Chapter 16
Swyambu
“I’m sorry, Mr. Finberg,” the vice-consul gravely reported to me. “The State Department had no luck with your stepmother. She would not even bring your brother to the phone. Do you have anyone else we can call?” I drew in a deep breath and silently cursed. I had no address book, but instructed the embassy to call the information operator in California and search for my friend at his office in the APPLE MAZE at Cupertino. I was no longer very optimistic. I sensed powerful forces working against me. I also knew that the struggle for survival had begun. I would have only two dollars left after paying off the hotel. I walked up to the roof and looked out towards Swyambu. I could see the hill with its white-washed stupa, the famous one with its all-seeing eyes gazing about omnipotently in all directions. Right behind the stupa was a larger hill with a monastery. This was my last hope. I walked to the foot of the hill like a sleep-walker and began clawing my way up the side with a grim mix of iron determination and queasy fear. It was a desperate hour and all my money was gone.
Then the Guides delivered me. A young Lama and his wife greeted me at the top and told me I was welcome to stay for a month. “Calm down and write your screenplay. My porters will be waiting for you down at the foot of the hill tomorrow,” the young Lama reassured me. I couldn’t believe it. My luck had drastically changed, yet again, inside the vortex. I hurried on down back to the hotel, and sold some of my books to pay for the taxi. I then packed and called the embassy to leave a new phone number. It was the young Lama’s, the new young Lama. He was now my new protector. The powers that be WANTED me to finish the screenplay. The next morning the porters were waiting. I led the caravan up the hill and took photos of this improbable procession. I was given a large room overlooking the city of Kathmandu. I was now above my torment. I could see the entire valley that the great god Manjushri had created in dreamlike rapidity with a quick thrust of his sword. For this was the age of miracles. My mind roared ahead and talked. I set up my altar and gave offerings to the Guides. The porters brought me a writing table. The meals were brought into my room by friendly nuns. The Young Lama also brought offerings to me. I was now beginning my final adventure in EURASIA. I knew what I had to do. AND THAT WAS TO WRITE, WRITE, WRITE. It was a glorious feeling.
I WAS THE MAN IN THE HIGH CASTLE
Did it flow?
Yes. With its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level and a deep vastness in this ocean.
The UNIVERSE as seen from Swyambu:
Is it a single thing like a fish or a molecule of water? Or did it drift into existence like a sand dune, an accumulation of parts? And how will it end? As a whole, dying as we do, losing its properties and faculties all at once? Or will it slide slowly out of existence (whatever that might mean) with each galaxy discovering its own independent fate? The great Buddhist RAP told me the Universe was OLD and that it went ROUND and ROUND. Having memory of these cycles was itself a sign of SPIRITUALITY. The lowest gods could remember forty cycles, the next grade, one thousand, and the next, one hundred thousand, until one reached the highest Buddhas who had access to millions of cycles. But what if there was something even beyond this? Hell, I just wanted to ride, man. I just had to go!
WELCOME TO SWYAMBU CIRCUS
In three acts:
WITH A CAST OF THOUSANDS
Dear Guardian Angel:
I made it to the top of the hill, man. And now it’s time to rock. There’s a time squeeze, and a money squeeze, but I’m here above the valley. I’m at the center of the vortex and it’s time to tap its powerful energies. There are two hills here and I’m on top of one and the other one is right down below. Imagine two lightning rods that catch and spiral the energy UP, UP, AND UP ..... The Bonpos are down below at the foot of a dragon’s tail. Yes, this is the acceleration point down on the vortex floor. We’re on higher ground here in Manjushri country. I’m mapping out the five rites. I’m relearning the codes. I’ve got some dangerous ally-opponents and some kind of double-reversal is still ahead of me. I have this bothersome ghost; it’s the loss of everything important in my life. My needs are tied to this tragic past. My desire is to create a new mandala to transmit the vision of a new Eurasia. The Cold War is over and all this global chaos is the lull before the next storm. My enemies are trying to force me back home before this mandala is finished. This is the battle in this unstable world of surge and swirl. You can find only unstable alliances here. I’m looking for a kind of self-revelation. I already know it and I simply refuse to admit to myself that this precious mandala was always inside me. It’s this realization that will allow this outer mandala to be completed. My insides and my outsides harmonizing at last and achieving an indestructible unity ready for its transmission to all sentient beings. This is an alliance with unconditional love and it’s rock solid. It’s important to become a beacon of light in the darkness. Look how the Guides smile down on me. I’m just this frightened ego searching for new tools. See how it likes to clash with other frightened egos. This ego needs to identify with the egoless beings. This kind of identification blesses other egos without feeding them. It also protects the blesser from getting eaten up. It’s a drama that leads to no drama at all. How boring, you may say, but oh, how free it is in its egolessness. With it is no “I’m in the center” kind of existence. You want power? You got it. Will the Regent see this? His curse is the ghost that haunts him. What the Rebellious Regent has to do now is transcend this curse and accept his real teacher. The driving need is freedom, the false desire being simply control. The battle-ground is the lineage. It’s time for a revelation now, maybe even a double reversal. I’m waiting for this with anticipation. How do you turn egomania into egoless bliss? Can you see how both stories are overlapping now? Wow, I’m struggling to write a screenplay on top of this hill as “a greater drama” unfolds in New Delhi. I’m penniless and the Nepalis will soon be looking for me. Can you see? I’m just looking for perfect symmetry and a superior alignment. There are these PURELANDS everywhere. They’re invisible to the naked eye, but can be seen by gazing into any mandala. Only then can you really reach the subtlest energy in the Universe, the strongest forces inside an atom, the farthest reaches of outer space and beyond that into other unknown dimensions, all in order to find whatever is necessary to help and liberate stressed-out beings. I now bow down to Yama, the Lord of Death! Yes, it’s the big OM MANI PADME HUM! Can you see? Generosity is always more free than greed, justice more liberating than violence, tolerance more releasing than anger, and wisdom always more superior than prejudice.
