Poems, vignettes, fiction, stage plays . . . they are all represented here.
haiku for the disillusioned
"Tranquil(ized)" Saintly sliding glass undulates blue calm, buoyant bungalows, two faced. Within, new buzzwords slither in lazy dictums; more gray matter gone. |
Up close, the white noise gets whiter and prophetic-- the new in the black. The current mind bleeds out a feathered, stormy nag about compromise |
about what used to might have been, how we began, how we licked and ran. |
Excerpt
From "Confessions"
2. Secrets
I, too, move on—to the next one and the next one. I happen to have had many men, which is different from having had many women, though tissue is tissue, thin blood is thin blood. This is my career: the dead I am often around to watch during the first minute of their deaths are alive with me before that, for any number of months, sleepwalking or getting lost in walk-in pantries or softly praying or mumbling bitterroot under breaths of day-old syrup or potato.
I get my latest sweetheart, Henry, from his kitchen. He has forgotten where he left his tea, but it is on the front porch, shaded by a giant awning. I can see the tea there, half-drunk, getting cold. I guide him by the elbow, his hand dangling and weakened from the cancer, across the living room. I have just put a CD in the stereo and say with a raised voice, “Listen, Henry, it’s Ella.”
Henry stops, looking around for the sound. His eyes brighten. “A real siren,” he says.
I will dwell later on that word, siren. It has vixen in it somewhere, the fox, the sharp wit and the lies, the short gait, the hop. The Greek enchantress and the warning. It has Henry’s age all wrapped up in it, in its allusion to another era. He has also said jaunty and screwball and dapper and gumption, even cut of his jib, which I like and try out—just for fun—on my caretaker friend, Jo, and the girls in my book group.
I sit Henry down on the porch, in his cushioned wicker chair. It’s spring, petals of the earliest daffodils curling inward, already drought-ridden. Sometimes I send him out with a watering can. He says he likes to hear the crackling sound of the dirt taking in the water, which I don’t think is possible without the hearing aid he refuses to get, but here we are looking over the daffodils on his huge front porch, a porch bigger than my first remembered home. His lungs are eaten away, cancer-pocked at the tissue-laden, gas-exchanging surface, and now his spine suffers the spread and warp. What’s left of his hair is yellowed and silky. His voice is hoarse because there is little space for breath.
We live-ins—sequestered, toeing borderlines, squished by family members who hire us but never listen to us (I am the fly on the wall and they swat at me if I rub my magic wings)—have a certain definition of fun, a certain idea about humor, and this is necessary, in my view, to do the job well. Henry is my sixth employer in six years, and even though we are taught about the importance of detachment, I don’t like to say employer. The problem is that although I am the employee, I get possessive with my charges, my sweeties. Seven weeks ago Henry’s daughter Angela made him go to church. I disagreed with that—Christianity, like other diseases, having long since swept through my land—but what can I say? And so I drive him to Saint Michael’s and walk him in and wait in the car for Mass to end.
Angela also made Henry give away his rabbit to a high school kid down the road. I do not understand why Henry allows her to dictate the terms of his final months. Made him. You can talk as high as the clouds about the positive effect animals have on sick people, talk yourself ridiculous about the money you can save on doctor bills and therapy bills, but none of this can change the outlook of a self-described martyr, a daughter with an ax to grind on the subject of pets.
Henry has not been the same since his rabbit was taken away. A week ago, in fact, while getting his walking exercise around the house, he removed all pictures of her from the walls and bookshelves, and stacked them in a corner. We have been together something like a year, and still, Henry won’t tell me certain things, like even the name of this rabbit. Like the reason for his aversion to lemonade. Like the reason for his map collection, extensive enough to fill the upstairs closet, which is as big as an old-fashioned pantry, and spill out into one of the unused bedrooms. Like why it is he thinks he is being punished with lung cancer given that he’s never smoked.
Must I know these things? When the last breath leaves him, I want to have a vision to focus on—I want to see all his elements flow away from him in a foamy, gaseous release. It’s the rippling away I throw my own rock into, so I can’t say my watching is selfless; I always take my ill with me, I always choose theft. I want the secrets he would tell grandchildren in that way they wouldn’t recognize: confession disguised as a morality tale or as a casual observation or even as the early babblings that mark the onset of senility.
