It sort of feels like getting an extra day, doesn't it? And in some ways it is, someways it's not - it just goes to show, again, that everything is just what we name it. Feb. 29 vs. March 1. The "day" is the same. The name is not. Leap day also shows how arbitrary time is. Einstein says a couple of great things about time. "The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once." and "The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion." In other words, time itself is just something we make up in our minds to try to make order. Past, present, and future, are also just names, just concepts. There's nothing "out there" that constitutes time. Time is a fiction we invent, a story we tell ourselves in our own minds, just like everything else.
We, like time, are also fictions, created in our own, and others' minds. Which leads me to this from Jorge Luis Borges - an Argentinian writer, and a favorite of mine. "Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire."
We are devoured and consumed by the fictions we create. This is one way to understand what Buddha meant when he taught that desire creates suffering. We think that there is something, some one, some situation or place that exists "out there" that will make us happy. But since everything "out there" is a fiction of our own creation, the closer we get to it, the more it disappears, like a mirage in a desert, or changes into something we no longer desire.
There's nothing wrong with our desire for happiness, we're just looking for it where it doesn't exist. Remember that song "Lookin' for Love in All the Wrong Places"? It's kind of like that.
The same goes for people, places and things that we think make us unhappy. We push them away, get rid of them, leave them, somehow they turn up again, maybe in different guises, but causing us the same kinds of problems. Why? They are also fictions created by distortions in our own minds. And guess what? Our minds follow us everywhere.
So what do we do? We stop believing what we're seeing. Like waking up from a dream. We can dream about an elephant and the elephant will seem entirely real. But then we wake up and we go, huh, it was just created inside my own mind. Our waking reality is exactly the same kind of "appearance to mind" - it's just that it appears to our waking mind instead of to our dreaming mind. If we wake up from a nightmare, we can experience profound relief - Thank god that wasn't real!
That same relief is what happens when, in our day to day lives we're disturbed, unhappy, frustrated, angry, suffering, and we remind ourselves "This doesn't really exist." It's like we're asleep, struggling with our covers, trying to run but can't, maybe moaning a little bit. And Buddha's going, hey, wake up, it's okay, it's only a dream. You're making it up.
This is good news. Why? Well, as my teacher says, "To change your reality, all you have to do is change your mind."
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
High Tower
Last night, on a little Craig's List adventure (the very desk I'd been looking for! given away free! just come to Hollywood and find it next to the dumpster!), I ventured into the Hollywood Hills near the Hollywood Bowl to find the aforementioned desk, on a street called High Tower. This is not a street named after someone called "Hightower" that was accidentally split into two words. No this street is named after a high tower.
Think Rapunzel, think a hunchback but without the bells, think - I have come to learn - of "The Long Goodbye", or think (as something similar) of that house in "Dead Again." I think this must be something particular to the Hollywood Hills (along with that heady, intoxicating perfume of ancient jasmine bushes), an elevator, housed in a dizzying tower, probably just for the effect. You must love this, you must.
More info at: http://www.varley.net/Pages/Hollyweird/A%20Hollywood%20Day%20-%20Dec%208%2006.htm
Think Rapunzel, think a hunchback but without the bells, think - I have come to learn - of "The Long Goodbye", or think (as something similar) of that house in "Dead Again." I think this must be something particular to the Hollywood Hills (along with that heady, intoxicating perfume of ancient jasmine bushes), an elevator, housed in a dizzying tower, probably just for the effect. You must love this, you must.
More info at: http://www.varley.net/Pages/Hollyweird/A%20Hollywood%20Day%20-%20Dec%208%2006.htm
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Random Yahoo! Subject of the Day
Did you or did you not order the CODE RED?!
Actually there's two, here's the other one:
It turns out Harold's not a Jedi.
Actually there's two, here's the other one:
It turns out Harold's not a Jedi.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I Heart Contact Paper
Hey, I'm as surprised as you are that I have developed a fondness for any product involving vinyl. But there's something so satisfying about resurfacing a cabinet shelf with something that's sticky on one side, and shiny and smooth on the other. Mind you, I did not run out and buy this contact/shelving paper, but rescued it from certain demise in the trash heap, from a forgotten corner of the hall closet in my old place.
