Discrimination Is Funny

Early in my Wall Street career, I was rejected for a trading job at a premier money management firm because I was apparently Jewish.

The firm’s managing partner, Carl, was a reasonably smart and affable salesman. We met many times for interviews, got along very well, and I was clearly the best candidate for the job (the person ultimately hired was not particularly talented and didn’t last long).

However, Carl’s discomfort with Jews kept him from hiring me.

His prejudice was rooted in family lore (someone generations back had been financially screwed by a Jew) and evident in his social circles: exclusive country clubs without Jews, a co-op with no Jewish residents, and no one on staff at his firm had a Jewish background.

His prejudice was further underscored by his previously being the sole board member of a Wall Street brokerage firm to oppose its merger with a Jewish-owned commodity trading firm. The merger went through, resulting in the commodity firm becoming the largest stockholder of the brokerage firm; meaning, Carl would henceforth be working for Jews.

Being denied a plum job on the grounds of my religious heritage might have angered others likewise situated; but, I found it funny.

I viewed Carl as struggling with a mental handicap that limited his ability to make choices in his best self-interest. His handicap was “labeling,” or categorizing, a generic form of distinguishing between people that shadows who they are as individuals.

Labeling, like broad generalizations, is a way to try to make sense of complexity, but it ultimately prevents us from truly understanding what we label.

It’s funny, when someone knows little; yet firmly believes otherwise.

In this specific situation, Carl’s ignorance was my bliss.

Ultimately, the entertainment value of the story of this experience is greater than the rewards that might have been had I gotten the job.

When I recounted this experience to others, a few asked if I had confronted Carl to express my assumed anger. I never said anything to him. How could I speak when I was laughing?

Ironically, those upset by discrimination are also funny, for they are also engaging in categorization.

Life Review

At the end of days, as we are transitioning from the now into the Soul — what’s before and after the now — we have a life review.

The review allows us to be in the space before and after the now, with all of creation; a timeless space, where every thing that ever was, is and will be exists simultaneously.

We can see the entirety of our life happening simultaneously. This is our life review.

If what we see makes us happy, we are in heaven; otherwise, we are in hell.

A Sophisticated Art Collector

Years back, I knew a highly regarded tribal art collector who at the end of his years sold his best objects and bought fakes.

Confounded, I asked him why was he doing this: “have you lost your discerning eye or have your finances changed?”

He said: “When I started collecting, I wanted to be a sophisticated collector and as a self-confident customer I was so regarded by dealers and collectors. But then I came upon the etymology of ‘sophisticated’ and that’s not what I wanted to be. Now I collect things based on whether they continue to engage my eyes, not how they look through my ears; not how they compare in my mind to other objects or what pricing suggests about their importance.”

Psychedelic Journeys, Remembered

In college, I had three psychedelic journeys.

Now, in hindsight, I understand their revelations.

In the first journey, I wanted to eat my brain. I felt that my mind (the consciousness of the soul) and body (the self) were a duality. By eating my brain, my self and the consciousness of the soul would merge into oneness with everything.

In the second, I was looking at a painting and seeing its colors dripping beyond its frame and onto the floor. This was a revelation that all things are interconnected, like in peripheral vision; yet, our mind, through foveal vision, creates independent things.

In the third, I was wallowing naked in mud in the backyard of my parents’ attached house in Brooklyn. I was holding onto Earth for dear life as Earth was spinning incredibly fast and I was afraid I would otherwise fall away from Earth and into endless space. This suggested that if we let go our self-identity (as Earthlings), we will be one with the universe.

While these journeys might sound somewhat harrowing, I remember them as wonderful—psychedelic, soul-revealing. Each vision, in its own way, was a lesson in dissolving boundaries: between mind and body, between things, between self and cosmos. Perhaps, in the end, all journeys—psychedelic or otherwise—are invitations to remember our oneness with everything.

“Maybe They Don’t Mind”

Years back, on a frigid winter evening, my son, Max, 8, and I walked passed some homeless men setting up their cardboard sleeping surfaces under an overhang at the foot of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church on 5th Avenue and 55th Street in New York City.

Seeing them with few liberties for food and shelter, I commented: “When you grow up, if you’re not successful, this is a kind of prison where you might find yourself.”

Max replied: “Maybe they don’t mind.”

“Wow! Role reversal. The homeless are free and I’m a prisoner of a bourgeois mindset,” I said; followed by a good laugh that warmed the evening.

My Grandson Recognizes I Am God

At a recent family birthday party with twenty or so people, I asked my 10 year old grandson, Penn: “What I am?”

“You’re grandfather,” Penn said.

“Grandfather is who I am to you. But, what am I?” I replied.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“I am God,” I said. “Anyone who doesn’t recognize I am God doesn’t recognize they too are God.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Penn said. “No one thinks you’re God. If you are God, you could help me do anything which you can’t.”

“Those who see my essence, recognize I’m God,” I replied. “If I take off my clothes right here right now, many here will say: “Oh my God.”

We then both burst out laughing.

“We’re both God,” I said. “As God, we can help people who don’t take their self too seriously; otherwise, we can’t do much but laugh.”

You here, long time?

More than 40 years back, I found myself in a NYC taxi. Though the driver didn’t greet me, he didn’t seem unfriendly.

