by Sam Savage
Marcel hung back, away from the crowd, and encountered a male Plutocrat, who said: You must be the observer from the institute. I see that you have not checked your mind at the cloak room.
Yes, that’s right, Marcel played along.
How is everyone at the institute?
They’re doing very well.
Interrupting their conversation, naked females slide down greased poles connected to the stage. They licked themselves and each other as the males made paper air planes out of the decorated butcher paper and hurled them toward the gyrating females. Some of them even fainted as the dancers postured, shaking their buttocks, exposing tufts of glistening pubic hair.
Returning to their conversation, the Plutocract asked: Do you have any questions?
Yes, said Marcel. How does this Red Light District support the Tittiesville economy while protecting human rights?
It all works because everybody works for us, even those who don’t work. These strippers are government employees, okay? The audience is either on disability or unemployment benefits. So they get the money from us, then give it back to us and everybody’s happy, okay? We also control butcher paper, crayons and cosmetics.
Cosmetics?
Yes. After stripping, the dancers exchange butcher paper for cosmetics.
The Plutocrat paused, then added: Tittiesville, if I may say, is a model society: We have no standards, no skills, no ambition. Just unmitigated indulgence of base pleasure.
Outstanding! said Marcel.
The Plutocrat continued: We also regulate prosthetic arms and cod liver oil.
Normally, Marcel would have been outraged beyond recognition; but in that moment, this wondering observer felt something he’d never felt. Perhaps his years of self-righteousness had prepared him for this transformation. Oasis is made sweet by the dessert and day is decipherable because of night. So too empathy is forged in the furnace of scorn. Marcel felt his outrage turn to compassion.
Still in the enclosure, he passed a Leather Throne Room. Inside, males had traded all of their crayons to be king, not for a day, but for fifteen minutes. They sat in these leather thrones motionless and unable to move while females slide over them like syrup over pancakes.
You must be from the institute said a female Plutocrat.
Marcel nodded.
Do you have any questions?
Yes. How would you characterize the current state of marriage in your region?
Citizens of Tittiesville practice monogamy and I’ll tell you why. Question: what is the most immediate threat to our species?
I don’t know.
Monogamy protects us from that danger.
I don’t understand, questioned Marcel.
Without monogamy, the most powerful would control large harems while the majority would get nothing. That majority, kept at bay by monogamy, is our greatest threat.
You mean a majority of sex-crazed creatures who don’t have access to sex?
Precisely.
I see, said Marcel, looking for a way out of the tubal enclosure. He then passed the corporate headquarters of the LGBTQ community, who had hired Pinkerton detectives to crush any opposition, as well as a team of crack professionals working round the clock to think of more letters to add to their already enviable acronym.
Hearing music, he followed it through the latex tube. It was a kind of sound known as Vanilla Jazz. Invented by a snake oil salesman named Suetonius-and-his-Imitators, this genre was designed to make old men feel accomplished, successful, desirable, confidant and twenty-eight. Near the origin of the sound, Marcel encountered a Pharmaceutical Sales Rep.
The Rep said: Everyone here’s in a death realm. Other realms, no death. But here, no one gets out alive and you know it going in. You must live your life knowing you’re on a suicide mission and there’s nothing you can do about it. This circumstance results in greed, lust, pride and every indulgence in the book.
So what do you do asked Marcel.
You take this pill, the Sales Rep said. This tiny, little pill. It takes care of everything; however, it may cause hives, vomiting, dry mouth, unusual dreams, spontaneous tap dancing and the uncontrollable craving for gowupkie and malt liquor.
No thanks, said Marcel, and ducked out a side exit.
It wasn’t grace that moved him from outrage to compassion. It was fatigue. Simply . . . fatigue. His moral indignation had drained him to the point of non-resistance. He did not choose compassion, he found it when he stopped struggling and he found that, like bliss, compassion has no opposite.
Chicken and waffles? I questioned.
Yes said Boris, with plenty maple syrup.
After leaving the enclosure, Marcel fled to the jungle. On his way he intercepted the garbled communications of a political press conference. Through the static he heard: That’s right. I intend to beef up law enforcement by cutting all pork programs. Any more questions?
Yes. How could you be wrestling a bear in the Ukraine when you were, according to these records, attending a meeting in Moscow?
Another reporter chimed in: Sources also indicate that your Cape Buffalo Safari was a complete hoax. What is your response to these charges?
Put these conspirators in irons, the leader ordered. I will deal with them personally after I finish meditating with a pod of Orca.
Marcel continued deeper into the jungle. He made no judgments and his powers of observation increased. He had no opinion, for he had chopped up all of his soap boxes and used them all for kindling. His fire now burned differently, for he took in data without interpretation. This new flame created stillness in his mind.
