On my way home from work this evening, I was pondering what it is that makes up a person’s day. I thought about my own experience because that is what I am most accustomed to, but I would like to know how other people view their days. On an average week, I put in at least five, solid, sixteen to eighteen hour days without trying. At least two days a week, it’s more like twenty—and they’re not the days you think.
It’s raining gently outside, and on this evening, I’m letting the light clackety click click clack click clack of the keyboard play a harmony to the universal melody outside my window. That is what I think about in your average moments.
I was asked the other day, by a very good friend of mine, two of the most difficult questions I have been asked in a very long time—and their ontological nature probably has something to do with it;
“What do you do when you get lonely?”
and
“What do you do when you get bored?”
Starting with the second question first, it is entirely possible to take the Slavoj Zizek approach to the question and Hegelize things a bit by saying: I never get bored. But, then again, I’m always bored. Consistently bored. What have we accomplished? Perhaps nothing, but perhaps I really don’t ever feel bored. My sixteen, eighteen, and twenty-plus hour-long days come with zero effort on my part. I wake up, I have many, many things to accomplish (usually some combination of reading, writing, playing the guitar, sorting out business with whatever needs sorting out) in the morning, I spend ten hours involved in work-related, school-type things, I come home and spend three hours doing more of what I did in the morning (except this is also usually when I study Korean), I have a bit of dinner, and that’s a solid day. On Wednesdays I go into town and play the guitar. On Saturdays I let the wind take me where it will. Both of these days are usually very, very long. Sunday is devoted almost entirely to reading, writing, playing the guitar, and doing something physical (hiking, walking around, running, the driving range, whatever). I quite honestly have very little free time.
So, with all these things taking up my waking hours—to the point that I barely have a chance to take a breath and have to schedule in relaxation time—how is it that I am unfailingly, bewilderingly bored? The answer to that question is that I am perpetually avoiding boredom. Somewhere along the line in my life, and who’s to say exactly when it was, I decided that boredom was a curse. We choose to be bored. How can you be bored inside an existence that has so much to offer? I have considered the possibility that perhaps it is the creation of things that keeps me occupied. In any given week, I write forty-sixty pages of words. That’s not an incredible amount by any stretch of the imagination, but I spread that out over the course of the week, chipping away at it, an hour here, an hour there, and, suddenly, I have managed to spend between twenty and thirty hours of my week in the act of writing. Practice is one of the biggest focuses of my life, and my body is currently practicing writing every day—only barely caring about what happens over the course of that writing helps (I once had a writing professor tell me that quality comes from quantity, by which he meant that without the appropriate amount of material to work with, there is no way you’ll be able to craft the highest quality product—we’ll get it in editing!). I read at least a hundred pages from a variety of books during the week (I’m currently working on Style in History, Confessions (Augustine), and May All Beings Be Happy), and I read fairly slowly, marking, and notating (DAMN YOU EDUCATION HISTORY) which tends to take time. I could play the guitar for hours on any given day of the week, if I were allowed. I am very actively running away form boredom. I exist boredom in the sense that I AM not bored. Or something like that.
As far as the second question goes, it is important to know that the question was posed to me by a known womanizer after he had just been broken up with—as with the other question, but that had happened earlier in the day and was unrelated to his philandering. We were in Busan. He was lying on the bed and I had a traditional mat on the floor. “What do you do when you get lonely?” To be honest it caught me off guard, but I think the answer to it is roughly the same as the other one: I never get lonely, unless of course I'm horribly lonely.
Our lives are like a giant block of marble that we are given when we are born. For the first few years, other people hack away at it and give us a basic shape. Then, after a while, they tell us to help them out, and we gladly hack away at this gigantic block of marble. After a while, something strange happens that I can’t really understand right now. We are left holding the chisel and the hammer. Other people can come along and, if we let them, they can start hacking away at our block of marble, and we can wander over to theirs and do the same. The problem is that if you want to create your block all by yourself, you have to keep people away. Most people want to hack at your block of marble. They want to put their imprint on your life—perhaps it is the sub-conscious need for re-direction from the affairs of their own life. We wind up in a sticky situation because everybody wants to make their own life’s work, and everybody wants to hack at other people’s lives. Sometimes this is beneficial because sometimes people need help with their vision. Sometimes it is detrimental and downright annoying.
