Aventurina King

The first of my 4-week meditation classes unfolded in a high-ceilinged, baby-blue carpeted suite in downtown Manhattan. It was lead by two small and smiling women who work together at the UN in international development. On an altar near the window, there was a clear vase with a few pink roses, and three white candles in front of 2 pictures of the late master Sri Chinmoy both taken when he was in deep meditation.

The first 30 minutes of meditation were quite painful. I was constantly shifting in my seat. The electricity went out with a bang of the air-conditioner, then it came back on. “If there are any disturbances, please just bring back your focus to the candle,” mused Pragathi’s colleague during the blackout. Then the flame of the candle was supposed to be visualized within our heart center, expanding, until finally we were calmly sitting within it.

We chanted four mantras:

“Aum Govindaya Nama” (Mantra for Protection)
“Aum Rudraya Nama” (Mantra for Transformation)
“Aum Aparajitaya Nama” (Mantra for Divine Victory) (I wonder what this means, victory of the divine over our modern undivine lives? or victory of God against Satan, Good against Evil?)
“Aum Amritaya Nama” (Mantra for Delight)

And just before that, one of the leaders, then cross-legged before a mini reed-organ, told us to “turn around and tell the person next to you that they have a beautiful voice.”

The class ended with a 7 minute video speech of a serene Sri Chinmoy with flowers around his neck, about the necessity of daily practice, and within this daily practice, of an inspirational object. It could be a beautiful flower, or the smile of a child which is all “purity and light.”

My favorite part of the evening was the post-class hanging-out with Sri Chinmoy’s students, one of whom had swum the English channel and joked about how his tongue got swollen because of the salt water. The man next to him suggested he speak about fending off the infamous channel jelly fish when he next lead the meditation.

I always take flyers handed out by people. It’s a small gesture that brings them a second’s relief from hours of standing and being ignored: a smile, a grasp, and then a trashcan down the road far enough so they can’t see.
This time the flyer was for a free eight-hour meditation workshop sponsored by the Sri Chinmoy community. And for some reason it made sense. Now I needed to learn how to meditate.

So I kept the flyer and two weeks later, I was sitting on a grey plastic chair among a hundred others, crowded in a primary school theatre just below Union Square. There was Chai tea, and a beautiful old woman clad in bright green sports attire sitting in the front row. (Ahhhh! I love natural women who have aged with a sense of dignity, unabashed by their white hair and netted skin.) Farther to my left was a boy touting a mohawk and an earing.

Four hours of lecturing and meditating on Saturday, then another four on Sunday. And it was really really fun. Saturday’s main highlight was Ashrita. Ashrita the 52 year old owner of a health food store in Jamaica Queens who has broken 69 Guiness world records, including the record of the most held records. It was hard for me to imagine Ashrita meditating. His voice was down down Brooklyn (kawwwwwfeeeee). And he talked about his failed high school gym classes with an excitement that made him sound slightly ADD. And he made us laugh and laugh.

One story which almost had me rolling on the floor: “I was up in the mountains trying to break the record of fastest running in a sack against a yak” Ashrita was being interviewed on TV, so above the primary theatre stage, there was footage of him bouncing kangaroo-like in a potato sack, flanked by a huge and reluctant yak prodded along by a local. “And I was getting really tired, but apparently the yak had it worse than me, I heard him huffing and puffing, and at one point, he just dropped out, and they had to get another yak.”

There were other funny records such as the fastest nose-orange punt, pogo-jumping in a swimming pool or up Mount Fuji. But the whole point was that Ashrita, who had been a nerd in high-school with no gym training (in his high school pictures, Ashrita has thick glasses, and there is his irresistible beady-eyed canari in the foreground), achieved all these records with the help of meditation. Of the first time he rode a bike competitively he said: “When my legs started hurting I just meditated and imagined God was massaging my muscles.”

