Greetings,
After I’ve made them yell three times I will answer with a whisper. They can barely hear me so they yell again and again. I have conditioned them to my living nightmare.
Finally, to teach them a lesson I will answer. Softly. They can’t hear me. They have to raise their voice to compete with the other yellers around them. I reject them for yelling at me. I am easily distracted and I nurture the chaos. Ah, the glare of bright artificial ancestor passion for pain and tongue lashings.
Two ghosts whisper. ‘Give them 1,000 lashes. With your tongue.’
‘I have 1,000 arms and 1,000 eyes. I am infinite wisdom on the ocean of wisdom.’
Ha Noise people grow up in small tight spaces where people yell and make racket and talk over each other and don’t listen and yell louder to be heard and others block them out or ignore them completely and the yelling gets vicious like the starving dog downstairs, howling, “Feed Me!”
Dave pisses in his underwear and his wife lives in her pajamas. They are a cheap red pastel flowering cotton brand decorated with brown pandas. He yells at her and the kid because he had little choice in the matter when his father and mother told him he was going to marry the slob who learned to yell and ignore her parents which is how they evolved into this higher intelligent life form. So they can reproduce.
Strange true tale. The other day I passed one of those narrow minded little hovels guarded by doors and rusting sliding gates. The narrow alleys are filled with these sardine dwellings. Discarded sofas, people cooking in the alley using round perforated coal, workers hauling cement, bricks, wires, stones, creating methods of production: knife, hoe, scythe, axe, hammer, control stick elephant, stick. All fine, well and good means.
In the street packed with screaming, beeping careening cycles, garbage carts, kids playing fast and loose and women selling produce from broke bamboo baskets was a dead dog. A chilled out sausage dog, splayed legs, glassy brown eyes. Inert.
This spectacular spectacle attracted all the people pouring from their shops; sewing ladies held a thread in air, a woman chopping greens held a leaf, a man oiling a bike held a can, a woman working meat caressed a knife dripping blood, a girl held her balloon, a retired man held his glass of urine beer, a grandmother held her future - all staring at the dead dog as rush hour motorcycles beeped impatient noise trying to negotiate through the crowd so they could get home to families, lovers, food, television and their beloved pet. If they had one.
A man came out of his small dark space (millions live in the dark where you can’t see history and hide from strangers) and grabbed the dog’s two rear legs, picked it up and lifted it into the air. It hung down. He resembled an old painting of a hunter holding a wild hare following a successful hunt. After wild dogs flushed it running wild, running filled with fear, afraid and free.
He was in shock so he just stood there, holding the dripping dead dog as blood formed a small pool on the street surrounded by all the angry confused voices of friends, neighbors, strangers pealing like bells in his brain saying something, offering suggestions, advice, warnings, predictions, songs, rituals, chants, musical operas, significant silences, stares, no appropriate words inside, outside the mystery so he stood there holding the legs and then he gently laid the dog closer to the gutter and the dog’s body eased itself into itself and the man turned away from the people, noise, confusion and returned to his dark interior space.
Metta.
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