Still rainy here on a Tuesday. Still in bed and jammies at almost noon. I could say that nothing was accomplished … and hell, we must push into productiveness almost always. However, I had a three-hour chat with my dear friend Connie, that actually felt a lot like a limb of yoga practice, theory and philosophy of self and teaching.
Connie and I don't chat all that often, but it will invariably be at least two hours streaking by. Having those kinds of friends and connections that you can immediately drop in and fly off with is something to be grateful for. Be grateful to your friend and be grateful to yourself as you both put in the work and vulnerability and curiosity for that to be possible.
Connie is around my age, so she is sensitive to many of the issues I am finding in YTT and being older. Little did I know, despite having known her for 15 years, that she is a yogini herself, although currently sidelined by cash concerns and not being able to find appropriate instruction. Also, living in Little Italy, she has a postage sized apartment and it's not easy to do yoga on your bed or in the shower.
Later that same day.
I am amazed at how easily and often I either interrupt myself or I get interrupted. Interestingly (I think) concentration was the theme of my first lesson I planned (or got a good start on) for my Zoom yoga sessions.
Squirrel self voice now insists on asking if any of you might have a book magnet under your bed? Or maybe that is just a gravity center under my bed. I think my books just wander around meeting and greeting one another at random, although I daresay some of them hook up very seriously.
How do you take "the time" when every moment is another episode of Short Attention Span Theater?
And why do I treat my writing so lightly that I even allow myself to so distracted? I guess it is time to learn to quiet notifications when I theoretically trying to work.
Anyone? Calling out around the world ... uh oh ... that brings up this song ... Dancing in the Street. And while you are at it, check out this American Bandstand dance contest circa 1967. Leave your vote in the comments.
So, it is almost 1:30 now and all I have had to eat is a chocolate biscotti, some chocolate covered pretzels, and coffee. Maybe I should just fast until tomorrow night when my fabulous birthday present from Kim and Ginny will be delivered: DI FARA'S PIZZA. I'll believe it when I see it but I am all gustatory goosebumps in anticipation. I mean, this is like having Richard Thompson or Ry Cooder show up on my doorsteps to do some shredding.
Later after.
One does get to the point where one wonders if outside clothes are really necessary.
On a day trying to be sunny.
So much for the week plus of sobriety. And goodbye to another bottle of my nice white wine. But check it out. I heard that Hal Wilner died. And then I started cleaning the refrigerator (finally) and then I heard that John Prine died so all bets were off.
This is not where this post was going yesterday. I was going to explicate more about YTT and being invisible even in my training with only three other people. But then the deathshitstorm and wrassling with dead vegetables turned me.
So most of you won't have heard of Hal Wilner but check out the link. I was fortunate to experience his exquisite creativity and curatorship three times, his tributes to Neil Young, Bill Withers, and Doc Pomus. They were all fantastic. Hearing Joseph Arthur and Lou Reed belting out Viva Las Vegas.
I had just moved to Windsor Terrace in 2004. I hated my apartment, disliked my landlords, and was generally not making the transition very comfortably. Somewhere along in the summer came Wilner's Neil Young Tribute. Stuart and Lili made the trek from Greenwich Village and we met at the show, loaded with great food and plenty of red wine. As the evening wore on and the red wine smoothed out, I began to feel relaxed and content. And by the time Eric Mingus came out and re-wrote Helpless (listen here), Lili and I were sisters, shoulder to shoulder, our arms entwined, our bodies rocking and we crooned along with Eric. It is hard for me to listen to this, even now, with my eyes open. I am right back on the night with those beloveds.
Jeff Tweedy did this nice tribute to John Prine, John's song Please Don't Bury Me.
PLEASE DON'T BURY ME
This is making the rounds and is interesting. However, saying that British hate bullies is kind of cultural blindness. Hello class system. Hello famously hellish boys' schools. I thought that was where bullying was invented.
Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don't say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it's a fact. He doesn't even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.
And scarily, he doesn't just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It's all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don't. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He's not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He's more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.
And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.
There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless or female – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think 'Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy' is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:
• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and most are.
• You don't need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.
This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.
After all, it's impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.
Later that same day.
I am amazed at how easily and often I either interrupt myself or I get interrupted. Interestingly (I think) concentration was the theme of my first lesson I planned (or got a good start on) for my Zoom yoga sessions.
Squirrel self voice now insists on asking if any of you might have a book magnet under your bed? Or maybe that is just a gravity center under my bed. I think my books just wander around meeting and greeting one another at random, although I daresay some of them hook up very seriously.
How do you take "the time" when every moment is another episode of Short Attention Span Theater?
And why do I treat my writing so lightly that I even allow myself to so distracted? I guess it is time to learn to quiet notifications when I theoretically trying to work.
