Takashi Shimura as Watanabe in “Ikiru,” (1952, dir. Akira Kurosawa)
Yesterday, as I was walking down Spadina Street here in Toronto to meet someone, something within me started noticing my thoughts. It was strange becoming aware of all these thoughts just a-thinking in me. It was like watching a series of short films–one after another. But suddenly I found myself–on the street, in the snow, surrounded by people and the whole cacophony of China Town with merchants yelling and cars everywhere. I was present to it–an opening to my life as it was happening now.
This body that usually just carries me around came into view, I was embodied. It lasted a few moments, before I was taken back up into the head and back into the swirling films that were so irresistibly engaging. But a moment later, I would remember and return to this body beneath me, here and now, along with the impressions of the street, the sounds, and the people and cars.
It occurred to me that “I” am not often the one who goes out for a walk. The stories that continually run around in my mind take me for a walk. How many days of my life, I wonder, have I been living in these stories without actually living my real life. I’m not interested in labeling the stories as good or bad–it’s part of being human, but I am interested in the part of us that can watch, without judgment on what is actually taking place–moment to moment.
Photography Credit: Gjon Mili, Bell’s, Life Magazine, 1959
On December 31 at midnight, the New Year is welcomed in Japanese Buddhist Temples with 108 bell chimes during the Joya no Kane ritual, which means “bell rings on new year eve’s night.” The rings represent 108 elements of bonō, defilements or passions and desires entrapping us in the cycle of suffering and awakening (Samsāra). The 108 bell chimes also symbolize the purification from the 108 delusions and sufferings accumulated in the past year.
A couple of years ago, I came across a Western adaptation of this ritual of celebrating the New Year:
Ingredients: close to midnight, sit in silence for an hour. Then strike a bell 108 times — ideally outside — and with each measured ring remember someone in your life: near and far, dead and alive, friend and foe. Then write on a piece of paper “One thing I want to let go off” and burn it. Then bow and drink a glass of sparkling beverage. Cheers!”
I will find myself spending time with family and friends at the stroke of midnight, but I will try to keep this ritual in mind along with an invitation from the poet, Leonard Cohen that touches on an attitude toward the sacred: “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
May all your good intentions and highest wishes come to fruition in 2015.♦
“Settle down in your room at a moment when you have nothing else to do. Say “I am now with myself,” and just sit with yourself. After an amazingly short time you will most likely feel bored. This teaches us one very useful thing. It gives us insight into the fact that if after ten minutes of being alone with ourselves we feel like that, it is no wonder that others should feel equally bored! Why is this so? It is so because we have so little to offer to our own selves as food for thought, for emotion and for life. If you watch your life carefully you will discover quite soon that we hardly ever live from within outwards; instead we respond to incitement, to excitement. In other words, we live by reflection, by reaction… We are completely empty, we do not act from within ourselves but accept as our life a life which is actually fed in from the outside; we are used to things happening which compel us to do other things. How seldom can we live simply by means of the depth and the richness we assume that there is within ourselves.”
I have been spending a lot of time with Sir Richard Temple’s beautiful book The Art of Meditation, which I received last week in the mail. I highly recommended it. Sir Richard Temple lives in London, England, and owns The Temple Gallery, one of the world’s great religious icon galleries. Recently, he has introduced his magnificent collection of Buddha statues into the space. He also decided to gather his collection of photographs that were originally commissioned for an exhibition catalog, and publish The Art of Meditation instead, along with When You Hear a Dog Bark, an intimate personal account of Buddhist meditation in Thailand.
In the poignant introduction to the book, Temple writes:
There is in all of us, even if deeply buried, a longing for eternal truth….Art, at least traditional sacred art, with its supreme technical mastery and craftsmanship, with the grandeur of its emotional language, its inner stillness and its suggestion of profound meaning can be a signpost for this search. Sacred art of the great ancient traditions speaks to what is finest in the human spirit and can turn us in the direction of order, compassion and wisdom.
