SoulPancake

[SP EXCLUSIVE]

The couple was warming up, but every third shot was either in the net or out of their partner’s reach. After two years, they should have been better players than this; something was off.

“We got into a fight,” Steffanie told me as an airplane roared overhead. Jeff, unable to hear, moved closer to the net.

“When?” I asked.

She looked over to Jeff, whiffing her racket through the air, and asked, “When, did the fight start, honey?”

Jeff cracked his neck. “Which one?”

“Funny, honey. This morning’s.”

“5:45.”

“On or off the court?” I asked.

They responded simultaneously: “At 5:45 in the morning?!?”

“In the bedroom,” Steffanie said as she flicked the ball to Jeff, “but it may as well been on the court.”

“Yeah,” Jeff sighed. “Same crap happens here, too.”

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I live near Dodger Stadium, close enough to see the big lights, close enough to hear the announcer’s voice. And even though I know I must be imagining it, close enough that I can hear the sound of the leather ball against the bat.

People park on my street and walk to the game. I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say 75% wear blue, the team color. I can see them from the window near my desk: Entire families in blue shirts! They know there’s a chance they might leave the stadium with a broken heart, but they are positive—they are ready to cheer; they are hopeful.

I have mixed feelings about all of this. On the one hand, since I live near the stadium, I have to endure game-day traffic. People take over the playgrounds with their grills and loud music and coolers of beer. Don’t they have jobs? And then the games: They are slow! Sometimes nothing happens! What can you do but sit in the blazing sun and eat a $7 hot dog?

But still. I am sentimental.

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Our new Hectic Poetic column isn't just about reading poetry; it's about actually trying poetry on for size. So let's put on our thinking caps! (If you actually own one of these mythical hats, that is. If you do, please send me a photo. I'd love to know what one looks like.)

Today, we're taking our popular haiku challenges a step further. Yes, there are are a few "next logical steps" possible, with the most obvious being the renga and the haibun, or forefather and spawn of the haiku. First, a word about the one we won’t be tackling just now—the haibun. Simply put, haibun is roughly a paragraph of poetic prose preceding a haiku. The economical, often playful, language used in a haiku is used in the prose, which leads up to or elaborates upon the moment sketched in the haiku. These haibuns were pioneered by Japanese master Basho in his travel journals, which I lovelovelove. (He’s such a dreamy ancient man, if ever there was one.)

Now, on to our current task—the renga! Renga, a traditional form of linked poetry, is responsible for the appearance of what we now know as haiku. Typically written by two participants, the first writer composes a haiku (three lines with a 5-7-5 syllabic structure), the second adds two 7-syllable lines, and the renga is constructed by alternating verses in that pattern.

[SP EXCLUSIVE]

And 5 other things NOT to say at an interfaith gathering.

5. “So does that make you kind of like a Jedi?”
4. “I thought you were supposed to cover your ankles?”
3. “So, do you follow any rules, or do you just freestyle it?”
2. “Let's rank the religions! You in the turban, go first!”
1. “Excuse me, but I thought you weren't allowed to eat that.”

Here’s the awful truth: While most of these statements aren’t made at interfaith gatherings, people think things like this all the time—or variations of it, at least.

How do I know this? I’m a confessed religion junkie, an addict who spends his time exploring the collision of religions and how religion affects daily life. From my time studying comparative religion at Harvard University (no, Harvard is not just for studying law, medicine, and Reese Witherspoon) to helping organize local interfaith groups in the New York and D.C. metro areas, I’ve watched the interfaith movement unfold. I have developed a growing interest in trying to understand conflict and resolution amongst religions, understanding unfamiliar faiths, how different religions bring about different perspectives, and why the word “interfaith” has become so taboo. And those are exactly the kinds of discussions I’ll be exploring with this column.

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Atheists are a bunch of intolerant bastards. Believe me: I hang out with a lot of them.

We’ll sit at the diner smoking cigarettes, looking effectual. You'd think we're having conversations about humanistic reflections, seizing the immediacy of the moment, and the presence and power of life. You'd be wrong. Pretentiousness rules the day here. Given our narcissistic surety, it’s surprising we don’t order cabernet instead of coffee to wash down our plates of French fries. Granted, cigarettes and high-fat foods probably aren’t a rational combination for people who believe existence is a finite flash that should be relished, but that proves my point: Smugness rules the day. When it comes to our greasy spoons and the possible existence of God, we know best.

Not that we’re all angry atheists, mind you. (OK, there’s Donny, but he’s more of an agnostic, and I think he’s got issues of whether he ultimately fits into the group.) It’s just that we seem unnaturally consumed with ire for the believers and their supposed ongoing negative effect on society, the human race, and our own self-absorbed carpe diem-ing (which should be unfettered by other people’s beliefs). Our whole diner scene reminds me of my grandpa and his WWII buddies sitting around scarfing down burgers and complaining about Bill Clinton two years into Dubya’s second term. Puh-leez. Just pass the ketchup.

