by AJ/Skald
Women and gay men are often stereotyped as gossips. But the Christian Right strikes me as the most organized gossip circle in America. What are these people if not meddling gossip hounds? They are obsessed with what other people do. They want to peep into our bedrooms, pry into our books, look over our shoulders, interfere with our relationships. They have no life or business of their own so they spend their energies gossiping about people who are having more fun than they are.
These fuckers cant stand it that people choose to live differently than they do. Its not enough for me to smoke pot in the privacy of my own apartment... they want the gestapo to break down the door and throw me in a dungeon-- for daring to make my own choices.
William Burroughs classified people in two categories, //shits// and //Johnsons//. The Christian Taliban are shits. They are always looking to meddle in others lives. If two gay people decide to get married, these fuckers rush to cause them misery. If someone jerks off to pictures of naked women, they want to drag them out of their home.
These people are the worst kind of vermin. They make life very unpleasant for the Johnsons. A Johnson is someone who minds their own business. A Johnson is someone who lends a hand when asked-- but otherwise is too busy living to interfere with others. Hobopoets, Anarchists, Libertarians, Disciplined Hedonists, etc. are Johnsons (at least in theory).
Our problem is that we are too slow to fight. Our natural inclination is to live and let live. If Christians want to burn crosses, forbid their children from dancing, and believe idiotic Creationist theories... my first reaction is to shrug my shoulders and let them do as they like. Its their life. But these sad bastards are never content with living their own lives. They are determined to enforce their choices, by force, on the rest of us.
At that point, it becomes necessary to fight. At that point, the Johnsons must shed their characteristic amiability and come out swinging. There is no negotiating with the Taliban. You cant reason with them. You cant convince them. You cant charm them.
There is only one solution-- you must kick the shit out of them... inflict so much pain that they will hesitate to attack again.
I learned to practice this, on a very small scale, in Greenville, SC. The Taliban were always harassing me downtown. At first I tried to discuss things with them. I explained I was a Taoist/Buddhist [though not a very good one] but they kept at me. I tried politely turning them away... but that only energized them. Finally I learned to be blunt and rude. My standard line was, //Im not a Christian and I dont want to be one//. Usually that surprised them enough for me to escape. If they still persisted, I added //Fuck off//.
That usually did the trick. Our collective challenge now, I think, is to tell the Christian Taliban (rudely, with no compromise) exactly the same thing: //Fuck off//.
Monday, March 21, 2005
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Reassessment
by AJ/Skald
I will say that this experience (wage slavery in Japan) has reminded me of many valuable lessons. It has forced a radical reassessment of my situation and the thought processes that led to it. Casteneda wrote that a "warrior" views everything as a challenge and does not judge them as good or bad. Im trying to cultivate that attitude to see what I can learn about myself from this situation.
One big lesson: Never make money a deciding factor. I need to eat... but I came here with dollars (yen) in my eyes and am paying the price. And for that reason, I (and I alone) am responsible for my current mess!
This has been a recurrent theme for me... whenever I chase money I am miserable. But when I commit to freedom, purpose, bliss, and learning... money always seems to come. Maybe not in heaps,... but there's always enough.
I will say that this experience (wage slavery in Japan) has reminded me of many valuable lessons. It has forced a radical reassessment of my situation and the thought processes that led to it. Casteneda wrote that a "warrior" views everything as a challenge and does not judge them as good or bad. Im trying to cultivate that attitude to see what I can learn about myself from this situation.
One big lesson: Never make money a deciding factor. I need to eat... but I came here with dollars (yen) in my eyes and am paying the price. And for that reason, I (and I alone) am responsible for my current mess!
This has been a recurrent theme for me... whenever I chase money I am miserable. But when I commit to freedom, purpose, bliss, and learning... money always seems to come. Maybe not in heaps,... but there's always enough.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Righteous Anger
by AJ/Skald
This work situation may prove more beneficial than I first imagined. It is awakening a powerful force in me-- righteous anger. My defiance is awakening. My passion is awakening. My ferocity is awakening.
The last time this happened was in 2001. Six months of misery and wage slavery produced enough rage to power me for four years. Four years of car living, van living, part time working, wandering, writing, drifting, and general hobopoet living.
Maybe I'd gotten too fat and lazy. Maybe the well of righteous anger had run dry. Maybe I need to be reminded just how evil wage slavery is. Maybe I need to be reminded just why I chose a hobopoet life. Maybe I need to awaken that energy, rage, defiance, and ferocity again. Five more months of this and I'll be ready to burn down the school and bulldoze anyone who gets in my way. Five more months of this and I'll be ready to annihilate anything and anyone who tries to cage me.
I feel it growing and, oddly, it feels good. I trust my rage. It has never failed me. It pushes me where I need to go. It doesn't allow me to remain caged for long. It inspires me and demands that I pursue my bliss. The second I depart off that path it returns with fury and builds relentlessly. I don't need to psych myself up. I don't need to make elaborate conscious plans. Rage will do the work for me.
It will dog me. It will plague me. It will not rest, it will not sleep, it will not pause until I am firmly back on my own path again.
For now I will let it stew... let it grow.
But a day of reckoning is on the horizon.
Wage slavers beware.
This work situation may prove more beneficial than I first imagined. It is awakening a powerful force in me-- righteous anger. My defiance is awakening. My passion is awakening. My ferocity is awakening.
The last time this happened was in 2001. Six months of misery and wage slavery produced enough rage to power me for four years. Four years of car living, van living, part time working, wandering, writing, drifting, and general hobopoet living.
Maybe I'd gotten too fat and lazy. Maybe the well of righteous anger had run dry. Maybe I need to be reminded just how evil wage slavery is. Maybe I need to be reminded just why I chose a hobopoet life. Maybe I need to awaken that energy, rage, defiance, and ferocity again. Five more months of this and I'll be ready to burn down the school and bulldoze anyone who gets in my way. Five more months of this and I'll be ready to annihilate anything and anyone who tries to cage me.
I feel it growing and, oddly, it feels good. I trust my rage. It has never failed me. It pushes me where I need to go. It doesn't allow me to remain caged for long. It inspires me and demands that I pursue my bliss. The second I depart off that path it returns with fury and builds relentlessly. I don't need to psych myself up. I don't need to make elaborate conscious plans. Rage will do the work for me.
It will dog me. It will plague me. It will not rest, it will not sleep, it will not pause until I am firmly back on my own path again.
For now I will let it stew... let it grow.
But a day of reckoning is on the horizon.
Wage slavers beware.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Still Schizoid
by AJ/Skald
Work: boring, rigid, tiring, uninspiring. Outside of work: enchanting, interesting, fun, hopeful. I'm in a strange situation in Hiroshima. I love the city and the people and am eager to spend more time exploring. That's what being a hobopoet is all about, after all. I'm meeting interesting people and have had some magical experiences.
But the job is the opposite of that. I'm being trained in a rigid system that thoroughly crushes my enthusiasm. Work hours are frustrating and dreary. What to do? At the moment I'm dead broke so some sort of income is necessary.
For now I've decided to finish the training and give the job a few more months.. see if it gets better. I doubt it will become more inspiring, but hope it will prove less draining once I go into autopilot mode.... put in my 20 hours a week and focus energies on that which truly matters. Such is the plan of the moment-- always subject to change!
It is a basic strategy I've often followed. When it is necessary to work and when that work sucks (the usual situation) the best strategy is to quarantine the damage.... make sure the job requires as little thought, emotion, and energy as possible.... pour my passion into the rest of my life... follow my bliss outside of the work environment.
Obviously its not an ideal situation. I thought very seriously about breaking my contract immediately. But I'm fascinated by Hiroshima and wish to explore further.
So for the moment, its a part-time hobopoet strategy for me.
Work: boring, rigid, tiring, uninspiring. Outside of work: enchanting, interesting, fun, hopeful. I'm in a strange situation in Hiroshima. I love the city and the people and am eager to spend more time exploring. That's what being a hobopoet is all about, after all. I'm meeting interesting people and have had some magical experiences.
But the job is the opposite of that. I'm being trained in a rigid system that thoroughly crushes my enthusiasm. Work hours are frustrating and dreary. What to do? At the moment I'm dead broke so some sort of income is necessary.
For now I've decided to finish the training and give the job a few more months.. see if it gets better. I doubt it will become more inspiring, but hope it will prove less draining once I go into autopilot mode.... put in my 20 hours a week and focus energies on that which truly matters. Such is the plan of the moment-- always subject to change!
It is a basic strategy I've often followed. When it is necessary to work and when that work sucks (the usual situation) the best strategy is to quarantine the damage.... make sure the job requires as little thought, emotion, and energy as possible.... pour my passion into the rest of my life... follow my bliss outside of the work environment.
Obviously its not an ideal situation. I thought very seriously about breaking my contract immediately. But I'm fascinated by Hiroshima and wish to explore further.
So for the moment, its a part-time hobopoet strategy for me.
Plum Blossoms in Winter
by AJ/Skald
Bamboo fronds swirled in broad-brush circles-- ripples advanced across the pond. Pink plum blossoms shivered on withered branches. Snowpuffs flittered between the trees and disappeared on contact with the ground.
We walked slowly to the shore and turned towards the arching stone bridge in its center. There was no sound but the whoosh of bamboo and the lapping of wavelets. I glanced to Shiori... she wore a crimson silk robe over her kimono... and a thick pink scarf --Feet covered by only thin silk socks; she wore traditional sandals.
I felt a strange falling sensation... not unlike the other-wordly pull of a salvia rush. Time disconnected. I stood at the center of an eternal moment.... a scene which could have existed centuries ago... one leg in ancient Japan-- one in the present.
I smiled to Shiori and turned back to the pond--- cleared my mind, listened to the swoosh of bamboo.... nodded to the cedars.
Bamboo fronds swirled in broad-brush circles-- ripples advanced across the pond. Pink plum blossoms shivered on withered branches. Snowpuffs flittered between the trees and disappeared on contact with the ground.
We walked slowly to the shore and turned towards the arching stone bridge in its center. There was no sound but the whoosh of bamboo and the lapping of wavelets. I glanced to Shiori... she wore a crimson silk robe over her kimono... and a thick pink scarf --Feet covered by only thin silk socks; she wore traditional sandals.