The photographs in the book are stunning, and his personal journal about meditation is a joy to read. It is sincere, and often humorous and insightful.
Here is a remarkable passage from Temple’s journal that resonated with my own search:
Meditating is seeing into oneself, and it is not the role of the seer to intervene; he does not descend to the level where what is seen takes place. The seer is a higher level in oneself, the lower remains as it is. It is simply there to be seen objectively, as one would stand in front of Hieronymous Bosch’s Garden of Delights. One may be intrigued, horrified, fascinated, amused and so on, but one is an onlooker to these events and not a participant.
A great spiritual truth can be understood from this if the principle of impartial, objective seeing is tightly grasped. The seer is an appearance within oneself of an intelligence that does not belong to the ordinary world but to a higher one.
The practice is called “the art of arts and the science of sciences.” With sufficient endeavor it can be brought into one’s everyday life. I have met people, admittedly very few, who carry out their ordinary affairs in the world while maintaining this interior regards upon themselves.
For more information about the book or to view the collection online, you can visit The Temple Gallery here.♦
I awake most mornings at 5 a.m., shuffle around the house in half sleep, make coffee, and then I sit quietly to watch the arrival of another new day through the window. On most of these mornings, just as the sun reaches up to the sky, I turn on my laptop computer and my attention is immediately taken by the white hot flash of an LCD screen.
This morning was different. After a few moments sitting quietly looking out the window at the light changing outside over the silhouetted black buildings as the coffee machine gurgled away in the kitchen, I went over to the bookshelf and pulled down Ron Starbuck’s latest volume of poetry, When Angels Are Born. I don’t know why I did that instead of turning on my computer, but I am grateful. It is as though a part of me needed a different kind of nourishment. Something softer and more contemplative, a kind of wish to make a connection to something that speaks to a deeper part of myself–a “secret self that we all have,” as the writer Katherine Mansfield once said.
It surprises me now to realize how little an effort is required to make one’s morning seem holy and significant. We just need to be attentive and to listen much like Ron Starbuck says in the introduction: “to open ourselves to the mystery of life.” Reading his poetry is to accept a gentle invitation from a friend to go walking in the fields of the spirit. You enter his words like a song, deeper and deeper still into “the mystery of life” and all of its “infinite possibilities,” much like the lightning bugs he describes in the poem “Youth & Rebellion:”
who guide us home
and guide us still.
When Angels Are Born is an honest and heartfelt invocation, a calling out to the sacred that is so desperately needed today “in a world that undervalues such an intimacy of spirit.” It is also a spiritual journey where we are continually aroused from our sleep and brought to think and to feel our common human situation. We are encouraged gently to “pay attention” and to “welcome the embrace | of heaven found in a single moment, between breathing in and out.” Ron Starbuck’s psalms, or sacred songs and prose easily guides us onto the path of many contemplative traditions and mystics like Meister Eckhart and Thomas Merton. And in the light of those traditions, we are asked to travel further than the known, to “empty out our small separate selves and to recognize the truth of who we really are–”to become a sacrament of seeing.”
There are no clear cut answers offered to the great metaphysical questions but rather a deepening of those questions. He speaks directly into the heart of each of us, as though drawing from an ancient source, giving us voice to our deepest and most powerful intuitions and longings. The question of what does it really mean to be alive is echoed throughout the book and his penetrating verse assures us that the world is filled with the Absolute and that we need only to listen and discover for ourselves that we are not separate–that we are all part of something much larger. Even difficult spiritual concepts like compassion, emptiness, and rebirth are distilled down to their essence and made accessible in a language easily understood by the heart. In the poem “Death,” for example, Ron Starbuck says:
Look at someone you love today
For one minute,
As if you saw them
for the first time.
