From Luba in Chicago:

MARK AUGUST 27th ON YOUR CALENDAR

MARS WILL APPEAR AS BIG AS THE MOON! FIRST TIME IN AT LEAST 5,000 YEARS!

Never again in your lifetime will the Red Planet be so spectacular! This month and next, Earth is catching up with Mars, an encounter that will culminate in the closest approach between the two planets in recorded history. The next time Mars may come this close is in 2287. Due to the way Jupiter's gravity tugs on Mars and perturbs its orbit, astronomers can only be certain that Mars has not come this close to Earth in the last 5,000 years but it may be as long as 60,000 years. On August 27, Mars will come within 34,649,589 miles and will be (next to the moon) the brightest object in the night sky. It will attain a magnitude of -2.9 and will appear 25.11 arc seconds wide. At a modest 75-power magnification Mars will look as large as the full moon to the naked eye. Mars will be easy to spot. At the beginning of August, Mars will rise in the east at 10 p.m. and reach its azimuth at about 3 a.m. But by the end of August when the two planets are closest, Mars will rise at nightfall and reach its highest point in the sky at 12:30 a.m. That's pretty convenient when it comes to seeing something that no human has seen in recorded history. So mark your calendar at the beginning of August to see Mars grow progressively brighter and brighter throughout the month.

Perhaps someone should coordinate a planetary viewing party...

Hmmm.. looks like the trip to Taiwan has been bumped to the last week of October. My mother will also be joining us and we will be there on her 59th birthday which is on October 31, Halloween.

There will be some sort of international conference at Kaoshiung University which my dad will be lecturing at in English and I'm now being asked if I'd give a presentation too, perhaps on poetry? Eeeek. Equivalence will be out. Working thru the 2nd set of galleys now with JB. Hopefully out to printer by mid-August and in my anxious hands by last week of September. Dad's been trying to get me a job in Taiwan for years, I wonder if the opportunity is finally here?

It could very well be that my current heightened emotionalism could be due to the quality of last night's class meeting.

An old classmate from SAIC days just had her first baby and just sent an invitation for a "Baek-Il". Baek-il means "one hundred days" and is a Korean tradition that began when infants rarely lived beyond a hundred days. The 100th day became a marker to celebrate the baby's life and the mother's recovery from her labour and delivery. Tradition calls for the parents to collect rice from friends and neighbors to make dduk (rice cakes) for this special occasion. Since Soyoung and Phil don't own millstones to grind up the rice into flour, they have instead mailed out sheets of rice paper to friends which can be decorated and written on, which will ultimately be collected into a hand-bound book and given to Skye when she is of an age to be able to receive this gift.

It is delightful and heartening to know that people are reading this silly little virtual pillow book. This blog is named in honor of Sei Shonagon who elevated the literary journal to a high art form. The original makura no soshi included poems, diary entries, recounts of lovers, and yes, its share of the occasional mean-hearted and spiteful entry which gave a sense of the diarist's darker personality. It is interesting to think that Shonagon may have always known that her pillow book would become public, that she was writing for an audience, intimate or not. I see the blog functioning in very much the same way.

Joel Sloman reports that he too is a Doris Day fan.

Thanks to all who have added makura no soshi as a link on your blogs.

My experience of community in Boston has been somewhat fragmented - different than say, living in Boulder, Colorado, where you see the same people all the time on a regular basis. Here, I have a few really close friends who I see on a regular, rotating basis, versus feeling something more like a sense of "belonging". Since I have started blogging, it feels more like that community is there, true or false. Checking in on what folks are up to mentally and creatively, etc.

I have been thinking about the Zeitgist Gallery salon in August and thinking, ugh, another poetry reading. I think I would rather perform songs. SO - is there anyone out there who plays piano or guitar who would like to collaborate on throwing something together for a little performance on Aug. 16. The Zeitgist has a very nice baby grand piano. Or something that resembles a baby grand. Michael County, what happened to those guitar lessons? If anyone out there would like to trade guitar lessons for fine art photographs (see www.zonezero.com - portafolios), please get in touch.. OR... I can also bind your poems into a little book. Choose your own binding. Name your barter!

GRRRRRR........

It is my sincere belief that rude people should have their tongues cut out of their heads and cauterized. Their eyes should also be put out with blazing pokers.

I am horribly pissed this morning. A fat behemoth of a woman started a bitch fight with me on the 66 bus, on my 7:30 commute to work. She sat down in back of me and I felt something brushing up against the back of my head. I turned around to look and saw that the vinyl straps of her handbag were brushing up against the back of my seat. The woman held a cup of hot coffee in her hands. No big deal, I turn back around. She says to me in this biting and affected Los Angeles Watts kind of way which I have not heard since living in So Cal, have not heard since fucking highschool "You don't have to give me a dirty look and shit, if you wait a fucking minute I'll move it." I got really mad. In that stupid way that we can let little things get to us. Little things like big fat rude uneducated trash talking attitude at 7:30 in the morning. I think my response and explanation were completely lost on her - I don't know why I bothered to say, hey - I'm not giving you a dirty look (i.e. you're projecting your own neurotic trip on me) - I should have just said, you bet your fat ass I'm giving you a dirty look. Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch. Sometimes the effort to communicate with compassion and clarity are herculean feats. Not always worth it when the receiver is down.

I like Mark's idea of exploring translation with interested collaborators. Hay alguien que quiere traducir Espanol conmigo? I've never used a translation engine, but they sound like they make life a whole lot easier. Another option would be to MIS-translate work (i.e. David Bromige's version of Neruda) from some source language into English..