In the process of moving -- I have now reached unpacking stage -- I have dredged up many artifacts from my, and my family's past. Several boxes that reached my new abode, originated in my grandmother's kitchen. When she sold the apartment building that she used to own, and in which I lived whilst in film school, I took everything from the kitchen in one fell swoop. I mean everything. Except the proverbial sink, but still: refrigerator, microwave, toaster oven, electric can opener - who has those anymore?! It's such a luxury. Along with every single item from the cabinets and drawers.
So here it is, almost six years later, and opening these boxes is like Christmas day combined with opening someone else's time capsule. There are many...uh...utensils...whose possible function completely baffles me. There's one I call "poke you in the finger thingy". It's a small round plastic thing that you depress on the top, and then a sharp needle comes out the other side and...pokes you in the finger. I can't figure out what this is for, other than Easter egg decorating. Did you ever do this? You poke a hole in an egg, blow out all the innards, and then you decorate the egg and you don't have to throw it out because there's nothing left to rot. Who knew there was a tool for this?
There's something that looks like an Afro comb. Several knives that look like they should be warn on the belt of a Shriner. A boiled egg slicer -- which is common enough, I guess. But I never thought about slicing a boiled egg myself until encountering this slicer. It reminds me of a genius tupperware piece that is designed to carry deviled eggs. Having once tried to bring deviled eggs to the Hollywood Bowl in some generic piece of plastic, I can definitely appreciate the specificity of that particular container.
My favorite so far is a pie server with a little sliding piece that pushes the piece of pie off the server and onto the plate so you don't have to use your finger. I'm thinking of putting it in a display case with an old copy of Emily Post I picked up somewhere. No, you may not use your finger, ever!!! (And also, no wire hangers. But you already knew that.)
There are also many different sizes and shapes of casserole dish. I don't think I've made a casserole, ever. Ever. Although, looking at one of these dishes reminded me of a casserole my mom used to make that I think involved spinach and egg noodles, and one that my grandmother (the other one) used to make that's called something like tamale surprise. Come to think of it, maybe I should make casseroles. I bet you can eat them all week and never get tired of them.
This is, by the way, my new plan for cooking: Step 1: Cook a bunch of stuff on Sunday. Step 2: Reheat for the rest of the week.
All of these dishes and utensils reminds me of the fact that, in times gone by, if you were a woman, it was your job to have all these tools, make all these casseroles, and keep your house tidy and clean to an insane degree. I mean there's my version of clean, and then there's my grandmother's version of clean. (I also brought with me at some point, a whole box-load of specific cleaning products that she used to use which proves this point. I mean, when was the last time you polished your bathroom fixtures with chrome polish? That's what I thought, you filthy thing.) In December, my roommate's mother came down for a visit, and things got even cleaner. We did a pretty decent cleaning before she came, but just so we wouldn't get the "I don't know how you girls can live this way." Still, she cleaned again when she came. She even said that we should be cleaning the burners on the stove every time we used it. What?! I barely have enough time to clean myself every day, let alone an appliance.
This is the difference between housekeeping as something you do when you're not working/something you do when people are coming over vs. housekeeping you do as your job. And this brings up, again, one of my favorite phrases. "Good enough." "Clean enough" goes along with this. Especially since as a society we've probably gotten too clean. My dad and his brothers used to play in the ditch, and as a kid, I too, spent some time in a ditch. Now kids are are bombarded with bleach every time they encounter anything vaguely organic, and they're allergic to everything.
Remember in 4th grade, when they boys used to say things like, "God made dirt and dirt can't hurt." (I used to say, "God made snakes, too, they can hurt." But you get my meaning).
We can't do everything. Actually, we can do everything, but only if we have a housewife from the 50's. Guys? Any takers?
Still, I guess we all long for neatness and order, even though it is the nature of the world to be the opposite (ah, entropy, you are such a lovely word for messy and unpredictable). And maybe that's why we develop affection for things like shelf-paper, deviled egg tupperware containers, and anything that comes from the Container Store.
