If You Can't Fix What's Broken, You'll Go Insane

The title of this post is a line from Mad Max: Fury Road, the 2015 instalment of the Mad Max film series.

Much has been said about these Australian productions. Unlike virtually every other movie "franchise" (a fast-food industry term that often denotes similar entertainment), it contains no weak links: every release is genetically different, and all five succeed both as stand-alone works and episodes of the larger story.

Reasons for this are highly speculated among film geeks. Suffice it to say that creator-director George Miller came into cinema with no formal training (he's actually a doctor – odd how often that happens) and aside from not knowing any better than to just go out and make a movie, he's also a bit unhinged.

In the best possible way, I mean.

Anyway.

Fury Road is a tale for our times. Made on the very cusp of the current collapse, it takes place, like all Mad Max movies, in a thoroughly collapsed world that was fanciful when the series began. In this respect, it's hard not to read it as allegory – nay, prophecy – of all that's pounding down on us now.

I don't want to spoil this epic for those who've yet to see it, but to service my theme, I'll just say that unlike previous Max films, Fury Road has two protagonists: the titular figure, whom we know well (though played by a new actor), and Furiosa, a newcomer who is in many respects his female prosopopoeia. (English. Use it or lose it.)

The two share a common if involuntary struggle – the old, damaged, half-crazy man, and the younger, vital, ultimately righteous woman – and in the end, Max quietly issues her the above warning.

The Zen of which is undeniable.

As a young man, I was determined not to give in to the hypocrisy and self-centred self-destruction of unworthy authority. Not to serve it, certainly, but also not to enable it. This is why I get both Max (who's my age) and Furiosa.

I understand the ambition to cast down the wicked, even if no-one else has your back, and the danger of accepting that crusade at heart-level, on behalf of others; you can't stop fighting without defecting.

In Zen we have an uneasy relationship with activism. Classic teaching condemns it outright, as wasted effort at best, and multiplying delusion at worst. The fact that this means we've given de facto (and sometimes active) support to unspeakable evil over thousands of years renders that reading of our practice unsound in my eyes.

In the late 20th century, Thich Nhat Hanh came up with the notion of Engaged Zen, of which Kevin Christopher Kobutsu Malone became the head of the arrow in North America. That Kobutsu was ultimately crushed by his ministry in no way invalidates it; if anything, it's a mark of honour. But it does go to Max's point.

I never served like either man, but I've experienced that crushing. And I think all Zenners should consider this thing that I wish I'd learned much younger than I am now.

That the main reason inquity always prevails is because it isolates its opponents, leaving them outgunned and outnumbered.

And that's why you can't beat evil without accepting it.

If that makes no sense, you're in the right room.

Anzac Day Meditation

Died aged 18 near this spot.
April 25th, 1915.
Did his best.

Australian tombstone at Gallipoli.


(Photo courtesy of Chris Sansbury and Unsplash.com.)

WW: Mystery tree

(Some friends just bought a house on the bay, and in their front yard is this exotic tree that completely stumped me [no pun intended]. At length, reaching 'way back in memory to a long-ago stay in the Bay Area, I realised it must be a eucalyptus.

This Australian genus – also called gum in its homeland – is as rare here as it is common in California, owing to our wet and blustery North Pacific climate and soil types, and I have yet to nail the exact species of this one. Closest guess: Eucalyptus perriniana. But don't quote me; I'm rather out of my hemisphere on this one.

My friends explained that a former owner had a son who ran a local nursery, and as a result, quite a few unique trees and shrubs are dug into their new property.)

Good Podcast: We Regret To Inform You

Since many readers of this blog are engaged in creative endeavours, on this day of American Thanksgiving, I'd like to share a Canadian thing for which I'm grateful.

I've listened to Terry O'Reilly, a Canadian adman who's made several excellent CBC Radio One series on the art and history of marketing, for just short of 20 years. When his current project debuted simultaneously as a podcast, it proved so successful that he and his family (in a classic Canadian turn, Terry's production team contains more O'Reillys than the Dublin phone book) launched their own podcast production company to produce other worthy projects as well.