2. Secrets
I, too, move on—to the next one and the next one. I happen to have had many men, which is different from having had many women, though tissue is tissue, thin blood is thin blood. This is my career: the dead I am often around to watch during the first minute of their deaths are alive with me before that, for any number of months, sleepwalking or getting lost in walk-in pantries or softly praying or mumbling bitterroot under breaths of day-old syrup or potato.
I get my latest sweetheart, Henry, from his kitchen. He has forgotten where he left his tea, but it is on the front porch, shaded by a giant awning. I can see the tea there, half-drunk, getting cold. I guide him by the elbow, his hand dangling and weakened from the cancer, across the living room. I have just put a CD in the stereo and say with a raised voice, “Listen, Henry, it’s Ella.”
Henry stops, looking around for the sound. His eyes brighten. “A real siren,” he says.
I will dwell later on that word, siren. It has vixen in it somewhere, the fox, the sharp wit and the lies, the short gait, the hop. The Greek enchantress and the warning. It has Henry’s age all wrapped up in it, in its allusion to another era. He has also said jaunty and screwball and dapper and gumption, even cut of his jib, which I like and try out—just for fun—on my caretaker friend, Jo, and the girls in my book group.
I sit Henry down on the porch, in his cushioned wicker chair. It’s spring, petals of the earliest daffodils curling inward, already drought-ridden. Sometimes I send him out with a watering can. He says he likes to hear the crackling sound of the dirt taking in the water, which I don’t think is possible without the hearing aid he refuses to get, but here we are looking over the daffodils on his huge front porch, a porch bigger than my first remembered home. His lungs are eaten away, cancer-pocked at the tissue-laden, gas-exchanging surface, and now his spine suffers the spread and warp. What’s left of his hair is yellowed and silky. His voice is hoarse because there is little space for breath.
We live-ins—sequestered, toeing borderlines, squished by family members who hire us but never listen to us (I am the fly on the wall and they swat at me if I rub my magic wings)—have a certain definition of fun, a certain idea about humor, and this is necessary, in my view, to do the job well. Henry is my sixth employer in six years, and even though we are taught about the importance of detachment, I don’t like to say employer. The problem is that although I am the employee, I get possessive with my charges, my sweeties. Seven weeks ago Henry’s daughter Angela made him go to church. I disagreed with that—Christianity, like other diseases, having long since swept through my land—but what can I say? And so I drive him to Saint Michael’s and walk him in and wait in the car for Mass to end.
Angela also made Henry give away his rabbit to a high school kid down the road. I do not understand why Henry allows her to dictate the terms of his final months. Made him. You can talk as high as the clouds about the positive effect animals have on sick people, talk yourself ridiculous about the money you can save on doctor bills and therapy bills, but none of this can change the outlook of a self-described martyr, a daughter with an ax to grind on the subject of pets.
Henry has not been the same since his rabbit was taken away. A week ago, in fact, while getting his walking exercise around the house, he removed all pictures of her from the walls and bookshelves, and stacked them in a corner. We have been together something like a year, and still, Henry won’t tell me certain things, like even the name of this rabbit. Like the reason for his aversion to lemonade. Like the reason for his map collection, extensive enough to fill the upstairs closet, which is as big as an old-fashioned pantry, and spill out into one of the unused bedrooms. Like why it is he thinks he is being punished with lung cancer given that he’s never smoked.
Must I know these things? When the last breath leaves him, I want to have a vision to focus on—I want to see all his elements flow away from him in a foamy, gaseous release. It’s the rippling away I throw my own rock into, so I can’t say my watching is selfless; I always take my ill with me, I always choose theft. I want the secrets he would tell grandchildren in that way they wouldn’t recognize: confession disguised as a morality tale or as a casual observation or even as the early babblings that mark the onset of senility.
