twenty-one.

A CAUSTIC REACTION
A MEETING WITH AN OLD FRIEND... DETRACTORS
BEING EJECTED CLEAN FROM THE HUSK

I can’t believe I’ve written this, yet it continues on and

stronger. Am I any more in control of this pen? It signals
to me that it’s time to change. I resist. I try to resist. Shouldn’t
I respect my audience, continue building this empire? The an-
swer is withheld, only the sound of a door closing.
I just began communicating with a man I met on a re-
treat at Southern Dharma, before I moved to Providence Zen
Center. It was my first retreat, what convinced me to move
to a residential Zen center and begin a string of long retreats.
Although I hardly remember him, I recall he was very nice,
shared his home with me on my way north and found me after
all these years — really a gentleman from a moment in time
I can hardly piece together, before the training began. What
dreams I held then were all proven wrong. Naive, but very
fresh, enthusiastic. It would be hard to reconstruct what I was.
For this reason it was very difficult to write The Zen Revolution.
I prefer the work I do now, the life I have now, the practice,
understanding, clarity. I would prefer not to exist rather than
go through all I’ve gone through to get where I am today. So
it is with a tinge of remorse that I recount the old days with
this Southern gentleman, who asks that I fill him in on all the
details since. The revolution isn’t enough, he wants details. Is
there another way to tell the story? How narcissistic can I be?
Another version of my life? Do I get the girl at the end? The
treasure I was after? Was there a magical potion to be found?
Are unicorns real? Do we live forever? Are your eyes still green?
What do you do to survive? Were you a writer then? Do you
have any savings? What was Korea like? Do you get lonely? Do
you still dream? What is your fetish? Have you ever been ar-
rested? What do you listen to? Have you ever painted your fin-
gernails? Was it your girlfriend? That bitch. I guess you weren’t
emasculated... you enjoyed it? Why? ...because it was strange?
What kind of quality is that? You like the oddity? Isn’t that the
same thing?
***
After the interview I flowed into a fiberglass molded seat
like a thing of jelly. I understand his curiosity, so allow the
probing. All of you. What else? You want to control my limbs?
Pick out my clothes? Live my life for me? Go ahead. I’m sure
you’re right. Under the glare of your scrutiny I secretly change
the channel. Sorry. It was only a fragment anyway. I never ex-
isted. For instance, someone remembers me from the old days
at big dog radio, a role I played for a few years. It put me on the
spot, his expectations. Where had I gone from there? I didn’t
figure into his dream. “What was this Zen thing all about?” But
the moment in time that identified me to him was such a small
thing when I was famous, a rock God lording over the red-
necks... maybe a man doesn’t aspire to lording over a dirtbag
town, whatever perks. For me it was a downward spiral into
the maw of preternatural bliss. The cacophony on the surface
became like the clattering of hooves, the ramming of horns;
bellows, snorts; the smoke of civilization.
“Would you like a cup of milk?”
For me, I found the important part and abandoned the rest.
For him, I was a dropout, a teenage success gone to withering.
But I’ve hardly moved. Whatever it was that fueled the rising
is still boiling in me. It required a larger vocabulary, a world
of experience. It is my master, this thing that speaks through
me. It doesn’t care for my schoolboy fantasies or passing fame.
I write in the dark. Though I destroy what I create, throw it
to the ground, it can’t be stopped. I’m powerless against it.
No fame or infamy. Though nothing reflects back at me from
this dim well, at times I doubt even that I exist, or that I exist
empirically, it hardly concerns me. What’s important is that I
continue this work — however long, whatever angle, until I
am, until he is, fully satisfied.
“You’re a writer now? Have you been published?”
“Forget it. Five copies only. One for the priest, so he can
wipe his ass.”
What I’m doing isn’t important. I should’ve remained in
the abandoned fields of my youth. Indeed, I’ve never left them.
What would it matter if I moved a tree branch? My voice is
stifled by the rustling of swamp grass. The crows find their
way across the barbed wire. How far will they take me?
***
Back underground to a stalled train, the thing chasing me
down, to stand with my back against a pillar, to let it catch up
to me. What is it, old friend? Did I do something wrong? The
bundle of concerns crests and breaks against the wall, now in-
decipherable, but clearly I see the poor mutterings of those
who haven’t found their place, who’ve squandered their lives
down dead alleys, who’ve turned bitter. Easy to do, to miss
the sweet life spilling out everywhere. The need gets ahead of
itself. Constantly scheming... it’s been that way forever. The
true voice is there, but you can’t discern it, not until the noise
has abated — a real conundrum for my old friends, who con-
stantly create more strife. Truly there’s no hope for them, but
you can’t say that. Whatever twisted logic they’ve worked out
stands. By the time it gets to you it’s been cooked to a fine
patina. There’s no tempering the sauce. My old man was con-
stantly in a rage over nothing. Whatever he’d worked out the
kids were all just looking for something to do, trying to escape
the leers, the indignation — a pointless exercise. The law is
broken time and again for convenience. It’s the police who bear
the burden. Are we governable, knowing that nearly everyone
is frustrated, driven, full of rage because of their own blunder-
ing swath? Why are people so different when you get to know
them, when you finally pry apart the veneer and see the primi-
tive workings? Because the dream can’t be made real, and what
is real is avoided at all costs.
In my case, I was fortunate to have a caustic reaction natu-
rally occurring around me that rose to the point that I was
ejected clean from the husk. It wasn’t the practice alone that
cured me of my afflictions, but the afflictions themselves. At-
tempting to attain liberation through practice or faith, how
many can accomplish it? Instead we have a lot of people
crowding the scene who are after the title, so the landscape we
have today. The whole business of attaining the formless realm
is subverted by all too human needs, rather we have a placard
with someone’s name on it, who cares which one? And a cheap
vase with flowers. A lot of quality people on the path refuse to
participate in the stampede. After a lifelong practice in obscuri-
ty, they are the real jewels of dharma — effectively suppressed
by the king of the hill players. Who understands this?
I don’t think we’re ready for it. In reality it is the final move-
ment on the stage, for there can’t be anything after. That’s the
question you should ask yourself, are you ready to end this
affair?
The brakes squeal, the passengers fling forward, then back.
No one questions it. Two old friends talk through the crowd,
what the children are eating.
“I’m a fish person.”
A man outside easily outpaces us on a bicycle. I get out at
Wilshire to get a coffee. Long sitting tonight at the Zen center.