Existential theory says that we are forever alone because our consciousness cannot be combined with another consciousness. Christians say that God is that fulfillment. As a matter of fact, most mainstream religions make the claim that what they are offering is the fulfillment of the void. But, does spiritual/consciousness loneliness fulfillment mean the same as physical loneliness fulfillment. I think only a fool would say yes, if only because they aren’t the same species. The same genus… perhaps, because they can have the same effect, but the tactile sensation of being held FEELS different.
I guess what I’m getting at here is that mankind seems to be perpetually stuck in the abyss—or at least hopping back and forth over it—between the physical and the spiritual. In the physical world, we do our work for the day. In the spiritual world, we do the work of our life. Every day, when we are simply doing whatever it is we’re doing, we are accomplishing this two-fold fact of existence. Investigation of the spirit that is alive and well in the world requires physical effort, and when there is spirit to investigate, who could be bored? Who could be lonely?
The funny thing is, I just had the thought… at least that’s what I think RIGHT NOW. It could all change tomorrow. I, in my perpetual, professional ignorance don’t know.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
This Past Weekend
Normally, this is the kind of story that would go in the book about the sheer possibilities of life in terms of what can happen to you when you go to East Asia to teach English, but I’ve decided to go a slightly different direction and put it here instead:
The plan was to wake up in the middle of the night on Friday night, go into town, have a couple of pre-bus drinks, and catch the bus to Busan. It was a friend’s birthday that weekend, and we had organized a road trip to that beautiful city on the water in Southern South Korea—famous for its sushi. I had managed to wrangle myself a gig, so that Saturday we would take the bus down to Busan, do whatever, Saturday night I would play a show (a little guitar and singing action), and Sunday we would go to the beach. Awesome.
We all met at the scheduled time (3:30am) at the scheduled place (MJs in Chungdae, Chungmun, Cheongju, South Korea… REPRESENT!!!), and everything was going fine. The sun started to come up and we decided to take off in the heavy mist of the morning. We had been playing pool, and part of the reason we were leaving is because one of the people we were playing pool with had been getting hot-headed and saying stupid things (mainly because he had been losing), so we thought it best if we just leave. I went to go say good-bye to the owner who was a good friend that hosted Cheongju’s open mic night (loving labeled Acoustica), and when I turned around I saw my friend get hit in the face. I don’t think our hot-headed friend realized what happened, and, to be honest, neither do I, but before the situation could be sorted out, all 6’4” 275lbs of me was on top of him, smashing his face into the ground telling him to cut it out, or we would seriously stop it. When I got off him I could tell he wasn’t done, so I picked him up like a baby and repeated the… um… threat. When I put him on his feet, you could tell he was still upset, but having experienced the ease with which I had dealt with his feeble British body, he decided to stop. We wandered off into the morning, one of us with a wobbly tooth and blood coming from a fat lip.
So, we proceeded to get shockingly drunk. It is what it is, they say. It certainly made the four-hour bus ride on a bus built for Asians more tolerable—most of which we slept through.
We arrived in Busan, secured accommodation (always take care of the essentials first), and then our little group split up. There were three boys and two girls, and we were only barely acquainted with each other, which meant that we had different agendas. One of the girls had a friend in Busan, she managed to contact him, and he had met them at the bus terminal. So, the three of them headed off on their adventure, and the three of us headed off on our own. They went to a temple, and we went hiking to a temple/hermitage.
I love hiking. There will never be a time in my life, I’m pretty sure, when the shocking beauty of nature is not the most pacifying moment of my existence. Where we walked has some of the best views of Busan that I have ever seen, and we all stood in awe for some time, marveling. Then, we made our way back to the cable car that would take us the rest of the way down the mountain. The cable car takes you about two-thirds of the way up the mountain—meaning that you have another two hours of walking (or so) to get to the top, but also meaning that it is about a four hour walk up and a two and a half hour walk down. The problem was, of course, that we had no idea which way “down” was AND it was getting dark. What to do? Fortunately, god-given Koreans that owned a restaurant near the cable-car departure at the top decided to help us out. This was interesting, as we had seen cars on top of this mountain, but we had often wondered how they got up there. Let’s just say that it involves one helluva lot of off-roading. So, the three of us went four-wheeling in a Land Rover a Korean couple that looked as if they were easily in their sixties. It… was… awesome, and we figured out how they get the cars up there.
