Hi Ron
When I mention the Good, I mean quality. To be a bit more accurate, I meant the ability to recognize good facts from bad: what does it mean to be a good writer, or a good bartender, or a good mechanic? "The difference between a good mechanic and a bad one, like the difference between a good mathematician and a bad one, is precisely this ability to select the good facts from the bad ones on the basis of quality." [ZMM] To be good at any endeavor requires us to crawl inside ourselves. It isn't the diagrams and books and training courses that tell us how to be a good electrical engineer or a good airplane pilot... rather it's about our own attitude. "The right facts, the ones we really need, are not only passive, they are damned elusive, and we’re not going to just sit back and "observe" them. We’re going to have to be in there looking for them or we’re going to be here a long time." [ZMM] Quality is the basis for all. We pile inorganic, biological, social, and intellectual patterns one on top of another but under it all is Quality. An accomplished musician makes it look easy but we only see the end result. We don't see the tens of thousands of hours the musician has worked at perfecting their craft. The really great musician has to have some natural ability to begin with, however. Whether it is long, agile fingers, or an exceptionally good ear, or simply a driving desire to be better, there has to be something there to build upon. But there's much more than that... To realize oneself, a person first has to discover what it is that drives them to become better. We all have abilities with which nature has endowed us. But history is filled with stories of people with immense abilities who only squander them. They had the wrong attitude. They didn't understand how to pick the good facts from the bad on the basis of quality. They got stuck. "I think the basic fault that underlies the problem of stuckness is traditional rationality’s insistence upon "objectivity," a doctrine that there is a divided reality of subject and object. For true science to take place these must be rigidly separate from each other. "You are the mechanic. There is the motorcycle. You are forever apart from one another. You do this to it. You do that to it. These will be the results." "This eternally dualistic subject-object way of approaching the motorcycle sounds right to us because we’re used to it. But it’s not right. It’s always been an artificial interpretation superimposed on reality. It’s never been reality itself. When this duality is completely accepted a certain nondivided relationship between the mechanic and motorcycle, a craftsmanlike feeling for the work, is destroyed. When traditional rationality divides the world into subjects and objects it shuts out Quality, and when you’re really stuck it’s Quality, not any subjects or objects, that tells you where you ought to go." [ZMM] I think this is all related to a point that I thought important in my story but easily overlooked: baptism. The waters are used to wash away original sin of which we're all guilty... even a newborn baby. This "aquatic" cosomology, the waters, symbolizes the Good (Dynamic Quality) underlying all potentialities of the world. There is a counter-part on the static quality level in the beliefs that mankind was born of the waters. The Flood and tales of Atlantis being immersed beneath the waters are equivalent to baptism... not final extinction but to temporary or initiatory death, and rebirth as a new life, a new man, or a new name. "And that door leads to Sarah’s office. Sarah! Now it comes down! She came trotting by with her watering pot between those two doors, going from the corridor to her office, and she said, "I hope you are teaching Quality to your students." This in a la-de-da, singsong voice of a lady in her final year before retirement about to water her plants. That was the moment it all started. That was the seed crystal." [ZMM] The mention of water here is like Dynamic Quality, almost incidental and easily disregarded as inconsequential, but it's where it all starts. I think you might say the waters analogy might be considered related to the form of the Good that you mention, in that it is both sacred and ordinary at the same time. This aquatic cosmology dissolves the dualist subject and object style of thinking and leads to harmony. Thanks for reading, Dan ---------------------------------------- > Date: Thu, 30 Apr 2009 07:45:08 -0700 > From: [email protected] > To: [email protected] > Subject: Re: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica > > Dan, > > You bring up the good, which I took to mean the "now" and you bring up > potential, the > shaping of the "now". The "Good" and the "form of the Good". The form of the > good > is forever tied to past and future in our mind. Some would say the good and > the form of > the good are forever tied through experience. To harmonize the form of the > good > with the good is said to be the refinement of intent. The refinement of > intent, > the realization of self. > > One begins to understand that there is no conflict.That when the self is > realized > in this manner, value guides potential. > > -Ron > > > > > > > > > > ________________________________ > From: Dan Glover > To: [email protected] > Sent: Wednesday, April 29, 2009 4:50:25 PM > Subject: Re: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica > > > > > Hi Ron > > It's good of you to write, thank you. I've been sitting on my front porch > enjoying the blooming of spring. A faint scent of violets fills the air. They > push up from under rotting leaves I failed to rake last fall. There's the > tension of growth everywhere I look. It's easy to see, sitting here taking in > the lushness of the world, how a person is beguiled into believing Paradise > is just a thin bridge away. > > Musings: the thinker/philosopher/writer tries to represent the world through > logic even though he knows in his heart that the world