Who Chooses?

_ Variety... I like to see a menu with a variety of choices.

_ There is only one choice, thus there is none. I, in fact, don't know if the choice has been made for us, or if we are choice choosing.

_ Kind of like change changing.

_ Absolutely, old bean.

_ As long as we're on the subject of choices, with whom would you rather engage in a bare-knuckle fistfight: The Bogeyman or The Wild Man of Borneo?

_ I'd prefer a three-way rumble - Chicago style. Where's the Boogieman from?

_ Bogeyman... He's known as the Bogeyman, and he's from the wilds of India, although I'm not sure that a letter addressed thusly - The Bogeyman, Wilds of India -  would ever reach him, but one never knows.

_ The wilds of India... Hmmm...

_ Would you feel better if I were to have said he was from Newport, Rhode Island?

_ Can you imagine the Boogieman dressed like Thurston Howell III? " Oh Lovey..."

_ Precisely. Gather your airs and don't move; don't even breathe. You are to proceed out to the curb where a man with a tan will provide you with a staff and a begging bowl. I'd say 'Good luck', but you don't need it. Now hurry along, for the door shall close as quickly as it opened.

_ How quick is quick?

_ Variety and choice... we scan the menu... quick, bam! Hey! Wait! Quick! Now take up the staff, for if the door closes you'll be stuck here for eons. You'll, should you miss this opportunity, be, most likely, conscripted to sipping chai with riffraff, forever, and ever, and ever.

_ The Boogieman in an ivory ascot...

_ Go! It is the life breath of iniquity to keep us separate from that from which we can never be separated from. Go!

_ Life really is but a dream, isn't it?

_ The song doesn't lie.

_ Howsaboy?

_ Aging... Ageing... the Aegean Sea... Disbelieving... I'm hard pressed to make sense of anything. I was young - I'm not young anymore, yet I'm the same. I feel good. In fact, I'll take on The Wild Man of Borneo, Thurston Howell III, The Bogeyman, anyone from Chicago and you, and I will emerge victorious...
    
              He had stopped listening. He took his staff and begging bowl, and disappeared. The preceding syllables wafted skyward, floating far, far away - they had lost their 'glue'. It all occurred of a moment so quick as to be gone.  None of it mattered, for here it was always tomorrow.
       The steam from his vacated mug condensed; a gentle rain fell.
       Here it was always tomorrow.

                                                                       ***************

... Iniquities, the tendency toward tendencies; a body to a grave already dug.

... Grace, witnessing the inception of attention, and letting go.

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From my seat

_ The boulevardier took to the streets, transforming them into gilded pathways to the high life. He insisted on doing so during those times deemed auspicious by the dictates of refined living. Are you a boulevardier?

_ The waiter waits for the bon vivant to select something. Undoubtedly, without a doubt, the selection will be as engaging as would a champagne bubble, having left the flute, bursting in the nasal passages of one to whom sneezing is a private affair. If you see me on the boulevard, then, yes, I am a boulevardier; if you see me elsewhere, then I am lost.

_ Do you suppose that people would be best served if time were to stand still?

_ That would make it hard to promenade. It would be the end of us boulevardiers, bon vivant's and dandy's. It would, however, allow for the rest of life to continue unimpeded by the drudgery of change - everything would be exactly as it is. Isn't that what we count on in our excursions out of our caves?

_ The drudgery of change... If our mind hasn't fully shit the bed, if our hearts aren't completely broken, then we don't understand change, instead we merely deal with alterations to a rigid certainty.

_ What of the goddess who holds her own severed head; and smiles?

_ It makes for a good question. Did you know that there are a race of people who talk about the weather?

_ I talk to the sky. I love it for its supreme disinterest.

_ Did you say something?

_ What does a boulevardier drink in between shifts?

_ Anything effervescent, so long as its colorful and laced with LSD.

_ Make it two.

_ Two it is; two it is; two it is. Two... I think I'll have another.

                                                                     **********

... Let's do away with points of reference and live a little.

... Why love?

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But, but, but...

_ Say hey. The dream is over, haven't you heard?

_ Vacated. It was fatally flawed; the dreamer wasn't real.

_ Not surprising. I feel bad for those waiting.

_ Did anyone feel bad for you while you waited?

_ Not that I knew of, but that doesn't mean it doesn't mean anything.

