Awakened by a Dream

January started out with a gut punch. It hurt, and so far it has taken me 11 days to recover. Although I had a job as a bodyguard for a three year old kid back in 1987 when I lived in Los Angeles, and even though I had martial arts training every day of the week in the event I actually had to confront a kidnapper, I wasn't a fighter. I had a hot temper, but that was inherited from my father. And what taekwondo and aikido taught me was, when you are confronting the opposition, a hot head is precisely what you do not need. I was punched by love, and I staggered, sleepless, for 11 days.

In those 11 days I accomplished a few things. I got rid of some unnecessary, like a 17" aluminum pizza pan which I knew I would never use again. Back in NYC I had a moment where I got into making the perfect pizza dough, but that was a dozen years ago. I got rid of a tabletop easel which was also from the NYC epoch when my friend Doug taught me how to paint with oils. I completed one painting, which my friend Yvette ended up buying, but I haven’t painted since. I really loved the oils and I would happily do it again, but I only have so much time to dedicate to art making, and for the last several years photography has been my main creative effort. I also started cleaning the apartment, patiently, not all frenetic or anything, just a small corner here and there. I still have a lot to degrease and scrub, but I'm seriously not sweating it. It may take me the entire month of January to get through it all. I'm in no rush.

Today is day 12. (It's also my brother's birthday. John is two years older than me and he lives in Las Vegas with his wife and two kids). But honestly, my insomnia hasn't been that tragic. I've watched a ton of movies, in bed, on the iPad, and I have also started reading a book I purchased eight years ago called H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald. This morning, in the wee hours, I watched the Korean film Burning which is two and a half hours long and thusly perfect for the sleepless, and, I was immediately hooked from the first frame. Lee Chang-dong just might be my new favorite director. A perfect movie. And Helen Macdonald is writing about melancholy, which is one of my favorite subjects. Helen is bereaved and she is eloquently telling me all about it.

After a few chapters of Hawk I turned off my Hindu night light, which I've had for at least 25 years, and shut my eyes. I kept the iPad nearby and listened to my current go-to playlist: "Meditation Moments" by Apple Music Classical. I started to get drowsy, which was a good sign, and at some point I was at a groovy rave where everyone was laidback and chilling to "Dream 3 (in the midst of my life)" by Ben Russell, Yuki Numata Resnick & Max Richter. I was big time relaxing on a poolside chaise lounge, dancing with my eyes closed, using just my right hand to emote my deepest feels when I realized someone else was touching my hand. I tried to see who it was but I couldn’t recognize their face. Our hands danced together and it was tender, and loving, and peaceful. When I eventually opened my eyes (for real this time, I wasn't dreaming anymore) my right arm was outstretched as though I was still dancing with my partner. I bolted upright and smiled hoping to never forget this feeling. Then I heard some music so I immediately grabbed the iPad to see what was playing; it was “Dream 3" coming to a close.

I finally slept on day 12, holding hands with love.

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The Year in Review

I am grateful for sight.

When I first learned how to meditate I was instructed to keep my eyes open. But this was because I was trained by a kung fu master. In case of an attack. Master wanted me to be ready at all times, even in repose. So I kept my eyes open. But just barely. These little slits of light caffeinated my awareness and protected me from danger allowing the other part of me to rest. The part behind the eyes. My hope, my soul, my love. This part needed care. I was not trained to fight. I was trained to be compassionate. I was taught to protect compassion. As Master would say, "Concentrate your mind. Relax all of your body." Each awakened step is a mixture of perception and detachment.

I walk through the world knowingly.

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Perpetual Tea, or, Preparing Our Minds for Anything

When I graduated from college I was a mess. I left UC San Diego with a degree in visual arts and moved in with mom. She lived in Los Angeles. Slowly but surely I stopped rolling cigarettes and the craving for hallucinogens and speed eventually faded. I found work as a security guard but I spent the graveyard shift smoking reefer and sipping pints. Long cold nights in the VW Rabbit, writing big ideas on a tiny notepad, patrolling the scene with only a Maglite 5D for protection. Mom almost bought a Dobermann to keep me company. She was worried. Got a battery powered black and white TV instead. Crap reception mostly. So I would reread what I wrote. Here's an actual note-to-self from 1986:

Character 1 - "Yes, I made dinner. It's chicken. I hope you like chicken."
Character 2 - "Chicken. I like chicken. Chicken is good.”
(Montage of chicken bones with small amounts of moist meat still hanging on. As you see the image of the chicken bones we hear ...)
Character 1 - "You like chicken? Shit, you'd kill for chicken."

So yeah. Thankfully mom's landlord knew a guy that worked in Hollywood. I got the job as a set PA on “Kids Incorporated” and writing copy for the music video show “Night Tracks.” Mom was less worried now and she moved out of Los Angeles and settled in a small town called Springville. By this time I was living in Silverlake with my good friend James. I kept up the PA work for awhile until I landed a job as an assistant production accountant on the “Father Dowling Mysteries” in 1990. I didn't see that coming. But then I worked on another show as an assistant and then another and then another and by 1995 I had moved to NYC to be the production accountant on “New York Undercover.” Oh my god, is this happening to me, will I ever be an artist? I was afraid of my fate. But then I worked on another show as the accountant and then another and then another and then it was 2016.

But let's back up for a second. I was lying in bed with my friend Kat staring at the ceiling. It was my last year in San Diego and we passed our time doing acid, smoking bowls and drinking beers. Kat asked me if I ever meditated. I gave her a long-winded no. But she got me curious. I consider that day lying in that bed with that woman in that city the beginning of my meditation training. When I eventually left San Diego I had a misty vision for myself. I was going to be a visual artist and meditation was destined to show me the way. 

I imagined my future every day I drove around LA delivering scripts and picking up lunch at Le Dome. I kept writing. A friend turned me on to the Siddha Yoga Meditation Center in Santa Monica. I participated in a huge group meditation session with Gurumayi at the Shrine Auditorium. I kept dreaming. I discovered “Lilias, Yoga and You” on PBS. She taught me yoga as I prepared for another day at the office processing accounts payable and auditing petty cash. I took photos. I bought a piano. I created soundtracks. I kept writing. I bought an HD video camera. I made simple movies. I learned how to process payroll, prepare a budget, apply for a tax credit. I kept writing. I was meditating 12 hours a day now. I slept the rest. When someone didn't get their check on time I was meditating. When I grossly miscalculated a production overage I was meditating. And when I say meditating I don't mean smoking weed. I was really meditating. Definitely jacked up on coffee but breathing deeply and moving forward, solving problems, being mindful. I got frustrated. I hated everybody. But I loved everyone. I learned how to paint with oils. I shared my art on social medias. I'd work until 2am perfecting cost reports. I sexted. I stopped eating chicken. I kept making art. And then it was 2016.

When I moved to Lynchburg with my partner Dee I relied on meditation to say goodbye to a city I cherished for two decades, to acknowledge a profession I depended on for 25 years, to rent a truck, to pack a hundred boxes, to throw away a heap of useless and to drive to a town I basically knew nothing about. But our apartment on Main Street. What a dream. It was all the inspiration I needed (besides a thousand tiny kisses every day) to take another photo, to do another downward dog, to just be at the piano, to write, to believe.

When the Bower Center for the Arts offered me a blank wall to express myself I turned to a trusted friend. A companion that allowed me to appreciate the past. An awareness that gave me the courage to acknowledge my fears yet move forward. Meditation showed me the way. 

This is Perpetual Tea, or, Preparing Our Minds for Anything.

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