A request for concentration isn’t always answered, but people engaged in many disciplines have found ways to invite it in. A ninth-century Zen monk, Zuigan, could be heard talking to himself rather sternly each morning: “Master Zuigan!” he would call out. “Yes?” “Are you here?” “Yes!” Violinists practicing scales and dancers repeating the same movements over decades are not simply warming up or mechanically training their muscles. They are learning how to attend unswervingly, moment by moment, to themselves and their art; learning to come into steady presence, free from the distractions of interest of boredom.
— Jane Hirschfield, The Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry
Anyone? Calling out around the world ... uh oh ... that brings up this song ... Dancing in the Street. And while you are at it, check out this American Bandstand dance contest circa 1967. Leave your vote in the comments.
So, it is almost 1:30 now and all I have had to eat is a chocolate biscotti, some chocolate covered pretzels, and coffee. Maybe I should just fast until tomorrow night when my fabulous birthday present from Kim and Ginny will be delivered: DI FARA'S PIZZA. I'll believe it when I see it but I am all gustatory goosebumps in anticipation. I mean, this is like having Richard Thompson or Ry Cooder show up on my doorsteps to do some shredding.
Later after.
One does get to the point where one wonders if outside clothes are really necessary.
On a day trying to be sunny.
So much for the week plus of sobriety. And goodbye to another bottle of my nice white wine. But check it out. I heard that Hal Wilner died. And then I started cleaning the refrigerator (finally) and then I heard that John Prine died so all bets were off.
This is not where this post was going yesterday. I was going to explicate more about YTT and being invisible even in my training with only three other people. But then the deathshitstorm and wrassling with dead vegetables turned me.
So most of you won't have heard of Hal Wilner but check out the link. I was fortunate to experience his exquisite creativity and curatorship three times, his tributes to Neil Young, Bill Withers, and Doc Pomus. They were all fantastic. Hearing Joseph Arthur and Lou Reed belting out Viva Las Vegas.
I had just moved to Windsor Terrace in 2004. I hated my apartment, disliked my landlords, and was generally not making the transition very comfortably. Somewhere along in the summer came Wilner's Neil Young Tribute. Stuart and Lili made the trek from Greenwich Village and we met at the show, loaded with great food and plenty of red wine. As the evening wore on and the red wine smoothed out, I began to feel relaxed and content. And by the time Eric Mingus came out and re-wrote Helpless (listen here), Lili and I were sisters, shoulder to shoulder, our arms entwined, our bodies rocking and we crooned along with Eric. It is hard for me to listen to this, even now, with my eyes open. I am right back on the night with those beloveds.
Jeff Tweedy did this nice tribute to John Prine, John's song Please Don't Bury Me.
PLEASE DON'T BURY ME
Woke up this morning
Put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen
And died
Put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen
And died
And oh, what a feeling!
When my soul
Went through the ceiling
And on up into heaven, I did ride
When my soul
Went through the ceiling
And on up into heaven, I did ride
When I got there, they did say
"John, it happened this way
You slipped upon the floor
And hit your head"
"John, it happened this way
You slipped upon the floor
And hit your head"
And all the angels say
"Just before you passed away
That these were the very last words
That you said"
"Just before you passed away
That these were the very last words
That you said"
"Please don't bury me
Down in that cold, cold ground
No, I’d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
Down in that cold, cold ground
No, I’d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
"Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size"
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size"
"Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just to get 'em out of here"
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just to get 'em out of here"
"Venus De Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junk man
And give my love to Rose"
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junk man
And give my love to Rose"
"But please don't bury me
Down in that cold, cold ground
I?d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
Down in that cold, cold ground
I?d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
"Throw my brain in a hurricane
The blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size, oh man!"
The blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size, oh man!"
"Give my feet to the footloose
Careless, fancy free
And give my knees to the needy
Don't pull that stuff on me"
Careless, fancy free
And give my knees to the needy
Don't pull that stuff on me"
"Hand me down my walking cane
It’s a sin to tell a lie
Send my mouth way down south
And kiss my ass goodbye"
It’s a sin to tell a lie
Send my mouth way down south
And kiss my ass goodbye"
"But, please don't bury me
Down in that cold, cold ground
I’d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
Down in that cold, cold ground
I’d rather have 'em cut me up
And pass me all around"
"Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size, that's right"
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don't mind the size, that's right"
Subject: FW: BRITISH WRITER PENS THE BEST DESCRIPTION OF TRUMP
*BRITISH WRITER PENS THE BEST DESCRIPTION OF TRUMP* Someone asked, "Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?" Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England wrote the following response:
A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump's limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.
A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump's limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.
Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don't say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it's a fact. He doesn't even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.
And scarily, he doesn't just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It's all surface. Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don't. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He's not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He's more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.
And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.
There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless or female – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think 'Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy' is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:
• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and most are.
• You don't need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.
This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.
After all, it's impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.
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