Religion, Sex & Politics

Disconnecting the Dots

2012-02-20T12:48:00.000+07:00

Sometimes life doesn't make sense. It's just one damn thing after another (like history). Normally, it's human nature to look for significance and meaning in the tea leaves of our existence. And we quite often use religious language to describe what we find. Two survived the plane crash because of the grace of God, it's claimed, while ignoring the other 128 who died because of...what, God's anger. We define our success and failures according to the script our culture has handed us, though values are increasingly globalized and homogenized. First books, then movies, taught us to look for the plot. Who are the heroes and who are the villains? Politicians are very good at this. But in our quiet moments of honesty we might at least admit to ourselves that no one's holding the hand of fate. There is no puppeteer, just the blowing winds of chance.

I've been using Antoine de Saint Exupéry's The Little Prince to teach English to my graduate students of linguistics. Last year we read it in the BuddhistPsychos discussion group and found it a useful book for expressing some truths of the Dhamma. I've long believed that truth, the kind that means something deeper than scientific fact, can best be conveyed through stories, the ones we hear and the ones we tell ourselves. I was hoping the simple sentences in The Little Prince, translated from the original French, would help my students with their English. And I also thought they might find the prince, the pilot, and the other characters in the book appealing. Finally, I wanted to use its language to illustrate the different descriptive tools of linguistics: phonology, morphology, syntax and semantics. It was a big task and I'm still assessing the results.

Most of the messages I got from Saint Exupéry's now-classic story were missed by my students in their weekly papers which included the linguistic analysis of a sentence from the assigned reading. They didn't connect the dots I laid out for them. They didn't understand the author's criticism of the narrow-minded thinking of grown-ups which is emphasized throughout, perhaps because of Asian respect for elders. They didn't get the idea of relationships as a kind of mutual "taming," nor the claim that what is really important is invisible -- "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly." They were enthusiastic about the idea of pills to quench thirst in order to save time, a proposal I saw ridiculed by the author and the prince. But they did get the importance of water for a story that takes place in the desert, and I think they understood the prince's love for the vain rose. I wanted them to appreciate the insight that love changes the way we see the world -- "The stars are beautiful because of a flower that cannot be seen." -- but it seems they have difficult seeing metaphorically, at least in English.

It's not important that my students agree with my interpretation of The Little Prince. I told them at the first class meeting that I was not a teacher who could open up their heads and pour knowledge inside. They're used to learning by rote and critical thinking is not emphasized in Thai education. To help them understand the story, I encouraged them to look at the Thai translation of the book, showed them portions of the 1974 musical film, and circulated an audio version. A few copied opinions from the internet, but most grappled with the reading in order to express a few ideas in English. It's a weekend MA program and students take five classes with considerable homework in each. I'm happy with the conversations we've had in class and look forward to their final paper, a review of the book as a whole.

This February is a leap year and the extra day has thrown me off balance. What's it all about, Alfie? Thais love Valentine's Day and the stores were filled with displays of hearts while the press wrung its hands over fears that young people would use the holiday as an excuse for sex. There was even a curfew. Nan and I exchanged cards and had a delicious buffet dinner at You & Mee in the Erawan Hotel. A group of Iranians celebrated that day by blowing up their rented house and one man lost his legs when a bomb he threw at a police car hit a pole and bounced back. While Israelis interpreted the whole fiasco as part of an international plot (with anti-Semitic bombings duplicated in India and Georgia), observers in Bangkok found it odd that the "gang-who-couldn't-shoot-straight" partied in Pattaya, getting their photo taken and displaying Iranian cash, before they came to the capital and accidentally set off explosives.

The march to war with Iran over their nuclear ambitions, with Israel's Netanyahu as drum major followed closely by Republicans campaigning for the presidential nomination, dominates the news these days. Along with accusations that Obama is conducting a "war on religion" because of his policy that Catholic hospitals and schools cover employes for contraceptive health costs, the stories coming from the U.S. press make one wonder if someone hasn't put something into the water (in addition to the poisons seeping into the ground from the practice of fracking). While I scan the headlines, I look for worthwhile commentary by writers like Paul Krugman, Chris Hedges and Noam Chomsky. The division between social and economic conservatives virtually assures Obama's reelection, but that is only mildly good news, given that he sold his soul after Inauguration to the money manipulators, proponents of Empire, and Israeli interests. I find him on many issues to the right of Clinton (no favorite of progressives) and even Bush. It's mildly depressing and a good reason to take a break from the internet (which I've not yet been able to do).

Thailand's political situation remains murky. Prime Minister Yingluck Shinawatra and her Pheu Thai government have apparently reached an accommodation with the military and the royalists which may avoid a coup but which could eventually bring a confrontation with her red shirt base in the provinces. The campaign against 112, the draconian lese majeste law, led by a group of lawyers from Thammasat University, continues despite threats from the right. Thongchai Winichakun, professor of history at the University of Wisconsin, spoke at the Foreign Correspondents Club last week and said increasing use of the law and stiff penalties was due to an ideology of "royalist democracy" and "hyper-royalism" expressed through new rituals which arose in the 1970s and has increased dramatically since the 2006 coup. Although freedom of expression around issues concerning the monarchy has been drastically curtailed, Thongchai felt the current public conversation about 112 was a small sign of hope. Conditions have changed since the 1970s, he said. "Thais love electoral democracy, they realize that politicians can be good for them, and this implies a direct confrontation with royalist democracy." The backdrop to the current struggle over 112 is uncertainty about the succession (and at this point the cone of censorship descends).

After eye surgery, my vision improved and I've ordered new glasses. But the arthritis in my knee is worse and I'm going to have it x-rayed this week to see if anything short of an operation can help relieve the pain while walking. Aging is a gradual degeneration of the necessary parts of the body needed for socialization. It is hard to stay present while your senses are failing. I sit on our comfortable couch and judge the nominees for the Oscars to be awarded next weekend, with the aid of subtitles even for movies in English. My favorite film is "A Better Life," and I wish its star, Demian Bichir, could nab the Best Actor statue, but both are long shots. His role in the film is very different from the drug czar of Tijuana he played in "Weeds," and I barely recognized him. Every border conservative should be forced to view this film about the plight of defenseless undocumented workers. I also liked "Extremely Close & Incredibly Loud" and "The Help." And I hope the animation award goes to the incredibly wonderful "Chico & Rita" about entertainers from Cuba, old and new.

I have nothing to add about the tragedy of Whitney Houston. Such a waste of a promising life. I played a music video of "I Have Nothing" for my linguistic and 3rd year English students and let them guess the missing words in the lyrics marked by blanks. I did the same when Amy Winehouse died, and hope I never have to do it for Grammy's big winner last week, Adele. Fame eats its young. Nicky is on tour in Europe with Hanni El Khatib, with 11 days alone in France where he has a girlfriend now. I hope they can deal with the stresses and strains of celebrity. Fame is not what it's cracked up to be. The dots we connect for the lucky recipients of society's awards rarely remain connected.

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

2012-01-31T12:03:00.000+07:00

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. (Dylan Thomas)

A few days ago, a man I knew casually at my university was shot and killed by a jealous ex-husband who also murdered the woman he was with before hanging himself. My friend's name was Ittipol Buachart but I knew him as Paul, a debonair and well-traveled man who spoke impeccable English. He was manager of customer relations for the Language Institute at my school and he led me to believe he was politically well-connected when he offered his help if I had any problems with my visa or work permit. He also offered me a job after my short stint with the Language Institute ended for lack of paying students. MCU's main campus is in Wangnoi, an industrial area near Ayutthaya, and the Language Institute was developing English classes for factory workers. Because classes were scheduled in the late afternoon and commuting from Bangkok would be difficult, I declined. Twice, Paul gave me rides in his car which he parked on campus, once to the Labour Ministry and once to a local hotel after a conference at school. Even though I didn't know him well, his violent death came as a shock. Raw news footage circulating on Facebook graphically showed all three bodies in a cluttered house in Lopburi. No one would have figured that kind of ending for Paul.

Paul was probably in his early 50s, a young man, speaking relatively. His violent death is yet another reminder that we cannot choose the way that we go. Or when. Death is not a comfortable subject (Thais pronounce all four syllables of "comfortable" with the accent on the second, and correcting my students is a ritual each term). How easy it is to get distracted by life! But "Death" in the title of a blog would be a turnoff. Friends in my cohort are mostly in their 70s now and reading obituaries and noting the age of the deceased is a regular habit for us Those younger have postponed indefinitely any speculation about the manner and timing of their passing. But when someone we know dies, it's hard to avoid.

I still think often of my son Luke who died over two years ago in his mid 40s. Since he was an obstinate alcoholic, it was a slow suicide. Dear Holly, almost my age, died quickly in Bangkok last year from a fast-moving cancer that allowed her to sip champagne the night before her death. But my cousin Ted died slowly from a rare disease that caused paranoia and dementia. Joe, however, who lived not far from Ted in Oregon, died instantly from a heart attack; both he, Holly and Ted were in their late 60s. Peter, my closest friend in Santa Cruz for many years, died in his early 60s of prostate cancer, the same disease I was diagnosed with over 10 years ago. I don't know why it claimed Peter's life but has so far spared mine.

I'm not sure why Dylan Thomas gives me comfort and the courage to look mortality in the face. That old reprobate certainly hastened his own demise at the age of 39. After a month of sickness and excess in 1953, he died at a New York hospital of acute alcohol poisoning and pneumonia. Did he "burn and rave at close of day" and "rage against the dying of the light," even though he was far from old? Would he reaffirm that "death shall have no dominion" as he headed towards the grave?

The infirmities of old age are cumulative. They creep up on us, a thief in the night, and rarely announce their appearance like a gunshot or a terrible pain in the chest. Over the years, I have discussed suicide pacts with several different friends whereby we will assist each other in avoiding the indignities of a long terminal illness. One of them was later diagnosed with Parkinson's and now he sits mute in a wheel chair, his life constricted by medication and caretakers. Yet the twinkle in his eye when we're together tells me that he's not ready to go. My father, who used to brag that he had never visited a doctor in his life and didn't get sick, ended his days companioned with an oxygen tank for his emphysema, sitting on a bench in the mall, envious as the elderly walkers strolled by him. His twin brother, Ted, however, took his life with pills when his emphysema got too bad. How can we know when it's time?

The three days I spent in the hospital last month jolted me out of my complacency. When you ignore it for long as I have, the body exacts its revenge. And I had prided myself for embracing a material spirituality, one that looked for no consolation in metaphysics or an afterlife. Coming to live in Thailand was my way to affirm and celebrate the pleasures of "this one wild and precious life" (Mary Oliver). Falling in love with and marrying a much younger woman was, I thought, not an escape from aging and death but a passionate acceptance of the pleasures of sensuality. In this view, all physical life is sacred, and there is nothing particularly ennobling about the immaterial soul.

This goes against the accepted wisdom that old age is the time to prepare for death. Phra Cittamasvaro, the British monk, who could be the closest I have to a guru here in Thailand (though not for the reasons he might think), has faulted me for the pursuit of worldly pleasure when I should be getting ready for the end of it. Buddhists generally believe that the moment of death is important and it would be well to be meditating mindfully when it happens. Other than as a stress reliever (and perhaps good for the heart), I no longer find myself much attracted to meditation (this may change, just as atheist soldiers always pray in foxholes). And now we're back to speculating on the manner and timing of one's passing.

My right knee is giving me some grief. Years ago I was told I needed an operation to repair it, but now the cost would be too great. I'm on the lookout for a nifty cane. For the last few months my left eye has been not been carrying its share of the work of vision; I've self-diagnosed it as chronic conjunctivitis but this could be wrong. My fingers and a few toes are twisted by arthritis but remain able to walk, grip and type despite the sting and ache. Of course my innards are as much trouble as always, with mysterious twinges and pains, and erratic (and colorful) bowel movements. Although my weight has remained consistent at 81 kilos (up 5 since I came here 5 years ago), my stomach expands and sags. Wrinkles abound and my neck resembles a turkey's. You don't want to ask an old man how he is. The boring recitation could go on indefinitely.

"Be Here Now" was good advice when Ram Dass published in 1971 his influential book on the spiritualism of the hippies, a movement that celebrated the physicality and potentiality of life. I'm still a hippie at heart (although I was a worker with family responsibilities during the 1960s). Even though Sakyamuni began his journey toward awakening upon learning about sickness and death, thinking about our own death takes us away from the here and now and prevents us from seeing the cracks where the light comes in.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
--Leonard Cohen, "Anthem"

Then should we "rage against the dying of the light" when our time comes to go? If by "rage" you can also mean passionately embracing life rather than its absence, then I suppose so. In the book of Deuteronomy in the Bible, God says:

I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, the blessing and the curse. So choose life in order that you may live, you and your descendants.

I hope to choose life always, even at the moment of leaving it.

The Ethics of Internet Piracy

2012-01-25T11:46:00.002+07:00

As someone who occasionally has not fully respected the Intellectual Property Rights (IPS) of content producers and providers, I feel I can offer an insider's perspective on the intense debate over censorship and piracy that led last week to the defeat of anti-piracy legislation in the U.S. In one sense, it was a battle between behemoths: the music and movie conglomerates, threatened by the loss of ticket, DVD and CD sales, against the major gatekeepers of the internet, Google and Wikipedia foremost among them, who believed the proposed bills would introduce government censorship.

Among my friends have been numerous writers and musicians who make their living by selling their creativity to the public. Replication of original work has been a possibility, and hence a threat, ever since the invention and widespread use of photography, copy machines and sound duplication devices. In Vietnam and Cambodia I've seen children selling poorly-copied reproductions of bestselling books on street corners. Counterfeit DVDs and CDs are on sale at sidewalk stalls everywhere tourists and Thais gather in Bangkok. This also goes for fake Prada and Gucci items. Somewhere a designer, singer and author are being short-changed by these criminal replicators.

Then there are the poor students and other cheapskates who have become accustomed to the internet and all its offerings being free. Digital items are insubstantial, ethereal. My copying of anything digital, from a photo to a pdf article or a selection of megabytes that constitutes a book or movie, is effortless, an instant of shoplifting that goes unnoticed in the grand scheme of things. The problem comes when I download a book that I might have bought at the neighborhood store (or Amazon), or I grab a new CD or song at a BitTorrent site online that I might have purchased from iTunes or one of the few music outlets still surviving. Copying becomes theft when it precludes a physical purchase, thus denying its creators their livelihood. You might also argue that piracy contributes to the decline of bricks-and-mortar stores if the legal online megasellers had not already done that.

When I moved at 13 to California, the first friend I made in junior high school took me to the downtown area one Saturday where we browsed comic books at a cigar and news store (a type of retailer that has gone the way of the Dodo bird). Paul was a man of the world and he stuffed a comic in his pants and strolled toward the door. "Hey you!" shouted the clerk, and gave chase. Appalled and fascinated, I ran alongside Paul until we outdistanced the man. In high school I was always too scared to shoplift but I knew girls that stole cosmetics and boys that took 45rpm records from Woolworth's. Years later, I was in a bookstore in Berkeley with the woman who was to become my second wife. She took a hardback copy of Andre Codrescu's autobiography, The Life & Times of an Involuntary Genius, and stuck it in her purse. Again, I was appalled and fascinated by the willfulness it takes to steal. A little later, at the KPFA studios where Codrescu was doing an interview with my friend Pat, we showed him our trophy and he was duly impressed. It was not long after Abbie Hoffman had written Steal This Book, a title which I'm sure did not make the publisher happy.

While working in the music business in the 1970s, I encouraged established photographers to take pictures of our artists and sell them to magazines and newspapers. The enfant terriblé Jim Marshall used to drop by my office to look through my collection of books and magazines to see if anyone had used his highly regarded photographs without permission. It was rumored that Marshall carried a gun which he had once used to someone's regret. He was always cordial to me, and I hired him one year, all expenses paid, to take photos at Willie Nelson's 4th of July picnic. A few years later, when I was art director at Guitar Player, a photo came from the Grateful Dead's office for a story on Jerry Garcia and I used it, assuming that Marshall had been paid. Apparently not. When the issue was published, he called me and screamed for an hour, threatening to blow my head off. At the record company, I often paid photographers a flat fee for publicity photos which would then be reprinted widely in connection with record reviews and interviews. Each use, of course, meant less of a market for the photographer's original work.

Internet piracy is called theft, but it's the possible future lost sale that constitutes the loss since copying diminishes nothing. If I copy a CD that I borrowed from the library, I add to the items in the world. The library doesn't suffer. My brazen girlfriend's theft of the book damaged the store by depleting its inventory, just as Woolworth's suffered from the raids by teen shoplifters on their stocks of cosmetics and records. Codrescu could care less that his royalty statement would be shortened. If she taken it out of the library and loaned it to me to read after finishing it, that would not constitute theft even though it means that I would not buy the book. Confusion and contradictions abound over exactly what is theft when it comes to replicated products that were mass produced.

The historian in me cannot help but point out that in the 19th century, French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Prudhon claimed that "property is theft," which is an interesting way to looking at the todays charges that the piracy of intellectual property is theft. And he was preceded by Jean-Jacques Rousseau who wrote,

The first man who, having enclosed a piece of ground, bethought himself of saying 'This is mine,' and found people simple enough to believe him, was the real founder of civil society. From how many crimes, wars, and murders, from how many horrors and misfortunes might not any one have saved mankind, by pulling up the stakes, or filling up the ditch, and crying to his fellows: Beware of listening to this imposter; you are undone if you once forget that the fruits of the earth belong to us all, and the earth itself to nobody.

Ownership is a modern concept. Claiming authorship or of being the creator of words and notes for a piece of music parallels the the period of patronage when royalty basked in the glow of the artists they supported. The rise of capitalism promoted individualism over community (and anonymity) and there were few creators who did not want to be remember by posterity.

The invention of photography was a disaster for portrait artists and painters renowned for their realistic works of art. The camera could reproduce reality more faithfully. So artists turned to more abstract themes in order to depict meaning from within rather than merely represent the external world. Recording companies were threatened by the rise of radio in the 1920s, thinking that no one would buy records if they could hear them for free. Fifty years later the Sony Walkman made it easy to record and share audio tapes. Predictions of doom, however, failed to materialize.

The consolidation of content providers has raised different questions. Huge entertainment and publishing corporations control most of the world's music, movies and books. They finance and distribute the products of an increasingly homogenized global culture (with significant local variations, such as Korean pop, which is hugely popular throughout Asia but not America and Europe). The "content producers" (a disagreeable name for creative artists) are often at the bottom of a hierarchy run by lawyers and businessmen (mostly). It's hard to say how much an illegally downloaded movie, CD or book impacts their livelihood. If the situation were different, if the writers and musicians could deal directly with their readers and audience, then stealing their work would be more ethically noticeable, and perhaps the idea that everything on the internet should be free would slowly change in the thinking of many consumers.

A new paradigm is needed for artist and audience. The Occupy movements are showing a growing dissatisfaction with a world controlled by corporations. Many are rejecting the notion that property takes precedence over people, and ownership over justice. The concept of "intellectual property" is enormously flawed, allowing agribusiness to patent seeds developed over centuries and pharmaceutical companies to patent the gene sequences of indigenous people without their knowledge. It was designed by corporations to maximize profit.

Musicians and writers must extricate themselves from this system which epitomizes the destructiveness of the global economy. Both Amazon and Apple, through its iBooks program, have announced ways for writers to produce their own books and sell them online. While both large companies must be treated with suspicion, the idea of creators taking at least some initiative and control is a good one. Many musicians, including some like Radiohead, are learning how to use the internet to reach their listeners directly, cutting out the established music provider. Music companies, like newspapers, will cease to exist in their present form. YouTube has made it possible for film artists to reach a wider public and I'm sure high speed internet connections will allow filmmakers eventually to promote their creations outside of the corporate studio and distribution systems.

Internet piracy does not usually conjure up an image of Jack Sparrow in the Caribbean. But if I'm correct, the destruction of the old system of linking creators with their audience will pave the way for something new, just as capitalism did when it destroyed the old patronage system which funded composers and artists for centuries. Rather than focus on the unethical counterfeiters in Asia, duplicating blockbuster movies on DVD and CDs by hit singles artists, we should think of the thousands of interested computer users who currently are illegally downloading movies, books and music as primed and ready to communicate directly with internet artists.

(For a more critical look at piracy, read Danny Goldberg's essay, "Kill the Internet -- and other anti-SOPA Myths," in The Nation. He spent many years in the music industry after I left.)

In Defense of Sensual Pleasure

2012-01-10T12:41:00.000+07:00

Gérard de Lairesse's Allegory of the Five Senses (1668)

Three days in the hospital with pneumonia makes one appreciate the pleasures of the senses. Discharged on Christmas morning, I reveled in the warmth of the Bangkok sun as I got into the taxi. Even the pollution smelled good. At home I indulged myself by listening to Christmas songs, sipping soda and eating Oreos. The familiar feel of our pseudo-velvet couch was comforting. The very air taken in by my somewhat worse-for-wear lungs was nectar of the gods. I was alive and loved it.

Pleasure gets a bad rap from all religions which see the physical as something to flee rather than embrace. The body is the source of temptation, the root of evil intentions and bad deeds. Despite my appreciation of many of the teachings of Buddhism and the Catholic Christian tradition, I cannot abide their distaste for the physical. The mostly male priests and monks shun the opposite sex in order to preserve purity. Each religion has an otherworldly, metaphysical goal: enlightenment for Buddhists and heaven for Christians. And each contains doctrines that encourage renunciation of the world and the avoidance of physical temptations that appeal to the senses.

Buddhism advocates a middle way between indulgence and mortification of the senses, as my friend Phra Cittasamvaro points out in "So What is Wrong with Sense Desire?" Even though "desire causes suffering" (one translation of the Second Noble Truth), not all desire is harmful, he believes. Unrestrained desire is the problem. Refined sense pleasures, for Mozart, Picasso, Shakespeare and the like, are "often blameless," although equal to coarser pleasures in their ability to distract from one's true goal. And aspirations, desires for qualities such as compassion, patience and wisdom, as well as enlightenment, should be cultivated. It's OK, he writes, "to enjoy nice food, good company or stroking your pet cat," but through meditation one sees that "sense pleasures are really a temporary cover for a deeper discomfort in the heart."

Since the Greeks, Hedonists have claimed that pleasure is the only intrinsic good. Philosopher and gay rights advocate John Corvin disagrees: He believes there are goods beside pleasure. "But from the fact that pleasure isn't the only good, it does not follow that pleasure isn't good at all." He calls this argument the "Prude's Fallacy." "To deny pleasure's value is just silly." I doubt that many Buddhist teachers will ever see pleasure as a distinct good rather than a distraction from the only true good of enlightenment. Buddha founded a community of renunciants who abandoned the world to concentrate on awakening from samsara as their teacher had done. Today's sangha of monks in Thailand follow in that tradition. I have no problem with anyone's choice of the robe and renunciation, and the practice of ritual and meditation to support that life. Some of my best friends follow that path. But I cannot agree with teaching that rejects the sensual pleasures which I feel help to make us fully human.

Prudes often argue that the senses require selfish gorging. If food tastes good, the sensualist will gorge himself until he is bloated. Even when there is someone hungry in the room, the glutton will feed his own desire to the exclusion of others. The same goes in spades for sexual desire which is interpreted as inherently self-centered. But arguing from extremes is to draw up a straw man, a figment of the prude's imagination. People, as Phra Cittamasvaro suggested, learn to restrain their senses from an early age. Delayed gratification, partly for the heightened sense of pleasure it can provide, is a basic lesson on the road to maturity. But the most important factors that undercut the prude's argument are the developed virtues of compassion and sharing. Contrary to the survival of the fittest crowd, human beings are designed to cooperate more than compete. (I'll save footnotes for the book) In the fulfillment of our sensual desires, most of us take others into consideration. And we don't even need religious rules and threats of punishment to comply with this universal achievement.

I'd quote Walt Whitman, D.H. Lawrence, Henry Miller or Allan Ginsberg here, but I think I've made my point. Along with my skepticism about karma and rebirth, this belief in the value of sensual desire restrains me from becoming a committed Buddhist. Or at least it did until recently when I began reading numerous books and articles about the history of Buddhism and the current modernist interpretation of doctrine that has dominated east and west thinking since the 19th century. Thai Buddhism with its infusions of Brahmanism and animism has fascinated me since I moved here in 2004. Its iconography and rituals do not seem to fit within the western narrative of Buddhism, and I've discussed this anomaly in various blog posts. Last week I attended a conference on Buddhist Studies at Chulalongkorn University where Justin McDaniel presented a radically different view of Thai Buddhism in his talk and in remarks at the launch of his new book.

The Lovelorn Ghost & The Magical Monk: Practicing Buddhism in Modern Thailand focuses on the practices of Thai Buddhists rather than history, doctrine and the institution of the monastic sangha. McDaniel tells of the mostly legendary exploits of Mae Nak, vengeful mother and ghost, and popular 19th century monk Somdet To. "Now it is painfully clear that any major study of Thai Buddhism is simply ludicrous," says McDaniel, "if these two are not prominently featured. Ignoring them is ignoring what millions of Thai Buddhists know and value." He aims to write about what Thai Buddhists do rather than explain what they believe or the meaning of their actions. And this involves him in "astrology, protective magic, fortune-telling, ghost belief, 'Hindu' deities, multiple Buddhas, [and] amulets," while "many scholars still dig and dig looking for their idea of Theravada buried under the weight of Thai culture...Looking for the Theravada, the Buddhist, and the authentic often prevents scholars from seeing what is going on."

I've only just begun reading McDaniel's book and cannot provide a proper review (for that, see Chris Baker's review in the Bangkok Post). It's obvious to me this he is on to something with this radical approach. A professor at the University of Pennsylvania, McDaniel has studied Buddhism in Thailand and Laos for many years and even wore a robe as a monk. This is his second book and one I think that will prove controversial. Nan and I maintain an altar of icons on top of our bookcase and freshen it with flowers and water for every Wan Phra. We often make merit at a nearby temple by taking gifts and lighting candles and incense while the monk chants a blessing over our goblets of water (which are then poured on the nearest bush or tree). My western-educated brain is caught up in debates about beliefs and reality which make pure deeds difficult. From my observation of my wife and her family, however, I do not see that concerns about sensual desires play a role in their practice of Buddhism. More important for them is the practice of generosity and the metta prayer that all beings be happy.

As my body slowly recovers from the megadoses of antibiotics and steroids in the hospital to kill the infection and jump-start my lungs, I am enjoying the turning of the world after the shortest day at the Winter Solstice. The sunrises have been spectacular lately and I try to capture the colors of the sky while waiting for my morning coffee to brew. The dawn sun had moved a few degrees to the right of the Rama IX Bridge spire and is now moving back to the left. This is all that I can know of the seasons in Bangkok, although occasionally the mornings are chilly (to Nan more than me who puts on a sweater). Up north several provinces have been declared disaster zones because of temperatures that yet remain above the freezing mark but can kill Thais without heaters or warm clothes.

School resumed last week and I took the Mahachula pink bus to Wangnoi in Ayutthaya past fields still filled with garbage that floated in on the flood last month. Many trees had died. Our classroom building has electricity but neither air conditioning nor functioning elevators (fortunately my classrooms are on the 2nd floor). I learned that the subject of my new class for 4th year students is translation which might be a stretch for someone without one of the two languages needed. For their first assignment, I asked them to find a short poem by Sunthorn Phu, considered Thailand's greatest writer, and translate it into English. My usual class of 3rd year students in Listening & Speaking English has been cut in half and I will teach 14 students with a new Thai teacher taking an equal amount. I'm not particularly happy about this non-sensical split but it will mean less papers to grade. Only one student showed up the first day. The graduate class in linguistics continues on Saturday mornings and students seem to be enjoying The Little Prince which I'm using for a text in hopes that it can provide examples of phonology, morphology, syntax and semantics.

The Buddhist doctrine of impermanence is continually affirmed as my body continues its relentless journey toward oblivion. I learned last week of the deaths of my cousin, Ted Ballard, and my friend Joe Hudgins. Coincidentally, both were 67 years old and lived near Ashland, Oregon. Ted died on my birthday last year of Lewy Body dementia, a horrible mix of Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. He'd built his own home on 140 acres in Gold Hill and was an accomplished master carpenter. In college Ted was gardener for painter Morris Graves at his Eureka retreat and is mentioned in a poem by Graves' friend, John Cage. Ted played the banjo, disliked the internet, and is grandfather to his step-daughter's son with Foo Fighter Nate Mendel. His mother, my aunt Margaret, was an important mentor when I was falling in love with literature. I miss them both. Joe had the dubious fame in his youth of playing Dr. Flexi Jerkoff in the cult film "Flesh Gordon" (He's at 20 minutes to the hour in the poster). In recent years he sold real estate and taught others how to sell. Joe had a distinguishing laugh that you could hear miles away. He was a founder of the non-profit KSKQ in Ashland and hosted the first transmitter on his property as well as various radio shows. I'm happy to hear that he enjoyed himself at a New Year's Eve party the night before the heart attack that killed him. R.I.P., Joe and Ted.

