Mushin-Sho

is-can-be-not

kokyued — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 00:58:20 +0000

I wondered if we were exotic to each other; hair, eyes, skin, lips, location, actual potential. Then the academy fell and I thought: the exotic is perfect intimacy discovered by surprise.

Decision

kokyued — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 14:30:50 +0000

Via Steve Shaviro:

The word ‘decision’ does not here imply conscious judgment, though in some ‘decisions’ consciousness will be a factor. The word is used in its root sense of a ‘cutting off.’ The ontological principle declares that every decision is referable to one or more actual entities, because in separation from actual entities there is nothing, merely nonentity — ‘The rest is silence.’
— Whitehead on decision: Process and Reality 43

stumble

kokyued — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 16:24:22 +0000

I was expecting it
I was afraid of it
my warrior man
trying not to kill the thing I want to protect

kokyued — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 14:42:41 +0000

And then I saw him, another Native man, leaning against a wall near the gift shop. Well, maybe he was Asian—lots of those in Seattle. He was a small man, pale brown, with muscular arms and a soft belly. Maybe he was Mexican, which is really a kind of Indian, too, but not the kind that I needed. It’s hard to tell sometimes what people are. Even brown people guess at the identity of other brown people.—Sherman Alexie

Judging Judgment: Some Notes on Judgment at Nuremberg

kokyued — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 00:52:55 +0000

(rough, unchecked for grammatical errors)

A brilliant professor who has been hugely influential in my development got me thinking about this movie by asking the following:

BW: An interesting film, with the documentary embedded within the "fictional" courtroom drama. What did you make of that?

Response: The images of that embedded documentary are now part of the common mind, but it was brave and important that they were included in the movie. However, I tended to agree with the prosecution that it was an emotional rather than legal tactic that obscured the question at hand: To what degree are the judges responsible for the charges?

The movie was honest enough to admit that this was an emotional appeal by noting the American prosecutor’s involvement in the liberation of Dachau.

There is more to be said, obviously, but those are some initial thoughts.

BW: What I think is remarkable is the shift of POV when the prosecutor gets up on the stand and is then a witness to the liberation of Dachau. This throws identification into the mix and conflates judgment with American identity. It’s a total qualification of the supposed universal standard.

Response: Indeed, it is a remarkable qualification in a movie that indicts patriotism and even the notion of "victor’s justice." The scene, I think, also highlights one of the central questions of the film: who speaks for the universal? During the documentary, there are shots of the principal actors, and others including black MPs, all of whom are disgusted and disturbed by the images. The reactions invoke the universal; there is no one who would not be appalled. But, as you noted, the universal is qualified by the American prosecutor’s narration; he, and America, claim to be the universal’s voice, its literal judge-jury-executioner.

The moment is damning and obscuring simultaneously. I felt the trail’s momentum shift and there was no hope for those on trail. When the German defense lawyer, however, argues that the images invoked an emotional appeal (a universal one) and obscured the question of responsibility, I was sympathetic to his argument.

The supposed universal standard, then, is troubled in at least three ways: first, it has an American accent; it is based on an arational emotional appeal; it obscures rather than clarifies who is responsible and who can judge.

I just want to take a few moments to think about this film in writing. First, the title of this post is a tribute to the film’s self-reflexivity, which begins with its own title. Perhaps obvious, but the obvious should always be stated, the film is not merely about a trial but about judgment itself. This is made obvious by the ostensible villains of the film, the indicted judges who presided over and during the Nazi period. The American prosecutors opening lines, delivered with spitting vehemence, acknowledge the uniqueness of the perpetrator’s crimes by noting that they were committed in the name of the law. Since the Nazi laws have already, and rightly, condemned, the judges are also guilty, because they were the laws’ executioners. Even more, and paradoxically, the judges are guilty of having failed the law, or rather, the Law.

One judge argues that they, and judges as such, are there to enact laws that are already in place, not to create new ones. This is rejected. By enforcing laws, Nazi laws, they have, according to the film, failed their allegiance to the Law; I use this vague term as a placeholder for the film’s own messy conceptions of universal ethics, justice and judgment.

The American tribunal, of course, is there as the Law’s avatar. That the three-man tribunal ultimately includes a dissenting opinion is a final acknowledgement that the Universal, as such, has no voice in our world, that it is always already qualified and made particular. I noted three qualifications of the universal in my response and want to explore two of them now, albeit hastily.

