Friday, June 27, 2008

THE MONEY SHOT --- THE "BEFORE" PHOTOS
John got me sparked, so what the hell --- these were shot on Thursday.

I went from road-kill, levered myself up until my back was against the wall, and then used my bodyweight to bear down until, if you and I may speak frankly, my muladhara chakra was on the ground.

On reflection, I wonder why I ought to go through all this trouble, as it felt good, I could hold it for a long while, and it's since been repeatable. It will still be an interesting experiment, so I'm gonna do it.

I've used the following tips during the last few months. They're from a book called Relax Into Stretch by Pavel Tsatsouline.

"From road-kill, slowly transfer your weight to your legs and assume as upright a position as you can muster. Keep your lower back arched. It is a must.

The pelvis usually gets in the way of your femurs when you try to spread them apart. Tilt your pelvis forward by making your lower spine go concave — and it gets out of the way!

Pinch the floor with your feet with one to two thirds of your maximal strength. Build up the tension gradually, over a couple of seconds.

Push the walls apart and—it is very important! — push your hips forward. Keep your lower back arched and chest open.

Hold steady, unwavering tension for twenty seconds, perhaps even longer, and do not forget to breathe. Although holding the contraction for such a long time is not always necessary to relax the muscle effectively, it helps to build strength.

Suddenly release the tension with a sigh of relief and allow yourself to sink a little deeper into the split.

You must understand that you will never, ever do a side split without positioning your pelvis in one line with your feet! Drive your hips forward at every opportunity, try to get them in line with your feet. Push your hips forward with the help of your arms.

There are three hand positions to choose from. You can push-pull with one hand in the front and one behind you; you can grip the floor in front of you with your hands and pull yourself forward; or, once you are flexible enough, you may push from behind your back.

[Italics mine] Leaving the glutes a few inches behind the heels is a fatal mistake, which keeps many very flexible people from going down all the way in a split. They either end up falling on their butts, or sitting down on the floor with their legs spread wide, but never wide enough.

[From road-kill:] [Y]ou will feel that the muscles in the front of your thighs resist the stretch more than your inner thighs. It is normal. It is time to shift your concentration from your groin to these front muscles: sartorius, psoas, etc.

Consciously contract all of the above, the muscles underneath and in the front of your hip joints, once you have driven your hips forward. Hold that tension! If your muscles start quivering and give out by themselves at some point during the stretch (a la the Clasp Knife), do not freak --- take it as a favor.

Keep at it, until you can no longer increase your stretch or you have reached your pain threshold. Carefully get out of the stretched position. Do not twist your knees and do not panic! Try to use the strength of your groin muscles to get up."


Thursday, June 26, 2008

SAMAKONASANA; OR, WHO THE FUCK CARES?
Not much asana chatter on this blog --- I prefer Ambien to reading about supta kurmasana (It was hard! It was easy! Rinse, repeat). The little pill works much faster and I don't have to worry about my face hitting the keyboard. But I'm going to conduct an experiment on myself during the next 14 days, so come along for the ride, why doncha? Plus I'm gonna promise some photos with this one, which ought to prove mildly entertaining, if not downright titillating.

Samakonasana
"Sama": same
"Kona": angle

Sequence:
1. "Road-kill" Part I
Widen stance as far as possible maintaining 180-degree angle between legs. Outer edges of feet, chest and chin down on floor, arms spread at shoulder level. Ten 10-second ujjayi breaths. (10 seconds in, 10 seconds out.)

2. "Road-kill" Part II
Outer edges of feet, chest, chin and belly down, arms reach out in front. Round low back and ground as much pubic bone into floor as possible. Ten 10-second ujjayi breaths (10 seconds in, 10 seconds out.)

3. Samakonasana
Begin in "road-kill" part II, point toes and kneecaps skyward, lever spine upright to vertical position with fists or blocks, then lower sits bones to floor until asana is sthira sukkham.

Notes:
1. Do NOT sit down unless and until angle of legs is 180.
2. Mula bandha, uddiyana bandha.
3. Nasagra drishti.

Sequence Prescription:

Week 1
Monday: 1x a.m., 1x p.m.
Tuesday: 1x a.m.
Wednesday: 1x a.m., 1x p.m.
Thursday: 1x a.m.
Friday: 1x a.m., 1x p.m.
Saturday: 1x a.m.
Sunday: OFF.

Week 2
Monday–Friday: OFF.

Week 3
Saturday: 1x a.m.

Strategies
1. Ujjayi-assisted total-body contract/release.
2. To be contracted: heels into floor, quads, glutes, ashwini, vajroli, mula and uddiyana bandhas, clench floor with hands, clench jaw, kechari mudra variation.
3. Gravity-assisted clasp-knife stretching, i.e. exhausting inhibitor muscles and stretch reflex through lengthy contraction while related tissues are bearing body weight. Google and practice this at your own risk. It is not for the faint-hearted.

Photographs
Before and after photos are coming soon.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Half Cat, Half Amazing

We got a new lil' homie for the house. His name is Haku and Pete Rock is one of his favorite emcees. It said "American short hair" at the animal shelter, but c'mon --- lil' homie has got to have mad Abyssinian blood coursing through his veins: gigantic radar dishes, almond eyes, lil' triangle head. Jealous? Don't be. We stay winning.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Tangentially to the Previous Post
What would be the incidence of amenorrhea among female ashtangis?
Does Ashtanga Vinyasa Cause Miscarriage?
Let's just open with the fact that Pattabhi Jois suggests pregnant women not practice for the first three months of pregnancy.

Is there a correlation between an ashtanga vinyasa practice and miscarriage?

Purported statistics, of which I will track down sources later, report a frequency as high as one in four in the general population.

How do those statistics transfer to the yoga asana practice? Can we draw a correlation between the rate of miscarriages by women who practice similarly physically demanding activities, say, ballet, gymnastics, dance?

Anecdotal evidence, on my end at least, is thin --- the vast majority of women I know who have miscarried --- a number that grew quite large last year --- were, to put it politely, rather sedentary, and practiced no yoga at all. I have also known several women with third-series practices who have several children. Anecdotal evidence in this case is absolutely worthless.

What does any of this mean to you, a woman with a vigorous daily asana practice who is considering pregnancy? What certitude or assurances or peace of mind can any such statistics provide? I wish I could end this with more than a question.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

LEAPING LANKA ON BLACKOUT
We've gone silent running.

I'm gonna be flapping about on this thing for a hot minute, getting the puja room up to speed, so bear with me.

Also, perhaps you need some Talking Heads in your life? I think you do.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Thank God for Boredom
The novelty will wear off. That is, the tyranny of the novelty of the yoga asana will and should exhaust itself. Then the grim slog to the yoga studio will become the most terrific aspect of the practice.

The days to treasure are the days of seemingly overwhelming inertia--- the days when you have to manually lift one leg at a time in order to climb the stairs to the studio, only to unroll the same old mat in an empty, drafty room to practice the same sequence of poses you've been doing for years. Gah!

The inertia is a sign of something --- of what? Usually when the twitchy boredom arises, when my mind demands novelty and spectacle, grand inspiration and technicolor stimulation, the quietness that arises during practice is deeper, richer, more resonant ... utterly boring and mundane and brilliant.

To paraphrase the rishi Leonard Cohen, when you give up the idea of creating your own masterpiece, the real masterpiece arises.
What I'm up on at this Very Moment
My man Rodford C. is going to laugh 'cause I used to mock him for liking dubstep, but Christ, have you people copped Benga's full-length, Diary of an Afro Warrior? I've been freebasing it of late, all iPod chambers cocked and loaded with the Burial album, the Benga album, and any Skream mix.

Do people even use iPods anymore? Have we all gone Shuffle and Mini?
Moon Day!
For those who practice the ashtanga vinyasa yoga, that means it's time to loosen your white-knuckle grip from your yoga mat and unclench your butt cheeks to take the day off. Remember, the sphincter is ashwini mudra, not mula bandha. Anyways, the practice isn't going anywhere.

