The only time I regret having books is when I move. Boxes and boxes heavy as bricks, and once they are unpacked they grow all over the place. The other day I attempted to make room for newcomers and ended up doing a beauty contest. There are books that I have never read, that I will probably never read. There are give-ups because they bored me. There are gifts, books that come from thoughtful friends but they are just not my size. Technical books, once useful, now collect dust.
Only the creme de la creme deserve shelf space. With the plan in mind I did lay many books to rest. The room looked happier and less ladened. I even put on some music to celebrate.
Does our heart speak a different language that we don’t understand? What does it mean by “listen to your heart?” The only time I really hear my heart is when in a crisis, it thumps in my ears. Maybe we’re talking about a gut reaction—to act with our instincts instead of assessing the situation with what we know. But I also think it is much more than that. I think it is asking us to find the essence of our being and let its wisdom to be our guide.
A pure being is often compared to a fool because his/her actions are outrageous and inconsistent. But the heart, when examined at a distance, is steadfast as a rock. Such is the feeling I have after reading the book, Agnes Smedley, the Life and Times of an American Radical by Janice and Stephen R. MacKinnon. Smedley’s passionate involvements in the Indian Independent movement and the Chinese civil war between the Communist and the Guomindang (1927-1950), her triumphs and defeats showed a heart that could neither be borrowed or bought. Such was a human life in all its harshness. Such was a heart that was true to its end.
This funky place doesn’t open until 7p and it is one of the joints in the Mission where you can have late night snack or dinner. I like to bring friends to the “club” because it is so unlike other eateries. The entire interior, including the ceiling, is filled with bygone toys, strange photographs, mutilated torsos, thorny busts, Van Gough’s self portrait with a bloody bandage and his ear in a plastic bag, Frank Zapper taking a crap on the toilet and so on. They always play good, upbeat music. The place is jammed with people spilling over onto the sidewalk. One time I watched Dore play chess with an old man at the counter. That’s right. Social interaction.
We went there after a concert last night. At 9:30 the place was quite empty. Two kids playing some dice games and only one table of customers. Is it because of the economic downturn? (The concert also was not full). They have raised the prices on the menu and the food was less than satisfactory. We left loving the place more than what it did to our stomachs.
Two women walked into Clarion as I was waiting for my piano student to arrive. They played the collection of singing bowls, finger cymbals and shook all the sound makers that could be shaken. One of the women was entranced by the overtones of the Tibetan tingsha cymbals and decided to test all of them. She found a pair that she loved and proceeded to pay for them.
“It’s thirty-five dollars.” Jien the owner rang up the sale.
“Oh, that’s too much. I’m sorry but I wasn’t prepared to spend that much on a set of cymbals.” The woman said.
Her companion was shocked. “If you really like it…”. But the woman was adamant about her decision and she escaped with her purse tightly zipped.
Retail! Jien and I looked at each other with bemusement. Down at Union Square people don’t give a thought spending money on clothing and shoes and toys and cosmetics. But what price is sound, especially the one that makes you stop and listen and wonder?
I go to the San Francisco Herb Company for my spices. Not only do they sell their products in bulk, but the store manager, Greg High, has been a friend for many years. I like to visit Greg at his store.
Greg plays the didjeridu and is an avid painter. He had brought a book to Clarion once to share it with me. It was an art book of Australian Aboriginal paintings. When I leaved through the book I marveled at the brilliant colors and lines. Some of the paintings look impressionistic, all of them were bold departure from the traditional dot paintings. The style varied: a Jackson Pollock here, a Monet there.
“All by one woman.’ Greg told me. “And she had never left her aboriginal community nor was she influenced by the European masters.”
Her name was Emily Kame Kngwarreye. And on that day I realized how vast a universe we have inside the mind.
Every time I drive around the Upper Haight I think of Paul Pena, who passed away on October 1, 2005. Paul was not only a dear friend, but an inspiring blues musician/Tuvan-styled throat singer and the main character of the Oscar nominated documentary, Genghis Blues.
When Paul was very ill, a team of friends came together to help take care of him. One day I took Paul out for a drive. He wanted to smell the sea. We drove to the Great Highway and parked on the headland. I rolled down the window for him to lean his head out. “I love you, Clara.” Paul said. “And Lawrence is the son I never had.”
