The Human Bean

My computer at home done died. I am going through a certain amount of computer and internet withdrawal - unpleasant, if not completely painful (yet.) I still have access while at work and can make a run to my brother's place on my days off - but it's still disconcerting that for the time being I'm limited in access and what I can write and so on. So blogging might be lighter than usual until this situation resolves. I'm not sure yet what I'm going to do - my brother, aka my computer guru, has narrowed the major problem to the motherboard, but hasn't determined if that one component is worth replacing or if I should go with a whole new system. Honestly I can't really afford either right now, so eh yeah, fucked is the word for the day.

But speaking of brothers - is there such a thing as Brother's Day? You know, like Father's Day or Mother's Day. If there is then I'm way overdue in sending my bro a giant basket overflowing with six packs of Boulevard Beer, snacks, a few DVDs and so on. Over the years he's been incredibly helpful to me with all my computer stuff, which to a girl with an extremely limited budget is invaluable. This idea of complete independence and self-sufficiency is a bit of a crock really - I'm so reliant on people in my life to help me get by, whether it's my brother-in-law who's currently fixing my push mower, or that one of the reasons I drive a Mazda is because my nephew is a Mazda mechanic, or the fact that when I need help with electrical or plumbing issues in this old house I call my electrician and carpentry buddies. Yes, if one is going to live on a shoestring, it's important to cultivate and tend to these relationships in life. Not that I consciously set out to do that - either live on a shoestring or have these relationships - but somehow it's worked out that way. Of course in reciprocation for their help, I'm always happy to offer my vociferous opinion on a variety of sundry subjects. And for some reason they prefer that to my poetry. I can't imagine why.


However, as a few other bloggers have pointed out, April is National Poetry Month. Here's one of my opinions: when it comes to poetry, it's better to know one poem Truly than to have only a passing acqaintance with hundreds. If, like most people in this day and age, you're not inclined to sit down with a volume of poetry and really read it, but you still want to cultivate some appreciation for the art, then get intimate with just one poem. Make it yours for a year at least, if not a lifetime. Read this poem as often as you can. Read it out loud. A poem has not been genuinely kissed until you read it out loud. Whisper it, sing it, shout it, dance it, squeeze it, nuzzle it, eat and drink it. Poetry, said Langston Hughes, "...is the human soul entire, squeezed like a lemon or a lime, drop by drop, into atomic words." And just like a human bean entire, one can't know a poem in one meeting - you gotta go back and meet again and again. So the more attention you give to a poem, the more it will keep revealing its fearless depths and crazy perspectives and sweet quirks and radical honesty and finally, if you are persistent, its wild unbounded Love. And even if you leave this poem and move onto others, at least you know you loved it (and thus yourself) true and real. And then you will understand the art of poetry.

And so much more.

The older I get the more I appreciate spring. Autumn is still my favorite season - there's something about autumn that inspires contemplation and reflection and that suits my overall temperment. Also, I think when I was younger springtime was simply a season to get on with things - go out to the yard to play, go to the track to run, get in cars to go party, get on airplanes to go to places to run here and there, go to the store to get things for the house - go go go, which is very springtime like. But in being so busy "going" I never took the time to simply sit back and look at and listen to springtime. Around here it's gone in a flash - the honeysuckle and lilac bloom and are gone in a week, the grass and the leaves sprout in pale and lime green shades for just the briefest moment before turning to the emerald greens of summer. So today after dinner with the family I sat out on the back patio and experienced springtime. And it was perfect. And I suppose I could try to describe it to you, because after all, isn't that what writers are supposed to do? But I don't want to describe it. I just want it to be. I think it will be one of those moments I'll recall when I'm so old and feeble that I'll no longer be making memories and all I can do is pull memories out of my memory box - like flipping through photos in an album - only they'll be in my head. At least I hope I'll be able to do that. I don't think it's such a terrible thing to live in the past and the future - to travel in time so to speak - and the more present you are in the present the more the past and future open up. Time uncurls herself and reveals herself and becomes another sensation in life - one can move through time like one can feel sunlight on the face or smell the lilac on the breeze. Or, (as some have said,) do these things move through us? On a day like today it's impossible to know the difference, and therein lies the beauty of it all.

I couldn't post on Sunday because Blogger wouldn't upload my photos, and I don't know why. I thought maybe the tech godz had decided these particular pics were taking up too much of the available dooka (synonym for adorable) space in the blogosphere. No Jean, they said, a 4 year old and a piddle of 4 week old puppies? That's just too much freakin' dooka for one post. But the gods have come around at last. BTW, I'm aware these aren't the greatest quality pics, but I didn't have a camera that day and my friend had to send me these (sure Jean, blame it on the friend...)