Yours,
Enlightened Determination
A dream: I see Inge and she is trying to tell me something and I can’t quite make it out as she moves her lips and silent words spill out I’m just frustrated Angela a maiden from what was once East Germany who now lives with the nuns below the hill knocks on my door for a visit and tells me she is still in shock for her travels have made her now disillusioned and she misses the simple life seen in the countryside and finds all politics mostly talk and now she has come to the conclusion that the real struggle is inside our heads so she follows Zen and is a volunteer nurse here in Nepal and she’s tall and lanky like Inge but she’s got blue eyes and blonde hair and unlike Inge wears a pair of glasses and has a deeper practice you know we all went on strike in those hopeful days she said and now I’m just sad and Cottbus looks so drab and Berlin looks bad while I give Angela some tea and lick her spoon ....
So did it flow?
But of course. The restlessness of its waves and the surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of its states of sea ....
Why did the fool go up the hill? To curse the stupid cabby who fucked up getting there, to set up shop for a creative surge, to dream about his black and white dakinis in Prague and Bhaktapur, separated by thousands of nautical miles, to the tune of DARK SIDE OF THE MOON and THE WALL, to feel protected in a strange and wonderful something or other, to write a screenplay in five weeks, to feel the Nepalis breathing down his neck, to align and to realign, to be the man in the high castle, to produce in a limited amount of time a new mandala for a new world.
How did this dreamer plot his moves?
With a curve, the book was the slow stage of anticipatory waiting, it was the build-up for the lift-off of the screenplay, pushing the computer game into orbit.
Where did this pilot get his inspiration?
From his consorts that Padmasambhava blessed him with.
And what happened next?
He created a life-net that had faulty nodes, that could not surpass these karmic obstacles, that triggered something bold and heavy, that spotted the slinking priest behind Annika, the young woman who gave him his boost when he needed it, it was time now to turn on the stove.
And then what happened?
The days became more structured, and a routine was developed, while mastering the code, the pujas, the rejuvenation rites, the long rest pauses, a hyper-organizing in a race against time, the discovery of a new curve, the cracking of the code, the simulations, and finally the REAL THING, competing with Hollywood’s best, being a source of tremendous curiosity to the Tibetans, this strange and wonderful dream.
And then?
The warrior drew a map with many colored layers, weaving the structure, the characters, and the dialogue, then integrating the master map with the single genre maps, reading Beauty and the Beast, hearing Apple flake-out, considering selling his ticket, being warned by the vice-consul not to, seeing the bigger picture unfold, watching strange energies come in, observing the nuns taking a fancy to him, giving them soap and iodine, while being treated like royalty, getting breakfast, lunch, and tea, dinner too, in this home away from home, finding a family in an alien land.
So did he enjoy it?
Most definitely, living on top of this mountain, over-looking a magical valley, hearing the winds howl at night, feeling safe in the diamond castle, having the Guides watch over him, getting so much done so fast, by hyper-organizing full-time, enjoying the peaceful environment, having all personal logistics taken care of by the nuns, this sweet ANI feeling, experiencing every day as a lifetime, breaking image engineering codes, creating a whole new code, and mapping it out.
And did it flow?
Indeed it did, its hydrostatic quiescence in this calm; its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides; its capacity to dissolve and hold in this new solution all soluble substances .....
Yes, discovering the waves:
TELEGRAM: The code has now been cracked! They are these revelation waves.
An inner shot: The monks sing in chorus OM MANI PADME HUM. I rotate my body in circles, I lie down on my back, press my chin to my chest and lift feet into the air. Oh, Mommy can you please take me home?
And what did the waves say?
That all drama is nothing but revelation waves, crystallizing into these three waves with the second one extended to provide a strong middle, just a slight modification of the ancient Greek theory, each wave having its own peculiar properties, kick starting, building-up, sustaining, and climaxing any given story, with dialogue acting as a damper or accelerator, providing a range of speed for the waves, silence then amplifying the revelations after each acceleration, this new integration of systems theory and wave structure being powerful, the image engineer gasping at the thought of this, the young Lama giving him more offerings, then asking for a Parker pen.
Anything else?
Seeing a powerful vision, just letting the DNA of storytelling fall into his hands, benefiting from multiple-life accumulation, just as when the DNA of markets spilled into his lap, a blessing on the head, a curse on the lips, just facci tutto per bene, it was just everything for the best ....
And?
Seeing that the development of character was determined by skillful use of the code, now integrating the master code with the minor codes of horror, myth, science fiction, and fantasy, mixing the minors within the framework of the major, creating great screenplays, and realizing it was time for some simulation runs, testing Hollywood’s best and brightest, and his own work against the code.
Was it exciting?
