tales from the year of the tiger
He said: The pivot that does not wobble;looking into the mind and then doing; attain this?
Few men have for long.
ride the tiger
057-064
after the fall
065-074
che gelida manina
075-082
second moon of the tiger
083-092
there's a fool moon on the rise
093-097
on the threshold of the ram
098-105
third moon of the tiger
106-118
the bull of the tiger
119-129
castor, pollux and the tiger
130-135
136-142
summertime, and the livin' is easy
143-145
057
I wrote before that "Kundun" is a beautiful work of art. True, but I realize that's irrelevant. I also think it is a great film, a classic, but that, too, is irrelevant. What makes "Kundun" extraordinary is the power it has over a mind ready to open to that power. I didn't understand that until a few days after seeing it the first time.The strange, exotic, deeply esoteric images and even more strange sounds and music of Tibet are obviously a major factor in that power. The Tibetan boys and young men chosen to depict the Dalai Lama at various stages of his life are also part of it. The Dalai Lama himself is a significant part of that power, too, even if his role was only one of "cooperation" with the making of the film.
The noble and beautiful message of Gautama Buddha, although so non-evangelistically included in the film, is the real core of its power, I think. I cannot think of any film which comes even close to being the kind of vehicle for Christianity that "Kundun" is for Buddhism.
I went to see it again. For me personally, it is like a beacon welcoming the Year of the Tiger. For the Pilgrim in me it is, understandably, almost a call to arms (despite the inappropriateness of the metaphor).
Its reminder to really, deeply, consider the possibility that this is only one of many lives, that what we are doing right now will not only affect us in this life, but in those to come, has set off a "war in heaven" in my mind. Such inner events have always been a part of my own living through a year of the cat, something of the kind was expected and it will not surprise me to see the battle intensify as Aries draws nearer. Such was the case with the last two Tigers.
The Underworld Dude, no doubt feeling somewhat slighted by the recent description of his greatest interest as "not a driving force", called forth his demons to distract the Pilgrim from his meditations on the film, the Tourist shuddered and went into seclusion, and the Survivor began to sort through his arsenal, just in case he had to intervene in the war (and he did have to, several times).
All in all, it was a most interesting night under the Southern Cross.
There are, as yet, no casualties. The Pilgrim has a decided advantage with "Kundun" as an ally.
058
Note, on the following morning: I was thinking about this tale as I settled down for the night and considered zapping it altogether, but I guess I'll let it stand, with a few notations.This is so totally weird, which, I know, sounds like something from one of the favorite television programs of my long life. Can you guess?
I intended to hear Mister Clinton's State of the Union speech. I thought it was going to be the day after when it actually was, and expected to be sitting on a beach listening to it on my battery radio.
Kory K didn't know that. He probably didn't know either that the speech was going to be on Tuesday when he sent me an email saying he had to stop over Hamilton.
Auwe! Just this moment realized he asked me to go to the "garden" with him, but he meant the Japanese Garden! Not in the middle of a weekday afternoon, Kory! Better Manoa Garden, which is where we ended up, and which was where arrangements had been made for viewing Mister Clinton's State of the Union Address. Selected students from the University of Hawai'i were chosen by the White House schmooz unit to provide feedback on the speech, one of four universities so "honored".
Odd, how that made me think of Chairman Mao and the Dalai Lama, but it's *that* movie again.
One of my best friends thinks, or at one time thought, I was George Washington once upon a time. I don't think so. I think I was a soldier in the Revolutionary War, the one whose grave I "accidentally" stumbled across in my walk across New Jersey and over which I inexplicably, some would say, burst into tears. If I'm right, I gave my life for this country called "The United States of America", opposing a country I have loved in many lives.
Ok, ok, I'm in Buddhist mode right now and likely to stay in it for some time.
Mister Clinton embarrassed me today more than any American President has done in my almost fifty-eight years on this planet. The man did not one time let the word "Asia" cross his lips. [Note: a misperception. The transcript reveals that he did in fact mention it several times.] It was my pleasure to point that out to the students providing "feedback" even if I, and I am sure they, know it won't matter in the slightest, never mind all the local television "news" crews in attendance. [They hadn't noticed the references, either.]
Yes, I said "embarrassed ... more". And no, I have not forgotten Richard M. Nixon.
[sarcasm mode on] You think just because I am a wandering mendicant, I don't take notice of these things? You think just because I have a circle of addict friends who are foolishly spending their money to help me kill myself with beer, I don't notice these things? You think just because I stay one haole in this state-which-probably-shouldn't-be-a-state, I don't notice these things? [sarcasm mode off]
Ok, Clinton made me mad. His smarmy wife, sucking up to everyone who would wave to her, made me mad. I don't want to be angry with anyone, not the people who are close to me who have disappointed me, not with the leader of this country I do care about so much ... not with myself.
But one thing you can believe. I am going to do my very best not to lie to myself at this stage in life, and I have spent far too much time feeling angry in recent weeks.
Most of all, with myself.
That is not the aspect of the Tiger which is welcome here. If any one of I is listening ...
059
A reader asks if I really believe in reincarnation and cautions, "If you start talking about your past lifes, people will think you're nuts."I agree with the caution. I used to think it was a harmlessly crazy aspect of my friend who has devoted a lot of his time and energy to a "hobby" of researching past identities, his own and others. But then people think I'm nuts already, so no big deal.
No, I don't really believe in it. I wish I did. There is some evidence I trust which appears to confirm it, men like the Dalai Lama and Satya Sai Baba, but that isn't sufficient to totally convince me. Rather than say "believe in it", I say "I accept it". It makes the most sense to me of all the possible structures of existence, from the extremes of "we live this life, we die, that's it" to the nightmare of the Christian fate of eternal bliss or eternal damnation. Despite what his followers have constructed as their Canon, as I understand it Gautama Buddha thought it was useless to speculate on the subject, that for real, "Life" and "Death" are just names, there is no coming and going, and eliminating that which blocks the full awareness of this truth, waking from the dream, is what matters. Yet even he is reported to have often spoken of his own past existences.
As for talking about what may have been my own, there is not much to say. Based on a particularly extraordinary acid experience, I think I was a scribe in Egypt but could not from the experience place it in any specific time. I may have been William Fredericks, a soldier in General Washington's army, who was killed in New Jersey shortly after the crossing of the Delaware. In the last century, Pan Tao Shih, a Taoist monk in China. And earlier in this one, Graham Robertson, an insignificant English artist. All I can say is that I would not be at all surprised if that were somehow proven to be the case.
It doesn't really matter.
If it is true, I'm grateful to have none of the memories, at least consciously. Bad enough to walk around with the debris from this life. I was reminded during lunch hour on campus yesterday by the students swarming everywhere of the unpleasant habit I had as a child of taking a stick and attacking an ant hill, just for the fun of watching the ants go berserk. Even worse, a friend and I used to catch grasshoppers, pull off their back legs, and drop them in the middle of the crazed ants. Ouch, what nasty little karmic waves that must have stirred.
Meanwhile, I was sent some excerpts from the transcript of Clinton's speech which prove he did, in fact, refer to Asia several times, also proving that even though I was earnestly trying to listen to him, I obviously didn't do a very good job of it. It probably would have been better to simply read the transcript of the speech because he's really a lousy actor, never has been able to play the role of statesman. A preview of the upcoming Mike Nichols film which features John Travolta as a presidential candidate suggests Travolta does a better job of playing Clinton than Clinton does playing President.
I stopped writing at that point and went downtown to have lunch with a friend. It was the first time I had eaten at Zaffron, the Indian restaurant on the edge of Chinatown. The menu led me to expect South Indian cooking but it was definitely North Indian, very mildly seasoned. Quite decent, though, even if the chapatti was too gentrified and not immediately off the griddle like the real peasant type. Yummy iced tea.
When I got back to Hamilton I thought I'd better spend a little more time with the Buddhist canon if I'm going to go sounding off about it, so I read the Diamond Sutra. It's a translation I hadn't seen before, with an introduction by Evans-Wentz whose Tibetan translations were a constant part of my life in the high acid years. I probably put a Taoist gloss on all my interpretations of Buddhist writings, but maybe that's not such a bad thing.
A pleasant New Year's Day. Past Tiger years have always been very prosperous ones for me, marked by inner struggles, "wars in heaven". I sometimes think that if I did really believe in reincarnation, I'd live my life much differently. Maybe not. If I don't have the sense to practise enough moderation in the early part of the month to prevent the famine and drought of the last week, would I be likely to "invest" in something as remote as a future life?
060
It's not my fault! I walk up the steps to Hamilton Library as the sun is just about to peek over that hill. Sitting on a bench by the bulletin boards is one of my favorite men on campus. If I were casting director for a project that needed an ideal haole surfer dude, this fellow would be at the top of the list. He either has a great hairdresser or his beautifully colored hair is natural sun frosting; I suspect the latter. His skin is an equally beautiful shade of golden brown. I gave one deeply admiring look and sat on a bench on the other side of the boards, safely out of viewing range. I was reading the campus newspaper for the day, waiting to greet the rising sun with appropriately profound thoughts when he got up and sat on the bench beside me, less than three feet away! Okay, so the second day of the Tiger got off to a most excellent start."Take care of yourself," my hacienda buddy said, as we were leaving one morning. "You, too," I replied, giving him a casual salute which is a more natural gesture for me than the local shaka. It was the first time we had spoken to each other and it suggested a farewell, not just a parting for the day. Such seems to be the case. He was not at the hacienda that evening. I'll miss his company, silent though it was.
"Hacienda", like "cloisters" which I'll mention later, is a nickname for a sanctuary where it is possible to sleep. It seems prudent to omit real names and details.
Although my buddy did not return that evening, some newcomers did, alas, arrive at the hacienda. A family! A young couple with two hyperactive little girls. I was already asleep but was awakened by all the chatter. "Are you folks staying long?" I asked. "We're sleeping here," replied the young father. "Well, it might be best to go to sleep then, because they wake you up early," I suggested. No joy, they did nothing to stop the post-midnight revels of their children. I lit a cigarette. The mother asked if I had a spare one. "You must be joking," I grumbled, gathered up my things and left, as did two of the other awakened regular residents. I hope the family had just missed a last bus and were not planning to take up extended residence at the hacienda.
I walked over to the Kakaako Waterfront Park, the first time I had visited it in the middle of the night. On the way I was thinking how much I'd really like a Pepsi. Voila, two bus stops down was an abandoned plastic bottle about half full of Pepsi.
The Waterfront Park was deserted, just me and a bunch of cats and off in the distance the silhouettes of three people with lights down on the boulders at the water's edge, probably night fishing. There is no overhead shelter in the park and the only haven if it began to rain would be the buildings housing the toilets. The surf crashes very loudly against the boulders, too, so it's a splendid place but not for sleeping.
I walked on to Ala Moana Beach Park where there were still quite a few people roaming around or settled under covers asleep. There were no clouds and the Southern Cross was mesmerizing. "When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you'll know then why you came this way ...". That Stephen Stills song is one reason I did come this way. I sat on a bench and watched it and what was going on around me. At one point, two cars drove up, parked outside the shower building. Two Japanese men got out of the cars and walked together into the building. After about fifteen minutes, I got curious and went over to have a look. They were together in the handicapped stall on the toilet side! There must be somewhere more appealing for a clandestine rendezvous than that. They stayed for at least another quarter hour, then one came out, got in his car and drove away. The other one went into the shower. I had a look. Probably in his mid-thirties, definitely not someone I would have expected to be engaging in such a strange middle-of-the-night meeting.
I returned to my bench and spent the rest of the night watching the stars, the occasional passers-by, the police patrols (only one fellow stopped and went into the shower building briefly, probably just to take a leak). I walked out and around Magic Island several times during the night. It's indeed "magic" out there on a clear night when no one else is around.
That was the first time I've stayed up all night in a long time, and I thought about my initial plans when this trip began, the idea that it would be better to stay up all night and sleep during the day. Finding quiet places to sleep, especially if it's raining, was too big a hassle so I dumped that idea. But certainly an occasional all-night session seems a good, and an interesting, idea.
Just before dawn I was running out of cigarette butts, so went on to Waikiki. Outside a Chinese restaurant on Kuhio Avenue was a neatly tied white plastic bag which contained a large plate-lunch box filled with fried rice mixed with peas and carrots. There was even a napkin and a little tub of very hot sauce. A most excellent breakfast! That's not the first time I have found such bags deliberately placed outside a Chinese eatery ... I wonder if they are left there to appease hungry ghosts or something like that? In any case, this hungry ghost was most grateful.
