We're All Going to Die Someday

“Get-up. Get moving. You know you want to go to that wildflower hike and by the look of the sun, it’s already 8 or 9.”

I know. I know. But this bed just feels so good. Can’t you feel how soft everything is, how warm. I’m not ready to move yet. You know you want to stay here too.

“OK, but only for a little while.”

My body sinks deeper into the bed, pulls the blanket in tighter. My mind goes to that place somewhere between dreams and reality where everything seems possible….

“OK. Time to get-up. Time to move….You can do it. Just push off the covers, put on some clothes and get moving. It’ll be fine once you get started.”

OK.

My mind is already moving toward the kitchen, wondering what to make for breakfast. My body curls up into a ball...

“You said you were getting up. Come on.”

Yeah, I know, but it’s not gonna happen. I know you want to start the day. I know you think it’s wrong to stay in bed. But how can something that feels so good, be so wrong? Besides when’s the last time you had a day without any appointments? Any commitments? Any responsibilities?

Yeah, I guess you’re right.

My mind and body float off somewhere up into a cloud.


That’s how my day starts. I don’t have a clock in my room. Keeping track of time by seconds, minutes, and hours is like chopping a person up into tiny little bits and then saying each piece is the same. I track time by the sun, the moon, and the seasons.

I finally get-up, put on my clothes, make my breakfast of beans and eggs – a taste of Guatemala. I turn on the computer. 10:15. I guess I missed that nature hike. Oh well, I think I got more out of sleeping anyway. I stream in some music from one of the many college stations around the country – KWVA right out of Eugene, Radio K from Minnesota, and KAOS out of Olympia. KAOS, that’s the best name ever for a radio station.

We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day – interesting lyrics to start the day off I think.

Wow, a whole day to myself with nothing to do. I used to have days like this all the time. Now I can’t remember when I last had a whole day without one slice of time where I had to be somewhere. I’ve got no commitments, no responsibilities, no goals, no plans, no schedule, no agenda, no nothing. Nothing to do but nothing. Freedom baby. That’s what I’m talking about.

Now what do I do? I could call Beth, see if she wants to hang out. No, today is a day all for myself. Let’s see, I can scan Don’s drawings for my zine, I can work on the eisil, I can go take pictures, draw, paste e-mails into my journal, read. There’s Bukowski, there’s Snow Falling on Cedars, shit, there’s all kinds of stuff I can be doing. How about the coffee shop? Yeah, I haven’t been to a coffee shop for awhile. So, I gather my journal, my books, and my water and I walk out the door.

The air is fresh. It smells of spring. There’s a steady breeze and everything is in bloom. Spring is the best season of them all. It speaks of life. But still I can’t help singing... We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you're not immortal...

I get to the coffee shop, scan the people, look for cute girls, look for anyone interesting at all. There’s a girl with every square inch of her table covered in books and papers. Must be a student. I go in and order tea. The girl behind the counter is kind of cute. “I like your necklace,” I say as she hands me my tea. “Thanks, my partner bought it for me in Peru.” I knew she was going to say that.

I go back to the tables outside wondering why anybody would want to sit inside when they could be out here. I pick a table in the sun - no other will do - and I glance over to see what that girl is working on so studiously. Venga Espanol. Interesting.

“Are you a first year Spanish student,” I ask her hoping to recruit another student for the class I’m going to take - and just wanting to talk in general. “Actually, I teach first and second year students,” she says and then goes on to tell me all kinds of things about language, culture, and education, and how they’re all related. She taught English and helped build schools in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. She studied in a program called Education and Social Change, and now she wants to teach Spanish here in America. Language and social change are obviously her passion.

I admire people like that – people that have a clear vision on how to make the world a better place and go for it. My visions change from day to day, moment to moment, so I have a hard time going after anything.

After while, I go back to my table. She packs her books onto her bike, and pedals past me. “Bye John.” “Bye Monique.”

I sit at the busy intersection writing in my journal, watching people go by. The sun peaks its head out from behind the big, grey clouds now and then. I feel like a cat with nothing to do, but sit in the sun, stretch, and enjoy the day. And I still can’t get that song out of my head….We’re all going to die, we’re all going to die, we’re all going to die some day. Sing along if you’re not immortal. Then the whistling kicks in, wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh. Wshhh, shhh, shhh… shhh, shhh, shh.

What Moves You (Part II)

This is the 2nd post in the series. Click here for the 1st.

