I want to take the shoulders of everyone I see
and ask their faces: Can you see it on me?
Can you see it on my face, all over me?
Can you tell me what's different or new about me?
Can you smell it on my breath? Can you hear it in my talk?
Can you see it in my eyes, and the way I walk?
What do I look like? Can you answer me?
Because man, I can feel it, I can feel it on me!
I can feel it on me, that liquid fire,
that white-hot, ice-cold, healing light;
yes, light like fireflies, light like rain,
light like galaxies whirling in space,
and I want to know, can you see it on my face,
rippling through me like immortal power,
resurrection power, revelation power?
Power, power! We all want power.
Power is beauty, power is strength,
power is being above and beyond,
power is freedom to sing and to shout,
power is freedom to laugh and to cry,
power is having nothing to prove.
Power is being fully alive.
We want it, we want it - God, yes, we do!
We spend our lives in search of it, don't we?
We seek it in stories, in songs, on stage.
We spray a touch of it behind each ear.
We carry it in our pockets, string it around our necks;
these talismans, these trappings of power.
We addict ourselves to it, we drown in it, don't we,
we'll shoot it up our arms and through our skulls, won't we?
But today. Today. I have it. I have it!
And it's not what you think, it's not what I thought.
It's everything, everything I've ever wanted,
but more, more; ever so much more.
It's love, love come alive in every fiber of my being,
love on fire in my every cell,
love, giving itself to me over and over,
a wellspring of everything springing and well;
and oh, when I pray, I sing,
and oh, when I pray, I shout,
and oh, when I pray, I laugh,
and oh, when I pray, I cry,
and after I pray, I have nothing to prove.
I am fully alive! I am living in love!
Friday, February 26, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
4'33"
4'33" by John Cage
When I first heard about John Cage's 4'33", I must admit, I was not impressed. Cage (1912 – 1992) was a famous American composer of the twentieth century who was interested in exploring things like musical indeterminacy, electroacoustic music, and non-standard use of musical instruments. This piece, one of his most renowned and (perhaps) most notorious, was originally composed for solo piano, and has three movements, which are a total of four minutes and thirty-three seconds in duration. The catch: during each of the three movements, the piano is not played. The movements are marked only by an opening and closing of the piano lid. In other words, the pianist sits at the keys and does practically nothing for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. And then the audience applauds. In theory. I think some audiences might throw tomatoes instead.
I myself might have considered throwing tomatoes at first, except I believe in nonviolent resistance. Rather than arm myself with rotten fruit and sit in some elite concert hall to watch a pretentious intellectual snob sit there and not play the piano for four minutes and thirty-three seconds, I decided I would give John Cage a chance and listen through a complete recording of the piece just once without judgment. It couldn't hurt. Afterward, I would have a good laugh at the whole enterprise and go on my way.
I was wrong.
When I actually made myself sit through a recording of this piece for the first time... something unexpected happened. I got it. A light went on inside my head, and suddenly, I knew why Cage might have composed this piece. There could be other reasons, of course, but this is the one that came to me.
Cage wants us to experience silence. And within that silence, we encounter a different level of sound.
Cage wants us to experience silence. And within that silence, we encounter a different level of sound.
Listening to 4'33" all the way through is hard. Most people get bored and give up within thirty seconds. But if you require yourself to stick it out, you may experience what I experienced: a heightened awareness of ambient sound. After all, nothing is truly silence. All silence is sound. But there are so many sounds that we completely filter out, because we have made certain sounds important and others of no account.
I love music, meaning in this case traditional music that actually has a discernible structure and tune and so on. But after experiencing John Cage's 4'33", I think about it differently. I can't help but feel a little sad when I see people running out of a meeting, their hands already scrambling to wrap headphones around their skulls. We all need a music boost sometimes, and I'm one hundred percent for it, but is there a chance we have become so addicted to the music in our headphones that we can no longer hear the music of the world around us?
Everything is music. Everything is art. And that is what John Cage's 4'33" forces us to acknowledge. When a concert hall full of people is made to sit in silence, we are faced with the reality of our addiction to specialized noise, our inability to appreciate the mere act of being.
True North
I have this innate awareness of the points of the compass. Often I can determine the placement of north, south, east and west even when I am in an unfamiliar location and the sun is in the middle of the sky, just because to me, each direction has a different "feel" to it. Each of the four strikes a different chord in my psyche, inviting me to respond in a certain way.
The west always looks to me like a dead end. I know it's not; I've traveled west several thousand miles and seen the wild and beautiful country beyond that horizon. But just looking at the western sky, I always think, "backdrop." A permeable backdrop, but a backdrop. The west is the ends of the earth.
The east, by contrast, looks like an invitation. It speaks to me of getting up and going, heading toward the sun, heading toward the edge of the continent to look out over the sea. And beyond the sea, there is still more to be seen. The east, in my subconscious, represents beginnings, possibilities.
The south, I confess, tends to look flat to me. I don't know why. To my eyes, it always shines with a sort of dull light, resembling an illuminated floor, something you would find at the bottom of the rabbit hole. The south means a place to put your shoes, a springboard from which to fly upward.
Which brings us to the north.
