My Dog Safe With Buddha

(Not part of the Paranoia series)

When they came out with the latest virus, naturally I was concerned. What am I going to do, drop dead with all the other losers? I always heard it growing up, “Get your exercise. If you don’t, you’ll deserve what you get.” By which they didn’t mean all the boys, but a short life, a sudden death, maybe dangling from a rope, depending on the crime.

My concerns are like everyone’s. I came into the world a few years back, relatively speaking. My memory’s hazy on the subject, but there were apparently 15 billion years when I wasn’t here. Then at the end of that vast span, I popped into the world like clockwork and since then have hung on for dear life. Saying, “I will not willingly go back into the void. I’m here, deal with it.” I said this through times of war and peace, although I didn't serve in either. With some regret, though, because I think it would've been great to serve in the war. Maybe you remember my pitiful longing for the service in my post, “Sarge: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

My big problem with the Corona virus these days is, "What’s going to happen to my dog if it happens to me?” My dog I got on a fluke. Her mother was in the yard minding her business when a smaller dog got through a crawlspace in the fence and consummated a brief relationship. Yielding five puppies, one of which became mine. So it was someone else’s problem and we’ve been joined at the hip now all these years. Had I been a block away, had I not answered the phone that day, we would’ve never met.

But we did meet, and we’ve had a special bond ever since. I’ve seen her through many things, learning to love dog food, etc., and I get her only the best. We have to keep going. I’m all she’s got, but with my advanced years naturally I worry what could happen. Now, all of a sudden, there’s a virus going around that threatens people of my demographic, older gentlemen who breathe and touch their faces. The store’s even out of paper towels, that’s how hard up we are. Because I use paper towels to clean up my dog’s poop. And suddenly they’re more precious than gold...

Anyway, have I mentioned, I can’t die! Because what would become of her? She’d wake up and not get her expensive food, not go out to poop, etc., She’s already kind of upset about the paper towel shortage. This other thing, my demise, I don’t want to have to lay that on her too. She might stroke out and I’d be left alone, with my last roll of paper towels that I was holding on to for special times, her birthday, the day she was spayed, etc.

Beyond the frills of paper towels and things, there’s the sorrow she would feel if I were suddenly stricken by viruses and died. “Why'd he have to abandon me? Was he thinking of the time I accidentally peed on the kitchen floor?” That’s terrible, I don’t want this dog to have one ounce of troubles or sorrows. You might remember, that’s how Buddha started out. His dad kept him from troubles and sorrows. Then he discovered suffering and found out, “Shit happens.” He sat under the bodhi tree and was enlightened. If I die, my dog will have things to deal with, heavy stuff, and might even be peeing at the base of a similar tree and come to a place of inner knowledge. I hope to impart enlightenment to her, but so far my attempts have been met with resistance. She'd rather play with dog toys than meditate. So I just breathe and wait.

But so far I’m still alive, so Buddha can meditate and keep his gentle arms and hands folded until that day, if ever, when I'm not.

Little Buddha Bull Frog

 Part 22 of 30 -- Guidance Counselor series

What’s this? Something about Buddha Bull Frog losing his equanimity, or alternately, his equanimitay. The spell check does accept that, but it rhymes in the full scheme of things, so TAY it is!

Yes, afraid so... That’s where the mind drifts today. I’m doing multiple no-nos therapeutically speaking, although of course it depends on who you ask on the nature of your therapy. I see the wisdom in various traditions, the spill-it-out school, wallowing in your trauma, getting it off your chest, spilling the beans. And I see the wisdom in putting it behind you, accepting a more nurturing path and outlook, not making hay out of your misery, looking on the bright side, etc. 'Torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool...' And the wisdom of just being.

And I'd say all that's well and good. I can swing multiple ways when it comes to trauma. And see multiple viewpoints. One, I am more than my trauma. My identity is not my trauma. Have you noticed all the years I’ve been here without mentioning the guidance counselor? I may have mentioned him in passing; I can’t remember, I’ll look it up later if I think of it. I have mentioned him in passing with people in real life, but have always found that no one really cares. That’s not a complaint, just a fact of life.

Do I care about the traumas of others? I actually do, but I don’t want to talk about them forever either. If we got together, though, and you had a particular trauma, I would be reflective on it, non-judgmental toward you, and encouraging about your future. Once it was out, though, and you were on your way, I’d be on my way too, with equanimity. That was a person I was able to respect and listen to, now for a hot fudge sundae!