Salon announcement: Saturday, August 16, 2003, 6-8 p.m. at the Zeitgist Gallery in Inman Square. Performances including improvisational dance by Teresa Czepiel, some thing or another by Seth Lepore of SporeAttic, music by Teresa's friends Alex and Camille, and I will read a poem or 2.

Went to see "Pillow Talk" with Doris Day and Rock Hudson at the Brattle last night. I am a Doris Day fanatic, perhaps in part because she was my American namesake. When my parents immigrated to America from Taiwan, Doris was all the rage. Her and Rock. "Pai" (which is not really our last name) sounds something like "Day". Doris was characterized as being the all American beauty - blonde, buxom, smart, sassy, and a "professional virgin". Seeing last nite's movie, I think I relate to that stern, hard quality about her that softens instantly.

The plot goes that Jan Morrow (Doris) and Brad Allen (Rock) share a party line in Manhattan. Brad, a semi-accomplished composer, is always on the phone wooing various women with his little compositions which get recycled over and over again with insert name of girl. Brad is bilingual in love, French or English. Jan dislikes Brad tremendously and picks up the phone and gives him an earful on a regular basis. Brad's best friend, is Jonathan Forbes (Tony Randall) who is wildly in love with Jan. Jan, however, rebuffs his efforts, as she wants someone who takes her to the moon. Upon accidentally meeting and discovering that the difficult Jan Morrow is the girl of Jonathan's dreams, Brad plays the trickster and poses as "Rex Stetson", a tourist from Texas who plays the perfect gentleman (the opposite of Brad Allen's personality) and wins Jan's heart after a messy coming out about the truth.

Pre-movie, enjoyed a little lecture by a local film critic who shared with the audience that Doris was in her 40s when she made Pillow Talk, 7 years Rock's senior. She was an independent and respected actress in the film community and Hitchcock's "The Man who Knew too Much" which stars both Doris and Jimmy Stewart champions Doris as the heroine who saves their kidnapped son as an homage in part to Doris' own independent savvy in real life.

I liked hearing about that independent dimension of Doris' character since she is traditionally touted as the "professional virgin" - almost in a twisted Dare Wright kind of way. Dare, author of the wacked out "Lonely Doll" books for children was a perpetual virgin up until her death a few years ago.

A cute line from Pillow Talk:

"There are plenty of warm buns in the bakery, you don't have to press your nose against the glass!"

2nd business day in a row that I have been alone at the office. Snooze. Going to try and get some transcription work in and write a letter to my parents.

The I-Zone was a success on Saturday. Little miniature Polaroids. Curious to see if a Polaroid transfer or some other manipulation process could be done on these little images. I love the instant gratification of the Polaroid - "you can take a picture and see yourself smiling right away.." Met Theresa's new boyfriend - Ben, 5 years younger than her. Ben is from Lewiston, a crunchy community up in Maine. I like him. He reminds me of Michael Smoler. I got to hang out a little bit with the proprietor of Stone Lantern, a really lovely guy named Wayne who is like a grown up version of Rick Curnutt, a boy I loved in college. Wayne is in his 60s (?) and just returned from a retreat up at the Shambhala Mountain Center in Colorado. Wayne reports that the young people (20-30 somethings) are taking over the retreat Center and that whereas his generation partied a lot, the new generation parties a lot and is a possibly more spiritually savvy.

Off to see Seabiscuit when Kort gets home from the library. Than to a birthday party tonite for our friend Theresa where we will meet her new beau, Ben. I bought a I-zone Polaroid camera for the occasion. Instant mini pics. I am behind the times. The I-zone came out a few years ago - you can buy sticky film or regular film. The commercials for the I-zone included happy attractive party people taking pictures of themselves and marveling over the low-tech results. I had flashbacks of these images as I bought the camera the other night. Also picked up a 3 pack of film to go with. Why am I such a sucker for slick marketing? That crazy fructis shampoo which I bought after watching the advertising before "Charlie's Angels: full throttle" has actually worked really well. No more split ends or broken hair and I feel sexy like an Angel! Don't I wish...

After the mall, headed to the Cambridge branch of Fitcorp which is hidden in Technology Park on the MIT campus. This gym had newer machines, was almost empty for a Saturday morning, and really well maintained. A bunch of the treadmills actually had television screens mounted to them - if you have head phones you just plug in and change the channels on the machine along with your exercise settings. The gym is the only time I get to watch TV unless we're on vacation - so this is somewhat seductive. On the weekdays after clocking out, I catch up on Oprah and the news of the day. At the Longwood Fitcorp they usually have the teleprompter turned on so that you can read the news. Some of the typos and mistranslations that come up on screen are quirky and poetic in their lack of intentionality. No hip abductor (sigh), but there was an ab machine.

Spent the morning at the Cambridgeside Galleria. I used to love the mall - Southern California is like one never ending mall culture, but these days, I am impatient to get in and out of them as quickly as possible. Today's purchase: a silk slip from Victoria's Secret for an outrageous $58. The slip costs as much as the dress which I intend on wearing it under. But the dress was on sale, so it sort of ends up balancing out to paying for the dress at full price. Who is designing women's fashion these days? Nothing's ever convenient.

While I was in Victoria's Secret, I saw a couple of stray boyfriends lurking about as their girlfriends tried on various contraptions. Which made me think of A. van Jordan's poem:

What Does It Mean When a Man Dreams of Lingerie from Rise (Tia Chucha, 2001)

Why would I march through Victoria's Secret
trying to look like a man
if it weren't true
that I do feel comfortable among
push-up bras and crotchless panties,
lace garters and strap-up brassieres,
that I do dream of decorating
my decollete? But it's clear
there's nothing this powerful
in a man's arsenal of seduction.

