—
» BUY ONE NOW «
and read
memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
—
» BUY ONE NOW «
and read
memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
—
(written w/ Charles Bivona)
If you add up sexting, facebook messages, tweets, emails, and guys just whipping it out—“look what I got, it’s almost all the way hard”—I’ve seen three times as much cock as I’ve actually touched.
Now maybe men have always been this proud of their junk, but a plethora of penis pics per weekend? This has to be a new experience in the anthropology of womanhood. And I’ve begun to notice certain categories emerging in this new penile art form.
Here’s the thing though, most of these penises were unsolicited. Yes, there may have been some mild dirty talk back and forth, sure, but nothing that would invite a sudden penis shot. I mean, how did you just go from what are you wearing to what do you think of this? I think we missed something in the middle there, buddy. Get it together.
—
Lulu Dating daydreams of writing her own Dating & Relationship Column.
Follow her on Twitter: @LuluDating»
—
A Buddhist is often stereotyped as a passivist. By extension, a Buddhist writer may be generally conceptualized as placid in both content and rhetoric. Right Speech, a factor in the Eight-fold Path to Enlightenment, may suggest as much. Right Speech is generally described as “Clear, truthful, uplifting and non-harmful communication.”[i] This, itself, is clear, truthful and, perhaps, uplifting. Yet, Right Speech is often misinterpreted when it comes to the meaning of “non-harmful communication.” Myths and stereotypes about Buddhist passivity, combined with the peaceful and sober connotations that come with the term “Right Speech,” would strongly suggest that harmful communication could never be tolerated by a writer that would don the label “Buddhist.” However, in the Mahayana tradition there is a time and place for abrasive language, agitating language, demanding language—as long as loving kindness and compassion are motivating factors. There may be times when calm, composed speech may do more harm than good. Thus, persuasive writing, from a Buddhist perspective, can be split into two concepts: shoju and shakubuku.
Shoju is a form of communication in which one “gradually leads another to the correct teaching according to that person’s capacity and without refuting his or her attachment to mistaken views.”[ii] This is to say that when a person or group of people hold a belief you know to be false and/or detrimental to their well-being, you lead them toward the truth while taking much care not to offend them or turn them off. For example, when I know a friend is behaving in a way that may result in misfortune for himself and others, I may ask leading questions to get him to come to his own conclusions about the detriments of his behavior. I may ask, “Are you sure racial profiling is okay?” or ask, “You seem to agree with capital punishment, but have you heard of some other ways to deal with convicts?” or say, “I wonder what a three-party political system would look like in this day and age.” The indirection and offhanded nature of this line of questions or statements is done based on a communicator’s interpretation of the audience’s character, demeanor and level of understanding. A Buddhist writer, then, may write with a speculative tone, guiding the readership to consider alternative viewpoints.
Shakubuku, on the other hand, is more in line with refutation and a strong stand for or against something. Shakubuku is meant to “suppress others’ illusions and to subdue their attachment to error or evil.”[iii] When people are causing harm to themselves and others, either accidentally or purposely, directly or indirectly, shakubuku must be employed. When a writer cares about the well being of a person or group, but shoju has no effect on suppressing any dangerous or immoral behavior threatening that well being, a writer must compose in a way that will get people’s attention. A more contemporary colloquialism for this concept is “tough love”: harshness toward a “loved one” for the purpose of turning that person toward a healthier and happier lifestyle. A writer in line with shakubuku may remind one of an agonistic yet compassionate op-ed writer whose work is meant to stir emotions and force people to think about things they would rather ignore.
Shakubuku is not antithetical to Buddhism, especially if you consider that a Buddhist writer, out of pure compassion for his audience, may realize that harsh words are the only way to guide readers toward enlightenment. Daisaku Ikeda, a Japanese Buddhist scholar, writes that Buddhahood does not mean getting rid of emotions like anger and frustration, but making the best out of them.[iv] In Buddhism, anger need not be avoided; it can be channeled into a tool of enlightenment, a way showing love and compassionate.
One can already see this in Blogs and Social Network sites where people may use intense, if not harsh, language to get readers’ attention or move them to action. Anger, frustration, or disappointment is channeled into an attempt to change the world for the better—to benefit both victim and perpetrator. This is shakubuku. This is Buddhism.
So, rest assured that to be a Buddhist writer is not to squelch a passionate reaction to an injustice. It is the complete opposite. One must address that injustice in whatever way one sees fit—shoju or shakubuku—for the good of all.
[i] John Allan. “The Eight-Fold Path.” Buddhist Studies: Buddha Dharma Education Association and Buddhanet. Accessed August 18, 2011. http://www.buddhanet.net/e-learning/8foldpath.htm
[ii] “Shoju.” SGI Library. Accessed August 18, 2011. http://www.sgilibrary.org/search_dict.php
[iii] “Shakubuku. SGI Library. Accessed August 18, 2011. http://www.sgilibrary.org/search_dict.php
[iv] Daisaku Ikeda. Unlocking the Mysteries of Birth and Death. (Santa Monica, CA: Middleway Press, 2003), 125.
—
Erec Smith is a college professor and author of the novel, Creamy Nougat. His scholarly and literary interests revolve around the confluence of Buddhist philosophy, teaching and rhetoric. Follow Erec on Twitter» @LotusHalo
And then I was sobbing. My partner—call her Sara—was holding me on the couch. I was finally calming down.
I woke up from a nightmare—teeth falling out after a car accident, trapped in California, fleeing something terrible with too many books to carry—and my eyes were swollen shut. I must have been crying in my sleep, I reasoned, and immediately repelled from that thought.
That’s crazy. Crying in your sleep! Are you fucking nuts! It must be allergies. Look! There on the headboard. Dust. Yes! It must be the dust. This house is a fucking mess. I have to clean. No, I have to clean right now.
So there I was, 8 am on a Sunday, caught in a nightmare induced cleaning panic, which is self-destructive enough without pulling Sara into it.
But really, she should get her ass out of bed and help you clean this mess. And another thing about Sara…my vulture was up, too, sipping his stale coffee, whispering in my head.
By the time Sara woke up, I was in a frenzy. I’d been churning panic for two hours, anxiously cleaning my apartment, groping for control. Sara said good morning, and I just wasn’t having it.
The argument lasted as long as it took her to snap me back, which was mere minutes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! You’re having a panic attack!! So, fuck off!
Sara knows me very well. And after a few more minutes of vigorously debating her ironclad diagnosis, I collapsed in her arms on the couch—exhausted and sobbing apologies.
I feel scared all the time. It’s awful.

