Episodes In, Out of But Never Outside of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: More About the Abyss

Many afternoons I sat with that Old Man in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop talking about the sea. We would stare at the sea, sip libations and occasionally speak. He told me about fishing and about his "lost generation". One time I asked him, "So, why did you keep going out there every day? How did you face something--the sea--so vast, so incomprehensible and so threatening? How did you grow to love it so dearly? How did you balance fear with enjoyment, anxiety with the presence to smile?" He took a long time to answer, but then he told me: "You know what's funny. When I was young I never asked that, I didn't care. I got up and went out to that damn sea every day. I woke up energized, ready to conquer, to swim, to catch. I woke up ready to give it my best. Then, yes, I began to wonder. I began to see a horizon that never moved. I began to understand myself as trapped under that horizon--held there--and no matter where or how or what I did, there was no escaping. The horizon was my prison. In that prison everything melted into the same--all of it could fit into the same frame. Good food, good boos, good company--it all felt, tasted and looked the same. Because, I knew the next day that horizon would remain and no matter how far I went or how deep I plundered, there was no way out.

"So how did you keep going all those years? Sheer determination? Duty as a man? What?"

He said, "The secret is not duty, not its not guilt, or even any lofty goals of grandeur. Pretty soon son, I'll be dead and so will you. The universe will go on without a hitch--it didn't care before and it won't care then. You and I will dissolve back into the dust we came from and that will be that. All the dreams, all the trying, the accumulating, the success--every fish I caught--will melt into the sea of cosmic indifference. You know how you keep going? You don't move the horizon, no, you find something in this Same which gives you a hint or an idea or a glimmer--a portal--into the Abyss. You see, once you find something within the horizon that can't be held by the horizon--well, nothing else matters. Its funny, you could meet a girl in the bar tonight--see in her face, in her eyes, in her smile--something that can't be reduced to patterns, or molecules, or informational codes. You'll see right through the horizon into the Abyss of transcendence and it will make those days not unquestioned, but more than bearable and even exciting. You'll remain under the horizon's gaze for sure, but there will be something in the world that can't be contained by it, something that goes on forever."

I miss that Old Man, but he sure talked alot of bullshit.

I met a girl at the bar that day. She was strange. She strolled in simultaneously trying to keep everyone in their at bay, all the while interested in their affairs. She was distant and engaged. But here engagement was motivated sheerly out of boredom and lack of self-confidence. She needed to be engaged in order to continue to tell herself she was doing everything for a reason, or at least to tell herself she was a good person. We talked for a bit. She was obviously intrigued by my aloof expression, stack of texts and obnoxious shirt. She did most of the talking, and my occasional interruptions only seemed to spur her on more. She told me about herself. Which was by all accounts astounding. She told me about two things: being noticed, being wanted, being somebody--being glamorous; and, caring, helping and contributing. It was funny to me that someone who cared so much for them-self was trying so hard to convince me (and herself) how much she cared for others. I told her that if she had to think about either one, she should probably quit one and focus on the other. She wasn't all that bright and asked me what that meant. I told her that if you have to think about caring about people--if you have to try to care--then their is no sense in trying to convince me, them or yourself that you really do. Only the ones that care without breathing--without reflection--without a moment--only those understand how to care for others. Otherwise, you are just normal and that is that.

She didn't like my little piece of wisdom so she left. I sipped espresso and thought about sunlight. I sipped espresso until the evening came and then took a walk.

In a swirl of nostalgia and fear, coming back "home" to construct a new one, I reach, grasp and long for that old Winter feel of homelessness, knowing transience is always temporary and always even more permanent; comfortable nowhere, rooted in many places, I sit cross-legged as always, observing the million reasons to stop believing beyond anything that cannot fit within a frame of information, yet always at depth unwilling to look you in the eye and not try. Sitting at the bar of a smoke-filled coffee shop, one eye on the Abyss, one eye on meaninglessness, I sip espresso slowly and intentionally knowing that if I slip it slow enough it will last most of the day and I won't have to figure out what to do with that enigma we call sunlight.

