Rembrandt & Pure Consciousness

My knuckles didn't get much of a vacation after all. Poor buggers. I took them to the Met yesterday afternoon, then they got an evening constitutional around Central Park, but I'm afraid I made them do a little more work today. I was jonesing to start my next text. I think the only person who had a shorter vacation than my knuckles was Obama. Jeez, poor guy, huh? A week on the Cape and I'll bet he never even got to take his tie off.

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There's a painting in the Met that never fails to pull me in. I always gravitate to it, and then have one of those moments that I described when I was at the dentist's office, when the thin veneer of 'reality' is peeled back, and you see what's underneath. It's a portrait of a woman by Rembrandt. If you're standing in front of his self portrait, it's two paintings to the right. It's been in this spot for at least a couple of years, so it'll still be there when you go to see it this week. This woman's gaze is even more penetrating than that of his self portrait. I think if the gallery was closed and I was allowed to stand there and stare into her eyes for a long time, I'd self-realize. Either that or self-implode. Whatever's in there looking back at me is not this woman, but something else. It's a bizarre set of eyes, and if you look closely, you'll see why:

While the portrait is at a slight three-quarter angle to the picture plane, the eyes are straight on. It's subtle, but check it out. Block out everything but her eyes, and you'll see that both are the same size, and there's no perspective as the eyelids curve around the orbs. This contradiction in perspectives is extremely unsettling. But that's just a technicality. If in fact Rembrandt had painted them properly, they'd still look like disembodied eyes. The face is kind and compassionate, but the eyes? They're pure presence, devoid of sentimentality or attachment. Radiant, penetrating, kind of creepy. Straight-up Rembrandt.

This is my favorite painting in the Met. It's also my favorite portrait by Rembrandt. And relatively obscure, for some reason. I'd love to know his connection with this woman. What they talked about while he painted her; what he saw in her eyes to paint them out of whack. Because surely he did it on purpose. He was Rembrandt, for God's sake! He painted piles and piles of three-quarter-view portraits, with nothing askew. Did he see a powerful presence in this woman? The clear intelligence in her eyes shines through the mask of her unremarkable face. She must have embodied something - concealed something - to which Rembrandt was drawn and tried to capture. And btw, the photo above shows none of it - you have to stand in front of the painting to get it.

Well, I've warned the guards at the Met that there might be a whirlwind of activity around the portrait this week, as busloads of bloggers line up to see the Disembodied Eyes of Pure Consciousness by Rembrandt. I actually know one of the guards by name now - Jose, nice guy - and left him with a supply of smelling salts, should anyone need to be revived. And please let me know if you have a 'reality peel' when you look into the woman's eyes.

Gayatri Mantra

I've been taking a break from the marathon texts. It's sorta nice to start and finish one in the same week. My knuckles don't know the difference, unfortunately, so I'm giving them the rest of the weekend off. They're very excited - throbbing with delight at the prospect of a vacation. I haven't the heart to tell them that they're not going anywhere. But they've been so good-natured that I might take them to the Met before the weekend is over.

The text drawing above is the Gayatri Mantra. It's one of the oldest Hindu mantras, and is thought to be one of the most powerful. To maximize its benefits, the Gayatri Mantra should be repeated in Sanskrit 108 times in one sitting, 3 times a day. Doing so will remove all obstacles from one's path, dispel darkness, and increase wisdom. It goes like this:

O God, Thou art the giver of life, the remover of pain and sorrow, the bestower of happiness; O creator of the universe, may we receive Thy supreme sin-destroying light; may Thou guide our intellect in the right direction.

I cut the letters from the Bible, Matthew 6, in which the Lord's Prayer is found. I chose this passage because the Lord's Prayer is such a power-evoking Christian mantra, and the parallel intrigued me. So I started on the outer edge and spelled out the mantra in English, then in the English transliteration from Sanskrit. Kept doing that over and over, back and forth between translations, working my way toward the center of the mandala. The six-point star created itself as I laid down the type, but I knew what I was doing. That is, I was aware of the pattern that would emerge. It's lovely to watch as it slowly surfaces and reveals its design. I want to do this on a much larger scale, but please don't tell my knuckles just yet.

I'm told that there is an Arabic tradition of tiny calligraphic writing, wherein the microscopic text forms a recognizable shape. I'm thinking that the Met might have some examples of this.* If not, then I'm sure my knuckles will enjoy a leisurely walk in the park.