That morning, and the next, I made the rounds of all three floors of the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center, getting enough of a tobacco supply to last until after dark when the rounds of campus can be made to replenish it. I've been carrying one pack of "virgin" cigarettes to smoke when in the company of other smokers, so they don't feel guilty seeing me smoke the leftovers. (Don't bother with Kory K, of course ... bugger wouldn't feel guilty, anyway, and besides he either offers one of his or I strongly hint for one. There are no rules.) But now it's that time when even niceties like that must fall by the wayside.
Days on campus, at the terminal or upstairs exploring the Buddhist collection or walking around campus admiring the little Buddhas around me. Taking up a bench at the "cloisters" after Hamilton closes, sleeping undisturbed by the greater noise level there than at the hacienda.
Despite the brief distraction of national politics and the dwindling static from earlier in the month, the Tiger is off to a fine start.
061
Hexagram 61. Inner Truth.War in heaven. Had to stop and think about how I acquired that and then what I mean by it. First part is easy, comes from my friend Felix who, I think, used it to describe more intense than usual inner turmoil or struggles. It's a bit flambouyant, but the kingdom of heaven is within, it's written somewhere, so inner battles are "war in heaven", microcosmically speaking.
When I devised, somewhat casually, the four-part structure of my life as a nomad, I think I was more on target than I realized at the time. As an intellectual device for contemplating self, inner life, outer behavior, it has proven to be quite useful.
The "I" who exists apart from those four voices has tried and is continuing to try to remain neutral, to merely observe life when one or the other is in the driver's seat, to note the machinations of each to get what it thinks at that moment of vital importance, to watch the battles between them from a distance.
The current round seems to have entered a new phase. Each voice is aligning itself with allies. The Pilgrim, encouraged by the effect of "Kundun", now brings the Dalai Lama himself to the inner stage by means of his writings. The Tourist made a grand play with alcohol as bait but it didn't work, so fell back on the long-time reliable ally, tobacco, to finally interrupt the Pilgrim's reinforcement of his arsenal. The Underground Dude made a weak attempt to capture the spotlight but has to rely upon fate throwing the right ally in the path, has no reliable bait because all the possibles are too unattainable. The Survivor isn't concerned at this stage, his turf isn't being invaded.
I ran around in circles somewhat on Thursday as one or the other gained the upper hand and said "now we'll do this", only in midstream to have another one take over and say "nope, not now" or "not yet". Then I took a look at what Cainer had to say.
I WISH I could promise a quiet weekend. You deserve a break but the planets seem reluctant to provide this yet. Rather, they seem determined to stir something up to the point where action simply has to be taken. ... You are justifiably, understandably cross about something or someone. Whilst you should try not to let this get to you, you can't just thrust your hands in your pocket and whistle nonchalantly. A big, brave decision must be reached... and implemented.
Yeh, I know that, and it's "I" who has to make it, those guys aren't going to compromise and reach some comfortable balance on their own. Full integration would be the ideal solution, I suppose, but there are too many absolute contradictions. It's not possible. The method used up to now, trying to give each the time and energy needed to keep it content is falling apart.
I finally got tired of the chasing around and said, ok guys, that's it, we're leaving this playground. Took a bus to the McDonald's near Ward Centre and used the last of the vouchers for dinner. The Supply Angel had been cranky all day, never did turn up some remnants of a Pepsi which for some reason had been much craved (sugar deprivation, perhaps). But after the sandwich and fries, walking on to Ward Centre, there was an abandoned, unopened 20 oz. bottle of Mountain Dew. Perhaps it was the intercession of Saint Helen.
The next morning, the Supply Angel was in prankster mode. I went into Jack-in-the-Box for a 26-cent senior cup of coffee, then walked out to find someone had left a large cup of the stuff on the newsbox outside, hadn't been there when I went in or I could have saved 26 cents. For most of the day, there was nothing to eat anywhere, then suddenly a bonanza of stuff turned up.
I had stayed on the beach in Waikiki all morning enjoying the warmth of the sun after a very chilly night and those grim pre-dawn hours which have been unusually cold all week. When I got to UH, the State Library system was down, so aside from checking email a couple of times, it was an offline day. There was something for everyone. The Survivor had a large, quite delicious plate lunch from Shirokiya; the Underground Dude was more than content with his adventure, including a sweet Malaysian lad with smiling dark eyes; the Pilgrim spent more time with the Dalai Lama's books in addition to his morning meditations by the ocean; and for the Tourist there was the evening, most enjoyably spent visiting a friend, happily munching cheese and crackers and ending a three-day (non-voluntary) abstinence from alcohol with a six-pack of Budweiser.
But it was only a temporary lull, one of those very rare days when the balance was so close to just right no one had real cause to complain. Just a lull, a day to postpone "big brave decisions".
Something's happening here but you don't know what it is, do you, Mister Jones? Don't worry, Jones, me neither. Not yet.
062
And who over the ruins of his life pursued its fleeting, fluttering significance, while he suffered its seeming meaninglessness and lived its seeming madness, and who hoped in secret at the last turn of the labyrinth of Chaos for revelation and God's presence?"The Dalai Lama does not believe in war." Me neither. I don't know if it's a "bold" or a "brave" decision, but the decision was to make no decision.
It was a pleasant afternoon on campus. The Dalai Lama's book on opening the "eye of Wisdom" is heavy going and most of the afternoon hours were spent trying to absorb at least the surface of it to get some ground for studying it further. After about fifty pages, I decided it was time for a break and went over to Manoa Garden (which was closed) and sat outside at the table with the view of Diamond Head and read Steppenwolf for awhile. It's solid evidence how profound a book is the Dalai Lama's, when Hesse is "break" reading.
I worked for awhile on a Tale, only the second one written using pen and paper. I doubt it will ever get "published", but writing it is a useful exercise.
Then I went to see "Kundun" again.
There is one scene in the film which totally zaps me, when the Regent realizes he has found the fourteenth Dalai Lama and says something in Tibetan. It is stronger than even the most special temple bells I have heard. Having now read the Dalai Lama's own account of his childhood I better understood some of the things in the film. I hadn't realized that the family only knew their young son was an incarnation of a high lama; not until it was publicly announced did they know he was not just a high lama, but the highest in the Tibetan heirarchy. And the moment of slight confusion when he debates between two staffs is explained by the fact that both staffs had actually belonged to him, but he had given one away. The film stays very close to the book, even using some lines directly from it.
From the theatre, I walked over to Ala Moana and then continued on to Ward Centre and Ward Warehouse, stopping outside Kincaid's for awhile to listen to BB Shawn, who was appropriately singing "Is Anybody Going to San Antone?" when I arrived. (I hope not I, anyway.) When I got to the hacienda there was a young newcomer sitting on a bench outside, a fellow in his mid-twenties with shoulder-length hair. He seemed to be getting ready to sleep there. I stopped to finish my cigarette. He said something about how awful the music blaring from across the street was, and I agreed. I told him it looked like rain was likely, that he'd probably be wise to settle inside if he was planning to stay the night, and he said since he didn't know the place, he didn't want to take someone else's bench. "No reservations," I said, but offered to show him which ones were usually occupied by regulars. He took the one next to mine which has been empty since my teenage buddy disappeared.
He seemed slightly drunk and very unhappy, just sat there without making any move to settle down for the night. Then he asked if the police ever came to check the area. I said I thought it was out of their jurisdiction, but in any case, I had never seen them walk up there. So he opened his bag and pulled out one of those large bottles of Colt 45 and asked if I'd like some. I was impressed that he was willing not only to share, but to drink from the same bottle. Some nomads are wierdly finicky about such things. So I said sure, and he moved over to my bench and we had a few exchanges of the bottle. He broke up with his lady friend very recently, has no job and so couldn't get a place of his own, had been sleeping in the stairwell of a small shopping mall until the night before when he'd been spotted by security and warned that he'd be arrested if seen there again. I asked him about the lady and was at something of a loss when he put his head down on his knees and started sobbing. I sat quietly until the storm passed, then he apologized and said he couldn't really talk about it yet, had better go to sleep. I didn't pressure him, and we finished the beer without saying anything else, then he thanked me for having a drink with him, went over to his bench and was asleep before I'd even finished getting myself ready to do the same. When I woke up, he was already gone.
The night had not been as cold as most nights last week, and it was cloudy with occasional rain in the predawn hours, but soon cleared. I got a cup of coffee and went out to Magic Island to enjoy the early morning sun. Then I walked back to the showers. A young Filipino nomad was sitting at the picnic table outside the showers and not long after I went in, he joined me. I am inclined to think that I somehow appear as a "safe" person to some of the young nomads, and this was another, waiting for a comfortable opportunity to use the shower. Couldn't blame him, he had a beautiful body which must inspire a lot of invitations, welcome or otherwise. He was smiling and friendly, showered with white boxer shorts on which were so low on the waist that half of his cute little butt was exposed. I lingered longer than I would have, enjoying the company.
Then I went over to the shopping center to see Kanilau on Centerstage, with a bunch of youngsters doing the hula. I felt sorry for the teacher of those young boys, don't think I have ever seen such an ungraceful bunch before. But Kanilau were in good form, the female dancers were more promising, and it was an enjoyable hour.
As I was walking to the bus, I spotted my shower companion sitting at a table outside Foodland, eating something from a small bag and drinking from a container of milk. I was tempted to tell him how much I'd enjoyed the shower with him, but figured that unless he was very, very naive, he knew that already.
It was another pleasant afternoon on campus, mostly spent reading. It isn't unusual to find no leftovers on a Sunday, but the Survivor's instinct turned the feet in just the right direction at the right time to come across five egg rolls and a large container of fried rice, another time to be grateful for students who are so affluent they can afford to generously overestimate their appetites.
And it is that "instinct", perhaps the karma of each of the four voices, which must make any decisions ... bold, brave or otherwise. I was falling into the trap some readers have fallen in, thinking there was a need to "do something". Some readers tell me I should be "helping" people, failing to see that unlike the academics and former homeless folk who dominate online discussions on the subject, unlike the social workers manning the "rescue" operations, I'm there with them.
In the inner landscape, if it is the instinct of one voice that some decision should be made and another voice opposes it, I will stay neutral. Either they come to some compromise or we continue as is. I will not impose any external rules unless prompted by an unopposed inner impulse.
It's not light yet, but it's getting there.
063
"How unfortunate," said the Dalai Lama. Indeed. Of course, he was talking about the Chinese and I am talking about the infinitely less important fact that my glorious pension check is late. It's the first time in the more than a year-and-a-half I've been getting it that it has been late.I dislike borrowing money, but feel less uncomfortable about it when I know it will be quickly possible to repay it. So I negotiated a small loan against the anticipated check and spent it all on food, walked around feeling absurdly proud of myself for not having yielded to the temptation to buy a pack of cigarettes. Then the check still didn't arrive on Monday, the day when that wonderful Red Hook Double Black Stout was supposed to make its final appearance at Manoa Garden. So I arranged another small loan, determined to participate in the event and, it is true, suffering from considerable yearning for a glass of beer.
As it turns out, the final keg of Double Black is lasting longer than anticipated and it now appears the last day for it will be Thursday. That would indeed be appropriate, since Thursday afternoons have for so long been special ones for me at Manoa Garden. Not quite so special this term, though, since Tomita-san's schedule has changed.
As I've said, I like Bartender Bryant a lot. But he is one of those people who rely upon "running jokes", in his case so heavily it is almost impossible to have a real conversation with him even when, as yesterday, it was only the two of us at the bar for most of the time. My only interest in going to bars is for conversation, to meet and talk with people, unless I'm there for music. It's wiser to buy one of those big bottles of Mickey's Ice Ale for $2 and take it to a secluded place on the beach after sunset if I want to drink. So unless there is someone there I know, Manoa Garden isn't likely to play much of a role for the rest of this term. (Bring on that check and I'll return to bid the Double Black farewell, however).
MTV was showing the "Ten Cheesiest Videos of All Time" which was amusing and horrific at the same time. They weren't very brave; I would have picked some much heavier candidates, including the new Janet Jackson "African" one. But they no doubt have to keep an eye on advertising revenues when planning these gentle slams.
After that finished, I moved outside to continue reading Steppenwolf with the rest of my glass of beer. When I returned to Hamilton to check email, a young fellow sat at the terminal across from me with stunningly perfect Buddha eyes. I've gotten used to seeing living images that look like they just stepped out of classic Asian paintings but this was way out beyond anything I've seen thus far. It was impossible not to constantly glance up at them, tempting to just sit and stare. I decided I'd better leave before I embarrassed or annoyed the fellow.
So I went to see "Kundun" again.
In the inner landscape, if it is the instinct of one voice that some decision should be made and another voice opposes it, I will stay neutral. Either they come to some compromise or we continue as is. I will not impose any external rules unless prompted by an unopposed inner impulse.