There were plenty of other speakers, including Sujantra, the host of the workshop. Sujantra means “instrument” in sanskrit; a bit culty, all the Sri Chinmoy American-born gang had sanskrit names, and the first day, all the women wore bright-colored saharis. He walked us through the first meditation: 7 minutes of conscious relaxation, 7 minutes of relaxing the senses (which involved open eyes staring at a candle), 7 minutes of meditation on positive emotions (forgiveness * love * joy * gratitude).

I could go on. The workshop had a graphic designer who swam across the channel (“the main problem with swimming the channel isn’t that it’s cold and that there’s shit in the water, it’s that it’s boring, for 13 hours all you hear is “glug glug,” so meditation really helped me keep focused”), a lecture on the importance of a vegetarian diet for meditative practice, chanting, live music all composed by the late master Sri Chinmoy, and free free free cookies and fruit and sushi handed out by women constantly smiling (think Stepford wives in saharis, only the smiling was actually genuine).
But I have to stop here. In a bit I want to go out and do some drawing at the Metropolitan. But the benefits of the workshop?

For one I felt in a much better mood, maybe most significantly because I had shared a whole week-end with people who were real, and simple, and simply happy. (Or at least this is my first impression, as an aspiring writer, I have to keep some degree of skepticism anchoring my enthusiasm.) I will be taking their free follow up four-week meditation workshop and keep this blog updated on the effects, if any, of my daily meditation.

(see the latest NYTimes article about the Sri Chinmoy community)

I just finished watching the first half of Red Cliff, a 2 CD Chinese blockbuster that stars Takeshi Kaneshiro and Tony Leung. They are China’s two hottest male actors, and up to now, the only apparent reason for the film’s box office success.

The movie’s bad because the Chinese high-budget war epic has been done tens of times in exactly the same way: screaming violins, slow-motions, pained expressions and blood … blood … blood.
It’s also bad because scenes are forced to fit a purpose, instead of naturally forwarding the plot. Takeshi Kaneshiro plays a brilliant army strategist with heart. Proof: five minute scene in which he looks up a mare’s bottom and pulls a foal out from it. Tony Leung is a general with artistic sensitivity. Proof: he waves a feathered scepter and his whole army makes silence for a young boy’s tentative flute playing. Leung then walks over to the boy and delicately peels the flute’s holes with his dagger to improve the sound. In the following scene, he restores a stolen ox to the boy’s grandfather.

So far, my favorite moment of comic relief: the ruler of the Wu state cuts off a corner of a table. Murderously glaring at his old advisors, he yells: “I have decided to make war with Cao Cao, whoever mentions surrender will end up like this table!!”

I’ve begun reading “The Art of Happiness” by the Dalai Lama and Howard Cutler.  So far, I haven’t found it intellectually challenging ( but then again, many self-helpy books pale in comparison with the analytical depth of Nathaniel Branden’s “Honoring the Self”).  Sometimes questions feel incompletely or simplistically addressed.  And yet, inexplicably, reading it leaves me inspired, happy and this evening, after I put the book down, I found myself brainstorming how to help people in my life.

The purpose of life is the achievement of happiness.  That’s the first lesson of the book and I like it.  Avoid what makes you unhappy, embrace what makes you happy.

And there are two things right now that make me happy: Hip Hop and Yoga lessons.
I’m taking a fantastic Hip Hop class in East City Culture Center, between BeiXin Bridge and Jiaodao Kou.  Up to now, I had always been obsessed with Hip Hop–as a teen, there I was replaying Britney’s “Baby One More Time” MTV, mimicking her school-girl moves–but classes bored me to death. 

This class doesn’t, although it should.  It’s practicing basic basic moves for a good two hours on Saturday and Wednesday.  Barely any choreography.  The last class spent an hour and a half on three basics: the side lift, the back roll, the oblique shoulders (I don’t have the vocab for these things!).  During the side lift, you push your knees to the left without moving your torso, then comes a hit of the hips towards the left as your torso falls to the right, your torso lifts as your head tilts right, your torso rolls straight as your head follows.  Basically, the body looks like a blade of grass straigtening itself after a gust of wind.

