Enlightenment -- and What I Wore.

A Zen Story Retold.

A rich lady who wanted to be enlightened climbed a mountain to meet a holy woman. Reports that the rich lady climbed the mountain in 400 dollar Italian pumps are completely false. In fact she'd bought new high-class hiking boots for the occasion. Extremely comfortable, excellent traction, and also quite chic. For hiking boots anyway.

Certainly it's a question that merits consideration: what shoes do you wear to be enlightened?

Also false are reports that the holy woman was up there wearing a white sheet or even naked. She had a down parka. A cheap one and patched with duck tape but still -- real down. A few tiny feathers were caught in her wooly brow. Reports that the holy woman had once been a courtesan or even a princess are likewise groundless. No question but that this old woman had been Plain Jane even half a century before.

The rich woman presented gifts as she had been instructed: a garland of orchids, a specialty fruit basket, beeswax candles. The holy woman was very interested in these gifts at first, but afterwards looked quite disappointed. As the rich lady began to prostrate before her she could be heard muttering, "Still no cream corn! Why, after all this time, can't people understand that I would simply like a few cans of creamed corn!"

As she prostrated, the rich lady recited the obligatory verses of praise. And all the while she was thinking, "This had better not be a scam! Maybe this old girl is going to be re-selling the Alfonso mangos in two hours time." The rich lady was also worried this might all be joke and there was a camera somewhere and this was all going to be on TV and then she would never ever be promoted to executive vice president.

Still, she'd come this far -- she'd bought new boots, she'd gotten a blister -- and so she joined her palms above her head and said, "Please! Show me the way to enlightenment!"

The holy woman stared at her. The holy woman ran her tongue over her desiccated lips. She had an enormous thick tongue, a real dong of a tongue, the kind of tongue possessed only by people in nursing homes, a tongue seen wandering around the mouth after the mind is gone.

"You're sure that's what you want?" said the holy woman. Her voice was unexpectedly tender and motherly, as though she were asking if French Literature was really such a practical thing to be majoring in. "You're sure that's what you want?"

"Yes, that's what I want! The student is ready! Show me the way to enlightenment!" The rich lady recited it thrice, as she'd been instructed.

The holy woman sighed, like this was really not what she was in the mood for today, but still she put her shoes on. She had an old pair of sneakers, quite incongruous really, like a high school boy might wear for track and field. She laced them up carefully and then she pushed herself up to a standing position.

"Well, all right then," said the old woman and transformed in a flash into a gigantic three-headed demon, a dank shaggy saber-toothed thing, which drove the rich lady out the door and out onto the mountain path.

"WTF!" thought the rich lady abbreviatedly. "Why did I ever sign up for yoga! I could have signed up for hula! I could have signed up for Pilates!" The rich lady kept running, always just a few steps in front of the demon, gagging at hideous smell of its breath: dead puppies and peanut butter.

Although the holy woman might have seemed kind of fake, but the demon was entirely real. Vicious and horrifying and -- Sorry -- not in any way comical.

In spite of the fact the rich lady had never seen a demon before, this demon was not wholly unfamiliar. One of its three heads was that of a guy who'd put a gun to her once, the only time in her life she'd ever been threatened, a strung-out dead soul face -- even blown up three times the size and sulphur-colored she could recognize him.

As for the second head, well, of course she recognized that one -- she was married to it. Her good husband, who had a personality at work supposedly, who did as he was told to do, who thought as he was told to think, who could no more have an original thought than he could lay an egg. What an agreeable thing, it seems, to be marry an agreeable man. Until you find yourself in a walled-up room screaming, Is anyone there?

The third head, well, that also was easy. That was her own face in the mirror. Not the face she saw -- the face that always threatened to arrive. The face she attempted to ward off with creams and exercises, with yoga and antioxidant supplements, with positive thinking. Here was that face, her own face, wrecked by time, by bitterness and busy-ness, by the life she'd left unlived.

All three heads had the same horrible teeth, the same awful breath, as the demon ran behind her shrieking in unison the same terrible word.

NOW! Shrieked the demon. Now! Now! Now!

The rich lady sprinted along the mountain path, the demon close upon her, its claws extended, its teeth about to chomp.

NOW! Shrieked the demon. Now! Now! Now!

Overheard: Charity

“Charity is impatience with God. That’s all it is. Doing something God ought to have done already but God didn’t do it and finally it pissed you off enough you decided, fine, I’ll do it myself, and I’ll have a talk with that G.O.D. when I see him.

“There are so many paths to God, so many attitudes one can assume: friend, slave, child, mother but nowhere in the sacred treatises will you see 'God as roommate' discussed as a sacred path. And that is because God SUCKS as a roommate. God will leave the dishes in the sink forever.

“And all God’s codependents, all God’s buttbuddies, will try to explain it away: God is busy, God couldn’t possibly be expected to --, maybe God thinks this would be a nice time for YOU to develop your leadership skills. More generally everyone will just pretend that the dishes aren’t there or even that it’s the dishes own damn fault.

“And this is how charity arises, charity means being entirely pissed off and fed up. To such an extreme degree that you decide, fuck it, I’ll just do it myself. This is charity, and naturally it is virtue most prized by God, since it gives God one less thing to do.”

The Difficulty of Making Good Choices.

After much deliberation, after contemplating and delineating their desires and expectations, as well their weaknesses, histories, and needs, along with the possibilities and limitations of their current situation, they decided not to become lovers. Because, despite their physical attraction to each other, they recognized a physical relationship would not likely lead to happiness, not for themselves and not for others, at least not in the long term. This was the choice that they had made and they had made this choice carefully. This was the right choice.

They were still friends. Of course. And so they met for coffee. As friends do.

“Great to see you again.”
“Great to see you, too.”
“Thanks for meeting me.”
“My pleasure.”
“I think – is it okay to talk about this? I think we made the right decision.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re feeling well?”
“Perfect.”
“And you’re -- comfortable sitting out here? Not chilly? You don't want a table inside?”
“No, it’s lovely out here. So bright.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Personal questions are okay?”
“Well. Ask me and I’ll think about it.”
“Why are you wearing a face mask and a scarf and galoshes and industrial overalls and a motorcycle helmet? It’s a warm day – and you are not riding a motorcycle.”

“Just felt like it.”

The café was a little expensive, the coffee incredibly strong. They sat sipping it now.
“A face mask is certainly a common sight in this city. It’s flu season after all. And as for the winter clothes, well, plenty of people believe that winter begins on a certain day and so they wear their fur trimmed coat and snow boots even if it’s downright balmy. Overalls are always adorable but the overall effect – is it okay to say this – seems to me, frankly, outlandish. I’m not hurting you am I? You know I never want to hurt you. The motorcycle helmet seems particularly superfluous, since you came here on the bus --”
“I’m comfortable.”
“That’s what matters. Are you comfortable?”
“I’m not comfortable at all. Physically. But I can say that I have a certain spiritual comfort as well as a hard-headed pragmatic satisfaction.”
“You’re quoting my letter.”
“I agreed with your letter.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”

They sat together in silence for the next few sips of coffee. The man who asked questions bobbed his head around, nodded like he was checking things off a list. Yes, it was Thursday morning. Yes, this was Tokyo. The sun was out and so were the high society wives and their ten thousand dollar dogs. He never stopped smiling.

The other man may or may not have been smiling. He had his visor down.

“You’re okay?”
“Yes! I’m completely okay,” said the voice inside the helmet. “Of course I’m a little sweaty, but that’s to be expected.”
“Good, good.” He went on nodding at the air. “Listen, I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you – because I totally respect you and your decisions and those decisions, we both agree, don’t have to look anything like what other people are deciding but – are you sure you don’t want to remove something?”
“Of course I would like! But no, absolutely not. Oh, hell.” There was a muffled sob from inside the helmet.
“Oh honey – I mean, dear friend. Does this have anything to do with what we decided?”
“I completely agree with what we decided. It’s definitely the right choice.”
“It’s good to hear you say that.”
“And sometimes, when you make the right choice, you have to accept, it’s going to be a little awkward sometimes. For example, now.”

Another long silence.

“I am very interested in what you are saying. Please -- continue.”
“We made an excellent choice. A mature thoughtful and ethical choice. I will sleep better. Eventually. I presume. In the meantime, there may be, as I said, some awkwardness.”
“I think I see what you’re saying. You mean, despite the choices we made there are still residual feelings which – point in another direction.”
“Something like that.”
They nodded to each other, one hairy head and one motorcycle helmet. The natural opening was lost; the moment passed. Their coffee was nearly finished and what was left was cold.

