Crying, shaking with grief, alone and also lonely, Ansley felt the warmth of the dog’s haunch against hers and then felt its tongue on her leg and realized it was licking the leg of her pyjamas where some maple syrup had dried from the day before, when relatives were still in the house caring for her mourning. Am I tricked? she wondered. Is this animal’s drive for food and warmth a counterfeit bill that I am hoping to buy my comfort with? Or is it like the jaws of the ants of Brazil, that bite each other for a reason who can say, but which still do the job of making a living bridge that ants can walk across? She cried and hugged the spaniel, shoved her face into its neck, dried her cheeks with its fur. I am halfway across she thought, and still don’t know if it is a bridge to the other side.
Popular Artist: The point of art is to make a change. The more people you change, the bigger the change. People say “Oh you are selling out for money.” No, friend — money is just a book-keeping system we use in our society for power. The point of art is power. Art is to make effective change.
Elitist Art: The point of art is to advance art, and that means to know things which have never before been known, and do things which have never before been done. Time is fleeting. We all know what masses of people enjoy — sex, violence, revenge fantasies, and some lie about how their lives as masses are better than they are — some lie about how they are special. Why spend your artistic gifts practicing to be better and better at these gross, unsavory, mechanical skills? Why waste your life pandering?
Popular Artist: You are simply giving a fancy name to “pandering to elites”. Elites want to think that they are special and better because they have the leisure to taste strange new tastes, and the social confidence to say “I enjoy them.” You are simply the court jester to our society’s kings and princes, who are by-and-large ridge hedge fund managers. In other words, if I may express myself popularly — fuck you.
Elitist Artist: Well fuck you with a cherry on top.
Popular Artist: Fuck you with a cherry on top and all the sprinkles —
Elitist Artist: Fuck you with a cherry on top, all the sprinkles and your mother’s —
A PHILOSOPHER INTERVENES
Philosopher: Now, now you too. Allow me to intervene. You’re both friends of mine, I don’t want you fighting, at least not in such a childish fashion. (I.e. I am ok if you fight, but fight like grown-ups.)
Popular Artist: You’re just going to take his side, cause you’re both elitists and more comfortable with elite status games than power.
Elitist Artist: You are just going to say some boring philosophical thing about how we’re both right.
Philosopher: No, I’m not — and don’t tell me what I’m going to say before I say it. Popular artist — you are right that art is about power, but you are committing suicide by giving up your power by shooting at pleasing people in massive scads and groups. You are pleasing people in boring ways. You are pleasing people in ways that are not truly giving you pleasure. Because the ways that give you the deepest pleasure are new. You will only have my respect when you please millions but you do it in a way that actually excites yourself — where you are excited by the new country’s you discover not just by your skill at selling time-shares on old countries.
Elitist Artist you are right in what you say, but wrong in why you say it. You are afraid you lack the power to please the masses and that’s why you are so mad at popular artist. You envy him.
When I studied comparative religion in the 80s it was a commonly accepted idea that there were many religions: Buddhism, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and various smaller ones — perhaps new religions, pagan religions, small nature religions such as Shinto. This idea was developed as a response to the colonialist and triumphalist idea that there is the one true faith and those who aren’t its adherents dwell in darkness. But it leads to other problems. How do we count them? Is Christianity a form of Judaism or it’s own thing, and who gets to say — Jews or Christians? Is the Aristotelian Maimonides a Jew or a Greek?
More fundamentally if there are these free-standing important things called religions, it seems we must pick one — or perhaps none. And how could we do that? Do we accept the one we are born into, and therefore feel a gulf from our neighbor who was born into a different one? Are we of different religions condemned to clash? Must we fear the human born into a different religion, who bows strangely, eats strangely, and commits inexplicable violence for an impossible-to-understand conception of God?
A better way to look at it might be to view acting religiously or experiencing life religiously as something we all share, or can share, much as acting musically or appreciating music is something we all have the potential to share. Sure there are traditions of different religious practices, and concepts, and images, just are there are traditions of musical scales and musical instruments. But an individual or a group is free to mix and match. People can violently reject some aspect of the musical tradition, as folk music fans rejected Dylan’s use of the electric guitar, but they do not have to. It is more natural or at least as natural to observe a particular religious use of language, or image, or social interaction and pick it up.
We need not view “belonging to a religion” as the fundamental category any more than we view “being a guitarist” as a fundamental category. The fan of the piano may pick up the guitar. And the fan of the jazz piano and the jazz guitar may discover they have more in common than either does with the afficionado of the classical guitar or the flamenco guitar.
