Deep Exhale

I don't always meditate, but when I do, I find that it helps me in significant ways.



It's been a long time since I've pursued meditation as a mode of living....that is, made time for it on a consistent basis such that it became foundational in my life. A very long time. This is unfortunate, but understandable....I just fail to carve out a station for it in my day-to-day activities. Perhaps it is that I am unwilling to commit to it because I've got more important priorities (unlikely, considering how much time I spend socializing and imbibing, etc.), or perhaps it is that I am intimidated by it. I can't precisely calculate the equation which leaves me in vapid stupors of non-reflection. The more frustrating angle, however, is that each time I *do* make time for it, it ends up being incredibly fruitful and rewarding. I have such a solid track record with it making me feel good, feel great, that I don't know why my brain refuses to make a habit of it. Maybe I feel the need to do it in a social setting, so that I don't feel so secluded during my time spent sitting. I'm sure that Portland, of all cities, has active communities who pursue awareness and presence together. Perhaps I've just slipped into a mode of being too hedonistic, and I need to consciously redirect my intentions towards the more fulfilling motions of thought~

Regardless, I sat down on my meditation cushion the other day with the intention of just staring out my floor-level single-pane window and trying to void my mind of thoughts. This, as some of you may know, is a startlingly difficult task to accomplish the first time that you sit after a long drought of meditation. Your mind rebels against you, trying to prod you towards social activities or the numbing sensations of the internet. Your body clashes with your intention as well, persistently trying to realign itself into poor postures and arched limbs. Posture may be an even bigger struggle for me personally than the thought redirection, to be honest...it's one of the things I've hoped that meditation would help me to improve (and it has, but only when I am consistent with it). A distracted mind is mildly frustrating when you cannot reign it in, but an ill-postured body causes physical pain after about five minutes....which - at least my mind - tends to treat on a higher order of attention.

I didn't have a terribly long sit; perhaps twenty minutes all said. Mental frustration, bodily fatigue, communicative distractions all in play. Near the end, however, I remembered a little technique that the Shambhala crew in Boulder taught me during one of their classes...."Breathing in, I am myself. Breathing out, I am here". It sounds nonsensical if you haven't shared in the stock of meditative frustrations, I am sure, but this little phrase has helped me immensely over the years. Most seasoned meditation initiates that you speak to (or yoga, or tai-chi; what have you) will tell you that one of the most important functions is breath. From what I gather, both in word and in practice, is that this is because focusing on your breathing gives you something simple, something rhythmic, to sharpen the blade of your mind upon. It does not involve words - which as far as voiding your mind goes, helps significantly - and it caresses your entire being, lulling you into a focused complacency (perhaps it mimics beta waves in your brain, or some such hard science). All I know is that it leaves you with purely physical responses....an inward-focus that observes the breath as it enters and exits your body, and the general path of that lifeblood as it circulates through you in between the two.

Personally, as I breathe in and out, I find it helps me greatly to focus on the aforementioned mantra...breathing in, I am myself; breathing out, I am here. When I flow over the first half in my mind, as I breathe in, it somehow delivers to me a wordless phantasmagoria of all the most significant images and notions in my life which I have come to associate with myself. Pictures swirl around my head like turning pages in a photo album, and trails of words, morals, demons, personal meanings and truths snake around the contours of my body and mind, informing and defining me in all the ways which I have become accustomed to being an isolated, self-contained consciousness. There are countless reasons why this is a powerful experience, but most prominently and forefront in my mind is that is plucks me from the amalgam of society like some sort of spiritual crane-game, focusing me on myself, both my meanings and my methods, for best and for worst.

Secondly, I exhale, reciting the second half of the guidance: breathing out, I am here. This phrase immediately grounds me....wraps up my whole from the in-breath, wordless but colorful, and plants it firmly in the ground wherever I happen to be. My roots flood outward, connecting to objects and expanses which surround me, and I feel the empowerment of being a sentient being placed in a specific time and place, with the self-capacity necessary to change all of it, any of it, if I so choose to, either by plotted plan or capricious whim. It stirs up a frenzy of appreciation for the ability to be here (there), to perceive and process everything that is going around me, and for the gift of self-agency which brought me here and continues to bring me farther still in every waking moment.

The I repeat, recycle, until clean or overly-fatigued.

