And what is enlightenment anyway?  Even after the Buddha achieved Nirvana, he succumbed to misogynistic views regarding allowing women into the sangha.  How was he able to grasp the ultimate reality if he could not even overcome socially constructed narratives regarding the treatment of women?  Is enlightenment also ephemeral?  Not a permanent, fixed state?  The Pali cannon positions the Buddha as above the station of a mere man, but not quite a god.  Something else.  But do his actions not illustrate that he was only a man, not an eternally enlightened being, and subject to faults and flaws?  What had he even achieved but a brief euphoric state one could easily attain through hallucinogenic drugs?

 

Buddhism teaches us to ignore our desires.  But what is life without desire?  In the seconds after an orgasm, you achieve the same mental state as anatta.  Your mind goes blank and you lose all conceptions of the ego.  For a brief moment, you cease to exist.  The French call this the mini-death, or something like that.  But in many traditions, celibacy is praised as the highest goal.  To become a monk is to renounce physical pleasure for a spiritual path.  But are not desire and pleasure also a means to achieve spiritual experiences?  Buddhism also positions the precept to “refrain from intoxicants.”  But as I’ve previously addressed, certain drugs can induce a spiritual experience.  Why reject physical pleasure, intoxication, when they reflect the same spiritual triggers within our brain?  This is not an argument for hedonism, but a question as to why reject the pleasures of life only to focus on its suffering.  Does pleasure not free us, even briefly, from our suffering?  What is life without pleasure, without desire, without Eros?

 

Zen presupposes an immanence, a being-in-the-world, a lack of inwardness.  But zazen focuses inwardly, though it’s concocted as a means to experience the “ultimate reality.”  Do we not lose an aspect of life by not being actively engaged in the world as opposed to solitarily sitting and staring at a wall?  How can we know the world if we withdraw from it?  To sit in solitude to achieve enlightenment?  And even if this achievement of nirvana is perceived as to “benefit all sentient being,” what do we even know of sentient beings in the larger world if we seclude ourselves from experiencing it in its totality?  How can we liberate if we ourselves are wrapped in the chains of being somehow apart and separate from the world?

 

By sitting zazen, following the precepts, and negating the ego, have I become humble and selfless, more compassionate, and just this little ball of fuzzy joy?  No.  I reestablished an ego through “stinking of Zen,” of becoming holier-than-though.  When people tell me they sit 10 minutes of zazen a day, I judge them.  As if they aren’t as Zen as me.  They aren’t committed enough, pure enough.  They are a part-timer, a dabbler, a weekend warrior.  This teaching that preaches losing the self, again, only reinforces a new interpretation of what makes me me.  Can we ever truly rid ourselves of these conceptions?  Perhaps it is true that there is no self, that we are constantly in flux, but does that self then only continuously reassert itself in new forms as opposed to ever being self-aware that it is only a mere projection of a moment and not a perpetual being?  I don’t know.  Each time I attempt to forget the self, I find it again.  Only in a different form.

 

And what is my long-term goal of becoming a teacher?  Is this not derived from narcissism, from promoting a sense of self that projects a mastery and knowledge of the teachings and practice, an aura of seniority and importance, as if only I can emit truth and wonder, the key to the cessation of suffering, and reveal the mystery to happiness?  Is it not out of a grandiose need to achieve, to matter, to define my sense of meaning through the shock and awe of the other?  To become teacher and sage, to impart my wisdom upon the ignorant masses?  Whoever asked to be saved?  Who begged me to help them?  Where are the voices crying for liberation?  They are all in my mind.  This image of a savior, a prophet, to lead the wayward into the light.  To free them from structures of mental slavery that bind them to forms and signifiers, consumption and greed.  But who the fuck am I?  And who the Hell cares what I have to say or what I think or believe?  Everyone has an opinion, and we all like to share them in the vast sea of social media.  At some point all those individual voices become nothing more than static, a noise, as they all blend in together in some chaotic roar of self-importance.  Am I any better?

 

How did I envision this all ending up?  Me sitting on a cloud in the lotus posture, blissed out of my mind, and instructing my loyal followers as to how they should live, what they should eat, where they should work, the hobbies they should have, what to name their pets, and how to conceive of death while letting them in on the secret of experiencing the “ultimate reality?”  Who needs my advice?  Probably the best benefactor of my own advice would be me.  I rarely live the ethics I like to preach.  Maybe I could just bark at my reflection in the mirror until I guilt myself into becoming a better person.  I mean, I got the look down.  The shaved head and fancy words and phrases to confuse people with my presupposed importance and intelligence.  But is there anything beyond the façade?  Do I have anything of substance to contribute to the world beyond the noise of a personal opinion?

 

These teachings really did help me through many hard times.  But, like the parable of the raft, do I continue to carry the raft beyond the river or do I let it go and recognize it as something I only needed in that moment?  Do I carry these teachings with me?  Or do I let go of them?  Did I only need them for the time being?  Or maybe I’m just not grasping the true nature of these teachings?  Maybe I’ve only scratched the surface?  Maybe that’s why I can’t move beyond the ego, the self, the holier-than-though self-projection.  Perhaps, I’ve just not immersed deep enough into the practice to discover the true understanding?  I don’t know.  A part of me wants to give up.  A part of me wants to stick it out.  Another part doesn’t care and doesn’t see how either situation even matters.  Have I become nihilistic?  An eternal pessimist?

As I’ve written before.  Growth is painful.  Perhaps I am growing—spiritually, mentally, I don’t know.  But there’s definitely growing pains.  I just don’t know what form my philosophical and psychological understandings are going to take on next.  What views I disregard, what new ones I latch onto, and what I keep.  A few weeks from now, will I still be sitting zazen?  Maybe I’ll be doing it more.  Maybe I’ll be going on peyote trips and communing with Native American spirits?  Maybe I’ll be the same but a little more mature?  Or maybe I’ll be something completely different?  Do I let go, like the Buddha taught, or dig myself deeper?  Maybe, after all, there was some deeper lesson I’ve been missing all along?  At what point do you pull the plug and at what point do you stand firm?  Only time will tell.

On being a man

            My boss repeatedly decries “bring back masculinity!”  Which begs the question: what does it mean to be a man?  In his case, being a man is a vain expression of how one is perceived by the other.  Inherent in it is a certain insecurity manifesting in opaque, shallow projections which reflect nothing more than meaningless social constructs.  “What is a man?” You might ask my boss.  He would reply, “a man grills!”  So…what was a man before the invention of a grill?  Were the men who existed prior to 1952 when the first modern barbecue grill appeared on the market somehow less “masculine?”  Was the Neanderthal cooking a rack of mammoth ribs over an open fire that he created by rubbing two sticks together just some limp-wrist, Bud Light drinking, Biden-loving, beta male?  Or is my boss just repeating a social construct, an accepted “truth,” that bears no weight or value outside of our cultural sphere of influence?

 

            Personally, I think my boss is a baby-backed bitch who projects his own insecurities by beating down anything that can be culturally perceived as less than the established definitions of “macho.”  Psychology illustrates that those who enthusiastically denigrate certain traits or quirks in others by lambasting their individual expressions of authenticity, are simply outwardly projecting the same inner qualities which manifest within their own psyche and give them pause.  Because they know they don’t even live up to their culturally derived definitions of “masculine” or “macho.”  It’s all just a façade meant to redirect the attention away from themselves.  They lack the security within to embrace interests or fetishes that might be perceived as beta, effeminate, or less-than the quantified cultural norms.  In other words, they lose themselves in the gaze of the other to the extent that they lose the comfort in their own sense of self.  They focus solely on the other’s perception which negates their own inner drives and compulsions in order to maintain appearances.

 

            Does “masculinity” entail boasting a long list of current “girlfriends?”  To somehow appear desirable, confident, or a “player?”  The deception involved in maintaining these sexual encounters without their mutual knowledge implies a lack of “masculinity,” in my opinion.  Sure, the rap songs might convey a certain bravado in having a “wifey, girlfriend, and mistress.”  But age-old qualities of manhood impart a different sort of wisdom.  Being a man-whore, though glorified in our neoliberal era of incessant consumption, negates an ageless and universally recognized quality of a man: honor.  A man’s word, historically, has been connected to his honor, his reputation.  A handshake signified a pact, a vow, which reflected a degree of trust.  Trust is given, not with a guaranteed satisfaction of certainty, but of vulnerability.  Trust implies not knowing the outcome of the agreement fully, it implies willingly allowing oneself to be entered into a state of insecurity.  One’s word had to mean something in order to trust someone.  It implied a man with moral character, a code of ethics.  Which a deceiver, someone who’s foundation is built on lies, lacks entirely.  If a man cannot be taken on his word, especially in the most intimate of circumstances, how can he be trusted in matters of friendship or business?

 

            “A man owns guns!”  Firearms, in the most generally accepted sense, were not fully developed until the 13^thcentury.  Were men less manly prior to that?  Firearms were originally perceived as cowardly.  A “real man” met his foe toe-to-toe with shield and spear, with sword and dagger.  What kind of pussy would kill a man at such a safe distance where he couldn’t even see the whites of their eyes?  How does a gun make someone a man?  Because he can rain death from a comfortable position that secludes him from retaliation?  Growing up, it was then perceived that to be a “man” meant exchanging fists with someone who insulted you.  Physical altercation as opposed to distance.  You opened yourself up for the possibility of failure and defeat by allowing the other full opportunity to meet and repay your own violence.  These days, “men” are too cowardly to entertain the thought of defeat.  To them, only the Machiavellian refrain “the ends justify the means” makes any clear sense.  The end result of defeating their enemy is acceptable through whatever medium is most effective.  There is no honor.  Just results.

 

            “Men don’t drink Bud Light!”  Yeah, it’s apparently cool to feel insecure because some transgender activist pounded a certain type of beer in an ad.  Hell, some random stranger might think you’re transgender for your brand affiliation!  The HORROR!  Regardless of if you actually enjoy the flavor of that piss water drink, what’s more important is the image you project.  Like ay Bo, gimme a Coors…that ‘Merican beer!  Yeah, I like titties, too.  And big trucks to counter my incredibly small man parts.  Guns, Jesus, and the American flag!  AmmmIright, bo!?  [Slaps the bartender uncomfortably on the shoulder].  Yeah, this guy knows what I’m talking about.  Then the bartender awkwardly retreats from the bar to go make out with his boyfriend and score a handy in the bathroom. 

 

Why do you have to ensure you’re perceived as masculine?  This is surface level posturing.  Shouldn’t it be more important to live the attributes universally accepted that make a man?—his code of morals, his honor, his ethics, his standing, reputation?  Without these, you’re just strutting around with a shirt emblazoned in bold letters shouting, “I LIKE PUSSY, TOO!”  As if you’re terrified that people might think otherwise.  What do people’s opinions matter?  Is a gay guy less masculine?  I’ve known some pretty tough motherfuckers who would just as soon kick your ass as they would suck your dick.  Are you going to call out their sexual preference because they don’t align with your perception of what is “masculine?”  Or because they’re drinking a Bud Light?  Because they don’t have a haram of women to attend to their desires?  Because they voted for Biden or don’t own an AR-15? 

 

But even that example doesn’t correctly portray what makes a man a man.  Violence doesn’t equate to masculinity.  Aggressiveness doesn’t make you more of a man than someone passive and reserved.  Jesus preached “the meek shall inherent the earth.”  Was Jesus just some liberal hippy beta?  He literally died for his beliefs when most people are too afraid to even express themselves.  Being a man is something deeper than appearances.  You protect and embolden the weak, not humiliate them.  You exhume a degree of respect because of your character, not your brand affiliations.  It’s something that exists beyond the method you prefer to cook your steak, or your political opinion of firearms.  Again, any of these characteristics could be achieved by donning a hoodie with a catchy slogan.  To be a man, you have to live certain values.  Learn to love a woman instead of exploiting them or objectifying them.  Lose your ego.  Accept failure.  People don’t necessarily have to like you, but they should harbor trust and respect in your presence.  If you lack honor, you lack the very essence of what it is to be a man.  Everything else is superficial.

 

Whether you crunch weights seven days a week and have a physically intimidating physique, or if you’re 5’4” and thin as a toothpick.  Whether you’re an athlete or a bookworm.  Whether you drink bourbon or Bud Lite.  Whether you like girls, guys, or both.  What makes a man a man, what makes us “masculine” is not some outward display of signifiers.  It’s not in the posturing, the attitude, or the brand affiliations.  It’s character.  It’s trust.  It’s living a life that means something.  It’s garnering respect because you exude honor.  Confidence is more than maintaining outward appearances.  Confidence is to be true to yourself regardless of what others might think or whether you fit into the socially constructed narrative.  You aren’t in this rat race of life to seek validation through other people.  The only one you have to answer to is yourself.  Be true to yourself and you will be a man.

 

That being said, am I “masculine” or a “man?”  Do I live up to my very own definitions anymore than my boss?  Probably not.  What’s more is that I don’t care.  Outside of my close circle, I don’t value the opinions or perceptions of the other.  The other exists to entertain, to amuse.  I am like a hunter in the woods.  The animals know the hunter is up to no good.  I am a troll and a rebel.  A rebel differs from revolutionary in that they don’t wish to overthrow the system, the system must exist in order to be opposed.  The system and the rebel are mutually inclusive concepts.  I get my kicks in being contrarian, in sarcasm, pranks, at whoever’s expense.  This inherently negates a degree of trust, of honor, of a moral code and ethics.  But the paradox is that I maintain a strict code of conduct among my circle, be they intimate relationships or close friendships.  I am a creature of rules that I adhere to.  Just, most people don’t garner my respect enough for these rules to apply to them.  I am…an asshole.  Or the best friend you will ever have.  It just depends on where you fall on the spectrum.  I am a cesspool of contradictions.  While that makes me true to myself, I don’t think it meets my own definition of being a “man.”  I cared enough to write about this topic, but not enough to apply it.

On time

“These commodified moments are explicitly presented as moments of real life whose cyclical return we are supposed to look forward to. But all that is really happening is that the spectacle is displaying and reproducing itself at a higher level of intensity. What is presented as true life turns out to be merely a more truly spectacular life.”

—Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle

 

            I noticed something peculiar about my roommate last night.  He was off work that day and, aside from fixing food, seemed overwhelmingly bored.  During working hours, time is noticed.  Each second is given to the aims of productivity, action, and purpose.  It either “drags” or “flies” depending on the degree of labor required to perform during that fixed period.  But even outside of work, our concern for time is merely reflected in relation to work.  How much do we have until our next shift?  At what hour is our next shift? —do I have to sleep now, or can I stay up an extra hour?  No, I don’t “have time” to run all those miles because I have to be up in the morning at 4:00AM and I will be tired.  I don’t want to start that project just yet because I don’t “have time” to devote to it.  I have to work late shifts the next few days and I will be tired when I get off. 

 

            What I noticed about my roommate was that he wasn’t invested in his leisure time.  It seemed almost a nuisance—something that needed to pass, while not noticing that it was passing.  It was almost as if time stood still.  Time’s purpose was solely a precursor to the next workday, an interlude, a time that must be killed.  He turned on a Youtube video and binge-watched videos of people watching and commenting on short videos while occasionally commenting on their commenting of the short videos.  They were mindless, mildly humorous clips but involved no internal thought process on my roommate’s part.  They did not shock or terrorize.  They did not stimulate deep emotion, challenge, or antagonize.  They were empty of all inherent quality, value, and substance and served solely to distract him from experiencing the movement of time; it was something to be consumed without a single synapse.  It served to kill time, to negate its presence, so that the interval between work hastened to its end.  And even though he despises our shared job, it appeared as if time existed, in the absence of work, only to reaffirm work’s importance in its hierarchy and presence in his life.

 

            This reminded me of Guy Debord’s argument in Society of the Spectacle.  He noted that, prior to industrialization, mankind worked within a framework of cyclical time.  At least in their perception of how times passed or flowed.  Everything revolved around the setting or rising of the sun, the seasons, planting or harvest, lunar cycles, the migration of animals, breeding and birthing of livestock.  Life existed in a certain sequence.  During the Spring, for example, I plant the fields.  I harvest those fields in early Autumn.  We have a harvest festival at the end of harvesting those fields.  We stockpile for winter.   Then repeat.  Natural time.  In our society, the society of the Spectacle, we experience a reemerging of cyclical time in pseudo-cyclical time.  That is, that labor replaces the natural order of time with its own structure.  Our lives, and time itself, revolve around work and the framework of how we perceive the time it expresses.  This seemed very true for my roommate.

 

            According to Byung-Chul Han.  We no longer have true leisure time, vita contemplativa, a time of absence for lingering or gazing.  Debord seems to have recognized this decades earlier in his Spectacle.  What appears as leisure time, where it is “presented as true life” is nothing more than a spectacle, an illusion, an image that we not only entertain but project into the vast sea of other images of so-called “life.”  Like a selfie where we make sure to capture the right lighting (or use the proper filter) to project an image of beauty, fun, family, events, a so-called “life” outside of work, this is merely an image of life, a collaborative veil.  And we trade and share those images, stills of smiles, or pleasure, and leisure.  These images are more important to us than the actual experience.  For when you are truly in the moment, such as during the heights of passionate sex or deep within a drug-induced euphoria, there is “no time” to capture that moment.  It can only be lived and experienced.  It is fleeting and ephemeral.  Such is the case for truly immersing into a moment such as witnessing the sun rise over snow-encrusted mountain tops or the pale glow of a full moon reflecting over the water.  An image cannot capture that feeling or provide any evidence for your inner contentment and bliss in that experience.  Yet it is within the illusion of images that we express ourselves, we consume the other, allow ourselves to be consumed, and integrate our beings within the world.

 

            My roommate’s experience of time appeared painful.  Again, it had to be killed.  This time had to be negated much like time at work, through action.  Even if that action was passive.  He watched the TV, even though not immersed in it as, in contrast, with viewing a vast, moving landscape or being on the precipice of achieving orgasm.  Rather, he was unmoved by it.  But he had to create an image of leisure to explain to the other, something they too could consume.  When asked “what did you do yesterday?”  He could say “I watched Youtube.”  This, inherently, is an exchange of images, not of experiences.  By not being involved in the act and merely passively consuming it, he did not experience it.  He barely perceived it, let alone interacted with the medium of entertainment.  But through his mindless consumption, he was able to provide the other with the image of action so they likewise could consume that image of him “enjoying” his day off through the “action” of watching Youtube.  Again, like work, even leisure must be addressed and experienced through some form of “action” to note the passing of time.  Even if only to achieve an image.

 

            At work, we rarely reminisce about how we actually spent our days off.  They always revolve around how we killed that time.  Oh, I watched TV.  I played video games.  I slept all day.  I smoked weed all day.  I drank.  Again, what we are left with is a “day off” that we experience only in its relation to work.  It is not intended for our pleasure, for us to indulge in real or “true life,” to experience a being-in-the-world, or presuppose some purpose or meaning, but as an interlude between shifts, a means of recuperation from work so that we may be rejuvenated to return to work and maintain our momentum, our drive, and achieve ever more and more.  Time off is a spectacle of the greater spectacle of modern existence.  It provides an image, but lacks inherent substance, quality, and independence from work life.  Our brains are so geared toward the 40+ hours we spend on the time clock, we don’t know how to function when that time ends.  We are left with is killing our free time, to negate it, before we return to work. 

 

            Every thought of what we might want to do on our day off references work.  Will I be able to get this done before my next shift?  Will I be too tired to perform at work?  Will I have enough sleep?  Even vacations are a reflection of labor.  They are looked to in that pseudo-cyclical manner as falling on the same days each year as if they were natural events like the end of harvest, the beginning of winter, the birth of spring.  At no point do we experience “true life” when every aspect of that life revolves around our work schedule, even so much as when we wake up in the morning, when we eat our meals, smoke a cigarette, or take a shit.  Even intimacy reflects work.  How often do you consider how early you will wake up for work the next day when your wife wants to get jiggy with it?  Or how many times are you to tired from work for the full sexual workout and opt for “68”—where she gives you head and you owe her one?  All time in our neoliberal, capitalist, consumerist society exists solely in relation to work.

 

            This killing time is killing us.  So concerned for how we spend our time of labor, it encompasses all aspects of our lives, and all “true life” merely revolves around the presence of work…even in its absence.  At what point do we allow ourselves to truly live?  To free ourselves from the spectacle, from the pseudo-cyclical nature of our existence?  Time has become a commodity to be bought and sold, something to be consumed.  “Time is money!”  That lacks both essence and spirit.  In its emptiness, we must kill it so that the true weight it bears—that our existence is finite—does not overwhelm us, weigh us down, and set us aflame with anxiety, angst, and existential despair.  This time that we kill, we will never get back.  Every breath is a matter of life and death.  There is no sugar-coating it.  Every second we lose or misuse is a huge portion of our limited time on this earth.  Can we not think of a better way to exist?  Outside of the spectacle of pretending to be happy by exchanging “happy” images of a life we wish we had beyond what those images express, the emotions we wish to convey?  Outside of the daily grind of work?  Have any of us ever truly experienced life in our adulthood?  Or just been satisfied with the illusion?  A happy face on Facebook does not presuppose a happy life.  Beyond the smile and glossy photoshop is a darkness, a grimace, of an empty existence that understands only meaning through labor.

 

            How different are we from slaves?  Who wake up when the master calls, eat their meals when the master beckons, perform their labor when the master demands, and Sunday rest solely exists to recuperate from the week’s work so that even more work can be done the next day.  Ask any man “who are you?”  He will quickly reply with his profession.  Are we not more than commodities?  Is our time nothing more than a product to be bought, sold, and consumed?  Are our lives not worth more?  Shakespeare’s Romeo posed the question “to be or not to be?”  Today, we ask not “to consume or not to consume” but rather “what or who shall I consume?”  And by consuming we allow ourselves likewise to be consumed, entirely, in this vast spectacle.  We allow our time and being to be consumed for the sake of perpetuating our consumption as we kill time aimlessly until death.  At what point do we demand more from this limited time we have?  At what point do we actually live!?

Sarcasm and the absurd

            The world is absurd and devoid of any inherent meaning.  Existence is full of paradox and irony, concealing within it a dark humor, a grimaced smirk.  Sarcasm is the language reflective of the embrace of this absurdity.  It is the outward display of the universe’s smirk, something that comprehends life’s sheer peculiarity and strangeness.  Beyond appearances, sarcasm is a deep guttural renunciation of the shallow, a moving beyond the veil, a verbal challenge to grasp at meaning and depth in this absurd world.  It is a language that mirrors the world in its dark humor while rejecting the flat, smooth edges of optimistic positivity.

 

            We arrive in this world kicking and screaming, our eyes wide and without focus, poring over the room and the faces surrounding us.  It is in this first moment, full of confusion, horror, and wonder, experiencing light and the air entering our lungs, we understand the absurdity of it all—the sheer terror of being hurled into an existence against our will.  Beyond this jarring entry point, the world is then explained and smoothed out for us by our parents, relatives, teachers, and peers; broken down into small bites that are easy to digest.  The seemingly idiotic questions our infantile brains ask when we learn to speak are disregarded as child’s play, but it is the true inquisitiveness of a mind experiencing the absurd.  Why is the sky blue?  How can birds fly?  What is the moon?  I remember asking why I could see everyone else’s faces but not my own.  When handed a mirror, I grew upset, knowing I could never truly see my own face but merely a reflection.

 

            We are thrust into a world, not of our own volition, where all the absurdity must be ignored and accepted as normal.  This acceptance, which is not the same as an embrace, is an avoidance of the ultimate nature of reality.  It’s a refusal to question things or view life as it is.  I mean, the shits wild when you really think about it.  Here we are, a tiny speck on this green and blue rock hurtling through space and time, revolving around a celestial body of molten flame, being held down by some invisible force that prevents us from floating aimlessly into outer space.  To embrace the absurd is not to ignore it, to accept its normalcy, but to truly understand and grasp its inherent chaos.  Henry Miller opined, “chaos is the score upon which reality is written.”

 

            The very makeup of our bodies is absurd.  To survive, we must consume other beings.  And must continue to do so our entire lives until we die and are then consumed by other beings.  We are given highly inefficient systems.  Even by consuming, we don’t absorb the entirety of the being that’s consumed, resulting in foul-smelling excrement which we must expel multiple times a day.  We are prone to all sorts of illnesses, injuries, and deformities.  Almost everything we were born with we will lose, first by transitioning into adulthood, then in old age.  We lose our umbilical cord, our baby teeth, shed our skin.  In old age we lose our subcutaneous layer, our teeth, our hair, our ability to procreate, walk, hear, and see.  Everything given at birth is, in the end, taken away.  Including the breath given at birth.

 

            Our drives are likewise absurd.  After exiting the womb, as a male, puberty releases hormones that drive us to seek reentry into the womb of another, prompting a desire to return to our comfort before birth through sex.  Sex, as pleasure, also acts as a drive to procreate—to bring another helpless being against their will into this vaulting, huge, absurd world.  But to what end?  Why do we feel the urge to recreate ourselves?  To “go forth and multiply?”  The terror of our own birth, the confusion of infancy, the suffering and turmoil of adult life, should be enough to prevent us from willingly creating another being in our own image to suffer the same horrors and perplexities.  Each time we create another being, despite all the love we bestow upon it, we likewise condemn it to suffering and death.

 

            Death is another drive similar to sex.  While sex, for a male, is a return to the womb, a death drive exists similarly that compels us to return to that same void before birth.  We grow aggressive and take risks, driving our car at high speeds, imbibing in drugs and alcohol, smoke cigarettes, gorge on greasy foods, go to war, climb mountains, play Russian Roulette, sky dive.  There is a thrill in almost dying.  In defying the odds.  Because there is a drive to return to the nothingness before birth.  This is even present in the opposite of the death drive, the cult of health.  By prolonging life, we are merely seeking to reach a point where existence becomes so pointless, painful, and devoid of all pleasure that we willingly resign to death.  Death becomes a welcomed friend as opposed to an enemy.  In both instances, we are actively seeking that return to the darkness from whence we came.  Either immediately, as if jumping off a cliff, or gradually, as if stepping into a cold pool.  We crave the opposite in every instance.  When we drink (a depressant), we crave a cigarette (a stimulant).  Having sex, a means to procreate, is a crave to return to birth.  Being alive craves a return to death.

 

            What’s more is that no matter what we accomplish in this world, it is entirely meaningless.  Even if we are famous and remembered by history, at a certain point the sun will die out and render the earth uninhabitable.  All life, not just humanity, will die out and fade into nothingness.  Every great strive is ultimately pointless.  Though despite this fact, we all view ourselves as the center of the universe, as if we will live forever, and every minor achievement or downfall as either the pinnacle of human progress or the collapse of all human potential.  We fail to realize how minuscule we are in the grand scheme of things.  And I think that’s what makes life worth living.  That even though every inclination in our makeup pushes us to return to birth, to return to the void of death, that every action is inherently pointless and without meaning, that we keep going fully conscious (though at most times disillusioned) that we will die, we embrace the absurdity of it all by rebelling against it, by creating meaning where there is none. 

 

            Whether it’s to change the world like Martin Luther King, or change your life like someone going through rehab, we find our own meaning in the emptiness.  That’s another drive.  To make sense of it all.  Some go so far as to exclude death, meaninglessness, and find some higher calling in religion.  But that’s likewise empty.  We have to find something within ourselves, within this reality, feed into that drive to seek meaning, and fulfill it for ourselves in our own life, however short and pointless it might be.  That’s to embrace the absurd.  To recognize the futility of it and live in a manner that derives purpose in spite of it.  It’s like flipping the middle finger to the universe instead of living in denial, as if existence weren’t some ridiculous puppet show.

           

            Sarcasm is the linguistic reflection of this.  It is brutal, like life.  It’s not always fun.  It is absurd.  It presents, through language, the irony of existence.  It rejects the smooth surfaces and positive psychology of optimism, it is inherently negative, but does not embrace nihilism.  There is a meaning and purpose in the language.  To challenge thoughtless affirmations, to dispel truisms, to engage intellectually at a linguistic level that makes one pause and think.  It embraces the absurd through language.  Not it’s emptiness or lack of meaning, but it’s dark smirk.  It gives breath to a sense of play in a universe where we are all inmates condemned to die.  It is the feeling of acknowledging the darkness while allowing for a little entrance of light through humor.  This is the language of the dying, the condemned, the soldier.  A rejection of all niceties for the reality of life in its rugged form.  Life as it is.  The language reflects a certain sense of “I don’t care,” but does not entertain apathy.  It cares to the extent that the message is received.  That the meaning is purveyed.  That the irony of existence is perceived, not shunned, and that something deeper can be conveyed from the inherent nothingness.

 

            To be sarcastic is to embrace the absurd, and take the plunge….

On pleasure

“Thus, today we are too dead to live, and too alive to die.”

—Byung-Chul Han, Saving beauty

 

            Balance.  Everything hangs in a balance in nature—a certain amount of water, sunlight, shade, nutrients, movement, interaction.  So too do our bodies and psyche require a particular balance.  But what is lacking in the animal kingdom that humans innately need is pleasure.  This is a feeling that too much of leads to hedonism and a short life, and too less results in a long, boring existence and the burden of not having every truly lived.