The man in the motorcycle helmet lay one gloved hand on the other man’s thigh. The other man looked carefully at that hand.

The voice behind the visor said, “I want to fuck you in bed. But only to start. Really I what I want is to fuck you down on the floor. So we can really have at it. I want to spank your hairy ass. I want to be buck naked with the blinds open and the sun streaming in. I want to beg for it. I want to cram your cock down my throat. I want to feel your balls resting on my beard. I want to put my tongue in your asshole. I want to drink your hot spunk.”

At tables all around them, Japanese ladies did not turn to look. Immaculate in linen, in the style, still, of Audrey Hepburn, those ladies did not turn and did not look. Perhaps a particularly sharp eyed observer might have noticed the muscles straining in their delicate necks. Perhaps they might even make an appointment later with their acupuncturist. To help them manage the discomfort accumulated over a lifetime of not turning. Because these were absolutely first-rate ladies, the kind who do not ever look.

Their dogs had no such qualms however. Naturally. The dogs were positively riveted, straining at the end of their leashes. Those little dogs were absolutely interested in finding out what happened next.

But anyone with even the most rudimentary knowledge of men, or dogs, will not require such elucidation.

Holy Books of Guttersnipe Das: Robert Walser

The Tanners, Robert Walser
New Directions, 2009. Translated by Susan Bernofsky.
With a perfect introduction to Walser by W. G. Sebald.

The Tanners is the last novel Robert Walser published before entering the madhouse -- and we waited a century for this translation. This is the last of Walser's novels to be translated, which leads one to think it must be the bottom of the barrel somehow, like the last of Hemingway. But no, not at all! It's as lovely as anything Walser wrote. I can't believe my good fortune, finding this now, after re-reading the NYRB Walser Selected Stories so many times it may qualify as a personal tic.

The Tanners is the story of five siblings and focuses on Simon, who explains, "I am the youngest and the one who occasions the fewest hopes." Like every Walser protagonist, he wanders around dreaming, walking, losing jobs, renting rooms, and praising women without actually getting involved with them. He moves from misfortune to misfortune, and praises them all.

The translation, by Susan Bernofsky, reads so beautifully. Can she be enticed to do more? How about a fresh selection of stories? Can we take up a collection?

This book is full of all the strange things only Walser can do -- the peculiar storm light of mania, the special cheerfulness of extremely depressed people, the vast detached love of which they are capable. Magic is spun from the most pedestrian adjectives. So much that is dreamy, disappointing, unfathomable -- it's so nearly weightless and at the same time succeeds in catching so many extraordinary moments and feelings.

There's something so exhilarating about Walser's protagonist, an eternal zero, who never succeeds at anything -- but also never seems to fail in any way that matters. (I love the way people fail in this novel. Money is lost, wives are abandoned, people freeze to death in the forest -- but no one ever seems to mind.) It's exhilarating to read about someone who isn't interested in success, power, importance, travel or sexual conquest -- I feel myself in the presence of a man who has stumbled upon real life.

MAD RELATIVES

ten small stories

Art by Akemi Shinohara

Stories by Guttersnipe Das

* * *

dedicated to

My friends in the Shinobazu Study Group

And to the boundary-less wild genius of

Clarice Lispector.

Preface: The Return of Color

I prayed to God, God couldn’t be bothered. The Buddha remained Gone Beyond. Who showed up was Clarice Lispector (died, Brazil, 1977), wrapped in a shawl the green of dragonflies and looking entirely ferocious. She had no tolerance for self-pity. She took me by the wrist. She used her nails. The door was flung open. She led me out of the house, away from the alcohol and the collection of benzodiazepines. “You are going to the park,” she said.

Ten days later, out the door of the Malaysia Hotel in Bangkok. The taxi cabs are flamingo pink, the motorbike men wear orange vests and the vendors blue caps. Everywhere death has not been nailed down there is green. I clutch the door frame. The guard (pink shirt!) smiles encouragement.

Sweet Mary Mother of God: someone has turned on the color.

Depression is such a misleading word I wonder if the government isn’t somehow behind it. “Panicked frenzy of self-loathing” is somewhat more accurate, but I prefer to vote with tradition and say demons. And I do not believe in demons either – but try telling that to them.

The demons steal away the color, the world goes out of reach – it can be bumped against, it cannot be touched. What remains is a flabby putrefied fly-swarmed maggoty self. The easiest test for depression is with a mirror: check for a corpse. (This also works the other way. Occasionally I think I’m just adorable. And this is a very dangerous sign.)

The demons are not impressed by prayer. They like to see me beg and bang my head against the floor. The demons like liquor and adore psychiatry. In Tokyo it is possible for them to get a visa to stay almost indefinitely.

Nonetheless a moment comes when one is released. Fuck if I know why. There is not a moment when the guard opens the door and says that one is free to go. More like the kidnappers throw you from the car. I find myself suddenly out on the street and still in prison clothes.

And there is a breeze, an actual breeze, which touches your skin and is not off-limits to you. There is a space around things. The sky goes up and up. Men are wearing pants that don’t hide much.

Almost immediately I become busy. That’s all right: the nice thing about being functional is you can do things. Life is underway and demands attention. Oh, hello, I’m in Thailand! Oh goodness gracious, I’m married aren’t I?

Looking around me now, I walk a little faster. This is no permanent reprieve. This open window may hover for a month, or be gone in an hour. There are repairs that need to be made, windows to be taped, books to read and suicide notes to burn. (Suicide notes must be written afresh for each occasion: this is how one buys time.)

Above all, there are people to be loved, people with sharp voices or curly hair, people smelling of shampoo and sweat and curry. People with problems of their own. Actual people with hands to be held, with real mouths and real ears to hear as you walk around together exclaiming, “My god, look at the colors!”

Mad Relative

After a long time abroad, Randy Mesmer returned home to discover that he'd become the mad relative. Of course he did not realize it right away. Everyone seemed only unusually interested. His father ceased to criticize; his brothers grinned at everything he said. His mother stood often in the doorway, gazing at him with tender brimming eyes. And Randy Mesmer's heart grew warm. He thought they'd really missed him after all. For weeks he didn't have a clue. In fact he felt quite pleased with himself. He thought, it's about time they start to respect me!

The mad relative: every generation must have one. Like Aunt Lucy, his father's sister, who was brought from the state hospital in Laconia to attend all family occasions. There she sat, grinning in her folding chair, smoking menthol Salems, and mumbling into the air. Now and then she groped one of the nephews. She was getting old, poor Aunt Lucy. She'd had surgery for cancer and afterward no one could say for certain what had been removed.

After a few weeks home, Randy began to make suggestions about the future of the pumpkin farm. His father, Ulysses Richard Mesmer, was also getting on in years. Certain decisions must be made. Randy was relieved to discover that everyone agreed to his suggestions immediately.

He was so pleased it took him weeks to notice, and weeks longer to admit, that his suggestions and opinions had absolutely no effect. Everything went on exactly as it always had. Dick Mesmer remained firmly in charge. (His father hated the name Ulysses and used only the first initial.)

One day, when Randy became particularly insistent, he was taken to the furthest corner of Pumpkin Field #12 and left there for nine hours with only a peanut butter and honey sandwich and a deplorably dull hoe.

Certainly it is disconcerting to discover that one has become Puerto Rico in the family: you go right on voting, but your vote counts for nothing.

Every member of the family felt pleased at the way Aunt Lucy was treated. They removed her from the madhouse for special events the same way they took the big punch bowl from the back closet, always careful to give it a good rinse first. They considered themselves extremely enlightened. Randy had felt this way too. He was ashamed to think of it now.

Every generation must have a mad relative. Now it was his turn.

"I'm not crazy," Randy Mesmer insisted. "I can quietly give reasonable and pragmatic reasons to support my moderate opinions!"

His brother and sister-in-law nodded at him and smiled beneath sad eyes. He was the mad relative. There was no court of appeal.

Actual madness, you see, had very little to do with being the mad relative. The entire family was mad. It was more about power and plain bad luck. Traditionally of course, a woman generally got stuck being the mad relative. Now it was more equal opportunity.

If being the mad relative were determined by actual madness, his father would win hands down. Instead he was in charge of the farm and took turns persecuting his sons and imagining himself to be prominent figures from history: Lincoln, Trotsky, Madame Blavatsky, Harry Houdini, Helen Keller. If you questioned him you were promptly demonized. This was a miserable and dangerous situation -- you could very well be declared the mad relative.