This is not to say I have no thoughts on the subject, no inclinations as to how the journey should proceed.
064
So ... the last of the "indirect oracles", as we reach Tale and Hexagram 64.After the film on Monday evening, I walked to Ala Moana and took a bus to the hacienda. A fellow was sitting on the outside bench. He had stayed there before, but I hadn't seen him for a week or so. I've never gotten a very good look at him, because he has usually already been laying down in the dark interior area, still awake with one leg slung over the back of the bench. And in the morning, the moment there is a sign of activity inside, he jumps up quickly and walks off. Not sure why, but I've always thought of him as "Rocky". We've never spoken to each other, but once in awhile he says a few words, in a harsh tone, to no one in particular. I've never understood what he says. Anyway, he seems to have joined my "flock" because he got up and followed me in, settled down on the bench next to me.
It wasn't nearly as chilly on Tuesday morning as it has been recently, a welcome change. I walked up South Street to check the mail and on to Jack-in-the-Box at Ward Avenue for the usual senior coffee. I've finally gotten totally comfortable about saying "senior coffee", helped a lot by a very friendly young man who works at the Ala Moana McDonald's and always gets a kick out of feeding my McExtra card in the gadget. Even though there are no points gained from the 26-cent purchase, there's the chance of a random prize, as he gleefully points out each time I stop in there.
It turned out to be a fortunate day. In the mailbox were some most welcome McDonald's gift certificates and when I later used one to buy those silly little apple pies, I got a random prize. Quite a useless one, for me anyway, $2 off on a $20 purchase at Foodland, but it gave the young fellow at the counter a chance to smile broadly, ring a bell, and congratulate me on my good luck. Going on to UH, there soon came the very welcome news that the pension check had finally arrived, so I got on a bus again and went downtown to get it, then to Waikiki to cash it.
But when I was at Ala Moana, I found a tee shirt. It is what I later heard described as "burgundy" colored, very close to the color of a Buddhist monk's robes. In that slightly annoying fuzzy lettering, it says FAITH on the front. On the back: "walk by faith, not by sight". Tiny letters identify the source as Paul's Second Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 5, Verse 7. When I got back to Hamilton, I checked out the full text. It's a nice tee shirt but I don't really feel comfortable wearing words from my least favorite person in the history of religion. And Confucius does say in an Analect that the Proper Man never wears anything of a red or scarlet color. Would burgundy count? Was he making a comment on the life of a monk? I don't even remember the relevant dates and it doesn't seem worth following up, but finding the shirt did provide interesting diversion.
I continued reading the Dalai Lama's My Land and My People, and was surprised to learn that his first months in exile were spent at Mussoorie. I certainly didn't know that when I decided in 1972 to go there and I don't recall anyone having told me about it when there. This is a book I should have read years ago, am surprised it escaped my notice.
On-line life was far less pleasant. The homeless factions get to be very annoying at times, the more so because they are dominated by academics, social workers and formerly homeless people, all with their own agendas which are often pretty far removed from the reality of life as an urban nomad, and I suspect even further removed from the life of the involuntarily homeless. All that static is echoed in the Usenet newsgroups related to Hawaii where ego gamers sometimes out shout anything of interest or relevance, adding to the unending sludge dumped in those groups by the poseur, "Jai Maharaj". It's tempting to stop reading them altogether, and certainly it is time to dump alt.culture.hawaii.
Unpleasant, too, but so silly that it was more amusing than annoying, was the news that young "Kermit", as he is referred to in a Tale, sent notice that there would be a daily fee for displaying his photograph on my "Ohana" page. It is difficult to imagine how someone not yet thirty can have acquired such a knack for being pompous, even more difficult to comprehend how I could have so seriously misjudged character. But it is touching to see elsewhere that he still carries with him copies of my emails. Love springs eternal, but the photograph isn't worth paying rent for.
I saw my Korean friend for the first time this term and he told me he was arranging an afternoon orgy (!) at a shall-be-unmentioned location on campus. I jokingly said I'd need a beer before taking part and he gave me a five dollar bill, said have one on me at the Garden and I'll see you there later. Cool. I had the beer, stayed around for more than a half hour after he was supposed to have arrived, and then went on my way. Fine with me, wasn't in the mood for an orgy anyway.
After a brief stop back up at Hamilton, went off to ... uh-huh ... see "Kundun" again, this time in the company of Helen and Mme de Crécy, neither of whom had seen it. I don't think I could ever get tired of watching that film. There's so much to see and hear, each time I've enjoyed things I hadn't paid much attention to before. The last two times, it has mainly been a concentration on the exact tones used in the mantras. "Om mani padme hum" sounds very different from Tibetans than it did when I heard people in India murmuring it. I remember reading some person who said it was a dangerous mantra to use if you don't get the pronunication just right. Didn't believe it then, believe it even less now.
We had a post-movie snack at Jack-in-the-Box and then they went on their way to my farewell "write me often", doing my best Mao wave.
Rocky was already on the bench when I got to the hacienda. It was so warm he was laying there without his jacket, but he sat up to put it on shortly after I arrived. It was even warmer in the morning, so much so that I took off my long-sleeved shirt right away. I got up earlier than usual, even before activity started inside, and walked over to Ala Moana for apple pies and coffee from McDonald's (no bonus award that time). The little Braun battery razor appears to have died and not even fresh batteries revived it. The last time I bought one of those it lasted for years, only ending its usefulness when Jonathan dropped it on a concrete floor and the poor thing flew into pieces.
Took the bus up to campus, getting there more than an hour before dawn. The day started off gray and cloudy, with occasional raindrops, but that is a welcome change after those beautifully clear but unpleasantly cold mornings last week. Stopped in Paradise Palms for a cup of tea when it opened, the first tea I've had in a long time, and then to Hamilton to see what had happened online overnight. Yep, time to dump alt.culture.hawaii.
Stopped over to see Kory K's dazzling new hairdo and to pick up my old rechargeable razor. Now all I need to do is find a chair near an outlet so I can recharge the razor while I'm reading.
064a: the fall
I've been telling myself all week I need to SLOW DOWN. The Tiger has arrived in such a combative mood. No sooner did I get the interior battles at least somewhat calmed, external conflicts rushed in to fill the space. This is especially nonsensical because I have no business at all getting involved with basically irrelevant online squabbles.I left Hamilton after another round in the "Kermit" War and went over for a glass of beer, sat outside and read Steppenwolf. I was in just the right mood for that section on suicide, uh-huh. Stretched the beer out over an hour or so, then walked back to the kiosk by Hamilton and extravagantly bought a turkey sandwich. Two cats came along to share the turkey with me and we had a delightful visit.
What happened next took place very quickly but I saw it all as if I were an outside observer, watching a film in extreme slow motion.
I had almost gotten to the top of the steps outside Hamilton. The library was still open but there was no one around. Without warning, I was attacked by the most severe vertigo I've ever experienced. In that perception of slow motion, I knew I was going to fall, knew there was not even time to sit down. So I made a very deliberate effort to relax as much as possible, fell down about three steps and continued until reaching the sidewalk at the bottom. I was grateful there was no one around and I was able to collect myself in peace.
Injuries would no doubt have been greater had I not managed to relax and had the backpack not been there as a cushion for at least some of the fall. There is a sizeable lump on the right side of my head, my entire right side is bruised and quite painful. There's a large gash of skin missing at the base of the right palm, another gash in the left big toe, and several other scrapes and cuts. Worst is the right foot which seems to have been sprained in the fall. It was so painful when I awoke I wasn't sure I would be able to step up onto a bus (and it was a considerable effort).
I had Band-aids for the worst cuts, had to stop in at Long's and buy more. Every step, every movement is accompanied by pain, but aspirin makes it a little less excruciating, which is a blessing.
Looking for the silver lining, it certainly achieved what I have been unable to do all week, force that slow down.
065
I see I have a new reason to remain quite continuously conscious of where I am and what I am doing. The vertigo returned but this time I was more alert, got the very subtle early warning I didn't get yesterday, sat down immediately. Yes, ok, there is something physically wrong. Actually, there are several things, not including all the bruises, scrapes and disgustingly seeping wounds from the Fall. There's this wretched cough, for one thing, which is quite close to agony with the wrecked condition of my right side, even when aspirin deadened.I'm just a little annoyed at all this junk, a mere four months into this trip, and reminded of that line from the I Ching, continuously ill but still does not die.
I was even more annoyed with some of today's email. I appreciate the messages of support for having taken an unpopular position. I appreciate the scoldings for my unkindness to people who have "been so good to me", helps me to see what's happening out there, but even so, I get annoyed. On Usenet, I've always said what I thought at the time I needed to say, there has never been any "bravery" about it. Foolhardiness might be a better description.
I'm very very annoyed by people who appear to have made it a part of their "net.celeb" personae, this going around boasting to other people about how good they have been to me. Folks, the people who have REALLY been good to me haven't said a word about it, they won't, and neither will I. That's not what it's about.
And "what it's about" is the other thing that has me very very annoyed today. There are a lot of misconceptions about what I am doing, people trying to relate this to some conventional model, something they know from their own experience, or at least think they know. I get this from some "friends", I get it a lot from the professional homeless-helpers. The model I get most disgusted by is the one clung to by the people who feel most hurt by what they see as my rejection of their "help".
Now friends, I am only here laying in this gutter because of booze and drugs. Oh yes, friends, yes Lord, I really want to be a respectable citizen again, sitting at a desk eight hours a day, five days a week, making enough money so I can buy you all drinks and tip bartenders generously. Yes, believe it! But it's this "substance abuse", you see, it has deluded me into thinking I'm happier sitting on the beach in the morning, enjoying the early sunshine, watching the Java sparrows come hopping over to me to see if I have something for them to eat. It's this "substance abuse" which has dragged me to such depths of degradation I will go pick long cigarette butts out of ashtrays and smoke them! I'll even eat leftover, unwanted food!
If you really believe that, then get the hell out of my life, stop reading what I write. GET LOST, okay? Just do me a big favor and really "help", get lost. There's nothing I can do for you, you will not find a vicarious trip to Enlightenment here, and there's nothing you can do for me.
It would be extraordinarily kind if you would also stop spreading your pseudo-psychiatric theories around the community.
I'd probably feel more amused by this hogwash if I were roaring drunk every night, had a quarter pound of hashish in my backpack and a few bottles of assorted uppers and downers. But the fact is, there is unfortunately a lot less "substance abuse" in my life right now than there has been for this long a time since my teen years. And during one of my heaviest times of "substance abuse" I was holding down a job that paid more than any of the no-doubt well-intentioned, but totally deluded folks make who are promoting this cockamamie theory.
The other thing somewhat irksome about recent online events and their aftermath is the notion that I should "be nice" to people online because they have bought me a few beers now and then. Hell, Rick Ermshar bought me more beers than most members of the "Hui Lupo", that didn't stop me from growling at him when I thought he deserved it.
Unlike too many of the active local participants on Usenet, my main pleasure in it comes from positive, not negative contributions. I've had more pleasure from the email about that pink-blossomed tree at Krauss Hall than anything else resulting from Usenet recently. It's nice to know that I reminded people of something they treasured themselves. I enjoyed writing it, I enjoyed the feedback. It's way, way out ahead of the futile effort to communicate with the wolves.
But of course, I am totally aware that all of this is my own fault, no one else's. I don't need to read Usenet, especially cesspools like alt.culture.hawaii. I should have enough judge of character to know when someone is buying me a beer, or whatever, out of the pleasure of doing it and reject any offers which might have hidden strings attached. I should have enough discipline, even if I am dumb enough to read junk, not to respond to it in anger, probably even better not to respond to it at all.
Little things make a lot of difference in this life of mine. A bus pass as a Valentine, some McDonald's gift certificates, some movie tickets, yes even an occasional beer or pack of cigarettes, a few dollars to enjoy a music gig. Life without them would be a lot less pleasant, life without knowing the people who are able to give freely would be less meaningful. It's up to me to remember those blessings, to spend less time and energy on any effort to communicate with people stuck in their own cliche scenario for my life. It shouldn't take a clunk on the head to wake me up to that, either.
066
One of the Austrians whose story was the subject of last year's film, "Seven Years in Tibet" collaborated with the older brother of the Dalai Lama on a book called "Tibet is My Country". The Rimpoche did it orally, the Austrian taped it and then transcribed the tapes. It is a delightful book, and begins with a wonderfully detailed account of what it was like to grow up in a remote Tibetan village. As he says, visitors would no doubt have looked at the village and felt sorry that people had to live such a "deprived" existence. He knows better, and the book suggests he is absolutely right.No doubt quite intentionally, since it was concentrating on the life of the Dalai Lama, "Kundun" only shows us the older brother as a Buddhist monk. In fact, he too was considered the incarnation of a high lama and was discovered before the Dalai Lama, was already installed as Rimpoche in a relatively wealthy monastery. His account of being removed from the family and of his education as a reincarnated Lama is as fascinating as that of his childhood.