Actually my trauma here is getting sickening even for me, since it’s all long past, and compared with other people’s traumas, seems almost illegitimate. No one touched me, no one cornered me. I had a guidance counselor whose attitude was somewhat askew from what I thought it should have been. At the time I didn’t tell anyone, because who knows, maybe that’s normal for a guidance counselor from a kid’s perspective.

So now, seeing the past by hindsight, am I Buddha Bull Frog? Normally, somewhat, yes I am. But in laying the facts out here, wondering why I am what I am, wondering how things worked out as they did, I have to think there are positives and negatives in the influences I had along the way. Like nice, kind aunts and an evil guidance counselor. Just leave out wrestling coaches, since I mercifully avoided that fate, thanks to my seizures and mother. But I saw the wrestling coach several times and the idea that I could've gone for him: “No, thanks!”

Buddha Bull frog or not, I definitely caught a few breaks along the way, which at the time might’ve seemed like the wrong path. Getting out of wrestling was great, going to the guidance counselor seemed bad, but having equanimity has to be in spite of the good and in spite of the bad. Life just happens. Take the good with the bad. Unless the bad is definitely actionable, then take the bastards for all you can get!

Buddha Bullfrog is unborn and marvelously illuminating, over and out.

While My Catarrh Gently Seeps

I believe it was the Buddha, as well as my Grandma, who said, “All life is suffering.” Whatever it is, whatever happens, you’re up, you’re down, you’re flat on your back in the hospital. There’s a major inflammation in your lower tract. It can’t be traced. Even surgery gives no relief; you’re worse off than when you first began.

The “wheel of life” is a concept from one of the major faiths. On this wheel of life, once you’ve spun it, you see what you get. All the usual aches, pains, diseases, and, last but not least, inflammations. Cuts, sores, piles, wounds, chafing, burns, sunburn, and catarrh. Proving the old adage beyond dispute, If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. With no end in sight, no good end anyway. Death, the grave, decomposition, and so forth till you’re lost and completely forgotten.

I see ambulances racing down the street all the time. Your life is precious. The sirens are wailing, they go through stop lights, because you can’t wait, the time is now, your need is urgent, every second counts in this drama of life and death. Minutes later you’re at the hospital, where they spend the next two hours getting your personal information, insurance, height and weight. Then it’s three hours later until a doctor's available. You could be dead by now, you know, but at least you saved 8 seconds at that last red light.

I probably should look up Buddha before I say definite things about him. But I’m winging it. From the little I know, nearly everything about Buddha is up for grabs anyway, depending on what country you’re from and what line of Buddhism you follow. So whatever I say is true somewhere in the world. The story may be familiar to you: Buddha’s dad kept him in the palace, not wanting him to see the outside world. Because Buddha Sr. knew the outside world was full of suffering. Then Buddha Jr. went into the outside world and discovered it was full of suffering.

Which I also discovered. You pick up on it right away, the first day of kindergarten. A kid on the playground breaks his arm, you kiss a girl on the jungle gym and she ends up with someone else, the teacher counts you tardy if you’re not in class when the bell goes off. Then there’s the rest of existence out of the sight of your protective parents. Now, too, once you’ve seen the suffering in the world — duplicity, backstabbing, lying, and sin — you even notice it in your parents, how unfair they are, even unjust. The foods they want you to eat, vegetables, are terrible and provide no nutritional value that you can’t get with straight sugar.

I also think cable TV is terrible suffering, except Monday Night Football and the Sunday games. You want it, you get it, it doesn’t make you happy; pillow commercials day and night. That’s the meaning of suffering.

Sex is suffering. The words “Regrets, I’ve had a few...” surely were written about sex. But what can you do? It’s the highest aspiration and at the same time the lowest. Great in concept, devastating in practice, unless you’re about to have a baby, then that’s a good payoff, but of course he or she will suffer, disappoint, die, etc. Abstaining is also suffering. But if you want to suffer and yet have more interesting payoff than dying rugrats, keep it zipped, wear coarse underwear, lock your hands behind your back, sleep and never wake up. Say you do wake up, keep the underwear on; it’s not painful enough to hurt you, it just keeps you on your toes when you walk or shift.

A couple of the diseases I should look up: Catarrh and Piles.