As he was dressed in clothes from the Indian subcontinent, I assumed he had recently arrived in the States.

To know his story, I asked him in mock pidgin English: “You here, long time?”

He responded in the King’s English: “I have been here 10 years, but I don’t know if that is long or short.”

We laughed.

There is nothing to know.

Frank Zappa

Sometime in 1967, I went to the Garrick Theatre in New York City to see Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention perform a sparsely attended show.

It was a rainy day and Frank wore a rain hat which brought a few streams of sweat rolling down his face.

After the show, I went backstage to meet Frank. My sole question was: “What do you look like without that prophylactic hat?” To which Frank responded: “Like a real man.”

Frank was a real piece of work; not one of infinite copies or an overpriced fake.

 

The following year, Frank produced a song, some of whose lyrics have ever since resonated with me as funny and profound:

 

“What is the ugliest part of your body?

Some say your nose

Some say your toes

But I think it’s your mind.”

 

Nothing to the eye is inherently ugly or beautiful. However, the mind, by comparing things, deems some things uglier or prettier than other things. The mind is the ugliest part of the body, for it’s the only part that makes things ugly.

My Mother’s Transition 2

In the last year of my mother’s life, she was mentally clear but otherwise incapacitated.

Living in a nursing facility, she couldn’t do much but be carted around to group entertainment activities like movie watching. Her days must have been intolerably long, as she had little to do to kill time until time killed her.

Yet, her perspective was otherwise.

I once asked her if she was often bored, to which she replied, “Oh, I am busy all day; barely have time to do anything.” What was she busy with? “Thinking about my life.”

My mother traveled to the land of her memories. Her memories must have been happy as she never complained and had no regrets.

That’s how my mother transitioned, living in her memories until she became a memory. For me, only a happy memory.

Messiah Is Here

In January, 1990 I went to trial in U.S. Federal Court for “insider trading.”

Prior to trial, I went to Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the spiritual leader of the Chabad-Lubavitch Hasidic Judaism dynasty, to ask for a blessing. The “Rebbe” as he was commonly referred to was renowned for his wisdom, compassion and connection the the Almighty. As there is a good deal of randomness determining the outcome of a trial, I had hoped the Rebbe would put in a good word for me and bring me some luck.

Some days after my visit, the Rebbe sent me a message: “Hopefully, the Messiah will arrive before the trial ends.”

I took this message to mean I would lose the trial which three months later I did.

However, as I considered my good fortune in terms of healthy, family and future opportunities, I gracefully accepted the loss and the resultant financial penalties and time in prison.

 

Now, 34 years hence, the Rebbe’s message still resonates with me.

Life is a trial.

Everyone is executed at trial’s end.

Yet, there is hope for reprieve before execution.

The Messiah will bring reprieve.

In the “Messianic Era” there will be peace, harmony, abundance and prosperity. God will be universally recognized and communicated with and evil will cease to exist. Moreover, the dead will be resurrected; that is, we will realize no one dies. Essentially, all will be enlightened.

Looking around the world today, it seems a far cry from the Messianic Era.

Yet, Messiah is here for those who open their eyes, for they will be enlightened.

Enlightened, they realize that however difficult their circumstances, they are lucky their circumstances are not worse. They realize that when circumstances are difficult, things will likely get better.

The Rebbe’s message did bring me luck. The luck to realize the Messiah is here. “Hap” means luck. Hap is the root of happiness.

Lester Wunderman

Lester Wunderman was a successful advertising executive, renowned as the father of direct marketing which he created in the late 1950s. Lester was also an avid collector of Dogon African art, having amassed a “world class” collection which now resides at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and Musee Du Quai Branly in Paris.

I knew Lester as an investor in my hedge fund in the late 1980s. However, as we both had an interest in tribal art, we spoke more about art than investing.

Lester started collecting Dogon art from Mali in a chance view of a figurative object at a gallery in LA. He didn’t quite know why this artwork stirred a passion, but “it spoke to me.” After much time and money spent on amassing his collection, Lester visited the Dogon people who lived at desert’s edge and for whom sourcing water was often a preoccupation. Warmly received and aware of the water issues facing the Dogon, upon his return to NY, Lester contracted geologists and engineers to drill several drinking wells for the Dogon. He later returned to visit the Dogon and was initiated as a shaman, with a animist festival highlighted by singing and dancing at a village where he had connected the Dogon to a water source.

The singing and dancing resonated within him. It was then he realized the artworks in his collection were essentially empty; for what he was seeking was not artworks, but the singing and dancing connecting him and all in the community as one. Soon after, Lester distributed his collection to museums for those less fortunate than himself to experience the life of the Dogon vicariously.

Merton Simpson

Merton Simpson was a black man born in 1928 in racially segregated South Carolina. Merton was a musician, painter and, after settling in New York, a world-renowned tribal art dealer.

As a collector of tribal art, I met Merton in 1991 and over the years purchased a few objects he had on offer. More significantly, we became friends; that is, we were completely open in our talks; taking vicarious joy in each other’s tales and perspectives, without judgement.

I did much of the talking as Merton was not a man of many words or paragraphs. Yet, Merton conveyed his feelings by laughing which is what he did much of our time together.

Merton loved the physical experience of being alive. He loved looking at art, listening to music, eating and fucking. I could appreciate that.