While I'm feeling better, a few aches and pains remain. But impermanence was reinforced last week when I lost my wallet. It either dropped out of my pocket, or it was picked from it during a crush of people getting on a bus after the conference. I lost several thousand baht and a few important cards, but so far no one has charged anything. The following night, as if to make sure I'd learned the lesson, I lost my house keys. Needless to say, it took awhile to transcend upset and the fear that I really am losing it in general. But, with the help of a good woman, I eventually was able to see that I'll never really lose it. May all beings and especially my family and friends have a wonderful New Year in 2012 (or 2555 here, pronounced "song ha ha ha" which is quite funny).

Coming Up for Air

2011-12-29T14:17:00.001+07:00

Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

Mary Oliver, "Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches"

During my years of expatriation, I have celebrated some singular Christmas holidays, from a hotel in Morro Bay in California to a friend's row house in north London and onwards to a Christian ashram in Tamil Nadu, India (twice). Some notable experiences, however, must await my posthumous memoirs to be fully told. This year the stores in Bangkok marked the end of severe flooding by restocking their depleted shelves and putting up Christmas decorations everywhere. While the religious touch is missing, Santa and his elves frolic under mammoth artificial trees outside shopping centers here, not so much to lure the tourists, I think, as because Thais love festivity (Valentine's Day and now Halloween are becoming very popular).

What I didn't expect was to be lying in a hospital bed several days before Christmas struggling to breathe.

Not long after Thanksgiving, Nan and I put up the tiny fake tree we bought two years ago and festooned it gaily with ornaments. But we wouldn't spend the holiday together since she'd been invited to go on a student exchange trip to Brunei for 10 days with other students from her university. The night before she left I came down with a fever but kept quiet about it. My chest had been congested for weeks. In the afternoon I felt progressively worse and took at taxi to Chao Phaya Hospital not far away (for me, a decision of last resort). The doctor gave me some pills and sent me home. But I didn't improve and four days later went back. This time the x-ray showed pneumonia and my oxygen saturation percentage was dangerously low. I was admitted immediately, given a private room, put on a bronchodilator device, an oxygen tube stuck in my nose, and pumped full of antibiotics and steroids.

Dr. Tanasit recognized the wreck of my lungs from their causes, an asthmatic childhood, several cases of youthful pneumonia, and probably thirty years as a heavy smoker. Both my father and his brother suffered from emphysema. A long time ago in California my breathing was tested and I was diagnosed with "impaired lung function." Since it didn't appear to be progressive, I put off any worries. The current medication of choice for maintaining airways and preventing acute asthma attacks are glucocorticoids combined with a bronchodilator, and I was prescribed the Advair discus, two puffs a day. But when I moved to Thailand in 2004, I foolishly stopped taking it because of expense (though much cheaper here, of course) and possible side effects. I also stopped taking my cholesterol-lowering statins, but that's another story.

My first memory of asthma was being rushed to the hospital in Greensboro when I was six because I couldn't breathe. Treatment then was an oxygen tent and a nebulizer. Worse attacks followed and I recall the distinct relief from suffering that a shot of adrenaline (probably epinephrine) would bring. When it was difficult to breathe, I remember sitting hunched over in a chair struggling to draw air, mom hovering by my side. It felt shameful to be an asthmatic because it limited my sports activities and I couldn't be like the other kids. One summer I went to camp and had an attack in the middle of the night. I still recall clearly dragging myself up the hill to the camp counselor's office, pausing to breathe by every tree. My father drove up to the camp and brought me home. Despite this disability, I took up the clarinet when I was 10 and managed to pump enough air through my woodwind instruments to dream of becoming a professional musician. Once sprays were invented, for many years I took Medihaler-Iso, a bronchodilator that contains isoproterenol sulfate, a drug like epinephrine which overstimulates the heart and simulates an amphetamine high. One druggy friend of mine was always trying to bum a puff. For much of my life, though, I could neglect the act of breathing and smoke, snort and swallow dangerous substances with no thought for the future.

Until, that is, I became aware of the centrality of the breath and breathing in many religious practices like meditation, yoga and, in the Christian tradition, contemplation to which I had become attracted. The goal of some meditative techniques is to silently observe exhalation and inhalation through the nose or from the rising and falling of the stomach without interference. I could never do that. No matter how I tried to let go, I always found myself attempting to force each and every breath. Breathing is one of the few bodily functions that, within limits, can be controlled both consciously and unconsciously. Meditation remained for me a struggle between conscious intention and blissful release. I found it easier to count the breaths or recite a mantra but, as mentioned in a recent post, transcendence of any kind from the body proved impossible.

Breathing, the inspiration of air by creatures, the metabolism of oxygen, is one of the central metaphors for life in all cultures and languages. As I lay in my hospital bed on Christmas Eve, watching James Bond movies on TV while medication designed to keep me alive dripped through the IV line, this was no trivial fact. Nurses wearing face masks trooped through my room, periodically taking blood pressure (out of sight from the steroids), and measuring temperature under the armpit. While washing me with a warm cloth, a nurse's aide shyly asked , "You love the King?" Who was I to quibble? My blood pressure was unusually high, and a dry cough failed to clear gunk from the plugged bronchial tubes. At night I sweated buckets and saw LSD colors behind my eyes. I had no idea if the infection could be stopped, or if I would ever regain full control of my lungs (no thought of abdication now). Would I be able to teach again? Was it time to go out to pasture? Nan was far away and the internet was not cooperative.

Contemplating the possibilities took my breath away, or better, gave me some breathing room. Air passed into, through, and out of my body (breaking wind, since the medication made it hard to poop). Oxygen-starved blood can bring death quickly. The Hebrews pictured God breathing the breath of life, ruach, into clay to make life; the breath returns when the mortal dies. Sophocles wrote, "A human being is only breath and shadow." No one possesses for long this breath, called pneuma by the Greeks, spiritus by the Romans, and prana in India. Is this metaphysical quality, beyond its gaseous substance, passive or active? The Chinese call it qi, the Japanese ki, and French philosopher Henri Bergson named it "elan vital." Yogis and various Eastern teachers believe we can use and direct this power to achieve remarkable deeds. Some think that the universality of breathing affirms soul or psyche, while others believe its communal nature erases our personal attributes. These questions made little sense at the time as I lay in bed on Christmas Eve, remembering Christmases past when I joined with fellow Catholic Christians in Santa Cruz and also in India to celebrate the incarnation of the spirit of God and the promise of goodwill to all on earth.

The doctor discharged me on Christmas morning and I felt reborn. No one was home when I got back to my apartment but I opened the windows and let the light and air inside. Foolish as it seems, I felt I had cheated death. This time I got to keep my breath. I could sing along with country singer George Strait: "Life's not the breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away." Bangkok outside my window seemed paradise. There were more pills to take and baby steps to walk in recovering my strength, to the 7-11 next door and two days later up to Starbucks. I've learned that asthma and emphysema now fall under the general heading of Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease (COPD) and that many of my older friends have it (my college roommate died of it earlier this year). Nan returned to home our great double joy and the phlegm in my chest is gradually loosening, the breaths deepening. A checkup today showed all chest infection gone.

I once again pay attention to the question above and to the challenge from poet Mary Oliver: "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life." And I could not speak of the importance and meaning of air better than she in her wonderful poem "Oxygen":

Everything needs it: bone,muscles, and even,
while it calls the earth its home, the soul.
So the merciful, noisy machine

stands in our house working awayin its
lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel
before the fire, stirring with a

stick of iron, letting the logs
lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room,
are in your usual position, leaning on your

right shoulder which aches
all day. You are breathing
patiently; it is a

beautiful sound. It is
your life, which is so close
to my own that I would not know

where to drop the knife of
separation. And what does this have to do
with love, except

everything? Now the firerises
and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red
roses of flame. Then it settles

to quietude, or maybe gratitude,as it feeds
as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:
our purest, sweet necessity: the air.

Long Live the King

2011-12-14T10:33:00.003+07:00

We watched the celebration for King Bhumibol Adulyadej's 84th birthday on television. It was a slightly muted affair because of the lingering flooding in Thailand that has caused over 600 deaths, driven tens of thousands from their homes, and destroyed crops and factories. The King traveled in a motorcade from Siriraj Hospital (named for the Queen), where he has lived for over two years, across the Chao Phraya River to the Grand Palace. The route lined with his cheering subjects was only a block away from our condo and if we'd known earlier we might have gone down to wave flags, and shout "Trong phra charoen!"(Long live the King!), as he passed by. From a balcony in the Palace, surrounded by his extended family, he read a short speech to hundreds of invited guests in colorful civil service and military uniforms asking them to implement some of the many water projects he has proposed over the years to prevent such flooding.

In the evening, Nan and I went to Sanam Luang, the large parade ground opposite the Palace, to see the festivities up close. We expected fireworks but they were apparently cancelled to make more funds available for needed flood relief. The west side of the park, which recently had a full-scale make-over (and now bans over-night sleepovers, upsetting both the homeless and streetwalkers), was lined with booths from each province exhibiting their products and hundreds of food vendors. The sky was filled with spotlights and dozens of khom loy (candle-lit sky lanterns). We walked to the long wall of the Palace to watch a son et lumiere show celebrating the history of Thailand and the King's life (you can see my video here. Afterwards, we joined the crowd of thousands to listen to performers on a huge stage in the middle of the grass field before walking back home across the bridge.

As is the custom, the King took the occasion of his birthday to pardon prisoners, 26,000 of them. But this list did not include red shirts jailed for terrorism during the troubles a year and a half ago, nor the growing list of violators of Thailand's harsh lese-majesté law and the similar Computer Crimes Act passed by the military coup junta in 2007. A few days after the King's birthday, Joe Gordon, a native-born Thai and naturalized American citizen, was sentenced to two and a half years in prison for posting a web link to a Thai translation of the banned biography, The King Never Smiles (written by American journalist Paul Handley and published by Yale University Press). That this was done while he was living in Colorado made no difference. When he traveled to Thailand for medical reasons, he was arrested and jailed without bail. The U.S. Embassy and even Clinton's State Department have raised mild objections. But Gordon's only hope now is a special pardon from the King which sometimes is granted to those who plead guilty (as he did). When dissidents are arrested in countries like China, the U.S. is much more vocal. Human rights groups around the world have called the possibile penalties for lese-majesté of from three to fifteen years "shocking" and unacceptable.

The original lese-majesté law dates from the early 20th century and, while common in other constitutional monarchies, is punished more severely in Thailand than anywhere else. Critics say it is now being used politically to attack opponents, and some believe it harms the monarchy more than protects it. David Streckfuss, author of Truth on Trial in Thailand: Defamation, treason, and lese-majesté (Routledge, 2011), says 478 known cases had been submitted to the Thai Criminal Court since the coup, and 397 cases between 2006 and 2009 compared with an average four or five a year in the preceding 15 years. The conviction rate, Streckfuss says, is currently 94 percent. Anand Panyarachun, a former premier and senior statesman, agreed with criticism that the law is misused, and said, "The harshness of the penalty should be reviewed." Last month a 61-year-old grandfather with cancer, got 20 years in prison for sending four text messages to a government official deemed offensive to the Queen, the heaviest sentence ever handed down for a lese-majesté case. Now called "Uncle SMS" by the Thai media, and protestors who have made him the poster child for the campaign to revoke the law, the man denies sending the text messages and says he doesn't even know how. He wept in court and said, "I love the King."

It's impossible for a foreign expat to understand the depth of feeling on this issue and risky to speculate. As a admirer of the red shirt movement and the Pheu Thai party it backed, which was overwhelmingly elected in the last election sending a rebuke to the Democrat party that was supported by the country's elite, I hoped to see significant changes when exiled formed Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra's sister Yingluck took power. But the new politics looks a lot like the old. Certainly the disastrous floods threw a monkey wrench into any planned changes, but it doesn't explain Yingluck's current coziness with the military nor her government's ongoing attempt to shut down internet sites and even threaten freedom of expression on Facebook and Twitter. What's going on?

A major problem with lese-majesté laws is that the details of charges and evidence in favor of them remain secret. Even questioning a court's decision is against the law. Since the public is unaware of the limits of free speech, all reference to the monarchy must be carefully censored. If you believe the last two governments, nasty talk and images directed at the monarchy are rampant on the internet. Tens of thousands of web pages have been blocked. Those who believe the King is universally beloved by his people might puzzle at this. As a dedicated user of the net, however, I have never seen anything that could be construed as defamation or an insult (which is not to say all references are benign). Perhaps they are only in Thai. I know of several sources that argue Thailand should become a republic and perhaps this kind of thing is the target of the laws. The effect of blanket suppression of speech, however, is to make any discussion of the future of Thailand almost impossible. The succession will be a critical transition for the country and no one is publicly talking about it. In a Buddhist country where impermanence is a major component of the Buddha's teaching, Thais often act as if the present is forever.

My first memory of the King of Thailand was hearing that he played the clarinet and had jammed with Benny Goodman. What a cool guy, I thought. When I first arrived in Thailand, driving into Bangkok from the airport I saw his huge portrait on the side of many buildings. Since then, I've been in homes in different parts of the country and his picture is everywhere, and not for show either. Thais appear to respect and revere their King as much as a demi-god. From the 1950's onward, he established himself as the people's king, traveling throughout Thailand to learn of problems and propose solutions. His proposals have usually had self-sufficiency as their goal and his focus has been on agriculture and the water necessary to grow crops without destroying them in floods (his suggestions too often ignored by governments). In times of crisis, his intervention has sometimes served to calm opposing sides. While religion can divide (Thailand's largest minority are Muslims), the reign of King Rama IX for over sixty years has been the touchstone for Thainess, the core of the Thai citizen's sense of identity. What comes next and his legacy are too important to ignore.

Addendum: Pravit Rojanaphruk has an excellent analysis in today's conservative English daily, The Nation, on how the metaphor of Thailand as a family strengthens resistance to eliminating the lese-majesté laws. "The tradition of obeying the father at all costs has a negative effect," Pravit writes. "Any doubts or questions from some of the 'children' are treated as something 'incomprehensible"'or even 'horrendous' by their 'siblings'. Severe punishment under the lese-majeste law is therefore a 'sensible' and even 'just' way of dealing with wayward 'children'." Shawn W. Crispin, writing in Asia Times Online, thinks that "Yingluck's anti-democratic tendencies, in the name of upholding the monarchy, have disenfranchised many of the genuine pro-democracy activists in Thaksin's camp." Crispin thinks increasing use of the lese-majesté laws is because some monarchists want them upheld "in the run-up to what is expected to be a delicate and potentially destabilizing royal succession." The big question: Is open discussion harmful or helpful? Who benefits and who loses by preventing free expression?

On No Longer Meditating

2011-12-07T09:37:00.001+07:00

I began meditating in 1982 and continued the practice, with some gaps, for 25 years. But when I moved to a Buddhist country in 2007, I stopped. The confession that I no longer meditate feels shameful and is not easy to make. It is even more difficult to explain. I expect disapproval, as if I'd written: "I no longer pray, go to mass or believe in God." I know that this is disturbing to some friends. How about: I also no longer exercise, take vitamin supplements, or do yoga, and I've stopped giving money to beggars and petting wild kittens. But I've also never been happier.

This blog post is a rumination on how meditation has lost its luster for me. If I could say precisely why, the post would have been titled, "Why I No Longer Meditate." Hence the philosophical underpinning. I expect to be pitied, especially by some in the expat Buddhist community here in Bangkok for whom meditation is a sacred activity.

Lord knows I tried. I gave away my zafu and two meditation benches in California before I left because I intended to travel light. On settling here, I bought a couple of household cushions when I found nothing specially made for meditation. I should mention that my knees have become increasingly unmanageable of late and I probably could no longer sit on even a bench. During my first years in Thailand, I attended meditation retreats and talks but usually sat in a chair. But there is something improper for me about meditating in a chair, though I do remember a meditator with a bad back in California who lay down flat on the floor for her practice. Form, however, has always been as important as function for me.

My childhood was decidedly Protestant Christian. I attended vacation bible school and youth camps and had a crush on the minister's daughter. I devoured science fiction, and, when introduced to the idea that flying saucers might be real, swallowed it whole. Those were the days when UFO were envisioned as saviors (Jung's last book described them as the metaphor for the scientific age). I encountered the many New Age ramblings of true believers in the 1950s and shared their enthusiasm for seeking esoteric wisdom. But ultimately their often racist views clashed with my passionate support then of the civil rights movement. Along came the Beats whose writings opened the door to the East for me, the Buddhism of Kerouac and Snyder, and Asian spirituality appealed as an alternative to Christian platitudes. But I did not try meditation until my secretary at a Hollywood record company initiated me into Transcendental Meditation in the early 1970s. For weeks after, I recited my mantra and yearned for a bliss that failed to come (nor could I ever levitate as TM devotees claimed).

Life intervened. In 1982 my second wife was pregnant with my fourth child. We lived in Connecticut and I worked in Manhattan. I was 42 and should have been happy, but all that I had was not enough; I wanted more, but I could not say what that would be. In retrospect, it was a full-blown midlife crisis (the first of many). I began browsing the religion section of bookstores and visiting churches. I read The Way of the Pilgrim and silently recited the Jesus prayer while riding New York's subway and buses. At the Integral Yoga store off lower Fifth Avenue I bought a hard round cushion designed for meditating and I read Ram Dass's classic manual of instruction, Journey of Awakening: A Meditator's Guidebook. At the same time I was also reading St. John of the Cross and imagining that I was entering the "dark night of the soul." On a visit to the New York Zen Center I attended an introductory session with Eido Shamano Roshi and learned how to hold my hands while sitting and walking. In the early mornings I sat on the floor of the living room of our New England farmhouse and tried to count wordlessly to ten while a three-minute egg timer clicked away in the kitchen. It took me a years to get to ten without losing my concentration because of the intervention of distracting thoughts. It was also a long time before I could sit without overwhelming physical and mental discomfort for more than three minutes.

What did I want when I scanned the sky for flying saucers, read about the Great White Brotherhood in Tibet, or sat in a half-lotus position (back in the day!) hoping for satori or at least the cessation of thoughts that might precede an oceanic feeling of bliss (as promised in the books I'd read)? I was dissatisfied and unhappy, in my 20s as well as in my 40s, and I wanted something else; I wanted to be somebody else. Finding the secret might do the trick, soothe the discontent. As a middle-class American, I had never really suffered. My angst was existential, a gift from my culture. There were too many choices, and if I failed or was bored, I had no one to blame but myself. Perhaps everything was a lie and the truth lay elsewhere, in the Himalayas or in the wordless insight of a koan. Religion contains the original conspiracy theories. Life is a mystery, and maybe Jesus, Moses, Mohammed, Buddha, and Lao-Tzu figured it out (or their followers). The leader of our flying saucer study group received messages from the UFOs and published them as Wisdom of the Universe. I wanted a little of that. And so I labeled myself a "seeker" and set out on a path to find it. I even tried science, exploring the mysticism of quantum physics in numerous books (my real life tutors included Fred Alan Wolf and Nick Herbert). Through it all meditation was a constant companion.

I wasn't above mixing and matching disciplines and practices. Under the influence of the monk Thomas Merton, whose writings revealed a suppressed mystical tradition in the Catholic Church and who also argued for a turn to the East, including meditation, I converted to Catholicism. I found kindred souls among priests and nuns, even cradle Catholics, who embraced contemplation (another way of describing meditation), and who sometimes found more in common with Asian believers than the conservative Christians they sat next to church. Rather than seek enlightenment, Christians often want to see God "face to face" beyond words. The experience might be similar, but the names and description Buddhists, Christians, Hindus and others give to that experience varies according to the seeker's cultural and religious background. For many, religions are so many fingers pointing at the one moon.

For the last 10 years, I have attended Catholic mass and meditated in countries around the globe, from Mexico to Guatemala and Argentina, and from India to Vietnam, Sri Lanka and Thailand. I fully expected that my religious practices would continue when I moved permanently to Thailand. But that did not happen. My experience with Catholic worship services in Bangkok was not encouraging. Priests tended to be aging and conservative in a country where Christians are a tiny minority and Catholics have only a historical edge. In my second month in Bangkok I discovered a Buddhist group just forming for expats and tourists and I took an enthusiastic part in organizing talks and retreats.

At the same time I wanted to understand what Buddhism meant for Thais and to learn their rituals and practices. The differences sometimes are huge. For Western Buddhists, meditation is the core of their practice. They take pains to describe Buddhism as rational and even scientific, a philosophy or psychology more than a religion in the Christian sense. It is a path they choose to take. For Thais born into a deeply religious culture, with Brahmanism and Buddhism mixed together with animist beliefs and practices, their religion is all-consuming and unquestioned. More than the most fundamentalist Christians in the U.S., they take they whole socio-cultural package as truth, the way it is. Their rituals are primarily devotional transactions involving gifts and donations which result in happiness and protection from harm. Rather than salvation, the goal is well-being, freedom from suffering. The Thai Buddhist cosmos includes ghosts, devas and a plethora of spiritual beings to the surprise of most Westerners. Few Thais meditate.

During my visits to India I was always impressed with popular piety, the faith of the people, even though it superficially resembled the devotional Christianity that would put me off in its fundamentalist form. In Asia, however, "religion" is an insufficient term to describe the worldview from within. I have been attracted to this total faith even though I am sure I will never understand it deeply or be able to emulate it. Still, it seems an alternative to the stripped-down Buddhism of the West with its focus on meditation. I no longer understand the objectives of this meditation, and perhaps this is one reason why my incentive to practice it has withered away. I go to the temple with my wife on wan phra days and on special occasions like the King's recent birthday, and we light candles and incense and present token gifts to the monks (necessities purchased in plastic buckets at the supermarket). During the exchange we receive a blessing, and also offer blessed water to the shrubs outside the hall. This procedure, as my wife has been taught, makes her happy and she believes it contributes to the merit of both the living and the dead.

So I no longer meditate. Perhaps it's partly because my aging body cannot observe the proprieties of position, but even more it might be because the experience of thoughtlessness I once sought is no longer my spiritual objective. Sure, mental reflection prevents stress and calms the mind's incessant preoccupation with self. But how can you drop the ego while trying to change yourself? I remember my friend Diana being astounded and then appalled to hear that I wanted to give up my ego in the pursuit of mystical enlightenment. These days I think her reaction was proper. Is the meditator a better person because of this experience, kinder and more compassionate? Much Buddhist teaching (like its Christian counterpart) is about renunciation and the rejection of worldly things. I am no longer convinced this is a desirable goal, at least for me. I prefer a loving engagement with the world, one concerned with improving it and helping as much as possible to eleviate the suffering of others (for me teaching has become the tool I can use). I no longer think of myself as a seeker; this life is it, this is what I've got, so I hope to appreciate and even love it Much of my previous spiritual seeking came from a desire to change myself, a refusal to accept myself, warts and all. If I renounce anything it is this fruitless goal. If I have gotten one central message from the teachings of the Buddha, it is that refusing to accept things as they are only creates suffering.

Meditation today is as accepted as apple pie (to use an American image). Speaking against it is unforgivable. I do not want to imply in any way that it's bad, or harmful to health and sanity. How can you go wrong sitting quietly, alone or together with other meditators? For me, however, my motivation from the beginning was misguided. Now I am content to be as I am, without seeking any change. Rather than disparage or renounce the world, I would rather take a Walt Whitman-like joy in it, celebrating the life cycle eternal.

Gratitude

2011-11-28T07:37:00.001+07:00

I had intended to write a rant about my bad experience with Experian, the credit reporting agency that is threatening my fiscal well-being. But Thanksgiving intervened.

Last year this uniquely American holiday slipped by unobserved, but this year I wanted to introduce Nan to gluttony with gratitude. We met Jerry at Bully's, the Sukhumvit eatery, after I'd seen a notice that the owner had hired a new chef six months ago. Two years ago he and I had shared turkey and the trimmings at Bully's together, but last year in my absence the food was awful, Jerry reported. The tariff was about $25.50 for all you can eat, one of the cheaper holiday buffets in town. So Jerry agreed to give Bully's one more chance to redeem itself. We skipped breakfast and Nan was excited about trying lots of new farang food. The feast was, to put it mildly, fantastic. We arrived at 1 to find an empty restaurant and three tables loaded with freshly prepared traditional cuisine. Nothing like being first in line. Other than not seeing the whole, unsliced turkey, everything was perfect: tender turkey and ham servings, mashed potatoes with delicious gravy as well as scalloped potatoes and sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows, excellent stuffing, tender beans and peas, and a table full of cheese, fruit and pies: pumpkin, apple, cherry, pecan and key lime. We stuffed ourselves, and waddled away from the booth two hours later.

Brother David Steindl-Rast, the doyen of gratitude, author of Gratefulness, the Heart of Prayer and creator of the web site Gratefulness.org, advises: "Love wholeheartedly, be surprised, give thanks and praise -- then you will discover the fullness of your life." The realization of good fortune sometimes comes as a surprise if you expect the worst. Sometimes I deliberately anticipate negative results in order to stave off disappointment, a pretty poor way to find pleasure. But this year there was nothing to do but give in to gratitude. I am thankful for so much! My wife, the light of my twilight life, good companions like Jerry near and far (real and virtual), discovering the vocation of teaching and the joy my students' give me, the constant delight of everyday life in Thailand, good health and happiness, and, let's face it, the ability to chew good food with my real teeth (at least on one side).

I am well aware that the American Thanksgiving story is a myth. Humorist Jon Stewart says it best: "I celebrated Thanksgiving in an old-fashioned way. I invited everyone in my neighborhood to my house, we had an enormous feast, and then I killed them and took their land." My progressive Facebook friends posted numerous links about Thanksgiving from the points of view of native Americans and turkeys (I doubt that tofurkey can be found in Bangkok, Don). But I realized this week that you can take me out of America but you can't take America out of me. The idealized memories remain. During the last few years before I left for Thailand, I spent a number of delightful Thanksgivings with my son Chris and his wife Sandy who prepared a repast worthy of Gourmet Magazine and Martha Stewart. More than the food, however, was the wonderful feeling I got from being in the bosom of my family (however illusory that might sometimes be). Loving what once was and might yet be, however, does not negate a realization of the horrors perpetrated on the world by America, from the initial conquest to the current wars conducted by the swaggering bully. As the radical essayist Linh Din put it, "Americans are for the most parts kind and generous, unlike its murderous government. I'm claiming that our 99% are mostly fair and decent, unlike the 1% that rule and represent us."

Now comes the rant (I'm grateful for this forum): I treated Jerry to our feast in honor of his 76th birthday earlier this month ("A good number for trombones"). Fortunately, my credit card was accepted. Several months ago, a Citi credit card I've had for 23 years was declined when I attempted to pay a hotel bill. Online I learned that my substantial credit limit (I could have charged a new car) had been reduced to the amount currently owed, and on the phone I was told that a credit report from Experian had marked me as "risky." Although Citi claimed I could see the report for free, Experian wanted $1 and I paid using the endangered card. I discovered my daughter had missed two payments on her student loan that I'd cosigned and I was in default of the now $22,000 debt (she used it to finance life rather than school, which was a surprise to me). Although she paid the outstanding amount within a month, there was no recovering the lost credit limit. Then I learned that Experian had been billing the card $14, increasing to $17, each month for their "services." I had never agreed to that. When I tried to view a new credit report online, the website program would not work. I found I could cancel only by calling their number in America, and when I did, was told by the machine that it must be during weekly working hours. Clearly Experian wanted to make it difficult to cancel something I never knowingly ordered. Others have shared their experience of this scam with me, one that is engaged in by other "credit reporting agencies" as well. So I cancelled the card that Experian's report had made no longer useable, meaning they could not collect the ever increasing monthly fee. Now, every time I use one of my remaining credit cards I fear that the long tentacles of Experian will reach out and take it away.