Catarrh? I got a catarrh once for Christmas and mom and dad even threw in catarrh lessons. A guy taught me several chords and I strummed myself silly, like other strumpets. Catarrh is also an old fashioned word for a dreaded condition, having to do with something like bad breath, a queasy tummy, or possibly worse. You’d think catarrh music is beautiful to listen to — say, Segovia — but still there’s also this damned curse of catarrh. When the catarrh’s out of tune, or the strings have lost their twang. On my catarrh, I used to take a file to the strings just to clean them of the filth on my fingers, like if I’d just dug potatoes. But a little dirt is good on catarrh strings, like the grunge music of the 90s.

I used to know a girl who played catarrh. She pulled off the G string and got the party started. Making beautiful music together. Which reminded me, oh yeah, I forgot the coarse underwear, which (as a reminder) keeps you on your toes when you walk or shift.

What about Piles? I should look this one up, too, but I think my sweet imagination is better than the medical encyclopedia. We know what it is when the dog leaves piles behind. They start at the behind, and that’s where they’re left. Some excrescences. Some are blatantly dropped, that’s the majority, the heart of the matter. Other piles cling, causing discomfort to the animal, no doubt, then their scooting across the floor messes up the carpet. Here in the Big City, the place I’m staying has hardwood floors, which the dog finds both comfortable and uncomfortable, depending on the effort she goes through to relieve herself.

The word piles is a good term, definitely evocative. Like if you had piles of money, like the Disney character who kept his money in a vault and was diving in it day and night. Piles and piles of piles can be a deadly thing, though.

Cuts, sores, wounds. That's all self explanatory. You get enough cuts, sores, and wounds, you’ll look back and discover you wound up in the hospital. I never cut myself. I’ve heard of people doing that, crazy, terrible fetish. The most pain I cause myself is biting my lip. But it’s not so bad, because I catch myself before there’s any pain. You have to think it through consciously. “I cannot eat myself. What value would that be? Eating is meant to nourish the system, not take the system away." You might remember the story in the Bible where the poor man Lazarus had dogs licking his sores. He was so despondent he took some comfort there. Dogs will lick you if you give them a leg up. Or worse. But that’s not what you should aspire to.

Buddha, he knew what to do about suffering. See through it. Transcend it with insight, realization. The exact science of which you can find in various Buddhist treatises. And from any guru you happen to meet, who finds you worthy to learn the secrets. (Everyone’s worthy, it just takes a while standing in line to make it happen.) Which is itself suffering, to a good purpose, to teach you patience till you learn the rest.

In the meantime, you can observe life itself and get enough teachings and eventually leave the line. Dogs walking by teach you a lot, as sketched out above. Or pick up your own catarrh. Pound out a tune and you’ll find the truth. A man, a woman, they’re very good, but suffering hopelessly if you dive deeply enough. When you find that place, the time for gurus and pills is ended.

No Facial Hair Allowed Here

I'm making a new rule for the blog, in effect immediately, as of right now:

No facial hair for anyone who reads my blog. If you have a beard or mustache, I ask you kindly to leave. If you're clean-shaven, you may stay.

It's a free country, though, and you're entirely free to wear facial hair if you choose, just as I'm free to make this restriction and expect it to stick. If you want to have facial hair, then exercise your freedom elsewhere, not here. Of course, I know you could probably get away with reading my blog undetected. I'm working on the technology to change that, but until I get it accomplished, it does remain physically possible for you to read it. I admit it.

Still, you need to ask yourself, do you really want to stay where you're not wanted? What fun would that be, knowing you're an outcast, a pariah in my eyes? If, however, you were simply to shave (and this includes funky sideburns), then you'd be more than welcome to come back. I would welcome you with open arms.

I personally believe that facial hair doesn't make a lot of difference in life. I firmly believe that personal appearance is of very little consequence, at least in the grander scheme of things. I'm completely tolerant. With one exception ... I don't like facial hair on my readers, and on that point I will not bend.

Why all this fuss, why the restriction? Beards don't make the man. A man is a man by virtue of physically being a man, or so closely identifying with being a man that he is one simply for that reason. And having facial hair (or funky sideburns) doesn't add a single thing to a person. Therefore, the rule. Facial hair doesn't add a single thing, so in some sense it's likely to detract. Another way to look at it: Facial hair is an unnecessary disruption to the community. Please guide yourself accordingly.

Now, naturally I've heard that guys with facial hair are especially given to protest and sniping. Perhaps that's why I'm so opposed to them, treasuring civility as I do. Further, I know that because you do protest and snipe, that you'll throw this in my face: "What about Jesus?" Is this blog off limits to Jesus?

