I watched a documentary tonight that I read an article about. The whole suicide debate out there is just so tired, there's little about it I find compelling anymore.

This documentary was particularly uncompelling. There wasn't anything about Bob Stern that was inspiring, nor was there anything to be particularly sympathetic about. Compassionate about his illness, yes, sympathetic towards his family, yes, but everyone ages, and illness is not an uncommon part of the aging process.

He didn't overcome overwhelming odds, he didn't fight valiantly to make his decision, he just made a cold, hard, calculated decision. He didn't show any emotion, nor much sympathy or consideration to the people who would be affected. I didn't see how his story advances any understanding about suicide.

I think he was selfish, but he had the right to be because we all do, and we all are – anyone who condemns him for being selfish is being selfish. I'm not faulting him for that. I just fail to understand why the coldness of his decision warrants giving his story a public spotlight.

His suicide wasn't riding any right to die platform, that was just a tributary undercurrent to his own personal decision. I love the quote from the article: "In my 30 years of research, I've never seen a rational suicide," said Dr. Donna Cohen, newly elected president of the American Association of Suicidology. Maybe you really can't see what you don't believe exists.

I can't believe they made an American Association of "suicidology". I can't believe they made up the word "suicidology".

The bottom line for me is that people commit suicide, get over it and move on already. If you did all you could to prevent one, good for you, by definition there was nothing else that you could have done. If you didn't do all you could have done, then, I dunno, think about it. Meditate on it. Become a Buddhist, what the fuck ever, just stop being stupid about it and shut up already.

Dinosaur Room on Vimeo.

The dinosaur room at the American Museum of Natural History. I found this exhibit fascinating. I used to come here when I was a kid when scientists believed that T-Rex stood upright on its powerful hind legs. In the past recent years, though, they have come to believe that T-Rex walked more parallel to the ground because musculo-skeletal physics doesn't support that it walked upright. Evidence of T-Rex tracks also gives no indication that its tail dragged on the ground behind it like Godzilla in the upright model. So they re-constructed the bones to reflect the more recent understanding of the way T-Rex moved. Viscerally and aesthetically, I found this posture more appealing and credible.

I'm working on getting angry at my parents again. For almost 9 years, I've described my relationship with my parents as cordial. No more animosity. I said I stopped hating them after a revelation that they had no more control over me or my life.

Now, I'm watching my mind more closely and recognizing the anger and the hate for what it is. I don't know if it is serving its purpose, because it's not a visceral hate, the kind that wells up and makes us lash out emotionally.

Even though I'm feeling the emotion, the recognition is still intellectual and I don't lash out or act or react out of anger. But what am I saying? I have to lash out and do or say something stupid to make the anger real and have "purpose"?

No, no, no, backpedal. This is serving its purpose. The purpose is to feel, and not act or react or say or do something stupid. Anger is natural, how we deal with it delineates what is mature and healthy or immature and unhealthy. Or not. Those are judgments I eschew, and I'm not trying to convince anyone I'm mature and healthy anyway.

This could end up badly, but I'm learning how to be angry at my parents again. Maybe not learning how to hate them again, since maybe I've always hated them. Even though with much chagrin, I'd intellectually admit on some twisted, subconscious level I'm sure I love them. Bleah *wipes off keyboard with anti-bacterial wipe*.

I'm in denial. Waves surge on rocky shores, and I'm there again. Nagasaki? I'm still telling myself I'm going to Nagasaki? Not that I'm moving forward on any plans, not that I feel the need to. I probably will soon. Denial.

I don't know what my karma is or what it might lead to, but it feels like walking alone through endless desert, following mirage after mirage to oasis after oasis. Never taking root, never finding home.

I got rejected from the monastery. No, I didn't get rejected from the monastery. Right before I left, a monk, albeit a novice monk, stated, speaking on behalf of the community, that I should go out and do what I need to do, but stay out for the shortest time possible, and come back and complete my Jedi training.

But again, for me that came too late. The wheels of my karma had turned, and I am back in the desert. Happily, mind you. And there is nothing left to do but drown.