In the process of moving -- I have now reached unpacking stage -- I have dredged up many artifacts from my, and my family's past. Several boxes that reached my new abode, originated in my grandmother's kitchen. When she sold the apartment building that she used to own, and in which I lived whilst in film school, I took everything from the kitchen in one fell swoop. I mean everything. Except the proverbial sink, but still: refrigerator, microwave, toaster oven, electric can opener - who has those anymore?! It's such a luxury. Along with every single item from the cabinets and drawers.
So here it is, almost six years later, and opening these boxes is like Christmas day combined with opening someone else's time capsule. There are many...uh...utensils...whose possible function completely baffles me. There's one I call "poke you in the finger thingy". It's a small round plastic thing that you depress on the top, and then a sharp needle comes out the other side and...pokes you in the finger. I can't figure out what this is for, other than Easter egg decorating. Did you ever do this? You poke a hole in an egg, blow out all the innards, and then you decorate the egg and you don't have to throw it out because there's nothing left to rot. Who knew there was a tool for this?
There's something that looks like an Afro comb. Several knives that look like they should be warn on the belt of a Shriner. A boiled egg slicer -- which is common enough, I guess. But I never thought about slicing a boiled egg myself until encountering this slicer. It reminds me of a genius tupperware piece that is designed to carry deviled eggs. Having once tried to bring deviled eggs to the Hollywood Bowl in some generic piece of plastic, I can definitely appreciate the specificity of that particular container.
My favorite so far is a pie server with a little sliding piece that pushes the piece of pie off the server and onto the plate so you don't have to use your finger. I'm thinking of putting it in a display case with an old copy of Emily Post I picked up somewhere. No, you may not use your finger, ever!!! (And also, no wire hangers. But you already knew that.)
There are also many different sizes and shapes of casserole dish. I don't think I've made a casserole, ever. Ever. Although, looking at one of these dishes reminded me of a casserole my mom used to make that I think involved spinach and egg noodles, and one that my grandmother (the other one) used to make that's called something like tamale surprise. Come to think of it, maybe I should make casseroles. I bet you can eat them all week and never get tired of them.
This is, by the way, my new plan for cooking: Step 1: Cook a bunch of stuff on Sunday. Step 2: Reheat for the rest of the week.
All of these dishes and utensils reminds me of the fact that, in times gone by, if you were a woman, it was your job to have all these tools, make all these casseroles, and keep your house tidy and clean to an insane degree. I mean there's my version of clean, and then there's my grandmother's version of clean. (I also brought with me at some point, a whole box-load of specific cleaning products that she used to use which proves this point. I mean, when was the last time you polished your bathroom fixtures with chrome polish? That's what I thought, you filthy thing.) In December, my roommate's mother came down for a visit, and things got even cleaner. We did a pretty decent cleaning before she came, but just so we wouldn't get the "I don't know how you girls can live this way." Still, she cleaned again when she came. She even said that we should be cleaning the burners on the stove every time we used it. What?! I barely have enough time to clean myself every day, let alone an appliance.
This is the difference between housekeeping as something you do when you're not working/something you do when people are coming over vs. housekeeping you do as your job. And this brings up, again, one of my favorite phrases. "Good enough." "Clean enough" goes along with this. Especially since as a society we've probably gotten too clean. My dad and his brothers used to play in the ditch, and as a kid, I too, spent some time in a ditch. Now kids are are bombarded with bleach every time they encounter anything vaguely organic, and they're allergic to everything.
Remember in 4th grade, when they boys used to say things like, "God made dirt and dirt can't hurt." (I used to say, "God made snakes, too, they can hurt." But you get my meaning).
We can't do everything. Actually, we can do everything, but only if we have a housewife from the 50's. Guys? Any takers?
Still, I guess we all long for neatness and order, even though it is the nature of the world to be the opposite (ah, entropy, you are such a lovely word for messy and unpredictable). And maybe that's why we develop affection for things like shelf-paper, deviled egg tupperware containers, and anything that comes from the Container Store.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
See the USA...
...on Craig's List-a.
Here's the fun thing about selling something on Craig's List. Sure you make a little bit of cash from random stuff you can't remember why you're saving. But you also get to meet the people who are willing to give you cash for random stuff you can't remember why you're saving. This is a great way to meet people you would probably otherwise never come across, except for when you're called for jury duty.