When Angels Are Born is a gift. It is a wonderful book that can be read again and again. It serves to remind us to ask what is being given to us in each moment. Ron Starbuck’s poetry encourages us to try to see the world through fresh eyes, and to open ourselves up to gratitude for this life, or as he so eloquently puts it: “to give birth to our own angels in the world every day.”♦
Here is an illuminating interview with James George, former high commissioner to India and former ambassador to Iran. The Dalai Lama calls him “my old friend.” Chogyam Trungpa referred to him as “a wise and benevolent man, an ideal statesman.”
He has been a gentle teacher and a friend who has inspired many to engage in a spiritual practice in the midst of life–one that can bridge the external world with the inner world.
Ernst Haas, Route 66, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1969
“Your work is to discover your world and then with all your heart give yourself to it.” So taught the Gautama Buddha, some 2500 years ago, with his hands delicately poised in front of his heart. This morning, I am sitting in front of a computer, watching the incessant demand of a blinking cursor within a blank Word document.
I notice that I am particularly tense this morning, hunched over, my head supported in a sleepy left hand, my jaw clenched and that I am even holding my breath unnecessarily at moments. I watch my thoughts negotiating with the yes and the no, the before and the after. I realize that I am singing the old songs again, and find myself walking up Uneasy Street.
I accept the fact I’m on Uneasy Street. Inevitably, I will do a little window shopping – find myself in a few stores. But for now, I try to stay away from this seductive long strip of stores with their myriad distractions by turning my attention inward. I will sacrifice all my under-the-breath commentary and judgment about what I am experiencing and to mobilize my attention in order to experience a direct sensation of myself sitting here. Specifically, I try to watch what is taking place without interfering with anything. The more I practice this, the more intriguing it becomes: “So that’s how I am right now?” I notice that all these forces of thought and emotions that pull me here and there are pretty damn interesting. It’s like watching an Easter parade–a marching band of habitual attitudes and tensions. I give myself wholeheartedly to this activity of watchfulness by accepting everything without reservations. It’s how it is. I receive what I am.
It takes time, but if I simply wait and listen, an inner space can appear. A subtle relaxation begins to inhabit this body. I realize that this subtle relaxation is a gift, and that by letting go of my preoccupations and concerns of the day, it announces itself naturally. By the giving-over of myself, I am brought under its influence. I think it’s always there, this mysterious gift, it’s just that I am often too busy to hear it. Even though it’s really noisy just before the intersection of the here and now, I realize how necessary Uneasy Street street is. It is an important aspect of the spiritual life because it serves as a reminder of the Other.♦
Photograph: Ernst Haas, “Route 66,” Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1969.
If I were asked under what sky the human mind has most deeply pondered over the greatest problems of life, and has found solutions to some of them which well deserve the attention even of those who have studied Plato and Kant – I should point to India.
And if I were to ask myself from what literature we who have been nurtured almost exclusively on the thoughts of Greeks and Romans, and of one Semitic race, the Jewish, may draw the corrective which is most wanted in order to make our inner life more perfect, more comprehensive, more universal, in face more truly human a life, again I should point to India.
–Max Muller (19th century orientalist)
My wife, Alex, and I have just returned from a month-long journey through India. It was our second time there. In 2005, we visited northern India. The trip began with an 18 hour flight to Delhi, where we spent a couple of days settling in and attending an extravagant Hindu wedding. Next, we took a 20 hour train to the Hindu holy city of Varanasi. Since it was nearby, we also took a day trip to Sarnath, where The Buddha preached his first sermon. Next, we rented a car and driver and headed to Bodh-Gaya, where Buddha attained enlightenment. After a few days there, mostly hanging around the peaceful ambiance of The Mahabodhi Temple, we left for Delhi on New Years Eve embarking on a train to Delhi. Later that day, after arriving in Delhi we caught a plain south east to Chennai from where we visited a crocodile sanctuary, and the amazing rock cut temples of Mamallapuram. Next, we flew south west to the laid back port town of Kochi in Kerala. A few days later, we began to make our way north, flying to the sun drunk beaches of Goa for a few days. Next, we took a plane to Aurangabad to spend the last week of our trip exploring the magnificent paintings and caves at Ajanta, and also the breath-taking stone cut caves at Ellora. Finally, we flew back to Delhi and spent the last few remaining days of our journey wandering around on foot and taking a remarkable early morning bicycle ride through the old city before we flew back home.
