Good "Song": Alice's Restaurant Massacree

This unlikely 1967 Arlo Guthrie classic has become a Thanksgiving ritual for American radio stations, many of which spin it on that day. Some play it over and over for several hours, if not all day – though seldom or never on any other.

Yet everything about this track is anomalous. For starters, in a market that then insisted that all songs come in under three minutes – and remains uncomfortable with four to this day – this one tops 18. The whole A-side of its album!

It's also harshly critical of a particular American war, and conservatism in general, and despite what some would have you believe, that sort of thing has always been embargoed by American media. (Yes, even in the 60s.)

And finally, of course, it's not a song at all; more like a long monologue with a chorus at both ends. (This art form is called "talking blues": a sort of redneck rap that gained mainstream appreciation in the 30s when Arlo's dad, of whom some have heard, scored a hit of his own with one.)

In sum, it's a bit of a mystery how the Massacree met such wide success, or came to be so deeply associated with a quasi-religious holiday. Or that such a scathing assault on Cold War conventions still calls so many of the nation's angrily divided citizens to enjoy a good-natured laugh.

(And it's had that magic from the beginning. I played this recording in my high school history classes, to Reagan-era students who seized it with delight. There's just something about it. Discuss.)

One thing is clear: this gem of American pop culture is a true Thanksgiving blessing, given the genius of the writing and performance and the welcome relief of whimsy on such a solemn day. Guthrie's text and tone evoke the spirit of the era – and the rollicking ideals of its young. Realism and optimism; hope and resolve; humour and candour, all in equal measure.

I miss that. And them.

For the rest, this story Arlo tells in first person is fundamentally true, with allowance made for good storytelling. Alice really existed, she really had a restaurant, and it really wasn't called Alice's Restaurant. Arlo and a friend really were arrested for an environmental offence on Thanksgiving Day. They really did go to court. He really was later called up for the draught.

As for me, I don't know when I first heard it – early 70's, I'd guess; radio, no doubt – but it's been a favourite ever since. I loved Arlo's rural delivery, his youthful smartassery, his opposition to militarism and the Vietnam War, and his parody of military posturing. Above all I loved his trenchant wit.

All of which reinforced my own burgeoning career as a wiseacre. Now friends, there's only one or two things that the adults in my life might've done in response to this and the first was that they could have risen to their feet cheering, which wasn't very likely and I didn't expect it.

Anyway, here a half-century on, we're suddenly back in a place where singing a couple bars of Alice's Restaurant and walking out may be a duty we must all again perform. And two decades of Zen practice, with its tales of eccentric japes before the coercive glare of authority, have done little to spoil my taste for it.

So Happy Thanksgiving to my American brothers and sisters; peace and insight to all.

Good Song: Nobody Asks

Here's insight we can use.

In this short meditation, Rusty Ring favourite Peter Mayer sums up the lesson we all should have learned long ago, but that many – perhaps the majority – of us are still sulking over.

Candid elaboration on the Zen notion of dependent co-arising, as applied to the human condition (a subordinate form I prefer to call co-dependent arising), the whole track consists of little more than Peter's own voice and guitar, enhanced here and there with a ghostly violin at the edges. It all adds up to power that commands attention, and a sedate simplicity our sort esteem.

Another cut from Peter's excellent album Heaven Below.

I've got this on frequent rotation these days, as I absorb demands to take arms against successive waves of faceless, vaguely defined offenders. Give it a click; see if it doesn't help to keep you on-task as well.


NOBODY ASKS
by Peter Mayer

Nobody asks to be born
They just show up one day at life’s door
Saying here I am world
I’m a boy, I’m a girl
I'm rich, I am sick, I am poor

Nobody asks to be born

No one is given a say
They’re just thrown straight into the fray
The bell rings at ringside
And someone yells fight
Some just end up on the floor

Nobody asks to be born

And no one’s assured
Of a grade on the curve
Or a friend they can trust
Or a house where they’re loved
And no life includes
A book of how-to
Because nobody has lived it before

So to all the living be kind
Bless the saint and the sinner alike
And when babies arrive
With their unholy cries
Don’t be surprised by their scorn

Nobody asks to be born

When The Child Was A Child

I saw this film when it was new, beside a beautiful young woman with whom I did not yet realise I was in love.

She was also a German speaker, and afterward, shuffling through the autumn leaves of Northwest Portland, she taught me to say „Als das kind kind war“ properly.

Or any road, as properly as someone who doesn't speak German can say it.

I served her tea in my apartment, her eyes imprinted on my soul, and we parted without kissing.