Read More
Sang Lee is Dead: ongoing memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
—
I’m tired of trying to be stable. I’m not stable. I never will be. Fuck it. Sure you will. New therapist reassures me. No! I’m all fucked up. PTSD is a wound, she says, you need to heal, and that sounds like a load of shit to me, of course. But New Therapist is smart people: an overcompensating geek, like me, who speaks to me as a colleague, a respected peer. It’s ironic. Nearly a decade teaching for universities and a therapist is the first to treat me with the respect I’ve earned. But that’s fucking arrogant of you to say “the respect I’ve earned,” talks my vulture, its infected words in my head. You haven’t earned shit until you’ve suffered much more than this for it boy! New Therapist values my opinion, my input, my thoughts. It’s apparent. And it feels… It’s a nice change. That’s all I’m saying. Fucking nasty demon bird. I wonder if New Therapist is reading this.

Read More
Sang Lee is Dead: ongoing memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
There was a time, before the car accident, before my huge mistake of a marriage and wildly dysfunctional divorce, long before Professor Charles Bivona, when all I wanted to be was a yogi. It made sense at the time.
It was 1998 and I was home from a failed attempt at grad school on the west coast. The plan was to take the few thousand dollars I’d saved, audit some courses, and ease my way into a program. I couldn’t do it any other way. My deep insecurities would only allow an application as a formality. As in:
“The faculty loves you, Charles. You do excellent work. You’re already in the program! Of course you are! How could you not be? But we do need you to fill out an application, and write an essay, just to have it on file.”
It was only under those circumstances that I could muster the will to formally apply to grad school.
Incidentally, that’s almost the exact speech the head of the English MA program at Rutgers-Newark gave me a few years later.
“What is it you want to do, Charles?” She leaned back in her chair, and looked me in the eyes. “Be honest with yourself, and me.” She sat patiently, watching me struggle with my thoughts.
After all, I was the son of a carpenter father who barely made it through high school, and a beautician mother forced to drop out, get a GED, and go to work. How could I become an English Professor? The thought of it felt absurd.
But that, too, is another part of the story—much further along in the memoir. So, to the beginning.
I think it all started when I was working as an Assistant Manager in a mall bookstore, a cliché beginning, but there it is.
In 1996, I was twenty-four years old. I had $3,000 in the bank, a few sets of clothes, 2,000 used books, and a very old car. I was depressively in love with my girlfriend—call her Joy. My mind was already in California—fleeing my father’s specter—but that didn’t stop me from anxiously asking Joy to marry me. And it was very un-poetic. What I mean is, I just blurted out my nervous proposal in the food court of a New Jersey mall.

Read Part 2
Joy called it our writing experiment.
OR
Read More
memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
Join this Alumni student as he tours the Christian Fundamentalist school, Oral Roberts University in Tulsa, OK, where presidential candidate Michelle Bachmann earned her Law Degree.
—

Fortunately, at the eleventh hour,
a Texas oil man came up with rest of the money,
and God didn’t have to take Oral Roberts away from us.
—

The eternal flame is burning,
once again to represent the power of the holy spirit
and its presence on the campus.
—

It’s not uncommon for freshman to be told…
that these hands actually clap at midnight.
—
Thank you, Mac.
Learn More:
—
I’ll start confessing my darkness. I’ll talk about the shitty New Jersey town I grew up in, and the injustices of the American class war that waged within its borders. I’ll tell of my mother sobbing over our lack of money for food, rent, medicine—much like I do now. I’ll write about studying for six hours a day, of putting ice packs on my eyes every night—alleviates eyestrain, keeps you reading.
And I’ll write about my inevitable failure to study my way into the middle class. Knowledge, it turns out, is not power.
So then I’ll write about being left overqualified to do anything but adjunct lecture to college students who make more money than I do, or rich kids who never needed a job yet .. [smile] .. In fact, I think I will definitely write a lot about that.
And debt. I’ll write about debt.
Confession: I’m thirty-nine years old and I’ve never made a decent wage in my life. If I made 45,000 a year, I’d feel wealthy.
This is the perspective I’ve gained as a University professor, as a PhD candidate, as a Social and Intellectual Historian: I’m an expert in my own 21st Century American Poverty.

Baby, you don’t know where my mind has been.
Please Read
Sang Lee is Dead: ongoing memoirs in fragments
By Charles Bivona
—

Can you call Verizon?
Tell them:
“Support good jobs for workers, not corporate bonuses.
Stop refusing to negotiate with your workers.”
P.S. My younger brother is one of the workers out on strike.