anatta’s beach

“But who, Venerable One, is it that feels?”

“This question is not proper,” said the Exalted One. “I do not teach that there is one who feels. If however the question is put thus: ‘Conditioned through what, does feeling arise?’ then the answer will be: ‘Through sense-impression is feeling conditioned… through feeling, craving… through craving, clinging…'”

on this nameless beach along the Mississippi River, i remember seeing a young couple making out as they laid in the grass. i’ll never forget how lonely i felt at that moment. a few months later, i sat in meditation on the beach, and it was then that something became very clear. and a few weeks later, having figured out the words to say, i forgave someone. a year later, i kissed this person on this beach.

two years have passed since i saw that young couple, and i went down to the beach one evening recently looking to sit and meditate. frequent downpours this june have left the mississippi sitting high, and where the water has receded, there are brackish, muddy swamps. this evening, there were a few people, a bonfire, and some friendly, wet dogs. the wooden pallet i was hoping to sit on had been turned into firewood.

i walked south along the beach toward it’s end, where it disappeared into trees, unable to find a comfortable, quiet spot to sit. the air was still, hot and heavy. the mississippi flowed swiftly. i walked further down the river bank, now into the forest. as i walked, i became frustrated. there was nowhere to sit without a cloud of mosquitos. their bodies green, just like the algae covering the swamps. it was close to dusk after all. they were waking up.

i felt like i had to meditate that evening. it had been awhile, my mind was restless, i wanted insights. i pictured myself sitting along the bank in deep meditation. mosquitos crawling all over me. and what would that prove, i asked myself, mindfulness beginning in me. what would it prove to anyone that i could sit in meditation for thirty minutes along the flooded banks of the mississippi being bitten hundreds of times by mosquitos.

then the part of me that wants and craves was saying: yeah, film me doing it. take pictures of me doing this stunt. look at “the buddhist” so detached from suffering that he feels nothing. definitely the kind of thing to put in a facebook status update. “check out my extreme meditation technique on my own spiritual beach. i must be very spiritual. spirituality is about accomplishing and notching belts and boasting”. as if nothing must happen to interrupt what i am about to accomplish.

bite after bite. frustration. mindfulness. the mosquitos were hungry, and doing what they always do. why was i taking them personally? i don’t have to meditate here, must i? it’s beautiful whether or not i meditate here. these thoughts in mind, i walked slowly back through the forest to the beach, from the river bank up the stone stairway to the bike path, got on my bike and rode home. frustration gone. thinking of anatta.

Then the wanderer Vacchagotta went to the Blessed One and, on arrival, exchanged courteous greetings with him. After an exchange of friendly greetings & courtesies, he sat to one side. As he was sitting there he asked the Blessed One: “Now then, Venerable Gotama, is there a self?”

When this was said, the Blessed One was silent.

“Then is there no self?”

A second time, the Blessed One was silent.

Then Vacchagotta the wanderer got up from his seat and left.

Then, not long after Vacchagotta the wanderer had left, Venerable Ananda said to the Blessed One, “Why, lord, did the Blessed One not answer when asked a question by Vacchagotta the wanderer?”

“Ananda, if I — being asked by Vacchagotta the wanderer if there is a self — were to answer that there is a self, that would be conforming with those brahmans & contemplatives who are exponents of eternalism [the view that there is an eternal, unchanging soul]. If I — being asked by Vacchagotta the wanderer if there is no self — were to answer that there is no self, that would be conforming with those brahmans & contemplatives who are exponents of annihilationism [the view that death is the annihilation of consciousness]. If I — being asked by Vacchagotta the wanderer if there is a self — were to answer that there is a self, would that be in keeping with the arising of knowledge that all phenomena are not-self?”

“No, lord.”