One of which Terry flacked (admen are born, not made) on his own podcast. So I gave it a spin.

It was great.

It was fresh.

It was life-changing.

We Regret To Inform You: The Rejection Podcast is required listening for anyone involved in a creative venture. In each episode, Sidney O'Reilly (daughter) unspools the tale of an iconic creator – writer, painter, filmmaker, athlete, actor, musician, anyone shopping his or her heart – and reveals how conventional wisdom treated them before they were famous.

Like Jesus Christ Superstar's 40 years in the desert, searching for a producer, any producer, to take on this massive cultural epiphany of the 70s.

Or the Temple of Doom that the guys who finally gave us Bat Out of Hell – Meatloaf's epic genre-busting rock-opera of an album – had to negotiate, and renegotiate, and abandon, and reconfront, and assault again, to get one of pop music's most thunderous masterworks into listeners' hands.

Or the 15-year odyssey, complete with Cyclops and sea monsters, that the gods sent Mad Men on before they'd (grudgingly) allow it to become a landmark of modern television.

All beloved household names, all gold standards in their domains now. Every last one sneered down, dismissed as sophomoric, laughable, unsaleable, boring, tragically lame.

Over and over and over.

Till the day they redefined art.

As a writer, Regret populates my solitude and refuels my soul. The main movement of each episode, in which Sidney recounts in full numbing splendour all the obstacles these people had to overcome to reach the summit, is skeletal support for those of us in the foothills. When we've relived this ordeal, and are basking vicariously in the subject's earned glory, Terry steps in to deliver a pithy, potent epilogue, summing up what we've learned, and ending on the show's simple – but in that moment, roaring – catch phrase:

"Never – ever – give up."

I've teared up more than once.

Finally, as the theme music rises, we get an envoi: a synthesised voice lists the winding litany of triumphs, awards, firsts, and fortunes amassed by this pathetic geek whom no-one is ever going to take seriously.

The whole experience leaves me restored, replenished, and ready to horse up again. If you too are an artist – or just a fan – I suspect it'll do the same for you.

You can hear We Regret To Inform You: The Rejection Podcast on its own website, or download it to your favourite device from iTunes/Apple Podcast or wherever fine podcasts are downloaded.

Best of luck to everyone who's building today, in this dictatorship of yesterday.

(Photo of Australian painter Tom Roberts' Rejected, in which the artist contemplates a rejected work, courtesy of the ABC and Wikimedia Commons.)

Good Teisho: Tim Minchin's 9 Life Lessons

"Arts degrees are awesome. They help you find meaning where there is none. And let me assure you, there is none."

So says Tim Minchin, yet another on that long list of my personal heroes, at the top of a brilliant 2013 keynote speech to his alma mater.

And it stays that good. Every line of this 12-minute teisho (the last six being his honorary doctorate ceremony) is Zen-grade insight. Meditate on them. I hope in particular that some will consider his musings on the relative value of science in human striving. (Spoiler: it's not sovereign.)

Props to the University of Western Australia for displaying bold vision and impeccable taste in its conferral of honours.

And also to me, for having the discipline to avoid posting every sentence of Tim's brief comments, and so demonstrating the faith and generosity to let you discover them for yourself.

Good Song: Nowhere Else But Here

Here's one for those days. You know the ones. The grim, sparks-fly-upward days. There's much to love about this quintessentially Australian song. You just can't listen to the Pigrim Brothers' vocals and instrumentals and not become equanimous. (Hey. Buddhist superhero: "Equani-Mouse!") And those lyrics... that's a fair-dinkum teisho, mate.

Where nothing ever really happens and probably just as well
I've seen things really happening where it's all downhill to hell...

Too right.

