Discovering Origin

A CONTINUATION in virtual space of conversations near and far about things related to ‘fromness.’

Where are we from, what that means to us each individually, how multi-local identities shape who we are.

This is a build on something that we had run online last year, a series of 12 conversation starting prompts designed to open this kind of discussion. It was called ‘Home & Away’. Welcoming back those who participated, inviting those just connecting now to mix, together, in this one-week conversation, ‘Discovering Origin,’ in virtual S P A C E.

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When time stops

SOMETHING HAPPENED.

Yesterday, a watch stopped. Hers.

7.45PM.

This was the second time this kind of thing had happened. That is, a watch stopping. That time, his.

8.15PM.

Both times, in the middle of a superb conversation that, really, slowed into a moment. Conversations with people that I had just met. That day, or a few days prior. Really good sweeping topics that spanned the universe, life and death, birth, stillness, space, poetry, philosophy, conspiracy theories (me), art, skepticism of nonsense (them). And you could feel it, just there. The stopping. Then, it was literal. How does this kind of thing happen?

Let me try to feel my way towards the ‘how,’ even if I don’t get there. With words, of course. Words are a sort of paint for me, the paintings I’ve been looking at this week reminding me to play with them a bit, to see where the layers might take us.

Yes, the ‘something’ that happened, let us call it ‘!*’, whatever ‘!*’ was, well, I know it happened, it happened because I felt it, not just in the way that you feel when you are feeling a shift in the breeze, or that kind of thing, but because you are sensing something inwardly shifting, which is reflecting something larger, very large indeed, and you know that the quantum bits and pieces are at play, or that strings are vibrating, or that there are nine other dimensions (nine? More?) that are resonating in the same hum, or a different one, or a new color, and that, taken together, these things are beginning to make a new pattern. Of course the intricacies of the design are beyond our capacity to ‘note,’ and NOTEWORTHINESS being the theme this week-and-a-half here in London, of course I have to philosophize a bit about it, here and there, when I find the urgency of the moment in which that frequency will suggest, in a gentle but firm whisper, ‘Yes, now.’

The reflections begin

I HAVE BEEN QUITE LUCKY, this trip. I have met some of the most outstanding people I’ve ever encountered in my life. And all at once. At ‘N’. The most incredible thing happens when we assemble, just sit together, talk together. [Not like in the round, in the workshoppy-style that SN, remarking on DK’s style of making circles, had once called ‘circle time.’ Was it 2014? It’s stuck since then. Circle time. Yes, we love circle time here, of course we do, but you just can’t always go into the circle space because sometimes you are meeting in public spaces and it just would be weird.] I mean, you might get kicked out. In this instance, for ‘N’ London: NOTEWORTHINESS, we convened at the National Theatre. While on the one hand I had made the good acquaintanceship of some of the people working there, who noticed that I was greeting people who didn’t know one another and would be later pointing the latecomers towards our table, asking, ‘Are you here for the blind date?’, and letting them know where I was, yes, while they were on my team, you could say, in making it happen that people whose paths might never have crossed were, at ‘N’, designed to intersect in one moment, well, I don’t think they would’ve been cool with it if we did some circling up and talking about things like I like to do sometimes at these sorts of conversation installations. I don’t know. Maybe it would have been okay at the Royal Academy (pictured), whose purple velvety cushioning made me want to curl up and read a book, any book, by, say, J. Krishnamurti (thank you JB), all evening and through the night and the next day, but then again, circle time is special. I don’t know. I think you have to just feel like it, in that moment. Like so very many things, that are good. That are noteworthy, even. But then, ‘Royal’ doesn’t start with an ‘N’, so that’s it, it’s a no-go, right there. Plus, ‘Royal?’ Who wants to make it all hoity-toity? Not me.

Unfolding stories

THERE IS SO MUCH more to say about ‘N’ and the things that preceded it, the conversations that revolved around that strong central gravitational point, ‘What’s remarkable? Why do we think so?’ I’m going to be sharing more about it slowly, through the eZine, but also, with guests who took part in ‘N’ London this time. There’s stuff to report to past guests, of ‘N’ in Bangkok and Phnom Penh, and the one to happen next, in Copenhagen. I’m getting to it. All of it. But I need some time.

Writing, today. In pencil, on the keypad. In my head. Writing for the sake of writing. Writing for the self. This is the time that won’t come back. This is the time to sit, quietly, and make a poem or two, and let the flow come as it does, when and exactly and only when it’s ready. These are the moments, aren’t they?, when time stops.

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Let’s get started

‘YOU NEED TO SOLVE A PROBLEM. For them.’

‘What?’