My holding midnight blue
camisoles up to my chest
in a mirror brags
boldness and sensitivity,
the hologram of love.

What does it all mean,
my standing here holding
undergarments, shadows
of my former lover,
but not her body?

The philosopher, Richard Pryor
once said of black love
that a couple either fucks or fights;
there is no in between.
I realize I'm getting too old
for the contrasts of love,
when a vibrato comes from behind
a rack of satin robes.
Cumbia music floats
overs the heads
of souls shopping for happiness.
I follow rhythms through delicate
textiles to find a man
his face peering back
through a pair of ass-out
panty-hose, his face
where the ass should be.
He's tall but stout,
like a contra bass. Mingus?
I inquire.

Look at this body stockin' boy
You see this labyrinth of lace, intricacy,
clear, opaque,
chaos in structure;
that's our lives.
We're just down here vibrating.
Men and women are like
a duet of a drum set
and a bass
that don't talk to each other.
They don't love anymore
because they don't talk anymore.
A man can play the hell outta a woman,
be all over her like a horn,
but he won't know her like his horn;
that's why they can't make music.
You gotta love her
from her fresh hair to her dirty panties.

A vein in my neck throbs.
I say, To hell with you, Mingus.

His left hand palms my head
like a fret board;
his right hand bows
a razor over my right eye
deeply, andante.
Light hemorraghes out.

There, he says, you have to see
differently with a woman;
talk to her not like she's a man,
sometimes. Switch up.
You know, I used to play
avant-garde bass
when nobody else did;
no I play 4/4 because
none of the other players do.
Sometimes, it's cold blooded like that.
Sometimes your woman is trapped
beneath the vibrato
of the strings, man;
sometimes you gotta pull her
in close and strum her
in her sleep, sometimes
soft, sometimes loud,
piano forte, like music
that's about the living
and the dead, or a pair
of shaved brown legs
in sheer black hose, forever,
walking out of your life.

Some fun poems by Akira Tatehata.

Hello, Dalai!

Why isn't Yo Yo Ma on the list or Lawrence Ferlinghetti or any number of lovely wonderfuls?

National Living Treasures as designated by President Bush (unless they're already dead):
1. Jacques Barzun
2. Julia Child
3. Roberto Clemente*
4. Van Cliburn
5. Vaclav Havel
6. Charleton Heston
7. Dave Thomas
8. Byron White
9. James Q. Wilson
10. John wooden
11. Edward Teller

* posthumous nomination

I've been very upset lately by the reports around Reetika Vazirani's death. I was checking out Chicago Poetry yesterday and CJ had put up this report that he wrote on her death, releasing the circumstances of Jehan, her son's death. CJ's somewhat famous for being inflammatory and bombastic in his journalistic "practice" and I seriously questioned his sources. So I got on the internet and found thru a news service that the coroner's report revealed that Jehan died of stab wounds to the chest, neck and arms. His lung was punctured. CJ's story seemed to frame the story in a really unfair way. The baby was always referred to as "the child of Yusef Komunyakaa" - vs. acknowledging the mother of the child who we might as well slap the label of "murderer" upon. The issue is infinitely more complex than that. The Post also ran an article on troubled poets throughout history who have had bad relationships and succumbed to suicide. Ugh.

Therapy session #2 with Mr. McNealy was much better. He addressed right away that I seemed unhappy when I left his office last week which opened up a general conversation about the nature of psychotherapy and what the practice means to him. He does have the belief that all therapies should be client-centered vs. therapist centered which wins him some points in my book. He was a little more lively and interactive in this session - though the stream of questions at times was a bit distracting. "Are your parents Buddhists?" he asked - which has very little to do with anything.

So part of the evolution of the whole couch thing - when Freud was around and practicing he used to spend 6 days a week with his patients, for up to like 5 hours at a time. That's a lot of time. Sig found that he was uncomfortable being looked at all the time and having to engage with someone face to face - i.e. he could listen and process better when he wasn't being looked at! So there it is. What about the whole idea of "bearing witness"?

Mark Lamoureux reports that once on an outing to a local zendo in Long Island he had a rabbit sighting in front of a Buddha statue. This I see as a very auspicious symbol. I wonder if Mark was born in the year of the rabbit, like me. A couple years ago when I went on a vortex tour in Sedona, the tour leader, a very mystical and crunchy guy, Gabriel Masterson, formerly from Chicago pulled out a deck of Native American tarot cards and every member of the tour group chose a card (without looking). I pulled the rabbit. In Native folklore the rabbit is a symbol of fear - rabbits have 2 choices in life, they can be paralyzed by the fear that they are experiencing and freeze in that moment of being overwhelmed (deer in the headlights complex), or they can move through their fear. Every rabbit's challenge. My father says of rabbits in his epigrammatic way, "a smart rabbit always has 2 holes". An escape route when the dogs come around. For too many years, I have been a 1 hole rabbit. That could sound sexual but it's not. Dad also says "ride a horse to find your horse". That one baffled for years until one day Kort suggested substituting the word "mule" for the first horse. "Ride a mule to find your horse." Right!

Well, I think I'm going to Taiwan in October with my Dad. He'll be teaching and I'll be visiting with the fam. Will have to shop for a digital camera to archive this visit. Haven't been since the first visit in 1999 at which time I saw the family's ancestral home and met all 4 of my uncles and all 4 of my aunts. Also saw photographs of my grandparents for the very first time, who I never had the opportunity of meeting.