So about 885 blogger flow entries ago, ~C4Chaos asked "What is it that keeps you on the ground, you snotty bunch of meditating ascenders?!" That's not typically my problem, as I'm usually trying to crawl out of those blues Mr. Chaos likes to lay down. So for me, yeah, a 4 year old and a bunch of pups is like a magic bullet. That's Annie, my little bud, with a brood of blonde labs. I spent a perfect and gorgeous Saturday spring day with them, and after rolling around with the pups for awhile (Annie rolled and I cuddled,) Annie and I went exploring up the "trail," which is a little path that runs through the wooded area behind her house. I'm fascinated by Annie's World - and I don't mean the physical environ, although it is lovely - but rather her experience of it, wherein every tree becomes a new galaxy to explore (with an occasional boost from moi,) every fork in the path a major decision made with little hands rooted firmly on hips, and every action taken with a clear demand of "look at me!" Yes, there's no doubt that one must be the absolute center of the universe before a new reality can safely open up. And I'm glad to report that Annie is smack dab in the center of her world, enfolded in loving arms and gazes, and I love being a part of it. I cannot deny that every now and then when I feel frightened by situations in the world or overwhelmed in my life I wish my world consisted of nothing but puppies, woods, and falling asleep in big arms while watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the upteenth time...
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And then Dallman 3 reported a Monkee sighting in LA, whilst visiting Dallman brother Christopher. Meanwhile, my bro the blues musician who's in town for a little R&R;, told me he recently jammed with Peter Tork, another former Monkee, and they played a bluesy rendition of Last Train to Clarksville. Have I ever said that I ABSOLUTELY FREAKIN' LOVED THE MONKEES when I was a kid? Had a Monkee's lunch box and everything. And not just cause they played a song with my name in it, although that was cool too. C'mon, sing along, "cheer up sleepy Jean, oh what can it mean, to a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen..." Pretty much right except the homecoming queen line. Years after my Monkee obsession ended, my boyfriend and I set out for the homecoming dance but never got there. Either year. In fact I think we briefly made it to Prom one year (tripping our arses off,) but that's only because another couple was driving. Dave and I always had other ideas on how to spend the evening...
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When I was a kid one of my brothers and sisters' favorite games was called Shadows. It involved going out to the driveway at night, and then by the light of a porch light trying to jump and step on each other's shadows as we all ran around. I've only just recently realized we never stopped playing this game, and it's partly what I'll be up to this weekend, as my family gets together for Easter. But I hope yours is lovely, however you spend it, and I'll sign off with one of my new monikers, which seems appropriate for the day - J4Jellybean.

Due to technical problems with Blogger no entry today. If I get a chance I'll try again later this week.

Premiere Magazine's April issue has a list of the 100 greatest (film) performances of all time. No doubt Premiere will be inundated with letters of outraged opinion as to why some performances were not included, or why others were, but in looking over this list it's difficult to argue with many of the selections. Whether or not you agree that these are the greatest, or the order in which they been assigned, they were all certainly great - and I was a bit surprised that with the exception of about 4 (including Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote, which I plan to see,) I've seen all of them. So looking over this list was a pleasant walk through movie memoryville, and a good reminder that acting at its finest (like all art), can be, as Richard Burton spoke of Peter O'Toole's number 1 ranked tour de force as Lawrence of Arabia, "...something odd and mystical and deeply disturbing."

Given enough time, I could comment on almost all of the selections, but will limit to a few of the performances on this list that personally touched me for different reasons:

Hillary Swank in Boys Don't Cry - all of the performances in Boys Don't Cry are so real that it infuses the film with an eerie documentary quality. And for that, I think some of the credit has to go to writer/director Kimberly Peirce. But Swank in the police station, where after her brutal physical rape is forced to croak "gender identity crisis," is just a shattering moment wherein one witnesses the soul rape taking place. And later, there is a moment in the shed in which Swank conveys that the spiritual can be revealed through the personal - not transcendently so, but intimately so. Because of that illumination, one can't help but believe that, in spite of the murder, this soul died at peace, having been seen and known and accepted, at last, for who he truly was. Breathtaking.

Angelica Huston in The Grifters - all I can say about this one is you know Lilly is still out there, somewhere, with all her heartbreaking diabolical desperation. And in a creepy sort of way, I'd really like to meet her.

Jeanne Moreau in Jules et Jim - first time I ever had an idea what it might be like to be a woman, utterly complete in incompleteness.

Jodie Foster in The Accused - Foster somehow embodies both the unique person of her character Sarah, and Everywoman - oh god, to be a woman and to be hated for being exactly that.

Gary Oldman in Sid and Nancy - it's like Oldman quite literally channeled Sid and it's the the most amazing "fuck you" that's ever been put on celluloid.

Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon - put some extra butter on the popcorn, sit back and let the man work. It's Bogart, and nothing more needs to be said.

Charlie Chaplin in City Lights - the Tramp at his most heartbreaking sublime.

