SHOW SCRIPT 77
zazen PARABLE puzzle
These are new Zen Cowboy stories from 2016
Gary Slack Rides and Crashes
a full moon almost was the end of any more full moons.
boyhood friend Gary and I loved
riding bareback horses. We had two or three horses at my home, which were ranch
horses used for riding and roping. But
Well it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to go riding bareback on Nancy and Sally in the moonlight. The thing was I was very used to my ranch horses but they were much thinner in the back then Sally and Nancy were. These two old gals were so big and so broad it was hard to get YOUR legs around them. Anyway the idea still seemed wonderful to ride out through the trees in the moonlight on a very warm winter night.
my friend Gary was always a bit of a prankster and as soon as we got out of the
small pasture that opened up into the country of sagebrush and juniper trees,
Gary let out a hoot and a holler and he said lets race to the irrigation canal.
So he took off in a full run on his mare
So everything was going okay and I hadn’t fallen off and we were just cutting left and right having big thrills weaving through the big old juniper trees. The night was beautiful the moonlight was shining down on the land it was almost like the middle of the day. Well that’s when my friend Gary thought he’d show me what a great stopping horse he had. Just as we came around a bunch of trees he pulled back on the reigns of his horse. She had been trained to rope cows and sure enough she dropped her rear-end and stopped like a rock. The problem was the horse I was on, Sally, wasn’t trained to stop like a roping horse – she just stopped like horses stop when they want to stop real fast. Sally put their head down between her front feet and scooted to stop with her nose on the ground. The problem was I wasn’t counting on sliding up around her ears as she was stopping. For a moment there I was dangling on the top of her head realizing this wasn’t going to turn out very good. I was slung like a banana out a window and hitting the ground hard. The terrifying thing was, as I was laying on the ground I could see the immense black shape of Sally’s body as she had stuck her nose in the ground her immense rump went up in the sky and was coming right down on me like a massive tree cut by a lumberjack.
Well she hit the ground right on top of me and rolled away with me spitting out gravel and dust wondering what had happened. When I got up off the ground I wasn’t in the least bit hurt. When I hit the ground I happened to fall exactly in a small irrigation ditch which was just deep enough to protect my body when the 2000 pound hunk of a giant horse fell on me out of the sky. That was the last time I ever went riding in the moon light on a big old gal named Sally.
I was listening to Glen Neff’s music, as I have listened to thousands of times since the first time he gave me an album. I always tell Glenn if it wasn’t for him I would’ve never got through four years of university and graduate at the age of 60. I’m serious.
last night, I put on one of my favorite pieces that he has done over the years, and it took me back to 2002, when I was a very serious academic, and trying my best to be an honor student. For me it was a personal challenge to know that I could succeed at a university level.
However, it put me in a strange almost disassociative frame of mind, or in other words …an out of body kind of mood, something very similar to that sinking feeling of depression, yet above it all, and seeing the whole of existence, for what it is. In other words Krishnamurti’s number one saying, “perceive what is.”
The mood hung with me throughout the day, although as usual I had been very active doing at least three separate realms of physical labor.
went to town. I mean
Two; I had to put the lumber on the roof, to build my floor, and finish my walls, so I can at last move all my shelves and cabinets into some kind of order where I can get this mess I have spent the last seven months laboring over into a place that is useful, restful but most of all, inviting.
Three; refueling this bulldozer I call my body with nourishment as well is my partner and best buddy and a pretty good lover when she wants to be.
I had to make supper. It is work of functional necessity and gratuitous satisfaction of having a moment to fill the gas tank. So full of gas, so full of food, so full of a whole day, so full of all the circles in my head, my body signaled exhaustion although I sat down smoked a cigarette and watched television.
Meanwhile, Glen Neff and his music wheeled in the back of my years and in front of my mind. That strange sensation of sitting in an armchair looking out the window of a fast moving train through the rolling hills of memory, almost next to falling in love, feeling mystery, fear and floating all seeming to glow in velvet tones. Sensual as well, I could almost feel the delicate hands of a muse, arouse me into that seductive world of rolling in flesh.
Who am I kidding? I’m 71. This is no time to think about lust or romance, even though the music of Glen is like rolling in those flower laden pastures hearing the echo of enchanting maidens, sirens they may be, and almost on cue, the music changes to percolated giggled laughing at my indulgence, and the tick-tock sound of the clock telling me the time is moving faster than I am.