My favorite Chuck Miller story of late: Sri Miller mentioned to a friend that 2-hour practices used to be maintenance practices. Four hours per day was the norm. As Sri Freeman said in the execrably titled Yogi Bare, they used to pray for days off.
My Siddhis
After a score of years of daily practice, I've finally found the time to compile a list of all the siddhis I have recently developed as a result. For those of you unfamiliar with yogic terminology, "siddhis" here refers to the paranormal powers available to very advanced yogis such as myself. For example, the venerable Sai Baba can materialize vibhuti, holy ash, as well as various faux-gold trinkets such as pens and pocketwatches, and he can also make disappear inquiries into his relations with underage boys. Well, here are some of my abilities.

1. Radio Station Presets
When I rent a car, the radio station will come preset to the best radio stations that area has to offer --- no matter which area I am in! Remember, I do not ask for these gifts --- they have simply manifested.

2. Parking Spot Ability
The rest of you may circle the 17th and Valencia block in San Francisco perhaps 10 or 15 times as you look for a parking spot. Me, two times --- tops.

3. Supermarket Discount
While most people have to sign up to get supermarket rewards and club cards, this discount mysteriously manifests itself for me, unasked, at the time I check out.

4. Lint and Cat-hair Repellant
Despite now having two cats, my hip black clothing radiates a paranormal magnetic charge that repels cat hair and lint.

5. Movie Theater Preview Avoidance
No matter what time I leave the house, I enter the movie theater seconds before the main feature begins. I am an eminently desirable companion on any movie-going experience.

6. Book Absorption
When I am reading a book, you can speak, shout or scream at me --- in fact, my wife has often attempted to speak directly into my ear-hole from mere millimeters away --- and I will not even know you are there! It's not that I'm ignoring you --- it's just that, as my gift operates, you do not exist!

7. Party Invisibility
When it's time to leave a party or social gathering, usually at the 20-minute mark, I have the uncanny ability to find and use the nearest exit without saying goodbye to a single person!

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Roughage, Randomage
In Encinitas at the moment, but only for a few more hours. The sky so wide and blue and big that it will wring forth a tear from even my cast-iron testosterone-laden he-man eyeball.

I'm gonna get switch up the mix here on Leaping Lanka in a few days' time, so look for a new look.

What else? There are some posts percolating, don't get your Lululemons twisted.

Meanwhile, do yourself a favor and track down some Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra. I don't know how he did it, whether he added reverb to the echo or echo to the reverb, but his voice on "Some Velvet Morning" is the voice of God, capital-G, if God was taking muscle relaxers to help Him with an icepick-in-the-temple hangover. Open up your gates and tell me about Phaedra, indeed.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Speaking of Liberating Systems
From the Edge of the American West blog:
"[T]he great and good Volker Berghahn discussed, in painstaking detail, his note-taking methods. Upon finishing his explanation, Volker smiled and said, “I find my system liberating.” At the time I couldn’t get beyond the irony. But now, I think Berghahn meant what A White Bear means: familiarity with a complex but flexible system is not about circumscribing options but creating new ones.

Complex, yet flexible. The infinite within the finite. Discipline as ultimate freedom. To look at everything, we must look at just one thing.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

I Hate Nature
The heading of this post is a response to both my hometown of Portland as well as old queries from ex-coworkers at Megalithic Shoe Co., Inc., who, when they discovered I had traveled to India on multiple occasions for reasons relating to yoga, suddenly assumed I preferred patchouli, Phish, and seventies-era VW buses or Toyota Priuses.

"Nature" includes forests, mountains, the woods, creeks, trees in general, babbling brooks, leaves, bushes. Flowers are okay as long as they're safely in a vase.

It's not so much nature itself that I hate --- and here I refuse to anthropomorphize the savage and meaningless and insistent ruthless urge for life to propagate --- it's the recreational activities that surround it: hiking, camping, hunting, fishing, bird-watching, tracking. Pretty much anything involving brown boots, a puffy jacket, and a stout oak staff for support.

All good hatred, if pure and true, stems from deep fear. As an impressionable young lad, I happened to see about 20 minutes of Super-8 film footage taken on a tourist safari in Africa in the seventies. The clip depicted some hapless tourist opting out of the gene pool by leaping from his Volkswagen Thing to shoot a closer photo of a pride of lions.

The lions --- being fucking lions! --- in turn promptly leapt on the guy and ate him.

They didn't kill him and then eat him. They ate him, starting with his stomach, in a process that didn't end before the camera ran out of film. A lion sat on the man's chest and occasionally took bites from his stomach and chest; the man twitched and kicked and ineffectually swatted at the big cat.

Despite the bars, fences and cages, a shoulder-high tiger switching out of the darkness at the Mysore zoo is enough to inspire a change of underwear. And don't get me started on my fear of bears.

I suppose, then, that it's fitting I live in Portland, Oregon, which is essentially a city built among a vast forest of Ents, that is, malign trees, trees that insist on crowding into and over every street and house, building and sidewalk, casting black, pre-Cambrian shadows that whisper of a more primordial darkness. The city is also just a few miles from mountains, streams, beaches, trails, hills, valleys --- in other words, you can't throw a non-biodegradable styrofoam coffee-cup anywhere without hitting the Great Fucking Outdoors.

I prefer urban nature --- the green and yellow grown-over vacant lot en route to the coffee shop; the yellow flashbulbs of dandelions thrust between the cracks in pavement; the red flowers in a white bucket being sold on the freeway on-ramp; a rectilinear, sculpted and tamed green shrub leaning well away from the sidewalk. Acceptable wildlife include squirrels, pigeons, cats, mid-sized dogs, and any other animal I at least double in body-weight and which, were it to suddenly go rabid, I could reliably stomp to death.

Acceptable nature activities include those that do not necessitate my participation with nature; rather, the event or activity may take place in nature, but it must reduce existence to the cotton-haze of exertion and effort until the universe has dwindled to the pure pinprick of single-pointed consciousness.

Such activities may include road cycling, trail-running, rock-climbing, cross-country skiing, snow-shoeing, or an ounce of psilocybin.

It's at this point in the argument that my wife tells me to go live in an ashram.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Fred Rogers
In the documentary America's Favorite Neighbor, Rogers says, "The space between my mouth, what I say, and peoples' ears and eyes, that space is holy," and man, he walked it like he talked it. Fred appeared on The Tonight Show twice, both times with comedienne Joan Rivers guest-hosting, in 1980 and 1983, and my god! The man's intense and overwhelming presence! Rivers, visibly shaken by his unwavering attention and soft-spoken message of love, falls back on her requisite schtick, that of self-deprecation and sarcasm. But even that wilted under the man's insistent presence, and you could see, no, you could feel that to Fred Rogers, the space between he and Joan Rivers was in fact holy, and no matter how much she wavered or fluctuated, he was absolutely pure, present awareness.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Books on the Filing Cabinet Next to My Desk
Ultimate X-Men, Volumes One and Two
The Persian Wars, Herodotus
The Anvil of the World, Kage Baker
Count Zero, William Gibson
DMT: The Spirit Molecule, Rick Strassman
The Mexican Tree Duck, James Crumley

Music on Steady Repeat
Hercules and Love Affair, S/T
David Bowie, the Berlin Triptych
Kool Keith, Sex Style
Cut Copy, FABRICLIVE 29
MGMT, Oracular Spectacular

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Dogen!
To study yourself is to forget yourself.

The practice itself is enlightenment.

Cf. Mark Whitwell's Heart of Yoga.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Ramesh in Mumbai
The taxi ride from our hotel, near Bombay Hospital, to Ramesh’s flat, off Poddar Road, costs 40 Rupees. It’s hard to tell if that means it’s near or far ‘cause prices in Mumbai are hyper-jacked. We find the building easy, though, because we spot a bronzed-tan Westerner wearing an Om T-shirt entering one of the anonymous buildings on Gamadia Road.

