* * *

"I saw it on television," my brother said. "A gizmo for exercise. There is the address," he said, indicating a piece of paper on his bureau. i did not ask him who had written it for him. So I bought it, and despite the mild protests of the nurses, hooked it over the doorway. Opening his stiff fingers, I placed the ends in his hands. He grinned happily, his hands shaking. "I'll do my own therapy," he grinned. Next time that I saw him the gizmo was nowhere in sight. I did not mention this to him.

* * *

Coming up the back steps of the Potala you and he were attacked. Knives slashed into a body and it fell. "You!" the voices shouted in surprise. "You!"

* * *

Even the yak cannot digest everything.

Circle with a handprint.



* * *

You are so smart. You know everything. Well, if that is the case, why were you so dense when Suzanne said, "Henry was here last night." "Uh," you had said, not listening, or not wanting to listen. Her voice became sharper. "He slept here," she said. "Uh," you said still stubbornly deaf. "He slept with me!" she snapped, and you realized that you had to face these words and the actions which they covered. You looked at her quietly with just as quiet a mind. Anyone else would have been furious.but you were too dull-witted for that. Too stupid. You did not ask why. You made no accusations. it was as if she had not spoken. She was only breathing. And you were only breathing. You shook your head in disbelief, not at what she had said but at your lack of anger. She misunderstood that gesture, and had looked sad. You reached out to touch her hand and gripped her fingers tightly. Her eyes filled with tears. You had come to her apartment to make love to her and that was exactly what you were going to do. Soon, that was what happened. Perspiration trickled down between her breasts. "Uh! Uh!" she exhaled, willingly struggling with you. "Hum!" you sang. "Uh! Uh!" she smiled, suddenly making funny cooing sounds. "Oh," she laughed, "coo, coo," her eyes darting about. "I've never made noises like —oh—coo—coo! that before. Coo!" She looked like a wide-eyed kupie doll. "You look angelic," you said. She frowned, shuddering with pleasure. "Oh! Oh!" It went on. "I don't believe it! What is happening? Coo! AH. Coo!"

You remember. Yes, you do. That was the last time that you were in bed with her.

* * *

I can't stand it! Can you believe it?

* * *

"It is to test your faith," he said, looking at the dark book in his hands. "Bullshit," I thought. "What a fraud. if this is the best that he can do, then he shouldn't exist!" "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," he rambled on. "Blessed be the Lord." "Thief! Bandit," I thought. "Robber Baron! Tyrant!"

In the music, I thought that I heard, that I remembered a voice. "Carmella! Carmella! The children!" And that was so long ago! There was no end to it all.

* * *

"God forbids such acts," it was said. And there was an enumeration of them; not to take his name in vain; not to take other gods before him; no so forth and so on; lies, robbery, illicit sex, murder and so on. These pissed him off, angered him. But why? simple. Simply because he told us not to do it. There was only one sin against him, disobedience. But why? He lost his cool. He lost his temper. But why couldn't he be nonchalant? Shrug it off? Because—because it did something to him. It brought out his flaws—one flaw—weakness! It weakened him, this anger of his. "I forbid it!" he'd say, and some human would ignore him and weaken him. Why, it could eventually kill him. he couldn't ignore it for he was aware of everything. Ha! One drawback to eavesdropping. He was stuck with it as well as we were!

So, he set up his system of threats. But you know what? I think it backfired. God became a god of love, right? Yes. Yeah. Sure. It was booby-trapped. It was short circuited. I think we've killed him! Someone became god and died for us. Wow! God died. he is dead. But those damn spineless spiritual fascists! They turned around and, God dammit! turned that human savior into a god! How did they do that? Shy? Out of nostalgia? Damn! It brought it all back to life! Damn! I spit on your sunrise! I don't believe it!

* * *

"Tell me what you think meditation means," said Geshe Sengey suddenly, while we were walking south to Lhasa. So I did. He laughed, "You have described day-dreaming." I wrinkled my nose at him, or I should say, I wrinkled Nyima's nose at him. "Meditation, gompa in Tibetan, or bhavana in Sanskrit," he began. I interrupted, "You don't have to get too scholarly for me, you know." "Be still, and listen," he instructed, then pointing at the pebble-strewn path, he said, "and watch where you are walking, or you will fall off the path into the river!"