This will be a prime opportunity to capture and bring back many of the archival images that my Uncle took over the last 50 years. Maybe I will finally be able to get some work and writing done on the ox-plow book on our ancestral line.

Our friend Terri's 30th birthday is this Sunday. Consider the number of times I have moved around now, I consider Terri somebody who I have known for a long time. 5 years? Since Naropa. Ah... Naropa. Ter's a good influence, she's a devoted practitioner and very involved in the Boston Shambhala community. A role model for enlightened society.

Kort has suggested to me that in lieu of a shrink, perhaps a good meditation instructor (like Bill Scheffel) and spiritual friend could help me get things back on track. I think that's pretty true. Nevertheless, Mr. McNealy gets another shot. Let's hope he doesn't mention "the couch" again. Should I tell him that I resented his canned and trite answer? would that be conducive to building a relationship? All those noises he makes. The grunts and moans self-masturbatory. The mind that is.

Paper is my kryptonite.

Just received some poems from one of my favorite poets and all around awesome human beings in the world, Bill Scheffel, of Boulder, Colorado.

SILT

BELOW A SKY OF CUMULOUS CLOUDS and shades of early evening blue, a photograph of William Faulkner show the steady, sad and mysterious gaze of his eyes, how open and willing they seem. He’s much younger here than when he received the Nobel Prize — his acceptance speech is in the back of the book, 723 pages south of the photograph. The book sits on a table under the apple tree whose spent blossoms break in occasional wind gusts and litter the table and deck. A car door slams and dogs bark. Faulkner's hands are crossed and he holds a cigarette, or maybe a pencil — the book cover ends there so its hard to tell. When a human being develops a depth of understanding the left eye begins to yield, to also look in, becoming more like a window than a camera. I can see this in Faulkner’s eyes. It’s his right eye that is sad in what it has seen; above it his eyebrow slumps like a cascade of plundered wilderness, stolen land, slavery and a thousand lesser griefs. The left eye is free of pandemonium, free of clutter, free of commentary - it neither offers nor rejects. In the pool of his dark left eye one cannot distinguish the pupil from the iris, but conveying the soul of a man is not merely a matter of technical details or adequate light, as Rembrandt proved so well in his self-portraits. Faulkner's left eye seems beyond personal age and cultural memory: Boon and Caddy and Corothers McCaslin and the dirt roads of his childhood have all passed like silt in a spring river. We’ve had more rain this April and May than the last two years combined and there is an explosion of green everywhere. The clouds are darkening and birdsongs continue unabated.

17-May:03


BRAQUE

I.

His paintings resist the narrative of memory and the literal: the tablecloth in the painting Pink Tablecloth is red - the red of stopsigns and tomatoes. The red insists the eggs, plums and windowshades obey. Spread out like a beach or wide thigh of red. Red that refused to stay in the tube, shouting from the left and the right: red, red, red.


II.

In his journal he writes: I go my way and continue doing so and that's all there is to it. He paints the textures, the open grain, the living patterns of wood - draughts, lightening, downpours. Wood laid open by the saw, sanded and hammered at, then re-seen and brushed onto the canvas: a clamor of grain and mysterious knotholes. The wood that surrounds us in our homes, accepts the fist we sometimes pound or becomes the shelf of the library that refuses to warp.


III.

In 1911, he sits in his studio and plays Beethoven on a child's accordion, his expression impassive, with large and sturdy feet. Around him is all he will need for fifty years of painting: cheap guitars, smoked-out pipes, chipped porcelain, a dinner plates - stuff you could buy at a junkstore with a fistful of change, but when seen in daylight is steady, adequate, and flawless. When he paints, a chair becomes noteworthy not because it is made of the finest mahogany or designed by the best craftsmen but simply because it has four legs.


IV.

He could not paint a face, a body or even a landscape. Were they too difficult or too loud? In a still life there is no noise, no movement: candlesticks, grapes, the slab of a table. Wallpaper gone out of fashion. The ubiquitous guitar. He burrowed into these things like a termite chewing slowly, as if each brushstroke must be made silent. His studio was so quiet it might have been a cave: even mortar fire or the streets of Paris in 1944 could not disturb it. Can you imagine a television set? In the end he is like everyone: an old man with stiff shoulders who walks with his hands behind him. Yet the wrinkles of his trousers are perfect. He did the work of those particular angels who show us each thing is lovely. That to manufacture things simply so we can later throw them away is to cast ourselves, along with our mountains of trash, into hell.
Bill Scheffel
17, 18-June:03

I finally caught up with Ferenc last night, post NYC visit. He went back into the hospital the day after our visit and stayed for 8 days. Only returned home yesterday. His PCP confirmed that he should get a spinal tap and the whole process didn't actually happen towards mid-way thru his stay b/c the procedure is completely traumatic. So Ferenc went thru with it and yelled the whole time. They stuck him with another resident who didn't know what he was doing (a very steep learning curve) and finally the real doctor came in and asked what was taking so long and took care of inserting the needle himself. Poor Ferenc! When they took him for a MRI across the street, he bolted and escaped the guards and ran down 17th Avenue. He hadn't eated and his plan was to go to the Korean deli and head back to his hospital room - of course he was in his hospital gown and those little green foam shoes they give you when you're admitted which fell apart on the city street. Fortunately, just as he was running past the hospital, his real doctor came out and calmed him down and got him back upstairs. He contracted viral meningitis which accounts for the fevers and they had him on antibiotics on an IV drip the whole time. The fevers just broke yesterday. Today's he's back at the stress of life - shooting slides for his Yaddo application. Christ!

There is an outbreak of dengue fever burning across Cambodia at the moment.

