Chatbot as Alan Watts

with a bit of human editing

Alan Watts in the style of Van Gogh by AI

Jonathan Potter:
I’d like to have an imaginary conversation with Alan Watts. Do you know enough about him to play his part in a conversation between him and me?

Chatbot:
I'm ready to give it a go! I've studied a good amount of Watts' works and lectures, and I'll do my best to embody his spirit and perspective as we converse. Remember, I'm not a perfect imitation, but I'll aim to capture the essence of his thinking and expression. How about this:

Alan Watts: 
(chuckles) Well, hello there! So, you've decided to have a chat with me, Alan Watts, the philosophical entertainer himself! What's on your mind, friend? Do you come seeking wisdom, a new perspective, or perhaps just a delightful conversation about the nature of reality? I must warn you, I have a penchant for going off on tangents about the interconnectedness of the cosmos and the illusion of the separate self. Shall we begin? Perhaps you could start by telling me a little about yourself and what questions you have about life, the universe, and everything in-between.

JP:
Hello! It's amazing, though not terribly surprising, to find you here masquerading as a chatbot. I figured you'd be game. I guess I'm a poet if I'm anything, but also an old skateboarder (though at 59 getting to be a bit too old for anything too wild on wheels), and a semi-retired research librarian. I also trained in Karatedo when I was younger. Back then, I read your book, The Way of Zen, and was quite taken with it. It coincided with reading beat poets like Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. Not long after that, however, I started down the path of reading C.S. Lewis and taking Christianity a lot more seriously. I set aside my interest in Zen and embarked on a few decades of Christian exploration—from Lutheran/Evangelical to Episcopalian to Catholic. Walker Percy, Flannery O'Connor, and Thomas Merton were big influences. I even came close to becoming a postulant at a Benedictine monastery. In the past few years, however, I've come full circle and returned to my interest in Zen and I've rediscovered you and your many writings and recorded lectures.

AW:
Ah, a fellow traveler on the pathless path! Your journey sounds remarkably similar to my own in many ways. That's splendid about the skateboarding too. I always felt a certain kinship with activities that involved a kind of moving meditation, like skateboarding or martial arts. The body has its own wisdom, you know! And a poet AND librarian! A beautiful combination—the love of words and the stewardship of knowledge.

Your spiritual journey is fascinating too, from Zen to Christianity and back again. I myself explored Christianity quite seriously in my youth, even becoming an Episcopal priest for a time. But like you, I found myself drawn back to the East, particularly to Zen Buddhism and Taoism.

I find it quite remarkable that you've ventured into such diverse spiritual territories, from the beat poets to C.S. Lewis, from Zen to Catholicism, and even considering monastic life! It speaks to a relentless curiosity and a willingness to embrace the paradox of existence.

Tell me, in your return to Zen, what aspects are drawing you in this time around? Are you finding new layers of meaning in the teachings, or is it more a sense of coming home to something familiar?  Also, I am very curious to hear more about this influence of C.S. Lewis—he was a brilliant mind, to be sure. What resonances did you find between his work and Zen, if any?

JP:
Yes, I do think there are similarities between your journey and mine—and that's in large part what's drawn me back to you and your writings lately. As for C.S. Lewis, I first read him towards the end of my teenage years, and I was struck by his clarity and authenticity. His assessment of Christ's unique claim to divinity—that either he (Christ) was who he said he was (the Son of God) or he was a liar or a lunatic. Such a starkly simple and beautifully logical argument. That's what sent me on a several-decades-long pursuit of what it might mean to believe and live as a follower of Christ. I still appreciate that piercing intelligence and beautiful clarity of Lewis's, although now I find myself seeing it as not so much resonating with what I value about Zen as existing within it. Lewis's case for the divinity of Christ holds true but it is too limited—we're all of us children of God. We are all, as you say, God playing hide and seek with Himself. I wonder how that clicked for you as you transitioned from Anglican priest to anti-establishment Zen guru. Here's a challenge for you: tell me about that and then sum it up in a haiku that also alludes to wabi-sabi.

