Doyle, Schwartz, Superman, Batman and Tibetan thought forms!

B

Bill Marsh

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Mar 26, 2002
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OK having slid down Occam's Razor -- Spun around with Sherlock and Doyle, I would like to toss another stone into the Pond of HI Cantina and watch the ripples spread.

Y'all may not be familar with the guy behind Superman and Batman in the 1940s, but he turned into one mystical guy at about the age of 80.

Like Uncle Bill, Alvin Swartz became a Mahayana Buddhist, studying the "Path Without Form."

I was introduced to "An Unlikely Prophet" by my friend Steve Brothers who lives in Katmandu and studies with the Tibetans living there in exile. He spoke of their belief in "Tulpas."

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0965952126/104-8770332-9631960?n=283155

One day I was writing Steve about "thought forms" recognizing that everything begins as a thought form in someone's mind. For instance a kami said, "I'll make a khuk." He had an image in his mind. Through grinding, forging, polishing, ritual, this tought form became reality.

Steve suggested that I get the book, "An Unlikely Prophet," by Alvin Schwartz. I am glad that I did.

So how far can we take this concept? Doyle felt that Sherlock became real to him -- overpowerlingly real. Through an idea in an author's mind, the character became real. Polished and spit out into print by the Author.

As Schwartz began to develop the Superman character he commented that Superman "practically wrote the stuff himself."

I have heard other authors say the same thing.

Munk (and I, and others) thought that Sherlock Holmes WAS real. He was certainly more real than Doyle to millions of people.

"I am of the last generation who grew up without comics," Schwartz said. "My points of reference were Sherlock Holmes, Mark Twain, Tarzan and H.G. Wells."

Sound familiar? They were my heros as well. Munk? Kis?

35 years after Schwartz quit the comic book business. A strange man peddled a bike to his door. That man was Thongden, a 7-foot Tibetan monk whose first inquiry was, "Are you the Superman writer?"

"Ah," I figured. "One of those. Another comics fan."

Schwartz dismissed the man as a nut at first. But Thongden soon brought into focus the author's true relationship with Superman and a new way of looking at the world. Schwartz would then embark on a strange and wonderful journey among Tibetan monks, expressionist painters, Hawaiian kahunas, quantum physicists ... and superheroes.

If you read the book, "An Unlikely Prophet," you will learn more about thought forms. It is written as non-fiction. Swartz refuses to say whether it is fiction or not. He leans toward it being non-fiction however.

What do you Cantina-ites think? Can enough people belive strongly enough in a character so that the character actually attains an existance? Does Sherlock Holmes exist somewhere?

Thongchen was, to Schwartz, as real as anyone, but he introduced himself to Schwartz as a thought form. A big solid man, however Thongchen was beginning to fade. It seemed the man who thought him up had died and he was looking for other people to belive in him -- to give him form and substance.

Schwartz said. "Some people believe that the universe is one great thought, many individuals making up one great consciousness."

Mahayana Buddhist. The "Big Boat."

Sitting around here in Georgia on a rainy Sunday afternoon, musing, just musing. Could there be varying levels of existance? Seems possible, even likely to me.

Could there be "people" on this Forum whose existance is only there in hyperspace of the Internet?

Somewhere I hear the distant tinkling of Heinekens and the chuckling laughter of Bill and Rusty and I like to think that they, on some plane, are still just as real as you and me

Maybe God is a Solipsist and we are His thought forms.......

Anybody else have cold chills? Or is it just me? Maybe it is just my Heinekens...........
 
The closest that I've ever come to wrestling with this particular concept was back when I wrote.

You see, like you mentioned, the story would tell itself. I would get a very vague, very nebulous idea for something; afterwards, the writing would proceed in fits and starts, but it always went very quickly. The story was already there - I was merely the poor sap that got stuck with writing, and later typing, it out.

They seldom ended up the way that I'd figured that they would. Sometimes the endings surprised me.

I never thought of them as real but maybe they were. Real to someone else, perhaps. Someone else's story? I didn't think them up but someone certainly did. I just brought them into the world. I've often wondered just where they came from. I still don't think that they came from me. I'd be interested in hearing Munk's take on this.