Excerpt
From "Woman Walks into a Bar"
Woman walks into a bar. Woman walks into a bar, removes gloves, reveals slender fingers, healthy cuticles, strong tendons. Woman walks into a bar, removes gloves, walks along the bar, leather bag hits her hip, wool coat brushes her ankles, woman sits by a fake fireplace. Woman removes coat and scarf, drapes them over a chair. Woman walks into a bar, looks around as if she hasn’t been here before. Looks around, glances at the bartender, turns away, looks at him again, freezes, lays a hand on her coat and scarf, moves for her bag, freezes, woman walks into a bar, bartender comes over, gray at the temples, crow’s feet at the eye-edges, too heavy for his height. Bartender moves toward woman, frozen woman, bartender asks what will you have, woman says scotch and water. Bartender finds the booze, an oversized ring clinking against the bottle, against the glass when he brings the drink to her. Woman walks into a bar, orders a drink, lays down cash, starts a tab. Woman watches bartender pour her drink, imagines him re-married to a woman not her mother, imagines his new children, imagines his weariness. Woman considers her own weariness, her imagination’s funk, its insolence, how it makes her itch. Woman walks into a bar, gets a drink, becomes cross. Woman fishes around in her bag for a cigarette, woman hasn’t smoked in years but bought a pack this morning, just for today, for this bar, this bartender. Woman’s slender fingers tremble holding the delicate thing, woman searches again, realizes she has no lighter, knocks the cigarette away, woman’s cigarette rolls away from her, rolls down the shiny bar, rolls down to a shiny man. Man catches the cigarette, walks it back to her. Shiny man, kind demeanor, unobtrusive sitter, sits next to her. Shiny man, flannel scarf around his shoulders, gives her the cigarette, offers her a light, burns briefly for her, flame goes out. Shiny man notes slender fingers, slender torso, slender nose, slender cigarette, woman walks into a bar, slender, reed-like, sashaying along, looks at the bartender, looks away, smokes a cigarette, lets a shiny man light her up.
Woman walks into a bar. Woman walks into a bar, removes gloves, reveals slender fingers, healthy cuticles, strong tendons. Woman walks into a bar, removes gloves, walks along the bar, leather bag hits her hip, wool coat brushes her ankles, woman sits by a fake fireplace. Woman removes coat and scarf, drapes them over a chair. Woman walks into a bar, looks around as if she hasn’t been here before. Looks around, glances at the bartender, turns away, looks at him again, freezes, lays a hand on her coat and scarf, moves for her bag, freezes, woman walks into a bar, bartender comes over, gray at the temples, crow’s feet at the eye-edges, too heavy for his height. Bartender moves toward woman, frozen woman, bartender asks what will you have, woman says scotch and water. Bartender finds the booze, an oversized ring clinking against the bottle, against the glass when he brings the drink to her. Woman walks into a bar, orders a drink, lays down cash, starts a tab. Woman watches bartender pour her drink, imagines him re-married to a woman not her mother, imagines his new children, imagines his weariness. Woman considers her own weariness, her imagination’s funk, its insolence, how it makes her itch. Woman walks into a bar, gets a drink, becomes cross. Woman fishes around in her bag for a cigarette, woman hasn’t smoked in years but bought a pack this morning, just for today, for this bar, this bartender. Woman’s slender fingers tremble holding the delicate thing, woman searches again, realizes she has no lighter, knocks the cigarette away, woman’s cigarette rolls away from her, rolls down the shiny bar, rolls down to a shiny man. Man catches the cigarette, walks it back to her. Shiny man, kind demeanor, unobtrusive sitter, sits next to her. Shiny man, flannel scarf around his shoulders, gives her the cigarette, offers her a light, burns briefly for her, flame goes out. Shiny man notes slender fingers, slender torso, slender nose, slender cigarette, woman walks into a bar, slender, reed-like, sashaying along, looks at the bartender, looks away, smokes a cigarette, lets a shiny man light her up.
excerpt
From The Only Reason I'm Here
"The art of criticism"
I enjoy specific, well-crafted insults. Would that I could hurl them at just the right moments.
I fear that I am feeling rather empty-headed tonight. I was in the office until 6:30, that's surely why. Had a sad moment this morning involving the boy and then came an interesting article about Carl Icahn over lunch. Why didn't I grow up to be a guy who busts in on companies he thinks aren't running properly and make off with a bunch of loot? Why do I instead have non-conversations with people regarding arbitrary capitalization?
"The art of criticism"
I enjoy specific, well-crafted insults. Would that I could hurl them at just the right moments.