These two concepts, anchored on the in-breath and the out-breath, create a powerful orbit of awakening within me, a cadence which structures my mind. When I step away from meditating, these things stick with me for a time (sometimes short, sometimes longer) and generate an intentional consciousness which is less distracted, more precise and yet more open. I do it for the perspective, I do it for the appreciation which is suddenly infused into each object, each person, each motion and feeling. I do it because it makes me feel, for a time, like the best incarnation of myself that I can possibly be.

Normally this process is incredibly frustrating the first few times that I sit down to do it after being away from any semblance of a routine, but a few days ago, for whatever reason, mental calm pervaded quickly (if not briefly). Each time I am able to relax into the situation, I learn something new about it....information seems to come in waves throughout life; when repeating the same activity, you will gain new perspective upon it. Regardless, a bit of the meaning of what I realized was infused into the last few paragraphs, but essentially it was that the breath embodies both of our human functions within the universe. When breathing in, I effectively breathe the world into myself....taking in its objects, thoughts, sensations, triumphs, and maladies. My body processes them in what way it sees fit, which usually I ask for minimal oversight on, and stores them accordingly. Then, breathing out, I release these transformed impressions back into the world in the form of new thoughts, new actions, new objects and achievements. Essentially I am a processing agent for the universe, perpetually draining it and destroying it, invigorating and renewing it. I see how easy it is to lose control of your own thoughts, your own processes, and in some small way this is doing the world a large injustice. If you find the ability and the strength to maintain focus, to output something equal or better than what you take in, it will transform everything around you.

To breathe is an art form; to breathe is life. Our breath is the breath of the universe.

The Art of War

Alright, I haven't updated this business since I was in Europe, which last I checked was over 2 months ago. I'm bordering on a large amount of frustration with my novel, and I think the main problem is Colorado Springs. I mean, perhaps it is my mindstate, and I shouldn't be blaming something as mindless and unlikely as an entire city. Still, though, I feel like there is some merit to the claim when analyzed in the proper light.

Moreso than anything else, it is MY particular experience of this city. I have a few scattered friends left here, but the majority of them are either running in ruts that they have dug for themselves, or trapped in downward-spiraling relationships which rust over most of the basic enjoyments of life for them. This is a frustrating position for me to be in, because I feel like I don't have a correct or healthy social outlet to really satiate my appetites for interaction. In Portland and especially in Europe, I had droves of people to express myself to and explore with. Here, I barely have a reason to leave the house. You would think, at first glance, that this would be good for a writing project...giving me plenty of time to buckle down and get invigorated about the world that I am creating in my head. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, this is not working well for me. When I get up in the morning, I often look at my computer and feel a shiver of revulsion towards it. I occupy myself in other ways, with books or movies or something of the sort. Then I start to feel guilty because I know I have so much progress that I need to be spindling off my fingertips, and it is not happening.

Sometimes I do find bursts of inspiration....I usually try to write at least once or twice a day. Most of these efforts end in frustration (and moreso, distraction, I think because I feel socially unfulfilled for the time being), but some of them do result in writing and story progress which I am proud of. I'm at least making progress, even if not at the clip that I would hope for. The mainline of this post, however, is a concern about writing in general, because I feel that my hesitance and dodging of it is beginning to color the activity, the experience of actually writing, in a dismal grey. Whereas before....perhaps before, it was a vibrant green, or a cerulean blue~

Karl at Trident (where I currently am, coincidentally) once told me that the most important time to write, to his mind, was when you were most frustrated with your writing process and lack of inspiration. It rung somewhat true to me at the time, but I'm beginning now to realize how many pages of experience that sentence probably resonated with in his mind. I was amateur (at best) then; hell, I would be hard-pressed to call myself anything but amateur still. This guy was probably in his mid-fifties, though, so to him it must be (even though I didn't know it at the time he spoke it) an overarching axiom which governed his life, his entire creative process. Now that I can apply my more seasoned perspective to this one-upon-a-statement of his, it begins to snowball with meaning. I can only imagine that it will continue to do so for the rest of my life, or writing career....whichever turns out to be shorter.