The north gives me the strongest feeling of all. I can always recognize a northern sky because it makes me want to run toward it. This has nothing to do with the scenery, by the way. There might be a forest on the southern horizon and a steel mill on the northern horizon, but I will still feel an inexplicable pull to the north, whereas the south seems more like a wall to lean my back against.
The north truly calls me, and I have no idea why. All I know is, I understand the term "true north." If I were the needle of a compass, it wouldn't matter how many times you spun me around: in the end, I would always swing toward the north pole.
The west always looks to me like a dead end. I know it's not; I've traveled west several thousand miles and seen the wild and beautiful country beyond that horizon. But just looking at the western sky, I always think, "backdrop." A permeable backdrop, but a backdrop. The west is the ends of the earth.
The east, by contrast, looks like an invitation. It speaks to me of getting up and going, heading toward the sun, heading toward the edge of the continent to look out over the sea. And beyond the sea, there is still more to be seen. The east, in my subconscious, represents beginnings, possibilities.
The south, I confess, tends to look flat to me. I don't know why. To my eyes, it always shines with a sort of dull light, resembling an illuminated floor, something you would find at the bottom of the rabbit hole. The south means a place to put your shoes, a springboard from which to fly upward.
Which brings us to the north.
The north gives me the strongest feeling of all. I can always recognize a northern sky because it makes me want to run toward it. This has nothing to do with the scenery, by the way. There might be a forest on the southern horizon and a steel mill on the northern horizon, but I will still feel an inexplicable pull to the north, whereas the south seems more like a wall to lean my back against.
The north truly calls me, and I have no idea why. All I know is, I understand the term "true north." If I were the needle of a compass, it wouldn't matter how many times you spun me around: in the end, I would always swing toward the north pole.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
Couples
There are two students sitting across from me in the library, a guy and a girl. I've seen them together a lot, and judging by the way they interact, with words flowing freely on all subjects and the occasional display of affection, I have gradually decided that they are a couple. This particular couple is one that I particularly enjoy observing. They seem evenly matched in terms of intelligence, sense of humor, dedication to their individual pursuits, and interest in one another's lives.
I pay attention to the couples around me. I always notice when two people are together, and without meaning to, I take mental notes on the quality of their connection. It interests me to see how they relate to another, and what they seem to see in each other - what it is that holds them together. I like to watch the arc of a relationship, from its euphoric beginnings and on through the steadfast, stable sharing of life's many stories. Sometimes I notice that a couple has turned back into two singles; maybe eventually I'll see one of the singles with a new person, and again, my curiosity is stimulated. How does this new one answer to the empty space left behind by the old one? What does the new person represent? A distraction? A hope against hope? True love, this time? Do either of them know?
I wonder about these things. I also wonder about myself, and the empty space around me, and the galaxies inside my skull.
I pay attention to the couples around me. I always notice when two people are together, and without meaning to, I take mental notes on the quality of their connection. It interests me to see how they relate to another, and what they seem to see in each other - what it is that holds them together. I like to watch the arc of a relationship, from its euphoric beginnings and on through the steadfast, stable sharing of life's many stories. Sometimes I notice that a couple has turned back into two singles; maybe eventually I'll see one of the singles with a new person, and again, my curiosity is stimulated. How does this new one answer to the empty space left behind by the old one? What does the new person represent? A distraction? A hope against hope? True love, this time? Do either of them know?
I wonder about these things. I also wonder about myself, and the empty space around me, and the galaxies inside my skull.
Seventy Years in the Same Place
I once met a girl named Carrie who was going to be a nun.
She was about my age, built like a house sparrow, and full of smiles that seemed to spring up out of the depths of her little heart.
Carrie wasn't going to be just any nun. She wanted to be a cloistered nun, she said. I visited the old Franciscan friary where she hoped to dwell for the rest of her days. The buildings in the compound, a church and a house, stood silently in the ghetto part of town, faded red brick and somehow beautiful. In the back, there was a yard, with a meditation garden and a plot for vegetables. The area was surrounded by a high wooden fence; outside loomed the city, the old houses with peeling paint, people in shoddy clothes swinging down the sidewalk with mock defiance written all over their faces.
Inside the compound walls, Carrie said, she and about ten other women would stay forever and always, leading quiet lives until the day they died. They would pray, and sing, and sweep the floors, and sew clothes for charities, and eat, and garden, and laugh, and sleep. This would be her entire world, Carrie told me, this little place in the middle of the ghetto. This would be the stage upon which every scene of her entire future would play out.
When I was about to leave, she gave me a hug. Once the enclosure doors were officially closed, I would not be able to hug her again, except in one special room, where visitors could slip their arms through bars and pat the backs of the nuns in their rugged woolen habits.
I went home and looked at my brochures from study-abroad organizations, staring at pictures of midday in Madrid, sunset in Sydney. I thought about Carrie. Then I thought about criminals who have to live out their days in prison. I thought about villagers in the Tibetan mountains, born and raised and mourned in the same little plot of land. I thought about my great-great-great-great-grandparents, who probably seldom, if ever, set foot outside their hometown in Switzerland.
