What is Your Orientation?

Given the current social/political climate I wouldn't be at all surprised if you took this to be a question about your sexual preference(s) or the gender you identify with. 

As a faithful reader of this blog I want to personally say to you that I support you in whatever your choice(s). Good on you! I have friends who are just like that. Have a nice life.

But, hold on. There are other kinds of orientations. 

Have you heard about Feng Shui? It's the ancient Chinese philosophy about the flow of energy. Let's put it this way: you don't put the china hutch just in from the entrance to your home. It's like that. Where things go. What works, really.

How about geographic orientation? Which way is up? Getting close.

The orientation I'm pointing to is toward the Earth itself. More specifically, with the Earth. What works?

In my professional capacity let me quote my teacher, Dr. Ida P. Rolf: ''Rolfers make a life study of relating bodies and their fields to the earth and its Gravity field, and we so organize the body that the Gravity field can reinforce the body's energy field. This is our primary concept."

"This is the gospel of Rolfing: When the body gets working appropriately, the force of gravity can flow through. Then, spontaneously, the body heals itself."

In a nutshell then, when you live aligned with the dictates of Gravity you live easy, relaxed, effortlessly upright, strong and present. That's the very definition of health. Certainly a prerequisite for top performance and fullest creative expression. Oh, yes. It feels good. It lasts. It reinforces itself.

If you want to get all Ultimate and Real on the question of orientation, hear what Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche has to say in The Bodhisattva Path of Wisdom and Compassion — Shambhala Publications:

"Shunyata is basically the realization of nonexistence or emptiness. The more we realize nonexistence, the more we can afford to be compassionate and giving. Usually we would like to hold on to our territory and fixate on that particular ground, and once we begin to fixate, we have no way to give.

But when we begin to realize that there is no ground, that we are ultimately free, non-aggressive, and open — and when we realize that we are actually nonexistent ourselves — we can give. We have lots to gain and nothing to lose at that point. We are not — we are no, rather.

The experience of shunyata is also related to devotion. You begin to feel loneliness and aloneness at the same time. With shunyata, what you have heard and what you have experienced become part of your conviction."

From Joseph Campbell:

""The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature." 

— From: “A Joseph Campbell Companion: Reflections on the Art of Living" (Copyright © 1991 Joseph Campbell Foundation), p. 148"

Winona Ryder Runs with Her Puppies

via GIPHY

Am I the Father of Fusion Cooking?

When I resided in the lovely section Park Slope section of Brooklyn, New York, my set liked to think of itself as trendy. Little did we know that the Brooklyn we had then discovered for "gentrification" (to me it seemed mostly to be about stripping interior home woodwork) would evolve to become ground zero in present times for all things gonzo-hip and über-trendy.

Back then, shopping at Sahadi Imports on Atlantic Avenue for Mid-Eastern specialties was trendy. Now, its smoked truffle sea salt encrusted . . . whatever . . . at our favorite, still undiscovered, micro-brewery cum patisserie cum small batch eau de vie distillery using locally sourced hipster farmer grown organic ingredients from only certain favorite locales in the tri-state region, and preferably from the Borough of Brooklyn.

Time marches on. When we relocated back to the NYC area not that long ago, I drove from New Jersey to Brooklyn to nose around a bit. Where once when we first came to Park Slope a certain major street looked like a war zone — boarded up dilapidated storefronts everywhere — now there's a baby boutique on every other block and plenty of choices to get your Latte on. Twice the number of people too. You can't go home again.

And, speaking of home, the Brownstone we bought in the mid-1970s for $60,000 had sold for $3+ million a few years back. And I did see it recently listed for a million more. WTF! I don't think they would even let me in the door now.

In any event, my group of friends liked to entertain and get together over good food. I was a contender myself in the culinary department. We had Omelette rivalries. Progressive dinners.