_ The dream has been vacated - it doesn't matter anymore. By that I mean it doesn't mean anything anymore.

_ We were better off before things meant something.

_ No we weren't; it has all led to right here; ineluctable. We're not better off, nor are we any worse for the wear. Perfect... it's what is.

_ It's kind of a nightmare, isn't it? The dream is more of a nightmare.

_ Look around. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you say? And how do you say it? No need to sugarcoat it; see it for what it is: The slow insistent decay of that which has been taken for everlasting.

_ Faith. It takes losing it to have it. Faith turns attention towards itself with no expectation of anything. Make no bones about it, we're heading for uncharted lands. They await; we know nothing.

_ So?

_ That's it. So? So what. Coffee, black; unsweetened. You?

_ I'll have a rainbow smoothie.

_ Suit yourself.

                                                               *******************


... I slide my arm through a sleeve and weather patterns form; kinda sunny and kinda funny.

... I butter my bread and somewhere a Chinaman hears his wok breathe - it is ready for the sacrifice.

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The Waking Coma

_ You're late.

_ I didn't know. How was I to know?... So this is it? This is being late? I thought it would be more epic; yes, I definitely expected something decidedly epic.

_ What are you talking about?

_ Late... the dead thing. Being late, as it were.

_ I wasn't implying that you were, or are, dead, just late - you're usually here by now.

_ I am? I am. And I am.

_ Speaking of late, did you hear that Donald Trump didn't die?

_ Yes, I heard... Have you taken notice of the absence of plants around here. I'm disturbed by the lack of shade.

_ Absence and lack... Did you know that Sartre's Uncle Charles achieved his greatest renown via his absence; via his not being somewhere? This fantastic occurrence - presence via absence - caused a significant and widespread rippling through the still-forming mind-stuff of one J.P. Sartre.

_ I thought Sartre didn't have a mind... very interesting. Isn't he most famous for pointing out the obvious: that a kiss without a mustache is like an egg without salt... missing something. No?

_ I think that was Sinatra. Either way, they're both late.

_ And getting later. Howsaboy?

_ Unsettled. Someone said something to me yesterday that caused me to stare in unseeing fashion for the better part of evening vespers; it put me in some sort of waking coma.

_ My name's not 'Vespers'.

_ Whatever. Anyway this guy says to me that if I don't forgive I shan't be forgiven.

_ And?

_ And?? You are returning serve with a psychoanalytical 'And?"

_ It's just an expression.

_ Anyway, it threw me: If you don't forgive, you're not forgiven...

_ I understand; and I understand why it might throw you, for you, like most people, take a statement like that to the unverifiable realm of things spiritual - a realm presided over by a long line of profiteers and fear mongers.  To those intent on relinquishing all conditions of existence there is no such realm.

_ I...

_ Mathematics, physics or music. Any one of these disciplines would resolve your being stymied, for these three disciplines all move toward resolution; and until mind resolves, it continues in its unforgiving ways. Forgiveness - absolution - is dependent upon resolution. In mathematics, zero is the never to be seen overseer of all things mathematical; in music, the octave holds sway over musical ventures; in physics, it is the taut musculature of space which sends every thought, word and idea back to its source - silence, infinite and compliant.

_ Vespers are evening prayers.

_ Total silence... If we don't forgive we linger in the realm of phenomena - of subject and object, time and space, this and that, life and death; meanwhile we crave forgiveness, all the while unawares of our role in the process. We have to let go in order to move on freely. Forgiveness is decidedly letting go of the past; it's more than just forgetting. I ask you to sense the vibrant resolve evident in participating fully with circumstance. It's not so easy if we have unresolved pain. We have the capacity to be so fully committed to the living arrangement of the momentous that all else is either fully resolved, or not yet manifest; at rest, as it were. Complete forgiveness, with nothing, and no one, to forgive, and, in turn, no one awaiting forgiveness, is to be truly alive, to truly understand. If you don't fully forgive it is because you hold yourself separate - separate from that which is. If we cling and don't move on we are the same as an unresolved balance sheet, or a musical note left hanging, or a thought without context. In not forgiving you've held an incident, long since gone, in a pattern of consistent return and thus it demands your attention - it insists on action. That action is forgiveness; and if you can't step away from the insistence of holding moments unresolved then you won't have the capacity to be forgiven because you won't truly understand. Let it go, let it all go. Or better yet, just watch, for it goes of its own nature. Forgiveness is the most gracious exit we can make in a world wherein entering into ever-new circumstance, and the subsequent exiting of the same, is ongoing. It is integral in our understanding of forgiveness that we forgive, for without this we cannot understand being forgiven.

