Clinton Lake Floats Away

Being apart and lonely is like rain.
It climbs toward evening from the ocean plains;
from flat places, rolling and remote, it climbs
to heaven, which is its old abode.
And only when leaving heaven drops upon the city.

It rains down on us in those twittering
hours when the streets turn their face to the dawn,
and when two bodies who have found nothing,
disappointed and depressed, roll over;
and when two people who despise each other
have to sleep together in one bed -

that is when loneliness receives the rivers. . . .

Rainer Rilke, Loneliness


More photographs from the closet :

Grant Park, Chicago

Leaving Lincoln

The Railyard, Winter Study

Well, what can I do, the Clinton Lake 30 miler was yesterday, and I was sitting inside watching the rain and wind from the window side. I don't feel all that bad, though, as I ran 4.75 miles Friday, which was my first real run in 2 months.

I am realizing that although injured, I am content. The winter months this year produced the best running I have done. Although it was run alone, out on the South Farms, not in competition, I achieved more than I thought possible. The long slogs in the snow, battling frozen fingers and strong winds, were the cause of intense experiences which I will remember and cherish.

This song will always remind me of winter running :

Spring & All

you asked to look at a nature poem and I have enclosed one for you to look over. you've got to realize that they ran the nature poem boys out a little before 1914, and it's a little late in the day; in fact, it's about 11:47 pm.
Charles Bukowski, June, 1965


Photograph found in my studio :

Outskirts of Thomasboro

The weather has been great this week, 50-60 degrees in the day, 40's in the evening. Today, unbelievably, was my 5th consecutive day of running. The mileage for the first 4 days were 3, 2, 3, 3.

When I go out for a run, my sights are always set on making it to the South Farms road via the short route, which means I have to run 3.5 miles to get to the road entrance. Lately I have been been getting close, just a 1/2 mile short.

Today I was running along under the warm sun, a nice northern breeze pushing my pace. I was moving pretty quick, about 8:00-8:15 pace (quick for being injured), legs feeling strong, knee not so bad or wobbly like it was 3 weeks ago at the cemetery.

When I got to the arboretum I circled around, and was expecting to stop at the usual 3 mile mark. My legs still felt good, however, so I kept going, getting deliciously close to the South Farms. When I reached the arboretum maintenance building I smiled because I could see the pathway leading to the road.

I got onto the pathway and waved to the hungry cows. It has been so long since I have seen the cows. I missed them. I could see the road, and I just could not believe that I was getting there. I was moving faster because the wind picked up, pushing me along.

I slowed down at Windsor Road, but when the light turned green I bolted and raised my arms in triumph as I felt the crushed gravel beneath my feet. My NB 790's felt great, light and minimal, shaping my feet to the stones.

I ran along the South Farms Road comfortably, watching the greening fields move slowly by. When I passed the research houses I waved to the dog, whom I love to tease. I whistled as loud as I could, but could not get the dog to stir from its lush, grassy resting place.

I turned into the corn fields, sweating. The cool breeze struck my face, drying the moisture dripping from my brow. I was starting to feel tightness in my knee , but I didn't care, I knew this was my best week of running so far, and when I stopped I had run 4.75 miles.

Feeling like a runner again, I didn't like that I had to walk 3 miles home, but I stopped at the arboretum and did some strength exercises and stretches to loosen my knee.

I will probably take the next day or two off, time to let my knee recover from 5 days of work!

La Noyee - And the Blind Will See

A stone wall -
crumbled from a single breath!
I watch a crescent moon
floating on the water,
dusk light
gathered at its tip.
My satori poem, 20 years late

Another photograph found in my closet :

Pratt, Kansas


~ ~ ~

The next morning I felt somewhat normal, although still a bit intoxicated from the previous evening.

I drove to work on my normal route, and began the day with the usual routine - going to a hidden corner of the warehouse to do 5 minutes of stretching and deep breathing, then gathering my supplies for the day - pen, green cart, and clipboard stuffed with orders to be filled.

Walking around in the dusty oiled light, I felt beautiful and cheerful. Something had happened inside of me, I did not know what, but it was good.

Mike the long hair walked over to me, John following behind him.

"Jim, last night John was getting a blow job from his girlfriend and he fell asleep."

I gave my usual reply, which was a small smile.

Mike wanted me to say something, so he asked a question.

"If you were getting knob would you fall asleep?"

Sometimes I had trouble answering Mike's questions, but this one posed no problem.

"No."

Mike turned to John, who now stood by his side, grinning.

"See, John, Jim wouldn't fall asleep, either."

John seemed to be in a good humor, and he laughed.

Even though John had called me an asshole earlier in the summer, we somehow managed to get along. Since I was self sufficient and knew warehouse procedures better than him, I did not need his help, and therefore ignored him most of the day.

A few days after calling me an asshole he was still pissed. I was pulling some sprinkler heads off a low shelf, placing them on my cart. Jorie stood about 10 feet away, working on something. John came flying around a corner with the forklift. Instead of slowing down as he approached me, he made a fast turn and the pallet he was hauling leveled against my legs. I recognized the danger as he approached, but instead of trying to avoid the skid, I half closed my eyes and breathed deeply. There was a loud crash and some of the pipe fittings that were on the skid fell to the floor, surrounding my feet. I was expecting to be knocked to the floor, writhing in pain. Instead, it appeared as if my body had diverted the heavy iron. I watched as the skid hit something, was it my legs?... and come to a quick halt.

I stood amid the mess, a sprinkler head in my right hand. Although I had just witnessed a potential disaster to my well being and health, there was not a stir of fear inside of me. My heart rate had not even increased. I continued to breathe with a calm evenness, a smile upon my face. I looked about, wondering how everything had crashed around, but not into me.

