by Bruce Wagner
Something jolted the plane and she opened her eyes. A counselor smiled vacantly, patting the arm of a frightened Fearless Flier, and then it happened again and the plane rolled over, plunging downward. Oxygen masks popped out, uselessly entangling themselves, and people in the aisles slammed into each other, concussed by flying debris. The jet righted itself with as little warning, and she noted there wasn’t even a scream because what happened had been so shocking and dreamlike. The librarian clutched onto Lisanne, who watched the scene in front of her with great stillness as a child would a snow globe he had shaken and stood on its end. A dazed and bloodied steward threaded the aisle. A loud whooping alarm went off with a robotic male voice attached, but she couldn’t understand what it was saying. Lights flashed too, then came the rhythmic bloodcurdling screams of a passenger, contrapuntal to the lights and alarm, and a baby choked and bawled, maybe it was more than one baby, and whimpering rose up from somewhere—from mindstream, mindground, or buddha-field, she couldn’t tell, and when it seemed as if all was not lost or at least that small deathless moment arrived when things seemed to settle, relatively, because nothing had or really could settle at all, just then the plane lurched and thudded and the metal itself shrieked and came a primal chorus of Ohs!—more screaming—this time of those who knew whatever impossible hint of a sliver of chance they were absurdly thinking they might have had was now irrevocably gone and Lisanne saw a counselor screaming too and the plane was nose-diving. She watched all this with her strange stillness, wondering why it was so and wondering why she was unruffled, knowing of course that planes rarely pull out of such dives. Bodies and everyday flotsam rained down past, a true rain because there was coffee and water and even blood, and the librarian nearly got her head chopped off by a PowerBook and everything slowed down: anatomies careening or flopping or weirdly edging their way under dictates of velocity and g-force through clouded, ruined aisles, and Lisanne went deaf but her eyes and heart opened and oddly she thought, Should I have known this, did I know this, was this meant to be, everything so still, she even had time to think of the guidebook that said if on the first day of the month the pinpricks of light and color that normally appear whenever one closes one’s eyes, if those pinpricks should on the first of the month appear no more, then soon death is coming. That when one no longer hears a subtle ringing in the ears, that ever-present subtle sound-presence that all of us, even children, are so familiar with, then soon death is coming. She closed her eyes and saw only blackness, and in her ears heard only blackness. The guidebook said that if one should have a recurring dream of donning dark robes and descending or if one recurrently dreams of the sun and moon descending in the sky, then soon death is coming. Amidst everything, she thought about it but could not remember her most recent dreams. She could not remember ever having a recurring dream in her life, except the one about the snake after Philip died. The librarian was dead, but her hand was still in Lisanne’s. Now everything sped up again to faster than real time, if there could be such a thing, because of the brutal velocity and dreamlike movement, and Lisanne tried reaching to the librarian, whose disfigured face kept getting slammed torn pummeled rivened by debris, tried grabbing the head with her free hand to cradle it from harm’s way, and during those epic librarian labors fittingly all she could think of were books, the black box book whose nearly biblical concordance they once both laughingly shared, and that Lisanne had carried with her on the train to Albany: a chapter that now came to mind with eerie, still, cool remembering was of the plane that crashed because the maintenance crew forgot, after scrubbing down the fuselage, to take a piece of masking tape off a certain hole that in flight always needed to be left uncovered, in order that all kinds of vital gauges and readings could be taken. She recalled puzzling over that account again and again, never understanding how such an essential indicator could be a simple hole and not an actual piece of attached equipment, or why such a hole wouldn’t at least have had some kind of protective grate around it the way meters or pipes do, and if the hole didn’t, which it didn’t seem to, why hadn’t this sort of tragic thing happened before, or if it had she’d never heard about it or read about it, not in all the time Lisanne ever spent reading about crashes. And that seemed strange. In the case of the covered hole, the heroic pilots had flown the plane blind, in the darkness of night, without idea of direction or altitude, for well over an hour before it finally came down. She remembered thinking how cruel that was because the transcripts revealed them to be so noble and meticulous under the circumstances, pilot and copilots continuously alternating glimmers of hope, adroitly skillful, drawing on their collective expertise, natural born problem solvers, yet they were never to know what went wrong or how hopeless their situation was, all because of a masked-over hole, and Lisanne thought with great empathy about the pilots of her own plane just now, what they must be going through, the terrible sorrow of an unflappable captain and his sinking ship, the transcripts sometimes revealed that pilots shouted out the names of wives or girlfriends at the very end or simply said “Mother” or “Mama” (she remembered that the Alaska Airlines pilot had said, “Here we go”), and part of her was grateful everyone was going to die soon, less cruel than flying on and on in delusion, righting the plane then rolling over again then righting it and so forth, postponing the inevitable. She remembered covering her own holes that terrible time she stabbed Philip’s pug. She contrived to cover every orifice as did the careless maintenance crew but in Lisanne’s case it was mindfulness not negligence because the guidebook said one made such coverings during phowa, taping over the apertures of the dead, all but the crown, in order to force ejection of consciousness through the fontanel or top of the head now
a
voice
told her there wasn’t much time. A lama wrote somewhere that even the riders of horses may have a moment to rest during a race but not mankind who from birth with each breath gallops toward the arms of the Lord of Death.