Above: Mandala: Gayatri Mantra from the Bible, Matthew Chapter 6, 6.5 in. x 6.5 in., 2009.

* They do. But not on display. Not surprisingly, the Met houses a fantastic collection of Arabic calligraphy, but currently there is only a dimly lit corridor in which to display it. An insider at the museum told me this afternoon that there's a special wing being built for it, which will open in 2011.

Brick Wall

It doesn't take much for surface appearances to disappear. It can happen in the blink of an eye, and when it does, it hits you like a hammer. We're so invested in our versions of what life is. There are as many variations on the theme as there are individuals, but the common thread running through everyone's story is that reality is that which we experience with our senses. Most often it's that which we see.

But every so often something happens which shakes us up a bit, and our cherished notion of reality takes a huge hit. It's not easy when this happens. We assume that our lives are built upon a solid foundation of events, connections, and possessions. We protect ourselves from predictable ills by heeding the laws of cause and effect, as though it was our insurance against misfortune or disaster. (Has eating well ever proven to be a preventative to cancer? Does a fat bank account ensure a stress-free existence?) Everything we do, all that we understand about the world in which we live, is based on the assumption that what we see and experience is solid, fixed reality.

But this 'reality' is in fact a thin veneer that can be peeled away at any moment, and what we find underneath - well, it can be pretty sobering. Have you ever experienced this? Yeah, so you know what I'm talking about. Reality, straight up, in your face, no embellishments, just the facts. Ouch. What astonishes me the most in these encounters is the compassion that flies in my face. Why compassion, I wonder? It's as though the creator behind all of this knew we'd need a lot of it. It's compassion that holds everything together. This enormous compassion that seems to exist on its own; an entity that holds us in whatever state we find ourselves. If it could speak it would say, "This is what it is to be human."

I'm wired to see beneath the surface layer of appearances. I don't consider it a blessing, and it doesn't make me the most popular gal on the block, so I generally keep my observations to myself. But every now and then the hammer hits me hard, and so it did yesterday at the dentist's office. Once the nitrous oxide really kicked in, the top layers were peeled away and I sat and stared at reality for thirty minutes or so. I don't know how long it was. Too long, I can tell you that. All I had to look at was the brick wall outside the window, but that was enough. It showed me everything I needed to see, and then some.

We're so very fragile, all of us. Life is so tenuous, and yet we live it as though it's a given. As if our plans are solid and our hopes reasonable. And behind the veneer is the brick wall, and behind that lurks compassion, holding it all together.

A Fun Day at the Orifice

August has been Orifice Revival Month for me. This week it was time to check out my second-least-used orifice, my mouth. I don't eat much, don't talk a lot, and ... well, you know. I should've taken care of this a long time ago, but I hate the dentist. Given the choice between a colonoscopy administered by a feral chimp or an oral exam, I'd choose the chimp. What I can't figure out is how anyone can remain collected and maintain dignity when pointy metal prods are stuck into their mouth. But I've been having a little pain in one of my fangs, thus I had to bite the bullet ... ow ... rather, I had to hunt down a dentist and get it checked out.

So off I went for my bi-decadely appointment. See, when I was around 21 or 22 I had a bunch of dental work done, and I've got all kinds of caps, crowns, and bridges to nowhere. You name it, I got it. Except wisdom teeth. I got no wisdom teeth, for some crazy reason. Over the past twenty-five, thirty years I've moved a lot, and each time I've had to find a new dentist. It never fails that every time I find a new one, he takes one look in my mouth, and what does he see? Not teeth, but a yacht on the Caribbean, breast implants for the wife, and early retirement.

I finally got wise and found a dentist on the Upper East Side who was willing to knock me out. Cold. The dental hygienist was a grandmotherly woman who was a little stern, but by the end of the cleaning she and I had laughed our mascara off. Honestly, that woman and I laughed so hard that she had to close the door because we were making so much noise. I like to think that she wasn't laughing at me, but who knows. She had the nitrous oxide on low, which just wasn't cutting it. I told her to crank it, which she eventually had to do, and then I got real quiet.

And this was just for the cleaning. I hadn't even seen the dentist yet. So you see why I don't go very often, and why I'm comfortable calling this a full-blown phobia.