While in his day Merton was considered a top tribal art dealer, in his later years there was much talk about some of the objects he had on offer being of dubious authenticity. (Authenticity is the foundation of the collectible art market, without which art prices could not rise to as high as the sky. For if art was simply a visual experience, high quality “fakes” would be as valuable as authentic artworks.)

Some in the field of tribal art collecting suggested that Merton’s “fakes” were not offered with malintent, but perhaps Merton with age lost his critical “eye” for identifying artworks that were “real” or “fake.” However, I suspect Merton evolved beyond these artificial categorizations. Merton came to simply enjoy and appreciate art things, as well as things generally, as there were, not as a function of how they were categorized or relative to other objects. He saw things not as this, that or another, but as is.

In one of our many get-togethers, we looked at an African Nkisi figure, commonly called a “nail fetish,” to consider whether it was “real” or a “fake.” After some minutes, I asked Merton what he thought, to which he responded: “It is what it is.”

That’s as God self-identified to Moses: “I am what I am.” Simply, Merton delighted at the light from the “Burning Bush.”

 

Menachem Mendel Schneerson

Sometime in late 1988, I found myself on a hundreds long line of people awaiting to ask for a blessing from Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Chabad-Lubavitch spiritual leader.

As customary, the Rebbe gifted everyone on line a crisp, new US dollar bill. The gift was a sign of humility; the great Rebbe expressing gratitude to those who ventured to his house. As well, it suggested the bill recipient treat others likewise; that is, on every occasion, treat others with kindness.

I imagine all those dollar bills are still around, in wallets and places of safekeeping. They are sacred mementos. My dollar I’ve kept in my wallet. Now, 36 years later, it has virtually disintegrated. What a loss! It would have been more valuable had I given it to someone soon after receiving it; more valuable to both me and the recipient.

The Quarantine

In January, 2022, during the waning days of the quarantine pandemic (yes, a pandemic of quarantines), I travelled to Japan where strict quarantine protocols were still in effect; upon entering Japan I would be sequestered for three days in a government managed hotel. While I could have delayed the trip until the quarantine was lifted, it seemed fun to experience a quarantine.

Given a choice between three days of quarantine and three days of leisure, clearly I’d choose leisure. However, the quarantine didn’t seem it would be much of a problem and as 90% of any experience is experiencing oneself, the quarantine like most things would be fun for me. Moreover, the stories my memory could weave out of the quarantine experience would make it fun regardless of what it was at the time.

After a 14 hour flight from New York City to Tokyo, I was among a thousand or so people held at Tokyo airport for processing. We were held captive for 15 hours by dozens of police officers and people running around in hazmat suits. Everyone was in operating room mode, all masked up. It felt otherworldly, even in Japan which is already otherworldly. Food rations were limited to the inedible that no dietician would ever recommend; hot dogs, bread, sugary fruit juices. As we were closely packed together, people slept on chairs and floor, a veritable petri dish where a single Covid infected individual could easily spread the virus. At some point, people’s street clothes looked like pajamas needing a wash; people became restive. Finally, after extensive testing of secretions from nose to spit and waiting on innumerable lines with paperwork in hand, we were taken to a government hotel and placed in solitary confinement. My room was luxurious from the perspective of anyone living before 1850 or currently in a refugee camp, but otherwise basic. Fortunately, there was a big clock in the room, allowing me to identify breakfast, lunch and dinner as each meal was essentially the same thing, whatever the thing was. I did have the freedom to smoke cigars in the room; though the hotel stopped offering coffee three years back and what’s a cigar without a coffee! Entertainment was via cell phone and emails; fun connecting with others who pitied my plight which truly wasn’t bad. Ultimately, I’d recommend a quarantine as a good remedy for jetlag.

After the quarantine, I returned to the everyday world and typical high points of a trip to Japan; restaurants, onsens, meetings with colorful people, viewing gardens and landscapes and visiting shrines. Today, I hold little memory of those moments, but the odd and peaceful time in quarantine is with me forever. If we can’t enjoy a quarantine in a civilized country, how can we enjoy most things.

Mike McCarthy

“We clearly picked the wrong day to have a bad day.” — Mike McCarthy, head coach of the Dallas Cowboys, after his football team lost their playoff game in a major upset.

We’re blamed or credited for the consequences of our actions, though the consequences are often a function of luck.

Happy New Year 2024, Hopefully

2024, the year of consequential choices; harmony or death.

In 2024, all roads lead to 4; 2 + 2 = 4, as does 2 x 2.

The number 2 is associated with duality, representing two complementary or opposing forces; light and dark, good and evil, male and female, or yin and yang.

Likewise, 2 + 2 is additive, complementary; while 2 x 2  (like measures of length and width) suggests intersection, conflict.

In the West, 4 represents stability, balance and harmony; the complementary. However, in China, Korea and Japan, 4 is associated with death (often what results from conflict), as the word for “4” in their respective languages is pronounced identically like their word for death.

So here we have it, 2024, the year of harmony or death; hopefully we make the better choice.

 

An Experience Is Whatever You Want It To Be

“Some squirrels in south Georgia, they’ll taste a little bit more nutty. Up here [Baltimore], our acorns and stuff aren’t really as strong as the ones down south. Most of them up here, it just tastes like squirrel. If you put enough seasoning on it, you can make it taste like anything you want it to taste like.” — Ben Cleveland

Cleveland is a football player for the Baltimore Ravens. He comes from Georgia where he ate squirrel meat when there wasn’t much else to eat.