"Yes, great lama," I mocked him verbally, but I did watch my step. He went on, "It is true meditation when it is preceded by hearing, thos-pa, and pondering on, sam-pa." "And what," I asked, looking up from the trail, "is the Sanskrit for hearing and remembering?" He seemed pleased at my new inquisitiveness, missing the mockery in my voice. "Well, well," he smiled, almost slipping on he path because of a loose stone, "such a question promises good for you!" "Yes. Yeah," I said. "Sure. But please go on." "Hearing in Sanskrit is sruta and remembering is cinta." "So?" I asked of him, before he asked anything of me. "What of it?" He glared at me in response. "Have you not been listening? First you listen! Then you remember! Then you meditate! It is accumulative! But without meditation nothing is achieved."

"But I thought gompa was the word for monastery," I stated, truly puzzled now. "It is the same word," he went on, pausing for a moment at a steep incline of the trail. "It means what I said it means. That is what is done at your so-called monastery. it is a quiet place." "With all that chanting and music?" I asked. He started again on the trail and did not speak for a few long minutes. "It is a place to do gompa. it is not gompa itself. Gompa is basically silence." And with that, his voice softened. "Wordless, on the outside, as well as the inside." Frowning, I asked, "But then why all these prayers, chants and mantra repetitions?" He looked away at the openings amongst the rocks ahead. "We have to make our way along the path now," he said, and spoke no more.

* * *

"I close my eyes, and I see my love's face," he sang. You remember. "But not my lama," he went on. "If I could meditate thus on the Dharma, I would reach enlightenment in this lifetime." You remember that? A beautiful song. The Chinese wanted to kill him for such songs.

* * *

But what is the law? What is the law of the word? What is this name of the word?

* * *

I won't believe that!

* * *

"You've killed the wrong man!" he screamed, and the knife went clattering on the flagstones. Did they kill the wrong man in that prison as well? Did they kill the wrong man on that tree?

* * *

She knelt before him, and looked up for a moment before she continued. "I wish to put my lips here," she said, but although moving slowly, she did not wait for his answer. It was just as well, for he remained silent, then, and throughout, until, inhaling and exhaling, suddenly aware of the rectangle of window bull of blue sky, he quivered.

"AH. Ahrrgh!" he moaned.

"Uh. Uh," she smiled, looking up at him, "HUM!"

* * *

I"I'll believe this, but I won't believe that!" In response, the blue eyes squinted, almost mischievously. "There is no difference between this and that," their owner said. "Ah. Ahrrgh!" he moaned. "No this or that?" "Of course not," laughed Dai Goro Bogdu.

* * *

I can do no more now. i have to wait. I have to listen to the silence. What? You fool. Don't you understand anything? The silence comes last. First you must listen to the words, which come out of the silence. Listen as if your life depends upon it, for this is the only life which you will have.

* * *

"Who else knows that the Gyalwa Rinpoche is dead?" he wondered. "Did anyone suspect when I prayed for an unnamed person's quick rebirth? I must go to the Netchung oracle for some sign of that rebirth."

The oracle's face became swollen. His eyes rolled in his head. His arms quivered. His feet shook. "What does the oracle's mother know?" the regent wondered. "No one must speak of this! Even, even if I must put an end to their breathing!"

* * *

The gizmo was back up on the door! I was surprised. My brother showed me how he did his self-directed therapy. he no longer spoke of walking again. Instead, his ambition was to get one hand, not arm, to work. "Then I can do some business by telephone. Buy and sell cars. I can get out of here. Phil will help. That guy in Mt. Carmel owes me favors. he'll move in with me in the trailer." I couldn't believe my ears. i couldn't believe my eyes. The fingers on his right hand could move.

* * *

Around and around.