isn't logical, while > the intelligent artist knows full well that her brushes and canvas will never > perfectly express the true nature of a warlock or an angel before she even > starts to paint. > > They both try, though. They've no choice. I think when we attempt to realize > ourselves through the gifts with which nature has endowed us, we're compelled > to do the best and only meaningful thing we can do. > > I pause to ponder: what does it mean to realize myself? Consider this... > everthing is dependent on other things they're stacked upon (thank god for > the Society for Putting Things on Top of Other Things) and under all is the > Good. The Good is perfect. Everything else is potentialities. When we go from > potenial to deed we participate in the Good, becoming degree by degree - > perfect. In my experience, that's what it means to realize myself. > > There are obstacles that come between me and my work. My daughter calls me to > invite me to dinner this weekend when I had plans to be alone and write. I do > what's good and gratefully accept her invitation. Work can wait. So the good > becomes both goal and obstacle to itself; I find that strange. Still, that > which makes us live kills us too. > > Anyway, thanks again for writing. > > Dan > > ---------------------------------------- >> Date: Tue, 28 Apr 2009 07:51:37 -0700 >> From: [email protected] >> To: [email protected] >> Subject: Re: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica >> >> Dan, >> I know, that I can not write any words to ease, only that your words touched >> on my own experiences of memory and regret of possibilities that never >> emerged. I can not read your words and not respond in some meager way, >> some nod to the ghosts that haunt, some acknowledgement. >> >> What brings me solace, is the everpresent, the flowering lotus. >> When here, memories, regrets and possibilities do not enter. >> >> Experiences like the one you describe tend to shape us, we make >> agreements about them. You were told you should have been there >> and you agreed to that and that agreement and many others like it >> has shaped you. Writing this to us all, means you are ready to break >> this agreement and others, to make new ones. >> >> Thank you for sharing your memories Dan and heres to breaking >> old agreements and making new ones about our memories. >> >> Skoal >> -Ron >> >> >> >> >> >> >> ________________________________ >> From: Dan Glover >> To: [email protected] >> Sent: Tuesday, April 28, 2009 1:56:57 AM >> Subject: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica >> >> >> >> Meditations - On Loss and the Nature of Suffering >> >> "I was pregnant," Lila said. >> >> "How old were you?" >> >> "Sixteen. Seventeen when she was born." >> >> "That's too young," The Captain said. [LILA] >> >> >> In the spring, she'd wear apple blossoms in her hair. The flowers' whiteness >> contrasted so with the darkness of her skin and hair and eyes that my heart >> bled and my breath sometimes caught short in my chest, as if I were drowning >> in the spell of her beauty. Sometimes, still, when I am drifting off to >> sleep or maybe just waking, I think I hear her voice... she's saying my >> name; I fancy the way it rolls off the tip of her tongue with that little >> hint of accent. She calls me Daniel. No one ever called me by that name >> before and no one has called me by that name since. >> >> We married young. Her name was Yolanda. I called her Yoli. I remember she >> smelled of incense and her lips tasted of peppermint and wild strawberries >> and we couldn't touch enough of each other. Back then, when people talked >> about us - and they did talk about this goofy gringo and that crazy Spanish >> chick - they said we "had" to get married. They didn't understand. We wanted >> to get married. The baby merely gave us an excuse. I like to think we taught >> each other what it meant to love. >> >> We lived in Traverse City, Michigan in a little yellow house with white >> wooden shutters on the sides of the windows and a big back yard surrounded >> by trees in a quiet older part of town. There wasn't much work there except >> logging, after they closed the plastic factory where we worked together, >> where we first met. >> >> After that, I hired on to work with a crew that clear-cut trees and brush >> off of hillsides up in Canada in an area about six hours drive north. Of >> course it was too far to drive back and forth so we'd stay two weeks at a >> time, sleeping in tents or the back of trucks. Back then we didn't have cell >> phones or GPS. When we were on site there was no timely way of reaching us. >> I needed the work. There were bills to pay and a baby on the way. >> >> Yoli was seven months pregnant when I left her to go north. The doctor said >> not to worry... she wasn't due for a while. I'd only be gone a couple weeks. >> She was seventeen and all alone; she must have been scared, but she never >> let on if she was. I was eighteen and didn't know any better, or I would >> have never left her side. >> >> A Jeep showed up at the job site three days after we arrived. I remember >> seeing the dust from miles away. An uneasy feeling came over me. Whoever it >> was, they were moving too fast for those loose gravel roads. There had to be >> a reason. The Jeep came out of the trees and slid to a halt. A man climbed >> out and came running up the hill calling my name as he ran. He said he had >> bad news, that I better come with him and get in the Jeep and go back south, >> right now. I did. On the way he explained that Yolanda had had a miscarriage >> but she was going to be okay. >> >> When I got to the hospital I found out the man had lied; I couldn't blame >> him. He probably didn't know how to tell me the truth. I wouldn't have known >> how were it me doing the telling. Yolanda passed away shortly after giving >> birth to our son. The doctor said he tried to save her but he couldn't stop >> the bleeding. He tried his best. He