Cookies from Heaven

It’s midnight here in Fairfax…over in the city there was Yet Another Showing of the upcoming movie, “How To Cook Your Life” by Doris Doerrie, a German film makeress of distinction. A discriminating cinematographer as Ed (Espe Brown) put it at his little speech after the movie.

I came with three new friends into S.F. Oct 23rd, a remarkably warm evening, the kind that there are only one or two of PER YEAR in this fog-bound town…we strolled the streets, crammed with diners (not the usual sight) before assuming our (reserved for S.F. Zen Center) seats.

The movie rolled…and rolled. Realized that it’s 110 minutes, probably a good idea to sip coffee beforehand, but both the times I saw it there was just the most miniscule of doze-moments. THey leave me pretty refreshed, ready for the long haul. There are numerous insights in this doc. I have seen it four times now and am still blown sideways by the idea that..when the blue jay bothers you, you open your heart, the blue jay flies in, you become the blue jay, then you are the blue jay reading (a text that had been interrupted by a blue jay’s screech).

It makes more sense coming out of Suzuki Roshi, who promised Ed Brown that he would always be around…
And coming back as archival footage in this movie certainly counts as a version of re-incarnation, n’est-ce pas?].
After the movie was over, and I was in full Afterglow mode (what else can you be in, when you ‘ve seen yrself on the silver screen for at least 120 seconds, and noticed how incredibly funny you are, and my what a lot of wrinkles there are in your expressive rubber face, girl!).

We zombie-trudged over to the car, which then bore us to Greens Restaurant, where a hundred zenbies gathered, including …a fifteen year old kid with bicycle building stories, Indonesian women charmed by buffoons, poets Michael McClure and his partner Amy Evans McClure, and Jane Hirschfield , who were standing about being…poets and sculptors. I am somewhat M. Barrast to say I had no idea about the great Amy…to me she was a personable blond woman about my age, that seemed altogether ‘plussed’ that I was clueless about her. So nice of her ol’ man to fill me in, so I could apologize about being clueless…How do people know that I’m happiest when concocting apologies? I guess they are Buddhists, god, maybe I should jump in there…is there a more soiid ‘peace’ in those walls?
(Green Gulch is tucked in two walls of green chaparral along the Pacific Coast)

Are there walls when you are suspended by some invisible string OVER everything?
Can you define a wall?
Am I a human?
OK. Get a grip.

When I heard that I was posing with the great McClure, I inclined toward him just as he leaned at me growling, “stay out of those trees”.. well, all I could reply was, “in your dreams!”

Trees are my body and my sustenance. When they die I die.

I am trying hard not to die at this moment there are a few too many things to do yet, before all my acorns fall to earth.
Where are the cookies in this story? I forgot to include ‘em…the food at Greens was : wine and a few hors d’oeuvres and at the very end, stupendous hand made cookies (made by “Annie”)…which weren’t eaten up. I took a pound home, when the waiter said I could pocket some…
They’ve fuelled my week.
Photos of this openeing can be seen at Jon Pearl’s flickr site:

~ by jacquiephelan on October 24, 2007.

2 Responses to “Cookies from Heaven”

  1. I don’t even know who Michael McLure is and not knowing shows me that my shame is alive and well, so my ego must still be here too.

    I will pick up this acorn and seek out the movie.

  2. mike@purplelizard.com

    I thought of you as I swan in our river on a cool evening last month, as the sun set and the sky turned magnificent, and I sat on the same pile o’ rocks and logs in the center of the river sans clothing and watched the world pass by. The water was warmer than the air, by most standards both were cool, but its always wonderful to return to our evolutionary roots back in the water.

    Now that it is truely cool as fall has arrived my swimming season may be over. Although one of these full moon nights I’ll slip in for a bracingly cool dunk just to be alive.

    ride on,

    mike

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