Why, he wondered, must there always be a mad relative? Certainly it must have stemmed, centuries before, from pragmatic reasons. One less way to divide the pie. The mad relative forfeits everything.

It is true that the mad relative usually did end up being actually, factually mad. After all, it is enough to make anyone crazy, being the ghost/dream voice/dependent protectorate in the family. Also it is natural to want to fulfill family expectations, just as, in other families, one son becomes a priest.

Aunt Lucy had begun years ago to drool. She drooled more as time went on. Nephews learned to dodge her hands. Who could blame her, Randy thought. There was no prize for obedience, nor penalty for misbehavior. You are a ghost in the family. You might as well not exist. You are the mad relative and you will always be the mad relative.

A Lost Soul

Sorry -- I can't explain it. I don't understand it myself and I was there. The nicest couple. Pillar of the community types. Sure, a little starchy. He's a manager at my company, not my branch but another. Been there forever. He volunteered his dining room.

His wife was -- very much a manager's wife. Very polite, not a chit-chatty type, but then she had a huge amount of food to lay out. She did it all herself, that's unusual, and the food itself was -- different. At least not what folks around here are used to. As we had our meeting I could see her setting the table. Formal for us means a salad fork and a cloth napkin -- but she laid out a huge amount of silver, spoon after spoon, like a kid copying out a composition. I thought gosh she must be anxious to make a good impression.

Everything she cooked had curry in it, or avocado, or eggplant. Fish with the head still on. The kind of bitter salad that nobody in the world eats unless other people are watching. Mollusks. Nothing for the white bread crowd in sight and I know for a fact that several people went out for a burger later.

We were all seated at the table. I was wondering if there was any way to mix things together so it might taste normal. The guacamole turned out to be mustard so hot it was like getting whooped in the head. And somebody brought up Sean, who had to be let go. He didn't have the charisma for sales. Frankly I don't think he had the charisma for accounting. He may have had a little drinking problem. And he got caught once with porno on his computer. He didn't have the right professionalism, shall we say. So we had to let him go.

Mr. Arlington didn't say anything that hadn't been said before. Mr. Arlington always agrees with everyone -- which frankly may be why he's risen so far even though he's not, shall we say, an innovator. He wasn't adding anything, just putting his seal on the conversation. Mr. Arlington sighed and said, "He's a lost soul." We nodded and said uh-huh, and looked up to see a jalapeno glazed drumstick hit Mr. Arlington right between the eyes.

The guacamole followed, along with a pitcher of sangria. At the opposite end of the table, Mr. Arlington's wife had erupted: she was hurling dishes at him just as calmly and methodically she'd laid them out. A Cornish game hen in a clay pot, tuna in raspberry sauce, venison in molé . She was a helluva good shot too. She would have killed him if she'd started in with the cutlery. And for his part he just sat there and stared at her, like he was seeing her for the first time in his life, and then he looked down at his Brooks Brothers shirt, which, he discovered, now had wine, chocolate, curry, hollandaise, and tomato stains.

Obviously the rest of us had scattered as best we could. Johnson, Stuckey, and Young -- the vice presidents -- spent the whole time under the table and got away with little more than mustard stains. The president was already on his cell phone pleading for a fresh set of clothes.

The wife had been entirely silent except for an umph! when she hurled the platter of duck curry and assassinated a painting of sailboats in a harbor which I believe was very valuable.

Now she started to howl. A sound you'd never think a lady like that would have in her. The same thing over and over. A lost soul! A lost soul! A lost soul!

The wife really was a beautiful woman, though I guess she wasn't young. Pitching dinner at her husband had put some nice color in her face. She was wearing a crisp peach pant suit which I swear did not get one spot on it and which I bet she wore again.

She cleared the entire table right straight at Mr. Arlington. He got the mango chutney last and took it too, like a man receiving final judgment.

Last thing she did she pulled up the linen tablecloth, the silver slid and clattered, the crystal smashed on the hardwood floor. She walked right up to him and tossed the white cloth over his head and he just sat there, wrapped in it.

Of course we didn't blame poor Mr. Arlington. He kept his good job. Lately he is more agreeable than ever. Mr. Arlington, as I have said, is not an innovator. No one blames him or teases him, though I'm sure the combined dry cleaning bill was astronomical. The only thing that's different is we don't have dinner at Mr. Arlington's house anymore. The poor man can't be expected to do all that cooking on his own.

Don Quixote Does Escalators

In Yotsuya station, at the bottom of an immensely tall escalator, a cleaning lady stands holding a cloth soaked in antiseptic against the handrail. Even though the escalator is a hundred meters long, she can clean it all this way, just standing there, enjoying a small break in her arduous day.

This is exactly the sort of thing I would never in a million years figure out myself.

Oh no, I'd be dashing up and down the escalator, flinging myself at the arm rail, gasping for breath, getting my pants caught in the jaws at the edge. Running up the down side, then down the up side. Of course! Let no one accuse me of being lazy or taking the easy way out! Unrivaled in my ferocity! Famed for relentlessness! Day after day I battle the escalator and lunge with my cloth at the rail, wiping six inches here, six inches there, as sweat and grime coat my distorted face, a man at war.

But I wouldn't complain, oh no. Not a word of complaint would pass my lips -- not even as I jostled a businessman, or sent a schoolboy in a sailor suit into a headlong plunge as I battled, desperate and fearless, to clean the handrail of the escalator. One brave and reckless man stands alone between Tokyo and contagion!

Not only would I not complain, I would respect myself even more. My hard work! My sacrifice! Oh no, I'd insist, I'd never trade shoes with anyone. This is my dharma, my sacred duty. The Emperor and MLK agree: Do your job and do it well. Oh I would really give it my all. . .
At the end of the day I would collapse in a heap at the base of the escalator. I would die young -- and cheerfully, knowing that I had saved the lives of millions of Tokyoites.

Because not even the greatest of heroes are entirely free of human frailties, among them resentment, I would often wonder why I had not been discretely passed a medal, why I had not yet been declared, to unanimous and thunderous acclaim, a Living National Treasure.

If, by chance, on my way home, I passed another station, another escalator, where a woman stood, holding the cloth against the moving rail, I would shake my head and feel very sorry for her. "Oh isn't that just the spirit of the times! Sure you can do it that way -- but then you miss entirely the spirit of the thing."

The Turquoise Stone

By the side of the street, in front of a shop, I found a large geode. Gray and rough on the edge: brilliant blue-green inside.

I carried the geode into the shop and said, "I want to use this stone for a project. Of course I won't harm it any way. I'll even give you my contact information so you can check up on it."

The man at the counter was reluctant. Of course the stone didn't actually belong to anyone, but still it was well-known in the neighborhood. Folks had become rather fond of it, like a friendly homeless person who's always on the same corner, and always humming the same funny song.

The stone wasn't valuable, its shape was irregular, even the color was actually quite tacky, but people really liked it. The shop clerk wasn't sure it was fair of me to think I could just go ahead and monopolize it.

I said I didn't want to monopolize it, I just wanted to take it home for awhile. Because I was absolutely certain we could do interesting work together, the stone and I.

Symmetry

This is from the crippled boy -- who is a man now, except in the way that a cripple remains always a boy, attached for life to his leg, which does not grow.

I do not think there is a heaven, where my stray sad-hearted wishes will be answered, but just the same those wishes hang round me like unsent letters -- and so there is this wish of mine and nothing to be done with it --

The wish to stand on two whole legs, two legs the same length, with functional equal calves, ankles, knees, with two whole feet which both point forward, with everything the mirror of what is on the other side.

Take a moment to rejoice, those of you immersed in such a form, which seems as remarkable to me as flying through the air might seem to you.

I long to go run barefoot on the beach in such a form, to be seen thus, with legs that would draw no attention to themselves because, well, one is just like the other.

In recompense I possess the crippled arts -- the absolute persistence, the knack of appearing harmless, the air of apology, the small-toothed viciousness. The air of something not expected to survive, which did survive.

The boundless hunger, which goads me cross the world. To Bangkok and the Super A, the sleaziest bar in Bangkok, which, come to think of it, is no small accomplishment.

I find it comforting to rest sometimes on the very bottom of the ocean, deep in the muck, with everything else that is stunted, and half-born, and did not turn out as hoped.

The boys in white underpants perched round my chair, poking at me half-heartedly; they knew I was not buying anything except another beer. Engaging in the usual timid immoral anthropology.