Ty and Nat started talking about a conversation they had a while ago with some bigwigs up in Portland. They were having dinner with said bigwigs when everyone started going around the table and describing what drove them through life. Natalie’s driving force was change. This didn’t surprise me.

I first met Natalie and Tyrone immediately after the Ralph Nader campaign in 2000. We were fresh, young idealists, and change was in the air. We shared a vision – one where people lived in tune with the environment and in tune with each other - and we firmly believed with a little bit of hard work, we could make it happen. We had no idea how much the odds were stacked against us, but the cold, hard door of reality slammed in our faces quickly enough. Years later, we’re no longer the fresh, young idealists we used to be. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Natalie said, referring to the change we all hoped for, “but I still believe it could happen, and that’s what keeps me going.”

I knew Tyrone’s answer before he even said it – compassion. Tyrone’s a reader, a thinker, a philosopher – an Eastern philosopher to be exact. Mixed between Natalie’s copy of Marx’s Kapital, and various offerings by Noam Chomsky, you’ll find books by The Dali Lama, Ken Wilbur, and other Eastern-type philosophers. Those are Tyrone’s. But my knowledge of his answer came from more than that. Tyrone and I are alike in a lot of ways – not all ways, but many – especially in matters of the mind and spirit.

Then, like I hoped they would, like I knew they would, they asked what drove me. “Whew, that’s a good question,” I said looking away, taking a deep breath, trying to concentrate. I knew the answer, but how to put it into words??? So, I just jumped in. “I want to feel alive. I want to feel everything,” I said thinking for a moment, “but then sometimes it all gets to be too much, and I don’t want to feel anything.” They were looking at me intensely. So I went on. “And it changes from day to day. Sometimes I’m driven by selfish desires and other times they’re more altruistic, and I can feel those forces inside me struggling all the time.” I took a deep breath again. My heart was pounding, my blood was pumping, my skin tingling. Tyrone and Natalie were nodding their heads in agreement – egging me on. “What I really want is freedom. I want to live in a world where people can be free to be who they really are without worrying about what others think, where people don’t have to be afraid to be different. I guess what I really want is a world where people don’t judge each other so harshly.” I looked at them, and they looked at me, and there was nothing more to say. At that moment, there were no more questions to answer, no more fears to slay, no more doubts to vanquish.

“Conformity,” Tyrone said and I knew he understood. We all knew. We knew because our answers were just different ways of saying the same thing. Where there is compassion, there is no judgment. Judgment can only occur when you separate yourself from someone or something, and if you have compassion, you cannot separate. As the Buddhists, Taoists, Hindus or any wise man or any wise woman would say, that’s when you become one. And I have to believe in a world where that’s possible. I have to believe in change. Because if I didn’t, I really wouldn’t see any point in anything.

What Moves You

This is the first in a 2 part series....

After a long, hard week Tyrone and Natalie were on a mission for oysters and champagne. “Meet us over at the Marche,” Tyrone told me over the phone. “I don’t know. That place is pretty fancy isn’t it?” “Not in the bar,” he promised. That was good, cause I was wearing my black hoody complete with three holes resembling a ghost’s face on my sleeve, a pair of jeans, and a ratty pair of skateboard shoes that should’ve been replaced a long time ago. And I wasn’t about to change what I was wearing just to meet-up for a few drinks. Some people are all worried about style. My style is a lack of style.

I rode over there through the surprisingly warm March evening. When I walked in Ty and Nat were sitting there, champagne flutes in hand, and a big silver tray full of ice and empty oyster shooters on the half shell on table. “We saved one for you,” they said. “Cool, I haven’t had oysters in a while." I ate it. Mmmm-hmmm, it was the best oyster I ever had – fresh from the Northwest. The Marche is a little too snazzy for my taste, but all their ingredients are local. So, as far as snazzy places go, they’re ok.

We were all in a good mood for some reason. Maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the company, maybe it was the champagne and beer - probably all three. We talked about things like old roommates, Tennessee Williams’ Streetcar Named Desire, and sustainability. Natalie is the “sustainability expert” for an organic foods distributor, and we’re all a bunch of ex-Green Party radicals, so, we pretty much always end-up talking sustainability at some point. I looked at the champagne, the oysters, and thought of Natalie’s “sustainability” conference stories - the Hilton motels, the flame grilled salmon, the constant flying from one place to another. I saw nothing but contradictions. But I kept my opinions to myself. Who am I to burst their bubble? I've got plenty of my own contradictions. Besides their hearts are in the right place. Yeah, yeah, I know. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well then, take me to hell.

