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Authors: Eliot Fintushel
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haunches, nauseated by what they saw and by what they became, seeing it. Suds, feeling all their emotions plus his own disgust, struck on the tactic of reciting his entire repertoire of obscenities, A to Z, in order to keep his equilibrium.
Suds felt: Rinzai alone was unaffected. (
“…Vaginal douche bag, Wombat piss, Bloody fuckin’ Xyster…”
) Rinzai
knew
that No Mind wasn’t there, and so he didn’t look. (
“…pus-dripping Yoni, wimpy prick Zarf, Asshole…”
) Rinzai let everything pass through him, like a swallet sucking down a lost river, letting it stream and dribble through gypsum and calcite, stratum after broken stratum, till it broke the surface of a deep pool under a waterfall, and broke it, and broke it, rippling outward, until he was staring up at Angela’s droplet-shattered face staring down at him, through twigs and pebbles and dirt.
#
Angela never wanted Rinzai to go to the van, but he couldn’t live in Angela’s gaze, could he? Nothing else was sufficient. Nothing else even began to fill the hole that Angela’s gaze filled, nothing except zazen, zazen, zazen.
And he couldn’t rely on Angela. She came and went like moonlight on a cloudy night. You couldn’t hold the moon. She’d found him, an orphan, gobbling offal at the Rest Stops, and she let him tag along. She even taught him things—how to sleep without nightmares, how to sleep at all, how to laugh from your belly instead of your chest, how to melt into your breath at twilight. But zazen was better—it was there absolutely whenever you wanted it.
#
(
“…Bastard, Cunt, Dildo brain…”
) Bobo Shin hit Rinzai over the head with a hardwood crosier he found in his sleeve. “Well, what about you? Wake up, boy. Do you see anything, you worthlesspustule?” Suds felt: Bobo Shin Roshi was in a hurry to settle matters before his disorientation exploded up his puppy dog’s tail in all the colors of breakfast. (
“…Elephant shit, Fuckhead, Gut hag…”
)
“Nope. I didn’t look.”
“What?”
“It’s a waste of time, Roshi. No Mind is in the Cave of the Dharma.”
“How in the City do you know that?”
“Just before he disappeared, I told No Mind how Big Man and Pirate were trying to get into the City a back way. Some hicks told me. I figure, he must have followed them.”
“Jizo! Shit! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
(“Damn me, Virya,” Suds hissed, “why didn’t you figure that out? We could have skipped this hellhole and picked them up down by the Dharma Cave.”)
“You didn’t ask me, Roshi,” said Rinzai.
“Stop laughing, you insufferable turd. Stop it. What are you laughing at?” But Rinzai could no longer be found. Rinzai was all over the room, on the television, underfoot, and in the pussy cat’s teeth. “Let’s get out of here. This is completely unacceptable in every way. Don’t bow. Don’t say anything. Just go. Someone help me up, for Amitabha’s sake. I am your teacher, you ingrates.”
Suds felt: it took all the grims’ will power and concentration, their
joriki,
to locate their own limbs and propel themselves out of the suburb, helping Bobo Shin along as he leaned against Clara, moaning, his head lolling against her bosom. Bobo Shin was sweating profusely, and as the sweat dripped down, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t a lost river flowing down someone’s swallet, down, down, flowing and pooling, then reflecting.
Suds felt Rinzai watch Bobo Shin, Clara, and the monks leave the suburb. Mukan looked back before he melted out of Rinzai’s view into a blinding haze of white light. Moving mere inches this way and that, Rinzai wandered about the living room, in and outof epochs and lives like currents of cool water in a spring pond. He felt something lying on the floor under his left foot, and he picked it up to examine it.
Suds whined. “My nose!”
Rinzai didn’t hear that. It looked to him like a crystal set. No Mind’s
chop,
his personal insignia, was stamped
Suds felt: Rinzai alone was unaffected. (
“…Vaginal douche bag, Wombat piss, Bloody fuckin’ Xyster…”
) Rinzai
knew
that No Mind wasn’t there, and so he didn’t look. (
“…pus-dripping Yoni, wimpy prick Zarf, Asshole…”
) Rinzai let everything pass through him, like a swallet sucking down a lost river, letting it stream and dribble through gypsum and calcite, stratum after broken stratum, till it broke the surface of a deep pool under a waterfall, and broke it, and broke it, rippling outward, until he was staring up at Angela’s droplet-shattered face staring down at him, through twigs and pebbles and dirt.
#
Angela never wanted Rinzai to go to the van, but he couldn’t live in Angela’s gaze, could he? Nothing else was sufficient. Nothing else even began to fill the hole that Angela’s gaze filled, nothing except zazen, zazen, zazen.
And he couldn’t rely on Angela. She came and went like moonlight on a cloudy night. You couldn’t hold the moon. She’d found him, an orphan, gobbling offal at the Rest Stops, and she let him tag along. She even taught him things—how to sleep without nightmares, how to sleep at all, how to laugh from your belly instead of your chest, how to melt into your breath at twilight. But zazen was better—it was there absolutely whenever you wanted it.
#
(
“…Bastard, Cunt, Dildo brain…”
) Bobo Shin hit Rinzai over the head with a hardwood crosier he found in his sleeve. “Well, what about you? Wake up, boy. Do you see anything, you worthlesspustule?” Suds felt: Bobo Shin Roshi was in a hurry to settle matters before his disorientation exploded up his puppy dog’s tail in all the colors of breakfast. (
“…Elephant shit, Fuckhead, Gut hag…”
)
“Nope. I didn’t look.”
“What?”
“It’s a waste of time, Roshi. No Mind is in the Cave of the Dharma.”
“How in the City do you know that?”
“Just before he disappeared, I told No Mind how Big Man and Pirate were trying to get into the City a back way. Some hicks told me. I figure, he must have followed them.”
“Jizo! Shit! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
(“Damn me, Virya,” Suds hissed, “why didn’t you figure that out? We could have skipped this hellhole and picked them up down by the Dharma Cave.”)
“You didn’t ask me, Roshi,” said Rinzai.
“Stop laughing, you insufferable turd. Stop it. What are you laughing at?” But Rinzai could no longer be found. Rinzai was all over the room, on the television, underfoot, and in the pussy cat’s teeth. “Let’s get out of here. This is completely unacceptable in every way. Don’t bow. Don’t say anything. Just go. Someone help me up, for Amitabha’s sake. I am your teacher, you ingrates.”
Suds felt: it took all the grims’ will power and concentration, their
joriki,
to locate their own limbs and propel themselves out of the suburb, helping Bobo Shin along as he leaned against Clara, moaning, his head lolling against her bosom. Bobo Shin was sweating profusely, and as the sweat dripped down, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t a lost river flowing down someone’s swallet, down, down, flowing and pooling, then reflecting.
Suds felt Rinzai watch Bobo Shin, Clara, and the monks leave the suburb. Mukan looked back before he melted out of Rinzai’s view into a blinding haze of white light. Moving mere inches this way and that, Rinzai wandered about the living room, in and outof epochs and lives like currents of cool water in a spring pond. He felt something lying on the floor under his left foot, and he picked it up to examine it.
Suds whined. “My nose!”
Rinzai didn’t hear that. It looked to him like a crystal set. No Mind’s
chop,
his personal insignia, was stamped
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