Re-watching this opening scene almost 40 years later, it's like prophecy – the filmmaker's patina of memory, the palpable Zen in the poetry, and the young man as yet too distracted to be awake to it.

At least I had a better excuse in that place and moment.

Good Song: Come Join The Murder

I had never heard of this alt hymn, or the artists who built it, or even the television series that launched it, before I first heard it on Celtic Music Radio some weeks ago. (Or maybe The Whip, or Folk Alley? Apologies to the unknown programme director with the sound judgement to add this track to the rotation.)

Which is probably for the best, as I understand the climactic scene behind which these poignant verses run would have superseded any connexions my own mind might have made.

And the work is deeply moving on its own.

In the meantime I've listened to it over and over again – I'm listening to it now – and suggest you do as well.

Listen without the lyrics. Let the chant flow through your skull. If the current moves you, listen a few times more before you engage your binary drive.

Just savour the oracular growl of Jake Smith (aka The White Buffalo), voicing the literary dexterity of lyricist Kurt Sutter. (While we're up, let's also note that the titular "murder" refers to a posse of corvids, not a capital crime.)

Those birds – crows, jays; ravens above all – were sangha during my forest ango; omnipresent, providing a guidance hard to quantify in the Red Dust World.

But you can take my word for it. These words–

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap

–arrested me.

Never mind that the story puts a darker spin on it; for me this quatrain encapsulates my experience on the mountain, taking me back to that time and place.

More sit than song.

And as Marshall McLuhan didn't quite say:

"The meditation is the message."

Therefore, for the good of The Order, I say in brotherly communion:

Let us clear our minds of discrimination, and contemplate this wisdom.


Wu Ya's commentary:

"Look, it's just a song."

–烏鴉


Come Join The Murder

by The White Buffalo and The Forest Rangers
words and music by Kurt Sutter

There's a blackbird perched outside my window
I hear him calling
I hear him sing
He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers
He sees all my sins
He reads my soul

One day that bird, he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

On a blanket made of woven shadows
Flew up to heaven
On a raven's glide
These angels have turned my wings to wax now
I fell like Judas
Grace denied

And on that day he lied to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

I walk among the children of my fathers
The broken wings, betrayal's cost
They call to me but never touch my heart now
I am too far
I'm too lost

All I can hear is what he spoke to me
Like Martin Luther
Like Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

So now I curse that raven's fire
You made me hate, you made me burn
He laughed aloud as he flew from Eden
You always knew
You never learn

The crow no longer sings to me
Like Martin Luther
Or Pericles

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king

Come join the murder
Come fly with black
We'll give you freedom
From the human trap
Come join the murder
Soar on my wings
You'll touch the hand of God
And he'll make you king
And he'll make you king

Good Video: Не могу оторвать глаз от тебя

Though it's generally unknown to Western Buddhists, Russia is one of the formative homelands of our religion. Not only has Buddhism been practiced there for as long as many another Asian nation – for example, the Volga republic of Kalmykia is the only region of Europe to have a historical Buddhist majority – Russia also hosts today what is likely the most fervent and productive conversion movement in the Eurosphere (i.e., nations with white majorities).

I was reminded of this while, for the first time in years, rewatching the above video. I originally encountered this song via primeval Internet radio, and it first appeared on Rusty Ring away back in January 2011, at the bottom of my third-ever post. (Those earliest articles sometimes ended with a premium, called the Cereal Box Prize. When, inevitably, finding and formatting this treat began to eat appalling amounts of blogging time, I abandoned that quirk, though not without regret.)

But having listened to Не могу оторвать глаз от тебя again (and remarveled at that awesome video), I figure it's due for a 14-year bump.

Аквариум (Aquarium) are a seminal Russian pop group, with roots deep in the perilous (for rock musicians) Soviet era. Today they're one of a handful of contemporaries routinely compared to the Beatles. Although founder Boris Grebenshchikov's precise religious convictions remain elusive, he's published multiple translations of Buddhist and Hindu texts and has a long history of including consequent themes in his music.

Just what (or whom) he is singing to here is a bit enigmatic. That chanting refrain suggests your standard love poem; you know, to another human. But the moiling mysticism of those verses opposes that hypothesis.

Still, his repeated second-person appeal at least seems to rule out a Buddhist theme; the author is clearly addressing an interlocutor he can see and calls "you". Our religion generally, though not categorically, refuses to speculate on such things.

The Eastern church, meanwhile – Russia's majority faith – has spoken of and to God in tones very like these for two thousand years.

So there it is: the song is Christian.

But what about that video? Seriously, fellow Buddhists, what about that awesome video? That's not just patently Buddhist, that's outright Zen.