I felt a strange falling sensation... not unlike the other-wordly pull of a salvia rush. Time disconnected. I stood at the center of an eternal moment.... a scene which could have existed centuries ago... one leg in ancient Japan-- one in the present.
I smiled to Shiori and turned back to the pond--- cleared my mind, listened to the swoosh of bamboo.... nodded to the cedars.
Alternate Views
Alternate Views
by AJ/Skald
I typically fill Hobopoet with a high concentration of anti-work rants. I rail against bosses. I rail against monotony. I rail against regimentation.
I quote other work-hating freedom fighters... such as the esteemed Hakim Bey. I blast the institution of work and I attack the individual jobs I have held. All of this is well and good. I believe most of what I write and feel all of it when I'm in the process of writing it.
But every now and then I try to take wise zen advice and "cease to cherish opinions". Few situations are all or nothing, so its important to see more than one side. If I was more careful with my language, perhaps I would write these rants in E-prime... do away with the verb "to be" and substitute perceptual verbs instead. For example, "work seems degrading"... or even more accurately, "I feel degraded at this job".
In that spirit, I will say that passionate, meaningful, engaging work IS POSSIBLE. Clearly it is possible. I have had such experiences myself. My clearest example was the part-time teaching job I held in Gainesville, Georgia... teaching English to immigrants. I LOVED that job. I had complete and total freedom in the classroom... could teach any way I wanted. There were no office hours, so I was never a prisoner. I showed up, taught my class, and left. There was very little bureaucracy or bullshit paperwork. The students were fantastic. They loved class. They were interesting, friendly, and fun. They taught me about their cultures. It was one of the few jobs that actually improved my mood.... I'd show up feeling tired and leave feeling energized.
That job fired my passion. Its one reason I decided to pursue a Masters in TESOL. I loved the students yet felt I was short-changing them. I didnt know what I was doing or why. I wanted to help them improve as quickly and effortlessly as possible but had no idea how to do so. Now I have a much better idea (see http://www.effortlessacquisition.blogspot.com ).
So even I-- the King of job-hating hobopoets-- have had an ecstatic work experience. My gripe is that such experiences are so rare. The bulk of my jobs have been quite the opposite... as past posts indicate.
But there are other signs of hope. Matt Salleh is one. He is a science teacher in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he loves what he does. He?s having a fantastic time... living in SE Asia, teaching what he loves (science & ecology & outdoor education). He has found his bliss.
Another example is Tom Peters, the business guru ( http://www.tompeters.com ). This guy oozes passion. Scan his blog and you can?t help but get fired up (even if you hate business, as I do). I was determined to hate his stuff yet I return again and again for inspiration, challenging thoughts, and a jolt of passion. His game is certainly not mine... not in a million years could I tolerate the corporate world. But Tom Peters has mojo and there's no denying it. He is following his bliss... and thats always inspiring.
Tom Asacker is another example. He too is a businessman, but a peculiar one. He is dedicated to changing businesses from "profit-driven" enterprises to "emotion-driven" enterprises. Imagine having "love", "passion", or "connection" as the primary goal of a business. Imagine if "heart" replaced "profit" as the driving force behind economics. You may say he's a dreamer, but.......
Then there is the homeless guy-- a man whose true calling is acting as a voice for homeless people. He has an extremely popular blog on homelessness (http://www.thehomelessguy.blogspot.com ) where he gets the word out. The homeless guy is following his bliss too. He is the embodiment of Kerouac?s powerful principle, "No shame in the dignity of your own experience and knowledge".
And so there is hope. We must investigate these hopeful situations and be inspired by these rare individuals. Most of us must make an income.. however meager. This issue of economics is thus very important and hits to the heart of the hobopoet philosophy. As Gandhi (and Thoreau) noted, Economics is a religious/moral issue. How we feed and clothe ourselves is a deeply philosophical dilemma. How we make an income is a deeply spiritual question.
Are there ways to do these things that are blissful? Can we make an income AND retain our freedom? Can we find work that is so ecstatic that it ceases to be "work" at all?
Clearly we can. Such work may not be common. It may not be easy to find. It may take years to find our bliss. And what we find may not be considered normal...
But find it we can. It is possible.
by AJ/Skald
I typically fill Hobopoet with a high concentration of anti-work rants. I rail against bosses. I rail against monotony. I rail against regimentation.
I quote other work-hating freedom fighters... such as the esteemed Hakim Bey. I blast the institution of work and I attack the individual jobs I have held. All of this is well and good. I believe most of what I write and feel all of it when I'm in the process of writing it.
But every now and then I try to take wise zen advice and "cease to cherish opinions". Few situations are all or nothing, so its important to see more than one side. If I was more careful with my language, perhaps I would write these rants in E-prime... do away with the verb "to be" and substitute perceptual verbs instead. For example, "work seems degrading"... or even more accurately, "I feel degraded at this job".
In that spirit, I will say that passionate, meaningful, engaging work IS POSSIBLE. Clearly it is possible. I have had such experiences myself. My clearest example was the part-time teaching job I held in Gainesville, Georgia... teaching English to immigrants. I LOVED that job. I had complete and total freedom in the classroom... could teach any way I wanted. There were no office hours, so I was never a prisoner. I showed up, taught my class, and left. There was very little bureaucracy or bullshit paperwork. The students were fantastic. They loved class. They were interesting, friendly, and fun. They taught me about their cultures. It was one of the few jobs that actually improved my mood.... I'd show up feeling tired and leave feeling energized.
That job fired my passion. Its one reason I decided to pursue a Masters in TESOL. I loved the students yet felt I was short-changing them. I didnt know what I was doing or why. I wanted to help them improve as quickly and effortlessly as possible but had no idea how to do so. Now I have a much better idea (see http://www.effortlessacquisition.blogspot.com ).
So even I-- the King of job-hating hobopoets-- have had an ecstatic work experience. My gripe is that such experiences are so rare. The bulk of my jobs have been quite the opposite... as past posts indicate.
But there are other signs of hope. Matt Salleh is one. He is a science teacher in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and he loves what he does. He?s having a fantastic time... living in SE Asia, teaching what he loves (science & ecology & outdoor education). He has found his bliss.
Another example is Tom Peters, the business guru ( http://www.tompeters.com ). This guy oozes passion. Scan his blog and you can?t help but get fired up (even if you hate business, as I do). I was determined to hate his stuff yet I return again and again for inspiration, challenging thoughts, and a jolt of passion. His game is certainly not mine... not in a million years could I tolerate the corporate world. But Tom Peters has mojo and there's no denying it. He is following his bliss... and thats always inspiring.
Tom Asacker is another example. He too is a businessman, but a peculiar one. He is dedicated to changing businesses from "profit-driven" enterprises to "emotion-driven" enterprises. Imagine having "love", "passion", or "connection" as the primary goal of a business. Imagine if "heart" replaced "profit" as the driving force behind economics. You may say he's a dreamer, but.......
Then there is the homeless guy-- a man whose true calling is acting as a voice for homeless people. He has an extremely popular blog on homelessness (http://www.thehomelessguy.blogspot.com ) where he gets the word out. The homeless guy is following his bliss too. He is the embodiment of Kerouac?s powerful principle, "No shame in the dignity of your own experience and knowledge".
And so there is hope. We must investigate these hopeful situations and be inspired by these rare individuals. Most of us must make an income.. however meager. This issue of economics is thus very important and hits to the heart of the hobopoet philosophy. As Gandhi (and Thoreau) noted, Economics is a religious/moral issue. How we feed and clothe ourselves is a deeply philosophical dilemma. How we make an income is a deeply spiritual question.
Are there ways to do these things that are blissful? Can we make an income AND retain our freedom? Can we find work that is so ecstatic that it ceases to be "work" at all?
Clearly we can. Such work may not be common. It may not be easy to find. It may take years to find our bliss. And what we find may not be considered normal...
But find it we can. It is possible.
Hiroshima Poet
by AJ/Skald
The girl in the green kimono appears to be a writer or poet. She curls a small notepad close to her chest... holds it directly under her nose, and writes in bursts. When she pauses, she holds it against her body, lifts her chin, and stares forward.... then drops her eyes to the paper to write again. What a fascinating image she portrays--
Why is she dressed in a kimono? What is she writing? What was she reading earlier? I'm enchanted. Is she composing poetry or just making a shopping list?
I choose to imagine the first.... a poet dressed in a kimono sitting in a Starbucks- composing. Its the more romantic option and thus the one I prefer.
The girl in the green kimono appears to be a writer or poet. She curls a small notepad close to her chest... holds it directly under her nose, and writes in bursts. When she pauses, she holds it against her body, lifts her chin, and stares forward.... then drops her eyes to the paper to write again. What a fascinating image she portrays--
Why is she dressed in a kimono? What is she writing? What was she reading earlier? I'm enchanted. Is she composing poetry or just making a shopping list?
I choose to imagine the first.... a poet dressed in a kimono sitting in a Starbucks- composing. Its the more romantic option and thus the one I prefer.
Girl In a Green Kimono
by AJ/Skald
A young woman in a green kimono sits at the booth to my left. She wears silk sandals and her hair is pulled back. Her back is straight as she reads a book at the table. I'm hunched over my laptop, sipping a mocha. A Starbucks mug sits on her table as well.
I repeatedly glance at her... trying to avoid her gaze-- Hoping she won?t think I'm a pervert or a stalker.
But I'm drawn to her. I?m enchanted by her quiet dignity. There sits my anti-self: poised, refined, centered, peaceful. How does one come by these qualities?
Maybe they are not acquired. Maybe the best we can do is live out our natures. Hers: poised & dignified. Mine: restless & temperamental. Yin & Yang. The world needs both, I suppose.
While I have no hope for developing such traits in myself, I am nevertheless comforted to encounter them in others. Such people soothe me. Inspire me. Give me hope. They remind me that there is more to humanity than anger, ignorance, cruelty, and violence. There is also kindness. There is also quiet dignity. There is also beauty and refinement.
