story # 3
does it matter ?
(to be read aloud)
by bob gottlieb
copyright © 1991-2012 Bob Gottlieb, all rights reserved.
Some times the stories don't really have a beginning, rather if they did it was so far back, and in such a convoluted sort of way that it would no longer be a story, but a whole book. Granted it might be sort of interesting, but probably only to a few people, though to how many more than a 'few' does a story actually appeal? You always hope people read the pieces you write, however long they are, whatever form or shape they take; and you also hope they understand them in the way that you wrote them. I sometimes wonder whether that is important or even valid. If someone gets some kind of something from what you have written, be it joy, pain, an Epiphany, a chuckle, whatever, isn't that enough? Just the fact that you have reached them in some way, either the way you intended the piece, or in some off the wall way, does it matter? Does it matter if they found the story about your long time faithful companion dog dying because it's collar got caught on the food dish's lip and in his efforts to get it off he finally ran into the street, was knocked sideways by a car; as he was limping back to the sidewalk, where you were standing because you'd come running when you heard the thump of a car hitting an alive body, the mechanical street sweeper/washer, doing your street for the first time in your memory caught him up in its whisks and drown him while using him as a rag to clean the streets humorous? While even the thought of the dog made you cry your eyes out? I guess in an egotistical way it does, but in any other way does it affect anything? I mean the fact that you made them laugh is wonderful, and it is something you should be happy about.
Seriously, think about those Literature courses that you waded through in college. When everyone sat in class solemnly nodding at the Professor's interpretation of some acclaimed work by James Joyce, while you could make neither heads nor tails of it (and quite probably they couldn't either but they were either nodding off or nodding for brownie points). You cared even less about it because of its seeming lack of relevance to any thing of any importance in your comprehension of life. Think of the days and the hours of class time spent on a little 4-line ditty by some obscure English Poet that neither you nor anyone else knew existed except this Professor. He had a mental affair with the poet and had done his thesis on the chap and had repeated the obtuse vague work word for word to the class with the utmost solemnity. Then he only spent about 2 minutes covering the collected workers of Rainier Maria Rilke, who absolutely thrilled your soul. He wouldn't even consider the works of Anais Nin literature. Rather he dismissed them as depraved pulp garbage, and SMUT, not erotic literature! To make it all worse you would have to regurgitate what he said when exam time came no matter how you felt, because he/she (though to be truthful I found male teachers much more obdurate in their teaching) absolutely had to have their ego placated! Unless that is you wanted a poor grade. What was worse was that you knew many people in the class blindly endorsed what he said chapter and verse, as though it were "God's" Gospel, merely because he, the Professor, had said it. The absolutely most abominable part of it was that these "cowardly unthinking believers" would more than likely become "teachers". Then they would pass along this unmitigated crap as though it was their original thoughts. Someone save our children! If only the fathers of the unthinking had been impotent or better yet sterile.
However to get back to the topic of convoluted stories I was discussing, I want to tell you about a wedding adventure in Scotland. I do this because I wonder whether the story will appeal to your sense of the synchronistic at work in the world, and your humor bone as much as it did mine. It also seemed to be an important focal point for a great many other adventures that lead me on an epic odyssey into many off the path parts of England, eventually down to Spain (though that might be another story entirely), and encounters with many wonderful and warm people. Now back to the story.
I was staying in a tiny hamlet in Scotland that did not even have a tiny store of any kind, in other words if you wanted tobacco or pop you got it from someone's house not from a store because there weren't any to be found for miles, called Eskdalemuir. My address was care of
Samye-Ling Tibetan Center
Eskdalemuir - near Langholm
Scotland
Honest the 'near Langholm' was part of the official address. To keep this as short as possible suffice it to say it was stunningly beautiful country. It was very much untamed country, while harboring and supporting a population consisting mostly of shepherds and farmers. In the summer we had very long days with swimming in the pond at 1 a.m. in the light of a muted sun, while the winter had exceeding short dreary days; dawn coming upon the constantly wet earth about 10:30 a.m., and sunset about 3:30 p.m. Isolated in Scotland it was the perfect place for this Tibetan Center. Very few of the big city temptations except those that visitors brought with them, or the visitors themselves, were available to those in residence. If you were there for any stretch of time you didn't even care about diversions anyway because you had it going. By going, I mean if you were staying there you couldn't help but pick up on the spiritual/mental energy of the place. Even the most jaded, drugged out, selfish self-centered bastard was touched to some degree by the energy that was generated merely by physical proximity, no matter how strong his/her barriers of insulation. It is just a special place that is located just where it should be in the cosmos. Quite a number of Westerners passed through its portals in their journeys. Some were more serious about what Samye-Ling had to offer than others, though all took something away with them. Most people came for a weekend or so, to look at and be close to the Tibetans, some came for a week and stayed for years, some just came back again and again, and a few just passed through and never physically returned. I was drawn to it by a book and a photograph of a teacher residing there a friend had sent to me. With a very odd coincidence attached.
