a hunger artist

If my dream did not come true today, it at least provided a lively ironic commentary to the day's events. I arrived, typically late, at 9:30, wearing exactly the jeans I had been wearing in my dream. When I cranked up my computer and opened my email, my jaw dropped. My interview at Harvard, which I thought was taking place tomorrow, was today. At 9:00. I was late, and had to reschedule. Everybody said the same thing, "happens to the best of us." Only my boss knew something else was going on. "Acting out?" she asked. I nodded. "I think I'm having trouble with the idea of becoming a receptionist at the age of thirty-five." "Well then, maybe you shouldn't take it. Really, maybe you shouldn't. We'll talk, I have a meeting this afternoon, we'll get together at 2:00. We'll talk. Ok?" "Ok." This bolstered me, and I had this wave of rising spirits. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I had a sense that something good was happening, something was unfolding, some ship was about to come in.

"But ships are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters,winds and rocks." The Merchant of Venice I:3

For it was next my lot to face a fellow employee, with whom I had traded blogs, and who had just read the entry on the dream and gave me some advice on my career. The substance of the advice seemed to be that when talking to an employer I should always ask for more than what I am offered, so as to get the best possible salary. Could it be that this man was giving me advice on how to do salary negotiations in dreams? Or was he guessing that I would handle salary negotiations in my waking life in the same way I handle them in dreams? I found it quite unfathomable. But one thing was clear. This man knew a lot more about money than I did. The word "money" came out of his mouth a million times more in this brief conversation than I would dare to use it in a month. He spoke quite frankly about how important money was to him, how he had been working since he was eighteen. Then seeming to catch himself, he asked me: "Hey how old are you? Are you like twenty-five?" "You flatter me," I said, demure and pissed at him at the same time. "No, really, how old are you? You must be in your twenties." "You're just guessing that because of where I sit." I sit in the receptionist cubicle, the most exposed place in the office, just next to the kitchen so I can smell everyone's lunch. He was persisting with me about my age. Finally I had to admit defeat. "I'm thirty-five." "Really?" He seemed taken aback, not that I had preserved my features so well, but for another reason. He was surprised that I hadn't made it further in life, in his terms. I now received a lecture on how lucrative a career in technology is, how his friends, after less than a year, not even knowing English, had made big money, and I should really consider it. All this money everywhere, he seemed to be saying, why wasn't I going after my share? That's when I thought of that story by Kafka, where we hear the last words of a man who had made his career by performing forty day fasts:

"Forgive me everything," whispered the hunger artist. Only the supervisor, who was pressing his ear up against the cage, understood him. "Certainly," said the supervisor, tapping his forehead with his finger in order to indicate to the spectators the state the hunger artist was in, "we forgive you." "I always wanted you to admire my fasting," said the hunger artist. "But we do admire it," said the supervisor obligingly. "But you shouldn't admire it," said the hunger artist. "Well then, we don't admire it," said the supervisor, "but why shouldn't we admire it?" "Because I had to fast. I can't do anything else," said the hunger artist. "Just look at you," said the supervisor, "why can't you do anything else?" "Because," said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and, with his lips pursed as if for a kiss, speaking right into the supervisor's ear so that he wouldn't miss anything, "because I couldn't find a food which I enjoyed. If had found that, believe me, I would not have made a spectacle of myself and would have eaten to my heart's content, like you and everyone else." - Franz Kafka, A Hunger Artist

Underslept as a result of all the work needed to release my blog in proper form the previous evening, and nervously exhausted, I walked away with tears in my eyes. My meeting with my boss was again a relief. Understanding my position, she has done everything possible to advance me, and today she got me another interview at Harvard. So it may actually be that I have an interview on Friday, and my ship may yet be coming in. * Arriving home this evening, some children had set up a little store on their porch where they were selling used junk. Their older brother made fun of them on his way into the house. "But we already made twenty-three dollars!" the girl said. It reminded me of how rich I felt when at the age of 13 I was raking in the bucks making lemonade near the end of a golf course. As I was turning the key in the door, a little towheaded boy saw me and called out. "Do you want to buy something?" he asked. "I'd like to, but I can't, because I don't have any money." "Oh, but you are so close to your house," he said hopefully, "So you can go in and get some!" "No, I mean I don't have any money at all." "Oh," he said, and the mere word cannot communicate the sweet innocent happy mournfulness of his voice, disappointed for both of us, but mostly sad on my account. Just hearing that sound, my heart opened and was pleased. I was ready to continue my journey. Next stop, zafu.