Well. Four hundred bucks later my teeth are mostly fine, but I need to get a filling replaced next week. A down payment on the yacht, maybe. I'm actually looking forward to it, as I'll get to take some more happy drugs, and see my buddy Carol. That poor woman said that she wasn't able to take all the tartar off today, but will have to do it in installments. I'm not sure what that's about - maybe they need to call in a few trucks to haul the tartar away? Anyway, my teeth feel fantastic. I can actually feel the enamel again, which is reassuring - I was afraid there mightn't be any left. So that's another orifice I can check off the list. Next week it's off to the see the chimp.

What's this got to do with art? advaita? Not much. That's why I figure I'd better write about it now, because after I'm enlightened I'll be too busy prattling on about my nondual experiences to write about the mundane. In the end, it may be my inability to integrate dentists into the All that keeps me this side of Self-realization.

Above: The hygienist must have taken this photo after the nitrous oxide. I look a bit frazzled, but otherwise not a bad photo.

Carpal Tunnel Vision

I've decided that I'm not done with Nausea after all. I want to keep going on it and fill the center white space up a bit more. Can't live with it as is. Also realized that I need to work fewer hours, as I've got some kind of repetitive motion thing going on. I'm not sure if it's carpal tunnel or what, but I simply can't work for long stretches the way I have been, as the gripping of the x-acto is wreaking havoc on my right hand, and for some reason my left hand gets in on the tension as well. I rub tiger balm into my hands and wear cotton gloves when I go to bed, but they still throb during the night. I've tried ignoring the pain, but that isn't working so well.

So now what. I'm surprised at how calmly I'm handling this. It's not like me to pass up a chance at a minor meltdown. But I seem to be taking it in stride, and figuring out my next course of action. When/if I start selling the work, then I'll hire someone to cut up holy books for me and have them anally arrange the letters, right side up, in 26 little piles. I figure I'll go through one person a week, as that's about how long it'll take for the carpal tunnel and mind-numbing monotony to take its toll. But until I can afford this, I'm afraid I'm going to have to back off on the texts. Which raises the question, what shall I do with myself? Because if I'm not texting, I'm going to have a LOT of time on my aching hands.

So it's with some surprise that I've decided to start painting again. Not what I really want to do right now, but I'll go with the flow, and see what happens. Maybe the texting will somehow merge with painting. I've missed painting, and in particular I miss the use of color, so I'll make the best of this while my wrists recover. It may be that I just need to cut back to texting a few days a week, rather than what I've been doing.

In the meantime, if any of you have the burning desire to cut up holy books letter by letter and make anthills out of vowels, you know who to call. I can't afford to pay you, but you can come eat with us at the monastery, and I'll be sure that they don't put any salt peter in your food.

Nausea Unveiled

It's done. I think. My newest text drawing. The title is as follows:

Nausea: The Sunyatasaptati (Seventy Verses on Emptiness) by Nagarjuna, from Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre.

I'm not 100% sure that it's done. It feels like I should continue the line of type toward the center, but I don't want to completely fill in the blank portion, as it's important that it feel 'empty'. So I may do a little more...we'll see. It's meant to emulate the feeling of nausea, and to some extent I think that it does, certainly for me. I'm pretty happy with it, and even happier to be done with it. This was a tough piece. Not in the execution, but its spirit was heavy, and I was inevitably dragged into the gloom. With both Sartre and Nagarjuna on board, it wasn't an easy boat to row. But I did, and it's done, and I'm spent. As are my digits. I blew them out a while back, and had to take a break. My wrists aren't doing so well either. I have to put tiger balm on them at night. Can't even think about it.

Nausea will be included in a group show in November, along with Shoonya and Radiance. I'm looking forward to that - it'll be good to get them out in the world. But in the meantime, back at the monastery, it's time to pop the champagne and pass the Xanax, as I'm about to commence my next text: the chirpy St. John and his Book of Revelation, cut from the Koran. First I may do a few small texts, just to give myself a break. I'm feeling compassionate.

'night.

Creativity Without an Agenda

In the early '80s I was twenty-something, living in Southern California, and way into the born again Christian thing. When someone in my church found out that I was an artist, he pulled me aside and said what a blessing it was that I could use my talent to bring people to the Lord. And even then, in my impressionable twenties, I thought, fat chance, buddy. Devout as I believed myself to be, there was no way in hell that I was going to use my art to try to convince anyone of anything. That would be a misuse of my talent, and it felt wrong, deathly wrong, like a sin against myself and God.

