On Helping People

Diri said: "Help yourself first, before helping others. A golden rule. But what makes this rule golden is the 'helping others' part. Without that, it loses all meaning."

Diri also said: "You can only lead by example. To help others, don't tell them what to do. Instead, show them what you can do."

Ah oui, je suis d'accord.

Patience

Roro said:

"In my system, patience is in short supply. Can I have yours?"

I said:
"No, you may not."

Roro exploded with anger. He said:

"Can I have at least some?"

I asked:
"Can you wait for another day?"

Roro said:
"Why? Can I have at least some?"

I said:

"Can you wait, or can't you wait?"

Roro said, again:

"Why? Can I have at least some?"

I said:

"You can have some if you can wait."

Roro said nothing.

I repeated myself.

Roro asked:
"How long do I have to wait?"

I answered:
"Another day."

Roro said:
"You are very mean."

I said:
"Yes, I am mean. So?"

Roro sighed an exasperated sigh, and paced back and forth.

I asked:
"Would you like ice cream?"

Roro said:
"No! Patience."

I had my ice cream, and then faced Roro:
"Roro, the only way to have patience is to wait. Otherwise, you will never have it."

Finally, Roro said:
"I am waiting."

"Good," I said. "Now, keep waiting, and...."

Roro joined in: "... and keep trying." I gave him the rest of my ice cream. Patient both of us grew. Night came and went, and then there was another day.

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In Music, In Writing

In music, one spends hours preparing for those three minutes on stage.

Likewise in other performing arts.

In writing, one wastes pages and pages

For that one page, that line.

The War of Two P's

If prose and poetry fought against each other in a war,

Which side would win?

The War of Two P's -

No end to peace?

Because prose and poetry together have the power

To change the meaning of war, fighting, and winning.

And a host of other things, too.

Pre-War Intellectuals

George told me about all these pre-World War II intellectuals who taught at select universities and high schools in Imperial Japan, in the late 1930's and early 40's when he went to school. He said one English teacher was also a professional pottery maker, and once brought in a Japanese-style plate he made with an English sonnet etched into its surface in beautiful maroon. There was also a math teacher, a slightly crazy but insanely smart man, who scolded George for having misspelled a Latin noun (I forget which) on the cover of his notebook. There was also the professor of Chinese poetry, still in his early thirties, who would freely link a scene in a Tang dynasty poem to such and such scene in André Gide's novel, which of course he had read in the original French, or compare an ancient Chinese tea-drinking guru to an eerily similar guru in such and such Sanskrit text, which he had apparently read in English and Chinese translations.

Where were they all, before, during, and after the War? How did they let it happen? Were they, goodness forbid, killed in the air raids? And an additional question: can their failure, if I dare call it that, give us a clue as to why there seem to be so few of such intellectuals (or I may simply say, people) in present-day Japan? Or, if there are any, where are they, and what are they up to? Where are you all?

* George here presumably refers to Shin'ichiro Nakamura.

Possibilities

I read about a Japanese single mother struggling to make ends meet. She has a boy of three, whom she keeps at home except on Fridays when she works at her weekly part-time job. The nature of her job was not disclosed, nor where the boy is kept while the mother is working. We do not know which town she lives in. We also are not told under what circumstances the mother became a single mother, or whether she has any relatives and friends at all.

This mother's income is barely enough to keep the two of them housed, clothed, and fed. She says she is worried about her son's future. That is the only direct quote from her in the entire piece. Perhaps the author felt the need to protect the mother's privacy a little too strongly. As a reader, I was led, simply, to pity this mother, without even coming to know any of the causes-and-effects, contingencies, and motives that might have played a role in creating, or even necessitating, her particular situation, of which we know very little in any case, except that she is barely able to pay the bills. I did not know what to do with my sense of pity. I wondered if it was even right to pity her in this way. As for the boy, he is still very young, and I hoped that he would recognize his mother's love, and only his mother's love. The mother was portrayed as a gentle, loving person, who remains extremely calm and sane even in the face of suffering.

Such a loving, calm, and strong person - would such a person not be able to pull herself out of her disquieting situation? Using her warm, rich personality as a gift, I feel she could easily open many doors, or some doors at least, for herself and for her child. Or, is she so calm and composed that she has, in a way, given up, and is simply watching herself and her boy hang by all-too-delicate threads, day by day, as if they were complete strangers from a distant world? What is keeping her from breaking out of the cage? Is it some invisible social force? That would be a fine example of scapegoating. Society is the biggest scapegoat in the world, it seems. Or rather, it is okay to blame society, perhaps not just okay and necessary at times, but society cannot be blamed for inaction, or even ineffective action. Action falls under the responsibility of actors and actresses - yes, personae with character. However hidden, superficial, artificial, or genuine a persona's character may be, an act is an act - it can change endings. It can shift meanings. And meaning is everything, isn't it?