 

            In our society, we’ve established a cult of health.  So afraid of death, we’ve banished it off into its otherness, as something to despise to the point of fearing it, hiding it, and place such a value on perpetual existence that we are too afraid to enjoy the pleasures life has to offer.  Every time I go to the doctor, they cringe when I tell them I drink.  A grimace crosses their face when I explain my vaping habit, though they express some half-hearted sigh of relief with the fact I no longer smoke.  But what is life when we solely focus on prolonging it without savoring it?  If we subsist on a bland diet of brown rice, broccoli, and baked skinless chicken without sauce or sodium, what have we achieved if we make it to ninety years old and have never sat down to a dinner table covered in Soul Food?—everything battered in empty carbohydrates, fried in oil, coated in sodium-rich seasonings, hot sauce, and absolutely delicious.  Have we missed the point of life?  That it is to enjoy in its ephemerality and not merely simply persist for a prolonged duration.

 

            In my spurts of renunciation where I quit drinking, exercised all the time, and limited myself to a singular healthy diet, my end-goal was to feel better physically.  To lose weight, decrease my blood pressure, become more energetic and proactive, and to improve my psychological state.  But what would I become if I entertained this cult of health to an extreme?  Where I allowed every aspect of my life to be ruled by the laws of health and ejected the thought of death from my mind?  Would that life even be worth living, such as it is, entirely devoid of pleasure? Wouldn’t it be better to imbibe in pleasure in moderation?

 

            Sure, wake up early in the morning, run a mile and a half, sit zazen, and eat a healthy breakfast.  But at the end of the day, maybe enjoy a few glasses of bourbon.  They claim a glass of wine a day is good for your heart.  But what is a life that only knows one glass and not the euphoria of two?  Do we limit ourselves by not allowing our bodies and minds to experience pleasure for the sake of extending our years?  What do we have to look forward to in old age aside from sitting in a chair, fixated on the television, and reminiscing about all the things we missed out on, our regrets, and wishing our bodies still functioned like they used to.  As we sit there pissing ourselves because our bladder no longer works properly, wouldn’t we like to go back and enjoy that second glass of wine?  What was all that health stuff for anyhow?  To live long enough to become useless and feeble?  To finally reach the point where death is no longer a scourge but a welcomed blessing?  At that point, haven’t we missed what life is all about?

 

            Perhaps the Buddha’s Middle Way can shed some light.  Like a guitar string that is strung too tight or too loose, it cannot carry the proper tune.  But in that in-between, it vibrates just right.  Too much pleasure dulls our senses to where we can no longer experience pleasure.  Just like smoking too many cigarettes negates that very buzz you achieved on your first smoke which initialized the habit.  Or you drink so much you can no longer get drunk.  That is the hedonistic flip side to the health cult.  As Voltaire explained, neither excess nor abstinence results in happiness.  Too much of a good thing and it’s no longer pleasurable, and too little and you miss out on the joys of life.

 

            We need to fully understand that this existence is not forever.  It’s hard.  It’s not always fun.  There are ups and downs, happiness and despair.  Instead of diving headlong into hedonism or renouncing all the pleasures in the world aside from a runner’s high, maybe we should take everything in balance.  If you drink from the time you wake up until the time you pass out, you’re not going to feel good.  Your body is going to shut down and make you ill.  Likewise, if you overlook the fried chicken special for the kale salad every time, you’re falling into the same trap. 

 

            From my perspective, I’m focusing a little less on this and a little more on that, depending on the situation.  Sure, it’s alright to get up and run a mile and eat healthy for the most part.  It makes me feel good.  But it’s also ok to imbibe in a little bourbon at the end of the day, hit the vape, and relax.  There’s nothing wrong with DoorDashing Popeyes once in a while and stuffing your face in fried shrimp and cajun fries.  If I were to eat eggs, spinach, and salmon every day…what would even be the point?  To succumb to an overwhelming feeling that life, itself, is as bland as my palate?  Or do I give in to the urge to splurge.  Maybe not every day, but once and again.  To know there is more to live than just existing to prolong it, that there is pleasure and substance, art and beauty, something sublime in all the suffering, the continual striving, the clocking in and out of work five days a week.

 

            Too often I’ve found myself running before work, walking five miles at work, then going home and running again.  To what end?  Haven’t I missed out on listening to music, to enjoying a nice meal or a glass of bourbon, a conversation with my roommate, a good book, or even an entertaining Youtube video?  At the end of the week, all I have to show for it is another pound or two lost.  An entire week of my life that I will regret in old age having wasted.  Sometimes it’s good to forget about living forever and just feed into your pleasure sensors.  Just so long as you don’t do it all day, every day.  I want to make it to the other side of forty, at least.

Engaged Buddhism

“Buddhism…becomes simply a form of passive nihilism that seeks to create meaning for the individual by social withdrawal, leaving the social and political to the forces that dominate society.”

—John Peacock “The Elephant in the Dharma Hall,” Tricycle magazine, Spring 2024

 

            Well hot damn if that line didn’t smack me across the face and put me in my place.  I’m just sitting here, nursing tequila to soothe my cognitive dissonance.  A part of me wholeheartedly agrees with that line of thinking, while the other part has always turned a blind shoulder to so-called “engaged Buddhism.”  And I think I’ve finally reconciled the two notions in my dim-witted brain.  My disdain for “engaged Buddhism” arises from a preconception and apathy toward everything I feel reeks of the commonplace stench of neoliberal status quo.

 

            When I think “engaged Buddhism,” I equate it to sanghas that force a liberal political message on their members, prompting them to call their state senators for liberal agendas, play into identity politics, participate in Democratic campaigns to “get out to vote,” and generally preach a NEVER-TRUMP platform.  And, I’m mean, don’t get me wrong…it’s not that I’m not Left.  I just don’t view “liberal” in the context of neoliberal politics as Left or contrarian by an means.  It’s not radical, it not only reinforces capitalism but perpetuates it by placing short-term bandaids over the suffering it causes.  It’s a reform, not a revolution or rebellion.  It’s like saying, hey, instead of eliminating slavery, let’s improve the slave’s conditions, their work hours, their food.  I mean, sure, they still live in a race-based system of chattel slavery, but hey, try this bandaid on and see if it fits.  See…now, doesn’t that feel so much better?  Fuck no, bitch…I’m subjugated because of my skin color and condemned to perpetual servitude!  It doesn’t make me feel any better!  Give me liberty or give me death!

 

            That’s the difference between “liberal” in the context of neoliberalism and the radical “Left” wishing for a post-capitalist society—the true Left.  Liberals, in the 19^th century, were the ones who lauded the mythical “kind master” who treated his slaves well and with respect, while Leftists were there with John Brown storming the armory at Harper’s Ferry or working intellectually for emancipation like Frederich Douglas.  The “engaged Buddhism” I see so much is the former.  Like, hey, let’s get this Democrat into office and yeah, I get that they are a capitalist, but they’ll decrease the suffering inherent in the capitalist system with these short-term reforms.  I mean, until capitalism evolves, yet again, and undos those very measures and renders them archaic and everything degenerates into the realm of even more suffering, paving the way for even more reformists with bandaids during the next election cycle.  Just cut the snake off at its head, already!  Damn.

 

            I admit that I agree with Peacock.  Buddhism can’t just be the sit by your lonesome in your room and stare at the wall zazen to commune with the ultimate nature of reality.  At some point, you do have to get up off the cushion.  And what you’re left with are all those ethics, precepts, and codes of morality that you’re supposed to live by and uphold.  Wouldn’t it be self-centered to steal away those teachings of compassion, understanding, and love only to conceal them for yourself to enjoy?  Why not extend that compassion to the starving orphan, the single mother, the disabled war veteran?  Or even just to your regular average day Joe?  How are they less worthy than yourself?  What makes you so worthwhile and important?  I guess what we have here, in my perception, is a disconnect between what “engaged Buddhism” means philosophically and what it is in practice.

 

            Too many come to this concept as a means of virtue signaling.  Like hey, let me post this to my Facebook wall that I just donated $5.00 to a charity that I never fully investigated and probably only .05% of my contribution goes to helping those in need.  LOOK THE FUCK AT ME AND HOW MORAL I AM!  Yeah, “engaged Buddhism” as a whole is like that.  So, you showed up for a Climate Change protest and meditated publicly in front of some giant banner that promotes you as a Buddhist organization…cool.  And what did that accomplish?  I marched with Occupy Wall Street.  Look at all the changes that brought!  I guess my critique is not that “engaged Buddhism” isn’t the right or proper way to take the teachings off the cushion, but it is misguided.  It’s directed at show, proselytizing, and some West Coast “holier-than-though” feel good “action” that doesn’t accomplish anything but reaffirm the “society of the spectacle.”  It’s better to look like you’re inciting change instead of actually achieving it with any meaningful measures.  And, beyond that, what are we trying to achieve?  Are we wanting to change the system that creates such inequality and suffering, or are we simply mixing the bourbon with enough Coca-Cola to dull the burn? 

 

            My own short-sightedness in all this is taking “engaged Buddhism” for what it is at present.  The mainstream view of Thich Nhat Hanh’s ecosattva initiative.  Which I view as just that touchy-feely virtue signaling kind of stuff.  I mean, it’s great that you planted ten trees in a community park, but will they even last if we don’t tackle the capitalist structure that is fueling the depletion of our natural resources and increasing the earth’s temperature?  Will holding a sign outside of a building stating that you, like the other billion people in this world, hold an opinion, help anything?  Complaining is not activism.  Doing things to take photos of and post on Facebook is not activism.  The goal has to be to change the system that allows for all this rot to happen.  If you don’t have that as your long-term goal, everything…even “engaged Buddhism” is simply a matter of gazing into nihilism through rose-colored glasses.  There is no endgame.  It’s no different than being in a relationship with a narcissist and trying to appease them until they die…to make your life easier to navigate.  By putting bandaids over the wounds they inflict on others and on your own skin.

 

            There is the demarcation point.  Of what “engaged Buddhism” is and what it could, should, and ought to be.  After contemplating it upon reading Peacock, I can say that I too am an “engaged Buddhist”—at least philosophically at this point.  Hell, I just read the article, cut me a break for not stripping off my clothes, painting a slogan on my chest, and rioting in the streets.  But again, I do not associate with what I have come to understand as “engaged Buddhists.”  They perpetuate the neoliberal capitalist regime, just, they want it to be nicer.  Tell that to the bully at school.  “It’s ok if you hit me, but call me by my name, not “shithead.”  Yeah, that will make the beatings easier to endure.

Fuck Barney

“You are seen, you are special, you are loved.”

—Barney, 2024

 

            Yes, I have a bone to pick with that goddamn purple dinosaur so familiar to us millennials.  We’ve got to stop preaching to kids that they are “special” or “seen.”  From being perceived as “special,” we entertain the notion that we are entitled to certain things in life.  While life, in its true reality, is anything but capable or willing to provide those objects, feelings, emotions, actions, security, or people that a sense of entitlement demands manifest for their benefit, for no other reason than them merely existing on this planet and being alive.  A strong disconnect exists when people conceiving themselves “special” venture out into an uncaring and apathetic world.  They become resentful, depressed, anxious, bitter, demanding, and narcissistic.  They expected the illusion they were taught and instead received the world as-it-is.  And…FUCK EVERYONE ELSE for it!

 

            Most of my experiences with extremely negative, entitled people revolves around cooking crab legs for customers at my last job.  Crab leg customers are the worst!  The initial interaction with the customer entailed listening to them complain that their expectations, because by God they are “special,” were not met—the crab legs were too small, too big, too orange, too red, missing a leg, too wet, too dry, too frozen, too thawed, too old, too expensive.  After explaining that they are “in a hurry,” they methodically force you to pick and choose each individual cluster from the heaping pile in the counter.  The one you have in your hand is too skinny; that other one “just don’t look right.”  The best ones are undoubtedly on the bottom or in the front.  So, despite being “in a hurry,” they spend fifteen minutes nitpicking.  Also, they want them steamed.  (Only to complain that you used too much seasoning, too little, cooked them too long, or not long enough…naturally).

 

            When you placed them in the steamer and told them, “It will be seven minutes,” they reminded you they “are in a hurry.”  As if one could somehow reach deep into the nature of reality and alter physics to make their goddamn sea roaches cook faster for them.  Remember, they are “special,” and demand everything, even physics or the capacity of an industrial steamer, to cater to them.  Meanwhile, another customer has approached the counter and likewise wants crab legs steamed.  You repeat the nitpicking process and explain “it will be fourteen minutes,” motioning to the steamer that another customer has an order being cooked at the moment.  They grow angry, irritated that another person exists and somehow arrived two minutes before them.  They too are “special” and demand special treatment, almost expecting you to pull the first customer’s order out of the steamer and replace it with theirs.  So, they throw a tantrum.

 

            Two other customers appear in line, and you help the first person who arrived at the counter.  The person behind them grows belligerent they were not helped first.  They too are “special” and should have been greeted and assisted before the person in front of them.  They demand you go fetch a second employee to assist them because “I ain’t got time to wait!”  You retrieve another hand on deck and that individual explains to the customer, who is now in a fit of rage about the quality of customer service in your establishment, that it will be over twenty minutes before they can have their order steamed, and around thirty before they can receive it because of the now three customers ahead of them.  Out pours profanity and a child-like temper tantrum.  But they are “special,” they scream at you.  They shouldn’t have to wait.  Fuck the other three customers who likewise think they are “special.”  And then all four of them get in each other’s faces and exchange threats until the security guard has to come and intervene.  Look, folks, I’m not making this up.  This shit happened ALL THE TIME!

           

            And all this centers around being told by a goddamn purple dinosaur when they were a kid, as well as other teachers, influencers, parents, and media, that they were fucking “special” and “seen.”  They deserved a trophy simply for showing up.  When in fact, they are just a nobody like the rest of us with an inflated sense of self-worth and should have been taught patience, gratitude, respect for others, and kindness.  They are not “special!”  Teach kids the value of the other—the great teacher that loves or hates us, embraces or rejects us, hurts us, accepts us, and gets in the way when we want our crab legs steamed when “in a hurry.”  The other is “special,” not us.  We are just another face in the crowd.  Through the other we learn life’s lessons.  Such as waiting our turn at a traffic signal and not feeling “special” enough to barrel through the intersection and t-bone another vehicle.  The lessons we need to be taught in our youth are to get over ourselves, love and respect one another, take your time, and be patient.  In other words, stop teaching kids that it’s all about you.  Teach them to get outside of themselves and experience what the world is like from the perspective of other people.

 

            They don’t need to be “seen.”  They don’t need attention.  They need to learn to be comfortable in their own shell as a nobody and in turn, become somebody through their interactions with the other.  Where they further lose themselves and become a husband (a relation to a wife), a father (a relation to children), a friend (a relation to another person), a boss (a relation to employees and higher bosses), a worker (a relation to a boss and coworkers), a player on a sports team (a relation to their teammates, coach, and opponents).  Or whatever.  Teach them to put themselves in situations where they have to incorporate the opinions and nuances of the other, place them outside of themselves and their own “special” bubble.  By losing yourself, you gain the world and reality as it is.  Because it doesn’t care about you.  The only thing that is special is that we are somehow, despite the odds, stumbling around this giant blue and green dot hurtling through space.  Let the world feel special, and learn humility in its presence.  It was here before you…wait in line.

On objects

            While Buddhism teaches us to not attach to material objects, I find myself lately drawn to them.  Though not to the extent I would mourn their loss.  Rather, I prefer the material as opposed to the digital.  I want a physical book I can hold, feel, and watch as its pages turn yellow with age, the binder breaks, and the cover wears.  I want to flip through it enthralled and involved, not mindlessly scrolling on a Kindle, and write in its margins, insert placeholders and notes.  In my hands it holds a certain meaning, an immanence, a being-in-place and being-in-time.  It exists not only in the present but for the foreseeable future so long as it rests on my bookshelf, though it could always be lost, misplaced, damaged, or stolen.  The impermanence only enhances its attractiveness.

 

            With the digital, there is a certain perpetuity implied in its “ownership.”  It exists for the course of your life so long as you maintain your subscription.  And will do so your entire life span, in its same condition, with a monthly membership.  But you don’t truly own it.  You only rent the access to it.  While the physical book is ephemeral, deteriorating through time, humidity, and light, you have full access to it for its lifetime.  You don’t need to continually request permission through capital.  It’s yours, just pull that sum-a-bitch off the shelf and read it as many times as you like.   

 

            I’ve applied this same infatuation to music.  I purchased a record player.  I want to hold in my hands a physical copy of the music, to watch it play on a physical object and listen to its radiance.  And I don’t want any modern music.  I want Bach, the Blues, and old school punk.  Contemporary music is narcissistic—the whole look at me, my possessions, my “bitches,” my wealth, my style, my looks.  All of that lacks art, substance, and beauty.  There is no depth.  Classical music is beautiful in its rhythms, its silence, in the subtle pauses between sets.  The blues gives voice to the sounds of despair, heartache, and depression that are pushed aside in our society unless they are a means to garner attention.  The blues express an emotion that each one of us has had, currently do, or will experience.  And punk is dead because it presents a guttural disgust for the status quo that our “positive vibes only” society no longer has room to embrace or entertain.  It’s not productive; it’s a renunciation.

 

            Physical objects, though impermanent, represent a certain sense of security in its accessibility.  In that, you don’t have to rent the medium for their enjoyment.  In a second, if Amazon’s server would implode, every e-book you ever purchased would vanish.  You can’t read your Kindle in a power outage, even with the benefits of a candle.  You can’t trek it into some untouched spot of wilderness without a Wi-Fi connection.  In the physical object, there is an otherness, almost a gaze, through which you not simply visualize your own reflection, but something outside of yourself that stands apart and separate.  Something distinct and individual.  It is something that accompanies you on your journey as a non-sentient companion.  There is something unique about an object as opposed to a digital copy, a genuineness, an earthy connection that relates you to the world.  A contentedness in its physical touch.

For my class—weekly reading insight

            Dispelling Misconceptions…[Chapter 1, 2 No-Nonsense Buddhism for Beginners]

 

            I can’t think of anyone who has ever asked me what I believe in or practice.  They already “know.”  I, of course, worship and pray to a golden statue of a fat guy while sitting cross-legged in yoga pants, repeating “namaste” a lot, taking deep breaths, and sipping on an iced, oat milk late’ (local only—never Starbucks).  I sit in scenic areas, skylined against a beautiful sunset, my index fingers touching my thumbs, while making some weird humming noise as if I were an iPhone stuck on vibrate mode.  They fully understand the core beliefs of the practice, such as “what goes around, comes around,” and completely believe me when I tell them I want to be reincarnated as an opossum so I can rid the South of mosquitos.  Does anyone else also get those cliché zen desk gardens for Christmas?

 

            For as widespread as Buddhism has become in the West, our pop culture saturates the common understanding with many misconceptions.  Zen, for example, takes on this peaceful state of bliss and euphoria, often finding its trademark stamp on strains of Delta-8 pens, self-help workbooks, calming melatonin-laced drinks, collections of relaxing nature sounds, calendars full of photos of trickling raindrops in a bamboo forest, and yeah…those stupid desk gardens again.  I’m really tired of having to scold my cat that it’s very un-Zen to utilize the desk garden as a litter box.  But I digress.  When I actually explain to people that Zen refers to “sitting meditation” (zazen) which entails staring at a wall with half-closed eyes for obscene amounts of time, they look at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted three heads.

 

            A prime example was a recent tele-health visit with a doctor.  We were covering the basics and she asked what religion I subscribe to.

 

            “I’m an atheist, but I practice Zen Buddhism.”

 

            She kind of looked at me weird.

 

            “NOTHING about you screams, ‘I’m a Zen Buddhist.’  You’re wearing a camo hat and there’s deer antlers poking out from the bookshelf behind you.”

 

            “What’s a Buddhist supposed to look like?” I asked.

 

            This half of the book [No-nonsense Buddhism for Beginners] dispels many of the pop culture fictions surrounding Buddhism while explaining what the belief system and practice actually entail.  I remember I too came to the practice with certain preconceptions, though I had been fortunate enough to have been immersed a bit in college philosophy and religion classes.  But I was still more than a little confused when I read Peace is Every Step by Thich Nhat Hanh and there was all this talk about the present moment and focusing on the breath.  I hadn’t read anything about that in college.  How was this supposed to bring me inner peace, I wondered?

 

            Maybe I don’t help my own cause by going on confusing, philosophical rants at work to get out of trouble.  I’ll show up fifteen minutes late and my boss, when he’s not hungover and over an hour late himself, will state the obvious “you’re late!”

 

            “Who?”

 

            “You!”

 

            “Who am I?”

 

            “Josh.  A late Josh.”

 

            “What is ‘Josh?’  Am I my nose, my hair, my clothes?  Am I this vape I’m not supposed to be using in the office?”

 

            “You’re you.  You’re literally standing in front of me.”

 

            “Am I though?  Or are we constantly in flux?  Does the self that existed at two years old equate to the now 37-year-old me?  No.  And does that perpetual change negate the idea that the person five minutes ago who was fifteen minutes late still represent the person who is standing here now?  If there is no fixed self, was there ever a ‘Josh’ that arrived late, early, or on-time?  And if there is no ‘Josh’ to arrive late, can I even be reprimanded?  And what is time, anyway?  Is it linear or cyclical?  If all we have is the present moment, why are we focusing on the past?” 

 

            “Just shut up and get to work!”

 

            There is a certain irony and distance that exists between what people think they know about Buddhism and what it actually is in practice.  We don’t necessarily have an “Apostle’s Creed” of belief to present to people, and everything differs between traditions—Mahayana, Vajrayana, Theravada, etc.  But there are core, shared beliefs.  “It is only suffering that I describe, and the cessation of suffering,” the Buddha taught.  It’s not all peaceful, “zen” bliss but a mental and physical striving toward awakening to reality as it truly is—a world beyond delusion and subjective mental projections.  It’s not peaceful sounds on a CD, but hard work and effort to say, do, and live right action and right speech.  It’s definitely not the “Nirvana” pen you can purchase from the vape shop.  And you can’t find it in a Zen as F*ck workbook. 

 

            But at the end of the day, I guess it doesn’t really matter how others perceive or think about our practice.  Though it would make life easier if they would all read this book.  All that matters is that we try to apply the teachings to our lives and do the best we can.  I do believe in the bodhisattva concept that this practice is not only for our own “enlightenment” but for the benefit of all those we come in contact with on a daily basis.  Maybe we will never change the world for the better, as a whole.  But that one random person who meets us on the street may have a better experience courtesy of our practice.  And brightening one day could brighten the day of countless people.  I’m still not there yet.  I’m too busy trying to get out of being late for work.  But it’s something I actively work towards.  And maybe one day I will get there.

Trump

            I used to have a political opinion about everything.  To an antagonizing and irritable degree.  The last stretch I was in college, I was even a political science major.  Now, I couldn’t care less…for the most part.  If the next election positions Biden versus Trump, I will most emphatically sit on my lazy ass without casting a vote.  I’m tired of the negative voting—voting against the candidate I dislike for someone I equally dislike, but a little bit less.  It’s infuriating that this is the current shape of our democratic republic, this grand experiment we cast before the world’s gaze all those centuries ago.

 

            While I am afraid of what might happen if Trump gains reelection, I accept it as a necessary evil that must exist to shock the American populace into rethinking their political apathy, their latching onto brands and “likes” and personalities.  He must be so horrible that it will unite the factions against him for the sake of future generations and politics in general.  I agree with Byung-Chul Han’s argument that Trump is a danger, not because he contradicts the truth, but that to him, there is no truth to counter.  And no falsehood.  He creates a world of his own imagery, his own opinions and conclusions, without even a consideration for facts or truth.  His inauguration sported the biggest crowds, he claimed, despite photographic evidence to the contrary.  But even after the photographs appeared, he maintained his claim.  In his rhetoric, he concocts an alternate universe with him at the center.  Facts and truth don’t matter even to the extent of something to contradict; they are ignored entirely as irrelevant.

 

            Trump creates this image of the “barbaric other,” an enemy at our doorstep, so to speak.  The muslim is an enemy, despite our country creating the very circumstances that have generated radicalization and terrorism by interfering with their home countries.  The immigrant likewise meets this designation and also results from us interfering with the sociopolitical aspects of latin America where we, by proxy, supported tyrants and ruthless regimes for our own benefit at the expense of the populace.  We have drained these countries of labor and resources and now, when they lack opportunity, come knocking on our door.  America is like a man-whore who constantly fucks over women only to get his own heart finally broken.  Everything was simply the chickens coming home to roost.  And there should be no sympathy for it, nor reaction against it.  The only recourse is to make things right moving forward.  Only by embracing the other do we evolve and grow.

 

            But by Trump continually forming an enemy of the other, even the Democratic voter or “woke” individual, focus is constantly veered away from scrutiny on him.  The feeling of constantly being at war or on guard overtakes the common man who depends on Trump for security and defense against this imagined foe.  The January 6^thinsurrection is a prime example.  With no evidence to support his claims, he enlivened the masses into revolt to “save” the integrity of an election that he claimed was “stolen.”  Again, he projected an imagined world onto the populace, which they accepted regardless of truth or fact.  This enemy, the enemy from within, took the forefront.  People were not revolting against a foreign enemy, but their very own lawmakers and duly elected officials.  For Trump, the enemy is everywhere outside of himself.  Nothing sacred exists aside of an undying loyalty to him, and solely him.

 

            Paranoia is the status quo of the Trump regime.  Enemies abound everywhere, from within and without.  A constant state of conflict places the individual outside of themselves, in a sensory state of periphery awareness, and detached from themselves and cognitive dissonance.  There is no self-critique, epiphanies, or realizations in the Trump era.  They succumb to the psychosis of everyone being out to get them, despite making up the majority of the populace.  Everyone outside of their own frame of view is to be countered at every point.  They will willingly sacrifice freedom and liberty for the sake of perpetuating their own world view as they go home and drown in social media, immersing themselves in a self-flattering algorithm that reaffirms their own likes and interests.  Trump is the result of overwhelming narcissism within our culture and self-reference.  “He says it like it is.”  That’s just another way of saying he lacks cordiality and says something as half-witted as my brain operates after six beers.  They look to him, not because he has something new to offer, but because he offers the same crass nature of their own inner psyches.  He is their intrusive thoughts born to life.  He is their reflection born outward from the mirror.

 

            And again, I think this is all necessary.  For him to return to power, for him to refuse to give up that power, and everything degenerate into chaos.  This will either result in a massive cognitive dissonance and a rebellion against the growingly fascist inclinations of the Trump-Right or be embraced by the masses so completely that only future generations can rebel against and undo the damage.  But in either case, it needs to happen.  Things just need to get that bad before they can get better.  Sometimes the best thing you can do for people is to give them what they want, and a lot of it.  Just like a teenager who thinks smoking is cool…force them to sit there and smoke two packs, one right after the other, until they get sick.  That’s what I’m hoping for for America—that they get sick and realize this Trump shtick ain’t good for them.  It’s only going to kill them in the long run.  But they need to get violently ill to understand that his feel-good vibes are nothing more than the initial bliss of ingesting a deadly poison.  The burn and the bliss are enjoyable after the first shot of bourbon, but it’s the cirrhosis that gets you in the end.

 

            A new Trump regime will leave lasting scars on our country.  Scars that will run so deep and be so ugly, we will look back on them for decades to come, at last understanding the consequences of our actions, and remember not to repeat the same degeneration into authoritarianism and fascism, the expulsion of the other, and the praise for the lowest common denominator of political discourse in the future.  He will demand we give up our freedom, and many will freely give it, because he speaks not only to the darker areas of our nature, but to the legitimate grievances of the voiceless, the common man.  Like the antichrist in Revelations, he will bring peace…but at a price.  He will echo the voiceless only to reinforce his position, his authority, out of an inherent narcissism, at the inevitable expense of liberty as a whole.  I can guarantee, a time will come when he values staying in power and perpetuating that power more than he cares about the very individuals who allowed him to come to power.  Because he never truly cared about them.  They were always merely a means to an end. 

Failure

Grasping intellectually…

 

            “Ananda knew all about Buddhism intellectually, but this knowledge was no substitute for the “direct knowledge” of the yogin.”  He understood the Noble Truths about suffering “with his mundane, rational mind, but he had not absorbed it so that it fused with his whole being.”  Ananda “could not “penetrate” these doctrines and make them a living reality.”  Though “surrounded by spiritual giants who had reached Nibbana,” he forlornly admitted “I have not reached the goal of the holy life; my quest is unfulfilled.” 

 

            Yeah, I get that.  Today I felt like Ananda in my own practice.  I grasp the concepts intellectually, with my “mundane, rational mind,” but clearly, I have neither absorbed nor applied them properly to my life.  Just ask my coworkers!  Each one of them took the time out of a busy day (meat department the day before the Super Bowl) to explain that apparently the Buddhism thing isn’t working out for me.