In early August I discovered my favorite book of this year. I came across Where the Heart Beats: John Cage, Zen Buddhism, and the Inner Life of Artists by Kay Larson at two wonderful places on the web: First “The Art Critic and the Enso,” a remarkably insightful piece by Lynette from 108zenbooks, and then a a day or two later, Deborah Barlow’s (who writes at Slow Muse) inspiring review “Leaving the Path At Any Moment” showed up in my blog feed. It seemed an unlikely coincidence. That was it for me. I promptly wrote Deborah: I’ve come across this book at least three times this week. A few days ago I put a hold on it at the library. I am seventh in line. After reading your excellent post this morning, I said to myself: “That’s it.” I biked down to my local bookstore in the rain and bought myself a copy. And I did just that arriving home like a lunatic, wet with rain with the book tucked protectively under my arm. I read the book slowly and intermittently throughout August and September, savoring it slowly, making notes in my notebook, underlining passages, folding over corners, and reading passages out loud to my wife, who may or may not have been listening. For two months, I carried this book everywhere. I loved this book.
The first time I heard of John Cage was in the early 90s. I was in my early teens, and was just beginning to discover. mostly through books and art, that there was a much larger world beyond the small sleepy town of Belleville where I grew up. I had left home and was boarding on a farm just outside of town. I suffered from horrible insomnia those days, so I would stay up reading too much, and smoking too much. I also use to listen this late night radio show on the CBC calledBrave New Waves that came on just after the news at midnight following Ross Porter’s excellent jazz program After Hours. Brave New Waves was on air until four in the morning, so it was perfect for insomniacs. In fact, there were many evenings where I stayed up until the very end, listening to the far out in left field records that were spun in the last hour. On other nights, when my tiredness won out, I taped the show onto cassette, and listened to it the very next day after school so that I wouldn’t miss anything important. The show specialized in the Avant-garde, showcasing music, writers, and artists. Almost every evening, I discovered someone or something entirely new.
Anyway, on one particular evening there was an an interview with John Cage that I have always remembered. It was a cold, autumnal night and I was smoking by the window to hide the smell. The house was quiet, with everyone locked away in their rooms. I could hear a TV down the hall. The news was on. I smoked and waited eagerly for the show to begin. The artist being interviewed on that particular evening was a man named John Cage, interviewed as a writer, poet, artist, and composer. A real renaissance man who dabbled in just about everything. He was well learned, and absolutely captivating as a speaker, with a contagious passion for knowledge. The moment that was burned into my brain forever came at the end of the interview when the host, Brent Bambury asked John Cage, who was in his mid-seventies then (he died when he was 79), “Who was your greatest teacher?” What followed was one of the most amazing moments I have ever experienced listening to radio. There was a long tremendous silence. Total dead air. The length of it was extraordinary, so extraordinary, that you could actually hear the clock in the studio ticking away the seconds. After a moment, maybe a lifetime or two. John Cage said in his soft gentle voice: “I’m still looking.”
William Gedney shot of John Cage
The show ended on that note, but something lingered within me and resonated to Cage’s final remark, either his words, or something that was behind them. In retrospect, I think it was the sense of his search that struck me. I thought it was remarkable how a man of his age, stature, and influence could be so humble and still be searching.
