Category: Writing

Aneurythms: A Meditation

October 3rd, 2015



     What if everyone lived as if they had some deeply-lodged bodily defect just as likely to be harmless over the course of a life as it was to be instantaneously deadly? Some aneurysm (think of the character Nathan in TV’s “Six Feet Under”), some blood clot, some little knot of physiological catastrophe waiting to unravel (or not) on its own schedule, heedless of whatever our daily efforts to count calories, reduce stress, eat organic, exercise daily?
     What if, moreover, this lurking depth charge couldn’t be detected? Was immune to X-rays, sonograms, CT-scans — just shifted around somehow, like a particle escaping a clear read, Heisenberg-like, eluding us because of our very efforts to find it?
     Some of us might sink into despair. Our will and motivation depleted, our outlook blackened by fatalism, rage. We might become paralyzed by depression and nihilism, unable to do much else but wait, seething, for the end.
     Some of us might fling ourselves into hedonism. Canvas the riches and delights of the senses for experiences we haven’t yet tasted, & which we might as well dive headlong into: gluttony, orgies, life-savings-burning gambling binges a la the 1995 film “Leaving Las Vegas”, sustained benders of alcohol and drugs. Or we might pursue milder, less decadent versions of this strategy: bucket-list tours of the wonders of the world, or surveys of thrilly experiences we’ve always been too timid to try: skydiving, mountain-climbing, bungee-jumping, the like.
     Some us might change nothing. Realizing there’s nothing to be gained from worrying — nothing we can do to locate, and therefore nullify the possible threat — some of us might just carry on as we were. Living our lives in our own unique fingerprint blend of vice, virtue, meanness, kindness, selflessness, selfishness.
     And some of us might change much more than our, say, reluctance to indulge in habits of the sensuous, or our lifelong fear of scaling a sheer cliff-face (not that there’s anything with either of those decisions, mind you). Some of us might decide to scale much steeper cliff faces, dive down from much loftier heights and with much flimsier parachutes: some of us might decide to change our souls.
     Some of us might decide that we want to have one and only one sensation when that final moment comes: peace and love. That we want one and only one thought: “I tried hard to rise above what I was given, I did some good. I gave more to the world than I took.” And that we have to change whatever we can in ourselves to ensure that this comes to pass.
     What peace? The peace of the spirit at ease with itself, integrated.
     What love? Love for the universe from which it was formed, love for the universe into which it is set to dissolve.
     What was given? A flawed body, mind and spirit (as they all are). Molded by flawed environment, by flawed parents (as they all are).
     How to rise above? Acts of selflessness, acts of kindness, unflinching awareness of one’s errors and maladjustments, some congenital and some learned, ceaseless struggle with oneself to act in love toward all creation, including oneself.
     What was taken from the world? Air to breathe. Shelter in which to sleep. Food to eat. Chance after chance when mistakes were made. A brain, a body, a spirit healthy and developed enough to set the foundation for survival, success, pleasure, contentment. Love, support and tenderness from family, friends, lovers. The chance live in a country and under a government that creates the conditions for flourishing, when so many on this planet do not.
     And what was given back? One’s expression of one’s truest self — as entertainer, mother, father, lover, artist, builder, laborer, healer, soldier, cook, gardener, philanthropist, ruler, teacher, priest — delivered from the largest stage to which we can aspire, and to the greatest swath of creation we can reach, be it plant, animal or human — in love. Put another way: the gift given back could be one’s own self entire, healed, integrated, fulfilled.
All writing © copyright C. Way / 2015

[posted by: C Way at 8:57 PM]

[file under: misc ||| non-fiction & essays ||| Writing]