It was terribly exciting, sculpting the outline into shape with index cards, getting high on the blueprints, the drafts, understanding the age of multimedia as a blueprint process, then seeing blueprints for blueprints, on multiple levels, watching this as the core process for all kinds of visionary work, then planting a seed and watching it branch out, unlike enlightenment which isn’t really organic, it simply being the basic nature of things, simply jumping out if you trusted it unconditionally, and wondering how to develop this unconditional trust in others ....
And then what happened?
A simulation phase drew near, as the real game began, the Buddhist screen-writer testing his skills against the top guns of Hollywood, feeling as if inside a computer, creating the game as he went along, participating in a weird version of monastic virtual reality, feeling it time to document this process, defining an era, thinking it wild, seeing the multiple visions, feeling the solid protection and devotion, understanding that the care and concern were REAL, having an office, an altar, a private library, and a huge room with a view, having a work-out room, doing the rejuvenation rites, getting into the yogic postures, then having three meals a day, and some tea, harnessing the energy of the Third Vortex.
TELEGRAM: The Spirit-fic code has been cracked.
And what was that?
It was a new mandala, with theory giving way to experiment, fusing science fiction and mythical fantasy with practical and powerful concepts of Tantric Buddhist psychology, the revelation waves, the dialogue dynamics, the strata-fugue maps, all fusing into one big MEGA-THEORY of story molding, concluding it was time to try out various story molds, putting the “monk” thing on index cards, choosing the mold of choice, and pouring the creative liquid into it, then letting it cool, and realizing it was simply good fun.
Did he know where to go now?
He did.
And what else?
Learning SPIRIT-FIC’s rules, then bending them, having different kinds of spacetime reflecting many different observers, even within one individual, then understanding how cross-cutting between different worlds mirrored the dream world of the unconscious, the collective mind ocean, then seeking this cosmic revelation, by pushing the transformational hero’s journey obsessively, also learning how to manipulate episodic structure, by branching it out, then nesting it into more advanced forms, treating the audience to journeys through all kinds of multiple worlds, then encountering all these multiple opponents, and using standard science fiction, horror, and mythic fantasy to powerful effect, by allowing these worlds to converge inside the hero’s mind as reflections of himself.
So what more?
The engineer discovered that SPIRIT-FIC was personal and collective simultaneously, seeing a hologramic vision, and being vague about it, then observing, that change on one level brought change on all levels, thus letting the audience be exposed to a variety of experiences, by pushing the process of involvement, of their identification beyond current known modes, and simply abandoning film for virtual reality, and letting the audience accumulate a new wisdom of the mind.
So was this REALLY new?
No, since multiple worlds within multiple mind-frames was an old invention, what was new was the transmission of this vision as a temporary and illusory phenomena, showing how an all encompassing multiplicity was simply various forms of STRESS, also showing how a turning over of symbols, rather quickly, and on multiple levels, helped accelerate a cognitive evolution, inside the ecology of mind and matter itself, all as a new form of ritual that allowed the audience to transcend its own collective mind, releasing all kinds of negative psychic energies, even as it posed as a new kind of entertainment, which subtly but surely turned into a spiritual communion, with all kinds of blessing potential.
And so in conclusion?
The Buddhist mapper realized that creating new worlds and showing off their impermanence was simply bad news for Hollywood, but really good for the spiritual awakening of beings, empowering them on multiple levels miraculously.
BRRRRING
“Yes? Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Finberg?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Finberg, we have some more bad news for you. Our representative at the State Department has informed us that your friend at Apple computers cannot send you the requested funds at this time. The State Department cable also emphasized that it will not repatriate you, nor make any more calls on your behalf should you sell your airline ticket.”
“I see.”
“It is my suggestion, Mr. Finberg that you leave the country as soon as possible, before your visa expires. The Nepalis will incarcerate you and our embassy will have yet another American to worry about.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Farley .... I’ll keep you closely informed of my future plans.”
Click.
And so did it flow?
Oh, most certainly. The slow erosions of islands and peninsulas, the persistent formation of homothetic islands and peninsulas and these down-trending promontories: its alluvial deposits; this weight and volume and density: the imperturbability in these lagoons .... a slow passcaglia then:
OK, Angel. I lost a day of work today, the Lama’s mother tried to boot me out, I really don’t know what’s going on because the young Turk isn’t in the country, the mother told me that he told her I had to leave after ten days, which is a breaking of our agreement, and there’s no way to know for sure whether it’s a scam of the mom’s or whether this is a backstab .... there’s a lot of confusion here anyway, the Lama’s wife came to the rescue and convinced the mom I should stay until her husband comes back, so I guess you can say we won this one, I was kinda wrathful, though and this probably helped, you know, I left the monastery for the first time today, my mind and body were overwhelmed by the chaos and confusion of Kathmandu, my chakras started shutting down and speeding up, and it just wasn’t any fun comparing the vibes of the protection zone with the vortex pollution down below, I guess you could say monastic life is a human attempt to build a heaven on Earth, yes, where I’m living it’s just the upper half of the stress-wheel, and a little ways down below, the lower realms are in control, but I understand the shock of this blow-out better now, I really was just traveling between these two very different worlds, it’s NO HALLUCINATION, this screenplay really needs to be written in a good environment because the blessings here will protect its journey through the lower realms, and I’m getting no help at all from the home of the brave and the land of the free, so I guess I have to ask the Buddhas and protectors of Kailas and Tsurupu for assistance, You see it’s their territory, and I’ve been having a devil of a time getting an air-ticket refund, it’s just a lot of hopeless red tape, and even if there was a remote chance of a refund, I would be given just Nepali rupees, which are worthless in Tibet, Angel ....
