"What is your ultimate goal in studying music?"

Though I surely wish to liberate the sound within me and fling it to and fro across the earth, and though I someday hope to lead fellow artists in siphoning heaven and hell from their bones, let my higher aim in the study of music be this:

to know the language of our collective human soul, and thereby master the language of my own.

to isolate life in its purest form, and so learn to fully live.

to create, that I might satisfy a sacred frustration which knows no other outlet.

to build a bridge, firmly connecting disparate cultural worlds.

to one day be found worthy to interrupt the perfection of silence.

Fishing

We cast our lines
because we have faith in our partners
who work just as hard as we do
to be caught.

Fools!
By baiting our hooks
we only bite and hook ourselves
willingly
for who is more captive than he who holds the rod?

Let us agree. We both need each other.
I catch you. You catch me.
I consume you. You consume me.
We lose. We gain.
Could it be any better?

What I wanted to say:

Do you know the pain of a new butterfly's struggle

freeing himself from his chrysalis prison?

I am sure you do.

I have felt your strain against the walls

your frustration

fighting so hard for so long

to break through.

Yes, you know his sorrow

as I have — but greater

you suffer more deeply than ever have I.

But I know something you do not:

the blinding glory of the light

the rushing wind of winsome flight

the confidence of crimson might

to never, never fade.

It will not be long.

Do you know?

the thicker the walls, the stronger the wings

Fear not, little heart. Never fear again.

For this is solid and this is good.

And yes, you are too weak
too weak to be her stepping stone
(and she yours!)
but you walk side-by-side
both at once carrying one another
and being carried by that great mystery

But what if it, too, is too weak?
then we will fall
and fall magnificently
and only then, after we are shattered below
sorting our bones to be carried off
will we know

But then, I hear there are other possible outcomes.
And either way, we grow.
and we grow well

Why fear you, little heart?

Do now you know that any tree

whether in a pot or in the earth

cannot help but grow

slowly but firmly

through winter and spring

with branches outstretched in longing toward

the light?

Why fear you, little heart?

Do you not know that a broken flower

cast away from a maiden's hair

might be fetched up from its gravel path

and pressed again between leaves

the stained leaves of a love-worn book

to keep its beauty

to hold its color

forever?

When we were small

we knew exactly what love was
from how Mother kissed our foreheads
and kissed our Father's lips
it was simple
it was true

But we are now smaller
and we know nothing
save for our smallness
and the shade of a feeling
(to grow lighter? or darker?)

I
little bird that I am
tired of flying across the sea
tired of seeking the one solution
weak and cold
want only to find a place
to share a nest
with one as weak and cold
and tired and
small
as I

where
it is simple
it is true

Last night I had my first beer.

(Actually, I had an accidental sip of beer in Brazil two years ago. But that doesn't count!)

After being absolutely mesmerized by the songs of the late Billie Holiday here at the Montreal Jazz Festival, Dan led me to Brutopia for a pint and a sharing of thoughts. I had no qualms against it. Not only was I with a friend to give me a proper introduction, but alcohol consumption is completely legal for a little boy my age here in Quebec. (Ha! Take that, Mom!)

I had an awful time deciding which of the house brews to choose. How am I supposed to know what I like, good sire? I was given a few samples before Dan basically picked for me: a pint of Nut Brown Ale.

It was such a good experience. I like the atmosphere of the bar a lot. The low lights and close quarters and friendly people who actually talk with us-- the jazz band downstairs jamming for hours and hours... perfect. Or it would have been perfect had it been a mug of tea or coffee in my fist. But quite honestly, I didn't enjoy the taste of beer. I tried a few different brews, and I could tolerate the feel in my mouth, but only barely. It reminded me of childhood shots of NyQuil, which I seem to remember tasting like an old rubber glove. Maybe my taste buds are immature. I was frankly a bit disappointed in myself: Dan told me that every time I took a sip, a disgusted grimace would cross my face and hover there for a few seconds. If there is goodness in the world I want to appreciate it! But I feel so much more goodness in a hot tea warming my hands and insides. Can I keep the atmosphere and have a different drink?

As for the effect upon my mind, I drank two thirds of a pint (Dan and I shared a bit) and didn't feel particularly different, save for being quite sleepy. (That might be traced to our staying until the 3 A.M. closing time, though.) And apart from my sleepiness in this laid-back jazzy setting, I didn't feel any loss of inhibitions or awareness of surroundings. Dan had to poke me a few times to keep me from dozing off on the leather sofa.

Dan said that he liked beer the first time he tried it in Argentina. It was a symbol of freedom to him, and a comforting wholeness. But I am not burdened by a heavy conscience, here. I am in no prison. So without this symbol I am left with only the bitter taste in my mouth.

I think that, for now, tea will remain my beverage of choice for my evening ritual.