Brother's wedding this Saturday. Other brother's son is walking now. Madoka sent me links to look into for Nagasaki. Nobuko is travelling through Mexico. The Jersey Shore is right there, and August 17 may be two years late, but it's still August 17.

Northern Exposure Quote of the Day: I tell her we'd never work out because we have nothing in common, because I hate everything that she likes. And in return for my forthrightness and honesty, I get, at best, if ever, her grudging respect, when like Jules what I really want is to lick her naked body from head to foot like a postage stamp. - Joel

I'm gonna smack the next person who advises people with wireless routers to secure their connections. In January, there was no wireless seeping into my parents' house. In March, I found a connection in my brother's old room and in the dining room. Now I've got one in my old room, but only when I'm sitting at one spot on my bed. And shit is fast! If I ever get a wireless connection, I will not secure it. Power to the people, man.

Guess what I finally won off eBay:




I won an entry level model shakuhachi in March from this guy who makes them in New York. It was made only for meditation purposes and I knew it wasn't in perfect tune, but then I found that I could tell it wasn't in tune, and I wanted one that was. Mind you, it is an excellent flute and serves its purpose well as a meditation flute.

This red shakuhachi is made by the same guy and is in tune, and knowing the quality of his flutes, I know I won't be disappointed. Unfortunately, he's out of town for the week, and I won't be able to ride into the city to pick it up until after my brother's wedding next Saturday.

At least that gives me time to get comfortable on a bike before taking on New York City streets.

Back in New Jersey, I forgot how underrated numbness is.

The problem with taking a red-eye flight is that I'm basically waiting all day for my flight.

Actually, according to my original plan, the one in which I take a series of four buses to the airport, I would need to be leaving right about now, having begged one of the brothers to drive me off the mountain to the nearest bus stop, three miles away.

Instead, when one of the monks – my former mentor, actually – heard last night that I was planning to take the bus to the airport, he insisted on driving me, a superbly nice gesture that wowed even me. So now I'm waiting into the evening to leave. Two or three monks are taking me.

Last Night:
Apparently I missed my farewell party last night. I brought my Baby Taylor guitar and a shakuhachi with me to dinner, and right after I washed my dishes, I headed up the mountain to watch one last Southern California sunset.

Only after I returned was I informed of my farewell party, and that all the senior monks showed up. That certainly raised my eyebrows. For weeks, I felt that I had been put out to pasture. The biggest problem I've had here has been about communication. Even if it wasn't definite, how hard would it have been for someone to mention to me that there might be something for me that evening?

Apparently, I have the monks' full support to go to the root monastery after my time out in the material world. If they had communicated that to me three weeks ago, that would be my plan. Instead my mindset is so turned outward, that this new information is just a footnote to remind me that I'm welcome back if nothing else pans out out there. Instead of being my first choice, it's my last.

But I bitch.

Really, I recognize their support and it's not completely out of the question that I'll come back. If you like someone, it doesn't hurt every now and then to let them know it or feel it.

Well, what are you waiting for?

Northern Exposure Quote of the Day:
Maggie: She's suffered an appalling tragedy and in her despair and her darkest hour of life, she comes to you, knowing how much resistance she's going to meet, knowing that in all likelihood she's going to have to bear the brunt of your suppressed rage. Still she comes to see you, Joel Fleischman, that's how important you are to her. She's reaching out, Fleischman, for a familiar shoulder for compassion. Just let her know she still has a friend. Be a mansch.
Joel: I believe the word you're looking for is "mensch".

It’s still sinking in that I got rejected from the one monastic system that simply does not reject people from becoming aspirants unless they are clearly unfit for it. In general, if someone asks to be an aspirant and demonstrates an ability to live in harmony with the community, they’re in. But I didn’t ask to be an aspirant in my letter.

In retrospect, it occurs to me how incredibly clever my letter was to perpetuate my own karma. My letter was the paper embodiment of how I live my life. I don’t make decisions about my life. I put indirect factors in motion and then let fate decide the main issue. If that doesn’t work, I wait until the last moment and flip a coin.