Continued in Part II.

Krishnamurti

No website of mine would be complete without paying proper homage to Krishnamurti, which is actually kind of ironic, since Krishnamurti would say something like, “You should pay homage to no man.” Then he’d probably go on and say … Let’s think about this. When you say, I look up to so and so, aren’t you placing them in position to look down on you. Aren’t you placing them in a position higher than yourself? Is this fair to you? Is it fair to the person you admire? To place someone in a position as teacher, guru, leader, or some other fixed role, and you as student, follower, disciple, this is a dangerous action. To call someone a teacher or guru, you are placing certain expectations on that person, your own expectations of what you believe a teacher or a guru to be. When you do that, are you not placing limits on whom that person really is? Aren’t you, in a way, closing off your own mind? And by placing yourself in a position as a follower, a disciple, aren’t you taking the easy way out, giving up your own responsibility? Aren’t you saying, well I don’t know what to do, so I’m just going to follow this person. Or I don’t know what to think, so I’ll just believe what this person tells me. When you follow somebody, aren’t you giving up your responsibility to think for yourself? There are no teachers. There are no gurus. We are all students, learning together.

That’s Krishnamurti - a hard-ass, a purist, a free thinker. That’s why I love the guy.

Anyway, as if that’s not introduction enough, I’ll describe him more with a story. Stories are good.

One night I was at this party out on a farm. I didn’t know many people there. I felt a bit out of my element, so I spent most of the night sitting on the ground, staring into the fire, poking at it, thinking of something to say, and not finding much.

But later in the night, the sound of dogs howling in the distance was heard and it woke a long, lost memory. “Are those coyotes?” someone asked. “No, coyotes have a more eerie sound to them,” I said. Then I shared what was found...

“This one time I was at a Vipassana meditation retreat out in the middle of nowhere. A Vipassana retreat is where you go out and spend ten days doing nothing but meditating. There’s no distractions - no TV, no radio, no books, nothing to write with, nothing to read, no cell phones, nothing. You can’t even talk. All there is to do is meditate and walk the grounds. As you can imagine, after a few days of that our senses were kind of starved for excitement. So, even the smallest things seemed amazing. Looking on a blade of grass was like looking upon the universe itself.

Anyway, this one night at like four in the morning, we were all sleeping in the dorm room, and all of a sudden this pack of wild coyotes starts howling in the hills. They were yipping and making all these crazy sounds. Like I said, it was really eerie sounding - sent a chill up my spine. It would’ve been awesome any time, but the fact that our senses were at an all time high, made it even more amazing. So, we just laid there in our beds, in the dark, listening to the manic coyotes, not able to say a word.”

“Have you ever read any Krishnamurti?” this punk-rocker girl jumped in and asked. “Krishnamurti kicks some serious ass,” I replied twisting my head as I said it, adding emphasis.
“Wow. That has got to be the best response I’ve ever got about Krishnamurti at a party.”
“Who?” a girl across the fire asked. The fire light was dancing across her face. She sat in a kind of lotus position. I looked around the fire – everybody was listening.
“Krishnamurti,” I replied, “He’s like this eastern philosophy guy. But he’s not Buddhist or Hindu or Taoist. He doesn’t believe in any of that stuff. And he doesn’t believe in meditation either. He would say by meditating, you’re trying to be something. And you can’t try to be something; you just have to be it. Like you can’t try to be happy; you just have to be happy. But he’s got this attitude, like he’s pissed, like he can’t be happy till you’re happy. Yeah, that's Krishnamurti.”

We all sat there in silence for a moment pondering. Then the conversation drifted on into the night.

Anyway, that’s the end of my story. No point really, except to share a memory and introduce one of the greatest thinkers of our time – normally I’d say something like “all hail Krishnamurti,” but I don’t think he’d like that. So just go read him and decide for yourself.

It all depends how you look at it (Part II)

This is the 2nd of two parts. Click here for Part I.

Milton was staying-up late at night reading books on ecological collapse, the inevitable oil shortage, and war. During the day, he wrote articles, spoke at rallies, and organized teach-ins. He saw the end of the world was near and he was consumed by it. He wanted to rain down on the people with his message of truth and have them follow, but they weren’t listening. So, he got angry. He blamed them all - the corrupt politicians, the greedy corporate executives, and the ignorant masses. He was deeply disappointed in humanity. He had a grand vision for it, and it was failing him.