I fear that I am feeling rather empty-headed tonight. I was in the office until 6:30, that's surely why. Had a sad moment this morning involving the boy and then came an interesting article about Carl Icahn over lunch. Why didn't I grow up to be a guy who busts in on companies he thinks aren't running properly and make off with a bunch of loot? Why do I instead have non-conversations with people regarding arbitrary capitalization?
excerpt
From The Only Reason I'm Here
"Celebrate good times"
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, wherein I will give thanks, I suppose, and continue in the tradition of hallowed slaughter, both the original and the annual one involving many turkeys. I will cook a dinner, which I dislike doing, involving meat, which I don’t eat. I will also go northward to a house in Lowell—to the residence of the cousin of the International Man—where there will be a lot of food I cannot eat and lots of conversation in rapid, slangy Spanish. I recognize the generosity of this invitation, but I for sure will have a headache within an hour.
If I choose not to celebrate, I then must withstand self-imposed isolation. I have had too much of this in my life. Sitting out festivities reminds me of the loneliness of my teenage years, though I must add that for me, attending festivities does not necessarily confer a sense of community. I am a walking, talking independent film character.
Tomorrow night will mark the end of one of the Big Three holidays I am sentenced to celebrate. The day after that night, people will be slaughtered again, this time while stampeding their way into Wal-Mart. Last year I happened to drive by a Target around this time and saw tents. Not for sale, but rather for spending the night so as to be the first through the doors.
I am reminded of a line in a Woody Allen film. In it, Allen gets abducted by some sort of Hasidic Jew morality police in Brooklyn. As he’s getting harassed and pushed down the stairs of a brownstone building, he cries, “What holiday is this?”
"Celebrate good times"
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, wherein I will give thanks, I suppose, and continue in the tradition of hallowed slaughter, both the original and the annual one involving many turkeys. I will cook a dinner, which I dislike doing, involving meat, which I don’t eat. I will also go northward to a house in Lowell—to the residence of the cousin of the International Man—where there will be a lot of food I cannot eat and lots of conversation in rapid, slangy Spanish. I recognize the generosity of this invitation, but I for sure will have a headache within an hour.
If I choose not to celebrate, I then must withstand self-imposed isolation. I have had too much of this in my life. Sitting out festivities reminds me of the loneliness of my teenage years, though I must add that for me, attending festivities does not necessarily confer a sense of community. I am a walking, talking independent film character.
Tomorrow night will mark the end of one of the Big Three holidays I am sentenced to celebrate. The day after that night, people will be slaughtered again, this time while stampeding their way into Wal-Mart. Last year I happened to drive by a Target around this time and saw tents. Not for sale, but rather for spending the night so as to be the first through the doors.
I am reminded of a line in a Woody Allen film. In it, Allen gets abducted by some sort of Hasidic Jew morality police in Brooklyn. As he’s getting harassed and pushed down the stairs of a brownstone building, he cries, “What holiday is this?”
excerpt
From "Hamlet, CEO"
ACT II.
SCENE I. A conference room. Enter HAMLET,
HORATIO, and REYNALDO.
Ham. I’ve had word from corporate.
Hor. What squeak and gibber have they?
Ham. More daft consolidation, and no duty: thus much the business is.
Rey. My direct reports instigate petty discord and partake of tyrannical sloth.
Ham. Have you seen this in the stars?
Rey. My throat doth close. Pray, then, what have we to discuss?
Ham. Delayed deliverables, imperial regulations, our disjointed state, propositions of unified value, earnings from the in-force block.
Hor. In that and all things we will show our purpose.
Rey. Technology leverage, my lord?
Ham. If the budget so allows.
Rey. I have heard mutterings on that point.
Ham. Do not feed the beast with charms nor assume its spiteful heresay. Go forward and reserve thy judgment.
Rey. And what of my impacted colleagues?
Ham. Summon them and deliver your transparency. Truth will harness their souls to yours.
Rey. [Aside] He is one to talk of souls;—I see the rot in him.
Hor. My lord, perhaps by aligning our organizational model with our brand efforts, we could brew wondrous potency. Sluggish these times have been; the masses cannot find purpose to part with liquid cash, unless their minds be persuaded by engaging touchpoints.
Ham. Brilliance rarely speaks, but you’ve stolen words from its glistening craw.
Hor. Self-made men do utter famous thoughts.
Rey. [Aside] I will engage the hypocrite in him. Does the budget allow for brilliance? And brilliance for declining head count? My lord, speak thee to these points.
Ham. There is no angel in you and no sweat to further just causes.
Rey. Speak, then, to capital efficiency; speak, then, to risk. Consider our coffers and service to our promise.