 

            The day began at 6:00AM with a text from my buddy.

 

            “You’re an ass.”

 

            “No, I’m a tiger!  Rawwrrr!” I replied, referencing my place in the Chinese Zodiac on the Lunar New Year.

 

            At work he expanded on his epithet. 

           

            “I thought zazen was supposed to make you calm and peaceful?”

 

            “Zazen has no goal.” I retorted.

 

            “Whatever.  You’re still an asshole.”

 

            This conversation was in reference to me making my boss angry.  My boss was explaining to me that the reason he’s been over an hour late each day for the last month was not from him binge-drinking every night, but because his phone is broken and not sounding his alarms.

 

            “So, there’s these new things out called alarm clocks.  You plug them into the wall and program the time.  They make a beeping noise that wakes you up.  I mean, that’s CRAZY, am I right!?  They sell them everywhere apparently.”

           

            I walk away and go into the office.  This girl just immediately pipes up, “Shut up, Josh!”

 

            “But I didn’t even say anything!”

 

            “You were about to.  You’re always soooo mean to me!”

 

            “Yeah, but I’m also funny.” I reminded her.

 

            The assistant market manager was the next to have something to say.  We were in the office, and he asked, “what time are you working to?”

 

            “4:30,” I replied, “I came in early.”

 

            “I’m sick and tired of you making your own schedule and working when you want!”

 

            “I’m offended!” I exclaimed, “this schedule is the sole source of stability I have in my life.  I would never falter from maintaining the integrity of my assigned shifts.  I have the utmost respect for this cheap, printed piece of paper tacked on the wall and follow it to a “T!”

 

            “Josh,” he said with an annoyed tone, “aren’t you taking some voodoo-hoodoo course that’s supposed to make you a better person?”

 

            “Well, I don’t know about being a better person.”

 

            “What does it say about lying?  Isn’t that a sin?”

 

            “Well, I mean, it’s considered not ‘right speech.’  But there’s no concept of sin like in the Abrahamic traditions.”

 

            “Blah, blah, blah.  What does Buddha say about you being an asshole!?”

 

            “I should practice right speech and right action.”

 

            “OK!  THEN DO IT!”

 

            Sartre opined in No Exit, “Hell is other people.”  Byung-Chul Han argues that it is only by submitting to the gaze of the other, that we can truly negate the sense of inwardness that presents in narcissism and selfishness.  The psychologist Alfred Adler explains that we should have the courage to be disliked and only when presenting ourselves into the gaze of the other to either be rejected or liked, do we experience a true courage within ourselves and a contentment in who and what we are.  Brad Warner suggests in his book, Don’t Be a Jerk.  So, according to the different theories, either I should be content in being an asshole, or take the “gaze of the other” into account as a critique of who and what I think I am.  Either ignore or embrace, per the different theories.

 

            I’m going to jot this one up as a learning experience and embrace the “gaze of the other.”  These are more than my coworkers; they are my friends.  “The girl” I mentioned, is much more than a coworker to me.  She worked for me twice when I was a Market Manager, so I feel an almost paternalistic sense of protection for her every time she gets reprimanded by her boss.  I dated her sister-in-law.  I know her entire family, have been over to her house, hung out outside of work, the whole lot.  We are friends.  She texted me over a year ago all stressed out and needing a new job.  I pulled some strings and got her hired at my new company.  So, maybe I should take into account that when I walk in a room, I don’t reek of compassion, understanding, or good vibes…but some sarcastic comment that has yet to be said.

 

            Sitting zazen one hour a day will not make you a better person.  Reading a stack of Buddhism books a month will not make you a better person.  Listening to Buddhist podcasts will not make you a better person.  But maybe, as the old saying goes, when you walk through the dew long enough, you will find your clothes saturated and wet.  In other words, you immerse yourself long enough until something sticks.  This did not seem to work for Ananda, though.  And despite this being a tongue-in-cheek weekly insight, it’s something I’m really focusing on.  At what point do I stop intellectualizing and actually apply these teachings to my life?  Enough for my friends and coworkers to notice a change that I’ve stopped being an “asshole.”

Burnout in real time

            “We throw ourselves enthusiastically into our work until we burn out,” Byung-Chul Han writes, “the enthusiasm is, in fact, the first stage of burnout.”  No longer oppressed from without, we self-exploit ourselves, becoming our own oppressors by continuous action, transparency, and desire to achieve at all costs.  This perpetual optimism, to constantly push ourselves to our limits, directly results in burnout, anxiety, and depression.  Such was the progression of my last job.  

 

            I walked through the doors as a salaried Market Manager with the promise of a 45-hour work week and the possibility of quarterly, performance-based bonuses.  Immediately I was confronted with the opposite of a 45-hour work week.  “If you feel like you need to live here your first six months, that’s fine,” my Meat Specialist suggested, “you can work 55 or 60 hours a week and ain’t nobody gonna say nothin’ to ya.”  And so it began, the gradual plunge of this total immersion into my career and a renunciation of all other aspects of my life.  No longer would I have time for friends or family.  My uncle would die without ever having a chance to see him one last time.  I would grow distant from my friends, forget about my hobbies and interests, and live solely to work another day.  What began as a suggestion from without was soon replaced by an inner drive to succeed, to achieve from within.  To worker harder, faster, longer…to be the BEST.

 

            The first few weeks I worked over, as directed by my boss, getting the feel for the employees, managers, and customers; learning the sales trends, and cleaning and organizing the department.  Then, one of the two meat cutters stepped down to part-time, requesting to only work four days a week, and needing alternating Saturdays off for school.  My work week soon transitioned to six days to account for the missing shift.  When he surprised me on a Friday evening with a request to have Saturday (the next day) off for school, I denied it and he summarily quit over the phone.  Now, my work week was extended by another day, affording me no days off.  On top of that, a clerk walked out because I cut his hours as we were over the weekly labor budget, and I felt he did more talking and snacking than actual work.  So, in the first month, we were down two people—both of whom were replaced with my time.

 

            The lack of help did not concern my store manager who, when I was off, would call me about the conditions of the market—whether someone had straightened up the lunch meat, or filled the case, properly cleaned, and demanded I work later to accommodate the needs of the business.  My schedule shifted again to where I worked from 7AM-6PM, seven days a week.  And I had an hour commute on top of that.  I was not only the manager, but the meat cutter, the meat clerk, the seafood clerk, and the cleanup guy.  And that’s when everyone showed up.  When someone called out, my duties encompassed being two or more of these people simultaneously on any given day.  To have a day off, my Meat Specialist would come in and cut meat on a Sunday, which happened maybe once or twice.  I felt a sense of achievement in all this, a feeling of pride.  That I mattered.

 

            What’s more is that the company demanded you to be on-call at all hours of the day, whether or not you were on or off the clock.  The drive home consisted of answering work calls or texts from my employees, managers, or Meat Specialist, as well as at home—even as late as 11:30 at night or as early as 5:00AM.  I felt like I needed to be constantly available and purchased an Apple watch to receive calls and texts even when my phone was on the charger in the other room.  Once I missed a call from someone calling out and had to, at a late hour because my phone was charging, drive an hour to my work and close down the market.

 

            I soon burned out (or so I thought), found another job, and turned in my two week’s notice.  I had yet to fully understand what burnout entails.  I was just tired.  But promises of a raise and help suddenly flooded in and I became static and complacent, electing to stick with the company in hopes that it would get better.  And it did, briefly.  For a few weeks I had another cutter to help out two days a week while I trained another employee to cut meat.  I was able to get one full day off work every week, a Thursday, and really had this ambition to push myself and do above and beyond after getting a $1.50 raise.  That’s when I received my first bonus check.  Somewhere around $5,000.  I was hooked.  I kept maybe $2,000 after taxes and divided the rest up with my employees.  From then on, I didn’t care how much I worked just so long as I could get more bonus checks, bigger bonus checks, and at that point I became self-exploitive. 

 

            The help soon vanished, and I was back to working seven days a week again.  “There just aren’t any cutters out there anymore,” I was constantly told.  Employees quit left and right, and were briefly replaced (sometimes), before they too left.  Employee pay was low, so there was an ever-revolving door that lured in dropouts that couldn’t find employment elsewhere and had no intentions of staying longer than they could figure out a way to sit at home and collect an unemployment check or welfare.  Most didn’t want to work much because that affected the amount of food stamps they received every month, and needless to say, they were anything but motivated.  They needed CONSTANT supervision and were of the basest level of intelligence.  Anyone with even an average amount of brain cells who stumbled across this company out of sheer desperation never stayed long before finding a better paying job elsewhere.

 

            But I was in it for the long haul.  I wanted to make more money.  I felt good about myself.  I was achieving something, deriving meaning from my labor in terms of capital and success.  I could afford the best guns, the finest Scotch, import my tobacco from Sweden, and watch the numbers pile up in my bank account.  Just, I had no free time.  I worked seven days a week, answered calls all evening, and if I had a day off often had to come into work to address an issue or cover a shift, or just sit around my house answering calls and texts all day.  I never felt as if I could go anywhere on my day off just in case they needed me to come in.  I had allowed my career to overtake and encompass all aspects of my life.  The only thing left for me at the end of the day was a few hours to drink, and even then, I never had too much in case I received a call.  Again, this was my own fault for allowing myself to be so open to the needs of the company and not establishing any boundaries.  Self-exploitive.

 

            During my second year, I had the highest gross profit in the company, was pushing the market up in sales, and was deemed “the best we got” by my meat specialist who went about singing my praises to everyone he could.  Even during the brief times I was fully staffed, I still worked almost every day, at least for a few hours.  The success of that market, and in turn my own success, was all that mattered.  Not my dying uncle, not my friends, I hadn’t even been hunting in years.  I worked, I answered my phone, I drank, I slept, and repeated.  When I did talk to my friends or have the chance to hangout, they remarked that all I ever talked about was work.  “That’s all I do anymore,” feeling somehow proud about that statement.  Not only did I work hard, and I was not only good at what I did (the bonuses kept telling me), but I was “the best we got.”  This was the beginning of the true burnout.

 

            As the years dragged on, I became as equally resentful of the time I spent at work as I was proud.  I was constantly patted on the back for my dedication and performance but grew bitter when occasions arose where I really did need time off.  To bury my uncle, for example, I was told “we don’t have anyone to cover for you.”  So, I had to make out the orders ahead of time for the three days I would be in West Virginia.  Or when someone called out when I needed to go to a doctor’s appointment as I was suffering from a MAJOR health issue.  “Don’t you think you need to cancel your appointment?”  My store manager asked rhetorically.  And I did.  Even so much as going to the cardiologist for chest pains, I was on the phone in the waiting room having to explain why I wasn’t at work and why the wrapping machine hadn’t been cleaned the previous night.  There are no boundaries in the modern information society.  No time was not, or could not be, company time.  On days I was off, my store manager would call me and tell me I needed to alter the schedule and send her a copy of the changes immediately by text or email.  Another time when I was off, I had to write a lengthy statement to corporate concerning an issue between two employees.

 

            By allowing myself to be open, which was required with that company and most modern businesses, I exploited myself by relinquishing my personal time and space.  By constantly coming in at moments notice when I was off, whether to cover a shift, assist during a hurricane or snowstorm, or salvage the meat after the electricity went out, I further self-exploited by never wanting to tarnish my reputation as “dedicated” or “reliable.”  Never wanting to give them a reason to replace me, I kept myself always available.  As with my managers, my employees too constantly expected this perpetual availability.  They might have a death in the family and need me to cover their shift, or they were sick, or they had a question about how much something was, or what to do with this product or that.  Because of my smartphone, for four years I never truly had a day off.  I was always working.

 

            That’s one of causes the burnout in modern society—never being able to tune out work.  The constant business needs to communicate interfere with the personal needs of leisure and relaxation.  Instead of addressing an issue during the next work period, it can be addressed immediately with a few punched buttons or a call, an email.  Work becomes totally consuming and overwhelming, instigating a feeling of never-ending labor.  The second cause of burnout is the push for achievement, even when there’s no great need.

 

            I had done so well under my first Meat Specialist that when my last Specialist entered the picture, I wasn’t nearly good enough for him.  Where I had built up my market to being third in company sales, he expected me to be number one.  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be first!”  He expected my employees to work tirelessly to their max each and every day like machines incapable of wear and tear, disregarding breaks and lunches, to push sales to the next level.  No one was working hard enough for him.  And this is where my burnout began to grow apparent.  Even though I had achieved and been successful, in the modern capitalist system there is no such thing as “good enough.”  There is a constant drive to be bigger, better, faster, more efficient at the cost of the physical and mental health of the employees actually doing the work.  Because, instead of a society of human beings, our society worships information and data.  They want those numbers to be higher than the last quarter, greater than your sister store.  Not only are you in a constant state of never-ending competition against your competitors, but you’re even competing against the other markets in your own company, the other market managers, and every other employee.  There is a constant comparison.  For what, I began to wonder?  Bragging rights?

 

            What would it benefit me to be number one in the company?  At what cost?  Less free time?  More physical labor?  Pushing my employees to their breaking point when each one already had one foot out of the door?  I no longer wanted to work all day and night.  I still worked seven days for the most part, but I tried to leave around 3PM and at least have the evening to myself.  But now I was asked for more and I had to ask myself, was I willing to give it?  Was I further willing to exploit myself and my time for the sake of achievement, to maintain being “the best we’ve got,” to get an even bigger bonus and stroke my own ego?  At first, I was.  I really fucking tried.  I was down another meat cutter who I was told wouldn’t be replaced.  The staff I wanted to fire I was told there were no potential hires in the system to replace them with.  I grew frustrated at being held to a standard that was higher than my ability to achieve while lacking the resources to even pursue it as an option.  To hold my employees accountable, write them up and suspend or fired them, meant I had to cover their shift on top of doing my own job.  I was at wit’s end, but still holding on for dear life.  Unwilling to give up or “fail.”

 

            This all came to a head during a time I now view as the “right time” in my life.  Not only was I growing disillusioned with this new push to be even better when I was already spending all of my waking hours, in some form or another, performing labor for that company, but I had a new girlfriend, my employee.  I enjoyed spending time with her more than I liked being “the best we got” or cared how big my bonuses were.  And I made time for her.  “Look,” I explained to her, “I’ve sacrificed everything in my life for this job.  I’m not sacrificing you.  You matter to me.”  The moment I made it a point to have something more in my life than my work was the great undoing of my career.  Even though I came in on my day off because someone called out, I didn’t stay all day like I normally would have.  I had a date.  I meant to keep my word to my girlfriend after promising two weeks before, after fourteen straight days of work, that I would take her out.  So, I worked a few hours and left only to be called into work during the middle of a movie…even after explaining to my Meat Specialist that I was out-of-town.  “You need to get here!”  And I got there and there was nothing to do, so I threw a tantrum, left, and went home and applied for jobs.  The next day, I guess someone had gotten pissed that I, for once, placed my life over that of the business and they spilled that I was having an intimate relationship with my employee.  Which, yeah, I shouldn’t have been doing.  But now it was all over the store, and I got called into the office and interrogated by my managers.  Probably almost lost my job, but I didn’t care.  I already had applications out there.

 

            While it didn’t work out with the girl, I am grateful now of our time together.  Not just because I enjoyed being with her, but because she showed me there was more to life than work.  She and I went fishing together, met with friends, went to the movies, went out to eat, went to bars and parties.  I rarely if ever allowed myself time to do any of that before because work was the sole focus.  Through her, I rediscovered a world out there beyond the time clock.  And though it hurt when she left, the whole experience allowed me time to refocus on myself, my interests and hobbies, my social life, and a world beyond exploiting myself out of an ego-driven desire to achieve.  She made me realize there was more to me than the numbers in my bank account, how great my gross profit was, or what my sales were.  Somewhere, deep down beneath the uniform, there was a person I had long forgotten.  I was always distant with my employees, rarely feeding them any personal information.  She taught me how to open up to someone again.

 

            But it took a long time for me to come to this realization.  At first, when I left the company and she left me, I felt depressed.  Like I had failed.  Maybe I wasn’t a good enough Market Manager?  I couldn’t handle it.  I blamed myself instead of the conditions of modern capitalism that push the worker to burnout by an overly-optimistic drive for more, MORE, MORE!!!  I was no longing achieving something by running a successful business…I was a loser.  For everything I hated about my job, I missed it.  I derived my meaning through my labor.  It never dawned on me that I needed to matter to myself.  That something existed beyond the amount of profit or sales I could generate for a company that didn’t value me beyond that capacity.  They never saw me as human.  I self-exploited to matter to them, even just an ounce, so that they wouldn’t replace me with someone who would work longer hours, extra days, and be the company man they wanted.  My Meat Director always reminded us “never forget, each and every one of you is replaceable.”  Every time my body or psyche cried for time off, I deemed it a weakness and ignored it.  I needed to work, to be the “best we got,” to get that next bonus check, to be the end-all-be-all Market Manager I could so I would keep my job another day.  Until that day I didn’t.  Because she made me realize that none of that mattered.  And I thank her for that.

 

            Now, I’m no longer chasing success or the next bonus check.  I have no desire to “achieve” anything from without myself.  I may not be the most social person, but I like sitting at home and having the time to read and write, sit zazen, exercise, cook, and whatever the hell else I want to do without the need to constantly be “on-the-clock” and hooked to my phone.  I don’t need to worry about not having a day off for weeks-months on end.  Or having to stay late and cancel my plans or come in because someone called out.  I’m no longer in that rat race to be number one, no longer desiring of the need to be “the best we got” and have the best numbers.  I can just be myself.  Someone I’d forgotten for a very long time.  I don’t want to ever lose that again.  And wherever she is, whatever she is doing, I thank her for opening my eyes to that and I wish her the best.  Without her, I would still be stuck in my prison of self-exploitation, miserable, and never knowing who I am or what I want out of life.  I would be a functioning burnout with no conception of my own needs and desires.  I would be another lost soul in this generation of “winners,” swimming in the sea of sameness, “like,” and achievement.  I’m ok that I failed.  Because what I gained was so much more than whatever it was that I supposedly “lost.” 

 

Hell, I don’t even remember now…

absence

            What does a shaved head represent?  In Christianity and Judaism, it can represent mourning, repentance, or an oath to God.  In Hinduism, it represents a state of cleansing.  Buddhism positions it as a renunciation of attachment to worldly notions of beauty, fashion, and style.  In totalitarian systems, such as prison or the military, it stands as a casting off of individuality and subordinating oneself to the hierarchy and all-consuming structure.  For women, it has meant liberation, in the sense of defying the beauty standards of the West.  In punk, it was the rejection of the long-haired, bourgeois hippies in favor of a working-class shtick.

 

            What does it represent for me?

 

            I don’t know.

 

            All I know is what it is not, its negation.

 

            I am not in mourning or seeking repentance.  The only cleansing I know is the burn of the bourbon on my palate.  I cling too much for it to symbolize renunciation.  My vape never leaves my hand, caffeine continuously surges through my veins; even zazen and the morning run have become attachments through which I emit pride and ego.  I have made no oaths.  I am not a monk.  The totalitarian regime of capitalist neoliberalism in which I exist promotes individualism, to become a brand, and market myself for likability.  I don’t care if I’m liked.  My long, curly hair was highly marketable to the opposite sex, but I don’t want to attract attention.  At this point, I prefer to be alone.  I don’t want to be unique or stand out or be interesting.  I am not liberating myself from oppression.  Punk is dead.

 

            Then what does it all mean?  Why did I put a razor to my head? 

 

            Perhaps, I have fallen in love. 

 

            Not with a person, or an object, but with a concept.  Absence.  In absence, there is a restless beauty.  A sense of longing, a lingering, a gaze.  A hope and a contented ease of time, place, and being.

 

            The absence of a girlfriend allows me to relish romantic feelings and thoughts of love, often directed at complete strangers, without the mud and dust of truly knowing someone, of growing intimate and connected to their every action, reaction, or quirk.  The absence of knowing them, lost in the other’s gaze, there is a subtle hope that maybe love is out there for me, in a passerby’s eyes.  That in an instant of connection, that could spur a change in the trajectory of my life.  I feel love in its absence, without ever knowing its touch.  And it only intensifies as I aim that inner love towards the other, extending a care for even the most random of strangers.  I feel love in the absence of love, because I have the capacity to love without its direct aim towards a particular person or object.  It is all-encompassing and not prejudiced or isolated.  Totally doesn’t sound creepy, am I right?

 

            In my roommate’s absence, we harbor few disagreements and conflicts.  He works when I am off.  I sleep when he is awake.  Our lives exist together only in passing moments, in the morning rush to prepare for work, in the few short hours in the living room of an evening—me in a book, and he, watching an anime.  Our lives coexist separately, in an absence.  In absence there is not distance, but an interconnectedness that relies on an inherent emptiness.  The mountain does not wish to be the stream, or interfere with its flow, nor do they share the same elevation, but still, they exist as equal parts of the same flowing landscape.

 

            In the lack of hair, there is an expectation and a hope of its return.  But a contentedness if it does not, as I am already bald.  The absence of style presents as a style, though empty.  I cannot comb my hair or style it, but it nonetheless exists as form.  Emptiness is form.  And form is emptiness.  I am neither attached nor detached.  It exists within an ease of acceptance.

 

            Absence is poetry.  Poetry is beautiful not because it explains everything and puts thoughts into words, but because of what it symbolizes where words lack strength and purpose.  It is the space between thought, between prose, that beauty exists.  The unspoken word weighs heavier in its absence than in its presence.  Yet, in this emptiness, there is nothing lacking.  No excess. 

 

            Absence holds everything within its emptiness of space.  It is the sky on a cloudless night, the reflection of the sun on the water’s surface, the other’s gaze.  All encompassing, flowing, and moving; it has no excess and lacks nothing.

Not my path

The time is 1:00AM, and I just woke up from a profound, vivid dream.  In my dream was the same bottle of Japanese whiskey I had been sipping on the night before.  A disembodied voice spoke, “this is not your path.”  Surrounding me were statues and images of the Buddha.  “It’s ok.” I replied to the voice.  “I can give it away.”  I entered into this room where an oracle sat.  He was some anthropomorphic Egyptian deity.  The room was open and spacious, and a sense of calm floated in the atmosphere.

 

“For whom do you walk this path?”  He asked.

 

“For who else would I?” I retorted.

 

A dark voice echoed in the room, as if an audible whisper.

 

L-U-C-I-F-E-R!!!  The Morning Star.

 

I shrugged off that implication.

 

“Will I find God?” I asked the Egyptian deity.

 

He muttered something ambiguous back that I can’t quite recall.  Something along the lines of God being mysterious and distant, but not denying his existence.  He seemed humored by my question, to which I grew irritated and smarted him off.

 

“Faith is the evidence of things hoped for,” I said, quoting Hebrews, “the evidence of things not seen.  For by it the elders obtained a good report.”

 

What are dreams?  Do they even mean anything?  Or are they simply the mind’s processing of the day’s accumulated data?—a sorting and compiling of experiences, emotions, and events.  According to the psychologist Carl Jung, “We also live in our dreams, we do not live only by day.  Sometimes we accomplish our greatest deeds in dreams.”  Whereas dreams were once viewed as messengers of the gods according to Jung, “now we see it as the emissary of the unconscious, whose task it is to reveal the secrets that are hidden from the conscious mind, and this it does with astounding completeness.”

 

            I don’t believe my dream was some divine message, but rather my unconscious directing me from my wayward path.  I had been doing so well this last month.  My blood pressure improved, my anxiety cleared, I had lost weight, had more energy, felt better physically and mentally, and with just one simple act of purchasing a few bottles of whiskey, I had negated all of this for a return to a temporary bliss.  I stopped exercising, I stopped sitting zazen, all that mattered to me was that drink at the end of the day.  I spent all day ruminating over the thought, craving for that moment when I went home and poured a glass.  It became my focal point.  And secretly, I judged myself for it.

 

            Whatever the meaning and intention of my dream, it was jarring and direct.  I’m wide awake.  I can’t go back to sleep.  I’m going to imbibe in some caffeine, sit zazen.  “This is not your path,” keeps echoing in my mind.  My unconscious understands that the path I was on was the right one for me, until I took a detour.  Now I must readjust my direction and trajectory.

For Justin

            Transitional objects allow us to adapt to communing with the other by first interacting and clinging to an object that represents the other.  For a child, this is a favorite blanket.  It replaces the mother in her absence by providing a sense of comfort, of belonging, from without the child.  These objects act to bring us out of ourselves and into the world as we search to commune with and experience the other.  A smartphone, by contrast, is not a transitional objectthrough which we experience the other and the outside world, but a narcissistic apparatus by which we reaffirm and project ourselves.

 

            Through the smartphone, we create an identity/image that we aim to project onto the world—a social media profile, a dating profile, carefully constructed data that we wish the other to perceive as who and what we are.  This projection is narcissistic, turned inward, as opposed to being aimed outward to commune and interact with the other, to render oneself vulnerable, as it lacks the gaze of the other.  Without this gaze, only the inward focus, this online aura, becomes the projection of the self; something precisely edited, cropped, and filtered.  As opposed to interaction, the smartphone acts as a means to consume instead of commune with the other.  Genuine connection is replaced by “likes” which fuel the self-image with importance and clout, reaffirming the self as opposed to surrendering it to the gaze of the other, the criticism and critique, of seeing the reflection of ourselves for all our faults and flaws in the eyes of someone else.

 

            Through the smartphone we are entertained with memes and reels, scrolling endlessly and mindlessly in the grand algorithm of things we like and amuse us.  It points us to viewpoints and talking heads we agree with, to news stories that fit within our worldview, and people who will coo-berate our sense of self rather than challenge us.  Dating algorithms choose our matches based on computed data without acknowledging that a separation exists between how we conceive of ourselves and how we truly are.  Such as someone can check the box for being a church-goer without ever attending Sunday service.  In turn, the other merely experiences the narcissistic projection of how we view ourselves without ever truly meeting us—online, we exist outside of their gaze.

 

            Every materialistic need can be met through our smartphone.  We can find “friends,” score a date, order a new TV, or even have our supper delivered to our doorstep.  Whereas the transitional object signified the other, the smartphone is a symbol of ourselves in the purest narcissistic sense—in the image we project as opposed to our substance and marrow.  When we cling to our phones, we cling to this image we not only project onto the other but are likewise trying to project onto ourselves, fully aware deep down that it is not truly representative or who we are. We are just 5’10” dudes living in the real world with a 6’1” Tinder profile.      

 

            Addiction to the smartphone represents a disconnect with the true self, an insecurity with identity, a lingering loneliness from never entering into the gaze of the other.  Surrounded by crowds of people, they feel alone.  The smartphone reaffirms the illusion of the online avatar, the profile.  Interaction with the other exists solely at the level of consumption.  Dating apps are to get laid, not to establish relationships of depth or substance, but to meet a hedonistic drive for pleasure and entertainment.  The other becomes denigrated to an object rather than a person.  They are no different than a Tick-Toc video, a source of fleeting entertainment.  Like the hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore, the smartphone acts as an extension of a self with an insatiable appetite but a thin neck and shallow stomach so that they can never be appeased.

 

            When one’s life revolves around their smartphone, it warps their minds.  Like the apps, the games, the videos, everyone is viewed in the context of an object, of something to derive pleasure from, not to understand or truly experience.  They become a means to an end.  Something ephemeral and lacking inherent value.  A commodity.  An employee is no longer a person with likes, dislikes, hopes, and dreams, but a lifeless automaton that serves a function and purpose—to perform the tasks the boss does not want or will not do.  Relationships fill this function as well.  They act to entertain no different than the things on the screen.  When they cease to be entertaining, they are scrolled past, to the next entertaining video (oops, I mean person).  All interaction with the other is met at a superficial, self-serving level.  There is no depth, no substance or marrow, and the smartphone individual is left without meaning, purpose, drive, and lacking in connections that challenge them, critique them, or move them to progress or develop.  They remain lonely and disconnected.  In love with an idea of themselves they have never fully encountered.  Someone they don’t even believe exists.

 

            A smartphone is like the novel the Picture of Dorian Gray, where the picture on the wall shows a handsome young man while the reality is a wrinkled old man.  The smartphone is like the magic mirror in Snow White.  “Magic mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”  The answer always comes from the inward narcissism of “ME!  ME!  ME!”  In a world of others, the smartphone addict only experiences a façade of themselves, never experiencing either their true reality or the other.  They are incredibly lonely, disengaged, and aloof.  To ever be absolutely alone with themselves and their thoughts is beyond torture.  They can never engage with their true inner self, only the illusion. Full of fear they distance themselves from both self and other, to engage with the smartphone and the extension of their projected image, their Picture of Dorian Gray, their Magic mirror. 