.

High School Graduation Yearbook

In the U.S., it’s customary for the High School graduating class to have a Yearbook with individual photos that people sign with some parting well-wishes.

Susan, a girl I found attractive at the time, signed my Yearbook with the following inscription:

“Someday people will understand what you are talking about and I’m sure this world will be a better place for it, but sure as hell I’ll never understand.”

Those who are “sure as hell” don’t know heaven, for heaven is all there is.

Needless to say, I couldn’t convince Susan to spend a couple of hours with me in heaven.

 

Being Eccentric Is Fun

Since I was a young boy, many people thought me funny; a bit odd and laughable in terms of my thinking and lifestyle.

I’ve occasionally been asked : “Which planet do you come from?” I laughed, as it was true; I must have come from someplace else as I didn’t think the way they did.

However, as I was always happy regardless of circumstances, it should have been clear I didn’t come from a another planet. I came from heaven.

They too came from heaven, but forgot they did.

No Yacht For Mrs. Khrushchev

The British-American author and journalist Christopher Eric Hitchens (1949–2011)…once recounted a story about Chou En-lai, who served as the first Premier of the People’s Republic of China from 1954 until his death in 1976. According to Hitchens, Chou had been invited to speculate on how the course of history would have been altered if, say, Nikita Khrushchev had been assassinated instead of John F. Kennedy. Chou’s austere version of Marxism made him dubious about the importance of things like sheer accident and mere individuals. But in this instance, he was prepared to allow that things might have been different. How different? “Well,” said Chou with complete gravity, “I hardly think that Aristotle Onassis would have married Mrs. Khrushchev.”

My Awakening

When I was 16, living in Brooklyn with my parents, one summer night I drove to Brighton Beach and sat on the rocks along the shore. Reflections from the moon danced on the water, the ocean breathed in the surf and breathed out a roar. The night sky was a black blanket with pinholes to unknowable worlds on its other side. Lights and sounds vibrating the air, every-thing teeming with aliveness; unique, unlike anything experienced before.

I wondered why the ocean, expressing itself with motion and sound, was not considered as alive as are plants and animals. What did it mean to be alive? The “alive” classification made little sense. Classifications, descriptions and thoughts generally felt artificial, man-made; helpful for organizing and communicating, but otherwise empty of aliveness.

Who am I in all this?

The sounds, the lights, the ever-changing shapes unfolding from nothing, the ocean smells; overwhelmingly beautiful, yet eerie as in the presence of a great spirit. Then, the infinite number of finite things were no longer finite, but manifestations of one infinite thing. I was infinitesimal before the infinite, until I realized I was the infinite.

This was a religious experience, but not connected to an organized religion. It was initially animism and then pantheism. This was my awakening and realization of our immortality.

The Spiritual Master And The Way

A couple of years back, I was introduced with a renowned “spiritual master.” We spoke at length and when it was clear that I was comfortably retired, he suggested: “As I know the workings of God and you’ve got the money and time to do as you wish, let’s spend a year together studying spiritual matters.” I then asked him what would we do following year, to which he replied: “Then I’ll have the money and time to do as I wish and you’ll know the workings of God.”

The Daughter Of A Different Color

“When the time comes our adopted daughter asks how she is different than her brother and sister whom we had naturally, I’ll tell her that her brother and sister came from mommy’s stomach and she came from mommy’s heart.” — S.S.P.

S.S.P. is a dear friend who adopted a four year old from an orphanage in India.

My Birth

I was born a bit after my mother’s due date.

It was a difficult birth as the delivering doctor struggled to pull me out from my mother’s womb; ultimately needing forceps to do so.

As it was a long and fraught procedure, out of curiosity my mother asked the doctor if such a difficult birth signaled anything about me. The doctor looked at my mother, who didn’t come across as having lots of shiny marbles in her head, and said: “Your son may not be particularly smart, but is very wise. He delayed coming out as long as he could, knowing he came from heaven and life on Earth is anything but that.”

Covid

The Covid pandemic was a once in a generation psychological test that revealed the nature of each mind; a reality check. Though the pandemic panic has subsided, many people still refuse to give up on the vaccines, masks, social distancing, etc. They are held captive by their traumatic memories, prisoners of their mind. They cannot experience the now as it unfolds, only as it is framed by their mind in the context of Covid. Those who are free of the past, look back and laugh at the Covid fiasco.

As to the pandemic itself, it was beautiful. An experience shared worldwide as it was the focus of everyone’s attention. One felt connected to all sentient beings as sentient beings, oblivious to their identity group memberships. It was like the end of days, the apocalypse; the lifting of the veil of artificial constructs like race, nationality, religion and economic status to reveal all as simply sentient beings; all as one. A brief and powerful peak moment in the making of collective history that quickly descended into a Tower of Babel.

Moreover, Covid was a healthy systemic process. Like a hurricane, Covid cleansed the human tree of life of weak limbs that were otherwise dying slowly. This was good for the environment as it resulted in less adult diapers to dispose of.