Lisanne was twisted by g-force to lay on her right side. Something so strange popped into her head. She once saw a TV show about a woman who trained orangutans to talk. The university lost their funding and the orangutan that she used to have conversations with was now encaged, awaiting transport to a zoo. He hadn’t seen her in a long time and became excited when she left her car and walked over. He began to “sign,” and the woman translated for the camera crew. Clinging to the bars of the cage, the orangutan said, “Where’s the key?” Then, “Where’s the car?” and
I want to go home
A great force stole the air from her and Lisanne didn’t know if she saw or had merely imagined the moon dip and the sun rise, real and imagined were as one, dreamed and nondreamed, expansion and contraction, guest and host, and she tried to merge the white and red mustard seeds in her heart as darkness came and thunder returned to her ears with utter determination she prayed for the winds of prana to blow the pearly droplet from the central channel straight out the top of the librarian’s head even though the audiotapes said only trained masters should attempt such a thing let alone effect it—but how could any of that matter because Lisanne’s heart was so pure—pure as her Intent—and she rammed the librarian’s consciousness through the dead woman’s thousand-petaled lotus into the heart of space then did the same for herself just as she’d practiced, did her very best to send her own awareness like an arrow into the heart of space, the heart of love, she conjured no Buddha above, the tapes said imagine something beloved suspended there but she envisioned no deity, no Kit, no Philip or dead father with borrowed Milarepa, not even her boy, the love-child whom she of late had taken to calling Rob Jr., not Siddhama anymore, please forgive, forgive me that jejune demotion, nothing above for that arrow to pierce except light, the pure light that was everything, clear light and blissful heart of space, that’s where she sent whatever she had, nectar, nectar everlasting, for herself and librarian, for all beings alive, dead, and yet to be born, and that her final thoug——
CODA
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Ordinary Mind
H.H. PENOR RINPOCHE formally recognized Kit Lightfoot as a tulku, or reincarnation of a twelfth-century Buddhist master. Both Ram Dass and Robert Thurman were present when Kit was told. The actor was profoundly moved. Later, Tenzin judiciously cautioned him not to “go public” with the announcement; it was the sort of thing, he said, that could easily be misconstrued. Kit, of course, agreed. His ego made no demands in that regard.
His Holiness had noticed auspicious portents on the occasion of their first encounter at Tara Guber’s, more than three years before. Further clues to his enlightened status became manifest when Penor Rinpoche visited the Lightfoot home in Riverside, and during subsequent meetings at the Stone Canyon compound. Aside from an abstruse welter of personal characteristics tying Kit to his centuries-old predecessor, His Holiness had perhaps been most impressed by the movie star’s equanimity and consistency of desire to help others—the compassionate jailhouse meeting with his assailant being a prime example—despite the experience of great trauma related not only to his injury but to the death of his girlfriend at the hands of his father. After H.H. Penor Rinpoche consulted with the peers of his lineage, Kit was recognized but not enthroned. Tulkuhood was something to be earned, rather than conferred.
Unfortunately, the revelation was leaked to the press, and skepticism, however briefly, prevailed. It was broadly hinted (even among those claiming to be spiritually evolved) that Kit Lightfoot’s tulku status had been bestowed by virtue of his many generous donations, both past and relatively recent, to certain clinics and monasteries in Mysore, Burma, the Netherlands, and elsewhere. No one seemed to care or take public note that his root guru, Gil Weiskopf Roshi, had close ties to H.H. Penor Rinpoche and the Nyingma lineage that stretched back many years or that Kit had visited the Namdroling monastery with his teacher.
His Holiness still felt a measured response to the controversy was in order and released a kind of elegant disclaimer, via the Internet, stressing that no relevant persons or entities had received any substantial donations from Mr. Lightfoot. Moreover, the announcement of his being a tulku, far from being frivolous or ill-conceived, was measured and sober minded. Such a recognition, he said, was to be celebrated, not rebuked. The statement of his rebirth was a simple fact and not meant to imply that Mr. Lightfoot was a realized being, merely that he possessed special gifts and the potential to aid others. Much training lay ahead. There were no guarantees regarding each tulku’s “success.” Taking the high lama road, the Rinpoche closed his statement by reiterating that the discovery of a jewel should provoke joyousness, not cynical dissent. He hoped that one day, that would be so.
• • •
“DID YOU KNOW we worked that thing out with Charlize?” said Rob.
“Cool,” said Kit. “When’s she gonna be here?”
“She’s in South Africa now. End of next week.”
“Now there’s a long flight,” said Kit.
“Tell me about it,” said Rob. “I’ve done it—more than once. You guys know each other, right?” Rob called through the open door to his assistant.
