A discussion of Procrastination and Buddhism.
I finished meditating and looked up, and he was sitting in my scooty-chair, crosslegged and looking completely comfortable. Bastard California Buddha, I can't do that for more than five minutes before my feet fall asleep. He could probably do it all day. "You could knock," I said.
"Not really," he said, "it'd spoil the effect, if nothing else."
"Can I have my chair back please?"
He pushed on the desk and spun the chair gently. "You don't think you've spent enough time on the computer today?"
"Probably," I said, "But I don't have anything else to do right now, besides sleep."
"What about all the other things you were going to do on your day off?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I've accepted the fact I'm a procrastinator, and I'm working on dealing with that. Which tends to get distracted by looking for things to make me more productive, or finding new skins for Firefox or something. Such is life."
He unfolded from the chair, doing a pretty good imitation of origami performance art. "Change can only come when one is ready."
"And your lucky numbers are six, twelve, and twenty-three," I said, "Thank you for my chair though."
He bowed his head slightly, I sat down. "I still wonder why you're here," I asked him, "'cause I'm definitely not Buddhist, and not gonna be. I mean, crap, I've been reading this book of Buddhist scriptures here, and oy."
He sat down on the bed and shrugged. "As I said, I am merely your mental foil. Have I tried to convert you?"
I waved that away and picked up the book. "Leaving aside the whole Karma thing," I said, "Look at this. Okay, it's talking about 'the' Buddha's past life, where he decided to become a Buddha, right? Okay, so besides the fact that this 'aeons ago' is almost exactly like medieval India, it's talking about the qualities of a Bodhisattva. Which is someone who is 'certain to become a buddha, somebody who's born with wisdom. And it lists five advantages the Bodhi-being has then."
I started quoting. "He is born no more in the States of woe, but always among gods and men; he is never again born in poor or low-class families; he is always a male and never a woman; he is always well-built, and free of physical defects; he can remember his past lives, and no more forgets them again."
"That is such a crock of crap," I said, tossing the book at him, "Talk about self-justifying bullshit."
He caught the book. "It's almost like it was written down by priests and rulers thousands of years ago. You've barely begun reading it, and you're objecting because it clashes with your preconceived notions?"
"Pretty much, yeah," I said, "And later on there's a fun bit, when... Shakyamuni," I borrowed the book back to look up the name, "decides to go conquer death and old age and so ditches his wife and newly born kid. And the gods set it up that way because he couldn't leave till he'd had a son. Which I guess implies there's a bunch of people in India running around with Buddha blood."
"He left because the prospect of old age and death made everything as ashes for him. It emphasizes that point many times," he said.
I looked over at him. The "Buddha" didn't look any more Indian, still looked like a California surfer dude in a toga. "Sounds like he was angsting," I said.
"Do you remember the bit in Transmetropolitain, when Spider Jerusalem was talking about the first time he found out about death?"
"He got angry, not ran off. And he was like eight."
"But he did go off to the Mountain," he said.
"Spider Jerusalem is also fictional. And he went of after he'd done a bunch of other stuff, and I can see the parallel you're trying to draw, but I don't think it works."
"And the Buddha presented in this 1957 translation of things written down in dribs and drabs over thousands of years is any less fictional?"
I eyed him. "That's a really weird comment, from you, anyway."
"Why?" he asked, "Like you said, it was written down by priests and monks, thousands of years before anybody'd even considered many of the philosophies you take for granted, like democracy, equal rights, or anything else. They had to make the bits of things they saw fit their world, same as anybody else. Have you looked at any more modern stuff?"
"No," I said, "Figured I'd start with the basics. The look how people interpret it now, I suppose. I don't think you're gonna convince me."
"Who says I'm trying to? I'm just sayin."
"I don't think that'd fly with Buddhist fundamentalists," I said, "If there even are any of those. Are there?"
He didn't answer, and I didn't bother to turn around. He so totally stole that trick from Batman.