In such a state, Marcel came upon a three story white house supported by spiral columns. Land and Oak Trees surrounded this plantation home on three sides and a long driveway led to the front doors. Luxury sedans sat motionless near the entrance. Marcel used them for cover, climbed a drain pipe and made his way to the roof. There, he connected his technological device to a sky light and observed the happenings inside the house.
Two thirteen foot doors slung open; four men entered wearing powder wigs and lederhosen. Thick gold chains hung from their necks, covering their bare torsos. Some had Fu Manchu moustaches; others goatees and beards.
The dominant lord then entered, also wearing lederhosen, shirtless; gold chains dangling, he sported a carefully placed ink mole on his powdered cheek. Strutting aggressively around his lieutenants, he inspected their attire. Then, suddenly, he stopped and screamed: I’ve got the Puntang Blues! The others scrambled, speechless.
Incensed, the dominate Lord yelled: Do you know who I am? I’m Henry St. John, motherfucker, First Viscount of Bolingbrook and I’ve got the Puntang Blues!
Yes sir, the lesser lords snapped to attention.
Get me more guns! yelled Bolingbrook. Bring me my armor.
At once, your Lordship, they stammered.
To arms! yelled the Viscount, we bring the war to them. But first, I have gifts for my loyal subjects.
Henry St. John then rubbed his nose and smudged his cheek mole. The others acted like they didn’t notice. The First Viscount of Bolingbrook then grabbed a black garbage bag from under an ornate chair. He lifted the bag above his head while the others beat their bare breasts.
Opening the bag, he produced small baggies and threw one to each of his underlings.
Yes, proclaimed the Viscount, pubic wigs for everyone! Now try them on then we’ll go kick some ass!
As his subordinates were trying on the wigs, Bolingbrook poured gobs of baby powder on his cranial wig then screamed: Bring me a grenade launcher!
After witnessing this display without passion or prejudice, Marcel knew he had changed. He had not only found peace, he had found that observation without judgment creates peace and that this awareness is the beginning of many things.
Thaght Thaght!
Possibilities said Madame Sosostris, what is possible and what is not.
The gorgeous Madame then asked me to go down to the wine cellar a
nd make a selection for our toast. This is when I realized that her home was both a studio and a multi-room domicile; much like subatomic life is both particle and wave.
Was the home of the inexorable Madame Sosostris actually a subatomic particle? It was too much for me to fathom.
The wine cellar was lit by a lamp on a bushel basket. Stalks of grapes hung from the rafters. I marveled at the ripeness and rich tones. Deep purple softened by dulcet hues, these grapes were perfectly round and juice-laden. I felt an aromatic light emit from the core of my body; it seemed to merge with the warmth of the lamp. The grapes were ready to burst, which made my decision easy. I picked every stalk, cluster and bunch of the swollen ripeness, placing it all in the bushel basket.
The grapes seemed to vibrate with intensity as I ascended upward and entered the presence of our sublime hostess. Clio, Boris, Leon and all the others sat in a circle. I placed the bushel of grapes at her feet. She tossed clusters of the fresh, juicy orbs to each of us.
I raised my stalk and said: A toast . . . to Clio and to Clio’s story. We all sank our teeth into the grapes; rivers of wine flowed through our consciousness. We consumed every cluster down to the last succulent stalk then reclined near the radiant Madame like sated sucklings.
Clio, that wondrous/androgynous, musical being honored me by placing the magic bongos in my lap. I knew exactly what to do as I accompanied Clio’s song:
Socrates Jones, a Tai Chi master, lived on a remote island in a studio made of bamboo and palm fronds. One day at low tide, he was doing the Yang Long Form on the beach and started laughing aloud. He had come to the movement known as Repulsing the Monkey. Of the ten-thousand sequence form, Repulsing the Monkey was probably the most difficult. To even attempt it, one had to not only lift the top of the big toes without taking them off the ground, one had to simultaneously torque the little toes outward in addition to an infinite number of other subtleties, all in balance. Laughter made Socrates’ energy flow while the form kept his spine flexible and, as the ancient wisdom teaches: You are as young as your spine is flexible.
Flowing in rhythmic freedom, Socrates saw a small craft washing up near his practice space. A tired, yet alert being climbed out.
In the posture of White Crane Spreading its Wings, the Tai Chi master asked: How did you get here?
I commandeered a salt lick out of the jungle and fortunately a couple manatees became obsessed with the salt and licked it into the trans-global current.
My name is Socrates Jones, said the master. I am pleased to meet you.
Likewise, said the castaway. I am . . . a foreign correspondent. My name is Marcel.
Are you familiar with the Yang Long Form asked Socrates.
No, said Marcel. But I have practiced Pro Tempore. It affirms a distinction between the historic and the eternal self. Unlike you, I am far from mastery. But I did have a remarkable teacher. He was an insurance agent named William Bill Billy Dick O’Brien, Bubba to his friends.
