My
beloved Boston Celtics lost this weekend to the Indiana
Pacers in a best of seven series that had been forced
to game seven in the first round of the NBA playoffs.
I'll spare you the details about how we could have and
should have won, how the series was a reflection of the
team's entire season -one in which flashes of amazing
potential and inspirational, gutsy effort were overshadowed
by inconsistency, bone-headed mistakes and painful immaturity.
If you're really that interested to read about it then
go here,
otherwise all you need know is that when I got home last
night rather chipper and a few beers in the tank after
being at a mate's BBQ for the day and learned about the
team's defeat, I impulsively screamed out 'OH, FOR FUCK'S
SAKE!!' at the top of my voice, which also happened to
be the exact same moment my new neighbour had decided
to knock on the front door and introduce himself. It was
truly brilliant coincidental timing. Things were made
markedly worse, however, when I then also unintentionally
answered the door holding an exact replica of a Desert
Eagle hand-gun I'd left lying around since pulling out
the old toy for use on a friend's film set a few days
earlier. Hey, let's remember, I was, as I mentioned, with
'a few beers in the tank', and not exactly thinking straight.
The gun had been sitting on our coffee table and while
sitting on the couch and watching highlights of the Celtic's
grief I'd unconsciously been fiddling around with it.
It's
little surprise then, that when I swung open the door
my new neighbour, pale and twitching, was already slowly
retreating down our front steps and apologising for bothering
me on a Sunday night. I tried reassuring him he'd merely
caught me at a bad moment and that I really wasn't about
to unload eight rounds into his torso, but it didn't seem
to stop him literally sprinting back to the safety of
his own home. I can only assume he won't be around anytime
soon to ask if he could borrow a cup of sugar.
Anyway,
lost in the deep, black misery of another disappointing
Celtics season I inexplicably got to contemplating my
Zen moments. Those few key experiences, sensations or
occasionally recurring emotions that somehow manage to
elevate and rejuvenate your spirit. I don't think I'm
necessarily talking about what it is that takes people
to their 'happy place', I believe that's something that
has more to do with intense psychotherapy and pink pills
that make you feel like the world is a soft cushion. Nor
am I about to regurgitate old Charles Schulz 'Happiness
is a warm puppy' fuzzy-moment material. Then again, who
knows? Perhaps I really am being a tad over'sentimental
and should immediately apologise for reducing Ezy Reading
to syrup; syrup brought on by a desperate man seeking
much'needed solace from basketball'induced depression.
Pathetic, really.
Still,
at the risk of sounding too Platonic, if absolute happiness
doesn't exist, then the moments I'm thinking of are those
that irrespectively manage to get you as close to the
ultimate sublime as is possible. Some may linger for a
few fleeting seconds; perhaps merely a hint of a familiar
scent or a moment of déjà vu that sends
one to a familiar, comfortable time in their past. Others
may well provide that sense of wellbeing, contentment
or reassurance for days, while others still may quite
literally take years to rediscover. Last night, for me,
joy came in the form of listening to the album 'Together
We're Heavy' by the Polyphonic Spree.
Paul
Pierce's disgraceful implosion in Game 6 suddenly became
a distant memory. The intense promise of Game 4 no longer
mattered. Antoine Walker wasn't haunting me any more with
his questionable three'point judgement, and Mark Blount
would never again be the cancer that was eroding my faith
in all that is just and fair in the world. I was happy
and at peace. Already, I looked forward to next season
and excitedly contemplated the prospects of Celtic management
dumping Blount's swollen contract into a sewer and continuing
to develop the enormous talents of young Al Jefferson.
I pondered the possibilities of what the team might be
able to do with just one more vital piece falling into
place' something perhaps only a minor trade away from
fulfilment. And then, away 'far away' from the Celtics,
I soon took stock in the happier rewards of the Patriots,
the Red Sox, and the NSW Waratahs. My blood pressure normalised
and my temper and disappointment subsided.
I
was 'Zenning'.
And,
save for a panic-stricken neighbour now madly dialling
the police, things were just fine.
Anyway,
in honour of the Celtics' season coming to an end in seven
games, here are seven of my personal all'time Zen moments:
1)
City lights as seen from an aeroplane. Not sure what it
is, perhaps a hangover from my youth when we'd so often
fly back into Boston and Athens on evening flights after
years of being away in Australia. I'd leer out the window
for hours, waiting and watching as the lights became closer,
and closer, as did that moment of being reunited with
my family.
2) The expectant moment just before a movie starts in
a dark theatre. It makes me want to get cracking and write.
3) Standing in the middle of an excited crowd, the warm
glow of four or five beers in the system, and watching
the band well and truly rock'out on stage. Always followed
by a hangover the next day.
4) The Red Sox hammering the Yankees. Or any other favourite
team knocking out a rival for that matter. Just fantastic.
5)
Finding that sweet groove on the basketball court where
you could close your eyes, light a cigarette and still
never miss a shot (believe me, this one is rare, and the
aches and pains in my body seem to be fighting off any
chance of it every happening again).
6) Sunsets. Man, I have to admit it, I'm a sucker for
sunsets (plus I'm never awake in time to see the sunrise).
In the middle of winter in Bathurst the sunsets from the
edge of the Maranatha Cemetery are about as inspiring
as it gets (Ahem, and now how about we swiftly move on
and forget that I just referenced sunsets as one of my
Zen moments. Sheesh, what is up with me??...).
7) Waking up on Crowninshield Street in Peabody, Massachusetts
to the welcoming aromas of my grandmother Helen's cooking
in the Warren Lunch next door. Often accompanied by Helen
snapping out, "I'm busy, so just tell me what you want
off the menu board and stay outta' my way! And I don't
want to see anything left on the plate!" You're missing
out if you never ate Helen's extraordinary serves of turkey
pot-pie while she stood over your shoulder and assessed
whether you'd eaten enough.
Have
a few of your own Zen moments you'd like to share? Drop
Evan a line at evan@thecud.com.au
Ezy
Reading is out every Monday.