Pummelled as we are by images of death and destruction..... caged as we are by systems of greed.. it is easy to forget the subtler truths.
Kurt Vonnegut is right-- on a macro scale humanity is ignorant, perverse, vicious, and insane. But Basho is right too. In quiet, intimate moments lie our salvation.
A young woman in a green kimono sits at the booth to my left. She wears silk sandals and her hair is pulled back. Her back is straight as she reads a book at the table. I'm hunched over my laptop, sipping a mocha. A Starbucks mug sits on her table as well.
I repeatedly glance at her... trying to avoid her gaze-- Hoping she won?t think I'm a pervert or a stalker.
But I'm drawn to her. I?m enchanted by her quiet dignity. There sits my anti-self: poised, refined, centered, peaceful. How does one come by these qualities?
Maybe they are not acquired. Maybe the best we can do is live out our natures. Hers: poised & dignified. Mine: restless & temperamental. Yin & Yang. The world needs both, I suppose.
While I have no hope for developing such traits in myself, I am nevertheless comforted to encounter them in others. Such people soothe me. Inspire me. Give me hope. They remind me that there is more to humanity than anger, ignorance, cruelty, and violence. There is also kindness. There is also quiet dignity. There is also beauty and refinement.
Pummelled as we are by images of death and destruction..... caged as we are by systems of greed.. it is easy to forget the subtler truths.
Kurt Vonnegut is right-- on a macro scale humanity is ignorant, perverse, vicious, and insane. But Basho is right too. In quiet, intimate moments lie our salvation.
Stillness
by AJ/Skald
There is such beauty in people when they are still. Perhaps that's why I love coffee shops. What I love most is to sit quietly and look at people: a young woman reads, another holds her phone tenderly while sending a text message.... an old man sits at a booth and stares out the window.
Quiet & still, we are at our best. Its when we start jabbering that the ugliness comes out. Language is to blame for much of our misery.
William S. Burroughs described language as an invading virus from outer space... a disease that infected our brains and took control of them. The metaphor has merit. Where, after all, do our thoughts come from? Language-thoughts seem to bubble forth from an inner void. Some of them take hold and replicate... strengthen and reproduce. The more virulent among them are spread to other brains via language. In many ways, ideas spread like epidemics.
So what are we, exactly... and what is our relation to language? Are we merely hosts in which language-thoughts incubate, reproduce, and spread? Do we have any control over these viruses? If so, what is the "I" or "we" that is doing the controlling..... just a different set of language-thoughts? Or something beyond language?
What is the purpose of meditation but to free us from these unwholesome invaders? Meditation helps "us" to silence "them"... gain a few moments rest from their attacks... get in touch with what we were before they infected us.
Sages call this state "big mind" or "sky mind". Its the truth beyond language. Its our older, purer selves.
There is such beauty in people when they are still. Perhaps that's why I love coffee shops. What I love most is to sit quietly and look at people: a young woman reads, another holds her phone tenderly while sending a text message.... an old man sits at a booth and stares out the window.
Quiet & still, we are at our best. Its when we start jabbering that the ugliness comes out. Language is to blame for much of our misery.
William S. Burroughs described language as an invading virus from outer space... a disease that infected our brains and took control of them. The metaphor has merit. Where, after all, do our thoughts come from? Language-thoughts seem to bubble forth from an inner void. Some of them take hold and replicate... strengthen and reproduce. The more virulent among them are spread to other brains via language. In many ways, ideas spread like epidemics.
So what are we, exactly... and what is our relation to language? Are we merely hosts in which language-thoughts incubate, reproduce, and spread? Do we have any control over these viruses? If so, what is the "I" or "we" that is doing the controlling..... just a different set of language-thoughts? Or something beyond language?
What is the purpose of meditation but to free us from these unwholesome invaders? Meditation helps "us" to silence "them"... gain a few moments rest from their attacks... get in touch with what we were before they infected us.
Sages call this state "big mind" or "sky mind". Its the truth beyond language. Its our older, purer selves.
Varanasi Bhang
by AJ/Skald
Sllluuuurrpppp..... chunky yoghurt slid over my tongue... a slime residue with bits of pulp and leaves. Thick gulp- then down the throat. I licked my lips... rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth... pressed it against my teeth and sucked.
I scanned my body for hint of a buzz, but nothing yet--- just nerves and fear. I stared into the unglazed clay cup.... threw it to the cobblestone... listened to it shatter with a ?pop?.
I was deep in the bowels of the old city.... sitting in a dark alley in the heart of ?medieval? India.... a time traveler. Only a bare bulb above the drink stall suggested the true date. The stone walls and the twisting, narrow, claustrophic, cobblestone passages were of another era.
Against all better judement, I was sitting alone in the old city of Varanasi, India and had just downed the city?s signature drink: a ?bhang lassi?. Bhang is a mixture of yoghurt and marijuana leaves rumored to be extremely powerful. It was first used as an intoxicant in India around 1000 B.C. and soon became an integral part of Hindu culture. In the ancient text Artharvaveda Bhang is described as a beneficial herb that ?releases anxiety?. Bhang preparations were sacred to the gods, particularly Shiva. One of Shiva?s epithets was ?Lord of Bhang?. It was Shiva, in fact, who supposedly discovered the transcendental properties of the mixture.
The center of Shiva worship is Varanasi- which lies on the banks of the Ganges River. It is home to the burning ghats: open air funeral pyres. After cremation, the burnt remains are pushed into the holy river. Hindus who are cremated in Varanasi are believed to gain particularly good karma and a favorable rebirth in the next life. The city is also host to numerous religious festivals, including Holi.
Holi takes place on the full moon between the month of February and March every year. The festival celebrates the legend of the despotic King Hiranyakashipu and his son. The King asked his people to worship him as God, but his young son was defiant, and pledged only to worship the deity Vishnu. The festival therefore marks the triumph of devotion over ambition. It is literally India?s most colorful festival, as it is celebrated by throwing paint. Many devotees imbibe Bhang during the festival, giving it a somewhat pychedelic atmosphere.
In addition to hosting religious festivals, Varanasi is home to a large concentration of sadhus. Sadhus are Hindu monks who renounce most sensual pleasures. Traditionally they live solitary lives, always on the move. They own only what they carry and subsist on alms. They are easily identified by their long beards and dreadlocks which are knotted into huge buns. Some wear robes, while others wear only a loincloth or go completely naked. Shiva sadhus bear the emblems of Shiva: the trident, the two-sided drum, and the necklace of seeds. Some smear their bodies with ash to symbolize Shiva?s role as the Destroyer who reduces everything to dust. On their foreheads, most sadhus paint a tika- which is a symbol that represents their sect affiliation. In imitation of Shiva, many sadhus use Bhang to boost meditation and achieve transcendental states.
Bhang is sold in shops throughout the old city of Varanasi; most are, in fact, nothing more than wooden shacks, though many claim to be official ?government bhang shops?. They can be difficult to find as there are no street signs and no cars in the old city-- the winding passages are far too narrow. Furthermore, these passages are sprinkled with staircases, sharp turns, sudden drops, and a tangle of wooden shacks.
By day the city is less than charming. Filth is on full display. Cow shit, dog shit, goat pellets, and human excrement lie in piles on the footpaths. Urine collects in pools. Garbage, including rotten food, plastic, paper, and table scraps are piled in the alleys as well. Cows and goats feed on the garbage. Rats feed on the garbage. Dogs and cats feed on the rats.
The city has a pungent smell. A combination of shit, urine, decomposing waste, flower garlands, inscence, and smoke from the funeral pyres. The odors have knockdown strength.
The city is far more alluring at night. Filth is hidden in darkness as shadows creep to fill every corner, every alley, every turn. Its a deep den of darkness punctuated by pools of light. Gangly men in silk shirts huddle on the shadows? edges, smoking cigarettes-- murmuring in low voices. Dogs shriek suddenly in the distance, then trail off to lost passageways. Now and then a splash of bells or the drone of chanting whiffs by on the air.... then silence once again. Bhang-drenched sadhus sit crosslegged by the riverside.
Varanasi?s reputation is as dark as its alleys. Every year, a few foreign tourists simply vanish. Fliers hang in guesthouses, the desperate work of relatives searching for lost loved ones. Guidebooks warn against excursions into the old city at night-- especially alone.
The rumors on the backpacker?s trail are just as daunting. I remember a haggard hippy in Rishikesh who warned me off the city: It was horrible. ... dirty and dangerous. His eyes were shifty; his head wobbled left to right. He affected a semi-sahdu look: with a long beard and dreadlocks piled high upon his head. He carried a small cloth sack. Bone thin- his jaws clenched and his eyes shifted manically.
His warning stuck with me. And so it was with a sense of mystery, dread, and excitement that I downed my first Bhang mix. I slurped it, broke the clay cup on the cobblestone, and handed a wad of Indian Rupees to the gaunt man who sold me the mixture. Then I set off into the darkness. For another thirty minutes I explored the alleyways randomly.... and then it hit me. Legs weakened...... head buzzed.
Eventually I popped out of the warrens onto the ghats. Ghats are the walkways and stairs that line the shores of the Ganges River. They are the focal point of religious activity in Varanasi- host to funeral fires, sadhus, merchants, con artists, strolling families, pilgrims, and tourists. Pilgrims come from all over India to visit the ghats of Varanasi, as Hindus believe that bathing in the river washes away bad karma.
The river itself is broad, slow, and dark. By day it varies between clay and coffee color, by night it is chocolate. Small hand-paddled boats ply the river, ferrying tourists and pilgrims. A common pilgrimage practice is to carry a religious statue to the center of the river and sink it as an offering to the gods. Despite its holiness, the Ganges is highly polluted. Human and animal waste flow into it untreated. It is common to see bloated corpses of humans, cows, and other animals. Some classes of people, for example, are not cremated. Rather, they are dumped directly into the river. These include sadhus, pregnant women, children and people
with leprosy-- who are weighted down and dropped in the river.
I had stumbled onto the ?Main ghat?. It was packed with people... sparkling lights,... and the deafening clang of bells. A crowd concentrated on the edge nearest the river.... eyes intent upon a skydance of whirling lights. I wandered closer.