I heard the lyrics from a song today once again a country-western philosopher saying wisdom that rings a Bell in me.
So that should lead me to the thought of the day.
Some of God’s greatest gifts
What could that possibly mean? Well according to the country-western song, in a condensed version at went like this:
I have a wonderful wife and a beautiful life
we went to a reunion
I saw the woman I once loved most,
our life together like a beef roast
in the back of the convertible
champagne on the floor
I missed what I had, I wanted her more.
….Can’t remember the rest of the lyrics but the song went on and turned a corner…
……………in other words for a moment he passionately longed for a lost love but then he realized she was a mess and what a horse wreck that would’ve been so he turned and looked at his beautiful little wife and realized how she had saved his stupid life.
In short, some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.
But I realized that was me because I have done that, not once but many, many times. looking back on it now, I realize how lucky I was, to not get the things I prayed for so many times.
The result of not getting my prayers answered, was I went on being me, instead of molding into a world of green moss on a cold stone. Green, but heartless. Don’t you remember that phrase, “a heart of stone?” even if it does have moldy growth, the only warmth it gains is through the shining of the sun, whereas the heart and the soul glow when they are free.
So it is, some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers. Amen brother and sister.
join me in radio theater today,
where your imagination can take you
to places unknown…
…expect a few bumps……… and turns…
it is the
THE RADIO THEATER
of THE absurd…
and I am the Techno Sadhu on the air waves…so…lets go surfing in the mind….that’s right….surfing your mind…
just remember…………..SUFFER BABY
The Harlequin Moon Series
Santiago McBoil, was bred in the jungles of
The Techno Sadhu RADIO THEATRE PRESENTS
A COSMIC PSYCHO DRAMA
EH… LE CORSE
is a pain in the butt. The hemorrhoids had come with the coffee, the marijuana,
and way too much booze. But what was worse was the DAMN dream. Dammit. Martina,
Martina, Martina…OH…. WAS IT ANGEL OR EVE …ELIANE…SO MANY NAMES SHE HAD…. What
kind of crazy serendipity coincidence? An 18-year-old BANDIT in the streets of
filled the morning as they rolled off the Corsican ferry for the second time in
their life. The passage from
blooming into a cheerful mood in the idyllic caress of the
Jean Simon had given them directions on how to find his village which lay in the
mountains thirty kilometers from
officer in charge let his eyes fall lazily to the ground, but
drove straight out of the city while Leila and protested and wanted to see at
least the center of
The pain had been coming and going.
was screwing a steady torment into him with fluctuating intensities from bad to
worse. In the last days it had taken all his will-power to concentrate on
driving the truck. He constantly shifted his weight in the driver’s seat from
one buttock to the other, twisting and turning trying to escape from the burning
pressure in his posterior.
They had been a recurrent problem since he was twenty-three.
had come about after he was given a very thorough anal examination while nearly
unconscious in the army hospital in the
The anal sex had left its mark.
the years the little ruptures had come and gone like obnoxious relatives.
Usually they occurred when he was under stress or pushing life too fast. The
dream of being in
Simon lived near the small mountain
The house was old family property built in traditional Corsican fashion, stone solid and practical. Built with the imagination of poverty, it had remained the same for two centuries and then the sophisticated taste of a cultured traveler settled onto the inherited stones.
The house was different from other buildings in the village -- not expensive or bourgeois but closer to what one would conclude to be the balanced creation of a playboy gardener.
The trucking family arrived at the first oasis of their pilgrimage.
eyes drank in the sight. The hand hewn rocks of the house were wedged into the
mountain side. Large windows with small panes faced the south sun and the broad
bowl valley dropped gently into biblical pastures and rolled down to the
opalescent plate of the
It was midmorning. The sun was transparent gold filtering through the mimosa trees surrounding the house. An ancient olive tree thrust twisted limbs around the dark wooden banister of an extended sun-deck. The grounds were manicured. There were flowers, fruit orchards, grape vines and moss covered rocks around a wishing well.
Leila knew it was Jean Simon's house as easily as one recognizes the dark silhouette of a friend.
shape had his refined charming character.