Where Milton had hardened over the years, Josh had softened. He knew the politicians were corrupt, the corporate execs greedy, and the masses ignorant; and he hated it. But who was he to say what was right and what was wrong? He still had his ideals and he lived up to them. He just simply gave-up expecting everyone else to do the same. That was the problem with the world: everyone had their idea of truth and tried to force it on everybody else.

Besides, Josh figured, everything dies eventually. The Earth, the sun, the human race – our time will come regardless. Nothing goes on forever except life and death itself. Food, soil, cloth, wood – all of it came from other living things; other living things that died. And in their death, other things were able to live on. Life is based on death, just as death is based on life. Josh doubted this cycle was unique to the Earth. As he saw it, life and death were one in the same – the one Universal Law. They go on to infinity.

Sipping from his cup of coffee, Josh contemplated all of this – his raincoat, his friend, life, death, the fate of the human race. He could feel the energy of deep thought and caffeine run through his body and couldn’t sit still any longer. He had to move. Would he call Milton and pick-up his raincoat today? No, what was one more day in the scheme of things. He finished off the coffee, put Hemingway in his backpack, and headed out the door.

Outside a constant drizzle fell upon the earth from the thick layer of grey clouds above. Josh pulled his black hoody over his head to block the rain from his eyes. The raincoat would’ve done a much better job, but that wasn’t really an option now. He unlocked his bike, hoped on, and pedaled away from the curb. Suddenly, out of nowhere he heard the skidding of a large, heavy object come toward him, and felt the impact of metal crush into his bones and hurl him up on to the cold, hard surface of the sidewalk.

He lay there taking short, quick breaths. It hurt. It hurt a lot. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Like a thousand knives poking into his torso and legs. People with big eyes and worried looks on their faces crowded around him. Their mouths were moving, making strange shapes, but he couldn’t make out the words. All he felt was pain - sharp, excruciating pain. Was this it? Had everything in his life been leading up to this one final, unglorious moment? Where was the meaning? Where was the purpose? It didn't seem fair. His vision began to fade. First the horrified faces of the people disappeared, then the grey folds of the sky above. If only...

It all depends how you look at it (Part I)

Josh was sitting in his favorite diner drinking his 75-cent cup of coffee. He didn’t believe in buying those $3 cups of foo-foo vanilla and hazelnut. What a waste of money. What snobbery. There was nothing he hated worse than snobbery. For him, good old-fashioned, black coffee was good enough.

As he drank from the cup and read Hemingway, his mind wandered. He was thinking of his raincoat and his old friend Milton. The rainy season was coming and his raincoat was at Milton’s house. Josh had already been pushing off getting it for days. He just didn’t feel like dealing with his old friend. At one time they were comrades in arms. They viewed the world through the same eyes – it was a corrupt, fucked-up, manmade mess – and they were willing to do whatever it took to change it. They dedicated their lives to “the cause”, but even back then Milton could be too much.

There were the times they’d ride their bikes home from the weekly Citizen’s for a Healthy Planet meetings. Josh and Milton would reach the point where their paths diverged – Josh’s home in one direction, Milton’s in the opposite – and they would stop to say good-bye. Josh wanted to say it quickly and be on his way home to his girlfriend and his life. Milton didn’t. He didn’t have a girlfriend, and beyond activism, he didn’t have much of a life. He had nothing to go home to. So, he wanted to talk, and talk is what he could do. For hours. Josh was always too polite in those situations. He didn’t want to be rude or hurt Milton’s feelings. So, he would listen for a while and wait. He’d wait for a break in Milton’s monologue, so he could say good-bye and move on. But that break never came soon enough. Milton could talk to infinity given the time and a willing ear. Unfortunately, Josh was the willing ear.

Eventually, Josh would find his moment. “OK, well I better get going,” he’d say. Milton would acknowledge it with a nod or an, “OK,” but inevitably he’d start back up again and Josh would have to wait till the next break. This would go on for a while. Josh knew it took an average of three I-better-get-going’s to actually pry himself away. And once he was back on his bike, pedaling toward home (and away from Milton), a feeling of relief would always wash over him. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t care what Milton had to say. The problem was that he already knew what Milton was going to say. Milton was preaching to the choir, and Josh was sick of being the choir.

So even way back then Josh was reluctant when it came to spending time with Milton. But now, years later, it was worse.

Continued in Part II.