Much of the world's work has to do with clearing the stage, so the personae can act. Act together, act alone, sleep while acting.

So many, it seems, feel they cannot act. Because the stage is too narrow. Because of auditions, because of limited resources, including time. Because one simply does not want to act. Because one wants a quiet life. But if they acted, how the world would bloom even more exquisitely, flowering in all sorts of extraordinary ways. And in fact, even a quiet life would be impossible without real acting - quiet acting.

Tom says: "The possibility is real, even when it isn't yet reality."

Yes, naive. No, but not naive. Not naive, because possibilities are as hard-won as realities are.

Stage directors, they want all actors and actresses to feel as alive and hopeful as possible, so that the audience will go, "ooh-ah!" But what they also know is that the actors and the actresses, they can't be "told" to feel alive and hopeful. Each of them has to find his or her own way, and help each other find that clicking thing, which is very likely to be different for each actor or actress, and even different according to the weather, or time of day, or how much sleep one has had the previous night.

Stage directors, they know it is all about possibilities. In the world of possibilities, nothing can go wrong, except for a drying-up of imagination, or of energy. That's really the world of art, no? It's a constant search for possibilities; it is exhausting. Combinations, permutations, associations - endless, even while life ticks away. It's a game, a hunt. For food? No, for what desires food. For what permits us to want food. It's really a primordial thing. So even a child knows. Perhaps better.

温故知新 - Wen Gu Zhi Xin

What is missing

Is the knowledge of the past

Two Extremes

Whenever I hear someone raving about someone else,

My mind jumps a little, and my eyes, too;

I wonder if the raving person is really telling me the truth

Or scared of seeing the truth, even.

Too many hurried outbursts of praises -

Somehow, they fail to ring true in my ear.

The same goes for the denouncing of someone,

Harsh criticism, and only that.

There, the scapegoat goddess in my mind would lift her head,

Warning me with green-and-red lights,

Telling me to examine the polyhedrons, one side at a time.

Because we are polyhedrons, after all;

Flatness is not a part of this world.

Labels are to be resisted and drawn on -

Don't tear, but draw on top, adding to the complexity.

And extremes just add to the complexity, don't they?

They are no good when they are made to simplify, no good, unfortunately...

Consonants

Diurnal day,

Nocturnal night,

Matinal morning!

Left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right

York, dork, fork

Size, rise, guise

D-E-N (clap)

B-M-I (clap)

G-U-T! x2

Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk-oh

Happy merry duck, oh goose! (dotted rhythm)

Measuring Things

Inside a guestbook at a hotel room on St. Kitts, I find the following neat scribbles in black anonymous ink, the tail end spilling out of the last corner of the invisible square, in which a much shorter entry would have fit perfectly well:

"1) In the tangible realm, it helps to have unified units of measurement 2) But in the realm of intangibles, let there be many units of measurement 3) Not an infinite number of units, but multiple viable ways 4) That one can devise on one's own, with care and experience. 5) Intangibles can be measured; 6) Just not in the same way as tangibles can. 7) Rock the boat, rock it 8) Not, oh no, in order to capsize the boat 9) But to suggest the possibility of a flip 10) So that one comes to love the boat, cherish it 11) Cherish it for its preciousness 12) And instead of fixating on whether or how the boat will stay afloat, 13) One can start to concentrate on the beauty of the lake, 14) The sky, the shores, 15) And of course the boat. 16) Be thankful for the fish, 17) Remember that hunger strikes the heart first 18) And last, the stomach 19) Have mercy 20)See that the boat is free 21) But not alone 22) Many boats out there 23) Looking for the shore 24) Ships, too 25) Whole islands looking 26) With hope 27) Know that when worse comes to worse... 28) Fill in the blank, don't erase."

Autobigraphical Criticism

Criticism is, traditionally, a genre of detachment. A critic writes in a detached, lofty voice, voicing opinions and delineating views that may be subjective but nonetheless have been objectively weighed. A critic can be warm-hearted, and her language also warming, but her thinking needs to be cold and crisp, like apples under water. In criticism, there is little room for I, the warm human being. I only stands for the cold, typing fingers and the eyes the eye the margins. No brains there, nor hearts. Detachment means also concealment. To maintain a detached stance, one needs to straighten one's back against gravity and disregard life's many distractions, mundane and extraordinary - the itching scalp, bad lunch, the earthquake in Sumatra, one's cat who died. WHAT TO DO.