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There are the nightmares, or whatever they are: Jump up at night for no reason at all and find yourself sitting upright in bed. Doctor says take 4 or 5 a day; I’m doing 7 or 8. Never sleep. Never eat. Sit at the kitchen table staring at nothing at 5:48 a.m. My mom’s in town, comes out, says, “You up already?” I just nod. Sure.

I don’t manage loud noises well. Arguments, too. Bills are heavy; a roof’s a heavy thing to keep over your head. Our babies in their cribs. Run 3 miles on the treadmill before you realize there’s nothing chasing you. Humbert Humbert. I won’t lie; there’s a part of me that gets him, confused and guilt-ridden. Poor old Madame Bovary, bored out of her wits, taking another trip to the mall, anything to make the numbness go away. All of them hoping someone's gonna swoop them up and solve it (whatever it is).

Sit in dark rooms watching movies we’re not really watching, or posting on Web sites we don’t really like, masturbating (again), kicking bottles and keys every time we walk across our rooms, and going mad on trains and busses. Broken hearts. Unused hearts. Hearts opened wide as eyes searching for a decent hug.

[SP Exclusive]

Chew on that and these other tasty questions raised by recent headlines.

This week: dopey decisions, in green we trust, faithless in Seattle, and a pre-teen idol.

Would you rather get stoned than extend marriage rights to gays?
Maybe there was something in the lobster, but I’m still scratching my head over the election results coming out of Maine last week, where the good people of the ine Tree State passed by simple majority two propositions: one to expand existing medical marijuana allowances and a second to repeal the state law providing marriage rights to gays and lesbians. Maine’s new pot law increases the number of ailments that qualify patients for weed IDs and allows for doober retail outlets, while the passage of Prop 1—similar to California’s 2008 passage of Prop 8—mandates the state to only recognize marriages between a man and a woman. Legalize it laws in California and Maine have won handily, while marriage equality efforts remain a divisive, polarizing issue. C’mon people, what exactly is it that we’re smoking here? Is the weed really so good that we’re ready to embrace our inner stoner but paranoid as hell about letting our loved ones, friends, and neighbors who happen to be gay embrace each other in matrimonial harmony?

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“My friends say I’m different since my mother died,” reported Greg while we rallied.

An experienced player who seemed to be blocking a much better player within, Greg had little expression on his face—his eyes rarely moved off the tennis ball; his body was stiff. Was he sabotaging with indifference or had he been on auto-pilot for years? Either way, there was another tale being told here.

“When did she die?”

“Six months ago.”

“So you’re here because… ?”

“I need help grieving.” He hit the shot solidly on the strings. Was this “ho-hum” response his way to deal with the loss of a mother?

I urged him forward. “What’s changed since her death?”

Greg ignored the question. “I didn’t speak at the funeral.”

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This is a column about being torn. I’m torn about a lot of things. From awesome commercials produced by despicable corporations to whether or not a cartoon family is a good role model for my children. My goal is to weigh the odds and, ultimately, explore my own fractured feelings while discovering the people, places, and things that inspire me.

Today, I want to talk about porn. I wonder about it. On the one hand, I get it: sex, boobies, wiggling body parts, sweating, moaning. All good. But isn’t there something inherently sad and lonely about the person who watches it? “I am sad and lonely, so I want to watch other people simulating a pleasant experience so that I can possibly feel a physical sensation that will ultimately only remind me of how alone I am.”

I’m realizing this is not a typically male point of view.

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:: spiritual evolution by afeatheradrift

The most elegant part of scientific theory is the ease with which science accepts new information and adjusts past ideas and hypotheses that were incorrect. In a sense, the scientific method itself, like evolution, has a built-in feedback loop that can fix or abandon what doesn't work and pursue traits (or ideas) that are useful and rewarding. It made me wonder: Can faith evolve and grow in the same way?

For the answer, I’m turning to an unlikely place: evolution. More than 15 years ago, archeologists discovered Ardipithecus ramidus (or 'Ardi') in Ethiopia. Ardi was a likely human ancestor that walked upright around 4.4 million years ago in the jungle and is the earliest candidate for a human ancestor ever to be found. Ardi has the intermediate characteristics we would expect from a human ancestor—she was an able climber, yet could still walk upright on the ground; she had a more dexterous hand than a chimpanzee; she did not walk on her knuckles. In other words, she has characteristics that are distinctly unlike both chimpanzees and humans—characteristics unique to her species. Since the initial discovery, teams of researchers have been painstakingly performing and compiling research about Ardi, much of which was published last month in the journal Science.