Swimming

I went swimming today, it was scary and exciting. No matter how warm the water is, whenever you wade in there and duck your head underneath the surface for the first time--the cold and shock of immersion always strikes your body. For a second it is scary and then it turns to excitement. Water is always foreign and never to be disrespected. But, it is tied intricately to life and always to be enjoyed and revered. So, for me swimming is scary and exciting.

When

When night comes quicker than usual, it is strange, even sudden. When dawn comes quicker than expected it is miraculous, even apocalyptic.

Apparently

Apparently, this blog has been somewhat dreary lately. So, I decided to write on things we all find are happy. Here goes:

Butterflies--cotton candy--the color pink--ice cream--summer--water balloon fights--weddings--flowers--love--kindness--food--holiday--dogs--a nice cup of tea--snowball fights--your grandmother--old photos--riding horses--sunsets--sunrises--the ocean--the mountains--giraffes-bunnies--birthdays--
Christmas--Jesus.

Wasn't this fun? Please tell your friends.

Hello

Hello, if you read things here and then think to write me to tell me what they mean or ask how "I" am "doing" please don't read things here. Thanks.

Wishes

I am so tired of them.

Whatever

I met an Old Man once, one at the end of his life. He told me, "The pain doesn't stop. You can expect it not to--truly believe that it has ceased for a period of time--forget its sting--but it doesn't. Why? Because the end is death. You can't anticipate it. You can't understand it. But, most of all you can't experience it. The thing that means your possibility for having possibilities can't be experienced by you. Your end won't be in completion or telos, but in lack, lack, lack, suddenly, nihil." I told him he wasn't telling me anything original or anything I didn't know. Then he asked, "Sure, but does that stop the pain from stopping?" I said, "No" and that was that.

Onietzsche

I saw Onietzsche today; he saw me. We looked at each other with casual indifference for just long enough to give the impression that we were looking at each other with casual indifference. Then I realized Onietzsche is me--the one writing--and I am Onietzsche--the one writing. Then afr this 0&hk m y idtity cll psed in o ---- n itl ?????><>33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

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Episodes In, Out of, but Never Outside the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Pancakes

That Old Man's mumbling reminded me of family, it reminded me of faces I used to know and people that used to think they were important to me, and vice versa. It was Saturday morning, sititng with that Old Man--it reminded me of pancakes. It reminded me of pancakes and the experience of nothing.

Being 10 years old is important. Ten year olds occupy a strange space in human existence. Most do not want to be considered kids. Yet, both the world and the 10 year old know they still are. This is different than a 13 year old. The world knows the 13 year old is still a child, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At ten, the world becomes a bit different. It goes from a safe workshop to a changing landscape. At ten, the world used to be just a place you accepted--a given that could not be questioned. It is a place--the place--the only place--where you eat dinner when told, take a bath unwillingly, play as long as you possibly can before the street lights come on, and listen to your parents--because even though you tell you them you don't have to, you and your parents both know you have to. This is different than a 13 year old. A thirteen year old has to listen to their parents, but the 13 year old has forgotten this. At 10, you are not a teenager. Your body has not changed into an awkward, alien entity. It has yet to betray you. Hormonally, not everything has kicked in yet; not everything. So, the angst of teenagehood is absent. The existential questioning--the endless quest for finding one's self--defining oneself--making oneself--creating oneself--has in most cases yet to begun.

Yet, you are a not a child. You have gone from medieval serfdom--enslaved to a framework of existence which not only goes unquestioned, but is ingrained so deeply that you wouldn't know how to question it with ideas like freedom and liberty even if you wanted. Yet, the Pubescent-teenage Enlightenment quest for freedom, autonomy, and most of all, will, has yet to dawn. Yes, this is truly a time of transition. And, with all historical transition, there is upheaval.

I remember this upheaval. It didn't hurt. No, it wasn't pain. It was something deeper; something more because it signified the utter nothingness of it all. Maybe all 10 year olds don't have this upheaval. Maybe they play baseball, dress up Barbie and ride bicycles to the park. I did those things too. But, I remember the experience of the nothing. Maybe this upheaval explains the coffee-shop and everything that happened there. Whatever. I remember it in my bones.