Bactrian Silver Trumpet, Late 3rd – Early 2nd Millennium BC

At first sight, this object engaged my attention; great presence (which has not diminished with time), surreal, and enigmatic as it seemed to have an ambiguous utility function. Initially, I thought it was a hearing aid; the top inserted in the ear and the bottom the mouthpiece. Others have guessed it a spout for pouring wine or an implement used for snuffing out a candle. However, notwithstanding other creative uses, it’s a mini trumpet a shepherd would use to get the attention of another shepherd in the distance.

Now, I see this mini-trumpet as a mouthpiece through which the breath of God enters a human head which processes the breath into sounds. The sounds are music. The sounds are signals, like words. An apt metaphor of this book, as its purpose is to convert the breath of God into words for all to hear.

Smart Guys, Wise Guys

Educational institutions identify smart guys who society ushers into jobs that make laws and rules. The smart guys painstakingly work at rule-making, take themselves very seriously and get quite upset when people break or find ways around their rules.

Wise guys figure ways around laws and rules and invariably laugh, for relatively less effort they are better remunerated than smart guys.

When wise guys figure ways around rules, smart guys eventually take notice and write more rules to thwart the wise guys. Of course, the wise guys figure ways around the new rules. This minor cycle continues until at some point the rules cause the wise guys to work relatively longer and for less renumeration than the smart guys.

Then, the wise guys move on to other venues for better opportunities. Soon after, price goes up and quality goes down for the goods or services subject to the rule-making.

Ultimately, it’s clear that the smart guys weren’t so smart. They’re fired from the organization at which they worked and their rules are abolished. A new system emerges with limited rules, causing prices to go down and quality to rise. However, soon after, smart guys are hired again to make rules. A new grand cycle then begins.

Buddha Or Psychopath

There is a Buddha parable that goes like this:

One day Buddha was walking through a village. A very angry and rude young man came up and began insulting him. “You have no right teaching others,” he shouted. “You are as stupid as everyone else. You are nothing but a fake.”

Buddha was not upset by these insults. Instead he asked the young man “Tell me, if you buy a gift for someone, and that person does not take it, to whom does the gift belong?”

The man was surprised to be asked such a strange question and answered, “It would belong to me, because I bought the gift.”

The Buddha smiled and said, “That is correct. And it is exactly the same with your anger. If you become angry with me and I do not get insulted, then the anger is yours to deal with.”

At that moment, the angry young man awoke and became a lifelong disciple of Buddha.

 

This story is reminiscent of my relationship with my father. From the time I was 13 until I went to college, my father was often angry with me; frustrated that I questioned his authority and mocked his core social and political beliefs. He screamed at me and on occasion hit me (not to hurt me but to vent his frustration). One time he said: “I wish you were never born.” To which I replied: “That’s your problem.”

Was my reply reflective of a Buddha nature or a psychopathic mental disorder? My father would likely say the latter (he at times called me a “sadist”) as my reply didn’t bring him to see the light; it just made him more angry.

After my father’s untimely transition from life at 60 years old, I was once overwhelmed by sadness and tears; reflecting on not having awakened father to experience life as it is and not solely as he was.

Lying To The Public

Lying to a government official is a criminal matter. Yet, when governments lie to the public, that is not a crime; though it often leads to disastrous results like wars, wide scale prosecutions and poor health outcomes (drug laws) and political repression.

If lies promulgated by governments were a crime, governments would dramatically shrink in size as many government workers and politicians would be imprisoned; especially the most dangerous ones, those who are truly sincere, the ones lying to themselves.

Empathy Is Harmful, Compassion Is Helpful

In the early 1980s, I worked at Oppenheimer & Co, a medium-size stock brokerage firm in New York City.

At year-end, employees were evaluated and given bonuses. However, for some, the news was otherwise; they were fired.

John, with whom I was friends, was fired.

This came quite unexpectedly to John who had envisioned a lifelong career at the firm.

John, distraught, took to tears.

John’s empathetic friends were quick to console him. I didn’t.

I saw him as selfish, focusing on a small disappointment instead of being grateful for his good fortune relative to 99% of others living on this planet.

I eventually came by and congratulated John at now having all sorts of opportunities he hadn’t considered before his firing. As well, I thought we could figure a way John might wrangle some termination payments from Oppenheimer.

But John would have none of this talk of making the best out of current circumstances. He wanted to continue wallowing in self-pity. He wanted empathy, not compassion.

From my perspective, John was not in any immediate financial difficulties. He was a talented guy who could easily find another Wall Street job.

As he didn’t have a cancer protruding out of his ass, he had much about which to be grateful and happy.

His sadness was about being fired, an event that seemed real as the self is obsessed with the past; not letting John accept it as passed.

John was a prisoner of his self. That was sad.

 

Empathy is harmful, compassion is helpful.

When someone is distraught, it is their self that has upset them.

Empathy acknowledges the self’s thoughts and feelings which encourages us to take the self seriously, allowing the self to continue wreaking havoc upon us.

Alternatively, compassion comes from the Soul.

Compassion dismisses the self and efforts to helping others make the best of their circumstances.

Simply, empathy is consoling someone who’s upset about having lost their job which keeps them from finding a new job and compassion is helping them find a new job.

Trip To Tibet

Robert Thurman is a scholar, author and academic who founded Tibet House and was in 1965 the first American Tibetan Buddhist ordained by the Dalai Lama.

