gyrmination

How can you confine your love
to just one person?
I am screaming
with the passion of a wronged lover.

How can you call that love!

Do I remind myself, or counsel another?
In this dream,
do I call out to every conflicted lover
who shields her eyes from nature
in the name of constancy?
Or is this voice raised against my own fear?
Yet another possibility -
a war cry against all we are taught to hope for.

Edge of sand and sea
I am bridged to every end of the earth.
Evening cool sweeping across
brings curls of woodfire smoke,
evokes recognition of something,
at the tip of my heart’s tongue
. . .
(timelessness.)

We had asked the question, what makes Murakami’s writing so powerful?

I realized today that an extremely powerful element, for me, is the quality of honesty in the conversations between characters, and in the interior narrative of the main character. These conversations and reflections resonate deeply in my being, where congruent sentiments reside. For me, they are often unexpressed and perhaps incomplete in form – but still the outline is there, the essence is present enough to immediately recognize the likeness and reverberate.

When they speak and listen with this honesty, I feel so relieved. It is as if I have been given the words that I had trouble coming up with myself, and, speaking them, I am being listened to and understood. I feel like I have just bonded with a close friend, I have shared everything, more than I knew I had inside, and have done so without fear, because an expansive open space had been created by the listener.

Reaching the final pages of every Murakami book is like bringing this friend to the train station, for a farewell I know may be for a long time. A certain sadness and nostalgia and longing arise. It has been so nice to know you; we have been through so much; you have seen through me, you have seen my original face. Who else has? It is a miracle – I was able to reveal it because of who you are. And now you must go, so soon? Who will I turn to now?

I was meandering to Union Square south from the Taiwanese festival when I heard him.

“… And the root of every human being is evil, bad, and sinful! Only through the grace of our lord Jesus Christ may we be saved!”

I usually walk past these open space preachers with a wry smile on my face, but for some reason the particular words I happened upon struck a nerve. Not that any of the nice young folks perched on the square’s main ghats were paying him any attention, positioned in their focal point as he was – but immediately Osho’s stinging remarks about the powerful institutions of this world doing their best to keep people weak and fearful came to mind. How, instead of loving ourselves, we are taught to loathe ourselves. I started getting angry.

I started directly towards him, crash course. Swerving at the last minute, I stood behind him, and held rabbit ears over his head, which curiously was decorated with a black skullcap. As more drivel spewed from his mouth, the rabbit hopped happily, twitched its ears, and roamed from head to shoulder and back again.

He shortly became aware of my presence, and turned around. “And are you saved?” he asked.

He was a young man, no older than twenty five. Considerably overweight and with slightly pinched eyes, his face seemingly carried the traces of baby fat. His voice was a bit shrill for someone his size.

“Yes, I am.” I said, beaming at him.

He hesitated. “And how do you know you are saved?”

“Well, what did you mean when you asked me?” I asked.

“Have you been born again in the realization that Jesus Christ is the one and only true savior?”

“Why is that the definition of being saved?” I asked.

“Because it is said so in the book of God,” he replied. It seemed like he was speaking to someone over my shoulder.

“Oh,” I said, “So you read that somewhere. But you didn’t have the feeling or experience of being saved.”

“No no, it’s not about a feeling!” He said. His eyes narrowed a bit as a ray of recognition entered his thoughts. “And are you a follower of the devil child of Satan, Buddha?” he asked.

“What do you know about Buddha?” I asked.

Maybe it was a breakfast which consisted solely of two handfuls of soaked almonds; maybe it was the heat of the day, harbinger of coming summer days; maybe it was bearing the weight of the djembe over my shoulder throughout my morning walk, a little unfamiliar in the past couple of weeks. Maybe it was a manifestation of outrage – but if so my mind was still feeling cool, or playful in the midst of fire. My body started to shake. My arms and abdomen trembled, my legs began to quake uncontrollably. I stood there, trying to absorb the experience, feeling the silent scream of Nakata, about to rain down fish on his foes.

“Ah Buddha, born Siddhartha, son of a prince, who went on to sow deception and lies!” he said proudly.

“Did someone tell you that? You sound like you are reading from a manuscript,” I said.

“You too must be deluded.”

“What does it mean to be deluded?”