As stated I received a letter from a friend I never had expected to hear from. She had gone off to study painting in The Hague, Holland. As this was the wild and woolly 60's where people who were supposed to meet met, exchanged what had to be exchanged, and rapidly moved on, I just had figured my exchange with Joan was over when she departed for Europe. To my shock, but not surprise, about 6 months later a letter came from Scotland for me. She spoke of finding our Tibetan teachers, and that it was imperative that I get over there. I wrote a letter asking about 5 or 6 questions, which remained unmailed in my tent for about 2 weeks until a letter arrived inside a book with a picture attached. When I looked at the picture I knew I was on my way to Scotland. The letter sealed my fate. It answered every question I had asked in the order I asked it.
After a detour that wound up taking me to Woodstock and then on an adventure/journey with the Hog Farm, I wanted to investigate what this magnetic attraction was all about. As previously stated I knew my destination was confirmed that I would make the trip to Scotland. There was no question about that; it was merely a matter of waiting for all the 'forces' to align themselves. Everything seemed to have a sequential order that would not tolerate interference, so I waited. It worked wonderfully. The day I arrived at Samye-Ling there was a room vacated just that morning (very unusual that it hadn't been booked). I wasn't to learn until later those reservations weeks in advance were the normal order of the day. Also they had just decided they needed more help in the kitchen and garden. I have a degree in landscaping and had just been cooking for numbers at Woodstock and on the Hog Farm sojourn. I was there blissfully for about 6 months when it was announced that Trungpa Rinpoche, the fellow with whom I studied, was leaving for the US to live, but first he was going to perform a wedding ceremony for a couple that had met at the Center. It sent everyone all abuzz. (funny part of it now is I can't remember the names of the couple getting married, high society though). It didn't cause a great disruption in daily activity for 2 reasons. 1) Not much could cause a disruption there, because disruption was part of the picture and was accepted as just being. 2) Only the ceremony was to take place at the center, the reception was to be in Langholm at the hotel, about 18 Km. We would all be bused there, or at any rate those of us that wanted to attend. It was kind of interesting to see all the people there attempting to put together some kind of finery to wear. None of us worried much about appearance, we were clean, kept our clothes clean, but didn't worry about much beyond that. Well here was a celebration and a chance to break out and strut. I remembered that when Lady Beatrix had left she had given a fellow traveling American named Don, who was or had been some kind of college football player, and myself each a pair of velvet pants. Did I feel like a peacock in my black velvet pants with sequins and a shirt on which I sewed some beads! However the finery wasn't only for me or us, rather it was to make it a more festive occasion for the couple that was to be joined together. I think all of us felt the same about the preparations.
The ceremony was short, full of meaning, and very beautiful. The 50 or so people that were living at the center for the ceremony moved into buses and cars for the ride to the hotel, including 2 or 3 of the Tibetan monks. I think all those that had been at the center for any length of time were quite unprepared for what awaited us in Langholm. I know I was. There we were, all these people who had grown more experienced in the 60's and had spent the last varying lengths of time in a Tibetan Center far from anywhere. Some of us were students of the drug culture, some from universities or professors at the same, and all were artists in the largest sense of the word that had consciously or unconsciously been in a retreat from the world. As we disembarked the bus we were handed a large glass of champagne, our ears were hearing a well-know acoustic band playing and our eyes seeing the moving rainbow of beautifully dressed people. Everyone (about 200 additional people of widely varying ages) was in a field in front of the hotel (at least I remember it as a field, though upon reflection it might have been a large hotel lawn, but I do remember sheep grazing. This fact of sheep grazing doesn't provide conclusive evidence of anything though because of the way the Scottish treat their sheep. They have them everywhere, including inside the house.). There were a couple of people that talked in praise of the union during breaks in the music, and also many toasts to the longevity of the union. A lot of laughter and song; and after some folk and square dancing on the lawn to the well know trio, we moved inside to eat, drink, and ingest what appealed to us; to dance, mingle, and listen to an electric band, some of whom are still going strong here in the 90s and are well-known by today's audiences. It was a smorgasbord for senses that were used to living a much more bland and quiet external life with what was happening to their inner being providing the excitement (If you haven't experienced this inner excitement, please don't only accept my word that it does provide lots of joy, it is an experience you should attempt to locate). Quite a number of us were more at home with inner desires rather than being assaulted by all the pleasures of the flesh at such a fantastic pace. However we were encouraged to partake and enjoy by our peers who had come from all over England and the Continent to help celebrate this union. Plus there was a lot of good feeling and genuine warmth flowing from all the participants gathered to this site in Scotland.