My friend Stanley Mongin had a big restaurant grade Garland stove at his house. (Now my #1 Daughter designs kitchens with such swell stoves as the usual.) Somehow we got the idea to do some catering. Stan even had some commercial enameled long pans we used for platters.[Martha Stewart got the same catering/food prep idea around that time, but she persevered. (Now, we persevere with her.)] He also  had some contacts with the then newly developing Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), and we got some gigs catering after-show parties there. One post performance visiting ballet troupe cast party at BAM Director Harvey Weinstein's home in Manhattan. My friends encouraged me to try out for the job of running the concession serving drinks and snacks during show intermissions at BAM. I demurred. Other fish to fry it turns out.

We also had a fair share of other events. A swell Manhattan penthouse wedding reception, a Bar Mitzvah, an Italian American community group gathering. It was at that last event where we branched out into the world of fusion. Tempura chicken and vegetables, Chinese Cold Sesame Noodles, Sweet and Sour Meat Balls. Baba Ganoush dip with assorted raw vegetables.

At that last mentioned gig one Brooklyn Itralian type fellow in characteristic Brooklyn in your face style insistingly asked, "Where's the spaghetti?" I just as directly told him that he would like our food. Try it. In fact, he came back later and paid compliments.

We called ourselves the Polish Pavilion. Stanley and I are of Polish descent. And, the "pavilion" thing was going around in NYC. The Irish Pavilion. The Spanish Pavilion. So, you get how I came up with that idea.

Admittedly, we were nowhere near the level of innovation and complication to match the culinary stuntifications that diners in the Big Apple and other key world cities seem to expect now as a matter of course. Our efforts had more to do with introducing little known, but staple foods from distant cultures. And, combining them on the buffet table spread. Stuffed Vine Leaves from the Middle East. Baba Ganoush as a dip for Crudités. Meat Balls  à la  Orientale. Tempura Vegetables ... Chicken.

So, am I the father of Fusion Cuisine? I say ... Yes! Decide for yourself.

PS Stanley Mongin has gone on to his greater reward. His own #1 Daughter is a Chef. Now at the acclaimed restaurant Paradiso on the Emerald Isle.

Cruising for a Bruising

That's an early 1950s Lincoln Cosmopolitan. My rich Uncle Phil owned one like that. It brings back memories.

A vivid memory about that car was the time I was seated up front between him and Aunt Gene. It was a long drive from Detroit to the Port Sanilac area in Michigan for a weekend at a family cottage compound on Lake Huron. I fell asleep, and my foot accidentally fell on his. He made a big dramatic display. I was chagrined.

Phil was always a scary guy to me. Blustering and overbearing. Rude in the way some adults could use their size and age to try to get over on a kid. He would typically greet me with a withering handshake, rubbing the cut stub of his middle finger into the palm of my hand. Yuck! 

Once at the cottages when a bug flew into my ear, I was panicked. Never forget how on the sidelines of my distress he commented on how it would probably fly out the other ear. I laugh now on remembering that. As children we are at such a disadvantage with our lack of experience.

In high school I worked at Uncle Phil's bakery. Went right after school on Friday mid-afternoon and worked straight through to 6:30 AM Saturday morning. Now, remember I said Phil was rich. And, tight. He paid me back then 75 cents an hour. I worked diligently and did a good job. Asked for a raise. My next pay envelope was just a little heavier; but, not by much. He gave me a 10 cent an hour raise! I quit. My parents were concerned that I should anger "rich" Uncle Phil. F#ck him, was my unstated firm position. Very soon after I landed a Saturday job starting at nearly $2 per hour. That's the kind of bread a kid can do something with.

As an adult I visited Phil and we had a nice friendly man to man chat. I'm glad we found some common ground after all.  

The other memory with that car was sitting in back next to a girl cousin. She was, as they say, "budding". I stole several side glances into the forbidden territory inside her sleeveless blouse. Secret thrills of my errant youth. 

She's also the one I embarrassed on a later public occasion. She was going into the water for a swim at a crowed beach. I noticed that the back of her one piece was unzipped. I made a big fuss, yelling at her to, "Quick, get into the water". Naturally, everyone saw her. She took it that I was stupidly naive. Never suspected my devilish intent. 