Jorie looked on in disbelief.

"John, what are you doing?!" she exclaimed.

John looked bewildered, angry that he had missed his chance to do me harm. He did not answer. He was in as much disbelief as I was. I bent down to pick up the scattered pipe fittings, and placed them back on his skid. When all the fittings were off the floor, I turned back to the shelf and continued pulling sprinkler heads.

After that day John did not know what to make of me. He knew I was an asshole, but he did not count on me being an insane asshole. He kept his distance from me, but when he spoke his tone was slightly reverential, a kind of respect for the enemy. He knew I had no fear of him, and he now knew I had no fear of death.

"I have not been getting a lot of sleep, it was past midnight when she was sucking me off", John said as he walked away.

"fuck, John, your a homo," Mike yelled.

"Look here, Jim".

Mike pointed to his bare bicep. A still wet tattoo was engraved on his arm. I looked at it.

"What do you think? I got it last night."

I could not think of anything witty to say.

"It looks painful".

"A little, but I love this, it looks so awesome!"

Mike was happy. I was happy because Mike was happy.

I walked to my green pull cart, clipboard in hand, and started another long day of work.

I worked my way through the orders, filling my cart. When I was near the loading docks I saw 2 sparrows mating. I realized I had never seen 2 birds having sex before, and I watched intently.

"Jim, leave those birds alone, can't you see their busy," Mike said.

"I've never seen that before".

Mike stopped to watch. We stood together, sweat dripping off our arms. The birds flitted about, making love. It seemed depressing, why would they choose to mate on a dirty loading dock?

When the birds finished I bent over my cart and started to double check my work before loading it onto a skid.

At that moment, the flower which had opened inside me the previous evening, broke open again, a full blown blossom growing inside my chest!

I felt the same sensation as the night before, as if my cells were filling with the flower's redolence, but with a double dosage of light and love.

Mike was still standing beside me. I straightened myself up, and looked at the light slanting through the loading dock doors, the heavy grease marks on the gray floor looking warm and moist. I wondered if Mike could sense what was happening to me. He was studying his tattoo, so had not noticed that I was currently in a state of insane clarity.

"Nothing can harm me", went through my head.

Mike could whip a sprinkler head at my face. John could run me over with the fork lift. Fred could fire me. None of it mattered.

"What if my mother died this instant?" I thought.

"Even that, it is all part of the flow. There is nothing to fear."

A beatific ecstasy overwhelmed me as I filled a skid with oily elbows and shiny little sprinkler heads. I picked up the shrink wrap roll and wrapped the order tight, circling the skid as if it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Mike and his tattoo even looked beautiful.

The flower inside of me remained open for 3 or 4 hours. My eyes continually looked inward, gazing at the immensity of its power and beauty.

As the day came to a close, the flower began to close itself for good, never to open again. I walked out of the warehouse, dirty and stinking, and crossed the small lot to my car. I sat in my car for a minute or two, a supreme empty silence surrounding me.

Mike got into his car, waved to me as his tires spun gravel into the air, his engine revving loud and heavy. I followed, pulling out of the lot, heading into traffic. The late afternoon sun splotched the dirty windshield with rings of light, the dust sparkling like a halo of gold.

Stairs of Fire

While there I had time on my hands, had always been a great reader. But school books became lifeless, the very thought of school. A fellow patient, a Zenist, handed me books on the subject. As I turned the pages, my thoughts went to my early years when Buddhism had played a small part in my life. When I started studying Zen, I was amazed to find so much in Buddhism which I hadn't seen before. Life became so simple, so real.
Hideo Kotaki


Another found photograph :

The Railyard, Summer Study

~ ~ ~

As the summer came to a close, I realized I had come a long way in just a few short months. People and animals were reacting differently toward me. I was no longer reacting to what was around me, rather, I was guided by an inner sense of what was right.

I was experiencing a moment to moment Zen state, no longer confined to the sitting cushion. Practicing 8 hours a day at the warehouse - walking around with my green pull cart, aware of my breathing, hauling iron elbows, driving the fork lift, interacting with crazy coworkers. If Zen was really based on truth, an average guy like me should be able to achieve and maintain it anywhere. If it could only be practiced in Far East temples with incense, how useful could it be?

One morning as I was driving to the warehouse, breathing deeply, relaxed and centered, I noticed a car in my rear view mirror driving a few inches behind. Things of this sort could not pull me out of myself. I checked my speed and was going the limit, so I felt no need to go any faster. Eventually the car was able to pass, but as it did so, it slowed beside me. I looked over slowly, smiling, feeling happy. I saw an angry man in the car, yelling at me. He flipped me off, and no doubt was calling me an asshole. His actions caused not a ripple inside of me, I continued to smile, and turned back to the road. He sped on, the look of his car and how he drove expressing extreme agitation and anger.

A few days later, back at the river with my frog friend, I sat in my usual spot, feeling tired from a long day on my feet at the warehouse. Fred had not fired me, and it looked like I was going to be able to finish the summer in good standing and return to school in September.

I picked up my guitar, and felt this would be the last time I would see the frog. His lumpy gray head half out of the water, gazing at me, I felt sadness knowing this would be the final time we would be together. The music I made was somber, and the light of a long summer day was beginning to fade. Cicadas droned and wheezed, and the summer heat was sticky. The river smelled strong and stale as it flowed slowly away from me. I saw a heron further down the river, looking like a Zen master, standing midstream, motionless for minutes at a time. When it did move, it was to spear a passing fish with its beak.