As a veteran of the fledgling rock scene, one who grew up with music, and had worked for various bands in the 60s and through the 70s, let me tell you this band rocked with the best of them. They also had a genuine good feeling for all mankind that was permeating everybody and everything that day, plus lots of the best of refreshments to inspire them. It was a hodge-podge of the British folk and rock musicians of the time. Some were well known, others were up and coming, and still others were names the public would never know, but musicians would recognize. Their music served as a magnet, drawing people from all the various little enclaves they had retired to in order to refresh themselves in their way of choice (and there were many ways of choice available to the multitude). The people materialized into the ballroom, they didn't drift in, nor float in, and they appeared. Yet oddly, they all stood around the sides of the room and no one danced, and this was dancing music. All their bodies were moving with the music, some were tapping a toe, some had the typical head nod of someone engrossed in the music, but no one ventured out to the floor. I was just kind of dancing in place and by myself when Crazy American Don (as he was known to some) walked by slapped me in the stomach and said, "Lets start it, no one else will." First and only time I ever danced with a male, if in that type of rock n' roll dancing you can be called dancing with someone. As soon as we ventured out on to the floor it filled up. It turned into one of those magical nights where music takes over and you are held in its sway, until hours later when the band called it a night; and I became aware again and looked around. I noticed all the people from the Tibetan center were gone, as well as quite a few of the others. Oh well it looked like a walk of about 18-Km back to the center, not what I was looking forward to but... it was what appeared to be.
I started on my journey into the Scottish night. If you haven't experienced a Scottish night it is something quite different. It is like being immersed in a wet suit of long johns or sleeping between wet flannel sheets. I was in a happy mood from the festive occasion I'd just attended, pleased to have met so many warm good interesting people, and even more buoyed by the warmth of feeling that had been evident. I just let my mind go and set to the business of walking home, after all 18 Km is 18 Km. Though I had been at the Center for 6 or so months I had not managed, nor seen anyone else manage, the art of teleportation. (I hope that doesn't ruin any illusions you have about the magical qualities of Tibetans.) I guess I started to meditate as I went along because I was suddenly jolted back to the soggy Scottish night by the sounds of a struggle. I stopped and listened. All my senses suddenly at full alert. My body alive with energy. It sounded like maybe a fish, a super big one, that had just about been reeled in and was still floppin' around on the edge of the bank struggling to get back into the water. It was struggling attempting to breathe the air, and fighting to return to the life giving water. I figured I'd better take a quiet look at what was stirring up such a ruckus. I squeezed through the hedges, of whatever shrub it is they line most of their roads with as quietly as I could, not quite sure what I expected to see, but it sure as blazes wasn't what I saw. Before my startled eyes was Crazy American Don floppin' around on the shore of this little creek (that is if they call them creeks in Scotland), with one leg wedged into a forked branch of the hedge. I guess he'd just pulled his head out of the creek cause he was soaking wet. Later it was revealed that he'd had too much at the party to drink, and been in the vicinity of the other intoxicants for too long and decided to walk back. He had gotten thirsty and decided to jump, or maybe it was a failed attempt at teleportation, the hedge to get a drink out of the creek he'd been listening to burbling along. He'd always been rather physically aggressive, as serious football players are want to be. Somehow his foot had gotten wedged in the fork of the hedge, either it was high enough above the ground so he wasn't able to free himself, or he was debilitated by what he'd been in contact with and his strength sapped, so his head had landed in the creek. Here he was flailing around like this great fighting fish out of water and on its last bit of strength. He was trying to crawl away from the hedge and break the forked branch, except that direction also coincided with where the creek was, and the creek had water in it. Actually I guess it was a good thing the water was so close to the road or I might not have heard him. It's the nature of the beast to struggle to survive. It didn't take a lot to free his foot, get back through the hedge, by conventional means, and we were back on out way to the Center.