Oh, there was payback. Once at lunch with her at her home I was served Lemonade. In one of those colorful aluminum drinking cups. It tasted to high heaven of dish washing liquid. I drank it; or, some of it. Didn't say anything. It took some years to figure out that she spiked my drink.

The Prez Sets the New Sartorial Tone

In the Trump nation you will be best dressed if you wear your tie in the new fashion. 

This not only displays the finery of the material of your cravat, it also let's others know where you stand in the pecking order. Pecker order?

Tie your tie so that the bottom point meets the level of the tip of your flaccid penis. Is there another explanation for the too long tie?

Here, as in all manly endeavors, a certain integrity should be observed. No tugging or pulling. Just as it falls, au naturale. You can let the bits warm up after a swim or a cold shower. That's permitted. Also, whole body shaking. Whole body, as in head to toe. But, not the dangler itself.

By this metric Colbert is obviously ahead of the President.

Vagina!

Is That What You Want to Call It?

Since when did it become commonly accepted to call the female external genitalia ... "Vagina"?

As an trained Anatomist and Health Professional it doesn't seem to me to fit. [That's what she said.] But, seriously. It doesn't.

Of course, the technical term is "Vulva". Not something that nestles nicely on the tongue. Term-wise. "Pudendum." That one also lacks the erotic flavor one would be looking for. 

The P-word is to only be used by big shots riding on private buses. Or, in the privacy of your own home. Women who want to be bold in public, or to make a splash, use the P-word. But, if you're a guy, the women folk don't like you to use it in public. Behind closed doors, work it out between you two. OK. Or, three. The C-word should not be used unless a large amount of invective is required. And, only if it applies.

Admittedly, there's a Vagina in there somewhere. But, also, an Urethra. In fact, since it's used by far more often than the Vagina, so I suppose a case could be made for calling that whole bunch of dangly bits ... the Urethra. Using similar logic, naturally.

I guess we want to have our cake and eat it too. Let's have an agreeable name, but let's not take the sizzle away from the steak. Vagina does bring the sexy. Urethra would be a wet blanket. 

I get it that "Vagina" is now the accepted word for it. The whole shebang; external genitalia and the actual anatomical Vagina. Seems in our Post-Modern culture if enough people agree on something, then that's what we go with. So, let me ask, who decided that? And, how come everybody gave it the thumbs-up. Pun intended.

I also get the there's the need to take the word "Vagina" out of the shadows. Free the Nipple? Let's go the next step. Free the V. I'm led to understand that it's still a shocking and intimidating term. To some. To me it's just a clinical term.

And, maybe, that's why I have the problem with the word. It just doesn't say it correctly, nor does it have the allure factor.

So, let me make a suggestion.

Let's call it ... "Queen." Yes, Queen. 

To be used thusly: "The Queen is hot." "The Queen will receive you now." "Bow before the Queen." "The Queen is [is not] pleased." 

I can see a porno movie entitled ... "She Opened with Her Queen ... and He Saw It!"

PS My Lady doesn't like the term "Queen". I've been advised to find a new one. In the meantime the working title I use is Pudendum. Maybe with enough use it and that vulgar sounding "Vulva" word will become more cuddly. 

Maybe I'm on to something. "Cuddly." How about naming it "The Cuddle"? I'll try it out tonight and see if it has traction. 

I do foresee there might be some misunderstanding if she asks me to cuddle. Maybe I can get an alternative to the usual meaning for cuddle?

All My Relations

Woytek Kohotec ... Wronski

Have you heard of the Wronski Gene. It's been isolated. Ones who have it all look alike. Dead ringers. Similar mentality too. To some extent. 

This will go far to explain how long lost ancestor Woytek Kohotek Wronski, who hails from way back to the Dynastic Period in Egypt, could be assumed to look like all the recent history Wronski's.