‘Like, what do the online programs you are offering actually do for people? What do they get out of them? The writing and assembly thing, and other stuff?’

So much!’

‘I know you think so, and maybe it’s true for you and for some of the people you’ve worked with through the ecourses, with the magazine… is it a magazine? Yeah, okay, yeah. So, like, what is in it for them? What do they get out of it?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘People like these.’

‘I know they like them. But do you know? What they are joining for?’

‘…’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Connection.’

‘Weak. And you can’t prove it.’

‘Meaning.’

‘Think harder.’

‘Sharing?’

‘No. Nobody knows you from anybody else, and you’re not famous, and you don’t aspire to be on Oprah, so you can’t go that route, you know? You have to be a real person who has a real thing that works for people. Remember what SN had said? Solutions to the right problems that users love to use. That’s design. That’s innovation.’

SN is so smart. We’re really lucky we got to learn from him, wow. Meantime I am learning from every single person I meet, who comes through these different salons and eWorkshops and stuff like that. I get it. I get it that people are looking for a new way to find new thoughts and to inspire themselves and that kind of jazz. And that most stuff is overdone, overprescribed and way too high-level commitment… I don’t know. Then you get just… well. It’s contrived. I think the opportunity for mixing to happen amongst groups is a big part of why I do these. Okay, you’re looking at me like, you don’t care why I do these. You want to know why they should care. I see. yes. I think I should really visit that. But… I think it’s because I personally invite them.’

‘No. That’s never it.’

‘Then, it’s because they want to actually get to their projects, but maybe don’t know how to start? Maybe they’re afraid of not finishing, or maybe not doing their work well…’

‘Now, that’s the start of something! Tell me more.’

‘Well, when I get going with these, I notice people say how they appreciate the reminders that float by every week, the ones that come from PayPal, even, that let them know they’ve committed to something. I mean, MH had written that, that there was this kind of accountability partnering that was good about it. This was 2014, so it was all still new, but it’s becoming more short-course stuff so people can feel like they are getting to things, and making progress, even though everything I send is designed to be complete-able within 20 minutes. Just that. It’s not a big ask to make 20 minutes of time out of your week to show up for something you care about, but is maybe in that ‘important but not urgent’ category. Know what I’m talking about? That quadrant thingy? Yeah… I think that is a big part of it. Finishes are tough to come by. But starts are even harder, for so many of us. There’s this paralysis, see, because there are so many options out there. That Q&A with MS recently, that was really great. I learned and saw how one person tackles the starting to start question, the how do I decide on where to begin massive thing that I think is daunting, for a lot of people… doesn’t matter who they are anymore… or where they’re coming from, or what their work is. Project management is constantly being intruded upon by messages blipping out of the aetherspace, commanding their attention. People worry that my projects with them online will take up even more time or be even more e stuff to do, but to be honest, ti’s like a project management kind of a thing for people, in the end. It’s a real person, prompting you to do the thing you’ve committed to doing. you’ve committed to yourself, to show up. And I see now that more than ever this is the crux of it. The pain of starting. The nudge is needed, to get going. Once you do, it’s much easier. But that first step, wow. People really want to do things like write and reflect and journal. Intellectually. Theoretically. But will they make the time? I don’t know about you but I find a lot of talking about this and very little actual doing, when I look around amongst the people whom, for the last 20 years or so, are talking about making but not getting to it. Not getting started.’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Know what I mean?’

‘Yeah. You’re the one that says, Okay, let’s do this. Let’s get started.’

‘That’s exactly what I do. That’s exactly who I am. But I don’t leave people after they join, of course. It’s a 1:1 dialogue for a while, and sometimes it becomes bigger, if and when people are ready for meeting and engaging with new and different others. For inspiration.’

‘Is that it? Inspiration?’

‘People who need inspiration? Yeah. That’s another whole group I can help. Definitely.’

‘But people would say they don’t need inspiration. They would say they don’t need help getting started. What would you say to them?’

‘I’d say, okay, great. Do it. But if you haven’t done it and it’s a year later, let’s talk.’

Making it up as we go >

 

The beginning is half of every journey

I AM WRITING FROM MY ROOM, and it’s morning, and there is a rooster telling me so. Except that rooster isn’t the first one up, usually. All of the other people in the house are already out. I heard that there was going to be some commotion, later in the morning. That people would be coming by to pick up some stuff, and move it out. Somebody else’s stuff. That’s been here since before I was, because this is a new living space.

This is a new chapter.