And for a moment, I could imagine it. Seventy years in the same place. Seventy years looking out the same window every morning. Seventy years eating around the same table, with the same people. Seventy years hoeing the same garden. Seventy years stretching out in the same bed, listening to the same night sounds whispering through the same house.
She was about my age, built like a house sparrow, and full of smiles that seemed to spring up out of the depths of her little heart.
Carrie wasn't going to be just any nun. She wanted to be a cloistered nun, she said. I visited the old Franciscan friary where she hoped to dwell for the rest of her days. The buildings in the compound, a church and a house, stood silently in the ghetto part of town, faded red brick and somehow beautiful. In the back, there was a yard, with a meditation garden and a plot for vegetables. The area was surrounded by a high wooden fence; outside loomed the city, the old houses with peeling paint, people in shoddy clothes swinging down the sidewalk with mock defiance written all over their faces.
Inside the compound walls, Carrie said, she and about ten other women would stay forever and always, leading quiet lives until the day they died. They would pray, and sing, and sweep the floors, and sew clothes for charities, and eat, and garden, and laugh, and sleep. This would be her entire world, Carrie told me, this little place in the middle of the ghetto. This would be the stage upon which every scene of her entire future would play out.
When I was about to leave, she gave me a hug. Once the enclosure doors were officially closed, I would not be able to hug her again, except in one special room, where visitors could slip their arms through bars and pat the backs of the nuns in their rugged woolen habits.
I went home and looked at my brochures from study-abroad organizations, staring at pictures of midday in Madrid, sunset in Sydney. I thought about Carrie. Then I thought about criminals who have to live out their days in prison. I thought about villagers in the Tibetan mountains, born and raised and mourned in the same little plot of land. I thought about my great-great-great-great-grandparents, who probably seldom, if ever, set foot outside their hometown in Switzerland.
And for a moment, I could imagine it. Seventy years in the same place. Seventy years looking out the same window every morning. Seventy years eating around the same table, with the same people. Seventy years hoeing the same garden. Seventy years stretching out in the same bed, listening to the same night sounds whispering through the same house.
Friday, February 12, 2016
Do You Even Talk? And Other Hilarious Jokes
“Boy,
Elyse is talking so loud, I can’t even hear anybody else.”
It
was my friend’s mom who said this, in a rare moment of jocularity for a
middle-aged mother of two. I looked up just in time to see her gentle eyes
smiling at me in the rearview mirror. And, in response to her unexpected
cleverness, the minivan went quiet for a moment… but only for a moment. In no time,
the racket resumed, as a group of manic teenagers fought for the cleverest
counter-joke:
“Yeah,
Elyse, geez!”
“Be
quiet, Elyse!”
“Yeah,
shut up, Elyse, you’re hurting our ears.”
I
laughed – an achievement: it was the first sound I had made during that entire
car trip. And it would probably also be the last. I’ve always been the quiet
kid. Growing up, I routinely had to deal with well-meaning adults who put their
hands on my shoulders and announced loudly to groups of my peers, “She’s shy,”
which instantly made me feel ten times shyer than I actually was; and, of
course, there were those hilarious individuals of all ages who liked to get up
in my face and ask me point blank, in booming voices, “Do you even talk?” My
mind would empty out. I don’t know… do I?
Suddenly I was questioning everything. My usual reaction was to plead the
fifth and say nothing to my cross-examiner, and that, my friends, is a great
example of how myths are perpetuated.
My
parents knew I could talk. From an early age, I talked plenty inside the safety
of my home compound. Of course, at first, I would only talk with my mouth
closed. Minor detail there. My mother was a little concerned about that. She
would ask two-year-old Elyse what I wanted to drink, and I’d say, “Myymmh.”
“Juice?”
she’d say. (She was just guessing.)
“Mmt-mm”
(shaking my head).
“Milk?”
she’d try again.
“Mm-hm”
(this time nodding).
It
was kind of a scary situation, if you think about it. My ability to communicate
my needs and desires was limited to a set of virtually indistinguishable
syllables. What if one day I decided I wanted something more extravagant than
milk or juice – say, a chocolate-covered ice-cream sundae with a cherry on top?
How long would it have taken my caregivers to figure that one out?
Luckily,
I did eventually open my mouth and start talking like a normal person. When I
finally did this, I actually spoke quite articulately for my age. I never did go through a "baby talk" stage. It was almost
as if that whole season of talking with my mouth shut had just been one long
practice run, occurring within the nonjudgmental confines of my oral cavity.
Once
I started talking, I talked a lot, particularly when I thought no one else was
listening. At three or four years old, I liked to pace around in my backyard,
babbling incessantly. Occasionally my mom would stick her head out the door and
try to hear what I was saying. Whatever it was, there was a lot of exciting
inflection and dynamics, she noted. Then it hit her: I was quoting movie scenes,
more or less verbatim, from memory. Scene after scene of Winnie-the-Pooh,
Barney… you know, the classics of preschool filmography. At night I would lie
in bed and quote more movie scenes, tell myself stories, sing myself songs,
while the light through the window glowed cerulean, cadet blue, periwinkle –
colors from the blue section of my crayon box. My mom would come in and kindly shush
me. I was keeping everyone awake.