I didn't realize how much I enjoyed it until it stopped, and I haven't been able to write since. Whoever was coming up with these stories, I guess they found a better typist.

This makes me think of figures from mythology, religions, all sorts of things. If enough people believe in something that might not exist, does this act of mass belief force an existance by default? Is it possible to have an egg without a chicken?

I'll leave this for brighter minds to consider. Despite the fact that I have a lot of time for thinking these days, I'm not getting any better at it.

I'll check that book out the next time I place an order at Amazon. Thanks for the recommendation, Bill.
 
I thought this was a new law firm at first glance;) :p :D

I'll have to go back and read the post now that I've turned off my smartass mode:foot: :D
 
Bill Marsh,
You just posted the most wonderful thread. I can't tell you how much it means to me.

I just got through writing a letter to a few of you forumites. I call it my 'dream' letter. In it, I explained what was happening to me. Bill and Rusty passed away. I was working on a book and moderating a forum with some other folks.

I decided recently that my book was an affirmation of who I was, acknowledging that Life is real, Life is Earnest, and The Grave Is Not Its Goal." (paraphrased from a wonderuful well known Poet.)

There was a road clearly in front of me. Though the boots left vacant by Bill and Rusty were so big that Howard, Yvsa and I struggled to lace them, we none the less were pushing forward.

Yangdu has the road in front of her. The forum is helping her. So, in my letter I asked people to help me visualize the reality of my dream. That I would be published, my book able to reach and say to people, "it's going to be OK." ; that Yvsa chop wood without pain, that Yangdu help the people in Nepal and herself and us, and any other rightful endeavor that each of us knew to be true and our proper task.

We place our real selves in these tasks and roles and proclaim them to be real and true. Not faking, not lying, not maybe in a world of yes men and multiple choice questions and our Government that is 'here to help'.

This is the greatest thing men do. Humans dare to say this is real.
This Cantina is alive without any one person. Bill is gone and his House stands on our collective dreams. If you believe in something, it can become real, but you must risk it being true and your embarressment with either result.


munk
 
We are all thoughts in the mind of god, but then, we are all pieces of him, too. It is as foolish to think that we are all seperate, individual entities without connection to everyone else as it is to think that we are not.

There are many things I do not know, but I'm much less concerned about it than I once was.

We are born, and we die, but since we know matter cannot be created or destroyed, we do not cease to exist. At our essence, we are pure energy, and as energy, we cannot help interaction with the energy that composes all things. This is science.
 
The internet is a great metaphor for the realization of ideas taking on independent life.

Not only the urban legend sort of life, where an idea sent out into cyberspace becomes accepted regardless of the original truth of the statement.

But the definition in our minds of the people we meet online, who don't exist for us outside the internet. People whose mundane biographies we may learn, but which don't really define them as we know them online.

Or as they and we choose to redefine ourselves in our ongoing conversations.

---

Writing poetry begins as an exercise in choosing words that fall into patterns. Then the patterning becomes automatic, and the multiple, interlocking meanings that define poetry as opposed to prose begin to appear.

Then the poem tells a story and the poet wonders who is telling the story, because it sure wasn't his original idea for the poem. The interplay of ideas has its own logic. Working with them is not a teaching experience; it's a learning experience.
 
And keep them coming; I've enjoyed them.
Forums some day will be audio too. We can hear a fray of voices. We can hear someone playing a guitar. We can hear your poetry, Essav.


munk
 
What do you Cantina-ites think? Can enough people belive strongly enough in a character so that the character actually attains an existance? Does Sherlock Holmes exist somewhere? >>>>>>>>> Bill Marsh


I haven't said this clearly enough. I got a chance to dream. Bill Martino and Rusty made a place of refuge where people could talk. I got up enough gumption to try. And that is because of the people here. They helped. They believed in each other, and in me too.

We've prayed for people to get well, to heal, to walk, to think better. What else could our gathered minds and hearts do?

All I'm trying to say is that if I publish a book, I did not do it on my own. The dream was shared.

munk
 
Do you really write verse? I was just finding your prose from above extremely beautiful.

John
 
munk said:
Can enough people belive strongly enough in a character so that the character actually attains an existance? Does Sherlock Holmes exist somewhere? >>>>>>>>> Bill Marsh
Click to expand...
Two kinds of existence ...