Sanggyo Gyatso consulted the Netchung oracle, confident that he would remember nothing after his trance ended. Such was not the case. Fearful that there might be a fragment of memory left of this matter, with the oracle, he went back disguised as a beggar. The oracle's mother scolded him for begging "at a time like this," and she explained what she had meant. His holiness, the Presence, the Gyalwa Rinpoche, had died. Stunned, the regent knew that the oracle had remembered everything, and, worse, that his mother was chattering, even to beggars! he moved fast and had them killed.

AH. ROOM! AH. ROOM!

* * *

He traced his finger along the skin on the edge of her torso. Then he moved inwards and circled her navel. Finally, he moved it downwards, unerringly, through her soft hair, to where they grew thicker, thence to an opening, to a hidden button. His index finger went around and around." "Hmmm," she said at first, almost trying to remain quiet, as if she were listening to those touches which he made upon her. "AH!" she said a little later on. "Ah. AH!" And finally, with more fingers, more moisture, and more quivering, she exclaimed in grunts and groans, "AH! Ahrrgh. AHRRGH!"

Around and around.

"Ah!" she gasped. "You sure," she exhaled, "you weren't" she gasped "a woman in," she exhaled, "in, in" she exhaled, "in a previous," she exclaimed, "Life? Life!" He smiled at her joy, watching intently.

* * *

The knife was never found.

* * *

"Why are we walking to Lhasa?" I asked. "We could get there faster through the Nd-Drwa." At first he did not answer. "For some things we need a body," he said. "Such as proper study." I didn't understand him, and he noticed immediately. "Besides," he laughed, "at the moment, I'm not sure that if you left that body, you'd be able to get back in." "Oh, oh," I said. "Exactly," the monk said. "We shall not risk that just now, shall we?" "Uh, no, Geshe-la," I said, emphasizing the honorific syllable.

Before us loomed a rock wall containing countless carvings of Buddhas, Bodhisattvas and the goddess Tara.

"Closer and closer," he said, as if to himself, "to our goal." His tone of voice worried me.

* * *

The Chinese killed the regent, Sanggye Gyatso, when they discovered, years later, that he had kept the death of the Great Fifth a secret. it was politically motivated, not spiritually inspired. "How dare he keep this secret from us?" they must have asked themselves. "We could have been trusted to find the new incarnation of Chen-re-zi." But in fact they could not be trusted.

* * *

Click. Clickity-Click.

Kupie doll prize.

* * *

The ex-school house, present day nursing home, was kept clean as were also the patients. This did not prevent it from smelling of urine. It was better than the one in Pennsylvania, although that one was a new building. here, too, an old woman wandered the halls, much to my brother's annoyance. "She comes in and takes things," he informed me, and I saw that in action for myself, or at least, I saw the attempt. "Ah!" she said, stepping boldly through the open doorway. "There is my lost coat." And as she was about to walk away with it, I gently informed her, "That happens to be mine," and I took it from her reluctant grip. "Oh," she said in all genuine innocence, "It looks exactly like mine." "Everything looks exactly the same to her," I explained as she left, walking down the hall. She did not say, "Senior, Seniorita!" "They ought to lock her up," my brother snapped. I cocked an eyebrow and replied, "She's just trying to escape." "Why doesn't she just face the fact and realize that she's stuck here?" he answered. I said nothing.

* * *

In the warmer weather, pilgrims crossed Tibet or crossed into Tibet from India, over the Himalayas. They all aimed for one point in the Western regions, Mt. Kailash. It was considered a holy mountain, the central axis of the universe. Many of the pilgrims were Hindus, but just as many were Tibetans. Two religions, one mountain. Near the two holy lakes, one virtuous, one poisonous, was the temple hovel which I had visited, not a very large establishment. That was as close as an organized building got to the mountain, and that was not very close. A few wandering monks, on their own pilgrimages, were there up amongst the rocks with the other as they circumambulated the base of the mountain. Sometimes it was easier than other times, but sometimes unseasonable snow struck to test their devotion. People died on that mountain, monks and lay persons alike. Impromptu ceremonies would then have to be held with bell and double-headed drum. The sound of the thighbone horn added a coldness to the high altitude breezes, attracting vultures.