A group of five Hindu priests were aligned along the shores of the river. Hindu priests are not sadhus. Rather, they are functionaries who specialize in the complex religious rites peculiar to their sect. Behind each priest sat a set of candlesticks, bells, and lamps. Each priest held a candleabra with five flames. Overhead, bass-beat chants echoed along the length of the river. I looked up... and caught the source of the chanting... a set of speakers strung along the backside of the ghat: High-tech Hinduism.
Each priest executed, in perfect harmony with the other four, a set of intricate patterns with the oil lamps. They created trace patterns much like children with sparklers on the Fourth of July. In unison they lifted lamps, spun them, turned them, dropped them. In unison not only with each other... but with the chanting from the speakers, the jamboree jingles, the swaying crowd, the flicker of the oil-lights, and the rhythm of my own breathing.
The priests then twirled to face the river.... set down their lamps... and bowed.
I turned and headed back towards my guesthouse-- making my way along the shore. The dark mass of water slid by to my right..... towering stone shadows rose to my left. I passed several sahdus, silent and crosslegged.
Behind me, I heard the clang of tamborines from pious devotees. Ahead, I saw a faint sky glow from the burning ghats.
Sllluuuurrpppp..... chunky yoghurt slid over my tongue... a slime residue with bits of pulp and leaves. Thick gulp- then down the throat. I licked my lips... rubbed my tongue against the roof of my mouth... pressed it against my teeth and sucked.
I scanned my body for hint of a buzz, but nothing yet--- just nerves and fear. I stared into the unglazed clay cup.... threw it to the cobblestone... listened to it shatter with a ?pop?.
I was deep in the bowels of the old city.... sitting in a dark alley in the heart of ?medieval? India.... a time traveler. Only a bare bulb above the drink stall suggested the true date. The stone walls and the twisting, narrow, claustrophic, cobblestone passages were of another era.
Against all better judement, I was sitting alone in the old city of Varanasi, India and had just downed the city?s signature drink: a ?bhang lassi?. Bhang is a mixture of yoghurt and marijuana leaves rumored to be extremely powerful. It was first used as an intoxicant in India around 1000 B.C. and soon became an integral part of Hindu culture. In the ancient text Artharvaveda Bhang is described as a beneficial herb that ?releases anxiety?. Bhang preparations were sacred to the gods, particularly Shiva. One of Shiva?s epithets was ?Lord of Bhang?. It was Shiva, in fact, who supposedly discovered the transcendental properties of the mixture.
The center of Shiva worship is Varanasi- which lies on the banks of the Ganges River. It is home to the burning ghats: open air funeral pyres. After cremation, the burnt remains are pushed into the holy river. Hindus who are cremated in Varanasi are believed to gain particularly good karma and a favorable rebirth in the next life. The city is also host to numerous religious festivals, including Holi.
Holi takes place on the full moon between the month of February and March every year. The festival celebrates the legend of the despotic King Hiranyakashipu and his son. The King asked his people to worship him as God, but his young son was defiant, and pledged only to worship the deity Vishnu. The festival therefore marks the triumph of devotion over ambition. It is literally India?s most colorful festival, as it is celebrated by throwing paint. Many devotees imbibe Bhang during the festival, giving it a somewhat pychedelic atmosphere.
In addition to hosting religious festivals, Varanasi is home to a large concentration of sadhus. Sadhus are Hindu monks who renounce most sensual pleasures. Traditionally they live solitary lives, always on the move. They own only what they carry and subsist on alms. They are easily identified by their long beards and dreadlocks which are knotted into huge buns. Some wear robes, while others wear only a loincloth or go completely naked. Shiva sadhus bear the emblems of Shiva: the trident, the two-sided drum, and the necklace of seeds. Some smear their bodies with ash to symbolize Shiva?s role as the Destroyer who reduces everything to dust. On their foreheads, most sadhus paint a tika- which is a symbol that represents their sect affiliation. In imitation of Shiva, many sadhus use Bhang to boost meditation and achieve transcendental states.
Bhang is sold in shops throughout the old city of Varanasi; most are, in fact, nothing more than wooden shacks, though many claim to be official ?government bhang shops?. They can be difficult to find as there are no street signs and no cars in the old city-- the winding passages are far too narrow. Furthermore, these passages are sprinkled with staircases, sharp turns, sudden drops, and a tangle of wooden shacks.
By day the city is less than charming. Filth is on full display. Cow shit, dog shit, goat pellets, and human excrement lie in piles on the footpaths. Urine collects in pools. Garbage, including rotten food, plastic, paper, and table scraps are piled in the alleys as well. Cows and goats feed on the garbage. Rats feed on the garbage. Dogs and cats feed on the rats.
The city has a pungent smell. A combination of shit, urine, decomposing waste, flower garlands, inscence, and smoke from the funeral pyres. The odors have knockdown strength.
The city is far more alluring at night. Filth is hidden in darkness as shadows creep to fill every corner, every alley, every turn. Its a deep den of darkness punctuated by pools of light. Gangly men in silk shirts huddle on the shadows? edges, smoking cigarettes-- murmuring in low voices. Dogs shriek suddenly in the distance, then trail off to lost passageways. Now and then a splash of bells or the drone of chanting whiffs by on the air.... then silence once again. Bhang-drenched sadhus sit crosslegged by the riverside.
Varanasi?s reputation is as dark as its alleys. Every year, a few foreign tourists simply vanish. Fliers hang in guesthouses, the desperate work of relatives searching for lost loved ones. Guidebooks warn against excursions into the old city at night-- especially alone.
The rumors on the backpacker?s trail are just as daunting. I remember a haggard hippy in Rishikesh who warned me off the city: It was horrible. ... dirty and dangerous. His eyes were shifty; his head wobbled left to right. He affected a semi-sahdu look: with a long beard and dreadlocks piled high upon his head. He carried a small cloth sack. Bone thin- his jaws clenched and his eyes shifted manically.
His warning stuck with me. And so it was with a sense of mystery, dread, and excitement that I downed my first Bhang mix. I slurped it, broke the clay cup on the cobblestone, and handed a wad of Indian Rupees to the gaunt man who sold me the mixture. Then I set off into the darkness. For another thirty minutes I explored the alleyways randomly.... and then it hit me. Legs weakened...... head buzzed.
Eventually I popped out of the warrens onto the ghats. Ghats are the walkways and stairs that line the shores of the Ganges River. They are the focal point of religious activity in Varanasi- host to funeral fires, sadhus, merchants, con artists, strolling families, pilgrims, and tourists. Pilgrims come from all over India to visit the ghats of Varanasi, as Hindus believe that bathing in the river washes away bad karma.
The river itself is broad, slow, and dark. By day it varies between clay and coffee color, by night it is chocolate. Small hand-paddled boats ply the river, ferrying tourists and pilgrims. A common pilgrimage practice is to carry a religious statue to the center of the river and sink it as an offering to the gods. Despite its holiness, the Ganges is highly polluted. Human and animal waste flow into it untreated. It is common to see bloated corpses of humans, cows, and other animals. Some classes of people, for example, are not cremated. Rather, they are dumped directly into the river. These include sadhus, pregnant women, children and people
with leprosy-- who are weighted down and dropped in the river.
I had stumbled onto the ?Main ghat?. It was packed with people... sparkling lights,... and the deafening clang of bells. A crowd concentrated on the edge nearest the river.... eyes intent upon a skydance of whirling lights. I wandered closer.
A group of five Hindu priests were aligned along the shores of the river. Hindu priests are not sadhus. Rather, they are functionaries who specialize in the complex religious rites peculiar to their sect. Behind each priest sat a set of candlesticks, bells, and lamps. Each priest held a candleabra with five flames. Overhead, bass-beat chants echoed along the length of the river. I looked up... and caught the source of the chanting... a set of speakers strung along the backside of the ghat: High-tech Hinduism.
Each priest executed, in perfect harmony with the other four, a set of intricate patterns with the oil lamps. They created trace patterns much like children with sparklers on the Fourth of July. In unison they lifted lamps, spun them, turned them, dropped them. In unison not only with each other... but with the chanting from the speakers, the jamboree jingles, the swaying crowd, the flicker of the oil-lights, and the rhythm of my own breathing.
The priests then twirled to face the river.... set down their lamps... and bowed.
I turned and headed back towards my guesthouse-- making my way along the shore. The dark mass of water slid by to my right..... towering stone shadows rose to my left. I passed several sahdus, silent and crosslegged.
Behind me, I heard the clang of tamborines from pious devotees. Ahead, I saw a faint sky glow from the burning ghats.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Lost
by AJ/Skald
Lost in a dance of light and color. I am on the pale road where thoughts grow thin. It buzzes: the laughter, hushed conversation, click of the keyboard, tap of my feet,.... A chemical reaction. An alchemal mix of feeling and perception. I am being moved.... but I know not where... nor towards what.
Its like the first mushroom rush.... being swept away by waves of light, sound, countours, faces, voices, aromas.... Its like the first plunge of falling in love. I am headlong in love with my life.
Stunned. Speechless.
Heart struck by every face I see. Painful, aching ecstasy. Hopelessly lost.
Im an Indradic God at the bejeweled center of the universe. All of life is dancing around me.
I sit alone and grin like a simple idiot. No one notices because I am the empty center around which they swirl. Invisible.
Ive been here all day. Open and receptive. Lost in reverie.
Hopelessly, painfully, beautifully
in love.
Lost in a dance of light and color. I am on the pale road where thoughts grow thin. It buzzes: the laughter, hushed conversation, click of the keyboard, tap of my feet,.... A chemical reaction. An alchemal mix of feeling and perception. I am being moved.... but I know not where... nor towards what.
Its like the first mushroom rush.... being swept away by waves of light, sound, countours, faces, voices, aromas.... Its like the first plunge of falling in love. I am headlong in love with my life.
Stunned. Speechless.
Heart struck by every face I see. Painful, aching ecstasy. Hopelessly lost.
Im an Indradic God at the bejeweled center of the universe. All of life is dancing around me.
I sit alone and grin like a simple idiot. No one notices because I am the empty center around which they swirl. Invisible.
