as it were

meanwhile, snowbellsI do my part in the war effort by listening to podcasts. This one on Ezra Klein delves into the complexities of economic sanctions.* His interviewee, Adam Touze, peppers his parentheticals with "as it were." This is not as familiar to me as "like" or "uh" so I listen as if it has meaning. 

As I write, errant tabs accidentally fire updates. Bombing my mind. as it were. if you will. if I may. 

Today my daughter is taking me for a ride somewhere, downtown maybe. So I'm going to copy bits of what I wrote on the Village Zendo listserve in response to a beautiful question: What supports you in times of suffering?

My father is a Russian born in Kiev. His father, a professor, was seized and murdered by Stalin. My father remembers Kiev under siege, and feels it again now as he watches the bam bam footage.

as it were. 

He joined the U.S.military because he believed in this country, its democracy, its inclusion. So we lived on military bases during the cold war and were shunned for being Russian. Now my daughter asks if everyone will hate us. No, I say, Russian is many things, too complicated to be an enemy.

We watch the poetry of Tarkovsky (Stalker) and I feel supported. Humans flailing, looking for hope. I am like that.

My friend writes of dancing ash and co-dependent bundles, and I feel supported because his turns of phrase spin me into a new dimension. He writes about writing: "let the page overhear as a benevolent sponge." His words legitimize the hours I’m spending reviewing my diaries. Maybe not so benevolent, in my case. The stories I lived had the power to wound again. as it were!  Now the words begin to blur, lose their meaning, lose their might.

A friend of a friend, Chad, just fled Ukraine. Chad made a beautiful film featuring a Ukrainian artist traumatized by Chernobyl et al.  Russian Woodpecker won the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance in 2015. I watched it on Vimeo for 99 cents, and I felt supported.

I feel supported as I email with my father, hear his analysis and heartbreak, and as I read your accounts of wars in your history. We are like that, built to fight. Is there such a thing as fighting for good?

My friend, Kansho, gave a dharma talk (not yet posted, will link when it's ready). He spoke of of the danger of making meaning and also the danger of abandoning it. A bomb is a bomb is a... 

I am grateful to this sangha and our teachers for holding our face to the fire, and especially for the way that art in its many forms calls us to witness, to hold each other, no matter what. As it is.

March 2, 2022

* Here I learned the term: weaponized interdependence. no modifiers needed.

How To Say Goodbye

With a bow to How To With John Wilson and his quirky meanderings and a bow and a wow to Lucy Ellman for the fact of her facile fiery fragments, I offer you mine.

What dies? My energy and my love continue. Whomever I have helped are still helped. yelped. touched. wounded. wondered. wandered. 

From my diary in 2019: 

sound of machines in the hallway, cat on my right thigh, man in the woods, I did love him, my belly says. heart in my throat, cancer in my breast [not really, not really], at some point this body will break down and then my legacy already spilled into the world. the brutality of spring, buds pushing their way out of the naked branches who had their glorious unveiling in the winter. 

Reminder, don’t get massage after breakup because being touched makes me want to be touched. 

I am a performer. I feel the flow when my whole body is activated and I feel the touch of the gaze. even two people is better than one, except at a party because of what happens to my ears. the buzz of the crowd sets my neurons on edge. 

What dies is my point of view. How do I let go of what I see, how I understand things? I can barely express myself now. People who see me don't see me. I am not an influencer. So I quietly sit, outside when I can, and let the world settle into me.

my burial shroudA friend from the Zendo made me a burial shroud. I gave her scraps from my fabrics and my friends contributed from their collections, and she patched them into this gorgeous wrap. We sat in meditation for a few minutes and then I tried it on. I performed dying.

I tell myself it's like when I finally tear myself away from the beach by reminding myself it will still be there even when I'm not. I don't have to have the experience of waves. I don't have to do the dancing. 

Dance. I see you. Sing. I hear you. 

Live. 

I am still alive. This is not goodbye. I'm just rehearsing.

January 19, 2022

Fragments

my sky my body. belated winter solstice, a birthday"It's a funny sort of thing," they like to say in Feldenkrais classes when noticing how one thing subtly relates to another.

