I had Apple Music’s selection of Leonard Cohen songs on my earbuds during last night’s Physical Therapy exercises. Afterwards I was prompted to check out the Dharma talk on Cohen I’d given twelve years ago.  Rather than searching the blog index, I entered the title into Google.  On a whim, I clicked “AI Mode” and found:

Steven Marx is an English professor and scholar who has extensively written about and explored the Buddhist themes in the life and work of Leonard Cohen.

Marx highlights how Cohen’s spiritual journey mirrors those of other North American “renegade” writers like Henry David Thoreau and Jack Kerouac, who combined a longing for transcendence with “earthy iconoclasm”. Key insights from Marx’s analysis and Cohen’s Buddhist background include:

• Monastic Practice: Marx notes that like Thoreau at Walden or Kerouac at Desolation Peak, Cohen spent five years (1994–1999) in monastic isolation at the Mt. Baldy Zen Center.
• Ordination: Cohen was an ordained Rinzai Zen Buddhist monk, taking the Dharma name Jikan, which means “Silent One” or “The Ordinary Silence”.
• Relationship with Kyozan Joshu Sasaki Roshi: Cohen served as the personal cook and assistant to his Zen master, Sasaki Roshi, whom he viewed more as a deep, enigmatic friend than a strictly idealized master.
• Theological Synthesis: Marx emphasizes that Cohen did not abandon his Jewish roots for Buddhism; instead, he remained a “Jewish Buddhist monk,” using Zen practice to refine his creative inspiration and offer refuge from secular distractions.
• Literary Connections: In his “Dharma Talks,” Marx compares Cohen’s “cold and broken hallelujah” to traditional Buddhist reflections on suffering (Dukkha) and the “broken” nature of existence.

At the bottom of this summary, I was asked: “Would you like to explore Steven Marx’s specific essays on Leonard Cohen, or are you interested in Cohen’s other religious influences?” I typed in “specific essays,” producing this: (more…)

I received a text message on January 8 from Mary, the Director of People’s Kitchen, asking if I could help serve the noon meal at the Homeless Shelter. I’d volunteered to go on December25, looking for something worthwhile to do the day after our Christmas Eve family gift exchange, but it was booked, and I’d ended up venturing to invite a co-worker who said she was alone and a random bunch of friends and neighbors over for a last minute get together which turned out unexpectedly festive.

Early for the appointment at the shelter, I decided to stop for a few minutes at the SLO Cemetery nearby.  Passing gravestones inscribed with allegories of the soul’s ascent, I approached our unmarked green burial plots where  a great blue heron stood motionless on the wrinkled lawn stalking gophers. I watched at a distance, clicking  with my camera phone, and then walked slowly closer to see it arise.

Basic Information

Project Title: Agro-Ecological Land Improvement Project on a 1.5 Acre City owned property newly added to the long-term lease held by the licensed non-profit City Farm SLO.

Location (County and Nearest City): San Luis Obispo County, City of San Luis Obispo

Distance to nearest city or census designated place: City of San Luis Obispo, Incorporated Place 68154, Census Tract 113
Located within a priority population:  ? Y ?x N [Census tract number]

Project Funding

CFCP Request Amount: $75,000

$ Match Amount: $7500 from City of San Luis Obispo

Status of Match: Confirmed by attached letter

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First Redbud

Aunt Gabi at 100

The last poem in Margaret Atwood’s new collection The Paper Boat

Sitting on my new couch, purchased to replace the three year old futon which got too stiff and slanted for my old back, I was reading Margaret Atwood’s recent memoir of this name, hard to put down because of 1) its transparent prose style 2) the out-loud laughs its humor continually elicited 3) my love for  her books as they appeared during the 1970’s when we were newcomers to Canada and 4) its references to people I had met (Bev Howard Gibbon) and places I had been or been involved with (North Bay, Camp White Pine) and later, the Northrop Frye archive at the University of Toronto.

But when I came across her mention of an obscure place not in Canada but in Provence, France, where she’d stayed in 1971, I stopped reading and started remembering:

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Nocturia is defined by the International Continence Society (ICS) as “the complaint that the individual has to wake at night one or more times for voiding (i.e., to urinate)”.^[1] The term is derived from Latin nox – “night”, and Greek – “urine”…Nocturia becomes more common with age. –Wikipedia

I dont remember when I started experiencing this, probably in my early seventies.  The urologist prescribed Flomax, first once then later twice a day.  That reduced waking up to pee to once a night.  A year or so ago, when it got more often she prescribed Myrbetrick and told me to do the onerous job of keeping a urination diary which I refused.  About four months ago I started waking up even more frequently and she told me to stop drinking liquids after 6 p.m. and to cut back coffee and cut out alcohol.  Even more onerous but I did that. It didnt help much.  Then I went to the acupuncturist who applied needles around my bladder every two weeks and told me to gradually stop taking the drugs, which helped more than taking them.  Then I went for physical therapy for knees and shoulders which were preventing me from walking and chainsawing. Doing the exercises, which included 30 squeezes of the glutes, helped more than anything else.  Sometimes now I’m able to go only once, but the average is twice, which I consider tolerable, sometimes it’s still up to three or four.  This makes the formerly unnoticeable activity of an organ, which in another function has taken disproportionate attention, the focus of nightly concern.

