The Taoist sage Lao Tzu (floruit BCE 500), author of the Tao Te Ching, is one of those figures at the nexus of three great religions: Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism. Below is Sam Hamill’s translation of the second section of the Tao Te Ching, as printed in the Shambala Library edition of The Poetry of Zen:
Beauty and ugliness have one origin. Name beauty, and ugliness is. Recognizing virtue recognizes evil.
Is and is not produce one another. The difficult is born in the easy, long is defined by short, the high by the low. Instrument and voice achieve one harmony. Before and after have places.
That is why the sage can act without effort and teach without words, nurture things without possessing them, and accomplish things without expecting merit:
only one who makes no attempt to possess it cannot lose it.
The Los Angeles Central Library at 5th and Flower Streets
Four years after the Covid lockdown put it on hold, seemingly permanently, the Central Library has restarted the guided mindful meditations on Thursday afternoons at 12:30. The meditations are conducted under the auspices of UCLA Health’s Mindfulness Education Center.
Today I attended for the third straight week and hope to continue. I find that the guided meditations ground me. Instead of endlessly planning the future or being swept up by my unfulfilled desires, I ground myself in the present. There is time for planning and for desires, but it helps first to immerse yourself in what I call the “isness” of your being.
This form of meditation is not connected with any religion or even any culture. It is presented solely as a discipline to free your mind from endless distractions. There is no required lotus position or any other position. You merely have to sit or lie down comfortably.
If you want to get a feel for what this is like, you can select one of the following prerecorded guided meditations from your computer, or select from a list from the UCLA Mindful website:
Many a times when, while trying to sleep, my mind is swirling around with plans for the next day or frustrations or unfulfilled desires, I’ve found the practice of meditation helps me drift off to sleep.
As we head toward the culmination of another anxious election season, I suddenly had an inkling of what could happen. Donald Trump has always relied on rallies where he speaks with a bigly group of mostly young supporters with posters and MAGA hats at his back.
These rallies vaguely resemble the rallies that Trump’s hero, Adolph Hitler, staged in the 1930s. Of course, they couldn’t hold a candle to the giant 1935 rally in Nuremberg which was filmed by Leni Riefenstahl and released under the title Triumph of the Will. Now that was a real rally, with over 700,000 supporters in attendance.
Hitler Rally in Nuremberg 1935
The thought came to me that the whole Trump moment in American history will end badly. The electorate is largely made up of two groups:
People who hate Trump with a passion
People who idolize Trump with a passion (but who will come to hate him when they wake up and find out they have been used)
What I think will happen at some future date is that those faces at MAGA rallies will become a mark of shame, and that people will scan photographs of the rallies with magnifying glasses to find neighbors they could blame for their predicament, which will probably get worse over time. (Even if it doesn’t, the voters will think that.)
I look at cars that bear political bumper stickers and think, “What happens if they park their car in a neighborhood which is strongly ‘anti-’ their candidate?” That’s one of the reasons my car is devoid of bumper stickers and decals.
In this election season, with all those overweening ambitions in play, I like to think of Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) and his poem “Ozymandias.” Can you guess why?
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: ‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
The following short short story is from a collection of Antonio Tabucchi’s short stories entitled Message from the Shadows. The author, an Italian who lives in Portugal, is known for his diverse points of view, In this story, we see humanity from the perspective of a whale.
Postscript: A Whale’s View of Man
Always so feverish, and with those long limbs waving about. Not rounded at all, so they don’t have the majesty of complete, rounded shapes sufficient unto themselves, but little moving heads where all their strange life seems to be concentrated. They arrive sliding across the sea, but not swimming, as if they were birds almost, and they bring death with frailty and graceful ferocity. They’re silent for long periods, but then shout at each other with unexpected fury, a tangle of sounds that hardly vary and don’t have the perfection of our basic cries: the call, the love cry, the death lament. And how pitiful their lovemaking must be: and bristly, brusque almost, immediate, without a soft covering of fat, made easy by their threadlike shape, which excludes the heroic difficulties of union and the magnificent and tender efforts to achieve it.
They don’t like water, they’re afraid of it, and it’s hard to understand why they bother with it. Like us, they travel in herds, but they don’t bring their females, one imagines they must be elsewhere, but always invisible.
Sometimes they sing, but only for themselves, and their song isn’t a call to others, but a sort of longing lament. They soon get tired and when evening falls they lie down on the little islands that take them about and perhaps fall asleep or watch the moon. They slide silently by and you realize they are sad.
One of the great visual artists of the American film was John Alton (1901-1996), a cinematographer famous for the visual style of some of the best noir films. Born Johann Jacob Altmann in Sopron, Hungary, Alton was instrumental in creating a look across the films of different directors at different studios that became a quintessential characteristic of an entire American genre.
As he wrote in his book Painting with Light:
The director of photography visualizes the picture purely from a photographic point of view, as determined by lights and the moods of individual sequences and scenes. In other words, how to use angles, set-ups, lights, and camera as means to tell the story.