Ham. Your eyes fall on me when they should look elsewhere. If we don’t swim, we drown, and the water never ceases her insubordinate flow. Reynaldo, take your leave: find respite in a few rounds of golf.
[Exeunt Reynaldo.
Hor. You are but a shadow of yourself. Pray, what eats your troubled innards?
Ham. A counterfeit presentment, to be sure.
Hor. I follow not your meaning.
Ham. There is no trust in these walls. I have of late lost my imperial focus, skipped my habit of exercise. Food: though I know I need partake, I cannot summon hunger to the victuals. These dour hallways, these falsely lit offices, seem to me a sterile canopy protecting wooden and leaden philosophy.
Hor. What stuff coils thy mind! Season your distill’d and aimless resolve.
Ham. You are i’ the right. Never make known what I have said.
Hor. I am your poor servant, as ever. It is only ’twixt the—my lord, are you well?
Ham. Methinks I feel a chill.
Enter Ghost.
Ham. But soft, behold! Before my God, there passes an apparition.
Hor. You are as white as the slide screen. What is it that enters?
Ham. That of the same figure, like the founder. He does not approve of me.
Hor. How now, my lord? Ho, I see it now; it is but a pale shadow.
Ham. A harbinger of my fate.
Hor. And now, ’tis gone!
Ham. A truer sight was never seen.
Hor. We will watch for it again, and inquire of its purpose. But now I must take leave. I will fetch a strong brew and deliver it as you rest. Fare you well.
[Exeunt Horatio.
Ham. Heaven defend us. Brazen illusion, show yourself!
Enter Ghost.
Ghost. Lend thy serious ear to my urgent impart. My endless purgatory awaits me.
Ham. Speak your omen.
Ghost. Now, Hamlet, hear: the parent company is fraudulent.
Ham. O, God!
ACT II.
SCENE I. A conference room. Enter HAMLET,
HORATIO, and REYNALDO.
Ham. I’ve had word from corporate.
Hor. What squeak and gibber have they?
Ham. More daft consolidation, and no duty: thus much the business is.
Rey. My direct reports instigate petty discord and partake of tyrannical sloth.
Ham. Have you seen this in the stars?
Rey. My throat doth close. Pray, then, what have we to discuss?
Ham. Delayed deliverables, imperial regulations, our disjointed state, propositions of unified value, earnings from the in-force block.
Hor. In that and all things we will show our purpose.
Rey. Technology leverage, my lord?
Ham. If the budget so allows.
Rey. I have heard mutterings on that point.
Ham. Do not feed the beast with charms nor assume its spiteful heresay. Go forward and reserve thy judgment.
Rey. And what of my impacted colleagues?
Ham. Summon them and deliver your transparency. Truth will harness their souls to yours.
Rey. [Aside] He is one to talk of souls;—I see the rot in him.
Hor. My lord, perhaps by aligning our organizational model with our brand efforts, we could brew wondrous potency. Sluggish these times have been; the masses cannot find purpose to part with liquid cash, unless their minds be persuaded by engaging touchpoints.
Ham. Brilliance rarely speaks, but you’ve stolen words from its glistening craw.
Hor. Self-made men do utter famous thoughts.
Rey. [Aside] I will engage the hypocrite in him. Does the budget allow for brilliance? And brilliance for declining head count? My lord, speak thee to these points.
Ham. There is no angel in you and no sweat to further just causes.
Rey. Speak, then, to capital efficiency; speak, then, to risk. Consider our coffers and service to our promise.
Ham. Your eyes fall on me when they should look elsewhere. If we don’t swim, we drown, and the water never ceases her insubordinate flow. Reynaldo, take your leave: find respite in a few rounds of golf.
[Exeunt Reynaldo.
Hor. You are but a shadow of yourself. Pray, what eats your troubled innards?
Ham. A counterfeit presentment, to be sure.
Hor. I follow not your meaning.
Ham. There is no trust in these walls. I have of late lost my imperial focus, skipped my habit of exercise. Food: though I know I need partake, I cannot summon hunger to the victuals. These dour hallways, these falsely lit offices, seem to me a sterile canopy protecting wooden and leaden philosophy.
Hor. What stuff coils thy mind! Season your distill’d and aimless resolve.
Ham. You are i’ the right. Never make known what I have said.
