Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Conversation

We haven't spoken in two months. Certainly, I wanted some time to myself. A long-distance relationship is merely a cellular commitment and I didn't know if it could last the way my minutes miraculously had. The distance is romantic in concept, in movies, but in practice, every mile intensified the dull ache in my chest. I wanted to ache with purpose. With the knowledge that I was investing my time in something that wouldn't lose its value. I guess I have yet to fully accept that making mistakes is sometimes inevitable.

And at the same time, I blamed you for holding me back merely by existing. How could anyone compare? So unlike anyone I've ever known, and so much like myself. But alas, I concede. I am the guilty party in some regards. I squandered opportunities without your help. I stopped seeking others because I thought you were enough.

I didn't get a chance to recite my rehearsed lines requesting a hiatus before things ended abruptly and, appropriately, online. What began on AIM ceased to be via Facebook. (If there's anything I'd like to apologize for, it's maintaining a digital means of communication.) Thousands and thousands of pixels, but the few words that I wrote, words that occupied so little of the screen, translated to "What's next?" on my screen and "Who's next?" on yours.

The mannerisms, the gestures, the meaningful glances got lost in the airwaves and the only tangible evidence we had of one another was the name on the screen. I thought it was a lifeline. But it's lifeless. And still, I can't bring myself to delete your number. To sever that line completely.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Gaining Some Religion, Part 1: That's me in the corner, meditating

Remember when we had to read Siddhartha in English class our sophomore year of high school? Well, today I had a flashback to those days of analyzing the symbolism of water and discussing Sidd's sexual fantasies. Or rather, today I recalled my limited knowledge of Buddhism in a useless attempt to make a connection between that God-awful book (pun intended) and my infinitely more bizarre hands-on zen experience. And while I would love to say that my second encounter with the Buddhist religion was more promising, my aching back and lack of inner wisdom indicate otherwise.

Anyway, I suppose that first a little background information is necessary. I'm irreligious. Much like the Swiss, I'm all about neutrality, and my early disillusionment regarding religion has made me a clean slate, a blank page, an empty stone tablet, what have you. The only belief I've had in years has been my faith in myself. I decided about a year ago, however, that I needed to take a dip in the baptismal waters, spout out a little Hebrew, and "om" with purpose. Finally, I am enacting that plan. Who knows? Maybe all I'll wind up with are some WWJD bracelets. Maybe I'll glow with newfound enlightenment.

Maybe I can reclaim for myself what R.E.M. lost.

Back to today. I visited the Chapel Hill Zen Center after corresponding with my ride, B.J., for approximately a month. (We had a lot of scheduling conflicts.) Employing the teachings of Buddha/Sidd (and about a billion other guys whose names we had to chant), the center is a place for self-reflection and meditation. The outside looks like it houses a small family rather than a fat man in a constant state of nirvana. It even has a koi pond. With a bridge.

As for B.J., well, he is a guy I'd like to adopt as my surrogate grandfather. On the way over, he and I discussed American's destruction of the English language, the importance of multilingualism, and his preference for manual transmissions, among other things. Plus, he lives in Pittsboro. Anyone who lives in Pittsboro gets points for the simple act of carrying out most of his or her existence in that fabulously historic and charming town. I'll throw B.J. some karma points because that seems most appropriate in his case.

Being a first-timer at the center, I was put in the library to read up on how to ignore my consciousness, particularly my salivary glands. Nothing disturbs a zen atmosphere quite like an obscenely loud swallow. Then my meditation instructor Paul showed me proper etiquette. Sitting is definitely the hardest part of meditation. You have to situate yourself on this little round pillow, but only the front third of it, in order to place your pelvis in the optimum position. For posture purposes, of course.

I'm not sure exactly how long we meditated, but I failed miserably in my effort. Your focus is supposed to be on your breathing if you're not gifted enough to clear your thoughts automatically. I can't, that's for sure. I guess I can add that to my list of things Chapel Hill has taught me that I actually can't do all that well. I kept trying to count to 10, but my upper back was not adjusted to its new upright attitude and my eyes didn't want to remain downcast yet still open.