Bodhidharma if ever I saw him.

So maybe "you" is enlightenment. Or the Path. Or the Great Matter. Or Kanzeon. Or some other glib Buddhist euphemism for God.

I don't know.

(See what I did there?)

Anyway, it's in front of you. Watch it. Hear it. See if it doesn't key your bodhisattva nature as hard as it does mine.

The video is of slightly – if very – higher quality than the one shared all those years ago. I was unable to find better, even on our Currently Superior Internet. But no trouble; it still works.

More irksome is the lack of reliable English interpretation. I can grasp the thrust of these lyrics, but my Russian is not up to translating them, at least not accurately. But I can tell that the translation supplied here is a little better than several others I found, by a slim margin.

I'd bet all were generated by artificial ignorance. Buy human, folks.

But for the moment, it seems our only recourse is to accept the best of them, however flawed. Just bridge the gaps with your koanic intelligence.

It's worked for me for 20 years.

Good Song: Ici-bas

New Year's is upon us again, and as usual I'm in a reflective mood. This time I've got the Cowboys Fringants' Ici-bas running through my head. Les Cowboys have an unusual gift for couching poetry in vernacular speech, and it only gains in power what it loses in polish. Since the group lost its lead singer to prostate cancer just last month, this song has been much in my thoughts.

The video itself is a significant, Cowboys-worthy bonus; like another, unwritten verse, pumping context into words that might otherwise read more grimly than intended. Note all the visual metaphors for growing up and growing old, and also the classic backstreet scenes from some Québécois town. (All Québécois towns have an uncanny knack for being distinct and the same at the same time, and this one – whoever it is – makes me homesick for my own.)

And finally, of course, that heart-pulling winter: much more than a simple season, it's a kind of family member in Québec – a relationship hard to grasp beyond the Ottawa. None of which is hurt by an additional call-out to my enduring love of taking long walks through it, both in town and nearer home.

« Ici-bas » literally means the here-below, an expression that exists in English but is much more current in French. It implies the fishbowl nature of the human lot -- its claustrophobic smallness, the impossibility of escaping it with our lives. And also the unity of our experience, whether we choose to accept it or not.

All of which made translating even the title tough. At last I went with Down Here, with its implied awareness of the great not-Earth, and the modesty of our little neighbourhood and our existence in it.

Follows the usual heartbreak of reclothing sublime images in clunky foreign syntax. Does « trafic » refer to backroom intrigue, or is it just traffic? Because it's both in French, and the writer almost certainly meant both. And what of « faucher » (to scythe), mostly used in these industrial times to describe what Death does. Strike down, we might say, but that would leave a richer metaphor by the roadside. Nothing English gets us there as completely and concisely; you just have to take your best shot and move on.

Any road, I suggest you first listen to the song while reading the lyrics and ignoring the video, to savour the full impact of the message. Then run through the video again, watching it this time.

Either way, it's a touching meditation on The Great Matter.

Best of luck in the coming year, and may we remember and honour each other, here-below.

(Note: an English translation follows the French lyrics.)


Ici-bas
paroles et musique: Jean-François Pauzé

Malgré nos vies qui s’emballent dans une époque folle
Où un rien nous détourne du simple instant présent
Alors que tout s’envole
Avec le temps
Malgré la mort, celle qui frappe et qui nous fait pleurer
Ou bien celle qui un jour, tôt ou tard, nous fauchera
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas

Malgré l’amour celui qui nous fait vivre d’espoir
Qui parfois fait si mal quand on reste sur le seuil
D’une trop courte histoire
Sans qu’on le veuille
Malgré la haine qui souvent nous retombe sur le nez
Et les caves qui s’abreuvent de ce triste crachat
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas

Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas

Malgré les merdes, les revers, les choses qui nous échappent
Les p’tits, les grands tourments, les erreurs de parcours
Et tout c’qui nous rattrape
Dans le détour
Malgré l’ennui, le trafic, les rêves inachevés
La routine, le cynisme, l’hiver qui finit pas
Je m’accroche les pieds
Ici-bas
Ici-bas

Tant que mes yeux s’ouvriront
Je cherch’rai dans l’horizon
La brèche qui s’ouvre sur mes décombres
La lueur dans les jours plus sombres
Tant que mes pieds marcheront
J’avancerai comme un con
Avec l’espoir dans chaque pas
Et ce jusqu’à mon dernier souffle
Ici-bas


Down Here
words and music by Jean-François Pauzé

In spite of the way our lives spin out of control in this daft epoch
Where an anything can pull us out of the moment we're in
While it all flies away
Over time
In spite of the deaths that strike and leave us crying
Or the one that one day, sooner or later, will cut us down
I will plant my feet
Down here