Does a character become solid? Like Pinocchio becoming a real little boy? I don't know; I never saw it happen.

Characters do come ot life in another sense.

A) When we read a book, well-written, or a movie or play, well-staged, convincingly so, we identify with the characters' lives and actions. I find, for myself, that I can imagine being in the middle of it, having conversations with these people.

B) Sherlock Holmes has become so well known that he's become a metaphor for himself. People treat his words as if they were his own, not the author's. He has become a free-floating character, brought into works after the original author's demise.

The concepts he was written to espouse have become his in the popular mind, and teach his principles to people who haven't read him themselves.

---

But whether ideas can take concrete form. like the last project of the Krell in Forbidden Planet ... who knows?
 
But couldja unnastan my Noo Yawk accent?>>> Esav

As long as you can forgive us for not being from New York.


>>>

Here is the crazy part; In a million years I never thought I'd say this, I mean, it sounds whacko to me and I'm the one making the words: If I don't believe it will come true, if doubts and reason overide my hope, will that influence the final result? Is that betrayal to God? Is that cowardice?

Because on the reality of it, on the merit, on the facts, I don't have a snow ball's chance in hell. There are a 100,000 manuscripts submitted every year, many by professionals who are known to their colleages in the industry.

If I revert to my older, former self, the one chronically depressed and accepting of sub par endeavors, will that undermine the process? And Nasty said he'd kick my ass if I did go backwards. (That's almost enough reason to 'fake' moving forwards, if you know what I mean.)

That is why, in part, I talked about the dream. Because in some ways,the fact I was here, that we've been talking to each other for several years now, makes our dreams inter-locked. I want Rob to get the Fireman's job if that's what he really wants. He put that into my consciousness. It became part of my reality the minute he told me. I live in a world where MauiRob wants to be a fireman and is a good guy and should get it. Do you understand?


Anyway, I never though I'd talk like this. I wish Bill Martino were here. I wish Rusty were here to comment.



munk
 
The universe, if it is a dream, is not man's dream.
Why do I say that?
Becase I know that man is not alone in the universe.
The aliens must have their own dreams, yes?
 
munk! Writing a book has NOTHING to do with publishing.

Write, write, however well, however poorly, once it takes off, the ideas are yours, the ideas belong to the universe you come from.

It might even get published some day. That's not why you write.
 
Spectre said:
Do you really write verse? I was just finding your prose from above extremely beautiful.

John
Click to expand...
Thanks.

Last night we had our first real snow of the season, a gentle dusting, falling for a few hours. I got up and dressed and went out. it reminded me of a poem I wrote a few years ago.

Snow Showers

Silver dust swirling in a crystal breeze,
Myriad motes descending from the sky,
Framing streetlights, an ever-changing frieze;
They chill the air, cover the ground, and I
Stand silent in the crisp cold haze, transfixed:
Adult, or child I was, emotions mixed.
Click to expand...

For a different sort of poem, you do need a New York accent for this:

Relief From The Heat Of The Street

urban vermin dragging dripping
ripping out his hair in rage
all the traffic fingers flipping
stuck in one big urban cage

soon the airconditioned buildings
losing power start to swelter
urban vermin leave the city
find some lakeside cabin shelter

now the skies are black and roaring
wind and thunder what a blast
rain is pouring lightning flashing
urban vermin cool at last
Click to expand...

We used to have an Urban Poetry forum at the New York Times, but like anything that was ever good at the Times, it died. I posted a lot there way back when.
 
Of course you're right, I write to become, I write as I am.
But part of the dream is giving back. The universe has helped me. People have helped me many times, even when I did not deserive it. When I was young and lonely the voices in the pages of the books talked to me. I knew we were going to be OK. I want to tell people we are going to be OK. I want that lonely kid in New York to know he's not alone.

I dunno. A cabinet maker who can't sell his work ends up with a bedroom full of cabinets and tables and chairs.

Kinda funny actually.

munk
 
Thank you, Esav. The rhyth in Relief is very powerful.

This thread- and the mention of verse- reminds me of something brief I wrote after a dream in '98, I think it was.

I saw you once,
Many times,
And not at all.
Since, I often regret.

John R. Shirley
 
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