I know deep down that if I continue to press on in my efforts to write (I am talking now about a singular instance, one moment where I apply my fingers to the keyboard and try to push one of them a millimeter down, enough to make a single character register - but knowing that to do this is a first brushstroke, and it will necessarily govern every one which follows it), I will eventually break through to expressing something potent, something which I feel is meaningful to me personally, to the point where sentences will begin to tumble through my mind faster than my hands can record them. That's the goal; also the rub. Many times that I end up sitting with my hands resting gingerly on the keys, I cannot make that first millimeter-drop. I get anxious. And when that happens, your body expresses itself as it usually does in situations of anxiety: activating your fight-or-flight response; stealing electricity from your imagination and surging instead straight to the amygdala. Then I just close the screen....then I just turn on an episode of Seinfeld.

I feel like if I had more satiation, my creativity would flow much more freely. My mind would latch easier onto concepts, and develop them in intriguing ways. This city in Winter, however, leaves me feeling stagnant on many fronts. It drones and buzzes and dulls the blade of my mind, and I think this is fatiguing me....physically, from just sitting much of the time and perhaps not getting enough exercise (a writer's curse as well), but also mentally, crushing my creativity by not supplying an outlet for interaction with nature, for witticisms traded amongst friends, for philosophy which juices the mind for all its contents.

I'll do my best with the situation as I can until I get back to Portland. Only a month more~ The goal is a first draft by the time I arrive. We'll find out if that's a reasonable expectation.

Paris - 9/11/10

Well, first, allow me to update the rest of the France section. After day one, I woke up by myself and walked over to the Musee D'Orsee (I think this is the spelling). This was, overall, one of the better museums I had gone to thus far on the trip. There was good representation from many of the artists I enjoy, especially the impressionists....saw paintings by Van Gogh, Gauguin, Pissarro, Monet, Rembrandt, and a card-catalogue's worth of other painters with whom I wasn't familiar. The crowning achievement of the D'Orsee was their sculpture collection, however, which was vast. One of the the ticket packages included a sculpture garden with works by Rodin, and I was disappointed that when I attempted to purchase said package I was denied as too much time had allegedly passed in the day. Happily, however, there was a good share of Rodin as well as countless other sculptors in the regular portions of the museum.

After that I wandered around aimlessly South of the Seine river, which divides Paris into two halves. I randomly stumbled upon Notre Dame, which was fortunate because I had forgotten that it was present in Paris at this point and probably would not have seen it otherwise. This cathedral was stunning, staggering. I managed to leave there just a little before the good part of the sunset, so at least the light was dynamic for a few of my photos of the place. It's very strange though, walking along the tourist-portioned sections along the perimeters of the cathedral, all while regular Catholic services are going on for the people within the velvet rope barriers. It feels like the tourist presence is incredibly obtrusive, and I'm not quite certain how the regular church patrons (as well as diocese) put up with all the flashing lights and muffled footsteps crashing about their place of worship at all hours. Even for as majestic as that church is, the rampant tourism of the place rather cheapened the experience of going there. I stayed for a bit of the service and then left when I felt overwhelmed. It's a powerful place; there is no escaping the vibrations of their pipe organ.

The next day I wandered up to the train station to purchase my ticket to Amsterdam, because I needed to book it beforehand to reserve space. This put me up by Montmartre, so I took in some of the sights there. Sacre Coure is an amazing chapel on the pinpoint top of a steep hill, and when you get up to the top of it you not only have an amazing tour of a chapel - which, if not rivaling Notre Dame, at least comes close – but also an amazing panoramic view of all of Southern Paris. There are people littered all over the grassier parts of the hill, as well as musicians playing harps and guitars and various scammers and schemers trying to rope people in to purchasing small bits of colored string by using basic psychological principles. I'm really glad I made it to this spot. Afterwards, I walked down through Montmartre and got a coffee at the cafe in which Amelie was shot. It looked drastically different from it's representation in the movie, but they certainly capitalize on the marketing involved in being associated with a blockbuster movie~

On my last day in Paris I woke up, said goodbye to the people I had met at the hostel, and walked over to the Louvre. This museum was too much, literally. If I had a week of exploring it I would perhaps then come close to seeing the majority of their art. Instead, you have to be very selective about where and what you intend to see, because the crowds are incredibly daunting, both slowing you down in between exhibits and speeding you up to the point where you cannot comfortable observe a painting for more than ten seconds without feeling as though you are causing a bottlenecking of the crowd behind you. At least, this was the case in the Denon wing, which is where most of the famous paintings (Mona Lisa, etc) are. I hit this spot first because I knew the crowds would be smaller early in the morning...I didn't go back later but I imagine that they were daunting (at best) in the afternoon. Then I toured through various cultural sections, ending in the Louvre sculpture gardens. I had thought that the D'Orsee had an intimidating sculpture collection, but the Louvre put it to shame (mostly older pieces, but still.) I spent far too long here, and ended up leaving the museum right after in order to make it back to the train station for the Amsterdam rail.

