Posts Tagged books

Current Round-up, Extended Remix #1: Books

There are so many interesting things I’ve read, seen, or listened to and not posted about that I’m going to have break down my usual round-up into separate posts. To start off, here’s my reading for the first two months of 2009:

January

  1. Danger on Peaks, poems by Gary Snyder (R) — Not as absorbing as Mountains and Rivers without End, but it would be hard to top a book-length poem that you’d worked on for forty years.  Snyder is always worth reading, though–for the interpenetration of Buddhism, ecological wisdom, and what might broadly be called shamanism in his work.
  2. The Eight Gates of Zen by John Daido Loori — Loori is the head of the Mountains and Rivers Order of Zen Buddhism, an American-born roshi and a gifted photographer.  He’s also the first writer on Zen to make any sense to me.  This book outlines the training system used by his order, which applies with variations to both lay and monastic practitioners.  What enthralled me was that it includes work (as in one’s job, or housekeeping), art, and exercise as forms of Zen practice along with zazen (sitting meditation), koan study, and interaction with a teacher.  I liked it enough to read more of his work, as you’ll see below.
  3. Haiku Mind by Patricia Donegan — A collection of 108 haiku from all over the world, from Japanese classics to living writers, with short reflections on each poem by Donegan.  Some of the reflections were a bit too obvious or generic–peace meditation and psychology, rather than being specifically Buddhist–but it’s a good book for seeing the variety of which haiku is capable, and for reading a couple of entries at a sitting and letting them percolate.


February

    4. Lucifer v. 4: The Divine Comedy by Mike Carey et al. — The art can’t compare to Moore’s Promethea, but this spin-off of the Sandman series continues to hold my interest, with its often grotesque humor, plundering of world mythology, and surprising (to me, at least) plot twists.  The initial premise of the series is that Lucifer, aka Satan, you all know this guy, has retired from running Hell and is running a casino, instead.  His peaceful retirement is interrupted when he inadvertently creates another universe, and his former Boss (or the Boss’s minions) want a piece of it. So far my two favorite characters are the fallen cherubs Gaudium and Spera–wisecracking, foul-mouthed little gargoyles who nevertheless have a basic decency about them.
    5. The Dhammapada, Shambhala Pocket Edition (R) — I feel I ought to read this most basic compilation of Buddhist teaching once in a while, but I don’t care for this translation, which is a little abstract and spare.  I prefer the version by Eknath Easwaran, who also translated a number of other important Scriptures of Indian religions.
    6. Between Two Souls: Conversations with Ryokan, Mary Lou Kownacki — Kownacki is a Benedictine nun who took Ryokan’s poems for her daily lectio divina for two years.  The result was a body of poetry inspired by and in dialogue with Ryokan’s work: a Zen hermit of the nineteenth century, living a life essentially the same as his predecessors for hundreds of years prior, and a Benedictine solitary living in a troubled city neighborhood, both facing suffering and impermanence head-on and hanging on to religious practice by the fingernails.  Good, thoughtful work.
    7. Invoking Reality: Moral and Ethical Teachings of Zen by John Daido Loori — I gulped this book down and asked for more like Oliver Twist.  Loori teaches on the precepts, Buddhism’s ethical guidelines, with exquisite lucidity and clarity.  I will not soon forget his description of how running over a raccoon and leaving it to die in pain, rather than killing it outright so it wouldn’t suffer further, actually violates the First Precept, not to kill.
    8. Lucifer v. 5: Inferno — Further adventures with the chief fallen angel.  I just wish the artists could draw Lucifer the same way twice.
    9. Lucifer v. 6: Mansions of the Silence — Okay, this is where the story got *really* wacky.  Lucifer borrows Naglfar, the ship of fingernails, from Loki and sends a motley crew on a mission to a place that’s neither Heaven nor Hell to rescue the soul of a strange little girl whose father is the Archangel Michael.
    10. Bringing the Sacred to Life by John Daido Loori — Another lovely, lucid little book from Loori, this time on Zen ritual and what it means to perform a religious service that isn’t worship of an external divine something.  And all his books have some of his black-and-white photography.
    11. An Arrow to the Heart by Ken McLeod (R) — McLeod, an American Buddhist teacher who studied with the noted Tibetan lama Kalu Rinpoche, offers a commentary on the core text of Mahayana traditions, the Heart Sutra, a commentary that includes poetry, prose, notes, and amusing little drawings that all feature a target.  It’s another book that’s good to read in small chunks as food for thought–or no-thought.