As the sun merged into the river trees, the frog slowly lowered its head into the dark green water. I stopped playing the guitar. The river seemed empty without its log-like presence. The heron remained - hungry, silent, still. I gathered my strength and stood up, inhaling a deep breath, getting as much river scent into my blood as possible.

I walked slowly along the path, following the small lake which was fed by the river. I moved with ease and steadiness, my breathing deep and measured. As I neared my car, something broke open inside of me. I stopped walking, and stood motionless as the heron, feeling as if a budding plant had burst open into a full bloomed flower inside my chest.

My blood was instantly filled with the redolence of the flower, and it filled every cell which danced inside my body. I looked at the water, and saw a crescent moon reflected in the darkened lake, floating in undulating tree branches.

I began to walk again, feeling bliss in every step. When I reached my car and sat down behind the wheel, I smiled, and felt the flower closing itself as the darkness of night filled the sky.

That evening, as I lay in bed, I wondered what had happened to me as I stood by the lake. I had never felt anything like it before. It had lasted 15 minutes, and then slowly faded, my calm silence replacing its absence. For an instant the veil of illusion had seemingly dropped from my eyes, making my dusky evening stroll extend to infinity.

to be continued

Faded Into Light

To be sure, Western art has volume and richness when it is good. Yet to me it is too thickly encumbered by what is dispensable. It's as if the Western artist were trying to hide something, not reveal it.
Yasuda-Tenzan-Roshi


Looking through a box of prints, I found this :

Oakland Avenue, Urbana

~ ~ ~

Driving out to Blackwell on the weekends gave me a needed respite from the warehouse, and the time and inspiration needed to explore my ideas about life.

I was reading a few books about Zen that summer. Zen and the Art of Archery, Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha, and Lucien Stryk's Encounter With Zen.

I was aware of Stryk's book because I took a poetry writing class the previous semester, and he was my teacher. At the time, I did not realize how lucky I was to come into contact with him. Not only was he a published poet and translator, but he was a practicing Zenist. I learned not by speaking with him directly, but, rather, watching how he moved, spoke to the class, and from listening to one of his poetry readings.

I would bring the books with me to Blackwell, and sit at a picnic table overlooking the lake, in solitude, surrounded by large poplar trees, reading the strange ideas and expositions on Zen.

One warm summer day, as the sun was setting, I sat on the side of the large hill, lounging in the grass, finishing off Siddhartha. I was concentrating not only upon the words in the book, but also upon my breathing. I felt relaxed, centered, a meaningful part of the landscape. When I came to the part in the book where the girl dies from a snake bite, I was inspired to look into the sky. As I did so, a gust of wind moved through the small poplars which were thriving on the side of the hill, creating a harmonious sway of trees and twirling of leaves, the sound of which ripped through my senses. A few birds zipped through the branches at impossible angles. I noticed I was caught in a web of tree shadow.

I felt pure, like an animal. My thoughts were being carried away with the dimming dusk light, and what was left behind was tree, bird, shadow, and me. The trees were speaking, and I understood them! I looked out toward the lake, which was covered in a heavy blue and orange. If this was where Zen was leading me, I was surely going to follow.

That day was the beginning of a life shift, brought about through meditation. Afterward, concentration upon my breath became easier, more natural.

I started to wonder, does everyone already live like this? Did I somehow miss the kindergarten hour when the importance of breathing was discussed? Why had it taken me so long to break through? Why had my mother never told me, "Jimmy, follow your breath!"

I felt incredibly stupid, yet relieved. It had taken me 22 years to feel secure in the universe, but at least I had finally arrived.

Soon after, back at Blackwell, I was doing a walking meditation next to the lake. I stopped at a large stone and sat upon it, my feet dangling close to the water. I took off my shoes and began to meditate more intensely. The water of the lake that afternoon was still, and my mind soon reflected that stillness.

I was now able to achieve a meditative state of high intensity through sitting motionless for 20-30 minutes. Whereas in the past I was never able to reach such a level, I could now will it upon myself simply by sitting and following my breath. My thoughts miraculously became silent, and my insides resembled the infinity of black space which goes out beyond earth.

As I sat on the stone, my eyes suddenly were pulled to the center of the lake. A ripple was crossing the entire blanket of water. It seemed odd, the surface was smooth as glass a few moments ago. No breeze stirred. I slowly looked downward, and saw 3 of my toes gently skimming the surface of the lake. I watched as small ripples moved out, further and further toward center. I slowly lifted my toes from the water, and watched the lake once again become still.

Living in a western suburb of Chicago for the summer with my parents, I felt cut off not only from my college friends, but also the inspiration which a small college town possesses. The suburbs were a floundering mess of cars, shopping malls, and a dwindling supply of fields and trees. About 5 miles from my home was the McDonald's corporate campus. It was open to the public, so during the week, not having the time to drive to Blackwell, I would visit the campus and wander around the small woods and fields.

A river flowed through the campus, and I got into the habit of bringing my guitar with me on my walks. When I arrived at the river I would sit on the stone embankment and meditate for 15 or 20 minutes. Once in a calm state of mind, I would pick up the guitar and begin to play. I did not know how to play any known songs, so I would just strum and pluck the strings, things which made sense to my ears.

One day as I was making music on the riverbank, I saw a large head emerging from the river near my feet. I had never seen anything like it. I continued to play my music, breathing deeply. Once in a Zen state, I no longer felt compelled to follow things outside of myself. Everything needed was inside of me. I nodded my head to the unknown river creature, and played my music.