John Payne in Robert Florey’s The Crooked Way (1949)
In an otherwise unremarkable film I saw last night on Turner Classic Movies (TCM), Alton’s work lifted the film up to an entirely different level. United Artists’ The Crooked Way was a tale of a war hero amnesiac who, on investigating his pre-war life, finds he was a criminal. Alton’s images of Los Angeles, including a bail bond shop, a night club, and a war surplus warehouse made the film a feast for the eyes.
Still from Anthony Mann’s T-Men (1947)
Even in a movie shot for a poverty row studio like Eagle-Lion Pictures, Alton was superb. Of course, it helped that the director was Anthony Mann, whose noir credentials are impeccable.
To see a list of the noir films Alton photographed, check out this website and scroll halfway down for a list of eighteen of his noir masterpieces.
And just to demonstrate his versatility, Alton was also superb in working with color, such as in Allan Dwan’s Slightly Scarlet (1958) and Stanley Donen’s musicasl with Gene Kelly, An American in Paris (1951)
I knew I was getting old when I was at the ruins of Machu Picchu ten years ago when I was 69 years old. There was a light drizzle, and there were hundreds of rough slightly wet steps without guard rails. I envisioned myself stumbling and pitching down the mountain into the Valley of the Urubamba below.
For me, getting older is not what I thought it would be. In general, my mental acuity has not suffered, but I do lurch a bit when I walk. And going down a flight of stairs requires a firm grip on the handrail and a slow, somewhat painful progress to the bottom. (Going up a flight is not as bad, so long as there’s a handrail.)
Now that the Los Angeles Central Library has resumed its mindful meditation sessions, I take the light rail to the 7th Street Metro Center and walk three blocks to the library. There is an escalator going up to the street level, but on the return trip, I must take the elevator. Downtown Los Angeles has a large homeless population, so it is rare to ride the elevator when it is free of various bodily effluvia. Today, it wasn’t. But it was still better than taking the stairs, especially when there are people sitting on the stairs that have to be gotten around without access to the handrails.
Yes, there are some problems about getting old. The good news is that, for me, they are not insurmountable. I could probably even go to Peru again, but next time I’ll take a collapsible cane.
I am viewed by some of my acquaintances as something of a cave man, mainly because I do not own a smart phone. When I looked at the technology, I saw several major disadvantages right off:
Tiny screens and bad eyesight don’t go well together. I usually wear distance glasses, and I would have to do a quick switch to reading glasses to be able to discern the images and text clearly.
I actually have a flip phone which I use for special occasions, but I was disturbed by suddenly being inundated by calls in Mandarin Chinese.
Thanks mostly to the 2024 election, I am inundated with text messages begging for donations—with the result that my cell phone is mostly off and rarely travels with me. I find it onerous to manage a whole lot of text messages.
Driving around Los Angeles, I am disturbed by drivers who are still texting when traffic signals change to green.
At my supermarket, the parking lot is 30% occupied by men and women who are fingering their smart phones, making it hard for legitimate shoppers to park.
Several years ago, my friend Mohan offered to present me with a free smart phone and was shocked that I refused on the grounds that it would make my everyday life more stressed and worrisome in every way.
I might be a cave man, but if so, I am a happy one. There are too many things that I love and that do not require so radical a change of life as the care and feeding of a smart phone.
When I was in grade school, I couldn’t tell the difference between Ecuador the Country and the Equator (Latitude 0). In November 2016, my brother and I traveled to both the country and the zero latitude. Just north of Quito is a park called Ciudad Mitad del Mundo, or “Middle of the Worlkd City.” Dan and I took in the exhibits and spent the night at a nearby hotel perched atop a crater that hung over a heavy fog prior to driving to the cloud forest town of Mindo.
Actually, the equator as currently defined is 790 feet (240 meters) north of the yellow line. Like many similar geographic markers, it tends to move around. Take, for instance, the Tropic of Cancer. According to Wikipedia:
The Tropic of Cancer’s position is not fixed, but constantly changes because of a slight wobble in the Earth’s longitudinal alignment relative to the ecliptic, the plane in which the Earth orbits around the Sun. Earth’s axial tilt varies over a 41,000-year period from about 22.1 to 24.5 degrees, and as of 2000 is about 23.4 degrees, which will continue to remain valid for about a millennium. This wobble means that the Tropic of Cancer is currently drifting southward at a rate of almost half an arcsecond (0.468″) of latitude, or 15 m (49 ft), per year. The circle’s position was at exactly 23° 27′N in 1917 and will be at 23° 26’N in 2045. The distance between the Antarctic Circle and the Tropic of Cancer is essentially constant as they move in tandem. This is based on an assumption of a constant equator, but the precise location of the equator is not truly fixed.
How Far Do We Have to Move This Thing?
You know, I can actually feel that wobble sometimes. But then, if you’re going to sink millions of dollars into a park, you can’t always be re-drawing the line.
Tarnmoor 
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