Life in the lower realms:
I was in a funk and I hated it. My hair was filled with lice, the East German nurse ran her smooth fingers through my scalp and suggested I buy some anti-lice lotion. I continued on to Swyambu Hill, the gritty dirt and dust of thousands of years of worship caked the entire environment. It was like an old-fashioned movie when I arrived at the top, tourists, touts, monkeys, beggars, artisans, monks, and nuns all jostled for camera position. The monkeys, in particular, seemed to be driven by some awful grief, they attacked a begging woman, stealing her possessions amid great laughter from the milling crowds; it was a curious karma. I was in a grim mood, watching the monkeys frantically feed off corn kernels; these small wiry creatures seemed to beg and beg for everything, some of them bearing their teeth like angry leeches.
I quickly discovered it was possible to make collect calls to Canada; the dentist in Jerusalem popped into my mind, it was worth a try. I also thought about Lindy; I had found her number in one of her papers I was carrying inside my bottomless duffel bags, it was mad. I walked back to the monastery in a listless mood. Sinister feelings were creeping up on me. The dark lice of the mind were making me angry, confused, and frightened. I felt nauseous, weak, and dizzy. My world was spiraling into oblivion. Kathmandu had poor lost sunken eyes. I could hear Tibetan monks droning atonal acoustics inside their faded temples, where it always seemed like mysterious night. I walked with anticipation through the dark corridors of these very temples, smelling the musty odors of endless incense sticks and dripping candles. I placed my forehead at the feet of the Hinbu gods, begging for good fortune; maybe they would cock their ears and rain down smiles on me. I was desperate. I met the Lama’s wife at the bottom of the hill, she was a young woman, and always greeted me with a beautiful papier-m’chÈ smile. In my madness, I was actually in love with her for the few minutes our encounter lasted. She was soft and oriental, thin and well built. This was a Lhasa angel. “Oh, things, very different now,” she explained to me in broken English. My Lhasa dakini was the same age as Summer, who seemed so very far away now; in mind as well as in body. A fierce thunderstorm soon began. I and the Lama’s wife, and all her escorting nuns dashed for the nearest shelter as rain and lightning pounded the valley, I stumbled into my room, and in the swaying darkness felt an unimaginable softness. I was now safe once again.
Just observing the waves:
And what was the next phase?
Simulation of “Beauty and the Beast,” naturally.
And what did he find?
A typical fantasy structure with few frills, no episodic encounters in different worlds, pure fantasy and no myth, just two contrasting worlds that merged with no twists, the hero’s, or in this case, the heroine’s ghost did not really propel the story, indeed, it was the ally-opponent who seemed to change the most.
And?
Typical fantasy elements, like inanimate objects, and a simplistic main opponent, the heroine and the beast, the only complex characters, enough stuff to make it a slightly unusual fantasy story with a riveting plot and the magic moment weakening the double-reversal, yet all this not preventing this fantasy from reaping big bucks at the box-office and being nominated for an Oscar, the second wave having an extended “B-wave” to explore the new world, thus ingratiating the audience as the new world turned friendly, and the old world turned hostile in the final climaxing rush, the new world turning friendly because the protagonists survive a common danger while aiding each other, this cross-cutting action accelerating the collision of these worlds, the tension build-up demanding this release, this magic moment fusing two alien worlds, releasing the tension, and surviving a successful simulation-run.
And what happened next?
The Buddhist engineer ran his “Little Monk” through a simulation run, finding nothing but big holes, the story completely violating the wave structure, it having a powerful start, a surprising ending, but a drifting and confused middle, lacking any build-up towards a battle, thus having little tension requiring release, the ending actually being almost anti-climactic, no really big revelation revealing itself until the end, despite it being pretty hairy, by suggesting that the world one thinks is actually the world that seems to exist, the hero revealing to the audience that the story was simply a dream, the abbot revealing himself as both the little monk’s opponents, as well as his allies, then the little monk revealing himself as the abbot, and finally the very narrator revealing himself as the little monk, hinting that the audience is him as well, the ending hitting three birds with one stone and going where Lucas and Disney have NEVER gone before.
What were the real flaws?
There being no real big revelations until the end, there being no new organic build-up, along with there being a weak desire-line, thus there being no inciting incident, the hero not really deciding on a plan, the story simply drifting, the hero then encountering all kinds of opponents and allies and getting great amounts of training, but to what end never really being clear, a confusing and drifting gauntlet, leading to a weak battle, there being talismans never used, or used too early, there being not enough complex characters that could add to a big build-up, the only character seeming to change being the unseen narrator, with the characters now needing to bounce off each other more, and in fewer worlds.
So what was the conclusion?
That the story needed drastic rewriting for success on the silver screen.
What other conclusions were then made?
That the story as it was could still pass off as an interesting New Age piece with its experimental abstract style and twisting psychological episodes, with its dream narrative and drifting wisdom, simply too slow for the Hollywood establishment, its middle needing to be re-worked, the beginning being OK, the end being spectacular, the entire work STILL being a unique story, one that explored many levels of mind with profound Buddhist psychology, the whole piece just fusing myth with fantasy in a wondrous, life-transforming manner.
Were there any final conclusions then?