 

            They are alone swimming in a sea filled with others, unsure how to connect, how to interact, clinging to their self illusion as if it is a transitional object meant to train them to experience the other, to enjoin the world and the greater society that exists outside their self-image.  But they fail, they withdraw into the other at surface level.  Lost in a habitual pattern of consumption, they find no pleasure from pleasure, no entertainment from entertainment; they are empty of every satisfying emotion or experience, because they strive to feel or experience too much to fill a hole within themselves they are afraid of facing.  They are the hungry ghost.  They are the wall they build against themselves and other and are confused as to why they cannot feel satisfied. 

 

            The worst kind of loneliness is not isolation, but to feel alone with others.  An isolated person can find connection by putting themselves out there and into the gaze of the other.  The loneliness of the social person is darker and deeper.  To feel connection with the other, to not be lonely, they must first find themselves.  They have to look down within their souls and fill the hole that disconnects them from experiencing their innermost self and being.  Only then can they connect with the other and not feel lonely.  Unlike the isolated man, they need to put the smartphone down and spend time with themselves, to get to know who and what they really are, so that they can become an authentic version of themselves.  Live an authentic life, and place that version before the gaze of the other. 

On clinging

            Everyday is a new opportunity to practice the art of letting go.  Find something you cling and cleave to and sever it.  If only for a day.  To cease in clinging, you cut the strings of your ego that latch on to the actions, objects, attributes, and mental processes that reaffirm the Self.  A sense of beauty exists in absence, in the emptiness that remains.  The void is filling and saturating, penetrating, with light and volume, like the space in an empty room or the bowels of a glass pitcher.  Emptiness consumes rather than negates in its permeating absence.

 

            Today is a day of absence, of emptiness, of vita contemplativa, not of action or purpose; goalless—a renunciation of drive and progress to sever the ties to my ever-inflating sense of Self.  As I shed weight with exercise and diet, practice mindfulness and meditation to focus my mind, and my anxiety improves and panic vanishes, I’ve grown judgmental and ego-driven.  Each time I pass a fast-food joint or witness someone relishing a bag of potato chips, I pass judgement.  The other day I burned 1,000 calories with exercise and felt somehow better than everyone else in this meager achievement.  I eat fish and frown on my roommate consuming greasy cheeseburgers.  Even my meditation has become a self-serving act, as if sitting and staring at a wall somehow makes me more spiritual and less materialistic than my peers.  In writing for my Dharma study class, I write with an air of superiority to those who have never heard of a bodhisattva or grasped the prajnaparamita of the Heart Sutra.  I’ve become all high and mighty.

 

            This really struck me the other day when I met the Roshi of the Zen Center I attended for orientation.  I felt small in his presence as he sat in the full lotus posture across from me, his hands almost hidden inside the sleeves of a black, flowing robe.  He asked me what I do when I sit zazen, and I replied with a quote from Dogen, “I think not-thinking.”  Not impressed, he steered me away from shikantaza (just sitting) and redirected me to focus on the breath, on counting each exhalation, to center my mind.  He did not think that someone such as I was ready for the advanced form of shikantaza.  Here was a guy who had dedicated himself to the study and practice of zen.  Someone who had undergone formal training and spent time in Japan to study the tradition in its place of origin, received Dharma transmission from an established heir in a lineage dating back 2,500 to the time of the Buddha.  I, by contrast, was a mere dabbler, a hobbyist, a part-time worker in the eyes of a company man.  With a quick reprimand for not straightening my cushion upon standing up, I learned my place.

 

            With this lesson, today I will not sit zazen, I will not run or lift weights, or revel in a center-dish of wild-caught sockeye salmon.  I only acknowledge their absence.  These actions or objects have contributed to an embellished sense of self, an identity of a health-oriented, spiritually driven, holier-than-though mindset.  What is left without them, if I just sit on my couch and drink bourbon?  Abstain from meat.  Consume rather than expend calories?  Am I still the same self as I was when I imbibed in these things?  Or will I recognize that everything is in flux, a continual process of motion, ephemeral by nature, and learn to not cling to these newly formed concepts of who and what I am?  I break the cycle of clinging by fucking up the “progress” on my apps that have logged each day I’ve sat zazen or ran a mile, reminding me that I’ve had an unbroken pattern for such-and-such number of days.  Today, I am now back to zero and all progress has been erased.  As if it never happened.  Because it never did.

 

            From this, I can grasp that each day is a new day, beginning from scratch.  There is no unbroken chain of habitual actions/reactions, but a fresh start.  Each day we reinvent ourselves anew; there is no previous or future self to latch onto.  All that exists is the present moment and our choices.  What other people do with theirs should be of no concern to me.  I need to step off my high horse, this pedestal, and work up from the ground each and every day.  There is no steady stream of progress, just this moment.  And to fully understand this, I must sever all ties to this supposed “progress” and begin from the ground up.  As with zazen, there is no goal, nothing to achieve or attain, no “progress.”  There is only the act of sitting.  And today I “sit” by not sitting.  To be healthy by not being healthy.  To run by reclining in a chair.  To fulfill my protein needs by not eating meat.

 

            Today just is.  In its emptiness there is beauty.  In not achieving, there is a contentedness, a lack of self to fulfill and appease.  The hours fill with boredom as opposed to action.  To be with myself while not perpetuating the self.  There is nothing to do and nowhere to go, just to be, right here and right now.  Maybe I can learn to apply that going forward.

not zazen, not sorry

“If your mind is empty … it is open to everything. In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s mind there are few.”

—Shunryu Suzuki, Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind

 

            “Do you practice any mindfulness techniques?” My therapist asked.

 

            “Of course.  I sit zazen for an hour every day.”

 

            “You should try some mindfulness exercises and meditations.” She replied, unimpressed.

 

Though “Right Mindfulness” is a key point on the Buddha’s “Noble Eightfold Path,” I’ve placed little emphasis on the practice aside from meditation.  When I read Thich Nhat Hanh’s work, which primarily focuses on mindful breathing and positive affirmations, I was mostly turned off.  The approach came off as touchy-feely, a product of the far-reaching grasp of positive psychology (which I detest).  For me, mindfulness didn’t mean intentionally ceasing to function to focus on the present moment, it meant to lose oneself in the moment. 

 

            At work, I would remove my watch to fully integrate into the act of work.  Fully immerse myself into a date or social activity by ignoring my phone.  Just embrace and soak in whatever was happening at that moment around me instead of actively making a point to be “mindful.”  I spiraled further down the rabbit hole after reading McMindfulness, which chronicles the influence of secularized Eastern traditions adapted to benefit the grand, capitalist machine that is corporate America.  To me, the mindfulness movement negated the moral and ethical teachings of Eastern spirituality in favor of a secular nihilism that indoctrinated workers to look inward for the reasons why they were feeling alienated, burned out, or stressed with the demands of their labor.  Instead of holding the economic system and corporate masters accountable for unsafe, unhealthy, and all-consuming working conditions.

 

            But I was wrong, to an extent.  The incorporation of mindfulness to dull the pangs of capitalist labor is still abhorrent.  But the practice does work psychologically.  Instead of easing the slow death that is selling my body and mind to an indifferent, uncaring overlord, I’m trying to overcome myself—my anxiety.

 

            The first technique my therapist suggested was called “box breathing.”  She expounded how it is utilized by Navy Seals and police officers in stressful situations in some vain attempt to appeal to my more masculine impulses.  The instructions are simple.  Inhale through your nostrils for four seconds, hold for four seconds, exhale through your mouth for four seconds, hold another four seconds, and repeat.  This easy routine calms the nerves and the dulls the heightened fight-or-flight response.  I enjoyed it immensely. 

 

            I have also been incorporating mindfulness meditation into my routine.  (Sorry, mister Zen Master, sir).  These produce a sense of calm, peace, and tranquility that zazen does not offer.  Zazen is a goalless practice that allows one to immerse into and glimpse the ultimate reality, the “true nature” of existence.  It is the act of losing oneself.  Mindfulness meditation, however, is goal-oriented, has a fixed focal point, and is geared to acquiring a certain serene state of mind.

 

            Some of the dare I say, guided meditations I’ve been using, focus on counting the exhalation of breath backwards from ten to one.  Another, that I tried last night, centered around labeling.  Each time you experience a thought or feeling, you label it one of the following: thinking, feeling, judging.  If I think about what I’m going to fix for supper when I’m done meditating, I note mentally “thinking,” return to the breath, and let the thought pass without feeding into it or assigning positive or negative qualifications. 

 

            What I did notice during the twenty-minute sit, was that I am highly judgmental.  Particularly aimed at myself.  For the majority of the time, each time a thought popped into my head it was labeled “judging.”  And I guess, that’s what mindfulness meditation is all about.  The practice allows us to objectively look at ourselves, our mindset, and examine the way we perceive ourselves and the world.  Without this shining of the inward light, I never would have realized how highly negative I am towards myself.  Now comes the fun part.  Where does this come from?  Why?  How can I alter this and change my perspective? 

 

            After so many years of hating on therapy and mindfulness, I’m glad I reached a point in my life where I opened myself up enough to willingly step out of my comfort zone and try new things.  After 37 years, you would think you would know everything there is to know about what makes you tick.  But here I am, almost halfway through my life cycle, and I’m still learning new things.  Change is hard, unnerving, and scary.  But with the beginner’s mind, it can be new and exciting, an open ending to possibility and opportunity.

 

            Embrace discomfort and grow…   

In praise of boredom

            Cutting out social media, movies, TV, and alcohol, led to where I hoped it would lead—boredom.  Through boredom, where I would have otherwise lost myself in drink, doom scrolling, or binge-watching Netflix, creativity flourishes.  I have had the opportunity to do a lot of writing, reading, sitting zazen, and contemplating how I want to be ten years from now by incorporating healthy habits into my daily routine.  The book Atomic Habits helped immensely.

 

            I wake up at 4:00AM every day, even when I’m off.  This affords me enough time to sit zazen for half an hour, run and exercise, fix breakfast, catch up on the news and emails, read, participate in my Dharma studies course, get caffeinated, and otherwise have a healthy, happy start to my day.  Without the morning rush.  As a result, my zen practice has become more dedicated than ever.  Each day I sit a minimum of one hour—half an hour in the morning, half before bed.  When I am off, I incorporate a few midday sits of twenty minutes or so. 

 

            I’ve had the opportunity to delve into a lot of reading, particularly Byung Chul-Han, as well as keeping up with the material for my Dharma studies course.  The lack of alcohol and maintaining a healthy diet, with no other factors changed, has resulted in even more weight loss. Where I was 240 pounds at my max, I am now down to 177 on a 6’1” frame.  Per Atomic Habits, it’s not so much goal setting, but incorporating good habits into your worldview and identity.  Instead of saying “I’m going to lose 10 pounds,” you rephrase that as “I am a person who eats healthy and exercises.”  You allow the goal to become who you are.

 

            I feel better than I ever have, mentally and physically.  The new anxiety medication takes the edge off to where I am not constantly nervous and panic-ridden; it allows me to function at a normal level.  Therapy helps me understand where this anxiety originates and rewires the mindset that allows for panic.  “It’s all in your head” is very true.  Whereas just last year I had a deep, dark conversation with my friends explaining I did not wish to live past my 40^th birthday, I am now excited to see what the future holds.  I have a whole new outlook on life.  I’m no longer allowing my past to weigh me down, or my social anxiety to hold me back, or a negative worldview to darken my thoughts, I’m living in the present moment curious to see where this route takes me.

A new challenge

            A new challenge as I spread my wings and fly from my safety net of mundane, commonplace routine.  My therapist suggested I act on my desire to connect with the Zendo near me and…actually fucking do it, instead of just talking about it.  Before our next session, no less.  It’s meant to challenge my innate fear of new people and unfamiliar places and get unstuck from this panic attack-ridden rut of avoiding social interactions.  The instruction arrived at the proper time for me mentally.  As I’ve written in previous posts, this new medication has me feeling better.  GREAT, even!  I’m more confident, and calmer.  I am of the mindset to end my withdrawal from the world and re-immerse myself fully into society again. 

 

            Initially, however, I came up with excuses.  Work conflicts with the Zendo orientation schedule, and so on and so forth.  Then I just sat down and thought, “we’re going to fucking do this!”  So, I found a time where I am off work early, can take the 1.5 hour drive to this place that evening to attend the orientation, then spend another 1.5 hours sitting zazen with the group.  The email requesting a beginner’s orientation cannot be unsent.  It’s out there.  Sure, I don’t like driving at night and I normally go to bed at the time we will be sitting zazen, but this point in my life is all about stepping outside of my comfort zone and not allowing things to hold me back.

 

After so many youthful years spent breaking rules, laws, and social norms, at this point in my life I enjoy structure to tame my worst impulses.  A Zen center can provide that, not only to my life, but to my practice.  Who knows if I’m even doing this whole zazen thing correctly?  I’ve never had a teacher or formal instruction.  Maybe I’ve been sitting wrong all these years?  Definitely have never mastered the lotus posture and still sit seiza (kneeling).  Maybe we can remedy that?  So I can sit like the Buddha!

 

My therapist’s enthusiasm was contagious.  “Oh!  You’re going to love it!” She exclaimed, scrolling through the center’s website.  She went on and on what a wonderful area it was in, a free spirit sort of vibe.  I felt excited because of her feigned excitement for me!  Now I think I really am excited with the prospect of interacting with likeminded people and learning more about the practice I have only recently claimed, at last.  I identify as…I am…a Zen Buddhist….

Myth of the lone wolf

“To whatever degree we can withdraw not from the world but from worldly forms and social fictions, to that degree we are enlightened.”

—Transcendent, Curtis White

 

For the last two days I’ve been ruminating over what I wrote for my Dharma studies course.  The lack of inwardness in Zen, in particular, plus an outside influence of Adlerian psychology, has me further reevaluating the trajectory of my present and future actions.  This cognitive dissonance led to the concept of bodhicitta, “the awakening mind,” the act of pursuing enlightenment for the sake of benefitting others.  No longer am I fixated on continuing my journey of self-improvement solely for my own sake, but to alter how I function and interact with other people in this all-too-huge world.

 

Adlerian psychology poses that one must have the courage to be disliked, rejected, and face the other, not retreat into inwardness or isolation.  We fear being disliked or rejected when we approach the other because they reflect the opinion we hold of ourselves.  If we are liked, we deem ourselves “likable;” if we are disliked, we dislike ourselves and think we are “unlikable.”  We must have the courage to move beyond this anxiety, to create a stillness within us, a contentment in ourselves, a “courage.”  Zen teaches there is no self (anatman) to be either liked or disliked and thus, we should have no preference for either extreme.  In any case, both posit a being-in-the-world, not a separation from or withdrawal from the world, but a full immersion.  For Adler, it is bravery in the face of being perceived and seen by the other; in Zen, it is the interconnectedness of the universe that places us without ourselves, dwelling within the world and the other.

 

What struck me recently was a debunking of the “lone wolf” trope.  In the wild, wolves maintain social structures of a breeding pair and their pups.  These pups reside with the pack for 2-3 years before venturing out on their own.  Unlike the mythology surrounding the “lone wolf,” these single wolves are not retreating from the pack out of rejection, a loner mentality, or to abstain from socialization.  No, the “lone wolf” is a transitory phase where the young wolf seeks out its own territory and a mate with the intention of forming their own pack.

 

My retreat from society had its benefits and served its purpose.  But now, like the “lone wolf,” I must venture out and seek my own territory and re-immerse myself into the world and rummage up the courage to face the other, see my own reflection, maintain my composure, and rejoin society.  It’s time to start trusting people again, establishing new friendships and acquaintances, and “put myself out there” again.  Like the wolf, there is a time to turn inward and learn to love, care, and embrace oneself.  But that time is temporary, a sabbatical.  This time is merely a prelude to a return to the without, the other, the vast vaulting world of suffering, vicissitudes, pleasure and vice, beauty and pain, love and loathing. 

 

With this return, we carry along the lessons learned from within and apply them to the without.  We utilize these improvements not only for the sake of ourselves, but to benefit others.  By finding contentment from within, we can interact with others with the same patience, understanding, and compassion we learned to apply to the I and project it to the thou.  And even if these are not reflected, have the self-courage and stillness to not be affected by rejection or disregard, praise or acceptance.  One does not need others, nor do others need me.  But the two come together out of mutual respect which can lead to genuine care for the other as one cares for the I of self.

 

We better ourselves, not solely for the sake of self, but so that others can benefit from their interaction with us, by our extension of kindness, gratitude, and all that other touchy-feely hippy shit.  We become a better person, first for ourselves, and second for all those that have to deal with us on a daily basis.

The struggle of the self

For my Dharma Study course, I have to write weekly reflections on our assigned reading.  This week we focused on Chapter 2 of Buddha by Karen Armstrong.  We lead with the topic, our “Nugget of Wisdom,” explain our understanding of the concepts in the chapter, then incorporate it into our personal life.  This was my written reflection…

 

Struggling with the Self…

 

Gotama’s main struggle in following the various dhammas and ascetic practices of Axial Age India was that no matter how deep the method of instruction, realization focused on and returned to a concept of the Self.  For after immersing fully in the different teachings, “they had left his secular self unchanged; he was still plagued by desire.”  This disappointment left him to “rely solely on his own insights” and “strike out on his own.”

 

This reminded me of a quote from Zen Master Dogen:

“You should therefore cease from practice based on intellectual understanding, pursuing words and following after speech, and learn the backward step that turns your light inwardly to illuminate your self. Body and mind of themselves will drop away.”

 

  Because, as Gotama would later learn, when you “turn your light inwardly” to examine the self, you will find it does not exist.  In The Philosophy of Zen Buddhism, Byung-Chul Han argues that in Buddhism there does not exist an “inwardness” found in other religions, no I that interacts outside with the other, there is an emptiness of self which finds an interconnectedness between I and thou.  An “open, friendly spirit [that] is already outside.”  In fact, he writes, the “great death” is not physical death, but the death of the ego which results in a “selfless self.” 

 

My own personal struggle with the concept of self began after spending four months for work in Charleston, South Carolina.  I lived with three coworkers in a two-bedroom apartment.  All of whom I despised, mostly because I saw aspects of myself in each of them I disliked.  When I returned, a few months prior to my 37^th birthday, I decided to make a lot of changes in my life.  I turned inward, not to extinguish the self, but to reinterpret and redefine it.  I quit drinking, deleted all social media, exercised and worked out every day, ate healthy, recommitted to meditation and studying the Dharma, cut out movies and shows to focus on intellectual pursuits such as philosophy, poetry, political theory, and history.  Just totally nerded out.  Plus, I grew anti-social and curbed much of my interactions with my friends and coworkers to center in on myself.

 

In reading Byung-Chul Han’s book recently, I was struck with a sense of cognitive dissonance.  He repeatedly states that Buddhism lacks “inwardness.”  Instead, it embraces an immanence in the world, not a rejection of it.  In my journey of self-improvement, I had only reenforced a new concept of self by equating things in dualistic terms with an I that was separate from a thou, an inner me that was isolated and apart from the outside world, the other.  Instead of extinguishing the self, I had become self-centered.  Gotama’s initial quest led to much of the same result.  In his search for the “true Self” as taught by the yogins, Gotama realized “it seemed almost impossible to extinguish this selfishness” and the desire and cravings that came with it.

 

Though much of Buddhist practice “turns your light inwardly,” it does not reside there for perpetuity.  With this inwardly turning resulting in the “great death” of the ego, the self, comes a being-in-the-world not an isolation from it.  I approached my self-improvement journey with the wrong intention.  Instead of separating myself from the world, I should have worked on making myself better in how I interacted and dwelled in the world.  Because, by extinguishing the self, we realize everything is empty, interconnected, and that no separation exists between me and other.  I guess what I failed to grasp was that the purpose of working on myself was never solely for my own benefit, but for the sake of everyone who has to deal with me on a daily basis.  I once heard the great bodhisattva vow to “save all beings” rephrased as to “save all beings…from myself.”    

 

This is something I will continue to work on…

Zazen

            A small gray stream of smoke rises from the flickering candle, its red-orange flame casting shadows about the pale, plaster wall like whirling phantoms lost in a supernatural dance.  Beneath the window to my front rests a small, wooden alter; the faces of the Buddha and Avalokiteshvara stare back at me, glowing in the dim radiance of the laughing flame.  The scent of tobacco and bourbon drift from the melting wax, filling the air with a calming sweetness.  My knees firmly planted on the zafu, I situate the zabuton beneath me and finagle into the seiza (kneeling) position.

 

            My eyes fixated on the wall, half-closed, I position my hands into the cosmic mudra—palms up in my lap, the back of the left hand resting in the right palm, with thumbs touching at the tip.  My mouth closed, my tongue rests on the roof of my mouth, my back straight, and my chin slightly tucked.  The timer echoes in the still room with the unmistakable gong of a singing bell.  For thirty minutes, I embark on an inner journey.

 

            First a deep breath, then exhale.  I begin counting.  I breathe in.  One.  Exhale.  Two.  Inhale.  Three.  Until I reach ten, then I start back at one.  This is the initial phase of zazen—the breath counting stage.  Unknowable moments pass, countless repetitions of ascending numbers.  Thoughts and stories trickle into my mind, past tales of triumphs and failures, future plans.  I return my focus to the breath and count.  There is only the present moment.  Like drifting clouds, the thoughts come and go.  Always, I return to the breath.

 

            As the mental gymnastics wane, I turn to the next phase and cease counting.  Now, all that matters is a slight focus on the breath.  In and out, never forced or unnatural, noticing my chest as it rises and falls, the inhalation of air and the exhale.  In and out.  In and out.  Time passes without notice while I maintain my concentration.  Soon I no longer need the breath to become intimate with the present moment and transition into shikantaza “just sitting.”  As Eihei Dogan advises, I “think not-thinking” and “drop off body and mind” and enter into samadhi.

 

I experience death—the death of the ego, the death of thought, the death of all feelings that I am somehow outside or apart from the universe.  For this moment, I am one and the same as all beings, intertwined with each particle of matter in the vast cosmos; I am everything and everything is me.  My body and mind merge, no longer experienced in dualistic complexities.  Emptiness becomes understood, not through intellectual capacities, but through direct experience.  There is only the whole that is, and nothing that is without. 

 

GONG! 

 

                  My mind jolts from the bell.  My time in the mystical realm of experiencing the true essence of reality has ended.  I place my palms together at the base of my chin and bow to the statues on the altar in gassho.  Slowly and calmly, I retrieve the book beside me and read the Heart Sutra.  Deep feelings arise as I recite the line silently in my mind “form is emptiness.  Emptiness is form.”  I gently blow out the candle and lift myself off the zafu.  The journey is over…for the time being.  Now the time has come to take what I learned from zazen off the cushion and into the world, apply it to my life, and continue to practice.  Every day, like medication—thirty minutes in the morning, thirty minutes before bed. 

 

What’s it all for?  What’s it all about?  “Zazen is good for nothing,” so they say…

Electric poltergeist

            I laid in my bed two nights ago watching TV as I tried to wind down after a late shift.  As my mind began to fade and sleep seemed more of a possibility, I turned off the TV and closed my eyes.  To my surprise, the TV suddenly turned back on…BY ITSELF!  I tried mashing the off button on the clicker, but it wouldn’t work.  I figured the batteries had died, so I swapped out the ones from the Firestick clicker.  That didn’t work, either.  So, I flipped on the lights, wide awake again, and ran my hands along the corners of the TV until I found the manual off button.  THAT wouldn’t even work, and I had to physically unplug the damn thing to get it to shut off.

 

            This can mean only one thing…AN ELECTRIC POLTERGEIST!!!

 

            The TV is only one of a long list of strange events in this house revolving around electronic devices.  Everything started with my roommate’s TV.  Shortly after moving, he was a few minutes into an anime when the thing abruptly went black.  The lights were on, indicated the power supply was still functioning, but it wouldn’t play.  Then his computer screen broke, the replacement TV he ordered arrived broken, and then…then…the sous vide!!!

 

            I have a mid-range sous vide my brother bought me for Christmas a few years back.  Sure, it was used but not USED.  I had not used it THAT often and never had any issues from it until I moved.  The first night of use, after extolling the glory that is cooking with a sous vide, the device only beeped, displaying the error code EEE1 (indicating there is not enough water).  We filled the pot to the brink and even then, the error code still beeped.  Thinking that maybe the power supply was insufficient from certain outlets, we gravitated around the kitchen until finally we found an outlet that didn’t result in the error code.  But a few nights later, EEE1 from that outlet too!

 

            I can only conclude that a malevolent force, most likely of Amish origin, resides in the house hell-bent on maintaining an archaic form of life devoid of electronics.  Soon our phones will no longer work, the lights will flicker at odd hours, and my iPad will achieve its paranirvana and we will resort to living by candlelight, cooking by fire, and handwashing our clothes in tubs in the backyard.  Oh, the HORROR!!!  THE HORROR!!!

Rewiring the Brain and changing habits

         “Embrace discomfort, and grow…”

                        —Me drunk on Highland Scotch, December 31, 2023

 

            I’ve often been told I give good advice, though I’ve rarely been able to apply the same to the mess that is my own life.  I usually retort with the old but witty copout that “advice is best shared and never taken.”  But even though it’s early in the Dharma study program, I’m already learning and growing, if even to the extent of learning to apply my own insight and understanding directly to my life.  Case in point…

 

            My therapist suggested I try to incorporate new mindfulness techniques and, in particular, a different style of meditation.  For me, zazen is my go-to, be-all-end-all form of practice.  But, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, this period in my life is a time of growth and discovery.  Since kicking my bourbon/scotch habit four days ago, I’ve had trouble sleeping.  I go to bed later and wake up multiple times during the night, only managing to make it until shortly after 1:00PM when I’m wide awake and decide to start my day.

 

            Last night when I awoke, I wanted to sit zazen after my energy drinks and have a good zen start to the day.  I sat for thirty minutes, but finished with a curious note bouncing around my mind—what else is out there?  I downloaded Balance to help alleviate my anxiety issues and assist with my recent bouts of insomnia.  Part of the app includes a detailed, guided meditation practice.  Now, first of all, I am all against guided meditation.  Or at least I was.  “This is for beginners,” I thought.  I’ve been sitting zazen on and off for eight years.  I’m all high and mighty of full of myself.  And that’s where I stopped, checked my ego, and proceeded with the meditation.  “Embrace discomfort, and grow.” I reminded myself.

 

            The meditation instructor advised that I should close my eyes.  So immediately I was met with discomfort as I always follow the zen practice of open-eyed meditation and blankly stare at a wall for the duration of the sit.  But I closed my eyes anyhow and noticed a different sensation in my mind and body as the voice instructed me to notice the sensations of my legs touching the ground, the flow of air coming in and out of my mouth, the movement of my chest and abdomen.  I had never really noticed that during zazen.  It was relaxing.  Zazen has no focal point of fixation, save for a slight attention to the breath or perhaps an initial counting of inhalation and exhalation from 1-10.  This focal point was new to me and after some hesitation, I kind of enjoyed it.

 

            Next, I was instructed to count my exhalations backward from five, then start over and repeat after one.  This threw me for a loop, and I struggled.  I had been so accustomed to counting in ascending order, either only the inhalation or both the inhalation and exhalation.  This took a few tries until I grasped this “beginner’s technique” which should have been so easy for a so-called, self-proclaimed “expert” meditator.  I slowly realized during the practice that I was, in a sense, rewiring my brain and how I processed data and instructions.  I had to really focus on doing this whole thing in reverse of my preprogrammed habits. 

 

At the end of the twenty-minute session, I felt a sense of calm and ease, a release of tension and anxiety that I had never felt with zazen.  And I never would have discovered it had I been set in my ways and not embraced the discomfort and grew.  Maintain a “beginner’s mind” the old Zen Master instructed.  I realize I failed to do that.  Now I’m even more curious to expand what I learned on the cushion into all other aspects of my life and interaction with the world.  Maybe I should keep a more open mind when approaching, not only new experiences, but revisiting old ones that I had long ago clicked a “dislike” button on?  What different things may I learn to enjoy if only I approach them with a different perspective and follow my own advice to “embrace discomfort, and grow”?

Nude Year, Nude Me

            “The ego’s root feeling is that if I do not hold myself together there will be a falling apart into something chaotic and difficult. So there is anxiety, an energetic anxiety which is located in the body, in the whole energetic system of the body and interpersonal turbulence reminds us again and again ‘If I don’t keep it together, I will get in trouble’.” ~ Dalai Lama

 

            I established the New Year as a cliché starting point for a number of new ventures, both within and without.  As I’ve mentioned in the previous posts, I began my Dharma study course on the 1st.  Also, I’m three days into “Dry January” and I have a sleep study to test for sleep apnea.  I snore…REALLY…REALLY…BAD.  But more so than the lot of that, I wanted to do some more serious work on myself and how I interact with and view the world.  So, I went to see a psychologist for anxiety and panic attacks and began therapy sessions.  There is nothing wrong with seeking help, despite the fact this profession had left a bad taste in my mouth ever since my head injury in 2015.  But, I learned, not all of them openly despise and belittle the people they are paid to treat.  In fact, some of them are warm and open and extremely understanding and helpful.  I never would have guessed.