Many of the reading desks on the second floor of Hamilton, including those nearest the largest of the Buddhist collections, have electric outlets on the wall beside them. UH is an oasis for the urban nomad.
I considered removing Tale 065, was still undecided about it the next morning after putting it up, but the email (including one quoted in readers write) swayed the debate and the tale stays. I think, I hope, it's the final word on the subject. After all, I have very nearly 58 years experience dealing with people who think they know me better than I know myself and who think they know what is best for me, what I should be doing. It is never possible to change such people's thinking and by now I should know to shun or ignore them.
I stayed at Hamilton reading until a bit after eight, knew it was going to be a less-than-comfortable night when I left the library and it was colder outside than it was inside. Usually the building is kept so cold, it's a welcome comfort to step outside for a warm-up smoke. But, as is often the case, it turned out to be much cooler in Manoa than in Honolulu, and once I got to Ala Moana I removed the long sleeve shirt until reaching the hacienda.
Rocky was already on his bench. There were two "bundles" of blankets at spots on the floor, not regular guests of the hacienda. I'm not quite sure why anyone would find the concrete floor preferable to a wooden bench, and I certainly hope one of the floor people doesn't become a regular. He muttered to himself a good deal during the night, climaxing in a very incoherent but apparently designed-to-be formal speech in the morning, which even began "ladies and gentlemen ...". On the floor, off the wall. Rocky slept through the morning speech. After finishing his mostly incomprehensible oration, the fellow gathered up his stuff and left and I soon did the same, leaving Rocky still asleep.
It's "Scab Day". Except for two wounds, all the cuts and scrapes now have their scab coverings and it remains only to wait for them to fall off to complete that part of the Fall experience. The gash on the left toe, however, still is open and oozing clear liquid, but then it had been covered with a band-aid until this morning. The larger gash on the right palm is not oozing as badly today as it did yesterday, but the skin around the edges has turned a sickly grayish color which looks quite ugly. It remains under band-aids. Oddly enough, despite the large area of missing skin, it doesn't hurt at all. The same cannot be said, alas, for the right side which is still very painful, even when deadened by aspirin, and both the right foot and wrist also remain very uncomfortable, especially when the aspirin begins to lose its effectiveness. It was most difficult to find some position on that wooden bench which did not add to the discomfort.
Still, I am certainly not complaining. It could have been very much worse.
I'm also not complaining about today's free lunch but I can easily understand why someone would abandon a bowl of Marriott's "chili" and rice. Unless it was a first-time purchase and they didn't know better, I don't understand why they bought it, though.
I saw Bryant and learned that Tomita-san was at the Garden on Thursday afternoon, after all. So much for the change in schedule, and for my plan to put aside $20 of the pension money just for those afternoons, a plan abandoned when I thought he'd no longer be there. Too late now, less than twenty left already. Manoa Garden has become my biggest temptation, far surpassing the lure of Gordon Biersch, Duke's, Pier Bar, Hot Lava ... all of which had their day(s). Even a basically unsatisfying afternoon like last Monday at the Garden only temporarily lessens the attraction of the place because, after all, if Tomita-san isn't at the bar, there's still the pleasure of sitting out in the garden with a jug of beer and a book. The brewers should start a term grant, not too generous ... say $50 or $100 a month open tab at the Garden. Probably be more competition for it than a scholarship.
This week certainly seems to have gone by quickly. Can it really be time to face another evening of 5pm closing?
067
Even before Hamilton closed, I left and went down the hill to buy a bottle of Mickey's Ice Ale. There are two "mom-and-pop" stores near the corner of University and King. One is run by a Korean family (I think), very friendly people. The other is operated by a Vietnamese couple (again, I think ... I am not very good at detecting exact Asian heritage). They never smile, never say a word of greeting or of thanks. When I just want to dash into a shop and buy something, dash out again, I go to the Vietnamese one. I soothe my guilty conscience with the thought that there cannot be all that much profit from a two-dollar bottle of beer.Went back up to campus and sat in a secluded spot to enjoy the last of the afternoon's sun. I had written in an email earlier that I really should have bought some squares of surgical gauze for the hand wound but wouldn't stretch the budget beyond a box of (generic) band-aids. So it was cause for a considerable smile to spot a sealed first-aid packet containing one 2x2 piece of just such an object.
Discreetly poured beer into a washed Coke cup and went back to reading Steppenwolf until it was time to ...
Yes, again, go see "Kundun".
When I got to the hacienda no one was there yet. It was difficult finding a position which didn't set the right side screaming and I spent most of the night on my back, waking up every time I tried to turn onto my side. It was even worse in the morning. Standing up from a sitting position is quite unpleasant, especially before the first aspirin dose of the day has been consumed. The aspirin bottle will run out soon. Perhaps I'll end up sitting under that tree after all, unwilling to feel the pain of getting up.
I rode the bus over to Ala Moana for the last apple pie breakfast and it was amusing that the final gift certificates brought the same "prize" as the first ones had, $2 off on a $20 purchase at Foodland. All I need now is to find someone who shops at Foodland. If nothing else, before they expire I'll just go to a Foodland and give them to someone with a basketfull of stuff.
When I was sitting at the bus stop waiting for the bus to UH, I was feeling very unhappy about my dirty pants. The hand wound seeped an almost clear liquid, but it wasn't clear enough and left little splotch marks whenever my hand touched my pant leg, making it look even dirtier than it is. I've always been too fastidious about clothes, should have known better than to buy such light gray pants. A worker strolled up carrying a thermos and sat on a bench near me. His pants were filthy although he otherwise looked very clean and well-groomed. Another fellow, reading a newspaper, pulled up his white tee shirt and blew his nose on it. Okay, okay, I got the message. Worry about more important things, if you must worry about something.
At UH, I was sitting at a table near the Garden, waiting for the sun to dry my feet and slippers after having washed them under a nearby faucet. A blonde lady wearing sunglasses walked past, stopped, came over and said "How are you!? What are you doing here?" Ooops. I've no idea who she was or where we knew each other from, but chatted with her for a few minutes as if I did.
A reader sent a delightfully colorful recommendation for dealing with the bodily injuries and pains. I could be wrong, but I think the recipe requires the ability to visualize. Except on very potent psychoactive fuel or in some rare moments of exception, I am utterly blind with my eyes closed. It was as difficult for some of my friends during the high acid years to understand that as it was for me to understand they could smoke a mild joint, close their eyes and watch the pictures flow. When I did for the first time finally experience what they had been enjoying all along, I can truly say I was "amazed".
"Do not be distracted. Do not be distracted." Those lines came to mind a little later. I had washed out a polystyrene coffee cup, filled it with water, heated it in a microwave, emptied my next-to-last packet of spinach miso soup into it and was sitting on a bench in partial sunshine enjoying it. A mosquito bit me. Uh-huh, do not be distracted. A reader suggested working on a mental state which might release a natural deterrent, create an atmosphere which gently suggested to the little critters that they should stay out of my space. Interesting idea, but since they attack most when I'm asleep, I decided to work on it at the other side, after the bite. Step one, of course, is to get rid of any animosity upon discovering the bite. So my pleasant interlude with a cup of miso soup turned into a meditation-upon-a-mosquito-bite.
Lines from "Kundun" pervade my thinking recently. Perhaps it's a bit tacky for lines from profound moments in the film to surface at comparably very banal moments in my so-called life, but that's the way the mind is working these days.
Do not be distracted.
068
Ahhhhh, greeting a sunny Monday morning in such luxury. Clean clothes! Cigarettes! And it's not shivery cold, either.But what a strange night. When I got to the hacienda only one regular was there, a black man in his early thirties who sleeps on a bench in the furthermost corner from me. At what I later noted to be just after 2:30, I was awakened by a loud clatter, sounding like a bunch of tin cans falling. So it was. A young man had stumbled when entering and was sprawled on the floor with two plastic shopping bags nearby, one of which had been filled with empty cans. The black man was sitting up looking as well. The fellow on the floor didn't move, so I got up and asked him if he was ok. He was very drunk, possibly not just on alcohol, sat up and mumbled something about having to take a shower. Maybe he thought he was at Ala Moana. The black man had walked over, grumbled "oh, him", and went back to his bench. I told the guy sitting on the floor there were no showers and offered to help pick his stuff up. He insisted he had to have a shower, staggered to his feet and started taking his clothes off. Since he was only wearing shorts and a tee shirt, he was soon standing there stark naked, looking for the shower. I had collected the cans, so put his two bags on a bench, and tried again to convince him there was no shower, pointed toward Ala Moana and told him he'd have to walk down there. He picked up the bags and started to walk off, leaving his clothes on the floor. I said "wait, put your clothes back on first!", picked up his shorts and handed them to him. He was like a little kid, held onto my shoulder while he struggled to get his foot into the leg of the shorts, but finally got them on, draped the tee shirt over one shoulder and set off down the road. I had a cigarette while waiting around to make sure he really was gone, then went back to my bench hoping I'll never get quite that far gone.
As Cainer predicted, it was a comfortable weekend (comfortable except for the persistently painful right side and the return, after an absence of several days, of that boring dull pain in the central chest). After a pleasant day at Hamilton on Saturday, I went to Waikiki to see BB Shawn at the International Marketplace. He was in exceptionally fine form, sang some of his favorite songs even better than I've heard him do them before, and had a newly acquired twelve-string guitar with a beautiful tone. His grandad and I killed a couple of pitchers of beer. I was going to steal Nancy's very pretty birthday lei but figured that would really get the wolves on my butt, so restrained myself.
When I left there, just wanted to get out of Waikiki on the first bus that came along. Turned out to be a #8 to Ala Moana. When I got off there, spotted an almost full bottle of Mickey's Malt sitting right on the bench, not even in a brown bag. Bizarre that someone would buy it, evidently sit there openly drinking it, and then leave 90% of it. Murmuring thanks to the Supply Angel, I put it in my backback and crossed over to the park to enjoy it under the stars. A group of local folks had a tape machine with a fine selection of music playing, so it ended up being a delightful end to a fine day.
Rocky was on his bench already at the hacienda and there was a larger crowd than usual but no one had taken my bench. Despite the boom-boom bass noise from the club across the street, I quickly fell asleep and didn't wake until the sky already showed signs of the coming dawn (Sunday being the one day when there's no activity at the building, so no wake-up call). It was quite chilly, so I hopped on a bus down to Ala Moana, got a coffee from McDonald's and sat in the warm area outside Zippy's until the sun made its appearance. Spent the morning on the beach at Magic Island, had a shower (all by myself, for a change) and then went up to UH.
It was a comparatively brief visit since I had been invited to a late afternoon dinner downtown. There is one certain perfect match between two people in this universe: someone who loves to cook and someone who loves good cooking. The hostess is a delightful and adventurous chef; I am always happy to be the other half of the match, and this time had the pleasure of Helen R.'s company in demolishing a large pot of Jamaican goat curry, yummy roti, a very strange chutney, and several glasses of beer. The curry recipe was Jamaican, the goat was actually a former resident of the Big Island. So far as I know, I've not eaten goat meat before. It was deliciously tender and had I not known otherwise, I would have thought it prime quality beef. Since my appetite has been ridiculously active recently (perhaps because I had to take my belt in yet another notch), I ate twice as much as I normally would.
The feast was followed by watching "Independence Day 4" and "Men in Black". I think that was my eighth time for ID4, six of which were in a theatre, but my first time for MiB. Even though it was the one billed as "comedy", I still think ID4 was the funniest of the two, often quite unintentionally.
And then I put on my clean clothes which had spent the visit tumbling in the washer and dryer, and went off to the hacienda. No Rocky. I hope it's just another temporary absence. Despite these silent relationships, something of a bond does get formed after a week of sleeping next to someone. And it would have been fun to see his reaction to the man in search of a shower.
