Notes From A Burning House

Some highly-publicized media poll has declared Ronald Reagan our pick for greatest American of all time.  The suggestion sickens me, and this is no matter of political affiliation or my opinions about his policies.  Hang politics, what about basic humanity?

As fair-minded as I can be, I look at Reagan as a leader, and I see a man who supported some Americans and disregarded others, with awful consequences.  It manifested in numerous ways, but in one way it is most clear and beyond redemption.

When gay Americans were dying in frightening numbers from a mysterious disease that needed to be researched quickly, Reagan wasn’t concerned.  He turned his back when gays – Americans – were dying.  It took years for him even to utter the name of the disease, to acknowledge AIDS as an American problem worthy of government’s concern.

Greatest American of all time??  I would not even visit this man’s grave.  I can think of one exception: if I had occasion to perform a same-sex marriage, I would love to do it at his burial site. 

Greatest American?  Humbug. 

*    *    *

The wit and fire of Benjamin Franklin still sparks from time to time, to my great delight. 

The Supreme Court has just made a rather stunning ruling, declaring it Constitutional for local governments to seize private property in order to make way for private commercial development.  You can own your own home, pay your property taxes on time every time, and the city can still take away your property and replace it with a hotel or an amusement park or anything they assert will yield more tax revenue.

In response, a Californian named Logan Darrow Clements immediately proposed a commercial development in the town of Weare, New Hampshire.  He has asked the Board of Selectmen there to consider seizing the farmhouse that is the home of Justice David Souter and allowing Clements to develop a hotel on the site.

He wants to build the “Lost Liberty Hotel” on the site, arguing it would be far more valuable as a commercial hotel and a tourist attraction; his plans include a “Just Desserts Café” and a small museum focusing on deprivation of property rights and individual freedom in America. 

Clements says he is serious, and has been talking to potential financiers.  I doubt there will be any groundbreaking ceremony in the future, but the prospect of Souter appearing before the Selectmen to defend his house does arouse a snicker.  My deskside portrait of Ben Franklin is, unmistakably, smirking. 

Bringing the dharma far and wide, I submitted something that will appear on a Starbucks coffee cup next year.  A preview appears at the Starbucks website.

A strange piece turned up in the Sunday New York Times, in the style section, about bow ties.  I was surprised to learn that – in New York, I guess – a bow tie is regarded with inward hostility.  Even Tucker Carlson, a television commentator known for his preference for bow ties, likened a bow tie to wearing an upraised middle finger. 

The human mind is so curious, making all of this elaborate stuff about what our clothing choices are communicating to others.  When I wear a bow tie (for I share this preference), why would it be assumed to mean anything other than my choice to wear a bow tie?  I am not being intentionally dull – I would not show up to a Catholic wedding in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt any more than I would come to practice wearing a diving suit instead of my robes.  Clothing choices communicate one’s respect for situation and relationship, I get that.

To surmise, however, that a bow tie means “Look at me, I’m smarter than you,” (as the Times supposes) is adding something extra.  Yet sometimes different people arrive at these ‘extras’ by unspoken agreement, veiled in the whispered admonitions of culture.

Especially amusing is the view of some that bow ties are elitist because they are more difficult to tie than the standard four-in-hand bibs that, for their ubiquity, still look silly to my eyes.  I have a harder time with them than I do with bow ties; with the more common necktie, I seem to misjudge the length consistently.  Bow ties are only one degree more difficult than tying a shoe lace.  Once you know how to do it, it is not a big deal; no special talent or technical acumen is required. 

The rumored hostility towards bow tie wearers has not been directed at me – if anything, I get more smiles from strangers when I sport a nice colorful bow.  They transform me into someone from whom people feel okay asking for directions – which complicates my lunchtime walk a bit, but makes the city just a teensy bit more hospitable and friendly.  El gusto es mio. 