The bored boys found my crippled leg encased in its plastic brace. I tried to shy away. (No one is allowed to touch the leg, none of my funhouse lovers. It is my only private part.)

The boys smiled at me and one said, sympathetically, "Army?" One boy aimed an invisible gun, another mimed a landmine exploding, and what astonished me was the way this made the leg, for the first time in my life, entirely all right. Suddenly I was no longer a freak -- I was a soldier. The leg was a scar in recognition of my service, a commendation, worthy of a star.

If its five bucks to get groped, and ten bucks for a blowjob -- how much do you tip the bar boys when they perform a miracle? The leg was not a deficiency. And it wasn't my fault. I was a veteran, one of the brave. A patriot. Not like I was some freak. Not like I was born this way.

Hazelnut

Out the farmhouse and down the dirt road, past the swimming pond and the cemetery. That night I did not swim. I did not even stop to visit with the dead. To the hazelnut tree that juts out slightly toward the road, that now and then must withstand the strike of a car, some teenager's car, out for a joyride. Or lightning.

On the hazelnut's trunk, on a smooth knot, I placed my hand. I knocked. I demanded entrance to another life. The tree admitted me and I stepped through.

I have not been back

Young Ginsberg, A portrait by Akemi Shinohara

Meaningful Living at the End of the World

Tokyo, October 2009

1.
When actual beauty arrives I am more scared than hungry. Just as when fumbling in the night my fingers find, instead of the switch, the electric socket. This man, startling me now on the train: he's not beautiful like a smooth skin commercial, or a Bel Ami porn angel. He's beautiful like stepping off a cliff in the dark. Suddenly I'm dangling 100 feet in the air, skewered, vulnerable.

What I want to do now is stare. To stare and stare until I understand, until I get it, this force and how to be free of it. But I can't stare. To stare is to be caught hungry, to be exposed -- he'd holler, someone would push the emergency button, the train would stop, security would hurry aboard, and I'd be shot in the interest of human safety because, well ma'am, nothing can be done with them once they've tasted human flesh.

Beauty's a pharmacy-bright fluorescent. Suddenly there I am, with my jug ears and my sad skin. My face, which a moment before was empty on the way to work, now contorts with longing and posturing. With nerves. Oh Jonathon Mock, why can't you just act natural?

Not for one moment in all my life have I ever acted natural. Shot through with longing, I pin my eyes to my clipboard (these words I wrote as I tried not to stare) and it occurs to me suddenly that this must be what God is like. Or as close as I am ever liable to get. The presence, the pressure of God, that dark radiance, an itch at the corner of one's vision.

Even if you turn to look it can't be comprehended. Doesn't really answer the question. I've looked three times already -- I am not eligible to look again. The contrast of dark lashes stubble eyebrows against that bright skin, the lean intensity of the face, those eyes! Once in my life I want to know what it's like to be born into the body of a god.

Don't look! Once more and he'll be irritated, I'll be exposed for ravenous hunger, caught with this dog-begging-at-the-table face and so I pin my eyes down and I feel that yearning, a pressure at the edge of my vision. I turn to him behind my eyes and silently say Oh Krishna

Storm god Krishna accept my adoration, this oil lamp, garland of jasmine. Krishna who multiplies in countless forms, one for each of the milkmaids and the buffalo boys, one to accost me on the train, Monday morning Tokyo commute, Mita Line to Onarimon. Pray to the longing. Oh Krishna.

Don't look again!


2.
Dear Zot,

Thank you for fielding my questions regarding meaningful living amid environmental catastrophe. I accept, and am highly disappointed you do not have some simple formula for me, directing me instead to my own still voice, pearl of discrimination, whatever.

i don't stay on the positive side. i just keep going, doing what makes sense as i see it from where i am. i also keep doing what last made sense the last time anything made sense, which if i'm saying it well enough means i get through times of nonsense or insensibility or senselessness. Sometimes it's like that. i get assignments in times of clarity. When out of clarity, i make myself continue to do the assignments.

Buddha nature is supposed to be boundary-less. Instead it's like trying to find one wad of gum beneath one chair in a porn theater the size of Yankee Stadium. OK, you're right, maybe the problem is I'm always watching the porn.

You asked me what I was expecting -- I guess I meant a book. Some NYT bestseller I'd overlooked: Meaningful Living at the End of the World. Some handy 1,2,3 guide on how to matter, use less plastic, maintain one's dignity and look great here at the end of human history. Evidently this book has not yet been written.

Perhaps we should collaborate?

3.
It's a lousy picture. When it appears on screen the narrator apologizes and explains it was the best they could do. The camera battery was dead, I think. Someone took it with their phone. Almost all you can see are the riot police with their silver shields and helmets. Behind them is a yellow gate with a plain red banner overhead. You have to peer, lean forward a little, to see the gate is in fact open, just wide enough to reveal a thin woman standing there, her hands before her, joined together in reverence. You can just make out that she is crying.

No, that's not true. I cannot see that clearly. I say that the woman in the picture is crying because I am crying whenever I look at the picture.

Aung San Su Kyi, is there any hope at all?

I found the picture on the Internet, very small. I printed it out and taped it to the wall above my altar. Above the buddhas and the Mother of the Universe. When I see this picture I see the state of truth and justice in the world, peering out at us through a narrow gap in the wall, behind a line of police. Greeting us from a distance. Standing straight and reverent behind a line of thugs.


4.
I dreamt I was back in the green kitchen in New Hampshire. A sheep was there with me in the kitchen. It started talking in a dry quiet voice best described as 'secretarial'.

"The quota of surprises for this year has been exceeded. Therefore, for the remainder of this year nothing expected will occur."

My first feeling was relief. But then I thought, "Can I really trust this sheep?"


5.
Finally they were able to travel but it was too late. Rido and his wife were over 80 by then and not well. They went to Paris and hardly left the hotel. They went on a cruise and stayed on the ship.

Maybe it wasn't too late. The maid had taught him how to count in French, he said. He got up early and watch as the streets were washed. The year before that his great grandchild was born. The year before that he'd found a dead cat on his roof covered in oil. And then there was the time when a policeman accused him of stealing a bicycle!

Rido sits at the table without moving. His eyes are gummy. His last tuft of hair grows long in the back. He speaks only when spoken to. He is so busy finding everything interesting he does not pause to ask what is good or bad.

The cruise ship stopped at Bangkok, but he and his wife stayed on board and watched a movie. Did you enjoy it, I asked. Yes very much. When the movie was finished the lights came on and we saw that we were alone in the theater!


6.
My sister, who is lovely and bored out of her mind with me all the time threatening to kill myself, says there is no point in trying to figure it all out. Instead she asks me to chant AH and imagine a white light, chest-high, surrounded by a rainbow.

There was a time I had spiritual beliefs. I still do. I used to believe in the Buddha. Before that I believed in God. Now I believe in my sister. And so I follow her instructions to imagine a white light (step one) collapse the universe into it (step two), collapse my body too (step three) everything together down to a radiant ball (step four) which becomes a star and (step 5) finally vanishes into space and stillness.

Each time creates the sadhana it requires. A horse sacrifice or a warrior, space man or holy mother. Thus it does not surprise me that we are trying now to collapse the universe and dissolve it all. AH, Nevermind. Start over.


7.
Buddhist teachers such as Thich Nhat Hanh have composed gathas -- short verses which aid to practice mindfulness in everyday life. There are gathas for waking and eating, gathas for hugging or inviting the bell to sound. There is even a gatha for using the toilet. However, I have not yet found a gatha to recite upon seeing a really luscious man. So I took the liberty of composing one.

May I always act
To care for and preserve
The beauty and the wonder
Of the world.

You say it silently of course. Otherwise the guy may be alarmed.

I admit I'd prefer a spell of infatuation: Om Ah Snog With Me. (I tried. It doesn't work.) As it is, the best I can do is remind myself that beauty is not an invitation for mindless devouring. There's a lot to be said for enjoying the vistas. Or at least not leaving marks.

The downside of the gatha is that it's really long. So, when there is an abundance of really gorgeous men around, you can just repeat the word "Wonder". Or, in times of extreme incessant beauty, at a South Indian bathing tank, say, or Turkish soccer match, Italian locker room, when you're just about to swoon from awe and lust, it's enough to repeat the holy seed syllable DUH, which is probably all you'll be able to think anyhow.

That gatha, one more time:

May I always act
To care for and preserve
The beauty and the wonder
Of the world.

