10.14.2006
10.13.2006
Note To Steve on Addiction 10.14.06
I just had an epiphany about why people are drawn to addiction; especially in terms of a bright young lad like yourself.
There is a Buddhistic edict that one must give up desire. This is hard to do, particularly when your mind has a the bent and great yen for knowing and delving into so much; the heat for following your passions where ever they might lead. All this wanting to know often leads to a great deal of wanting to possess, if even because the acquisition of thing or person in question - that diadem you currently want to pluck - even if just because having it will lead to knowing it, and thus the world, better. Possession. The burning to have it, the great It at the moment, in your grasp. This is the sun-like engine of desire; it's very hot and can blot out all things near it. And how much worse if there's so many suns in your celestial cloak? So many because you want to know so much.
So then you go into deep and sustained meditation and give it all up, slow your heart rate down and begin in quietude to reach for only quiescence. The tree grows above you and you're free of that cycle of desire. And boy, ain't it all slow and easy.
But say you live in the city, that's usually all it takes to fuck up the rhythm in favor of wanting to know more, much more - all these info streams - and of not having the peace of mind to delve into peace of mind. And then a solution appears: total absorption in one desire. It's almost like a meditation in that is all but erases other desires. It quiets them right down in favor of it's own driving and all pervasive hunger. One desire, one great big feverish, warted and spunk seething Desire and aren't you almost an ascetic for giving yourself over so completely to the cause?
In my life I've primarily done my yen-ing for women, and in this centry I've been blessed to winnow it down to three women specifically, two of them still under four feet tall. That's my greediness. With my family as self-centered sacrement, I'm still aware that the need for Love is my driving force. Now in life it all comes to me so easily, but I don't forget how well it can sear at the flesh too. I know of the overarching NEED that is so painful but at least blots out other needs, and so I can take a shot at empathizing with you in your gut struggle. I raise a cheer to you for all that you are in all your great knowing's, and even in your struggles with being a Siddhartha of Substances. I'm proud of you for stepping up as Papa, for being the Man, when it could be altogether so much easier to just be the junkie. I'll tell Congress to send you a metal.
There is a Buddhistic edict that one must give up desire. This is hard to do, particularly when your mind has a the bent and great yen for knowing and delving into so much; the heat for following your passions where ever they might lead. All this wanting to know often leads to a great deal of wanting to possess, if even because the acquisition of thing or person in question - that diadem you currently want to pluck - even if just because having it will lead to knowing it, and thus the world, better. Possession. The burning to have it, the great It at the moment, in your grasp. This is the sun-like engine of desire; it's very hot and can blot out all things near it. And how much worse if there's so many suns in your celestial cloak? So many because you want to know so much.
So then you go into deep and sustained meditation and give it all up, slow your heart rate down and begin in quietude to reach for only quiescence. The tree grows above you and you're free of that cycle of desire. And boy, ain't it all slow and easy.
But say you live in the city, that's usually all it takes to fuck up the rhythm in favor of wanting to know more, much more - all these info streams - and of not having the peace of mind to delve into peace of mind. And then a solution appears: total absorption in one desire. It's almost like a meditation in that is all but erases other desires. It quiets them right down in favor of it's own driving and all pervasive hunger. One desire, one great big feverish, warted and spunk seething Desire and aren't you almost an ascetic for giving yourself over so completely to the cause?
In my life I've primarily done my yen-ing for women, and in this centry I've been blessed to winnow it down to three women specifically, two of them still under four feet tall. That's my greediness. With my family as self-centered sacrement, I'm still aware that the need for Love is my driving force. Now in life it all comes to me so easily, but I don't forget how well it can sear at the flesh too. I know of the overarching NEED that is so painful but at least blots out other needs, and so I can take a shot at empathizing with you in your gut struggle. I raise a cheer to you for all that you are in all your great knowing's, and even in your struggles with being a Siddhartha of Substances. I'm proud of you for stepping up as Papa, for being the Man, when it could be altogether so much easier to just be the junkie. I'll tell Congress to send you a metal.