Sort of part of a series. See also : Stories from the Rabbit Hole
Stories from the Rabbit Hole, Part 2
There's a Buddha on my Bed
Tags: Rabbit Hole, Mindscribbles, Writing, Religion
"Not really," he said, "it'd spoil the effect, if nothing else."
"Can I have my chair back please?"
He pushed on the desk and spun the chair gently. "You don't think you've spent enough time on the computer today?"
"Probably," I said, "But I don't have anything else to do right now, besides sleep."
"What about all the other things you were going to do on your day off?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I've accepted the fact I'm a procrastinator, and I'm working on dealing with that. Which tends to get distracted by looking for things to make me more productive, or finding new skins for Firefox or something. Such is life."
He unfolded from the chair, doing a pretty good imitation of origami performance art. "Change can only come when one is ready."
"And your lucky numbers are six, twelve, and twenty-three," I said, "Thank you for my chair though."
He bowed his head slightly, I sat down. "I still wonder why you're here," I asked him, "'cause I'm definitely not Buddhist, and not gonna be. I mean, crap, I've been reading this book of Buddhist scriptures here, and oy."
He sat down on the bed and shrugged. "As I said, I am merely your mental foil. Have I tried to convert you?"
I waved that away and picked up the book. "Leaving aside the whole Karma thing," I said, "Look at this. Okay, it's talking about 'the' Buddha's past life, where he decided to become a Buddha, right? Okay, so besides the fact that this 'aeons ago' is almost exactly like medieval India, it's talking about the qualities of a Bodhisattva. Which is someone who is 'certain to become a buddha, somebody who's born with wisdom. And it lists five advantages the Bodhi-being has then."
I started quoting. "He is born no more in the States of woe, but always among gods and men; he is never again born in poor or low-class families; he is always a male and never a woman; he is always well-built, and free of physical defects; he can remember his past lives, and no more forgets them again."
"That is such a crock of crap," I said, tossing the book at him, "Talk about self-justifying bullshit."
He caught the book. "It's almost like it was written down by priests and rulers thousands of years ago. You've barely begun reading it, and you're objecting because it clashes with your preconceived notions?"
"Pretty much, yeah," I said, "And later on there's a fun bit, when... Shakyamuni," I borrowed the book back to look up the name, "decides to go conquer death and old age and so ditches his wife and newly born kid. And the gods set it up that way because he couldn't leave till he'd had a son. Which I guess implies there's a bunch of people in India running around with Buddha blood."
"He left because the prospect of old age and death made everything as ashes for him. It emphasizes that point many times," he said.
I looked over at him. The "Buddha" didn't look any more Indian, still looked like a California surfer dude in a toga. "Sounds like he was angsting," I said.
"Do you remember the bit in Transmetropolitain, when Spider Jerusalem was talking about the first time he found out about death?"
"He got angry, not ran off. And he was like eight."
"But he did go off to the Mountain," he said.
"Spider Jerusalem is also fictional. And he went of after he'd done a bunch of other stuff, and I can see the parallel you're trying to draw, but I don't think it works."
"And the Buddha presented in this 1957 translation of things written down in dribs and drabs over thousands of years is any less fictional?"
I eyed him. "That's a really weird comment, from you, anyway."
"Why?" he asked, "Like you said, it was written down by priests and monks, thousands of years before anybody'd even considered many of the philosophies you take for granted, like democracy, equal rights, or anything else. They had to make the bits of things they saw fit their world, same as anybody else. Have you looked at any more modern stuff?"
"No," I said, "Figured I'd start with the basics. The look how people interpret it now, I suppose. I don't think you're gonna convince me."
"Who says I'm trying to? I'm just sayin."
"I don't think that'd fly with Buddhist fundamentalists," I said, "If there even are any of those. Are there?"
He didn't answer, and I didn't bother to turn around. He so totally stole that trick from Batman.
Sort of part of a series. See also : Stories from the Rabbit Hole
Stories from the Rabbit Hole, Part 2
There's a Buddha on my Bed
Tags: Rabbit Hole, Mindscribbles, Writing, Religion