To speak of hours of practice
is not as good as 10 minutes
engaged in practice.
So, too, an hour speech
on practice pales
with even a moment of silence.
But to be silent and also
not practice is to turn
your back on the path
and blind yourself
with your stick.
A reflection on Case 77 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye) Koans
At least once again this morning
some talking head commentator
told me that it goes without saying
and then said whatever it was
that went without saying
for ten minutes, twice repeating
the thing that went without saying.
I trust he will become aware
that he and his ideas will,
henceforth, go without seeing
by me and hopefully others.
But I guess that last comment
would go without saying.
We only see the present as history,
by day history is a matter of minutes,
by night of seconds, years or centuries.
There is no future to be seen, only
imagined, the mind writing a story
that can never be read, never told.
It is only when we close the eyes
that the present truly exists,
independent of the past, free
and the past is merely waves
washing over and around us,
and the mind can find freedom.
I stood on the corner
waiting patiently for you.
It seemed like hours.
It was probably minutes
but Einstein was right
about relativity also.
You never arrived,
but I hadn’t expected
you to do so, that was
the nature of us.
I will wait again
in two weeks.
Same corner as usual,
but an hour earlier.
You will not show up
and will offer the same
excuse you do always.
Why do you assume
being dead excuses
your duties as the parent
I never got to meet?
He divided time into neat,
well organized segments, each
precisely the equivalent of each other,
some the perfect sum of lessers.
This is how it should be and must be
he thought, and it made things
so much easier for him.
He knew when to arrive, and
always knew precisely what
time it was and would be.
He couldn’t understand why
others couldn’t seem to arrive
on his schedule, never mind
that they had divided time
into neat segments, each
precisely the equivalent of each other
and none the equivalent of
his tidy temporal order.
The introductions were relaxed
but complete as befits three people
in a small room, she the linchpin
knowing each of the others, utter strangers
to each other, save in her stories.
The men stared at each other gently
ensuring the other saw only a smile
for the better part of two minutes, basking
in the silence that introductions demand.
“I am really surprised,” the older man said,
“it is truly odd, but you look at absolutely, exactly
like what I imagined the adopted son
of Isadore Myers would look like
not more than 30 seconds ago.”
“It is truly odd,” the younger man replied,
“you look nothing at all like
the man I met in this room
not a second more than a minute ago,
and why, pray tell,
is that woman over there smiling?
an old writer and his words 