The grass bends to her,

The soft air carries that scent,

Animist in me, thriving to clumber out,

Out of this shell, Undamn this soul!

If only for a moment to play in this vision.

That garrulous mad frolic,

Such desire is my shackle,

The very best I can hope for?

One prison at a time.

Blackness follows her like a wave,

The pull, the pull of dynamic wisdom

The sway, sway, like a beautiful snake,

The charm, the woo, the smile

This is what I sell my soul for.

In every dream, a caress of my soul

A never ending bliss

As unknown lips lay to my mind.

That familiar presence, still so new

To be born in again, ah

A new life, no memory,

No thoughts of distress or pain,

Feed me, Kind Soul, you stopped to look at me

Now feed me truth and compassion.

Just to be in that womb

Wrap me in you.

Wrap me.

I had just put down Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut. I was just about asleep. Weird things were starting to happen as I made the transition to into fantasm dreamland. And then suddenly I felt a strange itching sensation on my lower lip. Then it started to hurt, first a little, and then a lot. 

I started to wonder what could cause this pain as I woke from mild slumber. And then I realized, those goddamn mosquitoes were at it again. This wasn’t like last time, where I could just scratch my ankle and after 5 minutes the itching would sort of subside. No, this was worse.

I fondled my lip and tried to scratch it, tried to alleviate the itching. It wasn't working. There is just absolutely no place on the lip to effectively scratch. But not just that, my lip felt a little strange, a little out of place, like something was awry. But what, I couldn't tell. So I got out of my cozy little sack and walked to door, flipped the light on and spun to have a look.

Ah, fucking great, I thought as I looked in the mirror. My bottom lip was sticking well out of proportion in front of my upper lip. It looked exactly like someone popped me in the mouth and now my lip was swelling up nice and fat.

Goddamn bugs. Little bastards got me where I least expected it. I am just glad I wasn't sleeping naked with any sensitive parts exposed. Goddamn bugs.

It’s been at least three months since I consistently practiced any meditation or taijiquan. So this week I started learning baguazhang from what I think is a competent teacher. In case you don’t know, bagua is the circle walking martial art that looks kind of strange. However, the first stage is for me to just stand on one leg while twisting my body 90 degrees to one side and holding that posture until my leg starts to burn and ache and I can’t take it anymore.

As I continued my legs were shaking, which made my arms shake, which made my hands shake, and then my whole body was sort of shaking. And then I realized how much I miss the process of learning internal arts. Relax, relax, relax. Relax through the pain.

So here I am in China, just about one month left and I am just now starting to be serious about martial arts again. I didn’t practice much while I was here. I could blame it on the shitty program that brought me here. After all, they dumped me in Jiangpu, the little city an hour’s bus ride from Nanjing. It has nothing but a Kentucky Fried Chicken. I could blame them for doing that. I could blame my studies. Studying too much has worked me into a position of having very little time to plan my day. I could blame God, because, well, if there is a God, I think its fair to hold him/her accountable for sticking me with my problems without much of a blueprint to go on and 100 different religions to choose from, none of which have any clue how to understand the others.

Or like Jimmy Buffet says, “It’s my own damn fault.” 

The good news is, however, that I’ve had a lot of time to think about the things I’ve been doing in my life and I’ve realized that at least with respect to discovering my human potential, I’ve spread myself way too thin. This is also my fault, trying to work things out in my favor, but I forgot the golden rule of achievement-sacrifice. Always a sacrifice.

I’ve also discovered that it will serve me best to not be a formal martial arts teacher in the immediate future.  I know that I can help people, and I know just about where my level is as a practitioner, but I also know that I need to progress to a new kind of level before I take on that kind of responsibility again. I haven’t taken the proper steps to avoid collision with apathy. I haven’t taken the proper steps to ensure my ambition, and well, there are also other paths that I have not yet discovered. Tossing people around like rags is a worthy goal, but it is and should not be any goal for me in the near future.  My goal should be to stop and smell the roses. It is as simple as that. Everything else will fall in line.

I had this dream that I was running around down in Hell. It was dark and musty and dim and grim, and there was no happiness, only fear and frustration. And…I was a dog. I could sniff around. And... my sense of smell was unbelievable.

I was sniffing around and running around Hell, and everything was strange and new. It was my first time as a dog. Hell wasn’t fiery and scary so much. It was dark and depressing. But I wasn’t too sad though, I was just worried about what I should do. I saw some other people, and they were sad. I just looked at them. They were crying and sobbing and trying to kill themselves, but couldn’t figure out how.  I didn’t know why they were sad, but they just didn’t seem to want to do anything anymore. Some people were making love, but they looked like they hated each other. I didn’t know what to do, so I just starting sniffing around in different places.

