[MD] (no subject)

Tue May 5 01:01:57 PDT 2009

Dan,

I love you madly...  You are incredible, a 
genius.  I am laughing like crazy,,, right through the pain and stupidity.

Marsha

At 03:01 AM 5/5/2009, you wrote:

>
>Driving down the road one day, in a hurry as 
>usual, I caught sight of a sign just as I passed 
>it. Curious, I made a u-turn and went back. The 
>sign said: Buddist Temple and just below that 
>was a little hand-painted note that said: All 
>Are Welcome. So I drove into the compound. I 
>parked the car in the parking lot and walked into the temple.
>
>Your sign is misspelled, I told the young man at 
>the counter. He laughed a loud belly laugh. I 
>thought maybe he hadn't understood me. I 
>explained that there should be an "h" in 
>Buddhist. He laughed again, this time falling to 
>the floor and rolling around as he grabbed his 
>sides with his hands as if his ribs hurt from laughing so hard.
>
>About this time an older man appeared from 
>behind some curtains, apparently drawn by the 
>laughter. Thinking that the older man was in 
>charge, I approached him. He wore a long orange 
>robe and he looked quite regal from a distance 
>but as he got closer I could see many tattered 
>rips in his robe that had been carefully 
>repaired and I could see his nose hair needed 
>trimming. The man looked very old.
>
>Hey mister, I said, I thought you should know 
>that your sign out on the road is misspelled. It 
>should read B-U-D-D-H-I-S-T, not Buddist. He 
>looked at me a long time without saying a word. 
>I thought perhaps he didn't speak English. I 
>looked over my shoulder for the younger man who 
>could perhaps translate for me but he had disappeared.
>
>When I looked back towards the old man, he had 
>turned around and was walking back through the 
>curtain from where he'd first appeared. He waved 
>a hand over his shoulder as if motioning me to 
>follow. So I did. We walked down a long hallway, 
>made a turn to the left, and then a turn to the 
>right, and emerged outside close to where I 
>parked. The old man motioned me to get in my 
>car, so I did. Then he waved goodbye. So I drove off.
>
>On my way out of the compound, I stopped, pulled 
>down the Buddist Temple sign, and threw it in the weeds that grew by the road.
>
>
>----------------------------------------
> > Date: Mon, 4 May 2009 01:44:29 -0700
> > From: gav_gc at yahoo.com.au
> > To: moq_discuss at moqtalk.org
> > Subject: Re: [MD] (no subject)
> >
> >
> > dan you *never* have to justify man
> >
> >
> >
> > --- On Mon, 4/5/09, Dan Glover wrote:
> >
> > From: Dan Glover
> > Subject: Re: [MD] (no subject)
> > To: moq_discuss at moqtalk.org
> > Received: Monday, 4 May, 2009, 3:36 PM
> >
> >
> >
> > Hi KO
> >
> > Thank you for writing. I think you're right 
> that it isn't good to be preoccuppied with the 
> past. Still, to understand the world it's 
> necessary to realize the temporary nature of it 
> all, not to just pay it lip service. In that 
> context, the most important thing to realize is the nature of suffering.
> >
> > In order to understand that, it seems best to 
> examine my experience through my writing. When 
> I write I find it impossible to relate the 
> recent past; rather it takes quite a number of 
> years to go by until I can do the story justice. So yes, I delve into the past.
> >
> > I know I can never accurately represent the 
> world through my writing. What I can do though 
> is draw upon certain emotions and feelings that 
> I've experience in life and hopefully relate 
> them in such a fashion that others may 
> experience those emotions and feelings as well.
> >
> > We're only truly tested in facing adversity. 
> When everything is hunkey dorey and the world 
> is a wonderful place, there's no need to 
> examine a thing. But when we're confronted with 
> adversity, we're forced to examine ourselves. 
> So for me it seems best to look at those particularly trying times in my life.
> >
> > Mi vida Dinámica was very difficult for me to 
> put key by key to screen. It is without doubt 
> the toughest piece of writing I've yet 
> undertaken. The very rough draft I sent to you 
> all here constitutes the heart of the story but 
> I can see how I might endlessly add to it as I 
> gradually remember other details as the direct result of remembering itself.
> >
> > When I see the bickering that sometimes goes 
> on in this forum, I think to myself: how lucky 
> these folks are! They have someone who cares 
> enough to challenge their belief system and 
> perhaps one day they'll better understand their 
> true nature. As I am less inclined to bicker, I have only myself to challenge.
> >
> > Thanks again for writing, and your concern.
> >
> > Dan
> >
> > ----------------------------------------
> >> Date: Thu, 30 Apr 2009 08:42:50 +0100
> >> From: kieffer.odigaunt at googlemail.com
> >> To: moq_discuss at moqtalk.org
> >> Subject: Re: [MD] Mi vida Dinámica
> >>
> >> Hi Dan,
> >>
> >> it was a pleasure to read about your first marriage but it seems from your
> >> account that you are still preoccupied by that long past interlude in your
> >> life. I suggest that you might resolve your feelings into a more positive
> >> outlook by making your current wife know the essentials of what happened