Survive & Serve

September 29th, 2015

     As we age, as our responsibilities mount, as we build families and grow our circles of interdependence, we will notice, accompanying the sea-levels of our stress beginning to rise, the falling away of our self-time. Solitary projects and self-directed pursuits once paramount to us slough away; concerns and to-dos that we felt defined us (accurately or no) begin to recede.
     Some of this is temporary, some of this is permanent. Some of this may be upsetting to us, and some of this may be like a permission we finally grant ourselves to stop weighing ourselves down with the freight of imperative. Most importantly, some of this molting of our daily “musts” seems to me deeply necessary, and healthy, and not just because our aging selves now need to fulfill the biological impetus of the species and tend to offspring. It’s necessary and healthy in another way: in the way that moving out of our apartment or house helps us refine our belongings, purge the ballast as we clean out closets, re-discover cherished friends and memories as we stumble upon long-hidden mementos and photos from decades ago. It clears away mental clutter and (re-?)introduces us to our cores.
      This shifting of our priorities happens for many reasons, but the shearing & melting away of mental unnecessaries I’m most interested in is that which is powered by a constant low-level state of anxiety, anxiety that is the inevitable condition of raising children, aging, and growing intimate with our mortality (let alone doing all this in a transitional epoch, such as ours, fully in the throes of technological upheaval). This stress and anxiety acts over time to erode our defenses, shake away excrescences, chisel at the crust — reveal our true purposes to ourselves. Month after month, year after year, living in this state forces us to discover what’s absolutely necessary to our mental and spiritual survival. The steady creek of this anxiety wears channels in our soil, sluices our loam until only the precious, precious stones of us remain. And what are those stones? They are our callings, our final sine quae nons, our missions & duties. For me — and I partially credit talks with my dear friend J. with discovering this — those stones are two. Survival and servitude.
      What is survival in this context? It’s not escaping injury or imminent death, which is what the noun suggests to most of us. It’s nothing so dramatic. What I mean by “survival” is just doing the day-to-day work of simply showing up. The most baseline toil there is, that of the rhizome, of the ant, the dung beetle pushing its cargo: little incremental living. Motion. Getting up and going. Shower, shave, out the door. Getting sun, breeze and rain all over you in the meantime. Living in a consistent, healthy enough way to keep the machine going, keep that incredible complex and still dimly-understood meat & bone machine clicking and whirring for as long as possible: for you and your kin. It’s being among other humans — some a joy, some a trial, most in-between — as you make your way to work. It’s waiting in lines, climbing stairs, barely making it to meetings. Mucking through the day’s little crises & rushes, meeting the day’s deadlines. Washing dishes, brushing teeth, bed. And doing it all over again the next day. And again. And again. Simple survival, keeping the blood flowing. This humblest of daily works is the precondition for anything more complex, noble and beautiful we aspire to in life, it is the under-acknowledged foundation. There are no sweet grapes to pluck without much weeding and watering.
      With survival established, we turn to serving. What does it mean to serve? For many people, servitude connotes thrall, being yoked to some task against one’s will. This is not the sense in which I use the term. For me, in this context, to serve is to voluntarily sacrifice one’s desires and place some other human’s (or animal’s, or plant’s) comfort and wishes above your own. It means acting in selflessness and sacrifice. Deciding not to watch some half hour youtube show and instead calling up that friend who’s having a hard time and could use a listening ear and supporting voice. Putting off a nap so you can help that neighbor you only kind of know move out of his apartment because you know he doesn’t have anyone else. Putting your novel away for an hour so you can make that card for your grandma that’s been on your mind, the one you know she’ll love if you glue that one photo in it of you and your family. Even holding your tongue when you wish to snipe back at someone’s ungraciousness. It’s the discomfort of one’s own pleasures held in abeyance, mixed with the pleasure and fulfillment of knowing you are the direct cause of another human’s relief. That you’re adding one more drop of precious relief into the general global bucket of suffering. This is what I mean by serving.
      To survive, to serve. These are my stones, and knowing them and, much more importantly, acting upon them, gives me a new kind of strength. What are yours? I don’t need to read about them in a comments section, more importantly, I ask you to meditate on them, meditate on the ways in which life is beginning to or has already revealed to your core imperatives. And how you can now honor that revelation through works.
All writing © copyright C. Way / 2015

[posted by: C Way at 6:08 AM]

[file under: LAUDS ||| misc ||| non-fiction & essays]

“Ahh, That’s Nice”

September 21st, 2015

      I was coming up the stairs one morning, coming out of the Lex/59th NQR stop … I think at 61st. This was about three months ago. It was a rough time. I was finishing up my Masters program and was in the crucible. Finals, my Masters thesis, health problems, money problems, all of it was converging. So as I trundled up the stairs to class I was in mindhole. A mind-slough.
      I saw people side by side making their way up, slow folks, fast folks, fat folks, lean folks. Legs and legs. Canes, puppies, big shopping bags. The traffic thinned out near the top until there was just one pair of legs ahead of me, those of an trim old lady wearing funky sneakers. I felt a breeze, a late summer breeze, a promise of the easing up of a sticky season of stifling city heat. I felt it as I climbed the stairs, but it didn’t really move me much, I was too sunk in my brain-bog. Then I hear, in a rich, almost lusty voice: “Ahh, that’s nice.” It wasn’t hammy, or too loud, or exhibitionistic, it was a genuine spontaneous expression of deep pleasure. It was the old lady’s voice.
      I was startled. I’m embarrassed to say that I was even irritated; I was in my bog and wanted only external input that mirrored or confirmed my distorted mindstate. This sprightly old woman and her little bon vivant moment was an assault of daylight upon a pack of rats shrinking under a pile of damp blankets in an abandoned shed. It just hurt my eyes, made my mind scurry back deeper into itself.
      But as I kept watching her legs, and as we both finished our climb up to street-level, I started to have a different reaction. First, curiosity. I watched her legs as if by doing so I could gain insight into how blessedly easy it could be for certain individuals, like this woman, to tap into pure existential pleasures. The simple universal pleasures of, say, stretching, having sunshine splash on your face, taking a deep breath and exhaling. Then I felt longing. I yearned to have the capacity to just spontaneously utter — no, not just utter, but feel — the way she had, too.
      Then I remembered that I do, I do have that capacity, and I can be as spontaneous as I want to be. As is so often the case with what I perceive to be my obstacles, nothing was in my way but myself. I emerged from the stairs feeling the breeze across my face, arms, legs. I started my stroll, took a deep breath in through my nostrils, held it in, exhaled the same way, and knew myself to be a simple body. A body that, at any moment, could just be in that moment, as a body, feeling the pleasure of simple things. It was up to me when and how often to draw from this never-ending well of pleasure, and exult in the gift of being a breathing, sensing, sentient being. And practice this not just as a reprieve from the mind’s damp shed & cold bog — though it certainly works in that regard, as I found that morning — but as a vital end unto itself, one which can nourish our wellbeing, put our fretting in perspective, even alter our brain chemistry. Blessed life is so brief. We do an injustice to ourselves and, often by extension, those close to us if we don’t stop as often as we can to relish the modest, fleeting joys of existence.
All writing © copyright C. Way / 2015