Yeah, that mystical tracts lead to anti-drama, their dialogue being indirect, too playful, the ineffable being difficult to describe, it being this poor drama, with indirect dialogue often building up to simply NOTHING and leaving everything hanging in the air, there being just too much dampening.
Now this inner shot:
The nuns sing in chorus this Om Tara Tu Tare Ture Hum as I sit on my knees and press my chin to my chest. I then pull my head back, lie on the floor and press my chin to my chest again and again. I lift my hands backward. I hear an atonal chanting in my ears, it’s so sublime, I see tormas everywhere and leave them alone, no telling who’s living in them. The morning mist is slowly rising above this monkey hill and no telling who could be going in circles there.
And so did it flow?
Most certainly. It had this graduation of big colors in torrid and temperate and frigid zones: it had these vehicular ramifications in continental lake contained streams, and confluent ocean flowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulf streams, North and South equatorial courses: it had violence in these seaquakes, waterspouts, the Artesian wells, those eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, ground swells, watersheds and water partings, these geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, and cloudbursts ....
AND NOW THE MONKEY CHORUS: “.... AND HE KILLED HIS CHILD!”
Who did?
The Buddhist engineer, vision mapper and celluloid con-man.
And why did he do this?
Because it had no chance to grow up, there being this pressing need now to give birth to a new one.
And how did he do this ?
By putting all the characters on index cards, all the fantasy worlds, the beginning, of course, the end, all the elements being laid out, allowing for organic fusion, seeing the mess in the middle, and scanning for patterns, for these crucial symmetries and then asking those big questions:
What am I trying to say?
How to climax this plot?
So where were the worlds leading?
And how did the earlier revelations lead to the final one?
What was the big inciting incident?
And how did the opponents hinder the hero?
And how did the allies help the hero?
And how would the battle come about?
And how about the double reversal?
How did the story ballets really work together to bring
on the climax?
And what were the passageways between the worlds?
So how did the dialogue enrich the characters?
And then drive the plot?
And what was the role of the talisman?
In the big surging climax?
During the passage between the worlds?
And during the final magic moment?
So what happened next?
The questions drove the reorganization, answers then soon popped out like magic, like mathematics, making the mandala speak with a new big story, one with just greater unfolding power.
What unfolded then?
The idea of a ballet, it being a cluster of scenes, these being five color schemes for easy reference, then delineating the various worlds, the human characters now being turned into animals, all except the little monk, the old sage, and the sorceress, who now had an expanded role, she being the foil for our hero, she being the sexual epicenter, and she being connected to the butterfly, which now drove the desire-line, which was the key to the plot, which symbolized PEACE, but which symbolized POWER to the opponents, there also being these five colored worlds, reflecting the five Buddha energies, all living on Swyambu Hill, there being dream worlds in the middle, and heavy action in them as they progressively collide, as alliances are made, as different energies spill into new worlds, as revelations keep piling on top of one another, hurling the audience to the final revelation, thus uniting the final tag with the opening teaser, the new tag world being the teaser world transformed, seeing thus the new mandala’s birth as terribly breath-taking.
And so what did this all really mean?
That the first and second layers were completed and then fused into one, the fugue map being half accomplished, the clues for the next two layers being hidden in the mandala, the artist being continually distracted by logistical problems, of Nepal being a struggle from the word “GO,” of the yellow world introducing the narrator, the Little Monk and Belle, his birdlike side-kick, of the green world introducing, the sorceress Diamond and the first silly opponent, Higgens, emphasizing the butterfly search, propelling the story along and pushing the growing alliance into the subsequent worlds, where Yogurt the turtle is found and where the battle with the monkeys and lizards climaxes the story, with each world adding a crucial revelation, the crazy American Buddhist hitting bottom, the Lama’s wife cheering him up, telling him about a mysterious telephone at another monastery, a telephone with a long-distance line, this being too good to be true, the story finally starting to crack, oh so precipitately and so mysteriously.
And really how so?
By Belle revealing the butterfly secret and Diamond’s big connection to it, and also Yogurt’s, their secret union somehow producing the butterfly, that transforms into the hidden sage, who then gives the final revelation, the Little Monk picking up all the components during his travels, putting them together at the end of the story and thus changing the world and our hero.
And did it flow?
Yes! It did. Its vast circumterrestrial horizontal curve, then its secrecy in springs and its latent humidity, revealed by these rhabdomantic and hydrometric instruments, and exemplified by the well, and by the hole in the wall.
It’s like surfing the waves ....
Now a dream: I saw Summer in a provocative pose tempting me as I met her in San Francisco and confronting a ton of baggage and becoming rich and needing to hide some money quickly with Pia now admitting that Summer is the stronger of the two by dint of having suffered more and staring this death in the face mostly where she had never traveled before with circles and circles beyond any known experience and asking should we fly my love and beginning to make this comeback ....
With a slower passcaglia ....