The rest:

NOWHERE ELSE BUT HERE
The Pigrim Brothers

Medidebating at a fireside in this beautiful land of Oz
Could heaven be a better place than home, well supposin' that it was
If heaven is in some future with a tomorrow so unclear
Then home for me I guess couldn't better be nowhere else but here

Nowhere else but here- ooh yeah, nowhere else but here-ooh no
Home for me I guess might never be nowhere else but here

If daunted by the many, many times things don't turn out as planned
Or haunted by the feeling of that unfamiliar hand
Just listen to little honeysuckle singing sweet and clear
The sweetest honey is in the tree that's nowhere else but here

Nowhere else but here she sings, nowhere else but here
Here's where my honey is, in this tree that's nowhere else but here

Is there much that might not happen right wherever I may be
If all I gotta do is soften some of my precious certainties
Was all that toil and turmoil, just to help me understand
That heaven may be just a fancy name for some never-never-ever land

Where nothing ever really happens and probably just as well
I've seen things really happening where it's all downhill to hell
Through a devil's pass on a bolting horse, with Buckley's hope to steer
Where we could regret we never ever cared to be nowhere else but here

Nowhere else but here ahhhhh nowhere else but here...

Now I'm dreaming by this campfire gleaming in this dear old land of Oz,
Flippin' idly through the pages of the tales of the never-was
Losing interest in a future what with tomorrow so unclear
I guess maybe I'll never really need to be nowhere else but here

Nowhere else but here - oh no, nowhere else but here - for sure
Guess maybe I may never ever need to be nowhere else but here

Nowhere else but here - oh no, nowhere else but here - for sure
Guess maybe I may never ever need to be nowhere else but here

If there's one place we're all free to be, it's nowhere else but here

WW: Winter emu

(This giant bird has lived behind a local housing estate, beside a well-travelled bike path, for many years. You'd think a creature of the hot dusty austral plain would be miserable in our cold wet boreal forest, but this one seems healthy and happy, routinely greeting gawkers with an otherworldly, grunting growl. No-one seems to know how he ended up here -- not a top-ten pet here on the North Coast -- but he's a fair dinkum landmark hereabouts. As in, "Let's take a walk. Not far; just to the emu.")

The Great Pacific Sock Patch

According to figures released by the Index of International Statistics, the Great Pacific Sock Patch may be one of the greatest environmental threats of our time. In this region off Australia's east coast, millions of odd socks churn, from every nation in the Pacific Rim. Some are sweat socks. Some are dress socks. Black, white, and argyle; toe socks and boot socks and nylons. And around December, a documented uptick in Christmas stockings. But they all have three things in common: they're footwear; they're unmated; and they threaten one of the world's most sensitive habitats.

The basic mechanics of the Sock Patch phenomenon have been known for centuries, but with global warming accelerating the rotation of the Pacific gyres, it has become a matter of international concern. Single socks have a well-documented tendency to drift; that's why you're likely to find fewer of them after laundering than before. Over the years there have been many attempts to explain this frustrating peculiarity. Children in my grandparents' day were told stories of the Sock Thug, a pirate who stumped into homes while the noise from the washing machine masked his footstep and snatched out single socks to sell to other pirates. Families in the 1940s were cautioned against keeping cats, after an article in Ladies' Saturday Evening Journal posited a high correlation between having a cat in the house and coming up short on stockings. And then there was the exorcism fad of the 1970s, when priests were called into homes to cast out the "dryer demons" that randomly ate socks. Because, you know: evil.

But in the mid-1990s, scientists working with superconductors finally cracked the case. Turns out all socks are either positively or negatively charged. The negative side of the pair tends to remain passive, but the positive one leans, imperceptibly, toward ground. That's why they often end up on the ground, and then, drawn by the superior conductivity of water, in lakes and streams. At last they reach the Pacific Ocean, where they swirl in the currents, slowly wending their way south, drawn apparently by the static cling generated by Australia's low average relative humidity. Sadly, before they can actually wash up on the Fatal Shore, they become snagged on the giant barbed wire fence that is the Great Barrier Reef. So insidious is this phenomenon that parts of the world's largest living structure are now all but buried in odd stockings, smothering the coral and hastening its destruction by storms, owing to greater resistance.

Solutions have so far proven elusive. Attempts to interest private industry in harvesting the garments have foundered on the expense of sorting, coupled with the lower saleability of unmatched socks. Like so many other human-generated threats, the best response may be a fundamental change of lifestyle. The California Maritime Coalition suggests pinning socks together before washing them, a time-honoured strategy that not only keeps stray stockings out of the world's water, but also produces substantial savings for large families. Others advocate a total ban on wearing socks at all, while still others are calling for legislation to require that all socks henceforward be made of hemp.