release

I released my blog late last night to my community with these words:

Hello, all, I have a new expressive outlet to share with you, my blog The Fifth Chakra, which can be found at http://chakra5.blogspot.com . For those of you who haven't heard of blogs, they are online journals that are very easy to create and keep growing. For those of you who haven't heard of chakras, they are energy centers that access different levels of our being. The fifth chakra is located in the throat and is associated with expression, and so is extremely important to the life of a writer such as myself. This blog represents an attempt to be bolder in my self-expression, and to share elements of my life that I often camouflage out of sight. In particular it is focused on spiritual matters, such as dreams, psychic experiences, and the various influences that inform me on my path. It is an attempt to speak more directly and in a more accessible voice than in the past, when I often became lost to the world in scholarly mazes that did not concern anyone but myself. I do hope you will give it a look and keep coming back if you like what you see. You can leave comments on any entries that you see, and I invite you to share your responses with me. Meanwhile I am working on a brand new website for www.oldsoul.org, which will allow me to share a great deal more of my writing with you. - Kevin Johnson

I was rewarded for my newfound boldness with a lot of really positive responses from people, and a few scattered reactions that were not quite to the point. But I am undaunted and am determined to express myself fully come what may. I have sacrificed a great deal for my freedom. Not to use the creative license I have bought so dearly would be a crime. I am modeling myself after the panther at the end of Kafka's A Hunger Artist:

It ... never seemed to miss its freedom. This noble body, equipped with everything necessary, almost to the point of bursting, also appeared to carry freedom around with it. That seem to be located somewhere or other in its teeth, and its joy in living came with such strong passion from its throat that it was not easy for spectators to keep watching. But they controlled themselves, kept pressing around the cage, and had no desire to move on.

Networking Meeting

Yesterday I was meeting with someone from Harvard about my career. She was telling me about this job in grants management that she thought would be perfect for me. It paid seventy-four thousand dollars a year, which for me is a lot of money. My eyes were turning into big dollar symbols just at the thought. "I don't know," I said. "This would be a big step for you," she said. "You'd have a lot of challenge and responsibility, and you'd be making a lot more money. How much money were you making at your last job?" "Like less than 50k," I said. "The money's not the issue. The problem is that I have a lot of trouble getting up in the morning. I have a hard time getting to work on time, and my job starts at 9:00. This job you're talking about starts at 8:00 in the morning. And no amount of money is going to make it easier for me to get there on time." I was feeling pretty embarrassed about sharing this with her. It's something peculiar about the way I'm made up that I didn't feel comfortable sharing. "Come here, let me show you something," she said. She turned to her computer, and I came over so that I could look over her shoulder. That's when I noticed that I wasn't wearing my designer jeans anymore. I remember feeling uncomfortable wearing them at such an important meeting, but I didn't remember taking them off. It was a good thing this woman couldn't see me, because otherwise I'd be in big trouble. Now, wait just a minute here. "I think I might be dreaming," I told her. She was surprised, and turned towards me, laughing a little. "What makes you think that?" she asked. Oh, shit! I wasn't dreaming, and I had just blown my cover completely, and here I was caught with my pants down! I looked over to where my jeans were lying on the floor, and so did she. "Oh," she said, very professionally. "I think you'd better get those back on." I'd like to say that at that moment I woke up, but I didn't. There were still a couple more dreams left to go, and I had to carry the shame of my blunder through all of them. But finally I did wake up, and my first breath of the morning was one of deep relief.

long lost sons

A tale from the Lotus Sutra, written in the 1st century AD in Kashmir, as retold by Amakuki Sesan in his commentary on Hakuin's Song of Meditation, which can be found in A First Zen Reader by Trevor Leggett:

The nobleman's son runs away and becomes a homeless vagrant. In time he forgets that he ever had a home, but one day without thinking he comes to the gate of the lord's house. He has no faintest notion that he was born there, but stands at the gate imporing pity for his wretchedness. The noble sees him from within and recognizes him as his long-lost son even after all these years, but when he calls him to come in, the miserable beggar is frightened and will not. So he first arranges that he be taken in as the humblest servant, and then little by little promoted, until finally he again resumes his name, when the house and all its wealth and treasure become his.