Believe it or not, above is an actual photo of ancestor Woytek Kohotek. If you think that it's impossible that they could snap a photo in the Dynastic Period, then the building of the Pyramids and all those other mysteries should not be all that impressive to you. The snap was found sandwiched between two slabs of perfect Lapis Lazuli planed to an exquisitely perfect tolerance to mate with one another, one etched precisely enough to hold the photo. In other words, air tight. Which photo itself, by the way, was on papyrus. How we in modern Wronski time have come to possess such a relic, I am bound to not reveal. Let's just say ... 

No! 

I can't!

In the family he is referred to as The Egyptian. Some put it, That Egyptian. Seems our W-K was a bit of a rapscallion. Totally against the Wronski genetic grain. The story is that he ran away with the secret to the Pyramids. Probably other stuff too. There's a barn on the Wronski Family compound in Upstate Michigan where all the brick-a-brack, ephemera, and what-not of the whole Clan Wronski from day one of the Wronski history is kept. Where Babcha Wronski insists, "It's [all] there somewhere in all that mess." Maybe one day some one of us will rummage around and then the world will know how they did it.

Don't hold your breath, though. A Wronski would go to the ends of the Earth for a good Pączek or a plate of Mama's homemade Pierogi. For such as what the Woytek Kohotec might have left ... not so much. Don't ask. It's a Wronski thing. We favor small endeavors. Particularly tasty ones.

CLICK on this to learn about the whole Wronski lineage. Well, not the whole damn mess of them, but enough to give you a hint of the wonderful Wronski's. 

Some Box You Got There

Only now am I hearing about some boxes discovered in Egypt in 1850. 

Some boxes!

Known as the Serapeum of Saqqara. 24 of them underground. 100 tons each. The hollowed out boxes weighing 70 tons; the perfectly fitting lids, 30 tons. The hard granite stone quarried from a source some 500 miles away.

Believed to predate the Dynastic Period in Egypt.

Each of the lids is cut from the same block of stone as the boxes. The lids are precisely level covering the boxes for an air tight seal. Overall, the boxes with their lids measure 15 feet long, 7 feet wide, and 10 feet high. 

The insides of the boxes are hollowed out square cut all with precise 90 degree angles. The wall surfaces of some have been measured to be precisely plane to a few ten thousandths of an inch. Can we even do that now?

The connecting corridors where the niches for the boxes are located, at some points seem to be too narrow to turn the box(s) to fit inside.

If you subscribe to the idea that it was sheer human muscle power which built the Pyramids, it doesn't seem possible to have the kind of numbers of men needed to carry 200,000 pound boxes (!) to fit inside the close spaces containing the boxes.

I don't care to speculate on how they pulled off that magic. Some believe the boxes themselves were made to hold the remains of sacred bulls. Yet no bull remains in any of them. Or, that classic go-to ... extraterrestrial aliens. 

All we can say for sure is they had some knowledge and ability which we in the 21st Century are clueless about. In short ... a mystery.

There's plenty to search about this subject. Here's a video with a clear look around the archaeological site.

After the video CLICK on the link to my excellent story Imhotep's Secret. If you think the Pyramids or those boxes are something, Imhotep will not disappoint.

 

Exceptionalism. America, etc.

You know the term "exceptionalism". Mostly nowadays it's typically associated with "American". But, it covers a lot more than the great — make that soon to be great again — USofA.

American exceptionalism has something to do with how our dear motherland is uniquely blessed. Natural resources, of course. And, as the cradle of democracy. Since we are special, we have certain duties. Noblesse oblige. Who would argue with that?

It, however, has also been a justification for our great nation's leaders to roam the world insinuating their agendas on our behalf into what basically boils down to other people's business. Making it a better place, presumably. Perhaps. But, also making sure that what's happening outside our borders is also for sure "good" for our national strategic interests. Would that the folks who go about doing such and thus had brains enough to know when to leave well enough alone. Also, foresight enough to see potential consequences beyond our "Missions Accomplished".

This is not a rag on America, as such. If you have no idea what the foregoing is about, get into your Noam Chomsky. But, be prepared to be deflowered, politically speaking.