Ive been here all day. Open and receptive. Lost in reverie.
Hopelessly, painfully, beautifully
in love.
Sublime
by AJ/Skald
For a minute, I lost myself. Immersed. I sat and watched beautiful Japanese girls stroll by on the
stairs beside me. My thoughts wandered... images of girls I have loved surfaced. And then it happened... one moment Im writing scathing attacks on the evils of work... the next, Im struck silent by the magnificent beauty of life.
My eyes tear up and I turn my head to hide them. I notice a father holding his baby girl... who is
sleeping in his arms. I notice a couple holding hands. I have so many grand designs but happiness resides in these simple moments.
How magnificent life is. How glorious to be in a coffee shop in Hiroshima, Japan: me, a geeky boy from Georgia; so timid, so fearful as a child. How mysterious for me to end up here.... clothed in overalls, hunched over a laptop, sipping coffee in the first city to be A-bombed. Life always turns out stranger than you imagine.
On the first floor, a middle aged man is stretching in his seat, while a girl in a red apron frantically wipes the booth beside him. Shes smiling.
Across from me, two girls lean towards one another and sip their drinks... look into each others eyes and hold the gaze. I wonder what they are discussing. In another corner, a girl with round cheeks wears a wool hat and thick jacket; shes gulping at her cup. But then she takes a napkin and daintily daubs her lips. She notices my stare and I look away.
So it goes at all times... all around us. A million tiny miracles unfold and we never notice. So
beautiful. So harmonious. So subtle and sublime.
For a minute, I lost myself. Immersed. I sat and watched beautiful Japanese girls stroll by on the
stairs beside me. My thoughts wandered... images of girls I have loved surfaced. And then it happened... one moment Im writing scathing attacks on the evils of work... the next, Im struck silent by the magnificent beauty of life.
My eyes tear up and I turn my head to hide them. I notice a father holding his baby girl... who is
sleeping in his arms. I notice a couple holding hands. I have so many grand designs but happiness resides in these simple moments.
How magnificent life is. How glorious to be in a coffee shop in Hiroshima, Japan: me, a geeky boy from Georgia; so timid, so fearful as a child. How mysterious for me to end up here.... clothed in overalls, hunched over a laptop, sipping coffee in the first city to be A-bombed. Life always turns out stranger than you imagine.
On the first floor, a middle aged man is stretching in his seat, while a girl in a red apron frantically wipes the booth beside him. Shes smiling.
Across from me, two girls lean towards one another and sip their drinks... look into each others eyes and hold the gaze. I wonder what they are discussing. In another corner, a girl with round cheeks wears a wool hat and thick jacket; shes gulping at her cup. But then she takes a napkin and daintily daubs her lips. She notices my stare and I look away.
So it goes at all times... all around us. A million tiny miracles unfold and we never notice. So
beautiful. So harmonious. So subtle and sublime.
Jobs Ruin Everything
by AJ/Skald
Hiroshima has certainly grown on me. If I didnt have to work this crappy language institute job, Id love it. But isn't that always the case-- jobs spoil everything. Part-time is the way to go. Freelance is the way to go. Lazy jobs are the way to go. Working for yourself is the way to go. Full-time wage slavery is a fucking scourge. It drains intelligence, sucks out creativity, and crushes the spirit. Such jobs erode your dignity and destroy your happiness.
I should have known it would end like this-- quickly and savagely. The power of wishful thinking is amazing. I should have known I could never endure this kind of humiliation again. Those days are long gone. Another part of me has awakened-- a fiercer, freer, wilder self. Its in charge now. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Anyone who tries to corner me will be bypassed or screwed over. Thats just the way of it... and theres nothing I can do about it (Im reminded of that line from Fight Club: I used to be such a nice guy).
Freedom has that effect. Its more addictive than nicotine or heroin. Few who free themselves can ever return to slavery. Once youve tasted freedom, you become capable of anything to preserve it. It becomes impossible to suck up to bosses, to obey the rules, to play nice. Already Im snarling through meetings. Already I mock my "superiors". Already I plan my escape. Its been only one week but my rage is awakened.
I dont care about career. I dont care about commitments. I dont care about other peoples notion of responsibility. I dont care about fairness. These fuckers are trying to imprison and control me and I cant allow that.
This is something all aspiring hobopoets should be aware of. Be careful about crossing that line.
Once you commit to this life, it becomes an all or nothing proposition. Theres no going back. No more good employee. No more good citizen. You cross the line and thats it-- youre on your own. Youll never fit in with the herd again.
I thought I could fake it a while for the sake of big money... but I was wrong.
Hiroshima has certainly grown on me. If I didnt have to work this crappy language institute job, Id love it. But isn't that always the case-- jobs spoil everything. Part-time is the way to go. Freelance is the way to go. Lazy jobs are the way to go. Working for yourself is the way to go. Full-time wage slavery is a fucking scourge. It drains intelligence, sucks out creativity, and crushes the spirit. Such jobs erode your dignity and destroy your happiness.
I should have known it would end like this-- quickly and savagely. The power of wishful thinking is amazing. I should have known I could never endure this kind of humiliation again. Those days are long gone. Another part of me has awakened-- a fiercer, freer, wilder self. Its in charge now. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Anyone who tries to corner me will be bypassed or screwed over. Thats just the way of it... and theres nothing I can do about it (Im reminded of that line from Fight Club: I used to be such a nice guy).
Freedom has that effect. Its more addictive than nicotine or heroin. Few who free themselves can ever return to slavery. Once youve tasted freedom, you become capable of anything to preserve it. It becomes impossible to suck up to bosses, to obey the rules, to play nice. Already Im snarling through meetings. Already I mock my "superiors". Already I plan my escape. Its been only one week but my rage is awakened.
I dont care about career. I dont care about commitments. I dont care about other peoples notion of responsibility. I dont care about fairness. These fuckers are trying to imprison and control me and I cant allow that.
This is something all aspiring hobopoets should be aware of. Be careful about crossing that line.
Once you commit to this life, it becomes an all or nothing proposition. Theres no going back. No more good employee. No more good citizen. You cross the line and thats it-- youre on your own. Youll never fit in with the herd again.
I thought I could fake it a while for the sake of big money... but I was wrong.
Schizoid
by AJ/Skald
Matt emailed me recently and tried to encourage me to stick out the situation in Japan. He reminded me that culture shock is normal.... that I went through a similarly volatile period in Thailand. He is absolutely right. His email helped me to realize that Ive painted a very negative picture in my few recent posts.
To balance the picture I should note that despite my furious hatred of the job, I love Japan. I am
hopelessly enamored with the people. They are, without doubt, the sweetest people I have ever met. I have never seen such poise, such grace, such friendliness, such eagerness to help. I have never met a gentler people. I am in love with them.
The first few days here were shocking... mostly it was the weather, coming from the technicolor summer of Thailand to the drab winter of Hiroshima. It was depressing. But the people quickly won us over. Already I feel comfortable among them. I want to meet them. I want to make friends. I could very easily live here.
But I find myself in a curious situation. It was the same when I lived here before. I was lonely,
depressed, and bored to death at my job. I fled. Yet I left without a single negative thought about
the Japanese people I had met. I still remember them fondly. My Japanese experiences are schizoid-- I love the people and hate working here. I love the country but hate the jobs. I have not met a single disagreeable person in Hiroshima. But I have met countless folks who are beautiful, kind, and friendly. I wish I could live here as I did in Thailand.... as a hobopoet student.
But Japan is expensive and I am broke. If Japan has one flaw, from my perspective, it is its insane work culture. They worship work, I despise it. They obey bosses and respect authority, I loathe both. I want passion, flexibility, and fun if I must work a job.... they value rules, systems, control, security, and the chain of command. I want to teach natural English and promote effortless acquisition. They insist I use drills, error correction, and rote practice.
Im not quite sure why they hired me... as they read my teaching blog during the hiring process. It
should have been obvious that my teaching philosophy was at odds with theirs. I should have probed them more thoroughly. But they wanted the MS TESOL degree and figured Id be an obedient employee once I showed up. Obedience has never been my strong suit.
So here I am among people I love-- in a job I despise.
Unfortunately, shitty jobs ruin everything. I cant live my life in separate compartments called work and free time. I demand joy and ecstasy from my work and I insist that the work I do is indeed MINE. I must own it.
Maybe someday I will return to Japan with a wad of money. Maybe Ill start my own program here. Maybe Ill enjoy this place on my own terms, as a hobopoet.
But for now, the job has ruined everything.
Matt emailed me recently and tried to encourage me to stick out the situation in Japan. He reminded me that culture shock is normal.... that I went through a similarly volatile period in Thailand. He is absolutely right. His email helped me to realize that Ive painted a very negative picture in my few recent posts.
To balance the picture I should note that despite my furious hatred of the job, I love Japan. I am
hopelessly enamored with the people. They are, without doubt, the sweetest people I have ever met. I have never seen such poise, such grace, such friendliness, such eagerness to help. I have never met a gentler people. I am in love with them.
The first few days here were shocking... mostly it was the weather, coming from the technicolor summer of Thailand to the drab winter of Hiroshima. It was depressing. But the people quickly won us over. Already I feel comfortable among them. I want to meet them. I want to make friends. I could very easily live here.
But I find myself in a curious situation. It was the same when I lived here before. I was lonely,
depressed, and bored to death at my job. I fled. Yet I left without a single negative thought about
the Japanese people I had met. I still remember them fondly. My Japanese experiences are schizoid-- I love the people and hate working here. I love the country but hate the jobs. I have not met a single disagreeable person in Hiroshima. But I have met countless folks who are beautiful, kind, and friendly. I wish I could live here as I did in Thailand.... as a hobopoet student.
But Japan is expensive and I am broke. If Japan has one flaw, from my perspective, it is its insane work culture. They worship work, I despise it. They obey bosses and respect authority, I loathe both. I want passion, flexibility, and fun if I must work a job.... they value rules, systems, control, security, and the chain of command. I want to teach natural English and promote effortless acquisition. They insist I use drills, error correction, and rote practice.