At the moment I have bookmarks in the following books:

  • Kissing the Limitless by yezida 
  • Great Eastern Sun by Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche
  • The Pocket Tibetan Buddhism Reader, edited by Reginald Ray
  • Epic, a young adult novel about an Earth colony where all conflicts and disputes are settled by participation in an online role-playing game–including conflicts with the government

I’m expecting delivery of a new book by occult author John Michael Greer, The UFO Phenomenon: Fact, Fantasy and Disinformation, and of the next volume of the Lucifer series.  I’m not hugely interested in UFO stuff, but Greer is a good writer, and I did watch X-Files for a while–I’m interested to see whether Greer will pick up on the similarities between UFO/alien lore and faery lore, and what he’ll have to say about it.

And now it’s time for more tea, fresh food for the boys, and possibly some oatmeal.

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Birthdays

It’s the birthday of Enoch Pratt, the philanthropist whose money founded the city of Baltimore’s public library; hence, the Enoch Pratt Free Library.

It’s also the birthday of novelist Franz Werfel. Werfel is well known for marrying Alma Mahler after Gustav Mahler’s death and for two of his several novels: The Song of Bernadette and The Forty Days of Musa Dagh. But Writer’s Almanac does not mention his final, posthumously published novel, Star of the Unborn. This was reprinted by Ballantine during the fantasy boom of the 1970s, and inspired by some strange muse, my parents bought it for me one Christmas when I was no older than twelve. In this visionary novel, a protagonist based on the author is mysteriously resurrected in a distant future when humanity seems to have refined and perfected itself and suffering has been eliminated. But, of course, all is not as it seems….

I’ve been trying off and on to read this book for decades. Perhaps I’ll give it another go.

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It seems odd to me–

–that Christopher Robin Milne should be only six years older than my mother, four years older than my father. They might have read the Pooh books as children. To me Winnie-the-Pooh and its world seem like something that has always existed–and I guess it has, just not in book form.

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Something like a normal post

Today is shaping up to be better than yesterday. The computer at home spontaneously decided to power up last night, so I was able to check my onlineage at home over breakfast, while Rembrandt flew back and forth between his domicile and my shoulder. I put together a small load of laundry and stopped at my mother-in-law’s en route to work to put it in the wash, having already called her and asked if she could toss it in the dryer at her convenience. My boss is in today, for the first time since last Thursday, when I was out; she expressed her condolences on Mango very kindly. And I’ve actually finished the Shipment of a Thousand Congressional Reports that came in on Friday, which I pecked at then and ignored for much of yesterday. Finishing this shipment deserves a “YAY!” *power fist*

I’m closing to finishing what I think is my third reading of Memory by Lois Bujold; I finally bought my own copy. I cannot express how much this book made me love Simon Illyan, who always looks to my mind’s eye a bit like David McCallum (it’s the Ilya/Illyan thing). All of Bujold’s characters inspire in me a feeling that I can only call fondness; re-reading her books is like catching up with dear friends. Well, there is perhaps one expression to that fondness: Mark Vorkosigan. I think my feeling about him is closer to, “Oh no, here *he* comes again!” That doesn’t mean I don’t love him.

I’ve also been re-reading some of Julia Cameron’s stuff, starting with her startlingly forthright memoir Floor Sample and going on with The Right to Write. And as usual, I have a few Buddhist books in the stack, particularly Skillful Grace, teachings on a classic text about the goddess Tara. But thanks to Jesse Kornbluth at HeadButler.com, I made an important book discovery, so important I started reading a library copy and then ordered my own: French Women Don’t Get Fat.