I guess you could define chapters of your life in that way, huh. By places where you’ve lived. Not just cities. Cities are great, cities are fantastic, but cities, I’m realizing the more I write about the things I care about from them, are no longer the same places they used to be. For me. I can’t speak for everyone, and I certainly can’t pretend to know something. But my particular experiences have led me to see that the city isn’t where, long term, I personally want to be. I think I had a hunch about this in New York City in the late 1990s when I was looking for the big road to the gold and the art world. Just writing that now seems funny and strange, and a little bit embarrassing, too. Growing up on the East Coast, though, New York was ‘it.’ Where you wanted to be if you wanted to be anybody in the arts. That was the programming. That was the conditioning. And now, I think about all that and pore through the pages of The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain, which my boss loans me, and points out the stories that are very good (‘Did you read “A Dog’s Tale?” Did you read “Is He Living or Is He Dead?” I go and read IHLOIHD and I laugh out loud and then blink: it’s the plotline for Posthumous! Then I read ADT and absolutely cry of indignation. I burst out my most bursting-out voice and the boss looks at me, and this time he blinks. Slow. ‘Some rich people are good,’ he says, sagely. That is the thing about bosses. They just know things, somehow.)

But the changing of chapters is where, I think, the good stuff is. Was it on the internet, or in a QM book, where I read: ‘Life happens on the edge of a change of state.’ Like, water boiling into gas, or gas turning into ice. Change of state. Transition. Life happens there. I remember being in Japan, this would also be in the 1990s. When I was studying in Kyoto. I remember Japan, because it was before New York, and I had never even been to NYC before I’d been to Tokyo. The falling-in-love with the city happened there. I know. A lot of people are like, ‘Tokyo?’ But the skylines and the things there were to draw with the line and photograph with the eye were multitudinous and out of my usual scape of seeing. That was why I stayed on, for a little while longer than I’d meant. Got to know the city well, got to hang out in Ueno often, got to see people and build a small life and meet people, and then meet them again, and in this small way, turn the place I found intriguing into a sort of a village. A place I could relax, a little, even if it was extremely lonely, most of the time. That was before internet. I can’t imagine what it must be like, now… I guess the internet is great though in some ways because I can live in a not-big city and run into people and run into them again and meet over time and then feel, in some way, a sense of connection and belonging. Even if this isn’t my town. Even if this isn’t even ‘my’ country. Less and less claim on the boundaries, now. I don’t have to wonder about the ‘where I’m from’ question as much as dive more deeply into the more important one, for me. The ‘who am I’ question. Which, obviously, can rustle people up if you start asking all about it. Who are you? What do you care about? What makes you move, sing, fly, dance, love? These are too big of a place to start with so many people, of course, but I am deeply curious about people and asking is how I learn, so that’s why I got into writing, and that’s why I got away from Tokyo. I couldn’t ask anything. I got away from New York, too, for the same reason. ‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’ F, f, f. So I went home and found the rest of the story waiting for me in the cupboards of the dusty room where I used to be when I was a pre-teen and then a teen and the magazines I’d collected. And then I started cutting them up. Bit by bit. The programming, the conditioning. Snip, snip, snip. The way women are portrayed, the way they are showcased, objectified. Men are also showcased, successified. There is something wrong here, I think, but not in words. I just cut and paste and write little things in comics and wonder if anyone will laugh along with me, but I’m cutting and pasting all winter long and then part of the spring, and then my parents ask me when I’m going to leave, already. So I do. I go away, not sure where. Without a plan. No idea. Thinking about how to turn DK into something ‘else.’ But not doing it, not until I find the right mode, the right impetus, for the thing to come. The change of state. Not just to Washington, but this time, further. Asia. Like, for a while. Like indefinitely. I go on a tour.

Book of Time

SLOWLY, THROUGH THE DISTANCE, the fog clears. This happens in Gangtok. It’s October, probably my favorite month. October 2013. I write a piece called “Cloudy feathers in Gangtok” and describe pigeons on roofs and the feeling of the mist on my face, and the way the light pinkens the tip of Mount Kanchenjunga, sending me into the tizzy that will not let me come back, not ever, to believing in anything I can’t see with my own eyes, or feel anything I haven’t felt in my own heart. There are sweaters in the suitcases in Delhi but those are heavy and far from where I am, and we are, because I always travel with Boss. Obviously. We are carrying around the people and places that matter most to us, no matter where we are. No matter where we go. Going is part of the work, though. Just like we are doing all this emailing to people to ask if they might like to come to ‘N’ in London and Copenhagen and later, Hanoi and Bologna and New York (see the pattern there?) is work in the other kind of way. Practicing the art of being there, showing up. Saying hi. This is hard for me, especially since 2016 has been, so far, a year of introversion. I mean, really. It’s actually not very good. I am the kind of person who needs new input all the time, so that is why the City was so appealing. But trips to Europe in recentish months have shown me that the City of old, the one where there is ‘energy and buzz and cool art,’ is really not that anymore. It’s just a marketplace. All reduced down, in that way, in my opinions. Everything is an opinion, though, that anyone writes. And media isn’t media anymore, or maybe it never was, and social media isn’t newsy, because I followed someone’s recommendation to the wrong part of the city for a snatch of breakfast and it was weird. It was like, ‘So now what.’ And then you go back to that old awareness. Nothing is for real, everything is subjective. An observer, observing a system, changes the system.