After that, I sought out everything I could find about him. It wasn’t until later in my life that I discovered that what attracted me to John Cage was his relentless search for the truth, and how he was able to reconcile a worldly life with a spiritual pursuit. I feel that Cage is a tremendous example of someone who managed to bridge that duality. With the recent publication of Larson’s extensive and meticulously researched biography on John Cage, the inner life, or the essence of the man becomes more apparent. Throughout his life Cage was a spiritual seeker: a devoted student of Zen Buddhist scholar and translator, D.T. Suzuki, a follower of the Indian sage, Ramakrishna and acknowledged his debt to the writings of Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Huang Po, and The Chinese book of divination the I-Ching. He was also open to the Christian mystic Meister Echhart. To read about John Cage is to discover a life long quest through a time when all the arts: painting, music, literature, and dance were undergoing massive revolution in the early part of the 20th century. But what I find of interest is in Larson’s account of Cage is the story of man on a spiritual journey in the direction of self perfection–a man who relentlessly aspires to marry an inner life with his outer life in order to allow the inner to inform the outer. Cage wrote in his journals:
Our intention is to affirm this life, not to bring order out of chaos nor to suggest improvements in creation, but simply to wake up to the very life we’re living, which is so excellent once once one gets one’s mind and one’s desires our of its way and lets it act of its own accord.
It is not a question of decisions and the willingness to make them. It is that we are impermanently part and parcel of all. We are involved in a life that passes understanding and our highest business is our daily life.
There is an old proverb that states, “one book opens another,” and in this case that statement could not ring out more truthfully. So I have broken down the book into categories in order to navigate the wealth of material Larson’s book has to offer.
Breaking it DownWisdom Traditions & Spiritual Influences Mentioned (in no particular order of importance):
John Cage with Zen Master D.T. Suzuki
Daisetz Teitaro Susuki (his name means Great Simplicity) and his teachers: Imagitsa Kosen & Soyen Shaku, Paul Carus who was convinced that Buddhism held great potential to heal the modern breach between science and religion, because it was based not on beliefs, but on practice and observation; Chogyam Trungpa, Shakyamuni Buddha, Shin Buddhism–the path of faith and compassion, also known as Pure Land; the Zen traditions of Soto Zen and the tougher discipline of Rinzai; Soyen, Joseph Campbell, Oskar Fischinger;, Morris Graves and Nancy Wilson Ross who was a student of Rinzai Zen master Nanshinken and Goto Zuigan Roshi; Zen teacher Yvonne Rand, Hui Neng, Dogen Zenji, Mark Tobey, Gita Sarabhai, Sri Ramakrishna, Vivekananda, Meister Eckhart, Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Chuang-tze, Carl Gustav Jung, Aldous Huxley, Paramahansa Yogananda, Christmas Humphreys, Richard DeMartino, Philip Kapleau, Yasutani Roshi, Hue-yen, Shen-Hui student of Hui-Neng; Lin-chi, Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisatttva of compassion; Thomas Merton, Koun Yamada Roshi, Seung Sahn, Taigen Dan Leighton, L.C. Beckett, Hotei (The Laughing Buddha); Sofu Teshigahara, Robert Aitken, Gary Snyder, and Allen Ginsberg.
Key Spiritual Texts:
I wanted to be quiet in a non-quiet situation. So I discovered first through reading the gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, and through the study of the philosophy of Zen Buddhism–and also an important book for me was The Perennial Philosophy by Aldous Huxley…–that they are all saying the same thing, namely, a quiet mind is a mind that is free of its likes and dislikes. –John Cage
D.T. Suzuki,Essays in Zen Buddhism, Mysticism: Christian and Buddhist, Outlines of Mahayana Buddhism, which was also the first book in the West on the Mahayana (Great Vehicle), the teachings that are the source of Zen; Sermons of a Buddhist Abbot.