I remember sitting in my parents suburban home on a Saturday morning in the middle of summer. The California sun--not the heat, that is different--blanketing us. Days and days of sunshine stretched in the days before and the days after. I couldn't remember seeing a cloud for days, months, forever. Only the sun--blaring, looking, gazing. It was summer. I was a child. It wasn't like the end of the week signified all that much. It meant dad was home. It meant we might have to do something as a "family". But, I was a child. Nothing changed that much. Summer weeks meant dad went to work. Mom took us bowling with other suburban wives and their children. Mom took us to Newport Beach to boogie board and build sand castles. We went swimming. We threw waterballoons. We played until dark--baseball in the street, hide and seek in the bushes, water pistols in the yard.

Saturday's were a bit different. Maybe dad would mow the lawn. Maybe we would go see Nana in L.A. Maybe we would go to the park. But, one thing was for sure. Saturday's meant pancakes. I remember waking up each week to the smell of batter and bacon and goodness. Dad let us flip the some of them. "Wait until you see the bubbles," he said patiently "then flip them real quick." This was the culmination of a child's existence. We filled our plates high with pancakes and bacon. We covered our food in butter and syrup. We drank orange juice and made jokes about the Transformers or talked about what to put on our Christmas lists. My family was together--my little brothers and I in our pajamas. The front door of our modest suburban home open to allow at least a glimmer of that blanketing mother Sunshine in the house. It was great. I could feel it in my bones.

Then, it happened. The first time was a bit disconcerting, or rather, uncomfortable. It didn't hurt. No, this wasn't pain. It was more akin to a metaphysical enema--strange and extremely violating--than a cosmic torture device. See the difference? It was more the experience of experiencing nothingness. That has to be uncomfortable, especially to a kid. I remember sitting in the family room, the house now somewhat quieted. Dad in the back. Mom on an errand. Brothers watching the TV in another room. The table still a mess with the remnants of our family feast. The lights still on in the kitchen despite the blanket--the endless layer of Sun-Being--beaming down outside, inside, wherever there was a was. Sitting now, quiet. It all melted away. All of it. The things remained--the familiar trappings of our home--my home--my world--the world. They stood still. But, they evaporated too. Not the "they", more the force or the idea or the thing or the reason or the purpose or something that made them what they were. I didn't understand it. But, I saw the world evaporate--the tables and chairs turned into wood and nails. The kitchen floor--something I never saw because of how familiar it was--stood out as an ugly baj tile. My face, still smeared with butter and batter crumbs, felt heavy and rubber. The windows seemed to allow in an eternal amount of sun--the sun seemed to cancel out everything. There was nothing in face of the everything that was the sun. There I was, 10 years old, at the height of happiness in the childhood world I had been given--and it all became so clearly meaningless. There was no point. The weeks would go on. School would start. I would look forward to the weekends. Then summer would come. Eventually I would grow old and be done with school. Then I would have a job like dad and never have a summer again. I would be rich maybe or famous or a professional athlete. I would own lots of houses or cars. I would be happy. I would then die. The sun would remain, the world and the universe wouldn't care. None of it--the struggle of the weeks--the laughter at the beach--the trips to Disneyland--the pancakes on Saturday's with my family and my happiness--none of it mattered. I saw all of this in an instant. I saw the things in my house collapse in front of me into an endless abyss. I saw the true nature of it all come forward all at once--the absurdity of trying to be happy. I saw this. Or, it saw me. I don't know. It was depressing, even at 10. I tried to think of other things--of unhappy things that were not nice, that were bad. I thought of drugs and curse words. I thought of gangsters and bad people. Maybe these would disrupt my world enough to stop the nothingness from staying there. I hated it. No matter where I went the sun blared and on that Saturday revealed the end of the world for me. I could feel it in my bones.