When we got down, two of we three went to the spa—one person decided that he had been to the spa once and had seen enough penises then to last him a lifetime. Korean spas are separated into male and female and the rule is complete nakedness. Having spent most of my adolescent years showering with my wrestling team, this didn’t present much of a problem, and our other companion was a man from China—where they have similar institutions. The gigantic spa attached to the Nongshim Hotel in Busan is one of the greatest and most relaxing experiences I ever get to have. Love’s it.
But, it was getting quite late by now and I did have to play a show after all, so we went back to the hotel, collected our traveling companion, rejoined our other companions, and we all wound up at a very special place near Busan University called The Basement. This beautiful little spot (“A place devoted to subterranean living”) is, aptly, in the basement of a building, and the owner is a westerner from Syracuse. I played my set, it went pretty well, we all had some fun, and the owner invited everybody that was left in the bar out to eat—granted, this was very late at night and there weren’t that many people, but still… it was a very nice gesture, and he took good care of us. Call this a reckless plug for the Basement in Busan… GO THERE! Tell them Eli from Ochang sent you and you’ll get taken care of, believe me.
(There is a short bawdy story involving one member of our merry crew (not me), but this story is best left for another space.)
After stumbling home, we managed to pass out in our rooms and a-wait the dawn of the new day. We were going to the beach, but we had to get supplies first. So, we went into the equivalent of Wal-Mart Supercenter: Tesco’s Home Plus. We bought towels. Okay. I bought a capo for my guitar because I had managed to lose mine. This was a little bit unusual, as I had never before seen a music section in a Hope Plus, but okay. Also, I bought a set of stainless steel nunchuck’s from the sporting goods section… for the equivalent of $3.50. Yes, it was that easy. These things could easily level somebody’s head—thank god we didn’t have them Friday night—and I had bought them at Tesco’s for less than $5. I think that is the only reason I actually bought them.
The rest of the day was spent on the beach, laughing in the sun, wrestling, playing in the sand, walking through the water, and enjoying life. Towards the end of our stay, we decided it was time to sample the famous Busan sushi. For those who don’t know, sushi in America isn’t sushi. That’s what we call Gim-Pop—a rice roll (the California Roll, etc). Sushi is when I see the man remove two fish from the tank, watch him take them back to the kitchen, and return about three minutes later with sliced fillets on a bed of uncooked noodles. Freshest fish in the world. Delicious with sauce.
Well, we got so into the raw fish that we missed our bus home. Whatever, these things happen. So, we stayed another night in a hotel (a grand total of a $12 expense). We caught the first bus back in the morning and slept all the way to Cheongju. Then I got taken for a sucker by a cab driver, but was too tired to argue… because I was home.
The plan was to wake up in the middle of the night on Friday night, go into town, have a couple of pre-bus drinks, and catch the bus to Busan. It was a friend’s birthday that weekend, and we had organized a road trip to that beautiful city on the water in Southern South Korea—famous for its sushi. I had managed to wrangle myself a gig, so that Saturday we would take the bus down to Busan, do whatever, Saturday night I would play a show (a little guitar and singing action), and Sunday we would go to the beach. Awesome.
We all met at the scheduled time (3:30am) at the scheduled place (MJs in Chungdae, Chungmun, Cheongju, South Korea… REPRESENT!!!), and everything was going fine. The sun started to come up and we decided to take off in the heavy mist of the morning. We had been playing pool, and part of the reason we were leaving is because one of the people we were playing pool with had been getting hot-headed and saying stupid things (mainly because he had been losing), so we thought it best if we just leave. I went to go say good-bye to the owner who was a good friend that hosted Cheongju’s open mic night (loving labeled Acoustica), and when I turned around I saw my friend get hit in the face. I don’t think our hot-headed friend realized what happened, and, to be honest, neither do I, but before the situation could be sorted out, all 6’4” 275lbs of me was on top of him, smashing his face into the ground telling him to cut it out, or we would seriously stop it. When I got off him I could tell he wasn’t done, so I picked him up like a baby and repeated the… um… threat. When I put him on his feet, you could tell he was still upset, but having experienced the ease with which I had dealt with his feeble British body, he decided to stop. We wandered off into the morning, one of us with a wobbly tooth and blood coming from a fat lip.