In spite of the love that allows us to live in hope
But sometimes hurts so bad we remain stuck on the edge
Of a story cut too short
Like it or not
In spite of the hate so often blown back in our face
And the caverns storing up all that wretched spit
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here

So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here

In spite of the hassles, the setbacks, the ones that got away
The small wounds and the great, the wrong turns
And all that trips us up
In the detour
In spite of the boredom, the traffic, the unfulfilled dreams
The routine, the cynicism, the endless winters
I will plant my feet
Down here
Down here

So long as my eyes still open
I will search the horizon
For the chink that will shine on my ruins
A light in my darkest days
So long as my feet will still walk
I'll forge ahead like an idiot
Hope in every step
Right to my last breath
Down here

Good Song: Dek Bovinoj

In keeping with our general July theme ("what the heck") here on the Ring, today I'm sharing something awesome, just because it is.

This time it's Pablo Busto's Esperanto counting song, Dek bovinoj ("Ten Cows"). After the lyrics below I've translated the last two verses (the first ten being largely self-explanatory).

As profound as the song and performance are, I think the embedded video, produced for the children's show Aventuroj de Uliso, also adds weighty philosophical dimension, so I suggest you watch along.

All in all, an entertaining 3 minutes, even if it doesn't have much to do with Zen.

Or does it?

Dek bovinoj
de Pablo Busto

Unu bovino muĝas,
muuu

Du bovinoj muĝas,
mu mu

Tri bovinoj muĝas,
mu mu mu

Kvar bovinoj muĝas,
mu mu mu mu

Kvin bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu

Ses bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu mu

Sep bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu mu mu

Ok bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu

Naŭ bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu

Dek bovinoj,
mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu mu, mu

Ni bovinoj ŝatas muĝi
kaj manĝadi freŝan herbon.
Ni tre ŝatas la kamparon
kaj ripozi longan tempon.

Ni bovinoj estas grandaj
kaj produktas multan lakton.
Nia kapo havas kornojn,
kaj la buŝo grandan langon.

Translation of last two verses:

Us cows like to moo
and eat fresh grass.
We really like the country
and resting for a long time.

Us cows are big
and we make lots of milk.
Our heads have horns
and our mouths have big tongues.

Good Video: Hidden In Plain Sight

So it's July again, the month when the Internet takes a vacation and I can post stuff that's just cool and not necessarily about enlightenment.

Except this kind of is, if you want it to be.

Anybody my age or older was raised on Warner Brothers cartoons; among other things, their vaudeville tropes are almost entirely responsible for our knowing anything about that art form, whose popularity peaked when our grandparents were in high school. Yet somehow, a very important facet of those gems of animation's golden age remains occult, in spite of the fact that it's been right in our faces for decades.

I found this video fascinating, and if Looney Tunes was a cherished part of your childhood, you will, too. One thing is certain: I'll never look at them the same way again.

Oh, and the Zen angle? It's about clear-seeing. And being present. And appreciating the fulness of unrequested blessings.

And not making everything so goddam serious.

So prepare to be floored by something you've seen a hundred times.

And Happy July.

Good Movie: Legend of Dajian Huineng

( Update, 13 October 2025: The YouTube file I originally embedded here has gone 404, but I found this one to replace it. Though I haven't watched the new one through, the subtitles seem pretty much the same, and the visual quality is noticeably better.)

This is a fun movie, not least because it annoys the crap out of a lot of over-taught and under-practiced Zenners. Why, I'll get to in a minute.

Legend of Dajian Huineng (embedded in full above) is not so much the legend of Huineng – the hermit monk who's the last common ancestor of all surviving Chàn-descended lineages – as a legend of Huineng. The basics are all here: young peasant yearns to study the Dharma; family obligation keeps him illiterate and labouring; finally gets through monastery gate; clear-seeing impresses abbot; ends up usurping succession from equally legendary Shenxiu; becomes 6th and last patriarch of united Chàn.

Few of us have problems with that. It's the next act that raises Cain.

See, there's a single paragraph in the Platform Sutra – whence cometh Huineng's formal biography – that tells us he lived with a mountain tribe for 15 years after receiving transmission. According to the scribe, Huineng maintained a Buddhist lifestyle among the hunters, though his evangelism was limited to freeing trapped animals when possible and offering his hosts vegetarian alternatives.