Yes, you’ve all heard of this book and it’s not a fad anymore. What it is, however, is an entertainingly written compendium of anecdotes, recipes, and the most sensible, livable eating advice I’ve ever seen. The subtitle of this book is not “How You Can Look Like Leslie Caron in 30 Days”, but rather, “The Secret of Eating for Pleasure”. The author’s premise is that Americans eat a lot more than the French primarily because we eat without awareness–without sitting down at a properly set table and giving our whole attention to the food. Her suggestions for weight loss, or rather for changing one’s eating habits, include drinking lots of water, eating good-quality foods in season, using herbs and spices wisely, and compensating for indulgences (like chocolate pastries) with a little extra restraint later (such as cutting back on one’s bread consumption the next day). Nothing is to be foregone, but everything is to be eaten in moderation–which means, among other things, smaller portions than Americans are accustomed to.

I am willing to try this book’s suggestions, especially the part about no deprivation. *g* I’ve already made an effort to drink more water in the past two days; you know, cola really *is* an odd drink, when you think about it. And reading the ingredients on a diet tea bottle can be very intimidating….

Speaking of food, it’s just about lunchtime. I pulled some frozen leftovers out of the freezer; I think I’ll go find out what’s in that container along with the tofu….

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Um, okay, this is weird

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Mystics at large: Andrew Harvey vs. Ken Wilber

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered a new blog, The Expvlsion of the Blatant Beast. Bo, the blogger, had a lot to say on topics of interest to me: Druidry, medieval literature and culture, Celtic language, literature and linguistics, et cetera. He also had an interesting sidebar listing people whom he admires, ranging from Camille Paglia to Andrew Harvey to Rowan Williams, Archbishop of Canterbury.

So after reading his heartfelt post on Harvey, I was inspired to grab one of the man’s memoirs, Sun at Midnight, which details the breakdown of his relationship with his long-time guru, Mother Meera, and the solidification of a romantic relationship into a permanent commitment.

Sun at Midnight turned out to be a gripping read. It may be the first book by Harvey that I have finished, because it exhibited everything I dislike in Harvey’s writing, which is to say it exhibited everything I dislike in Andrew Harvey.

There is a streak I have sometimes come across in a certain type of person who’s deeply interested in spiritual matters, and it runs as deep and wide as the Grand Canyon in Harvey’s writing. It is hard to describe without sounding utterly judgmental, which is why I couldn’t grapple with this post until my brain was up to speed. I think of it as self-promotion, as attention-getting. “HEY! look at ME! I’m so MYSTICAL! I’m so SPIRITUAL! I wanna talk about GOD!” This attention-getting display is followed by a twenty-minute disquisition on a) the Council of Nicaea, b) the Divine Feminine, or c) Julian of Norwich, depending on who the attention-getter is.

The impression I get so often is that Harvey and the attention-getters are far less interested in God and the direct experience thereof than they are in being recognized by other people as Mystical, Spiritual, Lovers of the Divine. And if cold hard facts interfere with their melodramatic love affair with the Divine, then the facts had just better get out of the way. I can still recall one well-known mystical blogger who described Julian of Norwich as living in a cozy little village. I hated to be the one to tell him that Norwich was one of the largest cities in England in Julian’s day, a seaport second only to London in its importance. The streets that ran past Julian’s cozy little anchorhold were filled with street cries, merchants, carts, and the business of daily life. But that was ever so much duller than his fantasy, and I don’t think he took much notice of my comment.

The real problem, of course, is the fear of looking, of acting Just Like these people who annoy me. Or is the real problem that while they’re holding everyone’s attention with their extensive knowledge of mysticism, church history, and what not, I can spot all the mistakes they’re making–because I read the same material when I was twelve or thirteen? I know all about this stuff… I just don’t wave it around in front of people. (Except for that dinner party where E. and I started talking about Nicene theology and the Definition of Chalcedon….)