069
Two sessions with "Russ" in one day ... most auspicious! I call him Russ because he looks a lot like Russ Tamblyn at the time of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", but with dark, almost black hair. Such a cute smile, too. We end up at terminals across from each other so often it's uncanny, and it's a delight to watch him as he is responding to email. The first time he spoke to me was when a workman was replacing a light bulb and dropped something with a loud noise. Russ said "poor computers!". One morning he sneezed, I said "bless you!" and he said "thank you." By now he must have figured out how much I like watching him, but he seems not to mind, gives me a smile of greeting as he sits down. The little pleasures of life at Hamilton Library.Somewhere a mother would be very happy to know the excellent sandwich she prepared for her ungrateful little brat didn't go to waste. Ham, cheese and lettuce on rye, with mustard, neatly wrapped in aluminum foil. I'd better check that spot again, see if the wasteful student dumps his/her lunch often. I did that, too, when I was in school, but usually only if it was tuna fish sandwiches. Considering how much I grew to like tuna in later years, it's odd that I hated it as a kid. It may have been a side effect of just disliking fish in general. My cousins all loved to fish; I hated it. I especially hated it knowing that cottonmouths and other vile reptiles were known to lurk on the river banks where the fishing took place. And since most of the catch were those ugly catfish, so hard to eat without swallowing a bone, I hated it even more.
Cainer suggests this is likely to be a delicate time because everything is so well balanced, that we Aries folk prefer it to be all or nothing, either terrifically good or awesomely awful. Like much he writes, there's truth in that. I think I wouldn't object to a little spell of boredom but am sure I would change my mind the minute it hit. Being bored is still one of the states of mind I most hate, especially since I always feel it is entirely my fault and thus wallow in it even more during severe attacks. Minor attacks can usually be warded off by spending a little money on diversion; in a major attack even spending money is boring. I'm already very close to being penniless, so it's not a very good time to get minorly bored, best go all the way and get a major attack so being broke won't even matter.
But I'm not sure Cainer is entirely right about that balance, maybe doesn't give enough weight to the effect of a new Year of the Tiger and wouldn't, writing for a global audience, add the stronger advance effect of Aries which seems to be felt in these more tropical climes. That combination might keep my personal inner landscape a little more lively than the usual Aries-born person will experience. And isn't it odd to devote so much thought to something I can't even claim to really believe in?
Oh well, not nearly as odd as all the thought people are apparently giving to a certain politician's sex life.
But stop nattering, Albert. Ants get drunk. I didn't know that before. I was enjoying one of my last, barring unexpected developments, sunset hours with a bottle of Mickey's in a secluded spot on campus. A group of ants came over to sip on the water which was collecting off the cup (found with ice cubes still in it, even). I put a drop of beer on the bench and several of them moved over to it. One was really slugging the stuff down, fell in it, but managed to swim out, then staggered around in circles (literally, leaving a beery trail behind it), before getting back to "dry land" and curling up in a ball. I thought it was dead. Nope, after awhile it stretched and moved on. Meanwhile, an absolutely prehistoric creature was crawling up my ankle. Looked like a fat cockroach, but black and more armored. I brushed it off without thinking ... well, maybe with an involuntary shudder of horror ... but it recovered nicely and wandered on its way.
I was reading Steppenwolf and came to that brief but remarkable passage about the invention of the "wireless" which reminded me of one of my serious readers. Yes, I do have a few of them, even if I foolishly concentrate so much of my attention on the babes in the wood who have stumbled into my path. The reader I was reminded of is one of the few people I have met who understands that Time, as we think of it, is an illusion and every now and then he gently nudges me. I sat there between the setting sun and the almost-full rising moon and felt most grateful to him for putting up with me.
Such a long, long time ago I saw and knew there are infinite realities simultaneously existing. But it was like old Zarathustra coming down from the mountaintop. So I put it over on the shelf labeled "Curious Facts I Have Noticed" and no longer mentioned it. As for here and now, in this little insignificant one of those infinite possibilities, perhaps when I get myself a lunar calendar I might actually be starting to have some fun again. Prayer beads would be cool, too.
070
The full moon kept the sky so bright all night that it completely threw off the intuitive sense of time judged by the sky. I woke up, glanced at my watch and thought it said 5:40. Only after walking out of the hacienda and down the road a bit did it occur to me how quiet traffic was for that hour. Looked at my watch again and it said 3:50. I had gotten to sleep early, so no matter, kept on walking. The Jack-in-the-Box at Ward and Kapiolani claims to be open 24 hours but in fact only the drive-in window is open at that hour, the main doors are locked. So I "drove in" on my two feet and got a senior coffee. The lady was quite nice, put it in a bag for me with the requested cream and sugars, plus a stirrer and some napkins.I sat at the bus stop across the street to drink my coffee and a very pretty, young black cat stopped to visit for awhile. That first cup of coffee is such a luxury I really should at least get it together enough to budget 26-cents a day from that pension check. I walked slowly on to Ala Moana and once I got over to Magic Island, I was very happy I had gotten up so unintentionally early. Watching the moon set as the first rays of the sun arrived made for a very special dawn.
A group of about 25 men, all of whom could be described as beefcake, formed a circle and did calisthenics under the direction of a leader. Some of them were badly out of shape, judging by the lack of grace and stiff movements, but others were beautifully flexible for such muscled bodies and it was like watching a ballet.
I got to UH just after Hamilton opened, sat down at a terminal, and Russ walked in wearing new sunglasses, smiled and sat at the terminal opposite me. I missed seeing his eyes so was happy when he slid the glasses up onto his head.
"Lava rocks?!" (readers write). Hmmmm, doesn't have quite the imagery I was looking for in this Tibetan period.
Then I did some stuff. Well, I should leave it at that but I'm supposed to be candid and honest in these Tales. So ... I spent one of my remaining four dollar bills on a cup of peach yogurt, into which I mixed all the magic mushrooms I had left. Having eaten that, I returned to Hamilton and spent an hour with The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation (which Evans-Wentz called it), a tiny book with a massive introduction by E-W and a fairly lengthy one by Carl Jung. I skipped their stuff and went straight to the Tibetan. Then I went down the hill, got a bottle of Mickey's Ice with two of my remaining three dollars, went back up the hill and sat in my favorite place drinking it while continuing Steppenwolf.
And, of course, that was all a preface to going to see "Kundun".
070a
My dear wife Fruitbat Cutmore-Smith ...From the Acknowledgments page of Ngakpa Chogyam's Rainbow of Liberated Energy, one of a small stack of books someone had thrown away, waiting to be found by me as I was leaving campus. Looks like someone got fed up with Eastern philosophy. I checked out the collection, decided to keep that one, and took the rest down the hill to Rainbow Books. $5.60 worth. Cool. Whoppers for dinner.
Before leaving Hamilton, I posted my swan song to alt.music.hawaiian and unsubscribed to it. A bit pretentious, but most swan songs are. At least I didn't say I was leaving and would never return, etc. That leaves me with only soc.culture.hawaii, hawaii.nortle and hawaii.test from the should-be-locally-relevant newsgroups, and it wouldn't much surprise me to see SCH go soon, too.
The seventh time through "Kundun" was in many ways the best, assisted by the glow of the mushrooms which greatly enhanced the music. Reting Rimpoche's first undisguised meeting with the Dalai Lama is so perfectly done, by far my favorite moments of the film. You are here to love all living beings ...
The sky was incredibly beautiful when I left the theatre, fluffy white clouds and the full moon, so I walked over to Ala Moana, bought a bottle of Mickey's and went over to the park to enjoy the beer, the afterglow of the film, and the heavens. Orion was almost directly overhead. The profound was mixed with the mundane when the sprinkler cycle began. I hadn't been in the area before when the sprinklers go on around the shower building, and they must be the most absurd ones in the park. One sprays directly against the wall of the women's side of the building, never moving. Another's turning has about half its cycle actually spraying into the men's showers. Jerry Santos should see that.
At the bus stop there was a very silly, slightly annoying young black couple to test my own highly inadequate ability to feel compassion for all living beings.
After a relatively quiet and peaceful night, I walked over to the Jack-in-the-Box on Ward for coffee and sat watching the dawn approach. The colors were unusually vivid, needed no mushroom assistance to dazzle the eye. I had planned to go on to Ala Moana, but followed a whim and got on a #3 bus, thinking I'd get off at University and catch a #4. The bus filled up with a lot of young people who looked as if they might have the same goal in mind. I was sitting on a seat in the front section with my backpack in my lap and my arms draped over it. A young man, probably Filipino, got on and was standing in front of me. He was wearing a long basketball shirt and shorts, carrying a small backpack. A couple of times he brushed up against my hand and I thought it was just the movement of the bus and the crowd, but then he leaned forward a bit and kept his crotch in contact with my hand ... and got hard. Yikes, what a sweet little slut. None of the youngsters got off at University and I was in no hurry to end the lad's use of my hand, so I stayed on and the amusement continued until we got to the community college near Diamond Head when he and the rest of the youngsters got off. He hadn't looked at me during the ride, but gave me a smile just as he was leaving the bus. Maybe I'm hanging out on the wrong campus.
071
How unfortunate, said the Dalai Lama about the Chinese. How fortunate! he said about the gift of an elephant from the Nepalese. The exact tone of both lines is engraved in my memory and they keep popping up as circumstances inspire.For the first time in weeks, there was more email yesterday which was not related to the Tales but to the indeed unfortunate events in alt.music.hawaiian. I don't wish to read any of the AMH stuff, deleted unread an email which forwarded several items from the newsgroup. I said all I had to say in my last posts there and don't want any further involvement with the debates and with many of the people engaged in them. There can't be any Usenet forum more divorced from the true spirit of its supposed subject than alt.music.hawaiian.
Several readers have commented on my puzzlement over Jonathan Cainer's message for today. Leaving aside the general validity of astrology, being firmly convinced there are no accidents, it necessarily follows that an "oracle" of any kind which I happen to see must have some relevance. Over the past year, what Cainer has written has proven to be extraordinarily on target. So when he writes something and I find myself saying "whaaa???", I have to stop and ponder it. I agree with his caution today that I am "thinking too much", but I don't know what the "idea" is which I supposedly have and should just "act on". I've no idea.
I had taken a break mid-morning from Hamilton activities, returned from a stroll around campus and saw Russ sitting at his usual terminal. Unfortunately, a young lady was sitting at the one across from him which I often use. But he looked up at me, smiled and nodded, so unfortunate turned to fortunate, and I went on to use the more isolated amber-on-black terminal where I spend most of my online time, especially during time segments when Russ is not usually around.
Since I had only two dollars and some change left, I refrained from using the vending machines, so was most pleased later when I found a large, juicy pear in a Foodland bag, left on a bench next to a cup of coffee. The coffee was no longer warm, so I assumed it and the pear had indeed been abandoned, took the coffee to a microwave to warm it, and enjoyed my lunch under a beautiful flowering tree outside St. John's.
Stopped over to see Kory K later and he bummed a cigarette off me, shameless hussy. But that act was surpassed later in the day when some street person asked if I could spare a "couple of dollars"!
Went down in the early evening to the Aloha Tower, my first visit there this year, to join the birthday dinner for "Mme de Crécy" at Gordon Biersch. Helen R., Tutu and the Dolphin were in attendance, in addition to the Birthday Lady. I declined to order anything when I saw a perfect set-up lurking ... a glass of water and some bread. Eventually Mme de Crécy prodded, asked if I didn't want a beer, and I got to say "no, I'm perfectly happy with bread and water". Les miserables. Having completed the little skit, I yielded and drank the first glass of Dunkles I've had in at least two years. It's junk beer compared to Red Hook Double Black, but went better with the bread than water. The bread was good. A sample of Helen's linguini and Mme de Crécy's stir-fried chicken suggested the cuisine at GB ain't haute, but the desserts were a little better. Had a taste of Helen's multi-sauce ice cream sundae, then Tutu gave up and couldn't finish her cheesecake so passed it on to me.
I was supposed to show up at Pier Bar but was enjoying the conversation and nibbles so much it was too late before I noticed it, so instead I joined Mme de Crécy at Indigo for a nightcap. A Budweiser was supplemented by a couple of glasses of wine which were mistaken-pours or whatever (just call me a human liquid garbage disposal unit), and a few bites of an absolutely scrumptious pecan tart dessert provided to Mme de Crécy as a birthday bonus.
Since I'm told I now have the added merit badge of net.alcoholic in addition to all my Maharaj laurels, I guess two beers and two glasses of wine are sufficient to add lustre to the legend. Surely beats the bottle-a-day Mickey's habit, anyway. (Admittedly, I did have two bottles of Mickey's one day this week, so what they say must be true).
Bartender Nancy congratulated me on surviving four months and asked, "are you ready to return to the real world yet?". "But this is the real world," I replied. Although she was saying it in humor, that obviously is a factor in many people's thinking ... this is just a temporary aberration. Well, I've never said I was committed to living this way for the rest of my life but I certainly haven't yet seen any reason to give up this freedom for "respectable slavery".