After a moment, I stirred myself into action so I didn't have to think or feel or something. I watched TV with my brothers or played outside, I don't remember. After that day, I didn't feel special. I didn't feel like I knew something other people didn't. And, as long as I ignored it or kept moving or kept having fun or something, it didn't bother me. I didn't think about it. I also didn't tell anyone.

Episodes In, Out of, but Never Outside the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: Intimacy

Sitting there with these three, my mind wandered again. I think it came due to Levinas's revelation about there being nothing without the Abyss. But, I am not sure.

I thought of a time when I was the Old Man. We were sitting in the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop looking out the window at the boardwalk. We looked at the people--milling about with seemingly so much to do. They belonged to the everywhere-to-be club. Tourists, trendsetters, cosmopolitans--they all appeared to have a set purpose and so much to do. We weren't in that club. We sat. We watched. We had nothing to do.

The Old Man told me: "You know, son. There is something that most people never learn. Everyone has places to be. We can invent these. Humans are good at this. We can create activity. We exist in the world with the world and with other people. These two sources give us endless material to create somewhere for us to go or something for us to to. We meet countless people in our lives--most of them in passing, some of them as acquaintances, a very small number as dear friends. You see, however, that through all of this intimacy is never a given. The difference between intimacy is this--intimacy is "I will miss you when you are gone"--when you move, when you die, when you leave. Intimacy is "I wish ___ was here," or "Remember when ____ did that." Intimacy is not--"thanks for talking to me about other people," or, "thanks for organizing the pot luck." You see the difference? When you get to my age, you won't remember the casserole so and so made at a potluck. All of the bullshit will melt into the blur that will become your scattered putrid old existence. No, you will remember the people that walked into the room and took your breath away. You will remember the rare moments you laughed deeper than you hurt. You will remember the people with whom you had conversations with late into the night which were too important to remember in the morning. See how this works?

I told him to shut his mouth. At this point, I didn't need his cheesy nostalgic advice. It wasn't my fault if he was alone or whatever. Then, without him seeing, I cried one tear.

Picture

I saw a picture today. And, man, did I do you a favor. You are welcome.

Clergy

After a night of dismal sleep, I awoke frustrated. Why? Why did that clergy person bother me so much? Why was I harboring anger rather than simply disregard? I went to the park for a walk that day. My headache fully in tact, I walked with my head down and slowly. After a bit, I saw some children playing and some parents watching. I saw an older gentleman feeding birds and a young couple holding hands. I saw a homeless person sleeping under a tree and a teenager taking a walk. It was then I realized why I was so angry: that clergy person talked as if people were the burden--or something to deal with--not the source and the awe and the reason for trying to accomplish whatever divine mission they thought they had. There was no deep seated awe or intrinisic, life-gnawing, energy quenching, feel-you-in-my-bones when I sleep and am beyond tired. There was no I-care-even-though-I-don't-want-to. Instead, it was as if people--the ones to save--were just another job. It just seemed tragic. One convinced there mission was to somehow show others the way would, even if their ideology, philosophy, theology was unacceptable, seem to have the capacity for this kind of love and compassion for humanity. Instead, their vocation--the divine one--was just another occupation. This made me angry. So, I walked in the park with my head down.

Friendship

I met a friend once. We met on the beach. It wasn't particularly sunny, or even really nice out. I am not even sure that either of us expected to be at the beach that day, or to meet someone else there. But, we did. We talked a bit and then for some reason carried our conversation out into the water. It was more difficult to talk there--with the waves and the noise and the current. You know. But, we did and it was great. Connection. Understanding. Laughter. It was all there--instantly. But, after a while, we couldn't tread water anymore. Our legs were tired. Our muscles were sore. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

I saw that friend again, on a similarly non-beach day. We went to talk and they said, "We have to go into the water otherwise I will have to leave. The sun is too hot, there are too many people around, and I would rather tread water with you if that means we can connect like last time." I didn't fully understand, but to me it was worth it. When do you have a chance to connect with another human being like this? Not often. Once again, we grew tired--the water became cold, the sun went down--we had to go in. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

We met again, after a period of time. The day was the same as the rest. I told them, "If we want to talk we have to do it in the water--there is so much noise, so much confusion, so much stuff here on the beach. If we are to be us, even for a short time, it has to be in the water." They agreed. Once again, we grew tired--the water became cold, the sun went down--we had to go in. The context wouldn't let us continue. So, we went our separate ways.