I can see, I think, why Harvey appeals to many people and how he might help them, by opening up possibilities for a deeper relationship with Reality outside What They Learned in Sunday School or What The Pastor Said Last Sunday. But while waving the banner of Guru-less Religion, of The Direct Path to God, he seems to be leaving behind not only the institution and the guru, but other people. There is little room in his mysticism, the flight of the alone to the Alone (except when accompanied by beautiful gay lover), for dealing with ordinary, messy, non-mystical people. I sometimes want to remind fans of mysticism that all the great figures they most admire–Rumi, St. John of the Cross, Julian of Norwich, and so forth–were deeply immersed in community and firmly anchored in an institution. They not only enjoyed mystical raptures, they did boring things like say a Daily Office, take Communion, teach students, counsel confused visitors. They did not merely spend their time writing books about how passionate and wonderful they are.

At the other end of the spectrum, I’m re-reading Ken Wilber’s One Taste, a digest of his journal from around 1999. He had a visit from Harvey and his partner Eryk Hanut not long after the events chronicled in Sun at Midnight, which he notes in the journal. I don’t have my copy handy, but he says something like, “Andrew, being a Romantic, is in the hate phase of his love/hate relationship with Mother Meera. They have had a hard time, but he and Eryk seem very happy together.” That’s a lot different from Harvey’s accounts of the Great Mother Goddess blessing the whole world through his life-affirming tantric blowjob of Eryk. (And no, I am not making this up.)

Wilber is rather an odd duck. A widower, a philosopher, a prolific writer, he comes across in his writing as a person who is simultaneously excited by the ideas he’s exploring and stone cold sober. He can write with equal flair about maintaining conscious awareness through all three states of consciousness–waking, dreaming, and deep sleep–and about visiting South Beach, Miami, with his girlfriend for a mad holiday. If he tells me he’s been conscious, aware, in some sense *awake* during deep dreamless sleep–I believe him. His words have the undeniable ring of someone who is writing about what he has experienced, and who has tried to understand his experience and integrate it into his life. He is not a man who will mistake an orgasm for a mystical experience, or vice versa–nor is he one to deny it when a mystical experience and an orgasm happen at the same time.

I wish I had a clever conclusion to this post, but I don’t think I do. All I can say is that I’ll be reading more Wilber and less Harvey, and watching my behavior to make sure I’m not shouting for undeserved attention.

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A bookish meme from dadi

1. A favourite book.

Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers. This is a book I come back to over and over again, not for the mystery plot but for the evolving relationship between Peter and Harriet, and for its searching consideration of the relative importance of love and work in the lives of women and men.

2. A book that affected you in your YA years.

The Spiral Dance, which clued me in to Wicca, Neopaganism, and magic. I was so affected by that original edition that I have the ten- and twenty-year updates, too.

3. A favourite fantasy novel.

Wizard’s Holiday, one of the Young Wizards series by Diane Duane (dduane). I am very fond of this whole series–I’ve been reading it for more than twenty years–but you gotta love a book where one of the characters is a sentient fir tree with red berries who buys and wears a baseball cap when he visits Earth.

4. A favourite sci-fi novel.

Lately this honor has been taken by Kim Stanley Robinson’s Red Mars. World-building, hard science, characterization, the long view–it’s great stuff.

5. An awesome book you think not many people around you have heard of/read.

dadi named the biography of a famous castrato, so I’m going to take a leaf from her and mention Perdurabo, a biography of Aleister Crowley by Richard Kaczynski (richard_kaczyn). It’s the most detailed and at the same time most balanced bio of Crowley I know, written by someone who’s a Thelemite, a magician, and a rigorous scholar.

6. A book you own more than one copy of.

dadi named the Divine Comedy, which I also own more than one copy/translation of. I must also add the Bible (multiple translations), The Spiral Dance (multiple editions), the Revelations of Julian of Norwich… what?

7. An author whose every single book you own/will buy.

I’m not sure anybody falls in that category for me right now. Diana Paxson (dpaxson) is probably the closest.

8. The worst book you’ve ever read.

If by “worst” I can intend “strangest, most confusing and bewildering, and what the fruit is going on here?”, then it has to be Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, which I had to read in college and have never gotten over.