Because, you know: hemp.

Ajahn Brahm's Five Types of Religion

You gotta love Ajahn Brahmavamso Mahathera. He's a forest monk, albeit not of the hermit lineage. In a West dominated by Zen, Vipassana, and Vajrayana, his dharma is Theravada. He's a working class Englishman with a Cambridge degree in theoretical physics, trained as a monk in Thailand, and teaching in outback Australia. He runs a monastery he built himself. (Seriously. With his own hands.) And he's been excommunicated by his lineage. So he must be doing something right. (Ordaining women, as it happens.)

But the best thing about Ajahn Brahm is his teaching. There's precious little piety about this guru. He'll call out hypocrisy so fast it'll make your incense burner spin. And he starts with his own.

I particularly esteem Brahm's (in)famous Five Types of Religion. (True fact: the original teaching was Five Types of Buddhism, which is how I first heard it. Only when it was pointed out that all religions suffer from these delusions did he rework it for everyone.)

So here they are. Readers who practice a religion, any religion, should copy and paste this list. Then edit out my commentary, and meditate on the rest. Often.

Everybody strapped in?


AJAHN BRAHM'S FIVE TYPES OF RELIGION

1. Conceited Religion: Our religion is better than yours. (And therefore we are better than you.)

This is a Christian stereotype here in the West, but that's only because they're the majority; I run into identical Buddhists all the time. Despite what some would have you believe, triumphalism (the belief that you have a monopoly on truth) is a sin in every religion. In fact, I learned both the term and the condemnation as part of my Christian training.

2. Ritual Religion: Venerating the container above the contents.

Did someone say "guru worship"? Let's face it, Zenners: we do the hell out of this one. Obsession with rank and form, bowing, chanting, posture, oryoki, lighting this, ringing that, bop-she-bop, rama-lama-ding-dong. None of it's worth a crock of warm spit, and if you forget that, it's a giant waste of time.

3. Business Religion: We're best because we're biggest. Biggest church, largest sangha, highest priest, trendiest teacher-author.

This is the "success" model, whereby we declare the biggest seller the best product. Uh, no. Read your scripture, people. God doesn't like "success". Not least because it instantly becomes an altar to Mara. Worldly religion is no religion.

4. Negative Religion: We gotta GET those [insert group here] !!!

As Brahm points out, this is yin to Type 1's yang: where Conceited Religion says "we're the best," Negative Religion says "they're the worst." I call it Varsity Religion: lots of cheerleaders shaking their pompons and urging us to spend our meagre days on earth beating State. Good thing it has nothing to do with enlightenment; State can't be beat.

5. Real Religion: Doing what your prophet told you to do.

Note that the first four types are not this. Try it. Grab any religion. I like Zoroastrianism. And not just because it has the awesomest name of any religion. (It would be worth it to convert just so you could tell people you're Zoroastrian.)

Thus:

1. Did Zoroaster teach his followers that they were a superior race, and all others inferior?

No.

2. Did he teach that temporal gestures were the main point of faith?

No.

3. Did he teach that the biggest temples or most acclaimed priests were the most godly?

No.

4. Did he teach that life is all about opposing some other group?

Almost. He did say that Earth is a battleground between the godly and ungodly, and that salvation is a matter of enlisting in the correct army. But he didn't identify any earthly group as Angra Mainyu's army, nor did he say that just being a Zoroastrian automatically puts you in Ahura Mazda's. So…

No.

So there you have it. Grand Master Z agrees: "Walk the line, chump."

If you'd like to see Ajahn Brahm teach this truth himself (and I heartily recommend it, he's very engaging), you'll find it on YouTube. For links to many more Brahm talks, check out r/thaiforest's Ajahn Brahm Wiki via Reddit.

And yes, they're all that good.


(Photograph of seeker panning out Oz gold courtesy of WikiMedia and the State Library of Victoria.)