“And if I — being asked by Vacchagotta the wanderer if there is no self — were to answer that there is no self, the bewildered Vacchagotta would become even more bewildered: ‘Does the self I used to have now not exist?'”

anatta is the insight that feelings are conditioned by senses. as the senses and conditions that give rise to these feelings are always changing, we suffer if we hold onto feelings as if they were personal, and “mine”, and eternal, and never changing. as if such things that are constantly changing could possibly make up a permanent self. perhaps this is why anatta is such a difficult mark of existence to understand in our facebook world, our “this is me, i am what i do, i am this identity”.

is it the same self who would go back to the same spot a day later and be bitten by the same mosquito? all the billions of cells still exactly the way they were 24 hours ago? is it the same self who would come back to meditate on the same spot 2 years later and expect the same insights? the same self that takes a job as gets fired from it? that signs up to facebook as closes their account? the same self that falls in love as out of love?

anatta doesn’t judge identity as right or wrong. it simply asks, is identity really there to hold onto? and buddhism simply asks, are you aware how much you’re suffering by holding on so tightly to something which isn’t there? i could meditate perfectly as a perfect buddhist, but i could not prevent small winged insects from biting me. i could identify my self as a buddhist all day long, but the mississippi will still flood it’s banks, swamps will still form, mosquitos will still bite me, and their bites all over my arms and neck will still itch like crazy. which they do.

and the person i kissed on the beach? well, thoughts of her were why my mind was so restless…

for more information, and the specific suttas used above, please visit:

“The Three Basic Facts of Existence: III. Egolessness (Anatta)”, with a preface by Ñanamoli Thera. Access to Insight, 5 June 2010, http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/various/wheel202.html. Retrieved in 20 June, 2012.

empty storefronts are never really empty

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i see a lot of things in the empty store fronts of minneapolis. like what’s being said about the community beyond the plate glass. the customers disappearing, the rents being hiked, busted dreams and the business left behind. but also the new dreamers who might be waiting to move into a space and get started, if only that loan would get finalized. sometimes when i walk by these places, i catch myself daydreaming about opening a bar, a bar slash… something. some little place that becomes a part of life in the neighborhood, that survives all the up’s and down’s, cause it’s loved. i began taking these pictures a few years ago after losing a job, and have continued ever since. and sadly, the emptiness of some of these storefronts has continued ever since too. i think something about what i was seeing was a reflection of what i was feeling. i would walk by them and see empty floors and shelves and then my eyes would shift to the sky and the city beyond reflected in the sheets of glass. perspectives fractured, trees growing from the floor, the sky where the ceiling used to be, columns marching out into the street. it was time for me to see things differently.

i’m not on facebook right now. i never really was

the online show of my own life flopped and disappeared from the internet. i, the main character, couldn’t act comfortably in front of my audience. there were ongoing, unresolved technical, artistic and philosophical differences as well. 

i’ve been there on the show, twice before, and loved it for what is was and the benefits it brought me. the doors of communication blowing open. and then ripping off their hinges. like the cheap, hollow core doors of a beach front hotel rip off in a hurricane. sitting in front of other people’s lives, watching their shows as they watched my show… fun. undeniably fun. 

but after a while i always wanted to take my show to some crazy places. i wanted to run naked across the text fields. i wanted to flood all the little boxes with the raw emotions i was feeling. i wanted to change my name to what it really is:

My Soul is Probably Most Comfortable in The Form of a Sequoia Tree Standing Along the Coast of Northern California and Not In It’s Present Form of a Human Being

but my crazy show couldn’t be this crazy according to the rules. name not real. file too big.

and there were other problems. i want to say this. but look who’s watching me say it. but i want to be friends with you in real life. i could care less about being friends with you online. how do i upload my secrets. share what i didn’t do. fit all of me in the little boxes. the online show is digital. but humans are, at least, of qubits. as someone who finds buddhism to be on point, it should be enough just to live here and now, and not online too as an avatar of a self which doesn’t exist.

but those problems weren’t the reason my show ran into trouble. when my show began to overlap other people’s shows, i started saying clever and funny things, like i was reading from a script i was learning to perform, all to make my show stand out a little more. and that’s when, exactly at that moment in time, my show failed. the main character was starting to act. and i just wanted to be myself.