So, we proceeded to get shockingly drunk. It is what it is, they say. It certainly made the four-hour bus ride on a bus built for Asians more tolerable—most of which we slept through.
We arrived in Busan, secured accommodation (always take care of the essentials first), and then our little group split up. There were three boys and two girls, and we were only barely acquainted with each other, which meant that we had different agendas. One of the girls had a friend in Busan, she managed to contact him, and he had met them at the bus terminal. So, the three of them headed off on their adventure, and the three of us headed off on our own. They went to a temple, and we went hiking to a temple/hermitage.
I love hiking. There will never be a time in my life, I’m pretty sure, when the shocking beauty of nature is not the most pacifying moment of my existence. Where we walked has some of the best views of Busan that I have ever seen, and we all stood in awe for some time, marveling. Then, we made our way back to the cable car that would take us the rest of the way down the mountain. The cable car takes you about two-thirds of the way up the mountain—meaning that you have another two hours of walking (or so) to get to the top, but also meaning that it is about a four hour walk up and a two and a half hour walk down. The problem was, of course, that we had no idea which way “down” was AND it was getting dark. What to do? Fortunately, god-given Koreans that owned a restaurant near the cable-car departure at the top decided to help us out. This was interesting, as we had seen cars on top of this mountain, but we had often wondered how they got up there. Let’s just say that it involves one helluva lot of off-roading. So, the three of us went four-wheeling in a Land Rover a Korean couple that looked as if they were easily in their sixties. It… was… awesome, and we figured out how they get the cars up there.
When we got down, two of we three went to the spa—one person decided that he had been to the spa once and had seen enough penises then to last him a lifetime. Korean spas are separated into male and female and the rule is complete nakedness. Having spent most of my adolescent years showering with my wrestling team, this didn’t present much of a problem, and our other companion was a man from China—where they have similar institutions. The gigantic spa attached to the Nongshim Hotel in Busan is one of the greatest and most relaxing experiences I ever get to have. Love’s it.
But, it was getting quite late by now and I did have to play a show after all, so we went back to the hotel, collected our traveling companion, rejoined our other companions, and we all wound up at a very special place near Busan University called The Basement. This beautiful little spot (“A place devoted to subterranean living”) is, aptly, in the basement of a building, and the owner is a westerner from Syracuse. I played my set, it went pretty well, we all had some fun, and the owner invited everybody that was left in the bar out to eat—granted, this was very late at night and there weren’t that many people, but still… it was a very nice gesture, and he took good care of us. Call this a reckless plug for the Basement in Busan… GO THERE! Tell them Eli from Ochang sent you and you’ll get taken care of, believe me.
(There is a short bawdy story involving one member of our merry crew (not me), but this story is best left for another space.)
After stumbling home, we managed to pass out in our rooms and a-wait the dawn of the new day. We were going to the beach, but we had to get supplies first. So, we went into the equivalent of Wal-Mart Supercenter: Tesco’s Home Plus. We bought towels. Okay. I bought a capo for my guitar because I had managed to lose mine. This was a little bit unusual, as I had never before seen a music section in a Hope Plus, but okay. Also, I bought a set of stainless steel nunchuck’s from the sporting goods section… for the equivalent of $3.50. Yes, it was that easy. These things could easily level somebody’s head—thank god we didn’t have them Friday night—and I had bought them at Tesco’s for less than $5. I think that is the only reason I actually bought them.
The rest of the day was spent on the beach, laughing in the sun, wrestling, playing in the sand, walking through the water, and enjoying life. Towards the end of our stay, we decided it was time to sample the famous Busan sushi. For those who don’t know, sushi in America isn’t sushi. That’s what we call Gim-Pop—a rice roll (the California Roll, etc). Sushi is when I see the man remove two fish from the tank, watch him take them back to the kitchen, and return about three minutes later with sliced fillets on a bed of uncooked noodles. Freshest fish in the world. Delicious with sauce.