What are you going to do? Water is fluid, but sometimes it is all you have. Maybe someday there will be more than water, but maybe someday there won't be any water left at all. It makes me grateful for the beach and even more grateful for the sea.

Meeting

I met a clergy person once. They said, "Come on over, I will cook you dinner." I said, "Okay." When I arrived, we sat down to a nice meal of pasta, bread and wine. Surprisingly, we didn't talk about religious things. In fact, the clergy person even seemed to avoid such topics. So, I asked, "What is it that a clergy person is supposed to do exactly?" The clergy person told me, "As a clergy person my vocation is to announce to others the arrival of the Kingdom." At the time I didn't know what to say, so I said this: "Wow, that is quite an important job. So, it is your responsibility to help other people find the only way to eternal life?" They replied, "Yes." After a bit more food, some thought and enough wine, I said: "What do you like to do in your spare time?" They said, "Shop for things, read a little bit. And, clean and organize. " I thought this was a strange thing to say from someone who knew had the burden of announcing the arrival of and path to the Kingdom of God. Then, we got more than tipsy and I sauntered home to bed, depressed and thinking Nietzsche didn't have it all wrong.

Sitting

There you are, back in the same position. You remember the regret from last time, but it hasn't stopped you from coming right back to this shit hole of a situation. As you shake your head, one drop of sweat drips off your brow.

Your exposed lower body trembles at the coldness of the air. You aren't used to being so exposed--so vulnerable--in such a public place. The hairs on your naked skin stand on end. The chills run up all the way to your lower back--partly from the cold hard surface, partly from the nervous feelings running through your soul. Hearing a sound, you flinch a bit. Who is coming? What will they think? You sit, you wait. You wonder. How could I make such a mistake again? I haven't even been drinking like the time before. How could I be so careless as not to check? Last time the pain, the embarrassment, the regret--it was almost too much to bear. Of course the news got around to your family and friends. People seemed to think it was funny--laughed about it at parties, called you names. You felt like something inside of you--something that should be kept private--was unconcealed. Ahh. Not again, please God, not again.

So, you wait. Knowing you won't know until you open that door.





As you sit, trying to hurry, and thinking to yourself over and over again . . . "Am I in the wrong bathroom?"

Born

Its funny, I don't remember being born. That might sound obvious. But, do you remember being born? I remember other people's births, and I have heard about my own from people that were there--like my mom and stuff. But, being born isn't an experience I can say I have had. Instead, I feel like I just appeared one day. To other people I was born; to myself, I appeared without a choice. It is like the mush in my brain developed enough for me to realize I was here and ever since everything has been one strange day after another. Know what I mean?

Episodes In, Out of but Never Outside of the Smoke-Filled Coffee Shop: "No Woman, No Cry"

Back in the Smoke-Filled Coffee shop, I tried to keep my mind from wandering. So many dreams, so many memories. How could I not concentrate in the presence of these three people?

We sat in a corner booth. The three of them lounging in the booth, me in a chair facing them like an interview or an inquisition. Braff looked a bit smug after his little (but profound) speech about the Infinite Abyss. Mandela as poised and distinguished. His gray pinstriped suit was classy, but not gaudy. He sat with the posture of a man who had experienced hell, but still longed for heaven. He had nothing to prove, nothing to show. He seemed like someone who would be comfortable in almost any situation. He joked with Braff. He asked incredibly sophisticated questions of Levinas. I was in awe.

Levinas sat cross legged with all of the aura you would imagine of a French philosopher. He sipped his espresso--elegantly taking it from the saucer to his lips without spilling, or seemingly exerting any effort. His eyes seem to run deep and glare even deeper.