Well, you know Angel, I was able to map out the big Lama’s family tree today with the help of this brat called Dorje who’s always pestering me about this and everything, he’s a little monk in training here and there’s also this American guy from Vermont who gives me sympathy and always asks favors from me, but doesn’t really lift a finger to help, yeah, he won’t even share his Herald Tribunes with me, and it’s like this, the father of the young Lama is the really big master, I mean he’s REALLY THAT BIG and he once had these two wives, uh, these consorts and four sons, all of them Tulkus and this family also controls four monasteries in the valley, you could say it’s a Buddhist dynasty, you see, what really happened here is that the brats let me in without consulting the adults, I kinda took over the third floor and became some kinda competing power and obviously they don’t like this, actually they’re quite pissed off and there’s two heavy rockers down in the basement, this old guy and this old nun, and you can always hear them blowing away, it’s so cool, these guys are all just Drikun Kagyu and you know, these people really like mixing their Mahamudra with their Dzogchen, it’s just two sides of the same coin, this divine couple of golden light with no shade of gray, you see, the young Lamas previously ran the largest nunnery in Tibet and the nun presence is pretty strong here too, ah yes, the gray stuff, it’s the stuff of great drama, when things are never really just black and white, you know, I kinda went down the hill to see all the final Losar rites, you know it’s the Tibetan new year here and it was pretty intense with all these monks carrying this big torma out of the temple and also this straw-man, finally burning it all to quickly pacify the ghosts and demons, well it was powerful shit and I felt dizzy, and almost blacked out, you see, the energy was just too intense, now I’m kinda unplugged and energies are rushing in and out of this opening, it’s a furious pace too, the koras are now going well, and everybody’s swirling around Swyambu, yet the pujas are now becoming so sweet and sublime, while doing the old rejuvenation rites, I simply left my body, the boundaries just sorta collapsed, and nothing really seemed to matter, yes, there’s all these holy alignments and blissful disorienting releases, these pujas are the Dharmakaya, and the Sambogahkaya is a kind of playful tension, and of course the pain and difficult logistics are the Nirmanakaya, just simply these fluctuations of the physical variety, and you know, I don’t really care for this stress, but that’s the package, and all these levels are transformational, you just need to work on the highest, in order to bring salvation and clarity to the lowest, Angel, OK, you see?
And what did the image engineer do next?
Having mapped the major story ballets, the minor ones came next, the audience now needing to care about the characters, in order to receive their wisdom, thus a big layering process was discovered, deepening the story and making the multiple characters as complex as the image engineer’s imagination allowed them to be, the complexity coming out in the dialogue, and the action now just being naturally progressive.
And the characters?
The Little Monk and Diamond begin to grow emotionally, thus they play off each other, like the forces of light and darkness, they simply being two sides of the same coin, all the allies and opponents occupying a gray zone, and thus adding to the complexity, by fighting and helping both sides, with gray relationships existing even within the two opposing camps, thus this layering now slipping onto the cards, with the organic flow of the story tightening and becoming logical.
So what did this really accomplish?
The fleshing out of the minor ballets, the little monk being just one hell of a challenge, then seeing the new tourists of the world, the Poles and the Koreans, simply watching the vicious monkeys, and understanding mythic fantasy as a hero’s journey through many contrasting worlds, discovering universal messages, seeing a one on one drama and building this all up to a climax, by combining two of the toughest genres in the story-telling business, even while introducing an alien “philosophy” to a western audience and discovering this not to be an easy task, just oozing elements of Alice, Star Wars, and Oz, then stealing elements for show and tell and telling the tale about these minds creating the universes they live in, and finally demonstrating how thoughts can transform negative worlds, thus feeling the Guides in them testing and watching.
And what did the engineer see on the horizon?
He saw this coding of dialogues from the original text, and discovering them to be of uneven quality, amazed that some were deep and actually profound, ultimately provocative, thus making one stop, think, and feel something DEEP inside, not knowing how much wisdom could be really grafted onto the new dramatic dashboard, deciding also how much wisdom and how much drama to balance out, realizing it to be an uneasy combo, watching ego and non-ego battling for dominance, doubting whether he had the skill and balance to find the right balance, deciding how to make an exciting movie without compromising the teachings, a deliriously difficult exercise, doing good pujas, feeling a strong body, despite the pressures the mind was under, discovering this practice taking off during these times of immense struggle, the tarot counseling that friends that would help this week.
And so did it flow?
Absolutely! Its saturation of air, this distillation of dew, the simplicity of its composition, these two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen, these healing virtues, this buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea, this preserving penetrativeness in these runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, the leaks on shipboard ....
NEXT. On the dusty road to Bodnath.
We see an exhausted American looking for a working phone, climbing onto a bus, he is going to the young Lama’s half-brother, who owns a huge monastery which is quite a monster, you sorta get lost in it, the congestion is pretty bad, the American gives a sob performance in front of the Lama and some amused Russians.
AMERICAN
HELP? I need a phone with an international line.
LAMA
Why?
AMERICAN
Because I need money!
(In an exasperated tone.)
LAMA
Are you Jewish?
AMERICAN
Yes, and I also need a room for the night.
LAMA
Do you also want room service?
(Begins to laugh.)
AMERICAN
That’s the way it is! Here, man. OK, it’s Nepal.
The Lama’s humor is beginning to grate on the American’s nerves.
AMERICAN
Hey, can you please take our photo?
(As he gives his camera to one of the Russians.)
LAMA
And he says he’s broke!
There’s a FLASH!
and an even slower passcaglia.