Visited yesterday with my Western doctor, Gail Lee. I have been to Dr. Lee's office several times in the past few years with mystery ailments for which I never come back for despite her diagnosis and advice. Decided it was finally time to establish a physican-patient relationship. And I like her A LOT which says a lot b/c most doctors give me the horrors. If we go to Japan, she is recommending that we get 2 series of hepatitis shots, particular for Hep A which is particularly contractable thru the consumption of raw fish. That would probably be a good one to have administered now, given my diet. Or pre-Taiwan, if I end up going in October with Dad.

I chose Dr. Lee as my doc a long time ago for what seemed like somewhat inane reasons. For the first time in my life, I have a really good insurance plan that could get me private care at some of Boston's best hospitals. Instead, I go to the South Cove Community Healthcare Center located in an old school in Chinatown that is still used for students during the day. I wanted a doc who could understand my cultural needs and decision-making process, vs. somebody that I just couldn't connect to at a bigger, slicker hospital. I was afraid of Dr. Lee for a long time, b/c of my neurotic habit of over-educating myself in what I think my ailments are and than seeking medical help for them. Last time I saw her in Jan., she wanted to put me on neurontin for my headaches and get me long-term meds. I vetoed her treatment plan in favor of Chinese herbs and the headaches cleared up after 2 months. I was admittedly terrified to go back to her and admit that I didn't do as she ordered. But instead, she was very pleased that they went away regardless, and was very pleasant to be around. She is a 2nd generation Chinese American from Toisan.

Pirates of the Caribbean this weekend was brilliant. The heroine of the story is the soccer girl from Bend It Like Beckham, but with long hair. The story's hero is none other than the elvin Legolas, Orlando Bloom, from the Tolkien movies. (I swoon!) Johnny Depp also plays a great role in pirates as Captain Jack Sparrow. Johnny's part was pretty physical, relying a lot on gesture and physical expressions. I remembered his acting in Benny & Joon, another good movie with a fun soundtrack. I saw that movie and wanted to move to the Pacific Northwest when I was a teen.

Fire + Ice has joined the ranks on my restaurant black list. The place is a pseudo Mongolian BBQ for teenagers and early 20 somethings. We should have known it would be a disaster when we saw the hamburger bar, breakfast bar, and later the sauce bar - with no glimpse of spices, soy sauce, or cooking oils. Heck, this isn't Chicago! Que asco! Really horrible and overpriced. Wipe the memory of that meal away... Every town must have 2 things to make for a happy Asian dining experience. A good Mongolian BBQ (yes, even San Bernardino, CA has one of these!) and a boba/bubble tea shop.

I just read in the Washington Post that Indian poet Reetika Vazirani commit suicide and took the life of her young son..

5 poets who I would like to see living together on Reality TV:

1. Jeni Olin*
2. Cedar Sigo*
3. John Yau
4. Bill Corbett
5. Joseph Torra

Jeni and Cedar lived together in Boulder and hung out a lot. It was a good time. Well worth revisiting.

The League of Extraordinary Gentelmen. Sean Connery still looks sexy after all these years. Very literary drawing from classical characters - Dorian Gray, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Tom Sawyer, the Invisible Man and Mina Harker. Dorian Gray was fascinating, painting and all - though his demise in the movie is a result of looking upon his portrait, vs. knifing it and destroying it. The actor who played him reminded me of Johnny Depp. Oscar Wilde has always been one of my favorite authors - ever since Morrissey turned me on to his work. The fairy tales are excellent, but the plays and Dorian Gray, terrific.

I just looked at the long list of lineage holders in the Tibetan tradition. My buddhist name is not handed down from one of the great masters. Never a "pema". Always a drolma.

Perhaps S. represents to me the kind of woman that I am not, the kind of woman I hate, but also would like to be...? Hm, let's hope not.

Is the goal to really say everything? Uncensored?

Had a strange and horrible dream last night about an ex SAIC classmate of mine who is now living in the Boston area, Suzie Buzz. In real life, Suz has always been boy crazy (even in Chicago/Todd Thompson days), over the top in her competitive nature, and very unfocused and not someone that I think of as a girlfriend b/c she doesn't care about anybody except herself - which is apparent by her inability to sustain a conversation about anything except for herself. (Hmm.. could that be harsh, would I say something so cutting of my male friends who act similarly self-indulgently?). So in the dream, she is on the cover of TV Guide (Christ, I don't even watch TV!) with her betrothed - some imaginary hot young thing who is next in line for major political power. They are interviewed in the magazine as saying they have taken their courtship extremley slowly, ala J. Lo and Ben Affleck, and negotiated very carefully what their union should look like. Suz, who's one goal in life is to catch the man of her dreams, has never looked happier and nauseates me in my dream as in real life. She's on the path to become the next Jackie Onassis (vs. a Hilary Clinton). Get out of my dreams! In the dream she wore pink and her hair was yellow like tweety bird, as in real life.

Catherine gave me some great tips on teaching which I have not yet been able to implement. They are teach yr class on Tuesday, think about what you want to do for following week on Wed, and sit down and plan for 3 hours on Thurs (roughly the equivalent time of the length of the course) sounds fair and sensible. Will hopefully keep me from going crazy and obsessing over class every day of the week until the new cycle of suffering takes another turn.

In reading about modern psychotherapy on the internet who's goal is to "Help the patient say everything." I realize that my new therapist Ragan M. gave me a stock answer when I said, so what's this about, how's this work, what's the point, what happens in these sessions. Which makes me immediately mistrustful of him. Can't even communicate with your clients and engage with them on a heart level, but on a canned level? So if the goal of the therapist is to "help the patient say everything" - how would it be for me to say drop the fucking bullshit already. K suggests I solicit suggestions from the Naropa alumni website which I will do next...