I saw that one coming. This is something of a quandary for me. I know Jesus is often portrayed with a beard. To be consistent, therefore, I should exclude Him. And yet I'm reluctant to go that far. Having died for the whole world, I am willing to grant one exception, for Jesus. This is a begrudging exception. Of course I'd prefer it if Jesus were clean-shaven, like Buddha.

UPDATE:

Obedience School -- Getting My Do.G. Degree

People have been making jokes about sending their loved ones -- husbands and wives -- to obedience school for as long as I can remember. You might remember Hal Boyle's "Poor Man's Philosopher" column from Nov. 1955, in which he quotes a reader, "Obedience schools for pets have worked out very well, so why not an obedience school for pet wives?" Hal concluded the column by asking the same thing about obedience schools for husbands, but said they'd be unnecessary, since marriage itself is their obedience school! Ain't it the truth!

But in my case, with no wife to push me around, let's say I wanted to go to obedience school. It'd just be for the experience of doing it. I used to say I wanted to be a professional student. And had I done that, pushing 60 as I am, I would've already learned everything worth knowing in the realm of human knowledge. It'd be a natural for me to learn what a dog has to go through. That'd be cool.

I'm thinking about it today because I drove by an animal hospital that said it's also an obedience school, and that they're "Now Accepting Enrollees." So what if a guy went in and said he wanted to enroll, with the full understanding, of course, that the other students would all be dogs? They'd probably take me, because my money's just as good as theirs. Plus, I'm already fairly obedient to the dictates of society, I'm sure I could handle anything a dog school could put me through.

It sounds weird, but I can well imagine it'd be like a spiritual experience. Communing with nature in a very strange setting. The dogs would be in rows, like in schools, them all naked, me in sweats. We'd be waiting for the teacher to get there, knowing if she was 10 minutes late we'd be out for the day! Then, being only nine minutes late, she shows up and looks us over. There's all of us, with our tongues hanging out, eager to learn. But since I'm looking at it as more of a spiritual experience, since it's almost a yoga class, and dogs have Buddha nature (maybe, depending on what Mu means), I've got one foot against my opposite leg and have praying hands.

It might be good for the teacher, too, because if she showed me the lesson, I'd be able to help her out. Like if the lesson was going to the cupboard, getting our dish, filling it with water, and setting it on the floor by the door, that'd be a cinch. Just hearing it once, I could do it point by point without error. I would walk to the cupboard, open it, etc., etc. The other dogs would be watching, not really having a clue, until the teacher and I kept demonstrating -- one dish each, turn the faucet like so, carry it over without slopping it everywhere, and set it down gently.

Some of it might be foreign to me. Like "Beginning Bone Burying." I'd go, "Excuse me? I'll just chew my bone, thank you." But they make a good point, because what if I want a fresh bone to chew tomorrow? Underground is where it will keep the freshest, where it's moist and cold. And where no other creature can get to it, unless it's a snake or ants or grubs or something. On second thought, how about I just put mine in the fridge? All I need is a Ziploc bag and a fridge, and maybe a way to cut my bone down to bite size chews for later, and it'll be perfect.

Training for nap time would have to be my favorite lesson. There's a pillow for each student in the modular storage cubes against yonder wall. And all we have to do -- obediently, of course -- is go over and pull one out with our mouth and drag it to an empty space on the floor. I could do that. Since I'm a person, it wouldn't be very hard, the basic maneuver of doing it. Still, it might take me a longer time than the others, because I would want a pillow without a wet corner, one that wasn't used in a previous class. So I'm over there feeling all the pillows, and looking for other signs of dirt and slobber. Then, if we napped till noon, that'd be a decent class! Get up, dig a bone chew out of the fridge for lunch and the day's half done!

The Dawn Of Vigor Vivus

That's a really fantastic graphic, isn't it? I told the guy I wanted explosions, planets, beams of ethereal light, shafts of light, or shards, streaking across the newborn virgin sky. Which is a lot to expect for 20 bucks. You might get a small planet and a couple shards for that, but he really went all out. He blew my mind with this one!

So, instead of getting right into it today, I want to offer big praise, sincere plaudits, and enthusiastic kudos, and plenty of them, to my friend Jake across town, who tinkers with computer effects, etc. He said it'd be 20 bucks an hour, which seemed a little high, but then he said it'd only take an hour, so I got off easy. Especially when I think, something like that had to take more than an hour!