Im not quite sure why they hired me... as they read my teaching blog during the hiring process. It
should have been obvious that my teaching philosophy was at odds with theirs. I should have probed them more thoroughly. But they wanted the MS TESOL degree and figured Id be an obedient employee once I showed up. Obedience has never been my strong suit.
So here I am among people I love-- in a job I despise.
Unfortunately, shitty jobs ruin everything. I cant live my life in separate compartments called work and free time. I demand joy and ecstasy from my work and I insist that the work I do is indeed MINE. I must own it.
Maybe someday I will return to Japan with a wad of money. Maybe Ill start my own program here. Maybe Ill enjoy this place on my own terms, as a hobopoet.
But for now, the job has ruined everything.
Uncaged
by AJ/Skald
If a measure of distance from the herd is the price, so be it. If a volatile career is the price, so be it. I will not surrender my ferocity for a small gain in security. I am not a child. I am not a herd animal. I am a hobopoet.
I will go where my bliss... where my whim takes me. I will not surrender my freedom, nor my autonomy, nor my fury. I will not be obedient. I will not submit to slavery. I will not be told what to do. I will not adjust... I will not lead another persons life in the name of maturity. I will not do the officially sanctioned responsible thing. This is my life and I will own it.
I, and I alone, am responsible for it. I desire no control over others and will accept no authority
over me. This is the decision I made three years ago... on a mountaintop in Shiura village. I vowed never again to compromise my bliss for the sake of appearance, acceptance, responsibility, money, or public opinion. It is a vow I have kept and one I will continue to keep.
Japan is a wonderful place. I am hopelessly in love with its people. But Japan is not the problem. The problem is that I tried to cheat my vow. I tried to snigger around it for the sake of quick cash and job security. I was thinking, --$1000 dollars a month saved!--. I was thinking, --$12,000 dollars after one year--. I was thinking, --I can endure a year of authority and wage slavery.. just one year... in order to buy several years of freedom afterwards--.
I thought I could negotiate with my bliss. I thought I could soothe my ferocity. Just for a year, I
thought I could cheat on my vow. I was wrong.
Dead wrong. Not only was I wrong, I was a fool. The hobopoet path must be walked with a warriors heart. No surrender, no fear, no hesitation..... No bargaining with ones bliss. Alan Watts reminds us that failure of nerve is really failure to trust oneself. Facing the end of easy money, I lost my nerve.
But the heart and spirit correct the folly of the mind. I squirm during every staff meeting. I bite
my tongue to hold back defiant arguments. I smile to hide my sneer. I grit my teeth. My muscles tense. Faced with bosses, authority, control, rules, orders... every fiber of my body rouses for a fight. Something has been unleashed that will never be caged again. I did more than make a vow three years ago. I forever abandoned a normal life.
If a measure of distance from the herd is the price, so be it. If a volatile career is the price, so be it. I will not surrender my ferocity for a small gain in security. I am not a child. I am not a herd animal. I am a hobopoet.
I will go where my bliss... where my whim takes me. I will not surrender my freedom, nor my autonomy, nor my fury. I will not be obedient. I will not submit to slavery. I will not be told what to do. I will not adjust... I will not lead another persons life in the name of maturity. I will not do the officially sanctioned responsible thing. This is my life and I will own it.
I, and I alone, am responsible for it. I desire no control over others and will accept no authority
over me. This is the decision I made three years ago... on a mountaintop in Shiura village. I vowed never again to compromise my bliss for the sake of appearance, acceptance, responsibility, money, or public opinion. It is a vow I have kept and one I will continue to keep.
Japan is a wonderful place. I am hopelessly in love with its people. But Japan is not the problem. The problem is that I tried to cheat my vow. I tried to snigger around it for the sake of quick cash and job security. I was thinking, --$1000 dollars a month saved!--. I was thinking, --$12,000 dollars after one year--. I was thinking, --I can endure a year of authority and wage slavery.. just one year... in order to buy several years of freedom afterwards--.
I thought I could negotiate with my bliss. I thought I could soothe my ferocity. Just for a year, I
thought I could cheat on my vow. I was wrong.
Dead wrong. Not only was I wrong, I was a fool. The hobopoet path must be walked with a warriors heart. No surrender, no fear, no hesitation..... No bargaining with ones bliss. Alan Watts reminds us that failure of nerve is really failure to trust oneself. Facing the end of easy money, I lost my nerve.
But the heart and spirit correct the folly of the mind. I squirm during every staff meeting. I bite
my tongue to hold back defiant arguments. I smile to hide my sneer. I grit my teeth. My muscles tense. Faced with bosses, authority, control, rules, orders... every fiber of my body rouses for a fight. Something has been unleashed that will never be caged again. I did more than make a vow three years ago. I forever abandoned a normal life.
Regression
by AJ/Skald
As I prepare to embark upon another job, it strikes me that employment is essentially juvenile.
What is a boss but a surrogate parent-figure... someone to tell you what to do, when to do it, and
how to do it? An employee is nothing but a grown child-- someone without the initiative or know-how to think and live for themselves.
And so I have regressed. For three full years Ive lived life on my own terms but I am soon to become a child once again. Starting tomorrow, I will no longer be an autonomous adult. Ill have to answer to someone. Someone will tell me how to teach and when to teach. Someone else will decide what I am worth. They will tell me when to show up, what materials to use, what procedures to follow. I have a Masters in TESOL and years of experience and great ideas... but once more I will be an adolescent-- not trusted to make my own decisions.
And yet my position in Hiroshima carries more autonomy than most jobs. Most Ive had were far more intrusive.
So where does this put us, as a society? In terms of cultural evolution, we are still juveniles. We
have not yet graduated to autonomy as a species. We leave our biological parents, but merely trade them for surrogates: teachers, cops, & bosses.
Employment is a phase we must grow out of-- if we are ever to advance beyond our current infantile state.
On a personal level, employment is a phase I must grow out of... lest I remain a child for the
entirety of my life.
As I prepare to embark upon another job, it strikes me that employment is essentially juvenile.
What is a boss but a surrogate parent-figure... someone to tell you what to do, when to do it, and
how to do it? An employee is nothing but a grown child-- someone without the initiative or know-how to think and live for themselves.
And so I have regressed. For three full years Ive lived life on my own terms but I am soon to become a child once again. Starting tomorrow, I will no longer be an autonomous adult. Ill have to answer to someone. Someone will tell me how to teach and when to teach. Someone else will decide what I am worth. They will tell me when to show up, what materials to use, what procedures to follow. I have a Masters in TESOL and years of experience and great ideas... but once more I will be an adolescent-- not trusted to make my own decisions.
And yet my position in Hiroshima carries more autonomy than most jobs. Most Ive had were far more intrusive.
So where does this put us, as a society? In terms of cultural evolution, we are still juveniles. We
have not yet graduated to autonomy as a species. We leave our biological parents, but merely trade them for surrogates: teachers, cops, & bosses.
Employment is a phase we must grow out of-- if we are ever to advance beyond our current infantile state.
On a personal level, employment is a phase I must grow out of... lest I remain a child for the
entirety of my life.
A-Bomb Museum
by AJ/Skald
Visited the A-bomb museum today... very, very powerful. Hard to put much into words at the
moment. Its just a series of images: two models of the city side by side... one a representation of
the city before the bomb, the other a flattened plane representing the city after the bomb.
The most devastating images are of the immediate survivors.... the burn victims with flesh
dripping off their arms... the scorched faces... the scorched clothing. According to the museum,
140,000 people died in the explosion and its short-term aftermath.
140,000 gone in an instant. Truly horrible. And yet, think of the attention this event created.
Sixty years later we are still visiting the museum. Everyone remembers. Why is it that 140,000
Japanese killed in an instant creates such a stir.... but 100,000 Iraqis killed over the course of a
year creates hardly a blip on the American imagination? Did those people suffer less because their deaths were spread out? Did their relatives suffer less? Is the destruction any less horrible?
Is death by napalm, cluster bomb, or snipers bullet somehow more desirable than incineration from an atomic bomb? Were the Tokyo firebombs, which killed more people than the Hiroshima A-bomb, more humane?
The museum stressed the need for peace and nuclear disarmament.... but for my taste the emphasis was too much on nuclear weapons and not enough on peace in general. We are now at the stage where conventional weapons are nearing the destructive capability of those first nuclear bombs. The American military, in particular, is an ultra-efficient killing machine. We donft need to use nukes because we can obliterate any nation on earth without them.
In fact, nukes now represent the best hope for peace for countries like North Korea and Iran. They face certain attack from America unless they develop the bomb. They need the bomb to stay safe. Can you blame them for pursuing this option? North Korea just bought themselves a huge insurance policy.... its no coincidence that Bush & Co. are treating them much more carefully. Its no coincidence that Americas aggressive rhetoric is now targeted at Syria and Iran.
Should Iran develop usable nukes, they will get the kid-gloves treatment as well. Until then, they
are in the gun-sights.
So the lesson of the A-bomb museum, for me, is the need for peace in general. This can only
come from ordinary people, not governments. And it will only come when good citizens of
aggressor countries heed Gandhis advice and stop co-operating. As long as loyal patriots are
ready to kill on command, as long as people are ready to wave the flag and cheer the troops,... the
bloodshed will never stop.
Our best hope for peace is to criticize and defy our own governments. Our best hope for peace
is to kill patriotism and national loyalty... to replace it with loyalty to the human race... loyalty
to the planet as a whole. Dont take pride in being an American... take pride in being a human being.
Visited the A-bomb museum today... very, very powerful. Hard to put much into words at the
moment. Its just a series of images: two models of the city side by side... one a representation of
the city before the bomb, the other a flattened plane representing the city after the bomb.
The most devastating images are of the immediate survivors.... the burn victims with flesh
dripping off their arms... the scorched faces... the scorched clothing. According to the museum,
140,000 people died in the explosion and its short-term aftermath.
140,000 gone in an instant. Truly horrible. And yet, think of the attention this event created.
Sixty years later we are still visiting the museum. Everyone remembers. Why is it that 140,000
Japanese killed in an instant creates such a stir.... but 100,000 Iraqis killed over the course of a
year creates hardly a blip on the American imagination? Did those people suffer less because their deaths were spread out? Did their relatives suffer less? Is the destruction any less horrible?