Had my first psychotherapy appointment on Wed. evening. My therapist's name is Ragan McNealy. Tres Irish. He was a big proponent of "the couch" which I am very much opposed to at least at this stage in the game. Massachusetts has the highest incidence of psychotherapists having sexual relationships with their clients, [YUCK] and there's a certain intimacy that we have with our therapists. As I'm test driving this one out, I'd like to keep the boundaries in place - boundaries after all exist for a reason. He must have brought up the couch at last 4 or 5 times. But it's his style of therapy, and for me, I'm quite happy to look at things dead on. McNealy made many strange noises as I talked and it was hard for me to concentrate at times on what I was talking about. But than I have to look back at all of my initial relationships with my therapists and realize it wasn't always perfect with Korey in the beginning. I hit the jackpot with Korey. Transpersonal Buddhist therapy. Boy, I miss him.

First therapy appointment tonite. Thank God, boy do I need it.

One of my students, Anurag, googled me before taking the class to see what kind of work I do. Or maybe he had already registered but was curious. I like his style and sensibility and think that he is extremely talented. EXTREMELY. Unique.

I met a fellow buddhist randomly last nite before my class. perhaps the high point of the evening, or the last moment I can recall feeling relaxed, or "present". WangChuk. From California. Appeared to be latin american/european, though hard to decipher of what origin, esp. with a name like WangChuk. He says that his parents put him in a Nepal monastery at age 6 where he stayed for 10 years. Until recently, he was "illiterate" in both languages. Writes in english only and is taking the memoir class next door to my class. His parents are in the Mahayana Preservation lineage and art part of the movement to bring H.h. to Boston this Fall. He had heard of Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche which was heartening. He pegged me right off the bat for a Buddhist. It was the sandalwood mala. Ah, recognition. Hope his class went better than mine.

Well class #2 was a real heartbreak last night. A new student showed up, Fred. Fred is in his late 60s-early 70s and came with wife in tow. She was uncomfortable with leaving him alone and was perhaps motivated also by wanting to sit in and edify herself. Fred was hard to manage behaviorally - waxed long, slow speech, difficult to decipher at times, though very engaged and eager. He did say 2 things which were awfully perceptive about 2 of his peers' work. However, he added an uncomfortable dynamic to the wife and his wife, Mrs. R. inappropriately interjected comments at times. She's not a paid participant of the course and doesn't have this privilege. But if we are to exile her, I suspect that F will become more unmanageable. He didn't listen to me well and there were times where my efforts at cutting him off were unsuccessful. However, he listened to her plenty when she "put him in check" and said, Fred stop explaining, just read the damn poem. Ugh. Uncomfortable. both members of this couple have few boundaries, and I am pretty concerned about protecting the learning experience of the other students. This is just too much like a repeat of the cuban in my Cambridge class.

My heart breaks for Fred. He has survived 2 episodes of prostate cancer, just recovered from a bout of pneumonia which put him in the hospital, and he is now blind in one eye. He has lived in China, traveled the world and lived well, I'm sure. He had a deja vu experience upon seeing and meeting me - perhaps I remind him of some girl in China. sigh.

This is just the kind of thing to drive me over the edge.

Is it that the world is annoying or that I am easily annoyed...

We also stopped at Moby's Vegan Tea House on Rivington Street on the Lower East Side. "Teany". Play on teeny (tiny - the space) and tea-ny(new York). Very white and spartan. They were unfortunately not playing Moby over the sound system. It was a cute little place. A menu of 40+ teas with lengthy descriptions meant to educate the tea drinker - they also serve afternoon high tea - sort of like the Ritz Carleton, or the 4 seasons, but its own unique variation.

I think the highlight of the trip was definitely the Statue of Liberty, cliche as that may sound. I called Tom from the island to make dinner plans and he expressed.. what would the right word be, perhaps? A combination of disdain and bemusement? May be a bit strong, but the idea that the Statue of Liberty is for tourists, which are a certain breed of traveler. Anyways, it was the only time on the whole trip that everyone was able to let go and relax, myself included. And it was about 15 degrees cooler. The Statue of Liberty IS cool because it is an important symbol of American values - it's one of the first images that a certain wave and generation of immigrants were greeted with as they arrived in this country. The Great Colossus. Jenn's Dad, now in his late 50's had never been able to make the journey b/c of a tendency toward seasickness. The second he got on the teetering ferry, he bent over and clung tightly to whatever he could get his hands on to stabilize himself. Kort walked over and pressed a point on his wrist and his nausea went away immediately. K slapped a magnet on the point and Larry was able to enjoy the rest of the trip there and home an hour later. It was a moving thing to see his reaction - b/c of a trick of acupuncture, the quality of Larry's life was improved and he was able to realize a lifelong dream of seeing the Statue.

I think I would stay at the Habitat Hotel again. It is not such a bad place, but the sharing bathroom thing is a drag. Our own neighbors were foul foul people. Taking shits and purposely not flushing. Evil!