MOVERS CAME TO THE HOUSE AND TOOK HALF OF SOME STUFF that’s been stored behind the grand staircase away. I had wondered about it. Because the blockage of the front passageway in a home is bad feng shui. I’m not schooled in feng shui, but I do design spaces, and I’m sharing some of what the feeling of my ‘rooms’ for conversations and the installations and the once-off ‘events,’ which are really more, in my opinion, like ‘happenings,’ which are about people and connection and the shape of space, and the conversation, and the moment and the whohappenstobethere and not overly designed but half improvised, half make it up as you go, those are where I am learning how to place things and create the lighting and set the stage for these great moments to happen. Because it’s design. The architecture of the interstitial. Whoa. If that’s not esoteric, I don’t know what is. And I would never, ever block the front passageway. That just stifles. That stiffens, stagnates. It’s not a good thing. I open the windows of the room and let the air cross-ventilate, when it’s not raining so hard the drops poke their hands in and get on all my bajillions of scraps of this and nostalgia snips and the cut-up magazines from glossies that adorn most any of the many rooms and rooms of the chapters and chapters of the where I go, where I am, looking for Self in the Other, discovering the Stillness in the attentiveness to the Shape of Space. It’s getting there. Slowly, surely. I’m learning and changing, every day. To the journey, then. To boss-men, new old classics, text and the story to come. I don’t know where will be next.

But I’m going to investigate.

And learn. And think about the Next.

Because of course there will be one, and not in the too-far future. The only thing that will need to happen is the deciding and doing part. The beginning, as they say, is half of every journey.

Nothing to report

TODAY THERE IS NOTHING TO SAY. Zilch. No one is throbbing with heartbreak right here in my midst, there are no traffic accidents, and no one is shouting at anyone about something that is agitating him or her. The people are not crowding around demanding anything. The politicians are out of eyeshot, earshot, but are probably spying on this. Then again, PWS had said, ‘You’re not that important.’ Touché. Speaking of French words, I have a fun story about that. But I am saving this up for when I next speak to MB, which could be 16 years from now, theoretically and in all likelihood. Busyness. Time. The passing of which makes you feel, at times, like a Beckett play.

But then, I can wait. Sixteen years. To tell my joke. ‘Cause probably no one else would find it funny, except possibly VH, or my brother, but… probably not. Drift. Mostly philosophical differences in lifestyle. But hm. Time. I hope I don’t forget the small story because it has a punchline, unlike many of my other, over-repeated ones. KK knows. And KE. I am talking about the silly sort of humor that is, quite understandably, waysided in most public places that are online. Little jokes of happy absurdity are sidelined, yes!, in favor of more intricate details of people falling apart, or trying to put themselves back together, or typecasts and stereotypes and blaming and… and… so on. No one cares about great bad jokes. Or how they’re told. What happened? Where is eloquence?

I am worried. About people. The way we are getting caught up in things. Games. Or Online Games. That is what gets reported nowadays, no? If it’s not about us gouging one another, it’s about online games. Sixty-eight percent of every story is about the rise of artificial intelligence, according to the CEO of Farce Media, L. O. Quince. Yes, that’s right. Ninety-four percent! DK finally tracked down Quince after 485.92 emails to no one in particular, and one missed call.  Quince gave us the two figures which we will not dispute. Seriously. AI and games! Not of the sort that are thronelike, mind, because I don’t know what those are, but you know, kind of messing around with each other’s heads. We all know those types. They are on Tinder, right? The hookup site that is all about intimacy and quality and two-way respect and stuff in relationships, that one, right?

Well, here in my morning setup everything is quite dull, I’d say. I am enjoying a very nice coffee and listening to the sound of the breeze blowing through very green, bright, and equally unremarkable leaves above me, and enjoying the sound of no buzzing, squirming, blinking phones or the intermittent beeps that let the people around them know that, in fact, they are up to something, after all, and perhaps it might even be good. But one thing is for sure. It doesn’t feel like Waiting for Godot. It feels warmer, safer, more bouncy, even bright. The anticipation, I suppose, is the story. To the next, then. Au revoir à bientôt! And stuff!