My gaze was born the moment my body left the bike and ripped into the sky, bike singing on its way down into the valley and lost in smoke from the fires below.  This felt like home at last, for change is the body of our true mother.  I curled into a ball and punched a hole through the hour, exposing this long shadow to new colors.  The heat from the valley of fire sent up a contented sigh as I passed through. 

For a long time I labored under an intoxicating Barrymore dream – and no, I don’t mean dreams about Drew Barrymore although she has turned up in a reverie or two.  No, I mean the dream of being the actor who gets the masses charged up about the live theatre again.  I have spent most of my 34 years acting in one play after another, with only an occasional hiatus, the longest one lasting two years (2001-2003). 

In 2003, Eva Kendrick dragooned me into auditioning for her musical comedy, Le Bistro Café.  The show ran in North Hollywood, where it was my pleasure to perform opposite Katherine Lorien (we are seen at left). 

Later I did a couple of guest appearances at one L.A.’s oldest theatre companies, Company of Angels, but did not formally join the company until this year.  They lease a building in the Silverlake neighborhood and usually put up good plays, and there are some very talented people there trying to do some good theatre in movietown. 

Thus, I would like to plug our current production, a revival of Larry Kramer’s AIDS chronicle, The Normal Heart. It’s been up for four weeks, and we run through July 16.  Come on down and see us; part of your ticket price benefits Project Angel Food. 

We got a lukewarm review in Backstage West from a writer who feels the play is dated, but liked the actors and even gave a nice mention to your humble correspondent. 

Recently, a most unpleasant change in my personal life has left me with some unanticipated free time, and I have filled some of it by accepting a lead role in the Angels’ next production, an original play by Salon.com’s Cintra Wilson (shown at left), a dark sex comedy entitled XXX Love Act.  Don’t worry, I am keeping my clothes on.  

The play opens July 29 and I hope to see you there.  Really.  Please come out .  There is a commonplace around here that “Los Angeles theatre” is an oxymoronic concept, and very few people seem to think that this is a choice.  The talent and the resources are here for a remarkable theatre scene; it is a matter of application, and I do not believe an actor necessarily must choose between making a living and doing plays, even if it is once in a while.  If you relish the live theatre, go to the chapel and do your service. 

Sitting in the moonlight next to Kwanjin,

Cars come and go on Olympic,

Possum makes its way.

*    *    *

The Way of Finance:

You may have money now but you didn’t a couple of years ago, so we’re not sure about you.  Because of what you didn’t have then, we need you to pay more than you have now. 

*    *    *

Leonard Cohen was seated in the little café area of the Whole Foods supermarket.  His beautiful companion enjoyed watching the poet make googly eyes at passing babies.  He accepted a grateful compliment from a young stranger as a gentleman, standing to receive the other as if it were a blow from his teacher, including all beings, boundless hospitality and recognition of shared loneliness.  A firm handshake began and ended our friendship with deep appreciation. 

*    *    *

La lingua non ha osso, secondo Zen, pero’ non rompe l’osso.  La lingua dipinge delle gambe sul serpente.  Capite?  Il serpente non ne ha bisogno.  (Per favore, commentate e correggetemi.) 

Am I speaking to Emily?

Yes, this is Emily. 

Los Angeles Department of Sanitation here.  We need to speak with you about a pickup made at your house this week.

Oh, okay.  What’s up? 

Well, we found a man in your dumpster.

Yes.

You put him there?

Yes, of course I did.

Well, he doesn’t belong there.

Should I have put him in compost? 

Certainly not. 

I thought of recycling him, but it felt disrespectful somehow.  I didn’t want him to feel like I was passing him onto someone else. 

Disrespectful?  You can’t dispose of a live human being in the trash.  The city won’t take him.

I don’t blame you.  I couldn’t take him anymore, either. 

That’s not what I’m talking about.

God, you’re sounding just like him!

Ma’am, you can’t put a man in the trash. 

It was all I could think of to do. I’m not taking him back.

What are we supposed to do with him?