9. A book you dislike that lots of other people you know like.

Anything by Dan Brown. Eek. That man’s prose makes me cringe.

10. The most difficult book you’ve ever read.

Hm, Gravity’s Rainbow, Red Mars the first time through, Hildegard of Bingen’s Scivias, a massive visionary opus.

11. Tell me what kind of books your mum reads/read.

Mystery novels and horror. She was a huge fan of Stephen King.

12. What have you read so far this year?

A LOT.

13. What are you reading now?

A LOT. Yesterday I started Clear Blogging by Bob Walsh, which is going to be really helpful to me in managing and promoting my blogs.

14. What are you reading next?

[rolls eyes] You mean there are people who read one book at a time? Not me.

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Going to Mars

After all these years, I think I finally understand what Natalie Goldberg meant in Writing Down the Bones and her subsequent books when she wrote about writing practice, and how it is about trusting your own mind, your own experience.  I think I’m finally learning to do that through this daily minimum–learning to look round at my life and see that it is worth sharing, worth transforming into fiction.

Ken Wilber says that there are three main disciplines in the Integral Approach: art, which is discovering and expression the self; morals, the discipline of right relationship with other beings; and science, the exploration and explanation of the world around us.  Or, as it may also be expressed, the Beautiful, the Good, and the True.  I think each of these things may partake of the other; art is primarily about the Beautiful, but it may also teach about the Good and the True.  That which is True, I find, is also Beautiful and leads us to the Good.  And what is Good must partake of what is Beautiful and what is True in order for it to be virtue.

I finished the second book of John Varley’s Martian trilogy, Red Lightning, and started in at once on the third book, newly published, Rolling Thunder.  It took me two whole books and part of another to realize the problem I had with this fictional universe, despite Varley’s engaging characters and good, fast-paced writing.  It’s the Martian Superiority Complex.  In the first book, Red Thunder, a group of private citizens are the first people on Mars, thanks to a quantum leap in power systems discovered by a genius; the narrator is a young half-WASP, half-Cuban guy.  In the second book, Red Lightning, Mars is a settled place that relies mostly on its tourist industry, and the protagonist/narrator is the son of the first book’s protagonist, born on Earth but raised on Mars.  Rolling Thunder, the third book, has for its protagonist the Martian-born third-generation of the family, a daughter with musical talent.

The Martian Superiority Complex starts in book two and just gets bigger and more obvious.  Mars is better.  Mars is cleaner, saner, free of crazies.  Martians are well-educated, enterprising, and definitely *not* religious fanatics.  Earthies are stupid, fanatical, poorly educated, good only for putting money into the pockets of Martians.  They’ve screwed up their planet, they can’t be trusted with power, and it’s a darned good thing there are Martians to control the awesome power source that makes space travel and clean energy possible.

Behind this understandable superiority (understandable in a 19-year-old born and raised on Mars) there seems to be a not so understandable or forgivable attitude on the part of the author to our current situation on Earth.  We’ve screwed ourselves up with fossil fuels, religious fanaticism, greed and power-mongering.  Those of us who are sane need to cut and run: We should just dump Earth, let the crazies go down the drain, and find someplace else to live until Earth’s climatic turmoil resettles.

The problem is… we can’t actually do that.  Varley’s fictional set-up depends on a source of power based on string theory that nobody but a single, singularly gifted genius can manufacture, let alone create.  It’s all we can do right now to send those spiffy little rovers to Mars and other unmanned probes farther out.  I’m delighted that we’re doing that, just to see other worlds in our system and learn more about the cosmos, but I don’t see us sending people to Mars, or even back to the Moon, any time soon.  Like it or not, we’re stuck here, stuck with climate change, with dwindling oil resources, with religious fanatics willing to kill or die to prove to their own satisfaction that their way is the only way.