For many years, Thurman biannually lead groups on tours of holy sites in Tibet. In the late 1990s, I sought to join Thurman on such a tour.

Geographic Expeditions (GE) is a tour operator out of San Francisco that organized Thurman’s tours.

Two years before his next trip, I contacted GE and was placed first on the list of those going.

Periodically I called GE for an update on the timing and particulars of the trip.

Finally, some months before the trip, I was told that as they were overwhelmed with interest from people than available slots for the trip, 15, everyone was required to write an essay as to why they wanted to go.

My essay spoke about my collection of ancient Himalayan and Tibetan Buddhist art and that I had read a couple of Thurman’s books on the subject.

As the tour was coming together in final form, GE contacted me to say that Thurman was allowing only “serious Buddhists” and the trip. He deemed I was not; so my application was rejected.

Upon further inquiry, I was told the number of essay applications was 16. I was the only application rejected.

I was surprised and not surprised by this turn of events.

Ultimately, I found it funny.

“Serious Buddhists” sounded like an oxymoron.

Yet, what’s truly funny is that some people would have been upset or even angry had they been rejected after waiting two years and never doubting they would go as they were first on the list of reservations.

It’s hysterically funny when people get upset by essentially meaningless things in the scheme of things.

Beyond a good laugh and story I can share with others which in turn will laugh, I felt good that now I had extra time and money to spend elsewhere.

In hindsight, had I gone on the trip, some other attendees might have enjoyed by presence. But as only “serious Buddhists”, maybe having a good laugh is not their interest.

 

 

Supervised Freedom

“I used to get a laugh from students by quoting a Soviet citizen I talked to once. He said to me, ‘Of course we have freedom of speech. We just don’t allow people to lie.’ That used to get a laugh! They don’t laugh anymore.”

— Gary Saul Morson

Myopia

When I was 13 I didn’t need glasses but marveled at the experience of those who did. I thought people with myopia could see things two ways, with and without glasses. Poor eyesight seemed like a blessing that could lead to interesting insights.

This might be the case.

With myopia, one realizes they don’t know what they are looking at. This arouses curiosity which exercises the mind.

A well-exercised mind is fitter.

Statistically, people who are myopic have a higher IQ than those who are not.

 

The Nature Of Cats

CAT is an acronym for a sheriff’s Criminal Apprehension Team which tracks and arrests offenders wanted for serious felony crimes.  Cats don’t scratch when they purr. Cats don’t like any sort of water.

Some years back, I lived in Westport, CT. One day, as I was driving to play squash, I was on a business phone call and startled by red lights in the rearview mirror. Soon enough, I was parked on the side of the road with a police car behind me. An overweight officer came out of his vehicle. He was livid, screaming: “You were on our cell phone.” I said: “Officer, I know I was on the phone, I shouldn’t have been, poor judgement on my part. But I’m a bit late for a squash game. How about I give you my license and registration and meet you back at the station house after the game and we’ll sort it all out?” He then got even angier and screamed: “You can’t do that.” As our temperatures were rising, I said: “Officer, I see you are upset. I think you are upset with me. I feel terrible. We are here to take care of each other and I’m not doing a good job of it. Please, tell me, what can I do to make you feel better?” At that point, our minds calmed and he said: “Let’s forget about it.” A cat doesn’t scratch when it’s purring.

I told this story to a lawyer friend from Spain. He said that he often gets stopped for traffic infractions but never gets ticketed. Simply, when stopped, as the police officer comes asking for his driver’s license, my friend puts his right hand finger, which is out of the officer’s view, to his nose. From his left side, it appears his finger is sloshing around in his nose. He then takes out his driver’s license with his right hand and offers it to the officer who invariably refuses it and tells him to be considerate (perhaps prophylactically) of others. Cats don’t like all sorts of water.

Discriminating Mutts

By definition, a mutt is a dog of uncertain pedigree. A mutt is also a person who is stupid or incompetent. Those who don’t allow a mutt to compete at a dog show are also mutts.

Imagine an extraordinarily beautiful, athletic and intelligent rescue mutt; so smart, the mutt masters every trick in the book and even learns to play checkers competitively with a 10-year old. Surely, the mutt would win first prize at any accredited dog show, become instantly popular with the general public and be in great demand for breeding which would improve the genetic pool of dogs generally, be financially rewarding for its owner and allow the dog to have fun.

Unfortunately, without a pedigree, the mutts who run dog shows wouldn’t allow the mutt to compete, fearing the mutt would outshine them as it would do more to promote general interest in dogs than could they or any pedigree dog.

 

The Night My Parents Married

The mind can make the most pleasurable things unpleasurable.

I was recently informed by my sister that my father, an orthodox Jew, was angry the night he consummated his marriage to my mother. Their lovemaking turned from pleasure to anger when he realized my mother was not a virgin as she had claimed.

I thought it funny that his mind distracted him from the pleasure at hand; that she had bed others before him and mislead him seemed besides the point.

I don’t know whether my father was upset because he felt my mother’s deception compromised the foundational trust upon which a solid relationship is built upon or perhaps my father felt that marriage was a significant financial commitment on his part for which he expected to have first dibs on certain bedroom benefits; yet, apparently, others received the benefits for free.