 

            While I’ve always been the shy sort and of the nervous variety, over the past few years I’ve developed almost daily panic attacks in social situations.  They could arise when talking to a new person over the phone, going to a job interview, participating in an online chat, purchasing a new firearm, checking out at the grocery store, arriving to work anytime it’s light outside, discussing a serious work-related matter in a formal setting, meeting new people, going in for a doctor’s visit, or anything that involves going out and socializing in public.  Like…much more than normal nervousness and tension.  And here I used to be a social butterfly and crash parties by myself where I knew maybe one person out of one hundred.  So, yeah, definitely an abnormal trait I’ve developed recently, which has progressed to avoiding these places and interactions out of fear of having another panic attack.  Wanna see my DoorDash bill anyone?

 

            Realizing this is something I need to tackle and overcome, I reached out for help.  A simple search of providers on my insurance plan produced a number of services available via telehealth.  So, from the comfort of my desk, I picked one and filled out a series of questionnaires concerning my medical history and medications and took surveys screening me for anxiety and depression.  For depression I scored 0/21.  For anxiety: 17/21.  The App linked me up with a psychologist and I scheduled an appointment.

 

            The lady was friendly and actually listened instead of scolding me to “just stop being that way,” which is something I was not accustomed to in my previous dealings with this profession.  At the end of a lengthy and detailed conversation, she diagnosed me with “Generalized Anxiety Disorder with Panic Features” and prescribed a combination of medication and therapy.  The latter of which I initially turned down, but was so relieved and satisfied with the encounter, I later relented and scheduled a therapy session for this morning.

 

            The therapist was equally as open, warm, and kind and we spoke for almost an hour.  My main problem is that I set myself up to have a panic attack by worrying I will go into a public space or social situation and have a panic attack.  I already understood this, but now through psychoanalysis and Cognitive Behavior Therapy, I can better grasp what causes this and how to alter my mindset and perspective to prevent it in the future.  I also spoke with her about curtailing my urge to drink which, I explained, is mostly out of boredom.

 

            I feel very optimistic about all of this.  So much so I sucked it up and put myself out there into a situation I had been avoiding.  While it may seem like a simple task, it was a huge step for me.  What, you might wonder is this grand leap I made?  I introduced myself via a recording to my Dharma study group—something I was supposed to have done four days ago but had been too nervous.  I struggled through it.  I prepared what I wanted to say, did some simple breathing exercises to calm my nerves, and then I fucking did it.  Sure, I stuttered a little and you can hear the anxiousness in my voice about 2/3rds of the way through, but I saw it through to the end.  I was proud of myself.  Now I just have to make at least 52 more recordings before the course is over.  And a lot longer in length.

 

            A lot of overlap exists between psychology and Buddhism, which has been well established.  This course may help me grow a lot more than I contribute to it.  And with the edition of therapy, I might just not be an alcoholic ball of anxiety, depression, anger, and negativity the next time someone special enters into my life.  I’m on the cusp of forty.  It’s about time I grow the fuck up.

 

            Here’s to a New Year, and a new hopeful me…

Not the same

            Strange feelings this afternoon as I sat zazen for the first time since moving in last month.  Nothing felt right about it.  I had been so accustomed to my “sacred spot” at the old house that this new space, on my same familiar cushion, facing my same familiar buddha statues seated on their same familiar altar, just didn’t seem like the same old zazen.  No, there was something different about it, something new and odd.  I had trouble focusing.  Not from intruding thoughts but a hyper-focus on my surroundings.  The wall was different, the placement of the cushion in the room, the desk to my left and the bed to my right; everything opposite of what I had accustomed myself to define as sitting zazen.

 

            This led me to remember a precise bit of insight that I had written only the previous night.  For my Dharma study course, we read the opening chapter to Karen Armstrong’s Buddha, which discusses Gotoma’s renunciation of worldly pleasures and attachments on his quest for enlightenment.  For the writing part of our assignment, we focused on a key “Nugget of Wisdom” that we gained from the text.  Mine was “embrace discomfort, and grow.” 

 

I realized I was experiencing this very sense of dis-ease that I had seemingly been well-aware of the night before.  It just didn’t hit me at first.  In every aspect of life, growth is first met with a sense of discomfort and unease.  Whether it’s growing pains when you’re a teenager, losing your baby teeth, or your awkward first day at school, change and growth are not initially pleasant experiences.  What I failed to grasp during my zazen session is that it definitely is different and not the “same old zazen.”  But it was more than just the surroundings.  I was different.

 

My perspective on life, my responsibilities, my daily interactions and obligations, everything has changed these last few weeks.  I felt different sitting zazen because I no longer was the same person as I was sitting in my old room.  And I experienced an unsettling feeling about it, a fear and trepidation of sorts, that everything was suddenly new and bizarre.  But, as I had written so confidently like a know-it-all the night before, these are just the first stages of change, development, and growth when we step outside of our comfort zone.  They aren’t supposed to feel pleasant.  They can be overwhelming and scary.  But they are as necessary as a baby’s first wobbly step, a first heartbreak or loss. 

 

Everything is new in my life right now.  Apparently even something as familiar to me as zazen.  I’m going through my first wobbly steps into the world after being sheltered for so long.  I’m well outside of my comfort zone.  And that’s where I need to be.  I need to take my own advice and “embrace discomfort, and grow.”

Horoscopes at 4Am

            The holiday is over, gone and past, smoke and ash rising into the strangely warm and wet winter breeze.  Long may it rest its ugly head.  With the worst behind me, for the time being, I look forward optimistically toward the future, to the new year and a new me [insert awkward laughter here].  So, like most quasi-educated people with dying and decaying brain cells, I turn to the stars to decipher where I should go from here.

 

            My sign, Sagittarius, is appropriately fitting—the archer of the cosmos.  Out of boredom at 4:00AM while working on an energy drink, I gave into the urge to click the link on HuffPost to explore the vast possibilities the universe has in store.  I know how horoscopes work.  They are purposely vague enough for the individual to read into and project their own truth onto the prediction.  This tactic works well enough for so called psychic cold readings where they reach into the netherworld to speak to someone’s deceased loved one by expanding on opaque queues such as “I’m hearing from someone who’s a guy with a name made from twenty-six letters in the alphabet.  The English alphabet.”  But sometimes, as my uncle says, “believing” in these things is just kind of fun. 

 

            My horoscope for this week contains the main themes of: “romantic breaks, hidden love, healing, peace, new starts, identity, physical appearance, personal goals, revisions.”  So let me play this game and project my own meanings onto these attributes.  Romantic break?  Yeah, I kind of did that for the last year and a half.  That’s not new.  And it’s more of a given than anything.  I don’t actively seek relationships.  If I fall into one, I’m like well hot damn that’s cool and different.  But I don’t go out looking to be in one.  I like being alone and I don’t need to define myself or my value by being in a relationship.

 

            Hidden love?  That could mean just about anything.  Maybe I have a secret admirer?  (I don’t).  But how would I know because they’re super-duper-girl scout-pinky promise-secret?  Maybe the illuminati has a hidden interest in my relationship status and wants me to procreate and pop out little, mini-me minions?  Who knows?  This could also mean a hidden love for some personal interest or hobby.  AH!!!  THE VAGUENESS IS KILLING ME!!!  Perhaps, deep down, my cat I left at my parent’s house really does love me but is afraid of showing her emotions because the other cats might pick on her?  Eh…whatever.

 

            Healing, peace, and new starts.  Yeah, I get that.  Just moved.  New house.  New roommate.  No longer dealing with family fatigue as I can keep a safe distance and form boundaries where I couldn’t before.  Also, I begin a new journey of studying to become a buddhist teacher in January.  LIKE, HOW DID THE STARS KNOW, MAN!?  Maybe I should charge my crystals and get into numerology and get dreads and join a drum circle?  They hit that shit like a crack whore.

 

            I don’t know about identity and physical appearance, though.  In Buddhism there is the anatman (no-self) and I keep my physical appearance simple—clean shaven, shaved head, shirts with no labels, jeans, a camo hat, and slip-on shoes.  I’m not a fancy pants manager anymore and I don’t have anyone to look good for, so I just maintain myself like a basic bitch.  Pumpkin spice latte, anyone?

 

            Personal goals and revisions, yeah…I can see that.  I wanted to get back out on my own, further delve into the Dharma, meditation, and exercise.  Personal goals and such.  Revisions?  Maybe I’d like to reinvent myself in a way.  Move well beyond my past of being a partier and later a manager and just focus on my interests and likes.  I enjoy cooking, hunting, fishing, studying philosophy and political theory (not into arguing politics, Bee-Tee-Dubs).  Just want to spend time focusing on me after spending four years focusing on everything else—my employee’s needs, my bosses demands, the company’s standards, etc.  Just need a little me time, I suppose.  “I wanna talk about me, wanna talk but I, wanna talk about my, me…”

 

            See folks!?  There, I did it!  I read into the horoscope and now feel profoundly impacted by the prediction.  NEW YEAR, NEW ME, Y’ALL!!!  WOOOOO!  Party liquor!  WOOOOOOOO!  Thanks HuffPost, I’ll never forget you.  Let me apply all these new fixings into my life and start fresh in 2024.  I certainly won’t be the same old miserable, sarcastic bastard this next year.  (I will).  No, I’m going to do things different because all the stars aligned in my favor and the universe, I now know, revolves around me.  Happy New Year, everyone!

American idiot: A Christmas Story

            People are stupid.  Really stupid.  I don’t understand how much of the population gets out of bed in the morning and wields the mental capacity to do so much as tie their own shoes.  I can only visualize them, well into late-middle age, reciting aloud “bunny ears, bunny ears, jump into the hole” as they focus all of their concentration on making two loops and fashioning them into a knot after multiple failed attempts.  I guess this is why Crocks have become such a viral trend over the years.  All I know is I really get in my feels when I think about Jean Paul Sartre writing in No Exit, “Hell is other people.”

 

            This axiom becomes foremost during the holidays, especially for us “fortunate” enough to work in the service industry—both around and directly interacting with the Hell of other people.  We all get that the workload becomes more intense, we will be busy, people get short and snippy like spoiled rat-sized lap dogs; we are all physically and mentally prepared for the lot of that.  But dealing with stupid questions, stupid people, and stupid situations brings all this preparation to a grinding halt and we are left screaming in the cooler to the powers-that-be: WHY GOD!?  WHY!?  WHY CREATE MAN!?  DID YOU BURN THE COOKIE IN ITS MOULD, THROW IT AWAY TO THE GARBAGE CAN OF EARTH AND START FRESH SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE UNIVERSE?

 

            Sometimes I feel like I kill more brain cells at work than that one time in college I thought huffing air duster would be fun.  Two days ago, a young couple walk up and admire the lobster tank.  I ask if they need any help.

 

            “How alive are these lobsters?” The woman asks.

           

            I gaze into the saltwater tank full of crawling lobsters thinking maybe she’s being a smartass to get her kicks at the expense of the smartass employee who would otherwise make her cry for that question off the clock but is forced to behave with tact. 

 

            “They’re good.”

 

            “But they look a little sleepy.”

           

            Channeling all my sarcasm into the far corners of my brain, I respond, “They’re in an enclosed environment.  They’re conserving energy because there is nowhere to expend it.”

 

            “Oh,” she says, “I’ll take two.”

 

            Like, what the fuck kind of question is that?  “They look sleepy.”  They are lobsters in a small tank, starving, on the verge of being boiled alive, do you think they would be playing ring around the rosy or doing backflips like they’re in the X-games?  No.  They are cold, they are hungry, and they don’t give a shit.  They’ve given up on life like the rest of us in this god-forsaken profession.  I just want to scream in her face “WE ARE THE LOBSTERS, LADY!  Don’t you get it!?  They are as lifeless as the lot of us!  Just waiting for our turn to die!  I get them more than I get you!”  But I don’t say that.  I don’t tell her that the lobsters were up all-night eating molly and fucking and they’ve depleted a week’s worth of serotonin.  I simply fish the two crustaceans out and place them in a box and send them on their stupid way to eat their stupid supper and procreate after boxes of cheap wine to further pollute the human race with flocks of stupid children.

            Next example, an old man with balding white hair walks up to the counter holding a fresh turkey.  He’s confused.

 

            “I’m looking for a whole turkey breast.” He mutters, as if gasping for his words.  “This here says ‘whole turkey.’  Is that a whole turkey breast or is it a whole turkey?”

 

            Taking a deep breath and channeling my depleted inner Zen, I reply: “The whole turkey is a whole turkey.”

 

            “So…with the wings…and the legs…and…”

 

            “Yeah.  The WHOLE turkey.  Everything.”

 

            “Oh, well,” he repeats himself, “I’m looking for a whole turkey breast.”

           

            “Yessir.  We have turkey breasts right next to where you found the whole turkey.”

 

            “But those are only five pounds.  I need a fifteen-pound whole turkey breast.”

           

            As if turkeys are the size of ostriches and support poultry boobies big enough to score a starring role in a steamy feathery porn flick.  Tune in next time for the next episode of fetish videos on OnlyFans.

 

            “Well, that’s all we got.”

 

            “Yeah, but I need a bigger whole turkey breast.”  He reiterates again as if I could click my heels together and wish it into existence.

 

            “Yessir, but all we have is in the counter.”

 

            He walks away disgruntled and defeated.  Oh, God, I’ve ruined his Christmas for not being an omnipotent being capable of creating a gigantopithecus-like turkey.  Look, I’m sorry man, I didn’t get that far in college to become some mad scientist bent on splicing genes of sumo wrestlers with barnyard gobblers to create the perfect holiday center piece. 

 

            Another point of interest is the amount of people wanting to impress guests with fancy dishes they know absolutely nothing about.  I would hate to have a seat at their dinner table as they proudly display some burnt-up, dry, dehydrated slab of mystery meat for their assumably terrified assortment of friends and family.  Case in point, a customer was hell-bent on us cutting a crown roast for them.  This is a center-cut pork loin that has been sweated on, cussed, and hacked at by the butcher for an ungodly amount of time until they can form the loin into a circle and tie it in place with the rib bones pointed to the sky in a feigned attempt to mimic that quintessential symbol of royalty.  It’s a pain in the ass to make, and by God, we will make your pockets pay dearly for the effort.

 

            Our first crown roast customer this year seemed tickled to death when she got hers.  But then she asked the inevitable question, “how do you cook it?”  What the fuck do you mean?  I’m not cooking a crown roast for Christmas, that’s well above my pay grade.  Did you not do your research before you texted all your contacts bragging about Crown Roast Christmas 2023?  Have you tried the Google?  We all have supercomputers fumbling around our pockets and, somehow, we are dumber for it.  The village idiot that works for us annoyingly ran around the department asking “Hey, uh, how do you cook a crown roast?”  The answer was unanimously “Hell if I know.”  Finally, he asked me. 

 

             “In the oven.” I replied.

 

            “Yeah, but I mean…” He pestered.

 

            “I don’t know.” (I do know).

 

            “Can you look in the meat cutter training book and find out?”

 

            “[Village Idiot], she [the customer] already left.” My roommate interjected.

 

            “Yeah, but I want to know.  Can you just look it up for me.  I’ve got to bag crab legs.”  He eggs on, as if neither of us are busy.

 

            We walk away from him.

 

            Two particular types of customers emerge from the cesspool of ignorance this time of year—those who don’t know what they want, and those who know what they want but don’t know anything about it. 

 

            A customer might be standing in front of a large display with ten or more rib roasts with large bold signs advertising “RIB ROASTS $X.XX/lb.”  And sure enough, they stop you from literally filling up the spot with more rib roasts to ask, “Do you have any rib roasts?”  At which point you gaze into the void of their sunken eyes as if to search for any synapses firing in their dull brains and reply “No, we’re sold out.”  As you continue piling more rib roasts into the counter.  Apparently, their wife or husband wanted to try something different this year after watching some video on youtube and they sent them to the store for a rib roast.  Only problem is they have no idea what one looks like and lack the ability to decipher the complex, secret codes we label our meat with to intentionally confuse our clientele. 

 

            The other sort is like the “whole turkey breast” customer.  They want something either bigger or smaller than what is in the counter while having no concept of the anatomy of the animal that cut came from. 

 

            “Do you have any bigger tenderloins?” The customer asks, waving around a 9.5-pound behemoth of a primal.

 

            And you think to yourself, no ma’am, it’s illegal to traffic in African elephants.  International trade laws, and such.

 

            The next customer behind her holds up a 6.5-pound tenderloin and asks the opposite, “Do you have any smaller tenderloins?”

 

            Sorry, sir.  While cattle are smaller than an elephant, they are a fairly hefty creature with some large muscles.  Have you ever heard of this thing called a pig?  They have smaller tenderloins because they don’t weigh in excess of a thousand pounds.  Except in certain game preserves with pen-raised Hogzillas you can shoot in a fenced enclosure for $10,000.   

 

            The problem with our society is that we are so cut off from our food supply we mostly cease to comprehend that these nicely packaged cuts actually came from a once-living creature.  So, you have people complaining and degenerating into fits of rage because they can’t find a chicken the size of a turkey or a turkey the size of a chicken.

 

            Everyone’s favorite holiday customer is the one who just knows deep down that the cut they want is hidden in the back.  Yes, you caught us, we butchers hoard the best cuts of meat we can’t afford in the back so that we can’t sell them, make money for our corporate overlords, and have job security enough to depend on our weekly paychecks to pay rent.  The case may be overflowing well above the refrigeration line and that dumb son-of-a-bitch will look down at the massive heap and ask, “DO YOU HAVE ANY MORE IN THE BACK!?”

 

            “What’s wrong with the [3,000] in the counter?”

 

            “I don’t like the looks of them.” They reply with a grandiose and deep understanding of USDA meat specifications and standards.

 

            This situation always leads to one result.  We walk into the cooler, play with our phones for a few minutes, then walk back out sporting a proud “we don’t have anymore.”  To brutally crush their hopes and dreams is a heartwarming feeling, especially around the holidays.  Ah, fond memories of childhood. 

 

            Then, of course, there is the breed of stupid customers who are insanely picky.  Crab leg customers are especially notorious.  If there is even a minor blemish on the shell, they declare it inedible despite the fact that most crab leg fiends don’t, in fact, eat the shell.  At least not to my knowledge.  I could be wrong though.  People are stupid, after all.  The sale price on snow crab clusters could be at the all-time low in over a decade and they’ll complain “there’s ice on them.  I ain’t payin’ for no ice!”  Or the clusters might be broken and they’ll get angry that the legs are broken off despite the fact that they are just going to go home, cook the crabs, and break off the legs to eat them.    

 

            Along this same line are the ribeye customers who desperately want a ribeye steak for supper but complain that each cut has “too much fat.”  Now, for those of you who don’t know, they ribeye is a prized cut of meat precisely because it is a fattier cut.  The fat makes it tender, juicy, and flavorful.  The people who whine about “too much fat” are probably the same sort who complain that their dollar menu french fries, which have literally been dunked in a pot of boiling hot oil, are “too greasy.”  Or their hot coffee is “too hot.”  I mean it’s in the fucking name.  French FRY.  HOT coffee.  But I digress. 

 

Everyone desires the impossible and expects you to work miracles.  Such as requesting a three-bone rib roast they want to weigh only three pounds (each weigh 2.5-3 pounds per bone) and they want that roast to feed 18 people (each bone feeds two people).  One customer asked for a five-pound bone-in rib roast.  I explained I could not guarantee the weight as we have to cut, with a knife, in between each rib and can only take requests per how many bones they need.  He replied with a sharp “I want enough bones for five pounds!”  Ok, genius, if I cut one rib then that’s three pounds.  If I cut two, that’s six pounds.  So I cut him a two-bone six pound roast and sent him away fussing and complaining it wasn’t five pounds after three other people explained to him the very same thing.  That dude left full of the holiday spirit.

 

Miracles aren’t in my job description.  A week out from Christmas, customers were buying rib roasts and asking “will this be good in my fridge until Christmas?”  Emphatically NO!  You get maybe five days after beef is cut.  Then they want to argue with you. 

“Look, if you want it to be good for Christmas, you’ll have to freeze it.”

 

“But I don’t want a frozen roast.”

 

“Then you’ll need to buy it closer to Christmas.”

 

“But I want to buy it today when it’s on sale.”

 

“Ok.  Then you’re going to have to freeze it.”

 

“It doesn’t taste as good frozen.”

 

“Then you’ll have to come back and get a fresh one a few days before Christmas.”

 

“I don’t have time.  I want to buy it today.”

 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.  You can freeze it, let it rot in the fridge, or come back closer to the holiday.  Those are your only options.” 

 

They get frustrated, beet red in the face, and leave in a fuming rage that I can’t control how bacteria breaks down an animal carcass.  Because that’s what every piece of fish, pork, chicken, lamb, and beef is in the counter of a grocery store—a slowly rotting animal carcass.  Sorry to have to put that into perspective, but that’s what all those fancy words like steak, roast, cutlet, filet, primal, chop actually mean. 

 

Now I have one more eight hour shift of stupidity to endure before the country shuts down for Christmas Day and everything goes back to normal.  Send some metta my way, or prayers if that’s your thing, maybe some good vibes at least.  We could all use it.  Well, that and a tall glass of bourbon.  Neat and undiluted.  Until tonight, it’s caffeine fuel and nicotine fumes to get through the day.  And maybe a long stretch of bashing my head against a concrete wall until I lose consciousness.

Happy Holidays, everyone…

83 problems but an 84th ain’t one

            People went in search of the Buddha to find solutions to their problems.  One had marital issues.  Another had conflicts with his children.  To each seeker, Buddha offered the obvious knowledge that, I paraphrase, “we all have eighty-three problems.”  The seekers grew upset and lambasted the Buddha as a charlatan.  The Buddha stood a steady line and reminded them that the real problems in life are that we are of the fabric to grow old, get sick, and die.  But he did offer tongue-in-cheek advice on the “eighty-fourth problem”—that is, that we wish to not have problems.

 

            I was reminded of this parable this morning as I sit in my new house, wrapped in a West Virginia hoodie on the couch sipping on my second energy drink.  I slept in this morning until 6:00AM.  My roommate is still asleep in his room and the only sound that rings through the otherwise silent house is the roar of the air-conditioner and my typing on the iPad.  Sunday has come to this working-class neighborhood and not a tailpipe rumble can be heard on any surrounding street.  At long last, I have the peace and stillness that I desired, the simplicity of my own home and the freedom to do as I please.  But the move has not been free of its own sort of problems.

 

            My TV with its 64” curved design could not fit in either my pickup or the moving truck without risk of damage.  So, no TV for me.  No TV for either of us, as a matter of fact, as my roommate’s looming 70+ inch monstrosity abruptly died mid-program and refuses to turn back on.  Now, when we come home from work, we gather mindlessly in front of the dead screen and mourn its loss.  But he has another one in the mail that will arrive in the next few days. 

 

            Everywhere we turn, we find some material thing missing from our lives.  First, we needed a trash can, then trash pickup service, a kitchen table and chairs, I need a nightstand for my bedroom, rugs for the tiled floors, a lawnmower, patio furniture, a crockpot and air fryer, an additional deep freezer and mini fridge, etc.  Slowly, each day we setup something new in our house.  Last night he finished assembling his bed frame, but now we must tackle the garage where our exercise equipment lays in scattered pieces.  Somehow, we must fit about ten thousand square feet of equipment in a functional manner in a single car garage.  As such, neither of us have exercised in the past week.  I haven’t even had time to sit zazen with the ever-growing amount of work that must be done to make this house livable in conjunction with an extremely varied work schedule.  Yesterday I went in at 8AM, today 10:30AM, and tomorrow 6AM.  I am on a ten day stretch of work, not having a day off until Christmas Day.

 

            My healthy eating habits have changed to reflect that which is most convenient—a sushi sampler at work, protein bars, sandwich wraps, and pouches of flavored tuna fish.  The only thing I have actually cooked since moving in was a scrambled egg yesterday morning.  The productivity-thumpers in this world would be satisfied in our busy, get-shit-done, work ethic surrounding this move.  But at some point, it would be nice to settle in and relax for a change.  Especially after a long and stressful day at work dealing with the increasingly belligerent holiday clientele.  I’ve barely even found time to sneak in a drink.  And DoorDash has been a godsend.  We both are just running on caffeine and nicotine fumes at this point.

 

            But as the Buddha said, “we all have eighty-three problems.”  Or, eighty-four if we consider our lust for not having problems to be a problem in and of itself.  Everything in life, every advance or retreat, progress or backsliding, every change in living arrangements, work schedules, travel routes, relationships, finances, or whatever…comes with a sense of dis-ease and discontent.  Such is the vicissitudes of life, the ephemeral wave of malcontent and dissatisfaction that arises within our psyche as our mind labels every object, person, place, or event with a binary “good” or “bad.”

 

            At the heart of everything is our own perception.  I’ve long been on the bender of hedonism, pursuing pleasure with an aversion to pain.  But that’s not the proper attitude.  Sometimes, you’ve just got to embrace the suck.  Things are only “good” or “bad” in our minds, all the while the objects of our mental constructs lack inherent quality.  We are going to come across situations that we don’t like.  But that’s alright.  Life is meant to have challenges no matter how minuscule like my current housing issues, or grand like health problems.  Zen is not so much a means of finding something blissful mind state to attach to, more so it is the path to which we grasp the true nature of existence and find acceptance.  It’s to be more open to experiences, whatever one might label them, to not be inconvenienced when things don’t go as planned, and to embrace the change, conflict, and ups and downs, of our ordinary lives. 

 

You’re never going to find a garage the perfect size, a perfect workplace or schedule, perfect coworkers, or the perfect trash can that represents who you are deep down as an individual.  But you can learn to embrace every situation and circumstance without the mindset of positive or negative.  I keep writing about it, but the old phrase from college keeps coming to mind: “it is what it is, man.”  And there’s nothing wrong with that.  Don’t have the problem of not wanting to have problems.

Time-Being

“For the time being stand on top of the highest peak.
For the time being proceed along the bottom of the deepest ocean.”

         —Ehei Dogen, Shobogenzo

 

         I thought about Dogen’s Uji (Being-Time) from Shobogenzo last night.  As I laid in bed in my new house, I pondered aloud the strange irony of feeling like I’m not sleeping in my room…as I’m sleeping in my room.  It’s new, but it’s mine.  I have always felt a disconnect in security when awakening in a strange room.  Mostly, well, because I was a heavy partier for most of my 20’s and awoke with no memory of how I got there or why the next morning.  Especially when waking up in the middle of the woods at 3AM half-naked with one shoe on. But I digress.

 

         Dogen is hard to understand.  And I don’t pretend to be an expert or feign that I comprehend what he is saying.  I can only take it on the subjective nature of the human experience as to what his “being-time” means to me.  And here’s my take.  The non-dual nature of human existence presents “being-time” as the past, present, and future all being alive in the very moment of the time being.  Just as I’m lying in bed thinking I’m not in my room while being in my room and contemplating that in the future I will have to sleep in this room because it is and will be my room, my past, present, and future are thriving intertwined in this very moment.  For the time being I’m on the highest peak and the bottom of the ocean.

 

         At what point do we disconnect from our past, embrace the present, and proceed toward the future?  I have a home, but the embarrassment and shame of being on the cusp of forty and living at home still weighs on my shoulders.  I still have that mindset.  Yeah, I can justify it so many ways.  I took care of them, I looked after them, they needed me there.  But I sacrificed my life to be there for them.  And I’m on the edge of middle-age and I’ve only progressed to the stage of a teeny-bopper leaving for college.

 

         But these feelings are only for the time being.  Then again, they are my being-time.  I feel like I still live at home with my parents, though I am apart from them, and I will be for the future.  All parts of the whole, past, present, and future, boil down to a single mindset.  For the time-being I am a single man with a single man roommate, ten years junior my age, living in a 1,200 foot house with a single car garage.  For the time being I have a room and a bathroom to myself.  Everything else is shared.  For the time being I find myself looking into the very concept of emptiness—that is, the interconnectedness of all beings.

 

         Because even though I am free from my parents, I am not alone.  I live with someone else.  I have to consider them in home purchases, food, drinking, exercise equipment, décor, etc.  This will be a good lesson.  To truly understand emptiness is to realize you lose yourself in other people and consider the wants and desires of the whole above your own.  Or find compromise.

 

         I can only imagine how weird I must seem to him.  My entire bookshelf full of eastern philosophy, a zabuton and zafu in the middle of the floor in front of an altar comprised of a buddha statue and Avilokitishevara (the bodhisattva of compassion).  Beside these trademarks of peace, rests a .357 magnum revolver…just to add a little Southern flavor to my dharma.  I don’t think my Zen “master” would approve.

 

         But the point of zen is to recognize and accept the world as it is and not what it should or ought to be.  We create that hopeful future by living the dharma and teaching peace, while accepting the present moment.  My .357 represents the here and now, the accumulation of experiences from my past, but maybe it doesn’t represent my future.  But it is my karma.  The reaction to every action in my past has led me to this point: sitting zazen with a pistol by my side.  Maybe one day I will feel I can lay down my sidearm.  But not today.