I claim the prosecutor’s films from the liberation of Dachau, which he aided, and Buchenwald invoke the universal through the emotional; there is no one, including the indicted judges, who are not appalled. I think this is right, but it raises the question of how we come to the universal, through what faculties can it be perceived. In other words, this moment questions the assumption that universal claims, particularly those articulated as human rights, come out of a common human rationality. After all, who would question a human’s right to life or their inherent dignity? But the teary eyed reaction of everyone in the courtroom points us in a different direction. The inherent dignity of human life, on which all human rights are founded, is a felt thing; I’m not sure one can defend it on rational grounds without slipping into a hierarchy of species (and thus stewardship of the planet), or divine presence (and thus Religion and its pitfalls) or a myriad of other failed systems. No, like the official UN Declaration, we must take it as self-evident, and thus, tautological: inherent dignity grounds all human rights whose goal is to protect inherent human dignity.

But perhaps I am misunderstanding humanity. Perhaps, rather than claim that the courtroom’s reaction is a non-rational thing, we should try to understand emotions as rationality of a different order, a different kind of reasoning that, depending on your bent, sees more darkly or more clearly. To be fully honest, I rely on my intuition to guide major decisions, including my scholarly work, but often fail to explain a certain response in any reasonable way. “I just know” must suffice.

I think the American prosecutor would understand me. Having participated in the mission to liberate the Dachau concentration camp, he argues with righteous indignation and channels that understandable fury through legal arguments. But this is not the first time he has used the films. Another character notes that this is a favorite tactic, a weapon, a “house of horrors” that every tribunal is made to suffer. The point, of course, is not to wonder if such documentary footage was really shown during the Nuremberg trials. Rather, I think the film is pointing to the heart of the trials, the thing that kept blood pumping through the excruciating process; that thing is what I have been calling the universal as emotional. Formally too, the documentary footage appears in the last third of the film and does nothing less than trump the defense’s brilliant counterarguments, which themselves deserve study. Our emotional horror, like that of the tribunal’s lead judge, overrides any sophisticated legal reasoning and we are left with one word only: guilty.

Even if some of what I am saying is true, that the universal is, at base, a felt arational thing, the Americans still seem to be its manifestation; the prosecutor and judge are horrified and find the defendants guilty. But there is a brilliantly integrated, and appropriately marginalized, presence that rejects American claims to universality, the black GIs.

They stand behind the dock where the defendants sit, next to the doors they open for witnesses to enter, and handle the microphones when the indicted are asked to make statements. They wear immaculate khaki uniforms with helmets, white gloves and white armbands with black lettering that reads, M.P, military police. And in the film, they indeed police the military tribunal’s claim to universality. The black GIs are always at the outskirts, doing things without lit faces so that their features are lost in the purposeful cover of their uniform helmets. They are a searing indictment of America in the film’s double historical context; by 1948, the date of the trail, their presence as second-class citizens and frontline shields had been solidified; by 1961, when the film is released, black GIs realized they were not going to receive the same access to resources, financial and otherwise, that their white counterparts would.

The German reaction to their presence during the American occupation, however, is not something I know much about except by way of two opposing exaggerations. First, I taught a class at Wayne State that included weekly conversations with Detroit senior citizens; it was an amazing experience for everyone involved. One black WWII veteran told us a story, several times, of his tour of Germany. During an R&R outing with his buddies, he began talking with a beautiful German woman. Later in the evening, when they were dancing, she began groping his behind and, in some versions of the story, even put her hands down the back of his pants. He was shocked and not pleased. When he asked his buddies about it, they told him that she was looking to see if he was turning into a monkey. “What?!” “Yea man, they think we turn into monkeys after midnight and she was looking to see if you had a tail.” Other seniors, including black women, acknowledged that such a myth existed. My students and I were at a loss; we were appalled, embarrassed for him, and also wanted to laugh with him and the seniors who got a kick out of the story. I still have no idea if it’s true, but it makes for a damn good tale (sorry, bad pun).

On the other side, a German tour guide gave our American Studies group a “rah rah America” narrative as she and her older mother showed us around Munich. The guide used her mother for confirmation and anecdotal evidence about the German occupation to American troops. In their story, the American soldiers were god sent and minor gods who were chased after relentlessly, partly in hopes of acquiring American citizenship through marriage. Black soldiers, in this account, were absolutely not discriminated against because they wore those godly uniforms and their strangeness made them even more appealing. There were many marriages and many mixed children during this time. Perhaps, but aside from the large immigrant Turkish population, I could count on my hands the number of black people I saw there. But, again, I confess and emphasize my ignorance in this matter.