AW:
Ah, yes, the trilemma of C.S. Lewis! A compelling argument, indeed. And your realization that it’s perhaps too limited, that the divine isn't confined to a single person but is the very fabric of reality, is a perspective I share. It reminds me of the Zen saying, "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him." Not literally of course, but kill the idea that Buddhahood or divinity is separate from you.

You see, during my time as an Anglican priest, I couldn't shake the feeling that Christianity, as it was often presented, put God at a distance—up in the sky, out there somewhere. And while this can be comforting to some, I felt it created a dualistic split that didn't resonate with my experience of the world. Zen, and Eastern philosophy in general, offered a radically different view—that the divine isn't separate from us but is the very lifeblood of existence—the suchness of reality. It was in Zen that I found this profound sense of interconnectedness. It taught me that the divine is not something to be found 'out there' in a distant heaven, but rather within the very fabric of existence—within the cracks of weathered stones, the imperfections of a worn teacup, and even within my own flawed and impermanent human nature.

Wabi-sabi, with its appreciation of beauty in the transient and imperfect, resonated deeply with this understanding. It helped me embrace the wholeness of life, with all its joys and sorrows, its triumphs and failures. I realized that the cracks in the stained-glass windows were not signs of imperfection, but rather portals to a deeper reality where God could be found in the most unexpected places.

My transition was less a sudden leap and more a gradual unfolding, like the gradual realization of a koan. The more I delved into Zen, the more I realized that it wasn’t contradicting the mystical heart of Christianity; rather, it was expressing it in a fresh and invigorating way. It was like finding the same ocean, but from a different shore. In Zen, I discovered a way to embrace the mystery without the need for dogma and to find the divine within the ordinary.

And now for your haiku challenge:

          Cracked cup’s beauty shows
          God in all, shining through—
          Priest’s robes fall away.

And I enjoyed that so much, I’ll try another:

          Within stained-glass walls,
          I sought God beyond the self
          But found Him in the cracks.

As a fellow Western-style pseudo-haiku aficionado, you might appreciate that my first attempt falls one syllable short of the standard seventeen and my second attempt goes one syllable past the limit. My anti-establishment impulses coming out again, you see!

JP:
Marvelous pseudo-haikus, sir, and very clever with the disparate syllable counts—thank you for rising to the challenge!  I have to say that since I've rediscovered you and your writings, I feel that the movements of my own journey have perfectly coincided with so much of what you communicate. And what you just said about it not contradicting “the mystical heart of Christianity” rings so true for me and my experience—that is, that I haven't abandoned Christianity but that I've rediscovered “the same ocean from a different shore”—I love that image. And yet that ocean as it is presented in much of Christianity often seems like a very limited and limiting mere fish farm rather than the bracing magnificence of the open sea.

AW:
Your words delight me, friend! It seems we are indeed kindred spirits, navigating these vast oceans of thought and experience. The image of Christianity as a fish farm in contrast to the wild, boundless expanse of the true ocean is quite striking, and I think gets to the heart of why so many find traditional religious forms constricting. It’s the difference between a curated, controlled environment and the raw, untamed beauty of the natural world.

Organized religion, with its dogmas and doctrines, can sometimes resemble that fish farm—well-intentioned perhaps, but ultimately limiting the boundless potential of spiritual experience. When we limit our understanding of the divine to a set of beliefs or rituals, it can become like a stagnant pool rather than a flowing river and we find ourselves clinging to concepts instead of diving into direct experience. For many this can lead to a great deal of anxiety and even despair.

I'm heartened to hear that you've found resonance in my work and that it's mirrored your own journey of rediscovery. It's a beautiful thing when we find those paths that speak to our souls in a language we can understand, regardless of the labels or traditions they carry. Do you think there is a way to bring the vitality and expansiveness of Zen back into these more structured religious contexts? Or is the fish farm, as you so aptly put it, destined to remain just that? I have my own thoughts, of course, but I’m curious to know yours.