“Not to recognize Jesus Christ as the only path for the redemption of our evil, cursed souls. Do you recognize this?” he challenged.

“No, I don’t.”

“Then you are deluded,” he replied matter-of-factly. “For Jesus himself said, ‘No one comes to the Father except through me.’” To his credit, he did not seem to harbor ill intent – just a very thin lacquer of self-assuredness. (Underneath which …)

“Didn’t Jesus also say that ‘the meek shall inherit the earth’? Are you meek?” I asked, and an image of a field of yellow lilies swaying in the breeze washed over me.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

“Are you sure? You are saying of yourself that you are meek? Are you the meekest, the most humble?” I asked.

“Well …”

But I cut him off before he could continue. “How can you be humble when you are standing here casting judgment on all of these people? Saying that you are right and they are wrong, that you are saved, and they are condemned?”

He paused. Then he said, “Open your heart to Jesus, or else you will burn in hell.” With that, he turned back around toward the audience … how many people were listening, and of those, with anything but amusement?

I stayed put. The rabbit ears sprung up again, and after prancing around for a while, transformed into thumbs up / thumbs down, a squawking pacman, earplugs, and other fantastic visions. Suddenly, a different idea occurred to me.

I unzipped my bag and lifted out the djembe. Pinning it between my legs, and still hardly a foot from the man, I started thumping out a rhythm, as loudly as I could. DHOOM! Taka – ka taka DHOOM! Taka – ka taka DHOOM! High pitched as it was, his voice was mostly drowned out.

It must have been a strange sight. I imagine people may have been confused – was I supposed to be complementing his sermon, or sabotaging it? And why was he, perhaps unconsciously, starting to move his legs to and fro as he was talking? As if the drum was evoking something even more essential within himself than the empty words coming out of him, in turn simply the reflection of the thin porridge that had been poured into him for years. He was dancing! I wanted to shout, “Dance! Dance!!!”

Another tactic occurred to me, to weave in the power of silence. I stopped my drumming.

“In Hinduism …” he started.

I beat the djembe with a furious fanfare, completely cutting off his words.

He paused, and I stopped.

“In Hinduism …” he started again.

Again, I beat the living daylights out of the drum. He stopped; I stopped.

“In Hinduism …”

TAKA TAKA TAKA TAKA!!! TAKA TAKA TAKA TAKA!!!

“In Hinduism …” he tried for the fourth time.

TAKATA TAKATA TAKATA TAKATA!!!!!! TAKATA TAKATA TAKATA TAKATA!!!!!!

He turned partway around to address me, while allowing others to overhear. “And you will burn in hell for a very, very long time.”

I returned his look silently, with a devilish grin that I am pretty sure communicated, “Looking forward to it!”

* * *

Later, I am sitting on the Path train next to a woman with a baby. She sees the djembe, and asks me if I play it, and where I got it from, how much it cost. It turns out she is from Guinea. She tells me about the wedding ceremonies there, where everyone drums and dances all night.

I touch the baby girl’s small hand. She is a little surprised, and looks at me. It is so small, so soft, so relaxed.

I think about those first words I heard the young man utter. They sound so laughable. Yes, there is war, crime, exploitation, suffering in this world. But there is also love, kindness, generosity, and ecstasy! I want to show him this little girl, and ask, “Where is the evil? Where is is the sin? You just show it to me, now.”

Your physical energy is also subject to cycles. It cannot always be at a peak. There will be times of low as well as high energy. There will be periods when you are highly active and creative, but there may also be times when everything seems stagnant, when it seems that you are not getting anywhere, not achieving anything. A cycle can last for anything from a few hours to a few years. Many illnesses are created through fighting against the cycles of low energy, which are vital for regeneration.
The Power of Now

“It’s not that either one is better,” he said. “It’s not a question of better or worse. The point is, not to resist the flow. You go up when you’re supposed to go up and down when you’re supposed to go down. When you’re supposed to go up, find the highest tower and climb to the top. When you’re supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom. When there’s no flow, stay still. If you resist the flow, everything dries up. If everything dries up, the world is darkness. ‘I am he and / He is me: / Spring nightfall.’ Abandon the self, and there you are.”

“Is this one of those times when there’s no flow?” Kumiko asked.
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Recently, I see Kumiko in every woman, and in myself.