Well, not to put too fine a point upon it… director Gui Zhenjie goes to town (or rather, the wilderness) on this footnote. He drops all the pithy poems, robed monks, and ancient temples, and picks up…

well…

• martial arts scenes. (Make that Billy Quan-school flying-fighter scenes.)
• a Captain Kirk-style cliff-top rescue.
• a several-week coma.
• a love triangle.
• not one, but two, pirate attacks.
• an overt feminist subplot.
• a complete Dances With Wolves narrative.
• a gothic torture scene.
• and a partridge in a pear tree.

(That the tribals eat.)

At last, in the final 3 minutes, the plot returns to record, as a stronger, wiser, dustier Huineng shows up at the monastery he'd set out for all those years ago and blows everybody away with his perfect insight. While still in the dooryard.

So the posers aren't wrong to say this is not a "good" film. To begin with, it can't decide whether it's a Zen-style bio-pic or a Saturday matinee. (And contrary to expectation, it does a much better job at the first than the second.) But I was engaged to the end, if only to satisfy my curiosity about what the director would pull out next.

The subtitles are, as is traditional, surreal; indeed, significantly more so than your garden-variety bargain-basement kung fu grinder. Supplied by a suspect intelligence – artificial or human – they render some passages downright impenetrable. Oft-repeated gaffes eventually cede to concentrated analysis, such as the "hunter team" that enforces "team" taboos and "team" honour, which the viewer's mind eventually resolves into "tribe". Or the master's "inner creed", which Huineng brilliantly pierces, to the consternation of the presumed "real" monks at the monastery. That one is, literally and figuratively, a koan.

But perhaps most bizarre (and then entertaining) is the tendency of 7th century Chinese people to call each other "bro".

Less endearing are sutra passages that drone on over the sole translation, "BUDDHIST SCRIPTURE", and esoteric ancestral verses transposed into random gibberish. Competent English translations of both are freely available online, and could simply have been copy-pasted into the .srt file.

Then there are a few clanging visual anachronisms (i.e., the use of chicken wire by Tang Dynasty hunter-gatherers), and a disturbing absence of ethnographic specifics on the exotic hill folk, who seem remarkably assimilated to Han culture (having, for example, zealously embraced the word "bro"), without, however, ever hearing of Buddhism. But humbugs of this sort, in a movie like this, serve in their whimsical way to enhance the experience.

As I've noted before, Zen luminaries are a tough subject for cinema, because the more impressive they get, the less they do. That said, Huineng's a worthy challenge, given the uniqueness of his story and its importance to Buddhist history. Sadly, though this effort has its moments – and would doubtless have more if someone cleaned up the subtitles – it's never going to do the man full justice. One fears others won't even try now, since a film purporting to do so is already in the can. (That's apparently what happened to Radio Caroline, another potentially great film, that unfortunately became a bad one before better scripts could prevail.)

But while we're waiting, we can enjoy Legend of Dajian Huineng on its own merits, both intended and unintended. The upload is a little wonky, dropping the subtitles briefly here and there, as well, in two short periods, as the entire soundtrack. Fortunately, both of them remain subtitled, so viewers can continue following. (As well as ever, any road.)

In the end, Legend has a scene for just about everybody, even if they aren't always people who've heard of Huineng. And that's got to be worth something, right?

Good Song: Wide Awake

Here's a good meditation for sojourners my age. Here at the crossroads of life, when most of ours is behind us, and what we have and what we owe comes into sharp focus.

It's hard to miss the Zen implications of the title and refrain. In addition to a gift for a koanic line, Julian Taylor – Canadian son of a Caribbean father and Mohawk mother – also wields a remarkably evocative voice that manages to embrace a multitude of genres and tones. In this case it bears a startling resemblance to Don Williams', blending perfectly with the gentle, introspective lyrics.

Anyway, give it a listen. See if it doesn't resonate with your path as well.

WIDE AWAKE
by Julian Taylor

It's a crazy world that we live in
The tide comes and goes so fast
Right now while I'm trying to be present
I'm still chasing shadows of my past

My father was born in the islands
My mom was born on the great turtle's back
They prayed for me when I'd go out in the evening
At least that's one of the rumours I'd hear

'Round Christmas time spent with my family
Over hot toddy sorrel and ginger beer
They did their best and they did it for freedom
They did everything they ever could for me

We went to church every single Sunday
We'd get dressed up and then go to granny's place
I'd run around that house with my cousins
We loved to race

There is an abundance of hope
That lies between the oceans of time
There's nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet it can be clearly defined

And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I've had to face
And all the choices that I've had to make in my life

The greatest pictures are never taken
They're all stored in your memory
Me and my mom
We used to go to Good Bites and talk philosophy
We'd sit there just talking for hours

I once asked her why are good memories so heavy
She simply said
Aren't we lucky

And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the heartache that I've had to face
And all the choices that I had to make in my life

Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah
Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah
Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah
Lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah-lah

Aren't we lucky
Aren't we lucky

There is an abundance of hope
That lies between the oceans of time
There's nothing singular about it
Yet it can be clearly defined
Yet it can be clearly defined

And I'm wide awake
I chalk it up to all of my mistakes
And all the choices that I've had to make
And all the heartache that I've had to face in this life

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.