What I Found When I Was Lost

ACHING, RAVING, RAVISHING, BURNING DESIRE

“Candor ends paranoia.” – Allen Ginsberg

Easy.

I am an extraordinarily difficult person to flirt with. I tend to agree to any inappropriate suggestion immediately. Sometimes this catches people off guard.

As I unlock my door at the Malaysia Hotel, a drunk unshaven Filipino lug peers out next door. Leans against the doorframe and leers cheerfully. “Well, well, well! I had no idea I had such a cute neighbor! I ought to come visit you.”

“That’s a good idea. Give me five minutes, okay?”

Five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. But it’s not the drunk Filipino. It’s an impish young Thai.

“I’m his roommate,” he says. “He too tired.”

And this is also perfectly okay.

This happened years ago. But I still return to the Malaysia Hotel. I take time to struggle with my door. (What I do is I lock and unlock it several times.) So far, no more friendly neighbors.

I am like a dog who saw a squirrel in a tree once and now stops to sniff that same tree each day.

Soliloquy from Dick’s Café, Soi Twilight

“Who am I in Denmark? A retired fire fighter and it is good to be a firefighter but now that is finished and so I am finished in Denmark. When I divorced my wife I thought my life was finished. Who am I in Denmark? I am old and fat and ugly. Oh I can still be charming when I want to be but still the fact remains!

“I can be silent and alone in Denmark and I suppose that is commendable, that is what I am supposed to do. . . and for that what do I earn? Forever silence and forever loneliness! Who am I to anyone? No one! And it will never ever ever be any different. What happens in Denmark? Every few years the bus driver smiles to me. That is all.

“Here I am an ATM – but even that is not nothing. I am also a part of things here. I have my role to play. Six years here I know very many people and everywhere I go people know my name. I have Thai friends who have never once asked me for money. And yes, I suppose I am a kind of insurance. If something goes wrong, if someone is in hospital, then, they will call me. But I do not mind to be their insurance. I want them to be okay. I was a firefighter in Denmark but now that is finished.

“I know they do not always mean what they say, I know this very well. Spend enough time in Copenhagen and you will be grateful to be smiled at for any reason! I believe some of them really are happy to see me. Am I a fool? Are they not human too? I know their names. I tip well but not outrageously. I am a kind person. How do you say in America? I give a damn.

“I know this is very questionable. It is problematic. But I am a part of things. Do you understand? That is all I ever wanted to be – a part of things. . .”

Voyeurism.

In the window directly above and facing the pool at the Malaysia Hotel, there is a head. A white old round head with even whiter hair. Behind glasses with thick black frames eyes stare unblinking at any young man swimming or sunning himself. That head is always in the window, as if it has been mounted there, on a post. It is there in the morning and there in the afternoon. I was here years ago; the head was there then. And it is always staring. If you stare back long enough, the head will finally turn, and a hand will appear and toy nervously with an ear.

Imagine retiring to perv permanently at the Malaysia Hotel! I can easily imagine. That puffy haired white head was once a teenage boy, sneaking looks at shirtless workmen. Desire goes on and on.

∞

How is it possible to ever do anything useful or true with a mind designed for deception? A mind that continually tells small but crucial lies and seeks out poisonous consolations. A human mind.

Obituaries.

Imagine if newspapers told the truth and you opened the obituary page to the words

Addict, 72 Addict, 46 Addict, 19 Addict, 84

Wouldn’t that be excellent? We would be warned and we would not feel so all alone. Also we would have more respect for this Mrs. Joan Tatro, 68, formerly of Columbus, Ohio, who actually succeeded in becoming a secretary. An actual secretary! When everyone else who died on that day died addicted – to heroin or cigarettes or the neighbors’ high opinion, to sex or yoga, to public office or television. .

Herbert Huncke’s obituary carried the headline charismatic street hustler. Remember him? He was basically the Beats’ tour guide for the underworld. Most of the time he wasn’t charismatic at all. Just a junkie. He’s the reason Ginsberg got busted and wound up in a mental hospital, where he met Carl Solomon. Seeds of the poem HOWL. (One of the things that interests me most about human life is that it’s entirely impossible to tell good news from bad.)

It’s extremely unlikely anyone will be able convince the obituary page to boldface the word cocksucker. Maybe I could learn to be a secretary?

∞

The frog in a pot on the stove is slowly, slowly, slowly coming to a boil. Everyone around is smoking, or admiring themselves for not smoking. Even the frog is full of resolutions.

Survey.

I used to wonder if other people felt as lonely as I did. Or as frightened. Or as depressed. And the answer turned out to be Yes. I am still trying to figure out, however, if other people are actually this horny. Please -- take a moment to respond below.

Aunt Lucy.

My schizophrenic Aunt Lucy, lifetime resident of the state hospital in Laconia, has a diagnosis which includes the word hypersexuality. Yessir, there’s a word for it! Like halitosis! Like asthma!

So maybe I have a condition and other people are actually reasonable. Not the people I’m meeting of course, but other people.

God speaks to Aunt Lucy. God speaks to me, too. Not often. Perhaps semi-annually. I am also sometimes afflicted with the sense that everything is meaningful and people are basically good. Pathology!

Then there’s the tendency to endlessly compose long story/poem/essays consisting almost wholly of inappropriate information. (There’s a word for this too: hypergraphia.)

Isn’t this writing, which adheres to no genre and contains no structure, akin to the mythological kingdoms unemployed plumbers build secretly for 38 years in their garages using only aluminum foil, bottle caps and chewing gum?

Creativity is for other people. What I do is probably a symptom of something.

Bodhicitta.

When I sit down to meditate, I set my motivation. And at the end I dedicate the merit. I aspire to wake up and to be of benefit to every living thing. I know, it seems ridiculous for someone who can’t pay his student loans or keep his zipper zipped to pray in such a way but, nonetheless, I aspire.

And each time I make a small addendum that, if possible, I would like to be of benefit to the most miserable and sleazy of the addicts, those who have failed again and again and again. To the very most despised, the real lowlifes, the deadbeat dads and vicious mothers, to those who’ve burned up all of their chances and gutted everyone’s patience, to the losers, to the assholes, to the pedophiles.

The innocent

can

get

donations.

Or

fend

for

themselves.

I don’t want them.

Holy Mother, bless me one day to be the Deep Shit Bodhisattva.

Bulge.

Night after night, a man calls me at 3am. I do not think he is not a moneyboy outright. He does not work for a bar or stand on a street corner. Not anymore. I’m guessing that he now occupies the vast gray area between love and whoring, where many very respectable people live. He has foreign friends who take him on vacations. They sometimes give him something for his mother.

He is not young; he has spent far too much time in the sun. His body is still sleek however and, most importantly, the bulge in his turquoise-striped Speedo is impressive. I’ve noted this, repeatedly, and double-checked to make absolutely sure. He caught me at it, got my room number from the pool sign-in sheet, and now calls drunk at 3am, when his glowering German companion has presumably passed out. “I want kiss you!” “I want kiss you!” he says. It must be the German will soon be leaving town.

Cold Shower

What I have in mind is a portable shower, ice cold and dousing. The kind they use in science labs for emergencies, with a broad steel sunflower head and a chain to pull.

This is what I need above my head at all times. (Perhaps they could somehow attach it to my spine?) When overcome with flaming lust I could just pull the chain and at once douse myself. The water would have to be very, very cold.

Also it would be convenient for other people. Sturdy tourists commando in flimsy shorts with thick tanned calves adorned with golden hairs -- and sick to death of me staring -- they could just pull the chain! The whole world could help me to be virtuous, instead of aiding and abetting my unending perversities.

When I am supposed to be concerned with Real Adult Things – the future of the farm, the bills, elections, schedules – and I instead I am lost in a masturbatory haze because some cocky Israeli buck has sauntered past brandishing his delectable armpits – pull the chain! pull the chain! Instantly I am soaked, shivering, and able to return my attention to the details of the lease agreement.

I’d need to wear some light fabric which would quickly dry (and nothing see thru, Porno Boy!) since I would presumably be dousing myself, or being doused, 18 to 36 times a day.

Or course it would hideously embarrassing, to walk around all day beneath a broad metal shower head. Constantly wetting myself! I’d be shivering, cold and wet. I might catch pneumonia. Yes -- but I would be good.

If this is for any reason impracticable, my next idea is a special ice pack I could wear in my shorts. Very very cold. But I fear this would not be sufficient. I think some small electric shock is also very much in order.