behind the billboards on hennepin ave

i’ve always been interested in the places behind

the facades and screens of industry

the places where the structure of spectacle and appearance

sits like a child’s jungle gym in the sun

crossed 2 by 6’s with red stain fading

and aluminum c-channels full of spider webs

while in front a model’s face begins to peel and flap

like so many vibrant promises that never begin

 when all we’re given is a copy written grin

as i climb the warped braces behind her eyes

i imagine decades of fake smiles

that sad sad weight just sagging down 

into the ground

from oriental bay to owhiro bay

twisting around the shoreline road from oriental bay to owhiro bay

the sun shining from the northern sky

my sense of direction spinning round and round

not knowing where i am

i feel at home in you

homes perched like angled birds on your steep hillsides

shadows move down the hills bleeding into the sea

the ocean fades from sun green to cool blue

not knowing where i am

as if i have always known you

clouds move so fast across your sky

rain falling down the sun shine

the white caps furious in your harbor

not knowing where i am

like pōhutukawa blossoms blown out to sea

3 planes, 24 hours, thousands of miles, i come from so far

and wake the morning after to songs of kokako and tui

the smell of coal burning as i walk down aro street for coffee 

knowing where i am

as if you have always known me

we are amigos, ¿no?

the sign in the protest read –

‘mucho trabajo, poquito dinero
poquito dinero, muchas personas
el trabajo está aquí.
la gente está aquí.
¿dónde está el dinero?’

our stomachs sang –

buenos días! buenas tardes! buenas noches!
we are here!
we have mucho hambre!

el dinero laughed –

no no, you are aquí. aquí. 
we are amigos, ¿no?
if i’m not in your bolsillo, at least i am in your cabeza. ha!

el tiempo joked with el dinero about you –

watch what happens to you amigo when the two of us pull in opposite directions!

the day begged the night for you –

my friend needs más tiempo. 
can you, por favor?
para mí?

tus niños asked you – 

¿dónde estás?
where are you mami? papi?

what you have always loved looked en tus ojos –

if you love me, i will be here for you
be conmigo, mi amor
i need you now

hopping thought trains

hop on, hop off, these thoughts

i remember

seeing her a lot that summer 3 years ago, as i walked up and down lyndale, hennepin, and lake street. she was skinny, eyes dark and gray, and always wearing the same backpack and filthy black leather jacket covered in punk-rock buttons. as i sat outside on the bench in front of bryant lake bowl one night, enjoying how the sideways setting sun lit up lake street, i saw her walking toward me. she seemed to recognize me. i smiled. she stopped and asked me for a light. “don’t smoke” i said. we asked each other’s names. and got to chatting. “mind if i join you? just cuz i’m homeless doesn’t mean i can’t buy a beer” she said with a smile, and went in and bought herself a pbr tallboy. just as she sat down again, an old man with a long white beard, an engineer’s cap and worn overalls slowly moved by pushing a walker. she got up suddenly, hugged him and talked with him for a few minutes. “who was that?” i asked. “that’s my friend” she said. “i met him at the hobo convention. he’s kinda famous.” i laughed “hobo convention?” we talked for hours that night about train hopping. she told me how she caught out of Kansas City, her hometown, up to Minneapolis. she told me about the hobo convention in Britt, Iowa. and she told me all about how to catch what she called her dream ride. “what’s your dream ride?” i asked her. “a 48 special on a hotshot” she said. “when they double stack a 48 foot container up on top of 2 20 footers, it makes an overhang on each end” she explained. “the containers sit in what they call well cars. some well cars don’t have no floor, they’re called suicide rides. but if you hop the right kind, you go to the end of the containers that aren’t facing the wind, and you can kinda get down in the well and the overhang above will protect you from the rain. and cuz it’s a hotshot freight train, it’ll go non-stop.” later, i asked her “why are you up here?” “just trying to get away” she said after a while, and looked away. “just a homeless junkie” she said with a sweet sad smile. she asked for my number and i gave it to her. i never saw her again that summer. she never called.

hop on to get away, hop off at a story to tell

hop on, hop off, these thoughts

i remember

news stories from 11 years ago about immigrants trying to seek asylum in england by hopping on eurostar trains in france and crossing the eurotunnel to england. they were middle eastern, eastern european, african. such large numbers that the french red cross set up a refugee camp in sangatte, france, near the tunnel entrance. there were stories of those who survived. who somehow managed to get past security and fencing without being seen. who somehow found spaces under and inside the rail cars to cram their bodies into. who somehow held on. to this day, i remember most of all the stories of those who crammed themselves inside the wheel wells. they held themselves inches from 3 foot tall steel wheels slicing around 2000 times every minute. at 180 miles per hour. for 2 and a half hours. in pitch blackness. the deafening roar. the thought of a better life what kept them holding on.