Finally, he stared me in the Face as to say, "What more do you want to know?" Startled and overwhelmed, I looked away, not wanting those eyes to see the confusion which was the reason I was in this place in the first place. I guess he sensed my discomfort. "You know, I agree with Mr. Braff about guarding the Infinite Abyss", he said in an eloquent French accent. "It is hard to explain obviously, but it seems like this is an essential aspect of our human-ness--maybe the essential aspect." I must have looked puzzled because I could tell he was thinking hard of a way to explain it to me. After a brief pause he turned and said, "It is kind of like some things Wyclef Jean does with the remix of Mr. Marley's song, you know the one, 'No Woman, No Cry'."

What? This was too much. I am sitting here in a shady remake of the Transfiguration with a political freedom fighter, a Hollywood actor and a French philosopher (who is supposed to be dead), and now the Jewish-French ethicist is explaining himself through a song by a Haitian born musician, cleverly named after a German Reformer, who remade a song by the most legendary Jamaican Rastafarian of all-time? What is happening? How did I get here? When did things go from confusing to absurd?

"Yes" I somehow got out of my mouth. Levinas continued, "Well he says something about the song being for all the Refugees worldwide. I guess in reference to what Mr. Braff said about the Infinite Abyss, I think we are all Refugees in the world. At our core is an Infinite Abyss. This is the center of our existence. That means two things. First, we are homeless--we are thrown here and exist in a way which is always, infinitely, seeking. Second, it is our responsibility to revere, respect and protect that Abyss. That is, to realize that it is the Abyss which is not a reason to delve into a nihilistic existence--to give up on making sense of life--no, it is the Abyss which gives us hope that there is more to us than we can see, feel, remember, or anticipate. It is the Abyss which signals that every person deserves your effort, your care, your trying--is your responsibility. None of us is home here. You could dwell on the fact that we are homeless. Or, you can dwell on the fact that none of us can ever treat another human being like we own the place--like we have it mastered. What does he say in that song? 'In this great future you can't forget your past.' If there is to be a great future, we can't forget what kind of trouble us humans get into when the Abyss isn't respected--wars, camps, gulags, bombs. President Mandela knows more about this than most of us will ever understand."

I was truly startled now: "So you mean the whole basis of our humanity--and our ability to treat one another humanely--is built on an Infinite Abyss?"

"Yeah," he said with an ironic smile, "without the Abyss there is nothing."

Without the Abyss there is nothing?

Strange.

Re-Post: The Breath of Life

To Nishkegaard and the Boss-Man:

Smoke fills the cold air from the cigar in the left hand. As the port is sipped gently in a singular movement of the right hand to the mouth and then down the throat, distant thoughts are lured to the foreground--thoughts lodged somewhere between sub-consciousness, recognized consciousness and the chaos of existence.

The thoughts filter out through the comfortable breath of exhale as the left hand brings the cigar to the mouth resulting in a surplus of breath, mixing with the mystical smoke, which then evaporates into the darkness of night. Within seconds, the strange conglomerate of smoke and breath are gone--not only to never be seen again, but also never to exist in the unique combination of flow, movement and ease in which they were excreted. The seconds of their existence wisped away without meaning or signficance. No crowd is present on the porch, in the void of the night to see the hybrid of elements disappear into the air. No recording takes record of their existence. No one applauds. No one cares.

But, for a moment the awe and wonder of the weightless gas, the combination of thought, reflection, interaction, absurdity and meaninglessness which pervade the exhaled breath are
suspended in mid-stream. Weightless, bodiless, and formless the suspended moment of exhale remains long enough for the eye to catch the mystery which they contain.

And, this is why we sit on porches, sipping port and smoking cigars. This is why we breath each day--breathe in the no's, the chaos, the hurt, the tears--because we have caught a glimpse before--a glimpse of the mystery within the evaporating exhale and it is just enough to keep us breathing in each moment. The moments which seem impossible--the marriage of breath and smoke hanging in front of nothing--contain the glimpses of creativity and wonder which somehow constitute the breath of life.

It's all in Genesis 1 . . .