I noticed that the river was flowing at a steady rate, yet the head remained stationary. It was watching me, listening to my music. I took a longer look at it, smiling, and concluded that it must be a large frog of some sort. The head was 6-7 inches wide, which is enormous. It was scaly, with lumps, looking as if it had been alive for a century. I felt honored to be in its presence.

Throughout the summer I returned to the same place at the riverbank, guitar in hand. The old frog must have lived in the spot I sat at, because on numerous occasions, once I began to play, its head would emerge from the murky water, and we would sit together, in friendship.

On one of these occasions, the frog appeared as I sat in meditation. I had no desire to play the guitar that day, so we sat together in silence. I felt myself merging into the world - river, frog, trees, sky - me sitting there, sturdy, silent - I had no desires to be anywhere, no urge to get up and achieve something. On that day, for the first time, life was flowing into me, rather than me chasing after it with grasping hands. I believed the frog could sense this transformation, its intense and curious black eyes devouring my presence. I smiled.

to be continued

The Edge

Four and fifty years
I've hung the sky with stars.
Now I leap through -
What shattering!
Dogen

Looking through a box of old prints, I found this :

Melinda's Alley

~ ~ ~

To fritter away a whole Saturday with meaningless activity meant 1 day of recovery, then, back to the prison yard for 5 days. I could not stand the idea of it, so I did not attend the picnic.

When I showed up to work on Monday I was made to feel as if I had murdered a fellow employee, or stole money from the office safe. Jorey, the warehouse supervisor, walked over to me and my green pull cart and asked why I had not come to the picnic. I told her I was unable to make it, and left it at that. About 30 minutes later, Fred, the owner, approached me. Fred rarely came back to the warehouse, so I knew I was in for it.

"Jim, where were you on Saturday, everybody missed you."

I told him the same thing I told Jorey.

"Come on, you have to tell me something better than that."

Fred looked angry. Like he wanted to shove me against the wall and pummel me. But I was not going to give in, I was just as angry as he was. Who was he to take away one of my 2 days. He already had 5. "Fuck you, Fred", I thought.

The whole place was against me, yet I knew I was in the right. The only reason I was there was because I had no money, not because I wanted to be their friend and hang out at bar-b-q's.

I knew that had I not been a good worker I would have been fired. But how do you fire someone who is never late and is 99% correct on all orders shipped? It would look strange on the incident report - "did not show up to company picnic".

The tension and hatred which surrounded me that day was very real. Yet by this time my meditation studies were beginning to pay off. My inner strength was becoming stronger, and I started to sense that wherever I stood, even if it was in a warehouse, with hatred and scorn directed at me from all sides, that was the place to be. It was truly the center of the universe.

Soon after, one of the sales guys, Ray, quit. He was going to start his own carpet business. He was a middle aged man, with a paunch, balding, and a cynical sense of humor.

The first time I met Ray, which was my first day at the warehouse, did not go very well. I was standing at the packing table with Michael, the manager of shipping. He was showing me how to use the packing peanuts when Ray came back for a smoke.

Michael was in his mid 20's, black hair, good looking. He enjoyed needling people, so he and Ray got into it while I stuffed white foam peanuts into a box filled with sprinkler heads.

Michael liked to listen to Jonathan Brandmeir's morning FM radio show. One of the hardest things about working in a warehouse is having to listen to crappy radio 8 hours everyday.

I was packing my shipping box with peanuts, Mike and Ray were arguing, and I started to laugh because Brandmeir said something funny on the radio. In an instant Ray's wrath turned from Michael to me - "what are you laughing at, curly!?" he said with meanness and anger (I had thick, curly hair at that time, yeah, I guess it was like a fro). There was a pause in the conversation, and I looked up to see Ray scowling at me. I was taken aback with surprise, because I had not been paying attention to what Mike and Ray were saying. Before I could tell Ray that I was laughing at something said on the radio, he turned on his heels and walked back to the front office.

After a few weeks Ray became friendly with me. I never did get a chance to explain to him that I was laughing at the radio, but I guess things worked out ok between him and me.

One cold winter evening at work day's end my car would not start. I gave up and walked back into the warehouse to warm up. Ray was walking out and asked me what was up. I told him, and he seemed confident that he would be able to start my car. I gave him the keys as we walked across the lot. After getting into my car I watched him pump the pedal like a maniac, as if he was trying to crush the head of his worst enemy underfoot. When the car started, Ray's killer instinct became angelic, a beatific smile awash on his face, and that cemented our friendliness toward each other.

On Ray's last day he came back into the warehouse to seek me out. I was sitting on my green cart, counting small iron elbows. He smiled at me, friendly and warm.

The one thing I had noticed about working in warehouses was that the people, upon first meeting, seemed mean, brutal, and without a trace of compassion. Yet after accumulated experience, the facade of brutality faded and was replaced with a bit of friendship, made closer through the shared bond of enduring 8 difficult hours day by day.

We shook hands, and I bid him good luck and farewell.

Later in the day, John, the new warehouse manager, walked over to me and asked if I was going to the local bar after work to celebrate Ray's last day.

I rarely went to bars. The first time I was in one, when I was 12, made an unforgettable impression upon me. It was a bright, warm, sunny summer day, and yet inside the dark, stale smelling bar, sat hordes of men bent over their drinks, or sitting at a round table playing pinochle in a thick haze of cigarette smoke. I could not fathom why they did not stand up, walk to the door, and step out into the light.

I believed that once I gave in to the request of going to a bar after work with my coworkers, the requests would then never stop, and I would thus be spending the majority of my waking hours standing and sitting in ugly, dark places.

"No, I'm not going", I said.

"It's Ray's last day, you should come."