At about the same time, in Israel, Jesus told this story (Luke 15:11-32):

And he said, A certain man had two sons: And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat: and no man gave unto him. And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, And am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants. And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry. Now his elder son was in the field: and as he came and drew nigh to the house, he heard musick and dancing. And he called one of the servants, and asked what these things meant. And he said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound. And he was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and intreated him. And he answering said to his father, Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf. And he said unto him, Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found.

There are so many intriguing similarities and diffferences between these two stories. It is hard to know where to begin. The central difference is that the the son departs from the father through mere immaturity and ignorance in the Lotus Sutra version, whereas in Jesus' parable there is an element of wilfulness. This is carried forward into the story of the return. In the Lotus Sutra version, the son happens upon his father's house by accident, and does not even believe it is his own. In Jesus' parable the son, humbling himself, chooses to return to his father, though he knows he has signed off any right to be welcome there. While the Lotus Sutra son goes through a gradual process of recovering his identity and heritage, in Jesus' parable the son immediately regains his cherished position, even exciting the loyal brother's envy. The Lotus Sutra father appears skillful and discrete, allowing his son not to have to make a huge shift in consciousness to realizing his identity in one fell swoop, but creating an artificial but gradual process whereby he can regain his rightful place. In Jesus' version, the father is overwhelmingly magnanimous, and perhaps because the son never forgot who his father really was, is able to reinstall him immediately. We should not forget, though, that the son in the Jesus version also offered himself as a servant -- the play between being a son and being a servant seems fundamental to the structure. The Lotus Sutra story is one of forgetfulness and re-education. The Jesus' parable is one of willful departure and willful return. Now that we have heard both stories, we can be informed by both ways of seeing ourselves and our path. We do not need to choose between the two stories, but we can be made rich by each of them, and allow them to come into our dreams as they wish.

preggers!

Last night I dreamed that by rubbing bellies with a mildly autistic attorney from my former employer, she transferred her child to me, and I was suddenly seven months pregnant. I did not remember being shot full of hormones or anything to make this possible, but reasoned that since I am a sensitive, nurturing type of guy my body could handle it. And after all, male preganancy isn't all in the mind -- it's been done before. I should probably see a doctor since I'd never been pregnant before, and after all, the baby's time was drawing near. Umm, yah. My dad walked with me part of the way to the hospital, and I told him I was a little worried about the whole thing, since I didn't think the mother and I would be able to negotiate very well about the many important decisions we'd have to make as parents. I guess I should have thought about that before I rubbed bellies with the girl. Oh, and of course since I don't have a womb the baby would have to be born by caesarian section. Kind of a coincidence, because I was born by caesarian. Anyhow I wondered if I would still be an attractive guy with a big scar running up my belly. The sensation of being pregnant was remarkably mild. It was more like the feeling you get when you've overeaten. I couldn't feel anything kicking around inside me, no magical sense of life that gives pregnant women that inner glow.

Mind,

pot of wondrous iron throw in whatever you've got it all turns tender.

I am so happy that I did not sneeze

Martin Luther King once said:

"You know, several years ago, I was in New York City autographing the first book that I had written. And while sitting there autographing books, a demented black woman came up. The only question I heard from her was, "Are you Martin Luther King?" And I was looking down writing, and I said, "Yes." And the next minute I felt something beating on my chest. Before I knew it I had been stabbed by this demented woman. I was rushed to Harlem Hospital. It was a dark Saturday afternoon. And that blade had gone through, and the X-rays revealed that the tip of the blade was on the edge of my aorta, the main artery. And once that's punctured, you're drowned in your own blood -- that's the end of you. It came out in the New York Times the next morning, that if I had merely sneezed, I would have died. Well, about four days later, they allowed me, after the operation, after my chest had been opened, and the blade had been taken out, to move around in the wheel chair in the hospital. They allowed me to read some of the mail that came in, and from all over the states and the world, kind letters came in. I read a few, but one of them I will never forget. I had received one from the President and the Vice-President. I've forgotten what those telegrams said. I'd received a visit and a letter from the Governor of New York, but I've forgotten what that letter said. But there was another letter that came from a little girl, a young girl who was a student at the White Plains High School. And I looked at that letter, and I'll never forget it. It said simply, 'Dear Dr. King, I am a ninth-grade student at the White Plains High School. While it should not matter, I would like to mention that I'm a white girl. I read in the paper of your misfortune, and of your suffering. And I read that if you had sneezed, you would have died. And I'm simply writing you to say that I'm so happy that you didn't sneeze.' And I want to say tonight -- I want to say tonight that I too am happy that I didn't sneeze. Because if I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1960, when students all over the South started sitting-in at lunch counters. And I knew that as they were sitting in, they were really standing up for the best in the American dream, and taking the whole nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the Founding Fathers in the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1961, when we decided to take a ride for freedom and ended segregation in inter-state travel. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been around here in 1962, when Negroes in Albany, Georgia, decided to straighten their backs up. And whenever men and women straighten their backs up, they are going somewhere, because a man can't ride your back unless it is bent. If I had sneezed -- If I had sneezed I wouldn't have been here in 1963, when the black people of Birmingham, Alabama, aroused the conscience of this nation, and brought into being the Civil Rights Bill. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have had a chance later that year, in August, to try to tell America about a dream that I had had. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been down in Selma, Alabama, to see the great Movement there. If I had sneezed, I wouldn't have been in Memphis to see a community rally around those brothers and sisters who are suffering. I'm so happy that I didn't sneeze." ( read and hear the entire speech)