Seeing With Our Eyes

In October, 1992 I started collecting tribal art. While initially I didn’t imagine tribal art would be expensive, I was soon amazed at how expensive some objects were; some fetching hundreds of thousands of dollars. What made these objects so expensive is that there is a limited supply of “authentic” objects. (Authentic objects are those made by a tribal people for their own use and used accordingly. That’s unlike “tourist” objects made for others and “fakes” made to appear like authentic objects.) Authenticity is essentially the sine quo nom of the collectibles markets generally. Without a limited supply of art objects qualifying as authentic, the art market would collapse. If objects were judged simply by their aesthetic appeal alone, facsimiles that were indistinguishable from authentic objects would flood the market, making authentic objects not worth more than the cost of making a facsimile. Without high-priced collectibles, there would be no collectors spending huge sums to support art museums, auction houses and well-heeled dealers.

Art, as well as everything else, is viewed by our eyes and our mind. Our eyes see things as they see things. As our eyes have no memory, our eyes cannot compare one thing with another. However, while some things engage and appeal to us and some less so, just about everything has a unique beauty to it from some perspective. Our mind cannot see, it can only hear. When we look at an art object in terms of its authenticity, provenance, description and in comparison to other art objects, we are “seeing” through our mind, not our eyes. The art market depends on collectors seeing through their mind, not their eyes.

As a collector I’ve met many dealers. One thing that several said in passing particularly struck me: there have been many well-considered collectors that as they got on in years often sold many of their “top” objects and purchased others that were clearly fakes or of lower quality. Dealers speculated that these old collectors simply lost their “eye;” that is, they could no longer distinguish a fake from an authentic object or they lost their sense of taste and as such were satisfied with lower quality objects. Perhaps or maybe these old collectors finally saw art objects with their eyes, not their mind.

Now, I too am an old collector and appreciate the mindset of the old collectors who were pooh-poohed by dealers and museum people. Someone truly engaged with the art itself (not with art as an investment or status symbol) solely focuses on the aesthetic and engaging aspects of an art object. Whether it’s fake or real is immaterial. Each object is what it is whatever it is; to be appreciated as it is, absolutely, not relative to something else or because it’s dressed in superlatively flattering adjectives. Collectors who’ve come to this realization tend to be older, having spent many lifetimes and considerable sums building their collections. They truly have a great “eye” as they see objects with their eyes, not with their mind.

More generally, beyond art, these older individuals tend to be in Act 3 in the play of life; the transition from their finite material selves to who they were before their birth, the Soul. In the transition, we see beauty everywhere. As to the art market, they shake their heads and laugh at the foolish collectors they once were.

The Transition

Bodily death is when we transition from being a piece of the universe to being at peace with the universe.

The transition begins with a peaceful death, not unlike going to sleep after an energy-draining day.

The one transitioning is laid in a comfortable bed in a dome-shaped room, like the egg from which they came.

The ceiling of the room depicts the night sky in motion, with occasional clouds and shooting stars.

Waves of sound in the form of transcendental music fill the air.

The stars and sounds quiet the mind.

We hold the hand of the one transitioning and periodically say: “I love you, always have, always will, always and all ways. Thank you for being you. Thank you for having me.”

Soon the waves of light and sound become One, as does the one transitioning into the One.

Looking For Nothing

Some 25 years back, in the “old city” section of Jerusalem, I stepped into a shop selling antiquities.

As I looked at various objects in glass cases, the owner of the shop introduced himself and said he’d been an antiquities dealer for more than fifty years, dealt in very fine and desirable objects and was sure he had something I’d like.

I told him I’d been collecting antiquities for some time and wanted to look around.

He then asked: “What are you looking for.”

I replied: “I don’t know what I’m looking for until I find it.”

To which he said: “In that case, you’re looking for nothing.”

While not apparent to me at the time, ultimately he was right.

Now, no longer an art collector, I seek to collect the answers from our ancestors to the nature of consciousness.

I seek oneness with the nothing which is the essence of everything.

Lucky To Be Alive

I told my six year old grandson, Penn, that a friend of mine is expecting to die of terminal illness in the spring.

Penn said: “Your friend is lucky.”

I asked: “Why lucky?”

Penn said: “They are not dying now.”

Heaven And Hell

Once upon a time there were twin sisters.

They came from a good family, married well, had good children and lived happily ever after.

Their lives were nearly identical but for one thing. One sister, Mary, was promiscuous and the other sister, Judith, was religious, adhering to a strict moral code.

Everyone in their town knew Mary as “Mattress Mary” as it seemed she slept with everyone.

Often, on hot evenings when people kept their windows open to let in the cool air, you knew in whose flat Mary was as she wailed “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

While Mary was howling, Judith was in anguish, quietly praying to God to forgive her sister.

When they were done living happily ever after, it was their time to go to the hereafter, where God determined which sister would go to heaven and which to hell.

I don’t know the mind of God and whom he sent where, but I know that Mary came from heaven and Judith came from hell.

 

The Kotzker Rebbe famously taught that God is not merely “everywhere”, but is found specifically “in the place where He is given entry”.

This means that external appearances, reputations, or even strict adherence to religious codes do not guarantee closeness to the divine.

Instead, God is present where the heart is open-where there is vulnerability, authenticity, and genuine invitation.

Complaint Department

Marriage is like a corporate partnership where each spouse assumes different department roles: Chief Executive Officer, Chief Financial Officer, Director of Human Resources, etc.