Bhakti Lata Das

I asked to sit beside him, and the yellow-shirted man on the stone wall turned his warm brown face towards mine, silver waist-long dreadlocks resting gently on his back. He, a man of intellect and experience, grinned broadly as he chose each word. And we rose to that land between the material and the spiritual, where there are no names or differentiations.

"It's so simple that the ones who say they are intelligent cannot understand it. Love. Everyone is searching for it."

A person must first love God, Krishna, says he. Who is God? "God is the one who can hear your thoughts."

What does God/Krishna require? We must find what we can do most perfectly. Be the perfect businessman, policeman, soldier. If you are to be the perfect intellectual or musician, "Don't get a job at McDonald's." (I laughed.) "And you quit!" And if you are not yet perfect, it is your intention that makes you perfect. : Michelangelo saw a perfect David even before he put his chisel to the marble, and so are you perfect even as your innermost being is liberated. In this way, time works with you to make you more and more who you are.

Every facet of this man's life was shaped to love Krishna: to do what he could perfectly. He sits in the park, and lets his presence flow. He explains and lets others grow to new depths of understanding. And as he does his daily work, his eternal mantra echoes in his mind from the stillness of dawn's prebirth to the wild dancing night: Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.

With this mantra, he knows the presence of God. He remains true to his life commitments because of his first commitment. "There is no greater force in the material world than the sex drive. And no man, no matter how strong the commitment to his wife, can resist that force when the right pussy comes along--unless his first commitment is to Krishna."

But then again, who is God? Who is this Krishna?

"Everything lives. And everything has as much a right to live as we do. But this world is a prison. So when I take the life of a plant for my own, or when I step on an ant on my path to do Krishna's work, it is in His power to liberate the life. When I swat this mosquito, who wants to take my blood, I can ask Krisha to liberate the insect from this world of the cycle of life and death."

The man spoke emphatically, but not forcibly. He told me that the time would come when my guru would find me, and I would undergo a complete surrender. But for now, I keep my eyes open. Our conversation was long, and though we sat still on the wall as the dozens of jovial drummers and dancers soared before us, we too danced. The more I listen, the less I understand, but I am more whole for exploring the world behind the eyes of another wise, beautiful traveling companion.

Letting Go

The floor is littered with the treasures and meaninglessness of the past. Things that I have no emotional connection to—at all—but have clung to for so long: a mess of day-to-day memories of what I was.

My mother collected pieces of people: childhood drawings and A-grade term papers. Collecting dust until they were made into a yearly shrine, far in a corner.

My father collected pieces of things: musical instruments and video discs. Collecting dust until they were previewed by hungry eyes and hands.

And I, I collected everything—for fear (horrible fear!) that I might turn back into what I was.

As each of them scorned the other's collections, so I scorn myself. For I want everything and I want nothing.

Still, I imagine that I am not far from discovering what is truly meaningful. And soon I will no longer need to carry all this weight of the past upon my neck.

Why my Soul Dances

An idle sip of green tea, poured from the ocean inside a hollow cat, is only the topper to a series of joys:

• Appalachian Spring by Aaron Copland evokes preminisces of Andrew Bird's genius, in the form of a ballet portraying a simple wedding celebration.
• The brand-new red (pink!) handlebar tape on Dan's bike looks super-schnazzy!
• My mind is swirling with mists of intertwining melody, begging to be fleshed into something concrete if only I can find the power.
• After my last class with the 4th-6th graders, and my final story and scribbles with the kindergartners, I am still enthralled with the idea of teaching, though perhaps not right away.
• Americorps is still a definite maybe. I'll find out how the interview went in 3 weeks.

But the greatest of all joys is in this: I know—with my entire being—that I have people who truly care about me, who I am deeply connected to. I am uncertain about the future, but I can be absolutely sure that I have beautiful souls to share it with. It will be all right.

03.27.09

We shunned the warmth of the fire
And sat in the warmth of each other
With legs in laps
And kneecaps in hands
And sands of the earth upon us
We three
(And more)
We traveling companions
Went forth to find wonder
Among our mingling souls

Changing Worlds

I have fed my final quarters to the clothes dryer's mouth.
I have scarfed my last bits of avocado sushi.
I have sung my last operatic duet to a roomful of gawking fourth graders.
I have squeezed a few more words from my Sikh dabbling.
I have watched my final sun sink behind the mountain.
I have scaled said mountain and reveled in the holiness of stars and friends.
I have donned a tuxedo and pranced happily through the courtyard.
I have held her precious body close to mine for one last time.
("we are silly creatures aren't we?")
I have gone.