10.05.2006
First Impressions
09.28.06
They live in a home built by an architect for himself. It's all lines and angularity, but done in wood and stone and almost-tadelacked walls with so much of the outside coming in through window-walls, that, for all its hard, jutting planed Modernism, the place is as soft as they are. And the furniture, low and plush, masculine, beckons you give in to repose and just watch the gardeners. There is an amazing harmony in their relationship and it's evinced in the lack of ostentation in their rich home. The army of small statured, good natured Guatemalans polishing the place, and even the sparse, good taste itself bely the money, but little else says anything but a rush to style and good living, clean living with all those well tending hands. And certainly very little gives away the newness of the money. There's the windowpane fridge. They had Puffy's assistant take a picture of his and recreated it. One side is full of labeled leftovers. The other half is, well, his assistant asked what I'd like to drink. It being a nice California morning I ventured, "Juice?" "What kind?" she asked. Now that's a simple piece of morning California conversation, you might even be able to get some unfiltered apple juice with a bit of pulp. But that's it right? Apple, orange, maybe some milk? She drew a finger up and I followed her into the kitchen. One entire wall sized cabinet of glass fronted cooler, filled. "It's like 7-11," A. said later. "My own 7-11." Every kind of beverage from top to bottom. And not just one of each, but a whole line of each just like a pop dispenser. Just like the one he stole from when they broke into his high school on his night of felonies, as we'd learn later in the tales of thievery and scarring. I helped myself to a watermelon juice.
But maybe it's her, She, she's a force of nature while still being a very laid back mama. And she's been in the dough for a long time now. Whether there's a mainstay of design directive in the household or they share the creation of it together, either way, it sure feels like the flow there spills out from their flow together. And all those lines everywhere, like the lines from the slat wood shadows, are broken both by their randomness of line, and all the unparallel jutting of the native grasses in stone beds at the foot of the windows and doors. This place is made to be open, and there's something congruently open about them together in their themness. And in our work today, I got to see it from him completely, on his own, as I always knew it was going to be there, knew it because my mom had told me so after she had him over for passover once and he chimed in with all his newfound love of Kabbala. He's a sweet gentle dude. You know it because of D., she wouldn't have it otherwise, you'd imagine. But then you finally get him alone and talking and you're proven completely right again.
They live in a home built by an architect for himself. It's all lines and angularity, but done in wood and stone and almost-tadelacked walls with so much of the outside coming in through window-walls, that, for all its hard, jutting planed Modernism, the place is as soft as they are. And the furniture, low and plush, masculine, beckons you give in to repose and just watch the gardeners. There is an amazing harmony in their relationship and it's evinced in the lack of ostentation in their rich home. The army of small statured, good natured Guatemalans polishing the place, and even the sparse, good taste itself bely the money, but little else says anything but a rush to style and good living, clean living with all those well tending hands. And certainly very little gives away the newness of the money. There's the windowpane fridge. They had Puffy's assistant take a picture of his and recreated it. One side is full of labeled leftovers. The other half is, well, his assistant asked what I'd like to drink. It being a nice California morning I ventured, "Juice?" "What kind?" she asked. Now that's a simple piece of morning California conversation, you might even be able to get some unfiltered apple juice with a bit of pulp. But that's it right? Apple, orange, maybe some milk? She drew a finger up and I followed her into the kitchen. One entire wall sized cabinet of glass fronted cooler, filled. "It's like 7-11," A. said later. "My own 7-11." Every kind of beverage from top to bottom. And not just one of each, but a whole line of each just like a pop dispenser. Just like the one he stole from when they broke into his high school on his night of felonies, as we'd learn later in the tales of thievery and scarring. I helped myself to a watermelon juice.
But maybe it's her, She, she's a force of nature while still being a very laid back mama. And she's been in the dough for a long time now. Whether there's a mainstay of design directive in the household or they share the creation of it together, either way, it sure feels like the flow there spills out from their flow together. And all those lines everywhere, like the lines from the slat wood shadows, are broken both by their randomness of line, and all the unparallel jutting of the native grasses in stone beds at the foot of the windows and doors. This place is made to be open, and there's something congruently open about them together in their themness. And in our work today, I got to see it from him completely, on his own, as I always knew it was going to be there, knew it because my mom had told me so after she had him over for passover once and he chimed in with all his newfound love of Kabbala. He's a sweet gentle dude. You know it because of D., she wouldn't have it otherwise, you'd imagine. But then you finally get him alone and talking and you're proven completely right again.
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