New Year's Song: On va s'aimer encore

Here's another great example of a video that adds striking dimension to the song it accompanies. Not that it isn't fine as it is; Vincent Vallières is among the most respected songwriters in Canada. But the juxtaposition of these images deepens the lyrics exponentially, turning Vallières' love song into a reflection on the temporal ground of being, and borrowing a few Zen references along the way. (Check out the Buddhist wheel of life at 2:32.)

It's no exaggeration to say that non-francophones could skip the translation (see below) entirely and just watch the video. With the music playing, of course.

Right from the first scene, the LP theme is genius. Not only does this medium literally spool out, turning 'round and 'round like life – till you wind down in the run-out groove – it's also legacy tech. The very sight of a phonograph record casts the mind back.

The vignettes that roll past thereafter will be recogniseable to anyone on the planet, but they have extra pathos for expats from la Belle Province: a rich reel of Québécois faces, places, and contexts that brings tears to my eyes.

Varying frame rates – slower than normal; faster; parameter – underscore the orchestral rhythms of life. It goes too fast; it goes too slow; sometimes it just goes, while we amble on unseeing. And it's all synchronised – wheels within wheels, out of our control, and for the most part beyond our comprehension.

Consider also that everyone in this dense little epigram is ten years older at this writing. The toddlers are in middle school; the small children are teenagers. The young adults have started their own journey, many including new children in turn. And some of the older subjects are almost certainly gone.

I never tire of this slide show. Another metaphor from my increasingly historical generation. As is the tone-arm return at the end, sure to provoke an emotional response in any who grew up on vinyl.

While we're up, it's also pointed Buddhist commentary on the nature of existence.

So for a tenth time, on this New Year's of 2021, I wish all my readers a promising and productive 2022, and hope to see us all back here again 12 months hence.


ON VA S'AIMER ENCORE
par Vincent Vallières

Quand on verra dans l'miroir Nos faces ridées pleines d’histoires Quand on en aura moins devant Qu’on en a maintenant Quand on aura enfin du temps Et qu’on vivra tranquillement Quand la maison s'ra payée Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’aimer On va s’aimer encore Au travers des doutes Des travers de la route Et de plus en plus fort On va s’aimer encore Au travers des bons coups Au travers des déboires À la vie, à la mort On va s’aimer encore Quand nos enfants vont partir Qu’on les aura vu grandir Quand ce s'ra leur tour de choisir Leur tour de bâtir Quand nos têtes seront blanches Qu’on aura de l’expérience Quand plus personne n'va nous attendre Qu’y restera plus rien qu’à s’éprendre On va s’aimer encore Au travers des doutes Des travers de la route Et de plus en plus fort On va s'aimer encore Au travers des bons coups Au travers des déboires À la vie, à la mort On va s’aimer encore Quand les temps auront changé Qu’on s'ra complètement démodés Quand toutes les bombes auront sauté Que la paix s'ra là pour rester Quand sans boussole sans plan On partira au gré du vent Quand on lèvera les voiles Devenues d'la poussière d’étoiles On va s’aimer encore Après nos bons coups Après nos déboires Et de plus en plus fort On va s’aimer encore Au bout de nos doutes Au bout de la route Au-delà de la mort On va s'aimer encore Au bout du doute Au bout de la route Au-delà de la mort On va s'aimer

When we look into the mirror And read the stories in the wrinkles When there are fewer of them ahead Than the ones we've already got And when we live peaceably With the house paid off When the only thing left for it is to love each other We'll still love each other In the doubt And the crosswalks Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other Through the triumphs And the reversals For life, till death We'll still love each other When our kids all move away When we've seen them grown When it's their turn to build Their turn to build When our hair turns white When experience is ours When no-one waits for us anymore When the only thing left to do is to fall in love again We'll still love each other In the doubt And the crosswalks Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other Through the triumphs And the reversals For life, till death We'll still love each other When the times have changed When we're completely out of style When all the bombs have exploded When peace is here to stay When, without compass or chart We'll run before the wind When we raise sails Now made of stardust We'll still love each other After our triumphs After our reversals Stronger and stronger We'll still love each other At the end of our doubts At the end of the road On the far side of death We'll still love each other Where the doubt ends When the road ends On the far side of death We'll love each other

Good Video: The Way I Tend To Be

I've loved this song for years but only recently searched out the video, which adds incisive context to the lyrics.