I cleverly worded my letter so that it was up to the monks to decide whether I was an aspirant or not. I made it a matter of interpretation. Although in principle the monks will never make that decision – it has to come from the aspirant – they could have read the letter and seen that I clearly considered myself an aspirant. They could have said they weren’t making a decision for me, it’s on the face of the letter that I see myself as an aspirant . . . man, I’m fucking brilliant.

And I was ambivalent when I wrote the letter, I remember writing it and being ambivalent. What’s so fucking genius about the letter is that I can go back to the letter now and be outraged that they rejected it when clearly it could have been interpreted that I wanted to be an aspirant.

It’s not just the letter, though. Their lack of communication and the role of my so-called mentor also contributed. He did not act as an effective liaison between me and the community. He didn’t try to get me to my true heart and expression of it, so he couldn’t understand me or my position and communicate it to the community.

He also did a poor job at communicating to me the thoughts, feelings, and reservations of the community, or offer any guidance of any sort so that any issues could be resolved with mutual understanding.

It’s all my karma. It’s perfect. Incredible. I take full responsibility for it, and nothing that happens to me hereafter should be attributed to what the monks did or didn’t do. Psychologically speaking, it has nothing to do with karma, and I manipulated all the conditions to have a high probability of turning out this way.

Dear Madoka,
Thank you so much for the links and putting time into it! It was much more than I could ask for, especially since you're busy again. I will peruse them more thoroughly after I get back to New Jersey when I have more unlimited internet time (provided the people across the street haven't secured their wireless connection). I move slowly with things concerning my life, so I imagine I'll be in New Jersey well into September.

I'm thinking I'm pretty much done with Deer Park and Plum Village. It was a surprise to realize my aspirancy letter was rejected, but also not so much of a surprise in retrospect. I did bait the possibility, and the monastics bit, and it's surprisingly consistent with my past karma and patterns in my life. It's almost exciting. Not even they know how uncanny it is, especially since what I'm interpreting as rejection was totally arbitrary. They could have just as easily accepted my letter. I'm not projecting on the future really, anything can happen including ending up in Plum Village, but the mindset I'm forming now is that I was rejected, now move on without looking back or mulling on it. I don't like taking control of my life and prefer to let outside factors occur and see how I react to them. People seem to have a hard time understanding that, but they are not my problem.

So I'm back to where I was before I first visited Deer Park. I'm an aspirant in general, no where specific. Deer Park just fell into the picture at an opportune moment, and I'm not going to go out and look for another monastery that fits my style and would accept someone as incomprehensible as me. That would be basically a crap shoot. I'd rather just wait to see what falls into my lap next, and until then I just continue to walk my karma.

I met an old Oberlin acquaintance at a retreat this past weekend. Her name is Pamila Lew and we were pretty good friends for a few months and then we started getting on each other's nerves. I didn't recognize her at all, but she was wearing an Oberlin sweatshirt, and after I indicated that I went there, too, she said, "Yea, I know you", but I didn't recognize her until she said her name. People really look different after 15 years!
much love,
koji

Northern Exposure Quote of the Day: Shelley, if there's anything I've learned in the past couple of days, it's that you're more to me than your feet - Holling 

One week left at the monastery before I leave. I think I’m done with this monastery. I won’t be back. I think my final analysis is right – this is my karma that I’m living out and unable to change. I got rejected from the one monastery where I couldn’t possibly be rejected! 

One monk told me that through observing me, each and every monk wanted to see me go to the root monastery as an aspirant, but that my aspirancy letter appeared ambivalent. I’m sorry they interpreted it that way, but that’s as good as it gets. They think I can do this, they think I can be good at this, it was their choice to make it easier for me or harder. They chose to make it harder, perhaps as a further test of my commitment. 

But you know what? They’re right. I am ambivalent, just as I’m ambivalent about everything else about my life. Just as I’m ambivalent about my life itself. They rejected me, “oh well. next." What they interpreted as ambivalence has nothing to do with the effort and commitment I would put in as a monastic. It's just my style.