Paris

Arriving in Paris was a shitstorm. I may have forgotten to mention that while I was in London, they decided to have a rail-strike which made traveling around the city somewhat difficult for the last two days that I was there. The train to Paris was still running luckily, but aside from that, not much. Fast forward to Paris....I arrive and the exact same thing is going on here. Basically on the same days, just pushed out perfectly to fuck with me the maximum amount. I tried to laugh about it at first, but then it became less and less funny when all the hostels and hotels within a kilometer of the rail station had either been booked up by people screwed over waiting for their trains, or other usual travelers such as myself who arrived early enough to score them. After a very frustrating march around Montmartre looking for a spot to sleep, I returned to the train station resolute to just sleep there, but even that is not allowed apparently as there is not much space for it.

So, I went nearby and started asking around about places to stay, finally hearing about a little youth hostel by the Louvre which had rooms available. It was over a mile away and already 11:30 PM, but fuck it, I said to myself, I'm going to walk there with the backpack and all. That went decently enough for about ten minutes, until it started to rain, and then soon after started to pour. I hate blowing money unnecessarily, but at this point I hailed a taxi to get to the spot. The driver spoke not one word of English, which was fantastic for me, as you can imagine. Also, taxi drivers in Paris? Extremely slow.

Eventually I made it to the hostel and calmed down enough to relax and fall asleep. The next day I woke up and met a few good people in the hostel...Santiago, from Argentina, and Vout, a professional-caliber pole-vaulter and track-and-field athlete from Holland. These guys were awesome, and conveniently had not yet done much in the city. We embarked first to a cemetery which Vout's father had told him to visit, the 'Cimitiere du Pere Lachaise', which was, at least as far into the Paris stay as I am currently, the coolest thing I have done here. It was ridiculously mind-blowing. First off, it is devastatingly huge. Secondly, every grave and tomb is an absolute piece of art, and about half or more are gigantic. I have somewhere on the order of 50 pictures just from the time we spent there. Lastly, there are a whole host of famous people buried there. We did not figure this out until we stumbled upon Chopin's grave, which was basically covered in fresh-cut flowers from all of his adoring contemporary fans. Later we found a map and sought out the graves of Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, and Marcel Proust. Obviously I was the one making the calls on which ones we saw~

Then we hopped on a bus and rolled out across the city, seeing a bunch of landmarks just from the windows there. We got out at the Eiffel Tower, and walked all over from there, basically all the way back to our hostel by the Louvre. We saw many huge buildings with amazing architecture, as well as the Arc de Triomphe, Napoleon's Tomb, the Grand and Petite Palais(es?), and Champs Elysees (basically a street, but it has a lot of cred around here for tourists). When we got back to the hostel we relaxed a bit and then went out for food and debauchery, roping in some girls and guys as we went, and had a blast on the town although much of it was spent wandering around on drunken goose-chases for trendy bars which may or may not have existed. Overall a great time.

Today is now the next day, and I've done some stuff, but I'd rather stop writing for now and recharge a bit. Will upload some photos from this section when I get more moments. Also, these entries are going to be extremely sporadic because I am having extreme difficulty with internets out here....most places charge for it, and even when I find a free network the EeePC has serious problems when it comes to connecting. I hope this changes in the next few countries.

Au revoir~

Monsoir Mautchez

More of London

Well, how about an update on how the rest of London went? Let me start at the beginning. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Buttercup is marrying Humperdink in about chalf an hour.

To begin with, my entrance into London was somewhat remarkable, as I thought that they might throw me out the proverbial gates and send me back home without a trip under my belt. When I got in line for customs or entrance or whatever you call the passport check, I was directed to a man who would be best described as somewhere in the spectrum between mildly upset and downright surly. It was as though someone ran over his beloved dog the night before.

