Good- Holy- Black Friday

Custom and location dictate the name of the Friday before Easter. Here, in Germany, it is called Karfreitag. The word derives from Old High German 'kara',which means grief or mourning. It is the day of the crucifixion of a holy man. l would have preferred the story of Jesus to have ended with him sitting under a tree, teaching. If you read what he said, without  the commentary, without the choirs of angels, devils and demons, you have a moral philosophy, a moral philosophy not much different from that of Gautama, the Enlightened Teacher. l would prefer to see Jesus portrayed among the children, the poor, and the sick, healing and teaching and loving. That's the way he spent his days on earth. Unfortunately, his country was occupied by Roman Legions, supported by jealous priests who preached a doctrine of fear. Jesus offered liberation from fear and guilt. Not many Hebrews, or Romans, were willing to take a chance on him. I'd like to know more about those who did. Not much of the original teaching seems to have survived. The longest texts are the Sermon on the Mount or the Sermon on thu Plain.

l sat down one Good Friday forty years ago and read all four accounts of the Passion. That was my last day of Bible study, I turned my focus to St. John of the Cross, Meister Eckhart, Thomas Merton, and eventually Daisetz Suzuki who accidently led me to Shunryu Suzuki. The last two gave me the image l needed to accept the idea of life without props.

The Passport's in the Mail

l just put my American passport in an envelope, sealed it up, and mailed it to Frankfurt along with the requisite funds, forms, and foto. Before I did it, I had official copies made and stamped. I am identifiable. I am also feeling very vulnerable! When you're an expat, the Passport is the only thing between you and potential disaster. Parting with it, even when you're in possession of a legitimate copy is a lot like one of those dreams where you're moving your mouth , but nothing comes out. lt's time to sit under the Bhodi-tree!!!

Now Playing at a Worm Hole Near You The ability to take stuff with you, wherever you go, ten notebooks, sketchbooks, novels, texts used to be a rucksack. (brought to you by Google Keep and Samsung Note) Shared from Google Keep

Spring has...

The fist day of Spring 2013 and there you have it-the view from the balcony.

A Silence Broken

I've been off my schedule for a few weeks.  Random experiments.  No plans, no plots.  Just drifting in the cloud of mind.  I spent some time this morning in the electronic notebooks that contain the ideas and elements of 'The Yellow House'.  One page caught my eye and I read it twice and realized it was the kernel of the thought process I need to follow in order to make this happen.  Essentially, the theme, which had been bouncing around in occult and fringe science spaces, has solidified.  I'm working on three elements now, which are the keys to the yellow house of the mind: Language, Technology, and Transcendence.  We all think we understand the first two, but the second will not come to singularity until the first is understood and the understanding of the first is not the understanding of sentences but the understanding of the underlying structure that allows us to generate those sentences in any language we are exposed to.  Not machine translation, which is a statistical process, but universal grammar, and Chomsky's 'Minimalist Program'.  Once we're there, machines can be intelligent, and once machines become intelligent, we can use them to recognize the kernel, the core or human intelligence and reach the third singularity, that of transcendence.

Ode to St. Valentine

I never much liked Valentine's Day.  The nuns at Sacred Heart of Mary insisted on us dispensing cards to every one of our classmates.  I think that fired the psychotic in some of the odder examples of humanity in our class.  People always acted funny on that day, particularly in the eighth year, when the hormones were just beginning to stir. For some reason, though, it was one of my Dad's favorites and he never forgot to grace my sister and me with a small, heart-shaped box of chocolates.  It was nice, and I like nice memories.

I always made it a point to avoid the practice myself.  It's nothing to do with the saint himself.  Or both of them, depending on which history of the church you read.  I suppose it's got value, in that it does remind people of the concept of love, something that gets lost in the myriad of forensic scientists and murderers, soccer players, politicians, and the rest that are paraded through their minds by the media.

I am, myself, a great fan of love, but not of romance.  I would die for love, which is to say, I would risk my life to save another sentient being.  Compassion.  Everyone should try a taste of it.  Love is a good thing.  Don't you forget it. It may actually be love that makes the world go round.  The science of mind is beginning to understand itself, the zeitgeist is turning mystical. I'm going to sit quietly for the next twenty minutes or so, and do my part to hold the universe in balance.  Peace and love to all of you!!  Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day.

A Month of Sundays

January began with a cold.  I was on my back or buttocks more than my feet for the first few weeks.  Somewhere between a sneeze and a cough, I managed to pinch my sciatic nerve once again.  It was a particularly harsh episode and it was at least a week before I could sleep more than two hours at a time.  Eventual, I took on the form of a sadly deformed pretzel, left side to the mattress, right hoisted in the air at an absurd angle to the other and then, a twitch and a tuck and sleep was upon me.  I've taken my walks, short ones, one to two kilometers, not particularly enjoyable in the wet snow or almost frozen rain, but respites from buttock or back and an intake of something other than pipe smoke and dust.  One good thing's come out of it, though, I've redefined Sunday.  We'll leave the semantics lesson for another time, but I thought I'd let you know that Sunday is a day when you don't write, or carve, or even think.  Sunday is the mindfulness of mindlessness.  I've had a month of them and am looking forward to the rest.