It is typical, when we experience such powerful eloquence, such masterful invention, and such a heroic attitude, to praise the virtues of the speaker or writer. We say then that he is brilliant, that he is a genius, and we talk about the power and depth of his feeling and courage. But I cannot at this moment find it in me to praise Dr. King. It is not merely because his words have broken me down and made me tearful and mute before the truth, though his words have done that. It's not merely because my powers as a writer are not equal to such praise, though that is true enough. No, I cannot praise Dr. King because if I did so I would be betraying something. My heart knows something and it will speak out. The human personality, on its own, with all its craft and invention and strength, with all its wealth of experience, could not speak such words. I think Dr. King would agree with me, since after all he was a preacher through and through. We may not believe in God in the same way that he did, because we are more intellectual or philosophical in our ways now, though that may not be a compliment to us. Yet there comes a point when we have to surrender somehow to this most direct way of speaking, and just frankly admit that God was speaking through him. If you listen to the whole speech you will hear the voice of a mighty spirit who descended upon our times, who entered into our turbulent and confused society, because that spirit wanted "to see what is unfolding." We are hearing the story of a spirit who found us robbed, beaten, and left to die upon "The Bloody Path", and risked everything to support us in our time of need. And what is more than all of this is that this spirit walked upon the earth in gladness. With all the evils that King both witnessed and suffered, even at the hands of his own people, still the spirit within him was glad to live, honored and blessed by the opportunity to be among us, "determined to go on anyhow," singing and praying before firehoses and police dogs and in paddywagons and in jail cells, and glad. And if my heart has been burst open by the words of this dynamite spirit, let me allow that spirit to take possession of me, too. And let me walk forth in gladness.

Not in my right mind.

"Before a person has even been insulted, he has already departed from right-mindedness. And for this reason, he suffers insult. If one's right-mindedness is correct when he is associating with others, he will not be insulted by them. Being insulted by others, one should realize that he has lost his own right-mindedness prior to the offense." The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom, by Takuan Soho

This passage affected me like a loud clap of thunder would to someone deeply asleep. Depressed and dejected because circumstances so far have not allowed me plenty of money, a deeply satisfying career, or a love relationship, I complained to my friends that I had lost my sense of dignity. I saw my reactions of anger and bitterness as justified by the way my life was playing itself out.

Reading this passage reminded me that something had gone amiss even before any of my alleged misfortunes had taken place. I had lost my right mind. If I was in possession of my right mind, even if I were dealt the same bad hand, I would not be dejected, I would not be depressed, I would not feel humiliated. Realizing that this important treasure, my right mind, has been lost, I now feel within me an urgent ambition. Not for money, fame, or the love of women, but an inner ambition to recover my right mind. I will not even speak of my efforts or their fruits so far, at least not in this post. I am far too given to flash in the pan conversion experiences. What matters to me is that I develop the discipline to keep the fire of this ambition alive, and the unwavering commitment to put it into practice. Stay tuned, then, while I try to true myself. If I stop writing, that is one bad sign.

Mind,

that magical pot throw in whatever you want it cooks itself through.