When I can't have a proper conversation my mind fragments. Here are some shards that have lingered here and in the draft folder in my mind:

No I don't want to see Nicole Kidman's frozen face attempt to perform Lucille Ball. I don't want to read about her process, no matter how popular The NYTimes tells me it is. I don't want to see her picture and I don't really want anyone else to enjoy it either.

ok, no, I realize she is a victim, not just a perpetrator of our vacant plastic aesthetic.

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Jackhammers and Supermodels

Updated on Wednesday, January 5, 2022 at 3:21PM by Elena Taurke

I listen to podcasts to drown out the relentless jackhammers that infuse NYC with painful reminders of impermanence, disrepair, and probably incompetence. When they pause for lunch it's likely that the leaf blowers will rise up, as if conducted by a villainous maestro determined to bore holes through my brain. 

Not that I concentrated enough to really take it in but Kara Swisher very supportively interrogated Emily Ratajkowski, a super model and instagram 'influencer' on the matter of profiting from the male gaze. She's written a book. She wants to be taken seriously. And she defends the right of women who use their beauty to make money. 

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Here I Am

Do you recognize me? Sometimes I forget who I am. It's a lifelong problem, soon to be solved by death.

Since my typing hand no longer cooperates with my thinking brain, I've decided I can cut and paste some excerpts from diaries.

I fell in love with a poet who lived in the woods, March 24, 2018

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Adaptation

A dear friend innovated to help me participate with power in social engagements. It's hard to get attention when I can't speak. It's hard to be understood when I can't speak. It's hard to get the help I need, hard not to feel alone, hard to shine. But when people really tune in, I am touched. I don't mean that I feel moved, or maybe I do, but what I mean, physically, is that there is contact. 

The world I live in now is unique, and I don't have company in it. I am adapting in crazy ways, unusual ways. You could say that my adaptations are me. 

As I write this the sun is suddenly brandishing its light and the clouds are making room, their edges glowing responsively. Sky makes an appearance after a morning of gray. Each is adapting to the other. My body responds to the change.

I had fun flashing my cards and it made me feel a bit bossy, something that I rarely feel nowadays. My friends were adapting to my limitations, keeping me company in this unique world. This is love.

November 15, 2021

Dissolution Dharma

I gave a Dharma talk today. Here are the words, spoken by my friends where indicated:

Good morning. My name is Yuuka. I’m a senior student at the Village Zendo and a member of the Sangha. 

I sound like this because my diaphragm and vocal cords have atrophied from ALS, lower motor neuron dominant ALS, a rare variant of a rare disease. So today, my friends will speak my mind. Thank you, Roshi, for allowing and encouraging this accommodation.

clockwise according to textMy name is Fusho; We often start by talking about the weather… [improvise and bow]

My name is  Joren. And we often say how amazing it is to see all of you… [improvise and bow]

My name is Mukei .Sometimes we say something about how we’re feeling… [improvise and bow]

My name is Gessho. Or what’s going on… [improvise and bow]

My name is Kojin. We talk about these things because they are immediate, happening now.  [improvise and bow]

Yuuka Kojin, will you be my voice? [bow] 

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See me...feel me e ee

That's a lot of 'e's, eh? When you make the sound, do you feel it in your throat? your tongue? How about your teeth? Do you feel the resonance in your cheekbones?

There is a big difference, isn't there, between seeing it on the page and feeling it? I thought of this difference the other day on my first wheelchair ride. I had convinced my daughter to leave me outside for a bit so I could feel the breeze. Sitting under a sprawling tree bending in the soon-to-be-stormy wind, watching leaves shimmer a little hysterically, I felt bliss. I was the tree and the wind and the sun. My pores shouted Oneness with All, and I listened. Alas, we were pressed for time; the bit was over too soon, and then I was inside again. 

Inside I can see a tree (I'm lucky, I know), but I cannot feel it. Or so says my limited mind.

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I am In Dependent (don't read if you don't cuss)

pic by Leor MillerThis is how I swim now. With the full support of my daughter I can kick like a toddler learning to swim. Except of course I fucking know how to swim. I fucking used to pass the fucking alpha males with their gear and their struts and I was fucking proud! 

Pride comes before a

whoops.

I fell the other day as I

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True Expression

Somewhere in my documents is a pronouncement that I'll be ready to die when I can no longer express myself. When I wrote it the line between expression and not seemed more clear to me than it does now. What is expression? What is myself? Zen koans are often simple at the absolute level but entangled at the level of detail.

Sure, I am expressing myself now, but

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