(This is the twelth and final essay in the series "What I Found When I Was Lost".)

What I Found When I Was Lost

Rivalry

They arrived on Soi 4 grinning, dressed as twins in white dress shirts with sleeves rolled and ties knotted halfway down their chests. (“Like Japanese schoolgirls!” they said.) They looked very much alike, except that one was gorgeous and the other just good enough, as if they were two versions of a single person -- one perfect and one botched.

I grinned back, and when the table beside mine was free, they came and talked to me. “It is our first time to Asia! We are having the most wonderful time! We are busy from 6am until midnight every day. We go sightseeing and shopping and then always to have a massage! We cannot believe how fast the time is going – in only two days we must return to Berlin!”

They approved heartily of everything in Bangkok – the food, the shopping, the massage – they liked everything but Chinatown. “It is very dirty! There are garbages in the street. Men spit! Men piss! We decided we never go to China.”

“Please feel my leg,” said the plain-looking man. He was not really so plain. He was actually quite good-looking. He looked plain because he was beside the gorgeous man -- who now invited me to feel his arm.

I approved heartily of both and believed that my night was, at last, headed in the right direction.

“So smooth!” said the plain-looking man. “Today we had tried the body polish. They polish you all over! Then they use powder. It smells so nice! Afterwards you feel so smooth. You do not sweat.” Then he teased the gorgeous one. “He often uses powder. And he is shaved everywhere. I mean, everywhere you can think of! He also wears a little makeup. And never once in his life is there a hair between his eyebrows. It is not allowed. Even in Asia he travels with mascara!”

This is the trouble I always have with threesomes. It’s hard to keep both guys happy – somebody always gets jealous. “Both of you are excellent,” I said. “How long have you been together?”

They laughed and waved their hands, as if to scatter my words in the air.

“No! No!” said the plain one. “We’ve always been together. We’re brothers.”

“I’m straight,” said the gorgeous brother. I checked to see if he was serious. His big brown eyes certainly looked earnest. But maybe it was just the mascara.

“He is so girly,” said the plain brother.

“I am a personal trainer in Berlin,” said the gorgeous brother. “My body is my asset.”

“He is the ultimate number one metrosexual. He is so girly!”

Over the next dozen or so beers they continued in much the same fashion. The gorgeous one gave me workout tips. (Three times a week is perfect. Twenty minutes cardio, then weights, then twenty minutes cardio again. And drink enough water!)

”He is so girly. So totally girly! I do not understand why he does not just give up and be gay already. His girlfriend is sometimes so bitchy. Sometimes no sex for one month. Always he must talk sweetly to her and give her massage any time she asks for it. I told him, you go gay, you can have sex every night!”

I ran my eyes over the beautiful brother. “You could have sex every hour. That’s the good part of being a gay guy. Also the bad part.”

“I love her,” said the gorgeous brother. “We have been together five years now.”

“So girly!” protested the plain brother, who had just broken up with his lover after seventeen years. They’d met when he was twenty. “All that time I could have had anyone I wanted! Now I am free and nobody wants me. Nobody! Everybody, all the time, they only want him.”

There was a short pause then, as sometimes happens when one has arrived at the heart of the matter.

I laughed and rubbed his back a little. “On this subject, sir, I am an authority.” I explained that my unfortunate parents had suffered diminishing returns when having children. Each son was two inches shorter, and less handsome, and duller than the one before. I was the youngest and had inherited nothing but the runt’s sharp-toothed determination. Every beautiful person in the world paraded right up to me to beg. “Please. Introduce me to your brother.”

It bothered me for a long time. Then it didn’t bother me anymore. I have an awkward stumbling soul – this Quasimodo shape of mine is its natural physical extension.

All right. Maybe it still bothers me a little.

“You’re fine,” I said. “You’re cute. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” The gorgeous brother enthusiastically agreed. We were both insulting him. We knew it and couldn’t help ourselves. The plain brother sat there, drinking his beer, getting smaller and more homely by the minute.

The gorgeous brother continued to counsel me. He reminded me that there was no point to using supplements, except perhaps Creatine and salmon oil, but it was very important to always remain balanced. The plain brother had his hands all over me now, which the gorgeous brother politely ignored. He assured me there was nothing at all wrong with beer, except that it dehydrates one. Dehydrate was a very serious word in his vocabulary. For each pint of beer I must drink half a pint of water. Then I’d be all right.

The plain brother interrupted. “How much for you?”

“What?”

At last the gorgeous brother winced. “Stefan!”

“Come on. We are in Bangkok. Everything has its price.”

I smiled and pretended I’d understood nothing. Anyway it was absurd. The plain-looking brother was still better-looking than me. Nothing was wrong with him at all, in fact, except for the baby shit stink of self-loathing and need that rose off of him. How well I knew that smell, which became stronger the more one tried to eradicate it. It had never occurred to me to try to cover it with powder.

The gorgeous brother announced it was time for them to return to their hotel. The lights of the bar had already turned off. It was almost 2am and he still had to do his evening routine: remove his makeup, rinse off the powder, moisturize, care for his feet, calculate the number of beers he’d drunk and drink a half a pint of water for each. Maybe he’d do some stretches too, or even a few sit-ups. Alcohol is only empty calories.

It had never occurred to me before that it must be tiresome, too, to be the beautiful brother. To keep to routines and maintain your advantage. To be trailed always by a hungry brother who praised you and blamed you. Who begged you. Who loved you and desired you. Who hated you.

(Bangkok, 09.15.09)

What I Found When I Was Lost

Two Hustlers

I only ever saw him on the edge of places. I met him on the way to Dharamkot; I saw him on the far side of Bhagsu. I’d seen him at least twice before on the path around the temple. Each time he asked me to ‘help him out’ and when I refused – he was young and strong – he walked off muttering Jesus Christ. A young Indian guy, though his accent sounded like Newark. Yesterday I saw him at the monastery guesthouse where I’m staying – he was asleep behind the shower block, just barely out of the rain.

Today he was sitting on a bench beside the temple path. I sat down beside him. “All right,” I said. “Tell me.”

“Listen to me, okay? Are you going to listen to me, man? Maybe you will not believe me, but I’m going to tell you anyway. My father’s name was Patrick Kevin O’Brien. Do you know him? He was a great man. I lost my parents very young; he took me in. He paid for me to go to a school. Very expensive school, man. The best. He was like a father to me.

“We came to this place for a holiday. I did not think I would stay here forever. One night he fell. He was a heavy drinker, see. Nobody would help me. I paid two coolies a thousand rupees to take him to the hospital. I went to the Embassy. Nobody would help him and he died. I went to my school to get my certificate but they wouldn’t give it. He didn’t pay the last six months you see. Give us fifteen thousand rupees, they said. But where could I get that kind of money? Are you listening to me man? Are you believing me?”

I was listening. Even if I didn’t want to, I listened. I made a promise years ago. I guess it is a kind of vow. I must listen, and buy him lunch, and never lay a finger on him. I could shake his hand, if he offered it. That’s all. I couldn’t ruffle his hair or touch his shoulder. I made a vow. Because I have been this kind of boy.

He was still good-looking in a sly, rakish way. He had early lines from his face from cheap cigarettes and whiskey. Looked at everything out the corners of his eyes.. He said he was 19. He was lying. I reckon he was 26 and figured 19 was the maximum age he could be and still win sympathy. I could imagine how beautiful he must have been a dozen years before, when he’d attracted the attention of globe-trotting do-gooder pedophiles. Men who paid for everything during the day, and thought highly of themselves -- and at night drank, and figured then that they were within their rights.

I am certain this was the case, though I can show no proof, except to say that I have been this kind of boy.

If you really want to fuck someone over, if you want to pulverize their integrity and reduce their dignity to a fine powder, if is enough to give them money unpredictably. You can destroy a person very efficiently this way. And you can assure yourself that all you ever did was help them.

“Another guy came. He was a German. He sent money for awhile and then I never heard from him anymore. One French man came. He got me a job with a non-profit. I had a staff of six people working under me. But he stopped sending money too and then they said I had to leave. Bad luck, man! Just bad luck!

“I started to work a job then. Because I speak English well. I worked in Bhagsu at a very fine hotel. I worked at the Himalayan Queen. And at the Simla Plaza Hotel. Finally I had to work at the Green Hotel. I did a good job, a very fine job, man, but every place let me go. Because they said I was a thief. I am not a thief. But everyone they say I am a thief. They are fucking liars, man. Do you believe me?”