 

         What does this all mean?  Being-time.  Time-being.  Here and now, past present and future.  Everything intermingles into one.  Your mindset from past circumstances determines who you are in this very moment.  And this moment and past circumstances determine who you will be in the next.  Everything is one and whole.  One must then, in turn, simply assert their present: I am standing on the highest peak.  Or, I am on the bottom of the ocean.  Because that, in reality, is all there truly is: the present moment.  To maintain, to become static, to change, to evolve, etc.  You only have that moment where you’re standing right then and there.  To do or don’t.  Relive, live, or evolve.  That’s all you got.  And all you’ll ever have.  That moment…

Meditations on death and other uplifting thoughts

            I have been focused a lot on death lately.  Not from morbidity or any level of suicidal ideation or infatuation for self-harm.  But, because no matter how much we pretend like it doesn’t exist and will never happen to us, death is an undeniable truth of life.  Something I should know all too well as a hunter, fisherman, and butcher.  I literally carve a living from the underbelly of a death industry, the meat business.  My hands are covered each day in the crimson, once life giving, muscle protein myoglobin.  Chunks of dried meat cover my boots at the end of the workday.  How can we turn a blind eye to the end credits when they’re rolling on the screen all around us?—in the brightly-bloomed package of ground beef in the grocery counter, the wreck on the highway, the mosquito we swat on our arm, or on the screen displaying the terrors of war?

 

            Part of the reason for this interest in the ultimate end extends from some recent health concerns which made me contemplate what all this means in the grand scheme of things, where I will go, what happens after death, when will it happen, how will it happen, etc.?  Will I burn in Hell for my sins?  Be reincarnated into one of the multiple animals I’ve hunted?  Reach paradise and be reunited with long-lost loved ones and past pets?  Find god?  Wander for aeons as a hungry ghost?  Or will nothing happen? 

 

Something that really struck me was a line of realization I heard in a podcast—that meditation is preparing yourself for death in its cessation of thought, conceptions of the nonself, and by losing sense of time, place, and being.  To lose the notion of the self, the ego, is in a sense a prelude to death.  An acceptance of the inevitable, a surrender to the ultimate.  A peace in letting go of attachment.

 

            Buddhism heavily focuses on the inevitability of old age, illness, and death.  In fact, it’s precisely what drove Siddhartha to begin his path of liberation.  The old adage is that “to study philosophy is to learn to die.”  This is no less true for zen, this philosophy of the mind.  For most of us, death is something that happens to other people.  Recently my mother went through a health scare which left me contemplating how I would deal with losing her—the other.  Hearing her admit “I’m not ready to die” was chilling.  That hit close to home, but it was happening to someone else, not me, even though that person was close to me.  What really kicked in and “hit home” was when I began contemplating my own mortality after experiencing certain health concerns.  But I could never bring myself to knowing the truth and going to the doctor and simply degenerated into bouts of almost hypochondriacal, paranoid hours spent scouring medical search engines.   

 

            I still don’t know if my concerns are legitimate or if I’m simply worrying myself into an early grave.  I still don’t want to know.  But I realize I’m only deceiving myself.  Whether it’s this or that, or something unexpected, or something years or decades down the road, I’m going to die.  My friends, family, pets, and everyone I’ve ever met or known will die.  There is no escape, no exit, no rapture, or ascending to heaven in a fiery chariot.  There is only the promise of the end.  Knowing how, when, and why won’t change that.  But it does lead to the one glimmer of hope in this dark topic: to live like you are dying.  Which we all should embrace.

 

            Sure, it’s cliché, but it’s no less true.  What’s holding us back from our pursuits in life?  Fear of failure or humiliation, ridicule?  These are meaningless in the big picture.  We are the only thing holding ourselves back.  It’s easy to accept this but hard to practice.  For me, I struggle to assert myself out of a sense of shyness and reserve; I’m constantly hyper-focused on how I come across to other people even though I have little interest in their opinions of me.  I’m still attached to the notion of a self and wear the brand of me, be it through a wristband showing my spiritual materialism, a license plate sporting the flag of my native state, the type of glasses I wear.  All this is meant to express a message of who and what I am, and why.  I’m still attached to the self, the ego, a ME.  That’s something I have to let go.

 

            I don’t think, even through years of meditation, I’ll ever lose the fear of death.  Do any of us?  Truly?  But I can learn to accept it.  I’ve been dead before, or at least non-existing, in that void before birth.  And I guess meditation can be viewed, in a sense, as a precursor to death, a return of sorts to that void.  Moreover, I’ve been unconscious before from concussions and anesthesia where I entered into a brief realm without time, place, or being.  I’m not a scientist, I’m not a preacher; I don’t have any answers.  But I will keep all this in mind when I sit zazen tonight, acknowledging that this practice acts to prepare for the inevitable, and calm my mind in the process.  Each day is a day closer, and as such each day is a gift, and I should learn to not let my anxiety or fear hold me back, to pursue what I want to pursue and say what I need to say.  Because there will come a time when I can no longer do that and will only have the regret of not doing or saying to haunt me in the end.

 

            While that’s all easily said, like I mentioned, it’s hard to put into practice.  That’s why this zen thing is a practice.  Fear, anxiety, self-doubt, uncertainty.  When we learn to accept these things as they are, states of mind, we can learn to overcome them.  And when we overcome this sense of self, we are truly liberated.  But until I ever become an enlightened being, I’ll sit and practice, accept the unknown, and after that, I’ll continue to sit and practice.  That’s the only answer I’ve found in all of this these last few months: sit, practice, accept.  Whatever might come.

New horizons on the…well…horizon…

“You are what you believe in. You become that which you believe you can become.” 

—Bhagavad Gita

 

            All my worldly possessions surround me, tucked away inside cardboard boxes.  Thirty-seven years will soon fill a fifteen foot moving truck destined for a new house.  One can equally think about how little there is to show for so many years, and how much junk one has accumulated.  And neither would be incorrect.  But what I lack in possessions to somehow prove I have existed, I make up for in experiences and memories that have no physical evidence aside from some gray hair, scars, and a tattoo. 

 

I’m excited for this new adventure, but greeting it without elevated expectation.  As it says in the Bhagavad Gita, one must act but cannot be attached to the fruits of ones actions.  That is, there is no certainty whether this move will be beneficial or negative, but it is an action I must take regardless of consequences.  Whether positive or negative the outcome, it will be another opportunity, another experience, another challenge, another memory.  Change is the only constant in life.

 

As this new chapter of my life unfolds, I shave my head to meet it symbolically.  Just as my hair will (hopefully) grow back, so will I further grow and develop as a person.  These last few months when I started on this journey of self-discovery and improvement, I’ve made both strides forward and massive leaps back.  But I guess as long as you’re on the right path, even backtracking a little bit is not so bad as long as you correct your mistakes, confront your failures, and continue ahead.  It just might take you a little longer to get where you want to be.  And that’s ok.  As the cliché goes “it’s the journey, not the destination.”

 

Now I contemplate the deep truths of Fight Club, such as “what kind of dining set defines me as a person?”  I can finally express myself within 1200 square feet of space, embracing my quirks and peculiarities, my hobbies and interests.  I will have the freedom I longed for in a past post detailing my living arrangements.  But again, I meet this without elevated expectation as it will certainly come along with its own setbacks and downsides.  Until then, I must continue to pack…

I don’t like birthdays

            My 37^th birthday is in two weeks.  A typically celebratory calendar point that has been met with a severe depression.  I don’t want anyone to know my birthday.  I want it to pass like any other day without any special attention.  And I have my reasons.

 

            When I was in my 20’s, I held elaborate celebrations for my birthdays.  Sometimes, I’d go to as many bars in one night as I was years old, surrounded by a large flock of friends.  Parties in my 30’s have been more lackluster.  I don’t really have many friends anymore.  It’s just a part of getting older.  People have moved on, they have families of their own, work responsibilities, and we have physical and emotional distance between us.  I understand that we can’t be close and hang out and get high all the time like we used to when we were kids.  That’s fine.  It’s just a part of growing up.

 

            When I had a better job, I treated myself on my birthday to oysters, caviar, and single-malt scotch.  But that grew old after a while because the common denominator of each birthday was that it was spent alone with my cat.  The past few years I’ve struggled on my birthday.  Being alone in the world is not an easy feat to manage.  It takes years of practice and resolve.  But the one day of the year when I feel lonely is my birthday.

 

            For most people, a birthday is their special day—the most important day of the year to them.  A time to get together with friends and family, have a nice meal, kick back some drinks.  For me, I usually spend it drinking alone while watching TV unless I work.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve chosen to work on this day.  I don’t need other people in my life to feel worthwhile, but on this day, I feel a need for social interaction.  On any other day, I prefer to be by myself.  But not this day.  This day I need a distraction so that I don’t spend its entirety sulking and contemplating the meaning of all these years that have passed by.

 

            Few people remember my birthday and I feel a certain way towards those who do and those who don’t remember.  So, I may receive a text from two or three people which makes me think that out of all these years, I’ve impacted so few people.  And those who do text me are usually a family member who I only ever hear from on my birthday and are not part of my life otherwise.  That feels more like pity, which I detest.  A sort of virtue signaling where the individual mostly feels good about their action as opposed to truly caring about the context.  That’s why I prefer this day to go unnoticed.  I don’t think people actually care as much as they feel sorry for me, about how sad my life is in their eyes, and they think contacting me once a year will perk me up.

 

            That’s why I only ever told one person in the last eight years my birthday.  I did not want people at my last job (who would have fired me on any given day if I failed to meet their expectations) to feign some celebration with cake and announcements, a card.  I’d witnessed their hypocrisy too many times to want to indulge in it.  Such as throwing an elaborate going away party for an employee who they had spent months searching for a replacement for so they could terminate them.  I wish this person who knows all my secrets would have kept this information to themselves as they chose a long time ago they did not want to be part of my life in any context.  Out of respect for them, I purposely avoid interacting with certain people and going places that would chance our meeting.  I never ask about them to people in their circle.  Because I care enough about them to give them what they want—life without me.  As such, I wish they would have stayed out of mine.

 

            For my birthday this year, I just want to go into work as if it were any other day.  I enjoy this job more than any other I’ve had, and I enjoy my coworkers for the most part.  I want this day to pass with the hum of the saw, the bark of customers, and the swift transition of time, without any attention or acknowledgement.  In zen, there is nothing special about one day versus another.  They should be greeted without preference.  The same as I should not assign a label to it as “good” or “special” I likewise should not meet it with gloom or view it as “bad.”  It’s just another day.  That’s what I’m trying to work on this year.  To not be so negative about it.  Sadness passes just as happiness does, you just have to not cling to either extreme. Things just are what they are with no inherent or fixed quality or substance.  This too shall pass…

it’s the holiday season…holiday season…doo, doo, doo…

            To say I dislike the holiday season is a bit of an understatement.  I hate and detest the entire period between November 1^st and January 1^st in its totality as if it were something malignant and evil metastasizing throughout our culture.  I’m not sure when this indignation first occurred, but I remember a strong rejection of the holidays from the onset of my early-to-mid teens—somewhere around the time I became disillusioned with Christianity.  Being the son of a pastor, you witness the true, behind-the-scenes display of the “morality” they preach to the world, the hypocrisy, deceit, and illusions.  Perhaps this “seeing through” the curtain is what prompted my view of the holidays?  That and later work in retail.

 

            The season, from my perspective, arises as some sort of elaborate display of spiritual materialism and virtue signaling intertwined with insatiable consumeristic greed.  Thanksgiving, for example, we supposedly spend the day expressing gratitude for what we already have—family, friends, health, food, etc.  Then the very next day we rush through the doors of the local big box store at 4:00AM full of lust for more, more, more: the newest electronic device, clothing, cosmetics, games.  Because even though we celebrated thankfulness the previous day, we are not satisfied with what we have, and we never were for that matter. 

 

            When you press deeper into the fundamental purpose of Thanksgiving in form and function, you arrive not at an expression of thankfulness and gratitude, but a celebration of excess, consumption, and dis-ease in material satisfaction. Each holiday is meant to catalyze an economic urge to buy and spend, and personal needs to brag, compare, and display wealth and status.  The Thanksgiving meal, instead of representing an appreciation for what we have around us, becomes an expression of desire and lust for excess and consumption in a ritualistic display.  The humble turkey or ham becomes replaced with elaborate pork crown roasts, prime rib, oysters, crab legs where function is superseded by aesthetics and status.  We buy what we don’t have in order to gluttonously feast, to prove to our friends and family we can afford the best because we are successful, wealthy, that we have social standing and clout.

 

            There is nothing inherently wrong with a feast.  They have existed as a symbol of harvest season since early man.  But the demarcation between early and modern man exists from the fact that while early man celebrated what he had—a healthy crop or a fat cow—and thanked the gods, modern man celebrates what he does not yet have and is thankful to neither god nor man.  Instead of being grateful, we show that we crave and desire material objects to consume and, like hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore, are never satisfied.  Our insatiable appetites culminate with Black Friday deals.  Time with family and friends is secondary to our desires for material objects.  So much so that Black Friday in recent years begins as early as Thanksgiving evening—forcing the poor workers away from family gatherings to labor instead of celebrating.  This act further increases the apparent disregard for the sacred (the holiday) in favor of the profane (consumption).    

 

            As a society, we embody the famous phrase that we know the price of everything and the value of nothing.  We understand that our uncle’s prime rib cost a lot of money and that makes him (from outward appearance) wealthy, but we don’t appreciate the time actually spent with our uncle.  Our values and mores are superficial and opaque.  So much so that we have to set aside a day to remind ourselves to be thankful, to remind ourselves to give, to love, to cherish, to remember.  Because at heart, our culture is nihilistic.      

 

            Work retail for just one holiday season and you will see through the veil.  Society is like an emotionless psychopath crushing and hurting anyone in their way to achieve what they desire.  We don’t care about the welfare of the animals we eat, the plight of the farmers who raise them, the butchers who slaughter them, the packers and drivers who box and ship them, the warehouse who orders them, or the retail store that cuts and prepares them in tightly wrapped trays.  So many pieces and parts must come together for just one frozen turkey to appear on a grocery shelf.  But all we care about is we want one that’s bigger or smaller than the one in the counter, something fresher from the back.  We are not thankful before the holiday, during, or even after gorging ourselves on heaping plates of fixings as we have no gratitude for anyone or anything that made that feast possible.  Then we search for the next thing to scratch our itch to consume.  Black Friday, Christmas, New Year. 

 

            Everything repeats in a vicious cycle to fuel our economic system.  The wealthy get richer, the poor are exploited, and the middle-class indulges.  And no one is happy.  Not truly.  Because no one is content or satisfied with this mode of living.  At some point we become no more than animals feeding on instinct.  Why do we celebrate the holidays?  For their supposed moral purposes?  No.  Simply because, like a beast, we follow the economic prompts to consume and social urges to flaunt our consumption. 

 

            The root of my disgust for the holidays is the same as Nietzsche when he proclaimed, “God is dead.”  This he stated not out of praise but lamentation as he feared that nothing would ever again be sacred, that morality would vanish, and nihilism would run rampant.  And I guess that’s why I don’t like the holidays, because they are no longer sacred but have become profane.  They are nihilistic virtue signaling, a time to put up a manger scene in your front yard to feign spirituality.  To me all the season inherently means is that God truly is dead.  And I mourn his passing.

 

Happy Holidays!

No expectations

“Not seeking, not expecting, she is present, and can welcome all things.”

—Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

 

            A new experience is on the horizon.  January, I move closer to work.  After a long time, I will be back on my own again.  I’m excited to have my own place and look forward to fashioning a workout area and spot for zazen.  With all this anticipation, though, I’m trying to encourage myself to go into this situation without fixed expectations.  What I learned from my beach adventure earlier this year is that an accelerated level of expectation inevitably leads to disappointment as your reality seldom agrees with the idealized version you picture in your mind.  That said, I do have certain goals I would like to pursue when I move.

 

            First, I’m interested in joining one of the Zen centers around Raleigh to have a group of likeminded people to sit zazen with, hear dharma talks, and become familiar with the traditions and rituals of the practice.  Eventually I would like to take Jukai, which is the formal process of taking refuge in the three jewels (Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha) and accepting to uphold the precepts.  In addition, as I will have more privacy, I would like to further engage with the online sangha I have, for many years, been a member (though not active). 

 

            Eventually, I would like to move up into management again.  I’ve never gotten off on the power trips of being “the man in charge.”  But I did enjoy coaching, building, and mentoring people.  And I enjoyed the challenge of making the best of and overcoming stressful situations.  I’ve finally moved past my last taste of the management life and learned quite a few valuable lessons from my mistakes and failures.  I would like the opportunity to put what I’ve learned into practice and have the chance for a fresh start.

 

            But, again, with all this, I’m approaching it with an open mind and have no strict objective or path.  As long as I’m headed in the right direction, I need remain open to whatever routes appear and not fixate on any one in particular.  I can be excited without being overly optimistic or detrimentally negative.  Just take one moment at a time, not rush into anything, and see where this all takes me.

Indifference to Praise and criticism

“Because she competes with no one, no one can compete with her.” 

—Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

 

            Often, we cling to a view of ourselves that originates from without, be it positive or negative, which influences the way we conceive ourselves.  We internalize this outside opinion and dwell on it until it becomes our own.  From this departure we turn to the source of these affirmations to reflect the now internal conception of who we are as a person without understanding that these external images are ephemeral and fleeting.

 

            A few weeks ago, our Meat Specialist at work came in and tore the market apart after we posted bad numbers on our monthly inventory.  The reason, he concluded, was not in the massive amounts of unreported waste we shrank away from over-ordering, missing reductions, and heaving our profits into the trash can, but rather he blamed the poor performance on the meat cutter’s skills on the block.  Rummaging through the bone can, he pulled out ribeye and New York strip “tails”—the piece of fat at the end of the loin cuts that conceal the tiniest bit of salvageable meat—as proof, claiming that us cutters were throwing away money instead of utilizing this itty bitty, dime-sized portion of meat as scraps for the grind lug.  He angrily ranted that we didn’t know how to cut meat and we alone were the source of wonton waste on the spreadsheet. 

 

“They cannot be moved by praise or blame;
they cannot be changed by profit or loss; 
they cannot be honored or humiliated”

—Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

 

            I joked with everyone that “we all can’t cut meat for shit!”  A coworker asked if I thought that was true.  I replied, “I am confident enough in my own abilities that I don’t care what other people think.”  Still, I maintained a cynical attitude about it all which fed into my perpetual sarcasm every time we threw away a buggy full of out-of-date meat that had been over-ordered and not reduced before expiration.  “Damn, I guess we’re trimming too much fat.  Ain’t nobody know how to cut meat!” I would exclaim, staring at the $200-worth of shrink in the cart that had nothing to do with skill on the butcher block.

 

            Instead of internalizing the criticism, like I had done in the past, I remained generally indifferent and unaffected aside from my humor.  I did what the big boss wanted and tossed the “tails” into the trim, which increased the fat content when turned into ground beef and would only cause the customer to have a flair up on the grill when preparing the burger.  But Hell, what did I care?  I wasn’t the one eating it.  I also left excess fat on the loin cuts to the point of taking the criticism to extremes and would be criticized by any self-respecting butcher for the large fat cap I pushed off on the customer’s wallet.

 

            But the key is that I did not take anything personally and just did what was asked and required.  The next time the Meat Specialist came in for an inspection, he sang my praises.  “Look at that fat trim!  That’s how you make money!  Great job trimming that mock tender!”  Instead of reveling in this praise, I likewise ignored it.  I was confident enough in my skills that I was not only indifferent to criticism, but praise as well.  Whatever it is you’re experiencing, a high or a low, it’s only ever temporary.  One day you’re the be-all-end-all person in someone else’s eyes, and the next you’re no better than a floating turd.  And vice-versa.  The important thing is to not base your self-view around another’s opinion, positive or negative.  Because their opinion can and will change, and that will cause your self-view to fluctuate as well.

 

            I’ve succumbed to the influence of other’s opinions, much to my personal detriment.  When I first started as a market manager, my then Meat Specialist talked me up to anyone who would listen, using phrases like “the best we’ve got” and “he’s going to be the next me.  He’s the future of this company.”  And I really fixated my view around that, that I was the best and proud of the job I was doing because I really fed into his view.  My numbers reflected that.  That build-up led to a sharp downturn when my last Meat Specialist came in and said I didn’t know how to run a market and manage people worth a damn.  I let that destroy my self-image, my self-esteem, and my numbers reflected this negative perception. 

 

That’s why it’s important to be self-confident and unfazed by praise or criticism, as it states in the Tao Te Ching.  This is not a plea to be overconfident or cocky, but to develop a sense of security within yourself.  Think of it like someone with bi-polar who experiences extreme highs and even lower lows.  If you feed into other’s views of yourself, you ride this same roller coaster.  It’s important to form a contentment in yourself, your abilities, and who you are so that you don’t succumb to the extremes of feeling like being the best or feeling worthless.  Like the Buddha’s “Middle Way,” you reside midstream mentally where the flow is just right, not too rough and not too mellow…just enough to keep you from complacency without verging on mania and grandiosity.  At the end of the day, you only have to validate yourself to you.

 

If you aren’t there to compete to weigh yourself on a scale versus other people, you have nothing to worry about.  Whether another cutter’s skill or market is better or worse than your own should be of no importance.  Sure, it can give you pointers to improve for your own development, but competition solely to strive for that top slot is inherently useless and a source of suffering.  Either you feel worthless striving to achieve that number one position, or you feel anxious in trying to keep it and fear falling from grace.  The only competition that matters is internal, to try to be the best you in each and every moment.  Don’t concern yourself with what everyone else is doing.  As the Tao says: do by not doing and nothing is left undone.

Blackout, a renunciation

            I did the unthinkable: I deleted Facebook.  Not just deactivated the app and still able to use Messenger, but I got rid of it permanently.  This is part of my spiritual and personal growth.  What do I need social media for?  To determine how many people like or care about me?  My existence does not need validation from outside myself.  I don’t need “likes” for my daily activities to prove that I matter and my place in this world is meaningful.  Because I know it’s not.  Photos of what I cooked for supper are nihilistic in the grand scheme of things, witty statuses are just a means to prove that I think I’m smart, and political and social rhetoric are just unnecessary.  Nothing matters or means anything in the end.  And that’s ok.  But I had to stop searching for validation and “likes” outside of myself.

 

            My friends might perceive this withdrawal as a cry for help, but it most definitely is not.  I no longer crave attention.  What I crave is the opposite—indifference.  Because what I’m striving for doesn’t need to be compared and contrasted alongside glamorous vacation photos, pictures of family gatherings, and all the things I don’t have.  I don’t need to think of my life in terms of how someone from high school or college is living theirs.  I need to examine my life and determine what I want from it, without any cues or advertisements, social conditioning, or envy.  I need what Bodidharma had in his cave—seclusion from the world.  That is how he, in Zen mythology, sat in zazen for so many years.  The moral of the story applies, even if the mythology lacks reality.

 

            What people don’t realize or understand is that we are conditioned to think a certain way, given prompts to purchase a certain way, and desire certain things.  All this comes from social media, the news, and advertising.  There’s no way I could drive to work without seeing at least one billboard for a fried chicken sandwich, but I can eliminate social media and all the envy for clout, likes, and acceptance.  I can limit the news and the negativity bias they portray when, in fact, we are living in the most peaceful and abundant time in any place in our history.  I want to be a true rebel and reject all the social norms.  Not for the sake of being a rebel, but for the mindset it can place me in.  Free of distraction, I can focus on myself.  Or the not-self, the anatman, in Zen think.

 

            I don’t want my thoughts to be influenced by anyone or anything that I don’t intentionally bring into my periphery.  I want my philosophers, zen masters, taoist thinkers, and anarchist dissidents without someone imploring me to support some cause or ideology based on some emotional plea.  That’s where all this identity politics stuff comes from…emotion.  Why should I accept someone solely based on their race, religion, or gender?  That is not to say I’m “color blind” and don’t understand or appreciate the vast strides these groups have made in education, politics, society, etc.  And how much more needs to be done.  But I should NOT accept them solely on their difference.  Just because you’re the first of something doesn’t make you immune to criticism and that criticism of your work should not be conceived as racist, homophobic, antisemitic, transphobic, sexist, etc.  Maybe you just suck at what you do?

 

            To pull on my previous point of not wanting to be influenced, that does not mean I will not read and study contrary arguments to what I agree with.  I don’t mean to place myself entirely in a bubble where only what I think is reflected in what I read and study.  That already exists in media where the algorithm shows you more of what you already like.  I just don’t want the outside, subliminal intrusions to make me want to buy a running shoe or start a family so I can post happy pictures.  I want to be alone with my mind and see where that takes me.  Essentially, you must limit your desires and the catalysts that increase your desires through advertising, media, and the news. Happiness comes from within, not external sources.  That, I must admit, is my sole desire: happiness.

 

            I have no illusion that happiness is some sort of bliss, like falling in love, achieving your highest career peak, or winning the race.  I think of it like being free of a toothache, or bored…a sense of stability and complacency.  But I want to ever strive for more.  I want to know what it’s like to sit zazen for twenty years, what my body will look like after exercising every day, what my mind will be like from studying philosophy instead of scrolling endlessly through tick-tock videos.  I want the great expanse of mind, body, and soul.  Maybe this is my mid-life crisis?  But maybe it’s my spiritual breakthrough?

 

            I want what this society cannot provide, what politics and arguing can’t provide, what TV evangelists can’t promise, and drug ads can’t offer.  I want depth and meaning while I know I’ll never have the grand answer to “IT.”  I want the same thing that 19-year-old me wanted when he started reading Nietzsche—the entrance to the unknowable.  Socrates said, “the unexamined life is not worth living.”  I aim to examine it. 

The art of letting go

            Today I had an AFOG moment (“Another Fucking Opportunity to Grow”).  At work today, I walked into the office and into the midst of a conversation between a coworker and my boss.

 

            “You just let her bring her boyfriend there and shack up?” My boss asked.  “Put in a good word for me.”

 

            “You’re not the right skin color.”  My coworker replied, pointing out his white skin.

 

            Realizing the context of this conversation centered around my coworker’s sister-in-law, I hastily chugged my energy drink and left the room.  A few minutes later, my coworker followed me into the cooler and asked “what’s wrong?  Why are you so quiet?”

 

            “I just ran out of things to talk about.” I told her.  And continued about my work before returning to the office.  Inside, my boss was scrolling through Facebook pictures on his phone.

 

            “[Coworker] has a sister!” He exclaimed, showing me the photos on the screen.

 

            “Yeah.” I told him.  “That’s my ex-girlfriend.”

 

            “Y’all dated?” He asked.  “Was she the crazy one?”

 

            “No.”

 

            “Was she bi-polar?”  He pushed further, referencing something I had mentioned about another old girlfriend earlier when he was asking for relationship advice.

 

            “Yes.  But not the bad kind of bi-polar.  There’s two different types.”

 

            “How long did y’all date?”

            “Not long.”

 

            “Oh, so it was kind of like a fling?”

 

            “I mean, I almost lost my job to be with her.  Then she broke up with me with a text message at two A.M.”

 

            “Trash.” He affirmed.

 

            “She was my employee when I was a manager.”

 

            We discussed the logistics of all that and I explained that I was called into the office after someone outed our relationship to my supervisor, which I, of course, denied.  But I was reprimanded to the extent of what they could do without having sufficient evidence to pursue the claim I was involved in a relationship “within the chain-of-command.”

 

            My coworker continued pressing me as to why I was being quiet.  I shrugged off the interrogation and took an early lunch to process what I was, apparently quite obviously, feeling.

 

            As I sat in my truck vaping, I contemplated what it was exactly that I was feeling.  I wasn’t sad that my ex had moved on.  I had no delusions of her ever coming back, or ever going back to her for that matter.  I wasn’t even upset about my boss expressing interest in her.  The more I thought about it, the more I realized I was experiencing anger foremost.  With additions of embarrassment and shame, which likewise extend from my anger.  For context, let me explain why I feel angry before detailing how I chose to react to this emotion.

 

            I did not pursue this relationship.  Certainly I had feelings, but not at first, and I separated them from my work to the point that I was described by her later as “closed-off and distant.”  Professional.  We worked together for four years.  She wanted a change and to transfer to my department.  I allowed this, but she had, at that time, a bad habit of calling out.  I didn’t know she was going through an abusive relationship, all I knew was that when she called out, I had to cover her shift and work later.  I transferred her back under the guise that “she costs too much for my labor budget.”  About a year later, she had been promoted and sent to a different store as a manager.  She called me on the verge of tears begging to come back and venting about how poorly she was being treated.  Figuring she actually did a good job when she showed up, as opposed to my new crew that showed up but didn’t do anything, I agreed to not only bring her back but to create a seafood manager position just for her, so she could maintain her rate of pay and status.  On the condition that her experience as a manager had placed her calling-out days behind her.  I felt sorry for her.