The rest of the trip home was uneventful, I don't think we met anyone else, and to be real honest I don't remember much. I don't think we talked, we just somehow arrived at home (who knows maybe there is teleportation, I certainly don't remember walking) and parted company at the gate because I lived in one of the little huts in the back, and he had a room in the main house. I also don't think we ever talked about our meeting, nor his fight with the hedge, though he did sport a beaut of a stone bruise on his cheek the next day as well as a sever limp. He had a lot of curious looks thrown his way, however I don't think he ever answered any of the questions if anyone had the temerity to ask them.
I was real loopy the next day and wandered about, who knows what I'd been exposed to in the way of intoxicants, either intentionally or unintentionally that past day. I decided to take a walk to air myself out, as meditation wasn't pulling me back to myself. As I passed the phone on the way to the door it rang. Instinctively I grabbed it; I truly hate the sound of a ringing phone, gave some greeting and listened. It was a woman I'd met briefly at the wedding and she was having trouble getting her auto started. I don't know why, but I said I'd walk over and have a look. I hate being a mechanic and know just enough to be dangerous. Maybe it gave me a direction for my walk? More likely because I was impressed by her at the party. As I was walking up the lane to the house I saw her going from the auto to the house, and continued on my way up the path to the door. She greeted me rather enthusiastically I thought for just having shown up, but immediately thought no more about it as she invited me in for a cup of tea. After the water was put on she thanked me, but I said I'd decline the thanks until I had done something to earn them. She told me the car had just started and hadn't I done it and then gone to wash up at the pump house? Evidently she'd seen me and I was coming from that direction. I stated that I'd just arrived and had not really given the car a second glance. Well we sat having tea and discussed the joyous occasion of the previous day, and the state of good feeling of the world in general. She was also a student to Trungpa Rinpoche and was dismayed that he was going to America. We sat talking for hours; the short of the conversation was we decided that I should accompany her to Morocco for a bit of a vacation in the sun. You don't see the sun in this part of Scotland, nor anywhere in the British Isles for that matter, except upon rare occasion. This was to be a vacation and study trip rolled into one for the two of us. She had some good friends in Marrakech that were going to be gone for a couple of months and had given her use of their house. There we could spend our time pooling our knowledge about Tibetan Buddhism, yoga, and astrology to our mutual benefit. All the while basking in the sun of Morocco, while exploring its culture and music. (see how things seem to just fall into place at the proper time, to give a proper focus!)
To give everything time to work its way into place I decided to stay on at the Tibetan center until Trungpa Rinpoche left, approximately 2 additional weeks, and then meet up with Lucy (names all changed except my teacher's, to protect the unsuspecting, none of us knew at the time this would be written about) in London. This also gave her time to tidy up some loose ends. It was an uneventful stretch of time, marked only by a few small mental conjuring tricks Trungpa played on various people at the center. These tricks were never played with maliciousness. They were done for reasons never know but seemingly with purpose. Then there was a small farewell dinner for Trungpa Rinpoche with many tears shed by various devotees.
I am bothered here by the word 'tricks'. I think a better description of these incidents might be that they were situations that were created to teach. Crafted for each person individually, much like my saddle was custom crafted to my hind end and made for my peculiarities. I can only relate what happened to me, and speak of it as I see/saw the situation.
It was a day or two after the wedding and I had been working in the garden for several hours and I was on my way to my room to get cleaned up for evening meal. As I entered the building I was hailed from the second floor. Trungpa Rinpoche was sitting on the floor outside the upstairs lavatory and beckoning to me. He said he needed help as he had fallen down, he generally used a walking stick due to a car accident and this was not in evidence. As I got within about 7 feet of him the smell of alcohol became shockingly apparent. There were many rumors of his being a heavy drinker though I had seen no evidence of this. I helped him to his feet, and guided him back to his chair in his room. He thanked me and told me to sit down and meditate. He was concerned about my meditation (in fact I had asked him for an interview earlier that day because I was having difficulty with my meditations). Immediate thought in my head was what could you do about it at this moment. You reek of alcohol and are quite drunk. The actual thought was probably was, "What the fuck can you do about my meditation! You are so pissed you can't stand up!" I decided as I was already there, as I was far from home, and "Aw what the hell." I just might as well humor him and do it.