The Yoga Yard is on the 6th floor of a building facing Beijing’s worker stadium (the stadium now looks like a Christo super-sized Christmas package, wrapped in blue and red Olympic posters).  You take a glass elevator that slides up the side of the building.  It opens  onto a cozy reception area with piles of shoes and Yoga magazines.

My favorite part of the 6th floor is the locker room.  You gently brush aside a blue and white patterned silk cloth that serves as a door.  Soft light melts through the liquid glass windows.  Warm colored tiles shine a silent white.  Painted porcelain sinks, dark wooden cabinets, spacious showers hidden by generous folds of plastic curtains.  The area breathes a clean warmth.

Here are the basics of my life in Beijing this Summer 2008:

I live in Season’s Park, an apartment complex in the East center of Beijing right across from the Embassy neighborhood. I moved in during the first week after its construction ended May 08.
The complex has a swimming pool, a gym, a few fountains, an artificial lake with over-sized plastic water lilies. There is a legion of stray cats and 24 hour concierge service. Guards, “bao an,” wear spotless white shirts, black pants and black sailors hats.

I wake up late in the morning. My studio’s floor-to-ceiling windows face West onto the Beijing skyline. The sunlight sifts through the drawn curtains. Eyes half open, I grope under my pillow for my American blackberry. My white kitten Davy (full name: Alexandre Dumas Davy de la Pailleterie) claws his way up onto the bed to say hello.

By midday I have decided which coffee shop I will make my work headquarters. If I am feeling lazy, then I cross my apartment complex towards the East and ease into the armchairs of the Red Hotel’s coffee shop, accross Chun Xiu Road. The coffee shop is run by a spectacled Chinese man whose face is round and open like an Indian Buddha’s. In the morning, a short, charming waitress with chipmunklike features, Si Si, makes me the world’s best iced capuccino: three quarters of the glass is thick milk foam. I cut through it with my spoon, it’s like eating cloud.

Si Si and I used to have a squealing fits over handsome Ming Dao, the lead of Taiwanese TV series “The Prince Becomes the Frog.” Lately Si Si tells me about her favorite Korean TV show, how it keeps her awake until late at night, how she starts work at 6AM.

If I have downloaded some make-your-booty-move pop songs–example: Will.I.Am “One More Chance,” Madonna “Miles Away,” Rihanna “Disturbia”–onto my ipod, I’ll do the 20 minute walk over to San Li Tun. San Li Tun neighborhood mainly consists of a street jam-packed with over-priced foreign-owned bars and restaurants. On the South of this more commonly named Bar Street is the Bookworm coffee shop. It’s the notorious place for foreigners to hang it, and is therefore avoided by weathered Beijing expats. It has a pricy Western food menu and unbearable waiters. The rumor has it they are cold, humorless and ungenerous because they are underpaid and mistreated: an extra shot of milk in your tea will be one US dollar thank you.

I favor a French restaurant, Le Petit Gourmand, tucked in a small road parallel to the Bar Street. It has a patio, red satin covered booths and wall to wall to wall bookshelves. I slip into my favorite booth and begin typing. Why is it my favorite booth? Because the Hollywood spoof novel “Get Shorty” is within hands reach when I’m tired of looking at the screen.

to be continued …

Julia Allison is the 26-year old dating columnist of Time Out New York, and her website, NonSociety, features videos of her and two young female business partners lip-syching, dancing in Times Square, and plowing through tutu dresses and diamond necklaces.

I agree with a few things Allison writes in her columns. The importance of being yourself: I translate that meaningless string into “being honest” (which is another thing she mentions). Being honest with other people: when you don’t want someone in your life, it’s not time for them to be in your life and you need to have the courage to tell them. Being honest with yourself: taking time to understand precisely why you, for instance, are mad at someone. (90% of the time I discover anger is within me, triggered by memories of painful similar situations, over-sensitivity, remnants of an adolescent willingness to please etc…).