It still feels wrong, and I just want to say for the record that I'm not an evangelist, and my art isn't an attempt to rope you into any belief system. I don't care if you're an advaitan like I am, a Buddhist, a Christian, or an atheist. If it works for you, that's all that matters, and if it isn't working for you, then you'll figure it out, and I'll bet you don't need my help. I'm sure that evangelizing has its place, but it's not with me, and any ax that I have to grind is far removed from the arena of spiritual beliefs. My art is as much a self-interrogation as anything else, and I'm even willing to cozy up to the possibility that God doesn't exist. So even though my art is about spirituality, it's not intended as a pulpit, and there will be no altar calls.

My art is about pure creative expression. That's it. The subject matter - spirituality - is an ongoing obsession and a way of life for me, so it's not difficult to understand why I would use it as a launching pad. But the art itself is really nothing more than the byproduct of creative energy wending its way through me. I have this overwhelming need to make something, so I do, and then whatever comes out is my art. It's pretty simple. At the moment I'm intensely interested in eliminating all the superfluous elements of formalism (such as color and composition) in order to arrive at the purest expression, which is achieved with line. A continuous, unbroken line, winding and looping around the white, rectangular surface - this is extremely satisfying to execute. The process is my bliss, my launching pad, if you will. And this is the only reason that I bother to do it.

If I was to use my art as a platform for persuasion, it would stain the process. I'm not drawn to art that has an agenda. It's a form of prostitution, and, like sex with a prostitute, not terribly persuasive. If I had a political ax to grind, I wouldn't waste my time with art - I'd be a lobbyist. If I had passionate beliefs about racism or sexism, I'd get involved with community efforts to end this type of ignorance.

But I'm neither of those things - I'm an artist. My sole intention is to express my creative impulse with as much integrity as I can muster. This may seem self-absorbed or unproductive, but in fact it's one of the cornerstones of civilization. So you see I'm just doing my civic duty by expressing my creative vision. And from the advaitan perspective, I am pure consciousness expressing itself. Consciousness, which has no agenda other than to exist and perpetuate.


Above: Untitled, passage from The Tablets of Baha'U'llah, with letters cut from the Book of Mormon. This is a new series, in which I'm experimenting with wax and other glazing mediums to achieve a weathered appearance, like an ancient text. The piece is small: 3" x 2".

Avadhuta Gita

"In Brahman there are neither the Vedas nor worlds nor gods nor sacrifices; there are neither stages of life nor castes nor race nor lineage; there is neither the path of smoke nor the path of light. Only the selfsame Brahman, the Supreme Reality, exists."

- from the Avadhuta Gita by Dattatreya

above: Vijnana Bhairava Tantra from the Book of Deuteronomy, (detail). Holy book cut up and rearranged on paper. 2009. (soon to appear on my website).

God as a Homeless Person

So if enlightenment is our natural state, realized when we fully accept what is, does this mean that upon awakening, we become the perfected version of ourselves? Do the enlightened ever make mistakes? When I awaken into pure consciousness, will those things that irritate me to no end suddenly become a source of delight? Like, when the bank teller tells me to "Have a nice day, hon!" will I smile and chirp "Thanks! You too!"??

And while I'm on the subject:

- If a kid's kicking the back of his seat on an airplane, does an enlightened person ask him to stop? Or does he simply accept what is?
- If a self-realized person orders a veggie burger and instead she's given a Double Whopper with cheese, does she take it back? or eat what is?
- If a writer is said to be enlightened, but can't spell or write for beans, does their enlightenment become suspect? Like, what if he can't spell 'enlightenment'? or 'is'?
- What about when the Awakened One leaves a bad tip? Can enlightened folks be cheap bastards?

In general, how do we perceive those who have realized their true nature, if they still struggle with human frailties? Aren't we asking for trouble when we place them on a pedestal, due to our unreasonable expectations? It'll inevitably create more of a mess when they fall from their lofty perch, since they'll splat farther when they hit the pavement. Why is it that the enlightened are thought to have perfected the human condition? As if their shortcomings evaporate upon awakening, and they're no longer the flawed man or woman that they used to be?

Nisargadatta was an impatient chain-smoker who was quick to throttle his naive interviewers. Chogyam Trungpa was a philandering alcoholic. Osho had sex with anything that moved, and a few things that didn't. And then there are the countless gurus who were ruthless with their students, even causing them bodily harm. There's no question that they would've told the kicking kid on the airplane to sit still, and would probably have kicked the kid's ass just to make a point. No, enlightenment is no guarantee of kindness and charity. It only requires a massive amount of mindfulness and clear perception of what's going on in a given moment. Not an interpretation, but a penetration through the layers of appearance to arrive at what is.