Yes,
at home, I managed to keep up a constant stream of sound; but under the public
eye, that stream would dry up, evaporate. It’s not that I was afraid of people.
I never felt shy in the conventional sense – you know, batting my eyelashes,
hiding my eyes, a quivering creature cowed by the presence of humans. I didn’t
feel shy. I just felt quiet. I felt like my mind was a castle, flanked by a
moat, and when I went out among strangers, without my volition, the drawbridge would
fold up. I would be safe inside, observing the world from the remote turrets of
my inmost consciousness.
These
days, as an “adult,” I still get the old familiar descriptive labels thrown at
me: quiet, shy, reserved, soft-spoken. I’m definitely what they call an
introvert. In public, at least, I listen more than I talk, and the more
talkative the crowd around me, the less I have to say. Noisy groups don’t make
me nervous; on the contrary, they make me feel like I’m lying in a bed with two
dozen heavy thermal blankets piled on top of me. I’m safe and warm, protected by my introversion, but I’m also buried, submerged in muted calm. Fighting
to the surface of the blanket sea requires a great deal of kicking, pushing,
and general struggle. It’s easier just to stay under.
Speaking requires concentrated effort; speaking loudly is almost a physical impossibility. I hate drive-thrus for this reason. You can’t order your food quietly. Vocal projection is a must. If I want to be heard, I have to take a deep breath – one of those whopping inhalations that sucks all the energy out of your brain cells and leaves you dizzy for thirty seconds afterward. “ONE FILET-O-FISH,” I yell, hating every syllable. “WITH A SMALL FRY. AND A SMALL WATER.” Honestly, they need to provide a handheld microphone option for customers at drive-thrus. Imagine if I could order my filet-o-fish in my favorite seductive Johnny Depp stoner voice. “Yeah... yeah, one filet-o-fish... and fries, fries would be beautiful. And water… water is everything, man… water is life.”
Speaking requires concentrated effort; speaking loudly is almost a physical impossibility. I hate drive-thrus for this reason. You can’t order your food quietly. Vocal projection is a must. If I want to be heard, I have to take a deep breath – one of those whopping inhalations that sucks all the energy out of your brain cells and leaves you dizzy for thirty seconds afterward. “ONE FILET-O-FISH,” I yell, hating every syllable. “WITH A SMALL FRY. AND A SMALL WATER.” Honestly, they need to provide a handheld microphone option for customers at drive-thrus. Imagine if I could order my filet-o-fish in my favorite seductive Johnny Depp stoner voice. “Yeah... yeah, one filet-o-fish... and fries, fries would be beautiful. And water… water is everything, man… water is life.”
No,
I like being a quiet person, really. It’s cool because you automatically have
secrets, and having secrets makes you seem mysterious, even if your only
secrets are that you own a Labrador and you don’t like blue cheese. This
information isn’t exactly confidential, but it may as well be, because you’ll
never tell anyone. Being an introvert is empowering because you can walk around
feeling like classified documents, like government passcodes, and no one will
ever know just how amazing it is, or isn’t, inside the locked briefcase of
your mind.
And
oh, as a final note. I’m not actually one of those introverts who hates
extraverts. I love them. Their energy and enthusiasm about everything, from grapes
to world peace, is truly inspiring to me. Plus, they make the best jokes
about whether I can even talk, or how I’m talking so loud, they can’t even hear
anyone else.
Thursday, February 11, 2016
50 Music Genres, Including Some You've Never Heard Of (Hopefully)
1. Bluegrass
2. Gangsta rap
3. Pop
4. Indie
5. Death metal
6. Ska
7. Psychobilly
8. Mariachi
9. Rock 'n roll
10. Hip hop
2. Gangsta rap
3. Pop
4. Indie
5. Death metal
6. Ska
7. Psychobilly
8. Mariachi
9. Rock 'n roll
10. Hip hop
11. Proto-electronica
12. Reggae
13. R&B
14. Opera
15. Afro jazz
16. Bubble trance
17. Plainchant
18. Traditional Celtic
19. Soul
20. Freak folk
21. Martial industrial
22. Gamelan
23. Dubstep
24. Ranchera
25. Country
26. Ragtime
27. Broadway
28. Grunge
29. Waulking songs
30. Samba
31. New jack swing
32. Techno
33. Disco
34. Doowop
35. Blues
36. Funk
37. Djent
38. Baroque
39. Post hardcore
40. Free jazz
41. Skwee
42. Pirate metal
43. Barbershop
44. Romantic
45. Skater punk
46. Bossa nova
47. Klezmer
48. Hymns
49. Screamo
50. Powwow
(I could go on, but I won't.)