The Christmas season in Bangkok began long before Thanksgiving. They've been playing "Jingle Bells" for weeks in the Starbucks I frequent. Above is the tree outside Terminal 21, the new luxury supermall at the corner of Sukhumvit and Asoke. Other giant trees are going up outside stores in the shopping district that cater to EuroAmericans who might be culturally Christian. I took Nan to Terminal 21 after the turkey buffet where we digested our food by strolling through the stores and doing some eye shopping. Even more impressive than the San Francisco cable car on display or the miniature Golden Gate Bridge (the mall features theme areas for major cities) are the toilets. I've learned these high tech contraptions are common in Japan now but this is the first I've seen with remote-controlled buttons combining both butt-washing and bidet features (I couldn't understand how to operate the dryer). Ever been intimidated by a toilet?, asked my friend Ian who visited there several days later. On Sunday night we put up our tiny artificial tree and inaugurated the seasons for ourselves. Last year, when I was gone, Nan decorated the tree for her mother and Edward who were visiting. In America, crazed shoppers are pepper-spraying each other to gain an advantage (imitating Lt. John Pike, the pepper-spraying cop who is currently enjoying his few minutes of fame). We've not yet discussed our respective gift requests, although I had to throw a wet blanket on Nan's dream of going to Korea to play in the snow (I've lost at least a month's teacher pay because of the flooding).

Speaking of nam tuam (Thai for the flood), thousands are still suffering from the water that remains in suburban areas around Bangkok. One news report hoped they would be dry by New Year's Day. Nan's sister Ann came to dinner the other night and she showed us photos in her phone of the water outside her condo in Bang Khae. It's fairly clear now that the governor saved inner Bangkok by building barriers that have kept adjacent areas severely flooded. In several cases, neighbors have organized to remove the walls that clearly discriminate between those with power and those without. Thaksin Shinawatra's sister Yingluck is struggling to keep her government afloat and sharks and whales on every side are threatening to attack. Our neighborhood of Pinklao, however, is dry and after a week back home, life is returning to normal for the residents. Traffic is jammed and the stores are full. This man will have a hard time unloading boots that are no longer needed. I'm especially grateful that we were able to leave town before the flooding got serious and could stay comfortably with friends and family until it was safe to return. Nan went back to school today and in two weeks my university's long-delayed term is scheduled to start. In the meantime I have my weekend linguistics class to teach. Life is good. Hear those words with the passion and gratitude I put into them.

Watermarks from the flooding in Pinklao are everywhere. Here you can see the flood evidence with our building in the background (we're on the 9th floor of the 22-floor building so our balcony is out of sight).

A Dry Upcountry Interlude

2011-11-20T10:57:00.001+07:00

Green surrounding

Love abounding

You won't find a manhole there

"House in the Country," Blood, Sweat & Tears

Because of widespread flooding around the capital, most Bangkok residents were in no mood to celebrate Loi Krathong, the annual festival of lights on the water. But in northern Thailand, where Nan and I were staying while waiting for the water around our condo to subside, it was a big deal. There were parades and festivals and contests to see who could launch the most spectacular khom loi (sky lantern). Even though there are no big rivers in Phayao, the mountainous province where our home in the country is located, villagers launched small krathong (boat), made of palm stalks, folded leaves and covered with flowers and candles, into local irrigation streams in the rice fields.

During my first year in Bangkok, I joined a vast crowd of people (some said over a million) under the Rama VIII bridge on both sides of the Chao Phraya River where they put their krathongs into the water and the candle-lit craft floated downstream, creating an enormous mess for the clean-up crews the following morning. Many used styrofoam as the base rather than the biodegradable palm stalks or bread. In subsequent years, I preferred to participate under the Pinklao bridge where kids collected 20 baht per boat to float them away from shore. Colorful krathongs were on sale everywhere in the city and cheap, so there was no incentive to make my own. Thais, however, learn from a young age how to fold and sew the palm leaves to make intricate patterns, and Nan and her friend Tum made a dozen for their families.

Some believe the celebration is related to Diwali, the Indian festival of lights which takes place at the same time. It has nothing to do with Buddhism although it occurs on the full moon Wan Phra (monk's day) in the 12th lunar month. In Nan's village, it began with tamboon at the local temple where Nan's mother brought a basket full of goodies, including slices of banana and sticky rice wrapped in palm leaves, and dedicated them to family members who had died. The elderly monk read each note accompanying the gifts and was corrected if he skipped or repeated someone's intended blessing.

Festivities had begun a few days earlier, not long after we arrived on the bus from Si Racha after a 14-hour journey that required taking detours around flooded areas. We made the decision to go north after a week south of Bangkok when it looked like the disaster would continue for some time. Nan's mother and cousin Edward picked us up at the station in Phayao, the sleepy provincial capital, and gave me a brief tour of the waterfront guest houses and restaurants that look out on an impressively large lake. The four days of Loi Krathong began with a carnival and beauty contest one evening in a large field in Pong, the county seat. A dozen villages offered candidates and built colorful illuminated floats for them to ride on. Here Edward grabs a ride on the float for the princess from Baan Thung Tae, his village. There were booths selling everything from food (northern sausages) to toys, and I was persuaded to buy Edward a toy AK47 like ones the other kids had. One stage featured traditional music and dancers and another close by was surrounded mostly by men listening to Thai rock and ogling scantily clad coyote or "itchy ear" (sexually suggestive) dancers. Something for everyone.

Loi Krathong coincides with the Lanna (northern civilization) festival called Yi Peng. This tradition includes the launching of khom loi, cloth lanterns set aloft like hot air balloons. Dozens of lanterns were launched at the evening kick-off festival and villagers, in addition to setting off firecrackers, practiced daily with their homemade khom loi (one crashed flaming into a tree near our house and had to be quickly doused). In the afternoon of Loi Krathong, everyone returned to the temple for the khom loi contest. Similar events were taking place in nearby villages and we could see their lanterns floating high in the sky. Here the emphasis was a size rather than illumination, and each khom loi was the creation of men from different sections of the village. Every launch was spectacular with much cheering from the large crowd. These giant lanterns featured fireworks that ignited after takeoff and dropped a tail when finished. Our neighbors across the street won the contest with a giant white lantern that failed to launch two times before achieving success. All afternoon they paraded through the village, playing music from loud speakers atop a truck, drinking whisky and congratulating themselves, while inside the houses people constructed their krathongs.

In the evening we visited several houses where the partying was continuing and collected a number of children with their krathongs. One thing that struck me repeatedly during our two week's upcountry was the number of children, from newborns to Edward's age of 9 (teenagers seemed absent). Many of the men in the village are gone, off to work in southern factories or in places overseas like Taiwan. The children are being raised by mothers and grandmothers. Sa, the sister of Nan's deceased grandmother, is helping to raise her great-grandson, a 3-year-old named Back whose mother, Ben, works in the bars down south. I was also fascinated by the children's nicknames which included Big (Back's young uncle), Cham(p), Via and Vue, and Rung's stepson who is named Thaksin. The irrigation ditch where we set our krathongs adrift is behind the temple and fortunately the full moon illuminated our trek through the jungle to get there.

After the high point came the doldrums. There is not a lot to do in a rural Thai village and most people, who work hard in the rice and corn fields all day, go to bed not long after sunset. We decided not to hook our stove up to gas and Nan's mother was quite happy cooking for us with her daughter's help. She uses gas in the inside kitchen and wood fires outside. Her cuisine was delicious, the ingredients of fish, pork and chicken along with fresh vegetables purchased locally. They ate with their hands, combining balls of sticky rice with each serving, but cooked white rice for me and gave me a spoon and knife. Nan's sister's boyfriend had told them sticky rice gave him gas and they worried about my sensitive digestive system which was unable to handle spicy food. After trying to correct them, I allowed myself to be pampered.

Aside from a shopping trip to Chiang Kham, the nearest town with a Tesco Lotus, we stayed home. Nan was content, cooking and visiting old friends, and playing with Edward, the son of her late aunt who is almost our child (he slept with us at night). I'd brought both my MacBook Pro and iPad but the mobile signal was too weak to provide a reliable internet connection. So I read novels ("Matterhorn," "M is for Malice," "Great House") and books about linguistics stored in my iPad and took both morning and afternoon naps. And I watched episodes of "Enlightenment" and the older film "The Wanderers" (recommended by Pandit Bhikku), an eastern version of what I experienced in California in the early 1960s. We visited Edward's school, which Nan attended as a child, to vote in an election for, I think, governor of Phayao. Nan checked the box for "none of the above" despite my appeal for her to vote for the Pheu Thai red shirt candidate. Aside from 15 minutes of English commentary in the morning, all the TV news was in Thai (except for RT -- Russian Today -- which kept me up to date in international news with a Rusky slant, i.e., the Asad regime in Syria is good, the protesters are manipulated by outsiders).

From SMS messages, I learned the start of the undergraduate term at my school had been postponed to Dec. 13, but that the street outside our condo was now dry and Central Pinklao had reopened. My linguistic students asked me to return and resume our Saturday classes. So we bought tickets on a fancy new VIP bus traveling south. But before we left, Nan's mom held a going-away ceremony for us, including Nan's brother Nok who had come from school in Chiang Rai for the weekend. It was conducted by a mor kwam, a specialist in the spirits whom I think would be more aptly called a shaman (he'd once been a monk). The object in the middle which looks like a giant krathong had been constructed by several women in the villages and it included items of clothing from Nan, Nok and I. We were connected to it, each other and the shaman by string while he chanted. When he finished, participants tied string around both wrists of the three of us. All this to say: "Good luck and bon voyage!"

Aside from one morning shower, the weather in Baan Thung Tae was lovely, cool enough to do without a fan or air conditioning. Much of the time I rejoiced at being in paradise, while occasionally I was bored to tears. I was too shy to strike out on my own, feeling more like an odd object of curiosity than a new neighbor. I visited a rice mill but did not see it in operation. The rice is just turning brown and harvesting has begun in some fields closer to the hills. Men in the village are cutting thin strips of bamboo to wrap around the bundles of cut rice before they're fed into a machine to remove the brown seeds. Jerry has learned to stay only 10 days on visits to his Surin farm. Two weeks is a bit much. Before I can stay longer I'll need a fast internet connection, a motorbike, and projects (offer English lessons to kids?).

When we got back to Bangkok there were boats outside our condo but no water. The taxi from Mo Chit bus station only had to make one detour because the way was flooded and let us out within walking distance to our destination. We saw water marks on buildings and huge piles of uncollected garbage. The air smelled damp and a bit foul. Traffic has not yet resumed its manic pace and although the area malls are open there are few shoppers. The next day I saw people dragging destroyed possessions onto the sidewalk for the time when garbage trucks return. Nine students out of 21 made it to my Saturday class, and I learned that the temple where the classrooms are located had been flooded for three days before the water retreated. Looking into the library I could see that all the books had been stacked on upper shelves and remained dry. Nan's university is scheduled to open a week from tomorrow, but I do not know where my undergraduate classes will be held next month. The flood water remains in Ayutthaya and now raised wooden walkways connect the different buildings at my campus in Wang Noi. The main classroom building is occupied by refugees. These people did not have our ability to leave town for an upcountry interlude.

This picture show the entrance to the valley where Baan Thung Tae is located. In the distance, on the other side of the hills, is Laos and China.

Evacuation From Bangkok

2011-11-01T10:26:00.000+07:00

We didn't plan to leave. It was the cockroaches that changed my mind. On Thursday we walked up to Tesco Lotus to take money out of the ATM there and to eat lunch in the food court. There were large pools of water on each side of the road that weren't there the night before and almost no traffic. Water was bubbling up out of the drains. An alley around the corner from our condo was flooded, and the lady who sells me the Bangkok Post and who lives there looked worried. Anxious people with backpacks and suitcases were waiting for buses that were few and far between. Coming up to the pedestrian overpass, I looked down and saw cockroaches scurrying across the sidewalk, lots of them. People were stepping on them with a crunch and a squish. I realized in a flash that they were running away from the advancing water.

We'd prepared for the coming flood, buying food at stores where supplies were dwindling and stockpiling bottled water whenever we could find it. The condo management promised to take care of its residents and employees were busy sandbagging the front of the building and testing water pumps. Nan's friend from her village, the mistress of a Japanese businessman and mother of an infant, lives high up in a luxury condo a block away across from Pata Department Store, and the water there was already waist high. They were unable to leave. This, plus the ominously empty streets, the cars parked on the flyover to avoid getting soaked, and finally the cockroaches, freaked me out. What if the power in our building failed, what if the water were turned off?

At first, experiencing a flood sounded like a lark, an adventure. But just as I'd visited the red shirt encampment during the extended rally at Ratchaprasong last year but stayed away when the bullets began flying, I was not so sure I wanted to wade in waist-deep flood water mixed with sewage like the people seen nightly on the TV news in the suburbs north of Bangkok. My university campus in Wang Noi near Ayutthaya was submerged and student dormitories flooded. A friend's factory, one of tens of thousands, was put out of business by the waters that were slowly moving south towards the Gulf of Thailand with only Bangkok and its ten million residents standing in the way. The closer the water got, the less adventurous I became. After seeing the cockroaches fleeing for their lives, who was I to think otherwise?

We packed quickly, trying not to forget anything essential and realizing we had no idea how long we would be gone. I felt like a traitor as we walked through the lobby with our bags. The first bus that arrived took us across the river from our neighborhood of Thonburi (which I like to think of as the Brooklyn of Bangkok) and all there appeared normal, aside from the ubiquitous sandbags. Everything is being done by the Prime Minister and the Governor (who are not often in agreement) to protect the inner city from flooding. This means that water stays longer behind dykes in the north and is being diverted through the eastern and western (where we live) suburbs. A lot of people are not happy with this arrangement, including the red shirts who had helped elect PM Yingluck Shinawatra thinking she would reverse Bangkok's centuries-long domination of the provinces.

We were voluntary evacuees, leaving on Thursday at noon, unlike the people in the truck at the top of this post (our building and even our apartment can be seen in the background) which I found on the internet. A day before I'd taken this photo of the Rimnam restaurant on the banks of the Chao Phraya River, one of our favorite places to eat; it's clearly out of commission. A friend and colleague from my university elected to remain in his condo not far from mine with his four-year-old son while his wife and an older son stayed on the second floor of her hair salon across the river. Jerry in Sukhumvit, one of the protected areas (so far), reports that his soi is dry. Nan and I got off the bus at Victory Monument and got in a van for the two-hour drive to Si Racha, a city in the province of Chonburi southeast of Bangkok and out of the flood zone.

We were welcomed by Nan's cousin Tai. The mother of a two-year-old daughter named First and eight months pregnant, she lives with her husband Dong in free housing provided by his company, Thai Oil. They share the small house with her sister and his mother, and his brother has been staying with them since his company in Bang Pa-In was flooded. Wan, the sister, gave up her bedroom for us, and we shared meals and beer with the family and neighbors in the communal area under the house. Friday evening we took them to dinner at a seaside restaurant in nearby Bang Saen, a beach favored by Thais which Jerry told me was developed by one of Thailand's biggest gangsters. I found a gas station market not far away from their house that provided me with the Bangkok Post, cappuccino, and in the evening ice cream sundaes that rivaled Swenson's. On the way back to Tai's house, we played with a quartet of wild puppies.

On Saturday we took a day trip to Koh Si Chang, a small island off the coast. Without much of a beach, it hasn't been developed like Koh Samet not far to the east which it resembles. We hired a tuk tuk for 250 baht on the ferry dock and he found us a restaurant on the bay that served a superb Thai breakfast. The first stop on our short tour was a Chinese Buddhist temple high up the hill which required considerably climbing to reach a series of caves painted gold and filed with icons. Nan threw sticks to discover her fortune and pronounced it good (that's a relief). We paid a boy 10 baht to watch our shoes. Second stop was the site of a palace planned by King Chulalongkorn but abandoned before it was finished (and the stones removed to Bangkok to build a palace there). The lovely gardens remain and we sipped cold drinks on the verandah of one of the two houses constructed as temporary royal quarters. Finally, we were taken over the hill to the one short stretch of sand where dozens of Thais sat under umbrellas eating and drinking while a few children and a couple of farang in bikinis dipped their toes in the ocean. Back in Si Racha we fed squid to turtles swimming in a large pond in a public park next to the ferry pier.

It was clear that we couldn't stay with Nan's cousin until the water receded in Bangkok, so we checked out the times for buses north and bought tickets to Phayao. For the time in-between we decided to go to Pattaya, a short distance south, and found a nice room at A.A. Residence on soi 13 for a reasonable price which included free wifi and two swimming pools. The only language I hear now besides Thai is Russian and most of the signs are in both English and Russian. The town is packed with people and they don't look like evacuees from Bangkok (I doubt that we do either). Last night we had a splendid seafood dinner at King and afterwards strolled Walking Street to observe the Halloween madness (just a notch above the usual, with zombie the preferred look). Today we'll swim and read and not think too much about what we've left behind.

We're really very lucky compared to those who have lost everything in the most widespread and destructive flooding in Thailand's history. As long as our money holds out (and I'm dipping once again into savings to survive), we'll be ok. Our house and Nan's family are waiting for us in Phayao. We're told the weather is cold and will have to find some long-sleeved clothes today in Pattaya. Everything will be OK in our 9th floor apartment, although if the power goes out the refrigerator will be pretty stinky when it's finally opened. I think I left the wifi on, but remembered to close the windows. Nan's university is now scheduled to begin Nov. 15, but it's in the flood zone so that's a long shot. Wat Srisudaram, where I was scheduled to teach English to linguistics graduate students on Saturdays, is right next to the Bangkoknoi khlong which has overflowed. I fear that the library on the first floor is now under water. Classes at Wang Noi cannot begin until the campus dries out some time in the future. Being temporarily homeless is kind of exciting, and it also underlines the Buddha's teaching on impermanence. Nothing lasts. The video below was shot from in front of our condo, Lumpini Place, and I found it on the internet. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to see the flooding up so close and personal, but I'm much less sorry that I'm able to enjoy this sunny dry day in Pattaya. Next stop: Phayao.

Waiting for the Water

2011-10-23T08:02:00.001+07:00

There are a half dozen 7-11`s within walking distance of my condo in Bangkok and all are out of bottled water, bread, milk, and Mama (the packaged instant soups Thais like best), and I've noticed that the Oreo supplies are running low. Clearly a disaster is in the works, but it's extremely slow moving. Nearly a month ago I traveled with my students to Ayutthaya for a field trip to tour the ancient ruins. Extremely heavy monsoon rains this season had filled rivers, canals and dams throughout Central Thailand. We saw a few flooded areas around the ancient city, which is on an island at the confluence of three rivers, and residents and businesses had stacked sandbags to prevent the waters from spreading. This reclining Buddha, although located in Ayutthaya (my son Nicky and I saw it on a tour two years ago), was not yet wet.

That was then. Not long after, the Ping overflowed in Chiang Mai, and soon severe flooding was reported in Nakhon Sawan in the heart of the Chao Phraya river basin in central Thailand. Next came Ayutthaya and the suburb of Wang Noi, former rice fields and now industrial estates where my university (pictured here) built a campus several years ago. Mahachulalongkornrajavidyalaya Buddhist University was turned into an island by the flood. Final exams were cancelled and students were forced to move out of the dormitories, evacuated in boats. While I escaped with Nan to Phayao, a dry northern province, the water moved relentlessly (but slowly) south toward release in the Gulf of Thailand, stopped only by dykes and barriers in the northern suburbs of Bangkok.

Satellite photos show the watery noose tightening around the capital city. TV stations now show non-stop videos of Thais struggling to cope with the flooding, declared the worst since 1942 (you can see videos of that flood here), wading down city streets, chest deep in water, dragging their belongings with them in plastic buckets. By now, 28 of Thailand's 77 provinces have been affected by the floods, nearly 400 have died (several bodies of people who were electrocuted were discovered yesterday near Bangkok), over 113,000 have been displaced and are living in 1,700 temporary shelters. According to The Nation, nearly 2.5 million people have been affected by the floods. An estimated 750,000 have contacted water-borne diseases. Buddhist temples, most located on rivers and canals, have been hard hit. A major relief effort is underway (the U.S. sent a team of marines who were seen filling sandbags). Snakes have been reported in the flood waters and a number of crocodiles are on the loose. People are being told the flood waters could remain from four to six weeks.

Thailand's new prime minister, Yingluck Shinawatra, has been severely tested. Her opponents have used the crisis to win points they failed to make during the election which overwhelmingly picked her. Just as Obama was blamed by the radical right for the economic situation created by Republicans under Bush, Yingluck is accused of poor water management even though it was under PM Abhisit's tenure that his government failed to prepare for excessive rain (not much has been said here about global warming as a cause). The economic consequences of the floods will be devastating. Since the last big flood in 1995, thousands of factories have been built on former rice fields in the flood plain and most are now under water. Thailand is the world's largest producer of hard-disk drives, the biggest exporter of rice and rubber, and the second largest supplier of sugar, according to Bloomberg. Japanese and American car manufacturers, computer companies and consumer electronic firms, all of whom who have extensive operations here, have been hard hit by the disaster, and over 14,000 business operations have been reported closed. But even more tragic are the many thousands of Thai workers forced to return to upcountry homes without pay while the factories are shut, and perhaps even worse, the illegal workers from Burma who reportedly are streaming back across the border. Corporations can relocate; the poor have few other choices.

Despite this morning's headline in the Bangkok Post, "Flee to the Rooftops!," central Bangkok, as of 7 a.m. Sunday morning, remains relatively dry. However, with store supply lines cut, we're running out of food. Yingluck's main problem is sending mixed messages. The government's Flood Relief Operations Command (with the ugly acronym "FROC"), headquartered at Don Muang Airport, warned of evacuations while the governor of Bangkok (a member of the opposition Democrats), denied this and said "listen only to me." Then they switched. Gov. Sukhumbhand ordered 27 riverside communities to evacuate immediately because the water is rising "for unknown reasons," according to MCOT, the government news agency (how about too much water?). When Yingluck declared the floods a national disaster, the Governor delayed fully opening the canals so that the northern waters would more drain quickly. Residents have been seen on TV destroying barriers that keep flood waters in their suburbs to protect the wealthier and therefore more essential city of Bangkok. First Yingluck says the city is protected, and then says it's in danger. Water must be made to flow out rapidly through a series of canals to the sea because, otherwise, it will take over a month for the waters to disperse. Twitter has been for me an invaluable source of up-to-the-minute news, but you have to weed out the repetition and wild rumors.

I live in Pinkalo on the western Thonburi side of the Chao Phraya River. My building is two-and-a-half long city blocks from the river, a 20-minute walk or 5-minute bus trip (depending on traffic). I've been keeping an eye on this embankment under Pinklao Bridge, and two days ago I saw it rise about a foot in two hours. The barbecue restaurant behind me continues to operate even though sections of the large outdoor building are blocked off by water. I walked across the bridge to Thammasat University, all boarded up and sandbagged, and then through Banglamphu where Khao San Road is located, and I saw many businesses with quickly constructed cement walls in front of their shops about a meter high. Preparations are erratic. Central Pinklao, farther away from the river than I am, has hundreds of sandbags in front, while Major, a shopping mall across the street, had none.

My life had been impacted considerably by the floods. The conference, for which I spent weeks writing a paper on "Big Tent Buddhism," has been postponed until May. MCU's campus in Wang Noi has been closed indefinitely and temporary quarters have been obtained at Wat Awaut in Thonburi not far from the river where teachers and students are to gather on Tuesday for the new term. I began a class in English for graduate students in Linguistics yesterday at Wat Srisudaram near where I live, but here you can see the large statue of magic monk Somdej Toh, not far from the classroom building, threatened by water from the Bangkoknoi khlong (canal). Two blue boats were stored at the ready near the stairs to my class. Nan returned home yesterday with a supply of rice, two flashlights, and food cooked by her mother. At the airport shop I was surprised to see two big bottles of water and a half-loaf of bread on sale which I grabbed before any of the tourists realized there were shortages of supplies and food in Bangkok. Now we wait for the water to arrive. Or not.

This is what the flood in 1942 looked like at the Democracy Monument, a short distance from Pinklao Bridge. Bangkok residents wait for an uncertain future with some anxiety, hoarding food and watching TV news videos, hoping that what is happening not far to the north will not inconvenience them. In the meantime, the sun shines in hazy skies this Sunday morning and the streets are quiet and -- dare I say it? -- normal. It's also not a little exciting, like the time of street troubles a year ago April and May. Uncertainty can be invigorating. I recall winter storms in the Santa Cruz mountains when torrential rains would cause landslides and the falling of trees. Once, all roads in and out of Boulder Creek where I lived were closed. Potential landslides made our house unlivable and we stayed with friends. It was exciting. Then there was the 1989 earthquake when we camped outside in the yard for a week because of the aftershocks. Mother Nature is never boring.

You can almost see my office in the Faculty of Humanities in the lower right of the classroom building pictured here.

A Hint of Paradise in Phayao

2011-10-18T11:17:00.000+07:00

We arrived in Nan's village of Baan Thung Te at night after a two-hour drive south from Chiang Rai, and all I could tell in the dark was that after a winding journey up into the hills, the streets were paved and empty of people and the houses I could see were built close together. In the morning I opened the back door to our home and saw this.

None of my photos of this panorama (and I took dozens, at all hours of the day and even night) do it justice. The brilliant green of rice fields and the mist-enshrouded hills are jaw-droppingly breathtaking.

After two years together, it was my first visit to Phayao, the northern Thai province where Nan grew up. We were to take possession of the house built 15 years before by her aunt, Ban Yen, which has remained empty since her death from cancer five years ago. Nan's mother, Yuan, and her husband, Bong, live next door and you can see a couple of her chickens. She doesn't eat them or their eggs but just treats them as the family's pets along with two dogs and a cat. Lest I become overly romantic about rural life, notice that on the pole between the houses is a loudspeaker which wakes the village up at 6 a.m. with Thai country music (called luk thung) and pep talks from the puyaibaan (mayor). Not long after, the street is filled with farmworkers on motorbikes and in trucks powered by homemade engines without benefit of a muffler.

I was there for a week and Nan for two and the job of cleaning began immediately. Nan was a fierce taskmaster, enlisting the help of brother Nok, on holiday from electrician's school in Chaing Rai, and yours truly who lugged armloads of crap to the storage room under the house. At least a dozen years ago, Ban Yen was joined by a Belgian who lived with her for a year and who bought her every kitchen convenience (i.e. water purifier, bread and ice cream makers, and an espresso machine), now all coated in rust. A huge refrigerator he filled with food now sits idle (we used a smaller one for our limited supplies). A pile of CDs included all the hit artists in Louvain from the 1990s. He shipped from home wine glasses and beer steins, and also ceremonial plates and mugs with the crest of some kind of fraternal order, the "Prinses de Louvan," in which he was a member. When Ban Yen sent him packing, he took only his collection of wine. Two sections in a large cabinet remain locked, the keys missing, with his curios visible through glass doors. I thought about trying to contact him via the internet, but was told he had had leukemia and probably was dead by now.

There are only a few surnames in this village of 300 families. Yuan and Ban Yen's father was named Phetsanu and probably a third of the villagers are Nan's cousins. Her grandfather accumulated considerable land which includes the sticky rice field out back and at least two-thirds of the town is surrounded by farms. When the rice crop is harvested in December, it will be replaced with corn for livestock feed. Nan's grandmother died last year and now her house sits empty like Ban Yen's did before we arrived to claim it. The village is well organized and divided into 12 sections and most of the lanes are paved. But there is an unpaved section of the highway out of town that remains dirt because either Baan Thung Te or the neighboring village ran out of money.

The bright lights of Bangkok appeal to most country-born Thais as little more than a source of income rather than as a place to live permanently. In my five days there I got a much better understanding of how and why Nan loves her home. She wants to return after she graduates from university and, perhaps, uses the degree to work for a couple of years. My retirement income will allow us to live very well. She did her best to make me feel comfortable, including making "American breakfast" for me, Nok and Edward, Ban Yen's son who is being raised by Yuan. She even made me drip coffee, knowing how I dislike the instant stuff Thais drink.

Part of Nan's plan for establishing our presence in her village was to buy a new TV. This took some time for me to accept, since we can visit no more than every few months. Besides Edward, the house was full of kids ("cousins," she explained) after we arrived. We got the set and assorted supplies on a visit to Chiang Rai's new Central shopping center. Hooking up to Yuan's deep dish antenna cost 1500 baht, half for the channel box, with no further charges for using it (is this legal?). The antenna brought in over 200 channels and 90 radio stations from all over Asia, but only the Asian Food Channel and Russia Today offered programs in English. I paid for a DVD player that amazingly played "Rio" and "Transformers 3" that I brought on a thumb drive, making the kids very happy even though there were no Thai subtitles. I also got them a DVD of "Men in Black" which did have subtitles, and they loved it. Edward's favorite toy, however, was my iPod. He played "Angry Birds" until the battery ran out, charged it and played some more. We've decided to give it to him.

