Dry Pinto Beans

Four days ago I set out to make dry beans.
I washed them, rinsed them, and soaked them over night. The following afternoon, I loaded my beans into a crock pot, added garlic, chili powder, pepper, and salt, and turned them on high.
I never made dry beans before.
They were ready by 4:30 in the morning. Then, I was ready to sleep.
I woke up the next day and had them for lunch.  I added onion, chilis, and cauliflower,
then ate them again for dinner.
The next day, I ate them again. That evening I added tomatoes,
and ate them again.
Now by this time, you might say, "Brian, aren't you tired of beans yet?"
And I might say, "Naw."
You just keep adding stuff to them.
For example, the beans are so soft they could be dip. So I've added cheese, salsa
and some chips.
Now I got myself a Frito Pie!
But they're nearly finished now.

Jane Again

There ain't many nights like this
when I've been betrayed by my closest misses
I'm sittin' alone beneath this black sky.
Sittin' alone 'neath this black sky.
Unfortunately this ain't the first
time I felt like this and she's to  blame.

Last night we spent together,
but tonight there's been a drastic change in weather!
Yesterday was sunny but tonight my eyes are rainin'.
My eyes were beamin' yesterday but now
they're just rainin'.
Well yesterday I said,
She's with me!
but now I'm just rainy
and she's to blame!

This ain't no kinda Texas storm
that leaves you in awe and beggin' for more!
She tore down my house and now I ain't got nothin'.
She took everything I had now boy ain't that somethin'!
Now I'm in debt and I'm wet and I'm outta cigarettes
got nothin' but Jack and regrets!
and she's to blame.

Friends let me tell you what I'll do.
I'm gonna find me a girl,
or maybe TWO!
and swap 'em around
and just play games.

Aw Hell. I just ain't that way.

Just gotta find me a girl to hold my hand
let me be her ONLY man
and her name ain't Jane!

Now I ain't picky, she's just gotta be kind,
pretty and smart, knows a good time,
likes art, music, poetry too,
knows a good conversation or when silence will do;
likes to take a walk or sit and touch
play Nintendo together, or cook lunch,
she lays awake, she keeps me sane!
She kisses my forehead and
her name ain't
JANE!

Welcome

Listen to the song on youtube

hey ya
 hey ya
haahh

hah
hee
hee, hi-lee how

do you do?

say,
can you say
what's the weather out today?
 is it right for a kite?

see i see why he
with dirt on his knees
 is bowing
and i see why she
 keeps busy with doubting
but if three's a crowd and no room for four
then i don't wanna be there no more.

My New Song

Music at .. . here

Riverside

jumpin jumpin jumpin  in the bathtub!
given given given me  a scrub down
cutting cutting cutting hairs from my chin
snip snip snip and part my hair on the side

set me up,  with a soft tie
take me out, riverside
put me down, into the cool flow
and baptize me and let my spirit roam

wash me out, clean my insides
bring me back, i'll walk by your side
sit me down, i may not do as i'm told
but this i swear, i'll look good wherever i go

Nondualism

The blog I link here has taken one of my past stories and used it for itself. This discovery, a year after the fact, brings me to revisit the time of when I posted my original story (at the beginning of 2010 for a review of 2009), the experience that led to the story (a day spent with dear friend and co-conspirator Ryan Hochstatter), and my feelings regarding Nondualism in general, which follow.

According to Jerry Katz, writer of Nonduality Blog, "Nonduality means 'not two' or 'nonseparation.'" This idea says that while everything is individually its own, everything is simultaneously linked, connected.
I believe this can be described several ways. For example, the Bhaghavad-gita quotes Krishna to say "All paths of worship lead to God." Therefore, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Buddhist, so forth, it matters not to whom one worships, but that one worships, and by this, we are connected like spokes on a wheel leading to the central point. We are all connected by the theme of what I call "that which is beyond us" (what others call God, Allah, Yahweh...), which we celebrate.
Another view of this idea of Nonduality is a universal energy that connects everyone. While we each have our own energy of emotions, we are connected in that others share these emotions and, whereas each has his own reason and circumstances for feeling, we have all felt sadness, joy, anger, fear, and are therefore one great body. This is a basic explanation, I realize, as nondualism connects us to all things, not only people. Perhaps it is better to say that while we are individuals, we are not remote. We are, when aware, part of the whole, humanity, animals, plants, water, sky, deeper and beyond.
Nonduality: a never-ending existence that depends on each of it's innumerable parts. Everything in existence is a linchpin.