It's a detailed elaboration on the Irish saying, "The first thing to do when you're in a hole is stop digging."

The scenario of this short film is exactly how I used to feel after a break-up, like something of Great Import had happened and I had to lug this massive torch around against everybody's advice, while the world placed bets to see how long I could keep this shit up.

(Fifty-two years, as it happened. That's how long. So maybe there's a winner out there.)

Therefore, for the benefit of others like me – not such slow learners, I hope – here's a brief meditation on the smallness of your suffering and the worth of your life and time.

Don't wait for CNN to show up before you figure that out.

The lyrics themselves bring some Zen of their own to the party. I especially like, "‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found \ Within the fires below \ But in making do and muddling through \ When you've nowhere else to go.

Finally, listen for the drums; they're especially well done.

The Way I Tend To Be
by Frank Turner

Some mornings I pray for evening
For the day to be done
And some summer days I hide away
And wait for rain to come
‘Cause it turns out hell will not be found
Within the fires below
But in making do and muddling through
When you've nowhere else to go

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

Some days I wake up dazed, my dear
And don't know where I am
I've been running now so long I'm scared
I've forgotten how to stand
And I stand alone in airport bars
And gather thoughts to think
That if all I had was one long road
It could drive a man to drink

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

‘Cause I've said, "I love you," so many times
That the words kind of died in my mouth
And I meant it each time with each beautiful woman
But somehow it never works out
But you stood apart in my calloused heart
And you taught me and here's what I learned
That love is about all the changes you make
And not just three small words

And then I catch myself
Catching your scent on someone else
In a crowded space
And it takes me somewhere I cannot quite place

But then I remember you
And the way you shine like truth in all you do
And if you remembered me
You could save me from the way I tend to be
The way I tend to be

Good Song: Sour Grapes

It's about time I shared a John Prine song.

The guy's catalogue is replete with complex, insightful meditations on the nature of life and suffering; incisive depictions of human reality with occasional flashes of enlightenment around the edges. And the self-mocking that signals that.

This one's a case in point. On the surface it's a straightforward portrait of the enlightened mindset, which I might boil down to "people are not the universe".

But hovering just beneath that is something else, that truly emerges into full sun in the last verse.

Considered in order, what you got here is a meditation on the nature of enlightenment practice. And a worthy memorial to my brother John, who died last year of the 2020 plague, and wrote this song when he was 14 years old.

Sour Grapes
by John Prine

I don't care if the sun don't shine
But it better or people will wonder
And I couldn't care less if it never stopped rainin'
'Cept the kids are afraid of the thunder

Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care

I couldn't care less if I didn't have a friend
'Cept people would say I was crazy
And I wouldn't work 'cause I don't need money
But the same folks would say I was lazy

Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care

I couldn't care less if she never came back
I was gonna leave her anyway
And all the good times that we shared
Don't mean a thing today

Say sour grapes
You can laugh and stare
Say sour grapes
But I don't care

Good Video: In the Footsteps of Wonhyo

Three weeks ago I wrote about the tendency in Western Zen to downplay the ongoing role of Korea in the development and direction of our religion. In that indictment I cited particularly the seminal importance, and extra-goryeonic obscurity, of Zen Ancestor Wonhyo – a Korean national hero who is only now receiving sustained Western attention.

And now I discover this video. Documenting a Wonhyo-themed pilgrimage through rural Korea by Tony MacGregor - Canadian writer for Seoul's English-language Korea Times - it's saturated with the kind of breathtaking imagery we often see in connexion with Japanese topics, but rarely Korean ones. Just the celebration of that nation's own spiritually-imbued landscape is worth the click, and makes for a very meditative visit.

The commentary is a little unfocused, and can get a bit precious in that way we Westerners have when we talk about Buddhism. But in some ways, that very wandering – mirroring Macgregor's literal ramble – is another reward, offering a wider vista on the subject. Particularly welcome is a brief account of tae guk kwon, that muscular Korean take on tai chi chuan that figured so highly in a memorable scene from Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… and Spring.

Toward the film's end, another meander takes us to an impromptu teisho by Sudoksa Bangjang Seol Jong Sunim, which is simultaneously predictably conservative (his topic is finding a teacher) and, from a Confucian perspective, revolutionary. Since the same could be said of Wonhyo, MacGregor seems to be underscoring his hero's continuing influence on Sôn, or Korean Zen.