We barge into the living room about 5 minutes after the talk has begun; Ramesh holds them every morning from 9 to 10:30, and today, a Saturday, there are perhaps 30 people gathered, mostly Westerners, in the large but not ostentatious living room. The windows are open, so we’re getting a nice breeze, and it’s still too early for the sweltering Mumbai heat to render all movement, all thought, all speech superfluous at best and impossible at worst. On the wall next to us are several portraits of Ramana Maharshi and one of Nisargdaj Maharaj. Among them is a portrait of Ramesh himself.

Ramesh is much thinner, much older than I anticipated. He’s frail, birdlike, with translucent, paper-thin skin that seems to be falling in on itself. I don’t know if he’s lost his top teeth or if, as he’s aged --- the guy’s gotta be in his eighties --- his upper palate has receded. He sits in a low-slung chair and is dressed all in white. As he talks, he produces small amounts of spittle, which he dabs away with a carefully folded white cloth he keeps on his lap for that purpose.

Despite his age, Ramesh’s intellect is tack-sharp. When we come in, he’s grilling a middle-aged Westerner who’s sitting in one of today’s two “hot seats,” the seats those with questions for Ramesh are asked to take.

Tara, Rowan and I sit in a swing-chair at one end of the room. I don’t know why I’m surprised, at this point and with my experience of India, but one rotund Indian man slumps in an armchair, facing Ramesh, and works a video camera set up on a tripod. He will occasionally pan from Ramesh to the questioner in the hot seat, and once or twice he pans around the room to capture the faces in the crowd.

Also facing Ramesh and sitting just in front of us is a sound guy, another Indian fellow who works the sound mixing board, adjusting the levels and volume of the clip-on microphones attached to Ramesh and, on this day, to the two people sitting in the hot seats.

Arrayed on the coffee table in front of us are stacks of DVDs of previous talks, each labeled “Anger” or “Hate” or “Desire.” After the official talk is over, but before the 10 minutes of chanting begin that will close out the day, the guy working the camera has mastered and burned copies of the day’s footage, which, the sound guy lets us know in a low-key manner, is for sale for 500 Rupees.

Ramesh has the probing, razor-sharp mind of a brilliant debater, and quickly hones in the questioners’ actual question, and in addressing the questions --- one couldn’t really say he provides an “answer,” as these are the sorts of questions that lack answers --- he espouses his ideas about reality, God, consciousness. If you want a book report on Ramesh’s take on Advaita, look elsewhere, or perhaps read Who Cares?.

(I'll give it a shot here: according to Ramesh, if one looks hard enough, long enough, one will come to realize that there is in fact no "doer"--- only Source.)

Days later, a friend asked me if I thought Ramesh had “It.” I hemmed and hawed. I must admit that I still don’t know. Based on what he was saying, I would say that he has in fact had a taste of “It.”

On the way out, I notice a wall-length rack of books by Ramesh and his protégé Wayne Liquormann for sale. I stop and browse amidst the post-talk crowd. An Indian man, the proprietor, asks me, “Yes! What books have you read?"

I indicate the Ramesh titles I've read before.

"Ah, then you need this one, this one, this one.” He puts one, two, three books in my hand.

I knee-jerk against the hard-sell, hand them back and say, “No, no thanks!” though I am interested in several of the titles.

I wrote somewhere else that India is a place where an idea and its direct opposite are both true at the same time, and Indians seem to have no dissonance holding both ideas. It is, however, a constant practice for me to remember, for example, that the cottage industry that has sprung up around Ramesh in no way detracts from his teaching.

I remember, years ago, talking to another yoga student about Tim Miller. “He’s really a great teacher, but you know,” he leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “he eats Powerbars!”
Why We Went to Goa
I first heard about Rolf Naujokat a couple years back while I was in Mysore. Many people I found interesting and enlivening, and whom I respected greatly, all had one thing in common: they had practiced with this phenomenal teacher on a jungle island in Thailand.

After looking at photos of Rolf’s jungle shala and listening to some rather brilliant stories about the man himself, I remarked to one of Rolf’s most vocal supporters, Nick Evans, that Rolf seemed absolutely phenomenal.

“Yes,” said Nick, “and please --- don’t tell anyone!” He was only half-kidding.

DJs used to cover up their record labels with black or white or even duct tape so all the other hungry DJs circling the table, craning their necks to see what was next, had no idea what rare and obscure track was about to absolutely flatten the floor.

I feel a bit like that about Rolf. Nowadays, with the Internets, we can learn about any teacher at any time, learn where they’re gonna be, what they’re like, get Podcasts from their lectures, check out photos of their shalas, and read blog entries by their students.

This is pretty brilliant for a host of reasons, chief among them, for me, is the fact that it helps one feel connected to a worldwide community as one practices in relative solitude in a mostly secular society, in which the concept of asana, pranayama, and the rest are not only fairly obscure but rather ridiculous. “Yeah, but can you make money off it?”

The loss, however, is that sense of exploration. I’m thinking here of the story of David Williams and company bumping into Manju Jois in Pondicherry strictly by chance and hopping the next train to Mysore. They had traveled around India before that and thereby also importantly knew what they were not looking for.

So anyway, the information floodgates are open and there’s really nothing we can do about that. In this instance, though, I’m not going to add to it, except to say the Rolf is the real deal.

Otherwise, I’ve no doubt that there’ll be other blog entries by other people that’ll be chock full of useful information.
Chapora Juice Bar
Head due west from the Barat Petroleum Station ("Pure For Sure!") in Anjuna toward Vagator Beach; prior to hitting the water, take a right and dive down a steep, winding canyon road to Chapora, where three roads meet under the boughs of a giant tree to form the heart of this tiny town. The tree is the ground-zero from which a density of tourist-related shops has pulsed outward, as the three streets are crammed with shops that sell the unique Goa clothing (one part military surplus, one part day-glo fluorescence, one part tie-dyed organic Nepalese hemp), the travel agencies, the tour organizers, the STD long-distance phone booths, the guest rooms.

Immediately under the tree’s base, on a small stage that rings all sides, sits a small Shiva shrine. The tree’s trunk has been painted, and is decorated with malas and garlands.

The Chapora Juice Bar is within arm’s reach of the stage. It’s small and typically Indian --- cramped, busy, dirty, utilitarian --- and for that reason is quite anomalous among Goa’s more polished and refined eateries. It’s a small square concrete building with a sliding front window through which one can order a multitude of fresh juices and milkshakes. The menu has been hand-painted on the roof above the order window. Picnic tables sit in front and to the side of the building. Armies of flies hover, drawn by the fruit and the sugar.

Friends suggested the Juice Bar as an interesting hangout, so we visited on several occasions. It’s quite a popular hangout, I think in part because it’s a Goa rarity that offers genuine Indian prices. Juices range from 10 to 30 Rupees, which is a far cry from the 70 to 100 Rupee offerings at the nearby Bean Me Up.

Sit there long enough and one watches tides of people wash in and out as the sun describes its arc overhead. One by one, as morning stretched into afternoon, sadhus arrived to take seats on the stage or at the picnic tables. Their gaunt bodies were wrapped in the traditional orange sheets, their faces painted, their dreads hung down to their waists. Curiously, all four were white Westerners.

Many frequenters were older, sun-leathered hippie ex-pats. One of whom, a Spanish gentleman, told Tara he had arrived in Goa 25 years ago and simply thrown away his passport. Many, their faces ill-used and sun-cured, looked like they’d lived hard lives under the relentless tropical sun. Many smiles were missing prominent numbers of teeth.