SHIT! Angel, these crazy Tibetans, they are so irritating, I spent the night trying to make a phone call at this high Lama’s place and it turned out to be a fucking joke, I mean the phone hasn’t had an international connection for years, why did this goofball lead me on? All this miscoordination and bullshit with the Tibetans is getting on my nerves, your hopes get dashed constantly, still the Tibetans try hard to be nice, the bodhicitta index is so low here, and they know a lack of generosity will doom their practice, the Nepalis, the Indians, and the Chinese are hopeless, also I can’t stand a lot of the Westerners around this Lama, most of them have their noses hopelessly caught up in their asses, oh, did I forget to tell you, this Russian film producer gave me her card, she lives in Moscow, you know I was sleeping in this room recently vacated by some Lama and what a pig sty this guy left, it was awful, but outside his room there was a fire puja going on, and this Nakpa with flowing magician’s robes was incantating and incinerating all these tormas, I feel this is all coming to some conclusion, Angel.
I’m climbing up the mountain in order to see the Guru:
My final month in Eurasia had now begun; the kitchen staff at the other place had been unfriendly. I went out and did some koras around the large stupa, I confided in the pigeons and watched the early morning weirdos plying their fortune cards, their long hair streaming to the floor. Soon, I found myself at the Gokornath reserve and struggling to get to Nagi Gompa, this elusive jewel in the distance, where the young Lama’s father lived. It wasn’t an easy trip. Simply to get to the foot of the mountain required no less than three different auto-rickshaws. Then it was all uphill by foot, in the middle of a hot day.
INT. THE MASTER’S ROOM.
An exhausted and crazed American stumbles in. The Master seems to have known he was coming and allows him to listen in on a secret teaching; the other foreigners just stare suspiciously at the new intruder as this snide German guy interprets for the Master.
THE MASTER
So what is mind?
(Looks knowingly at the audience.)
SILENCE
THE MASTER
It’s like open space isn’t it?
SILENCE
MASTER
You can’t really see it anywhere?
(With an air of authority.)
SILENCE
MASTER
But can open space really have awareness?
(The trick question.)
SILENCE
(Stubborn, stubborn.)
MASTER
No.
(So now what?)
SILENCE
MASTER
So what’s mind then, really?
SILENCE
( .... is golden, especially when you don’t really know the answer.)
MASTER
It’s the union of emptiness and cognizance, like space and yet so unlike it ....
GASPS
MASTER
and with no end or beginning, really.
(Resting his hands on the table.)
A HUSHED BUZZ ....
MASTER
It’s like looking at your face and not its reflection in the bathroom mirror.
MORE BUZZ NOW ....
MASTER
The fool finally finds himself .... so look in and not out.
BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ ....
MASTER
That’s it.
(The teaching is now over.)
The American cautiously approaches the master’s translator.
AMERICAN
Can Lama do a mo for me?
TRANSLATOR
He doesn’t really believe in those things.
The translator then approaches the Master; they confer, and the Master beckons forward.
AMERICAN
Should I try getting into Tibet?
(This is it.)
The Master breezes through his beads ....
MASTER
So if you go, it’s OK. If you don’t, it’s OK too.
Just down from the heights:
It was all over, now I was released, I was giving up the struggle. I was at the apex now; and I suddenly realized Nepal had not been in vain. My mind had made a shift. A Spaniard gave me a five-hundred rupee note, and it gleamed like gold to me, I sensed a turning point. I tried to call Canada collect one last time, and a heavy police presence hovered around Thamel, the Commies were crazed and cock-eyed as they sat on the streets. They were refusing to move. So the police scraped them off with clubs. It was simply brutal. Life in Nepal was like taking a piss. This agonizing and delightful release was a constant. The Canadian was out of town; it was hopeless. The Nepali operator had followed a strange trail of machine messages only to reach a dead-end. Tibet was lost. I wearily trudged back to the monastery across the sad landscape of Kathmandu. It was a crisp and lonely night, only a glowing moon kept me company on the long trek back to warmth and comfort and food. Yuk, Kathmandu, what were the folks really thinking back home. Had they really abandoned me?
BRRING
“Yeah, hello.”
“Is this Mr. Finberg?”
“He’s speaking .... “
“Yes, Mr. Finberg, this is Bill Daley, the third consul here at the embassy. Mrs. Farlep is on vacation, and I have been reviewing the cables concerning your case. The State department left several messages on Dr. Groff’s answering machine you see, and none of the calls were returned.”
“I see.”
“I strongly suggest you start planning your departure, your visa is about to expire. We’ve had many cases .... “
SILENCE
“Can you pay the taxi to the airport and give me something for the stop-over in Bangkok?”
“Yes, I believe we can help you there, but you must come in and fill out some forms.”
“But it’s just one hundred dollars!”
“Yes, one hundred dollars you don’t have. It’s just part of the procedure, you know.”
“Yeah, right”
“By the way, you still owe the US government six dollars and fifty-nine cents for that call to your stepmother.”
“Put it on the tab, let her pay for it!”
“So, will you be coming in soon?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.”
Click.
And so did it flow?
Yeah, it did. Its properties for cleansing, quenching, thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation, an infallibility as paradigm and paragon, its metamorphoses as vapor, a mist, this cloud, the rain, this sleet, the snow, this hail, its strength in these rigid hydrants, its variety of forms in the loughs, those bays and gulfs and blights and guts and lagoons, those atolls and archipelagos, these sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea ....
Now an inner shot:
The monkeys sang in chorus: GET OUT OF HERE! Now, I rested on my hands and feet, then I lifted them up and held the position, then I slowly brought them down. I could feel the master’s protection. The revolution had begun, the deepest insights were now accessible to a beginner.