A little tangent on jury duty at this point. Other than having to wake up at the crack of dawn and schlep myself downtown (And here, another tangent, going downtown to jury duty in LA is the perfect time to use public transportation, i.e., the metro. Part of the reason is that you do have to get there so early, so there's still parking available at the metro station. I once got to a metro station at, oh, 7:45 a.m. and all the parking places were taken, and there was no street parking available. "But, Jen," you say, "couldn't you have taken a bus to the metro station?" In fact, no. There were no buses from anywhere near my house that went to the metro station. I looked up a possible route on the handy-dandy "trip planner" on the metro website, and the first step was, "Walk 2.5 miles to x bus stop." Seriously. "But, Jen," you say, "walking is healthy! Couldn't you have walked 2.5 miles at 6:30 in the morning? If you're asking that question, you clearly don't know me. Hi, I'm Jen, nice to meet you.
But back to jury duty, and then we'll get back to Craig's List. Other than the waking and the schlepping, and the waiting around in the jury room, once you get into a court room, it gets pretty interesting. Again, because of the interaction with people you would otherwise not meet. And people will say the most interesting/personal things out loud in court if they think it will get them out of jury duty. It could even be a reality show, "Get out of jury duty." People will tell the court their income, the amount of their rent, how their ex-husband won't babysit the kids, how even though they're a practicing psychologist making over $100,000 a year, 3 days of jury duty would financially bankrupt them. People also don't mind looking like idiots, "No, I don't understand any of the instructions you've just given me." "Well, if the guy's in court, he must have done something wrong." Me, I've gotten off with, "I don't believe civilians should be allowed to own handguns," and "I was in a car accident last year." I've also learned things like, in Iran, you're guilty until proven innocent.
Ah, the sea of humanity that is Los Angeles. Which brings me back to Craig's List. When you sell stuff on Craig's List, little inlets of that sea come to your doorstep. A Korean-American woman from, yes, Korea Town, came to buy a dining set for her back yard. A very nice Latino man and his daughter (skinny jeans, lip piercing - he let her do that?) came to buy a tape deck (yes, a tape deck), and insisted on paying $10 instead of the $5 I was asking because "it was fair." A hipster young white woman in short-shorts who bought a 60's hanging lamp for her "cabin." A young Latino man and his father who bought an ancient washer and dryer set, to take back to his new house in the very city from whence the appliances came.
My roommate also sold a DVD player to an Armenian man and his son, and an off-brand 23" TV for $25 to an older hippy guy in a BMW converitible. I also posted a pair of gloves on eBay and got an email from a woman in Croatia asking about them. Humanity, people, I'm telling you.
The internet, connecting people through commerce. But isn't that how cultures have always connected, through trade? You know, the Silk Road and all that. That's not news, I know, but getting to play in that arena for a little is like getting a taste for what it must be like to haul your goods to the market town where anyone and everyone can come haggle with you for your wares. Also, it's probably more fun than if your livelihood depends on it.
Here's the fun thing about selling something on Craig's List. Sure you make a little bit of cash from random stuff you can't remember why you're saving. But you also get to meet the people who are willing to give you cash for random stuff you can't remember why you're saving. This is a great way to meet people you would probably otherwise never come across, except for when you're called for jury duty.
A little tangent on jury duty at this point. Other than having to wake up at the crack of dawn and schlep myself downtown (And here, another tangent, going downtown to jury duty in LA is the perfect time to use public transportation, i.e., the metro. Part of the reason is that you do have to get there so early, so there's still parking available at the metro station. I once got to a metro station at, oh, 7:45 a.m. and all the parking places were taken, and there was no street parking available. "But, Jen," you say, "couldn't you have taken a bus to the metro station?" In fact, no. There were no buses from anywhere near my house that went to the metro station. I looked up a possible route on the handy-dandy "trip planner" on the metro website, and the first step was, "Walk 2.5 miles to x bus stop." Seriously. "But, Jen," you say, "walking is healthy! Couldn't you have walked 2.5 miles at 6:30 in the morning? If you're asking that question, you clearly don't know me. Hi, I'm Jen, nice to meet you.