"Well, look at my clothes, I'm filthy and stinking. I don't want to go into a public place looking like this."

John walked away.

I thought about going, because it seemed like a decent thing to do, to send someone off with a showing of love. But the smile on Ray's face, the handshake, that seemed to me the best way to part. And what I had told John was true. My clothing was covered in grease and oil, and I felt beat to hell. The one thing to make me feel better was to get into clean clothes and take an evening stroll at a nearby woods.

The next morning I stood at one of the packing tables counting out sprinkler valves. John walked up to me.

"Your an asshole."

I stopped counting the valves. I thought about what he had said. It was the first time I had been called that. I remained aware of my breath. No anger surfaced inside of me. I was calm.

"I realize not everyone is going to like me", I said, looking into his face.

A malicious grin of satisfaction appeared on his face, as if he had been thinking about calling me an asshole for a long time, and now had finally done it.

"I just wanted to let you know that", he said, the grin turning into a smile. He turned and walked away.

I looked back down to the the greasy table. For a few moments, when I was thinking about how I was going to reply, I felt a bit shaky, but as John walked away, I felt my calmness return. I smiled, aware of my breath.

to be continued

Silent

A sudden chill -
In our room my dead wife's
comb, underfoot.
Yosa Buson


I lost the rhythm of making pictures the past few days. I will admit I just felt kind of lazy, so instead of forcing myself to work, which I fear will lead to a sudden loss of energy, I decided to let things go, moving slowly through the late winter days, meditating and reading about Zen.

I have sold many photographs during the past 7 or 8 years. It is a special feeling knowing pictures which I made, which very easily could have gone unmade, are now floating somewhere in time and space, perhaps being looked upon by an unknown pair of eyes, inspiring someone to see and act differently.

Even with all of my best photos gone, I still have a decent collection of nice prints sitting in my closet. Here is one I found today :

Morning on Green Street, Urbana

I am not sure why Zen has such a hold on me. Its philosophy, pictures, poems, all resonate with what I think life is and how it should be seen and lived.

I have never wanted to admit to myself that I have had an experience which could be considered an "enlightened" one, or, satori. Yet, now that 20 years have passed, I have decided that what I achieved in my early 20's was indeed an awakening, a way of seeing the world in a more clear, calm, and true way.

My introduction to Zen came from 2 friends I had met at the college philosophy club. As far as clubs go, it was a good fit for me, as only 4 or 5 people regularly showed up for the Tuesday evening meetings at the Newman Center. At the end of the first year the president asked if I wanted to be secretary for the following year. There was nobody else to take the job, and as my only function was to take notes, I reluctantly agreed.

This was a good decision on my part, because the following year, at the first meeting, I met my future girlfriend and wife, Rachel. Had I not been secretary I would have skipped that meeting, as it was a social event held at a local cookie shop. I believe Rachel did not attend any other meetings.

Donna, the president, attended a once a week, 1 hour meditation session at the Newman Center, led by Professor Quinney. She mentioned this to me one day, and it seemed like such a strange thing to do - sit still with no seeming purpose. I had never seen anyone sit still in my life, so it intrigued me.

I happened to be taking an environmental sociology class with Professor Quinney at the time Donna mentioned the meditation group, and one of the books we had to read was Miracle of Mindfulness, by Thic Nhat Hanh.
The book proclaimed that through sitting, one could achieve mindfulness, which is a way of turning the mind's attention onto it's own self, causing it to be grounded in the present moment. According to Hanh, this being-in-the-present could lead to peace, calm, and, perhaps, satori.

My mind at that time was in a constant state of agitation, as there were too many unknown variables about my life which made the days seem chaotic and rudderless.

I was skeptical of Hanh's book, and of meditation in general. However, I was attracted to what it could perhaps lead me to, so I decided to attend a Tuesday afternoon meditation session.

Before I went I attempted to meditate in my dorm room. I lay down on my small bed and tried to be aware of my breathing. It was difficult, and my breathing had no flow. It was harder than I expected it to be.

The first few sessions felt long and difficult because I had never sat still before. It was required to sit without moving or making a sound for 40-45 minutes. It seemed terribly long at first, but after a month I noticed my breath was becoming longer, and my body stiller.

When the school year came to an end, I was starting to believe that meditation could cure my confusion, so I decided to dedicate the summer to it.

I was working in a fire equipment supply warehouse that summer. I had to gather orders of oiled pipe fittings, ceiling sprinklers, etc. onto skids and get them ready for truck shipment. It was tough physically because some of the pipe fittings weighted 70-80 pounds each, and mentally challenging because my 3 or 4 coworkers were into heavy metal, drugs, and violence. I was definitely the black sheep.

The first few weeks of the summer I meditated in my bedroom in the evenings before going to sleep. On the weekends I would travel to Blackwell Forest Preserve, where I attempted to meditate for the first time outdoors, while walking. It seemed odd trying to remain attentive to the surroundings, while at the same time remaining aware of my breath. I was not very good at it, but I liked how it made the world seem different.

As the summer progressed, meditating slowly became a habit of mind, and by mid-summer I decided to attempt walking meditation while working in the warehouse.

One of the first things I noticed when I started meditating in the warehouse was that my facial muscles were tight. I made a conscious effort to smile more than usual, hoping this would make me feel more relaxed.

One day as I was wandering around the dark, greasy warehouse, collecting orders on my green pull cart, a customer who was picking up an order saw me and called out "hey smiley!".

My coworkers also noticed a change in me and more than once asked me what I had to be happy about.

"How come your so happy?" asked Glen, a middle aged man who had a family and was down on his luck.