He likes french fries.  Red wine.  Well, white wine with the fries maybe, or beer.  He’s quiet.  Get him some books.  I don’t know.  Nice guy and all, just not for me. 

Ma’am, why did you deposit this man in the trash?

That’s a personal question, but isn’t the answer obvious?  I didn’t want him anymore.

This isn’t how you dispose of a lover, ma’am.

Oh really?  Okay, Ms. City Worker, tell me how I should have disposed of him?

You cut him into small pieces, bag him up, and throw him into somebody else’s dumpster! 

Seems dishonest.  Somebody else is paying for that dumpster.

You’re very conscientious.  You know, that won’t get you very far in this city.  You can’t expect to get anything done by going through ‘proper channels.’  Now I’m going to have to cite you for improper rubbish disposal. 

I should have recycled him.  Can’t he be useful somehow?  I mean, he’s 34 and doesn’t have any health problems. 

We incinerated him, ma’am. 

Today I sat in Roxbury Memorial Park in Beverly Hills writing a letter.  As I wrote, the picnic table began to shake sideways for 10-15 seconds.  A 4.9-magnitude earthquake had struck about 80 miles away from Los Angeles.  I looked around the park at children scampering about, retirees jogging, workmen digging holes, and youths playing basketball; no one seemed to notice the earth rocking beneath them. 

*   *   *

The Zen Center Board met to discuss, among other issues, whether we are doing enough to build bridges between our Caucasian and Korean communities. 

Paul, the Center’s spiritual leader, is a Korean-American who arrived in the States as a child.  He is a Korean speaker, but as he listened to us talk about Korean etiquette he sometimes shook his head and said, “I don’t get that stuff – it makes me crazy sometimes.” 

At one point, our senior monk, Ven. Mu Sang, teased Paul about moving back to Korea for a while so he could get in touch with his roots.  Paul said, “I’d get in big trouble over there.”

“So you’ll adjust, you’ll learn Korean style again.”

Paul said, “Maybe they’ll have to learn my style!” 

At which Mu Sang retorted, triumphantly: “Now that’s a Korean!” 

* *   *

An actual quote, uttered today by my organization’s national Director of Interreligious Affairs, during a meeting in which he announced the launch of a new interethnic and interreligious initiative:

“As for Sri Lanka… Thank God for the Buddhists, because they are killing Hindus.” 

I wondered who he had killed to get this job. 

In an innovative arrangement, two Zen students blanching from accumulated retreat fees and member dues exacted by their Zen Center announced that they were merging. 

The students, who go by the dharma names Shim Mu and Mu An, will share the benefits of a single membership in the Diamond Plum Blossom zen lineage, alternating attendance at retreats and also taking turns at dokusan with Zen Master Want-Do.

They will also share one dharma name, an amalgam of their individual precept names, combining to create the name: Mu Mu. 

Experience needs to be sung.  None of the words express the truth; the breath that supports the word is the truth.  The outcry is the event, not the content. 

Content is noisy.  Without a quiet center, the noise makes us deaf to experience.  Walking, sitting, standing, lying down, we do well to be quiet enough to hear God breathe.  (And even “God” is noise.) 

The mind wants to close around things and dampen their uniqueness; we mute our own resonance, and alienate ourselves from our true home.  Sit down.  Put your breath down low where it belongs.  Put your attention on it.  Feel, and ignore definitions and explanations.  Resonate.  Feel your intrinsic power (that isn’t yours).  Where does it originate?  Can you feel? 

Actors, you are phonies.  No human talks the way y’all do on stage.  You don’t know where language originates, where the cry comes from. (There are exceptions among you, please understand, but if you go see theatre or talk to actors about the craft, you know.)  That is why you do not connect and why your stories are soon forgotten.  How many of you are even concerned with connecting?  How many actors consider the social function or even the ministry of theatre? 

Actors, sit.  Do a seven-day Zen retreat just one time.  Everything you have learned is hollow if you don’t know where the water emerges from the rock.  All of my words miss the mark; please look to where I’m throwing the darts.