Stories from the Rabbit Hole
Jan. 27th, 2005 12:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
forsythDo you have any idea how hard it is to drive when there's a Buddah sitting beside you, clipping his toenails?
"Do you have to do that in the car?" I asked him.
"The car is just an illusion," he said, "Besides, they itch. Your attachment to it is the cause of your pain."
"I'm attached to my insides being inside, too, so I'd like to keep this illusion on the illusion of the road."
A toenail clipping ptanged off the windshield in front of me. "Maybe the Universe is trying to teach you something."
"not to let nutters in sheets into my car, right. You're not even the Buddah anyway, you don't look Indian at all. You look like a bald surfer and sound like a fortune cookie."
"What else did you expect?" he asked, "Somebody who looked like Ghandi? Or maybe a little fat laughing guy?"
The stoplight changed and I turned left, headed into town. "Something along those lines, yes. Wise and serene, all that kind of thing."
"No you didn't," he said, "How much do you really know about Buddhism? Kung fu monks, distilled bits from a dozen unread books, and stuff from made up pop culture parodies? You haven't even taken a comparative religion course."
"You're still not the real Buddah," I said.
"Nope, I'm not. He's busy. I'm just a strawman you built up to argue against. Hey, that light's red."
I stupped two inches from the bumper of the car in front of me. "Who the fuck are you, then, and how did you get in my car, anyway? You just here to insult me?"
He cracked open a fortune cookie and handed me the fortune. "The foundation of true knowledge is the knowledge of ignorance," it said.
The car behind us honked, impatient. The road was clear, I turned out, then took the first turn into the bank. I pulled into a parking spot then looked over at him. "So, if you're a stereotype, what's next? Is this gonna turn into some Dante-ish voyage of the psyche? Or am I just losing my mind?"
"Why are we here?" he asked.
"Because I need to go to the bank."
"You're angry a lot. That's not good for you," he said, "I mean, I haven't even done anything to you."
"Not good in some spiritual sense, huh?"
"No," he said, "It'll probably give you heart trouble. You need to relax."
I shook my head and left him there and headed into the bank. Maybe while I was gone, he'd clean up all the toenail clippings.
Part 2
(And the Rabbit Hole link: http://www.livejournal.com/users/crisper/26562.html )
Tags: Rabbit Hole, Writing
"Do you have to do that in the car?" I asked him.
"The car is just an illusion," he said, "Besides, they itch. Your attachment to it is the cause of your pain."
"I'm attached to my insides being inside, too, so I'd like to keep this illusion on the illusion of the road."
A toenail clipping ptanged off the windshield in front of me. "Maybe the Universe is trying to teach you something."
"not to let nutters in sheets into my car, right. You're not even the Buddah anyway, you don't look Indian at all. You look like a bald surfer and sound like a fortune cookie."
"What else did you expect?" he asked, "Somebody who looked like Ghandi? Or maybe a little fat laughing guy?"
The stoplight changed and I turned left, headed into town. "Something along those lines, yes. Wise and serene, all that kind of thing."
"No you didn't," he said, "How much do you really know about Buddhism? Kung fu monks, distilled bits from a dozen unread books, and stuff from made up pop culture parodies? You haven't even taken a comparative religion course."
"You're still not the real Buddah," I said.
"Nope, I'm not. He's busy. I'm just a strawman you built up to argue against. Hey, that light's red."
I stupped two inches from the bumper of the car in front of me. "Who the fuck are you, then, and how did you get in my car, anyway? You just here to insult me?"
He cracked open a fortune cookie and handed me the fortune. "The foundation of true knowledge is the knowledge of ignorance," it said.
The car behind us honked, impatient. The road was clear, I turned out, then took the first turn into the bank. I pulled into a parking spot then looked over at him. "So, if you're a stereotype, what's next? Is this gonna turn into some Dante-ish voyage of the psyche? Or am I just losing my mind?"
"Why are we here?" he asked.
"Because I need to go to the bank."
"You're angry a lot. That's not good for you," he said, "I mean, I haven't even done anything to you."
"Not good in some spiritual sense, huh?"
"No," he said, "It'll probably give you heart trouble. You need to relax."
I shook my head and left him there and headed into the bank. Maybe while I was gone, he'd clean up all the toenail clippings.
Part 2
(And the Rabbit Hole link: http://www.livejournal.com/users/crisper/26562.html )
Tags: Rabbit Hole, Writing
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no subject
Date: 2005-01-27 07:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-01-28 05:43 pm (UTC)