And how did this all end?
With the engineer putting the minor ballets on index cards and THE STORY CRACKING ITSELF, oh so miraculously, this being the final layer, working out the individual scenes with the dialogue, creating these mini-ballets, seeing a trend in the dialogue, the first rhythms examining only the surface layers of mind, and putting the energy to practical use, the second dialogues going into even deeper layers of mind, describing the mind polluting and cleaning itself, and finally dropping into its deepest layer, which is really no layer at all, having no confusion, being nothing, yet somehow knowing.
TELEGRAM:
LIFT-OFF! Houston, it’s a lift-off! The writing astronaut has reached the escape velocity. He’s in orbit.
And so how did this go?
The astronaut found flying a thrill, especially after weeks of intense preparation, the structure being so solid, the screenplay simply writing itself, allowing the astronaut some flights of humorous fancy, the birth pains not being so overwhelming, the support at the monastery being so all embracing, just fatigue being the only problem, yet slogging on, finding the best dialogue as being compressed, and output being good, performing this mass editing miracle, and reading it back and smiling, these characters coming to life, it being a good sign, the astronaut now beginning to care about them, knowing the audience will too, it being all simply great fun, then forgetting about the lousy logistics, the Lama’s wife being such a great comfort to the astronaut, telling him not to worry, being told the young Lama would soon be back.
And any last thoughts?
Yes, the Buddhist engineer realized how his burdens drained the energy from his chakras, they needing to be replenished with constant puja, with the rejuvenation rites, the engineer deciding to finish off now the screenplay just a tad short of the Hollywood standard to preserve the pace of the action, always being able to add extra pages during any second draft.
TELEGRAM: The screenplay is finished! Yet the writer is too tired to feel triumphant. Simply just relieved there’s one less burden now.
A dream: I saw Summer coming back and winning it all and not really knowing what to do and realizing it was all in the name of unconditional love it being the only true blessing in life ....
INT. The Young Lama’s room.
The American sits and confronts the young Lama, his assistant refuses to leave the room as snot pours out of his nostrils. He doesn’t bother to wipe his nose.
YOUNG LAMA
So how’s your writing going along now?
(In a nervous tone.)
THE AMERICAN
You know, I thought we had an agreement.
(Fairly pissed off.)
YOUNG LAMA
Well, you know things change.
(Quite matter-of-factly.)
THE AMERICAN
Well, we don’t do this kind of silly stuff in America.
(Smelling blood.)
YOUNG LAMA
Well, you know, it’s not my fault you’re broke.
(In a pretty defensive tone.)
THE AMERICAN
So can you pay my way to Tibet?
(Shifting tactics.)
YOUNG LAMA
Oh, no that would be very difficult.
(Sensing the shift in energy.)
THE AMERICAN
Then how about a visa extension?
(Grabbing whatever possible.)
YOUNG LAMA
Well, how much would that cost?
THE AMERICAN
Just five hundred rupees for five more days.
(He knows he’s got it.)
YOUNG LAMA
Yes, I think that’s possible.
(With a sigh of relief.)
SILENCE
YOUNG LAMA
Just come back tomorrow.
The American gets up and walks to the door, but the young Lama signals him to wait.
YOUNG LAMA
I’m glad you finished your screenplay for your financial security, OK?
THE AMERICAN
Yeah, you know, me too.
Descending the mountain now:
There was release in the air. I fought the Nepalis for my visa extension; they wanted Polaroid pictures, I had none and started screaming, cursing in Hebrew; to the amazement of the hustlers and paper-shovers, I was saved by this American woman who didn’t want the scene to continue.
Not here in the mean streets of Kathmandu. I tried to kill the squirming lice in my hair and I said good-bye to the nuns, to Dorje; and to the young Lama’s wife. I gave away a lot of my belongings. The Lama’s wife got a nice handbag. She was sad to see me go. Had we been simply lovers in a past-life? Who could really say? And I then said good-bye to the young Lama who bopped me on the head in good jest.
Some more thoughts:
I had been checkmated by karma. There would be no return to Tibet in 1994. The symmetry was now broken, the logistics had simply been too hairy. I was losing my second Tibetan family, now. I pondered this. I tried to remember everything I had done in my life and felt no real serious regrets. Finally, most of the money the embassy gave me was used up in Kathmandu for film developing. I was hungry for symbols of my ordeal. I also bumped into the guy from New York at the Durbar, you know, the fellow who engaged me in silly conversation at Amman airport, and it was strange. He was looking for bronze Buddhas to take back home and God knows do what with, like a messenger of closure.
I visited the Bonpo monastery; it was a strange anti-universe of mis-aligned energies begging and pleading in the wrong direction. The Bonpo monks going around counter-clockwise in sinister fashion. I watched the world go by on Swyambu Hill. I also said good-bye to the porters. Alas, I had no money to give them. The chatter of an American psychotherapist flooded into my taxi. I WAS GOING HOME NOW. I just stayed two nights at the Thamel tourist ghetto, taking hot showers and staring at the walls. I was in a deep trance. I could hear Vajrayogini laughing. I saw her near the slaughter-house at Dakshinkali. It was eerie. The stench of sacrificed animals was sheer murder and these scars were always fresh, for this had been going on for years. I shuddered. The taxi got me to the airport early and the airline simply waived my excess baggage. Nobody really cared anymore. I WAS JUST LEAVING.