I come.

from the Tao Te Ching, XLIX

The Sage has no heart of his own;
He uses the heart of the people as his heart.
Of the good man I approve,
But of the bad I also approve,
And thus he gets goodness.
The truthful man I believe, but the liar I also believe,
And thus he gets truthfulness.
The Sage, in his dealings with the world, seems like one dazed with fright;
For the world's sake he dulls his wits.
The Hundred Families all the time strain their eyes and ears,
The Sage all the time sees and hears no more than an infant sees and hears.

from The Communist Manifesto

. . . the theory of the Communists may be summed up in a single sentence: Abolition of private property.
. . .
You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its nonexistence in the hands of those nine-tenths.
. . .
It has been objected, that upon the abolition of private property all work will cease, and universal laziness will overtake us. According to this, bourgeois society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness; for those of its members who work, acquire nothing, and those who acquire anything, do not work. . . .

Sand and Foam by Kahlil Gibran

How can I lose faith in the justice of life, when the dreams of those who sleep upon feathers are not more beautiful that the dreams of those who sleep upon the earth?

We are both right.

The sun is warm and the grass it bright and the world is serenely blanketed in the sky's blue.

After hearing an earnest man debate pragmatically in favour of the truths of intelligent design, I no longer felt compelled to stay. I realized that what really bothers me about the argument between creationists and evolutionists is not the logic of either side in particular (the evidence seemed balanced and convincing enough) but the completely polarizing point of view: "I am right and you are wrong and we are brilliant and you are all ignorant." I wish that scientists of both opinions could see that they are all just doing the best they can with what they have; I wish that they would spend some quality time together to really figure this out with all perspectives involved instead of just shouting at each other from opposite sides of the room.

Maybe most scientists really are peacefully searching for truth together. Maybe it is just the didactic ones who make the news, in the same way as the militant terrorist Muslims get all the coverage while the overwhelming majority of peaceful Muslims go unnoticed.

As for me, I would much prefer to bask in the glory of the earth: the music of the songbirds, green of the trees and yellow of the dandelion. Especially on this pleasant February day.

To you, the world is a cesspool of torment, an abomination. To me, the world is an unfathomable beauty and joy. We are both right.

K'ung Fu-tzu

Today, a 2500-year-old man spoke to me through the lips of my white-bearded professor. He beckoned to me from his path, to join him. He told me that, "Fundamentally, people mean well and want to do right." He told me told me that religion and ritual can be useful to help solve the world's problems, but he himself had stepped outside of religion and philosophy and compelled me to do the same. He told me that all his life he was tremendously lonely, but his few friends were the sole joy of his existence: "Is it not wonderful when friends come together from distant places to discuss matters of common interest?" I am tempted to journey forward in his footprints.

but

There is a thing in death that chills my soul
Not to die
But for others
to be
gone

In your death could I celebrate your life?
I
I would mourn.
I would don clothing of black
and lower my head as I walked
and sing rarely.
And then
as I find peace in the moments when we were together
I would all the more weep bitterly for the moments when we could have been.

But the truth is
Your Life is more than your body
And by knowing each other
Neither of us will outlive the other
And in this way
We will life forever

samsara

I awoke on this morn feeling oddly at peace with the world
as if every bird circling the newly killed carcass
and every droplet of water cascading down the rocks
and every joy and frustration of daily existence
were all part of the same eternal cycle
of birth life and death
and renewal
It must dawn upon every living being
as a sun must daily dawn upon even a cloudy earth
that life is worth its struggles
but even when the sun sets upon a fleeting life
we can know with confidence
perhaps even joy
that death is worth its pain
for what is death if not food for rebirth?
as the meat strengthens the wings
as the water cools the inside
as the sorrows allow for depth in joy
in the same way will you
my child
be another's savior after your last breath
so in death you live on

Dawn, 12/01/2009

The lights of the millions of women and men
Fill the below with a glistening glow
The moon lends her light and the Sun his splendor
As man lies together and sleeps one last hour
The power of this unity only can last
As long as each bed is still filled with its master
When every alarm clock is angrily stoned
And moaning, its owner reclaims the nightly death
We can know with great courage that there is hope yet
To rest through the rancor and pretend our own peace
Sleep, sleep my dear loves, all day if you like
The world wakes and lives with more fullness each moment
If home is a concrete rectangle, please stay
And continue your dreams of unbridled protection
As for me — I sit high on my own private mecca
And hail my Sun as he returns to the world
Come colour and light and life and warmth
To draw the unwilling ones out of their slumber
To wake them again to the glory of day
I waken again to the glory of day
And I am alive
I live

opened to an unexpected page:

Now there are many, many people in the world, but relatively few with whom we interact, and even fewer who cause us problems. So when you come across such a chance for practicing patience and tolerance, you should treat it with gratitude. It is rare. Just as having unexpectedly found a treasure in your own house, you should be happy and grateful towards your enemy for providing that precious opportunity. Because if you are ever to be successful in your practice of patience and tolerance, which are critical factors in counteracting negative emotions, it is due to the combination of your own efforts and also the opportunity provided by your enemy.

--HH Dalai Lama, The Art of Happiness