For a long while I have believed that things are not segregated as religions and leaders might have us believe. This is what saddens me when I hear of conflict in political, religious, social, environmental, domestic, and other facets of life. This conflict comes from overlooking the connection we share with one another and all.
I am reminded of something I heard on the Colbert Report: "If we lose all our bananas, in office break rooms, what will we reach past to get to the Doritos?"
Nondualism is the bananas so many pass the opportunity to savor, thereby submitting to conflict.
Then again, according to nondualism, conflict exists with, or because of, stillness or peace. That without one the other cannot exist. Long cannot exist without short, light cannot exist without shadow. Like colors on a color wheel, when colors are opposites, they are complimentary. In fact, this is the exact reason I am in love with colors. They illustrate the idea of coexistence by conflict, which is harmony.

Where does this bring me? To the extent that I believe in nonduality, we all exist so that we may not exist. We are connected universally with the atoms of each others bodies and the atoms in and beyond the far reaches of our known universe. Existence is a fractal, never ending, which therefore never begins. And within this are we.
How do we reconcile the differences between us? Acknowledge they exist and acknowledge they are few. We are each other.

six.

 the devil tried to use me for evil.

thoughts scared me to pass the opportunity; constant fear that god may not approve.
i fought, then ran to Bible. i thought maria would be glad to know how her man solves problems.
she came to my room.
i sat alone after the scolding.


 'get by' is fine.

cable television, internet flash ads - buy something.
see it and see it again, then again. well goddamn.
this continues for a while.


 indecision. travel stories. uncertainty.

lack of confidence increases with indecisiveness
and is fed by peers who know what they want.
so what's next? what are your plans?
i plan for amazing
and people will want to be part of it.


 success is not a fear of assurances.

you do nothing. you've nothing to fear.


 step on the cracks, break mama's back.

maria, forgive me.
i can no longer watch my feet.
pray for me.
look here. and there. you will see something.


 empty empty promises empty goals empty attempts

stagnant sitting, stagnant motion because
the mind does not itself turn over ideas;
the heart does not burn, instead wheezes;
the lungs are made of papier-mâché and crinkle as they heave.


 out of it.

the palm reader knows your fate.
hook one bracelet on a nail.
now the other.
don't think about your deeply crevaced palm.
a feather sticks through your ribs.
left foot out.
then the right foot.

There Is a Moral to My Vacation

We laid together. I held her tight against me, legs folded, intimately, her back into my breast, my nose in her hair; our final hours together that would end long before the sun came up. The radio clicked on. Four o'clock arrived. "You gotta be kidding me." I pulled her closer, refusing to get out of bed, my last time in that bed, my last time with her. She reached behind her and held me by the back of the thigh. Talk radio babbled on about Sarkozy, Obama, and Wiki-leaks.
I pushed my nose into her neck one last time, then dragged myself out, grumbling at the radio and it's stupid clock and stupid 4 a.m. I got in the shower, got dressed, and gathered the last of my things. She laid in bed and watched me the way I had watched her so many mornings when she put her books in her bag and ate breakfast and sipped coffee. She went to the toilet, came back out, and put her arms around me. "I'm gonna be late if you hold me much longer. I didn't realize how much stuff I forgot to pack last night." She laid back in bed and I finished gathering.
I wrapped my neck in two scarves and pulled on my coat. Just before leaving, I crouched onto the mattress that laid on her floor. "This is it," I told her, trying to savor the last moments before walking out of the warm embrace of her flat, her bed, her eyes, and leaving into the cold morning to catch my flight. She looked back at me with a gaze I didn't understand. I kissed her goodbye anyway.
Staggering with a hiking backpack behind me, a school backpack on my front, and a guitar switching hands to allow them turns to hide in my pockets, I made my way further from her without looking back. The sun kept far away from the day. My breath lingered behind me. I reached my meeting point where Zaheer waited for me. We greeted with a handshake, put my things in the car, and pulled away for Paris.

"Where are you from in North America?" he asked me. We spoke slowly on account of the early hour and my minimal ability in his tongue, but shared polite conversation.
"Texas," I told him. "And you?"
"Pakistan," Zaheer replied.
"Oh, where in Pakistan?"
"Near to Islamabad."
I nodded, then realized I had no idea where that was, so asked.
"Close to the north." He asked about Texas.
"It's difficult because people say, 'Where are you from?' and I tell them 'Texas,' and they go 'Ahh,' with disappointment."
Zaheer looked at me confused. "Why?"
"Because of Bush."
"Oh, right," he replied understanding. He laughed. "It's difficult for me because I'm from Pakistan so everyone thinks I'm a terrorist."
I didn't know how to respond, so sat quiet. His comment didn't make me uncomfortable, but, is it worse to be called a terrorist than it is a Bush-lover? Or is the worst part not what people generalize us as, but that people make generalizations at all? I sat thinking about it, then looked out the window to the misty French countryside. The sun still hid under its blankets.
Zaheer and I spoke some more. Zaheer moved to France in 2003. He told me how beautiful the mountains in the North of Pakistan are - the mountains I have heard about only as terrorist hideaways - and how there is not much brush, but it is a lovely place. When I asked if he preferred France or Pakistan, he responded telling me, "France is good for work, but Pakistan is my home. People always prefer their home." I sat in his car, love behind me and holidays ahead, thinking about what he said. "Do you want to sleep?"
"No," I told him. Then, "Well, maybe."
He pushed a CD into the player. A language came on, not French. It sounded Arabic. A man spoke in verses, then another man chanted something I never heard before. I sat in the car beside Zaheer, barreling the ribbons that laced the hills of France between Angers and Paris, the sun peaking from its covers, and I was read the Qur'an.