The actual juice at the Juice Bar is incidental to the place’s appeal, which seemed to be weed, around which all seating arrangements at the picnic tables were based. Other, younger visitors came and commingled with the older residents, and at table after table it was quickly determined who had the mota, who had the chillum, and who could pack the best bowl.

The other, darker element at the Juice Bar, though, were those visitors, younger and older, looking for more serious hook-ups. The most obvious had pale, spotty skin, dark circles under their eyes, and ceaseless sniffles. One girl who couldn’t have been out of her early twenties sat in a corner, knees in her chest, and alternated between chewing a thumbnail and scratching at her arms, neck and legs.

Goa has a very dark side, one that seems out of place in the sun and sand, and yet is inevitable given the 24-hour party scene, and, on a bigger scale, India’s overall exoticism. The exchange rate means many Westerners suddenly have vast wealth at their disposal, and to take a Westerner and unseat them from the deep structures of family, job, friends, language, and culture, and deposit them somewhere far, far away from the persona they inhabited, is to knock away any center of personal gravity, any psychic and psychological mooring.

Sprinkle on top of this the concept of “vacation” and “holiday,” or “gap year” and “spiritual journey,” and you have two recipes: the first, the anything-goes mentality in which every problem can be solved by throwing Rupees at it, or ultimately and decisively solved by simply boarding a plane home in two weeks. The second is the Holy Mother India mentality, replete with its exoticism and fetishization.

One can come to India and one can quite simply lose one’s goddamned mind, no matter if one is amongst the shrill idleness of the leafy, tree-lined streets of Gokulam, with its mansions and the incessant yoga drone, or whether it’s amongst the dispersed party-burnout transience on the sun-drenched beaches of Goa.

What Sharath has said in Mysore rang true for us in Goa: “Do the yoga --- now go home!” This is a sentiment echoed by my wife, whose pragmatism is doubtless all that keeps me from living, shoeless and soon toothless, on the concrete floor of some ashram in Hardwar, when she takes my face in her hands and says, gently, “Okay, baby, it’s time to go home. C'mon.”

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Super Mega Photo Fun Time! Awesome!
Aww.


Wend your way down one of the circuitous sets of steps at Little Vagator Beach and you find yourself in a slender cove, bracketed at either end by cliffs that extend to the sea. Shiva’s is one of only a handful of restaurants on this particular stretch of beach, but perched in front of Shiva’s sits a large trampoline, a veritable kid magnet. The sun dips downward, the parents sit in Shiva’s, drinking, eating or smoking their chillums, while their children leap and tumble.


The family, and the family car.






There are an abundance of utterly mad people who’ve washed ashore in Goa and decided never to return to the land of their birth, and India being what it is --- a land where everything and its opposite are both true at the same time --- many of these afflicted and affected souls have carved out their own particular dreams, no matter how bizarre or off the wall. We’ve been frequenting the results of one such dream, a restaurant called Sharewood, at which every table is its own treehouse. I’ll say it again --- every table is its own treehouse. If that doesn’t stir your blood in some way, you are dead to the world and ought to climb into a coffin.

Each table is either built off the ground, up in a Swiss Family Robinson-style treehouse, or else sunk into the ground, the curved walls of the earth forming parts of the chairbacks. Sharewood also has a small, ankle-deep wading pool filled with various children’s toys, and there are usually at least one to three nude children splashing about.

The place is owned by a French couple who are cyberpunk biker nuts, and there are always several heavily modified motorcycles parked in front that have been channeled and chopped just in time for the coming apocalypse.

The ambience of slight lunacy at Sharewood is abetted by the absolutely brilliant food --- it has the best shakes, the best galettes, and the best tartines I’ve ever tasted, and their croissants are neck-and-neck with the French bakery as far as the buttery flake-factor goes.


We have no burner or stovetop at Resort Melo Rosa, so I dropped 40 Rupees (one US doller) on a “heating element” as a means to continue my caffeine addiction. I’ve procured a French press, and have accordingly switched from espresso to coffee. Drop the heating element into the glass and the water boils in less than two minutes. I am inordinately sketched out about electricity and water in such close proximity, but needs must. I also have a profoundly negative association with “heating elements” as the last time I saw one, it was in use by some junkie friends.



En route to the market area in Anjuna sits a large field, most of which has been given over to the nearby high school for cricket and football. At one end, though, a small portion is where the locals shape, press, and then dry the cow patties. I’m told cow patties make for excellent floors and walls, and are incredibly sterile.



We made the arduous 30-minute scooter ride north from our digs in Arporam to visit the beaches at Arambol and Morjem. Although the area is saturated with beach bungalows, restaurants, and of course, hundreds of shops selling the requisite fisherman pants, sequined peasant bags, and T-shirts, the beach itself is as beautiful a stretch as I’ve ever seen. Where else but India do you get cows on the beach?



We lived within blocks of the beach in Encinitas for roughly 14 years, so both Tara and I tend to have little desire to sit in the sun and sand. Which is why there aren’t too many shots like these.



The Las Vegas Market is around the corner from our old, rat-afflicted flat. It’s atypical of most Indian groceries due to both its vast selection and its overall large size.

I do love the 10 Rupee-per-pack biscuit selection, though why they don’t just call ‘em cookies and be done with it is beyond me --- must be some throwback to British rule.


This mutt lived at our old flat, and was one of the pack of dogs that used to howl and bark at the rats. All of the pack members were old, decrepit and disfigured in some way. This is Broke Face, so called because he was run over by a car as a puppy and managed to survive, though the accident left his head permanently kinked to one side.


The ankle-biter appears unhappy to have been woken from her nap on the scooter ride to Mapusa, the biggest town closest to the beaches of Goa.


We hit the Mapusa market in search of bootleg movies. Okay, in all honesty, I hit the Mapusa market in search of bootleg movies. I scored Jet Li and Chow Yun Fat bangers --- 16 movies on one DVD for the former and 12 movies on one DVD for the latter! --- and a kid’s compilation for Rowan that didn't work when I tried to play it later.


Need For Speed: Pro Street! In India! It’s an EA-produced video game I worked on last year with my man Rod Chong. Bootleg?


Scooter hair! My hair has been blown so high that it’s actually eclipsing the view of Tara and Rowan on the seat behind me. Note: although the forehead is truly giant, please remember that it is the containment unit for my monstrously oversized, incredibly virile, and hypersexy brain.


The kid’s room, or “Kids Korner,” at our favorite local vegetarian eatery, Bean Me Up. (I’d stab a stranger for their key lime pie.) Unfortunately, on this night Cartoon Network was inexplicably frozen, which devastated both Rowan and myself, because it was frozen on a fight scene from the “Cell Saga” of Dragon Ball Z.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

How They Do It In Goa
We’ve relocated to the rat-free Resort Melo Rosa, just around the corner from Rolf and Marci’s. Last night was the first in our new digs. I sacked out at about 8:30 (I know, I know: pussy). I could just barely hear the dull, repetitive 130 BPM thud of techno coming from a top-floor room in a building across from ours. Dudes were setting it off!

I woke up this morning at 4:30 and went about my morning routine. I left for yoga practice a little after 6. They were still setting it off! The music was still bumping, a couple people were chilling on the balcony, and I could even make out the flickering on-off pulsing of a strobelight.

I got back from yoga at 8:30. It was full daylight outside and the hand of summer heat was beginning to push down.

Motherfuckers were still partying! I could hear the music, and the soft but distinct murmur of voices. A couple hardy souls were out on the balcony, staring down the morning.

Now that, my friends, is how you party.
Things I Am Into In India That Otherwise I Would Not Be Into
1. Pepsi.
It is so fucking hot that I have had a mega-epiphany, which is like a Super-Sized Big Gulp epiphany: ice-cold sugar syrup with a gallon of caffeine is absolutely fucking brilliant.

2. The Dog Whisperer
Marci has turned us on to this show and we’ve been freebasing like, three episodes a day, easy. Carlos Millan, the Dog Whisperer in question, is serious skill in action. We’ve also started incorporating his techniques into child-rearing. Sh!