My gut feeling is that I would have been a great monk. But they also failed my test to them, whether they’d give me breadth in my training, or if they expected me to toe the line while jumping through hoops. I won’t play their institutional games and if they reject me for that reason, I’m better off without them. 

In 3-5 months, when I’m still alive and desperate for what to do next, I don’t see why I wouldn’t just print out the exact same letter and send it to them. Either that or a one sentence letter, but if that would be less ambivalent, I’d be disappointed in them. 

But man, if they knew how well their decision plays into my idea of my own karma, I think even they would be impressed at their insight, how well they are plugged into the ether, whatever else is out there affecting our lives that we can't see or touch. This relentless push of my karma towards suicide or something like suicide. Something. Or a fight against it by pushing me towards it. But really, everything in my life has pushed towards it. Anyone want to commit suicide with me?

I guess it had to happen. I wondered if it might happen. But now that it's happened, there was no reason for me to believe it would happen. Nothing big, just that I met an old college acquaintance at a retreat here this weekend.

Tall Asian woman, typical long, straight black hair, typical white husband/partner. Two kids. I didn't think anything of her until I saw her wearing an Oberlin sweatshirt while I was standing on the breakfast line.

Totally going against my avoidant tendencies during retreats to praise be my alma mater, I asked her if she went to Oberlin, pointing at her sweatshirt. When she said, yes, I pointed at myself and said, and this is an idiotic college alumni ritual, "'92". She said, "I know you. Koji, right? It's Pamila." :/

Pronounced pa MEE la. No question about whether I remembered her or not. Of course I did. "Lew?". I would never have recognized her, though. The monk standing behind me in line busted out laughing.

As I recall, typical for me, we ended our friendship on a blah note. I vaguely remember us becoming good friends really quickly and hanging out a lot. She was wild and loud and a lot of fun. I was quiet, introspective, and maybe artsy. Something must have gotten old, and we stopped talking and then she graduated.

She didn't change my life like other people did, but she is definitely one I've remembered and thought about through the years. She was unique. I looked up to her. And meeting up with her now? Nothing.

She's lived up to her Oberlin ideals it seems, and although she went to law school and became an attorney, she's working for progressive causes. Otherwise, I imagine she's living a pretty ordinary life. I don't know if she is, but looking at her attorney husband, raising two children – a beautiful girl and little boy, and hearing that she's a lawyer in Los Angeles, I imagine that an "ordinary life" is something I would never want.

And there's no reason for me to believe it would be any different with anyone else from the past. I thought if any Oberlin people showed up here, it might be Diem or Luyen, who are Vietnamese. I was much closer to them, but no, it wouldn't be any different. We've grown up and grown old. Older than we once were, younger than we'll be, but that's not unusual.

Northern Exposure Quote of the Day: Let me just say that I have more important things on my mind than carnal, erotic pleasures. I do. Now granted Chris might be a stud, but I am not some cow in heat waiting to get poked by the lankiest bull in the pasture. - Maggie

The truly suicidal do not go out and buy the Third Season of Northern Exposure as soon as it comes out on DVD. I am just wallowing in the wonderment of this old TV series. It’s pretty sad, I must say, when your last refuge of feelings is in DVDs.

I realized yesterday that my feelings can't be verbalized. I can't talk about my feelings, no one can verbally fish for them and expect to get a picture anywhere near accurate. My feelings only come to me in bits and glimpses of images that pop into my mind. Tears can well up in my eyes, but they dry before they fall at the risk of me bashing myself in the eyes with a baseball bat.

I can point to a scene on a DVD, a movie, a TV show, and say, 'yea, that's the feeling. That's it'. Chris Stevens is giving off pheromones that allows him to have his pick of any woman in the small town of Cicely, Alaska, but he has eyes only for one woman – the itinerant eye doctor who isn't affected or attracted at all. The last scene, at night, the eye doctor is driving off in her RV for the next town. Chris, a DJ, sends his final musings over the airwaves as he watches her leave from the DJ booth. He steps out onto the front steps in the warm Alaskan summer night, and sits on the stoop with a beer in hand, the neon lights of the radio station softly glowing. Now that's what heaven feels like.

I can't believe how much I love this show.