Poophoria: The pleasant, full-body sensation after a large bowel movement is a physiological response primarily driven by the vagus and pudendal nerves, along with the release of endorphins and the relief of physical and psychological discomfort” –Google AI

I became fully aware of this around the same time that I started experiencing Nocturia, and over time the intensity of the sensation and my appreciation of it has steadily increased, offsetting the tribulation of the other excretory process. Once more the body has its own agenda, most prominent now with age.

This scholarly article from 1999 quotes and analyses the personal acknowledgements in the Preface of Youth Against Age, the 1985 book version of my dissertation, which was completed 1981, fifteen years after it was started. The relevant passage is found on page 265 of the article.

Abstract

The Droeshut and Chandos portraits, two familiar images, embody two contrasting representations of Shakespeare in Ben Elton’s  biofictions, Upstart Crow and  All is True.

The Droeshut engraving evokes the comic TV sitcom character played by David Mitchell.

The resemblance is short of literal, belied by the presence of a beard absent in the engraving, but richly suggested by the bulbous forehead and receding hairline, topic of a running gag throughout the series.  The actor’s typically bewildered expression conveys what some authorities have found to be a clownish cast in the image.  John Dover Wilson called it “a pudding faced effigy.” Northrop Frye said it makes Shakespeare “look like an idiot.”

The Chandos image renders the melancholy film character played by Kenneth Branagh. The resemblance of images here is unmistakable, confirmed by facial hair and costume, by inclusion of the portrait at the opening of the film, and by Branagh’s statements in interviews that this was his intent and inspiration. Nevertheless, the large prosthetic nose and angry eyes convey a much harder expression than the serene watchfulness of the oil painting. The discrepancy prompts the film viewer to collaborate with its producers in fleshing out a dark view of what Shakespeare’s late years in Stratford might have been like.

This essay explores these correspondences in light of encryption theory, an analytical framework derived from computer science, semantics and evolutionary psychology. (more…)

We breakfasted in the basement of Hotel Gama Stan whose walls and vaults formed part of the ancient City walls.

Further under ground on the way to City Hall, we rode an escalator 100 feet down to the Kungstradgarten Subway station

and were astounded by what we found down there:

We got the requisite portrait at City Hall.

While Jan stayed at the cafe, I roamed the grounds that I recognized from the Hendrik Willem Van Loon alphabet book I’d treasured as a five year old.

As an inscription in it shows, my parents rescued the battered volume and gifted it to our daughter Claire when she was 9.

I rented one of the ubiquitous Lime electric scooters, planning to ride to a beach along the shore a couple of miles away for a swim. But I soon lost heart because of the traffic and confusing road alignments and walked over to check out one of the Culturfest events:

Jan and I reconnected in the mid afternoon and agreed to visit the National Museum. We wound our way through the ever more crowded streets filled with young Swedes whose beauty appealed to my art conoisseur’s eye.

We arrived with just enough time to catch some highlights before it closed for the day.

Over the entrance we both found the PreRaphaelite mural by Carl Larsson visually appealing  but  bizarre in subject. “Midwinter Sacrifice” portrays a legendary naked king being willingly beheaded for his subjects by a red-cloaked priest in the effort to end a famine. Inspiring ongoing controversy, it was removed and then returned over a period of several decades.

Only briefly distracted, we hunted down the less controversial, but no less affecting Rembrandt portraits of youth and age.

With only a half hour or so left, we came upon the featured exhibit entitled “Hannah Hirsch Pauli, The Art of Being Free.” We both loved the work and the life story of this relatively unknown Swedish painter (1864-1940) who came from an assimilated Jewish family, spent several years in Paris with the Impressionists, married an artist and bore children, lived a sane and productive life and died before being exiled or murdered by the Nazis. Like Rembrandt’s, I particularly liked her portraits of Youth and Age.

This image of fulfilled exhaustion befitted our mood as we left the museum and hiked back to Kungsradgarden for dinner in a cafe neatly tucked in a tight grove of linden trees.

Somewhat refreshed, we braved exuberant crowds gathered before the Opera House to hear a concert by a big star we didnt know, but whose lyrical enthusiasm I greatly enjoyed.

Jan and I again parted ways in front of the Royal Palace, she on her way back to the hotel and I in search of one last taste of mainstream Culture that I wished the one I was returning to in the morning was more like:

As I stood with the crowd, my phone dinged notice of a text from Jan.  It was a picture and the caption, “Best dessert I’ve ever eaten.”