Awakening into pure consciousness doesn't raise a person above the vicissitudes of the human condition. It only gives her a clearer view, because consciousness, in the form of the newly enlightened being, sees itself everywhere. Some guy flying off in a temper is consciousness making an appearance as a rage-aholic. A drunk person passed out on the sidewalk is consciousness in the form of a homeless person. A politician delivering a hollow speech is consciousness in the guise of a self-interested power broker. An artist cutting up holy books with an x-acto blade is consciousness appearing as an anal-retentive hermit with carpal tunnel syndrome. And so on.

The beauty in this way of seeing (which is straight-up advaita, btw), is that we become reluctant criticize others, since everything is made from the same soup of consciousness. You're less quick to judge the drunk guy on the street when you see him as another manifestation of God. This can also used as a handy defense for bad behavior: "Hey, don't blame me! I'm just consciousness showing up as a lousy tipper!"

So should the enlightened be held more accountable for their failings than the rest of us? Do we let them off the hook faster, or do we hang them by their thumbs longer? My vote is we let 'em off easy. There's no sense in chastising them for falling off their pedestal, when we're the ones who put them there in the first place. See, I think all enlightened beings deserve our respect, because surely they know something we don't, but not too much respect, because after all, they're only human.

Glimpses of the Goal

Sometimes I think I might know what it's like to be enlightened. I have glimpses of the "goal" now and then, and I think it's not such a big event as the pre-enlightened yoganauts would have it. Adyashanti says that it's the natural state, and therefore our natural way of being. The "reality" in which most of us live? That's the altered state. Living as though "you" are a separate being and disconnected from the objects and persons around you is the fabricated reality. Your mind tells you it's true, and there's little in the way of external evidence to mistrust your mind. But it's all a fantastic illusion. Even science will tell you that objective reality is a quaint idea, like the dated notion that the earth is a flat pancake. It sure seems that way! But it's unequivocally not.

We're all hovering in this quasi-reality, with my atoms merging into the atoms of the guy next to me. Where do I leave off, and where does he begin? Not a romantic query, but a theoretical one. And for that matter, where does my arm stop, and where does the bag of groceries that I'm carrying begin? On the atomic level, you'd be hard-pressed to find the delineation. It's all in the mind.

It's the mind that delineates me from you. It's also what differentiates me from a bag of groceries, or a stone, or a blob of clay. Without a functioning mind, we're not much different from any other life form. So to realize the nondual nature of reality, we just need to disengage from the mind. Not silence it, but ignore it. Observe instead the emptiness that looms behind the chatter. The mind doesn't know what to do with this emptiness, so it shuts down.

And this is what I think it is to be enlightened: to live in the presence of this immense emptiness. With the mind disabled, one is free to conduct their daily activities without the endless filtering process that is the mind's function. There's simply an ongoing observation of what is, without the compulsion to analyze or 'fix'. Without the mind, there is no separate "me", and therefore no one to defend. Without the "me", there is no "mine", and so nothing to protect. Without a "mine" there is no "yours", and no need to build fences. And in this way, a sort of innocence ensues; a way of being in the world that's fresh and childlike in its observation without bias.

Sounds pretty level-headed and nonhallucinogenic to me. Freedom from my self-centered existence? Permanent release from the confines of ego? An end to "my" story? I've had fleeting moments where I can imagine what this is like. If I was to string all these moments together, they'd last about a half second. Pathetic maybe, but a glimpse goes a long way.

Above: Hoses and Possible Hoses, charcoal on paper, 2000.