The truth about all these things is probably in some messy middle; it is certainly not universal.

uncertain future

kokyued — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:28:45 +0000

we would have tiger cubs

they would have claws too

long ones

always in ready pose

so they can hang from trees

to attack us

Two Threads

kokyued — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 11:49:50 +0000

B: So do you feel bad about that?

X: I have two thoughts on it. First, there is a lot of regret. I was too young, obsessive and ##### to know what was in front of me. And I didn’t even know that I was ##### when I was; it used to wreck me and I would have no idea why and she suffered the effects of that too. There is also regret about having caused someone I loved so much pain. But that’s the other thing. You know, I saw my #### in India and that was really crazy. It also reminded how much other people are affected when you’re #####, and I’m scared of making anyone else go through that. I mean, I’m actually kind of happy that things didn’t work out because what if I can’t get a handle on this thing, then she and her family would be sucked into that hell too and I don’t want to live with that. I’d rather suffer alone than make someone else repeat my experience.

B: Yea, you can rationalize it like that, but those who love you will be there to support you through that. Yea, it would be hard, just like if your wife were dying but they would be there for you; that’s what it’s about. And you’re just rationalizing not getting close to people.

X: Yea, I know. I’ve thought about that too and it’s probably true. But I’m genuinely scared.

B: No doubt. And I can feel you on ###### getting to you cause I recently saw ### hanging out with another # and it bothered me too. And I haven’t dated # in a long time. I can’t even imagine how I’d react if I saw ## with someone else; this is so much more recent.

X: Yea, it’s crazy. There is just no such thing as a life without regret. If you don’t regret something then you haven’t fucking done much with your life.

B: But you can’t dwell on that either. You have to let it go and move on.

X’s eyes gloss over on hearing the cliché advice. B notices this.

B: I’m sure you’ve heard that before, but it’s still true.

X: I’ve lost my faith in that narrative, that everything happens for a reason, or whatever wording it takes. I need faith in that story again.

B: It’s probably something someone made up just so we could continue to live our life and give us some peace. But it’s helpful.

In the Darkness

Y: Don’t talk about death like that. So casually. It makes me nervous

X: I don’t mean suicide death, I have a different idea of what that means. For me, to die would be to give up my life and ambitions, thank my family for everything, and then volunteer for an organization in the service of others and just do that completely. It would be a surrendering of all dreams, hopes, ambitions, whatever, an emptying of my life and transform myself into an empty server. That’s my idea of a suicide.

Y: Yes, working for others would be great. It would give you time until your desires came back.

X: This is true. They always come back. [Maybe the idea would fail completely]

X: Know what else I’ve been thinking about?

Y: Hm, tell me.

X: We were talking about our admiration for Nietzsche’s courage, for daring to unmoor the world from whatwere, for his life-world, the founding absolutes, for daring to see what happens when you destroyed the key meaning making narratives.

But, and I haven’t read enough Nietzsche to know, but it seems to me that there continues to be one narrative that persists, especially in Human Rights discourse. And that is the inherent value of a human life. I mean, we know that our living existence in the world, especially the first world, means that we take up too much space, consume too much food, water, energy and whatnot. We are criminal by our very existence.

So why is there an inherent value or dignity to human life? How does that have any kind of foundation? It doesn’t seem to me to be something to be reasoned out, but a felt assumption, the ground on which all other creations are built.

Y: Yes, it’s the final fortress of meaning.

X: Well said. I don’t know. When I’m in this space, I just cease to understand to feel that foundation. It just doesn’t make sense. And if that doesn’t make sense, then getting out of bed and going through a day is damn impossible.

Y: Yes.

Rakshita

kokyued — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 01:58:04 +0000

Death and life were just adjacent verandas. ––Rushdie

Rushdie is right, except that in Sankapalli Death and Life were a bit further apart. About fifty meters to be precise. From the door of my again-dying grandfather we walked along the main dirt road, flanked by other houses with their own specters, and arrived at the modest home set slightly below road level. As a child, I played with someone who lived here, an older girl, a sister whom I foggily remembered. She was gone now.