On Saturday afternoon, I got a call on K's cell phone from Ferenc. I haven't seen Ferenc since MacDowell, though we have been able to keep in touch and maintain the connection. Ferenc had been sick for the past week and I didn't know about it. So when he called, we were at a flea market near the Port Authority where I bought a flash unit for $5 - anyways, Ferenc called to say that he wouldn't be able to meet us for dinner, because he was in the HOSPITAL! Cripes! Ferenc has the virus, and I am like a mother hen when it comes to worrying about his health. We got there and he had been in the hospital since 11 a.m. that morning when he checked in. He's had fevers accompanied by headaches which move around and have progressively worsened. His blood work is normal and the doctors don't know what to think, so they wanted to give a spinal tap to check for meningitis. We arrived just as he was about to get stuck with the needle. He was very casual about it - it will take 10 minutes. So we're waiting in the holding area and the intern, a little Japanese guy, comes out to tell us that the test didn't work - the needle wouldn't go in. Wouldn't go in? They started to do the test, but Ferenc yelled and freaked out so they didn't go thru with it. Poor guy! The intern had not done a spinal tap and was being talked thru the process. Ferenc couldn't handle it, I don't blame him. The BI ER and staff were pretty terrible - docs and nurses dropping things on the floor, poor facilities. It is a hospital for folks who have no insurance. Anyways, we broke Ferenc out of there and went to dinner in the Village and caught up on his health and other happenings. Right before he got sick, he had spent a marathon day in a darkroom with no AC b/c he was cranking out work for a Yaddo application. I can certainly understand that, but one's health...

I got to see Jenn for the first time in like 7 months, since the episode with the broken glass and nearly having to go to the ER. Forgot to show her my cool scar.

Jenn's dad, brother and niece, Jenn's boyfriend, and her friends Mitchelle and Brian + baby were all part of the tour group. Larry, Jenn's dad lives out in Central Islip and works for public education. He was our tour guide, and with his guidance we got to see the Empire State Bldg (visibility of 1 mile when we were on the observatory deck), Wall Street, and the Empire State Building. Jenn's beau is interesting - 2 years younger than both of us, and in the navy, though not currently on active duty. He made some comments that raised a few eyebrows. K asked Tim where he enjoyed traveling too most to which he replied Thailand. Why Thailand - well certainly not the food (he ate in Indian restaurants while there) or the sights, but he did have plenty to say about the tricks that Thai prostitutes can do. Of course, while his friends were off cavorting, Tim was innocently playing checkers with a young girl. I wonder if he has any idea how young those girls are, or how awful their lives are. GRRRR! Ok - one other off color comment the Tim man made - while on the boat to the Statue of Liberty, he said to Jenn, "you may have steak and potatoes at home, but every once in a while you still need to have a hamburger." This came across as more of a life philosophy more than any sort of dietary/relationship commentary. Faithful? Who knows.

New York is a fun place. Lots to do and see, but not the first place I think of when I think of relaxing.

back from a weekend in new york. it was hot and sticky and I was highly irritable.

Last nite at Charly's with Jim and a poet from SF, David Larsen. Made me crazy. Larsen alluded to a rough life, being a "drug guy" and aspiring for self-mastery though wanting, if anything to achieve desire. Made some wise ass comment about Buddhists which spurred Jim on to say "I want to punch the Dalai Lama in the face." Just kidding. Argggghhhh!!!

So the Dalai Lama will be visiting Boston this Fall to lecture in Cambridge and at the Fleet Center. This is a rescheduling of his speaking engagement last year, when he had to cancel due to stomach illness. The rumor is that His Holiness may have stomach cancer. I've heard also that he may be the last Dalai Lama. Sniff! H.h. will also be in Central Park in September and doing a teaching in NY....

I have not seen His Holiness since 1999 when I took a week off from Chicago to go down to Bloomington, Indiana for the Kalachakra teachings. There is a Tibetan Center affiliated with a university in Bloomington which H.h.'s brother helped establish. The teachings were in a remote area with stupas erected on the land and under a huge air conditioned tent. About 3,000 people attended and event was telecast on to 2 televisions. The Dalai Lama seemed very far away, though closer than I may ever get. He spoke in Tibetan and his translator interpreted the teachings. I stayed for the bodhisattva teachings, took the bodhisattva vows, and renewed my refuge vows.

Feeling lately after the 5 year anniversary that I am really overdue to renew these commitments.

Technically, I am supposed to renew by vows every day. Yeah, like that happens.

Hmmm... so although this blog is supposed to be a private vs. a public post, it is still fully viewable to anybody with a computer if they have the web address. So much for privacy.

Jim says that the things that I write about on my blog(s) are "sophisticated" and "cultural". Does that = inaccessible, I wonder? I do go to movies and participate in more mainstream culture - but that may be more on account of Kort than anything else. Up until I moved to Dallas a few years ago, I hadn't seen a movie in a theater in like years - K's introduced me to pop pleasures - like Mexican and Indian Food. Things besides Asian.

Charlies Angels. A very cute flick. Demi Moore looked GOOD- Jim is convinced that there was some liposuction going on. Grrrrr.... I liked Crispin Glover quite a bit in his role. He's such a weirdo. I really liked him in the Back to the Future movies in the early 80s. Now he is doing these sinister, less wholesome roles.

I am always a neurotic, poorly rested basket case before embarking on travel.

Interview with the board members of the Armenian Museum was pretty bizarre. I met with one of the founders of the 30+ year old organization. A lovely little guy in tennis shorts and a warm-up jacket. I talked a bit about the parallels between the Armenian and Chinese cultures - both ancient, interested in myth, folklore, ritual. Also the disconnect and assimilation of the younger 2nd generation Americans and how an institution like the Museum could serve the community in bridging the gap and providing educational opportunities. That may have resonated for the board member who regaled me with many tales of his experiences with Chinese, and Chinese American. He ended our interview with an anecdote of reading a novel on an airplane by a Chinese American author who wrote about her parents in a less than honorific way. He was furious! During the course of the interview, he said to me, "You're very talented and you'd be a great asset.. but you don't smile enough!". Hmm.. how to come up with a come back to that one. Logistically the interview room was a nightmare. Lots of street noise. The woman that I might be replacing was told the same thing in terms of smiling. She calls it "bow-tie humor".