Zen in its essence is the art of seeing into the nature of one’s own being, and it points the way from bondage to freedom. By making us drink right from the fountain of life, it liberates us from all the yokes under which we finite beings are usually suffering in this world. We can say that Zen liberates all the energies properly and naturally stored in each of us, which are in ordinary circumstances cramped and distorted so that they find no adequate channel for activity.This body of ours is something like an electric battery in which a mysterious power latently lies. When this power is not properly brought into operation, it either grows mouldy and withers away or is warped and expresses itself abnormally. It is the object of Zen, therefore, to save us from going crazy or being crippled. This is what I mean by freedom, giving free play to all the creative and benevolent impulses inherently lying in our hearts. Generally, we are blind to this fact, that we are in possession of all the necessary faculties that will make us happy and loving towards one another. All the struggles that we see around us come from this ignorance. Zen, therefore, wants us to open a “third eye,” as Buddhists call it, to the hitherto undreamed-of-region shut away from us through igmnorance. When the cloud of ignorance disappears, the infinity of the heavens is manifested, where we see for the first time into the nature of our own being. –D.T. Suzuki
Essays in Zen Buddhism Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy The Lankavatara Sutra Hua Yen,Flower Garland Sutra The Heart Sutra Thomas Merton, Zen and the Birds of Appetite Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate) The I Ching (The Chinese Book Changes) Luigi Russolo, The Art of Noise
The Gospel of Sri RamakrishnaHere is one of Cage’s favorite Ramakrishna stories he loved telling:
Ramakrishna spent an afternoon explaining that everything is God. Afterward, one of his disciples entered the evening traffic in a euphoric state and barely escaped being crushed to death by an elephant. He ran back to his teacher and asked, “Why do you say everything’s God when just now I was nearly killed by an elephant?” Ramakrishna said, “Tell me what happened.” When the disciple got to the point where he heard the voice of the elephant’s driver warning him several times to get out of the way, Ramakrishna interrupted, “That was God’s voice.”
Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, The Transformation of Nature in Art, The Dance of Shiva
Meister Eckhart, The Sermons
Coming back to Eckhart, for the sake by the way the way of a brilliant conclusion. A tonic and dominant emphatic conclusion to this talk about something and nothing and how they need each other to keep on going, as Eckhart says:, “Earth (that is any something) “has no escape from heaven.” (that is nothing) “flee she up or flee she down heaven still invades her, energizing her, fructifying her, whether for her weal or for her woe. –John Cage, from Lecture on Something
L.C. Beckett, Neti Neti (Not This Not That) 1955 The Ten Ox-Herding Pictures Buddha’s Fire Sermon Alan Watts, The Spirit of Zen The I-Ching, the Chinese Book of Changes Paul Carus, The Gospel of Buddha According to Old Records A Buddhist Bible edited by Dwight GoddardAshvaghosha, the second century commentator on the Buddha, The Awakening of Faith in the Mahayana The Surangama Sutra The Bhagavad Gita Jean Paul Satre, Being and NothingnessLao Tse, Tao Te ChingWassily Kandinsky,Concerning the Spiritual in Art; Evelyn Underhill Mysticism Huang Po, Doctrine of Universal MindEvelyn Underhill, MysticismAlan Watts, The Spirit of ZenPaul Carus, The Gospel of Buddha According to Old RecordsWerner Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle expounded in his book, Physics and Philosophy: The Revolution in Modern Science
Henry David Thoreau, especially Walden and the essay Civil Disobedience
What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star’s surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me…Talk of mysteries!–Think of our life in nature,–daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we? –Henry David Thoreau
A couple of other passages related to spiritual practice by Kay Larson that I found noteworthy: Kay Larson on waking up,
Bardo–the Tibetan Buddhist word for a “becoming” or transition. Although the bardo is usually identified as the passage after death, it can also be a turning moment within ordinary life. You’re walking in your daily reality and there is a slight shiver in the visual field and you sense that a door is opening in a wall. You haven’t known about the wall until the door opens. Do you walk through? –Kay Larson
On the practice of zazen:
What is zazen? Crossing one’s legs? Watching the breath? Saying nothing? Waiting for the bell to ring? That’s where the beginner begins.After a bit more practice, however, zazen expands.Everything interpenetrates, right? Sitting silently, where are you? Who are you? What are you sitting within?As you cross your legs on the cushion, singing a sharani of transformation, the whole world flows in and through you, and all around you. The totality of Creation is sitting with you. Where are the walls? Sitting zazen, you take apart the bricks one at a time, look at them carefully, and set them down. At the end of the process, where are the walls? –Kay Larson
Holy Places: Shokukuji, Daitokuji, Engakuji, Daitokuji (Rinzai Zen temple in Kyoto) Dancers: Merce Cunningham, Anna Pavlova, Martha Graham, Bonnie Bird, Syvilla Fort, Dorothy Herrmann, Katherine Dunham, Martha Hill, Jean Erdman, Erick Hawkins, Carolyn Brown, Robert Ellis Dunn, and Rashaun Mitchell.