I sat down and tried to concentrate on my breathing. It was not a very easy go. Shortly though I began to relax, when suddenly I could feel him walking around on my brain. He seemed to have a pair of scissors and was taking a snip here, a snip there. It was odd, yet not intrusive. Suddenly the whole top of my skull was off and lying upside down in my hands. Issuing from my head was a huge mushroom cloud. The classic picture of an atomic bomb exploding would be an accurate representation. Most amazingly I had what I can only describe as 360 vision. My mind never touched the images that entered; they passed through me cleanly, no judgment.
I don't know how long I was in that state, but I remember him saying that was better. He also told me I could go now. I remember getting up and backing to the door, telling him thanks. I at this point clearly remember the thought that I no longer noticed any odor of alcohol. I had the door open and was about to back through it he stopped me with a gesture and my name, "Bob. Remember, separate the man and the teacher."
I had determined to hitch hike to London, as it looked like there was no ride leaving in the foreseeable future. I was not thrilled by this prospect but at the same time I figured it was what was to be and accepted it.
The hitchhike to the city, turned into an amusing journey of 'coincidence'. A friend from the Center, on his way into the large town in our area, where you could buy more than petrol and cigarettes, let me out on the highway in the early morning and I was immediately picked up by a trucker going about half way (hitch hiking was not too bad in England at this time, unless you had long hair, and or a beard. I had hair half way to my butt and a long beard, so to get a ride that quickly was not usual.) He was a garrulous fellow and very pleasant. We stopped for lunch and he would have none of me paying even for my own portion. Then we were to meet up with his buddy at a pub about 100 Km shy of the destination. He said he was sure his mate (not in the literal American sense, it is an English term meaning friend) was going on into London and it should not be a problem to ride with him. We arrived first and he order pints of beer for us, I changed mine to a half-pint knowing how susceptible I was to alcohol. His friend arrived and promptly orders another round; again I had to change mine to a half. Not wanting to appear the poor beggar I ordered a round for them and I sat out the merriment, but was already half in the bag. Finally we sallied forth. As it turned out the fellow had a delivery about 45 Km down the road that would tie him up for a few hours so I decided to take my chances and get back on the road while he made the delivery. He said if I was there on the return he would stop, so back to the wild outdoors.
I was standing at the on ramp to the motor way with the thumb out and trying to generate the feeling that gets rides, but was hampered by the ingested alcohol, when I happen to glance off to the west. It was turning into the grandmother of the mother of thunder and lightening storms and closing the gap between where it was and me at a gallop. You could see the waves of rain pelting down to the earth, and it seemed to be moving ever quicker. At this point a nice new Vauxhall driven by a 50ish year old man passed me by. As he did so I swung around following him with my body, with my eyes nailed to his. Then stamped my foot to show my distaste at being passed up. Lo and behold he stopped and backed up to me. I quietly got in and he pulled on to the highway. A few pleasantries were exchanged and an uncomfortable silence ensued for the few minutes it took for the storm to reach us. Each of us seemed puzzled at this unexpected coming together of two extraordinarily different people. Politically, socially, morally, and probably in every other way we were at opposite ends of a very broad spectrum. I think this was apparent to both of us and we accepted it just as the nature of the world at the moment. There was that type of pause when I entered the car as if he didn’t know why he stopped and I didn’t have any answer either.
Then he started talking about his son who had just bilked the family out of some money and a lot of pride. He was upset by the behavior but couldn't bring himself to blame his son. I was dry (it was a very nasty, wet, and loud storm on the outside of the car), and on my way to London; he was in the company of an ear to relieve some of his frustration about his son's poor conduct toward the family. I guess we each had a purpose and a reason. He drove me to my door, not significantly out of his way, but none the less out of his way. We bid each other a peaceful day and went our separate ways.
There are many more adventures connected to this story, that will take us to the west of England and two castles, then on down through France to the Cote d'Azure and eventually to the Spanish islands of Ibiza, Formentera, and on to a date with a Contessa on Minorca, but I have not the inclination to relate them at this point, as I want this not to be a book but a short piece. Somewhere down the rope closer to the catch we'll get back to it, but this makes for a relatively tidy ending. You're not left on pincushions as to whether the hero survived the rattlesnakes in the pit of doom, and yet if you are so inclined there is more to look forward to. Thank you for your company on the journey. I hope it was enjoyable and profitable for you. Again does any of it matter? Adios
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