Obviously, this guy was seriously twisted up. His morality was shot. Boundaries and integrity gone. How could he ever be good for anything now?

Of course, as the son of privilege, I can never truly understand this young man’s situation. After all, my rich father paid for college. Or said he would. Sometimes he did. Other times he changed his mind. If he felt I didn’t respect him enough. Mostly he forgot I existed. He was a very important man, see, and I was not among his priorities.

I was not a poor boy, but I reckon I understand something about benefactors. My father was a benefactor in the grand old style. He liked to be thanked -- he could not be thanked enough, and he enjoyed it very much – but most of all he liked to be begged. Of course we’d agreed to everything in advance, but he never once remembered that. Nothing ever came until I called, never less than three times, often six or eight, each time more desperate, until I’d say “this is the last day I’ll be eating” and then he’d send a check. I’d hurry to pay my bills. And then the check would bounce.

“Everybody knows me, man. And I know everybody. I saw you yesterday, man. You’re staying up at the monastery. I said hello to you, man. You didn’t hear me. You were sleeping in the room with the broken window.”

I reminded myself that I must always keep my valuables out of sight.

“Did I tell you, man? I’m a Christian. I had a dream last night. I dreamt of Jesus. I dreamed of Jesus and he told me I had to get out of here. If I could get to Bombay, I could just start over. All I need is a bus ticket, man. Can you help me out? Nobody helps me, man.”

“I totally agree with Jesus,” I said. “But all you’re getting from me is lunch.”

I gave him thirty rupees. He beamed, took off to buy a bottle of the vicious local liquor. I didn’t blame him. I’d want the same thing in his situation. I did want the same thing. Each day I practiced not drinking it.

Prayer beads in hand, I resumed my pious circumambulation of the temple. I reminded myself that I must warn the guest house. There is a thief in the area.

What I Found When I Was Lost

Chants (and Rants) from Zilnon Kagyeling

I wake to the sound of cymbals crashing in the gompa upstairs, a man chants softly in the room next to mine, and my eyes open on the walls of Room #5 here at Zilnon Kagyeling Monastery. Sky blue walls are spotted with mildew, one window is busted, the window above the door must be propped open with a bottle. The fog has slipped under the door and into bed with me. It feels like happiness – and it smells damp.

Wonderful, I think. Lucky. Why can’t I make good choices more often?

Years and years ago, I often stayed at Zilnon Kagyeling. The first time it was very basic: two buildings, a small gompa, a few guest rooms. At Losar (New Year) they invited us into the gompa for a ceremony and afterwards fed us beautifully. There was an African-American nun staying here then, in three year retreat. She glowered at us and said we should all go away. She knew the value of what we were being given. She didn’t reckon we deserved it.

When I returned a few years later, Zilnon Kagyeling seemed like just a big guesthouse, with a few monks attached. White walls, hot showers, and rules. A dozen years later, the place is in disrepair, and most of the tourists have left. Now it seems like a boarding house for wayward monks. I feel very much at home.

I should not say wayward; I should say independent. Most of the monks I’ve known have been Gelugpa – and those Gelugpa always seem to be on a schedule.

Strange things used to happen at Zilnon Kagyeling. There’d be shouting and windows broken, and the next day someone would be walking around muttering about black magic. These are Nyingmapa monks, remember -- you don’t want to mess with them. They understand the nature of reality and they know how to manipulate it. They have a reputation for being magicians. This monastery is said to use tantric rituals to influence the weather, to make seasons turn, to prevent hail storms, et cetera.

All I can say is -- if these monks are doing rituals to make the rain come -- they are succeeding big time. If I were a little more brave, I might go upstairs and see if I could talk them into fifteen minutes of sunshine. My laundry is about to dissolve.

I sit in my little room and recite the mantra of Guru Rinpoche, who brought the dharma to Tibet and is especially revered by the Nyingmapa. I visualize his bulging eyes, his red tricorn hat, and his moustache like Salvador Dali’s. He is warm and tender and tough. Guru Rinpoche bears down on me like a rainbow.

Hopefully the monks will peek in my busted window, spy me slouched on my meditation bench in front of a Guru Rinpoche postcard, and put in a good word for me with the dharmakaya. This despite the fact that delusion, anger and desire (desire!) continue in me unabated, and my Buddhist Report Card clearly reads: Shows No Sign of Improvement.

On the other hand, an entire month has gone by, and I haven’t once wished I was dead.

Lucky, lucky, lucky life. Allowed to travel, allowed to write and to read. And my husband. Absolutely first-rate. What are the chances that someone so adorable would also have such an excellent heart? Why can’t I celebrate all these things – and accept that Tokyo is the price of them? Why?

Return to the breath. This moment. Now. This is what I am taught. Here in India, how easy it is come back. The present moment accosts me. Now insists. Speeding Maruti van, smell of cow shit, shoeshine boy, an old monk stumbling down the road clutching a fresh head of lettuce. India issues me continuous invitations, in the form of warm brown eyes and uneven pavement.

Returning to the present moment in Tokyo, I find myself alone. Even on a crowded train. Especially then. Who wants to be present in Tokyo? Who wants to be aware? Look around the Namboku Line, look on the platform at Meguro. See how we clutch our phones and stare dead-eyed into space. Who needs to be aware in Tokyo? The train will arrive at 8:11, exactly as if did the day before.

We are encouraged not to be aware. Drugged cattle are more easily transported. Should you happen to regain consciousness while riding on the train, you will find yourself staring at an advertisement for beer.

All day in Tokyo I move like a capsule through a tube. Like a ghost. If Tokyo were a picture, the caption would read: Let’s pretend none of this is going on.

Hopefully in time there will be monuments and museums to honor Tokyoites, who sacrificed their lives, and their children’s lives, to comfort, efficiency and convenience. Please disagree, if you like. But I have been watching for seven years -- and I do not intend to play dumb now.

The city of Tokyo is devoted singlemindedly to testing a hypothesis. It’s the largest experiment in the history of the world. The MacArthur Hypothesis, let’s call it – that happiness is achieved through ever-increasing amounts of technology, isolation, predictability and consumption.

Supposedly this hypothesis is now being tested all around the world. This is completely unnecessary. We in Tokyo have tested it already. We have taken it very, very far. And the results are clear. Happiness does not result. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t work!

Generally it is enough to disprove a hypothesis a dozen times, or a hundred. But we go on and on. We disprove it 30 million times. And then we try again. And we are shocked when it does not work. How about more? More speed! More consumption! No matter how much it hurts, we go on, destroying our environment and wasting our lives, trying again, no matter what it costs us, no matter how much it hurts, like an alcoholic who is already coughing up blood, like an aging sex addict waiting to get fucked in the sling.

How can these monks believe that they can change the weather by waving a bell in the air! Then again, maybe I’m not one to judge. I come from a city where women believe they will be fulfilled by handbag.

As for the spectacularly dumb things I’ve done in pursuit of happiness – well, just scroll down.

I don’t have the answers obviously. (Actually, I was hoping we could work out the details together.) All I know is -- it’s time for something else.

Write in with suggestions, won’t you?

In the meantime, I’ll be here kneeling in front of a postcard, and trying to let the rainbow bear down on me.

Hopelessly Devoted To You

A beautiful portrait of William Carlos Williams by Akemi Shinohara to go along with the essay "Cheerful, Lucky, Lost". William Carlos Williams, we love you!

And thank you, Akemi. It is an honor to be illustrated by you.

What I Found When I Was Lost

An Unseemly Love : Notes On Returning to Delhi

(Delhi, Aug 17.09)

From this rooftop the main bazaar appears a ruin. Or at least, the mud has won -- the details of the surrender are still being worked out. Meanwhile a gang of boys (blue, pink, orange, red shirts) have climbed to the highest crumbling rooftop and they are flying kites.

People told me, when I said I hadn’t seen Delhi in eleven years, that it had changed immensely. I’d hardly recognize the place. I braced myself accordingly, put my nostalgia on a leash. Well, I’m sure it has changed immensely and that everyone, out of regard for me and my fine feelings, worked overtime to put it back almost exactly as it was before, the last time I was here.

Of course, the sacred word internet is painted on every other wall and Pahar Ganj now sports more ATMs than chaiwallahs. The TVs are all flat screen and everyone who appears to eat regularly, and some who do not, is holding a cellphone and talking to it continuously in a loud authoritative voice. But to me it still seems the same Delhi, with new and glittery earrings. The new Metro must be truly significant. The middle-class may now teleport from place to place.