_ Wow... wow. Evening vespers shall never be the same.

_ Nor should they be. Is it windy during evening vespers?

_ My name is not 'Vespers'. Chai?

_ Chai.

                                                                      ***********

... What? It's not enough to get a certificate of live birth? You need something else?

... Lacking... Is it possible?

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I've Cancer

_ The whip... it's all a matter of how we respond to the whip.

_ I'm going to assume, though I well know the pitfalls of assuming anything, that you are talking to me; and I'm going to further assume, and I have no idea why, nor can I imagine that it will yield anything other than a major cramp in my mind-stuff, that I'm supposed to know what the hell you're talking about.

_ Howsaboy?

_ I'm...

_ I know... It's humanity, Bob... the shared angst of living, if you will.

_ Of course I will. Who am I to won't? Besides, my name's not 'Bob'; corks bob.

_ Strange... Either way, from the last grain of sand to see the light of day before the pyramids fell upon it, to the shine on your too oft worn pants, it's all a matter of how well we respond to the whip.

_ I've cancer.

_ And?

_ And what? Who do you think you are? Some sort of attic cleaner? Don't give me this "And?" business.

_ Like I said, it all comes down to the whip, and how we respond to it... You, for example, are gnawing at the very wall you're chained to. Relax a little; the flesh won't tear so badly.

_ Of course... I'll just relax. Why didn't I think of that?...You've a new hat - a porkpie hat; and you're wearing it at a jaunty angle. Is this any indication of how one is to respond to the whip, as you call it?

_ It's cashmere; the hat is cashmere, handmade in Susquehanna... and you know exactly what I am talking about. The whip... it cracks and flesh tears; screams fill the air... and they are, for the most part, inaudible, like a dog whistle; yet the person screaming hears them loud and clear. Or maybe they don't. Maybe, instead, they just feel the ripping scourge, and the tearing away of that which was... Yes?... No?...

_ Maybe? Is 'maybe' a possibility?

_ I would like to think they hear the screams; I would like to think that if I were to scream I would hear it; I would like to think that if I were to scream the whole world would hear it. I would like to think that if I were to scream the sky would run rivers of blood; and... I would like to think that the entire world would be singularly sanguinary.

_ It's all quite dramatic. Anyway, the hat distracts me... And though I find it quite a distraction, I'll ask anyway: Howsaboy?

_ Fine.

_ Fine? Just fine? Not 'well'?

_ No, I'm not well.... 'Well'?... What is this? An class in proper grammar?... No, I'm not well. I've never been well a day in my life. Fine will have to do.

_ Fine it is; fine as frog hair.

_ 'Well'... What a joke! We've come into this world carrying one thing, and one thing only: the seed of our own destruction. It's what we clasp in our little fucking fist as infants; and, try as they may, nobody can pry it open. No one can pry it open and no one can take it away; it can't be taken because it is essential to us. " Not 'well'?"... No... no... I'm not well.

_ I've cancer.

_ Is there an echo in here?

_ The echoless sound of a duck quacking, searching for her drake...

_ Listen: That things are brought about by a cause is conventional truth; that they neither arise nor cease is ultimate reality. This is the Prajnaparamita Sutra. The next time you tell me that you have cancer I'm going to punch you in the head. Alright?

_ I feel better already, knowing you are there for me.

_ Let other people be 'there'; I'm here; I'm the living, breathing here. I'm the whip! Got it?

_ I do; and the last time I said that, it cost me twenty years of my life.

_ Easy come, easy go... Don't say 'I do' unless you've an open schedule.

_ Right. French roast and a croissant... Whattya think?

_ How about a Spanish omelette and a swift kick in the ass?

_ Sounds about right. Make it two.

_ Two it is.

                                                          ************************

... Ever watch the water drain out of the tub you're sitting in and think that your bath wasn't over?

... One must be quick, fluid in living, or be satisfied with a rank substitute for living; and that rank substitute is called 'life'. 'Life' is a lie, born of the lie of birth and ending in the lie of death. 'Living' is true; it harbors no such lies.

