On the Rocky Road to Dublin

Kansas City Airport

Before waking up to my alarm, I was having a dream in which I was at a Tibetan Buddhist temple in North America, at least I’m pretty sure it was this continent. The room was painted dark red and was large, and there was a stage-like section at the front of the room where lamas were dressed in brilliantly colored brocade robes. I sat in the front row center, about six feet back from the lamas, at a dark wood table that was long and had a somewhat rough surface, full of grooves and texture.

With me sat several young Westerners, white and in their twenties. Meanwhile, there was a ritual, or almost a sort of lecture, that the lamas (or two of them—there were about four) spoke entirely in Tibetan, and I had no idea what they were saying. When they were finished, I didn’t remember whether they moved away, but the young people I sat with got into a conversation. While they spoke, I noticed at some point a small, rectangular dark brown tray sitting on the table in front of me, about a foot away from the edge I sat at. The kids got interested in it, and I suddenly realized what the contents were, and I said, “Oh, it’s for making sand mandalas.” They didn’t comment and turned to something else, while I looked at the sand—a mess of colorful sand that looked like it was left over from a sand mandala, and the colors were now mixed together, discarded, looking forgotten, dingy, and rejected. There were reds and yellow, but they were dark and dingy, not bright and happy.

Next I noticed that those young people were giving away some sort of paper—or list perhaps—and they were signing up for something, perhaps for attendance to this event. They had little white pieces of paper, like handwritten receipt, and I waited for my turn to sign up. I said something, and finally after everyone else had written on the paper, they scooted a little brown tray (clay, matching the tray that contained the sand) and on it was one of the slips of paper. I looked down at it, and it was blank except for the lines, and suddenly I was the only one at the table-the kids had left me. Actually, I had made attempts to be in their conversation, and the second time I did so was just as they pushed the piece of paper toward me—like they left right after I opened my big mouth.

The most noticeable theme—or themes--in this dream were:
1) MATERIAL THINGS—I was fascinated by the beautiful brocade robes the lamas wore, the patterns and colors, in a “oh, how pretty!” sort of way, like a child, rather than feeling particularly spiritual. I stroked the bumpy texture of the table. I picked up a table scarf made of red brocade and inspected it, discovering that the yellow silk – had been sewn on somewhat sloppily by machine, and I told myself that if they’d gone around the corners by hand, it would have turned out better. It was mostly a rectangular shape except for a circular center and therefore had sharp curves. Also, the sand was dingy and left-over, no longer of spiritual significance. In short, I was gazing at this temple all wrong, in a visual and materialist rather than spiritual sort of way. (Nonetheless, aesthetic, and aesthetics can be very spiritual.)

2) FEELING OUT OF PLACE, SOCIALLY INEPT—I didn’t understand what the lamas were saying and wasn’t paying much attention to the words or gestures, just to their pretty clothing. I felt extremely awkward and out of place, concerned about what this group of young people would think of me, a visitor—an outsider. I made my inept attempt at participating in their conversation, only making a fool of myself and chasing them away—I’ve had countless such experiences when I’ve attempted small talk or attempted to mingle, so it’s really no wonder I’m so asocial and have sort of given up socializing for the most part. And when they all disappeared at the end of the dream, I felt rejected and alienated. The only people I even attempted to interact with were young Westerners with American accents, probably college students (and college is the only long-term atmosphere where I was really at home); I didn’t get into conversation with the lamas or with any Buddhist nuns, or anyone from the east.
It was, in short, not an auspicious dream, and all too reminiscent of Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Like, am I really more fascinated by the showy stuff of Buddhism than serious about cultivating lovingkindness, detachment, and wisdom?


I’m at a café in the airport—I want to use the restroom before I go into the, oh, terminal waiting room, since you have to go through the security check point every time.

Yesterday, Aunt Heinrich Himmler dropped by in the evening to bid me farewell, and I showed her the canned cat food for Cheetah and all that. I did show her my new tall cabinet, and she looked at some of the statues I’ve made lately. I think she’s not only going deaf but totally losing her short term memory. Last time she visited me, I was working on my statue “The Snakes Return to Ireland,” a woman in traditional Irish dress and draped with snakes—or rather, a Celtic version of the Snake Goddess. This time, my aunt looked at the statue and asked, “Is this St. Patrick?” I did not snort, but simply explained (again, and uncomfortably) the name of the statue. It’s rather anti-St. Patrick, the Goddess-rejecting pompous ass. So there.

I have a bunch of my Pagan art upstairs, where she’s not likely to see them. It’s very fortunate that conservative relatives who are old and have bad knees are not crazy about climbing the stairs, and in some cases would rather sleep on the couch. But of course the statues are downstairs while I’m making them in the dining room and living room, and now what with the display cabinet downstairs. I’ve noticed with Aunt H.H. that she can look at such statues as “The Snakes Return to Ireland” and not see them for what they really are, Goddess art, and fortunately she’s not, so far as I can tell, suspicious. (If she were suspicious, I figure she wouldn’t have said anything about St. Patrick, and she probably wouldn’t talk about being Christian when she’s sitting at my dining room table in front of Goddesses, Buddhas and fairies-- or who knows, maybe she would.)

Another sculpture was Death—I took that statue and put her on top of the TV in order to take her photo in front of the bright blue wall. Ethel didn’t ask what her name is, though I was ready to say that she’s Death, even to mention that she’s based on a character in a comic book series. My statue of Death has one hand up in the Peace sign. Aunt H.H. thought it was a “victory” sign, of all things! That weirded me out, really, since I thought everyone on this planet is familiar with the peace sign—even Nixon was. I let her know that no, it’s a peace sign, and I made the sign with my left hand. H.H. explained that after WWII it was a “victory” sign and she added that “That was the beginning of peace,” displaying her total ignorance of what peace really is, far more than the opposite of war. In a country where 700,000 women are raped daily, peace does not thrive. It is so annoying and trying to be surrounded by people who assume patriarchy is the only way (even if they simultaneously don’t know what patriarchy is).

On the First Plane

Midwest Airlines seats are big, cushy, and brown. There are metal foot racks that fold in and out, and the trays are big and have a section for a cup or for resting glasses. I think I might want to keep this in mind. Airplanes for fat people. (Actually, I’d like to lose weight, but easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m not too fat for other airlines and hope I never shall be.)

I’ve decided that I prefer puffy clouds to streaking clouds or vague, shapeless mist. Puffy rolling clouds, even puffy clouds with somewhat circular holes, similar to whirlpools. Except I don’t think they were spinning—no, that would be a tornado.

As the plane was coming in to land in Milwaukee (one short stop), I looked down and thought the scene looked like mountains, models rather than the real thing. There were modern and not-so-modern suburban houses, many with swimming pools in the back yard forming b right blue circles, occasionally bright blue ovals. The only thing to suggest that it wasn’t a model was the tiny moving cars on the roads.

When the plane takes off again, it will head for Boston, where I’ll be getting on another plane…to Dublin.


Boston Airport

I had no idea Bostonians talk like gangsters—or should I say “gaingstas.” Actually, their accents remind me of 1940s movie comedies, and various characters from films. Now I’m hearing Irish accents. I could swoon.