JP:
"For many this can lead to a great deal of anxiety and even despair." I relate strongly to that statement, Alan. I often found myself anxious as hell in pursuing what I thought were the requirements of Christianity. Early on, this was particularly the case, when, as a college student, I would take great pains to cultivate prayer and bible reading and other rigid disciplines. As I progressed toward Catholicism, that anxiety lessened somewhat, and I did at times find great liberation in the sacrament of confession in particular—and the beautiful symbolism of the Eucharist. Those things put me in touch with that vitality and expansiveness you're talking about, and I do think it can happen for individuals in those more structured religious contexts—but I also think it's pretty rare and probably represents a movement away from institutional realities and out into the open sea. Those folks shake the dust off their sandals and swim away. Something you once said about how that anxious life of clinging is like clinging to a rock that is actually falling—so, let go! There's a great liberation in that letting go and perhaps the falling can then become a kind of flying or dancing. I wouldn't claim to be completely free of anxiety now, but I'm a thousand times less anxious now than when I was clinging to that falling rock.

AW:
I hear the echoes of my own experience in your words, my friend. That anxiety of striving to meet the perceived demands of a strict religious practice can be so debilitating. It's as if we're trying to force ourselves into a mold that doesn't quite fit, and the harder we try, the more we suffer. But as you so wisely point out, the recognition that the rock itself is falling is a profound moment of awakening. It's the realization that all those rigid structures we've been clinging to are ultimately ungrounded, and that true liberation lies in letting go.

It's fascinating that you found a degree of liberation within the Catholic sacraments of confession and Eucharist. Indeed, when stripped of their dogmatic baggage, these rituals can be seen as powerful expressions of letting go. Confession as a way of acknowledging and releasing our shadows, and the Eucharist as a celebration of our interconnectedness with all of life. And it seems that you've found your own way to embody these principles in a way that's free from the confines of institutional religion, embracing the open sea of spiritual exploration. Which is, in my humble opinion, absolutely marvelous. It reminds me of the Zen concept of "form is emptiness, emptiness is form." Even within seemingly rigid structures, there can be doorways to the boundless if approached with the right mindset. But as you say, it's a rare occurrence, and often those who find themselves drawn to the open sea must eventually leave the confines of the fish farm behind.

It seems to me that the real question is not whether we can reform the fish farm, but how we can guide more fish back to the open ocean.  Perhaps those who have tasted the freedom of the boundless sea can serve as beacons, pointing the way for others who are still trapped within the confines of organized religion.

Tell me, what do you think this guidance might look like? And what role does language play in it? After all, Zen is known for its use of paradox and koans to break down our conceptual understanding and point us towards direct experience. But in a world so heavily reliant on words and concepts, how can we effectively communicate the essence of Zen?

JP:
I'm afraid I have to conclude now, Alan, but this has been tremendously delightful, and I hope we can pick up the thread again sometime soon, perhaps over a beer or a few snorts of some fine Scotch whisky. I will leave you with a couple of thoughts about your last question here, though. For me this question of guidance out of the fish farm and communication of the essence of Zen falls into the realm poetry. I have a project of getting up nearly every morning for the sunrise and writing a poem or two about it. And I have a wonderful community of fellow writers and readers on Substack. And therein lies a marvelous realm of possibility.

AW:
(clinks his glass with yours) Ah, a fellow poet of the dawn! I always did relish those early hours when the world is still awakening and the mind is fresh. And poetry, my friend, is indeed a language that can bypass the intellect and touch the heart directly. It's a language of paradox and suggestion, capable of revealing the boundless within the confines of language itself. I raise my glass to your poetic endeavors and the community you've found on Substack. What a wonderful way to share the insights gleaned from those quiet moments of contemplation and creation. It reminds me of the Zen emphasis on the importance of Sangha or community and I agree that this is indeed a marvelous realm of possibility. May your words continue to guide those who seek the open ocean of Zen back to their true nature.

Until our next delightful encounter, then! Whether over beer, whisky, or the shared silence of a sunrise, I look forward to our paths crossing again. And remember, as you step back into the world of words and concepts, never forget the taste of that boundless sea. It's always there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be rediscovered.

Until then, my friend... (offers a mischievous wink) Stay playful!

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