I made lists on my iPad of what I would need to live for a longer period in the village. Internet came first. The AIS phone connection was iffy at best since we were probably too remote to merit a cell phone tower. Once, on the roof next to the antenna, I was able to download email and send a tweet, but it didn't last. These are the houses of our neighbors to the north and they keep a pig close to our bedroom. I didn't smell it (aging proboscis) but Nan did and wants to complain to the mayor. The pigs grunting did trouble my afternoon nap. Besides moving the pig, my list includes a desk and book cases, reading lamps, something to do (offer English lessons to school kids?), a motorbike, and a good source of ice cream (perhaps in Chiang Kham an hour's drive north).

On our first day home, surrounded by the dust of a cleaning frenzy, I noticed villagers passing our house dressed in black. I learned they were going to the funeral of a man who died when he hit a pothole while driving drunk on his motorbike (later I saw an impromptu roadside shrine for him). In the afternoon they returned to the temple for the cremation. A couple of days later was the full moon wan phra (monk's day) which ended Phansa, the annual Buddhist rain's retreat, an occasion for everyone to celebrate by taking food to donate for tamboon at the wat. Here in blue is Nan's great aunt Sa, a proprietor of one of the village's two small stores and the town's chief money lender (I've blogged in the past about her notorious grand-daughters, Ben and Bo). The northern-style temple contained lots of colorful icons and some banners that I had not seen before unique to Lanna Buddhism. One aging monk and two younger assistants read all the notes included with all the donated food to the assembled gathering (I mentioned my son and parents). Water blessed by the proceedings was poured onto the bushes and flowers surrounding the simple building.

Wherever we walked in the village we were surround by children like the Pied Piper. I may have been the first farang to visit since the Belgian left years before. People (mostly "cousins") invited us into theirs homes, many of them raised off the ground, constructed from huge planks of wood (perhaps illegally cut), and furnished very simply. This is a poor farming village in one of the poorest provinces and there were pregnant ladies, babies and children everywhere (and husbands often missing, or off to work in Bangkok or Taiwan). I was invariably offered kanom (desserts) of rice wrapped in banana leaves by our hosts. Nan talked in the northern dialect of Thai with the mothers of friends who have left to work or marry, and the kids mugged for my camera. One friend had identical twins just learning to walk, and at her house they slept in an oversized cradle hanging from the porch rafter like a swing that her father had spent a month constructing, and now the grandmother pulled a cord to make it rock. The warmth and friendliness I encountered everywhere gave me a peek into a communal society that no longer exists in the West where the individual is primary (Life as a child for few years in a small town in North Carolina was similar, except for the segregation of blacks).

It's not exactly a rocking chair, and the laundry will have to find another place to dry, and Bay Yen's antique motorbike will need to go, but this porch outside the front door of our home in Phayao is not a bad spot from which to watching the passing parade. It's not a question of whether but of when. I'm not yet ready to give up the virtual comfort of the internet and hope I can eventually have Skype conversations with distant friends. My life in Bangkok is getting busier. I finished my paper on Buddhism a couple of days ago, but the conference may be delayed since the university remains isolated by flood waters. I'm scheduled to teach more classes in English and Linguistics next month if temporary quarters can be found. If I can continue to be nourished by reading material, music and movies, the move to Baan Thung Te will be a plus rather than a retreat or escape. Friends have issued warnings about the inaccessibility of rural health facilities, but I'm determined not to fade away in a hospital, so that's no bother. At least there will be a steady supply of kalamae, the dessert speciality of northern Thailand which tastes a little like caramel but is much more addictive.

When I got returned to Bangkok I went to decompress with Jerry about the experience. He spends 10 days a month in a village in Surin near the Cambodian border where he built Lamyai and her family a two-story house. We traded stories, noticing similarities and differences. He has a couple of years on me and knows it might not be long before he could have to give up his sociable Bangkok life for permanent rural retirement. The mind might be willing but the body has limits. Both of us are fortunate that big hearted women have chosen us to take care of in ways beyond imagination. I was nervous before the trip because I'd heard all of the horror stories about farang taken advantage of by their wife's country relations. But even more, it was the uncertainty -- what was I getting myself into? On a different note, I also didn't want to be seduced by romantic notions of a remote paradise. I was determined to look at Phayao with unblinkered eyes.

I have to say that I was pleased and surprised by the hint of paradise I found in Phayao. Now if we can just relocate the pig and get my Facebook page to load, all would be perfect.

A Tale of Three Buddhist Modernisms

2011-10-07T10:39:00.004+07:00

Once 19th century European philologists had rescued Pali and Sanskrit texts from the dustbin of history and constructed what they considered was an "original Buddhism" based on a founder and an ancient scripture, the Christian missionaries and foreign colonizers in Asia were faced with determining the status of actual existing heathens and idolators who mixed and matched their worship of Hindu deities with icons of the Buddha and local gods in their bizarre rituals. Their practices were labeled as superstitions and "corrupt." Since legitimate nation states were deemed to possess modern characteristics, which included a recognized world religion, both anti-colonial nationalists and monarchs sought to update their religion in a process that scholars are calling "Buddhist Modernism."

For the purposes of this study, I want to examine the modernization of Buddhism in Sri, Lanka, Thailand, and, finally, in America. In each case, modernizers reinterpreted the Buddha's teaching to appeal to a new audience while calling their reconstructions the "true" and "pure" Buddhism to affirm its authenticity. But there were also ulterior motives. In Sri Lanka, under the thumb of British rule, Christianity's privileged status was contested by local nationalists and a couple of Theosophists from America on a mission to uncover Eastern mystical wisdom. In Thailand, a monk who became king reformed the local religion to partly prevent colonizing attempts by the British and France. In America, the case was slightly different. Christianity was in crisis after two world wars and had failed to deliver the goods in the new capitalist culture of consumption. Missionaries from several Buddhist nations brought to dissatisfied Americans a modernized faith that fitted their needs, one that was rational and shorn of unfamiliar rituals.

The literature on Buddhist modernism and its history is voluminous and growing daily. "Modern Buddhism" was coined as a category in the 1970s by Heinz Bechert. A comprehensive summary is given by David L. McMahan in The Making of Buddhist Modernism (2008), and an overall view is provided by David S. Lopez in the introduction to his A Modern Buddhist Bible (2002). Lopez has followed this with Buddhism and Science: a Guide for the Perplexed (2008) which examines one of the basic tenets of Buddhist modernism that Buddhism is superior to other religions because it is scientific due to the early advice of the Buddha to test and verify every claim about reality. A number of writers have studied the reforms of Thailand's King Mongkut (Rama IV) and similar efforts at further modernisation of Buddhism by reforming that reform on the part of the monk Buddhadasa Bhikku. The subject of American, and by extension Western, Buddhism has been dissected by numerous scholars. One has even suggested calling it "Ameriyana" to indicate that it has all the characteristics of a new sect like the other "yanas."

The key point to remember about Buddhist modernism is that it is a new reinterpretation based on a selection of myriad of texts discovered and translated by Europeans, usually with the connivance of Asians who used this new construction to make claims for social and political as well as religious purposes; it was a co-creation of East and West and not another "Orientalism." And it resulted in separating "Buddhism" from the hybrid cultural values and practices the people of Asian had engaged in for over a millennium. The actual lived religion of Asians in all its national and ethnic forms is more ritualistic and superstitious compared to the reasonable and intellectual understanding of Buddhism that often serves the interests of elites more than and common people.

The characteristics of Buddhist modernism are broad and variable for the three I intend to discuss. Because of its beginnings, a focus on the written text and a purported founder who wrote or inspired them is essential (think the Jesus story as a model). Tradition, ritual and myth are dethroned, a characteristic it shares with Protestantism which gave many of its defenders a model. Along with ritual, clericalism is deemphasized. Because the Buddha supposedly rejected the Brahmin priesthood along with the caste system, anti-Catholic Westerners saw him as an ally and he was hailed as the "Luther of Asia." The importance of individual experience led to deflating the need for a mediator with the divine, although many devotees were later to accept the necessity of a "guru" and the value of a teaching lineage which allegedly led back to the Buddha. Other characteristics that influenced Buddhism modernism included romanticism, centralization/decentralization, affirmation of the ordinary, environmental concern, social engagement, scientific naturalism, and a focus on techniques of meditation to the exclusion of all other rituals and practices, an imbalance especially predominant in western Buddhism. McMahan writes that it is an "actual new form of Buddhism" that is

the result of a process of modernization, westernization, reinterpretation, image-making, revitalization, and reform that has been taking place not only in the West but also in Asian countries for over a century. This new form of Buddhism has been fashioned by modernizing Asian Buddhists and western enthusiasts deeply engaged in creating Buddhist responses to the dominant problems and questions of modernity, such as epistemic uncertainty, religious pluralism, the threat of nihilism, conflicts between science and religion, war, and environmental destruction.

Lopez adds that what was different about Buddhist modernism "was the conviction that centuries of cultural and clerical ossification could be stripped from the teachings of the Buddha to reveal a Buddhism that was neither Theravada or Mahayana, neither monastic or lay, neither Sinhalese, Japanese, Chinese or Thai." He adds that it is "perhaps best to consider modern Buddhism not as a universal religion beyond sectarian borders, but as itself a Buddhist sect."

Theosophy was developed in New York in the 1870's by Madame Blavatsky, Col. Henry Olcott and others as a movement to discover and reveal ancient wisdom in the mysterious East. Their claims, recognizable today as New Age true verities, involved communication with "Mahatmas" (great souls) who lived in Tibet. In their travels in India and Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) they, perhaps unwittingly, inspired nationalist movements in both countries. One of their proteges was Krishnamurti who later rejected their support and achieved spiritual renown on his own. In Colombo, where Buddhism was dying out (as it had previously in India), Blavatsky and Olcott took Refugee Vows and became perhaps the first Western converts. Olcott declared his mission to be the restoration of "true" Buddhism in that country and wrote The Buddhist Catechism which is still in use, and helped to design a Buddhist flag. A native disciple took the name Anagarika Dharmapala. He helped to found the Maha Bodhi Society which continues today and attended the World's Parliament of Religions in Chicago in 1893 to much acclaim. Olcott, whose memorial statue I have seen in Colombo, said he was not a "debased modern" Buddhist, like the Sinhalese who were ignorant of their own religion. He identified his Buddhism with that of the Buddha himself. "Our Buddhism," he declared, "was, in a word, a philosophy, not a creed." During a talk Dharmapala gave in New York, he declared:

The message of the Buddha that I bring to you is free from theology, priestcraft, rituals, ceremonies, dogmas, heavens, hells and other theological shibboleths. The Buddha taught to the civilized Aryans of India twenty-five centuries ago a scientific religion containing the highest individualistic altruistic ethics, a philosophy of life built on psychological mysticism and a cosmology which is in harmony with geology, astronomy, radioactivity and reality.

In short, a Buddhism very unlike that practiced by millions of ignorant Buddhists throughout Asia, but one very congenial to western tastes.

"More than any other single person," King Mongkut of Siam (Rama IV), in the words of Buddhist (Tibetan) blogger David Chapman, "invented Western Buddhism." Before the Theosophists ever set foot in Asia, King Mongkut, grandson of Rama I, founder of the current Chakri dynasty, had been a monk for 27 years. He formed a new monastic order, Thammayut, to purge what he saw as superstitious and magical elements from the state religion. He also dictated a strict ascetic practice for his monks and emphasized a literal interpretation of scripture. Taking scripture rather than oral tradition as authoritative was a new idea, according to Chapman, that some attribute to his friendship with Protestant missionaries. He also believed Buddhism should be rational and scientific (the latter an interest that killed him when he contacted malaria while on an expedition to observe a solar eclipse he had predicted). Siam's independence was threatened by the British in Burma and the French in neighboring Laos and Cambodia. King Mongkut, and his son, King Chulalongkorn, undertook a modernizing program to show the foreign powers that their country was a modern one which should not be colonized. Rama V centralized both political and religious authority in Bangkok (which some have called a form of "internal colonisation") and put monks under control with the Sangha Act of 1902 which is still largely in place. Along with his successor, Rama VI, these three modernizing kings of Siam, as Brooke Schedneck has shown, used Buddhism to centralize and create a national culture and political identity. In the process,

The Siamese have modified the Buddhist tradition to highight to Westerners its modern elements. Thus Buddism was used to help Siam remain sovereigh and maintain its own modernity but at the same time to be compatible with the Western model.

Modern Buddhism, she writes, "is clearly a variable and complex tradition that can be molded to suit one's interests for desired results."

King Mongkut's reforms were continued by Buddhadasa Bhikku a century later, albeit in a different direction. As Peter A. Jackson points out in his book Buddhadasa: Theravada Buddhism and Modernist Reform in Thailand (1987, rev. 2003), his reforms closely parallel aspects of King Mongkut's reforms, which included a rejection of traditional cosmogony and cosmology and an attempt in western terms to demythologize the world. "Buddhist intellectual culture in Thailand until the twentieth century," Jackson writes, "can only be described as conservative and stagnant." Under the influence of European-influenced forms of Buddhism, Buddhadasa and others rejected folk religion and "assumed the very principles of rationality, logical consistency, and scientific methodology which were previously used to denigrate Buddhism...[in order] to prove the scientific character of the religion." This same reformed Buddhism, says Jackson, "was ironically held up as symbolizing 'Thai-ness' and Thai independence from the west." Buddhadasa, who died in 1993, is much admirer today by educated Thai Buddhists who share his iconoclasm and preference for meditation. He rejected large sections of the Abhidhamma text and Buddhaghosa's Visuddhimagga commentaries as well as a concern for kamma and rebirth, views according to one scholar that most Thais would find "shocking." He also claimed monks had no privileged access to nibbana which is equally possible for lay people. Buddhadasa hoped to purge popular religious practice of magic and superstition and rejected the popular view of "merit as a metaphysical quantity which can be accumulated" (he reinterpreted it as an selfless act for the benefit of others). According to Jackson,

Buddhadasa claims that the source of the obfuscation of the Buddha's universally relevant message of salvation lies in the influence of Brahmanical and animist beliefs, which have become associated with institutional Buddhism and which have distorted the original pristine character of the religion.

A universalist who would be more highly regarded were his works translated and distributed widely in the west, Buddhadasa believed that all religions were different fingers pointing at the same moon (to borrow a metaphor). In a small book titled No Religion, he wrote that

Those who have penetrated to the essential nature of religion will regard all religions as being the same. Although they may say there is Buddhism, Judaism, Taoism, Islam, or whatever, they will also say that all religions are inwardly the same. However, those who have penetrated to the highest understanding of Dhamma will feel that the thing called "religion" doesn't exist at all.

This is a very heart-warming message to Buddhist modernists everywhere, and it certainly affirms that a "big tent" is possible, not only for Buddhists but for people of all faiths. But it's a message very much at odds to those unaware of alternate Buddhist realities as well as true believers who hold to one "true" Buddhism over all others.

While I intend to talk about America's acceptance of Buddhist modernism, I've run out of space, and will have to rethink if I need to make points about this that others before me have said better in the past.

The Great Buddhist Debate

2011-10-06T08:09:00.000+07:00

Monks of Tharpa Choeling circa 1978 behind Venerable Abbot GesheTamdrin Rabten (with sunglasses). Left-to-right: Claude Grenier, StephenSchettini, Christopher Pace, Laurence Williamson, Brian Grabia, Arnold Possick,Dominique Monmayeul, Stephen Batchelor, Helmut Gassner, Eckart Zabel, Bruno LeGuevel, Alan Wallace, Geshe Tamdrin Rabten, Geshe Jhampa Lhodro, Geshe GendunZangpo, Elio Guarisco and Gen Lo Norbu on the occasion of the novice ordinationof Laurence, Dominique and Eckart.

They could be spiritual twins. Both went to Dharamsala, India, in the early 1970s to study at the Tibetan Works & Archives after it was established by the Dalai Lama, and both ordained as monks. B. Alan Wallace from Pasadena, the son of a professor at a Baptist seminary, was three years older than Stephen Batchelor who was born in Scotland and raised by a single mother in a London suburb. Both were sent by the Dalai Lamai to Switzerland to study with Geshé Rabten, first atthe Tibet Institute Rikon, then located at Le Mont-Pèlerin, and later at the Swiss hamlet of Schwendi where they helped the contemplative Tibetan monk establish Tharpa Choeling(now Rabten Choeling). Joining them there was Stephen Schettini, who two years ago published a memoir, The Novice, with the subtitle "Why I Became a Buddhist Monk, Why I Quit, and What I Learned." (This photo is borrowed from Schettini's web site.)

Wallace and Batchelor have become proponents of two seemingly diametrically opposed views of Buddhism. Wallace represents the traditionalists, and Batchelor the secularists, and their views were aired in a sometimes contentious exchange during the last year in the pages of Mandala, a quarterly published by the Foundation for the Preservation of the Mahayana Tradition (FPMT) which follows the Buddhist tradition of Lama Tsongkhapa of Tibet as taught by FPMT's founder, Lama Thubten Yeshe. Wallace began with "Distorted Visions of Buddhism: Agnostic and Atheist," and Batchelor responded with "An Open Letter to B. Alan Wallace." Schettinni weighed in with his own reminiscences of the two one-time friends with "A Old Story of Faith and Doubt." Buddhist blogger Ted Meissner has also made extensive comments on the Speculative Non-Buddhist blog. This is no tempest in a tea pot, but a serious discussion of fundamental differences between two prominent Western Buddhists that raises question about whether all "buddhisms" can fit under the same big tent.

Wallace is not subtle, and comes out with both guns blazing. Calling Batchelor's opinions in numerous books "ridiculous," "groundless speculation" and even "illegitimate," he writes that his old colleague was "recreating Buddhism to conform to his current views" despite the "consensus by professional scholars and contemplatives throughout history" and ignoring the "most compelling evidence of what the Buddha taught." Wallace takes aim at Batchelor ideas presented in Buddhism Without Beliefs (1997) and most recently in Confession of a Buddhist Atheist (2010), which show his "strong antipathy toward religion and religious institutions" and his "blind acceptance of materialist assumptions about consciousness." Wallace pulls out his Weapons of Mass Destruction and links this "scientific materialism" with "the unspeakable tragedy of communist regimes' attempts to annihilate Buddhism from the face of the earth." (Granted, he piggybacks this on a critique of atheist Sam Harris's curious support of Buddhism which is connected to similar allegations against religion).

The real target of Wallace's over-the-top ire is undoubtably Batchelor's denial of rebirth and karma. Wallace believes rebirth was central to the Buddha's teaching, a unique position for his time. Batchelor thinks it was a prevailing belief in the Indian world view and that the Buddha neither affirmed nor denied it, but rather treated it as irrelevant. Wallace thinks his old comrade thus takes the "illegitimate option to reinvent the Buddha and his teachings based on one's own prejudices. This unfortunately is the route followed by Stephen Batchelor and other like-minded people who are intent on reshaping the Buddha in their own images." An experience of the Buddha's wisdom can be accessed through meditation, Wallace believes, and criticizes Batchelor's account which he says "describes the experiences of those who have failed to calm the restlessness and lethargy of their own minds through the practice of samadhi, and failed to realize emptiness or transcend language and concepts through the practice of vipashyana."

Near the end of his diatribe, Wallace calls Batchelor and Harris "both decent, well-intentioned men," but says their writings are may be regarded as "near enemies" of the true Buddhist virtues as described by the commentator Buddhaghosa: loving-kindness, compassion, emphathetic joy, and equanimity. Their view of the Buddha's teaching are "false facsimiles of all those that have been handed down reverently from one generation to the next since the time of the Buddha."

Batchelor's response is more measured and collegial. He begins by apologizing for "any offence I might inadvertently have caused you and others through my writing." He recognizes that his views might "conflict with Buddhist orthodoxy" and might seem "puzzling, objectionable and even heretical to followers of traditional Buddhist schools." His students, however, have included many frusted by traditional forms of Buddhism who find themselves confronted with a "Church-like institution that requires unconditional allegiance to a teacher and acceptance of a non-negotiable set of doctrinal beliefs." Batchelor writes that he left the Tibetan monastery where they were colleagues because "I could no longer in good faith accept certain traditional beliefs," and went to Korean to study as a monk in the Zen tradition" which he found "refreshing and liberating"

As for rebirth, "the Buddha would have regarded this entire argument as being beside the point." Batchelor continues to study the Pali Canon, an authority on which both former monks agree, but they come to different conclusions about the meaning of suttas based on different selection and interpretation. Both cite the Kalama Sutta. Batchelor add that "this is the only text I know of in the Pali Canon where the Buddha explicitly states that the practice of the Dharma is valid and worthwhile 'even if there is no hereafter and there are no fruits of actions good or ill.' This is the closest he comes to an agnostic position on the subject." He notes also that he and Wallace both cite passages describing the Buddha's awakening. "It is hardly surprising that you select a Pali text that describes it in terms of remembering past lives, while I prefer to cite the accounts that don't."

Batchelor's view of the intractability of language is particularly galling to Wallace who quotes him as saying: "We can no more step out of language and imagination than we can step out of our bodies." This contradicts Wallace's belief that experiences that confirm his traditional view are gained through meditation and practice, outside of our linguistic cages. Batchelor sees this as an attempt to claim privileged insight into the texts.

The Pali canon might be the most uncontested record of what the Buddha taught, but that doesn't mean it speaks in a single, unambiguous voice. One hears multiple voices, some apparently contradicting others. In part, this is because the Buddha taught dialogically, address the needs of different audiences, rather than imposing a single one-size-fits-all doctrine. And it is precisely this diversity, I feel that has allowed for different forms of the Dharma to evolve and flourish.

I can think of no better words for a manifesto of "Big Tent Buddhism."

Schettini, the ex-novice, has a unique perspective. "Alan and Stephen were both elder monks and teachers in our little community, and so role models to the rest of us." The two shared close quarters but differed in temperament. He says Batchelor "put on an air of nonchalance" while Wallace seemed "uncomfortable in his skin." Wallace is "a loyal traditionalist and authority figure" who feels "both qualified and responsible to state what is acceptable and what is not." On the other hand, Batchelor "is more concerned about the plausibility of the teachings ascribed to the Buddha than dependent on whether or not he actually taught them." The crux of the difference, according to Schettini, is that "what to Alan is historical fact is to Stephen debatable." Batchelor's rewriting of history and reconstruction of what's been "true" for traditional Buddhists "undermines the august pretentions of scholarship and tradition and infuriates Alan."

What's particularly troubling to Schettini about the exchange of his elder monks is that "Alan questions Stephen's integrity. That's not debate; it's personal." Wallace's tone is unfriendly and rude, treating him as an upstart while claiming to be a paragon of correctness. "Alan sees himself as representative of the tradition in a way that Stephen is not...I think that icons are important fixtures in the Dharma landscape and so are iconoclasts." Wallace's screed raises two important questions for Schettini: Are these teachings and people really sacred? Is Alan trying to keep Buddhism pure? He says Buddhism a religion for Wallace, and therefore sacred, but not for Batchelor. And the former novice agrees with Batchelor that purity is impossible. "Buddhism is a construct." Can Western Buddhism not handle diversity? he asks. As for himself, "I lost faith in the scholarly illusion of the straight and narrow...I don't know exactly what the Buddha taught. I wasn't there."

I'm not sure what points each settled in the great debate between the traditionalist and the secular incarnations of Buddhism. Traditionalists like Wallace abound; he publishes frequently, is leading a retreat in Phuket as I write, and speaks and teaches his version of the dhamma around the globe. Batchelor, on the other hand, has spawned a generation of followers with his doubts about purity and the "true" tradition, gathering a new generation of hardcore, pragmatic and secular Buddhists to his orbit. Can they all hang together in today's "Big Tent Buddhism"?

What's a Modern Monotheist to Do?

2011-10-05T12:04:00.001+07:00

The religious culture of Thailand is bewildering to a visitor. Thais bow in respect (even while they are driving) to monks, spirit houses, temples, fertility shrines, ribbon-wrapped trees, and even collections of toy zebras along the highway (I've yet to figure out why). They wear string tied around wrists that has been blessed by monks or relatives wishing them to be safe. Similar string is looped around houses and even buildings like my condo, presumably as a form of protection, and often the string will have been connected to a monk preaching the teachings of the Buddha (buddhasasana) while holding a leaf-shaped screen in front of his face. Lovers lay flowers on the altar of a Hindu diety at a shrine in front of Central World, one of Bangkok's biggest malls, to petition or thank the god for favors granted. I've been told that only monks can achieve enlightenment and certainly not women (who are prevented by Thai clerics from becoming nuns). The faithful wear large amulets around their necks (sometimes huge collections of them) which are bought and sold like rare stamps at a market opposite one of the city's oldest monasteries. Few meditate but most donate food, flowers, incense, candles and money to monks and at temples to make merit (tamboon) in hopes of a fortunate rebirth.

What's a trained monotheist to do? I'm well-read (comparatively speaking) in the different world religions and am sufficiently versed in the wisdom of D.T. Suzuki, Alan Watts, the Dalai Lama and Thich Nhat Hahn (not to mention Theosophy and numerous New Age writings). I've studied Hindu philosophy, been to India, and even once lectured at UC Santa Cruz on the Bhagavad Gita. A little book by Ram Dass taught me to meditate, and I've gone on retreats with Jack Kornfeld and Pema Chodron, among others. Surely I should be capable of understanding Buddhism in Thailand. Thus began my education in the lived tradition of faith, and my current attempt to write an academic paper for a conference in December at my university.

The old labels and methods of classification dont' work very well in Asia. I'm now convinced that "religion," "Buddhism," "Hinduism" and even "Theravada Buddhism" are terms invented in the 19th and early 20th century by mostly Western scholars (with some eager assistance from Asians struggling with missionaries and colonial power) to construct doctrinaire world views suggested by Pali and Sanskrit texts. The living traditions in Southeast Asia practiced by Asians were ignored or denigrated until they were reinvented and repackaged to conform with modern Western sensibilities and exported to America and Europe with great success. Meanwhile, the unexpurgated local traditions continue, and, if recent reports are true, are flourishing and proliferating despite state (and intellectual) attempts at centralization and control. The shopworn labels make it difficult to see the inextricable hybridity of culture and values because we want to identify the separate strands in a syncretistic amalgam ("this is Buddhism, this is animism, this is Brahmanism').

But I'm getting ahead of myself. What I hope to show (and celebrate) in this dry, footnoted paper is the appealing diversity of "buddhisms," a cornucopia of old and new practices and interpretations that owe their impetus to the reported teachings of a perhaps mythical renunciant 2,500 years ago in the foothills of the Himalayas. Like the Russian semiotician Mikhail Bakhtin who celebrated the contrasting and polyphonic voices in Doestoevsky's writing, I hear the story told by the admirers of the Buddha's teachings as a glorious babel and want to imagine a "big tent" in which they can all reside. This means resistance to the gatekeepers who wish to control entry, who claim to have found the only "pure" and "original" Buddhism as taught by its founder to his disciples. Such origin stories are chimera which only serve purposes of control.

It may be impossible for a Westerner, growing up in countries where Church and State have long been rigorously separated, to understand a culture with no division between the sacred and the secular. Japan, Thailand and other Asian polities had no words for "religion" until the Christian missionaries arrived, and in Japan the word used was "Christian" until other neologisms were devised. Modernisation was accompanied by a disenchantment in the West whereby magic, superstition and the irrational were displaced by a whole raft of isms that fragmented dominant world views. It has been assumed that the final victory of modernity would mean the end of religion, and certainly, now that the globe has been unified electronically and digitally, that should be the case. But religion today, in all of its local and universal forms, seems stronger than ever. Postmodernist thinkers are trying to explain this anomaly.

But I digress. The objectives of academic analysis and the diffusion of cognitive dissonance conflict. Attending dhamma talks and meditation retreats didn't help. I began to think that meditation was the pastime of the idle well-off and did not help me to access the Thai religious world view. Each night my wife bowed three times to the Triple Gem and said her prayers. "What do you pray for," I asked. "That everyone be happy," she said. We keep a collection of icons on top of the bookshelf and refresh them every Wan Phra (monk's day) with flowers, water, and red soda. The other morning we rose early and went to find a monk at the market where she bought two bags of congee and offered it to him for tamboon. "Now I feel happy," she said afterwards. When my friend Holly died, at the cremation ceremony I felt more curious than reverent about the ritual, and I suspect the other expats had similar feelings. I don't know what the Thais felt, those certain of the fact of rebirth, but then, as now, I feel like an outsider.