A Midsummer Night's Nausea

I'm nearing the end of my current text drawing, the one I'm calling Nausea. The full title is Nausea: The 'Sunyatasaptati' (Seventy Verses on Emptiness) by Nagarjuna, from 'Nausea' by Jean-Paul Sartre. Catchy title, don't you think? I figure I got one shot at explaining my piece (if I'm not present, that is), so I'd better let it all hang out. This has been a tough one. I was going to transcribe just the text of the Sunyatasaptati, cutting the letters from the novel Nausea. But once I got into the novel and saw that Sartre's description of emptiness was perhaps even more profound than Nagarjuna's, I couldn't resist including his ripping passages in the piece. So I alternate back and forth between the two texts, with an undulating line that's meant to emulate the sensation of nausea. Hopefully it won't evoke it. I think I'll place barf bags in close proximity to the piece, just in case. I myself have become slightly nauseous at the idea of working on this text any longer, as it's taking a lot out of me. Yes, even monks need a break from their merciless flagellations. Really heavy reading, and a lot of it. Time to move on to a lighter text, which will be The Book of Revelation, transcribed from the Koran. Now there's a light-hearted read - the perfect summer romance for those long afternoons in the Hamptons. Haven't figured out how I'm going to do that one yet - may have to do it in two parts, due to the size. Plus I'm concerned that the Rapture may happen before I finish, which would really suck. But then again, I may be Left Behind to finish it.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. No Revelations until I've finished Emptying my stomach. Which, with a little diligence, I should do by the end of the weekend. Wish me luck.

Why I'm Not a Buddhist

I've always had a problem with Buddhism. I felt that in order to become a Buddhist, I had to learn a lot of stuff. You don't meet many Buddhists who don't know the teachings, so I assumed that I'd have to do the same. The eight worldly dharmas, the four maras, the four noble truths, the various slogans; there seems to be so much to comprehend before I can even pass through the gate. And I'm not a great student, so the learning curve was always an enormous obstacle for me. I have a bunch of Buddhist books on my shelf that I've returned to over the years, in the hope that one of these times they'd reel me in. But every time I start reading, I get bogged down in the jargon and lists, and the book goes back on the shelf.

To each her own, as they say. I know and respect so many Buddhists, and see how their concentrated study is a joy to them. Learning the principles and practices isn't seen as an annoyance, but as a way to bring mindfulness into their daily lives. My problem, I suspect, is that I'm lazy. My creative work requires so much of me that I really don't have the time or inclination to embark on a program of study. And - forgive me for this - I just don't find it very interesting. There. I said it.

The great thing about the advaita vedanta teachings is that I'm already there. I don't have to learn anything. It's a subtraction method of learning: we strip away our mistaken identity, and simply realize who and what we are. Which, I grant you, is not a slam dunk. Sitting meditation is required, for me anyway. But the main practice of advaita is the recognition that you are That, and That's it. There's nothing to attain, because there's no goal.

I can't get into studying and memorizing by rote, but I have the wherewithal to discern the difference between mind and consciousness. I know all about ego. It's been a pain in the ass for as long as I can remember. But now I recognize the 'other' voice within - the one without the agenda. The one that doesn't need to be 'right' all the time. And the one whose voice can only be heard when the mind is disengaged.

"Thoughts, concepts, and conjecture are totally irrelevant when it comes to nonduality. For before any scriptures can be parsed and debated, you are That. These three words capture what cannot be expressed in the sum of all books and teachings. You never move from this radiant spaciousness. Every thought, emotion, and perception is a mere momentary manifestation of only That."

- Rodney Stevens, from his blog 'Radiance of Being'

But laziness is not the only thing that prevents me from embarking on the Buddhist path. I totally resonate with the nondualism of advaita. What I love about my newly chosen path, and what makes it such a no-brainer for me, is the discovery that I've been on it the whole time. I've been searching for a path that would lead me to God, and have finally come to see that I've been on the path all along. And once you see That, the path disappears altogether, and you arrive at your destination.

Above: Hose/Spirit, charcoal on paper, 2000.

More Bones

From the flat files of yesteryear, here's another bone drawing. As I explained in yesterday's post, after my beloved dog Annie died, I had her cremated. The ashes had chunks of bone, which rattled my bones, and a series of bone drawings ensued. I even mixed a small amount of her ashes into the paint, until I was told that it was illegal to do so. (I need a fact check on this). I then started using copious amounts of ashes in the paint, but aesthetically it wasn't very pleasing. Cremains aren't very sensuous, legal or not.


I did the above drawing on the eve of the new millennium. Annie had been slowly dying of cancer, and that night she let me know she was ready to go. You can tell from her facial expression how unhappy she is. She'd always been such a sweet dog, but that night she was miserable, and didn't even want me touching her. That's when I knew that it was time. Sweet Annie. Such an honor to usher her to death's door.

Top: Bone, Brain, Balance, mixed media on paper, 2000.