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Written for a stranger
Every morning at the same blue hour
I pass your yellow house in the dark
I see your head with the same brown arc
Silhouetted against the lamp like a flower
I can see your desk in some amber hue
And the room, all orange with electric light
And you sit on a chair and perhaps you write
So I think it's time that I wrote of you
I pass your yellow house in the dark
I see your head with the same brown arc
Silhouetted against the lamp like a flower
I can see your desk in some amber hue
And the room, all orange with electric light
And you sit on a chair and perhaps you write
So I think it's time that I wrote of you
Slow
When I walk through the grocery store with my mom, she gets leagues ahead of me within half a minute. I can't keep up with her. I used to blame this phenomenon on the length of her legs compared to mine, but over the years, I've managed to shorten the distance between us height-wise (she's still a good four inches taller than me, but it's not like that makes a huge difference in length of stride). And yet she outpaces me every time. I'll look ahead and see her slowing her steps, waiting for me to catch up. I often have to jog to close the space.
I've been told I'm slow, and I guess there is a fair amount of evidence for this. At home, when I sweep the floor, I move with the broom like someone in a dream. I sweep carefully, thoughtfully, moving from corner to corner, following trails of dust in byzantine patterns around the floorboards. Sometimes my housecleaning supervisor (meaning my mom) asks me to pick up the pace a little bit, honey; company is coming in twenty minutes. I always blink, not realizing any time had passed at all, so lost was I in my dust patterns. I finish sweeping and head over to clear the newspapers and magazines from the kitchen table. "No, leave that to me," Mom says promptly, handing me a dust rag. She knows better than to entrust me with any job that involves papers. I always get stuck reading the papers.
I should have known better than to apply for a job in the international admission department at my university a couple of years ago. Essentially, my job description was sorting papers, which sounds easy, but I was horrible at it. The papers in the international admission office were way too interesting. There were applications coming in, hundreds of them, from students all over the world... India, China, Saudi Arabia, Argentina. When those papers landed in my hands, time froze. I stared at faces on passports, read statements of purpose, wondered what it was like to grow up in Hyderabad or Hangzhou or Medina or Mendoza. There were so many possibilities, so many amazing stories, right there in my hands.
One day my boss called me into his office and asked how I liked the job. I said I liked it. He said, okay, well, is there any way you could work faster?
The other office workers had noticed they could complete tasks in half the time it took me.
I didn't really need the job, and the job didn't really need me, so I left. It was the kind of job my mom would give to someone else when we were housecleaning, so clearly, I was in the wrong place.
But where is the right place for me? I often wonder this. I seem to be bad at the things that the world wants, and good at the things that no one cares about. I mean, people may say they care about achieving nirvana, but they always end up pointing out that nirvana isn't actually the point: it's how fast you can get there that really matters. I'm not quick and efficient, not the best with time management or organization or computation. I don't have an aggressive or assertive bone in my body, and I hate competition, so how am I supposed to, you know, get ahead in life? How am I supposed to earn a living when a lot of my skills aren't exactly marketable? I can see it now - my résumé, full of the most absurd qualifications imaginable:
I can't organize your files, but I can sing Latin plainchant in your stairwell. Same difference.
I won't be able to give orders, but I will be able to stare at your bonsai tree for three-and-a-half hours.
I have absolutely no awareness of time, but hey, I can look into your eyes and see eternity, so... hire me?
Yes, it's true, I'm slow. I'm slow when I walk, although if you wait for a moment, I'll catch up. I'm slow when I sweep the floor, although if you tell me to go faster, I will. I'm slow at sorting papers, although ever since the incident at work, I've been working on my speed in that area as well.
But I'm also slow in other ways.
I'm slow to make judgments about people. I may get an initial instant vibe from someone, but I don't decide whether that vibe means the person is good or bad; instead I spend time watching the person, listening to their stories, and pretty soon I realize I care about them and want the best for them.
I'm slow to decide someone isn't worth my time, interest, or care. Even if someone's behavior does drive me to that point, I soon find myself coming back around, wanting to love them, even if I really shouldn't.
I'm slow when it comes to relationships, because I want to savor every stage in the process of getting to know someone.
I'm slow when it comes to growing up, because I want to experience this universe through the eyes of a child, to see it in all its strangeness, beauty, terror, wonder.
I'm slow because, no matter what I do, life hits me hard, plowing through me in waves of electrifying power; and if I am to survive this beautiful storm, I need time, I need space, I need to be still.
I'm slow because the pathway to my inner peace is not a racetrack: it's a walking trail... narrow, winding, slipping in and out of forests and meadows and hillsides, disappearing over the horizon.
I've been told I'm slow, and I guess there is a fair amount of evidence for this. At home, when I sweep the floor, I move with the broom like someone in a dream. I sweep carefully, thoughtfully, moving from corner to corner, following trails of dust in byzantine patterns around the floorboards. Sometimes my housecleaning supervisor (meaning my mom) asks me to pick up the pace a little bit, honey; company is coming in twenty minutes. I always blink, not realizing any time had passed at all, so lost was I in my dust patterns. I finish sweeping and head over to clear the newspapers and magazines from the kitchen table. "No, leave that to me," Mom says promptly, handing me a dust rag. She knows better than to entrust me with any job that involves papers. I always get stuck reading the papers.
I should have known better than to apply for a job in the international admission department at my university a couple of years ago. Essentially, my job description was sorting papers, which sounds easy, but I was horrible at it. The papers in the international admission office were way too interesting. There were applications coming in, hundreds of them, from students all over the world... India, China, Saudi Arabia, Argentina. When those papers landed in my hands, time froze. I stared at faces on passports, read statements of purpose, wondered what it was like to grow up in Hyderabad or Hangzhou or Medina or Mendoza. There were so many possibilities, so many amazing stories, right there in my hands.