3. Goa Trance
When in Rome.

4. Eat, Pray, Love
Yeah, I read that shit. My favorite part was when she goes to Bali, and her sensuous older Brazilian lover introduces her to the joys of anal --- wait, maybe I’m thinking of another book?

5. Jackie Chan
I’ve never been a big Jack fan, because while I think the stuntwork in his films is brilliant, I can’t stand the oafish clowning he tries to fob off as “comedy.” Still, I bought a couple of those bootleg DVDs that have 14 movies on 'em, and one of ‘em had nine Jackie Chan movies on it. I watched Crime Story and City Hunter and was seriously feelin' 'em. I watched 'em without subtitles, too, just straight-up Cantonese. Gangster.
Things That Will Disturb Your Meditation During Finishing Poses On Rolf and Marci’s Back Porch
1. A fly landing on your eyeball.
2. A mosquito on your lower lip.
3. A fly in your ear.
4. A mosquito on your urethra.
5. Discursive thinking about numbers one through four above.
6. Recursive thinking about numbers one through five above.
Ascending Hierarchy of Pain Relief, as Provided by the Chemist, per Single Pill
1. Ibuprofen, 400mg.
2. Ibuprofen, 400mg, plus paracetamol, 400mg.
3. Tramadol muscle relaxer, 50mg.
4. Tramadol muscle relaxer, 50mg, plus ibuprofen, 400mg.
5. Tramadol muscle relaxer, 50mg, plus ibuprofen, 400mg, plus paracetamol, 400mg.
Why We Moved Out of Our Flat
“There’s a mouse in the pool, Daddy,” the kid tells me.

“A mouse?”

“Yes, Daddy, a mouse! A mouse!” She says the last bit slowly, plaintively, making sure I understand. Tara and I had done the Kid Handoff at the yoga studio, and Rowan and I had just pulled into the driveway of our flat.

Sure enough, she’s right. There is a mouse in the pool. The “pool” is a small pond at the head of the driveway, and serves as the center-point for the two flats and the large garden that make up our little compound. The pond is about a foot deep, with a foot-and-a-half lip. It’s perhaps 5 feet in diameter, and has been tiled with blue and white shards. An incongruous maple leaf design made from blue tile pieces sits in the white bottom. A short palm hangs its leafy arms over a pedestal with a statue of Mary on it, and Mary in turn looks down on the water. The 18-inch statue has been placed in what looks like a large glass ampule, as though perhaps a giant will amble by one day and toss back the mother of Christ like an ibuprofen.

Queenie Fernandes, the owner of the property, has three turtles that she lets flap around in the pond; the lip is high enough that there’s no risk they might climb out. The turtles have thick red swatches around their eyes, which you can see when they extend their heads from their shells. They do this when Rowan and I lean over and reach towards them. They’re fearless turtles, apparently, and it’s almost like they want to be petted. Queenie feeds them puffed rice, and once a week lets them eat some meat.

The turtles only swim when Queenie is at home, though. “People will come to steal them,” she tells me. “I can’t leave them in there without someone around.”

On the day Rowan spies a “mouse,” however, the turtles are not in the pool. It’s not actually a mouse, of course. It’s a dead rat that’s a foot-and-a-half-long.

The rodent must’ve fallen into the pool during the night and paddled about ineffectually, unable to claw its way up and over the lip. I hadn’t seen it that morning because I leave for practice when it’s still dark.

Let me tell you something about rats: where there’s one...

Goa was for a long time a Portuguese colony, and the Portuguese influence is writ large across this part of India, from the Spanish surnames and churches to the Christianity and the architecture.

Many houses are built with front-gabled roofs covered with red tiles. They slant upwards at a 45-degree angle on either side to meet in the center, which is different than, say, Mysore, where most houses have flat roofs. The ceilings are unfinished inside the flats, so you can peer way up to see the support ribbing and the underside of the tiles.

I don’t know if this is common, but in our flat there was perhaps a foot of overlap where the roof hung down and over the walls --- meaning there was a foot of open space through which moths, mosquitoes and flies could pass.

In our bedroom, part of the ceiling tiling had been replaced with sheets of corrugated tin. We would wake several times in the night to the tik-tik-tik of rat paws scraping across the roof, rat paws doubtless belonging to some 2-foot-long rat. And at least twice a night there would be a loud, rattling thump as something big and heavy landed on the tin. Dust, dirt and leaves would flutter down on our beds, and Tara and I would lie there, staring upward, waiting to hear if whatever was on the roof made its way into the house. I began sleeping with a broom stick next to the bed.

The open space between wall and ceiling meant that one morning, after I had gone to yoga, Tara was awoken by a furtive, panicked rattling in the kitchen. She woke up Rowan, and the two of them stood outside the darkened kitchen as something rocketed about, trying to find a way out.

“Mommy was freaking out,” said Rowan. Tara hurled a few empty water jugs into the kitchen, and whatever was there managed to find its way back out.

It’s gotten particularly bad during the last week, so much that Tara has been lying in bed, wide-eyed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. We woke up three times last night to rats on the roof, and that was it. We moved out. We’re spending our last week at Resort Melo Rosa.

I tend to be fairly ambivalent about pests --- hey, as long as I’m asleep when they’re around, I’m good --- but Tara does not like rats (or snakes), and by “does not like,” I mean “is pathologically terrified of.” But you gotta draw the line somewhere, and really, finding rat droppings in your bedroom was the final straw.

On the day we found the dead rat in the pond, we returned from breakfast to find that Queenie has thrown in the turtles. The dead rat is still there, and the turtles are beginning to eat the rat, nipping and pulling at it, worrying it with their mouths. That week, they got their meat a little early.

After that, Rowan and I don’t reach out to touch them.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

The Chemist
Okay, we need to talk about the chemists in India. They’re these hole-in-the-wall little storefront shops, much like any other in India. But inside is a plethora of magic. In India, it’s assumed that if you can afford medicine, you know what you’re doing with it. So you can go to the chemist and buy two pills, or 10 pills, or a hundred pills, of whatever you fancy you need. It seems that most medicine is sold by the strip, and not by the bottle.

What’s incredible is that you can get anything --- and I mean anything --- but opioids, straight-up, over the counter. No questions asked and no prescriptions necessary, which makes this place unlike even Tijuana, where you have to go through the formality of paying a doctor $30 to write you a prescription.

I haven't been getting too crazy, but as Goa is a mecca for moonlight partying, the guys in the chemist shops start trying to sell you stuff the moment you walk up, which is how I became fully aware of the potential of these places. "Hey, hey, you want pain-killers? Sleeping pills? You want ephedrine? You want steroids?" the guy asked. "You want ketamine?"

Over-the-counter ketamine? Holy shit. You'd better believe all my friends are getting strips of Viagra.

I'm trying to convince Tara that we should become the hopelessly decadent 70s couple, with a stand-alone mirror-top bar in the corner of our house and bowls placed strategically around the house, bowls that hold a rainbow plethora of pills: uppers, downers, in-betweeners, 'luudes, Xanax, Prozac, Nembutal, Percocet, Percodan, what-have-you.

Don't worry! We'll keep the bowls out of reach of the kid.

We would also need a disco ball. Ah, the good times we could have.

I have been using this medicated heat balm that is the hot fire! It's some sort of unguent made from equal parts napalm and the sun's chromosphere.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Know Your Goans
Dangerous over-generalization? Why not? There are roughly three camps in Goa you will find rocketing past you on motorbikes, clogging the restaurants and beaches, and stumbling homeward on the road-side, wildly inebriated.

Firstly, you got your hippies who washed ashore Back in the Day and never left. They might be a bit older, a bit grizzled, their skin cured and tanned to a terrific beef-jerky like consistency. They might wear orange fisherman pants with a yellow kurta covered in om symbols; they have, in a word, "gone native."