Of course, conflicts sometimes arise when there’s confusion about who’s in charge of which department.

Take, for example, a familiar scenario: A wife voices her dissatisfaction about something her husband said or did. The husband, caught off guard, may wonder why he’s being confronted; after all, he sees himself as head of the Rewards Department, not the Complaints Department.

His solution? Assign his wife as the head of the Complaints Department; after all, she’s got the most experience in that area.

Alternatively, when complaints arise, the wisest course may be to simply listen and agree (“Yes, you’re right”), allowing her to vent until she feels better.

A common mistake is to try to address her concerns rationally, or to help her see things from a different perspective. This usually backfires, leading to the classic: “You don’t understand me.” And she’s right; if you truly understood her, you might not have married her in the first place.

.

The Key To Life

“When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life. When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wrote down ‘happy’. They told me I didn’t understand the assignment, and I told them they didn’t understand life.”

— John Lennon

Grandson’s Wisdom

On my grandson’s 7th birthday, I told him  that I loved him.

I then asked him whom he loved most.

He said he loved 99% of all the people he knows.

Thinking I was unclear, I said, “maybe you didn’t understand love?”

Before he could reply, his 5 year old brother chimed in, “Maybe you don’t understand love.”

Norman Mailer

In 1977 on a flight from NYC to Dallas, I sat next to a gentleman busy scribbling on his paperwork. Asked him what he was doing, he replied, “working out which bets I want to make” on some football games and horse races. We continued talking and he said he was a magazine writer but didn’t mention his name as he felt I undoubtedly never heard of him. A couple of hours later, I asked him if anyone ever said he looked like Norman Mailer. He said, “Congratulations, it took you a while.” I replied: “Someone has to be Norman Mailer and you’re it. How’s it being Norman Mailer, do you enjoy the role?” He replied: “Terrific role, really enjoying it.”

Mailer was a novelist, journalist, politician, essayist, playwright, film-maker, actor and painter; married six times; had nine children; numerous affairs; stabbed his wife; wrote 11 best-sellers; and cavorted with the glitterati.

Yet, the man sitting next to me didn’t seem to take himself too seriously. Maybe that’s why he was good at being Norman Mailer.

No Lives Matter

“No lives matter.”

— Ice-T

“Black lives matter” is a moral indictment of society, claiming “black people” are poorly treated relative to “whites”.

“All lives matter” is a self-righteous, dismissive  response; implying all people matter, regardless of their racial identities.

“No lives matter” is social realism. The incarceration rate, domestic murder rate, “cancel culture” and brutalities in overseas military adventures demonstrate society doesn’t value people generally.

Fancy funerals and memorials suggest respect for the dead but not the living.

Externalities vs Potentialities

When I was 12 years old in school in Brooklyn, New York, one day in geography class, the teacher explained that many countries with a low standard of living are today referred to as “underdeveloped”, but years ago were referred to as “backward” which is pejorative.

This distinction seemed to confuse one of the girls in class who blurted out: “Those countries are strange, I’d rather be called backward than underdeveloped.”

To some, externalities are more important than potentialities.

A Durable Soul

Some years back I viewed a documentary movie about the brutalities of the “Dirty War” in Argentina (1976 – 83) when thousands of people disappeared through state sponsored terrorism.

One woman interviewed was a rare survivor.

She was asked how she felt about the perpetrators, “you must hate them” suggested the interviewer.

“No” she said, “I don’t hate them, I fear them.”

She nearly lost her self, but never lost her soul.

Be Careful For What You Wish

All our wishes come true but not in the forms we imagine.

In 1973 I graduated from college and planned to start working, have a family and take a year at a Zen monastery when I reached 40, like Philip Kapleau who wrote The Three Pillars of Zen. At 40, my family and business partners would not have been encouraging had I taken a year-long sabbatical. However, at 43 my family and 140 friends threw a farewell party for me at the Harvard Club before I left for a 13 month stay at a Federal prison.

What landed me in prison was my involvement in an “insider trading” case. I personally profited $50K. Legal fees cost me roughly $2M and fines and penalties another $1.8M. Moreover, I was no longer allowed to manage other people’s money, though all of my investors stayed with me until I was prohibited from working. As a result of my not being allow to work, my net worth today is not even a tiny fraction of what it would have been otherwise.

I didn’t think that my trading was criminal. But others obviously did. In any event, the cost of going to trial, fines, penalties and the sanctions placed upon me undoubtedly were punitive to an extreme.  How do I feel? Pretty good as I play squash 4 – 5 times a week and I play with the prosecutor in my case. Why? Because I was born with the gene of happiness and the prosecutor is a wonderful guy, good squash player.

I did learn something from this ordeal: best be careful what we wish for as every wish will come true but not in the form we imagine. While I didn’t go to a traditional Zen monastery, prison was a Zen monastery of sorts. It did provide an awakening moment.

During my stay, my interactions with the other prisoners was for the most part fun. As well, I generously paid some to make my bed, clean the shower before I used it and make me foods like hand-cut French fries. The night before I left the prison, I asked a group of inmates whether they would miss me as we had a good time together. Seemingly in unison, they said no, because they hated me. I was a bit shocked. They said they hated me because I had such a good time. Maybe they needed a Zen monastery more than I did.