Hor. I am your poor servant, as ever. It is only ’twixt the—my lord, are you well?
Ham. Methinks I feel a chill.
Enter Ghost.
Ham. But soft, behold! Before my God, there passes an apparition.
Hor. You are as white as the slide screen. What is it that enters?
Ham. That of the same figure, like the founder. He does not approve of me.
Hor. How now, my lord? Ho, I see it now; it is but a pale shadow.
Ham. A harbinger of my fate.
Hor. And now, ’tis gone!
Ham. A truer sight was never seen.
Hor. We will watch for it again, and inquire of its purpose. But now I must take leave. I will fetch a strong brew and deliver it as you rest. Fare you well.
[Exeunt Horatio.
Ham. Heaven defend us. Brazen illusion, show yourself!
Enter Ghost.
Ghost. Lend thy serious ear to my urgent impart. My endless purgatory awaits me.
Ham. Speak your omen.
Ghost. Now, Hamlet, hear: the parent company is fraudulent.
Ham. O, God!
excerpt
From The Adventurist
One day while Yuri sat cross-legged in his cell for five hours straight, there came noises he had not heard before. Voices he had not heard before. The door opened. Next to the jail guard were two other guards. They led him down corridors to a set of doors. The doors opened to the great world outside, and Yuri stepped into it, and the doors closed behind him. Yuri stood in the sunlight, half expecting an execution squad to appear from around the corner. Instead, his father, a tall and balding man with nearly black eyes, approached him.
When he was within reach, Yuri stepped forward and hugged him, but he was stiff and cold.
“Father,” Yuri said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I managed to secure your freedom,” he said. “But I cannot secure your success in this country any longer. My influence has its limits.”
Yuri’s father was not a cruel man but he was a product of his times. He believed in strong political leadership that brought with it higher GDP and a chance for Russia to be acknowledged and feared again. “Because of your block-headed idea to protest, I have paid. The tax police threatened me. They said if I did not figure out what to do with you, they would investigate me for fraud. The only reason why it wasn’t worse is because my colleague stepped in and reminded people about the influence I have with the Europeans. The agreement we made is that we do not care where you go, but you must go.”
“You said ‘we.’ ”
Yuri’s father paused. He straightened his glasses, a gesture Yuri recognized as one of fatherly frustration and one usually followed by a summarization of the situation that always made the result sound inevitable, as if it were being dictated by an evil character in a cartoon.
“In other places,” Yuri’s father said, “fathers punish sons. Here, fathers are citizens who punish other citizens. People with less influence than I have been hounded and even murdered for lesser crimes.”
“I haven’t committed a crime, but I am sorry that I have caused problems.”
“Go where you can start over. Where no one will see you.”
One day while Yuri sat cross-legged in his cell for five hours straight, there came noises he had not heard before. Voices he had not heard before. The door opened. Next to the jail guard were two other guards. They led him down corridors to a set of doors. The doors opened to the great world outside, and Yuri stepped into it, and the doors closed behind him. Yuri stood in the sunlight, half expecting an execution squad to appear from around the corner. Instead, his father, a tall and balding man with nearly black eyes, approached him.
When he was within reach, Yuri stepped forward and hugged him, but he was stiff and cold.
“Father,” Yuri said. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“I managed to secure your freedom,” he said. “But I cannot secure your success in this country any longer. My influence has its limits.”
Yuri’s father was not a cruel man but he was a product of his times. He believed in strong political leadership that brought with it higher GDP and a chance for Russia to be acknowledged and feared again. “Because of your block-headed idea to protest, I have paid. The tax police threatened me. They said if I did not figure out what to do with you, they would investigate me for fraud. The only reason why it wasn’t worse is because my colleague stepped in and reminded people about the influence I have with the Europeans. The agreement we made is that we do not care where you go, but you must go.”
“You said ‘we.’ ”
Yuri’s father paused. He straightened his glasses, a gesture Yuri recognized as one of fatherly frustration and one usually followed by a summarization of the situation that always made the result sound inevitable, as if it were being dictated by an evil character in a cartoon.
“In other places,” Yuri’s father said, “fathers punish sons. Here, fathers are citizens who punish other citizens. People with less influence than I have been hounded and even murdered for lesser crimes.”
“I haven’t committed a crime, but I am sorry that I have caused problems.”
