My Operachicken soup
Saturday, February 4, 2012 7:14:20 PM
s. is now a ball of fire, a compendium.
i can't describe his experiences in some spheres; the reconciliation
of 'sheep' and 'wolf'. if there were two sides of his body, being
symmetrical, each with varying qualities in sensation, where was
the center? did the center exist in sensation? even on a physical
plane direct knowledge was fleeting.
i can only describe what happened. s. has embarked on a voyage
into uncharted territory; that is 'the self', or, at least what is
within reach of conscious attention.
when he got that job at the american foundation for the blind, it
was in a way, symbolic. what does a blind man see? the inner
world he inhabits is richer for the paucity of external distractions.
operating the record stamping machines s. was in constant easy
motion; nothing heavy, nothing strenuous, but perpetual
movement over and over again eight hours a day, six days a week
with one half hour lunch break and two 15 minute breaks.
s. was a whirling dervish. he operated two stations, each with a
stamper with 600 tons of pressure, a 'biscuit', hot black vinyl blob
with a hole in the center, and a cutter. twice. so that as soon as he
slid the labeled record into it's paper sleeve, the other stamper
snapped open. he could hear it. he had to whirl around and repeat:
push button for biscuit, place label in the gaping jaws,then
biscuit, then second label and get those soft hands outta there
quick as it snapped shut to press the sounds of "the last of the
mohegans", or the daily news into a record. then the other snaps
open. pull it out, put on cutter, place label etc. etc. ad infinitum,
day after day.
the point i am trying to elucidate is that s. had no time for
dreaming. that is why one day he had a spiritual experience in the
pitch dark stairwell where he would sit still as a stone after his
hurried lunch of chicken soup. perfectly still, but with the
repercussions still vibrating through his cells. eyes closed or open
didn't matter. closed, it was dark, open it was black.
in the utter quiet s. was searching for, there was nothing. just
breathing and being. s. opened his eyes and there was light
streaming from no particular source. quantum particles, spears of
light were coming from nothing. this of course, cannot be explained.
s. called it his "chicken soup" experience.
i can't describe his experiences in some spheres; the reconciliation
of 'sheep' and 'wolf'. if there were two sides of his body, being
symmetrical, each with varying qualities in sensation, where was
the center? did the center exist in sensation? even on a physical
plane direct knowledge was fleeting.
i can only describe what happened. s. has embarked on a voyage
into uncharted territory; that is 'the self', or, at least what is
within reach of conscious attention.
when he got that job at the american foundation for the blind, it
was in a way, symbolic. what does a blind man see? the inner
world he inhabits is richer for the paucity of external distractions.
operating the record stamping machines s. was in constant easy
motion; nothing heavy, nothing strenuous, but perpetual
movement over and over again eight hours a day, six days a week
with one half hour lunch break and two 15 minute breaks.
s. was a whirling dervish. he operated two stations, each with a
stamper with 600 tons of pressure, a 'biscuit', hot black vinyl blob
with a hole in the center, and a cutter. twice. so that as soon as he
slid the labeled record into it's paper sleeve, the other stamper
snapped open. he could hear it. he had to whirl around and repeat:
push button for biscuit, place label in the gaping jaws,then
biscuit, then second label and get those soft hands outta there
quick as it snapped shut to press the sounds of "the last of the
mohegans", or the daily news into a record. then the other snaps
open. pull it out, put on cutter, place label etc. etc. ad infinitum,
day after day.
the point i am trying to elucidate is that s. had no time for
dreaming. that is why one day he had a spiritual experience in the
pitch dark stairwell where he would sit still as a stone after his
hurried lunch of chicken soup. perfectly still, but with the
repercussions still vibrating through his cells. eyes closed or open
didn't matter. closed, it was dark, open it was black.
in the utter quiet s. was searching for, there was nothing. just
breathing and being. s. opened his eyes and there was light
streaming from no particular source. quantum particles, spears of
light were coming from nothing. this of course, cannot be explained.
s. called it his "chicken soup" experience.
(15%)
Ben Treinbentrein # Monday, February 13, 2012 1:44:59 PM
Meditation is something you can learn; but it can be something that overcomes you. Very nice words.
scott cummingI_ArtMan # Monday, February 13, 2012 6:24:51 PM
i can't really speak very well about 'sitting'. i just keep it simple and search for the quiet... stay in my body. watch.
Ben Treinbentrein # Tuesday, February 14, 2012 12:30:11 PM
Originally posted by I_ArtMan:
Indeed that is so... I should return to meditation; it did me very well while I did it, but a mild depression clouded my mind too much to sit and breathe. Thanks for this thought.
Originally posted by I_ArtMan:
Once again, you describe my experience(s) when meditating.
scott cummingI_ArtMan # Tuesday, February 14, 2012 5:52:19 PM
Ben Treinbentrein # Wednesday, February 15, 2012 4:54:42 AM
PainterWoman # Sunday, February 19, 2012 3:36:08 AM
I have had so many of those, I cannot even begin to count them.
"sitting every morning for half an hour is preparation for a day"
The same for me. I have to muster up my energy for a rambunctious 2 yr old. She will be 2 in March.
She had her first painting session a couple of weeks ago. Didn't have to buy a thing. I have so many supplies and found two cheap sets of watercolor amongst my boxes and I've been cutting up old watercolor papers of my own. She seems to enjoy putting color on top of the other colors. I can't do this every day with her. Her attention span isn't very long. So when I bring out the plastic painting box every 3 or 4 days, she raises her voice and says "paint, paint".....! What more could I ask for?
scott cummingI_ArtMan # Sunday, February 19, 2012 4:31:56 AM
tdjmdtdjmd1 # Saturday, February 25, 2012 7:40:47 PM
Interesting way of narrating your daily living in those days, S.