“Maybe we met at some benefit. Toronto? Maybe, yeah. I think it was the film festival.”
Megan poked her head in.
“When’s Charlize coming, do we know?” asked Rob.
“Saturday,” she said.
“Saturday?” said Rob, with a minifrown.
“She had a family thing and had to wait until the weekend.”
“OK,” said Rob, resigned.
“Excuse me, Kit,” said Megan, respectfully. “The camera crew’s ready.”
“Great!” said Kit, standing.
“What’s going on?” said Rob, nonplussed.
“Kit’s being honored next Sunday by a group in Washington.”
“NIF,” said Kit. “The Neurological Injury Foundation.”
“How great,” said Rob.
“I’m sorry,” said Megan to the director, deferentially. “I thought you knew.”
“No,” said Rob. “But that’s fine.”
“That’s probably my fault,” she said. “Anyway, Kit’s not able to attend the gala because of our rehearsal schedule.”
“Galas are a good thing,” said Rob.
“That’s why they’re going to tape. It shouldn’t take very long.”
“If I’d have known,” said Rob, “we could have worked our rehearsal schedule around it.”
“I mentioned that to Kit—”
“It’s OK, it’s OK—I didn’t want to go to Washington,” said Kit. “Didn’t feel like doing the poster-boy thing this week.”
“You can use my office for the taping if you like,” said Rob.
“They’re pretty much all set up in the courtyard,” said Megan.
“Let’s do it,” said Kit.
(Trademark grin.)
• • •
KIT SAT IN the courtyard in a safari chair. The makeup artist zapped a zit while the D.P. tweaked lights and meters.
The director said, “OK, folks, are we set?”
“Ready,” said the A.D.
“Mr. Lightfoot,” said the director. “Are you good to go?”
“Ready-steady,” said Kit.
“Ready Steadicam,” said the D.P., nonsensically.
“Do we have a Steadicam?” asked Kit.
“No, but I wish we did,” said the D.P.
“Just like a cinematographer,” said the director. “They want a Steadicam for a stationary shot.”
“We could shoot this Russian Ark–style,” said the D.P.
“Dream on,” said the director. “Ready?”
“Ready-teddy,” said Kit.
“Let’s roll tape.”
“Camera is on.”
“Kit,” said the director, standing just behind the D.P. “Can you tell us why this new role is so important to you?”
“You mean, as spokesman?”
“I’m sorry—no. In the Rob Reiner film.”
“Sure, be happy to. I—I guess I’ve always liked a challenge. And . . . this—this has been the hardest one.”
“Hold it,” said the D.P.
“I’m sorry, Kit,” said the director.
“Not a problem,” said Kit.
“OK,” said the D.P. “We are good to go.”
“Rolling?”
“Rolling tape.”
“Kit, can you tell us why the role in your new film has been so important for you? Why it’s been important for you to take on?”
He hadn’t prepared, but that worked in his favor. He began to talk, heartfelt. “I’ve always really liked a challenge. And this has been a hard one! There are . . . so many people in my corner—friends and colleagues—so many fans. The fans helped pull me through. And there’s my mom, who was so brave. She passed away. I learned a lot from her! I still have that picture in my mind of my mother’s courage, and that was something to help me in my dark hours. And my dear friend Cela, who I knew since I was young. Another strong woman, important woman in my life. I am an artist, and just because I was injured . . . I still think like an artist—or hope I do! I have to do the things an artist does. So I do what I am doing for all artists and all friends—and all the friends and all the people who are alive who have suffered for . . . neurological injuries and trauma, and even for those who are dead but whose courage and struggles should not be forgotten . . .” His eyes filled with tears. “I— If I have one special wish, it is . . . to do my best—if I am real—to make people believe, with all their hearts, that this journey and this struggle can be so beautiful . . .” He looked down then back up, smiling sweetly. “To show the world. That you can be anything and dream anything . . .”
He trailed off, emotional.
Long silence from crew, punctuated by makeup girl sniffles.
The director softly conferred with the D.P., then said, “Kit, we had some technical difficulties, and for that I am very sorry.” The actor shifted in his seat and minorly grimaced. “I’m being to
ld the problem has been corrected and will not happen again.” The last he lobbed toward the repentant D.P., who, avoiding his eyes, nodded militarily. “But that was fantastic, and I hate to ask you to do it over . . .”
“That’s OK,” said Kit, affably. “Shit happens.”
“OK, then let’s go once more! That was amazing, Kit—if you could do pretty much the same thing then I think we are golden.”
“No problem,” said Kit. “No estoy problema. No estoy problemita, Señorita Pepita.”
“Rolling tape!” said the cameraman.
“All right, Kit—when you’re ready.”
Give me, O God, what you still have.
Give me what no one asks you for.
I don’t ask you for wealth
Nor for success,
Nor even for health.
People ask you for all that so often
That you can’t have any left.
Give me, O God, what you still have.
Give me what people
Refuse to accept from you.