When I got up to the window he began drilling me with questions, most of which I had no legitimate answer for. Mind you, it is his job to look out for suspicious behavior; I don't believe that I was acting suspiciously in the least. My usual chipper self after a red-eye flight, which took some effort. He asked me where I was staying since I hadn't written it in on the card. I told him that I didn't know yet; my friends were out of town and I hadn't felt comfortable booking a hostel sight-unseen, since I knew of a few that were in the same general area. Agent did not like this. Then he asked me for proof that I was leaving his country sometime soon (what a jerk), and I told him that I was flying back from Madrid but that I didn't have a hard copy of the ticket on my person. Agent did not like this. I told him that I was taking the Eurostar to France in less than a week, which I also had not yet booked. Apparently I am a shadow with no evidence. They do not like this.

He also asked me a barrage of other uncomfortable questions, such as how much hard currency I had on me ($30 US), and how much was in the checking account which I was planning on accessing from ATM's, as well as whether or not I had any proof of the reported sum. Agent did not like that I had none of this. But, in the end, my charming demeanor won out and he let me into England with a bit of a lecture.

Jerk.

After that minor hiccup, things went much more smoothly. I found a great hostel, met some cool people from South Africa and Australia, and then proceeded to do a variety of things that normal tourists go do, and some that they do not. I visited the British Museum, which was amazing. They have the Rosetta Stone, etc, and some of the most detail-oriented recovered art and metalwork which I have ever borne witness to. I walked along some good areas: Trafalgar Sq (where I stumbled upon a very unlikely poker-event where I got to play a few free games for prizes), Piccadilly Circus (no lions or bears, just breakdancers), Hyde Park (Speaker's Corner has been bastardized and was a huge letdown, but the park is beautiful), and Camden Market which was an amazing collection of people and booths/stables/stores selling just about any item or food which you could desire.....imagine all the open-air markets in Oregon and Washington all smashed into one area~

I also went to the Science Museum, which for how general a name it has was quite good. They have a great interactive psychology exhibit which was mentally accessible and challenging for both 5-year olds and 27-year olds. I don't know where to put the hyphen when I type ages. Additionally I met up with my South African friends at the Tate Modern (art museum), which was just about the most spectacular art museum I have witnessed. They have loads of amazing surrealistic and progressive art that I had never seen before, even in photos. It was a crash-course in a whole movement of painting and sculpture. Nearby I went to the Globe Theatre (Shakespeare y'all), but refused to pay seventeen pounds to tour it's meager interior regions. Ah well.

Lastly I met up with Will and Ilana when they got back from Paris, and took a train out to Birmingham (pronounced birmin-gum) with them, which is where Will lives now while working at Oxford. I wrestled with the iPhone issue for awhile and probably just made it worse (might not even work when I get back to the states, now...), but then we went and got some astoundingly-delicious curry at an Indian restaurant close-by their art-deco apartment. We also grabbed a pint at a quaint local pub which looked more like an tea-shop than a bar...it looks like they have a good neighborhood. We played some games, and Will, who is a gentleman and a scholar, did me the favor of lending me his iPod and a phone which can make use of the SIM card which I bought. Thanks dude; they have been a big help.

Etc, etc; then I went to Paris which is where I write this from. I'll save that whole thing for another entry. Photos you ask? Why yes, I did take a few hundred. I might try to upload later but for now, it is le hassle.

9/3/10 - London

It is ridiculous how discombobulated one becomes while traveling. You never really feel 'on top' of your game, because the ground is shifting underneath you so often and you have vastly fewer resources at your disposal. It's difficult to feel 100% at a bar when you've been wearing the same clothes for the past two days, your hair is wind-tossed, and you haven't really cleaned yourself up for some hours because you've been on the go from place to place (none of them home) and all the bathrooms in the progressive country which you are in have adopted air hand-dryers - which sound like planes taking off - instead of paper towels. I never really have any privacy, either, which is annoying. I'm always feeling rushed when doing things that need done...checking the internet on the hostel computers, taking showers, using the sink in the room to brush teeth, shave, etc. Having other people around ALL the time is really a pain.