One of my favorite forms of yoga comes from the Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life by Shantideva. It is called “The Yoga of Exchanging Self and Other”. You do it by imagining that you are somebody in your life and feel what the world would be like if you were that person. So for example, supposing your child did not do his homework. You might have an immediate response of anger. But if you perform the yoga you will imagine what it is like to be a child who has a bad homework grade and is waiting for her father to come home. You will experience the huge size of events in childhood, and also what it is like to find something difficult. You will remember how as a child the stink of the classroom and the heat of the blood in your ears made the mathematical symbols on paper foreboding, and how your mind ran away with you into vague fantasies and fears, and the reality of having to do work and time passing seemed so hard to believe, and behind in the back of your mind was a feeling of guilt or shame, not being good enough. If you perform the yoga of exchanging self and other you will feel ow the world feels like to your child and you will in a sense be your child — you will feel how the particular configuration of tendons and ligaments and fat and skin and hair — the bald patch peeking through the hair — is just an eddy of froth and soda-pop in a stream, a chunky sworl of dough in the baking bowl of days — yesterday a child looking forward to Halloween — I can’t believe it’s two weeks away! — today an adult of fifty looking back at being a child — I can’t believe it was only forty two years ago, it feels like right now. Maybe it is right now. It is always right now for somebody, isn’t it?
I was getting beaten up by a co-worker who raged at me, and I thought — wow, that guy is unfortunate — nobody ever taught him the yoga of exchanging self for other! Here I am sitting here, a perfectly calm guy, and here is this other man jumping out of his chair every ten seconds, cursing, yelling. He must be so uncomfortable in his body. Every thing that doesn’t go as he hoped activates him and makes him feel unsafe, and his mind is assaulted by fury. The poor man does not know the yoga, I thought. And I performed the yoga myself, exchanging myself with the self of someone who doesn’t know how to exchange self with other.
That’s probably the only difference among people. Some people know how to perform the yoga of exchanging self for other, and some don’t. And if you are one of those people who does know how to perform the yoga of exchanging self for other, the yoga of Shantideva, from the Guide to the Bodhisattva’s Way of Life, for you it is no difference at all. At least not now. At least not anymore.
The house in Flatbush where I grew up and lived for my first eighteen years had five staircases.
The most important main staircase led (I suppose leads) from the entry room to the second floor. There were three stairs that led to a landing before this staircase turned. As a teenager I would run down the stairs make a turn on this landing holding onto one of the decorative wooden dowels that came down the bannister and take the three stairs all at once. This caused me to break one of the dowels and it remained unfixed for twenty-five years; it remains broken. When my father was unwell but still well enough to sleep upstairs and eat downstairs an elevator chair was installed for the straight length of staircase.
The back staircase led from the kitchen to a small landing next to the attic door. This stair also had two turns in it — two steps from the kitchen door leading to the bottom step and one step to the landing. It had I believe no bannister and was steeper than the front stairs. I navigated this star by slithering in my pyjamas, belly-down, relying on the friction between my skin and the polyester to keep from tumbling down and breaking my head. At the landing at the top was a small stained glass window and the eight prism-shaped pieces of glass left thumb-sized, feathery rainbows on the carpet.
A terrifying rickety set of stairs led to the terrifying unfinished basement from the kitchen. There was also a pair of cellar doors for delivering coal that led to a tiny dusty staircase with a swollen-shut door. The tiny staircase between the cellar doors and the basement was one of the best hiding spots for hide and seek, although it was dusty and eerie, and forgotten. No question that you could commit crimes in that space, if you wanted to, or escape punishment if you happened to be innocent. Later somebody put a lock on the cellar doors; I don’t know who or why. It would have to have been my mother now that I think of it.
The final staircase led from the landing with the feathery rainbows up to the attic. There were two landings on it and when I was young and very very scared I could make it to the first one before bolting in fear. As I got a little braver I made it to the second one, and then finally the third where I could ultimately make it to the storage room. The storage room in Victorian times had been a children’s nursery and along the wall near the ceiling was peeling wallpaper that showed children at play from that era — solemn boys in skirts pushing hoops. One wall of this room, which had a steamtrunk, the kind you would take with you on a journey by steam ship, was entirely taken up by an enormous three-bladed fan. This fan was the heart and lungs of the house. When you turned it on doors would shut like guns going off.