In any event, I greatly enjoyed this documentary and suspect others will as well. As a lesson on an important Ancestor; an exposition of Korea's too-long ignored Zen heritage; and a tranquil tour of its compelling countryside, it's time well-spent.

Good video: Yellow Submarine, Zen-style

If you've ever been to a Zen centre or monastery, you will immediately recognise this man's genius. What you're seeing here is a conservative Zen take on a Beatles song. And not even one of the "deep" Beatles songs; rather, one of the fun inane ones. You know, with a Ringo lead.

I don't know what possessed my brother to turn this Western pop hit into a sutra, but I'm glad he did.

The best part is that it seems to be a sincere offering; with allowance made for a subtle playfulness, Kossan's spoofing neither the music nor his religion. Just what you'd expect from a Zen monk and musician. (One with classical bona fides, no less. If you click on his channel, you'll find he's a shamisen devotee.)

In short, he's offering us an opportunity for insight. The meditation at the end drives the point home, and elevates a merely brilliant performance into an awesome one.

Good Song: Don't Judge a Life

If you don't know John Gorka, you should know John Gorka.

Few artists sing the human heart like John. A number of his songs sum up affecting moments of my life in ways that not only people my isolation, they help me understand what happened.

But in this case he's addressing a wider problem. The immediate topic is fellow poet and good friend Bill Morrissey, who possessed much the same gift as John's, had much the same sort of career – ignored by the machine, adored by initiates – and died in 2011 from complications of a dissolute life.

An Amazon reviewer who knew Bill quoted him from a conversation they'd had:

"Most everybody knows that I've had some rough sledding for the last few years, including my well-known battle with the booze. A couple of years ago I was diagnosed as bipolar and I am on medication for depression, but sometimes the depression is stronger than the medication.

"When the depression hits that badly, I can't eat and I can barely get out of bed. Everything is moving in the right direction now, and throughout all of this I have continued to write and write and write."

And then he was gone.

Don't Judge a Life – bookend to Peter Mayer's Japanese Bowl, spinning the issue from first to second person – is a reminder we all need on a daily basis. I particularly like this part:

Reserve your wrath for those who judge
Those quick to point and hold a grudge
Take them to task who only lead
While others pay, while others bleed

Readers with a solid base in Christian ethics will instantly recognise the source of this counsel. The same precept in the Buddhist canon is a little less explicit, but our teachings on bodhisattva nature clearly endorse and require it.

And both faiths stand firmly on the last verse.

DON'T JUDGE A LIFE
by John Gorka

Don't judge a life by the way it ends
Losing the light as night descends
For we are here and then we're gone
Remnants to reel and carry on

Endings are rare when all is well
Yes and the tale easy to tell
Stories of lives drawn simplified
As if the facts were cut and dried

Don't judge a life as if you knew
Like you were there and saw it through
Measure a life by what was best
When they were better than the rest

Reserve your wrath for those who judge
Those quick to point and hold a grudge
Take them to task who only lead
While others pay, while others bleed

Tapping the keys in a life of rhyme
Ending the tune and standard time
Silence fills the afternoon
A long long way to gone too soon

Don't judge a life by the way it ends
Losing the light as night descends
A chance to love is what we've got
For we are here and then
We're not

(Photo courtesy of Jos van Vliet and Wikimedia Commons.)

The Perils of Meditation, Case 12

(I have so been there.)

Good Song: Make America Great Again

As far as I can tell David's a Christian, so I was surprised to hear a call-out to us in this song. But he's a powerful writer and performer, with a Dylanesque melancholy that bypasses the discursive mind, so on behalf of all of us I'll acknowledge his high-five, in the hope that we live up to it.

What with all the talk in the States these days about the need to "make America great again" (every word of which is a mu-calibre koan) it's refreshing to hear someone contemplate what that might actually look like. I.e., the difference between great and shabby, between America and not-America.

Supposing those things exist.

Any road, here's a good song and a timely. Enjoy.

Good Song and Video: Иероглиф

When I first heard this on Радио Русский Рок I was astonished how similar Пикник ("Picnic") sounds to Malicorne. As I listened further, a second echo surfaced: Persone. (That's not the track I'd've chosen to demonstrate, but it's not bad and the best I could find on YouTube.)

So basically you've got the fusion of three awesome groups. A harmonic convergence – no pun intended – so remarkable I could not ethically keep it to myself.

And let's not forget that all by itself, without any call-backs, the song and performance are brilliant. (Иероглиф means "Kanji" in this context.) And you can't beat those Buddhist themes.

So give it a listen, with by all means that high-def video on full screen. This is one of the rare times the visuals enhance the literature.