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Prodded

_ Hey now, hey now.
_ You talking to me?
_ Look around. Do you see anyone else?
_ Not a single, solitary soul.
_ Single... you single?
_ Societal.
_ Engaged?
_ Neutral.
_ Driven? Are you driven?
_ Prodded... it's more of a prodding.
_ Divorced?
_ Impossible... it's impossible to be divorced; unmarried, yes, but divorced? Nyet... no es posible.
_ Why?
_ Why? I'll tell you why. My former 'til death do you part' partner took issue with my screaming in abject terror when I would first encounter her in the morning.
_ I guess you are going to tell me... You would scream in terror when you first saw your wife every morning?
_ Of course I did. Wouldn't you? Imagine sitting alone in silence and someone just appearing out of nowhere and standing in front of you? You wouldn't scream?
_ Not if it was someone I knew, someone I lived with - a wife, a child, a parent, brother or sister; a friend, etc.
_ It definitely wasn't Ed Cetera.
_ How long were you married?
_ Too long; not long enough... I don't know. I lost the timer... It's a lot like baking a cake: There is only one instant when it is a cake, otherwise it's not done, or it's burnt.
_ You bake a lot of cakes?
_ No, but I do get my 'ya-ya's' out.
_ Chai?
_ EEEEEEEEYAAAAAA!!!!!!!.... Howsaboy?
_ Somewhat shattered, but good. Chai?
_ Why not?

                                                                 *********

         ... The ''golden germ'... Let's hope whomsoever is carrying it steers clear of the ubiquitous tubes of antibacterial goo.

        ... Isn't it all a wee bit strange? The comfort brought about by a smooth progression through linear time... Isn't it all a wee bit strange?

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Sssssssssnnn O

_ I'm somewhat reluctant to encounter fellow humans on snowy mornings for fear that they'll insist, in an aggressively claustrophobic manner, that I agree with them that the snow is beautiful.

_ Isn't the snow beautiful?

_ No. No, it's not.

_ No?

_ Yes.

_ Yes? No?... Now I understand.

_ I'm glad to hear that because so much of what we do, and who we are, is requiring of a massive understanding. Not explaining, mind you, but understanding.

_ Yes, the snow isn't beautiful.

_ Very quietly I am going to enter another realm wherein the snow is neither beautiful, nor not beautiful; a realm wherein nothing exists in opposition to anything else.

_ A fragile beauty is snow; a mere hint, and then...gone. Gone to gray, to slush, to black, to pocked yellow...

_ To pocked yellow?

_ Anyway it's raining now. I can hear it on the tin roof.

_ Don't you just love the sound of rain falling on a tin roof?

_ Chai, please... and throw this bum out.


                                                                     ******

        I assume our nervous system is capable of dealing with us having an intense love for all of life.

       What separates a teacher from a pupil?

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Da Numba Niyen...turnmeondeadman

_ It's been a while; I thought you was dead.
_ Indeed.
_ Need I ask?
_ Ask.
_ Howsaboy?
_ Grown into a man, heading for the light with darkness as my guide.
_ Don't get too close.
_ To the light, or to the dark?
_ Yes, and yes.
_ An embarrassment...
_ ...of riches. The sons of...
_ Katie Elder...
_ Branches. Sunk deep in the sky.
_ The Earth moves as doth a bon-bon in a stiff breeze.
_ Have you seen that by which seeing all things make a no sense.
_ Indeed-y-do; in mine size twelve shoe.
_ Good to know some things don't change.
_ That makes no sense.
_ Good to know that all things only change; change changing change, with tock making tick.
_ Slipper the dipper the night of barefoot prose. Chai by moonlight, by noonlight, in the garden, by the gutter.
_ Sweet aromas wafting, while the denser effluvia gather with the vermin in the dank dark loathsome places always there.
_ Let's not forget the loathsome places. Mind reeks of rot; a heart unplumbed.
_ The spitting image of a chip off the ol' block.
_ Did you bring the key?
_ Yes. Chai?
_ Yes.

                                                                   ************

... And thus they had chai; and all was as it was, with not a hair out of place.

... We know that we don't know; thus knowing. Hither hie homeward; the holidays approacheth, he lispeth. I - repeat - I - the strategic dominion of mind splattered everywhere. Wait in stillness

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