Exceptionalism is a term which applies to anyone or any group which considers itself special. We Catholics have a rich history. The Crusades. The Inquisition. Missions. Christians of all stripes too. Think missionaries. The Muslims. There's them, and the rest of us "infidels". It can't go well for everyone when some are the chosen, true believers and everyone else is the devil. The Jews. The one and only God. (I always heard the word "Goyem" as a pejorative slur.) Mormons. Heck, they got it in writing. On gold, no less. Let's not even go into where the terms "Honky" and "Turkey" come from. Alright, chalk those up to Black resentment. Proving, perhaps, that even an underdog attitude can make you exceptional.

Look, I'm not going after religions or races as such either.

(And you Buddhists ... it's not part of the dharma, but you too can be susceptible to the "Holier Than Thou" fixation. Osho, the mystic teacher, was famous — infamous — for rubbing their spiritual hypocrisy in the face of his native India. The phrase "robes don't make the monk" pretty much encapsulates the sentiment.)

I know a group of ardent folks who espouse physical immortality. They treat others (non-adherents) as tools for their use. Maybe the latter is just because of some I know from that group; but you can see how having an elevated sense of yourself and/or your purposes can make others seem less-than.

It just is that the ego will insinuate itself as being special based on whatever grounds are at hand and convenient. But, you should know, I am in fact exceptional. Mother has said so! Besides me, however ... While no one would dare to argue that I myself am exceptional, the idea of exceptionalism other than referring to me is bunk.

Thus, I assert:

Exceptionalism is a damnable blasphemy to the essential inseparable and ineffable unity of God's Creation.

If indeed God's creation is of a piece, whole inseparable and uninterrupted — Don't expect me to make the case. If you doubt, turn to the Wisdom Philosophies for the proof. — then where does anyone get off creating an "us versus them" situation. It seems a lot have in fact "gotten off". Gotten off on their own juices, as it were. Hope you don't mind the salacious insinuation.

I'll leave it there for you all to discuss.

Leave a comment, and I will respond.

And, while we're on the subject of separation and unity, here's something on the subject of divorce.

CLICK for the article on D-I-V-O-R-C-E

A few excerpts:

"I believe my ex-wife and I did ourselves and our children a disservice. It's one thing to decide to not live together. What often gets missed is that in reality the notion of separation, it is an illusion. And, one pays a tremendous price in aliveness and proper care of the soul for maintaining that fiction."

"You see, if your heart is closed anywhere to someone, then that part of your heart is not available to anyone. Including those who you are committed to, and want to, love unconditionally. Conversely, if your heart, or a piece of it, is only reserved exclusively for someone, then your whole heart is not available to anyone. There is a friction there that wants to be resolved. It won't go away until it is settled."

H. H. Kyabje Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche

One year ago the revered Tibetan Buddhist Master Teacher, H. H. Kyabje Chatral Sangye Dorje Rinpoche, passed away on January 5, 2016.

Thomas Merton referred to him as the greatest man he had ever met. In his most movingly glowing homage Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse spoke about the accomplishments of so many others, and yet how “… [They] have achieved next to nothing compared to this man who appears never to have done anything except for keeping his meditation mat from ever getting cold.”

I am contemplating how in a world where such things as doing demonstrably great things, garnering incredible wealth, doing wonderful works of charity, loudly decrying the atrocities being perpetrated, earnestly going about making the world a better place, making that significant difference … that these values go without saying, unquestioned and unexamined, and … how all that stacks up to the kind of greatness which is merely to “… keep[ing] his meditation mat from ever getting cold”.

One wonders whether, on the passing of such a man, the platitude “He’s in a better place” is applicable, or even comprehensible. Or, whether to use the shibboleth “RIP” … should it not be considered woefully inappropriate?

Christmas 2016

With friends for a late Christmas Day treat ...

"Let it Snow" Photo: Walter Gryskiewicz

Photo: Walter Gryskiewicz

Photo: Walter Gryskiewicz

Photo: Walter Gryskiewicz

Photo: Carol Grys

Then the music started ...