But back to jury duty, and then we'll get back to Craig's List. Other than the waking and the schlepping, and the waiting around in the jury room, once you get into a court room, it gets pretty interesting. Again, because of the interaction with people you would otherwise not meet. And people will say the most interesting/personal things out loud in court if they think it will get them out of jury duty. It could even be a reality show, "Get out of jury duty." People will tell the court their income, the amount of their rent, how their ex-husband won't babysit the kids, how even though they're a practicing psychologist making over $100,000 a year, 3 days of jury duty would financially bankrupt them. People also don't mind looking like idiots, "No, I don't understand any of the instructions you've just given me." "Well, if the guy's in court, he must have done something wrong." Me, I've gotten off with, "I don't believe civilians should be allowed to own handguns," and "I was in a car accident last year." I've also learned things like, in Iran, you're guilty until proven innocent.
Ah, the sea of humanity that is Los Angeles. Which brings me back to Craig's List. When you sell stuff on Craig's List, little inlets of that sea come to your doorstep. A Korean-American woman from, yes, Korea Town, came to buy a dining set for her back yard. A very nice Latino man and his daughter (skinny jeans, lip piercing - he let her do that?) came to buy a tape deck (yes, a tape deck), and insisted on paying $10 instead of the $5 I was asking because "it was fair." A hipster young white woman in short-shorts who bought a 60's hanging lamp for her "cabin." A young Latino man and his father who bought an ancient washer and dryer set, to take back to his new house in the very city from whence the appliances came.
My roommate also sold a DVD player to an Armenian man and his son, and an off-brand 23" TV for $25 to an older hippy guy in a BMW converitible. I also posted a pair of gloves on eBay and got an email from a woman in Croatia asking about them. Humanity, people, I'm telling you.
The internet, connecting people through commerce. But isn't that how cultures have always connected, through trade? You know, the Silk Road and all that. That's not news, I know, but getting to play in that arena for a little is like getting a taste for what it must be like to haul your goods to the market town where anyone and everyone can come haggle with you for your wares. Also, it's probably more fun than if your livelihood depends on it.
Okay, here's something funny...
I saw that Pottery Barn apothecary table on Craig's List. No, I didn't buy it.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Chocolate, Cappuccino, Butter
These are the paint colors I picked out for my new abode. I wonder if this says anything about me. I think it does. But really, who doesn't like chocolate, cappuccino and butter? I've heard there are people who don't like chocolate. One of my best friends from college doesn't like chocolate. I try not to hold it against him, but I do consider it a minor character flaw. On the other hand, we all have flaws, and I guess not liking chocolate ranks pretty low on the scale compared to something like, I don't know, genocide. I wonder if Hitler liked chocolate? But I digress.
I thought, yes, chocolate, cappuccino, and butter do fit me. But then something happened. These were the names of the paints I chose from Restoration Hardware. I know, picking paint from Restoration Hardware is like buying that apothecary table from Pottery Barn (I know you remember that Friends episode). But really, the whole paint choosing thing is mind boggling enough when you have 40 choices, let alone the thousands of choices I'd have if I went to, say, Home Depot. So I decided to limit my choices, and give myself a break.
Because, this is what our mind does. We start off thinking, oh, you know, any color is fine. Wait, I have a choice? Okay, then... and then our mind goes, pardon the expression, apeshit. We find some colors we like, and we think we're done. But no, then our mind asks, "But are they perfect?" Ahh...the temptation of perfect. If I find the perfect colors, I will be happy in my home forever and ever. (ed. note*: Well when you put it like that, of course it sounds absurd.) So, then, we start agonizing. This golden yellow? Or that golden yellow? If I get the wrong golden yellow, I will be quite put out. Yes, that's agony.
This is why I limited my choices to begin with. But still, my mind went a little apeshit. (Buddha says our minds are like wild rampaging elephants, so maybe a little apeshit wasn't so bad). But to tame it, I had to use this expression: "Good enough." Ah, the calm contentment of "good enough." It's the close cousin of my other favorite mind-taming expression of late, "For now." Is this job good enough for now? Yes, it is. Is this living arrangement good enough for now? Yes, it is. Are these colors good enough for now? Yes, they are.