We’re not going to destroy the planet.  Earth’s lifespan is far longer than ours; she will recover even if we bomb ourselves into oblivion.  We can destroy ourselves and much of the biosphere, but eventually Mother Earth would birth new forms of life.  I think Kim Stanley Robinson is closer to the mark in saying, as I think he says in his great Mars Trilogy, that what we need is not a new planet, but new forms of culture, and that the building blocks for those forms are right here on Earth. 

But I’m still going to finish Varley’s book, and then probably look up his Gaean trilogy, which my father read when I was a teen.  He’s a damned good writer.

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A tropical heat wave…

My brain is addled from the heat, but the scale showed a loss of ten pounds this morning, after a week without major carbs.  If it weren’t for the sickening heat, I would probably feel great.  I really don’t find myself missing grains; I get hungry a lot, but meats, fruit, veggies, good yogurt or cheese do the trick.  Over the weekend I ate frequently but in small amounts and drank a lot of water.  I even ate a Reese’s Cup yesterday without any apparent effect; it wasn’t horrible, it wasn’t ecstatically wonderful, it staved off the vague nausea I was feeling, and it left me without any particular desire for more of the same.

The heat wave has basically confined us to the bedroom in the evenings, as that’s where the air conditioning is, and somehow, we have misplaced the remotes for both the tv and the DVD player.  We can operate the DVD player manually, but the only way to switch the tv to the right band for DVD viewing is through its remote.  So instead of watching our Netflix, we wound up with Bones and House last night.

Bones is not a bad show, if you don’t mind seeing fake dead bodies a lot.  The title character is the Uber-Scully, so rational and so clueless about pop culture and social interactions that I wondered if she’s supposed to be on the autism spectrum somewhere.  I mean, she’s never heard of Mr. Ed the talking horse?  This episode revolved around murder at a pony play camp.  (For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, well, some folks get a sexual kick out of pretending to be horses.  With lots of fancy accessories….)  They played this display of sexual fetishism about as straight as one could on tv; Bones the forensic analyst is totally rational and chacun au son goust about the whole thing, and Booth the FBI agent is frank about his “That’s just wrong!” reactions.  I find David Boreanaz much more likable as Booth than I ever found him compelling as Angel.  I’ve seen a lot of Buffy and a little Angel: The Series, and I am pretty well convinced that Boreanaz is a competent actor who can play comedy pretty well, but he just can’t do Brooding Angst.  He’ll never convince me as a tragic romantic hero, but I could like him a lot as Agent Booth (the Anti-Mulder, hee).

This was the first time I got through an episode of House.  I know that many people I respect love and adore that show, but I have some very strong medical squicks, and every time I’ve tried to watch House, it hasn’t just ticked my squicks, it’s put a rose in its teeth and flamenco-danced over them.  This episode managed not to do so, and so I actually watched the whole thing.  Yes, likable cuddly Hugh Laurie is strangely compelling as the misanthropic but brilliant House, limping, unshaven, staring about with uncompromising bloodshot eyes, and dry-swallowing pills by the handful.  The minor characters hooked my interest–potential new hires competing for a handful of positions studying and working with House.  But I’m not sure I’ll go out of my way to watch it again.  I may need some Jeeves & Wooster to cleanse my palate.

I’m slowly reading my way through One Taste: The Journals of Ken Wilber with the happy certainty that I want to buy my own copy and read it again and again.  It’s not hugely personal stuff, but the guy did write a book with his wife about her slow decline and death from cancer; he’s kind of covered the personal revelation stuff permanently, as far as I’m concerned.  His ideas are exciting me, confirming how I think about some things, challenging me to look more closely at other things I tend to ignore.  I will have more to say as I read more of his work.

The abundant rain we got in May has caused a lot of flowers to bloom earlier than usual.  The day lilies are coming out, and there are some really splendid hollyhocks around the neighborhood, including one stand that’s a dark purple, almost black.  When payday comes on Friday, I’m going to buy a disposable camera and get some pictures to share.

Lunch today consists of pepperoni, raw baby carrots, sliced American cheese, and some fresh pineapple left over from yesterday.  I wonder how long I can hold out before eating it.  Well, I did get to work early….

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