A grandmother, her son and daughter-in-law greeted us warmly at the verandah. We were given seats below the lone fan. The hottest part of the day had passed but the muggy evening wasn’t cooling quickly enough. We sat sweating and had to refuse the well water because it would wreck our soft westernized stomachs. There was a water shortage in the village too; irrigation systems failed.

The daughter-in-law called in her daughter. A little girl promptly came out, went smoothly to my beckoning mother who smilingly squeezed her and told her she was adorable. Dressed in a light blue sleeveless top, a full length white and blue skirt that bellowed softly when she walked, her smooth confident features were highlighted by short boyish black hair. She sat down in a white plastic chair, slightly slouched, and prepared herself for the usual questions. Then I remembered her.

I had come to India eight years ago in 2001 and came to Sankapalli then too. The pilgrimage was done in the half dark because we arrived late in the evening and the power, the current, was out. In the last hour of light, I climbed to the roof of my grandparents’ house and stood there looking over the low rooftops. The monsoon air carried the smell of straw and cow, of dung and tropical moisture. I realized that this is where I felt most at home in the world, my life in America a distant complicated nightmare. I wished I could cry and shed the tears appropriate to such a realization. I didn’t cry.

We walked along the main dirt road to the house of a grandmother whose son had married a good woman a few years before. They had a daughter. She was one or two then and crying because she was sick. I couldn’t see her tears in the darkness but heard her clearly; everyone has an ear for distressed children. My brother, an avid photographer, took many pictures of her, a fact that her parents told her when we returned eight years later. I remembered her then.

She smiled to the strangers in front of her.

Telugu was flung back and forth in the room, only bits of which I caught or wanted to. When things were quiet again, I asked the little girl what her name was. I didn’t understand her reply and looked at my Mom for clarification.

“Rakshita,” she annunciated.

The summer holidays brought her back to Sankapalli, away from her school in Karimnagar where she lived in the hostel (dorm). Someone asked how she liked it there and, in standard Indian fashion, her parents answered for her. Rakshita got used to the place after a year but still hated the food. The studies, those sacred idols, were going well and that, after all, was what mattered most. She had friends there her parents said smiling, and she confirmed with firm nod of her head when my Mom asked if that was true. Rakshita’s mother announced that her daughter wanted to be a doctor, and my Mom again confirmed it with her. A smile sufficed.

My brother’s face was impressed and Mom simply said, “Good.” The room suddenly smelled of a courtship, the hopeful mentoring, guiding, inspiring of a child by others from the village who had achieved her goal. My family was no longer the “standard Indians” (smart doctors in America) that I teased them as, but real-life-fairytales who descended from their astral homes to again visit their home village. And everyone wanted to bless their house with these ethereal beings.

Mom was called away to yet another neighboring house and we stayed behind at Rakshita’s house. Her parents asked her to talk to us, to break her silence and perhaps practice her English. The obviousness of the situation made it awkward.

“Is your school English or Telugu medium?” I asked stumbling toward a conversation. That I asked in Telugu didn’t help matters.

“English,” Rakshita and her parents answered.

“So, you are already sure you want to be a doctor?” I aked, in English this time. Too fast. She didn’t understand and raised her chin very slightly to gesture her question. I tried to repeat myself, but failed again.

“You know Annaya is a doctor too,” I said, pointing to my older brother next to me. He was busy taking photos with a large white telephoto lens that allowed him to see closely form a distance, to capture intimacy without invading. Rakshita simply smiled in acknowledgement of my brother’s achievement. I wondered if we were recognizable, if she could see herself in our lives or were we simply too alien; can an hour-long visit make your dreams possible?

Her mother moved her closer to the fan so that she sat facing us, just a few feet apart now.

“So, do you want to stay in India or go to the US when you become a doctor?” I asked. Again, she couldn’t understand my mid-west American basha. “Way too fast dude,” my brother said to me quietly. I tried slowing down and repeating myself, but her calmness made me nervous and my words tumbled out and fell flatly on the floor. They didn’t reach her. I tried repeating my question in Telugu and, after some help from her mother and my brother, Rakshita understood.

“Yes, I want to go,” she announced in a trained English heavy with accent and desire.

My heart broke. Her words reverberated through my body creating a current of emotions that nearly leaked out of my eyes. I chided myself for being weak, for being a cliché, for indulging in pity for this girl whom it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. But the thoughts rushed on.