I was in a cave, looking for stuff to do. I wasn’t hungry or hopeless. I was homeless. I was helpless. I couldn’t talk to them. I couldn’t even bark.

And then there was this smell. Something new, something I had never experienced before.. So divine. So exciting and inviting and beautiful and glorious. It was overwhelming. It was all I could think about. It was like coming out of the wilderness without having eaten for weeks and then stumbling upon a barbeque. It was pure fantasy, and it was all I could think about. All I wanted to do was find out where it was coming from.

So I put my sniffing power to work and sniffed in every direction.

Nope, that’s shit, not there. Nope, that’s something else, rotten something. Ah, there it is. GO that way. It became stronger. I sniffed dirt and rocks and mud and people and there asses and their faces and their houses and trails upon trails and walls and everything I could sniff…I sniffed it out. I followed my sniff trail until it got so strong I almost wanted to fall over. It was so strong.

And finally, I came upon a pit. And inside the pit was meat. Big slabs of raw meat. Cow meat, pig meat, chicken meat, lamb meat, rodent meat, lizard meat. There was every kind of meat I could imagine. My eyes felt big as saucers. My stomach felt bigger. I was ravenous. The uncontrollable urge I was feeling was hunger. I wanted to eat. Eating was more important than anything else. It was all I could think about. I wanted that meat. I wanted that meat to massage my teeth. I wanted my tongue to dance with it, and I wanted to fill my belly with meaty happiness.

So I jumped into the pit. And because this was the first time I was a dog, I didn’t know what to expect. But I found that my dog tendencies took over in a rather natural manner. It was absolutely amazing. Never in my life have I been able to scarf that much food, that quickly. I tore through the meat like no tomorrow. My choppers chopping so fast, I was ripping and tearing and whining and swallowing gobs of meat. I was sick with pleasure. It was grosser than gross. Gluttonous, ravenous, hypersexual consumption of raw meat. Bones cracking and saliva slinging, I gobbled with terrible fury.  

And just as fast as I became hungry, I became sick. The same smell that carried me to this pit turned putrid and vile. I wanted to throw up. And I did. I did. I threw up forever. I tossed every meaty little morsel right up. It was painful. My eyes were bugging out. My stomach was contracting as far as it possible could. My diaphragm felt like it was in my throat. I heard sounds of chewed meat slapping the dirty black ground. And finally, I had nothing left to give except spit. So I spit.

At this point I just looked around. I saw some people looking at me. The look in their eyes told me that didn’t care if I was hungry and eating or puking and coughing. They just watched with solemn faces. And as soon as I stopped puking they turned away and went about their business.

Shortly after I regained my senses, the smell that made me give up the meat left, and I felt better. I licked my chops again, which caused another change in my constitution. As soon as I licked my chops, I could smell that meat again. Not the meat I had just eaten, though. It was the never-ending pile of meat sitting right in front of me. It started to smell wonderful and romantic again. My fantasy was quickly coming back to me. All I could think about was eating that meat again. And once again, dog nature took over and I buried my nozzle into a side of pork, and then into a side of beef, and then drumsticks. And a few feathers blew out of my mouth and I coughed and kept eating.

And so on and so on, I devoured and devoured until suddenly that same sickness started overcoming me again. I puked and puked again until I could take no more, and a sigh of relief came over me as I was able to breathe again.

So I repeated this process a few more times.

Then I woke up. I recounted my dream step by step. It was so real, so vivid. Being a dog is so Zen, so thoughtless. See what you want, get it. Take care of it. Get rid of it.

And then I realized, there is no place called Hell.

Will this dog ever wake up? Will I? Will I?

They came one after another, just as I was about to pass into the netherworld. Just as I was about to pass into that dreamy escape I so longed. Just as I was about to let my pillow make love to my soul and give me what I desired most. Just as that magical moment of tranquility  was about to happen…something else happened instead. Every time it was about to come, every time I was about to get mine, it happened. Over and over again.

I hate Buddhists. They are always talking about equal rights for all beings. About how each of us, all us living creatures have our own rights and we shouldn’t impede on each other’s rights. All things Great and Small, and so on like this. Always going on about compassion and what not, like its some sort of never-ending pie to be passed around, and all you have to do is take a piece and you can chew on cosmic wisdom forever. Forever.

All you have to do is love everybody, and everything will be all right. Forever.