Like most academics, I can't stop blabbering. This was meant to be a trial run of my paper which must be completed by the 15th, but I've only managed to insert another paragraph after the first third of my outline (a very well delineated one, I think, but resistant to expansion).

So, let me make another stab at a summary. There are many diverse buddhisms, unified only by reference to a founding figure and respect for a large collection of texts written at some distance after his death. In the 19th century this hodgepodge was cobbled by Western translators and academics into a World Religion called Buddhism, a self-serving gesture we might call intellectual colonialism. Asians collaborated, largely in order to be accepted as modern nations with a Religion to avoid conversion efforts and European land grabs. Few spoke for the living followers of the Buddha who lived in a meaningful cosmos rather than in possession of membership in a hypothetical religion.

This situation persists today. Most of the literature I've found in English is written by Westerners. Some are beginning to recognize the enormous difference forced together under the label "Buddhism." Can they all really coexist under my imaginary "big tent"? Should they? I've said nothing here about the teachings of the Buddha, passed down over the centuries, that are so persuasive and compelling to so many of different stripes. What fascinates me is the history of the creation and recreation of "Buddhism," its inculturation and reinterpretation, first in Asia and later across the world. This invention has served to support state formations and national identities, and today participates in an out-of-control culture of consumerism where religions no less than religious objects are commodities.

And yet... Here in Thailand, thinkers and researchers are discovering that the centralized Sangha bureaucracy, a product of 19th century reforms that nationalized Buddhism here as well as in Sri Lanka, has failed to prevent religious diversity at the local level. Just as provincial Thais have been contesting politically the internal colonization of Bangkok, monks and laypeople are taking back their faith. "Uniform or standard Buddhism is a thing of the past," declares Phra Paisal Visalo. "Thai Buddhism is returning to diversity again." Pattana Kitarsa, who has studied popular spirit cults and the profusion of deities on spirit shrines, writes that the "harmonious coexistence of deities from diverse religioustraditions, ranging from Buddha to local and royal spirits, indicates a degreeof transgression of the existing religious hierarchy and order." Two researchers studying "relocalization" of popular Buddhism, see that "at the local level many of the vital signs are quite strong" despite a crisis in the institution as a whole "beset by problems of scandal, corruption, commercialization and declining authority." In a recent essay, Phra Anil Sakya concludes that, "With the onset of modernity and its profound social changes, surprisingly animistic expressions of Buddhism are flourishing and apparently on the increase."

This institution of Buddhism might be dying, but its successors in all their multiplicity are already here. Vive le differance!

This is Not Just Another Academic Paper About Buddhism

2011-10-04T10:21:00.002+07:00

But it might become one...

It's easy (relatively speaking) for me to pen blog posts. In the five-and-a-half years I've been doing this, I've written 470 of them, which is nothing to be sneezed at. Mostly I've tried to come from the heart rather than the head, but that hasn't always been possible. I'm a thinker more than a doer. But the thought of writing something for an academic conference on Buddhism, something that is coming out of the deepest recesses of my curiosity about "religion," something that might even get published, freezes my fingers.

Perhaps instead of giving a paper, I'll just read my blog. I've made a few stabs at saying something about Buddhism in the last two posts. Today I'll try and sketch out the argument I'd like to make.

It's always good to begin with a joke. Several months ago, the Dalai Lama was touring Australia and an interviewer took the opportunity to tell him a well-worn joke (in the original, the Tibetan leader orders a hot dog "with everything"). But he didn't understand the reference, "Make me one with everything." Its humor depends on the common Western misconception that all Eastern spirituality is a search for mystical union, or "oneness," with the universe. Most Buddhist teaching does not advocate an expansion of self, but rather the reverse.

Buddhism has been described as a "big tent" religion, a place like the illusive political party tent that can house a broad selection of views and opinions. Some see its doctrines emphasizing orthopraxy rather than orthodoxy, promoting correct conduct and practice rather than right beliefs. There is little heresy in the world religion of Buddhism which allows different understandings of the Buddha's teachings to coexist. When Zen rose to popularity in America, it was embraced by the beats, followers of various New Age spiritualities and hippies, all of whom joined together with immigrant Buddhists and disciples of teachers from Thailand, Korea and other Asian countries. In my hometown of Santa Cruz, CA, there are three Tibetan monasteries, one from Burma, a Zen center and two vipassana groups (and that's just for starters). Socially engaged Buddhists promote peace and justice events and participate with Christians in communal meditation.

After 30 years of reading and studying various traditions of Buddhism in America, meditating semi-regularly and going on numerous retreats, I came to Thailand believing I understood the basics. But popular Buddhism here is something entirely different and was quite unexpected. It's more cultural, incorporating magic and superstition, like the all-encompassing religiosity I encountered in India where temples were filled with people of all all ages and classes, joyfully participating in what to me were arcane rituals. It's more devotional and less intellectual than in the west where one has the "freedom" to choose a new religion or spiritual practice like a lifestyle. And Thai Buddhism is a fulltime affair rather than a sabbath interlude.

The paper I proposed will be for a panel on "Unifying Buddhist Philosophical Views," but the more I looked around the less unified I found Buddhism to be. Aside from the identity of the founder and the Pali scriptures which most Buddhists take to be authoritative, there are enormous differences: between Asian and Western Buddhists, American convert and immigrant Buddhists, traditionalists and modernists, nationalists and universalists, secularists and religionists, even old hippies and young punks. Many claim to follow the "original" and "pure" teachings of the Buddha, while teachers in the West argue that Buddhism is a psychology or philosophy rather than a religion. Even among the accepted "schools" of Buddhism -- Theravada, Mahayana and Vajrayana -- there are unbridgeable differences in ritual, style and custom. How can the "big tent" hold them all?

Perhaps "Buddhism" is a reification of disparate practices and it would be better to speak of "buddhisms" in the lower-case plural, just as some Christian theologians use the term "christianities" to emphasize the proliferation of sects after the death of Jesus and before church councils canonized scripture. I accept the social constructionist argument that both "Buddhism" and "religion" are categories created in the 19th century by scholars to distinguish Christianity from the other two ethnic monotheism and from the heathenism, paganism and idolatry that missionaries and colonizers were discovering outside Euroamerica.

Jonathan Z. Smith writes that "while there is a staggering amount of data,phenomena, of human experiences and expressions that might be characterized inone culture or another, by one criterion or another, as religion — there is nodata for religion. Religion is solely the creation of the scholar’s study." Tim Fitzgerald wants "to reconceptualizse what is nowcalled religious studies as the study of institutionalized values, and therelation between values and the legitimation of power in a specific society." Tomoko Masuzaw writes in The Invention Of World Religions, Or, How European UniversalismWas Preserved In The Language Of Pluralism the discovery of Buddhism "was therefore from the beginning,in a somewhat literal and nontribial sense, a textual construction; it was aproject that put a premium on the supposed thoughts and deeds of the reputedbounder and on a certain body of writing that was perceived to authorize, andin turn was authorized by, the founder figure."

The term "Theravada Buddhism" to distinguish Buddhists of Southeast Asia and Sri Lanka from their northern cousins, is disparaged by Pali scholar Peter Skilling who suggests that it "came to bedistinguished as a kind of Buddhism or as a "religion" -- rememberingthat "Buddhism" is a modern term and that "religion" is avexed concept -- only in the late colonial and early globalized periods, thatis, in the twentieth century." Prapod Assavavirulhakarn, in his excellent study of Therevada Buddhism in Southeast Asia, says the label is "a Western, or, at least, a modern construction," and that most adherents are unaware of it outside departments of Buddhist Studies. Western scholars believed it was closest to the early or primitive Buddhism taught by the Buddha himself. But "there is no 'pure' or 'primitive' aspect of any of the religions, and certainly no 'ism' existed."

So does that clear the decks? If you follow the argument so far, there is no such thing as "religion" in the singular, or even a monolithic "Buddhism," and the label "Theravada Buddhism" applied to the what was called disparagingly "Hinayana" (lesser vehicle) by the Mahayanists is a misnomer of little use in speaking of the living tradition practiced by millions of Asian Buddhists, from Sri Lanka to Korea. Other than stories about the founder, written down hundreds of years after his death, we have Pali and Sanskit texts translated by European philologists in the 19th century. These were then used to construct an "original" Buddhism and to ridicule actually existing Buddhists encountered by Christian missionaries as corrupt and superstitious. The first great difference, then, is between 19th century Western enthusiasts, from Schopenhauer to Thoreau, and the masses worshipping Buddha images in temples throughout Asia for two thousand years.

This is not an academic paper because, for one, there are no footnotes and the evidence for my assertions and claims needs to be collected from a massive pile of printouts and documents in my bookshelf. If I've planted some doubts about the true verities of Buddhist Studies I will have succeeded, at least this far. But please don't misconstrue my thesis: I intend to affirm the value of "buddhisms" and, in particular, the devotional culture of veneration and merit-making that surrounds me here in Thailand. While as a philosopher I'm attracted to secular and modernist reinterpretations of the Buddha's teachings, I worry that innovations in the West that reject rituals and "superstitions" may throw the baby out with the bath water. I share the sentiments of a blogger named Jayarava who wrote, "Poor traditional Buddhists assiduously feeding and caring for monks are in some ways more admirable than middle-class Western Buddhists with desultory meditation practices and still driven by their own selfishness. Though we so often scott at them as merely 'ethnic buddhists'."

Donald K. Swearer gives a warning in his book, The Buddhist World of Southeast Asia. "This modernized view of the Buddha-dhamma demythologizes thetradition in the service of ethical and psychological values... There is arisk, however, that in the service of rationality and relevance, the varied andchallenging complexity of the tradition is ignored or lost."

In conclusion, I hope to show that the various schools and traditions, old and new, that owe their genesis and inspiration to a legendary figure called the Buddha and the teachings recorded over two thousand years by his followers, can be recognize through "family resemblances" and can communicate through conversation despite any differences. The annual Day of Vesak celebrations at my university that attract two thousand monks and lay Buddhists to a unified gathering bear witness to that possibility. And the numerous online blogs, web sites and message boards today make global exchanges a reality.

I know some of my regular readers may find this a bit dry, but I hope you'll indulge this experiment to write an academic paper via blog posts over the next few days. Suggestions and criticism are appreciated.

If Old MacDonald had a Farm in Thailand

2011-09-30T12:32:00.001+07:00

This would be it...

Last weekend we visited The Scenery Vintage Farm in the hills above Ratchaburi, a three-hour drive from Bangkok. You can go there virtually on their colorful web site. The place was packed with Thai tourists eager to participate in the American faux farm experience. I was amazed to see many similar farm resorts along the road in the hilly area called Suan Phung (bee garden) catering to people on holiday whose idea of a good time is to feed sheep. The neighboring Swiss Valley Farm (and "Hip Resort") features a European angle and sports a windmill. Another resort has a Flintstones theme. (All have Facebook pages.) The road was lined with tour buses and, according to reports, rooms are booked solid. I may have been the only farang at Scenery Farm. You can only laugh so long at the irony.

LPN, the conglomerate that manages our condo, Lumpini Place, as well as many others in Bangkok, had organized a day trip and we joined four busloads of travelers to take donations to home for mentally disabled children in the province. Ratchaburi, which means "City of the King (usually shortened to "Rat-Buri"), stretches from the Gulf of Thailand west to the border of Burma. After unloading our gifts into a pickup truck, we filed across the large campus to the dining hall and watched while the boys and girls arrived for lunch. I felt a little embarrassed at the "show" as the meal was illuminated by flashes from dozens of cameras, but the kids seemed use to it. We took turns serving food. Many of the guests sat down to help the residents eat. Even those able to eat by themselves seemed to enjoy the attention. Nan found a girl whose appetite was bottomless. She had three helpings of rice and chicken and several of soup, and all the kids had left by the time she finished. Some of the vacant stares on the faces of the children were heart-breaking, and I'm glad the government of Thailand has established such centers. I couldn't translate the school's official name but you can browse their website (in Thai) here.

After the children ate and returned to their rooms, we sat down for lunch at tables in the auditorium of the school. The entertainment was a surprise. While we dined on a delicious meal prepared at the direction of the Lumpini organizers, a group of kathoeys (lady boys) from Ratchaburi put on a fabulous stage show. Lip-syncing to recorded Thai songs, they wore extravagant costumes and danced with professional aplomb. Vegas girls could not do it better. A group of the children followed, although several kept wandering off stage, and the entertainment ended with Lumpini personnel and guests trying their hand at karaoke.

Our next stop on the caravan through Ratchaburi was Baan Hom Thien ("Home of Sweet-smelling Candles") not far away in Suan Phung. It was the epitome of a manufactured tourist attraction, charging a small fee (paid for in our approximately $10 field trip ticket) for visitors to wander through a lovely hillside garden with stalls offering food and drink and shops selling...candles. In addition to the wax objects in every size and color, there were numerous wax-sculpted sheep. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why sheep (which appear to be rare in Thailand) were the focus. There were little wax sheep and big wax sheep and sheep on lots of different tee shirts. There were even small rocking sheep for children to ride on. We didn't buy any candles but we did get a cold drink and ice cream, each in its own bamboo container (which we brought home as souvenirs).

Our final destination was Scenery Vintage Farm. Spread out over several acres, the farm included several faux barns, an amusement zone with games and prizes (all cuddly stuffed sheep in different sizes), pony rides, an archery range, a non-working ferris wheel ("Coming Soon!"), several gift stores named "Sheepie Sheep Shop," and a herd of sheep who appeared to be ravenously hungry, eating all of the long green leaves the crowd of temporary farm hands were offering. In the middle of a field was a giant sculpture of a dog, for no apparent reason. A sign advertised sheep milk ice cream "coming soon!" I can pass that up. It was all quite pleasant and decidedly odd.

Almost every Thai house and business has spirit houses standing outside to placate bad spirits who might want to come inside. There are usual two, one for Chao tii, the animist "spirit of the place," on four legs, and the other on a taller pedestal for Phra phum, the "spirit of the land," a deva of Hindu origin. While most are quite traditional, there are some modern innovations and designs near new Bangkok skyscrapers. The spirit houses at Scenery Farm are radically different and quite strange. They appeared to me to be copies of adobe houses somewhere in the Southwest U.S.A., far from the typical farm scene depicted elsewhere.

Outside the children's center there was a more typical pair of spirit houses. It's important to remember that these ubiquitous cultural objects have nothing to do with Buddhism, although they blend seamlessly with the constellation of Thai religiosity. Before lunch, the children folded their hands and chanted a prayer to the Buddha. Every room of the school contains a portrait of the King and Queen, no less religious objects. Taking gifts to the school on our part was an act of generosity, what Thais call "tam boon," the primary religious practice, more central to their faith than meditation (something that puzzles American Buddhists when they come to study in Thailand).

In my blog post yesterday, I attempted to sketch some of my thoughts about differences in Buddhism so great as to challenge the unitary nature of the world religion's name. Can all of the various manifestations of Buddhism fit in the same big tent? When I called myself a Catholic, friends who were atheists would accuse me of heresy because I doubted the Incarnation (was Jesus really God?) and the Resurrection; they were more orthodox in their unbelief than I. Within contemporary Buddhism, there are skeptics like Stephen Batchelor who doubts the common understanding of karma and rebirth, and some would like to banish them (and other secularists, progressives, punks and pragmatists) from the Buddhist tent. Who or what determines Buddhist and the authenticity of teachings of the dhamma/dharma? Traditionalists claim knowledge of the "original" and "pure" teachings from the Pali texts and declare reinterpretations invalid. In Thailand there is tension and difference between the institutional Sangha Council which centralizes and regulates practices according to political declarations and the localized, hybridized spirituality centered around village temples which borrows freely from animist and Indian non-Buddhist traditions. Can anyone be a Buddhist without certification of some kind?

A good friend took me to task for my post yesterday, saying the "historical" Buddha was indeed a Buddhist and clearly intended, "from whatever reading of Buddhism you choose," to set up a religion. He is a serious follower of Buddhism and I always take his criticisms seriously (unless they become personal). But I believe here it is the voice of faith speaking (which I do not take lightly). From my study of history, however, I am confident that the English words "religion" and "Buddhism" are of recent invention, perhaps no more than two hundreds years ago, and were classifications created by western academics, sometimes to marginalize Asian spirituality. We need other descriptions for cultural activities prior to the establishment of institutions, and hundreds of years before there is any historical evidence. I question whether the Buddha's community of followers, the sangha, counts as a religion in the modern sense. And I think it's anachronistic to call their leader a "Buddhist." And finally, while I believe there was probably a real spiritual teacher, Siddhattha Gotama, on the subcontinent in the 5th century BCE, whose teachings were singularly impressive to his followers, I'm not sure the words and stories ascribed to him are true in the factual sense. I think the search for a "pure," "original" and "universal" Buddhist teaching is fruitless.

Does this get me kicked out of the Buddhist tent?

This is Not a Buddhist

2011-09-29T10:53:00.000+07:00

We celebrated our first wedding anniversary this week by dressing up and traveling an hour by taxi through heavy Bangkok traffic to dine in the Parkview Restaurant at the Imperial Queen's Park Hotel. The incredibly expensive buffet included passable wine and lots of food we don't normally eat, including foie gras. Nan wanted to try it. Later I posted a photo of Nan and her pad of paté on Facebook and received this impassioned response:

As a Buddhist, I think you have a ethical responsibility not to support such horrible cruelty in the name of cuisine ... at least when it's so easy for you to help. Otherwise, I must say, it's armchair Buddhism ...

Now I know how foie gras is made because I saw "Mondo Cane" back in the 1960s, and I classify it with soups made from shark fin and bird's nest. But it was Nan's experience and I always encourage her to explore the world that most village girls never see. She had two servings. I took a bite and found it bland. I enjoyed the selection of cheeses with French bread. The barbecued salmon, Australian beef and lamb chops (a rarity in Thailand) were more tasty and the cornucopia of desserts (dipping watermelon in a chocolate fountain!) were to die for. We had exchanged gifts before leaving: a shirt for me and a new watch for Nan. I wore a tie (the only other person with one in the restaurant was the maître d'hôtel) and Nan a slinky dress inherited from her aunt. We gorged until we were full and I had finished the last spoonful of kiwi sorbet.

What gave me pause in the plea from my Facebook friend was not guilt over contributing to the suffering of geese (all my consumption choices contain that risk), but the assumption that I was a Buddhist. The headline for this post, for those who flunked art history, is a reference to the Magritte painting of a pipe containing the words, "Ceci c'est pas non une pipe." He titled it "The Treachery of Images," and it serves to remind me that icons and symbols are not transparent but have a history. Just as Jesus was not a Christian, the Buddha was not a Buddhist (and the images and representations of each figure are further removed from that label). Am I a Buddhist? I have never taken the refuge vows which most agree are necessary to assume that identity. Last year the Pali scholar from Oxford, Richard Gombrich, told a conference audience here that he was "not a Buddhist, but I very much admire Buddhism and especially Buddhist ethics. I am not a Buddhist in a technical sense." I like that. Does it mean then we're only "armchair Buddhists"?

The day before our anniversary, I accompanied students of English from my university on a field trip to Ayutthaya, the capital of the Thai kingdom from 1350 to 1767 when it was destroyed by Burmese invaders. All that remained was a field of red brick and headless Buddha statues. Some of the brick was used in building the new capital at Thonburi and then Rattanakosin in what is now Bangkok. Much of the city an hour north of the present capital has now been painstakingly reconstructed for tourists and students of history, although not all of the 500 temples have been rebuilt in the city Europeans described as the Venice of Asia because of its canals (the center is an island at the confluence of three rivers, and is consequently often flooded). Ayutthaya was a Buddhist monarchy with the identity of its people affirmed by each pillar, then as now. For Thais, the dhamma is inseparably linked with rule by a devaraja (god-king), a concept from India by way of the Khmer empire in Cambodia.

My students have come to Bangkok, and now the new campus in Wangnoi outside Ayutthaya, from Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, south China, southern Vietnam, and Shan State in Burma. They have to be taught the unfamiliar English words "Buddhism" and "Buddhist." In Thai, they follow sasanaput, the teachings of the Lord Buddha. "Religion" is an abstract concept, hard to grasp, although they learn to think of Buddhism as a religion equal to the Christianity brought here by missionaries over the last 500 years (converts in Thailand are slim pickings). My students on the field trip clambered over the ruins and took photos of each other. June, our Thai tour guide, gave a history lesson in English on the bus but the monks chatted with each other, listened to music on earphones, or slept. I couldn't hear much over the rumble of traffic and squeaking of the bus carriage. History taught in Thailand is celebratory rather than objective. There is a big flap in the news here at the moment over students at a middle school in Chiang Mai who dressed up for an activity day as Nazis, apparently unaware of the history of National Socialism in Germany and its tragic consequences.

Since "Buddhism" and "religion" have become reified and commodified through use, it's difficult to talk about the living practices, beliefs and customs on view everywhere in Thailand and other Asian countries without recourse to these labels and the discourse that surrounds them. I'm attempting to put together a conference paper on the differences I've observed between "buddhisms" (traditional vs. modern, Asian vs. Western, for starters) and whether or not it's possible to unify them all within one "big tent." I got this idea from reading somewhere that it was more accurate to speak of "christianities" than an abstract Christianity which doe not in fact exist. I started by reading the voluminous literature on American Buddhism; one writer called it "Ameriyana" to contrast it with "Theravada" and "Mahayana," the two generally accepted schools of Asian Buddhism. Westerners reject ritual and monasticism to focus on meditation and what Thich Nhat Hahn calls "inter-being," an interconnectedness with people and nature. This makes understandable a much-told joke about the Dalai Lama asking a hot dog vendor to "make me one with everything." But when the Tibetan leader was told the joke, he found it incomprehensible. The dhamma generally teaches elimination of self rather than an expansion of the self. But in the west the romantic notion of mystical oneness prevails.

Buddhism in Thailand is a hybrid cultural practice combining Brahmanism and various forms of Buddhism, brought to Southeast Asia by merchants along sea routes from India, with local animist beliefs and rituals. There is little enforced orthodoxy, although Buddhist teaching relies on the Pali Tripitaka, considered to contain the earliest sayings of the Buddha (although not written down for hundreds of years after his death). Like "Hinduism," an institutional structure based on the traditions of brahmin priests, Asian Buddhism absorbs everything in its path. The bewildering variety of icons and symbols I found in Thailand were nothing like the rather austere zen and vipassana Buddhism I knew in California. How could these buddhisms coexist in the same tent?

For the first 2,000 years of its history, teachings and practices centering on the perhaps mythical figure of the Buddha spread out of India south to Sri Lanka, east to Southeast Asia, and north to Tibet, China, Japan and Korea. There was little contact and interchange between different sects and schools which intermingled with local cultures to create different blends. European visitors lumped all their observations into the category of "heathen" and compared it unfavorably with the three monotheistic "world" religions. But in the 19th century, linguists working as colonial administrators discovered and translated sacred texts of the Far East, thereby creating "Buddhism." At first the texts were seen as evidence of "pure" Buddhism while living practices were viewed as corruptions of the original religion. Then two Theosophists from the U.S. went to Sri Lanka, became Buddhists and reconstructed the religion, making it more "protestant" and anti-colonial in the process. There is now a large corpus of literature on "Buddhist modernism," which, with the connivance of Asian teachers, made Buddhism more rational and scientific, countering an earlier European opinion that it fostered nihilism. Homegrown modernists (and King Mongut in Thailand, when not fighting with Anna, did his part) tried to purge Buddhism of superstitious accretions and promoted an intellectual understanding of the dhamma over a devotional one. A wide variety of buddhisms from different Asian countries presented teachings acceptable to American susceptibilities at the World Parliament of Religions held in Chicago in 1893. From the Transcendentalists to the beats and hippies, America welcomed Buddhism with open arms, first zen and more recently the vajrayana tradition from Tibet which has achieved a popularity all out of proportion to its size in the Buddhist universe.

At the annual Day of Vesak celebration and conference held by my university, several thousand Buddhists from all over the world representing most traditions gather for three days of talks and ceremonies. The monks and nuns in their many-colored robes and the laypeople speaking a Babel of languages is most impressive. The large hall at Wangnoi is certainly a big tent able to hold all views and opinions of the dhamma despite superficial differences. One big difference, however, is the respect accorded the Thai monarchy. Nowhere else is royalty so intertwined with religion. One delegate describe it critically as "the thaification of Buddhism." But at least religious imagery and devotional ceremonies were on display, unlike in the West where perhaps, in their zeal to purge Buddhism of Asian rituals and superstition, the baby might thrown out with the bathwater.

My paper on buddhisms in the big tent is far from finished. I've accumulated a foot of printouts and my leaky memory already makes any coherent organization of research impossible. I want to write about the dispute in the pages of Mandela between the secularist Stephen Batchelor and the traditionalist B. Alan Wallace, both trained in the Tibetan tradition, over what counts as authentic teaching and what can be doubted (perhaps karma and rebirth). Then there are the punks and progressives, mostly younger Buddhists, who criticize the first generation of Buddhist converts in America with their wind chimes and hippie ways. In Thailand, Buddhist reformer Buddhadasa tried to eliminate superstitions while affirming modernist ideas, though his student, Phra Visalo, believes some superstitions are helpful. A new generation of Asian academics, like Prapod Assavavirulhakarn from Chulalongkorn University, are contesting accepted Buddhist history written mostly by Westerners and even claiming that "Theravada," the recognized term for southern Buddhism, is inaccurate and useless.

But I may not finish (I've already said as much in an earlier blog post). The research is fascinating and illuminating and I've always liked it more than crafting an argument. This post is a way to run through several of my ideas to see if they make sense in print. I've even got some thoughts on methods to actually unify the disparate elements of a hijacked tradition. Wittgenstein's theory of family resemblance might be useful, as is the concept of hybridity developed by anti-colonial theorists. And Buddhist historian Robert H. Scharf has some interesting suggestions about conversation as the unifying element. I love the title of Tomoko Masuzawa's 2005 book, The Invention Of World Religions, Or, How European UniversalismWas Preserved In The Language Of Pluralism. I've only read her chapter on Buddhism but her thesis is provocative and persuasive. The struggle over what counts as Buddhism seems to be a very-unbuddhistic fight for control. Why does "religion" have to be universal anyway? The Thais I see who daily pay respects to the Buddha and to Ganesha and who practice generosity to gain a favorable rebirth have no need of being theologically correct. Few have the luxury to pick and choose beliefs from the spiritual marketplace as do western spiritual searchers. Their devotion is more simple and honest, and I prefer to stay in their big tent.

Not Working on Myself

2011-09-15T10:50:00.000+07:00

The old man in the elevator shook my hand and asked my age. When I told him, he said: "I'm 81." As I walked Nan to the bus stop, our daily ritual, he said to her in Thai that he did yoga every morning. As he strode off in front of us to buy the morning newspaper, his strong legs moved agelessly under the shorts. Nan went to class this morning feeling sore from a half hour on the treadmill in the gym yesterday. She was happily sweaty when I came home from teaching yesterday, proud to have exercised by herself in the small facility three floors below our apartment. Any urge to do something for my body is missing in inaction. I move slowly between couch and refrigerator, computer and toilet, noticing the stiffness in my bones. Decades of a guilty conscience whisper incessantly in my ear but I ignore the advice. I've retired from all self-help regimens.

Of course the alternative to not working on one's self is a slow death. I give it maybe 85 years (the old man looked pretty spry). That's enough for one lifetime. My last wife was addicted to fitness, and I think it's a fine thing to want to improve yourself, body and/or mind. I even tried African dance with her until I injured my neck and couldn't turn my head for weeks. She lifted weights and I bought some not-so-heavy dumbbells to keep in my office. But they gathered dust. I did take up jogging in my 30's and bought a subscription to Runner's World. I ran in some races and got up to 11 miles, thinking I might train for a marathon. But when my favorite columnist died of a heart attack while running, and work forced me to run before or after dark, I gave it up and resumed smoking. I was heedless in my youth.

My brother has been obsessed with his health. He's up on all the latest diseases, conditions and treatments and is regularly checked for newly discovered ailments. He's very knowledgeable about vitamins and popular supplements and when my mother was in her 90's he did his best to change her diet. The food he bought sat unused in her refrigerator and on her shelves while she consumed sweet and fatty items that the natural foods press claimed would kill you. We ate ice cream and cookies together on my visits, read the National Enquirer and watched trashy TV shows. There was lots of advice in the supermarket tabloids on how to live a long, healthy and blameless life, but we ignored it. She broke her hip in a fall, went into the hospital and never came home.