Is death by napalm, cluster bomb, or snipers bullet somehow more desirable than incineration from an atomic bomb? Were the Tokyo firebombs, which killed more people than the Hiroshima A-bomb, more humane?
The museum stressed the need for peace and nuclear disarmament.... but for my taste the emphasis was too much on nuclear weapons and not enough on peace in general. We are now at the stage where conventional weapons are nearing the destructive capability of those first nuclear bombs. The American military, in particular, is an ultra-efficient killing machine. We donft need to use nukes because we can obliterate any nation on earth without them.
In fact, nukes now represent the best hope for peace for countries like North Korea and Iran. They face certain attack from America unless they develop the bomb. They need the bomb to stay safe. Can you blame them for pursuing this option? North Korea just bought themselves a huge insurance policy.... its no coincidence that Bush & Co. are treating them much more carefully. Its no coincidence that Americas aggressive rhetoric is now targeted at Syria and Iran.
Should Iran develop usable nukes, they will get the kid-gloves treatment as well. Until then, they
are in the gun-sights.
So the lesson of the A-bomb museum, for me, is the need for peace in general. This can only
come from ordinary people, not governments. And it will only come when good citizens of
aggressor countries heed Gandhis advice and stop co-operating. As long as loyal patriots are
ready to kill on command, as long as people are ready to wave the flag and cheer the troops,... the
bloodshed will never stop.
Our best hope for peace is to criticize and defy our own governments. Our best hope for peace
is to kill patriotism and national loyalty... to replace it with loyalty to the human race... loyalty
to the planet as a whole. Dont take pride in being an American... take pride in being a human being.
Separation
by AJ/Skald
Sometimes it is necessary to leave that which we love... for a little while. Doing so renews our
appreciation. It helps us to remember what we have and why it is important. We once again
understand its beauty, power, and uniqueness.
So it is with me and Thailand. Coming to Japan has renewed my appreciation for Southeast
Asia. I am reminded that it is a special place for me... a place that rejuvenated me...a place where
I feel at home. Leaving Thailand was extremely difficult. I cried like a baby in the departure gate
and again on the plane. It was tough to leave Tip. It was tough to leave the eternal
sunshine, the eternal warmth. It was tough to leave the spices, the smells, the energy, the chaos.
Already I miss it terribly. What am I doing here? Why have I returned (yet again) to a cold,
grey, workaholic country? Why have I based such a decision on financial matters... on the goal of
making money-- something that always ends in disaster for me. Sometimes I must make the same
mistake three, four, five times before it finally sinks in. So here I am again--- facing the barrel of a gun called work... surrounded by GQ worker bees... sitting under a grey winter sky.
Its like I've moved from technicolor (Thailand) to a world of blacks, whites, and greys (Japan).
Not that its an unpleasant place. Everything here is, in fact, pleasant.
But theres also no fire or spice or dirt or... or... mojo. While I value the quiet and clean air.... everything is just a little too ordered.
But theres nothing to do at the moment but make the best of it. Im dead broke. The
impoverished have fewer options and I am stuck working here for a few months. If that time
helps to strengthen my appreciation for what I had, then it is time well spent. If that time fires
my determination and defiance, it is time well spent. If that time builds my savings and increases
my financial options, it is time well spent. If that time serves as a slap in the face and a kick in
the ass, it is time well spent. After all, if I was completely fat, lazy, and happy... what would I
write about!! From time to time it is valuable to confront what we loathe... to face challenges of
our own creation. Doing so keeps us in fighting shape... keeps us sharp....keeps us aware of our
priorities. These stints should be short-- but they are valuable.
Sometimes it is necessary to leave that which we love... for a little while. Doing so renews our
appreciation. It helps us to remember what we have and why it is important. We once again
understand its beauty, power, and uniqueness.
So it is with me and Thailand. Coming to Japan has renewed my appreciation for Southeast
Asia. I am reminded that it is a special place for me... a place that rejuvenated me...a place where
I feel at home. Leaving Thailand was extremely difficult. I cried like a baby in the departure gate
and again on the plane. It was tough to leave Tip. It was tough to leave the eternal
sunshine, the eternal warmth. It was tough to leave the spices, the smells, the energy, the chaos.
Already I miss it terribly. What am I doing here? Why have I returned (yet again) to a cold,
grey, workaholic country? Why have I based such a decision on financial matters... on the goal of
making money-- something that always ends in disaster for me. Sometimes I must make the same
mistake three, four, five times before it finally sinks in. So here I am again--- facing the barrel of a gun called work... surrounded by GQ worker bees... sitting under a grey winter sky.
Its like I've moved from technicolor (Thailand) to a world of blacks, whites, and greys (Japan).
Not that its an unpleasant place. Everything here is, in fact, pleasant.
But theres also no fire or spice or dirt or... or... mojo. While I value the quiet and clean air.... everything is just a little too ordered.
But theres nothing to do at the moment but make the best of it. Im dead broke. The
impoverished have fewer options and I am stuck working here for a few months. If that time
helps to strengthen my appreciation for what I had, then it is time well spent. If that time fires
my determination and defiance, it is time well spent. If that time builds my savings and increases
my financial options, it is time well spent. If that time serves as a slap in the face and a kick in
the ass, it is time well spent. After all, if I was completely fat, lazy, and happy... what would I
write about!! From time to time it is valuable to confront what we loathe... to face challenges of
our own creation. Doing so keeps us in fighting shape... keeps us sharp....keeps us aware of our
priorities. These stints should be short-- but they are valuable.
Hiroshima Homeless
by AJ/Skald
Bless long underwear!! Double layer long underwear kept me warm during the worst of winter
while living in my van. Long underwear is making the Hiroshima winter bearable. Perhaps the
first thing we should do for homeless people is to give them two pair of high quality, two layer
long underwear. To that I would add a high quality camping pad... a z-rest for example. These
two items would make a world of difference for them.
I think of this as I contemplate the image of Hiroshimas homeless, who seem so much more
miserable than the homeless of Bangkok. At least in Bangkok the residents dont have to worry
about cold... find a plot of open ground and spread out and you are somewhat comfortable. But
the homeless people here break my heart. They are huddled on the sidewalk, wrapped in cotton
clothes-- hugging themselves to stay warm. They look chilled to the bone... a state made much
worse by lying on concrete. Thats another problem in Japan, for like America, the homeless
here are viewed as a scourge and an eyesore. They get chased out of parks and off of benches.
The goal, it seems, is to increase their suffering so they will go away and not interfere with the
cheer of Japanese good citizens. This mindset exists to a degree in Bangkok, but to a much lesser
degree. And in India... forget about it--- the homeless rule the sidewalks and parks. That, at
least, is one benefit of Indias widespread poverty. With so many poor and homeless, there is
not much stigma attached to the condition. Less shame. Less harrassment.
Anyone who has camped in the winter knows that a few basics make a world of difference. The
biggest enemy is the ground... which sucks heat rapaciously. It is thus essential to have a thermal
barrier between you and the earth. Thats where the z-rest comes in... a foam mat with ridges.
The ridges create air pockets between the pad and the body when you lay on it... These air
pockets warm and create an effective thermal barrier-- thus preventing heat from escaping to the
ground. The z-rest is very compact.. easily strapped to a small bookbag. Want to help a
homeless person in the winter? Give them a z-rest.
Long underwear is another essential, though the right kind is important. Cotton underwear, the
kind found at WalMart, does more harm than good. Cotton kills, is the backpackers motto. It
kills because when cotton gets wet it sucks heat rather than retains it. It can get wet from rain or
from sweat. Unfortunately, most homeless people I see are wrapped in cotton clothes (shirts,
sweatshirts, and jackets) and seem to be unaware of the fabrics dangerous qualities.
Long underwear should be constructed of polypropolene, polyester, or similar artificial fabrics.
Other clothing should also be of these fabrics, or of wool.... as should blankets, hats, gloves,
socks, and sleeping bags. These fabrics wick moisture away from the body and they continue to
insulate when wet.
My final addition to a compassionate kit for winter homelessness would be a rectangle of plastic
tarp material... found as drop cloth plastic in most hardware stores. This material is compact--
easily folded into a small bag. It can be used as a windbreak when sleeping on the streets,... or set
up as a tarp when camping in a park or the woods. Ive camped in subzero weather with gusting
winds using this exact setup. I wont say I was toasty, but it kept me from hypothermia.
Many will say we should focus our efforts on big-scale systemic solutions to homelessness. I
agree its a systemic problem and such action is necessary. However, macro-level actions do not
negate the need for immediate individual efforts. RIGHT NOW people are cold and miserable.
Their lives can be significantly improved by a few items and a little bit of knowledge. A z-rest, a
couple pair of thick acrylic long underwear, a few polyester shirts, a wool sweater, a wool hat
and scarf and gloves, a thick (non-cotton) jacket..... and a small plastic tarp-- these things could
make a world of difference to an individual who is trying to survive the streets in winter. Their
cost is minimal. Dont we owe them at least that? Cant we, as a society, at least provide for the
most basic of their needs?
(For the next step up the micro-macro ladder... how about a Mad Houser hut. These huts cost
only $300-500 dollars.... are insulated... and come with a wood stove for heating and cooking.
Just as importantly, they give their residents a modicum of autonomy, privacy, and safety.
Better a hut of oneÃs own than the humiliation of depending on shelters.).
Bless long underwear!! Double layer long underwear kept me warm during the worst of winter
while living in my van. Long underwear is making the Hiroshima winter bearable. Perhaps the
first thing we should do for homeless people is to give them two pair of high quality, two layer
long underwear. To that I would add a high quality camping pad... a z-rest for example. These
two items would make a world of difference for them.
I think of this as I contemplate the image of Hiroshimas homeless, who seem so much more
miserable than the homeless of Bangkok. At least in Bangkok the residents dont have to worry
about cold... find a plot of open ground and spread out and you are somewhat comfortable. But
the homeless people here break my heart. They are huddled on the sidewalk, wrapped in cotton
clothes-- hugging themselves to stay warm. They look chilled to the bone... a state made much
worse by lying on concrete. Thats another problem in Japan, for like America, the homeless
here are viewed as a scourge and an eyesore. They get chased out of parks and off of benches.