[posted by: C Way at 9:01 AM]

[file under: LAUDS ||| non-fiction & essays ||| Writing]

On the Soul

January 23rd, 2015

     When I think of the Soul, I get lazy and soft, as if I’m in a hammock, sipping scotch, half-reading Harper’s & pleasantly semi-aware of the sounds of distant kids playing soccer in a field – parents rooting them on, a coach’s whistle – or sounds of a nearby sidewalk cafe on a balmy summer afternoon, all ambient-murmury with muted laughter and silverware clinks. In other words, I slip straight to avoidant floppy-head mode; I change the channel to something lulling and daydream inducing.
     Then I remind myself: back to work man. Soul.
     Right. So: Right now, today, I believe in the Soul. As what? As a spirit counterpart to our existence, an entity not definable in terms of terrestrial physics and our understanding of dimensions, materials, properties, gravity. An alien stuff. An alien stuff that’s elsewhere, in a realm beyond but also co-existent with us. A place as close as possible to us as can be – but impossible to reach or perceive under quotidian circumstances. A stuff that’s tethered to us invisibly, impacted by what we think and do in our Terran existence, such that after our meat vessel dies, soul remains, more or less atrophied or strengthened by our terrestrial decisions, and through some divine logic & mechanism then re-tethered to another Terran (or maybe other planet’s) organism, the nature of the selection of which tether being a function of what state our soul was in at time of our earthly passing, and so on, again and again, infinitum (I don’t believe in a stoppage to this process as desirable or possible — the cycle is the point and there is no release from it, and that, my fronds, is A-OKAY).
     So yes, today at least, I do believe in something like what is commonly understood to be “soul” – and something akin to what many religious traditions have understood as reincarnation – but beyond the above loosely-sketched speculation, I can say nothing else about its substance, characteristics, dimensions or process(-es), because I don’t believe it operates subject to laws and measures humans have encountered.
     Now where’s my fucking scotch.

[posted by: C Way at 6:25 PM]

[file under: misc ||| non-fiction & essays]

Help Adam Carolla & Podcasters Defend Against Patent Trolls

May 4th, 2014

     Do you know what a patent troll is? A disgusting class of morally-bankrupt lawyer vermin who sniff around buying random patents just so they can bully people they claim are infringing on said patents. The burden of proof in such cases is always on the defendant, and patent trolls, through sheer mafioso intimidation, often win their settlement (since the cost of going to court for defendants is so prohibitively high, patent law being one of the most expensive kinds of litigation out there). One of many sad symptoms of our government’s inability and/or unwillingness to enact meaningful legal reform.
     Here’s the crux: podcasts are in trouble because of these shit-hearted crooks. Adam Carolla, comedian & creator of one of the most popular podcasts on the net, is being sued for millions by patent trolls. Why? Because his comedy podcast presents itself in episodic form. Apparently there’s a patent on presenting podcast media in discrete episodic units (which in itself is a jawdropping absurdity on the order of a word like “box” being copyrighted by FedEx). To provide the actual patent legalese: he’s being sued for using a “system for disseminating media content representing episodes in a serialized sequence”.
     The mere existence of such a patent is scary enough — suggesting a whole intellectual trove of similar hyper-granular patents that could be seized upon and exploited in similar fashion — but what it means for the modern medium of podcasts is scarier yet: everyone would have to pay. A lot. This could cripple podcast ownership and expression as we know it, since most podcasters are small-time artists or entertainers who wouldn’t be able to operate as they do now if the Carolla case goes the way of the patent trolls, and if the patent trolls thereby gain precedent leverage.

     So, whether you hate Carolla or love him, if you consume podcasts or if you are disgusted by patent trolls, learn more about the issue here, and help Carolla out with a donation of any size:
     Thanks for tuning in — Adios!

[posted by: C Way at 9:40 AM]

[file under: Comedic Arts ||| misc ||| SLAGS]