[MD] (no subject)
MarshaV
marshalz at charter.net
Tue May 5 04:43:50 PDT 2009
That would be my pain and stupidity, of course...
At 04:01 AM 5/5/2009, you wrote:
>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.)
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> >>>
>> > _________________________________________________________________
>> > Windows Live™: Keep your life in sync.
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>.
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>.
>.
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