But, and this is understandable, he said he also wanted to get his name out there, and have something for his portfolio. I told him I represented one of the larger, more popular blogs on the internet, which I believe is true, so please, if you're visiting today, back me up on this. Jake's a good guy and needs to be encouraged any way we can. If you can throw a few bucks his way, whether on one of your own projects or as a tip for the pleasure of seeing this particular graphic, please feel free.

Jake, you did good, buddy. So, get ready, I'm coming over for more. I'd love it, just as an example, if you could work me up a killer "Devil" graphic -- think you got it in you? Something that really conveys the real evil of Satan, yet belittles him... I've got a project in mind having to do with Satan (the personification of what I'm talking about) communicating the anti-spirit of Rigor Mortis, the opposite of Vigor Vivus. If you need any guidance on the particulars, get with me. Basically it needs to be 425 pixels wide like this one, and you've got carte blanche, if you can keep it around 20 bucks again.

OK, without any further ado, and no further kissing up to sensitive artist types, let's get right to it ...

THE DAWN OF VIGOR VIVUS

(You can read my other great posts on "Vigor Vivus versus Rigor Mortis" at the link just given.)

Let me take you back to the olden days -- the really, really olden days -- back before there was anything except however you might conceptualize Pure Spirit/Mind and potentiality without limits. Are you game?

Like in the Tao Te Ching, there was really nothing, nothing differentiated, but all was one. Somewhere in that miniscule, yet infinite vastness, lay the spores of everything we now know and beyond. Picasso was in there, as well as Jesus Christ, Einstein, the Grandma Slump blog, Leonardo da Vinci, Buddha, Lao Te Tsu, Elvis Presley, Martin Luther King, Jr., love, and the 7th Billion Baby, just born the other day. Tao was unruffled.

In there as well, on the negative side, was the Republican party, Satan, all the jinns, the Oakland Police Department, Pol Pot, Milli Vanilli, scurvy, rickets, fundamentalism, jaundice, the Black Plague, increases in the price of stamps, spam, Walmart, and chick flicks. And once again, Tao was unruffled.

Then, according to Jake's great vision above, fulfilling my own brief instructions for him, everything erupted. You might call it a cataclysm, but I like to think it looked more like a gentle scene from a really cool ballet, a pastoral ballet if there is such a thing. The planets seethed and tugged at each other, but it was all good, like it says in the Bible. Shafts of light zoomed around, bowing to one another. God was pleased, being that Spirit of life-fulfillment at the heart of it, the play (lila) of the Hindus. And whatever James Joyce meant by "the excelsissimost empyrean (bolt, in sum) earthspake," that occurred. It was a stunner. And there was a half hour's silence in heaven, for the Divine to catch its breath (Spirit).

Here, then, my friends, is what the spirit of life had, has, and offers today: VIGOR VIVUS, life vigorously present and lived, the true life, what each of us needs for our own perfect fulfillment. All the possibilities are present for you. Yes, Tao was unruffled, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a positive, purposeful side, and a negative, destructive side. The negative is RIGOR MORTIS, death present as well, taking the fullness away and leaving you destitute and empty.

So, you see, it goes back to the very beginning, the life you and I are meant to live, the life of VIGOR VIVUS, then and now. But RIGOR MORTIS is always here as well, not to be denied, but not to submit to either. What was true in the beginning is now and ever shall be. The good and the bad. Which will you choose? I hope you fulfill all your personal potential by embracing the life-affirming values inherent in eternal VIGOR VIVUS. Please, get up off your ass and do it! Don't let another day go by! Let the words of Frank N. Furter be your guide, "Don't dream it, be it!"

OK, Jake, yes, go for it! Get me the "Devil" graphic ASAP. I'll raise the 20 bucks somehow. The cornier the better, horns, weird tail, and pitchfork. I wanted the Vigor Vivus graphic classy, but I want the Rigor Mortis one ridiculous. Stereotypical and hackneyed is OK, thanks. 425 pixels.

Grandma Slump

Bob Dylan said Hurricane Carter was like a Buddha sitting in his 10-foot cell. But look at Grandma Slump in her classic (and only) photograph. There's definitely some Buddha qualities there. The contented eyes, the detachment of looking away from the camera, her hands peacefully around her very un-Buddha-like belly. (Though we have all seen skinny Buddhas, only rarely since they're usually eaten by the bigger ones.)