Bones

On the evening of December 31, 1999, I sat with my beloved dog and best friend Annie, who was dying of cancer. I made the decision to put her to sleep, but the vet was closed on the first day of the new millennium, so I had to wait until the next day. It was a terribly difficult 24 hours, because once I'd made the decision, I only wanted her to be out of her pain.

I had her body cremated, and when I got the remains back, I was shocked to find that there were large chunks of bone mixed in with the ashes, and even worse, some tiny teeth. Gah! I guess I was expecting white, silken sand. Surely I was not the first person to hold the ashes of their beloved and wonder at the impermanence of life. I felt like Hamlet, holding Yorick's skull in the graveyard. Yes, my Annie had been a canine of infinite jest.

No significant soliloquies came out of it, but I began a series of bone drawings. It's not something that I thought about, meaning that there was no conceptual basis to the drawings, nor was there any dripping sentimentality. I just started putting bones in my drawings. I became mildly obsessed with them, since they're so much a part of our lives. You might say that bones are the backbone of our existence. They're everywhere - we just don't see them. Which is just as well. It would be way too depressing to be reminded of our mortality on an ongoing basis. That's why Allah invented skin, and, for those with x-ray vision, Prozac.

So anyway, I was digging through the graveyard of my drawings the other day when came across my Yorick. My beloved Annie, a dead ringer for Lassie, and my sometime soul mate. I love the drawings - they're so raw and unadorned. Bare bone drawings, indeed.

Above: Bone and Red Hose, detail. Drawing on paper, 2000.

No Regrets

"The greatest Guru is your inner self. Truly, he is the supreme teacher. He alone can take you to your goal and he alone meets you at the end of the road. Confide in him and you need no outer Guru. But again you must have the strong desire to find him and do nothing that will create obstacles and delays. And do not waste energy and time on regrets. Learn from your mistakes and do not repeat them."

- from I AM THAT by Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

Above: Winged Victory, drawing , 1993

Shadows

One of the more interesting aspects of the advaita path is the notion that we create our own reality. Most progressive-thinking people won't argue with this, and it's become a new age platitude to 'Visualize _____' (fill in the blank). But advaita takes it a step further, into realms that aren't quite so warm & fuzzy. It says that we create everything that happens to us - the good, the bad, & the ugly. Say what? You mean that it's my fault that someone rear-ended me this morning? That my pocket got picked on the subway? That my wife left me for a younger woman?

Yes. You reeled that event into your reality. Hey - don't yell at me - I'm just the messenger here! But I happen to believe that it's true. We create our reality by what we believe about ourselves. C'mon - tell me you haven't seen this in action. We all know someone who's got a major chip on their shoulder, right? A way of seeing the world that's totally deluded? I know a woman who's convinced that everyone, and I mean everyone, is out to get her. So whenever she interacts with a person, she steels herself for the imagined attack by being aggressive, rude, and exceedingly not-nice. And guess what? No one likes her. I don't even like her - I mean, who needs that? It's so obvious that she creates the very thing that gives her so much pain, and her perpetual victimhood is no fun to be around.

We all do it. Maybe not so egregiously, but we constantly wrestle with imaginary foes that turn out to be our own shadows. You think you're immune? Think of your biggest wound, the one that just doesn't heal, no matter how hard you attend to it. You won't need a PhD in psychology to penetrate this - just a frank look at yourself. You keep the wound open by the decisions that you make about whom and what you let into your life.

What I find so fascinating about this is that no allowances are made for extenuating circumstances. You're responsible for all of it, end of story. Blaming someone else for your pain is like blaming your shadow for following you around. No true advaitin can be a victim, as it's a weak posture, socially irresponsible, and a hindrance for the spiritual aspirant. So what does all this mean? Why am I wasting good pixels on all this? I'm getting to that. Ready?

Since it's a deluded and untenable position to blame someone else for your pain and misfortune, you have no choice but to forgive them.

End of story. Specifically, end of your story.

In fact, forgiveness is a bit of a delusion in itself, since there's no one and nothing to forgive. Forgiveness is nothing more than a passive-aggressive way of making oneself superior and right.

Have you been wronged? Have you been hurt? Humiliated? Lied to? Cheated on? Disrespected? Gored, gutted, and trashed? Doesn't matter. The offender and the offended are one and the same. There's no reason to bear a grudge, because homie, you did it to yourself. So you might as well get over your bad self, take responsibility for your injury, and let it go. Don't let your mind feed on it, except to ponder why you reeled it into existence in the first place.

Ah...freedom. It's so simple.