Tom Hanks in Big - I caught this on TV just a couple of weeks ago - I'd totally forgotten how convincing Hanks is as a 13 year old - all rambunctious awkwardness and joy, reckless abandon and fear, and that terrible longing both for home and for adulthood that as an adolescent splits you apart.

Sidney Poitier in In the Heat of the Night - it's hard to describe this performance separate from Rod Steiger as the Police Chief; like two boxers in a ring you can't have the one performance without the other. But it's Poitier's rage oozing and sometimes bubbling out from under the cool veneer of his professional demeanor that speaks for an entire people.

Paul Newman in The Verdict - watch a man discover there's a difference between being a loser and completely losing his soul.

Reese Witherspoon in Election - how can you possibly love and hate a person so much at the same time? Because that's exactly how Tracy Flick feels about herself. I was so not surprised to read that Witherspoon had TMJ by the end of making this film. Pick Flick!

Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove - ok, technically this one wasn't on the list - it's in a little sidebar for multiple performances in one movie. Sellers in Being There is on the list, and I do love Being There. But Sellers in Strangelove - he's the 4th, 5th, and 6th wonders of the acting world.

Robert Duvall in Tender Mercies(screenplay by Horton Foote - y'all take lessons) - one long aching love song to anyone who's ever been truly down and out.

Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront - I'm struggling to find the words to express how this made me feel - I just know I've never seen a human being in all his shame and troubled glory so transparent and riveting.

Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice - another one where words fail, excruciatingly so - in the end, just like Sophie.

This is a reader's advisory website which is kind of fun. On one of my searches, I chose "happy," "funny," "disturbing," and "disgusting," as my search parameters and it spit out Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour: In Search of the Perfect Meal - pretty much right on the money.

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Sometimes my family would go out to eat after Sunday mass. I don't know why I've been thinking about this lately, but I have. Like how I always ordered spaghetti and meatballs at the Howard Johnson's Restaurant. And how one whole wall of the restaurant was a smoky mirror, so it always gave the illusion that the room was bigger than it was, as if there were a whole extra room full of diners. But then you'd suddenly catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and it was like seeing yourself in an alternate universe. It was a very startling sensation.

Another restaurant we went to was Sandy's Oak Ridge Manor (now known as Stroud's.) But back then it was Sandy's, and I always had a difficult time choosing between the chicken n' dumplings soup, or a salad because they made the best damn salad dressing I've ever had in my life. Sandy's (now Strouds) was located in the the Compton Family Farm house - a pre-Civil War era house and estate, with creaky wood floors that slanted, and various little rooms with low ceilings. It sat on lovely grounds with a pond and an old chapel. Rumor had it that Jesse James once hid out on the grounds, and I don't know if that's true, but I wouldn't be surprised if other bushwhackers used it for hiding at one time or another.

And then there was the Gold Buffet - oh lord the Gold Buffet - to my 5 year old eyes and appetite it was like some kind of miracle. Coming in out of the bright sunlight everything went dark and cool, with thick dark red carpeting, and darkly draped walls and low lighting. Looking down the dim hallway, buffets overflowing with every kind of food known to man (or at least small children) seemingly went on for miles. Was it a mirage? No. As one pushed one's thick white plate down the buffet runners, one could choose among thirty-nine different kinds of potatoes alone, or so it seemed. Ham? Chicken? Ribs? How about all three? And you always had to get some roast beef just because there was a guy in a white apron standing there ready to slice it just for you. At the end was the dessert buffet - you might as well have just put a neon sign on it flashing "heaven" over and over again. There were several large dining rooms, with white table cloths on the tables and waitresses running about getting and refilling drinks. No Country Buffet - the Gold Buffet had class (of the cheapest variety of course.) Some years back we had my parent's 50th anniversary party in the place that used to be the Gold Buffet, which is now a catering and party event outfit. It actually turned out great - the food and service good, and the big dining room still with its stage and dance floor, so we had a band and folks could dance. But I think they must have done some remodeling, because the hallways where the buffets used to be had shrunk considerably.

And of course the Fireside Inn, which was situated in sort of an early version of the strip mall. But all the buildings were made out of brick, and it had some charm. The Fireside Inn had thick wood flooring, and huge wooden tables, and what seemed to my little self a cavernous stone fireplace in one wall. They served a lot of traditional home style fare - meatloaf I recall in particular. Next door to the Fireside Inn was the Antioch Theatre where I saw Gone With the Wind for the first time. I was about 10 I think, and the film so blew me away that I walked out in a daze without my coat or hat. But now the Fireside Inn is a nightclub called Mustang Sally's (yee haw,) the Antioch Theatre is a huge liquor store, and next to that is a sex accouterment store (yee yee haw.)