Next, you got your crusties, basically the extras from the Babylon rave scene in Matrix Reloaded. (Remember, in the future we will all listen to techno.) Distinguishing characteristics include fierce black dreads down to the ass, which I imagine to be an incredible comfort in 30-degree weather (that’s Celsius), as well as tattoos and piercings. Crusties tend to be garbed in torn, tattered and multi-layered clothes constructed from the surplus uniforms of all the world’s armies. The more utility pockets, the better.

Finally, you have your tourists. You can spot them fairly easily ‘cause they just look so fucking lost and out-of-place and sunburned wherever they are.

Where do we fall in these categories? I don't know, though the scooter rides and incessant heat have put paid to my Bowie-circa-Ziggy fringe-and-earflaps hairstyle --- riding the scooter is like driving into a molten hairdryer, which leaves my hair shall we say quite Kramer-esque. Thank god I am married, and Tara is forced to both do my bidding and find me attractive, or I would have a lot of time on my hands for meditation.

It is so goddamn hot, though, that I find myself eyeing loose, billowy, white India-style shirts and fisherman pants every time we go out because they look so comfortable, though both Tara and I have a standing policy not to buy any clothes we can't and won't wear anywhere else in the world.

Note: I resisted, strongly, the urge to use the title "Goan Crazy!" for this entry.
Tolerance for Roughing It
As I age, my tolerance for “roughing it” decreases. The two are so directly related that one could derive a precise mathematical inverse proportion that could be graphed. My enthusiasm for, say, sleeping in my car at a music festival, or sleeping under the DJ booth at a three-day beach party, or sleeping in a Las Vegas hotel’s poolside deck chair has greatly diminished. I’m not saying I need the SoHo Grand, mind you, I just don’t need foot-long rats in the kitchen at 4 a.m.
Again, Mosquitoes
Rowan, at age 3, has the metabolism of a small thermonuclear reactor, and as a result radiates waves of molten heat. Every mosquito in a one-hundred-meter radius homes in on that heat.

Our 3-foot-tall pile of magma is also so fair-skinned as to be translucent, so the host of mosquito bites she received in our Mumbai hotel room swelled to an angry, impossible red. The bites on her face made her look puffy and disfigured, although she smiled and laughed through all of it.

Thankfully, I’ve acquired a fantastic anti-itch cream from the chemists, we’ve secured netting for her bed, and now also liberally coat her with Odomos anti-mosquito gel when we head out at dusk. She asked what the family on the Odomos tube was doing --- the picture is of a fair-skinned Indian man, woman and child, holding each other and high-beaming pearly white smiles as, surrounding their heads, a shimmering shield of Odomos anti-mosquito gel repels the insects.

“They’re under a mosquito shield,” I told her.

“I want a mosquito shield for our family, Daddy!” she said.

The industrious little fuckers still find places to bite her, though. She came home the other night with three new bites, all on her fingertips, where the anti-mosquito gel had been rubbed off.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

>Mega Photo Fun Issue!
Fuck Avedon, this is where I get all Frank Capa/Robert Frank on your asses! Welcome to the Mega Photo Issue of Leaping Lanka.

I’m currently nibbling on stale samosas at Cafe Coffee Day in Calengute, washing them down with a windshield-wiper-blue ice drink called a Granita, which bears a striking resemblance to a blue Slurpee from 7-11. Just to keep things yogic for the idlers in Mysore glued to the blogs like bystanders at a car wreck, I’m conscientiously engaging ashwini and vajroli mudras, and a touch of mula bandha --- that’s like, three koshas, bitches --- gauging how much writing I can fit in before I have to sprint for the toilet in this, the latest round of intestinal Armageddon.

Calengute, by the way, is a little town in northern Goa that was apparently the first beach-head of the hippie invasion in the sixties, and which has subsequently become a relatively blown-out and disgusting package-tour destination for British pensioners.

Let me just say, I thought Southerners in the United States took the record for most outstanding rolls of sunburned neck-fat, but as I mentioned in a previous post, the Brits are seriously holding it down! Good work.

Snaps, Round I


Our luggage. Look at all that shit! I tried to convince the wife we should just take the clothes on our back and a Swiss army knife (or a Leatherman multi-tool, her pick), but she put her foot down and demanded “a change of clothes” and “clean underwear” and “toys for the kid” and other sundry non-essential (i.e. wussy) gear.





Judging by the fact we had a window row, this was the flight from Portland to JFK. Note that despite the blurry, or what I like to call “artistic” quality of the photo, neither Tara nor I look appreciably haggard, this despite rising at 3:30 to catch a 6 a.m. flight. Casey Palmer, at the time addressing his own jet lag, or as I call it, The Lag, was kind enough to ferry us to PDX.





We had a grizzly layover at JFK --- seven fucking hours. We mounted up, rode the subway into the City, and emerged from the tunnels into the daylight of the Village, blinking like the gnomish tourists we were. We ate pizza and risotto at a corner Italian restaurant that offered a completely gluten-free menu. Fucking fruitcake New Yorkers, they’re worse than Californians.

I don’t recall sleeping much on the 14-hour flight to Mumbai. I was too engrossed in this little game called Bookworm that was available on the monitor in the headrest of the seat in front of me. It was sort of like Scrabble plus Tetris plus a word search. Shit was crack-rock. I’m sayin’, though, they had mad kid’s shows --- Dora, Hannah Montana, the works --- and Rowan was occupied almost the entire time.

We hit Mumbai, and after an interminable time spent trying to find a hotel from the airport --- please note: book ahead --- we scored room 12 at the Ace Hotel, where we would spend the next 12 hours.

Unfortunately, none of that is revealed in this photo. What is revealed is that, despite our trials and tribulations, and the fact that at this point we’d slept perhaps 2 hours of the last 36, my wife looks fantastic.

Which reminds me, traveling with a kid is like being an adolescent all over again ‘cause you have to fucking sneak around like teenagers in order to make out. I’m a grown-ass married man! I shouldn’t have to feel like a sneak-thief when I wish to fondle what, I keep explaining to Tara, technically I own, i.e. her person.


So we arrived at 10 p.m. Friday night. The flight to Goa wasn’t until 2 the next day. Naturally, we all had a strong dose of The Lag, so everyone was wide awake at 4 a.m. Our hotel was near the airport, so there was fuck-all to do. We lapped the block once to confirm that yes, we were in India, then headed back to the room, where we spent 9 hours watching Indian TV.


The crib, in all its glory! You’d be hard-pressed to find a place more uncomfortable than this!

Bamboo furniture, minimal padding? Check.

Hard-ass marble surfaces everywhere? Check.

No screens on the windows? Check.

Top-floor placement, for maximum heat containment? Check.

Foot-long rat in the kitchen at 6 a.m.? Check.

Have I mentioned the smell of human shit that wafts through the bedroom window every hour?

I also forgot the oppressiveness of the naked glare of a fluorescent bulb, which gives our flat the charm of a police interrogation room or bomb shelter.

Perhaps my favorite amenity is our bed. It is exactly, precisely, painfully 4 feet wide by 6 feet long. I am 6-feet-2 inches tall. Lest you think my wife laughs her 5-foot-4-inch frame to sleep every night,, please take into consideration that the mattress, if it may be called that, is actually a giant sack of concrete, or perhaps a reproduction Spanish Inquisition-era torture device. This is Goa, after all, which was for a long while a Portugese colony, and I know that repro furniture is all the rage with the kids these days. If only they’d gone Eames instead of Torquemada.

Lodging in Goa is a tough call --- we could’ve spent the dough for a “resort,” but most of ‘em would’ve cost more than a month’s rent in Portland. We could drop some dough in getting some bedrolls and cushions for our place, but incentive is pretty low because we’re only here a month.