Paul was the teacher who inspired my son Lawrence to take up music again. He had indeed a hand in raising Lawrence by showing him a glimpse of the music world. I spoke to Paul often then, and one time in particular, frustrated and sad about Lawrence. He listened patiently and said in his calm voice, “Lawrence is a special child and special child needs special care.” I broke down and cried. Paul, being blind, saw with clarity the need of the misunderstood child and reminded me my role as a mother.
Whenever I think of Paul he seems immediately present. His deep voice and wisdom stay with me even though his body is gone. A few months ago they showed Genghis Blues at the Roxy’s again. Paul, alive, singing, having adventures, loving, despairing, being human. I love you, Paul.
My sister-in-law Nancy is working on a web blog for her Life Coach practice. Yesterday we spent the afternoon looking at various therapist sites. The most powerful one identified all the unhappiness in the world: frustration, depression, anger, helplessness, powerlessness, and so on. At the end of the barrage the message is clear: you need HELP!
“The therapist is speaking as a person of authority. But as a Life Coach, I ask only open ended question.” Nancy explained. “Without judgement or assumption the seeker is allowed to go deep into themselves to find the answer and own it.”
I was reminded of the sages in ancient China, who, when visited by kings and noblemen, never gave them a straight answer to their problems. They were mostly scoffed at being mentally insane and sometimes their reply cost them their heads. But for those who listened they walked away being the wiser, knowing deep inside the answer was always within themselves.
When I was living in the East Bay my house had a backyard with big redwood and eucalyptus trees. It was bird heaven. During mornings and evenings I could hear them socializing, probably gossiping about a day’s work. I had a black cat, Itsy, who was a hunter. Occasionally he brought me feathered gifts, which my husband and I would rush to the animal hospital to see if they could be saved.
One summer day I was enjoying the breeze and the birds in the backyard, when a sudden quiet fell. I looked around in alarm. The afternoon sun, the blue sky, the trees were intact, and the ground was solid. Then I heard the rush. Itsy pounded out from behind the bush. All at once life flooded back. The birds seemed to be shrieking with delight as this time they were the watcher and not the victim.
That moment of silence stayed with me. The moment before something happens—the anticipation—as if the universe is holding its breath. Something is about to change.
It was raining, and the popular Java Beach Cafe had a line running out the door. Dan Brady and I had passed another cafe about a block away that looked pleasant and empty and decided to try it. Can’t remember the name of it now—something like Beach Cafe—with southern food like fried chicken and waffle; and a cotton candy machine. We found a nice corner in front of a shelf full of books and I took out Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. Dan and I would use the book to jump start some poetic exercises.
Three women came over and sat at the table next to us. As I read a passage from the book, Dan began to write. I noticed at one point the women had stopped talking. They were attracted by the obscurity of my recitation as I navigated precariously from word to word, sounding out long running syllables, short exclamations, pausing at combinations that befuddled the mind. After two pages of reading I stopped. Then it was Dan’s turn to read while I wrote. At the end of his reading we read to each other what we had written and laughed at the strangeness of our “poems” that seemed to vibrate with a raw energy.
“Excuse me.” One of the women leaned over. “We have been watching you reading and writing. It seems like you are playing a most wonderful game.”
We talked about Finnegans Wake, how its obscurity helped us not to get stuck on the narrative but listen to the words and sounds and that propelled us to write down what we heard.
“Would you like to try?” I proposed.
They laughingly declined. “But you’d be sure we’ll be talking about you for days to come.”
My son calls me in the middle of the day and nearly gives me a heart attack. “What happened?” are my first words as I panic. He never calls unless he needs something, like money, or he is in trouble. “Nothing.” is his reply, laughing, knowing exactly what I am thinking.
“Don’t do this to me.” I chide him. “This is too scary.” And then I think to myself, how incredibly odd for a mother to tell her son not to call!
I realize I have been conditioned by my son. He is in fact holding the puppet strings on his fingers and controlling my emotion. But maybe today is a new beginning, that I shall notice not all calls are trouble calls, that life is turning out for this young man, and when he thinks of his mother, he gives her a call.
The only time I regret having books is when I move. Boxes and boxes heavy as bricks, and once they are unpacked they grow all over the place. The other day I attempted to make room for newcomers and ended up doing a beauty contest. There are books that I have never read, that I will probably never read. There are give-ups because they bored me. There are gifts, books that come from thoughtful friends but they are just not my size. Technical books, once useful, now collect dust.