Hardship was not new to the people there, so then continued to circumambulate the mountain. One circle after another for centuries.

* * *

Suzy, I see your eyes when I close mine. Why are they so clear? Even when I try to dismiss this image, the vision gets stronger. How can the body torture itself like this? It just gets clearer and clearer! But I cannot hear your voice.

* * *

Ayesha! Are you there? Are you reading my thoughts? I cannot hear your voice.

* * *

The footprints in the snow will tell the story of this night.

* * *

Ring! Ring! Answer! So that I can hear your voice. You must be able to hear me calling. Ring! Ring.

* * *

You fool. You're wasting your time. You would have heard an answer by now if anyone wished to speak to you. Perhaps they're all dead? Don't be an idiot! They just don't wish to speak.

* * *

AUM. AH. HUM.

* * *

UH. UH. HUM. AH. AHRRGH. Whisper, whisper. Mumble Mumble. Speak up! Speak up! Almost. I must hang on.





* * *

You're doing it backwards, all backwards. Don't you remember all those eloquent teachers? Yes? Now what did they ever say to you? That is not the way.

* * *

Transparent as glass. You won't fool anyone. But who wants to fool anyone? You fool, you're fooling yourself. Not at all, since you are the fool. What? Not at all, for you see it is even clearer than that. Clearer than what? Glass! Glass. There isn't any at all, thus no place for personal smudges, fingerprints, or dust to alight. Clear as an empty rectangular windowframe. But the weather, what about the weather, if it is cloudy? Yes, you are a fool.

* * *

"Geshe-la," you said, "I don't understand. If Nyima died in this body, why is it usable now?" "Hmm?" he mumbled, turning the pages of a manuscript on the low table before him. "This body died for some reason!" i insisted. "But now it continues as if all is allright." He smiled, looking away at the window. "It must know what it is doing," he said. "It is alive for some other reason!" I tried not to show my exasperation, continuing. "Was it Nyima who died and not his body?" I suggested. he tilted his head at me. "Is there a separation of the yak's head from his tail?" he asked. "Why do you persist in this double talk?" I asked, "Why can't you speak directly?" He laughed, and began to close up his manuscript, piling the pages, wrapping them all in cloth.

"Why do you persist in ignorance?" he asked. "I want you to know, that is why I talk..." And he stopped short. Pausing a moment, he continued, "I am as clear as I can be. It is just that there is little to say. Besides," he said, touching his head with the orange-wrapped book, "you worry yourself too much," and then, in a whisper, "just like the previous Nyima." At this last, I shuddered. It ran down to my legs, which felt weak as a result. I decided to study my Tibetan alphabet in silence.

* * *

Ayesha! Where have you been? it has felt like years since I've heard from you. It has been years? Oh, God. Really. Time flies. Yeah. UH. How is my body? You've got a new apartment! Oh. That was clever. UH. I'm still living with you? In a way? Doesn't anyone notice? No? Not even your new boyfriend? How is that possible? Knick knacks? Stuffed bats hanging from the ceiling? Skeletons in grandfather clocks? Black cats and all that? No. I don't understand, for even with all that, someone would notice a body. I'm not obvious because I'm obvious? What does that mean? Ayesha! Where are you going? Someone is coming? Talk to me later? Hey! Its been years! Ayesha!

* * *

"Gompa is meditation," you know. However do you remember his saying what it literally means? Yes. Do you, or don't you? You've got to remember! It means "to bring into existence." Yes. Well. What do you mean, "So what?" Hey! Pay close attention and remember!

* * *

"They never paid me for the billiard table," he said. I said nothing. He flexed his fingers with a great effort and opened them, but his right index finger would not disengage the thumb. It seemed to be signalling "Okay," but I knew that that was not true. "I've got to get out of here," he muttered, his voice hoarse from not speaking and from the heat and dryness of the room. "You can take me home. I'll give you my Social Security check," he said, as he had said non almost every visit I had made to him. But I had long since even stopped answering this proposal, stopped explaining why I could not do it, stopped feeling guilty. But he mentioned it anyway, on the off chance that fertile ground may have opened up. Yes. Yeah. Sure. "There's this other nursing home in Lambertville," he continued. "Wonderful facility for therapy, social worker getting in touch with them. I keep reminding her. Yes. She'll write them. She'll call the. I'll keep reminding her."