Autobiographical criticism aims to say good-bye, farewell, Adiós, to detachment. After all, a critic is a critic because he longs for connections. He exists to make connections, to play with them. Why stay detached? Or, more precisely, why write in a detached language? Let it be noted, though, that the opposite of detachment, which is engagement, here does not equal the French engagement, where the writer must align the writing to political or social ends. The autobiographical critical engagement, by contrast, simply points to more honest forms of thinking and writing. Why the pretense of detachment, now, when still more wars are being waged, sea levels are constantly rising, and equally importantly, you and I are alive? You are alive, I am alive. How stupendous - I kid you not. Why stay detached from the nooks and crannies of life, that is much larger and heavier and messier than the, at-the-end-of-the-day, much flimsier criticism, or say, art?

The attitude of the autobiographical critic is much closer in appearance and in substance to that of a poet or a fiction writer, or a bard. The mission is to express, to engage. What use if the audience turn away in boredom, incomprehension, or disgust? Some of them may, but it is only natural to hope that the number remains small.

So, you may ask, where is the "I" in this little blog entry? Well, I must say I can't find it anywhere, except where it says, "I am alive." Isn't this enough? And let it be known that not every autobiography needs to place "I" in the center. After all, or, at least for me personally, "I" is always being displaced, replaced, and even misplaced. Please! Let writing please the soul, one last time.

And the lofty language - allow me to confess that that is the direct influence of Vladimir Nabokov's loftiest language of all time in his autobiography, titled Speak, Memory. I have been reading the book, with a wry mixture of repulsion and fascination on my living, moving face.

Days Pass

Days pass,

Already a day and two.

We the Humanity

Dorothy asked: "Would we look the same if we all had dust and windburn smearing our faces, necks, and arms? Would we all feel the same after working day after day, hour after hour in the fields, barely alive and able to sustain just our immediate families in thought and in grain? Would we love each other if we bared all our pains and turbulences, our fears and talismanic obsessions, to each other and to ourselves? Or, would we hate each other, then slowly begin to love each other, just as it takes time for the cookies to warm up and the bread to inflate? If we never washed our bodies, if we never used so much soap and make-up, if we stopped looking at ourselves in the mirror so much, would we begin to resemble each other, and ourselves, at last?"

After three days, Polona replied: "Exactly. That's why resemblances are more striking than differences."

Then Polona and Dorothy said together, in unison: "Why not focus on the resemblances? The scary, the striking, the beautiful, the enchanting, the unsettling, resemblances?"

At night, the Moon is brighter than the Sun.

A Happy Day

I want the world to be happy

I want to be happy

The universe looks on

With interest, I shall say.

A world without nuclear weapons

Had never seemed feasible

Until Obama's speech

But there are also other seeds of happiness

Perhaps smaller and less concrete

All over the universe

You can look for them

Why not?

One is sadness

One seed, one sadness

Who knew

Happiness grows from sadness

Speaking of nuclear weapons and war

What one attends to, ought to attend

Is not a bright future

That will come naturally

After one attends to sadness

To the darkness of one's history

The darkness of night before daybreak

Or the darkness around the stars, shining

Hurling us into the past, much of it still unforgotten

Brewing

Then there shall be breakfast

With light cereal and cream

And a happy day.

Leaves

He is happy one moment,

Sad the next.

The leaves keep turning,

His mind, too.

Writing II

You know, I am writing, and struggling.

Here's where your education will count:

Never give up.

Think your way through.

There are always ways to go around something, just anything.

As you see fit.

Oh - as you see fit.

There's never an end, but long journeys.

Simmering clouds; luck-rivers-o-cold.

Run like a trout. Dive like a belly-dancer.

Writing

Gordon wrote:

"Writing is so difficult

So difificult, I cannot even spell.

Oh masks, I put them on when I write

On the tips of my fingers, toes, my face, nose, mouth

All covered and masked

And revealed to the hearts and minds, I hope,

Of the world."

I made a thousand golden and silver paper cranes for Gordon and set them free into the sky.

You

Have you noticed that "you" is not always singular?

You undoubtedly have.

It is plural some of the time, many times.

Always plural grammatically.

But here, we are talking about semantics, not grammar.

So you -- yes, you -- are one and many.

You know you are part you and part many others

Who have shaped you.

And whom you have shaped.

So you, not I.

And not we, because we cannot be singular.

Singular and plural, that's you.

You!!

(But God, you is not.)

The Mind

The mind

Keeps turning in the same places

Over and over again.

Enjoy it

While you can.

Oh, but where and when and how?

It's you, and only you.

Who else, but you?

October Winds

Winds,

Clueless, fact-less winds are blowing