I replied with a smile.

"It's because he has only a month left and then he's gone," retorted Mike, a 19 year old long hair, into heavy metal, tattoos, and drugs.

I did not contradict Mike, but I found his reply to be not only clever, but a bit depressing. I could understand someone being happy knowing that a shitty job was coming to an end, but to go around smiling about it seemed like a low thing to do, and this is what I was being accused of.

Having to work 8:30-5:00pm 5 days a week, the 2 weekend days were obviously precious to me. There was nothing that was going to stand in my way of going out into nature, from sun up to sun down, to meditate, run, and think about things.

I learned, though, that many people live and think in a similar reality. My dedication to meditation would have put me at home in a Southeast Asian monastery, but in Midwestern industrial America, it was a struggle to remain on the correct course.

The company summer picnic was held annually on a Saturday at the owner's home. The previous summer I had attended. It was the usual stuff of swimming and bar-b-q. Now I wanted nothing to do with it. I was feeling more and more like a condemned prisoner working hard labor 40 hours a week. I had little time to myself, and the only thing that kept my hopes up were the weekends. To fritter away a whole Saturday with meaningless activities.....

to be continued

Wisconsin

Moments like this one

when I’ve invented another

poem, which she, too, loved

to do, moments like this,

I miss her so—that my breath

leaves me, and the sudden

immense weight of sorrow

sinks me like a treasure chest

to the ocean floor. Sometimes

I sit down here quiescent as sand

and seashell fragments. Sometimes

I weep, waking the swaying anemone.

Moments like this it takes a long time

to resurface, my body

racing ahead of me

toward daylight.

Ward Smith

My first happy running day in a while. Well, not really happy, but getting close. I rode my bike to the cemetery, parked in the grass and ran loops for 35 minutes, 10 minutes longer than last time. After the run I did 30 minutes of hard looping on my bike.

35 minutes was enough to make me feel that I actually did some running work - it felt so good to be running under the sun, getting warm enough to remove my gloves. My knee was a little wobbly at times, but 35 minutes of running is 35 minutes of running, regardless of how it is achieved. Even if I don't improve beyond this, at least I can achieve the rhythm and beauty of motion - I was born to run, it is in my blood. Without it a part of me is dead. I will always be out there, no matter how ill or injured, trying to get into a running groove. I love it too much to let it get away from me.

Yesterday I decided to tone some of the recent darkroom prints. I improved some, degraded others. It is always a risk. Pictures that I am completely satisfied with I won't tone or experiment with - a bird in the hand is worth 2 in the bush, as the cliche goes.

No darkroom work today.

On my 15 minute walking break at work today I was stopped by an old glove laying on the ground. What is it about old, abandoned gloves? Unfortunately, per Rachel's love letter, I no longer carry her camera around with me everywhere I go. So, I just had to gaze, and move on.

Old Glove

Printed a few years ago

Staring at that glove today reminded me of Aaron Siskind :

Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving. What you have caught on film is captured forever . . . it remembers little things, long after you have forgotten everything.

Aaron Siskind devours the landscape

The last few days I have been printing negatives from my first year of photography. I was 25. Young, energetic, filled with fire. I believed there was nothing that could escape my widened eyes. It was all there, laid before me like an exquisite meal waiting to be devoured by someone who had not eaten for 3 days.

Siskind was right, film remembers the little things. Looking at the details of the prints, I am amazed at the fine lines, the sharpness of everything. The camera I was using was a 1960's Yashica, which my parents picked up at a garage sale for $20. It did not have a view finder, and I found out soon enough that if I leveled everything just so, the horizontal line would always lean down a few degrees from left to right. I learned to compensate by tilting the camera before pressing the exposure button. The lens was brilliant, though, capturing all that detail and sharpness, still sleeping in the film, 17 years later.

Eight Cognition

The lovely sunsets they watched on those weekly strolls along the Seine, when the sun shone ahead of them all the way through the many lively aspects of embankment life : the Seine itself, the lights and shadows dancing on its face, the amusing little shops, each one as warm as a greenhouse, the pots of flowers on the seedmen's stalls, the deafening twitter from the bird-shops, and all the joyous confusion of sounds and colours that makes the waterfront the everlasting youth of any city.
From The Masterpiece, by Emile Zola


Forced myself to take a day of non activity - no biking, no pictures. Just lazed around the house. Made some Indian beryani, so had a lovely supper.

The prints from yesterday's session dried, they look decent. Looking forward to making more soon.

I was once 25, No. 7
The Preacher, Chicago

I was once 25, No. 8
Chicago Beach 3




I was once 25, No. 9
Remembering Robert Frank
Daley Plaza, Chicago



I was once 25, No. 10
State Street, Chicago



I was once 25, No. 11
Chicago Beach 4

5 Jahre art gallery ryf - Einladung zur Vernissage am: Donnerstag 12. März 2009 von 18 - 22 Uhr

'By God, she's a beauty!' Claude muttered to himself. Here it was, the very thing, the model he'd tried in vain to find for his picture, and, what's more, posed nearly as he wanted her! A bit on the thin side, perhaps, and still with something of the undeveloped child about her, but so supple, so fresh, so youthful! And yet her breasts were fully formed. How the devil had she managed to hide them last night? Why hadn't he even suspected what she was like? This was a find, and no mistake!
From The Masterpiece, By Emile Zola


I am stunned that in a couple of days a few of my photographs will be part of a photography exhibit. Last summer I was painting the house and running, art just a memory. Now I am back at it, working hard, and selling.

The owner even gave me a webpage at his gallery site - thanks Erich!