Jullia Allison takes honesty to the next level by writing about the most personal features of her life. I admire her for fearlessly exposing her weakest spots. It hurts when someone tells you you’ve failed on a professional level, but it takes reckless self-assurance to be unphased by someone snickering at your romantic mishaps.

But Allison pitches all these valuable life lessons as “you need to learn these to get yourself a hot date.” First, if you are confident and self-assured ie emotionally self-sufficient and independent, why would you need to cram your schedule with dates? The path to a stable, healthy relationship is learning that spending an evening home blogging, or an hour video skyping with your best girlfriend is just as fun (and often sometimes more) as spending two hours at dinner, analyzing the smallest snicker or most insignificant flat joke in search of soulmate symptoms.

Then, the dating=self-promotion interview collection : reading this, I’m gathering this is how dating works in NY. The downtown bar is crammed with young white-collars protectively wielding blackberries. You get noticed, not because of the high-heels that you can barely walk in (nobody can see those), but because of your backless-frontless minidress. You stand next to one of the blackberry shields and seductively let your body pulsate to the 80s mix. And then suddenly, one of them lowers his shield and takes a jab. You’ve prepared your repartee: “I like eating bananas over whole-wheat bread. I’m quirky, I like S&M parties.” And he, wowed by your self-assurance and honesty, orders you a $20 cosmo with his BB, simultaneously punching in your phone number. Ensues the fancy dinner dance which leads straight to an upper-east side apt, 2 beautiful kids and many, many a day shopping at Bloomingdales.

What part does the other play when you are promoting yourself? In my experience, the most “fruitful” conversations were those in which I took a sincere interest in the other person. If you are dating to find someone who can maximize your happiness and vice versa, then learning more about the person in front of you should be the first step (even though nothing can replace patiently enjoying plenty of time together). If you are dating to avoid facing yourself, then anything, including self-obsessed conversation is a valid distraction.

(disclaimer: my behavior is nowhere near the squeaky clean standards I’m promoting in this post, but I do my best)

Part 2 of my travel fest was Egypt. I spent two weeks there and returned to New York barely a week ago (I can’t seem to get over the jetlag though, am still up at ungodly hours).

Before arriving in Egypt, I knew close to nothing about the country. Sure the pyramids, obviously the Sphinx, the pharaohs, “Asterix and Cleopatre,” the Nile, papyrus, sand sand sand. But aside from those things, embarrassing as it sounds: nada.

When I stepped out of the airport, I thought I was in LA. Blue skies, palm trees swaying over wide avenues. But it was the policemen who gave it away: Egypt is a police state, a dictatorship. The second thing that tainted my LA-cum-pharaonic paradise was the veil. 95% of the women were veiled, 10% of those wore complete veils (only the eyes peer through the black billowing fabric).

The third depressing realization (brace yourself for many more to come) is a direct corollary to the previous one. Many Egyptian men are completely sexually frustrated. Half of my luggage was elegant dresses and skirts. I vowed they would remain right there after I had my first walk on a Cairene street (in a fancy Western neighborhood).

I was wearing a raincoat, loose denim pants, white high heels and a scarf. I don’t know whether it was the no-veil or the high heels that did it. But the effect was the same as wearing a thonged bikini in farther Queens. I was getting a new cat call every two minutes, predatory stares by the gallon; some men walked right up to me and snapped their fingers in front of my face. The next day, I took a cab, did away with the high heels and tighed my hair up. The fourth day, I took back the high heels, put on some tight pants, let my hair down. I imagined I was diva: “so much aggressive attention, so little time.”