My eyes opened as we pulled into a gas station. "Did you have a good sleep?"
"Oh, yes. Very good." I rubbed the crick out of my neck.
We went in for coffee. The stop was full of other early morning commuters who stopped for coffee and breakfast, gas and the toilet. Zaheer and I sipped vending machine coffee and talked some more, then got back in the car and on the road.
Further on, Zaheer asked me, "Do you have a religion?"
"My family is all Christians."
"Oh." He nodded. His words came out slowly as English was his third language and his accent was thick. "Protestant or Catholic?"
"Protestant," I told him.
"Christian, Jewiff, and Islam all have one God. They are not so different. They are very similar." Now I nodded excited to hear someone of faith explain to me what I believed. He continued, "But other religions like Buddhism and Hindu, they have many Gods and this is not right." My nodding stopped. "There is one God. If there are many Gods, it is like if there are many presidents. They would fight and nothing would be right." He seemed to have a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of polytheism. I tried to explain my view.
"I believe religions are all the same, even if they have one God or many gods." Zaheer started to defend, then stopped himself to let me finish. "I'm not saying it's right to have many gods, but I think all religions are the same because religions are made of people who recognize that they are small and that something, if it's one God or many, is so great and so much bigger than they are, and they want to celebrate that. I don't think it is important how many gods you believe in, but that we all recognize that something is bigger than we are and we celebrate it." I paused and there was quiet. Only the road hummed. Then I said, "All paths of worship lead to God." Although he disagreed with one God and many gods being the same, Zaheer liked this statement. I didn't bother to tell him that Krishna said it in the Bhagavad-gita, Hindu's holy book.
We talked about Muslims in the US and the mosque in New York City.
"I was so frustrated by it. Why do we argue about that?" I told him. "We're supposed to be the United States of America, freedoms and all this, but we don't want Muslims to build a mosque somewhere because it offends us." I got fired up. "Muslims were in the buildings too! They were the fire fighters and police officers and victims."
Zaheer put into words what my jumbled mind struggled with. "It is politics." I became quiet. "They want to use this thing to keep the people mad at each other so that we think about the wrong things and don't see what the people with power are really doing."
The sun raised its eyebrows and we sped into the tail-end of traffic that snaked into Paris.

On an open road, the drive from Angers to Paris takes roughly three hours, perhaps less. Zaheer and I made good time until we hit the staggering traffic that wove for another three hours into the city. As we reached further into town the stagnant cars became more frustrating to us both. I had to meet a friend. Zaheer had to get to work. He mumbled slight profanities under his breath as we sat at a stop light with cars curving one way and another, perpendicular to each other, car hoods inches from car doors and mopeds trickling through slight gaps between bumpers. "Damn it," he breathed. "Shit. This pisses me off."
I sat thinking to myself, Why would I think a Muslim wouldn't get frustrated with traffic or say curse words?
I breathed quietly to myself and considered the drive and the three months I spent in Europe; three months meeting friends of friends, strangers, drug dealers, prostitutes, goths, Muslims, socialists, atheists, artists, activists, coffee shop proprietors, local bar tenders, North Africans, Dutch, French, Italians, tourists, beggars, vagabonds, and residents. All the perspectives I discovered, all the people I met, rolled over each other in my mind as I sat quiet beside Zaheer, considered them, and breathed.

I paid him the fifteen Euros we agreed on for the ride and took my things out of his car. We shook hands. "Thank you so much, Zaheer."
"You are welcome. You are my first time to do this."
"Oh, really? I hope you enjoyed it."
"Yes. Have a good day."
"You too, Zaheer." I put one bag on my back, one bag on my front, and as I reached for the guitar, Zaheer honked. I turned around. He waved to me with a smile.
I waved back to him, got the guitar and walked downstairs into the metro station to meet my friend one last time before going home.