Reading books, joining gyms and listening to self-help gurus of every stripe is a preoccupation of the well-to-do. People for whom living is a struggle, like the illegal Burmese in Bangkok who beg on the pedestrian bridges and work on construction gangs building the high-rise condos, have no time to improve themselves. Psychotherapy and meditation (which seem to have blended together in the modern mind) are luxuries indulged in by people with money and time on their hands. They've come to think that something is not quite right and they must act to correct the problem, whether physical or mental. Behind the urge to change is a feeling of lack or incompleteness.

This is not to excuse myself. I acknowledge a certain laziness when it comes to correcting my faults. My father was a big man and he did not move in my memory very fast. Outside of the swimming pool, he was slow and deliberate. His favorite position was reclining in a big overstuffed chair in front of the TV set. My brother, on the other hand, was short and shy. At an early age he set about remaking his body and was quite successful. He's taller now, more muscular, and he can even grow a better beard than I can, a source of some resentment on my part. I was persuaded to climb the rope on the gym team in junior high school, but I enjoyed coming down more than going up, and my only reason for the effort was to earn a letterman's sweater I could let my girlfriend wear.

We all have our goals, and mine from an early age was to penetrate mysteries with my mind. I was a voracious reader and it stood me in good stead, eventually, after some false starts, getting me into the university where I set about becoming an intellectual. Now, at the other end of the search, I've read lots of books, and people even think I'm a smart and deep thinker (that's been said to me twice lately), a perception I don't particularly share. For me it's easy to read and scatter my inquiries broadly, but it's difficult -- nay impossible -- to keep my body youthful and my spirit at peace. After twenty years of meditation practice, on and off, after coming to Thailand four years ago I got up off the cushion and quit.

Is meditation just another form of self-help? That would be a justification I'm not yet ready to make. What I can tell you is that although I was able to sit for over an hour at times, I never experienced much peace and quiet. I've tried Theosophy and Transcendental Meditation, and gone to India to an ashram -- four times! Always the thoughts intruded, and focusing on my breath only served to make breathing laborious. The fault, dear friends, of course must be mine. Most of the famous meditation teachers today began after I first sat many years ago with an egg timer and Baba Ram Dass' little meditation book. Unlike my hesitant and insufficient practice, however, they kept at it and achieved...what? I've yet to meet what I could unequivocally believe was an enlightened being. Many teachers and authors have the gift of gab. Alan Watts was a master at speaking of the wisdom of the East. But he died an alcoholic, forgetting or unable to follow his own advice. So I failed at meditation. I couldn't give up my thoughts, was unable to sit in the proper position, and during the lecture missed the crucial instructions needed to become an arahant.

As my mother would say, no use crying over spilt milk. I'm pretty comfortable with the fact that I will not become enlightened in this lifetime. I'll also never be able to sit in a full lotus position (now I require a chair rather than a cushion to sit at various lectures on Buddhism). And of course I can't bench press 200 pounds, run in a marathon or play Bach on the piano (I did want to play sax in Stan Kenton's band, but never fulfilled that dream either). Americans growing up are encouraged to excel at something, and I took the advice to heart. But I never became an actor or musician, and my attempts to be a published writer came to nought, except in these pages. I restarted my academic career too late to become a tenured professor. But now, here in Thailand, I'm a teacher, an ajahn, and I experience the most profound satisfaction from interacting with my students who are eager to learn English and transcend their humble beginnings. They tell me I help them and I see the gratitude in their eyes.

I've changed my mind about spiritual matters many times over the years and doubt that I'll ever really have a settled position on what we label "religion" (which indicates that I don't think much of that label these days, though I respect the cultural beliefs and behavior it often maligns). But I do think this: We don't need to work on ourselves. What we need to do is love one another and take care of each other. Everyone makes mistakes: acknowledge them, forgive them and move on. If I were a self-help guru, I might say: Change is unnecessary. What's past is done with. The only moment that counts is now. Of course we will fail, get distracted and hurt someone. Humans do that; no one is perfect. But I feel very hesitant about offering any advice. We all have different paths, different contexts, different genes. I can only blabber about what I do, and don't do.

Tom Pepper has written an excellent article on Buddhism and psychotherapy, prompting some of these thoughts, which you can read here.

The State of My Studies

2011-08-30T13:21:00.000+07:00

I had an epiphany of sorts Monday morning while falling asleep during a conference lecture about the state of Buddhist studies that I had anticipated would be fascinating. The problem was not the speaker's, who is a world authority on Pali and Sanskrit texts, but mine. His talk and the beginning of the next, by a woman from the School of Oriental and African Studies in London, bored me. It seemed to be all about how many Buddhas can dance on the head of a pin, and I never cared for that kind of Christian theological nit picking when the subject was angels. So I got up and left, less than two hours after the conference had begun.

"Know thyself," advised Socrates, and I've tried, lord I've tried. But now in my seventh decade and running out of time, I am still a mystery to me.

One thing I've learned about myself is that I'm obsessive. Once I get an idea in my head, I'm like a dog with a bone. And earlier this year, after serving for the second time as secretary for an academic panel at an international Buddhist conference, I decided I wanted to be the bride and not the bridesmaid. So I submitted a proposal for a paper on Buddhism to deliver at a conference in December and it was accepted. I immediately dove into the research and collected a mountain of books and articles on the subject (metaphorically speaking, since almost everything is digital now). It absorbed much of my free time. Though I have a doctorate, I've had little experience giving papers, so I worried about it being good enough. Increasingly I became distracted and temperamental. Since I couldn't neglect my teaching, with classes now twice a week, the impact of my preoccupation and obsessiveness fell on my patient wife Nan.

Farang seem culturally predisposed to jai raan (a hot heart), the Thai term for impatience and upset. This could be anything that upsets the delicate balance of the Thai social apple cart. Advice offered to the worried and/or angry westerner is usually to cultivate jai yen (a cool heart) or, almost as often, to opine: "You think too much." It's true, and I can often watch it happening through Nan's eyes, that volcano of emotion triggered in me by obsession, compulsiveness, frustration, concern and reaction. I've written about this before, and I'm sure it's true for most of my expat friends, although many continue to blame the match rather than the fuel.

Loss of control is a convenient trigger. The more time my obsessions require, the less wiggle room or down time I allow myself, and I get pissed at the noose I've tied. The knot should be easy to undo if we've tied it ourself, but sometimes that doesn't work. The trick is to see the connection. This morning provided a great example: I went down to buy a newspaper and forgot my key. This is the first time that's happened in three years of living in this building. Nan had just left for school. I had money but no phone. My first reaction, at the prospect of waiting eight hours for Nan to return, was shock. But this loss of control didn't produce upset. Shock was followed by laughter at the absurdity of the situation I'd created with my absent mind. This was replaced by ingenuity: I went to the office, communicated my problem, and a locksmith was quickly summoned who opened the door in a couple of minutes for about $13.50 (an outrageous fee here).

Last weekend, with yet another financial Sword of Damocles hanging over my head this month, Nan and I traveled to Pranburi on the coast south of Hua Hin in a car owned by her sister's boyfriend. Surin speaks only a little English and his pronunciation is not easy to understand. The original plan had been to go down Friday and spend two nights there since Nan and I needed to be home Sunday night. But when Ann changed the days without telling us, and when I said one night was not enough, Nan felt caught in the middle and required some consoling. So we stayed the one night and had to return to Bangkok by van. The uncertainties and changes were a recipe for loss of control and I drifted in an out of jai raa, making both me and my wife unhappy.

Thais are much more accepting of disruptions in plans and the absence of control in a situation. Loss of face (for example, by arguing passionately about something) is assiduously avoided. I wanted Surin to know that it wasn't my fault that he had to pay for another night in the hotel room that we wouldn't use. At some point during the trip I told Nan that she was a person who lived by "faith" rather than reason, a low blow. She, however, heard the word as "fake," and a little later told me with tears in her eyes that she was NOT a "fake person." That required some unscrambling, and it also let me see how the carelessness of my words, particularly in this cross-cultural situation, can cause hurt.

So what does all this have to do with my epiphany during the boring conference lecture? It was the realization that I have neither the time nor inclination to be the scholar at this late date in my career and play the game which my professor friend at the conference called "bullshit." Another scholar there said an expert in the field of Southeast Asian Buddhism had called a book I found stimulating "no good." Such intellectual condemnation is commonplace in a profession where competition for right ideas can be cut-throat. I remain curious about many things, not the least of them Thai Buddhism and its morphed twin in the west, but know now that I have neither the background nor the drive to explore a comparison in depth. When I was 17 and recovering from a serious car accident, I sold my clarinet and alto sax after realizing that I would never become as good a musician as I wanted to be. That goes for academia these days, although it's the accident of age that has prompted this reflection. Now, with that mound of research material set aside, I might again find pleasure in reading novels, watching movies and snuggling with my wife.

We enjoyed our short trip to Pranburi. The high point was eating, for Surin is very knowledgeable about the best restaurants where you can find the freshest fish and the tastiest cuisine. We had an incredible lunch on Saturday in Cha-Am on the wharf beside the fishing fleet while a group of customers watched Muay Thai boxing on TV. Dinner was at a place on the beach in Pranburi, a long strip beside the water dotted with luxury hotels, and a recommendation from Surin's friend got us a fabulous meal for four for under $30 with three additional dishes for free. Again it was seafood, fresh from the water, and cooked to succulent perfection. I wish I were a food writer who could adequately describe it (or even cook like that). On the way down we visited the oversized statue of the famous monk Luang Por Tuad at Wat Huay Mongol, a place of pilgrimage where sacred amulets sell like hotcakes. We stopped at a faux Fishing Village where no one fished and boated but lots of stuff was on sale, and in the evening we strolled through old town Pranburi where hundred-year-old shop houses are being restored for antique stores and coffee shops. We swan in the pool of the Pattawia Resort and Spa, a large hotel catering to tour groups that has seen better days, and we spent a morning on the lovely beach at Khao Kalok where we relaxed in the shade of a large cave-dotted cliff until the rains came.

Studying one's self and learning how to avoid suffering and hurting others requires a lifetime. There doesn't seem to be a short cut.

And now for something completely different: Lunch today.

Photo Porn and the Demise of a friend

2011-08-26T10:47:00.004+07:00

My trusty Canon G11, companion on many adventures during the last year and a half, died this week. I was photographing the English competition at my school (more below) and used the telephoto lens for a closeup shot of a speaker. When I turned the camera off, the lens refused to retract. When I turned it back on, I got the message: "Lens error, restart camera." But restarting didn't help. With a little jiggling and pushing, I could force the lens back down, but clearly it was in trouble. That night I learned from Google than a stuck lens was the most common problem for digital cameras and it was almost certainly fatal. I tried all the possible fixes suggested at one web site but nothing worked. Yesterday I took it to the Canon service center at MBK and was told that the lens must be replaced, at a cost of 8,900 baht. Since the G11 originally cost 16,900 baht, all I could do was laugh.

Humor is the best medicine. There was something poetic, and even pornographic, in the G11's ailment, stuck with an erected lens as if it had consumed too much photoviagra. I was sure Hef would understand. A friend once told me that his cure for erectile dysfunction was a needle with a prescribed chemical. But he miscalculated and gave himself an overdose. The subsequent trip to the hospital was painful and embarrassing for him. The impolite Thai word for the male member is จู๋ which is pronounced "jew" (I hope my Hebrew friends appreciate this), and the word for erection is derived from the Thai for ice (hard water), น้ำแข็ง. So my new name for the unfortunate situation with my G11 is จู๋แข็ง. Nan wants it known that I learned this entirely without her help or approval.

This is one of the first photos taken with my new G11 on the King's birthday a year and a half ago (you can always see a larger version of my pictures by clicking on them). It captured a clarity under low light natural conditions that none of my previous digital cameras could achieve. Smaller than an SLR and bigger than a pocket point and click, the G11 was a bit bulky, but I took it everywhere. It featured an adjustable view finder that allowed for centered self portraits and shots from awkward angles. It wasn't easy to whip it out of my bag on the spur of the moment, a necessity for fast moving candids in this photographable city, but it satisfied my aesthetic needs to make art out of my surroundings. What do you do with a defunct camera? I'm thinking of turning it into a planter, perhaps with an orchid coming up out of the lens casing. I shall miss you, G11, but you'll be quickly replaced, probably today by a Canon S925 (less bulky, easy to whip out).

Speaking of photos, before I went back to California last year I attempted to clean out and rearrange my computer files and folders and managed to accidentally delete a photo storage file containing thousands of images from my world travels circa 2004-2007. The backlog of old photos had long needed purging but I didn't mean to throw out the babies with the bathwater. Some of my artistic masterpieces were in that folder. Fortunately I had saved a good selection from my trips at my Flickr site. Last week I discovered a site called Flick and Share that makes it easy to transfer Flickr photos back to my computer. This is a photo I took of St. Paul's Cathedral during a trip to London and Europe in 2005.

When people outside of Thailand think of food, they often conjure up visions of the archetypal Thai cuisine: satay, pad Thai, tom yum kung, spicy papaya salad and exotic deserts made with mango, rambutan and durian. Yes, there's that. Last night we ate at the noodle buffet in MBK that featured sauces of undetermined origin, fiery beyond belief, and a week ago Ann's boyfriend Surin took us to a tiny hole-in-the-wall shophouse restaurant in Rattanakosin, the old part of Bangkok, that cooked us a 4-star meal of various sea food. Last week I showed Nan what wonders May Kaidee's restaurant in Banglamphu could perform with vegetables and tofu. But old tastes die hard. In the evening after teaching, I prefer to relax with a traditional American root beer float, and many mornings Nan cooks me a farang breakfast of scrambled eggs with cheese, crispy bacon, and toast with blueberry jelly. And we both like Swenson's, the chain founded in San Francisco with outlets everywhere in Bangkok. The cheeseburgers at Sizzler's (Nan likes the salad bar), which are equally available throughout the city and very popular, almost remind me of my former homeland.

The big event this week was an English "Quiz Contest" held at my university and organized by the English Club, most of whom are my students. Two teams of three competed in each round with the first to get five correct answers advancing to the next round. Several of us teachers were tasked with devising 500 questions in four categories: Buddhism, Economics, Politics and Thailand. I was asked to read them (we went through them all and had to repeat the unanswered ones). Students came from schools all over the area, and the audience was filled with monks and guests from Ayutthaya and vicinity where Mahachula is located. I was on my feet for five hours until the final question -- "What is the name of Vietnam's currency?" -- was answered by the winning team with a shout: "the dong!" I loved it, and a good time was had by all. You can see a clip of it on YouTube.

After more than a year of landscaping, Sanam Luang, Bangkok's large park and parade ground near the Grand Palace is open for pleasure seekers (although the prostitutes and sidewalk vendors have been kept away by the large police presence). Many are unhappy about the new fence and restricted hours, but during both afternoon and evening visits last week Nan and I found the grounds to be quiet, peaceful and, overall, lovely. The golden spires of the palace, beneath which Anna taught the children of the king, never fail to inspire awe. We enjoyed watching the kites. Soon, half the park will be taken over by elaborate funeral preparations for the King's cousin, only daughter of King Rama VI, similar to that two year's ago for the King's sister.

My intellectual and social life continues to be busy. Recently our IDEA group discussed "hybridity" as a fruitful concept for problematic issues of identity, among other ideas, from a challenging book, The Ambiguous Allure of the West: Traces of the Colonial in Thailand. On a couple of Thursdays I've met at a cafe in Siam Paragon with Ray from California and a few of his expat friends where they ogle the Hi-So girls and pontificate about the world. Graham from Australia, who teaches English at an international school, told me that some teachers can make as much as 100,000 baht a month which is more than twice what I expected. But I'm not ready to give up my monks and retirement for filthy lucre. And I attended a stimulating talk by Tibetan nun Ani Zamba, visiting from her center in Brazil, who said the self is created in the process of perceiving things as if they exist independently of our perception: "Frozen entities, frozen self." The cost of this illusion, she said, is high. Next week I'm going to a lecture across the street from Sanam Luang at the National Museum given by American scholar Justin McDaniel on "The Making of a Saint -- Somdet To in the History of Thai Buddhism." And I'll also hear him speak at a conference on Buddhism at the S.D. Hotel almost next door to my condo, organized by Mahidol University. It will be a busy week. The BuddhistPsychos also meet to complete their discussion (some would say savaging) of "The Little Prince." This weekend Ann and Surin are taking us for a short trip to Pranburi on the coast south of Hua Hin. The Paradise boogie continues!

And next Wednesday, my daughter (whom I just learned is traveling in Spain), will turn 34 years old. Happy birthday, Molly!

A Toss of the Dice

2011-08-11T10:43:00.001+07:00

They're rioting in Africa

There's strife in Iran

What nature doesn't do to us

Will be done by our fellow man

"The Merry Minuet," sung by the Kingston Trio

When all else fails, buy a lottery ticket. We bought two from this seller outside Wat Rakhang where Nan and I went to offer gifts in a plastic bucket (the standard stuff, tooth paste, etc.) and receive a watery blessing on my 72nd birthday. I got a ticket with a six-digit number ending in "72." Just to be on the safe side, Nan's ticket ended in "27." They cost 100 baht each, 80 for the lottery and 20 for the ticket seller. Most of the vendors are aged, infirm or disabled, and you're never more than a stone's throw from one in Bangkok. There's also an illegal underground lottery where you can bet as little as a baht. Nan once sold tickets but quit when it felt too dangerous. The underground lottery is popular in the villages where legitimate ticket sellers are rare. When Jerry bought his wife a truck recently, most of their relatives put money on the numbers in the new license number. His wife once won 8,000 baht in the national lottery and I would have been happy with anything as a sign of the universe's favor.

But we didn't win. It's not my life that needs a boost, however, but the planet earth. London is burning, the global stock market is tanking, a Christian fascist went wacko in Norway, and earthquakes and storms are giving evidence of serious tampering with the planet's weather systems by industrial civilization. What's not to worry about? But the only untoward event in my life lately was forgetting my card card in the ATM machine which required having a new one shipped from the states (it's the only lifeline to my income which is fast losing value along with the deflating dollar).

It's so hard trying to find a reason for everything. I was trained like most westerners to trace effects back to their causes. So I scour the print and electronic media to uncover reasons for the rise of the powerful lunatic fringe in America, the deadly persistance of the U.S. war machine in the Middle East, and the puzzle of Obama's lack of passion (and a backbone). Sometimes it just feels like I'm spinning my wheels, and that all my posts, comments, likes, tweets and links are so much dust. Thais take a different approach to confusion and catastrophe (or just the nuttiness of life). Nan awoke the other morning and announced she wanted to tamboon (make merit) with a monk she remembered from several years ago. I followed along on a short bus ride, and there he was, at his station by the 7-11, accepting gifts of food (we bought some from a nearby cart) and prayers from passers by. My knees don't allow me to kneel like Nan so a folded my palms and bowed my head while the kindly old monk chanted a Pali blessing for us. And you know, I felt better, intellectually cleansed (for a brief moment), by the experience.

Afterward, we went for a walk in the streets behind the major thoroughfare where Nan lived when she first came to Bangkok and found a different world, almost a village within the city, where only a little traffic flowed, small shops served the community and the jungle threatened to overwhelm areas of neglect, like this lot where an old campaign poster remains for the woman who has just become Thailand's first female prime minister. It was a beautiful morning, the air was clear and not yet hot, and strolling through the quieted streets, visiting a temple on the way and sitting in a park by a canal, gave the mind pause from its incessant need to understand and explain.

I have been absent from these pages for three weeks not because there was nothing to report but because my life of retirement now seems excessively busy. Much of the activity revolves around my school and teaching. I gave my two dozen students a midterm exam and followed it with a day of interviews, talking with each monk (and one laywoman) about their results, homework and progress in the class. They've asked me to prepare questions for a big contest in two weeks with 600 students from other universities (I picture a "Slumdog Millionaire" event) and for me to be the MC. I've begun teaching the second half of a course on mass media for graduate students in linguistics and prepared a spiffy PowerPoint presentation with film clips from YouTube. But it was overkill for the six students at my first lecture who are struggling with basic English. Next week I'll try something simpler. And I'm deep into research for a conference paper comparing Buddhist modernism in the west, with its focus on meditation and absence of ritual, with a popular religiosity in Thailand that seamlessly blends Brahmanism and animism with a royalist-influenced Theravada Buddhism. Every day I discover new insights.

I'll have to finish writing before the October deadline because Nan and I are flying to Chiang Rai after the school term finishes for a visit with her family in the nearby province of Phayao. It will be my first trip to the village and I'm frankly nervous. We'll stay in her Aunt Ban Yen's house which will be ours whenever we decide to move there permanently. Nan must graduate with a degree and perhaps work for a couple of years before that happens, and I need to maintain my health and ability to maneuver around and enjoy the city. Still, Nan has been eye-shopping for a flat-screen TV since the house has none, and a credenza for it to sit on. There are lots of horror stories about farang and their encounter with village life, and I struggle to keep my expectations unblemished. I've met her mom, brother and cousin, but not her step-father, and they're lovely people. As big city relatives, however, we'll be expected to help out, and my lack of understanding for the enormous affection and gratitude Thai children feel toward their parents sometimes confuses and saddens Nan.

Our social calendar has been full. We said good-bye to our good friend Janet during a lunch by the Chao Phraya River at one of our favorite spots. Janet penned the lovely poem to her adopted city, Tone Deaf in Bangkok, and writes a provocative blog with the same name. But she's ended her second (or third?) tour of duty here and has just returned to her American home, Seattle, where her sons live and where she spent many years as a bookseller at Elliott Bay. She'll continue to work for ThingsAsian Press and hopes to return to Bangkok for annual visits. We'll miss her. On a recent Sunday, Nan and I joined Ian and Paradee at Rot Fai Park for lunch and a possible bike ride. The entrance to the park, on land owned by the railway union is close to the Buddhadassa Indapanno Archives which I recently visited for the first time, and I took them all on a tour. There was karaoke singing on the ground floor (I resisted but Ian was willing, though never called) and an art show upstairs near the lovely mediation hall.

One evening we joined a group of Thais and foreigners at a dinner hosted by Sean, editor of Ratchaprasong News and international press officer for the red shirts during the protests last year in Bangkok. Speaking to us were two members of the Pheu Thai party which recently won the national election, Dr. Prasaeng and Khun Samarn. While they assured us that the reds, who strongly contributed to the landslide victory, and the new prime minister's government would be closely allied, many of the questions asked them centered around the possibility of unsavory political compromises and the probable response of their supporters. Yingluck's cabinet, unveiled this week, contains no one closely tied to the red shirts, and it's believed that her brother, Thaksin Shinawatra, now in exile, influenced the choices so that the elite would permit them to govern. It remains to be seen whether there will be unrest in provincial red villages.

This week the British monk Pandit Bhikku began his fifth series of Rains Retreat dhamma talks at a dance gallery off Sukhumvit. I arrived in Thailand precisely four years ago and I quickly set about locating a source of information in English about Thai Buddhism. A mae chee at Mahachula University directed me to the Little Bang Sangha which had recently formed and I attended the lectures Pandit gave that year at the Baan Aree Library. There I met many of the friends I still know in Bangkok (sadly, Holly has gone) and at the first talk this week on "The Dance of Emptiness" I saw many familiar faces. It was Pandit who encouraged me to teach English to monks and brought me to Wat Srisudaram where I spoke to the English Club and was offered a job in 2008.

And now for something completely different. Last year Rubby, one of my Little Bang friends, suggested I register with a modeling agency that is always looking for non-Thais to hire for commercials or movies. A number of people I know have been extras, and a couple appeared in "Hangover 2." Nothing happened for me until last month when I was called to appear in a session to get stock photos of elders doing yoga and exercise. The photographer was Rob Churchill who does wonderful non-commercial stuff, and I have no idea how this session will turn out. Photos will be offered world-wide to anyone looking for old geezers working up a sweat (it was hard work!). The session in an empty penthouse in Silom with incredible views of the city took only three hours and I was paid about $100. I came home to tell Nan that I might become famous. It was a lucky toss of the dice.

My friend Jerry has complained that there is entirely too little about sex in my blog, and he offered some biographical tidbits to spice up these pages. But I think I'll wait until he and everyone we know is dead and gone before revealing the shocking and salacious details he provided. I'll write it up and stick it in a bank deposit box with instructions for publishing after the smoke has cleared. Better yet, he should write about it himself and I'll review it here.

"Saint Peter don't you call me..."

2011-07-21T09:30:00.015+07:00

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

"16 Tons," Tennessee Ernie Ford

The lead up to my 72nd birthday this week was not pretty. A credit firm reported that my total indebtedness, if you count the student loan I co-signed for my daughter some years ago, was close to $40,000. For a mostly retired English teacher with no fixed assets, that's a bundle. One false step, like the payments my daughter missed recently, and your credit is wiped out. Next, an acquaintance of a half dozen years took exception to my political views on Facebook and dissolved our friendship in an email using the most vile terms possible. In addition, the flotilla to support Gaza was blocked, the Borders chain is going belly up leaving 11,000 booksellers out of a job, and Obama appears willing to sacrifice my Social Security in order to get a deal with the crazy Republicans who are hell bound to destroy government as we know it.

The news is not all bad. It's the rainy season in Thailand and Bangkok gets a daily deluge that cools and cleans the air and flushes the urban grime away. I love it. My weekly job teaching English to monks is a delight. Yesterday they sang me a raggedy version of "Happy Birthday" and I showed them the video of Michael Jackson's "Black or White" which contains a shot of some Thai traditional dancers as MJ travels the world promoting racial equality. A crew from the school's Language Institute dropped by the classroom to film the ajahn in action for a promotional video and I was in top form. My son Nicky the drummer continues on a world tour with his partner in music, Hanni El Khateb, and they are currently in Alaska after their second trip to Europe this year. Thailand's first woman prime minister is about to take office, and the International Court of Justice has ordered Thailand and Cambodia to pull back their sabber-rattling armies from around the ancient temple they both claim on the border. My proposal to write a paper on "Big Tent Buddhism" for a conference at my university in December was accepted and I'm finding that research on the differences between Thai and Western Buddhism is a joyful pursuit.

Last weekend was a four-day holiday celebrating Asalha Bucha, which commemorates the Buddha's first sermon, and Khao Phansa, the beginning of the annual three-month "Rains Retreat" which has been described as the Buddhist Lent. Nan and I took our plastic candle holders and joined a few friends at Wat Pathum Wanaram, the large temple between two luxury malls, Siam Paragon and Central World, where with thousands of devotees we walked three times around the complex holding our candles, incense and flowers.

Sasana Buddha, the teachings of the Buddha, pervade everyday life in Thailand. As I've written before, in practice Thai people combine Buddhism (or at least what westerners think it is) with Brahmanism from India and indigenous animism. I still have a string around my wrist tied by a monk at the Big Buddha temple in Pattaya several weeks ago after he'd chanted and sprinkled water on me. So far as I know, the Buddha didn't mention sacred string or baptism. Here you can see the culmination of a ceremony last week in the new restaurant in our building with the monk writing sacred symbols on the wall for good luck below a picture of King Chulalongkorn, Rama V, who is venerated by Thais as a saint (the current monarch is often described by outsiders as "quasi-divine"). These practices, so strange to my Christian Protestant upbringing, fascinate me. Many commentators write them off as superstitions, but I'd prefer to give them the respect that popular piety deserves.

Unlike my friend Dr. Sman, who celebrated his 6th cycle (of 12 years) birthday by renting a room in a restaurant for several hundred guests, I preferred a quieter affair. Nan and I reserved a table by the window at Stella Palace on the 79th floor of Baiyoke Tower, Bangkok's tallest building, and dined on Chinese cuisine at the Caravan Buffet. The rain held off to permit us some awesome views of the city at night far below. My wife gave me a lovely new tie which I sported the next day for the video cameras at school, and at home later she spelled out "72" in candles on the cake we'd picked out earlier in the day at S&P (she had "Happy Birthday Dr. Will" written on the top). It was a lovely day, and the cloud that had preceded it lifted.

Nan's brother Nok came to visit over the holiday from Chiang Rai where he's going to school. I was surprised that he didn't bring his guitar which has always been with him before, until I learned he was on a mission to buy a ukelele. That seemed odd to me, even though I'd witnessed a ukelele competition on the outdoor stage at Siam Paragon six months ago. What would Thais want with Hawaii's iconic instrument? There were none on sale at the two guitar stores in Central Pinklao near where we live. But a friend told Nan she saw some at the new Digital Gateway in Siam, and in the first store we came to Nok found a white one he liked for 23oo baht (about $75, and we paid half). As we walked around the mall afterward, we saw ukes of all sizes and prices on sale at three more stores. Apparently there is a craze for ukeleles in Bangkok at the moment. Who knew?