What if what if no that’s an absurd idea what the fuck are you thinking you think you’re a god damn savior or something rescuing “rescuing” this girl and taking her with you to America do you know what kind of cliché fucking narrative fantasy logic bullshit that is here comes the first world saving the poor childish third world and caring for it are you fucking crazy my god I’m so lucky that Mom moved to America holy shit she’s me when I was young I was that age when I left too I don’t remember being that aware or poised I was a fucking mess and man oh man that transition was painful would you want to put her through that but I we could warn her of what’s coming and she could get a great education and become a doctor that could work anywhere even in India if she wanted what about her parents huh do you think they’d want to lose their daughter like that yea it would be like a choice from the movies or something Indecent Proposal well not for sex but a once in a lifetime choice for your entire future come to America with us and we will take care of you as you become a doctor and her parents would grievingly say ok because that is best for their daughter this is fucking sick are you serious you went through that nonsense and it wasn’t best for you so why the hell would you wish that on someone else but god she really believes in America she really wants to go that would be a hard realization too that America isn’t as great as she thinks that people will be mean to her wow that’s fucking crazy she really wants to go what if it were possible what about her does she have a choice or will she be so grateful for your fucking rescue would she want to go what if I told her that she would lose all sense of home that Sankapalli would no longer feel like home would feel like home once of twice more maybe but when you’re grown up you won’t have a home just houses and important placese but no place where you really relax because you’ll be a stranger everywhere does that shit even matter when you’re just trying to set up a better life do you even lose a home then or just get a bigger better house in the city or in America jesus is that really the choice doctor and homeless or what I don’t know whatever happens to you here bribing to get into schools unless you kick ass on crazy exams when you’re too young to know what your own body is doing let alone having to work on others’ bodies holy shit what if it were really possible to leave

And on and on the thoughts raced, circling furiously around her five English words.

My brother showed her how to take pictures with his camera. It was heavy in her hands as she turned it this way and that with her eye in the viewfinder. I hoped it was a preview for her, a hands on experience of a far away place. She took pictures of the house and her mother.

We decided to catch up with Mom and said good-bye to Rakshita and her family. My brother asked them, grandmother, her, her mother, to stand for a final-more-formal photo. He wished her well in her studies and said that he was older than her when he left for America, four years older actually. I said I was her age when I went to America.

“Good luck,” was all I could manage before turning my back and walking out of the verandah.

Grandfather

kokyued — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 18:13:56 +0000

Senior endured the multiple health problems of the very old, the daily penances of bowel and urethra, of back and knee, the milkiness climbing in his eyes, the breathing troubles, the nightmares, the slow failing of the soft machine.––Rushdie

A running critique of American culture, one that has become a cliché, holds that Americans don’t value their elderly like people in the old world. The nuclear family being the standard unit of existence, the elderly are confined to retirement communities, nursing homes, or other rarely seen quarters. The elders, as an ideal old world would argue, are not to be treated this way; they are integral to the family as supplemental guides to both their children and grandchildren and should properly assume their post with the regal air proper to one with white hair.

Things are never that simple. The dignity of hard won wisdom decays slowly with the flesh; the beautiful wrinkles of a full life stiffen with the bones they cover; the mind slips and breaks hips irreparably.

I visited my ancestral home village, Sankapalli, and visited my dead grandfather’s younger brother. My grandfather was a police officer after independence before his eyes began to fail. His pension days were filled with reading, a task made less daunting by the numerous eye surgeries that his two doctor-daughters-in-America made possible. These daughters were the product of a union that emphasized education above all; in his last years, however, he wasn’t able to see those precious printed words.

And suddenly, here was his little brother honoring the dead sibling by wearing the same face. The resemblance was uncanny; my Mom noticed it first. He had recently suffered a series of minor strokes, suddenly going blank and falling flatly on the stone floor, distressing his wife. He stood waiting for his guests, us, to sit down first but took a seat on his family’s insistence. I sat directly in front of him and held his hand. They told him my name and asked if he remembered me. He tilted his head left and right: yes, he remembered.

My Telugu failed me miserably and my body tensed from the awkwardness. He couldn’t care. I looked at his downcast eyes as they floated through their milky paths and wondered when I too would be disconnected.

“Are you doing well?” I asked politely, trying to get a few words of him
“Yes”

And that was the end of that.

My mother asked him questions about his health: when was the last time he had fallen? Was he in any pain? Is he visiting his neighbors? Is he reading?

