A Fistful of Buddha
'How did I come into this', he told himself in thoughts, munching on a buttered ham sandwich, matter-of-factly, with the air of a man who has seen it all and came to accept the vicissitudes of life, still somewhat grudgingly.
Suddenly, unaware that his moody rethoric question would turn out to be an adumbration of his forthcoming brewing imagination,this lama guy materializes close to him, floating saintly above the floor, all rugose leathery skin, all the bearings of sanctity, and all Eastasian insular smugness that comes with those ruddy chaps.
It was one of those reincarnistas, who play with words: dharma, karma but sadly no shoarma to salivitate his appetite running asunder. The lama secreted bliss and smiled patronizing. No less like a magician holding all cards and conning the crowd to believe in his tricks.
His speech was sheer catechismus,repeated over time til his voice, now shrill and trembling, buckling under all that panache, could no longer mask that his enlightment had tumbled into the shadows of pride and conceit.
Since it all boiled down to the simpliest Newtonian law clothed in anfractious metaphysics with a big and bursting blob of natural history dancing the tango with house, garden and kitchen poetry, he took the only action that just made sense in the whole conundrum.
He drove his fist into the lama's flummoxed face, puncturing this bubble of illusion out of his calm gaze that had previously found a haven in that trivial yet soothingly familiar environment he lived in.
And rounding off that last bit of his sandwich, he felt his hunger satisfied. And so was his inner being.
Suddenly, unaware that his moody rethoric question would turn out to be an adumbration of his forthcoming brewing imagination,this lama guy materializes close to him, floating saintly above the floor, all rugose leathery skin, all the bearings of sanctity, and all Eastasian insular smugness that comes with those ruddy chaps.
It was one of those reincarnistas, who play with words: dharma, karma but sadly no shoarma to salivitate his appetite running asunder. The lama secreted bliss and smiled patronizing. No less like a magician holding all cards and conning the crowd to believe in his tricks.
His speech was sheer catechismus,repeated over time til his voice, now shrill and trembling, buckling under all that panache, could no longer mask that his enlightment had tumbled into the shadows of pride and conceit.
Since it all boiled down to the simpliest Newtonian law clothed in anfractious metaphysics with a big and bursting blob of natural history dancing the tango with house, garden and kitchen poetry, he took the only action that just made sense in the whole conundrum.
He drove his fist into the lama's flummoxed face, puncturing this bubble of illusion out of his calm gaze that had previously found a haven in that trivial yet soothingly familiar environment he lived in.
And rounding off that last bit of his sandwich, he felt his hunger satisfied. And so was his inner being.
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