A couple of weeks ago Nan was called to Lopburi for the funeral of the father of a friend from the office where she used to work. I had dinner that night with Carlos, a journalist from Spain here to cover the election, and arrived home near midnight, about the same time as Nan returned. She and her friend Koi had decided on the way back that they wanted to hear some music, and with a little arm-twisting convinced me to take them to the nightclub near our house where we heard Sek Loso perform a year ago. Inside the club the noise was deafening. There had to be at least 1000 people there, drinking whisky and beer and standing in the aisles dancing. There was no cover charge and I remember the musicians as the house band that went on before Sek Loso. They played a medley of Thai hits and the audience sang along. At some point a comedian told jokes which I could not understand. A fight was broken up near the bathroom. We ordered a tower of beer and Nan and Koi ate a variety of Thai dishes and I nibbled popcorn. We were unusually inactive the next day.

On the eve of Nok's visit, I made my periodic pilgrimage to the Immigration office in the cavernous government building at Chiang Wattana. Expats must report their presence every 90 days and while some complain I've never minded. It's a long journey but there's a cheap van that leaves from my neighborhood, and I take a combination of taxi, Skytrain and bus to come back home. On the day I was there, I came upon this strange scene, a field of people on tables being examined by nurses. I suppose it was a free checkup for government employes. It gives you a concrete perspective on the size of that place.

On the way home I stopped to visit the new Buddhadhasa Indapanno Archives at the north end of Chatuchak Park. It was supposed to be a short walk but I got lost and had to exchange SMS messages with Pandit Bhikku who told me how to ask directions. Two people led by astray and I only stumbled upon the place by accident. But it was worth the digression. Buddhadhasa Bhikku was a reformist monk whose monastery is in Suan Mokh in the south. He wrote extensively and his output is being transferred to the newly constructed archive (which looked very empty when I peeked in the door). He decried superstitious practices and believed that all faiths were one, and he is very popular with educated Buddhists if not the masses. The Archives includes several places to meditate like this one overlooking a lake with pillows that resemble soft stones, both an inside and an outside garden, and there is a large bookstore with a few English translations of his books (the self-service pay system is curious but effective).

A huge weekend market takes place at the south end of Chatuchak Park next to the Mo Chit BTS station. Between the market and the Archives is a wide swath of nature, far bigger than Lumpini Park in the center of the city. The bike paths were filled with cyclists, most of them school kids, and I passed a large enclosed arboretum for butterflies. Since it was a workday, there were not many enjoying the grassy areas beside the large lake, other than a few couples and some artists. It was a rare oasis of silence in the middle of one of the world's noisiest cities.

I can't say I love the idea of aging another year. Only yesterday it seems I celebrated my 70th with Nan, sipping champagne over lunch at a Siam bistro, our future ahead of us. For my 60th birthday, while my former wife went to a nearby dance camp, I traveled up to Glacier Point in Yosemite and had my photo taken with Half Dome in the background. It was used in a book I wrote on the redwoods, The Sempervirens Story, that was published the following year. On my 50th birthday, I had a big party in the backyard of our house in Brookdale with all my Santa Cruz friends. Aging is relentless. How will I celebrate my 75th, or, perish the thought, my 80th? While I don't think there is an actual Saint Peter waiting to call me to the only-poetic pearly gates, I do believe I'm ready to go when the time comes, despite the fact that my life now with Nan is paradise. I'm strangely comforted by the fact that when I'm gone my debt will disappear.

Waking, and Staying Awake

2011-07-08T09:23:00.005+07:00

My habit has been to wake each day just as the sky begins to turn. Our bed is level with the window and I have only to open my eyes to see the skyline of Bangkok and occasionally, high above, the morning star. This is the monsoon season in Southeast Asia and the sky is a spectacular canvas for all manner of clouds. Our apartment looks southeast and the sunrises are awe inspiring. I keep my camera by the bed and snap photos of the sky at all times of the day and night. In the last 14 months, I've logged over 200, some even worth posting on Facebook to the invariable oohs and aahs of friends.

Dawn is when I get up and stay up but it's not the first time I've gotten out of bed. There is nothing like an old man's prostate to interrupt sleep. Bangkok never rests and with the window open I can always hear traffic nine floors below over the sound of the fan (which never sleeps). All my life I've been able to fall asleep easily, but after a trip to the toilet in the middle of the night, returning to sleep sometimes remains an illusive goal This is the time for an unwanted check-in with my conscience. Why did I say that? How did that happen? It wasn't my fault! Guilt and regret come swiftly in the darkest hours of the night.

If I believed in karma, I would have to conclude that I must have mismanaged finances terribly in a previous lifetime and am paying for these misdeeds now. Last year a major snafu interrupted my retirement income, and I was forced to rely on part-time teaching, a dwindling savings account, and credit cards to survive before returning to the U.S. where the problem was corrected. Last weekend in Pattaya the hotel politely informed me that my Citibank card had been declined: do you have another? Fortunately, I did. Back home, I soon learned that the rather large line of credit on the card had been completely erased because of a "delinquent" payment on a credit report. Online, I paid Experian $1 for a "free" copy of that report (and had to sign up for a membership that would be billed in 9 days) and learned that I owned a total of $23,425 with payments 60 days past due.

( Pause for stress reduction exercise to avoid heart attack.)

Before moving to Thailand in 2007, I co-signed my daughter's student loan application. We've had a rocky relationship over the years and I wanted her to know I loved and supported her (and what better way to show it than financially?). She didn't provide much information and I didn't ask any questions. Turns out the loan was for $20,000 to attend an alternative healing school. But she didn't complete the course and instead used the loan money for living expenses. My daughter is a dancer and singer and has never had a "normal" job other than waitressing. Believing that loving fathers should respect and affirm their children's decisions, I didn't say anything -- aside from "I assume you're taking care of this" -- and neither did she.

A warning letter from the bank was forwarded to me a month ago and I emailed her a strong request that she take care of the late payments. What I didn't know, apparently, is that the loan had already been labeled "delinquent" and reported to the credit agency which, in turn, informed Citibank who took quick action in squashing my account. I had a long talk with a nice customer service lady in the Citibank "Credit Early Warning" department and learned that it takes a year to clear a delinquency label, even if the loan is being paid, before a credit limit can be restored. I saw on the Experian report that my other credit card companies had automatically received the bad news and fear now that all are in jeopardy.

Credit cards are my life raft in case of disaster. They served me well last year. I pay the minimum monthly balance religiously and have never been late. Although I have Blue Cross/Anthem health insurance which I can use in Thailand (Medicare is denied me overseas), the mostly likely emergency at my age would require medical assistance and I would need a credit card to pay the bill until reimbursed. So the possible loss of credit is daunting, and last week interrupted my sleep patterns. For once I couldn't fall asleep and tossed and turned much of the night (teaching class the next day was a challenge). To her credit, my daughter is trying to correct the mistake and is on the telephone with the loan company and Experian in an attempt to erase the "delinquent" label so that I can beg Citibank to overlook this one lapse. But I fear it will be difficult, and I also worry about the loan monkey on my daughter's back. She's trying to start a clothing business, and the bloomers she designed and had made in Bali are apparently selling like hotcakes. Bad credit and crushing loan payments will make life difficult for her. And there is nothing I can do to help.

Until my credit dries up, I continue to live as if there is no tomorrow. "Be here now" was always good advice. Last Wednesday I discussed the election in Thailand with my students and discovered that all of the Thai monks, if they were allowed to vote (and monks are not), would have cast their ballots for the winners, Pheu Thai and Yingluck Shinawatra. I suspected as much since they all come from poor families outside Bangkok, the ground of support for the Shinawatra family. We talked about the American custom of barbecue, burgers, beer and fireworks on July 4th two days before, and then I played them Tracy Chapman's scathing indictment of the culture of conquest in her song "America." Last week I received an email from a former student who studied with me in my first English class in 2008. After graduation he disrobed and is now an English teacher and translator for the Red Cross in Cambodia. Staying in touch with my students gives me hope.

In August and September I will teach the second half of a course in mass media for graduate students in the linguistics program at MCU, sharing the small class with Dr. Veerakarn. My job is to get them to talk in English for which they already have some proficiency. I've been researching syllabi in mass media and media studies courses to test the waters and to see what academics are now saying about the media. I've grown up with major changes in technology. Back in 1964 when Marshall McLuhan wrote "the medium is the message" in his pathfinding Understanding Media, mass communications were much simpler: newspapers/magazines and the radio were dominant, no mobile phones, no internet, TV still in its infancy (and black & white). Today the global audience is digitally plugged in; even the poor have mobiles and TV dish antennas. When I was a reporter in the 1960's, our paper set in hot type and printed on a huge rotary press in the basement. We wrote stories on manual typewriters. It was the dark ages of communication. A couple of the Thai students in our class appear to be close to my age so they'll understand. But I have much research to do before the class begins.

Be here now. Breathe deeply. Remember that you're retired.

With much fear and trepidation, last week I proposed a paper for a conference on "Buddhist Philosophy and Praxis" at my university in December. It's for a section on "Unifying Buddhist Philosophical Views," and I titled it: "Big Tent" Buddhism: Searching for Common Ground Among Western and Asian "buddhisms." Last year I gathered a pile of material on American Buddhism because what I thought was Buddhism in California seems so different now from the devotional Buddhism followed by most Thais and I wanted to compare and contrast. But in a fit of housekeeping before my trip to the U.S., I threw it all out (along with several thousand old photos I mistakenly deleted from my computer). Just as "Christianity" feels like a false reification of the diversity of "christianities," according to some theologians, I proposed that finding unity in "Buddhism" is illusive, and that some cultural versions differ so greatly from others than they cannot fit into the same tent.

What I quickly learned after a few days online research is that the term "western Buddhism" is in error. What many are calling "Protestant Buddhism," "Modern Buddhism," "Buddhist modernism," "consensus Buddhism," "secular (even atheist) Buddhism," "pragmatic (formerly "hardcore") Buddhism, etc., is NOT solely a western creation. It was co-created for two centuries with Asians who wanted to used Buddhism as a weapon to resist colonization and Christian missionaries. In Thailand and other nearby countries, Buddhism is a key element in nationalism, and is used to affirm the state as well as individual identity. Buddhism as practiced primarily in the west, with its focus on meditation and an absence of ritual, has a very distinct history going back to Sri Lanka at the end of the 19th century, and it continues to be affirmed today by such prominent Asians as the Dalai Lama, Thich Nhat Hahn, and the late Buddhadasa Bhikku in Thailand (here among the deceased I would also include the influential D.T. Suzuki).

Despite my inability to accept such Buddhist true verities as karma and rebirth, and my attraction to Stephen Batchelor's "Buddhism without beliefs," I find it impossible to ignore the very different Buddhism practiced by my wife and her family as well as millions of other Thais. This devotional Buddhism is a religion more than a philosophy or psychology and it combines elements of local animism and Brahamanism from India along with Jitaka fairy tale stories, Abhidhamma metaphysics and teachings from the Pali canon of scripture. These Buddhists regularly, even daily, visit the thousands of temples in every area of the country, offer food, gifts, flowers, candles and incense to monks and icons to gain merit, receive a blessing, sprinkled water, and a strip white string tied around the wrist. They wear sacred amulets, get holy tattoos and bow in respect to every spirit house, altar and ribbon-wrapped Bo tree. Few of them meditate. But by rejecting ritual and culture "superstitions," do modern Buddhists throw out the baby with the bathwater?

So my task, my desire, is to reconcile, in a "big tent," the everyday full-bodied devotional Buddhism of Thailand with the mental attitudes and practices of Buddhists in the west. No small feat. And I'm not even certain that my paper proposal will be accepted. I should learn later this month and the finished paper is due in October.

Add to the above "to do" list a study of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's book, The Little Prince, which is the topic of discussion at the next BuddhistPsyhos meeting a week from tomorrow. This is one of those "little" books I've had around for ever, always meaning to read but never following through. I finally finished a digital version of it last week. It's been called a Christian allegory so I'm not sure how it speaks to Buddhists. What I learned from online research this week is there are literally hundreds of sites ready to help students write papers about it. They make plagiarism so much more possible. I'm not unhappy to be no longer teaching writing to bored California undergrads.

All this is what I contemplate when I wake up at 3:30 am to pee. When the sun finally joins me I'm very happy.

The People Speak

2011-07-04T10:44:00.000+07:00

From this morning's Bangkok Post:

Yingluck Shinawatra

HISTORY

IN THE MAKING

A 'red tide' swept Thailand yesterday and drove the Democrat Party and its coalition partners from power. In their place steps the woman who is on the verge of becoming Thailand's first female prime minister.

In the end, the near landslide results by the Pheu Thai party was almost anti-climactic. During the six-week campaign, the younger sister of exiled (and fugitive) former prime minister Thaksin Shinawatra had been steadily gaining in the polls, despite the opposition's claims that was only a clone and mouthpiece for her much reviled older brother. She was clearly a phenomenon on her own with a rock star's popularity, surrounded at every stop by adoring crowds and raised cameras. In the final week, the Democrats, led by Abhisit and his sidekick Suthep, went negative, issuing scary warnings at Bangkok rallies not to vote for the terrorists that burned down the city. That strategy might have succeeded in the capital where they won 23 out of 33 seats but it clearly failed in the north and northeast provinces which traditionally elect the ruling party. Pheu Thai won a comfortable majority of 263 seats in Parliament which means they will not have to depend on a shaky coalition government as had Abhisit who came to power with the assist of the military and elites after two Thaksin-backed governments were sacked by court decisions. The primary question Thais have at the moment is: Will the powerful opposition forces abide by the election results and allow Yingluck to govern?

Nan and I spent much of the election weekend in Pattaya: eating, swimming, shopping, hiking, and staying out of the rain. During the last leg of our journey home, the city bus we were on was involved in a fender bender. So we were forced to lug our bags through Sunday crowds on foot, passing the Pinklao polling place above where votes were being counted after the polls closed at 3 pm. In our district, the Pheu Thai candidate was narrowly defeated. Most of the poor who are forced by necessity to work in Bangkok maintain a legal residence in their home province and had to return to vote, which might account for the Democrat success in Pinklao and in the city. There was clearly a festive air in the streets when news of Yingluck's victory spread.

Pattaya is not everybody's cup of tea, but it is a beachside city a relatively short distance from Bangkok (2-3 hours depending on traffic). Nan took a memorable two-week trip there with her aunt when she was 14 and wanted to stay in the same place again. I think not much has changed for the Lek Hotel, an aging outpost for expats and tourists. Our room was spacious and comfortable and the breakfast buffet (not included) was varied and filling. There are too many boats and waterskis just offshore for the water to be clean but the beach chairs are comfortable and the views entertaining. We strolled the waterside boardwalk, threading out way between visitors from Europe, Russia and the Middle East and the food sellers, tour touts, prostitutes and ladyboys that compete for their business. Pattaya is a shoppers paradise and we ogled the wares in upscale malls and sidewalk stalls until we found just the right bathing suit for Nan. She tried it out in the hotel pool.

Besides the sea views and the change of scenery, the main reason we like Pattaya is the food. Here is the sumptuous repast we shared at King Seafood on Walking Street. It's the slow season and the pier restaurant was almost empty. Nan had a Mai Tai and I a Margarita before the seafood salad, scallops, shrimp and fish arrived. We ate slowly, and just as we finished, a mighty wind and pouring rain drove all of the diners inside. The next night Pattaya was quite subdued as an election ban on alcohol took effect. The bars were closed and streetwalkers huddled in front of Starbucks. We enjoyed a drink-less dinner of creole cuisine at Café New Orleans around the corner from a darkened Boyztown. The loud music from live bands the night before in the two bars next to the Lek was silenced as expats endured the trial by sobriety that occurs every religious holiday and election in Thailand.

The red shirt supporters of Thaksin rallied in the streets of Bangkok last April and May, demanding a new election. Thaksin and his representatives have been unbeatable at the polls since he was first elected prime minister in 2001. Those opposed to them have only achieved power by undemocratic methods. Last year's demonstration ended with over 90 deaths and nearly 2000 injuries; scores of red shirts remain in jail. No one has been charged or convicted of the worst civil violence in Thailand's history. Yesterday, as the red shirts finally achieved their objective of a new election, Nan and I hiked up to the "PATTAYA City" sign, a trek not to be attempted by the faint hearted. The city that achieved its fame as a destination for R&R during the Vietnam War looked peaceful and beautiful from the hill above. From the sign, we hiked through a park designated as "Rotary International Peace City" and up a hill to a temple featuring a big Buddha statue. A monk was dispensing blessings and we took the opportunity to earn merit with a donation and receive a loop of string for our wrists.

Frustration

2011-06-24T14:50:00.008+07:00

Once when I was a hot-headed young man, I kicked a dent in my Volkswagen because it wouldn't start. It felt good, for a moment. But then I had many years of looking at it to remind me of the consequences of my temper. "You've got to do something about that temper," my mother told me after I hit a neighbor boy in the head with a pipe, requiring a few stitches, when he refused to share a toy. She said it again when I shot my younger brother in the stomach at close range with a BB gun which I thought wasn't loaded. Frustration arises when the world doesn't work the way you want or expect it to work. Sometimes this results in anger with awful consequences, and occasionally it produces emotions that harm only yourself. "Holding on to anger," the Buddha taught, is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else, but you are the one who gets burned." Frustration impels you to pick up the hot coal.

In the election poster above, the candidate looks like I feel when I get frustrated. Chuvit Kamolvisit is unhappy because politicians can't be trusted and are corrupt, and he offers himself as someone who will be honest. Chuvit boasts that he knows corruption intimately because he used to bribe the police to protect his string of massage parlors. Frustration, as I experience it, does not lead to running for office. I'm not sure that Nan understands me when I tell her that I am frustrated. Thais have words for helplessness, irritation, discouragement and disappointment, but not for the more fiery emotion that I call frustration. And it might have something to do with their less aggressive sense of self. They do not feel entitled, or stuck on the idea, as my father would put it, that "the world owes you a living."

I get most frustrated by inanimate objects (a kicked dog bites back), and the object of my despair last weekend was a computer program designed by Kobo, an online Canadian company that provides digital books, free and for sale. A friend told me he bought Tyrell Haberkorn's new book, Revolution Interrupted: Farmers, Students, Law, and Violence in Northern Thailand from Kobo for only $13. I've purchased ebooks from iBooks and Amazon which has a Kindle app for the iPad. Kobo looked good. It had reader apps for both the Mac desktop and the iPhone/iPad, so I downloaded them and they worked fine with a couple of free books that were included. I set up an account and bought the book. That was the beginning of my troubles.

For the next two days I struggled to find out how I could read the book I'd bought. My Kobo account showed clearly that I had purchased the book and that it had been added to my library. But neither of the Kobo apps I'd installed showed the book. I tried to delete the free books from my Kobo bookshelf in hopes that the paid one would be underneath, but that proved to be impossible. I sent a couple of annoyed emails off to Kobo which were dutifully acknowledged by a computer which promised a reply soon. Numerous help pages at the Kobo site contained the information "content deleted by owner," not a good sign. I searched the digital book and Mac forums online and found others had similar problems with Kobo. As my frustration level rose, my ability to understand possible solutions fell, and it all seemed like gibberish to me. Finally I resorted to planking on the bed and Nan fled our apartment with a friend for a less gloomy climate. Over the next two days I learned about Adobe Digital Editions and downloaded the program which was able to read the book from Kobo's .acsm file. Then I discovered the Bluefire Reader which could open the ADE file on my iPad. Along the way I also collected Overdrive which will let me order digital books from the library back in Santa Cruz for which I possess a card and borrowing privileges. Have I mentioned that a week later I've received no response to the half-dozen increasingly angry emails I sent Kobo? I wasn't willing to pay for a phone call to their headquarters in Canada (and collect calls are impossible as I've discovered from a mobile phone in Thailand). After this, I deleted Kobo's apps from my machines and vowed to never set foot in their online store again. But I'm cool.

The thing is, I knew that I was experiencing frustration and I could feel the anger bubbling close to the surface. It was possible for me to watch it and to some extent control its expression. Now that I no longer own a car, computers are usually the trigger. I bought a new laptop recently with a more complex trackpad and I make frequent wrong finger moves that take me where I do not want to go. But I'm too stubborn to buy a wireless mouse and keyboard like my friends. So I swear a lot at the innocent machine. Jai yen yen, cautions Nan from nearby when she hears my angry words, which means: "Cool it! (keep a cool heart)." The opposite, jai ran, a hot heart, is the Thai expression for impatience, a state all too common for farangs.

After I began teaching at Mahachula Buddhist University, I encountered many unexpected situations that caused frustration. Coming to school one day, I found that a a temple fair was taking place and all classes had been canceled. No one thought to notify me. The staff and faculty for the Foreign Languages Department speak limited English and simple requests are arduous. Anything involving paperwork has been difficult. Gradually I learned to expect the unexpected and my frustration lessened. Until this term. Now I teach at the new Wang Noi campus in an air-conditioned classroom with an excellent sound system and two wireless microphones. The white board can be cleaned (at the other campus it was permanently gray). I teach one day a week, two classes of "Listening & Speaking English," one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and am paid for 6 hours of work.

Usually I share students with another teacher who has class 1 while I teach class 2 and vice versa. This year my partner didn't show up the first two weeks and I taught a combined class in the mornings. Then I learned that a third class would be added for our students in the late afternoon which had the effect of shortening the morning class to two hours. As it is, I think 2.5-3 hours a week is not enough to teach my subject. Anything less is unacceptable. So I complained, something Thai teachers almost never do (here are a group of them eating lunch). I felt like a bull in a china shop. Much discussion and activity took place; a new schedule was drawn up. I thought everything had been straightened out. Then the other teacher called a student to ask him to explain to me that I had perhaps misunderstood. Now he will teach a combined class in the morning and I will have them for the longer afternoon session. Fine. Through these negotiations I was watching my frustration level, and noticed that it did not rise to the heights achieved by Kobo. I think I am making progress.

While I'm on the subject of teaching and frustration, let me speak of the Sound Lab. Students of English need practicer in pronunciation which can be quite difficult for Asians (just as their languages are almost impossible for Westerners). When I was hired to teach English to 3rd and 4th year monks, I was happy to learn there was a Sound Lab available. I soon found that the equipment was old and broken, and the only occasion I used the air-conditioned lab was to give students a final exam. Imagine my joy when I heard about the new, modern Sound Lab at the Wang Noi campus. Although it was locked, I looked in the window and saw 50 computer stations along with a large control panel. I imagined that my students could spend an hour or two a week there and that their pronunciation would dramatically improve.

When I asked my department when the sound lab was open, I was told it was "broken." Every time I went to the campus I would look longingly through the window at the brand new lab which had never been used. A friend in the know told me that Thai universities, among other requirements, had to have a sound lab in order to be certified. But that they work and were used is apparently not necessary. I took every opportunity when talking with other teachers and administrators to urge that the Sound Lab be "fixed." Finally, two weeks ago the door was unlocked and I was able to examine the equipment. I soon realized that it was not being used because the instructions were in English and no one understood them. I also believe it came with only limited instructional materials, audio and video (and no printed explanation of what or where they are). Several hours of testing revealed a steep learning curve. Last week I was unable to get in, so access is a big problem (giving me the key is out of the question). Next week I was told I can take my class there. At the very least, I discovered how to connect my iPad to the sound and projection system so I'll be able to show them some videos I found on YouTube.

Frustration is obviously relative. On a good day, I am not bothered when the universe does not grant my request or recognize my importance. I don't remember my mood on the day my Volkswagen wouldn't start but imagine that it was bad to begin with. Sometimes we just need a trigger to release stress on an inanimate object. Kind of like an earthquake relieves tension along fault lines. When I get frustrated, I can sense clearly the shape of my ego. Because I paid $13 to Kobo for a digital book, I deserved their attention. Of course my upset was justified. But, as the Buddha said, that hot coal of anger directed at Kobo burned me first, and drove Nan away for the evening. At school I've learned to put my students first, even though I let my frustration show on the day all the schedule changes were announced, and then changed again. It gave me a good topic for English conversation for that day: frustration. At the memorial service last week for my friend Holly Dugan, who died at 71 of cancer, I was able to put my petty frustrations in perspective. If Holly ever got frustrated with anything other than the idiocy of politicians, it didn't show. All agreed on her equanimity of temperament. The monks chanted her passing with passages from the Abhidhamma, we dinned on a sumptuous buffet supper at the Ariyasomvilla Hotel, and reminisced about her life among us. A few days later, a group of her friends rented a boat and traveled down the Chao Phraya River to a spot that we figured would make a fine last resting place. Using a plastic coffee cup from McDonalds, and led by her close friend Pandit Bhikku, we scooped out Holly's ashes and spread them on the water.

Am I an American?

2011-06-16T12:44:00.003+07:00

What is a man anyhow? What am I? What are you?

--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

They call me a farang here, most often pronounced "fa-lang," a generic term that Thais use for all Westerners. I don't mind the label, although some tourists and expats get incensed at what they perceive as racism (turn about, fair play, I say). I also don't mind being stereotyped -- all farangs are rich and smell like a turtle (tao) -- because I also benefit for the respect automatically given in Thailand to teachers and the elderly.

National stereotypes are near universal, although less so today perhaps than in the 19th century when the Russian expat Alexander Herzen could speculate in his journal on the essential characteristics of the Germans and the French among whom he lived (never very flattering). They're exemplified in the old joke about the nature of heaven and hell: Heaven is where the lovers are Italian, the police are English, the mechanics are German, the cooks are French and the place is run by the Swiss. Hell is where the lovers are Swiss, the cooks are English, the mechanics are French, the police are German and the place is run by the Italians. Americans are just plain ugly wherever they go, obnoxiously loud and demanding that Cokes and burgers be included in everyone's cuisine.

I’m proud to be an American,

where at least I know I’m free.

And I won't forget the men

who died, who gave that right to me.

--Lee Greenwood, "God Bless the U.S.A."

Am I an American? That's become an uncomfortable question. I moved away from America, the land of my birth, not only because life for me is easier, cheaper and better now in Thailand, but also because after years as an angry leftist I could only vote with my feet. "America, love it or leave it," said the bumper sticker in the 1970's. I left. If transsexuals can change their gender, why can't I cut patriotic platitudes out of my heart? They're not me.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people,

all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

I've met backpackers from America who sew Canadian flags on their packs so as to avoid unpleasant questions and accusations. But their accent gives them away. They can't rhyme "about" with "butte." My mother was Canadian and I once made inquiries to the wife of an embassy official about switching nationalities, but it came to naught. Here in Bangkok where I hang out, the rare Westerners scarcely look each other in the eyes. They're traveling incognito and don't want their cover blown. There are places where Americans congregate, in search of a passable burger or to debate politics with the Democratic Club, but I steer clear of them. I didn't even vote for Obama. The U.S. Embassy doesn't know I'm here.

And yet... In my visit to California last year I was once again impressed by the beauty of that place. And the warmth and generosity of my friends was overwhelming. Everything was familiar and comfortable, and I couldn't wait to leave. I've claimed much of that country as my own: born in Ohio, grew up in North Carolina and Georgia, matured in California, transplanted to Connecticut and worked in New York City. My parents retired in Florida where I went to visit many times. I've traversed the continent from coast to coast several times by car, train and plane.

While becoming a radical in Berkeley, I marched against the House Committee on Un-American Activities which attempted to perpetuate the red-baiting persecution of McCarthy after he had been discredited. Their definition of "American" was clearly political, and I would have joined the Communist Party had I'd been able to find a chapter, but they had long gone underground. I hated the Vietnam War (fortunately my asthma kept me out of it) and found myself on the progressive side of social issues, like abortion and homosexuality. Most of my friends from high school went in the other direction, and now, over 50 years later, we still avoid political discussions (my Facebook postings are mostly ignored by old acquaintances). From my perspective, the identity of "American" has been hijacked by politicians from Goldwater to Limbaugh. Our side didn't fight back, and the label no longer fits.