I am finally starting to develop a suntan. And probably a new batch of freckles.

Reading Xtina Strong's blog earlier this morning. She writes of estranged relationship with her brother and her mother's attitude re: family relations - i.e. why don't you call him? couldn't help but think of my own conflicted relationship with Ed. we have some things to talk about, for sure, but the nature of those conversations would unfortunately cause unhappiness and chaos vs. anything like opening or transformation. sigh. I often wonder if he would have preferred a little brother, or no sibling at all. But than I bear half or at least a third of family expectations which gives him some relief.

Yusuf Karsh, the portrait photographer was Armenian.

I have a 2nd job interview tonite with the Armenian Museum in Watertown. Meeting with 2 of the Trustees. Should be interesting. They will be asking about my "long-term" plans.

Had my first teaching session last nite with Grub Street. I have 4 students, 2 software analysts, a technical editor, and an ABD. The ABD is one of Robert Pinsky's mentees and moved out here from Berkeley to study with him. She's also taught classes in poetry FOR Grub Street. Geez, you think somebody would have warned me! Ah well. Some terrific writing to come out of last nite's session and my anxiety and apprehension relaxed after about 1/2 an hours. The software engineers wrote great farcical love poems based on the language of their everyday life, words like:

silence suppression
packets
thread
reject
review
error
bug
spam
sandbox

And from the technical editor, who's also Chinese American (hooray!):

due date
please clarify
avoid should
spot check
blurborama

Fun!

Went to an interesting show on Thursday nite at TT the Bear's which I have not set foot in since being an undergrad at BU and seeing my roommate's band perform. Joan as Policewoman and Milo opened for Smokey and Miho. Smokey is Beck's guitarist and Miho is Miho Hatori of Cibo Matto. Strange thing to see a Japanese girl belting out Portuguese bossanova songs (Badem Powell) - no Anton Jobim or Joao Gilberto tunes. The back-up singer was really cute - either Chinese or Japanese with a T-shirt that said "love is the message". She seemed to be much more relaxed and expressive in her singing. Smokey's accent was not great. Also Miho's rapport with the crowd was a bit flip. "America, the birthplace of freedom" she quipped. She admitted to not knowing any of what she was singing about (self-incrimination!). Milo was an interesting figure - a petite little 1 man act on acoustic guitar - very Beck/Dylanesque - liked in particular a song he sung about "sounding like french guy". froggy froggy. He had a handle bar moustache and seemed extremely challenged when it came to engaging with the audience. The drummers for Joan and Smokey were both on fire.

Great 4th of July weekend. Spent it with Kort on Walker's rooftop in the Back Bay. Prime viewing for the fireworks which loomed big right over us. Streamers, dandelions, and willow patterned explosions. Brought my camera to snap a few long exposures. Anxious to see how they turn out. Walker's friends were an interesting assortment - highly professional, upper class strata. A curator from the MFA who reminded alot of Niles on Frazier - and his girlfriend would be Merriss #2.

I am seeing my best friend Jenn next week in NYC. Over the weekend, she went to a party in L.A. and met a boy named Andy, like her first love Andy Shouse. Jenn and Andy stayed up talking about books and music until 5:30 a.m. and hearts were exploding . I have mixed feelings about her current beau . Tim's in the navy --big gap in class and educational backgrounds - still, they are working on something together. like me and Kort?

Rejoined the gym yesterday. Had to pay a $80 fee, prepaying for 3 months of privileges. A big drag, but I'm determined to get back in shape before the fall. Of course, seeing the lovely ladies in Charlie's Angels had an impact on my body image, but so did growing up in California. Demi Moore looked amazing. Apparently she is on a raw food diet. She pays her personal chef $1000 a day to cook for her, that is prepare meals for her. Trying to convince K of doing the raw food diet. I'm ready to give up beef and pork again. Maybe even go veg. Working out isn't going to do much if the diet doesn't undergo changes too.

We went this weekend to the Saigon Water Puppet theater show at the Cyclorama downtown, a huge dome like building on Tremont Street. The folk art has been practiced for over a thousand years and is unique to Viet Nam. The puppeteers stand in a pool of water and are concealed behind a backdrop - a fake grass curtain in this case, and they manipulate the puppets on long bamboo rods. The stories told thru the puppetry are of rural life - harvest in the rice fields, oxen plowing the fields, farmers chasing a fox away from a duck. I loved it. In some vignettes, "fabulous" animals - unicorn and dragon danced and submerged quietly into the deeps of the water upon making their stage exit. Something really magical about that. When the puppeteers came out behind the backdrop at the end of the performance to take their bows, they drifted out quietly, like the puppets coming out from behind the screen and on to the water stage.

CMH announced at lunch that she is resigning from the Center active at the end of the fiscal year (September). What a relief. All year she has been singing the song, "I'm a researcher, I'm a researcher". Suddenly, she's a clinician and research is not her life path, the big picture, really she just doesn't want to waste her time applying for a big NIH grant that the boss has dictated that she and DRL apply for. She was tremendously condescending when she delivered the news - "Well you should understand - after all you have an 'artist's soul' and you certainly can't make art [in this job]." I did a scooby doo on that one - as fucking if. Good riddance to negativity Ms. Energy Vampire!

"What is in you must come out. It is the silence that makes you miserable." - Jim Behrle