Interesting?
Indeed, said Marcel. Many schools of thought, such as Psychology, encourage practitioners to explore who they are. This who is the historic self and it is chained to a Meat Wheel of suffering.
I see.
Look, said Marcel. I’ve been doing better lately and I don’t want to go off on Psychology even though it does feed the beast. I do believe, however, that disciplined practice works much better than packing and unpacking our egos for countless lifetimes in a death spiral. Anyway, Bubba taught his students not to ask the question who are we, but where are we?
And where is that?
We’re all on death row waiting to die. Furthermore, we have to spend our lives watching everything we love decay, including ourselves.
What does that circumstance create, asked the master?
Madness, replied Marcel.
In the posture of Grasping the Bird’s Tale, Socrates Jones asked: So how do we overcome this circumstance?
We focus all our energy through the eternal self and we take nothing personally.
Creative Quietude, said the master as he Spread the Wild Horse’s Mane.
Marcel was not finished: I must confess that I was outraged for most of my life. I lived on a plateau of righteousness that endeared me to other egomaniacs. We were all offended constantly and, for a while, it was fun; but I soon realized that collective narcissism is tantamount to cannibalism.
The time being then a paused and said: it was not until recently that I saw things from the perspective of eternity. That vision changed my outrage to compassion.
In the posture of Waving Hands like Clouds, the master said: You have made a long journey. Come, I will give you rest.
Thank you said the fatigued traveler.
After a rejuvenating sleep, Marcel followed Socrates Jones to the master’s practice space on the beach. A giant green Chameleon awaited them.
In the movement of Swallow Dips on Top of Water, the master said: May I present my associate, Klaus Vanderpump.
The Chameleon blinked one of his bulging eyes.
Pleased to meet you, said Marcel.
Socrates then said: Tai Chi keeps the fascial sheath strong and flexible.
It also triggers DNA, added the Chameleon.
Klaus Vanderpump then turned one of his huge flanks toward them and it lit up like an IMAX screen.
Rapid images flashed on the Chameleon’s body and came to rest in a smoke-filled room. On a black and gold throne sat a fat cigar smoking golfer who tugged on his pullover knit shirt whenever he thought of his flapping male mammalian titties. On his desk sat a plate of jellied moose nose.
He acted as gate-keeper for a group who fed, like starving dogs, on buzz words. The only criteria for admission to this clan was the desperate desire to be part of a group. A young boy entered the golfer’s lair and said: Just tell me who to hate and I’ll hate them.
The cigar smoking gate-keeper stuck a large piece of jellied moose nose in his mouth then gave the boy a digital read out of all those he must hate and all the words he must say and not say, including a pronunciation key. A hard or soft er in the wrong place was punishable by death. The boy was also encouraged to become irrational and ravenous anytime he heard the buzz words and to agree with them vociferously.
In the posture of Snake Creeps Down, the master said: These actors are real people and the Chameleon has foreknowledge of all their actions.
The screen then switched to a Kool-Aid Clinic. Everyone inside was a musician, yet none of them knew how to sing or play an instrument. They were all drinking Kool Aid, working on their music and shaking their heads up and down.
Aggressively, one of them said: If anyone here is not willing to give their life for whale, then get out right now!
Are you willing to die for a whale, questioned one of the other musicians.
I’ve put myself in harm’s way many times. You obviously don’t know who I am. My name is Fabius, Raoul Fabius.
Well, Mr. Fabius, said the musician, are you willing to die for a praying mantis or a sixteen leg centipede?
What?
No. I don’t think you are, and I’ll tell you why: you only want to save cute endangered species.
With that statement, the screen went blank.
Marcel then asked Socrates: If the actors are real and Mr. Vanderpump has foreknowledge of their actions, then how can the actors have free will? Wouldn’t his knowledge of the future lock-in their behavior before they “choose” it?
Indeed it would if Mr. Vanderpump lived in a temporal realm. He, however, lives in the Eternal Present. So his knowledge of their actions is not contained in a chronological future.
From the perspective of eternity, Marcel understood that the Meat Wheel only exists in the past and future and that the true self resides in the Eternal Present.
Moving into Jade Lady Working the Shuttle, the master remained silent.
After another rejuvenating sleep, Marcel walked to the beach for a Tai Chi lesson. Socrates said: My associate an
d I must go to the other side of the island. While we’re at the Bubbling Well, work on Bring Tiger to the Mountain.
I will, said Marcel. Thank you.
Remember, encouraged the master: the grace you seek is not in the form. It is in you.
Marcel worked diligently on Bring Tiger to the Mountain and when Socrates and Klaus Vanderpump returned, the mastered asked: How is your practice?
I haven’t got tiger to the mountain yet, but I’ll get her there.
There is no there, said Socrates as he moved into Diagonal Flying Posture.