In the classroom, however, I speak American English. This school term I'm using an American Headway textbook with the monks who study with me because I want them to know that my pronunciation is different from that of the English spoken by Australians and the British. As I developed the lesson plans, it occurred to me that I could speak to my students of my ambivalence about being an American in order to show them the malleability and social constructedness of identity. This is not an easy task since my students know who they are and how they fit in Thai (or Lao, Cambodian, Chinese or Shan) culture. They do not apparently experience an identity crisis; to disrobe or not is as far as they'll go. In our discussion this week, all of them, without exception, expressed a preference for living at home in their villages over the bright lights of Bangkok or the appeal of another country. But as I think of myself as a window on the world they might not otherwise look through, I wanted to show them the questions that are possible. And I'm doing that through songs, which I mentioned in my last post. I've collected a load of music about America, both pro and con, and designed exercises to teach them vocabulary in the lyrics. This week I played "This Land is Your Land" by Peter, Paul and Mary and talked about Woody Guthrie's pro-union politics. I've got patriotic songs by Greenwood and Neil Diamond, but will also play for them "Buffy Saint-Marie's "Now That the Buffalo's Gone," Tracy Chapman's brutal tale of conquering "America," and for a finale, perhaps "Party in the U.S.A.," by Miley Cyrus. My formative years were spent during the folk song revolution and I continue to think of music as a vehicle for radical and even unpalatable ideas.

I had a voice for these matters when I lived in Santa Cruz, one of the most progressive cities in America, but despite the support we received for our marches and demonstrations, most residents were too well-off and preoccupied with their personal lives to try and change the direction the country has been moving for many years. In Arizona or Alabama the right wing is dominant and fighting for peace, justice and a redistribution of the wealth is a real struggle. In radical Northern California, despite the closing of many public parks and the evisceration of the educational system because of budget cutbacks, life goes on as if the crumbling of the infrastructure and the effort of fighting several wars abroad while cutting back on taxes is normal. Revolution was not a subject for polite conversations that dealt mainly with sports and entertainment. Bumper stickers were a substitute for bombs.

It's not easy being a citizen of the world with no flag and no anthem (unless it be "We are the World"). Now without a car, instead of bumper stickers I post comments and links on Facebook and Twitter and those that agree with me nod their digital fingers. This post, however, was intended to be not about impotence but identity. I wonder if they are connected? There's strength in numbers. Just ask a football fan, or a viewer of "American Idol." Here in Thailand I am, despite any objections, a farang, an American. Are we what others see in us? Much identity is negative -- "At least I'm not one of them!" The worst racists in America were white trash who comforted themselves with the knowledge that at least they weren't black. There is always somebody on the bottom.

I tell my students that I love the American land and the American people, but I do not love the U.S. government. I love the mostly unfulfilled ideals and aims that citizen philosophers put into the various founding documents of America after the English settlers, having rid their territories of the troublesome native people, revolted against the king and the corporations that had paid their way across the treacherous Atlantic Ocean and declared their independence. What I don't love are the deeds of many Americans that have been uncovered in a history that is all too often the tale of conquest and destruction, of people and nature. Howard Zinn documented this bloody story in his marvelous People's History of the United States. I was radicalized as a student when I saw police use fire hoses to sweep protestors at the HUAC hearings down the steps of San Francisco's City Hall. The hopes I felt after the election of John F. Kennedy were dashed by subsequent administrations from both political parties. Despite the hopes many people felt in Obama, he has failed that promised. American today is an Empire, the bully of the world, financed by corporations, directed by a bloated military, that wreaks havoc throughout the globe. I cannot be an America if it means to represent this government and this history.

Do I contradictmyself? Very well then I contradict myself (I am large, I contain multitudes).

--Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Please, may the sun set on the American Empire, the sooner the better.

Knowing the Future

2011-06-07T09:52:00.357+07:00

Much needless stress would be avoided if only we could foretell the future. Fortune tellers at these tables in front of Wat Hua Lampong in Bangkok provide the answers for many worried Thais. Unfortunately, I'm not a believer in precognition, however useful it might be. My future as an expat in Thailand depends on annually renewing a visa, and, if I want to continue teaching (as I do), a yearly renewal of my work permit. These renewal applications require an encounter with two different bureaucracies and each holds my fate in their hand. Worrying about whether I'll pass the documents test ramps up the aging process and I have little time to waste. This year I was saved not once but twice by my brilliant wife, Nan.

Getting a non-immigrant "B" visa and a work permit took over four months of bureaucratic hassle the first year I lived in Thailand. But renewals, I was told, were easier. And they were, until this year. The problem was caused by the move of Mahachulalongkorn Buddhist University from Bangkok to its large new campus in Wangnoi, Ayutthaya province, an hour's commute away from my condominium in the Pinklao section of Bangkok where I had also moved from one apartment to another a year ago. Last year I was told I must file a change of address with the Ministry of Labour. Thinking this could be done at the Autthaya MOL office I went with Dr. Subodh, my colleague from India whose permit expires at the same time as mine. After our documents were carefully scrutinized, we were told a renewal could not be done in less than seven days, and we only had six. So the next day I went with Nan as my translator to the Bangkok MOL office and everything went fine until they asked me to draw a map of Ayutthaya and the new MCU campus. Without a pause, she asked me how many buildings there were. I said eight, and she quickly roughed out a totally fictitious map which miraculously satisfied the clerk.

From there we took a taxi to the Immigration office in the cavernous Government Building B in Chiang Wattana to get the visa renewed. After a three-hour wait that included lunch when all offices in the huge structure shut down so the hundreds of clerks can eat, I went into the cubicle with Nan to get what I thought would be an easy stamp in my passport. Unfortunately, I'd given two copies of my work permit to the MOL and was unable to provide the necessary original for immigration. We were told to come back with it. A few days later, after picking up my renewed work permit with its changes of address, we returned to Chiang Wattana and sat before an unsmiling immigration clerk. "This can't be done here because you live in Ayutthaya," she told Nan in Thai. The MOL had changed both my work and residence addresses to the campus address. Nan quietly and diplomatically convinced the clerk that we still lived in Bangkok. After being told we must return to the MOL to correct the mistake before next year, I was given the renewed visa. Total cost for all renewals and changes: about $200 (and I'll probably have to pay $28 to correct the mistake), plus another $30 in transportation costs.

My anguish over the renewal process was assuaged somewhat by the purchase of a new MacBook Pro laptop to add to my family of Apple products. My old Macbook was over four years old and showing signs of age. For the third time the battery had begun to swell up; the first replacement was covered by AppleCare but the second was about $125 out of pocket. I'd never repaired the screen when I had the chance after a thin blue vertical line appeared a half inch in from the right. The only practical reason I can give for this purchase was: it's time. And, thinking it will be the last I ever buy, I bought the best. The trackpad is a little tricky and I've gotten upset at accidental misdirection, but I think there's a learning curve. I had to buy a new cord for the TV to make use of Thunderbolt and the MiniDisplayPort, but since my Philips flatscreen lacks an HDMI plug, I'm using a VGA connection which offers an acceptable picture (but without sound since I can't find the correct audio inputs). I should also be able to use my laptop at school with the office projector to show PowerPoint lessons and YouTube videos to my students.

After saving my life, twice, Nan flew to Chiang Rai to visit her family in the small remote village in the province of Phayao where they farm corn. She took with her my old MacBook to give to her brother Nok who is studying electricity at a vocational college. He plays guitar and I thought he would particularly like GarageBand. I bought Nan a Sony point-and click and she brought back photos of where we might someday live. This is her rice field which is fallow this season, and when she graduates in a year or so, after working for a couple of years we might relocate north. It depends partly on my health. If I can't get around easily, living in a tiny village nearly an hour's drive from the nearest store (and three hours from the mall in Chiang Rai) will not be such a problem (unless a hospital is needed). A house, built by Nan's aunt, Ban Yen, is waiting for us next door to her mother. It looks very comfortable, though we'll need to add a bedroom for her young nephew Edward who will live with us. There's a European toilet, a hot-water heater for the shower, and Nan bought her mother a washing machine which will live in our house. Mobile phone reception is hit-or-miss, and I'm hoping for advances in technology that will allow me to keep plugged in to the internet with my growing family of devices (Nan has put her foot down on the idea of an iPhone but I haven't given up yet).

Now that I know I can teach for another year, I'm able to relax and enjoy my classes. The commute is not bad (lots of time to listen to podcasts), although now my teaching day is 12 hours rather than the 7 when I taught at Wat Srisudaram which is closer to my house. The Faculty of Humanity office is in the lower right of the MCU classroom building pictured here and my room is on the second floor above the Sound Lab which is, unfortunately, not working (trying to find out why has so far been fruitless). I've decided to benefit from my origins and am using the American Headway 2 textbook. I collected songs about America for a weekly fill-in-the-blanks exercise and began with Ray Charles singing "America the Beautiful," continued last week with Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA," and have prepared "America" by Simon and Garfunkel for this week's class. I'm not sure yet about exposing the monks to "American F*k Yeah" by Team America or "American Idiot" by Green Day. I told them that I love much about America, the land and the people, but I am profoundly unhappy about politics in the country of my birth. Also teaching down the hall from me on Wednesdays is Elsa, a middle-aged lady from the Philippines, whose challenge is to teach pronunciation to 3rd year English majors. At least I think that's her job, since I cannot understand her English very well. She told me that she's an evangelical Baptist and was sad that I turned down her invitation to attend her church. I told her I was a Buddhist now that I lived in Thailand, and she promised to pray for me.

A week ago Nan and I celebrated the second anniversary of our first meeting at a coffee shop near her office followed by dinner at Sizzler's with a celebratory meal at the same restaurant followed by a visit to the scenic bar on the 64th floor of the State Tower above the five-star Labua Hotel. It's called the Distil, and the couches were more comfortable than the standing-room-only Sirocco bar on the other side of the roof where scenes from "Hangover 2" were filmed last year. The views of Bangkok and the Chao Phraya River below were incredible and the high price of cocktails was offset by problems they had with the credit card machine which resulted in our drinks being made complimentary. Sometimes malfunctions can be beneficial!

The night of Nan's return, we met her friend Aui (pronounced "we") for dinner at our favorite Rimnam barbecue joint on the Chao Phraya not far from our house. Aui went to school with Nan in Phayao for two years and now is a caregiver for an old man in Bangkok. She doesn't get out much and after eating she wanted to find a karaoke place, get drunk and sing songs. We got a taxi driver to find a few for us and entered the most promising one by climbing up the stairs to wake up the proprietor and convince her to start up her machine. She brought us towels to wash our hands, and Aui picked out songs she wanted to sing from the karaoke menu. The women drank wine coolers and I had a beer (with ice, of course) and the service was terrific. The only other customer was a heavyset Thai man who sat in the corner with a hostess on his lap. Nan's cousin Bo worked in one of these places and she was more than a waitress. Aui sang well and even Nan tried out her voice. I sang the one song that came up with English lyrics but I had to make up the tune since I'd never heard it before. Not half bad. When it came time to leave, the proprietor presented us with an outlandish bill of over 500 baht ($16.50). She charged 20 baht each for the towels, 100 baht for a plate of potato chips (not even a full bag's worth), and over 100 baht for each of the drinks. I paid without a quibble and Aui gave me her share. That's one karaoke place that won't get our business again!

My son Nicky sent me an IM on Facebook this morning. He was writing it on his iPhone in the pool at the Cosmopolitan Hotel in Las Vegas. What a life! He's playing drums with Hanni El Khatib and they've begun a two-month tour that will take them to Bonnaroo on Friday, followed by a string of dates with Florence and the Machine, as well as shows with Bass Drum of Death in the midwest, east and Canada. I only got a taste of that intensity during my travels in the 1970s with Eric Clapton, Crosby Stills Nash & Young, Bad Company, Elton John and Led Zeppelin. I think being a musician in that scene is infinitely better than being a PR man. He and Hanni were recently on Fuel TV and a commercial they did for Nike's "Just Do It" campaign is currently being aired. Nicky has little time to write now and I look forward some day to hearing about his adventures.

It's the monsoon season in Thailand and I'm enjoying the daily deluge, almost always accompanied by thunder and lightning. The views from my window are spectacular.

Democracy's Last Stand?

2011-05-28T09:52:00.001+07:00

An election will be held in Thailand on July 3rd and larger than life posters like this one have sprouted on cement telephone polls all over Bangkok. Prime Minister Abhisit Vejjajiva dissolved the House of Representatives and called the election two weeks ago. Candidates from his Democrat Party are campaigning against those from the Pheu Thai Party and their recently appointed leader, Yingluck Shinawatra, the attractive but untested younger sister of the fugitive former prime minister, Thaksin Shinawatra. Although there are nearly two dozen political parties fielding candidates, Pheu Thai and the Democrats are expected to win most of the votes and who's in the lead of this close race depends on which poll you believe. This is no ordinary election.

Since Thaksin was ousted in a military coup in 2006, the country his been divided loosely between his supporters (called red shirts) and detractors who see him as the personification of evil (led by the vocal yellow shirts). An election following the coup returned Thaksin partisans to power, but street demonstrations by the yellow shirts and court decisions toppled two successive governments. Abhisit came to power backed by the yellow shirts, military, royalists, and the Bangkok business elite. Demonstrations a year ago led by red shirts calling for a new election ended with more than 90 dead and nearly 2000 injured. The Democrats have never carried a national election while Thaksin was an overwhelming winner twice. Democrat strength is in the deep south while Pheu Thai claims the hearts of people in the populous northeast. Bangkok appears to be a toss up. The yellow People's Alliance for Democracy (PAD), disappointed in Abhisit, are urging a "Vote NO" on all candidates in the election and erected this poster at their encampment near UN headquarters. They want a royally-appointed interim government for several years until the agitation for Thaksin's return disappears ("democracy" is not exactly their forte). The animal heads on the politicians' bodies are particularly insulting. Rural red shirts have been slandered as water buffalos and the worst thing you can call someone in Thai sounds like "here," the name for a monitor lizard. Poster graffiti is also fascinating. I saw one Abhisit poster altered so that he looked like a vampire from a currently popular Thai soap opera featuring a cast of blood suckers.

My Google Reader is filled with speculation from bloggers in Thailand and journalists in Southeast Asia about what will happen. Most believe that Thaksin will never be allowed to return without going straight to jail and that even if his party earns a bare majority of votes it will never be able to form a Parliamentary coalition government. The military routinely issues denials that it will stage a coup if the Democrats are defeated, but a renewed war on drug dealers and proposed security measures for polling sites are raising suspicions. Arrests for lese majeste (the law against insulting the king) have increased dramatically (a Thai-born, American citizen was jailed yesterday) with charges mostly levied against red shirts, causing numerous groups to claim that the government is manipulating the law for political gain. All parties are emulating Thaksin's strategy of offering everything but the moon to poor, mostly rural voters to win their support in a populist frenzy of solicitation. Since Thailand's government was declared a constitutional monarchy in 1932, successive administrations, both elected and as the result of numerous coups, have struggled to define a Thai form of democracy. What's missing in the past has been respect for the outcomes of elections, the cornerstone of any Western democracy. Pundits worry that if the reds win, the yellow shirts (and perhaps the military) will take to the streets to deny their victory, and if the Democrats win, the reds might do likewise. It's hard to see a way out of this impasse.

While I try to make sense of Thailand's political system, the "summer" vacation has ended and the new school term is beginning. I will be commuting to Mahachula's Wangnoi campus near Ayutthaya every Wednesday for the next four months (this photo was taken at the library, looking across to the Rector's office building). This week, only 6 of my 29 fourth-year students majoring in English attended my first class (it's a tradition to avoid the first meeting). I'll be teaching the same day as Khun Elsa from the Philippines, and yesterday she told me she was an evangelical Christian and wanted me to visit her church. I'm still waiting for my visa and work permit renewals but expect to get the needed stamps on Monday, a day before they expire. Nan begins June 6th as a full-time university student, completing a degree in human resources management. After three years with the same company, she was fired two weeks ago in an office purge and is taking that opportunity to fulfill her dream to finish a bachelor's degree. Nan will look terrific in the school uniform of white blouse and black skirt after losing five kilos with the aid of several packets of little pills given her by the local hospital. I was not happy about that, since I repeatedly declare my love and support no matter what she weighs, but after determining the pills did not contain speed, I let it go. Limiting herself to one meal a day probably does more than any pills ever could. Tomorrow night we celebrate the second anniversary of our first meeting with a dinner at Sizzler's and drinks at a skyscraper bar with a view of the city. Before her classes begin, she'll go home for a few days to see her mother in the northern province of Phayao.

While Nan is gone, I'll be deep inside of my technological cave. A few weeks ago I bought an iPad at a discount before the new model was released. It was a purchase hard to justify because the iPod Touch can do almost as much. I've been using it to listen to podcasts while I'm traveling, and to try out different apps. But it is too small to qualify as an e-reader and I'm beginning to lose my resistance to the future of digital books. So I gave the iPod to Nan and bought the new toy. My iPad has 3G capability although Thailand has not yet advanced beyond Edge, and I can read email and Facebook posts on the bus. In addition to iBooks, I got Kindle for the Mac and GoodReader for all my pdf files. The first book I bought was Nancy Egan's wonderful A Visit From the Goon Squad which I could not find in local book stores. I downloaded some free titles from Project Gutenberg, and then discovered a cornucopia of pdf, epub and mobi files on torrent sites. I'm reading Mark Hertsgaard's Hot on climate change and Keith Richard's Life. Who knew the drug-addled Rolling Stone guitarist could remember so much? It's a wonderful account of a life loving the blues amidst the madness of pop star fame and fortune. There are some drawbacks to an e-reader like the iPad. I like to dog-ear pages and can get high on the smell of paper, and those pleasures are denied me. I'm learning how to underline and make notes. The yellow tablet note app that comes with the iPad is great, once you learn how to tap the keyboard.

I've been using the electronic note pad at forums held by the Foreign Correspondent Club in Thailand. At a recent meeting on lese majeste, I listened to (from left) Buddhist teacher Sulak Sivaraksa, academic David Streckfuss who has written a new book on the law, and Ben Zawicki, chair of the local chapter of Amnesty International who has come under fire for not challenging the Thai government on its drastic curtailing of freedom of speech. Both Sulak and the entire board of the FCCT have been charged with lese majeste in the past. At another forum, statesman and former prime minister Anand Panyarachun tried to paint a positive outcome to his work as chairman of the National Reform Committee after the violence of last year, even though his committee had resigned without any of its suggestions implemented after new elections were called. At another meeting, three prominent red shirt leaders gave their account of the violence and its aftermath, and one, Jattuporn Prompan, was jailed a week later on lese majeste charges after a speech he made at the anniversary rally May 19th. The FCCT welcomes expat members in addition to the correspondents and journalists based in Southeast Asia, and its bar and restaurant are highly regarded for hanging out. Recently a new bagel cafe has opened on the ground floor of the building where the FCCT occupies the penthouse and it has become a destination for deli-starved Western residents.

While the world was waiting for the Rapture promised by a crazy old preacher in the U.S., my oldest friend Mark Detrick died of lung cancer at his home in Laguna Beach, his wife Laury by his side. He'd been suffering from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) for years and received a terminal cancer diagnosis in January. We talked on Skype in March and traded stories about the past. I met Mark in junior high school in La Canada and by high school we were best friends. His stepfather was famed printer Ward Ritchie and the library in their home included a Gutenberg Bible. We got drunk, smoked cigarettes, chased girls and listened to rhythm and blues records. Mark dropped out of Wisconsin after his first year and we were students together at Pasadena City College until he talked me in to applying to Berkeley where I was surprisingly accepted. We shared a tiny apartment, a bed that folded into the wall, and many outrageous adventures. In junior high, I had a crush on Trudy who loved Mark, and after our first semester as roommates, I was the best man at his wedding to her. In turn, they accompanied Judy and I to the Justice of the Peace for our marriage, and we all celebrated afterward in Tijuana. Neither of these marriages lasted. Mark became a successful orthodontist and met Laury from Belgium at a health club. They traveled the world during his time away from putting braces on damaged teeth. During the Vietnam War, Mark was a dentist in the Philippines and hinted that he had done some work for the CIA. Our politics diverged radically after that and we avoided it during my visits in Southern California to go skiing at his cabin near Big Bear or to a high school reunion. Recently, Mark and our mutual friend Ernie (whose second wife Joyce just died, also of cancer) gave us a very generous wedding gift which Nan and I used for a trip to Koh Chang. I shall miss him very much.

Now that the school vacation is over, perhaps I'll spend less time on Facebook and Twitter (although with the iPad I can now get online anywhere at any time). I'm still amazed that I've been able to connect with so many "friends" from different periods of my life, high school over 50 years ago to the present, from publicity and publishing jobs to students and teachers here at MCU. I've turned my wall into a private newspaper and fill it with links and comments to news stories, blogs and opinion columns. Occasionally I throw in a line about the weather or a photo taken of Bangkok from my window. The stories that attract my interest these days are of Obama and Israel. I'm deeply disappointed at Obama and I number the Israeli government among the bad guys of this century, along with Iran, North Korea and Saudi Arabia. While many of the progressive persuasion can agree with me about Obama, my remarks about Israel have drawn passionate objections. One woman whom I knew in Hollywood 35 years ago decided to de-friend me because of what she perceived as insults to Jews. And a friend from high school regularly accuses me of anti-Semitism because of my anti-Israel position, and sends me email from his wife's Zionist cousin to show how mistaken I am. I rather think many of my "friends" have deleted me from their news feeds for being annoying. I know I only receive responses from a regular few. One "new friend" in Bangkok, a former war correspondent who detests the red shirts, called me a "self-hating America" and said I was in league with Donald Rumsfeld. An acquaintance told me he drinks a bit. I had to de-friend him, however; tolerance has its limits.

How Can Humanity "Get Out of This Mess"?

2011-05-17T11:08:00.003+07:00

"The earth is contaminated everywhere by human activity," Colin Soskolne, a professor of epidemiology at the University of Albert, Canada, told the audience last Friday during a conference on "Buddhist Virtues in Socio-Economic Development." Vesak 2011 was organized by my school, Mahachulalongkornrajavidyalaya Buddhist University, and featured two days of events at the campus in Ayutthaya, Thailand, and one at UN headquarters in Bangkok.

At the day-long panel on "Environmental Preservation and Restoration," fifteen professors, monks and environmental activists from ten different countries echoed Dr. Soskolne's sentiment in different ways, telling horror stories about deforestation, water pollution, overfishing of the world's oceans, harm from invasive species, damage to sites sacred to Buddhists in India, cultural disruption in Ladakh, and the devastation caused by war and too many cars. They offered examples from the Buddha's life to show how he lived in harmony with his surroundings and established rules for his sangha of monks to prevent pollution, insure hygiene and protect nature. Most of the panelists spoke of Buddhism's core values of interdependence, moderation, respect for all beings, and restraint of desire, in order to argue that these values are necessary to solve the world's environmental crisis.

I was not convinced. As secretary of the environmental panel, I've been working for the last month to make sure that everything ran smoothly. I read all of the papers, which have now been published in a 732-page conference volume, and I gave advice to the panel's chief moderator, Dr. Colin Butler, a researcher in epidemiology and public health at Australian National University, for the final report that he presented to the plenary session at the UN on Saturday. Despite the optimism of some panelists, there was little of hope in the report, but this absence did not make it into the final Bangkok Declaration issued by the organizers of the conference. As we saw it, the seriousness of the environmental crisis was not lessened by new sources of alternative energy being developed or by ethical principles for behavior such as those contained in the Earth Charter.

There does not seem to have been much change in thought since I left the fields of environmental history and philosophy in 2004. One of our speakers discussed Deep Ecology, a philosophical fad among radical ecologists I thought had been long discredited for ignoring economic and political factors. Other panelists spoke of the affinity of Taoism and Confucianism with Buddhist values in an attempt to show that virtuous people would not treat the earth unkindly. But this is demonstrably untrue. China's air pollution is notorious, Japan kills dolphins and whales, and deforestation is a serious issue in Southeast Asia (even though logging is outlawed in Thailand, it continues illegally). Vegetarianism advocated by a monk from China (one speaker pointed out that this was animal-centric and ignored the intrinsic value of plants), freeing caged animals, and planting trees around monasteries is simply not enough to stop the structures of power and violence that are ransacking the planet for profit. There were no engaged Buddhists at this year's conference to speak of collective action and the need to stop the wheels of "progress."

The narrative of environmentalism too often focuses on individual behavior. If we recycle, reuse, and reduce our consumption, garbage, etc., everything will be ok. Bullshit. In the last ten years the environmental crisis has only gotten worse, despite Rio, Kyoto, and Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth." In the U.S., deniers of global warming and climate change have taken positions of power. Factories pollute the environment more than people, wars waged by governments are particularly destructive, and dependence on fossil fuels by the corporate economy is more damaging than the harm that individuals do through their profligate lifestyles. Reemphasizing religious values and ethics will do little good whatsoever if people, as the Buddha taught 2500 years ago, are driven by ignorance, greed and anger. Buddhism is not a self-help action plan. The most we can do is offer compassion to each other for the suffering that humans have brought upon the earth.

Environmentalism has clearly failed. If Mark Hertsgaard is right in his new book Hot: Living Through the Next Fifty Years on Earth, it's too late to stop global warming which already is causing serious climate change, and which may even have something to do with the recent rash of major earthquakes. Michael Shellenberger and Ted Nordhaus declared "The Death of Environmentalism" (pdf) in a 2004 essay which was expanded into the book-length Break Through: From the Death of Environmentalism to the Politics of Possibility three years later. The authors argue in their book and web site for a "post-environmental" politics that abandons the traditional stress on nature protection and "the politics of limits" to focus on creating a new sustainable economy. Political strategies that worked for smog and acid rain will not work for global warming, they write. Rather than defend nature, as if it's an all-powerful god outside ourselves, Shellengerger and Nordhouse urge environmentalists to abandon doomsday narratives that scare rather than persuade people to give up things they enjoy, like cheap oil and food, and jobs in industries that pollute. For this a new inclusive politics is needed. Environmentalism needs to be reframed as a global issue. Environmental historian Richard White once wrote an article called "Are You an Environmentalist, or Do You Work for a Living?" to illustrate the vast gulf between elite proponents of wilderness preservation and protectors of rare bugs and the working people whose interests are largely ignored by them.

George Monbiot wrote recently in the Guardian of London: "All of us in the environment movement – whether we propose accommodation, radical downsizing or collapse – are lost. None of us yet has a convincing account of how humanity can get out of this mess. None of our chosen solutions break the atomising, planet-wrecking project." He expanded on this pessimistic appraisal with details in "Our Crushing Dilemmas," and he asks how environmentalists can "fight without losing what we're fighting for?" Paul Kingsnorth co-founder of The Dark Mountain Project writes that “the green movement has torpedoed itself with numbers” and is now trying to save the world “one emission at a time.” Environmentalists “feel obliged to act like speak-your-weight machines just to be heard.” He calls for new stories in "The Quants [number crunchers] and the Poets," because "the whole squabble between world views is not about numbers at all. It is about narratives," and which ones can help or hinder.

I intend to study these critiques and proposals in the hope that they will deal with the crucial problem of priorities. Developing countries prioritize industrialization over pollution limits, and politicians prioritize jobs in resource extractive industries (oil, mining, timber) over controls to protect the environment. By the time the world is completely developed and everyone is fully employed, there will be no place left in which to live. Perhaps the earth was doomed when hunter gatherers ten thousand years ago first discovered how to control nature by pruning trees and bushes to grow more fruits and nuts, and learned that planting seeds would guarantee a steady supply of food. This allowed the population to blossom beyond the carrying capacity of the land and it's been onward and upward ever since. Human actions contaminating the planet today are simply an extension, with the aid of technology, of the manipulation of nature practiced by our ancestors.

Polls show that concerns about the environment are not high on people's list of priorities. Even the endless war on terrorism falls behind the economy and jobs. Most of us are more concerned about supporting our family. In addition, we want to be good people, honest and worthy of respect. We learn from our family, culture and religious tradition what it means to be a good person. In a Buddhist country like Thailand, this means to follow the five precepts, to avoid killing, stealing, lying, intoxicants and sexual misconduct. It also means to pay respect to monks and others in authority and to practice generosity to accumulate merit. Despite these rituals and guidelines, corruption in business and politics is widespread here and often accepted as normal. Although I have been fascinated by philosophy, ethics and religion for much of my life, I am perplexed by the observable disconnect between values and behavior. Even the best of people are very often hypocrites (e.g., the recent revelations about Gandhi's sex life). This leads me to conclude that the environmental crisis is not caused by a crisis in values. It is the direct consequence of structures of power and violence embedded in our economic and political systems. But I despair of every turning this around. Humanity cannot get out of this "mess."

So, what do we do? Be kind to each other, I suppose. And condemn the corporate behemoth (which we are powerless, really, to stop). The Buddha's First Noble Truth of suffering applies to the world as well as to living beings, and all we have to offer each other and the planet is compassion.