But back to chocolate, cappuccino, and butter. As I said, these were the "perfect" Restoration Hardware colors I picked. But then this happened: I found out that the painters painting my new abode could not, would not, eat green eggs and ham. I mean, could not get RH paint. So I had to translate the RH colors into Benjamin Moore (there's a genius website that does this). So now my colors are these: Brown Sugar, Hemp Seed, Goldtone. Which means, I've gone from yummy goodness to 70's Record Labels.
What does this mean? Alright, so maybe I am a little hippy girl at heart, maybe these colors will bring out that aspect of me. But probably not. After all, when someone comes into my house, they'll probably just see "brown, tan, yellow". After all, they're just words. "Mere name," as my teacher says. Even "Jen" is just mere name, a convenient way to refer to whoever you think I am at any particular moment. There is no actual Jen-ness about me, no one thing, nothing permanent, just a particular collection of Jen parts that happen to be appearing right now....or, for now....
So even if the paint is brown sugar, I can call it chocolate, or better yet, call it nothing at all. That's actually, believe it or not, a step on the path to enlightenment, when we stop labeling things, stop believing that they're anything but a collection of stuff that's appearing for one moment, and one moment only, and will be different in the next moment, or might not appear in the next moment at all.
In this moment, I am writing this blog, full of vanilla latte goodness and a couple of almond Hershey kisses. And then this moment, just like that....is gone.
*"ed" in this case is my own mind.
I thought, yes, chocolate, cappuccino, and butter do fit me. But then something happened. These were the names of the paints I chose from Restoration Hardware. I know, picking paint from Restoration Hardware is like buying that apothecary table from Pottery Barn (I know you remember that Friends episode). But really, the whole paint choosing thing is mind boggling enough when you have 40 choices, let alone the thousands of choices I'd have if I went to, say, Home Depot. So I decided to limit my choices, and give myself a break.
Because, this is what our mind does. We start off thinking, oh, you know, any color is fine. Wait, I have a choice? Okay, then... and then our mind goes, pardon the expression, apeshit. We find some colors we like, and we think we're done. But no, then our mind asks, "But are they perfect?" Ahh...the temptation of perfect. If I find the perfect colors, I will be happy in my home forever and ever. (ed. note*: Well when you put it like that, of course it sounds absurd.) So, then, we start agonizing. This golden yellow? Or that golden yellow? If I get the wrong golden yellow, I will be quite put out. Yes, that's agony.
This is why I limited my choices to begin with. But still, my mind went a little apeshit. (Buddha says our minds are like wild rampaging elephants, so maybe a little apeshit wasn't so bad). But to tame it, I had to use this expression: "Good enough." Ah, the calm contentment of "good enough." It's the close cousin of my other favorite mind-taming expression of late, "For now." Is this job good enough for now? Yes, it is. Is this living arrangement good enough for now? Yes, it is. Are these colors good enough for now? Yes, they are.
But back to chocolate, cappuccino, and butter. As I said, these were the "perfect" Restoration Hardware colors I picked. But then this happened: I found out that the painters painting my new abode could not, would not, eat green eggs and ham. I mean, could not get RH paint. So I had to translate the RH colors into Benjamin Moore (there's a genius website that does this). So now my colors are these: Brown Sugar, Hemp Seed, Goldtone. Which means, I've gone from yummy goodness to 70's Record Labels.
What does this mean? Alright, so maybe I am a little hippy girl at heart, maybe these colors will bring out that aspect of me. But probably not. After all, when someone comes into my house, they'll probably just see "brown, tan, yellow". After all, they're just words. "Mere name," as my teacher says. Even "Jen" is just mere name, a convenient way to refer to whoever you think I am at any particular moment. There is no actual Jen-ness about me, no one thing, nothing permanent, just a particular collection of Jen parts that happen to be appearing right now....or, for now....
So even if the paint is brown sugar, I can call it chocolate, or better yet, call it nothing at all. That's actually, believe it or not, a step on the path to enlightenment, when we stop labeling things, stop believing that they're anything but a collection of stuff that's appearing for one moment, and one moment only, and will be different in the next moment, or might not appear in the next moment at all.
In this moment, I am writing this blog, full of vanilla latte goodness and a couple of almond Hershey kisses. And then this moment, just like that....is gone.
*"ed" in this case is my own mind.
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