He waved and happily shouted, “Welcome to
It was a warm welcome but there was fire at the edge.
Leila was happy and relaxed the first few days at Jean Simon's home. She was
talkative, keen to go on walking jaunts, swimming at the beach, looking around
the small village and filling herself with the radiance of good weather. She
She felt his warmth with gratitude.
He was not presumptuous or smarmy, one of her favorite terms for jerks and geeks who put on slimy smiles and talked slick trying to get her to bed, telling her about the talented lines in the palm of her hands and the exotic shape of her lips.
No, Jean Simon was authentic.
He was genuinely concerned with her.
He made her feel she was a beautiful and intelligent woman.
What more could a feminine personality demand from a dark handsome stranger?
But…There were times when she wondered if Jean Simon was gay.
He had sort of an effeminate manner, really too gentle to be a man's man.
It was more the movement of his hands, the cultivated accent, the understanding and sympathy of a women's predicament. God, for a man, that in itself was unbelievable. He even understood how a women's mind worked. No, not homosexual, not him, he was definitely a man. He had that carnivorous look about the eyes, and of course he did have rather a lot of attractive female friends who were obviously more than just platonic.
Whatever he was, she liked him as a friend.
The thought of romance was a very distant path.
Leila’s thoughts began to spin.
Simon was a friend, something difficult for a woman to find in a man. Anyway, he
had good habits and lovely manners. Maybe they would rub off onto
fourth day on the island Jean Simon in his Peugeot took the family to
rendezvous was at the Cafe Ajaccio. The cafe was typically French having tables
inside and out near large plate glass windows to accommodate people watching on
the busiest corner of
Jean Simon suggested Pastis 51.
waiters looked at him suspiciously as he stumbled through the cafe with madness
across his face. They assumed he was another one of those bazaar Englishmen, in
search of prey in the urinals. They curled their lips and hissed, Pede...
what kind of man makes love in the toilets? They shouted loudly to each
other and for the benefit of the other customers. More eyes in the cafe looked
He could hear nothing but the blood in his butt.
Jean Simon and his entourage flowed on in their interminable talk, sometimes in English for his benefit, but mostly in French, a language he could not understand.
There was enough cacophony already in his body. He only could hear hooligan's in the basement of his temple, tearing it down brick by brick. Monsters were in his foundations and the tower of his being was beginning to tilt. All he was aware of was the gnawing pain that caused each moment quadruple in time. Would the hello's and good bye's of French cheek-kissing never come to an end. No sympathy for the Devil or clap traps...
Holy Crap…Jean Simon and his friends! Talk, talk, talk.
From one cafe to another, the day plowed on.
But there was no refuge.
Everything touched his bubbled rectum -- even sound.
picture of people in front of him went into a haze and
reason it slipped away. He was released -- a free citizen of the free
world. He could walk, he could talk. How lovely and how easy it is to be in the
sun, to rest at a table of a Mediterranean cafe when you are liberated. After a
day of seeing plastic masks of pretend people buzzing noise at him,
raised her eyebrows quickly recognizing an obvious rival while
She was an artist, more so in temperament than of actual production.
One painting needed much thought.
small, naturally blonde.
When she talked she would continually throw her head back tossing the hair out of her eyes.
She had a stance, a certain eager feminism, standing on the balls of her feet, balancing her allure, creating a small ceremonial dance to draw the male bird near.
There was openness, being at once deeply metaphysical and profoundly humble, yet a talent to embrace the absurd. She felt herself to be a contradiction in life's on-going comedy. She was the bitter joke of being someone and no one at the same time.
flowed over everything and everyone. She ate her food lustfully, she drove her
car passionately and she always talked in shades of anger. Her eyes loved
beauty, as much in the appreciation of the fine lines of an exquisite women as
classic proportions of male muscled bodies. She was French, a gourmet in
Something was born at the cafe table that pulled him and Leila into an unknown circle.
conversation with Jean Simon's friends went from art to food, politics to death.
It was flowing naturally. There was a sense of union that gradually developed
between the inner group of
Jean Simon and the others set back and listened and watched in the fashion the French have when they know a soap opera is being written.
slowly abandoned her protective attitude. It was not a jealousy towards
The talk rambled on across places, things and ideas they had all known before.
they traveled on together leaving their audience behind.