After an indeterminate amount of time, we chanted. Some of the chants were in an interpretation of English that I'm sure Faulkner would've enjoyed. Others were in Chinese, Japanese, Sanskrit. I got really good at saying "prajna paramita," or "perfection of wisdom." I was nowhere near perfect or wise, but I do feel more informed. And now I know that Buddhists haven't been missing out on those sah-weet, uplifting gospel songs. Their chants literally made me tap my feet. I hope I didn't look irreverent.

Though completely different than anything I've done before, the entire experience was fascinating.

I liked to bow as a sign of respect. I liked the idea of reaching an inner peace. I liked my shoe-less feet on the soft foyer carpet. I think that my biggest problem was my lack of understanding. At least I have a basic knowledge of western religions. I may not think highly of all of them, but I know the history. I did, after all, have that gold-leafed Bible when I was a kid. Eastern religions are so foreign, so mysterious. Plus, there's that language barrier issue.

I haven't decided whether or not I'll go back.

Friday, February 15, 2008

At last

A month after creating this blog (and the fabulously clever header above), I have finally had both the opportunity and motivation to post something.

Dozens of thoughts have been running through my mind lately and yet my ability to express them has waned tremendously since my Xanga days. It's hard to admit that I was far more articulate in those whiny and petty adolescent moanings than in probably any paper I've written since. Especially considering that I've now completed almost two semesters of college. Thus, this blog is absolutely necessary. For my writing skills and my sanity.

When I was asking my friend about blogging, he asked me what I wanted to blog about. I still don't know. Maybe I'll make the same trite observations I did when I was 15.

Despite the pensive and rather humorless introduction, I promise that I really am capable of "spreading seeds of happiness." In fact, I'd venture to say that I am a downright amusing person. And if no one else will testify to that, well, I still make myself laugh and that's good enough for me. It's perfectly acceptable to think highly of oneself, provided that there's not too much self-worship involved. That kind of behavior causes wars.

Today's events further led me to believe that a) I am doing far too little to really substantiate my existence, b) There are too many Americans being tragically ignored by "the system," and c) I shouldn't wear my red jacket with Tar Heel blue. The combination of colors is almost as awful and perverse as my need to make a joke while addressing a serious issue.

Anyway, I met with a class of middle schoolers during their field trip lunch at Granville Towers. The students were 6th graders from Durham County learning about college, specifically UNC. (If any college campus could encourage children to apply, I feel certain that its ours.) Rarely though have I been more cognizant of the academic division that exists between my hometown in suburbia and a suffering metropolis like Durham.

They all seemed enthusiastic when I tried to convey to them all the joys of Chapel Hill. And yet I could clearly see that some of these students had failed several times. Their grammar was atrocious (though I'm quite the critic in that regard) and it was evident that many of them were neglected by their parents. A lot of efforts have been put forth to recycle and reduce human waste, but I can't help but feel that, indeed, "the mind is (the most) terrible thing to waste."

I hate that these children have been failed by their parents, failed by their government, and more personally, failed by me. As long as I am not frozen by paralysis, I should be working to improve the lives and situations of others. I'm trying to help, but what I've done has only served as evidence that my attempts have not been nearly enough.

Speaking of which, my lame attempt to negate my disappointment with myself fed at least one homeless person this evening. After volunteering at a birthday party at Kidzu, the mother who organized the party gave me an entire box of pizza, for which I have no use considering our pathetic excuse for a fridge. So I gave it to that famous face of Franklin, the bearded old man known for his excellent guitar interpretations of Cat Stevens songs, among others.

I know, I know. A box of pizza is hardly going to tame that "Wild World" to which that man in particular is familiar. I can safely say, however, that the act left us both a littler happier. Sure, it's hard to get by just upon a smile, but it's a start.