One day my boss called me into his office and asked how I liked the job. I said I liked it. He said, okay, well, is there any way you could work faster?
The other office workers had noticed they could complete tasks in half the time it took me.
I didn't really need the job, and the job didn't really need me, so I left. It was the kind of job my mom would give to someone else when we were housecleaning, so clearly, I was in the wrong place.
But where is the right place for me? I often wonder this. I seem to be bad at the things that the world wants, and good at the things that no one cares about. I mean, people may say they care about achieving nirvana, but they always end up pointing out that nirvana isn't actually the point: it's how fast you can get there that really matters. I'm not quick and efficient, not the best with time management or organization or computation. I don't have an aggressive or assertive bone in my body, and I hate competition, so how am I supposed to, you know, get ahead in life? How am I supposed to earn a living when a lot of my skills aren't exactly marketable? I can see it now - my résumé, full of the most absurd qualifications imaginable:
I can't organize your files, but I can sing Latin plainchant in your stairwell. Same difference.
I won't be able to give orders, but I will be able to stare at your bonsai tree for three-and-a-half hours.
I have absolutely no awareness of time, but hey, I can look into your eyes and see eternity, so... hire me?
Yes, it's true, I'm slow. I'm slow when I walk, although if you wait for a moment, I'll catch up. I'm slow when I sweep the floor, although if you tell me to go faster, I will. I'm slow at sorting papers, although ever since the incident at work, I've been working on my speed in that area as well.
But I'm also slow in other ways.
I'm slow to make judgments about people. I may get an initial instant vibe from someone, but I don't decide whether that vibe means the person is good or bad; instead I spend time watching the person, listening to their stories, and pretty soon I realize I care about them and want the best for them.
I'm slow to decide someone isn't worth my time, interest, or care. Even if someone's behavior does drive me to that point, I soon find myself coming back around, wanting to love them, even if I really shouldn't.
I'm slow when it comes to relationships, because I want to savor every stage in the process of getting to know someone.
I'm slow when it comes to growing up, because I want to experience this universe through the eyes of a child, to see it in all its strangeness, beauty, terror, wonder.
I'm slow because, no matter what I do, life hits me hard, plowing through me in waves of electrifying power; and if I am to survive this beautiful storm, I need time, I need space, I need to be still.
I'm slow because the pathway to my inner peace is not a racetrack: it's a walking trail... narrow, winding, slipping in and out of forests and meadows and hillsides, disappearing over the horizon.
Friday, February 5, 2016
Face Watching in a Chinese Music Video
Yùyán (Fable), by Zhāng Sháohán
I am singing this song at an upcoming Chinese New Year celebration. I really enjoy singing songs in languages other than my own, and Mandarin Chinese is one of my favorites, since I speak some Mandarin and have always had an interest in Chinese culture.
My friend from Taiwan recommended this song to me because she knew the tune of the chorus would be familiar to me as a westerner: it's essentially the melody of Greensleeves, a famous English carol. I watched the video and immediately found other things to enjoy about it, besides just the clever use of a familiar tune.
One of the things that stands out to me most when I watch this video, honestly, is the the face of the singer, Zhāng Sháohán (張韶涵), also known as Angela Zhang. I didn't know much about her before watching this video, but for some reason, after watching her face for four minutes, I feel like I would like her as a person. I like the vibe she emanates through her eyes and facial expressions. I get a sense that she is intelligent, authentic, and internally focused. Maybe I'm misguided, but my response to this (perhaps false) instinct is to appreciate this singer and her work on a different level than usual.
I often find myself face watching. Sometimes I find myself really liking someone and I don't know why, because I know very little about them. When I really stop and think about it, I notice that I'm basing my positive feelings off their faces. It doesn't matter whether a face is conventionally attractive: it matters to me what "vibe" the face puts off. This vibe is determined by a string of little things, like when the eyes squint, how the mouth moves, etc. It all adds up to a basic energy, an essence, which comes across to me very strongly.
I don't depend solely on this kind of data when determining what a person is like, of course. It seems inherently unreliable. However, I don't ignore these intuitive observations, either, because they are so often confirmed once I actually talk to the person and learn some concrete facts about their nature. Face watching is a weird habit, perhaps, but I can't shake the sense that there must be some merit in it, so I don't give it up.
Yes, My Mind is Open
Some people really have to work at keeping an open mind. It doesn't come naturally to them. Open-mindedness may even be one of their top values, and they may do wonderful things to champion tolerance and understanding among different groups of people; but in their natural state, these individuals find it challenging to really listen to others, and to empathize with points of view that are different from their own. Mastering these abilities requires persistent effort and immense self-discipline from such people, and I admire them for taking the challenge and working to develop this weak spot in their interpersonal arsenal.