The goal, it seems, is to increase their suffering so they will go away and not interfere with the
cheer of Japanese good citizens. This mindset exists to a degree in Bangkok, but to a much lesser
degree. And in India... forget about it--- the homeless rule the sidewalks and parks. That, at
least, is one benefit of Indias widespread poverty. With so many poor and homeless, there is
not much stigma attached to the condition. Less shame. Less harrassment.
Anyone who has camped in the winter knows that a few basics make a world of difference. The
biggest enemy is the ground... which sucks heat rapaciously. It is thus essential to have a thermal
barrier between you and the earth. Thats where the z-rest comes in... a foam mat with ridges.
The ridges create air pockets between the pad and the body when you lay on it... These air
pockets warm and create an effective thermal barrier-- thus preventing heat from escaping to the
ground. The z-rest is very compact.. easily strapped to a small bookbag. Want to help a
homeless person in the winter? Give them a z-rest.
Long underwear is another essential, though the right kind is important. Cotton underwear, the
kind found at WalMart, does more harm than good. Cotton kills, is the backpackers motto. It
kills because when cotton gets wet it sucks heat rather than retains it. It can get wet from rain or
from sweat. Unfortunately, most homeless people I see are wrapped in cotton clothes (shirts,
sweatshirts, and jackets) and seem to be unaware of the fabrics dangerous qualities.
Long underwear should be constructed of polypropolene, polyester, or similar artificial fabrics.
Other clothing should also be of these fabrics, or of wool.... as should blankets, hats, gloves,
socks, and sleeping bags. These fabrics wick moisture away from the body and they continue to
insulate when wet.
My final addition to a compassionate kit for winter homelessness would be a rectangle of plastic
tarp material... found as drop cloth plastic in most hardware stores. This material is compact--
easily folded into a small bag. It can be used as a windbreak when sleeping on the streets,... or set
up as a tarp when camping in a park or the woods. Ive camped in subzero weather with gusting
winds using this exact setup. I wont say I was toasty, but it kept me from hypothermia.
Many will say we should focus our efforts on big-scale systemic solutions to homelessness. I
agree its a systemic problem and such action is necessary. However, macro-level actions do not
negate the need for immediate individual efforts. RIGHT NOW people are cold and miserable.
Their lives can be significantly improved by a few items and a little bit of knowledge. A z-rest, a
couple pair of thick acrylic long underwear, a few polyester shirts, a wool sweater, a wool hat
and scarf and gloves, a thick (non-cotton) jacket..... and a small plastic tarp-- these things could
make a world of difference to an individual who is trying to survive the streets in winter. Their
cost is minimal. Dont we owe them at least that? Cant we, as a society, at least provide for the
most basic of their needs?
(For the next step up the micro-macro ladder... how about a Mad Houser hut. These huts cost
only $300-500 dollars.... are insulated... and come with a wood stove for heating and cooking.
Just as importantly, they give their residents a modicum of autonomy, privacy, and safety.
Better a hut of oneÃs own than the humiliation of depending on shelters.).
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Fury
by AJ/Skald
Tom Peters had a great post about the power of fury. Fury is indeed a powerful force-- especially in the form of righteous rage: rage against injustice, rage against conformity, rage against cruelty, rage against the machine. Destruction is, after all, the necessary first step of creation. To make something glorious we must first destroy the ugly edifice of conditioned thought. To evolve we must destroy our old selves. To be reborn, we must first die.
Fury has great power. Much of my fury comes from righteous rage against the evils of drudgery and wage slavery. Monotony enrages me... Authority and control enrage me. Pettiness and cruelty enrage me. The whole boss-subordinate system enrages me.
That rage drives me. It quickly corrects my mistakes (such as the current Japan debacle). It has led me towards greater freedom, autonomy, and passion. We are all taught to be nice and play by the rules but that is often a recipe for slavery. Sometimes freedom requires us to be disagreeable. Sometimes it requires us to be fierce and ruthless towards those who would imprison us.
Tom Peters had a great post about the power of fury. Fury is indeed a powerful force-- especially in the form of righteous rage: rage against injustice, rage against conformity, rage against cruelty, rage against the machine. Destruction is, after all, the necessary first step of creation. To make something glorious we must first destroy the ugly edifice of conditioned thought. To evolve we must destroy our old selves. To be reborn, we must first die.
Fury has great power. Much of my fury comes from righteous rage against the evils of drudgery and wage slavery. Monotony enrages me... Authority and control enrage me. Pettiness and cruelty enrage me. The whole boss-subordinate system enrages me.
That rage drives me. It quickly corrects my mistakes (such as the current Japan debacle). It has led me towards greater freedom, autonomy, and passion. We are all taught to be nice and play by the rules but that is often a recipe for slavery. Sometimes freedom requires us to be disagreeable. Sometimes it requires us to be fierce and ruthless towards those who would imprison us.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Welcome Matt Salleh
by AJ/Skald
While Matt Salleh's writing has appeared on Hobopoet for quite a while, he is now "officially" a member and is posting his own stuff directly. Matt is the original Young Homeless Professional, a freelance writer (and fellow Flagpole contributor), and Asian Hobopoet. He currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
Matt was the inspiration for my first two car living experiments. He did it first. He fired my imagination with his young homeless professional experiments: living in a vehicle or in a park while working a full time professional job.
Matt is also a fellow Carlos Castaneda and Joseph Campbell fan. I'm looking forward to many more posts from him!
While Matt Salleh's writing has appeared on Hobopoet for quite a while, he is now "officially" a member and is posting his own stuff directly. Matt is the original Young Homeless Professional, a freelance writer (and fellow Flagpole contributor), and Asian Hobopoet. He currently lives in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
Matt was the inspiration for my first two car living experiments. He did it first. He fired my imagination with his young homeless professional experiments: living in a vehicle or in a park while working a full time professional job.
Matt is also a fellow Carlos Castaneda and Joseph Campbell fan. I'm looking forward to many more posts from him!
Fuck Up
by AJ/Skald
So what do you do when you realize youve fucked up and made a stupid decision? Do you cut and run immediately? Do you tough out the situation and try to learn from it? Do you hang on and hope it gets better?
Such are my questions now as I face the boneheaded move of coming to Japan to teach full-time. Im a wage slave again. Turns out the school is very controlling. I "must" use their exact teaching method (which sucks)... no choice. Though I have years of experience and a Masters degree in the field, I cannot, apparently, be trusted with any sort of decision about teaching. This reminds me of Barnes & Noble. Or Wal-Mart. Follow the script, dont think, dont question, do what you are told. While all this is done in a very nice way (the people are quite friendly).. I feel stifled and suffocated.
Despite my many rants about freedom, freelancing, and the like-- I must admit that I copped out in search of a quick and easy buck. Whenever I do this, I am invariably punished by the Grand Hobopoet Gods: who continually tell me, "you will suffer whenever you make money your goal" (rather than a byproduct of pursuing a passion). So they are trying to pound that message through my thick skull yet again.
Which brings me back to the beginning-- what to do about it? When is it wisest to see things through? When is it smarter to cut your losses and run?
So what do you do when you realize youve fucked up and made a stupid decision? Do you cut and run immediately? Do you tough out the situation and try to learn from it? Do you hang on and hope it gets better?
Such are my questions now as I face the boneheaded move of coming to Japan to teach full-time. Im a wage slave again. Turns out the school is very controlling. I "must" use their exact teaching method (which sucks)... no choice. Though I have years of experience and a Masters degree in the field, I cannot, apparently, be trusted with any sort of decision about teaching. This reminds me of Barnes & Noble. Or Wal-Mart. Follow the script, dont think, dont question, do what you are told. While all this is done in a very nice way (the people are quite friendly).. I feel stifled and suffocated.
Despite my many rants about freedom, freelancing, and the like-- I must admit that I copped out in search of a quick and easy buck. Whenever I do this, I am invariably punished by the Grand Hobopoet Gods: who continually tell me, "you will suffer whenever you make money your goal" (rather than a byproduct of pursuing a passion). So they are trying to pound that message through my thick skull yet again.
Which brings me back to the beginning-- what to do about it? When is it wisest to see things through? When is it smarter to cut your losses and run?
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Hiroshima
by AJ-Skald
Have now arrived in Hiroshima... butt-ass cold and grey skies, kind of a harsh change from warm and sunny Thailand. Right now this isnt seeming like such a great idea. But Im a hobopoet and am always ready to move one. Meanwhile Ill be exploring the town and area and making some cash for the next journey.
The worst shock at the moment is sticker shock... holy shit this place is expensive. In Bangkok I paid 5 baht for a liter of water (15 cents or so)... in Japan Im paying over a dollar for a liter of water. Im hungry all the time because I cant afford to eat out much, though Im living in a hotel for free right now. The town itself is fairly nice though insanely orderly compared to Bangkok. Its quite humorous to watch the Japanese patiently wait at the crosswalks.. even when there are no cars... much different than the dash & dodge system in Thailand.
Internet cafes are super expensive too... thus the drop off in posts. Hope to get settled soon and start writing more. Until then....
Im cold, hungry, and lost in Hiroshima.....
Have now arrived in Hiroshima... butt-ass cold and grey skies, kind of a harsh change from warm and sunny Thailand. Right now this isnt seeming like such a great idea. But Im a hobopoet and am always ready to move one. Meanwhile Ill be exploring the town and area and making some cash for the next journey.
The worst shock at the moment is sticker shock... holy shit this place is expensive. In Bangkok I paid 5 baht for a liter of water (15 cents or so)... in Japan Im paying over a dollar for a liter of water. Im hungry all the time because I cant afford to eat out much, though Im living in a hotel for free right now. The town itself is fairly nice though insanely orderly compared to Bangkok. Its quite humorous to watch the Japanese patiently wait at the crosswalks.. even when there are no cars... much different than the dash & dodge system in Thailand.
Internet cafes are super expensive too... thus the drop off in posts. Hope to get settled soon and start writing more. Until then....
Im cold, hungry, and lost in Hiroshima.....
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