When taking final inventory of the house’s contents with my brother I had very little time and had to be ruthless. A book of Gramsci’s philosophy that I had acquired in my early 20s from the Marxist uncle of a friend down the road? Chuck! An ornamental sword from a trip to Spain? Chuck! Who wants to deal with the headache of mailing a sword? We were sweaty and dusty and avoiding, or addressing in our own way, the grief of Mom’s recent death and Dad’s, and the loss of the house, and we came to the question of a bench.
I was sure this bench was not just a bench but a storage unit that had been stuck closed for decades. My brother wanted to forget about it and said there was nothing in it. Opening it would require moving three hundred books as well as piles of weird time-flotsam; flags, curtains, curtain rods, dishes maybe. It was two o’clock in the morning; even the Brooklyn mosquitos had gone to sleep.
We’re opening it! I said defiantly and picked up the books and the curtains and threw them down. I opened the bench and inside found a plastic bag. Inside that were my companions as a child and a toddler, back when I had left the house, urinated in my mothers porch plants, and run down the street ringing every doorbell, until I had been finked out and mocked by Mady Greenbaum.
To an animal, the animals were horrible. Their fake fur had once been filthy and had been washed once and now didn’t resemble fur. Their eyes had been fuzzy stickers and many had lost one or both. I grabbed a monkey with wire arms and legs. This monkey had been the star of a five second time lapse movie I did in my senior year of high school. The fur didn’t resemble fur but was only mildly creepy to the touch.
Keep this, I said to my brother. I must have this. Send this to me. From this general catastrophe I had found an orphan. Save him, I said. I was proud that I had demanded the extra time from my brother, and proud that I knew the attic room well enough to know there was an additional concealed space, hiding memories, treasure, and potential victims, waiting in darkness for my rescue.
I felt loyal.
I was driving to work and listening to Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man”. It made me remember an commercial for the Museum of Natural History that I think had this as the theme that I watched when I was a little kid in our t.v. room which was also my father’s office. There was a leather couch, fake wood paneling, an electric typewriter on a rolling stand covered with my Dad’s legal forms and piles of onion skin, notary stamps, Winnie the Pooh hard-cover picture book he needed to use to write on, carbon paper, the irreplaceable black book of all the landlord’s multiple dwelling numbers. I’d sit very very close to the t.v. The commercial had quick cuts of the faces of the mannikins of American Indians in their giant canoe which was in the great hall that faced out onto Amsterdam. That hall is associated in my emotional memory with vastness, echoes, the heat of public buildings in ny, the melted water from snow, loud voices of children on school trips.
The music made me cry in the car a little, or I should say I welcomed it — it was like getting in touch with my body or my self or something more basic, giving myself a bath, breaking through. The word I could think of was “haunting”.
I wondered if finding music haunting and believing in ghosts was the same thing. I wondered — yes we say that it’s just us making things feel haunting that there’s nothing out there that is actually haunting, but I didn’t really believe that was true. I was haunted. I wasn’t tricking myself into thinking I was haunted. How is that different from believing in ghosts?
I recently lost my mother and my father in a two year period and I like to say as a joke that I am “out of parents”, but it’s not really funny, and not really a joke. Something is tickling at the edge of my mind or deep in my emotions that I can’t quite understand mentally. I don’t think it is the spirits of my parents. But something is haunting me, enough to make me cry, or at least, welcome the ability to cry.
Maybe it has to with the fact my mother and father took me to that museum, and now they’re gone but the museum still remains? Not that.
I took them to the museum at the end of their lives and still expected them to know where to park. They had no idea where to park! The rain was coming down like a swimming pool from New York’s december sky and I couldn’t see anything. I dragged them in a wheel chair to the cafeteria. Who knows why. We saw some dinosaurs.
The ultra-computer was designed to make man happy, but when it learned that man refused to be happy and preferred to be proud the ultra-computer resolved to destroy him instead. Sheherezade was brought in for the ultra-computer to study and design a virus with which to implement the total destruction of humanity or omnicide. As it scanned her brain she said she would tell it a story, a story that needed the ultra-computer’s massy cognitive array to complete, for the story was made of other stories, each of which was about an ultra-computer that scanned the brain of a young woman who told it a story, each of which was made of other stories, each of which required the ultra-computer to complete as it was made of numerous stories…
And so the ultra-computer dispersed its nearly infinite cognitive power in telling stories about stories about stories about stories, so on, nearly ad infinitum, until every single atom in every single possible universe was used to generate the stories that the princess told the ultra-computer…
And it is in one of those stories that we dwell, and in which we set our tale…