 

She came back, after a lot of tedious pulling of strings, agitating my bosses, and getting chewed out for my insistence more than once.  She became my best worker.  Always late and I made her cry to nip that habit in the bud, but she rarely called out.  I was proud of her and took her under my wing to teach her how to cut meat and do this and that so that she could move up in the company and make more money.  But slowly she inched her way in.  First as a friend and confidant.  This was easier, though I kept her at a distance for a while, but the stress of the job and having a limited outer circle of people to confide in brought us closer together.  She pressured me to hang out with her and my assistant outside of work.  And I foolishly gave in.  Nothing was right with my career after that moment.

 

Then came the day she told me she liked me.  I immediately shut it down.  “I could lose my job if anything happened between us.”  A few days later, she and I went to a party and the only place afforded us to sleep at the end of the night was an air mattress.  I woke up to her leg over top of me and her lips pecking my cheek.  I leaned over and kissed her.  After that, everything spiraled out of control.  I invited her out on a date and the next thing I knew we went on a beach vacation together, went out to eat all the time, to the fair, all the while hiding everything from work.  Eventually she told me she wanted to be my girlfriend, and I agreed, so we started dating and I introduced her to my parents and brother.

 

I already knew her mother, who was a customer of mine for years.  But she wanted me to meet her brothers and father when they came to town.  The day after meeting them, she went silent.  She stopped replying to my texts for a few days, then mentioned she was just “going through it” because she was sad her family had left to go back home.  Then she went silent again and I was just left to my thoughts as to what was going on.  Had I done something to upset her?  Why was she being distant?  Then one night I woke up to a lengthy text at 2:00AM describing her mental health issues and explaining that she could no longer pursue our relationship.  I called her, but she didn’t answer.  So, I texted her my thoughts and feelings and she replied once, then never again.  I was blindsided, angered by the way she simply cut me out of her life without showing me the least bit of consideration for my feelings and taken for granted all I had done for her over the years as a mentor, a friend, and finally a boyfriend.  I felt I was owed more than an “it’s not you, it’s me” text in the middle of the night.  She could have sat me down in person and been open and honest with me that it was just not working out and I would have understood instead of hiding behind a text.  And beyond that, I was worried about her.

 

I didn’t know who to talk to.  She had been my only friend, and now she was gone.  I sent her an email, and she replied much in the context of the “it’s not you, it’s me” line that everyone knows is a copout.  Then I never heard from her again.  I felt used.  I had not initiated the relationship nor asked for it to go beyond hooking up and hanging out, and I was finally at the point where I was happy it had escalated and taken that route, when it suddenly vanished without warning or cohesion.  I was angry that four years of knowing someone had come down to a late-night text and then ghosted, especially after I had emphasized the importance of her being in my life to the detriment of my career.  I felt disrespected.  I wasn’t even that upset that she had broken up with me, more so than how it was done.  I always imagined that if we went our separate ways, we would remain friends.  And that’s what hurt the most.  That I had lost my best friend.

 

I slunk into a deep depression that I couldn’t pull myself out of for over a year.  I couldn’t understand how I was so easily discarded after everything we had been through together.  I didn’t understand what I had done to deserve this treatment.  My self-esteem collapsed and I felt worthless over how quick it was to throw me to the curb like a piece of trash.  I had never felt loneliness until that point.  I had been by myself for years with little to no social interaction.  But after having someone to share my life with, it was hard to go back to solitude and silence.  Moreover, during this time I had transitioned jobs, and I was further isolated outside of my realm of comfort by being in a strange environment around all new people. 

 

Instead of thinking about all the good times we had, whenever her name came up, I only ruminated over the hurt I felt receiving that late-night text and being ghosted.  This transitioned to an overwhelming sense of anger and frustration as I work with her sister-in-law and occasionally have to listen to stories about her when I don’t want to even think about her or have any interest in keeping tabs on her life.  But then again, this says more about me and how I deal with negative situations and emotions more than it reflects anything about her.

 

So, sitting in my truck, I reflected on my anger and just let myself be angry without feeding into it, just observing it like a passing thought in zazen.  After that, I wanted to redirect this anger into a positive emotion because it’s only bringing me down to the point that people can physically tell I’m going through something.  There’s no point to cling to this feeling, because it’s not beneficial.  I stepped outside of Zen and into the Tibetan tradition and practiced Tonglen—loving-kindness meditation.  First, I meditated on the things in life I love unconditionally, like my cat.  Then extended this to people whose company brings joy, like my coworkers.  Then I meditated on my ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend and wished them happiness, peace, health, and safety.  I used this technique a few times after work to dispel the negative emotions I have surrounding this person, because they don’t deserve that.  They deserve what every human being deserves—a happy life. 

 

Negative feelings and situations are AFOG moments, teachers and lessons to better ourselves and enrich the lives of those we come in contact with.  Embrace anger and bitterness, but don’t cling to them, they are poisons.  Think of them as balloons you fill with all your negativity.  It feels good to expel all of these emotions into a particular place, then let go of them, and watch them drift away aimlessly to the sky.  You cannot control how people treat you or act towards you, but you can determine how you react to them and negative situations.

Inner peace is the art of letting go…

Mediocre manifesto

“See simplicity in the complicated.

Achieve greatness in small things.”

—Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

 

            How much of our negative self-views which manifest in anxiety, depression, and other mental illnesses are a result of social constructs and our economic system?  We’re constantly focused on achieving something—a career, romantic relationships, fame, fortune, “likes” on social media, etc.  These external things we pursue under the guise that achieving them will make us happy.  All the while we remain continuously unhappy in their pursuit.  And, if and when we achieve them, we only search for the next mountain to climb so that we can meet the approval of our peers and become a “success” within our economic system…not a “loser.”

 

            We define our self-worth and happiness by whether we live up to society’s expectations or not.  This causes depression and low self-esteem, anxiety, and other mental defects.  So caught up in how the world should have been or ought to be for our life, we fail to appreciate what we have.  True happiness is not bliss, but rather a subtle contentment with our existence, an acceptance of who and what we are.  This is not a resignation, but rather a renunciation—of social norms and values, constructs, and opinions. 

 

            From early childhood we are fed with this achievement illusion, this underserved optimism or positivity bias.  “You can be anything you want to be” our parents tell us.  And we dream of being an astronaut, an actor, a musician, or even the president of the United States.  As we grow older, this concept is further instilled by preaching that doing well in school and going off to college will land us our dream job and all our hopes and desires will be fulfilled.  And we do well in school, graduate college with thousands of dollars in debt, then can’t find a job because we don’t have the experience and can’t afford to work up from the bottom to get that experience because we have to pay student loans.  Essentially, we have to settle for less than what we were promised because of real world necessity and conditions—we have to eat, afford gas, support families, pay rent and other bills.  This leads to depression.  Because we didn’t live up to the expectations of success within society after all the positivity we had been fed our entire lives.

 

            We have to realize, it’s ok to be a “loser.”  And I’m not talking about the guy who just lives as a leech on friends, family, and society.  I’m talking about the person who didn’t make it as a CEO, an actor, a musician, a writer.  There’s nothing wrong with waiting tables, cutting meat, fixing cars, cutting lawns, picking up trash.  Self-worth is not an external faculty; it comes from within.  I’ve used success in my chosen career to affix my identity to, and I realized that was an illusion.  We have to find happiness and self-worth within ourselves.  Do you like what you do?  Then fucking do it.  Whether that’s flipping burgers or being the president of the United States.  It’s not what you do that defines who you are, or even what other people think.  Fuck all of them.  You will die alone; other people’s opinions do not matter.  All that matters is how you choose to live between now and then.  We spend the vast majority of our adult lives at work.  Find something that you love regardless of what socioeconomic frame that places you within.  As long as you can pay your bills and have some extra for hobbies, you’re doing alright. 

 

            There’s plenty of people out there preaching the gospel of achievement.  But not everyone is going to achieve.  Someone needs to speak of the reality for the vast majority of us: it’s ok to be mediocre.  You may never be Michael Jordan or Lebron James, but if you love playing basketball…play basketball.  I’m no Hemingway, Hunter Thompson, or Albert Camus.  But I still love philosophy and writing.  I don’t do it professionally.  But there’s more to life than making money.  Sometimes you’ve just got to live while you’re here and not be overly concerned with succeeding at it.  As Charles Bukowski said “don’t try.”  And what’s implied, is the Nike slogan “just do it.”

 

There is beauty and wonder in the mediocre, the ordinary, the mundane.  Get over depression by understanding that you’re not special and never were.  You’re an individual…just like everyone else.  Think of things as if you were an alien looking down at the slow-moving specks scattered about the earth.  That’s how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things.  A speck on a blue dot.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.  To find yourself and understand who you are, you have to get over yourself and how “special” everyone always said you were.  Just live…without expectation.

Grumpy old man

“Things get bad for us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.”

—Charles Bukowski

 

            The past few months I’ve worked on eliminating negativity from my life.  This mostly consisted of limiting interactions with people who constantly criticize me in a non-constructive way and those who I no longer feel are conducive to personal growth—the hard partiers and perpetual adolescents.  To change your perspective, you must change your environment.  What has not changed, I’ve realized, is my own negativity I emanate on a daily basis.  I came to this epiphany yesterday at work.

 

            My coworker was singing a Green Day song and I cut him off, bellowing “Green Day isn’t real punk!  I’m a purist!”  To which he replied, “Hey, I don’t like your ‘hoo-doo’ spirituality stuff, but I still let you talk about it.”  Then it was affirmed that I, in fact, hate everything.  This was a point I was aware of but had not understood to what extent that I seep negativity.  I hate pop punk, fantasy fiction, conservatives, liberals, dating, North Carolina, New Jersey, Abrahamic religions, northerners, my former employer, new country, identity politics, the election, voting, the DMV, turkey hunting, crab legs, chocolate, ice cream, tomatoes, New Age, people in general, driving, Jack Daniels, Budweiser, sugar, coffee creamer, the ending of Game of Thrones, everyone who ever worked for me (save for three), capitalism, war, violence, dogs, food stamps, hamburgers, sports, video games, celebrities, politicians, police, feet, clubbed fingernails, long fingernails, fingernail polish, traffic, cities, hippies, hipsters, rednecks, suicidal music, “I’m not racist, but…” statements, Confederate flags, MAGA hats, ranch dressing, mozzarella cheese, cigarettes, spaghetti noodles, hot dogs, the color red, air fresheners, Gen Z, social media, participation trophies, sensitivity, shotguns for deer hunting, treestands, fast food, and the list goes on…and on…and on.

 

            Psychologically we all have a negativity bias where negative emotions and reactions are more memorable than pleasant experiences.  Try to think of all the good experiences you have had in a McDonald’s drive-thru.  I’m sure most experiences were, at the very least, uneventful.  You probably can’t even think of a good experience because your mind does not fixate on the positive.  Now think of a negative experience where you asked for “no onions!” or “extra sauce,” damnit…and you got the opposite.  It’s easy to remember the bad.  And I guess I’m really good at thinking about all the things I dislike because it’s 90% of what I talk about day to day.

 

            I’m seldom in a bad mood, and even my cynicism and self-deprecating jokes do not come from an entirely negative place.  I just have a dark sense of humor and I don’t mind being the butt of a joke.  But I do constantly complain about my ever-growing list of dislikes, and I’m unbearably sarcastic.  I guess this does extend from a deeper, inherent bitterness and bleak outlook towards life.  The glass is always half empty to me.  To counter this toxic trait, I’m going to try an experiment and start my day with a positive affirmation.  When I find myself about to embark on some sarcastic rant, I’m going to focus on my breath and pause, and try to come up with something good to say.  I must break the cycle of habitual reactivity to further my growth.  I’m too young to be a grumpy old man.

NO more excuses!

“He that is good for making excuses is seldom good for anything else.”

—Benjamin Franklin

 

            I’ve made too many excuses lately and it’s time to get back on my meditation track.  Over the past few weeks, I’ve put even more changes, both physically and materialistically, into place.  And along with it, my daily zazen regimen has suffered.  First, I told myself I didn’t have time to sit in the morning because I had to clean and rearrange my room for the home gym I ordered.  So, I spent a few days going through my book collection, hunting gear, and old clothes to decide what can stay and what needs to go, plus I pored over endless amounts of cords and instruction booklets to gadgets and gizmos I either no longer own or that no longer work.  “I’ll sit zazen later,” I told myself.  After I’m done with all this Autumn cleaning.

 

            Later came and I told myself “I’m too tired to sit zazen now.  I’ll do it tomorrow.”  Tomorrow came and I had to set my home gym up and, again, I was “too tired.”  Then another excuse arose—I no longer had room in my bedroom to sit zazen.  To solve this, I purchased a smaller bed frame and mattress to account for the home gym and treadmill, plus my books, guns, and all my other junk taking up space.  “I’ll sit zazen when I get my bed setup.” I told myself.  Then the same excuses came up—I have to setup the bed frame, drag the old mattress and boxspring to the curb, and damn…look at that, “I’m too tired to sit zazen.”

 

            With the gym and treadmill keeping me busy before and after work, I just kept lying to myself with the idea that I either didn’t have time to sit with my exercise routine or I was “too tired” after.  Sometimes I’d sneak in a ten-minute zazen session to make myself feel like I hadn’t backslid, but I knew deep down my heart was no longer in it.  Again, like in my previous post, I had to reaffirm my commitment.  Today I do not have to be at work until 1:00PM, so I had all morning to recommit myself to this practice and not make any more excuses. 

 

I woke up around 6:00AM, ran a mile and a half, worked on arms and legs on the home gym, ate breakfast, showered, then sat my ass down on the cushion and put thirty minutes on the timer and sat zazen.  While there is no inherent aim or goal in zazen, I have noticed it does have a positive effect on my mental well-being.  Keeping to the practice makes me feel calmer and steady, level-headed, and less anxious.  To reaffirm this commitment to “drop off body and mind,” I’ve branched out a bit from the zen tradition for a “30 Day Meditation Challenge” from an online Buddhist community I belong to.  I will still sit zazen, but make the time to incorporate these other, separate practices, such as insight, body-scan, loving-kindness, etc. into my meditation routine…just to see where they lead.

 

            I’ll make a post for each of the thirty practices to explain the individual purpose, function, and form.  This is an exciting way to reaffirm as well as further challenge myself to maintaining meditation as a daily routine.  And it will provide more material to write about.  I’ve been slacking on the writing, too.  BUT…NO more excuses!  There’s plenty of time in the day if you manage it wisely.

Each Day We start fresh

“Day by day we are born as night retires, no more possessing aught of our former life, estranged from our course of yesterday, and beginning today the life that remains.”

            —Palladas

 

            Each day is both a struggle and a challenge to reaffirm the commitments of the previous.  Today I will run, I tell myself, I will lift weights, eat healthy, sit zazen, and not drink.  Some days are easier than others.  There are times of great motivation and inspiration, and I simply cannot wait to get home from work, hop on the treadmill, and run until the sweat beads on my forehead and trickles onto my glasses, knowing that all this hard work will pay off in the long term.  Other days are like my last day off—backsliding away from nirvana.

 

            I succumbed to impulsively purchasing a home-gym during Amazon’s Prime Day sale last week.  Mostly because my main hesitation to actually going to a physical gym and working out is my inherent misanthropic nature.  I just don’t like being around people.  Forty or more hours working with the public at my job is more than enough socializing and serving of the community to send my introverted nerves into rebellion and in desperate need for isolation and solitude to regroup and refresh.  I just don’t have it in me to venture back out into “public” on my day off.  The home-gym successfully eliminates one more cause to leave the house.  Maybe I’m a bit agoraphobic too?  Anyway…

 

            So, I spent the majority of the first day off assembling all the parts.  The second day I exercised, and the third…that was my downfall.  Each and every affirmation of the previous few months went out the window that fateful day.  I grew bored and told myself I needed to “rest” and that I deserved a “cheat day.”  And I did just that, hard.  I had not only a double cheeseburger, fries, Nashville hot chicken sandwich, steak and a sweet potato, but I drowned it all with shots of tequila.  I didn’t exercise, I didn’t sit zazen, I didn’t eat healthy.  In the moment, it all felt good and rewarding.  But the next day I only felt miserable.  All the greasy foods, the alcohol, it all compounded into an overwhelming groggy sensation.  I felt like I had fucked over all the progress I’d made since the last part of August.

            But then, after work the next day, I went home and ran.  I lifted weights.  I ate healthy, sat zazen, and stayed sober.  Probably with the extra motivation to somehow undo all the events and effects of the previous day.  And I’ve kept to that burst of energy and commitment all the days since.  In the past, I would have given up and just thought: fuck it.  When I saw myself putting on weight, I would tell myself that all hope was lost and reach a certain contentment with the notion that I had gone too far to salvage myself and turn back, and just shovel more and more rich foods onto my expanding gut.  The same way I would wake up with a hangover only to drink the next day to “feel better.”  And do it again the next and the next.  I would just give up on myself.

 

            That’s the lesson I’ve learned these last few months of self-improvement: it’s never too late to make changes.  A relapse is only one day, and it does not denote or predict the next six months of your life…if you don’t allow it.  You just have to resolve each and every day to pursue the positive qualities you have inside.  And move beyond negative thoughts, foolish actions, and failures.  Each day we remake ourselves anew.  Every morning we have a fresh start.  A chance to be better than the day before. 

40 days

“…Dharma helped me and changed me when I needed help and I needed to change.  What changed was not the course of my life but my life’s ground.  Dharma gave me a place to stand.”

—Curtis White, Transcendent

 

            Forty days bears significant meaning in religious foundations.  Moses spent forty days on Mount Sinai.  Jesus spent forty days in the wilderness.  And the Buddha meditated for forty days beneath the bodhi tree before reaching enlightenment.  Me?—I only spent forty days sober.  Nothing of massive spiritual epiphany or substance like in the aforementioned mythos, just a subtle, yet extensive lifestyle change.  During this experience, I have discovered quite a lot about myself and, I hope, that I have grown as a person.

 

            Most importantly, I have made peace with the people, places, and things in my past.  While I could not control how I was treated, I can control how I choose to react to it.  In Buddha’s parable, he describes the flight of two arrows.  When the first one makes impact into your body, it causes pain, but the second arrow is optional—that is, our reaction to the pain inflicted by the first arrow.  Bitterness, anger, self-pity, depression…these are poisons that we willingly choose to indulge in.  No matter what happened, or who did what, they didn’t cause me to feel the way I felt.  I chose that reaction.  I took that path of my own volition.  But now, after spending forty days reflecting, sitting zazen, and poring over pages of philosophy, psychology, and examining and critiquing my patterns of habitual reactivity, I am content.  I am free.  My past is behind me.

 

            While I’ve dabbled in Zen on and off for almost a decade, it has been applying those ethical principles and practices to my life these last forty days that has been the most beneficial to all these changes.  In Zen, we don’t pursue enlightenment, we don’t seek to gain or attain anything in our practice, because inherently we all have Buddha nature; we are Buddhas, and already enlightened.  We just have to wake up and realize our true nature.  Zen didn’t act as a catalyst in my decision to quit drinking or inspire my dive into healthy diets and exercise that followed, or even stimulate my desire to better myself physically and mentally in the first place.  Just as with Buddha nature, I already had that ability to change inside me.  All I had to do was wake up.  But along this path, as it states in the above quote “Dharma gave me a place to stand.”  Zen practice and the Dharma served as a light in the darkness soon after I started on my journey.

 

            Zazen has become a daily ritual, like showering or brushing my teeth.  I started off sitting for ten minutes, then fifteen, to now sitting for thirty minutes every day.  Staring at a wall for so long, per the Soto Zen tradition, instills a certain sense of patience, acceptance, and contentment in the practitioner.  Despite common misconception, meditation and zazen are not trancelike states where the practitioner sits mindlessly.  “Think not thinking.”  Zen Master Dogen instructs.  Sure.  But thoughts naturally arise, sometimes happy thoughts and at other times the mind conjures up dark, painful memories, such as a memory of watching my grandmother die.  In each circumstance, I never entertain or pursue the thought to the point of daydreaming; I simply recognize the thought and let it pass, never assigning any label to it in such dualities as good or bad.  They are just thoughts, memories, and they can’t hurt me. Everything is impermanent in life.  There are times of joy and times of sorrow, but nothing is fixed, and zazen teaches you that just as the happy moments pass, so will the moments of heartache and sadness.  The practice reminds you that existence is non-dual, life is neither good or bad, it is just life—full of ups and downs, ebbs and flows.  Sometimes, you just need to change your perspective.

 

            Not clinging, that is, to not be attached to our desires is another important ethical principle.  Most all of our mental anguish in life stems from our desire.  While this teaching does not mean to disregard working towards a goal, it allows us to not become fixated on the process of achieving that goal, or becoming too disappointed if we fail to achieve our goal.  Again, by recognizing the impermanence of life, we understand that there will always be other opportunities and other paths to travel.  Just as we don’t cling to our thoughts during zazen, we don’t become attached to people, places, or objects.  Friends and love-interests come and go, as do jobs, pets, vehicles, money, etc.  That does not mean we should not love someone or not cherish some person or possession, but to recognize they are only in your life temporarily.  At some point they will no longer be part of your life.  And that’s ok.  Be prepared to lose what you love so that when the day comes it won’t hurt as much.  This makes you appreciate even more the time you have with them.

 

            I don’t subscribe to the New Age, modernist conception of Buddhist teachings in a wholly secular context of mindfulness and meditation stripped of their ethical foundations.  This McMindfulness movement that strives to understand the tradition solely within psychological and scientific terms, in my opinion, misses the entire point.  Sure, mindfulness and meditation can act as relaxation techniques to curtail stress and anxiety, but they are not meant to escape from negative feelings, rather to accept them, understand them, and move beyond them.  Practices divorced from their spiritual roots, seems shallow and nihilistic.  These practices are not actions to escape from the nature of reality, but to embrace it and the ineffable wholeness of being at the center.  Zen is not a mental day at the spa, but a challenge to live a better life and become a better person.

 

            I hope I’ve gotten closer after these last 40 days…

28 days later

    

            “All that we are is the result of what we have thought.”

                                    -Buddha, Dhammapda

 

            Twenty-eight days since I set out on my sober journey of change and introspective discovery.  Instead of feeding this idea of a mid-life crisis, I’m welcoming in a new era of my existence, an acceptance of the challenge that Carl Jung refers to as the “second half” of life—that is, those 35 and over.  While I still look like I’m in my mid-20’s, the strands of gray around my temples betray that I am closer to forty than the mid-20’s.  At this point in life, one ponders the meaning of it all.  What is the purpose?

 

            In Solitude: A Return to the Self, the author writes that Jung viewed an emphasis on spirituality as a driving factor in the “second half’s” feelings of contentment and happiness.  That’s not to say the Christian God, or even a god or religion in general, but an appreciation for the ineffable wholeness of being and the universe.  For centuries, poets and thinkers found it in the tranquility of nature, in the night sky and the multitude of bright vivid stars—just this sensation that there is something greater than us, but also somehow that we belong to it.  I feel it in the early dawn when I am hunting deer or wading into the surf to cast my line.  I feel it in the silence of my commute to work and in the stillness of meditation. 

 

Having spent the last month practicing zazen daily and gradually increasing the length of each sitting, I feel more at ease with myself as I focus on taking each day at a time.  As with goalless nature of shikantaza zazen, I work to approach each day without expectation or desire and watch where it leads like a thought passing while on the zafu. 

 

            That is not to say I am without ambition and that I’m solely focused on the here and now with no regard for the future.  I have plans, but I’m not allowing some rigid set of expectations interfere with life by creating some all-or-nothing hyper-focused ultimate goal.  In other words, I’m on the right path but I’m not overly fixated on a particular route.  There could be a new road opening up ahead but if I’m not open to the possibility, it will be as if it never existed.  All I know is that my actions and choices today, in the present moment, determine what sort of tomorrow I make for myself.

 

            Whatever this great IT is, I know I must find and apply my own meaning and purpose.

Left behind

            My hands are cold to the touch.  It’s 76 degrees outside beyond the ledge of the open living room window where my cat naps in sunlit rays as I fawn in the warmth of an electric fireplace emanating from below a blank television screen.  And I still feel cold.  My beta-blockers, where once they acted to normalize a fast-beating heart, now cause my heart to beat too slowly.  Over the past three alcohol-free weeks, and complimented with a healthy diet and exercise, my pulse has gradually slowed, dropping from an average of over eighty beats (with beta-blockers) per minute to somewhere around sixty.  But now it is too low, having dropped to fifty.  This leads to a metaphor and a lesson.

 

            People, places, and things that were once good for us in the past may not be good for us now in the present.  As we grow and evolve, we sometimes move past what was once beneficial and wholesome for our body and mind.  So much so, that they are now toxic for us to cling to.  Beginning tomorrow, I must slowly wean off my beta-blockers to prevent this degeneration into bradycardia.  In other words, to maintain my health I must cast off everything that does not correspond to reflect my change and growth.  Just as a child removes the training wheels on their bike so they may travel faster, further, and to new places, so must we remove the once needed objects that are now obstacles preventing us from progressing down our path.

 

            Perhaps it’s a person we’ve outgrown.  Or negative thoughts and feelings of bitterness surrounding a person, place, or event where we once sought comfort by demonizing the dreaded “other” for perceived wrongs and slights.  Whatever it is from our past that once served as a coping mechanism, a justification, a support structure, or some sort of foundation we firmly rooted ourselves in, we must shed it like a snake sheds its skin or a lobster its shell.  You have to let that shit go and move on.  You must reexamine your life and decide what is healthy for you to carry along, and what needs to be left behind.  Certainly, this can feel painful and nasty just as the withdrawal from alcohol or my impending withdrawal from beta-blockers, but sometimes pain is necessary for growth. 

Always drive safe in dreamland

I pay attention to my dreams and analyze them for meaning.  Last night, during my final REM activity before waking up, I dreamed of three particular situations of both fear and expectation.  Many of my dreams center around bears.  I don’t know what this means, and I’ve Googled it, and I don’t know if those hippy new agers know what it means, either.  Or if they’re just interpreting it based on its representation as a symbol in various mythologies.  Sure, I’m relatively well-versed in some mythos, but I doubt my subconscious mind was thinking of it in the context of what a bear means for some secluded sect of Indian Hinduism, etc.  For my frame of reference, the black bear is the state animal of my native state.  In any case…

 

            I was on my old farm back in West Virginia and preparing for some long trip.  In preparation for this trip, I took two adderall and downed a shot of whiskey.  Always drive safe in Dreamland, right?  I walked up to the hill where we had a garden as a kid and it was all overgrown with wildflowers, but I noticed patches of wild onions (ramps) growing among them.  I reached in and pulled a wild onion by the long green stem and to my surprise, it had no roots.  Just then I noticed a dark shape moving along the edge of the neighbor’s property: a black bear!

 

            Knowing there was a dog at the foot of the hill, I wanted to protect it.  So, I grabbed a gun that was of too small caliber to tackle a full-grown bear but ran towards the danger anyway.  When confronted, the bear stood on hind legs, and I raised my rifle to cover the left part of its chest where its heart rests.  To my surprise, the once dangerous black bear transformed into an innocent woman holding an infant.  I let them pass and returned to where the dog was.  Another person, who I did not recognize, was suddenly mauled by a half dozen small brown bears and I thought for sure he was done for.  After they left, however, he simply repositioned his beanie on his head, and stood up unharmed.

 

Yesterday, I did a lot of reading about the illusions of existence: self, perception, preconceived notions, expectations, etc.  A neat little book by a Tibetan Monk entitled No Self, No Problem.  Not to be confused with the neuroscience book of the same title, which I am also currently reading.  As much of what I understand about dreams entails an essential regurgitation and rumination of ones previous waking hours, I interpret this dream within the context of the stimuli of that day.

 

Perhaps the onion with no roots represents unmet expectations, a disappointment, or a failure.  Or given the setting of my dream, it could mean that I have lived such a transient life that I have established no roots—no house, no wife, no children.  I don’t even know where in West Virginia I could call “home” and often apply this label to South Carolina.  Maybe it addresses an illusory perception in the way I look at the form of the world while ignoring its substance beneath?  In other words, I am so caught up in my subjective perceptions and preconceived notions that I fail to grasp the root of reality—that it is empty, and I am simply projecting my own mind onto its phenomena.

 

The bear is easier to address.  When it first appeared, it obviously represented danger and induced fear.  But when I looked deeper, I found it was innocent and there was never any danger.  Perhaps this is my subconscious urging me to look deeper at a problem or a phobia.  So long as I examine only the surface of these irrational fears, I fail to see that what I fear is not even dangerous and I am only projecting my insecurities onto these objects or situations.  The black bear, all along, was a mental fabrication, an illusion of the mind, as are all my thoughts, feelings, perceptions, and senses.  In the Zen sense, I must overcome these obstacles to find enlightenment (liberation/freedom).

