I, for example, the monk on stage says, I am trying very hard to be the lowest being in this room. Smiling the ever so non-transparent smile of the transparent Buddhish mind.
And may I say something, he adds rather than asks, just a split second afterwards. Who was it to put up the Tibetan banners in this room? They are not meant to be put up this way, sideways instead of upright, uptight.
These Buddhish monks got their American gig long on, they’re on a mission from god, on a fundraising roadshow, so they do put up the show that The People came to pay for. There was a hat right by the door asking for a ten spot, but sneaky Girls sneaked in and so did I.
It’s the second night in the Golden Triangle of the West and humbly we sit in the backroom of the community radio station downtown. It was Bob, who put the whole thing together, Bob, the first and pioneer hippie to come to this land of plenty, some thirty-odd years ago, on the sticker that said No Hippies Allowed so he thought it might be the right place to stay and change for the good of everybody.
It was the same Bob, tonight, who put up the sacred banners in the wrong fashion, due to the lack of space and he’s not too worried about his shortcomings, as it seems. It still makes a good show for everybody present and what’s a good story without a scapegoat, after all.
We must not be compassionate in order to achieve a certain feedback from others, the monk on stage explains in great detail. How can they know our expectations, they cannot, which invariably leads to disappointment and more suffering on all sides involved.
It is only the tainted, deceptive, calculating kind of compassion, which leaves everybody frustrated and sleepless at night, grumpy all of next day, annoying the shit out of our co-workers, and the suffering will not stop until we begin to understand the real and easy ways of natural compassion.
Yet where does it end, some of The People want to know. What if there’s somebody abusing this right kind of kindness, forever taking forever for granted, how do we know?
Well, the monk on stage knows, and smiles.
It is not unlimited, of course it’s not, there is a point, even to the Bodhisattva there is. But, The People demand his wisdom, how will we know how to find it, where is this point of know return?
Boys raise their hands. It’s easy, they say, we may use our wisdom, we should of known.
The Monk on stage smiles, and knows.
I think it wrong, both of them, yet I keep it to myself. I haven’t even paid the ten dollars asked for, I cheated my way into their wisdom.
The suffering ends with the beginning of the practice, the hardly noticeable transcendence into nin, the quiet, steady, clear perseverance, ever so gently.
There should be no limits to my love.
It’s a fun show to watch, may I repeat myself, All-American compassion, all lectured and paid for whatsoever it’s worth. Only a machine could tell the difference now.
Paulrus, the Shopcat, he called it the reskilling of society, but that was ages ago and lightyears away, out in California, on the western edge of civilization. This is the Western Slope and we are all set for the revolution, the last call at the brewery.
I am dead serious now. The Revolution, the Rev, is the only bar in the up and coming downtown for all things hippie or hipster, but then again it’s a weed country, they know much better than to drink and die.