It’s easy to whinge. But it’s India, what did we fucking expect?

The ladies like to keep it lovely; this is the entrance to the bathroom, in which Rowan has observed Daddy peeing directly into the grate in the floor.

“Daddy, why are you peeing on the floor?” she asks.

It’s important to be honest with them. “Well sweetie,” I say, “it’s because I can.”





Rowan is scoping out our porch. Jesus, that is one psychedelic dress.











Rowan shows off some of her latest watercolors.








Rowan models her motorcycle helmet. The kid rides shotgun on the front of the scooter. She’s like a dog in a pickup truck --- hands on the dash, face out in the wind like the carved statue on the prow of a pirate ship, wind in her eyes, tongue no doubt out and lolling to the side. You will note the copious heaps of toys in the background, as well as the laptop, which was no doubt playing Princess Mononoke or My Neighbor Totoro or The Last Unicorn.


We’ve been frequenting this spot called the German Bakery. I will say one thing for Goa --- you can get cappucino everywhere! The food here is so off the Richter --- tofu, real croissants brushed with egg white that just flake apart in your hand, fucking salads with lettuce even. I think I’ve had Indian food once, and it’s not for lack of trying --- everything here is so geared up for tourists, it’s ridiculous. But everything is fresh made from scratch and just so tasty.

You’ll note that Tara is, in this photo, looking a wee bit fatigued at having to cater to Rowan’s every whim. The Lag, plus massive input of new stimuli, plus disruption of regular routine means that we, or should I say Tara, gets a few days of a weepy, clingy, mood swingerific child. A bit of hatching took place shortly after this photo was snapped.

A pre-yoga practice pic, snapped by Rowan! Diane Arbus, look out. Er ... anyway, Rowan hasn’t quite figured out how to get people’s heads into the frame yet. She wanted a photo of Ella the elephant and Mommy in baddha konasana.

Monday, February 11, 2008

We Made It
The journey was long --- so very, very long --- but uneventful. Rowan went on blackout during a huge chunk of the NYC-to-Mumbai leg and I became ensnared in a little game called "Bookworm" that I played on the TV mounted in the seat in front of me. In-flight TVs are absolutely frigging genius --- the kid watched Spongebob, Hannah Montana and sundry other Time Eaters and Tear Preventers.

Goa
Got a bit of the hotel runaround trying to book lodging in Mumbai, and had a Layover: The Extended Remix before flying out to Goa the following day. Goa is trippy --- very spread out, but very Indian in that when there are towns or villages, they're incredibly densely packed. There are several beaches up and down the coast, and we're still trying to sort out which nationality runs what beach. But hey, don't be fooled --- we're still very much in India.

Jet Lag

The kid has been holding up very well, but the Lag means she runs from zero to meltdown in perhaps 45 seconds flat. She also fell asleep face down on the scooter speedometer yesterday, mid-scooter ride, which I didn't actually believe possible until I saw it happen. Jet lag to a 4-year-old looks a lot like narcolepsy.

Euros!
I just got to give a big shout-out to all the Brits, Kiwis and Aussies out here in Goa --- you know, us Americans get all the credit for being the fattest fucks on the planet, so lemme just say I'm glad to see you people holding it down lovely! It brings me such a thrill to see you people trundling around shops and restaurants, sun-burned bellies pouring over your hastily purchased fisherman pants, sucking down frightening quantities of lager, chips, and especially chicken curry.

Yoga with Rolf?

Day one: flying.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

My DJ Set at The Park Hotel Has Been Canceled
From Popbitch: "Authorities in Bangalore have banned dancing in nightclubs. People have to just sit around while the DJ plays music, as police are sent to check up."

I'm still on at the Balaji Palace, though.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Been a Minute Since I Posted One of These
Thu 07FEB DELTA 434 OK T LV PORTLAND ORE 610A F M 22B
AR NYC-KENNEDY 231P COACH

Thu 07FEB DELTA 16 OK T LV NYC-KENNEDY 920P D M 40D
AR MUMBAI/BOMBAY 1035P# COACH

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Lauren,
I thank you for your blog posting and your interest in this aspect of the practice as it’s helped me articulate more of my own ideas.

I am curious to know in what sense is the primary series “nearly impossible” for some students to master without “daily adjustments”? On what are you basing this observation? Also, on what are you basing the supposition that “without regular assistance, students would make little or no progress”? I’m remarking on this because your statements aren't borne out by my experience, both practicing and teaching ashtanga vinyasa. For what length of time have you observed a body of students, i.e. one year, three years, five years?

The primary series is a progressive sequence, as you’ve noted --- over time, the later poses make the poses that precede them easier. But it’s important not to forget that the earlier poses make the later poses possible.

In a larger sense, on the anna maya kosha or purely physical level, the intermediate series begins to seriously work with the plexus of nerves that runs through the sacrum; to use another, more yogic map, on the prana maya kosha level, and perhaps deeper, nadi shodhana begins to work on the kanda, the egg-shaped “knot” where the three main nadis join, and on the sushumna nadi, which extends from the muladhara to the crown of the head.

Do these channels feel familiar? They should, as intermediate goes to work on them hammers-and-tongs with an increasingly and progressive series of intense backbends, and then heading in the opposite direction with a series of intense forward bends. The advanced sequences of ashtanga then flip-flop between these extreme directions with, shall we say, less compassionate sequencing.

To further elaborate on your ideas about intermediate and to add some clarity, pasasana is the beginning of preparation for backbending. Its twisting aspect continues the alleviation of forward bending that began with setu bandasana, and it begins to strengthen and open the hip flexors and calves, as well as strengthen the soleus. These aspects are integral to kapotasana and urdvha dhanurasana.

Krouncasana will continue to lengthen the quadriceps, hip flexors and psoas, as well as the IT band on the extended leg; again, all of which are important for backbending. We are lengthening the connective tissue in the legs and in the front core of the body.

Supta vajrasana then becomes a counter-pose to kapotasana and helps reset the sacrum. Bakasana, with its rounded spine, continues the transition into backbending counterposes. Chief among its aims is to strengthen the abdominal area, which when contracted will help lengthen and elongate the muscles of the back.

Karandavasana, and to a certain extent tittibasana, are gentle counterposes to dwi pada sirsasana, as the spine is gradually brought out of the state of extreme flexion and the core is once again engaged and strengthened to help return the spine and the muscles of the back to a sense of neutrality. Karandavasana also involves an intense rounding of the spine in order to fit the shins into the armpits. (Mayurasana then becomes the counterpose for the wrists, forearms and spine, which bows upward from the base of the elbows.)

While it may be more challenging to do eka pada sirsasana than dwi pada sirsasana, the risk for injury in dwi pada is much, much greater, which is generally why it is given after some proficiency is demonstrated in eka pada sirsasana. Yogi nidrasana is aptly named, too --- it’s a relaxing, resting pose, and it begins the transition away from leg-behind-head, which carries through into tittibasana.

I’ve found it helpful to expand my ideas of asana sequencing beyond the pose/counterpose dialectic and into a triadic approach. We begin with the attack, or the ascension, the rising note, or the Brahma/creator aspect of the trimurti, which evolves into the sustain, the plateau, or the Vishnu/preserver aspect. This is followed by the decay, the decline, the Shiva-destroyer.

Baradvajasana begins the Brahma aspect of the leg-behind-head sequence, culminating in dwi pada sirsasana, which may be considered the Vishnu of the sequence. Yogi nidrasana begins the Shiva aspects of leg-behind-head.

These asanas are also nested as pieces of different triadic series for backbending, twisting, and strengthening.

I’m not a regular follower of your blog, so I can’t comment on recurring themes in it, but I do get a sense that you’re focusing on a lot of the minutiae of the asanas --- hands must be bound, heels must be grabbed, et cetera, et cetera. This can be helpful, although to borrow a phrase from Matthew Sweeney's Ashtanga Yoga As It Is, it’s a phase through which one ought to move.