Other Writers: Philip Whalen, Jack Kerouac, Gertrude Stein, Andre Breton, Charles H. Ford, William Saroyan, E.E. Cummings, Rainer Maria Rilke, Buckminster Fuller, Mary Caroline Richards, Jackson Mac Low, John Ashbery, Erich Fromm, Charles Olson, Martin Heidegger, Arnold Toynbee, Arthur Waley, Jackson Mac Low. Ludwig Wittgenstein: “The rational mind only describes a tiny room in a vast cosmos, and beyond this we cannot speak”
Photographers: Jack Calvin, Edward Weston
The purpose of music is to sober and quiet the mind, thus rendering it susceptible to divine influences. –Gita Sarabhai There are two principal parts of each personality, the conscious mind and the unconscious, and these are split and dispersed, in most of us, in countless ways and distractions. The function of music, like that of any other healthy occupation, is to help to bring those separate parts back together again. Music does this by providing moment when, awareness of time and space being lost, the multiplicity of elements which make up an individual become integrated and he is one. –John Cage
Henry Cowell, Arnold Schoenberg, Richard Buhlig, Virgil Thomson, Erik Satie especially “Vexations,” Morton Feldman, Webern Symphony, Opus 21 conducted by Dimitri Mitropoulos; Rachmaninoff’s Symphonic Dances; David Tudor, Earle Brown, John Cale, Nam June Paik, Terry Riley, La Monte Young; Steve Reich, and Janice Giteck.
Robert Kushner “Eleven Orange Emperors,” 2008
The first question I ask myself when something doesn’t seem to be beautiful, the first question I ask, is why do I think it’s not beautiful? And very shortly you discover that there is no reason. –John Cage
Movements: Dada, Modersnism, The Bauhaus, Abstract Expressionism & Fluxus Tristan Tzara, F.T. Marinetti, The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism; Alexej von Jawlensky’s painting, Poetry of the Evening (1931); Edwin Rothschild, The Meaning of the Unintelligibility of Modern Art; Wassily Kandinsky, Franz Marc, Marcel Duchamp, Robert Motherwell, Morris Graves, Paul Klee, Mondrian, Laszlo Maholy-Nagy, Max Ernst, The Bauhaus, Gyorgy Kepes, Marc Chagall, Leger, Andre Masson, Willem de Kooning, sculptors Richard Lippold and Ibram Lassaw, Philip Pavia, Jackson Pollock, Doña Luisa; Robert Rauschenberg. Sari Dienes, Karl Jaspers, Shuzo Takiguchi, Ibram Lassaw, Allan Kaprow, George Segal, Alison Knowles, Dick Higgins, George Brecht, Robert Watts, Al Hansen, Adolph Gottlieb, Yoko Ono;, Andrew Warhol, Claes Oldenberg, Roy Lichtenstein, Frank Stella, Robert Morris, The Fluxus Movement, Jim Dine, Ellsworth Kelly, Agnes Martin, Al Held, Pat Steir, Bruce Nauman
Some other quotations that I highlighted from Larson’s biography:Cage describes the concept of indeterminacy:
Indeterminacy means, literally: not fixed, not settled, uncertain, indefinite. It means that you don’t know where you are. How can it be otherwise, say the Buddhist teachings, since you have no fixed or inherent identity and are ceaselessly in process? …Life is filled with uncertainty Chance events happen to all of us. Each of us must take responsibility and make decisions. None of us should be imposing our ego image on others. …There’s another way to live. Accept indeterminacy as a principle, and you see your life in a new light, as a series of seemingly unrelated jewel-like stories with in a dazzling setting of change and transformation. Recognize that you don’t know where you stand, and you will begin to watch where you put your feet. That’s when the path appears.