Well, we got so into the raw fish that we missed our bus home. Whatever, these things happen. So, we stayed another night in a hotel (a grand total of a $12 expense). We caught the first bus back in the morning and slept all the way to Cheongju. Then I got taken for a sucker by a cab driver, but was too tired to argue… because I was home.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
A Few Questions
Can you care about somebody so much that you would rather deal with the pain of premature separation than deal with the pain of loving them even more? Or is that simply running away? Can you simultaneously run away and run toward something? Can you make decisions that would be called hard by some standards, selfish by others, ridiculous by still others, and incomprehensible by others yet? Can life become something other than you had intended it to be?
Because it always does.
Did you ever feel yourself sink, in just a matter of seconds, into a quagmire of incomprehensibility manifesting itself and cogency? Did you ever wonder stupid shit like this winds up a possibility: You’ve been shot on the hand with a Monster XL Machine Blaster filled with Root Beer. SPLAT!!! Click here to shoot someone back Water Gun Fight!? Or did you ever wonder whether or not there is value in things that are popularly considered to have value, only to find that the value that is placed there is misplaced there by an overwhelming sense of urgency to conform? Did you ever break something and rebuild it perfectly?
Because it always is.
Where have you been that you cannot remember? Where have you been that you want to forget? Where have you lied down underneath the stars, simply to be precisely where you are, and wonder at the nature of emptiness? Where were you when you thought to yourself that the nature of the modern world society, no matter where you are, is one of hopeless emptiness? Or did you manage to look at society and never find this to be the case? Where were you the last time you looked at somebody with the thought in your mind: I share the same genus and species as this person?
Because you’ve never been.
When was the last time you stopped in the middle of the road as you walked home from work because your mind had been working overtime and finally, finally, finally come to an understanding of something? When was the last time you unleashed your subconscious into a work of art? When was the last time you had a conversation with somebody that was actually worth a damn and not full of platitudes about the weather and the more recent Hollywood release? Or did you manage to make it this far in life without ever experiencing anything like that? Where is there peace in this world? Where is there understanding of the fact that a peace is not a where?
Because you never did.
Who am I? Who is the most important person in your life? Who would you say has influenced your life more than anybody else? Who can seemingly make you do anything—even the things you don’t really want to do? Who came into your life when you least expected it and significantly impacted it to the point that you would say they changed your life? Who broke you? Who says so? Who played with you? Who laid next to you in the morning light and reminded you that life is still beautiful because it has them in it? Or did you never ponder the importance of the other people in your existence and the effect they have on who you are? Who can say what is what? Who can say this is this? Who has all the answers?
Because it is always nobody.
Why do you continue to ask questions to which nobody has the answers? Why do you ask questions concerning history that is unchangeable and immutable? Why do you sometimes wonder why “Why” is such a difficult question to worked up about any more? Why is the reason behind something so often given so much importance that what was done is overlooked? Why does it seem that the real meaning of something that has been done seem so much like it isn’t the reason behind it, but what happened as a result of it? Why is that intentions are always so emptily reducible to: because I felt like I was doing what was right? Why is it always a question of explaining oneself, when then this is pretty generally an impossibility based on the movements of consciousness that, while perhaps known, are only partially able to be tracked and very rarely fully disclosed to even the one attempting the explanation? Or is it possible that Why is truly a silly question, laced with grotesque distortions of inexplicable motion? Why can I never fully understand? Why are you so beautiful? Why am I so ugly? Why am I so beautiful? Why are you so ugly? Why is life such a day to day existence, impossibly pinned down?
Because of is.
What can you do about it? What are you going to do about it? What are you doing about it right now? What is it? What is what? What is a word? What is language? What is thought? What is consciousness? What is religion? What is life? What is love? What is pleasure? What is pain? What is worthiness? What is authority? What is a regime? What does it mean to be so involved with existence that you miss out on existence? What does it all mean? What is god? What is it about me that makes me wonder? What is it about you that makes you wonderful? What is it that makes us wonderfully wonder? What is human nature? What can you gather around you in one lifetime in terms of goods and things and products and stuff? What can you gather around you in one lifetime in terms of growth and development and an experience of the possibles of the mind? What can you gain from stuff? What can you gain from investigating your possibles? What is it about revolution that is so goddamned appealing? What is it about human beings that makes them capable of deciding on a whim? What is it about me that drives me to question things so incessantly and accept only that which I come to understand gradually? What is it about you that allows you to accept wholesale what I sell you? What is it about you that makes you question in the way you do? What is it about me that allows me to accept in the way I do? What does it mean to be exceptional? What am I supposed to do now? What condition of the mind allows for this sort of thing? What? Or did you never realize the power of What? What can you make of it?