assured me that everyone tried their >> best. >> >> It was the middle of the night and he was just an intern and there was so >> much blood. He kept saying it, over and over... there was so much blood, so >> much blood... and shaking his lowered head and staring at his hands as if >> they were still stained red while tears ran down his face. She had a >> ruptured uterus; he didn't know what else to do so she laid there and died >> while they tried to reach a real doctor. I sat there, listening, silently >> weeping into a crumpled paper towel I had the presence of mind to stick into >> my back pocket. I waited until later to do my screaming. Alone. >> >> They named our son Daniel. He lived for two hours. He was born too early. We >> planned to name him Luis, after her grandfather. But no one knew that save >> us. The priest wanted a name for the baptism before our son died. A nurse >> suggested they use my name. I remember being a bit put out at the time. Now >> though, whenever I see that name, his name, my name, I think of him. I've >> come to see it as both curse and blessing. >> >> My brother and his girlfriend had a baby about that same time, a boy. They >> gave him up for adoption. They said they weren't ready. We weren't ready >> either, Yoli and me. But there was no way we were going to give up little >> Luis. We were a family. I don't understand my brother's decision. We've >> never talked about it but I bet he doesn't understand either. At the time it >> appeared to me that life wasn't as fair as I thought it should be. I've >> since come to see that I was wrong. >> >> Not long afterwards, I remarried, raised another family, and eventually >> divorced. My first marriage happened so fast it's almost like it never >> occurred at all. All I have left are a couple old wrinkled pictures of Yoli >> smiling her smile into the camera and our cheap gold-plated wedding rings >> that I keep together on a little silver-looking chain in an old tattered >> shoe box full of treasures I've accumulated along the way. >> >> The kids don't know about my first family. I never told them. I saw no >> reason. I started to tell my second wife but I could see she didn't care to >> hear about it so I never brought it up again. In fact, this is the first >> time I've come close to telling it to anyone in detail. >> >> I am not sure why I am writing about it now. I find it makes me very sad. >> Writing out these beautifully terrible memories deep into dark lonely nights >> helps give rise to the most vicious morning headaches. I can barely deal >> with them; I'm not good with physical pain... and I never have headaches, >> not like this, not until now. It seems better to write than not, I suppose, >> but I'm in no way sure about that. >> >> Aspirin and coffee for breakfast allows me to face yet another day. It's >> either that or whiskey and dirt. And I'm not ready for dirt. Besides, maybe >> some day some distant descendant of mine will want to know who I was, and >> why. Maybe these bits and pieces of a battered and bruised heart will help >> tell the tale, for what it's worth. Maybe I owe it to them, somehow. >> >> I remember Yoli's mother hugging me at the funeral, whispering in my ear, >> accusing me: ustedes hizo esto. All I could say was: Yo sé. I know. I felt >> so guilty. I should have been there. It's been over thiry five years but it >> feels like yesterday. I still curse myself for my ignorance. I buried Yoli >> and Daniel together and went back to work. But just to tell the boss I quit. >> I couldn't do it anymore. >> >> I've tried to live a Good life. I'm probably not the best father nor was I >> as good a husband as I might have been. I suppose none of that matters as >> much as it would in a more perfect world. Even knowing of this world's flaws >> though, I sometimes think I should have more regrets than I do. If I >> believed I was in control of anything at all, perhaps I would. I know that I >> am not. >> >> I feel as shiftless as a broken leaf blowing in the brisk spring breeze, >> bereft of even any hope of finding solace. I know I will finally land where >> I will, lay there a short while, and then rot back into the ash from which I >> sprang. It is (of course) the way. >> >> Yet, were I still a good Catholic I think I should like to believe that when >> the light of this marvelous world finally dies for good I'll see Yoli and >> Daniel again standing there waiting for me at the edge of some nameless >> green forest with wide smiles on their faces and a deep knowing in their >> eyes. Disbeliever that I am, I do confess to sometimes wondering though if >> they'd remember me... >> >> "He stood there for a long time looking around outside. Then he looked back >> down at her. >> >> "How old is your baby now?" he asked. >> >> That surprised her. That was a new one. "What do you want to know that for?" >> >> "I already told you before I started asking all these questions," he said. >> >> "She's dead." >> >> "How did she die?" he asked. >> >> "I killed her," she said. >> >> She watched his eyes. She didn't like them. He looked mean. >> >> "You mean accidentally," he said. >> >> "I didn't cover her right and she smothered," Lila said. "That was long ago." >> >> "Nobody blamed you though." >> >> "Nobody had to. What could they say. . . that I didn't already know?" [LILA] >> >> Comfortably numb, >> >> Dan >> >> >> Mi vida Dinámica >> >> Somos arcilla sin voz, mi hijo, >> todavía no se formó >> antes de la memoria espléndido. >> >> (My Dynamic Life >> >> We are voiceless clay, my son, >> not yet formed >> before the wonderful memory.) >> _________________________________________________________________ Windows Live™: Keep your life in sync. http://windowslive.com/explore?ocid=TXT_TAGLM_BR_life_in_synch_052009 Moq_Discuss mailing list Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org Archives: http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ http://moq.org.uk/pipermail/moq_discuss_archive/