> >> back then; it is fair to her as she must see aspects of your behaviour
> >> shaped by your past experience that she cannot understand because she does
> >> not know of what happened to you; you would also honour the memory of your
> >> first love instead of denying it. Lastly, 
> 'when the light of this marvelous
> >> world' finally starts to grow dim for you, 
> then, that is the time, to think
> >> with all your imagination of finally meeting Yoli and Luis again.
> >>
> >> -KO
> >>
> >> 2009/4/28 Dan Glover
> >>
> >>>
> >>>
> >>> Meditations - On Loss and the Nature of Suffering
> >>>
> >>> "I was pregnant," Lila said.
> >>>
> >>> "How old were you?"
> >>>
> >>> "Sixteen. Seventeen when she was born."
> >>>
> >>> "That's too young," The Captain said. [LILA]
> >>>
> >>>
> >>> In the spring, she'd wear apple blossoms in her hair. The flowers'
> >>> whiteness contrasted so with the darkness 
> of her skin and hair and eyes that
> >>> my heart bled and my breath sometimes 
> caught short in my chest, as if I were
> >>> drowning in the spell of her beauty. Sometimes, still, when I am drifting
> >>> off to sleep or maybe just waking, I think 
> I hear her voice... she's saying
> >>> my name; I fancy the way it rolls off the 
> tip of her tongue with that little
> >>> hint of accent. She calls me Daniel. No one ever called me by that name
> >>> before and no one has called me by that name since.
> >>>
> >>> We married young. Her name was Yolanda. I called her Yoli. I remember she
> >>> smelled of incense and her lips tasted of 
> peppermint and wild strawberries
> >>> and we couldn't touch enough of each other. Back then, when people talked
> >>> about us - and they did talk about this 
> goofy gringo and that crazy Spanish
> >>> chick - they said we "had" to get married. 
> They didn't understand. We wanted
> >>> to get married. The baby merely gave us an 
> excuse. I like to think we taught
> >>> each other what it meant to love.
> >>>
> >>> We lived in Traverse City, Michigan in a little yellow house with white
> >>> wooden shutters on the sides of the windows 
> and a big back yard surrounded
> >>> by trees in a quiet older part of town. 
> There wasn't much work there except
> >>> logging, after they closed the plastic factory where we worked together,
> >>> where we first met.
> >>>
> >>> After that, I hired on to work with a crew that clear-cut trees and brush
> >>> off of hillsides up in Canada in an area about six hours drive north. Of
> >>> course it was too far to drive back and forth so we'd stay two weeks at a
> >>> time, sleeping in tents or the back of 
> trucks. Back then we didn't have cell
> >>> phones or GPS. When we were on site there 
> was no timely way of reaching us.
> >>> I needed the work. There were bills to pay and a baby on the way.
> >>>
> >>> Yoli was seven months pregnant when I left 
> her to go north. The doctor said
> >>> not to worry... she wasn't due for a while. 
> I'd only be gone a couple weeks.
> >>> She was seventeen and all alone; she must have been scared, but she never
> >>> let on if she was. I was eighteen and didn't know any better, or I would
> >>> have never left her side.
> >>>
> >>> A Jeep showed up at the job site three days after we arrived. I remember
> >>> seeing the dust from miles away. An uneasy 
> feeling came over me. Whoever it
> >>> was, they were moving too fast for those 
> loose gravel roads. There had to be
> >>> a reason. The Jeep came out of the trees 
> and slid to a halt. A man climbed
> >>> out and came running up the hill calling my 
> name as he ran. He said he had
> >>> bad news, that I better come with him and 
> get in the Jeep and go back south,
> >>> right now. I did. On the way he explained 
> that Yolanda had had a miscarriage
> >>> but she was going to be okay.
> >>>
> >>> When I got to the hospital I found out the man had lied; I couldn't blame
> >>> him. He probably didn't know how to tell me 
> the truth. I wouldn't have known
> >>> how were it me doing the telling. Yolanda 
> passed away shortly after giving
> >>> birth to our son. The doctor said he tried 
> to save her but he couldn't stop
> >>> the bleeding. He tried his best. He assured me that everyone tried their
> >>> best.
> >>>
> >>> It was the middle of the night and he was just an intern and there was so
> >>> much blood. He kept saying it, over and 
> over... there was so much blood, so
> >>> much blood... and shaking his lowered head and staring at his hands as if
> >>> they were still stained red while tears ran down his face. She had a
> >>> ruptured uterus; he didn't know what else 
> to do so she laid there and died
> >>> while they tried to reach a real doctor. I sat there, listening, silently
> >>> weeping into a crumpled paper towel I had 
> the presence of mind to stick into
> >>> my back pocket. I waited until later to do my screaming. Alone.
> >>>
> >>> They named our son Daniel. He lived for two hours. He was born too early.
> >>> We planned to name him Luis, after her grandfather. But no one knew that
> >>> save us. The priest wanted a name for the baptism before our son died. A
> >>> nurse suggested they use my name. I remember being a bit put out at the
> >>> time. Now though, whenever I see that name, his name, my name, I think of