On top of that, perhaps the phone which you've taken with you and which used to work with your old SIM card in America has decided to reject the new one you've gotten for international calls, and reject it so HARD that it crashes and leaves you unable to use any of the functions which it used to perform, including being your sole source of all the music which you love and were planning on listening to in various exotic scenarios. You'd probably know how to fix it if you had your laptop here, but instead you have a little plastic one which is running an extremely obscure operating system which you haven't even come close to figuring out (I seriously can't even find a readout of how much battery is left, which is really important information to have), and which also coincidentally refuses to connect to any wi-fi networks which you instruct it to.

So that's where my day is at so far. I decided to be less upset and just take the subway to the Science Museum, which, for being as general of a museum name as possible, was actually quite well executed. Interactivity + Science = Success, at least in the museum world. The Exploratorium in SF knows what I'm talking about. Also, all the museums here are as free as watching the dingy-coloured (spelling what? it's correct here) birds which amble all over the sidewalks, so that's a nice touch. Actually, for having as expensive of a reputation as London does, I think I am doing quite well on expenditures here. 16 pounds a night for the hostel bed, and beyond that maybe 10 or 15 a day for food so far, plus 7 for transportation. Well, I thought I was doing well until I did the math on the currency conversion just now. Regardless, I'm spending significantly less than I did in New York (I think). I haven't really been drinking here, though, so I imagine that the probability of the damage approaching critical hit levels is high if I begin doing that. Luckily I have a saving throw for having a bunch of writing to accomplish.


Science Museum

On the positive side as well, my worst-snoring-from-a-roommate-ever hostel experience had me lying awake in bed for a little while, and I came up with some good progress (in my head) on my writing project. I feel like I haven't devoted practically any time to it at all so far, being busy with sightseeing and meeting people and eating, etc.

So, lately has been a series of mixed emotions about things...HOWEVER even with all this said I am still swinging with a +3 bonus on account of being in a new city, a new country, and being exposed to all the refreshing differences on large and small scales. Hopefully as I get more accustomed to being a traveler I will either develop techniques which will eliminate a lot of these discomforts, or I will just get used to them and consider them necessary evils. Although, it is TOTALLY not necessary for my iPhone to have bricked. Come on travel gods.

Oh, also, I missed my hostel's included breakfast because I don't have an alarm on account of the phone thing, but I got This instead:



Nomz.

Dissolve

I am sitting at the Rocking Frog, knowing that I should sit here and write yet desirous (after listening again to the Tai Chi interview) of moving my body throughout the world, just to experience the connection with my motions and explore my awareness of them on various levels. Also, however, I begin to realize, to have dawn upon me, the importance of sitting still. When motionless, your body has less to focus on, and the movements of your mind become more accessible to you. The tendrils of thought, reaching out and feeling/filtering the world and your experience of it. I say not that static is necessary for attainment of mind-presence, but that meditative thought can be a tool to help you acknowledge which directions your mind gravitates towards, and how forcefully or stubbornly it travels. This can also be the state for slight adjustments, using your presence within this usually-shrouded process to tweak your own neural pathways and reactions.

Additionally, this helps me to grasp something which I have had some curiosity about for some time now, which is ritual motions and sounds. Beta waves, caressing the brain; tribal chants, unlocking depths of perception; walking and running meditations, pacing your thoughts differently than they might have drummed upon you before. These are all....unusual...for lack of a better. They, like drugs, remove you from the stagnant tar-pits of routine into which we all sink for majorities of our time. Challenging the mind...taking it out of expectation – from solid ground to quicksand. When you are displaced, you must think on your feet....and what better way to prepare for any possible future than displacing yourself as much as possible, adapting to all terrains?

Something about a tribal chant...removing the individual from himself, removing accountability and identity, unshackling from the body and expanding into the far-reaching pulses of sound, and beyond them even the silent world. When one's self is already dissolved into sound, you see, a significant portion of the bridge between self and nothingness has already been traversed. Can you imagine what that is like? What a liberating, frightening experience that must be?

Hopefully we all experience something so liberating, by degrees, in our own lifetimes. But with society as fractured as it currently is, I find it hard to believe that we could experience it with the same authenticity as a tribe might have. Being a part of that movement, of that sound-generation, in which the barriers between individuals completely dissipate and you become a singular unity...I can't for the life of me imagine what that would be like. I want to.