How we decide to see ourselves

 

It’s as though I have been possessed by very different entities with very different minds throughout my life. Some of them I can recall, i.e. I can remember how they felt, what they thought. Others I can only see and watch in a kind of wonder that I could have been that person. But I was. I sit here remembering such things, trying to somehow put it all together as me, as my life. Some memories are absolutely pleasant, while others are surreal. Like Nikki and I played together in an innocence, though we could never have related, or I could never have related as one in a marriage relationship. I just wasn’t there yet; I was fully within what could be called spiritual fantasies, the archetype of the mystic monk or even the fool, the simpleton.

 

I sit here hoping to glimpse “my true nature,” in which I want to be “at ease with myself” since this is what I “really am.” Too often, I experience an enormous, overpowering underflow of sorrow or rage or sheer lostness and disconnectedness, though not chaos. And I think that this must be “me.” But it is not. I am something other than that; I am a thread of awareness that extends out beyond the boundaries of the universe itself. I am elementized as a characteristic peace that is universal, permeating all things. Sometimes I discover myself within this great contextual matrix of peace. It is not an oppositional, dualistic quality to be held in contrast to “war or chaos.” I do not know if it is any kind of “order.” It seems to simply hold everything there is within itself, the best and the worst. When I sit here sometimes, seeking to experience my “true nature,” I find myself “at peace and ease,” and then determine that this much be “it.” I figure that the problem with that is that the whole series of appearances of “true nature” runs before me like a moving picture and then I pick the few cuts from the film that I would like to identify “my true self” with and as, leaving the rest on the editing room floor, as it were; as if they were underserving of being recognized as part of “the show of my true nature.” I had forgotten how Nikki and I played together all the time like little kids sharing the fantastic moment, though in a kind of never-never land, which is problematic in the world of ever-ever land. I never considered that all my “negative” thoughts were part and parcel of the whole program of my life. One wants to choose only the good parts to see and identify with; never the embarrassing, shameful, regretful parts. And we have to create a God to forgive us those parts since we won’t even accept them as part and parcel of ourselves, our actual lives. We imprison ourselves by walling ourselves away from all our mistakes, which makes us smaller and smaller and smaller.

On being "left to oneself"

 

Left to ourselves, we may see more. Left to myself, I see my unsettled mind, my disbelief of “answers,” and my own need to “make sense” frustrated. Yet I remain in the world that must make sense. One pretends that “it all makes sense” if one is to be able to cope—and survive—in the world. We close our eyes to our own inner protest perpetually. We “do what must be done” relentlessly, and, as it turns out, ruthlessly. And we suffer for it internally, if not externally. It is better to be “off the wheel” from the start rather than to “keep on rolling” endlessly in distraction. It may take a lifetime to realize this, which is to say, admit it. When one is in it and “on the ride,” the folly of “getting off it” seems obvious. One does not jump off the roller coaster at any point until it stops and the ride is over. It may be only then that one realizes just how unsettled one’s mind actually is, or all mind actually is. Where does “my mind” begin and the collective mind end? Are there no boundaries or are they already rather set?

Most of us never quite get to the point at which we decide that our life is to be left up to ourselves. I’m just about 74 and I have finally gotten to that point. I followed many paths in my life. I’m referring to what are called “spiritual paths.” I got as far away from doctrine as I could with Zen Buddhism mixed with a hefty dose of Daoism for the last 30 years, though I still certainly “followed” rigorously. When I stopped following and founded my own religion with its one and only member, I was no longer compelled to do anything, though I chose to still simply “observe” this person whom I call myself. “Choosing for oneself” is much different than following another, no matter how “true” or “well-established.” I would rather learn from my own mis-takes (purposely hyphenated) than blame someone else for misleading me. It only took almost 74 years to realize this, God (or no-God) forbid. I also realized that the phrase, “The truth shall make you free,” should be altered a bit to read: “The truth shall make you free—for the first five seconds anyway.” The truth is neither a formula nor a magazine subscription; one must have it in the moment, each moment, or it is but mere imaginal fantasy. It is not conceptual, but experiential, and experiential prior to any interpretation of the experience at that. So how does one experience without thinking, without defining the experience to oneself? That would be the unanswerable question.

 

HOW I GOT TO MEET THE FAMOUS ITALIAN CHEF, ARTURO

Back in the late 1950s my father was a big wig at the Italian-American Club and Restaurant in Albany, New York, peopled by many upper class Italians in many fields: business, academics, music, literature, art, the remaining arts, such a performing, and food, of course. The Italian-American Club had the best Italian food in the vicinity of Albany, NY. It's chef, Arturo, was world-known. People not only came from the Tri-Cities to sample his traditional Italian dishes, but from Boston, Chicago, New York and Senators and Congressmen from Washington DC itself. Arturo, in fact, even had a reputation as an international World Class Chef specializing in all dishes Italian, be they from the North or the South. As a result the Club thrived.

But is hadn't always been like that. The previous chef, who has also World Class had died and my father had been charged with finding a chef of equal or greater character and reputation and who was willing to work more for that than than for actual recompense. To be recognized and receive accolades was far more important to the American-Italian Club than to be highly paid. 

Those who had been chefs at the American-Italian Club, after a few years, often moved to even more highly celebrated Italian Restaurants all over the w0rld among the highly compensated Italian chefs in the world. The budget for hiring such a specialized chef by the Albany American-Italian Club was only diminished by the level of fanfare and attention given to the importance and international recognition given by restaurant gourmet chef by my father who faced with a such vital challenge as well as a rushed challenge. His times to travel around the world in search was quite limited as was any travel funds. So he stayed local, looking for the very best. He traveled all of the local area; going to many restaurants himself to check out fare of the various chefs. Eventually he found the perfect chef for the job and lured him away from his current employer.

His name was Arturo. He was the perfect Italian chef, able to make everything Italian, and quite well. After a brief period the contract was signed and he worked dedicatedly and devotedly for the Albany Italian-American Club. The only caveat was that he required that he worked mostly in solitude with his staff and never interacted with the public, including his patrons at the Club. So this caveat was put into force; the staff he worked with were tight-lipped on the threat of losing their jobs his customers, and the kitchen as arranged so the customers could not see into it. It was an effectively closed system.

Until I was eating dinner at the Club and my father decided I should go meet Arturo. We followed secret passageways until we arrived at the kitchen where he was cooking. My father was his friend and had hired him so it was permissible. We said hi and shook hands. He said "call me Artie." And then it was over; we had to sneak back. I understood all the need for secrecy at that point. Arturo was a black man.