There are many things I am not naturally good at in life. It's often the practical everyday stuff that gets me, like staying on top of my money and getting places on time and remembering what day of the week it is. These are pretty important areas of life to master, so I work on it. However, like everyone, I do have some positive abilities that just seem to happen without my trying. In my case, one of these abilities is keeping an open mind. I do not have to bend over backwards mentally to achieve this quality. It is more or less the atmosphere of my psyche.
I find it easy - almost annoyingly easy - to see multiple sides of an issue. It takes me twice as long as it should to read the news, because I'm always thinking about all the possible angles on the stories being presented. When I hear someone stating an opinion in a confident voice, even if I basically agree with what's being said, my head overflows with questions and checks; I am immediately aware that there are other ways to look at the issue, and I feel uneasy when I rule them out.
At the same time, I can look at an opinionated person and think, you know what, I can see why they would think that way. I can almost always justify someone else's stance, because my brain is constantly roving in the realm of possibilities, and I can clearly see that opinions are never formed in a vacuum. When I look at any person, it's as if I'm given a deeper vision that sees backwards and forwards in time, that leaves room for their backstory as well as their future. Because of this vision, I am always thinking about the reasons why people believe what they believe. I seldom forget that there is always an explanation, always a journey, and (this is the key part) always, always, always a chance that I might have come to the same conclusion, had circumstances been different in my life. I am haunted by this awareness.
And I can relate to a vast array of individuals who have absolutely nothing in common with one another. It doesn't matter if you're covered in tattoos with half your head shaved and profanities casually streaming out of your mouth, or stuffed into a starched button-up shirt, devoutly religious and desperately shy: chances are I will be able to connect with you. I will feel my way around in our conversation, hit on a commonality, and man, we will start bonding. That's just how it happens for me; I don't know why. I honestly understand people... and that goes for pretty much all people. For real.
Sometimes this open-mindedness of mine leads to awkward moments. For instance, I can listen to someone rant about something, and I'll nod, say yeah, I get it. And then someone else can come along and rant to me about the same issue, but from the opposite perspective, and I'll still sit there and nod and say yeah, I get it. But I say I get it because I still do. That sounds like an impossible contradiction, like maybe I'm either being somewhat dishonest just to keep the peace (I have been guilty of this at times), or maybe I have no convictions of my own and I'm just being unbelievably wishy-washy (this has happened to me before, too). But no, usually, I legitimately do understand both people, both points of view. There are very few times when I cannot get inside the mind of another person and see things from their viewpoint. Some people, some opinions, may take me somewhat longer than others to relate to, but give me a few more seconds and I'll meet you where you are, I promise you.
I love people. I'm not saying this just to say it: I mean it. People matter to me. People absolutely fascinate me. Sometimes I lay awake at night, just thinking about other people's lives, just wondering sincerely what it must feel like to be inside someone else's skull. I toss and turn, realizing that I can never truly know anyone else, and wishing desperately that I could. I want to know people's stories, where they came from, where they're going. I'm interested in the silent space we carry around inside us, the memories looming large in the back of the mind, the atmospheres of the soul.
Sitting next to you, I honestly get chills sometimes, because you, my friend, are a mystery, a masterpiece of secrets and stories; and how will I ever know you in the way that you deserve to be known? How will I ever love you in the way that you deserve to be loved?
I cannot ever achieve this miracle; not in this lifetime, anyway. But I can remain open to the clues that come my way. Yes, my mind is open, and my eyes, and my heart, because I don't want to miss a moment of this life, this world, and the people I meet along the way. I want to feel what exists to be felt, I want to experience everything I possibly can, and I want to give back what I have, which is presence, which is peace, which is love.
There are many things I am not naturally good at in life. It's often the practical everyday stuff that gets me, like staying on top of my money and getting places on time and remembering what day of the week it is. These are pretty important areas of life to master, so I work on it. However, like everyone, I do have some positive abilities that just seem to happen without my trying. In my case, one of these abilities is keeping an open mind. I do not have to bend over backwards mentally to achieve this quality. It is more or less the atmosphere of my psyche.
I find it easy - almost annoyingly easy - to see multiple sides of an issue. It takes me twice as long as it should to read the news, because I'm always thinking about all the possible angles on the stories being presented. When I hear someone stating an opinion in a confident voice, even if I basically agree with what's being said, my head overflows with questions and checks; I am immediately aware that there are other ways to look at the issue, and I feel uneasy when I rule them out.
At the same time, I can look at an opinionated person and think, you know what, I can see why they would think that way. I can almost always justify someone else's stance, because my brain is constantly roving in the realm of possibilities, and I can clearly see that opinions are never formed in a vacuum. When I look at any person, it's as if I'm given a deeper vision that sees backwards and forwards in time, that leaves room for their backstory as well as their future. Because of this vision, I am always thinking about the reasons why people believe what they believe. I seldom forget that there is always an explanation, always a journey, and (this is the key part) always, always, always a chance that I might have come to the same conclusion, had circumstances been different in my life. I am haunted by this awareness.
And I can relate to a vast array of individuals who have absolutely nothing in common with one another. It doesn't matter if you're covered in tattoos with half your head shaved and profanities casually streaming out of your mouth, or stuffed into a starched button-up shirt, devoutly religious and desperately shy: chances are I will be able to connect with you. I will feel my way around in our conversation, hit on a commonality, and man, we will start bonding. That's just how it happens for me; I don't know why. I honestly understand people... and that goes for pretty much all people. For real.