I practice with a woman who once told me, “I used to be concerned about taking my heels. Now I just make the shapes.” This is after more than 10 years of daily, dedicated practice; I think it’s important to note that in order to move beyond a state of being concerned about “grabbing her heels,” she had to first experience that state.

Part of the “nadi shodhana,” regardless of being able to grab your heels or lick your coccyx, is to “make the shape,” even if the shape is a fairly intense back- or forward bend, while at the same time cultivating a dispassionate, ease-full, skilled state of observation and awareness. This state can be measured by a yogini’s fluid entry and exit from the pose, her stability and calm (Patanjali’s famous “sthira sukkham”), and of course, the quality of her breath, both the out and in-breath. Which is ideally even, measured, and calm (Again, according to our friend Patanjali, “dirgha” and “sukshma”).

My speculation on part of the reasoning behind the way poses are given in Mysore is that Sharath can see a student’s avoidance of a pose, and for the most part he’s very practiced in reading a student’s body and listening for the student’s breath to determine their sthira and sukkham while they’re in a pose.

This cultivation of calm, dispassionate observation in a pose as stimulating as kapotasana --- which ignites the body’s parasympathetic nervous system --- necessitates and is predicated on a retraining of the nervous system. This development of an internal candle flame that is unwavering is what I take “nadi shodhana” to mean.

It can take years to master an intricate physical and mental skill that requires both strength and flexibility. I’ve read that it takes seven years on average to “master” a skill, that is, to be proficient and skillful in its use. In that context, one would expect at least three to five years developing journeyman status.

So as I mentioned before, it’s not as important that, for example, one has to be lifted back up from karandavasana --- though most everyone, given time and practice, can learn to place their feet in lotus and lower to their arms --- it’s the ease, fluidity, and most importantly, sense of dispassionate observation that’s important. This is in itself a skill to be refined, learned and polished like a fine jewel.

I can think of many reasons why someone ought not to proceed through primary without at least “making the shape,” and chief among those is injury. There is also a tendency to gloss over and ignore those poses we do not like or those we find difficult. As the sequences are progressive, when you skip something now, you pay for it later.

To return to intermediate sequencing, bhekasana is very important to kapotasana, as is laguvajrasana, among others ... until these two are not only comfortable but done correctly, kapotasana is very, very difficult. This is part of the reason why these backbends should generally not be given as a chunk or “subsequence.” In fact, in my experience, kapotasana is incredibly difficult, indeed impossible, unless and until one can slowly and calmly lift and lower from standing into urdvha dhanurasana.

Ultimately, I must ask you how many of your ideas about the practice are related to your own desire to get the next pose? As Sweeney notes, again from Ashtanga Yoga As It Is, and I can second through my own practice, this is a difficult phase of the practice, but one that I believe many people, if not all, go through, and one that is allayed through continuous, steady practice through all stages and phases of life --- including injury, illness, and massive life-shifts.

The triadic view of the sequencing is helpful, and I also find a general triadic view of my practice in general as helpful. One might, for example, go through a Shiva phase of practice when one has to be on-site at the construction yard at 7 a.m., which leaves an hour of practice time at 5 a.m. only three days a week. The desire to feed one’s needs for the next pose abates significantly in the face of life’s ebb and flow.

Again, I thank you for the stimulation your post has provided. I hope you derive a nugget of value from this that may reflect on your own practice, as your post inspired me reflect on my own practice.

Namaste,
jason

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

Who Peed in My Alembic?
Spiros at Soul Jerky just posted a fascinating article on Green Hermeticism, and I thought it'd be an interesting footnote to link to Tim Miller's article on ashtanga yoga and alchemy, in which he notes: "Turning lead into gold is a metaphor for the liberation of spirit from matter, which is the primary goal of both alchemy and yoga."

Link: The Alchemy of Yoga

It makes me think that Tim ought to be writing more articles, whether he's commissioned by Yoga Journal or not.

In the Hermetic alchemical tradition, there are three stages of spiritual transformation: nigredo, or as Jung has it, individuation, purification, or burnout of impureness; albedo, or whitening, spiritualisation, or enlightenment; finally, rubedo, or reddening, for unification of human with divine, limited with unlimited.

It's important to note that these kinds of transformations take place in a crucible, and a crucible must by nature be stronger than the materials heated and transformed within it. The primary series and hatha yoga in general aims to construct the adamantine body in which this transformation takes place.

Set aside for a moment the obvious parallels between the different sequences in ashtanga vinyasa, which would cast the primary series or yoga chikitsa as nigredo, intermediate series or nadi shodhana as albedo, and the advanced series as rubedo, because it's important to recall that Pattabhi Jois says, "Primary series --- very, very important. Intermediate series --- important. Advanced series --- demonstration only!"

The tree-branch metaphor of the eight limbs of ashtanga yoga is relevant in that nigredo, albedo and rubedo can occur simultaneously, rhizomatically, rather than in a step-wise, hierarchical progression. All three can occur in primary series. Picasso famously said he spent his whole life learning to draw like a child again, and sometimes I think we're all just trying to find ways to get back to our very first yoga practice, that very first state of savikalpa samadhi that perhaps ensued.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

What Nidra Can Do For You
The only advice Tim gave me regarding teaching was, if I recall, "Short naps really help."

Pinched from somewhere or another on the World Wide Web:

During sleep, the body goes through its most significant regenerative processes, which include the production of growth hormone (GH). GH stimulates rebuilding of muscle, improves the delivery of fuel to muscle and stimulates fat metabolism.

Taking a brief nap during the day can provide additional GH release, potentially improving recovery. The duration of a nap need not exceed 20-30 minutes to be effective.

Sleep also supports proper mental functioning such as memory and other important tasks required for optimal performance.

To summarize: take frequent naps!

Remarkable Armor, Part I
Check it out, I just barged a stovetop moka pot/cappucino steamer from Goodwill for $4. That's right, four fucking dollars. $80? I think not. I have been coming up so hard at the neighborhood Goodwill, it's rederkulous.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Hibernation Sickness
I haven't stayed awake for 24 hours straight since my mid-teenage years, which was probably the result of the last illegal warehouse party (i.e. "rave") that I attended --- I haven't been to a concert, show or gala event yet that at some point wasn't improved by me going home and falling asleep in my warm jammies and soft bed. Suffice it to say, seeing as how I haven't trained for the all-nighters, my post-all-nighter performance since December 21 hasn't been great.

Let's heap on top of that all-nighter a week straight of 3- to 5-hour hammer-and-nails bike rides, the yoga, as well as all the holiday shenanigans --- the last, might I add, also greatly improved when I quietly nod off in the corner. Let's also throw into the mix a couple glasses of wine on a late-night New Year's Eve, more early-morning yoga, and of course more bike riding, and what do you get? Yesterday I took a nice, fat coma. It started at about 3:30 p.m. and I came out of it at 5:45 this morning. If I hadn't had a class to teach I swear I coulda kept going, too.

I went a little over the top with the rajas, which burned everything out and left me entirely too tamasic, which I suppose is the risk when you're perpetually vata deranged. Where has all my ojas gone? Anyway, since my physical vessel informed me it was time to slow down by inducing a short bout of hibernation, I feel much, much better. It's these little moments, such as being frozen by Vader in carbonite, that allow one the time to re-evaluate and re-establish one's schedule and habits and fix accordingly.
Addendum
My wife has, as is her wont, brought it to my attention that in fact she is not the crazy one in our relationship, as I would have everyone believe, and she reminded me, also as is her wont, that I fit those shoes more than adequately, as I was the one who vigorously okayed if not outright championed our seemingly suicidal itinerary from Portland to Encinitas, i.e. driving overnight to fly out of Sacramento. Said odyssey occasioned by the $300-plus tickets from Portland versus the $75 tickets from Sacramento.