Hermitcraft: Hermit Bread

(A soda-free, wild yeast-raised, classic sourdough version of this bread can be found here.

If you landed here looking for the recipe for Scottish Oat Bannocks, it's here.)

This is hermit bread. It's a sourdough recipe with ancient antecedents, among them the skillet bread dear to my Old Settler ancestors; Canadian bannock; Scottish scones; Australian damper; focaccia; and even pizza. (Pizza was originally soldier bread, baked by the campfire by Roman legionnaires. They took to topping it with whatever they could find, so as to add a bit of variety to their dinners. Eventually the toppings got more limelight than the bread, and the rest is pizza.)

All you need to bake hermit bread is a sufficient heat source. It's easiest in a proper oven, but can be made on a range, near a fire, or in a fire. It's the oldest part of my monastic routine, actually predating my vows by several years. This is the food I take on the road, and what I grab when I'm hungry and need something now. It has become as sustaining to my morale as to my body, a physical manifestation of my vows.

As ever with monastic practices, each stage and feature of the production of this stuff has taken on Deep Meaning over the years. The pre-cut pieces emphasise the fact that it's sojourner bread ("Incola ego sum apud te in terra / Et peregrinus sicut omnes patres mei" Psalm 38, verse 15). They also honour my Scottish forebears. I could also find great Buddhist significance in the number 8, but one has to keep a close eye on one's compulsive Zen tendencies. So for the time being, it just reminds me of the Union Jack. Rule Britannia.

Hermit bread is also hands-down the most popular part of my practice with my friends. I once baked it for an old high school classmate who was visiting with her children. When she asked what it was, I said, "It's just monk bread." Today, fresh-baked "monkey bread" has become one of her kids' favourite treats.

Nothing boosts a sagging spirit like hot hermit bread and tea. For all that, it's ridiculously basic, and easy to make. And it still rolls out a great pizza dough.

HERMIT BREAD

2 cups sourdough starter.
About 2 cups flour
1 tablespoon oil
Flour for kneading
1 teaspoon CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed with 1/4 cup flour

Liberally grease a 10-inch cast iron skillet. (Number 8, in traditional sizes. You can use a cake pan or cookie sheet, but cast iron gives the best results.)

In a large bowl, beat the flour into the starter with a wooden spoon. Switch to a butter knife when it gets too stiff to stir and continue cutting in flour until the dough balls easily and is almost dry enough to knead.

Cut the flour and soda mixture into the dough, then knead it thoroughly in the bowl, adding any flour necessary to prevent the dough from sticking to the bowl or your hands.

Pat the ball flat, place it in the skillet, and pat it down some more until the edges touch the sides. Turn the skillet upside down, catch the dough as it falls out, and put it back in upside down, greased side up.

Poke the handle of the wooden spoon into the dough systematically, all the way to the pan, until the loaf is well-dimpled. Then cut it into eight pieces.

Cover the skillet and leave the dough to work, up to 3 hours; 30 minutes minimum.

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. When the dough has worked, uncover and bake it in the middle of the oven for 15 - 20 minutes, or until lightly browned on top and dry in the middle.

When done, unpan the loaf or flip it upside down in the skillet to let it cool and harden up for a few minutes. Eat as-is or with any topping. (Butter, jam, herbed oil, sugared berries, etc.)

Traditional baking methods:

Place the skillet over slow coals until the bottom of the loaf is browned. Prop the pan up near a hotter part of the fire to brown the top, or flip the loaf, return the skillet to the coals, and brown the top that way. (Same procedure for range-top baking.)

Or flour the ball and smack it onto a clean rock at the fire's edge, turning to bake evenly.

Or place the ball in a Dutch oven and bury it in the coals.

Or drop the dough ball directly in the coals and bury it. (Works in wood stoves and fireplaces, too.)

Or roll the dough into a rope, wind it around a stick, and toast it over the coals.

You can 'wave a chunk of cold hermit bread for 30 seconds and it'll taste like it just came out of the oven. (Split the piece first and reassemble it before warming; it will be too soft to work afterward.) You can also reheat it on a plate in a covered skillet, with a little water added to make steam.