> >>> him. I've come to see it as both curse and blessing.
> >>>
> >>> My brother and his girlfriend had a baby 
> about that same time, a boy. They
> >>> gave him up for adoption. They said they weren't ready. We weren't ready
> >>> either, Yoli and me. But there was no way we were going to give up little
> >>> Luis. We were a family. I don't understand my brother's decision. We've
> >>> never talked about it but I bet he doesn't 
> understand either. At the time it
> >>> appeared to me that life wasn't as fair as I thought it should be. I've
> >>> since come to see that I was wrong.
> >>>
> >>> Not long afterwards, I remarried, raised another family, and eventually
> >>> divorced. My first marriage happened so fast it's almost like it never
> >>> occurred at all. All I have left are a 
> couple old wrinkled pictures of Yoli
> >>> smiling her smile into the camera and our cheap gold-plated wedding rings
> >>> that I keep together on a little silver-looking chain in an old tattered
> >>> shoe box full of treasures I've accumulated along the way.
> >>>
> >>> The kids don't know about my first family. I never told them. I saw no
> >>> reason. I started to tell my second wife 
> but I could see she didn't care to
> >>> hear about it so I never brought it up again. In fact, this is the first
> >>> time I've come close to telling it to anyone in detail.
> >>>
> >>> I am not sure why I am writing about it now. I find it makes me very sad.
> >>> Writing out these beautifully terrible 
> memories deep into dark lonely nights
> >>> helps give rise to the most vicious morning headaches. I can barely deal
> >>> with them; I'm not good with physical pain... and I never have headaches,
> >>> not like this, not until now. It seems 
> better to write than not, I suppose,
> >>> but I'm in no way sure about that.
> >>>
> >>> Aspirin and coffee for breakfast allows me to face yet another day. It's
> >>> either that or whiskey and dirt. And I'm 
> not ready for dirt. Besides, maybe
> >>> some day some distant descendant of mine will want to know who I was, and
> >>> why. Maybe these bits and pieces of a 
> battered and bruised heart will help
> >>> tell the tale, for what it's worth. Maybe I owe it to them, somehow.
> >>>
> >>> I remember Yoli's mother hugging me at the funeral, whispering in my ear,
> >>> accusing me: ustedes hizo esto. All I could 
> say was: Yo sé. I know. I felt
> >>> so guilty. I should have been there. It's 
> been over thiry five years but it
> >>> feels like yesterday. I still curse myself 
> for my ignorance. I buried Yoli
> >>> and Daniel together and went back to work. 
> But just to tell the boss I quit.
> >>> I couldn't do it anymore.
> >>>
> >>> I've tried to live a Good life. I'm 
> probably not the best father nor was I
> >>> as good a husband as I might have been. I suppose none of that matters as
> >>> much as it would in a more perfect world. 
> Even knowing of this world's flaws
> >>> though, I sometimes think I should have more regrets than I do. If I
> >>> believed I was in control of anything at 
> all, perhaps I would. I know that I
> >>> am not.
> >>>
> >>> I feel as shiftless as a broken leaf blowing in the brisk spring breeze,
> >>> bereft of even any hope of finding solace. 
> I know I will finally land where
> >>> I will, lay there a short while, and then 
> rot back into the ash from which I
> >>> sprang. It is (of course) the way.
> >>>
> >>> Yet, were I still a good Catholic I think I should like to believe that
> >>> when the light of this marvelous world 
> finally dies for good I'll see Yoli
> >>> and Daniel again standing there waiting for 
> me at the edge of some nameless
> >>> green forest with wide smiles on their faces and a deep knowing in their
> >>> eyes. Disbeliever that I am, I do confess 
> to sometimes wondering though if
> >>> they'd remember me...
> >>>
> >>> "He stood there for a long time looking 
> around outside. Then he looked back
> >>> down at her.
> >>>
> >>> "How old is your baby now?" he asked.
> >>>
> >>> That surprised her. That was a new one. "What do you want to know that
> >>> for?"
> >>>
> >>> "I already told you before I started asking 
> all these questions," he said.
> >>>
> >>> "She's dead."
> >>>
> >>> "How did she die?" he asked.
> >>>
> >>> "I killed her," she said.
> >>>
> >>> She watched his eyes. She didn't like them. He looked mean.
> >>>
> >>> "You mean accidentally," he said.
> >>>
> >>> "I didn't cover her right and she smothered," Lila said. "That was long
> >>> ago."
> >>>
> >>> "Nobody blamed you though."
> >>>
> >>> "Nobody had to. What could they say. . . that I didn't already know?"
> >>> [LILA]
> >>>
> >>> Comfortably numb,
> >>>
> >>> Dan
> >>>
> >>>
> >>> Mi vida Dinámica
> >>>
> >>> Somos arcilla sin voz, mi hijo,
> >>> todavía no se formó
> >>> antes de la memoria espléndido.
> >>>
> >>> (My Dynamic Life
> >>>
> >>> We are voiceless clay, my son,
> >>> not yet formed
> >>> before the wonderful memory.)
> >>>
> >>>
> >>>
> >>>
> >>>
> >>>
> >>>
> > _________________________________________________________________
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.
_____________

Shoot for the moon.  Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.........
.
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