It's been a strange thing moving back here and living in the area where I grew up, and watching things morph and change. I drive down these roads and remember buildings that aren't there anymore, like the first library I used to go to, and its honey toned wood floors and furniture, and its soft lights, and its book smell. And I realize how much of my personal identity is entwined with my environment - it's not just the library they bulldozed, it's part of me. But it's all ok, even if it makes me feel a little nostalgic or sad sometimes. And I love it when I catch a glimpse of some older part of civilization - like what's left of an old stone wall and a beautiful old tree which survived the construction of the new Target. I like to think about the people that built that wall, and I marvel at the serene tree, and I wonder what the little kid playing on the motorized toy car just inside the door of the Target will remember about his experience. Will he remember going to the Target with his mom, and begging her to let him ride the car, and will he remember her relenting and his glee and her smiling face? I will remember it, for whatever it is worth. That moment is gone; dinner has been served and the dishes cleared away. But I remember the taste of it. And it tastes like the best damn salad dressing I ever had.

Well, there I go and miss a Sunday entry. Blame it on life and its undeniable distractions and attractions...

Note to Ebuddha - glad you liked the Philip K. Dick speech. Check out more groovy essays, speeches, and random writings here. It's March Madness! Some people play basketball, whilst Jean posts random links to things like peeing statuary. Coolmel is in blogging flow,(very fluffy) whereas Jean remains blogging fool. But as to the question of whether blogging can be a spiritual practice, I'd have to say, yeah, of course. Depending on how it's approached anything can be a spiritual practice, including taking a dump. But especially because blogging is a creative activity it's certainly capable of opening one up to those artistic "flow" states - and they are so very delicious are they not? But not to worry Coolmel, I don't think you're at risk of becoming too "artsy-fartsy" anytime soon. The blues will keep you grounded.

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At my last Integral Salon, we watched the 3-2-1 Process DVD from the ILP Kit, with Diane Hamilton. I too often forget that most people haven't been in and out of therapy for 20 years, and the whole concept of projection is foreign to them. So 321 is an extremely handy tool to introduce people to the concept and help them rather quickly identify and perhaps release some of their tangled up emotional and mental energy. Projections can of course be identified through simple inquiry if one understands the concept - why am I so angry at my co-worker? Oh I see, I'm really angry at my own blah blah blah. Journaling has always been helpful in the dynamic, but the magic of the 321 is the structured process that gradually takes you into dialogue and into the "other" perspective. I think some of our Salon members had some trouble with that dynamic however - how, they wanted to know, can you ever know what someone else is thinking? Isn't this just a lot of bullshit? But of course it's not really about the other person. It never was. That's the whole point understanding shadow projection.

One comment I have about the 321 process, however, is that in and of itself, it might only clear away minor emotional charges. I agree it's a great tool for identifying where projections might exist in relationships - and if you're lucky enough to be someone who's fairly clear and free flowing, then 321 might be all you'll ever need. But for deeply embedded or particularly snarled emotional stuff, some actual therapy and additional energy work is probably going to be required. The farther back in time an "emotional charge" is originating - in other words the farther back into your childhood or infancy a pathology goes - then the more difficult it will be to truly discharge that emotional energy and clear that block or snarl. Or you might find that you identify or clear a projection with one person, only to find the pattern repeating itself in other relationships, over and over again. It's like playing that damn gopher game at the carnival - you bash one, only to have another pop up right next to it.

If you are familiar with the anatomy of your emotional and mental spheres - the actual subtle energy bodies - then you know part of this anatomy consists of nadis, or energy conduits, in addition to various chakras situated throughout the subtle bodies (and not just along the spine.) Snarled emotions and thoughts is an interesting term when you think about it, because chances are, within the energy bodies, snarled and knotted up nadis are likely what you're going to find in correlation to the emotions and thoughts. And like I mentioned, more profound wounds that go back further in time are going to be much more difficult to unsnarl. And the people that come into your life will invariably get tangled up in those knots, if you haven't ultimately traced them back to their source and undone the knot as a whole. It can be a little like working on a fine chain that's tightly knotted up, requiring years of patient massage and gentle picking away at it. In addition there might be structural damage to chakras, and so on. So real healing and clearing can be a challenge at best, but I think the 321 process is a great tool to add to your arsenal of psyche healing techniques.

When I was watching the 321 DVD, I had this thought that if Diane Hamilton were one of "The People," she'd be a "Sorter" - exactly that person in your community who counsels and helps one undo those snarled up places in the psyche. In the People stories, Sorters are typically very wise and very old (soul age, not biological age,) and are usually Elders in their communities. I just had that thought - oh yeah, Diane's a Sorter. To boot, I had a really cool dream with Diane a few days before watching the DVD, and she was definitely helping me heal. And I'm full of gratitude for that. At any rate, it's no surprise to me she's one of the more popular facilitators at the II Seminars. And while I still think the ILP Kit overall is too masculine in approach, this 321 technique is absolutely worth checking out.