A remarkable outlook on the purpose of art:
If we conquer that dislike, or begin to like what we did dislike, then the world is more open. That path, of increasing one’s enjoyment of life, is the path I think we’d all best take. To use art not as self expression but as self-alteration. To become more open” –Cage
Cage describes the role of a teacher:
I do not think that a teacher should teach something to the student. I think the teacher should discover what it is that the student knows–and that’s not easy to find out–and then, of course, encourage the student to be courageous with respect to his knowledge, courageous and practical and so forth–in other words, to bring his knowledge to fruition. Don’t you think?
You say: the real, the world as it is. But it is not, it becomes! It moves, it changes! It doesn’t wait for us to change…It is more mobile than you can possibly imagine. You are getting closer to this reality when you say as it “presents itself”; that means that it isnot there, existing as an object.The world, the real is not an object. It is a process.
Cage’s advice on what to do when you feel bored:
In Zen they say: If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, try it for eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and so on. Eventually one discovers that it’s not boring at all but very interesting.
And lastly, one of my favorite passages in the book about how a great spiritual teacher or teaching works on you:
During recent years Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki has done a great deal of lecturing at Columbia University. First he was in the Department of Religion, then somewhere else. Finally he settled down on the seventh floor of Philosophy Hall. The room had windows on two sides, a large table in the middle with ash trays. There were chairs around the table and next to the walls. These were always filled with people listening, and there were generally a few people standing near the door. The two or three people who took the class for credit sat in chairs around the table. The time was four to seven. During this period most people now and then took a little nap. Suzuki never spoke loudly. When the weather was good the windows were open, and the airplanes leaving La Guardia flew directly overhead from time to time, drowning out whatever he had to say. He never repeated what had been said during the passage of the airplane.
Three lectures I remember in particular. While he was giving them I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he was saying. It was a week or so later, while I was walking in the woods looking for mushrooms, that it all dawned on me. Kay Larson’s book is a wonderful portrait of a man who embodied what it means to be a seeker in life, and by that I mean, someone who is able to bring a spiritual discipline into the uncertainty of their daily life. They live the mystery. And finally here is John Cage’s quintessential piece “4’33” which Larson describes so beautifully as a “statement of essence leading out of the world of art into the whole of life, it was born in the space, the silence, the nothing that supports us.
Writing on my balcony the other night under the moon and shadows, I felt anxious and wanted from the night something the night doesn’t usually bring. I sat there in the cricket filled evening for a while but nothing happened. I started to write about the spiritual practice of just being there with what is–and how I often find myself rocked like a boat between two sides of myself: on one side is a sincere wish for being, and on the other I am taken by the demands and worries each day brings. In the process of writing, I discovered that often in my life there seems to be no room for the other, and I often meet these demands with this most horrible of attitudes, like the world owes me something. Now, both stances are undeniable realities. This is how I am. I need to recognize and bridge this tremendous gulf that hangs in-between. This is the spiritual struggle.
With each day buried by yet another day, we all wander lost. Sure, many of us have tasted a transcendence of the ordinary way of perceiving things–that there is another life of promise and possibility, but we don’t just explode into it and become holy whiteness forever. We ascend and descend on ladders, and unfortunately when we descend, we usually forget. If we are passive, our days take us wherever they wish to like a raging river and the current is stronger than we imagine. But there is something within us that remembers. It knows what is required. Through an active silent watchfulness we can open to this moment as it is. From that effort, a quality of seeing can appear that expands. It is inclusive, and it does not take sides, either for, or against.♦