There are so many variables involved. I mean, having the luck to have good equipment and a pro darkroom. Being able to cross paths with people and things which mean something to me. To point the camera at these people and things and hope for the best. Bringing that feeling of love into the darkroom and trying to salvage just a tiny portion onto paper - how crazy is that, trying to transfer an emotion to a picture! Then finding that sometimes the picture does indeed contain a trace of love and truth. And finally, the frightening experience of showing other people these images. That a few can recognize the love and emotion, and pay money for it, blows me away.

Yesterday I had a short darkroom session, working on just one neg, making 4 prints. 1 came out pretty good. I used a different type of lith developer, LP Superlith. It pretty much does the same thing as LD20, but I like Superlith better because it is not as toxic.

I was once 25, No. 6
Chicago River

Today I was feeling the fire, printed 4 or 5 negs, and I believe I made a few nice prints. Below a couple of Print Info sheets from the session :

Maybe I had the old energy of youth because I was printing from negs made when I was 25. The more I look at the old negs, the more I fall in love with who I once was. I had the passion, the desire, and I worked my ass off. I was living a pure life - no TV, drugs, or greed for unreasonable things like money and power. One of my co-workers at Morningstar, David G., once told me I was living with blinders on. Although he did not mean it as a compliment, I took it as such, because my whole life was built around an obsession with art, and without blinders I was surely going to fail.

In a way I am still living the pure life - no TV, drugs, car, and still no money, although I probably spend too much time in front of the computer reading Yahoo sports and running blogs :)

I have never made more than $24,000 a year, and yet I have always had enough cash to do what needed to be done. The past 2 years I have averaged $12,000 a year, pre-tax - how the fuck do I survive? The older I get the less money I am making.

Sure, I'd like $100,000 so that I would never have to be a wage slave again, but maybe there is something to be learned from having to work at jobs that suck - having to be around people who are violent, crazy, or just plain mean, puts my life philosophy to the test on a daily basis. If I did not have to work I would probably talk to 1 or 2 people a week at the most, thus never being put into the fire.

The last two days I rode my bike at the cemetery. 50 minutes of hard loops yesterday, and today my best effort so far, 90 minutes of looping hard, in the rain. It was 65 degrees, and beautiful to be riding at top speed with rain and mud flying at me with every turn of the wheel. My legs were caked with grime, and when I got home I saw that my face was speckled in mud - I must have been quite a sight for the passing motorists, all clean and dry in their cars.

I Was Once 25 - Sleeping Lessons

Near the door, he stood for a long while contemplating the nude studies painted at Boutin's; his eyes lit up with the pleasure of a connoisseur, though he kept them carefully shaded under his heavy lids. He had talent, and a real feeling for life, this young maniac, if only he wouldn't waste his time on things nobody wanted!
From The Masterpiece, by Emile Zola


Worked in the darkroom the past couple of days. I don't expect the results to be so great at first because it has been 3 months since I have last made prints.

I was once 25, No. 1
Ward Smith



I was once 25, No. 2
Chicago Beach




The Railyard, Autumn Study



I was once 25, No. 3
Ward Smith 2




I was once 25, No. 4
Wells Street, Chicago



I was once 25, No. 5
Chicago Beach 2

Friday and Saturday I biked for 90 minutes and also included some running at the cemetery when I took a break from biking loops. Yesterday I ran 25 minutes, that seems to be about the maximum time my legs can take for now.

My biking strength, however, is improving quickly, I am capable of riding 60 minutes of hard loops without break, and my leg muscles are adapting to this new type of exercise.

Today my knee feels a little stiff, so I will just take it easy and recover from the past week's work.

Rachel Leaves a Love Letter

Acceptance

lately I can only get an hour, an hour and a half's sleep a day or night. if I get 3 I feel pretty good. keep leaping up imagining burglars, my brain going, going. or that somebody is planning to kill me. (that's an old one.) meanwhile Webb writes that I have been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Webb said they asked for a bio and a photo. altho what a bio and a photo have to do with a man's work, i dunno. happened to mention to Wantling, and he and wife made a big thing of it, made me feel rather foolish. I liked better Frances' reaction. she came over with the kid and demanded 19 weeks child support in advance.
Charles Bukowski, June 25, 1966

3 Hour Walk IX

Switched gears today and started what will hopefully be a long string of darkroom sessions. I am aiming to make some high quality prints for the Swiss gallery.

Today's session was a good start, although the batch of LD20 I mixed was too strong and I was feeling it in my head. The room ventilation is adequate for most chemicals, but LD20 is more toxic than regular print developer, so I can work with it only in short time segments and not in consecutive days. So other than having to take frequent fresh air breaks, I made some interesting prints.

I am putting off buying new supplies because the massage therapy sessions are eating into my reserve cash. Out of the blue today, though, I received a payment from the Swiss gallery, but it was a smaller amount than what I was hoping for. I guess the US economic depression is also being felt in Switzerland! So the cash I received will pay for the massages, but supplies are going to set me back $200-250. Since I will be sending the best prints to Switzerland, I won't be able to recover the costs from selling on eBay, and because of today's payment I have little faith that I will recover my costs any time soon.

So I am working with what I have, which is 5x7 Foma paper. When I am printing 5x7 I gravitate toward my old 35mm negs, so for today's session I chose a few from my early years, 1991-2. A couple of beach scenes (not the typical sunny, happy, sun burnt look), a rainy street scape, and a portrait of my old friend Ward Smith.

When I glanced at the print info sheet from the previous session I realized I have been working with the digital camera for almost 3 months. Now I am swinging back to film and paper, which is what I was hoping would happen.