Because it is everything and nothing and something in between.
Because it always does.
Did you ever feel yourself sink, in just a matter of seconds, into a quagmire of incomprehensibility manifesting itself and cogency? Did you ever wonder stupid shit like this winds up a possibility: You’ve been shot on the hand with a Monster XL Machine Blaster filled with Root Beer. SPLAT!!! Click here to shoot someone back Water Gun Fight!? Or did you ever wonder whether or not there is value in things that are popularly considered to have value, only to find that the value that is placed there is misplaced there by an overwhelming sense of urgency to conform? Did you ever break something and rebuild it perfectly?
Because it always is.
Where have you been that you cannot remember? Where have you been that you want to forget? Where have you lied down underneath the stars, simply to be precisely where you are, and wonder at the nature of emptiness? Where were you when you thought to yourself that the nature of the modern world society, no matter where you are, is one of hopeless emptiness? Or did you manage to look at society and never find this to be the case? Where were you the last time you looked at somebody with the thought in your mind: I share the same genus and species as this person?
Because you’ve never been.
When was the last time you stopped in the middle of the road as you walked home from work because your mind had been working overtime and finally, finally, finally come to an understanding of something? When was the last time you unleashed your subconscious into a work of art? When was the last time you had a conversation with somebody that was actually worth a damn and not full of platitudes about the weather and the more recent Hollywood release? Or did you manage to make it this far in life without ever experiencing anything like that? Where is there peace in this world? Where is there understanding of the fact that a peace is not a where?
Because you never did.
Who am I? Who is the most important person in your life? Who would you say has influenced your life more than anybody else? Who can seemingly make you do anything—even the things you don’t really want to do? Who came into your life when you least expected it and significantly impacted it to the point that you would say they changed your life? Who broke you? Who says so? Who played with you? Who laid next to you in the morning light and reminded you that life is still beautiful because it has them in it? Or did you never ponder the importance of the other people in your existence and the effect they have on who you are? Who can say what is what? Who can say this is this? Who has all the answers?
Because it is always nobody.
Why do you continue to ask questions to which nobody has the answers? Why do you ask questions concerning history that is unchangeable and immutable? Why do you sometimes wonder why “Why” is such a difficult question to worked up about any more? Why is the reason behind something so often given so much importance that what was done is overlooked? Why does it seem that the real meaning of something that has been done seem so much like it isn’t the reason behind it, but what happened as a result of it? Why is that intentions are always so emptily reducible to: because I felt like I was doing what was right? Why is it always a question of explaining oneself, when then this is pretty generally an impossibility based on the movements of consciousness that, while perhaps known, are only partially able to be tracked and very rarely fully disclosed to even the one attempting the explanation? Or is it possible that Why is truly a silly question, laced with grotesque distortions of inexplicable motion? Why can I never fully understand? Why are you so beautiful? Why am I so ugly? Why am I so beautiful? Why are you so ugly? Why is life such a day to day existence, impossibly pinned down?
Because of is.
What can you do about it? What are you going to do about it? What are you doing about it right now? What is it? What is what? What is a word? What is language? What is thought? What is consciousness? What is religion? What is life? What is love? What is pleasure? What is pain? What is worthiness? What is authority? What is a regime? What does it mean to be so involved with existence that you miss out on existence? What does it all mean? What is god? What is it about me that makes me wonder? What is it about you that makes you wonderful? What is it that makes us wonderfully wonder? What is human nature? What can you gather around you in one lifetime in terms of goods and things and products and stuff? What can you gather around you in one lifetime in terms of growth and development and an experience of the possibles of the mind? What can you gain from stuff? What can you gain from investigating your possibles? What is it about revolution that is so goddamned appealing? What is it about human beings that makes them capable of deciding on a whim? What is it about me that drives me to question things so incessantly and accept only that which I come to understand gradually? What is it about you that allows you to accept wholesale what I sell you? What is it about you that makes you question in the way you do? What is it about me that allows me to accept in the way I do? What does it mean to be exceptional? What am I supposed to do now? What condition of the mind allows for this sort of thing? What? Or did you never realize the power of What? What can you make of it?
Because it is everything and nothing and something in between.
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