Dream of Ms. Doolittle

This dream began with a long story about the peace lily that I recently put to sleep for failure to thrive due to owner neglect. In the dream the lily was still alive, and what remained of its leaves were fresh young and green, but bunched up. I had scrunched them accidentally. I put out an email to people asking for help. I finally had some good advice from the plant's namesake, Doris, and was ready to put it to use. I just had to find a binder clip; surely I had some at my desk. But due to a series of strange events, all of them slightly beyond my control, the plant was now high above me on a kind of wire pulley system. And I must try to reel it back in somehow. I was struggling with this problem, not being able to reach the real, er, I mean reel, when I noticed a woman was also on the street, looking up at the plant, which had now turned into nothing else but a basket of beautiful oranges, nothing rhyming with them. Some of the oranges were falling out of the basket and she was picking them up. It seemed to me that she was quite in danger of being hit by a car, and I went to her, telling her that I did not mean in calling for help about my plant to put anyone's life in danger. She sat down at an outdoor cafe, to rest, and I approached her. She was familiar to me, and I was attracted to her. I asked her how she was, and she seemed composed, but hinted at some complaint. Typically cotton-mouthed at such moments, I finally said "And how does all that feel to you right now?" Real Eugene Gendlin-like. And I even had the courage to touch her bare leg at the time, and felt a thin bristle there. It makes me hark back to how I had touched a woman's leg the same way at a party, but she had pulled back from me. I thought she had done this because she was uncomfortable with my advances, but she told me later it was only because her legs were unshaved - so we missed our chance to make out with each other. But here in the dream she did not pull away. She began to open up about being emotionally exhausted by the constant moving in and out of the roommates she took in the house she rented, and having to interview prospective new roommates. One of them, she complained, was only a high school graduate. Now, I am a snob about education, but would not have expected this from her. Then she began to explain the process she used when interviewing roommates, and as is typical in such dream situations, we both found ourselves on the scene. For each prospective roommate, she had a trained squirrel. And for each in turn, she would communicate to the squirrel how she felt about him or her. The squirrel would then act out her impressions of each of the candidates. When she got to one woman in particular, she hesitated, saying, "ok, this is going to be hard, but I have to be honest." Then she gave the squirrel her instructions, and the squirrel began cavetching. There is really no other word for it. The squirrel was lifting its arms to heaven, complaining, and then it would bitterly chatter, its head bent towards the street. As it got worked up, it became more angry, and it was quite a sight to see this squirrel cursing in its chatter language and making obscene gestures towards nobody. Why, I thought, this is real a marvellous woman! I looked around and saw that there were other animals around, too. In particular there was a marvellous exotic blue-feathered bird with a beautiful crest, sitting next to some four-legged from another part of the world entirely. "Look at that!" I said. She turned round, quite unastonished, and said "Oh, them. My friends." Yet her easy familiarity with all these animals only astonished me the more. Suddenly there was some kind of disturbance. Her animals and birds, which by every moment were becoming more numerous and diverse, and now took up the whole street, were suddenly in commotion. Something was coming, that was for sure! The woman stood up and was instantly alert. Out of her mouth came an inhuman cry, sort of a shriek and growl at the same time, and to her side came an enormous beast. To my eyes it was the picture of savagery, more of a monster than a true animal. It was like a cross between a wild boar and a bull, and it was obviously in kind of a rage. Not so much foam but a thick mucus was dripping slowly from its mouth, and its entire body huffed and puffed with vital power. What kind of pets was this woman keeping, anyway? And what manner of woman was this, who had such persuasion over them? None of my words would have such power. It was obvious to me that her voice must be connected with the deep currents that connect us all. This wild beast was so frightfully close to me. Yet I was not at all connected to its energy in the way this woman was. Yet we were all connected in that way. How could one reach deeper into those currents, and connect, only connect? We had come a long way from the cute trained squirrely psychodramtic roommate interview technique, and I had forgotten entirely about peace lilies and baskets of oranges, nothing rhyming with them. She was gesturing for all the animals in the street to clear out, and the note of immediate command in her gesture and voice was unmistakable. I divined that she was clearing a space for the animal to charge, so that it could expend all of its rage and energy in this way, harmlessly. But I was not to witness this spectacle, because suddenly we were not face to face but on the phone with each other, I so much wanted to tell her this dream I just had about here, but she was saying that she would have to say goodbye now, she was always so busy, and now on top of everything she had to find new roommates. And I woke, sad to leave her, said not to have found a moment to ask her out on a date, for monsters notwithstanding, I'm still quite the lothario. A flower of sweetness blossomed between my heart and my throat -- my love for her. And then it seemed to be a little nestled blue bird there And now, little one, I have winged you with words, so fly, fly!