"Every situation is a challenge which demands the right response. When the response is right, the challenge is met and the problem ceases. If the response is wrong, the challenge is not met and the problem remains unsolved. Your unsolved problems - that is what constitutes your karma. Solve them rightly and be free."

- Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj, from 'I Am That'

The need to reconfigure one's pain is complex. Surely it's not Darwinian, as it weakens, rather than strengthens, our survival instincts. Nor does it engender solidarity, but rather alienates us from unity within the tribe. No, I suspect that our need to blame others is entirely self-deluded and ego-driven, and Lord knows I Am That.

Above: Text Mandala (detail). 2008

Two Powerful Prayers

The above text drawing consists of two prayers. On top is the Lord's Prayer, the well-known prayer from the Bible, which is how Jesus highly recommended that we pray when we go before God. Underneath that is an equally beloved Muslim prayer, called the Exordium. It's the first chapter of the Koran, and it goes like this:

Praise be to Allah, Lord of the universe, the compassionate, the merciful, sovereign of the day of judgment! You alone we worship, and to you alone we turn for help. Guide us to the straight path, the path of those whom you have favored, not of those who have incurred your wrath, nor of those who have gone astray.

Beautiful, huh? In the piece pictured above, I cut the letters from the Koran to create the Lord's Prayer (top), then I cut the letters from the Bible to create the Exordium (bottom). They spiral around and create a little tower on the paper. You can only see the last few words of each prayer, but it's all there.

Since I'm an equal opportunity, nonpartisan, and antisectarian blogger, I'd better include the Lord's Prayer:

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen.

Exquisite. Each prayer is so simple, and yet so powerful. Maybe that's the key - strip something down to its bare bone basics, and there is raw power.

Have a good one.

Monday Morning Mandala

Another good weekend - got lots of work done on my current piece. Figuring out some things about these texts. You're probably thinking, What's to figure out? You cut, you paste, you change your blade every so often; it's not as though there's some software to malfunction and foul the system. Ah, but there's a grace to it, you see. Like everything else in life, there's a way to do it, and THE way to do it. In this case, not so much in the cutting or pasting, but in the internal process behind the operation. In other words, I've found a way to do this that will assuredly slow down my descent into madness.

It's all in the mind, as they say. Or, in my case, it's all in engaging the mind. Giving it something to do, like a patient mother strapping her kid in the back seat of the car and giving it something to play with, so that she can drive unhindered by interruptions. An apt analogy, actually, as my mind is like a child, needing constant stimulation. And needless to say, the process of texting doesn't provide the ripping entertainment that it feels it deserves. Like an Amish child, my poor mind has to derive pleasure from some pretty dry sources. Here are a few highlights of a typical texting session:

- Finding an 'x' without having to look long and hard.
- Slipping the stem of an 'h' or 'd' into a conveniently evacuated spot just above it.
- Aligning two 'i's' so that they share the same dot (my mind is way into dot conservation).

And, for those nights when my mind really cuts loose:

- Liberating a 'c' from the confines of a crippling cluster of consonants and offering it new life: 'crutch' transforms into 'celestial'.
- Separating two vowels that have been joined at the hip since ink hit paper, and giving them new homes in neighboring words. 'Goofy' is refigured as 'of course'. (They can still visit from time to time, but they no longer live under the same roof).
- Reversing the order of letters so that the underdog letter becomes the alphadog. 'Comatose' becomes 'ocean'. Ha! Take that, you varmint!
- The breaking up of a cheeky consonant blend which esteems itself unstoppable, and the reuse of the letters in a single word. 'Straitjacket' becomes 'self-righteousness'.
- And, of course, the odd alignment of two capital O's, one on top of 'tother, creating a portal of sorts, or at least an uncommon break in the monotony. Since this can never be pre-planned, I consider it destiny, and cause for celebration. Bartender, a round of x-acto blades for my friends!
- Then there's the Triple Crown of texting, an accomplishment which I have not achieved, nor do I expect to in this lifetime. This somber event occurs when three capital OOO's come into vertical alignment, setting off a ripple of bliss into the outer reaches of the cosmos. This mystical positioning, often referred to as the Holy Grail of texting, is achieved only by avatars, and is no less than OOOrgasmic.

So you see? Ne'r a dull moment here at Chez Madge. But after a weekend of burning the midnight oil, you can see why we - my mind and I - look forward to the sunrise, and sanity, of Monday morning.