here is an email i tried to send early this morning:
"what a nite. listened to mp3 of ken wilber and rabbi somebody, phone conversation, you sent, late last nite. an eye-opener, so to speak.
then i did my bedtime thing, which these days consists of a little reading, very little. �non-zero-sumness and human destiny�. the kind of book i would have really enjoyed a few years back, and one that is chock-full of entertaining anecdotes concerning cultural evolution. i could nit-pick it to death, but won�t. suffice to say that �parable of the nine tribes� and �guns, germs, and steel� should probably be read also for balance.
then i turn off the lights and start book on tape, story of iris murdoch by her husband. starts off very oxbridge, in the 30�s i would guess. it puts me out pretty fast. so far for 3 nites i have fallen asleep in middle of first side of first tape.
but this morning... woke up from a dream, the first i can remember having in a long time. went something like this:
airplane lands at narita airport outside tokyo. i�m dressed in coat and tie and have several hours wait for next flight, so i decide to take a walk. quickly i am in small japanese neighborhood when i see someone who looks like rob, an Australian vw mechanic i used to know. it�s not him but he invites me in where i discover that lynn, old time dealer from the past is living there.
she talks about the owner of the place, who is a secret presence responsible for vast shipments of cannabis in and out of the place. i ask who this person is and whispered conversation takes place. turns out that it is somebody that remembers me from the ancient past, but her identity is withheld.
meanwhile cooking, chopping is going on in kitchen. the guys who live upstairs, foreigners like everyone else in the dream, move pounds of coke every day. or so i am told. all of this biz bothers me a little, and i have visions of japanese storm troopers raiding the place.
so some of us begin the stroll back to the airport. i take a rest on a bed in a room that is open to the street. there are many beds there. housewife comes out and busily sweeps the outdoor bedroom and i realize that i am being unmannered, hop off the bed, and hands in front, palms together, bow to her and turn to catch up with group walking to airport. she says something in japanese, sounds irate but not too extreme. i get the idea that foreigners like myself are known to be a little crass.
catching up with friends we end up in another large room where two men live. the place is full of tatamis, tapestries, and blade runner like holograms floating here and there. the two are american, and one of their business cards reads �i find things�. they are both young entepenuers, fairly successful. one of them mentions �this isn�t woodstock anymore�.
now we start to try and remember what time plane is leaving and do we have time to catch it. wholly confusing, i can�t figure out what time zone it is or where the airport is. one of the group mentions a sore throat he is dealing with. the two who live there mutter that this guy is having entirely too much trouble with his throat. a thought occurs to me, and at the exact same time i am thinking �things are breaking up down there�, one of the two says it. i tell him what just happened, and he nods his head. one of us says �dylan�.
we decide we might make the airport in time for departure, and start long journey up and down escalators, hallways, public underground spaces, total confusion. i am realizing that we are completely lost and wake up shaky, low blood sugar, fluorescent balloons blooming in front of my face.
--
chris
http://modernpeasant.com
We seem to believe it is possible
to ward off death by
following rules of good grooming.
Don Delillo "