I was told auto-rickshaws had recently been banned. Cycle-rickshaws were banned some time ago. The streets are full of both. Last night I stumbled out of my hotel at midnight to find no one but the omelet-wallah and a man feeding his two camels. “Dude.” I said to myself. “I told you I was not making this shit up!” Camels, of course, are also banned.

Obsessing about camels, about cows and monkeys and elephants, about saris and sadhus – this is what foreigners do in India. We patronize, we exoticize, and we miss the point entirely. I am a recalcitrant repeat offender, shackled as I have been for almost twenty years with an unseemly love for India. Foreigners should come, and spend, and then go home again. It’s wrong for us to come back again and again, and involve ourselves, and pretend to appreciate things that are obviously beyond our comprehension.

The main bazaar looks as it did in 1991: as if a skinny cycle rickshaw wallah, stiffed on a fare, might bring down the entire district with a single well-aimed kick. In the rain the road is bubbling vat of brown mud. Even the elegant young ladies, who ordinarily walk around all day without a spot, as if defended by the god of hygiene, stand now at the edge of the street, peering out, figuring in advance exactly where they will step.

To tell the truth, it is quieter than I remember. The hassling seems less intense. I used to say “No thank you” 150 times between the gate of the railway station and my hotel. Now one refusal is often enough – what India is this! There was a time when, if I was accosted by a dreamy green-eyed Kashmiri carpet salesman, I’d laugh and wave and start to run. They’d pursue you for half a mile – until you had no choice but to go with them, drink six cups of tea, book a houseboat and buy a carpet. Now the merchants hardly try. Perhaps it just doesn’t work anymore: these travelers seem to move in sealed containers.

I have a fear -- maybe I’m paranoid -- but I worry people will think I love India because it’s spiritual. Let me make clear: I love India because I love Indians and this is where they live.

So often – crossing the street, peering from a rooftop, crammed onto a bus – a stranger meets my eye and shrugs and grins, as if to say, “It’s a madhouse isn’t it? But you and I will keep our sense of humor.”

And there is the way that questions are asked in a way that includes the correct answer: “You come to my shop yes you would like to buy something.” Last night, when I gazed longingly toward a South Indian snack shop, the cook just beamed at me and said, “Yes!”

Or this: today I went the ITDC office to book a city tour. The amiable young man wrote a ticket and passing it to me said, “Sir, I am asking you seriously -- if this tour is no good -- that you will not complain to me, sir – and that you will not let small money come between us -- because this is only one chicken, sir -- and I must eat this chicken every day.”

Reduced to a small puddle of language joy, I gazed at him adoringly. (The above is only a ham-handed approximation of his freewheeling spontaneous improvisation.)

“That was beautiful,” I said. He proudly raised his hand and we high-fived each other.

This afternoon, sitting on the rooftop at Sam’s Café, watching the boys fly kites, I came upon a poem by Elizabeth Bishop titled “Arrival at Santos”. Here’s a little of it:

. . . oh tourist
is this how this country is going to answer you

and you immodest demands for a different world,
and a better life and complete comprehension
of both at last, and immediately,
after eighteen days of suspension?

Finish your breakfast. The tender is coming,
a strange and ancient craft, flying a strange and brilliant rag.

What I Found When I Was Lost

Days (With No Proper Container)

(Delhi. Aug. 19. 09)

This rat is obviously on a schedule. Every morning there he is, beside my table at the Appetite bakery, every day at the same time. Whenever he appears, I stand up, as though he were a prominent politician or religious personage. The rat darts straight up the wall – to work presumably – and all at once the foreigners start to chatter with each other, as though the rat has given us permission to speak.

*

The French tourists always want their breakfast served in a particular order. Every morning they explain this carefully. Never once do they succeed. They get it when it’s ready. But they do not think this is right.

*

I wanted to see Delhi’s new metro, so I chose a destination at random from the map. How about Mansarovar Park? Isn’t Mansarovar a sacred lake in Tibet? Or am I making that up? And “park” is always an attractive word, bringing to mind trees full of delicate flowers, and bushes full of pent-up marauding homosexuals. I am always in favor of parks.

Delhi’s new metro is exuberantly modern, except for the lighting, a flickering skim-milk gray blue, and the manners, which Delhiites brought with them from the bus. How many times have I wailed in Tokyo, “Why can’t they just act human?”

Well. Now I have my answer. No one lets anyone out or in, everyone pushes and shoves. Men sit serenely beneath the green ‘Ladies Only’ sign and do not even think of giving up their seats. Half the passengers have just this moment received an extremely important call. They shout. In Tokyo a man hurls himself into a seat – and at once turns his face to ‘off’. In Delhi a man grabs a seat and looks around smug and exultant, like a toddler who has just now mastered the potty.

*

At Manosarovar Park station, I did not find a park, much less a lake. Instead I found a busy village beneath the elevated train tracks, beneath a cool gray concrete roof, beside towering elephantine pillars. The place was strangely reminiscent of the vast temple complexes at Trichy and Thanjavur, somber somehow, worshipful. At the bottom of this was a paved road lined with cycle-rickshaws, charpoys, mounds of trash mulching in brown heaps, stands selling betel in shiny packets, walls built from the dirt and burlap or blue vinyl ceilings. Extreme poverty beneath a cathedral ceiling. The women tended small fires in pits; the men sprawled on charpoys woven from silver rope. Every minute or so a lorry barreled down the street, blanketing everyone with another coat of dust. If the residents of this village ever decide they need a motto, they could always use Thoreau. “We do not ride upon the train. The train rides upon us.”

*

Back at Connaught Place, I can’t handle it anymore and so I choose an a/c restaurant at random, climb two flights of steps, and find myself surrounded by Indians in enormous black cowboy hats. Mexican food in Delhi? Apparently so. I order some nachos. The servers glance nervously at my clipboard, afraid that I am writing a review. I ought to put it away, but I have to keep writing because every time I look up I start to giggle: big black cowboy hats, black western shirts and pants, red kerchief knotted at the neck, black cowboy boots with silver buckles!

*

This young man with the purple shirt and the long stick, who walks the way I’ve seen a fisherman steer a boat in shallow water. When I see his soft eyes and fledging beard at the window, I leave the café and stand in the street with him. I give him bills not coins. The tourists at the Apetite Café are annoyed with me. I am making the problem worse. As it is, we must keep our eyes on our plates lest we see grubby children touching their fingers to their lips as we savor another bite of hot buttered croissant. I can ignore the children. This man, however, is my kinsmen. We share the same defect. The withered leg I hate. I strap my leg into the brace and shove it in an elevated shoe. And I walk. He begs in the Main Bazaar; his dangling dead foot is his qualification. I see that he is beautiful -- and whole. We are brothers. I want to hold his face in my hands and kiss him.

*
If they ask,
I will say
I make
the days
experiments.

From these experiments, I make days.

*

An old woman in a soiled white dress pushes open the glass door and enters Café Coffee Day. “Good morning,” she addresses the room, as though she were a teacher and we were all assembled for class. “Is there going to be a sandwich today? Is there going to be coffee? I certainly hope so.” The old woman is smiling, her eyes are bright blue. She’s British, I think. Her diction is impeccable and her voice is as smooth as glass. She advances to the counter. She speaks but doesn’t look at anyone, as if she knows we are there but cannot see us. As if we are ghosts.

“I have, in my bag, water from a holy spring in Burma. It is absolutely precious but I have no proper container for it.” She waits at the counter, but she does not receive a coffee or a sandwich. The young Indian woman at the counter ignores her, sits there looking bored.

The old woman is now standing in the center of the room. “This woman does not want to be promoted. That is why she does not give me a sandwich. I have been robbed of everything and I am forced to beg. Which is a tradition in this country.” She speaks very carefully, as if this were a recitation and she has to get it perfectly right. The poems of Emily Dickinson would be ideal for this woman in a white dress, for this voice which is sweet and pure and entirely unnerving.

“She has been asked to feed me. The President of India asked all these restaurants to feed me. But she does not. Because she does not want to be promoted.” She walks back toward the glass door. “I am sorry but I cannot hear anything. Because of hypnotic suggestion that has been absolutely beautfully done. So I am very sorry but I cannot hear a word you say.”

When I paid my bill, I asked the lady at the counter how long the old woman had been coming to beg. “Oh it’s been about a year now.” Her voice was flat and bored. “She comes in every day.”