That was not my role. I was merely a grandson paying proper homage to an elder. What does one say to another who is dying? Whatever questions I wanted to ask were in a foreign tongue made worse by an incomprehensible accent. There was no need for a dialogue when presence sufficed, no need for questions when the final answer was so close, no need for a story about to end. I simply wanted to drink his aura and digest these final lessons.

People can die again. My grandfather will die again in his little brother. And again, his grandson will wonder if such a death is a punishment or a blessing.

On Temples

kokyued — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 15:47:08 +0000

I’ve just returned from Tirupati and the trip solidified an idea that was already coming together in my mind. I will never go there again. I will never visit another temple that has any kind of VIP Darshans. Period.

Because we are privileged and my aunt is a ranking government officer, she was able to get us special tickets to a puja my mother wanted to attend. This same access allowed us to receive Darshan twenty minutes after the puja and leave the Temple complex entirely within a few hours of getting there. A lot of rupees and connections were used to make this all happen.

My very privileged experience, indeed the easiest trip to Triupati I’ve ever had, is in stark contrast to what most people have to go through. Certainly, those with enough money, even without government contacts, will be afforded similar treatment. Most of the temple’s visitors, if the three-kilometer Darshan line is any evidence, have to wait all day, if not days, for a glimpse of an avatar’s stone image. The glimpse is only that, and even if one’s hands are clasped in prayer the guards on duty will angrily shove you through the congested line and yell for you to keep moving. As if there is nothing to see.

There are many among the throngs of people who bare this inequality with awesome devotion, starting waves of “Govinda, Gooovinda” chants, or repeating the name more quietly. There are many who are irritated, angry, push and shove their way forward. I can understand both, revere the former but identify with the latter. Save the setting, nothing about Tirupati strikes me as godly; I have no desire to worship inequality.

I ask my Mom mildy, “So what is so special about Tirupati? Did something holy happen here?”
“I don’t know,” she smiles slightly embarrassed, “it’s just a popular place.”
I ask my aunt the same question, hoping more from her sincere desire to be there.
“I don’t really know what the story is. I’m not sure,” she replies with a confused face.

Horrible Temple practices are enough to make me angry, but the blind adherence to those practices, affirming them with money and time, by educated people makes me furious. What is godly about uncritical attendance of pujas repeated mechanically by disinterested priests?

A more generous narration would attend to the sincerity of my family’s devotion, the serenity gained from being at the Temple, and their belief that real blessings have been gained. But I find this to be too generous. Those benefits of faith are nowhere evident. Instead, those family members who are quick to anger, wear perpetually annoyed faces, carry themselves humbly or too proudly continue to do so even while performing their devotions. Nothing changes. I am often too critical of my family but my criticisms usually center on the same issue, blindness: of critical questions, of self-critique, of learning better methods to achieve a goal, etc. I can’t see why they don’t see.

On a final note I’d like to say, especially for those who may be googling, that The Golden Temple of Sripuram is a spiritual shithole. This gigantic waste of time, space, money, and energy is a tourist destination and nothing more. There is even a “deluxe hotel” next to the temple (note the lower case ‘t’) that is built to look like a temple itself. Their desire to suck the money out of you while giving you a godly excuse is bold enough, but that they succeed is appalling.

Built to anticipate massive numbers of visitors, the line to the actual place of Darshan is almost two kilometers long and traces a star shaped path along lush gardens, which must be quite expensive to maintain in the South Indian heat. Fortunately, there are also stalls selling milk biscuits and water to the devotees. More obnoxious still, numerous signs posted along the way offer “wisdom”. These are little more than “spiritual” platitudes about creating good karma, being kind to others, the necessity of devotion, etc. Pick up a book of proverbs or two from any “Eastern” spiritual tradition and you will receive the same lessons; that is apparently what the self-aggrandizing toolbag of guru did. There are pictures of “Amma,” the aforementioned guru, that literally have him crowned, holding weapons associated with the gods of Hindu cosmology, wearing garlands, and being bathed in milk (again, a tradition reserved for idols). Of all the fake spiritual teachers and leaders I’ve heard about in India, this idiot gets the “blatantly-hypocritical-asshole-who-gives-spirituality-a-bad-name award.” Congrats.

God is a practice. Even without the grand narratives of religion, of which I’m not a fan, one can believe in the divine potential of human beings, of their ability to perform godly behaviors. I am thinking of both great spiritual figures in human history and those minor deities in all our lives whose passion, patience, kindness, or equanimity, inspire us to be better, to practice being divine humans.