On the way to Indigo, I found a dime. In the morning, at one of those Japanese trolley stops, I found two dimes. If we can encourage the Japanese visitors to regard dimes as not being worth picking up, as Americans seem to regard pennies, it would be just fine with me.
After a peaceful night, I took the bus over to Ala Moana and used the first of a surprise Valentine bouquet of gift certificates to get a senior coffee at McDonalds, resisting the temptation to indulge in those apple pies by promising myself a cup of tea later at Paradise Palms with the change instead. At one of the entrances to the parking lots, there is an older, bald Filipino man (I think) who sits every morning with a paper-tape type calculator, busily feeding numbers into it. He is probably close to the ultimate mathematical secret of the Universe and no one will ever know it.
After four months of observing the dawn, I can usually tell when the sunrise is going to be especially beautiful and the clouds, though fairly heavy, had just the right space between them to turn the entire sky into a myriad of colors as the sun rose. Yep, I knew it was going to be a good one. How fortunate to be watching it from Magic Island.
072
Whether because of the Tiger, or the promise of Aries, or some factor in my birth heaven, or all three, Cainer's view of the general trend for Aries-born people this week is well off target for me. Rather than the balance he saw, there has been a more extreme see-saw than I've experienced in a long time. I remember writing awhile back when there was a day which zapped back and forth from highest to lowest, often from one to the other within minutes, and so it has been for much of this week, and most especially on Thursday.You make me feel so young ... you make me feel like Spring has sprung ... but I don't want to feel like that, it's totally absurd, I won't have it. And so what had been a peaceful inner landscape after a morning of reading Rainbow of Liberated Energy turned into "The Black Eagle" from Steppenwolf, with Tomita-san as my Hermione. I left, declining the invitation of another beer, walked around in circles waiting for the dust to settle, for the desire to jump off a building to pass, waiting to feel old and alone again. Being in his company is too good, easier to suffer the sadness of voluntarily ending it.
Then Helen R. came up to the campus and we went over to visit Kory "Blondie" K. before, ohmygawd, going to Manoa Garden. Tomita-san had left, but Bartender Bryant said he was going to return, and so he did. Back to The Black Eagle, strike up the band.
It is very difficult when you like someone so much you suffer fear of not being up to the challenge of friendship with them, and when a relationship like that crosses its previously defined, if unspoken, nature it is all that more difficult. "Bar buddies" don't really have serious conversations, that lies outside the definition of that kind of friendship. "Things change, Kundun."
Helen left first, then karaoke began and Tomita-san sang one song before leaving, too, with his usual warm and almost affectionate manner of saying goodbye.
It had been a delightful afternoon but I was not at all pleased with my performance. And that, I realized, was the relevant thorn: "performance". It is complete nonsense to try to be other than you really are, and the more you care for a person, the more important and sensible it is to be yourself. The friendship began because the other person responded to you liking them. Had they not found your company for some reason interesting or entertaining, it would not have continued. Thus lecturing myself, I wandered around campus with a little dark cloud hovering over me. Perhaps I was just being myself, perhaps it wasn't a performance at all, perhaps it is always that way and just the mysterious importance of this particular friendship invoked that kind of self-examination?
My unhappy and somewhat irritable ruminations on the subject were interrupted by going to hear Angela Davis speak. She is the epitome of the slogan "you've come a long way, baby". Elegant, eloquent speaker of imminently sensible words. If she were to run for President, I would take the trouble to register to vote even if she probably wouldn't stand a chance of winning and, if by some miracle she did, would probably be assassinated. She is too sensible to be allowed much real power.
The pleasure of her company added to my feelings of annoyance with my own ineffectiveness which had been stirred by the hours with Tomita-san, so I left the campus in an almost growling mood, went directly to the hacienda and mercifully fell asleep almost immediately.
And then it was Friday the Thirteenth ...
073
Friday the Thirteenth has never had any special meaning in my life, I've never detected them as anything peculiarly inauspicious, and so it was with the one of February 1998.For example, sitting watching the stars at Ala Moana Park. A nomad couple took possession of the picnic table next to me. I was a little annoyed they didn't maintain greater distance, especially since she had a worse and more frequent cough than I, but then he came over and asked if I'd like to share their hotdogs and rice. I thanked him but explained I had just come from McDonald's where a bonus award had provided a free Grilled Chicken Deluxe Sandwich, then later wished them both Happy Valentine's Day as I was leaving.
It had been a very pleasant day. I went to Hamilton early, after a senior coffee at McDonald's Ala Moana, checked email and news, then spent the rest of the morning continuing to read the life story of the Dalai Lama's elder brother. There is a most remarkable tale there, his journey from the remote monastery, where he was essentially the most important person, to Lhasa. It was a journey which took months, traveling overland in a caravan of thousands of people and tens of thousands of animals. It reads as if one were reading an account from the days of Genghis Khan, but it happened when I was a boy. The journey itself and the early months after he had finally arrived in Lhasa provided several hours of fascinating escape from "reality".
I took a break and went to the Condom Fair at the Campus Center, highly amusing on a totally different level. A group of young musicians were playing, with a female singer very much in the Robi mode, but I didn't catch the name of the band on the one occasion when it was mentioned. Starbucks Coffee was giving away free samples of two different iced coffees, quite delicious and much appreciated.
Taking the second sample, I went to my favorite "secluded spot" and read further into Rainbow of Liberated Energy. It is a deceptively simple book, an attempt to present Tibetan Tantric methods in Western terminology, and a very well done one. I had a brief fantasy of doing some watercolors based on the color schemes discussed, but cast the idea aside, too much of a bother getting the necessaries together.
After another visit to Hamilton, I took the bus to Waikiki and walked over to the Marketplace to hear Leon & Kawika. It was delightfully casual, laidback playing and singing of some classic local music, including a fine version of "Hi'ilawe". I talked with Daniel the Dancing Man briefly and with Carole ("Ma Kettle") who was leaving today for a week on the Big Island. Then Ellen joined me and I told her about the Pure Heart gig on Saturday, again encouraging her to get them down there. Evidently the future of the Marketplace is yet again hanging and no one there is sure what is happening or how much longer it will survive before being replaced by yet another "shopping complex". It is without question a bit hokey, that area, but really, the very last thing Waikiki needs is another concrete and glass "shopping complex", no matter how large the crowds at Niketown's opening the next morning.
Daniel mentioned there was a rumor that Cecilio would be stopping down to join Kapono at the Pier Bar later, I considered going but after an hour or so at Ala Moana decided just to call it an early night and went on to the hacienda. Rocky still hasn't reappeared but there are two new regulars on the nearest benches to mine and both were already asleep when I got there.
It was a wonderfully warm morning, shed the long-sleeve shirt immediately and walked over to Jack-in-the-Box for coffee, continuing on to Ala Moana where I sat on the beach and awaited the sunrise. A group of six bagpipers walked by, at the head of a group of walkers who appeared to have some connection to the Great Aloha Run. That Scottish music in the just-predawn hour was indeed touching, zapped right to the heart.
Once the sun was up, showered with a Filipino lad I had not seen before and then sat at a picnic table in the sun until fully dry. Rather than stop up at UH, I decided to go over to Waikiki and catch a bus there back to Cinerama to transfer to a Kahala Mall bound one. Ok, a bit roundabout, but I had some time to kill before getting to Pure Heart's gig and that was more amusing than sitting around the mall would have been. It was worth a big grin when my Hamilton computer buddy, Russ, walked by at the Mall, but he seemed preoccupied so I didn't interrupt him to say hello.
Pure Heart were wonderful, better than ever. Jon came over and introduced himself, thanked me for my support (I assume Lopaka had pointed me out, but I didn't try to say hello to him because there was such a crowd of family and school friends there, plus lots of people waiting to get their copies of the CD autographed). I was especially happy to see Ellen arrive, gave her my chair and sat on the floor beside her for the gig, and was even happier watching her reaction and seeing her talking with the group's manager afterwards. Those fellows deserve all the breaks that come their way.
When I got to campus, decided to sit in Manoa Garden to finish the Rainbow book. A hula class was going on upstairs and a wonderful woman was singing the same song over and over, with just 'ukelele accompaniment. I know the song well, but don't know its name. Hearing it so simply played and repeated over and over turned it into a mantra and for much of the time I forgot about reading and just listened.
Finally went on to Hamilton, found lots of static in the mailbox, but it doesn't really matter. It's insignificant compared to having gotten a voucher for a free large fries when I used the last such voucher I had. Not to mention the delightful time listening to Pure Heart.
074
A reader wrote, and since I couldn't possibly say it any better ...Nice stories, Albert -- calming and reassuring. Everything is the same. As always.
bench ---- bed (no difference)
money ---- no money (no difference)
office job --- no job (no difference)
old coffee --- new coffee (no difference)
pain -------- no pain (no difference)
drugs ----- no drugs (no difference)
cat ---------- no cat (no difference)
rain ---------- no rain (no difference)
dirty -------- clean (no difference)
alone ------- together (no difference)
fall ------------ stand up (no difference)
music -------- no music (no difference)
sex -------- no sex (no difference)
beer ------- no beer (no difference)
new book ---- old book (no difference)
good mail ---- bad mail (no difference)
food ------ no food (no difference)
Thanks for the reminder!
074a
If only it were true!075
There is a new nomad on the scene. He is a beautiful man, reminiscent of the young Alain Delon but a little more rugged. It was tempting to say, "Go upstairs at Ala Moana, sit outside the Armani Emporium. If they don't have you showered, dressed and in front of a camera before the day ends, Giorgio should fire the manager of that store." When I first met him, he was brushing his teeth in the shower house at Ala Moana Park, where I had gone to do the same. We exchanged nods. He asked if I would sell him a cigarette. I told him I was sorry, if I had any, would have given him one. I saw him again the next morning outside McDonald's. I can't imagine him being on the streets for long.From the time these Tales began, readers have often mentioned money. I have responded to the remarks several times, but there has been a recent flurry of new remarks from readers. Some complain I talk too much about it (although one reader did, accurately, note that I rarely mention it until the supply is very low), one even writes to say that mentioning it sounds like begging. I challenge anyone to live as I am living and not have money play a major role in their thinking. I don't say I am happy with that, far from it. But that's the way it is. So for a time at least, we'll keep that counter on the opening page, get the subject out of the way right from the start. If anyone feels uncomfortable with that, there are thousands upon thousands of other web pages, many I am sure more worth reading than these.
It was particularly amusing on Sunday evening. I had $2.05. A bottle of Mickey's is $2.07. What an absolutely perfect opportunity to spend my VERY LAST PENNY on beer! Do you think I could find two pennies? NOT! It gave me another good chuckle the next morning when, within five minutes of waking, I found a dime.
A number of readers have voiced concern that I should be following the debates in the newsgroups. One even said "they are destroying your reputation!" Hmmmm, my online reputation plus $2.07 will buy me a bottle of Mickey's, so I'll worry about the $2.07. But I did consult the I Ching on the subject, asked if I should follow that advice and resume reading the newsgroups in question. It said, "nothing that would further." End of discussion.
As has become my habit in recent weeks, I left Hamilton before closing on Saturday and went down to Waikiki to hear music at the International Marketplace. The Ka'ala Boys were there, a group I had not seen before. One of the singers and the 'ukelele player is a very handsome man, but there are few 'uke players in town who fare well when the memory of Jake Shimabukuro is fresh in the mind. They opened with a fine "Paauo Liko Ka Lehua" and went on to do a number of my favorites, most enjoyably. Usually I immediately jump on a bus to escape the crowds and noise of Waikiki on a Saturday night, but it was a beautiful balmy evening so I decided I'd just walk through town, see what music I could hear. I made no effort to find out who I was hearing, but certainly heard some fine sounds.
On Kuhio Beach, a group of ladies were dancing to "Hi'ilawe" as I walked by. I get to hear that song a lot but it's fairly rare to see folks dancing to it. Most excellent. Of several hotels where music could be heard, most fascinating was the Waikiki Beach Hotel where a splendid fellow was singing some of the falsetto classics. He was so good I was for the first time tempted to stop over and find out who it was, but stuck to my original plan and after listening for awhile, continued to walk along the beach. At the acquarium, some kind of party was going on in the garden and two young men I've never seen before were singing, one with guitar and the other playing bass. They would have been very much more enjoyable without their percussion synthesizer.
As a weird but delightful finale to the evening's music, at the Kapiolani Bandstand a group of folks were doing country dances. No doubt that style of group dance has a particular name. It was like square dancing but more elaborate and, as with square dancing, the lyrics of the songs included instructions to the dancers on what moves and formations were next. Wonderful stuff. I settled at a picnic table with a clear view of the stage. There was a couple at a nearby table and the young man walked over after awhile and said, "we can't possibly finish this pizza, would you like some?" Two evenings in a row when people offered me food! Perhaps what some folks say about me looking terribly thin is right. If so, it's working to my advantage. I said "sure, thanks very much" and walked over to get it -- three large slices of cheese and pepperoni from Pizza Hut.