It was amazing. Here was an entire building of people. They were all out of it. They did not know where they were, how they got there, if awareness dawned for a second. They were not trouble except for physical baby-like lack of control. And here he was, hounding them, the nurses, the social workers, the director. They did their best to place him elsewhere. One day I visited and he was gone. He was at some place nearby with a great therapy reputation. "Hmm," I thought, "he's pulled it off!" But when I went there, he was not there.



* * *

"Why did Nyima die?" I asked Geshe Sengey. He pursed his lips and looked somber for a moment. Then he said, "I suppose he wanted to escape." My eyebrows went up and did not speak any further. The monk was saying the beads on his mala. I could hear his breathing which sounded like "AUM MANI PADME HUM. The Jewel is in the Lotus!" "AUM, WHISPER WHISPER, HUM." AUM WHISPER and so forth. Whisper.

* * *

"Why have you painted this room this color?" you had asked.

* * *

I had massaged her foot, then her ankle, then her calf. Fingers touched her lower thigh muscles. But that is as far as I went. She was puzzled, and prepared to leave. She gave me a wet open mouth kiss. I returned it without words, but I let her leave without any further touchings. The door clicked shut.

* * *

"Where is my brother?" I demanded.

"I do not know," the nurse said. "He was released and left."

"Left?" I snapped. "Not under his own power! He was paralyzed." "Well," she sniffed, "I wasn't on duty! Call tomorrow and the doctor will be here." Damn. Had they shipped him to Pennsylvania again?







* * *

"For how you acted" she said, "I could kill you!" I shook my head. "You have killed me!" I whispered, almost without breath. "Oh," her face still frowning, "Poor baby."

* * *

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "Why now, are you telling me this?" I looked at the cup on the saucer, on the table, in the restaurant, and replied, "I don't know."

* * *

Whisper. Whisper. Rainbow around the moon. Sparks of fire flying into the sky, trying to become stars.. Whisper. Whisper. A sobbing somewhere. Lost. It is lost, will anyone find it?

* * *

You looked up at the ferris wheel, moving in the night, all ablaze with lights. Noise everywhere to match the brightness. You looked away, blinking to see a dark blue crescent echo of that wheel against the night sky. The stars shone through. That blueness was encased in an impenetrable silence.

* * *

AUM. AH. HUM.

* * *

"How could it be the seventeenth century?" I wondered. "That is not possible. But then travel in the Nd-Drwa is just as impossible, and I did that." I looked down at my hands and saw the hands of Nyima. I shook my head. I started to sing, on purpose, and listened to the voice of a stranger. "Tra, la-la, la!" he sang.

* * *

He was back in the ex-schoolhouse nursing home. "They didn't give me a chance," he grumbled, pulling at the gizmo attached to the doorway. "They want patients with instant success, so they don't spoil their record." I bit my lip and nodded. "I'll get out of here," he insisted. "You watch! Watch."

* * *

They circled around Mt. Kailash at various altitudes, the lowest route for the longest, and the one most often taken. Even that was not easy, for the pilgrims were stubbornly devout. Many of them performed full-length prostrations around the base of the mountain, as if measuring the distance with the lengths of their bodies with arms outstretched. Needless to say, many never returned home from the hardships thus encountered. Scattered along this circular path, this ling-khor, were offerings, frequently of clothing. Another form of offering was of stones, one piled upon another upon slender pyramids along the path. The mountain looked down upon all of this in the great silence which surrounded it. It was believed to be the source of the great holy rivers. It was also the source of a living silence which came down from the great opening in the great solidity of the pyramid, going off into every direction. This silence first joined the wind, and whispered, then a stuttering breathing, a chanting; upwards and downwards into praying in many languages, in many beliefs; finally it dressed; manifested in the flesh as a word and a song. A circle, silence balanced with song.