hop on at a hope, hop off with your life

hop on, hop off, these thoughts

our thoughts

like trains. one to the next. to the next to the next. we sit passively as passengers on this train of our thoughts. we daydream. we ask ourselves how could i possibly think such a thought. we feel helpless to a thought. we try to be the heroic engineer at the controls of our thoughts. as we grip the controls, we love where a thought goes. as we grip the controls, we try not to think a thought. we try to think of other thoughts. we imagine our body in another place. we try to make a thought disappear. intoxicated, high, we try to make a thought not be, to get relief from a wound or words said or mistakes long ago we can’t even see or touch in front of us but feel deep inside. the power of thought holding us, pushing us, bending us, taking us to worse places, moving us to better places, changing us. asylum seekers and engineers, passengers and addicts, and the thoughts never stopping.

hop on at the controls, hop off uncontrollable

hop on, hop off, these thoughts

i meditate

outside to feel the wind, the sun shining, the bugs crawling on my skin, the weight of my body against the earth, the sounds of all things moving around me. i meditate to see when i am crammed up in the wheel wells of my own thoughts. i meditate to see that thoughts come and thoughts go, no matter how good or how terrible. i meditate to see a space between thoughts, and feel that space between thoughts getting wider. like the thought trains of my mind start to uncouple, break up and slow down. no longer the helpless passenger trying to hold on, no longer the frantic engineer trying to control, the space between thoughts gets wider and wider and wider. those days, those hours, those minutes where the thought train in my head feels like it’s moving 300 miles per hour, meditation is me hopping on and hopping off each thought. this is where peace begins. with each breath in and each breath out, with the feel of the wind on my skin, the tickling ant on my leg, the bird rustling in the tree behind me, each thought comes and each thought goes. and i am here and i am now. here, now, it is like this.

hop on where i’m not, hop off where i am

hop on, hop off, these thoughts

wall of sound wall of sound

i am hungry

i want the sound

fast fast fast loud loud loud

wall of sound wall of sound

stop guitar guitar cuts out

bass cuts in drums tight drum

bass and drum break down break down

fast fast fast

loud loud loud

heavy coming down down down

wall of sound

break down break down

guitar cuts in

fast and loud fast and loud

the singer shuts up

the crowd just sings

the lyrics like the breaths we breathe 

sweaty bodies all around

wall of sound wall of sound

tight pressed heavy

and coming down

i get lost i lose myself

in the sound

wall of sound wall of sound

sweaty bodies shove push jump

up and down all around all around

fast fast fast loud loud loud

my body’s gone it’s all just sound

all around all around

i get lost i lose myself

i get lost i lose myself

i get lost i 

stop

the quantum superposition of our humanity

how do i upload a silence to soundcloud
that silence i hear when a lover leaves
how do i enter a status update on Facebook
for something i didn’t say
the words not said and the silences heard that make me who i am

i am what i said to you and what i didn’t say to her
what i could’ve done to them or not have taken from him
humming in quantum superposition
when you walk by me on the street
and sit next to me at the bar

like a qubit fluctuating in all states at the same time
i say things to this world when i do not say things to this world
my entangled felt it but didn’t say it and said it but didn’t mean it
the night i was awoken from a dream of her, by a text from her
how i look into her eyes and feel like i am no longer in this place

i am a sculpture of video of a painting of your dance
and you are a dance of a poem taken from a song of my sculpture
we are the pasts and the futures and the presents and the memories
superpositions lay out before us when we look through another’s eyes
our bodies miles apart but our lover’s kisses still on our lips


anicca’s tattoo

i would look down at my wrist and tell you this is my religion

but tattoo’s burn off

i could say that the job i have makes me who i am as a man

but the next day i’m a man with no job

i could plan a future as if it were mine but a future that’s mine

is a change only i will make

i could be suffering an impossible situation in my life and forget

the stress is impermanent too

i might hold onto a lover as if she were alive inside of me

as tears make our love fade away

my wrist is still here

love is what remains