I had planned to end the evening outside the Hilton listening to Olomana but feeling full and a little tired, I decided I'd just call it a night and head off to sleep. Rocky was back and all was well with the world. Not even the tacky music from across the street could interfere with my happy and contented mood.
I woke early and headed down to Ala Moana for that welcome cup of senior coffee at dawn, being extravagant and using a certificate for those little apple pies. The old nomad in front of me ordered four of them. I begin to wonder if there's something addictive about those things -- or maybe it's just that they are the only $1 food item offered at that McDonald's. It was obvious, just after dawn, that it was going to be a beautiful Sunday and the beach was consequently going to be very crowded and noisy. So I had a shower (with yet another not-before-seen young Filipino nomad) and went on up to the university. The campus was almost deserted. On a bench outside Sinclair someone had left a couple of teabags in cellophane packets, including one of Earl Gray, so I found a cup and used one of the microwaves to make tea. The night before I had found an M&M Kudos bar which I tucked away for later, and later had come. A very nice treat to accompany the last section of the Rainbow book.
The fine mood of the previous evening continued and certainly the absence of pain, for the first time since the fall, contributed to that. When Hamilton opened and I checked email there was sufficient static to tilt the balance, so I left most of it unanswered and went for a stroll around campus to think about it and, more importantly, to try and stop thinking about it.
Continuing to read the book by the Dalai Lama's elder brother, I came upon a section I had been looking forward to, a mention of the events preceding the death of the former Regent, Reting Rimpoche. The book is as vague as "Kundun" on the subject. He had mentioned paying a visit to Reting Rimpoche as his caravan to Lhasa passed the monastery where the former Regent was in retreat (or was it "in exile"?). He says there was almost a small civil war as Reting Rimpoche's followers attempted to set off a bomb (apparently the attempt on the current Regent's life, mentioned in the film). The bomb failed and, after an armed struggle, the followers of Reting Rimpoche surrendered. He says the events surrounding Reting Rimpoche's death were never resolved. So the film's depiction, which could have been suicide or murder, remains unresolved as well.
The book does reveal one glaring historical inaccuracy in the film. The body of the Dalai Lama's father was cremated. The metaphorically powerful scene in the film is thus very far-fetched poetic license but since it makes its point with such gruesome beauty, it seems to me a forgivable departure from fact.
I stopped reading at the point where he was about to embark on a pilgrimage to Nepal and India, took another stroll around campus, and then went down to Waikiki to enjoy what was certainly one of the most dramatic sunsets in many weeks, using my last award voucher to get a large order of fries from McDonald's to munch on while watching the crimson sky show. I'd planned to listen to the concert from outside the Shell but the weather was looking quite uncertain; there had been light rain on campus earlier and there were heavy, dark clouds over the mountains. So I headed off to bed (or bench) very early and, for the first time since this trip began, went to sleep actually feeling very hungry.
076
Our leaders strain every nerve, and with success, to get the next war going, while the rest of us, meanwhile dance, earn money and eat chocolates -- in such a time the world must indeed cut a poor figure.Thanks to Mister Hesse for that reminder that some things never change.
Not that I really needed any confirmation of a special connection, but as I was walking across campus enjoying the late morning sunshine, I suddenly had a strong feeling, "Tomita-san is on campus". Happy thought. About ten minutes later I spotted him, hurrying down the walk leading out of Campus Center. Cool. Looked like he was late for his class, so I didn't make any effort to intercept him, just enjoyed the little "psychic flash" and the brief glimpse of him.
"No difference."
I wrote some stuff about that, but it was junk so I'm deleting it. I'm told a reader had the colossal arrogance to object to my revising a Tale. That had me curious enough to ask for details. Ahhh, was one of those revisions which occur when feedback suggests people are taking a joke seriously. This time I wasn't making a joke, but it was one. As I was settling down to sleep, or maybe after I was already asleep, I had a thought-picture of Karoli Baba sitting, as usual, wrapped in his plaid blanket. Then he opened the blanket in the front and flapped it at me like a bird. My thanks to Babaji for returning my laughter.
I was awakened on the holiday morning by the unusual sound of hundreds of voices, sat up and saw police cars blocking the boulevard, large crowds of people. Aha, the Great Aloha Run. I walked over to the Federal Building, found an unopened bottle of "All Sport Body Quencher" and sat on a bench drinking it, enjoying the spectacle of masses of men in shorts and tee shirts, preparing for the Run. When it finally got underway, each group started off in formation, many chanting "yer left, yer right" cadences as they went. A delightful way to begin the morning. I felt somewhat nostalgic, remembering the year I actually managed to complete that Run, and later felt a little envious when I saw how much nicer the finishers' tee shirt is this year compared to the one I got.
Then I walked up to Honolulu Hale and caught a bus to Waikiki, ignoring dozens of bottles of that body-quenching drink (which I didn't think worth the effort of carrying), got a senior coffee with my last certificate and enjoyed drinking it on the beach as the sun was rising. I read for awhile and then went on to the Zoo. Although I bought an annual pass when deciding on the nomadic life, that was the first time I used it. There were many small changes and improvements, indicating the management of the Zoo continues to make progress despite the shortage of funds, and it was a pleasure to visit some of my long-time friends. As I was leaving I reminded myself I should spend more time there, I didn't make the effort to buy that pass without reason.
I had a delicious lunch at the invitation of a friend, made even more delicious by being quite hungry still, and enjoyed an afternoon of conversation, a little television and a little music, and a few beers. Then I decided to stop over at the Aloha Tower Marketplace to see the Navy ship which was berthed there for the holiday weekend. It was too late to board the ship as a guest, but not too late to enjoy watching the crew, both onboard and as they returned from shore leave. The Marketplace was relatively deserted aside from folks eating in the restaurants, but I enjoyed a couple of hours there, watching the ship and strolling around.
When I got to the hacienda, Rocky was already on the bench next to me and had switched back to his flowery shorts. Just like old times ...
I woke very early the next morning so once again had to "drive in" to Jack-in-the-Box for my senior coffee, then strolled slowly on to Ala Moana where I greedily used a bonus voucher for yet another cup of coffee from McDonald's. The Armani Man was outside, quite took my breath away. As Jarvin said, "I fell on my side" ... well, fortunately not literally, I'm enjoying the pain-free side far too much to bruise it again just yet.
Wandered around replenishing my tobacco supply, then when Foodland opened I went in and looked around for someone who might be purchasing $20 worth of goods. Found the perfect one, a sweet old lady diligently trying to pick out the best on-sale chunks of meat. She already had enough in her cart to match the limit, then a friend called her over to look at some other bargain, so I was able to slip one of the McDonald's save-$2 vouchers on top of her purchases without being noticed.
Got up to campus, happy to be there after the holiday absence. Email not as stormy as it has been lately, newsgroups as hysterical as ever, cute prospects all over the place, but Russ was oddly absent.
Another day in the life ...
077
Someone had left a light on at the hacienda which isn't usually on, so I got a better look at Rocky than I'd had before. He's cute.Speaking of cute, Russ didn't show up again. I worry when my lads go missing like that. But I think I've met the true love of my life, a young fellow who doesn't like macaroni salad! Yep, throws the whole scoop away, plus the second scoop rice. All I need now is a list of places he goes to eat his plate lunches.
The Survivor-Hunter had two very sparse days in a row, was feeling a bit discouraged, but then around noon time on Wednesday things started to look up. The cigarette pack which had been constantly running on empty was suddenly full. Try wait ... that's not the Survivor-Hunter's territory, I don't think, but then I can't quite figure out just whose territory tobacco falls in. In any case, to quickly change that particular focus, the search for tobacco greatly assists in all the other hunts since there are a few special places proven to provide good harvests (except on Sundays) and visiting them involves a long stroll around campus which often turns up other treasures.
Funny, that. I think I've finally run up against a smoker who seems to resent her leftovers being taken. I know who she is, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't know who I am. She could hardly not notice the "pilferage", though, since there are two of us keeping an eye on her ashtray. She's one of the few people who use it and never seems to take more than 3 or 4 puffs before putting a cigarette out. But she has stopped using that ashtray. I saw her near it, smoking, but I don't know what she did with the butt afterwards. Since it is right outside her office, she has to be making some special effort not to use it. Weird.
Anyway, the more relevant hunts also went well. One scoop fried rice, one scoop plain rice, a bit of chicken and that yummy scoop macaroni salad, a Pepsi still with ice in it, and a little Milky Way bar for dessert ... a gourmet lunch, indeed. Half a roll of those orange-flavored Vitamin C "candies" was a nice bonus, too.
I was sitting on a bench near Sinclair Library, a polite Japanese man walked over and handed me a flyer for a Japanese anime film being shown on Friday afternoon, "Shinran Shonin -- Light of the World", the story of a Japanese Buddhist monk. I'd already heard about it, and thought I'd probably attend. As I looked down to read the flyer, I spotted a penny right by my feet. Careless Survivor-Hunter, to have missed it till then! (It was worth a smile, too, when an email arrived later from a reader who noticed the increase in the financial report.)
Then I was faced with a choice, either to leave campus and go to Waikiki for a sail on Captain John's catamaran or to stay and continue my reading. Since the former included both the pleasure of seeing John and the distinct possibility of a couple of beers, it's surprising the Tourist didn't raise a fit when it was decided to stay on campus. But then that fellow is not quite who some people think he is ...
I had left off reading the Dalai Lama's autobiography after the Chinese invasion, returned to it, first going back to make certain I was correct in my assumption that he made no mention at all of Reting Rimpoche's downfall and death. So he didn't. All the details of his trip to Peking were dealt with accurately in "Kundun", as was his brief visit to his home village on the return visit, even to the point of the old Tibetan woman who replied to his question with tears and the standard Chinese Communist answer to "are you happy?"
Not mentioned in the film was his first visit to India, for the Buddha Jayanti festivities on the 2,500th anniversary of Buddha's birth. He met with Nehru on that trip, even though it was a purely religious visit, and was encouraged by him to return to Tibet, although the Dalai Lama had already been thinking the only solution for him was to relinquish his political/secular position and maintain his role as spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhism from exile. He also met with Chou En-Lai while in Delhi and was given assurances that the situation in Tibet would improve, reforms would be slowed or even postponed for six years. So he decided to return to Lhasa and shortly thereafter came the invitation to the dance concert which resulted in thousands of Lhasa residents surrounding the Summer Palace and refusing to allow him to go (something which was not quite made clear in the film).
In retrospect, it was a more rewarding way to spend the afternoon than sailing on a catamaran drinking beer, but that wouldn't have been bad either.
078
wolves, hyenas and snakes, oh my ... wolves, hyenas and snakes ...I had an email, essentially anonymous since it came from a Hotmail address I'd not seen before, which said merely "beware the snakes of hawaii-l". Hmmmm, coming on top of a reader noting that things in the local online scene were getting "unpleasant", especially since that reader is known for understatement, made me wonder what's going on. Not long ago I changed the name of my "Cyber Ohana" page to "Local Style", since it seemed there was no longer a real ohana. Already sporting my Maharaj, Miyata, and Barrett-Lancette battle ribbons, what else awaits?
Only the Shadow knows ...
Thursday started out with one auspicious omen after another. Waking just before six, I set out for Jack-in-the-Box (noting an empty mailbox on the way) for that senior coffee. I came across two plate-lunch boxes on a bus stop bench. One had been partly eaten, the other appeared untouched. After tasting it, I could form an exact picture of the person who had abandoned it. He was probably local, had gotten drunk, then felt very hungry, went to a plate-lunch place and ordered three times as much as he could eat, and doused it all heavily with tabasco sauce. Yep. It was a fried rice and macaroni concoction and I would have carried some of it with me but yikes, that stuff was HOT. I did nibble around the edges which had gotten less saturated with tabasco and then went on to get the coffee.
At Ala Moana, there was an unusually large supply of tobacco, including a rarely found almost-unsmoked Garam clove number, tucked away for later. Then when I got on campus, I immediately found a completely unsmoked Camel. Topping that by far was finding a nickel outside Manoa Garden, ensuring the next day's senior coffee ... and then to complete the auspicious picture, just as the sun appeared over the hill outside Hamilton, Russ walked up.
There was a delightful email from the lead singer of my favorite local group. Gave me a rain check on a beer, to be collected when he's old enough to legally buy it. Sweetheart!
