Monday, April 23, 2007

Byron (1991-2007)

Byron was a great dog. He loved watching Buffy and Veronica Mars and Valley of the Dolls with David. He hid under the bed in a poem. He was a celebrity dog featured in the New York Times (November 7, 2004). Elevators in South Loop high-rises made him tremble and I don't blame him. Sometimes Tony and Shelly came home with his smell on their hands from petting him behind the ears. May Byron have happiness and the causes of happiness, and be free from suffering and the causes of suffering.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Rinpoche on a Branch

I told Sogyal Rinpoche the mouse was face up, its eyes wide. Its hair still ruffled from running away from me. I scared him to death, like the mouse from Autumn 2000.

"Shimmy, you may be asking yourself this question: 'If I take in the sufferings and pain of others, won't I risk harming myself?'"

"Mouse fear is a holy secret. Oceans of unadulterated bewilderment. The mouse is always already squealing," I said.

Rinpoche was poised on a bare branch of the Mayakovsky Tree. I shook an itch from my left leg and stretched. He leaned forward. The branch rustled. I licked my belly.

"As you breathe in, you take in the suffering of this mouse and others. And as you breathe out, you give the mouse happiness and peace."

Sometimes it hurts when I breathe and everything tastes like Enacard.

He said, "At every moment in our lives, Shimmy, we need compassion, but what more urgent moment could there be than when a mouse's dead, delicious orbuncular eyes are staring up at us, and his hair is still ruffled in fear from our great predatory bulk?"

"The dead mouse was a mammal of the people. He was placed in a black-paper-edged petri dish with double sided tape. Then he was swooped in a tidal wave and transported to a totally barren jungle island. This mouse was the story of a little girl who loved her rain boots. A dead mouse is the first place, not the last, you should investigate when disordered energy presents itself."

Monday, April 02, 2007

Conversations with Guy Debord (5)

"Debord, did Ann Coulter really kill that guy last year?"

I brushed my snout against the bed frame bottom, the wooden floor slats dark as Brit Hume's bloody lapel.

My climate is enlarged and mandatory -- faint whiff of water bugs and Gaulois smoke!

"Shimmy, every single block in Baghdad represents the hope for a dazzling shortcut to the promised land of total consumption. Baghdad is ceremoniously presented as the decisive entity."

Debord was on his knees, the bunched up bedspread skirt in his right hand. He flicked ash on the floor with his left.

I pushed my spine against the bottom of the bed slats. A dustball tumbled with Guy Debord's stubbly voice.

"In the War on Terror, which is the image of the ruling economy," he said, "the goal is nothing, development everything. The War on Terror aims at nothing other than itself. It is no more than terror developing for itself."