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.

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.

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.

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 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.”

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.

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.”

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.