(Surprisingly, this insouciance has carried over into Manhattan where I now unabashedly sing out-loud to my MP3 player on the New York subway)

Egypt is a very poor country. The wages are dismal, unemployment is the norm. According to a recent NY Times article, people can’t get married because they don’t have enough money for the dowries (most marriages are still arranged). According to a local friend of mine: no jobs = no money = no marriage= no sex = nothing else to do with their time than pray to God. (The veils are one incarnation of that, the male equivalent is forehead scars due to frequent prostration.)

That doesn’t really explain religious fanaticism in a satisfactory way. (the following line of questioning comes from another friend of mine). Not all poor, third world countries breed Islamic fanaticism. What is it in Egypt that causes this mass turn to Islam? An expat I met pointed to the Muslim Brotherhood that fights against the rampant corruption in the Egyptian school system and draws in young followers. An Alexandrian cab driver spoke about the El Dorado of Saudi Arabia, how young Egyptians are treated like slaves over there and come back religious. There are rumors of an implicit pact between the Egyptian dictatorship and the local Muslim powers: “leave us alone, we will leave you alone.” (When I hear about the atrocities committed by the government, it does seem that the Muslim powers that be have left Mubarak and his son quite alone).

Tourist Egypt: there was some of that in my trip. Most noteworthy was my visit to the pyramids. They were much less impressive than the mental image I had formed of the 7th World Wonder. Moreover, climbing onto the pyramids had been forbidden since the early 20th century. Where is the fun?

It turned out I was sitting on it: a beautiful black mare named Alleiah. I smiled a few times at my guide Ali (above) and he took me off the beaten pyramid track (“you don’t want to see those pyramids, they are so boring!”) and we galloped around the Sahara desert for an hour. Ali is 28, has two wives (meaning that he earns very very high wages from scamming tourists at the pyramids) and asked me to become his third wife. He offered me three camels. I politely declined.

I graduated two months ago = SWEET FREEDOM! and my life since then has been quite a travel fest.
I traveled to France, to England, to Egypt and to Astor Place’s Japanese food mart.

France: New president yet still same old same old. Although cab drivers’ interests have slid from politics to the ex-wife of Sarkozy. My ride from the airport to Paris was embellished by a soliloquy on how nasty she was to him: “she cheated on him for years … at the last minute, she just plain refused to show up at the Elysee where he was to give his inaugural address, he begged her … she was the only woman who could wrap Sarkozy around her little finger, and she gave that up!”

England: Family time.
Although I did have a stimulating conversation with a Canadian-based writer. He had written a book about the chemical relationship between the brain part associated with religion and that with aggressivity. ie: “Well it’s quite worrisome really, they are bound together.” Meaning that we are physically wired to act aggressive under the influence of religion. Which is validated by the Islamic terrorism in the Middle East, yet invalidated by far more many instances of fervent religiousity unaccompanied with violence. (I haven’t read the book, therefore I am ill-placed to judge and imagine that the argument is much complicated and convincing then the above.)

In my opinion, aggressivity is a very indirect product of religiousity. I just found out on wikipedia that I am an agnostic theist, which means that I believe in the existence of a supreme being (although in my mind, it takes the form of a blurb of sparkling mist floating around the universe). But that doesn’t mean I can kick my recent conviction that religion is a human creation to cope with the inherent loneliness and purposelessness of life.

Religion gives human life purpose, meaning, identity by dictating actions. In that sense, God is much like a father for whom we get good grades, share toys with our little friends. For God, we are giving to people around us, we do or don’t work hard to become successful … Which explains why humans become aggressive when their religion/religious group is undermined. Attacking the structure they define themselves by (whether it be divine or human) is like destroying their identity, and by extension: them.

The same thing would happen though if any of the purpose-giving elements of our life was attacked: our job, our friends, our family ….

My personal variation on the clock-maker argument: life is a wonderful gift, who is the giver? (a big blurb of sparkling mist?)

too much on this subject … on to Egypt (which actually turns out to be a related topic)