“Go where you can start over. Where no one will see you.”
excerpt
From "Buddha letters"
Dear Asita, the humble servant of all souls:
Seriously, do I look like I want to rule a kingdom? I have a wimpy upper body and I sit along walls with shuttered windows all day, and I drag all the furniture out of rooms and ask the servants to go away, or sometimes I ask them about something I’ve written, and when father sees this, he sentences me to thirty rounds with the samarai, who just ends up getting angry because even though I can hold my own, he says I parry with no conviction.
The punisher cannot punish if his target refuses to acknowledge him. There is a lesson here, Asita. Write to me and tell me what it is. You were always the smart one.
My father has narrowed down the list of potential brides and has invited these women to dinner. Listen: do you remember when we were boys—I’ve been meaning to tell you, by the way, how the village is all markets now, everything for sale, everybody haggling; you can’t even get your charioteer along the aisles—how we’d fish on the Nairanjana River? I never told you this, but one day I came home and I found the servants together in the kitchen, all of them half-naked there among the chopping blocks and the knives—breasts slapped right on top of a platter of sliced, raw lamb. I was so aroused, I ran to my room to masturbate, and just then my loving stepmother Majaprajapati came in to inquire about my dinner preference.
She looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of utter concentration. I probably do not need to remind you that my stepmother happens to be an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and I’ll confess that as I sat there watching her concentrate on whatever she was thinking about, I became erect all over again, and had to turn my body away. I looked at the wall and the floor and I thought about moving more furniture out of my room until finally she broke out of her trance. She came over to me and kneeled at my feet. She smelled of jasmine and patchouli, and her hair grazed my knee. I pulled away from her for fear of throwing myself over her body. She grasped my forearm between her hands and said, I can see now that you are a man.
I looked at her and she cried. After she left, I had three orgasms. Later, when I thought of her body, I became angry about how easily my body betrays me. It tells all my secrets and knows my future. I’m certain of this, but how is it that the body cannot be trusted and yet always tells the truth? This is the Second General Paradox. It’s probably not a good idea to begin a codified set of spiritual codes with paradoxes. See, this is what I mean. This is the sort of thing that will not endear me to the masses. Promise to shut me up if I ever do go public.
Your Sid
Dear Asita, the humble servant of all souls:
Seriously, do I look like I want to rule a kingdom? I have a wimpy upper body and I sit along walls with shuttered windows all day, and I drag all the furniture out of rooms and ask the servants to go away, or sometimes I ask them about something I’ve written, and when father sees this, he sentences me to thirty rounds with the samarai, who just ends up getting angry because even though I can hold my own, he says I parry with no conviction.
The punisher cannot punish if his target refuses to acknowledge him. There is a lesson here, Asita. Write to me and tell me what it is. You were always the smart one.
My father has narrowed down the list of potential brides and has invited these women to dinner. Listen: do you remember when we were boys—I’ve been meaning to tell you, by the way, how the village is all markets now, everything for sale, everybody haggling; you can’t even get your charioteer along the aisles—how we’d fish on the Nairanjana River? I never told you this, but one day I came home and I found the servants together in the kitchen, all of them half-naked there among the chopping blocks and the knives—breasts slapped right on top of a platter of sliced, raw lamb. I was so aroused, I ran to my room to masturbate, and just then my loving stepmother Majaprajapati came in to inquire about my dinner preference.
She looked at me with what I can only describe as an expression of utter concentration. I probably do not need to remind you that my stepmother happens to be an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and I’ll confess that as I sat there watching her concentrate on whatever she was thinking about, I became erect all over again, and had to turn my body away. I looked at the wall and the floor and I thought about moving more furniture out of my room until finally she broke out of her trance. She came over to me and kneeled at my feet. She smelled of jasmine and patchouli, and her hair grazed my knee. I pulled away from her for fear of throwing myself over her body. She grasped my forearm between her hands and said, I can see now that you are a man.
I looked at her and she cried. After she left, I had three orgasms. Later, when I thought of her body, I became angry about how easily my body betrays me. It tells all my secrets and knows my future. I’m certain of this, but how is it that the body cannot be trusted and yet always tells the truth? This is the Second General Paradox. It’s probably not a good idea to begin a codified set of spiritual codes with paradoxes. See, this is what I mean. This is the sort of thing that will not endear me to the masses. Promise to shut me up if I ever do go public.
Your Sid