“The world of dew
is the world of dew.
And yet, and yet –”
– Kobayashi Issa, 1763-1827
Mosquito at my ear –
does it think
Here is a beautiful prose poem by James Fenton on Mexico that celebrates attention to place, while also offering a primer on how to ignite creativity – always a solitary exercise. A friend reminds me of the story of Fenton riding on the top of a North Vietnamese army tank that breached the gates of the Presidential Palace during the fall of Saigon in 1975. Has any great poet had such a send-off story to mark the eve of their career? His experience in Vietnam and Cambodia from summer 1973 form sections of All the Wrong Places (1988), a collection of essays.
“The guy has a chicken neck, soft rolls of fat under his chin, wispy white hair. He’s like a little boy in front of the most beautiful girl in the village. His eyes never leave me. He says go out, go to room. I think: Go out with this old animal or not?
“I tell myself again – Pai, if pay enough, never say no. I decide to test his money. A little bar-fly girl in a black and white school uniform flits by in her white sneakers, bouncing up and down like this to Proud Mary on the jukebox.
“I see that little girl likes you, I say, using my best smile. I help you. You want her? Only $60 dollar.
“He said the name of Jesus, the God. ‘No, honey. I like you. Don’t you want to go with me?’
“I want to go, I said, but I have to ask for a lot of money. I have to pay rent. I have two children.”
“My head was a broken plate from tequila the night before. After work all the dancers went to Mr. Spicy’s. The men went crazy buying us drinks. We had a lot of fun. Now I feel like dry shit.
“He says again, ‘Don’t you like me, darlin’? I need another tequila.’
“‘Me, too, I said. I start to feel better because that was my 74th drink this month. I make 65 drinks before the first twelve days of the month. Now the mamasan knows I work hard to make money. $1 a drink for me, and $3 for the bar.
“Then the old animal says he needs more tequilla to make his carrot grow. When I don’t understand what they say, I smile and laugh. ‘Me too,’ I said. One more dollar. He smiles and nods his head. Then two young Australians threw ping pong balls onto the dance platform. Little Blue pulled off the bottom of her costume, picked up a ball and shot it back at them. Big cheers. I can’t do that. Everybody clapped their hands and yelled. Momasan walks around the dance floor, ‘Tomorrow, everything is 50 percent off,’ she says. ‘Not me,’ said Blue.
“The old animal said, ‘Ok, put up or shut up.’ I know what shut up means so I stopped talking. Maybe he will buy me another drink.
“I told him, ‘You give me $100, Ok? We go now.’ That’s how I got the $30 to send to my mother this month. My mom’s in Burma in jail. Two more years. I need her with me. I’m a baby too, really. I need her close. I want to cry all the time.
“Tomorrow night Blue and I go to the temple for Makha Bucha, about the Buddha talking to people. I will pray to take care of my mother and live to be old with my children.”
And the next night the temples filled with people. The moon was big and red like tens of millions of nights before on this night in February. Pai and her two children prayed for her mother in Burma, and she prayed to have a good heart and be a good mother.
When sitting in meditation, say, “That’s not my business” with every thought that appears. – From No Ajahn Chah
My friend Lary Wallace tackles why stoicism is largely misunderstood and not viewed as an early, elegant philosophy, a view I’ve come to share and ponder. The whereof probably stems from the early coupling of stoicism with Sparta and the fearsome emergence of the single-minded, nearly unconquerable Greeks of that era, who encouraged endurance in the face of physical hardship. Endurance translates to a honing of the will, or a view of the mind, of what Wallace calls “indifference.” That’s a really tricky term with shades akin to the Buddhist idea of “letting go,” a way to encourage non-attachment – again a tricky term.
When we’re in this area of Truths, deep understanding, words blur and it brings us to a place where truths slide around and through each other, a philosophical fusion. Anyway, Lary is, as usual, on target in his essay, which can be found here in Aeon, a new online cultural journal that’s one of the best serious websites going now. Look at it…
David Carr, 58, died on the job at The New York Times on Thursday. He was one of the great ones: no pretence, accurate, compassionate, humble. He knew his job as a journalist was not to be part of the story, but to serve the story through facts, from which a truth might be born in and of itself, or as part of a larger story pieced together from multiple sources. I haven’t read his autobiography, The Night of the Gun, which chronicled his drug addiction during the 1980s, but I’m sure it’s him, and it’s good. Here’s a link to media bistro with Carr talking about his first big break in journalism. Also see the other videos featuring Carr at this site.