It was a warm day today, 64 degrees, but very windy. It felt great to wear shorts and a techie shirt for my attempted run. I made it about 2 miles, then felt some overall leg weakness set in, so I stopped. The good news is my knee never tightened up, and when I got home it felt strong walking up and down stairs. I am heading in the right direction, but my right leg is still weeks away from being normal.

Because of my weakened leg strength I emailed the Clinton Lake race director today to ask if there is a waiting list for runner's who are hoping to take the place of injured participants. If there was one, I was willing to give up my spot, but the director told me that it is too late to register new runners.

Tomorrow I will plan on biking in the warm weather, then on Saturday another attempt at running.

One more positive thing about my knee, today was the first time since the race that it was not stiff upon waking up - feeling good about that...

Jezebel

I sit here writing you tonight with 6 teeth aching the living christ outa me and only 2 beers left and the landlord will want his $85, even tho once a week she or he will come down and get me and ask me to get drunk with them and so I'll get drunk with them, we'll talk, and then we'll sing corny songs, songs of their choice, and I'm glad to see them happy but they don't help my happiness much except that they drink and I drink and we sit there in their breakfast nook until Frances brings the kid and the kid cries and Frances says, "come home, come home!" so I come home, fuck it, and it's a beautiful little girl, tho, and I think she loves me. that's hell.
Charles Bukowski, September 7, 1965

Painting Studio

Massage therapy went well, the lady worked mainly on my butt, I guess the people who have called me a tight ass were right after all :)

Felt good afterward, so I rode my bike hard, looping the cemetery for 50 minutes, for a total of 70 minutes. I don't breathe hard when biking, no matter how fast I pedal, feels strange.

Tomorrow it is supposed to be in the 60's, time to go for a run and test my legs. Everyday this week I have felt stronger and getting back to normal. I attribute this to no running, so I will stop running at the first sign of anything abnormal. At least I can bike until exhaustion whenever the mood strikes.

Rachel called my bluff today. She realized I have no intentions of buying a digital camera, but rather, just continue using hers. Today I opened the desk drawer to retrieve the camera for my walk to work - nada, no camera - Rachel hid it from me :) Guess it's time to buy a camera.....

Oh well, lots of older pictures I can work with, not to mention film stills from YouTube :

Cathy Cullis

Sixty-six years
Piling sins,
I leap into hell -
above life and death.
Dogen

I have not been inspired by many living artists during the past 10 years. All of my heroes are dead.

So it was a nice surprise to be inspired from a book written by a living artist, Cathy Cullis, Cherry Blossoms for the Heartbroken.

The past two days I worked on 2 recent photographs exposed in my home when the sun was setting. In each picture I added a drawing by Ms. Cullis, and then added words to finish the picture off. I made sure to include her name in the picture, and I emailed the artist asking her if she minded me making these pictures. Since I am not making these for profit, I am hoping she won't object.

Awesome bike ride today. Rode 1 hour around the cemetery, never losing speed, and I was smart enough to wear two pair of socks and warmer shoes.

Walking home from work I stopped at a massage therapists and asked if they could help loosen up my leg. Rick, the owner, took me back into his mini gym and had me get into various stretch positions to determine my problem. He said I was extremely inflexible, no surprise, as I have never been able to touch my toes. He was knowledgeable about running, and revealed that he had helped a Canadian 3k champion reach a PR through his massage/stretching techniques.

I was sold, and signed up for a 1 hour leg massage tomorrow. It sets me back 60 bucks, but if it helps even a tiny bit it will be worth the money spent.

Popcorn & Honey

"Typewriter shot thru 20 times and now dead. Must get another : feel like a man without a cock having a spiritual hard-on and nothing to ram it home with. I can't spin anything without the keys, the keys have a way of cutting out the fat and retaining the easiness."
Charles Bukowski, April 16, 1965

My knee feels great, that's because I am not running. I forget that I am injured and ask ,"how come I'm not out running the South Farms?" Then I remember, get depressed, so jump on my bike and pedal as hard as I can until my running angst dissipates a bit. Yeah, being injured sucks big time donkey scrotum....

Biking is alright, but I never get that odd feeling of euphoria and exhaustion which is unique to running. Part of the problem is the upper body is just hanging on for life as the legs pump and churn. Today as I rode loops around the cemetery my toes never got warm and so I had to deal with the discomfort of frozen feet. Well, it's better than sitting around the house reading Bukowski in the cold afternoon light.

I am not sure when I want to try running again. It seems when I run it puts my knee back to square one. In moments of despair I think maybe I tore my cartilage in two and I will never run again. Today that thought occurred while I was pedaling up the cemetery hill, and then an image of George Bush riding his bike filtered slowly through the latticework of my brain. That depressed me beyond belief....

Then I get an email this afternoon from the race director of Clinton Lake, saying he hopes that everyone's training is going well. I stopped reading after that sentence.

I checked the little sidebar thingy on my blog and there are only 25 days remaining until Clinton Lake. I am so stubborn that I am still holding out hope that I will be at the start line dressed in black - NB 790's, Farmdale shirt, and Nike Shorts.

Daydream in Red & Black

2 nights ago I dreamed I was running a city marathon. I was in awesome shape, running fast, not feeling tired. The course was interesting and fun, a 2 mile loop, and at the start/finish a large portable staircase which needed to be climbed/descended after each loop. My favorite part of the dream was when I stopped at a corner grocery and ordered an horchata. I was in a hurry and told the owner that I would be back in 15 minutes to pick it up :)

My mind is getting into funky moods without running, as illustrated by today's picture :

and umm, some popcorn, please, to go with the honey :