Sometimes this open-mindedness of mine leads to awkward moments. For instance, I can listen to someone rant about something, and I'll nod, say yeah, I get it. And then someone else can come along and rant to me about the same issue, but from the opposite perspective, and I'll still sit there and nod and say yeah, I get it. But I say I get it because I still do. That sounds like an impossible contradiction, like maybe I'm either being somewhat dishonest just to keep the peace (I have been guilty of this at times), or maybe I have no convictions of my own and I'm just being unbelievably wishy-washy (this has happened to me before, too). But no, usually, I legitimately do understand both people, both points of view. There are very few times when I cannot get inside the mind of another person and see things from their viewpoint. Some people, some opinions, may take me somewhat longer than others to relate to, but give me a few more seconds and I'll meet you where you are, I promise you.
I love people. I'm not saying this just to say it: I mean it. People matter to me. People absolutely fascinate me. Sometimes I lay awake at night, just thinking about other people's lives, just wondering sincerely what it must feel like to be inside someone else's skull. I toss and turn, realizing that I can never truly know anyone else, and wishing desperately that I could. I want to know people's stories, where they came from, where they're going. I'm interested in the silent space we carry around inside us, the memories looming large in the back of the mind, the atmospheres of the soul.
Sitting next to you, I honestly get chills sometimes, because you, my friend, are a mystery, a masterpiece of secrets and stories; and how will I ever know you in the way that you deserve to be known? How will I ever love you in the way that you deserve to be loved?
I cannot ever achieve this miracle; not in this lifetime, anyway. But I can remain open to the clues that come my way. Yes, my mind is open, and my eyes, and my heart, because I don't want to miss a moment of this life, this world, and the people I meet along the way. I want to feel what exists to be felt, I want to experience everything I possibly can, and I want to give back what I have, which is presence, which is peace, which is love.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Layers
This morning, as I stepped out into the cold, I saw them.
The layers.
I stopped and stared. The vision was intense, almost tangible. It visits me on and off, with varying intensity, but today was one of the more intense days. Today, the layers rose around me like phantom mountains, and plummeted beneath me in phantom valleys; so vivid, I could swear they were almost visible.
Layers of time and space. I live in a constant subconscious awareness of them. When I look at a scene, I can almost see what it looked like long ago, what it will look like tomorrow, and the images seem to stand around me like ghosts as I walk hastily through their midst, marveling, slightly frightened. Imagine if a double-exposed photograph became three dimensional and you could walk around in it. That's the basic feeling. It's a weird experience, and I'm not sure why it happens to me so often, but I have to say, I'm glad it does.
All too often, we as people tend to be incredibly short-sighted. We only see things as they are now, at this very moment, and we tend to assume that this is the default setting, this present arrangement of dimensions around us. We assume our surroundings are here to serve us, to provide a backdrop, a stage for the very important drama of our daily lives. While this is clearly true, we would do well to remember that everyone who has ever lived has felt the same way, and now they are gone. No one remembers them.
No one remembers the old buildings, the old parts of town that were razed in the 1980s, plastered over with blacktop and covered by new buildings. We forget. We forget so quickly, it alarms me. Because I know I'm next. Soon it will be me in the graveyard, a name on a stone that no one can pronounce, and the town I grew up in will be gone.
Maybe someone will see it. Maybe some day another person will step out into the cold and see my world, drifting around them in veil-like layers. They will wonder if it ever existed. They will walk a bit faster.
The layers.
I stopped and stared. The vision was intense, almost tangible. It visits me on and off, with varying intensity, but today was one of the more intense days. Today, the layers rose around me like phantom mountains, and plummeted beneath me in phantom valleys; so vivid, I could swear they were almost visible.
Layers of time and space. I live in a constant subconscious awareness of them. When I look at a scene, I can almost see what it looked like long ago, what it will look like tomorrow, and the images seem to stand around me like ghosts as I walk hastily through their midst, marveling, slightly frightened. Imagine if a double-exposed photograph became three dimensional and you could walk around in it. That's the basic feeling. It's a weird experience, and I'm not sure why it happens to me so often, but I have to say, I'm glad it does.
All too often, we as people tend to be incredibly short-sighted. We only see things as they are now, at this very moment, and we tend to assume that this is the default setting, this present arrangement of dimensions around us. We assume our surroundings are here to serve us, to provide a backdrop, a stage for the very important drama of our daily lives. While this is clearly true, we would do well to remember that everyone who has ever lived has felt the same way, and now they are gone. No one remembers them.
No one remembers the old buildings, the old parts of town that were razed in the 1980s, plastered over with blacktop and covered by new buildings. We forget. We forget so quickly, it alarms me. Because I know I'm next. Soon it will be me in the graveyard, a name on a stone that no one can pronounce, and the town I grew up in will be gone.
Maybe someone will see it. Maybe some day another person will step out into the cold and see my world, drifting around them in veil-like layers. They will wonder if it ever existed. They will walk a bit faster.
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