On my first stroll-break, found fifteen cents in the change slot of a vending machine, with a penny dropped in front of it. Got a cup, heated the water in the microwave and fixed some tofu miso soup, munched from a bag of Konoha Arare I'd found earlier at Ala Moana. Neither of those items played any role whatsoever in my life until I came to Hawai'i.
So whatever critters may lurk in the online bushes, real life was looking just fine on a beautiful Thursday morning.
to be continued ...
A reader told me some time ago, when a guide is needed, the guide appears.
This was a special day.
It is a rare thing in my long life to hear a bartender say, "Thanks for stopping by."
Some of you won't understand that at all, some of you will. I know a lot more now about my Hotmail correspondent than I knew when I started this Tale, and about everything that writer was talking about.
I don't know any language in which I could properly express how utterly unimportant it is.
079
I wrote as a preface to this tale that Thursday was as close to a perfect day as any I have ever known.A delightfully over-educated reader responded:
Naturally, it occurs to me (from what I've read of your story) that your near-perfect day may very well may be one of those "greatest blessings" that flows from the gift of divine madness.
What's equally interesting, though, is the rather attractive correspondence between Plato's four subdivisions of divine madness and your four levels/voices. He categorizes them as:
prophetic madness (inspired by Apollo);
ritualistic or mystical madness (inspired by Dionysus);
poetic madness (inspired by the Muses); and,
erotic madness (inspired by Aphrodite and Eros).
As interpreted for Phaedrus by Socrates (and for us by centuries' worth of classicists), these four types correlate very neatly with your Survivor, Tourist, Pilgrim, and Underworld Dude.
Yo! Thy fearful symmetry! Oh no, sorry; that's the Panthera -Tigris-....
(To be continued, maybe.)
Let us hope so.
As anticipated, the first complaint arrived about the money countdown on the opening page. Too bad, I'm finding it a rather amusing exercise.
I'm inclined to think my entire existence, each and every day, is blessed by "divine madness". There are just some days when I am paying more attention and especially notice its blessings. Thursday was special in a way which is impossible to write about because it was the accumulated effect of so many "little" things, each elevating the spirit to a slightly higher notch of happiness. A bartender thanking me for stopping by was the example I mentioned. Seems so unimportant, but I could tell he meant it and in the context of what has been going on (especially online), it meant even more than it might have at some other time.
It was as if, from the moment I found that first nickel and thus ensured the next day's morning coffee, one small thing after another served to amuse, encourage and cheer me through almost every moment of the day. An unexpected melon fell from heaven, too, and it removed a batch of little worries ... soap bar and deodorant running out, that kind of small concern that most people have only as things to remember on their shopping lists. I have them as major purchases which should have been made in the first week of the month; thus they appear in my thinking not only as things which need to be acquired, but as little nagging tugs saying "look how irresponsible you were, again".
When I left campus, that was the first mission, a little shopping expedition. Having satisfied the "responsible", the "irresponsible" was given a little luxury. For several days I had walked around feeling slightly hungry all the time. This is a very rare sensation for me. All my life I have been blessed with a very light appetite, often have eaten just because I'm conditioned to think it's necessary at given intervals. I don't like feeling hungry at all (even if there's on one level no difference between hungry and not hungry). So I treated myself to one of those scrumptious hot roast beef sandwiches at Moose's. I asked if I could have an extra scoop of mashed potatoes and got a mountain of them, smothered in that delicious gravy, no extra charge. About 30 senior coffees down the tube, but I certainly wasn't feeling hungry anymore.
I wonder how many Americans measure expenditures as senior coffees?
Then for the first time in weeks, I went to hear Genoa Keawe at the Regent's Lobby Bar and it was touching to be greeted by so many people. The music was wonderful, but the little hugs and pats and smiles were even more wonderful. By the end of the gig, I had that feeling I had a few times after "Kundun", almost like they say, walking on air.
It is amusing but a little bizarre that some readers seem almost jealous of my love affair with that film. There are a few readers (very few, can count them with the fingers of one hand) who most diligently read the Tales even though they seem disgusted by them and never have anything to say that isn't negative, yet never resist saying it. Sneering about "Kundun" is one of their common trademarks. Most peculiar. I wish they'd simply stop reading these things, seems by far the most sensible thing to do.
After a comfortable night on my bench next to Rocky's, I woke expecting to feel a little letdown. Thursday had been just too good a day, Friday almost had to be a disappointment. It wasn't.
The highlight of the day was the film, "Shinran Shonin". I'm a total novice when it comes to Japanese animated films, but certainly this one was visually charming. Shinran Shonin appears to be a major figure in the development of the "Pure Land" school of Buddhism, but the film deals only with his life up until he realized Enlightenment. That particular moment was beautifully done in the film. One minute he didn't know, the next he did. No dramatics.
More Buddhist research to be done ... I am assuming the Amida Buddha of the Japanese is the same as the Amitabha Buddha of India, but must confirm that with a little study. Hearing the call of Amida Buddha, understanding his bodhisattva vow, was the key to Shinran Shonin's awakening, after more than twenty years of a severely ascetic life.
The polite Japanese man who had handed me the flyer for the film was there to introduce it. I like that man very much, he has a graceful, calm, and peaceful aura and it feels good to be in his presence.
After the film, I found a ham and cheese roll which had been left in the vending machine kiosk so I went down the hill, bought a bottle of Mickey's and returned to campus to enjoy the snack and the beer, and to slowly ponder the entrance of the Steppenwolf into the Magic Theatre. I always read that crucial part of the book too quickly. This time I am not.
After a final check of email, which had been exceedingly unpleasant and disturbing for most of the day, I went to Ala Moana to hear Pure Heart at the House of Music. I admire those three young men more every time I see and hear them, and it was a considerable pleasure to see the unusually large number of people who were buying their CD. No one deserves success more.
Like Thursday, the day was full of those little things that added up to so much more than would make sense if a list of them were written. The feet knew the way to go at every step.
080
Life is always frightful. We cannot help it and we are responsible all the same. One's born and at once one is guilty. You must have had a remarkable sort of religious education if you did not know that.It was cool, windy, gray and cloudy all day Saturday, with occasional showers. Melancholy sky, slightly melancholy day. It was downright cold again Saturday night, and Sunday morning was probably the worst one of the winter, not the coldest but with light rain added to the still quite cool temperature and the at-times strong wind, decidedly uncomfortable.
I'd gone down to Waikiki after Hamilton closed, stopped by the Marketplace where the Reverend Dennis Kamakahi and his son Kawika were playing, with BB Shawn on bass. Great music ... especially liked an instrumental written by Dennis called "Monterrey Sun", featuring Kawika. On the way there, stopped in Tower again to hear track 7 on the Pure Heart CD. Love that song. And speaking of songs I love, got to hear one of my favorites again this week when I walked over to the Kapiolani bandstand where the country dancers were, as they had been last Saturday. They do one song, "I'll Do My Crying in the Rain", which had stuck in my mind all week and it was great to hear them launch into it just as I arrived.
I found an abandoned plate lunch container with a scoop and a half of rice, half a scoop of macaroni salad and some thinly sliced steak with gravy. Delicious stuff, but later it had me thinking fondly of the days when I could go to the bathroom, get an Alka-Seltzer out of the cupboard and plop it into a glass of water.
Moments like that are rare; I miss the luxuries of being a householder less than I expected. A few people think I am glossing over some of the hardships but I suspect it's partly a case of my truly not seeing as a "hardship" things they might. Those months in India prepared me for more basic living. It really doesn't bother me to sleep on a wooden bench, for instance. Much nicer when it's warm, though. Saturday night the wind was so erratic it actually blew up through the slats of the bench seat.
Once the sun rose, Sunday morning became a little more pleasant despite continued intermittent sprinkles, and after a second cup of coffee on the beach in Waikiki I went to the Zoo. It's remarkable how much interaction can be had with some of the animals using body language, especially when no one else is around. I had a "dialogue" with a spider monkey which went on for about fifteen minutes, absolutely delightful, and an equally enjoyable one with a wild African dog. I suspect the monkey was asking for something to eat. He came right to the front of the cage, looked directly at me and made an "oh-oh-oh" sound. I tried to imitate his expression and the sound, which got him all excited. He climbed up the cage a way, tilted his head to one side and repeated it, so I tilted my head and did the same. So he went upside down to do it again, and I turned my head way over to look at him upside down, too. That got him really excited, he jumped to the floor and hopped backwards on all fours until he got to the back of the cage. It reminded me of Chloe who used to hop sideways like that when she was a kitten. Now that I didn't imitate, so he came back to the front and the performance repeated. Great fun. With the dog it was just a question of bending the neck and staring, then weaving back and forth, but he had such an amusing look on his face, was almost as if he was smiling. It was the first time I've had the savannah area entirely to myself aside from one man feeding the birds in the little aviary. Only pity was, meerkats seem to sleep late, no sign of any of them.
After a few hours work and reading at Hamilton, I was joined by a friend who shared a rather strange "Barbecued Chicken Pizza" with me at Magoo's. It certainly looked like pizza, but didn't taste anything at all like any pizza I've ever had before, had something of an Indian flavor to it. Quite tastey, and a most welcome solution to the usual Sunday famine when there's often little to be found abandoned. Considering all the things it had on it, I wouldn't have been surprised had the urge for Alka-Seltzer arisen again, but it didn't.
Saturday I had bought a bottle of Mickey's and sat outside at Manoa Garden enjoying it and reading over several times that strange "war against machines" from Steppenwolf. It seems so out of context, somehow. But I love the sequence with Mozart, the panorama of Brahms and Wagner leading the dreary parade of musicians who had been forced to spend their lives playing "superfluous" notes thanks to those masters' heavy orchestration. That's a high class flame, indeed. I saved the very end of the book until Sunday. Now, do I read it again, or find some other book to carry with me?
Two readers asked this week if I had any plans to get these things published in book form, echoing another reader who had pressured for it some time ago. Yes, I think that's feasible, but there needs to be more material to edit from. Maybe after a year, if I survive this madness that long. The original thought was to mix the historical sketches, some of which need to be expanded, with the current entries. We shall see ...
There was light drizzle on Sunday evening so I left early and went off to my bench. This was fortunate, since I did at least get some sleep before we were invaded by some party-type folks who had missed the last bus home, the second time that has happened. I waited around awhile to see if they'd ever settle down, but they seemed to almost do it and then would start yakking again, so I got up and left. Luckily the rain had stopped and it actually got a bit warmer around 2:30 in the morning. I didn't feel sleepy at all so decided I'd walk over to Waikiki. I got a senior coffee at Jack's and sat on a bench by Kuhio Beach drinking it and watching the parade of hookers try to make a catch (none did while I was watching). As things began to quiet down, I thought I'd let the Hunter off the leash and see what he came up with in Waikiki. Amazingly enough, from one end to the other, the only discovery was ONE PENNY. Either the tourists are getting more careful or the competition is getting better at spotting those stray coins.
Then that beautiful crescent moon of these final days of the First Month of the Tiger rose. The full shadowed moon was very clearly visible as well as that slightly lopsided Cheshire Cat grin of a crescent, and the "Morning Star" (Venus??) which has been so brilliantly shining lately was gracefully lined up with the moon. It was so dramatic, I walked over to DeRussy Beach to better enjoy it and the other stars, found a Pepsi and had a delightful half hour or so watching the heavenly show.
Took a bus to Ala Moana, went over to the shower house for a wash and then bought coffee, sat on a bench to drink it while enjoying the company again of a young workman who often sits on a bench outside the ABC store waiting until it's time to go to work. He sits very calmly, almost as if meditating and it's a pleasure to sit on the bench next to him. Some people really do give off good vibes, as folks used to say back in the flower power days.
The more of those in my life, the better. The more I become like one of them, even the better.
080a
You see, I have this very rare recording. Giuseppe di Stefano and Maria Callas in Puccini's La Boheme.I finally made it through the third act without getting arrested for sitting on a bench on campus with tears running down my face.
Only one more act to go ...
081
How we love to have everything and everyone neatly labeled and tucked away in the proper slot in our mind's storehouse ...After giving it some thought and talking about it with some friends, I came to see that my own definition of "alcoholic" was too limited and happily accepted the label. The latest such badge I've no trouble at all accepting: panhandler. That has a fine heritage. Rich men and corporations were busy raping the natural resources of the land, poor men stood downstream sorting through their trash. That's a fine label, I like it.
Certainly it is my misfortune to be living in a society which has no grasp of the Hindu concept of life stages. Even one of my most sympathetic readers sees this path as abandoning "usefulness to society", even more readers see a need to get me "back on my feet". I have lived the first three stages of this life, it was time to leave the householder stage and become a wandering mendican