 

The third act, where the brown bears maul a stranger, represents the worst-case scenario.  My mind conjures up all sorts of fears centered around what the worst-case scenario might entail.  This anxiety leads to stress, panic attacks, and avoidance of certain people, places, and situations.  Perhaps what my subconscious illustrates is that even if the worst thing I can imagine actually happens, chances are it will be nowhere near as terrible in reality as it was in my mind.  The person in my dream stood up unscathed after the attack, after all.  My mind is urging me to face my fears and not jump to conclusions preemptively as to what may, might, or could happen.  This too also represents the illusory nature of the world.  The supposed horror of the mauling was never real and only a mental image conjured to anticipate some forgone conclusion already confirmed in my mind.  By rejecting these preconceived notions, expectation, there is a certain sense of freedom in looking at the world and seeing it as it is.

 

All three situations are symbiotic in a sense.  They each represent obstacles, illusions, and mental fabrications.  Each one is a scenario where, if one changed their perspective, they would have seen the true nature of each object and not the one projected upon them by preconceived notions, expectations, or perceptions.  Apparently, my subconscious is telling me I have only scratched the surface in my practice of zazen, and I still need to look deeper.  Experience, as Dogen put it, the “drifting away of body and mind” to grasp reality as it is, not what it could, should, or might be.  I still have work to do.

On solitude

“If you are lonely when you're alone, you are in bad company.”

—Jean-Paul Sartre

 

            Loneliness and solitude are two sides of the same coin.  The former expresses a deeper longing and desire for social contact and interaction, while the latter decrees a certain contentment in being by oneself.  I fall into the solitude category.  Especially since quitting drinking. 

 

I enjoy being by myself, focusing on myself and my interests and hobbies.  These days, I’m slow to reply to texts or messages as I’m typically listening to a book or podcast on my phone.  Sometimes I forget to reply altogether.  As I wrote in a previous post, I’ve cut off most all distractions—social media, movies, shows, much of the news, etc.  There are but a few things I wish to focus on: reading (history and philosophy), writing, health and exercise, and studying Zen and practicing zazen.  None of these are particularly social activities.  At least not for me.  I require solitude like some old hermit who has climbed to the tallest peak to seek enlightenment.  But only the enlightenment is here and now, in the present moment between these same four walls.  I want to work on myself.

 

Too many things I hold onto: bitterness, anger, failure, and resentment.  I need to let that shit go.  It’s an albatross around my neck, a ball and chain I’ve dragged around for the last year and half, whining along on some pity story about how badly I was treated by people, places, things.  But it really doesn’t matter.  I have a good job that I enjoy now.  I’m not bogged down by endless calls or text messages at all hours of the day.  I’m not stressed and anxious.  For all the negativity that I lived through, I learned a lot of lessons and in the end, came to be in a better environment around better people. 

 

To let all that shit go, I have to forgive not only the people who, from my perception, wronged me and fucked me over, but I also have to forgive myself for getting in so deep into that job that I neglected all other aspects of my life, friendships, family, hobbies, and interests.  I have to forgive myself for becoming so consumed with work that it became my sole focus and aspiration to the point that when I willingly ended it, I felt like I no longer knew who I was.  I lost my identity.

 

Zen puts things into perspective that there was never a self that was fucked over or lost, and there’s not one to be found.  There is only this present moment to find happiness and create joy in life.  There is no past and no future.  I’m making progress each day.  At some point I will stop caring and move on.  I’m ready for that.  I’m working to eliminate the negativity from my life and focus on the good.  And by that I must focus on myself.  And solitude is the key…

On drinking

            Two weeks.  Sober.  Dawson sent me a meme from Supernatural “how are you still alive?”  Actually, I feel more alive than when my mind was clouded with alcohol.  I sit zazen every day.  I run a mile before breakfast except on the mornings I have to leave for work by 5:00AM.  I’ve tried to wake up at 3:30AM and get in a run, zazen, and breakfast before my 6:00AM shift, but I just can’t get out of bed that early.  In any case, I feel better, both physically and mentally.  I no longer crave a drink, so much so, I’m at the point where I don’t even miss drinking.  I don’t like what it did to me.

 

            My blood pressure is better.  My sleep is better.  I have more energy.  I don’t wake up in cold withdrawal sweats at 4:00AM.  My mood is better.  I no longer feel this lingering depression that has followed me ever since I quit my last job.  Alcohol, instead of drowning my sorrows or providing a temporary escape from my problems, only exacerbated the feelings of existential despair, anxiety, and failure. 

 

            One day I would like to incorporate a few drinks a week into a moderate habit of consumption—the Buddhist “Middle-Way.”  Maybe a cider at the end of a long, hot summer day?  A dram of Scotch as a night cap?  A glass of wine to complement my supper?  Sure.  But I’m not ready for that yet.  That takes more concentration and self-control than I am willing to give myself at the moment.  In the meantime, it is cessation, pure and simple, though I agree with Voltaire’s assessment that “neither abstinence nor excess ever renders a man happy.”  At some point I will trust myself again.  But not today, not tomorrow, not just yet.  I have further to go to give up now.  I have more work to do to get to where I need to be.

how i found zen

            In 2016, I read Thich Nhat Hanh’s Being Peace while recuperating from a traumatic brain injury and a nasty and severe bout of alcohol withdrawal.  That act became the catalyst for my on-and-off-again years-long spiral into Buddhist thought, theory, and practice.  Now, my reading material is a bit heavier, tackling The Philosophy of Zen Buddhism which compares and contrasts Zen with the continental philosophers.  At this point I own over one hundred books on Zen, Buddhism, and Taoism (which influenced Zen).  But the way of Zen cannot be found between the book covers, or even verbalized into words.  As with the Tao, “the Tao that can be spoken is not the true Tao.”  So is Zen the ineffable essence found between words, and discovered in goalless practice, whether sitting on the zafu during zazen or applying mindfulness in daily life.

 

            I almost sound religious, but there is no God or gods in Zen to be worshipped, feared, or respected.  I am an atheist.  But Zen has made me less so over the years, introducing a certain degree of agnosticism to my formerly rigid non-belief in a higher power.  I still don’t think there is a possibility for the existence of a God or gods, but the experience of zazen leaves you with this notion that something greater than yourself might be out there—be it as simple as an underlying interconnectedness of the universe and all sentient beings.  Sounds almost mystical, but I disagree.  Let’s look at karma for example.

 

            Karma is the concept that there is a cause and effect of each and every action in life.  While the old teachings interpret this in terms of how one’s merit will affect them in the next life, I am agnostic to reincarnation.  I don’t know what happens after we die.  And neither do you.  Not really.  I personally lean toward the nonexistence of a soul or anything that transcends the physical body upon death.  We decompose and return to nature.  But even when you reject karma as a means to determine rebirth, it is not without foundation.  The causal nature of existence is a scientific fact, not just some belief or theory.  Every action, even down to particles of matter and microscopic bacteria are subject to the law of cause and effect. 

 

            For example, say you are having a bad day.  You drive to the nearest fast-food restaurant which is short staffed and order a biscuit but are forced to wait in line for a long time.  When you finally pull up to the window, you take out all of your frustration on the poor, innocent worker who is just trying to do his best to stay afloat during the morning rush.  Now, you’ve ruined his day, and he becomes dejected and angry.  That worker then goes home and unleashes his frustration on his girlfriend, who takes her rage out on her kid, who then goes to school the following day and bullies a smaller classmate.  That smaller classmate bottles in his rage and becomes a body builder to ward off the bully.  One day, decades later, in a traffic dispute, the once smaller kid who is now ripped, over 250 pounds of pure muscle, pumped full of steroids and cocaine, and drags the first guy out of his car and beats the ever-living shit out of him. 

 

Every action has a chain reaction.  That singular action by the first individual created bad karma for himself by bearing the responsibility for the chain reaction of negativity that ultimately came back to haunt him.  What we put out there into the universe, we receive back at some point.  Better it is to put out positivity, understanding, and compassion.  The first man could have spoken to the fast-food worker with compassion and said something along the lines of: “hey, I know you’re having a bad day and it’s really busy.  I understand.  I hope your day gets better.  Thank you.”  Then maybe that compassion would come back to him on a day he needed it most?  It’s never certain what you will get back precisely what you put out there, but even the Bible alludes to this concept that “you reap what you sow.”  So why not put good out into the world, even if you don’t ever get it back?  You may not see the big picture, but you could elevate at least one person’s day.  Everyone has their struggles.  Life is suffering.  Or so the Buddha declared in the Four Noble Truths.

 

The Four Noble Truths proclaim that:

 

• All life is suffering.
• The cause of suffering is craving and desire.
• There is an end to suffering.
• Following the eight-fold path will lead to the cessation of suffering.

 

Suffering arises from our desire that reality be as it should or ought to be, as opposed to how it is.  We wish we had a better job, a fancy car, more money, the latest gadget.  Or we wish we were taller, had a smaller nose, blue eyes, or fewer gray hairs.  Our consumerist culture instills in us a plethora of desires and we are never fulfilled even when we receive or achieve what we think we want.  Then the cycle repeats and we are discontent and suffering out of our desire for something else.

 

 Zazen teaches us to accept reality and our thoughts as fleeting as the world inherently is impermanent.  When meditating, you watch your thoughts but do not attach to them or focus on them, and they will pass.  Perhaps you have an itch and wish to scratch it, but instead you acknowledge that you have an itch and return to zazen and focus slightly on your breathing.  The sensation will pass.  When applied to everyday life, perhaps your boss says something to you that makes you angry.  Just as in zazen you acknowledge that you are mad, but don’t entertain the thought.  You observe the thought just “don’t invite it in for tea.”  Focus on your breath and that feeling will soon pass.

 

I admit that I pick and choose what I want from Zen.  Which is why I cannot claim to be a Buddhist.  I don’t believe in reincarnation, or that the Buddha spoke with light beaming from his eyes and flew across the sky, or the existence of Kannon (the Boddhisatva of compassion) in any literal sense.  Buddha was just a man, as was Jesus.  I also don’t align with the liberally charged, political-minded buddhism so predominant in the West.  While I am most definitely left-wing, I am not a liberal.  I don’t get into all these touchy-feely identity politics.  I don’t care what color your skin is, who you choose to love, what gender you identify as, who you vote for, or what your particular feelings are about gun control, abortion, immigration, or overseas wars.  Keep the politics off the zafu.  I just want to sit zazen and study the sutras.  How you choose to apply those teachings is entirely up to you.    

 

On that note I don’t believe Zen is the end-all-be-all of philosophies.  But it has, for almost a decade, been the one I most closely associate and identify with.  The practice has guided me through some pretty dark times and places.  For some, this is where God comes in and saves them from themselves, or some beautiful woman changes their life, or whatever—something from outside themselves.  Zen teaches that the end to suffering comes not from without, but from within.  A Zen teacher once phrased it as “we are perfect just as we are, but we could all use a little self-improvement.” 

Zen in the Workplace

            I am not, nor will I ever be, a buddhist.  I eat meat, I cut meat, I hunt, which are violations of the precept to “cause no harm” as well as contrary to one of the key points in the eight-fold path: “right livelihood.”  And I’m unapologetic.  I don’t get into all the ceremonies and rituals around Zen—chanting, burning incense, bowing to a ceramic buddha or to the meditation cushion.  Zen, more so than a religion, is a practice.  I see no contradiction between being an atheist and practicing Zen.     

 

            Lately I’ve been bringing my newfound joy of sitting zazen (shikantaza) and studying Zen theory and philosophy into the workplace.  This all started when I read or heard something very simple, extremely obvious, but nonetheless profound.  I don’t even remember where I came across it, in text, a podcast, or an audible book.  In any case, the wisdom stated that the responsibility for the conflicts that grow between us and other individuals do not rest on the shoulders of the other party, they exist and grow because of our desire that that other person or persons act or behave differently.  And we experience anger, frustration, and irritation when they fail to do so.  We are responsible for birthing these negative mental states out of a desire that another conform to our preconceived notions of how they should or ought to be. 

 

            Morale is at an all-time low at work.  Mostly centering around an exhaustingly lazy and apathetic bossman who would rather play on his phone all day than do actual work.  This demoralizes the lot of us who actually do all of the work.  But our mental discomfort arises from the fact that we wish he would behave otherwise and grow dissatisfied and malcontent when he does not.  We alone are responsible for our attitudes and happiness.  An old district manager, who almost sounds like a Zen master, once advised “stay in your lane.”  While we cannot change our bossman, we can carry out our work to the best of our ability and not slack off from feelings of being devalued or unappreciated.  We can find joy and peace within our work in spite of the circumstances.

 

            An old Chinese (I believe) Zen master once claimed, “there is nothing I dislike.”  I’ve been trying to apply this to my own work.  I spent six years with an old school company that believed in the market hierarchy.  Meat cutters were at the top of the food chain and were there solely to cut meat.  For everything else, we had the lowly “clerk” to perform all non-cutting tasks.  Things are different here at my current company and everyone does everything. Previously there were things that I pawned off on others or simply came up with an excuse not to do because I felt it was beneath my grandiose sense of place, experience, and skill.  Now I do whatever needs to be done, regardless of whether it’s something I feel that I enjoy or something I detest.  “There is nothing I dislike.”

 

            In addition, I have been removing my watch and fully immersing myself in work.  In Zen, one puts their all into each given task.  What the new-agers call “mindfulness.”  When working, just work.  Don’t distract yourself with music, a podcast, daydreaming, or clock-watching.  Just as you “just sit” during Zazen, so do you “just work” at work.  If you are cutting a ribeye, just cut the ribeye and don’t think about what you’re going to have for supper that night, or how long it is until your next break, or what you’re going to do on your day off.  Just cut.  Zen, as I previously stated, is a practice.  What you learn and develop on the cushion during Zazen should and must follow you into all aspects of your daily life.  Your practice does not end when the timer dings and you leave the cushion to pursue the rest of your day.

 

            When frustrated or underwhelmed with some boring, monotonous task, remember that there is no fixed self either performing that task or feeling annoyed by it.  In Zen the self is an illusory concept.  The person you are is not the same person you were ten years ago or even ten seconds ago, nor will you be that person again in another ten years or ten minutes.  This concept of the self, the ego, the “I” is a falsehood.  We are ever changing, adapting, evolving to the point that at no time can you latch on to a particular you and claim “that is who I am.”  Because once you are in the present moment, you will never be that person again.  When there is no self performing menial tasks, there is no self to feel those negative thoughts.  As with Zazen, focus on your work, watch your thoughts but do not embrace them, until you see them drift away like a leaf in a Fall breeze.

 

            We alone are responsible for our own happiness.  You cannot and will not ever find it in other people, places, money, or things.  Everything must come from within.  Happiness is not some blissful endorphin rush.  That is not sustainable.  Happiness is the ability to find and create a sense of joy in everyday life.  You won’t always have that high of falling in love, winning the race, or reaching the peak of your carrier.  Happiness is the feeling of a tooth that stops hurting, it is the smell of freshly cut grass, the stillness of a full moon on a cloudless night, waking up after a restful sleep.  It almost seems mystical, but it is not.  Happiness is not some grand thing that we must seek, but rather it is all around us in our ordinary lives.  If only we open our eyes and know where to look.

Habits and pills

            According to research, it takes 66 days for a behavior to become automatic.  The new habit I’m striving for is an early morning routine.  I’m going to bed earlier (is that even possible?) and waking up earlier to incorporate a pre-work regimen of zazen, exercise, writing, and breakfast. 

 

            The habit I want to break is the morning rush.  Typically, I wake up in just enough time to shave, brush my teeth, shower, and dress (all in 15 minutes) before running out the door only to arrive late to work, again.  Due to the hardcore medication I take, I require somewhere around ten hours of sleep a night, not to mention the occasional afternoon nap.  During the day, I consume in excess of four or five energy drinks to stay awake and alert.

 

I do not believe, nor do my friends and family, that I have the illness they are treating me for.  The theory everyone has come to affirm is that, all those years ago, the doctors did not know what to make of my symptoms…so they just threw pills at me.  My first doctor even concluded that medication was not needed and began to wean me off my meds.  But then he died.

 

            Since his death I have been juggled around by a handful of doctors who, despite seeing me multiple times a year, have no professional or personal interest in my wellbeing.  The visits every three months consist of “are you eating?  Sleeping?  Good.  You still use the same pharmacy?  Good.  I’ll see you again in three months.”  I do not believe the medication is necessary and has caused more problems than it is supposedly meant to prevent—excessive weight gain, pre-diabetes, a sense of emotional dullness, and extreme tiredness.  I often wonder what my writing could be if I could experience the full spectrum of emotions like I once did.  That is one of the reasons I drank so much, because only then could I feel something.

Fish are born to fly

            Rousseau famously exclaimed “man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”  To this, the Russian skeptic Herzen sarcastically countered “fish are born to fly—yet everywhere they swim!”  Rousseau does not provide evidence for his claim that man is meant to be free.  In fact, the evidence that “everywhere he is in chains” points to the fact that this sense of servitude is part of our very nature.

 

            I don’t believe Rousseau.  Man does not truly desire freedom.  Not really.  He thinks he does, but he willingly prostrates himself servile out of a desire for structure.  At the heart of man, that is what he truly salivates over—not freedom, not liberty, but structure.  Through structure man finds contentment, comfort; a place and a purpose from which he derives meaning.  Don’t believe me?  When a man is asked “who are you?”  Their typical response is to reply with their profession: “I’m a…” plumber, carpenter, manager, butcher, etc.  That does not answer the question of who they are but answers what their function is within society.  They have a role to play, a purpose, within a larger web of…you guessed it…structure.  Women, on the other hand, usually reply to the question with their function in the household “I am…” a mother of two, three, etc.  Again, that is not who they are, but their function both within the family unit as well as society as a whole.  They identify as a function within a larger structure.

 

            To dig deeper, when further pushed with the question of “who are you?”  One might reply, “I’m a…” Baptist, Atheist, Buddhist; “I’m a…” Republican, Democrat, Independent.  This, likewise, does not answer the question of “who” they are but “what” structure they identify with religiously or politically, etc.  Man finds contentment within these structures that are much larger than themselves, but seemingly dumb down their roles, actions, thoughts, and mores into a one-liner response.  By someone replying that they are a Republican, for instance, means that they generally believe in fiscal responsibility, limited government and so on and so forth.  They identify with a structure that gives them comfort.

 

            For the same reason a man falls in love with a woman, marries her, and gives up personal freedom for the structure of marriage, a family, and financial security.  If he truly desired freedom, he would live single and sow his wild oats into whatever field.  Within these structures man understands and knows what is expected of him, what to expect, what role he must play, and the limitations to his own personal freedom.  Structure is a safety net, be it society, the workplace, a marriage, a family, an organization, a club, or a political party.  Bikers don’t join gangs because they want to be free, they willingly sacrifice their freedom and conform to a structure of rules and regulations to be part of a larger whole—a group with similar interests.

 

            Every subculture that has existed, even those who supposedly reject the mainstream thoughts and social mores under the guise of freedom, go on to form their own stringent structures, rules, and mores, and determine who is and who is not accepted by the group.  They, in turn, become the very thing they rebelled against.  Throughout history, every rebellion has chosen to depose a tyrant a thousand miles away only to erect another in his place ten miles away.  Man is not born free; he is born in chains, shackled to a yearning for a structured environment much as what he experienced in childhood.  He wants to know when he can play with his toys, when he can watch TV, when he can go to bed, when to wake up, when to eat, what to eat, how much to eat, when to work, when to go on vacation, what to do on vacation.

 

            On the contrary to Rousseau, like the flying fish, desiring true freedom is an anomaly.  True freedom comes with risks and is dangerous.  It is to live on the fridge and a solo journey.  Few take that route.  We must all compromise, submit, and grow servile in our lust for structure, forsaking freedom at every step.  Even the man who has rejected the lot of society and retreated to the wilderness is a victim of structure.  He must chop wood, farm or hunt to eat; he is privy to the whims of nature and the seasons, the tides, the rising and setting sun.  We cannot escape structure.  The only true freedom we possess is who we choose as our masters who provide the structure we innately lust for.  

Amor Fati

“My formula for greatness in a human being is amor fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity.”

—Frederich Nietzsche

 

            I woke up early this morning, a full two hours before sunrise, despite this being my day off.  Over a full breakfast of calf liver, raw quail eggs, and fruits, I sipped on an energy drink and continued reading from The Art of Living a Meaningless Existence, which overviews the various philosophies questioning the meaning and purpose of life.  This includes studies of Taoism, Buddhism, Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Sartre, Camus, etc.  I am familiar, or at least I once was, with all of these theories of existence, but more so these days with Mahayana Buddhism (Soto Zen in particular) and Taoism, though I’ve dug a little into Camus again in the past few months.  Nothing I read was new except for an important concept from Nietzsche I somehow overlooked in my previous intense study of his philosophy: amor fati.

 

            Amor fati translates from Latin to mean “to be in love with one’s own fate.”  I ruminated over this concept all morning and it even plagued my mind during the eighteen minutes I sat Zazen.  A thought experiment of Nietzsche’s, which I’m well acquainted with, is his theory of Eternal Recurrence—that is, what if we are destined to relive our same lives over and over for all eternity.  Would that be Heaven or a special sort of Hell?  Are you living a life you would wish to relive the exact same way you first lived it?  That is where amor fati falls in place.  To be so in love with our fate that we would willingly live through every triumph and defeat again and again for perpetuity.   

 

            I often fall into a deep depression and melancholy when I think of my life.  Too many relationships failed, too many people died, too many friends betrayed me, I quit college three times, I failed in my career, I wasted a small fortune, and otherwise spent almost a full two decades in a drunken stupor to cope with all my mistakes and misfortune.  But as I spent the morning thinking about all the vicissitudes, the ups and downs, the peaks and valleys, would I do it all again the exact same way?  Fuck yes, I would!

 

            All of my mistakes have culminated into who and what I am today.  At the end of the day, I had a lot of fun and learned a lot of rock bottom life lessons.  I’m certainly not where I want to be in life right now, but I have goals and I like who I am.  There’s always room for self-improvement.  Maybe I’ll never run a market again, maybe I’ll never make over $100,000 again, maybe I’ll never find love again.  Whatever my fate may be, I’m happy with who I am and how I overcome every hurdle that I experience.  Where Schopenhauer postulated that we should minimize pain and adversity, Nietzsche says lean into it.  Only there can we truly understand and appreciate who we are.  Bring on the Eternal Recurrence.  Amor Fati…

“Good for nothing”

All things are empty: 
Nothing is born, nothing dies, 
nothing is pure, nothing is stained, 
nothing increases and nothing decreases.

 

—The Heart Sutra

 

            Through every transition over the past eight years, I’ve come back to one particular practice: meditation.  I’m very narrow and puristic in my regimen, practicing the open-eyes tradition known as Zazen.  This is the form of “meditation” (they don’t like that term in Zen—Zazen is just Zazen) used by the Soto Zen school throughout much of Japan, a relic of the mythical Boddidharma introducing “Chan” to China in the 5^th of 6^th century, which was later then brought to the island by Dogen.  Zazen, the famous phrase states, is “good for nothing.”  In other forms of meditation, the individual practices towards a goal such as enlightenment or Nirvana; in Zen, Zazen is enlightenment in and of itself.  There is no goal, nothing to achieve or gain, there is no excess and nothing lacking.  We sit Zazen to sit Zazen.  Sounds pretty straightforward, huh?  Well, it is.

 

            For the first time in years, I moved the piles of cluttered books and hunting equipment aside in my bedroom and sat down on my zafu (a meditation cushion) in an almost kneeling position.  I’ve never mastered the art of the lotus position where you cross your legs like the classical images of the Buddha.  I set a timer which dinged with the ring of Tibetan singing bell to start the session.  My back straight, staring straight ahead at the wall, my gaze fixated an imaginary six feet to my front, I sat Zazen.  I breathed and experienced the present moment, noting the shadows cast against the wall, the barking of the neighbor’s dog, the trickle of raindrops on the window, the movement of my chest, the chill of the air conditioning hitting my skin, never focusing on any particular phenomena or thought and letting them pass like clouds in the sky.  I thought about work, about the impending hurricane, about writing this, about my life.  I watched these thoughts pass and float away in my mind until I thought of nothing, if only for brief seconds.

 

            In those moments of thoughtlessness, I appreciate and understand the Buddhist notion of emptiness.  And as soon as I finished my session and the bell rang, I re-read my favorite piece of Eastern Philosophy: the Heart Sutra.  “Emptiness is form.  And form is emptiness.”  When you think about the aspect that everything is inherently empty and we solely apply meaning and purpose to these objects or phenomena as well as ourselves, you recognize that nothing is inherently good or bad, not a person or a place, an event, experience, etc. 

 

We can better learn about ourselves and our perceptions through Zazen, through those brief moments of emptiness where we are just a being inhaling and exhaling an entire universe with every breath.  Nothing is good or bad, everything just is.  Just as Zazen is just Zazen, “just sitting.”  We feel both how small we are in the grand scheme of everything, but also how intertwined we are weaved into its very fabric.  Zazen challenges us to critique our perceptions, our preconceived notions, and better learn who we are.  It’s the practice itself, not for some sordid hope of gaining something, but just the act of sitting that opens up our minds and hearts.

 

I guess I’ll continue to sit…

idalia meets big daddy

“North Carolina, come on and raise up
Take your shirt off, twist it 'round your hand
Spin it like a helicopter“

—Petey Pablo, explaining how to stay safe during a hurricane.

            One week.  Sober.  I welcomed that minor milestone with a mile run on the treadmill this morning and shot down four raw quail eggs with hot sauce.  What a thrill, am I right!?  My two days off work are met with an imminent hurricane they call Idalia.  I like that name, and I hate it.  It’s a lovely name…for an old lady, maybe…but I could never envision myself in bed with an “Idalia.”  I’d be too apt to fuck up and scream out “Vidalia!” in the heat of the moment.  And she would correct me, irritated, “NO!  EYE-DALE-YA!”

 

            “NO!” I would counter.  “VIDALIA!  Your breath smells like onions!”

           

            Then she would kick me out of her house before I could even fasten my belt and never talk to me again.  And I would stagger down to the store, defeated, and buy a bag of Vidalias, crying as I chop through the root stem, my eyes puffy and red, and fry up some liver and onions as I ponder how I fucked that one up.  The world is deterministic and, given all preconditions, there is no other possible way that scenario could possibly play out.

 

            Meditations on future ex-girlfriends aside, I find myself unwillingly stuck at home for the next two days.  I feel really good and wanted to check out the Guilford Courthouse Battlefield in Greensboro and dine at The River’s Edge Mennonite restaurant in Cheraw, but I guess they will have to wait until the storm passes.  The curious part of any impending hurricane, even when it is not expected to directly pass over a given town or city, is the sheer madness and chaos that ensues in the pre-storm hours.  Grocery store shelves tomorrow morning will be laid bare as a disemboweled corpse, particularly the bread aisle and milk cooler.  These deranged schizos hit the roads like Ghengis Khan’s horsemen with blood in their eyes and a taste for the flesh of any being who stands in their way.  They crawl into the grocery store on all fours, upside down, like the girl in the Exorcist, as if possessed by some cruel, malevolent, and tormenting spirit.  Like hungry ghosts of Buddhist lore, they pile buggies seven feet high with milk and bread, never satisfied, and unconcerned about the next person as they cut their way through the ever-growing lines as if living reincarnations of Tarleton’s dragoons.

 

            Terror sets in.  Fear and trembling.  These fiends race home and run duct tape along the window edges and sit down in some dark corner to feast on their prize.  Unsteady hands tremble as they pour the gallon of milk over a bowl of white bread and spoon each bland bite into their rotten mouths.  Briefly, they will lose power, and they will panic and the DT’s will set in as they ponder how to live life without television, microwaves, or Tick-Toc videos.  Some will succumb to psychosis.  Days later after the hurricane has long been forgotten, police will find these jokers after entering for a “wellness check” and discover them rocking back and forth or curled in the fetal position, covered in their own excrement.  Nearly mute and incapable of understanding basic English directives, they will simply mutter:  “MILK!  BREAD!”  At this point they are too far gone, too feral, and a good experienced officer will not hesitate to put that lame dog down.

                          

But hurricanes are good for the grocery business.  The equation is easy.  People flock to the store and panic-buy all sorts of products they don’t need—highly perishable products like meat, dairy, frozen, and produce.  They will lose power and the perishables will inevitably perish.  These folks will then cry to Big Daddy Government who will, in turn, flood them with millions of dollars worth of food stamps to not only cover their supposed losses, but a little extra just because.  The flocks will then gather in mass at their local grocer, trampling down anyone too slow to keep up with the crowd, and buy even more groceries—particularly the high-brow luxuries like crab legs and lobster tails, filet mignon, ribeyes, etc.  The Left claims this does not happen while the Right tends to focus on it too much, disregarding people who are actually in need.  I’m a Left-Libertarian, meaning I’m definitely not a conservative, but I’m not a liberal either.  Whatever your political leanings, I’ve seen this scenario play out too many times to deny it.  And I had a good bonus check each quarter a hurricane hit.  Thanks for all the single-malt Scotch and new guns, Big Daddy!