The first and essentially only instruction I received at Zen Mountain Monastery was: 1) focus awareness; 2) when that awareness wanders, as it will, recognize that fact and let go without judgment; 3) return awareness. Do it a billion zillion trillion times. If anyone asked me if I found the meaning of life on the mountain, I’d say it was this. Wake up a grain at a time.

All the other instructions were along the lines of where the spare blankets were, when to bow, and what time to be where.

Everything at a Zen monastery is designed to provide an opportunity to practice awakening. To twist a business phrase, the work-life balance is so twisted together that to even consider those two things as distinct is a misconception. Everything is practice, from sitting in zazen to washing dishes to hauling pumpkins in a wheelbarrow.

It was a cheerful place; less talking, more doing, less judging, more awareness. There was a real love of life, a love and a respect of each moment. What I encountered there will absolutely help my home practice, and for that I am grateful.

At the end of each evening service, a short poem is chanted: “Let me respectfully remind you, life and death are of supreme importance. Time passes by swiftly and opportunity is lost. Each of us should strive to awaken. Awaken! Take heed, do not squander your life.” Life’s a bitch enough as is without our constructing fantasies and living in them. We have less control than we think, and that’s okay. We should recognize and understand our fantasies, make contact with the absolute wonder of the reality of our lives, and love that with all that we are while we can. Each moment. Life might be a bitch, but it’s our bitch.

I came down from the mountain to learn that my father is dying.

I’m going up to Zen Mountain Monastery for a weekend retreat. I’ll be back on Monday.

Seen on a bumper sticker near Harvard, from memory.

Translates as: “I sacrifice to the gods, and I vote.”

Today’s photoshop exercise involved, for some reason, merging together a little girl and a statue.

We’ve been giving a little each month to Mercy Corps, and as as result I was invited tonight to attend a reception hosted by the Mercy Corps staff to talk about the organization and what it’s doing. As far as donors go, and compared to some of the people I met tonight, I’m small potatoes, but every potato counts as they say.

Mercy Corps is a lot more than a charity; it’s a relief and development organization with a conflict management arm. It goes to places devoid of hope and brings support, know-how, and works with communities to help them recover, and eventually prosper, on their own path. Places like Afghanistan, Darfur, and Iraq.

I almost cried a few times tonight, as some of the coordinators shared stories of their experiences, particularly after hearing of an Iraqi village, deep in their own suffering, pooling their day’s wages together to help people in this our country after Katrina. There was a strange mixture of pride, shame, and tenderness in me, and it pierced my heart. The complete unfairness of the world was laid bare before me, but I also saw the faces of people who walk into that unfairness and create something wonderful.

Yesterday’s kamikaze rest binge seems to have done some good; while I’m not entirely perky I’m lucid and able to work, even if it’s a bit slower than usual. I’m drinking coffee, listening to Don Giovanni, and alternating between tidying up the house and sifting through the little bits and pieces that I left on the workshop floor as I barreled through to my deadline last week. This is not entirely an easy task, as rather important bits can be found on paper notes, embedded in e-mails or as part of AIM transcripts. I’ve got quality tools for funneling them into a few different master lists, but as things heat up, the system breaks down just enough that I have to go through everything, just in case.

I’m thanking the gods that I went ahead and bought the chair a few weeks back. It’s made the last week a lot more fun; even though I was busy, I was working without any neck and back pain. Also, I feel like a starship commander when I sit in it, which provides not a small amount of psychological awesomeness.

I’m unwell, despite efforts. Time to ride it out, this achy, floaty, disconnected feeling. Recovery, unfortunately, requires not going to see the Scissor Sisters tonight; if anyone wants 2 tickets to tonight’s Boston show, send me an e-mail.

With apologies to Damien Hirst.

And it is true what you said
That I live like a hermit in my own head
But when the sun shines again
I’ll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.

This is a general message to friends and acquaintances. I apologize for being out of contact as of late; I’m spending a lot of time alone right now, regrouping, refactoring, reflecting, and reorganizing. But I’m not completely dedicated to hermit style. I’d love to hear from you.

If you’re needing a fix of popular music from 1900-1920, look no further than the Cylinder Preservation and Digitization Project, which has taken old Edison wax cylinders and converted them to mp3. I’m especially fond of the whistling collection.

I’m still here, fighting off a cold, deadlines, and various other nasties.

If you asked me which musical group I’ve been a fan of the longest, it wouldn’t be a difficult question to answer. While I have memories of listening to Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow and Van Halen as a youngster, the first tape I ever got for myself was Actually by the Pet Shop Boys. Followed closely by Michael Jackson’s Thriller, but we wont talk about that. I wore the tape out – it wasn’t until a lot later that I was clued into the more complex contexts that they were singing about; it was 1987, I was 12, and the music was enthralling.

So I found myself at the Opera House last night with V – a bigger fan than I can ever claim to be – (her review here) – to see them live as they toured for their new Fundamentals album, which they mixed in with a hefty selection of greatest hits. The stage show was the most elaborate yet; while it lacked the excess of the Flaming Lip’s dancing santas, the Pet Shop Boys had a fine tuned production that used video projection, very clever stage backing, backup singers, a sadly underutilized diva, and dancers. They could whip between camp and gravitas faster than you could say “Oh Snap!” And they did.

There wasn’t too much interesting about the music itself; Neil Tennant sang his heart out, and I’d love to know how much control Chris Lowe was exerting over the backing track. I was mostly mesmerized by the stagecraft, and delighted by how use of visuals amplified the emotional power of the music. It was so well done that the points at which the visual elements weren’t contributing in any way stood out.

It was also fun to be, once again on the younger side of the audience. I’m used to it as a classical concert-goer, but I’ve been on the tippy outside of the bell curve at recent concerts; I’m assuming that this will be true again later this month when the Scissor Sisters come to town. If so, I can regale people in my aisle about the times when people bought cassette tapes, and liked it.

I had a dream in which the most important goal in life was to have one’s face on a can of chili. I was arranging a photo shoot for V so she could get herself on a chili can, and therefore make it.

I spent the remainder of this year’s office improvement budget on a new chair. Given that my butt is in front of this computer for the vast majority of the time, I splurged and got a Mirra. It’s high design, crazy comfortable and not so imposing that it holds the room hostage. All in a lovely cappuccino color. My back is already thanking me.

I’m going (West) to see the Pet Shop Boys tonight.