They came at me, an entire Blitzkrieg of those little fuckers came at me, those blood sucking little fuckers. And they have all the tools they need to make you miserable. A stick for poking a hole in you, a saw for opening it up, some sort of acid that makes you itch miserably, and a siphon which sucks all the blood they carry right out of your body and into their bellies. Little fuckers. You can’t even feel them until they are right inside you, fornicating with your skin, raping your epidermis of its life force. Straight up fucking you out of your own goddamn blood.

I hate mosquitos.

I love Buddhists. All creatures. All Creatures.

With one wretched glance, the fat little Nazi looking fuck with his reptilian smile would lock me into trances of fear.  Out of his dim face shone a brown, sickly, hateful light. His lifeless eyes sent me a million cold ripples that would linger over me for hours.  He was there polishing the apple that Adam handed Eve.  And now, he was visiting my world.  He must have been drawn here by the smell of innocence and laughter.  He was a spiritual dog in search of a meal.  A meal was the chance to feed his ego.  His ego was built by supernatural forces.  Supernatural forces that were in direct opposition to good will towards children. This was his inherent nature.  It was how he dealt in his environment, the terms of his business.  He was the Peacekeeper. 

With a keen eye, one might notice his perverted devotion to hatred.  I can only imagine what atrocities must have occurred in his childhood...that is, what forced him to force his authority on the weak of heart, the spiritually vulnerable or disheartened, or refuge-seeking ones.  Did his father beat him incessantly, or was this just some offspring of natural genetic depression.  I remember how his pale, off-white face, all scattered with indentions of long-lost boyhood acne, was a guard-gate against anything that represents goodness, or kindness, or anything edifying or positive.  Those things just slapped his hard skin and fell dead on impact. If indeed there is a devil, the devil regards him as one of the "good ole boys."

He also wanted to hide his fagishness.  Now, I've got absolutely nothing against gays, in fact, some of the most wonderful people I've known have been gay.  Don't hide it under a blanket of dogma and take out social frustrations on the young and weak. It was very apparent to me that he liked men who could control him.  He could have been a priest, but I speculate that the Kingdom of God needed expansion, and he was the logistical support, a hat he wore well for the mysterious workings of divinity. However, I could never decide if he liked boys, little boys, and submissive, fearful women, or if he just liked to torture them with fear and intimidation. 

Every time he looked at me, I got scared, and worried about how I might have to explain shitting in my pants as a result of a holy man who had it in for me.  I didn't know what to do.  Did he want to fuck me?  Or did he want to beat me?  I don't know.  God, I hate mixed signals.  Maybe he wanted to tell me that a legion of demons was marching to my house, smoking grass and chanting, Hey, we're gonna getchu too! Another one bites the dust. And they were smiling because they were gonna drag me down a hole and put me in a little guilt box for eternity.  Fuck, why did I listen to Queen.  Fuck, why did I say Fuck¡­I¡¯m sorry, God.  I'll never do it again.  I swear, just make him stop looking at me.

With every conjured demon came another drop of sweat, a small price to pay for retreating unscathed from this horrific encounter.  I held the poop in.

He would sit there on his platform on Sundays, one leg hanging over the other, girlishly, cracking a devilish smile, throwing his love on the Man.  He would display his love for the Man, and show Him that he could handle the power.  He could handle the power of intimidation.  If there is a spirit world, and I'm pretty sure there is, the Peacekeeper was sucking some serious spiritual dick.  He would do what was required of him to scare the little ones, and instill fear and terror in them.  He certainly was in favor of winning attention, and his love for the Man drove his hopes for approval.  It was part of his sickness, his unclean faith.

Later on, after he quit staring at me, my fear turned to hate. I hated him.  I grew a skin of hatred all over.  I reveled in glorious illusions of malice.  I pictured mighty Elephants fisting him as the cool morning breeze parted his hair crossways. And he would grab grass, while twisting his head cockeyed, a string of snot and drewl dangling from his teeth into a small pool of dirty mix, forever connecting him to the grasslands of Africa.  We all could win, even the Elephants with one last hurrah, one Fat Tuesday before the happy three ring life of getting smacked with baseball bats by piss-drunk circus trainers.  Fuck the Shriners.

Fantasy was my only recourse. Although, I truly believe that if I knew I couldn't get caught, if it was a sure thing of getting away with it, I could have killed him myself, without the Elephants.  But then if I killed this bastard, I might be forced to spend my eternity in Hell after all, a place that was as much his destiny as mine would have become.  And then what?  I hated him almost as much as he hated me.  That's the one thing he taught me well.  Transforming fear into hate.  The Lord certainly works in mysterious ways.  Fuck me, He sure does.  I still don't get it.