Echoes absorbed

_ What's happening?
_ What's not happening?
_ I understand. The basic strangeness of being; organic participants, yet forever alienated, in a world of change.
_ That's not happening?
_ That's correct, chief.
_ Meditate more, my son.
_ Echoes banging off of the never visited vistas of silence. Dare I say that I am forever in the memory of the oneness of breath and mind?
_ And the senses? What of the senses?
_ Likewise, babe. All pointing to the relinquishment of all conditions, the very conditions that are part and parcel of our very selves. By the way, what is it about nipples? Very few things are as absorbing of our attention.
_ Gaze upon your own; call someone in the morning.
_ Nipples on men... that's all the confusion one ever need seek in this world.
_ There is an oath taken by the generals in the Indian Army, and it is the only instruction they ever receive. Upon taking this oath, they then walk around, some say aimlessly, with nothing more than a begging bowl and a staff. They, like the turkey buzzards on Mendicant Mountain, accept what is offered.
_ What is the oath?
_ The oath is ahimsa: To refrain from harm, in thought, word and deed. The perfection of this oath leads to the realization of the One. Striving ceases upon this realization, and, like a drop of water upon a hot rock, anguish vanishes. The foe has been conquered.
_ Two chai, for there is no plural. Two chai to redundancy! To echoes! To the soundless bounce of a ball against a wall dismantled!
_ What he said.

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     ... I walked to the cafe today. Hi... I tire easily. I am at home among the sprigs of no meaning that garnish the plate upon which the world rests its severed head. Bread and the Sun. Earth; water; fire; wind; space. Redundant oneness... I seek the perfect brew. Cafe-ward!... I am off.

     ... My favorite bird is the Cordon Bleu jay, the hard to barn swallow, the Baltimore oriole perched upon the Quiet One's slide guitar. The little gray bird is a longtime fave; so, too, the self-basting Butterball turkey buzzard. They walk, they squawk, they fart glistening salvos skyward; they sing a lonely man happy. They are as one resting; nesting upon Mendicant Mountain; the never-melting snows awaiting their return. I long for a good, strong chai. Cafe-ward!... I am off.

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