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“Thought, at best, can lead you towards relative dualistic ‘truths’. It has no ability to capture and comprehend the Absolute.”
“In the carnival of experience, ‘real’ & ‘illusory’ are only debated within a dualistic perspective. Their value is temporary & found in the theater of Wills creation, suggestion... the spells of light, sound and touch.”
“The ego’s creations are always covered up and turned into something new by ‘other’ creators. Outside the ego of elementals, can you name one ‘human’ from ten thousand years ago?”
a PotBelly Pigs Personality
I was envisioning my downy comforter until Gustavo interrupted.
“Chingaso! Look… your old spice, obsessions, prizefights, flashbacks, snooty noses, wet dreams, filthy dishes, and junk heap of an RV… they’re all bobbing in the flood. The torrent moves, and what you thought you were is washed away. You sit here as if ‘you’ existed before your body did. As if you and your cape are going to the place you came from after you die. Just who is telling you what it’s like to be dead? Chumba? Uh, you know... if your afterlife has personality and wears pinche leotards, and if you think afterlife is really after, then lots of aspirin await.
So, if memory can fall apart like a cheaply made facial mask, isn’t it fair to say certain recollections are better off not having? And if you recall you used to be a Luchador, does that mean you did or didn’t exist? If you can’t remember fighting naked before you were born, does that assure you were never in the ring?”
Gustavo twisted his mouth. “Get it through your calabasa; the universe records your giddy up’n horse-smelling soul into new pastures. Even pot-belly pigs have personality. You think only boot wearing bipeds have the power to create, reason and feel alive? Wrong! At your death hombre, the hobo-like ‘i’ ceases. The real ‘I’ goes back to its state before being born... apart from the tequila-goggle view of birth and death coming and going.
Pendejo! Everything you’ve thought about is like a tranny… not ultimately what it appears. This even applies to that flood you want me to talk about. Your low hanging mask has blinded you.”
What was this whole mask bit?
My mind raced to bend the rebar back from where it was twisted. Yes, I preferred to have my buildings partially constructed, like they do in Gustavo’s country.
Yet, He knew it was the only way I’d understand.
“Even if you’ve wrangled your opponent into la guillotina, it won’t change the fact the tights you’re wearing and the force you use to pull them over your fat ass are the same, created by thought.” Gustavo suggested.
I wanted to change the conversation, so I pounded my fist and asked, “Why didn’t my hand go through?”
Gustavo exhaled and rolled his eyes. “Aye, pretending you didn’t know what followed. Estupido, you wouldn’t have jumped out of your trailer at 60 miles per hour to change the conversation would you?”
He reconsidered, “Well, you might. You know… I don’t know if hanging out here is worth it, I really don’t. But I have to because you are… nah, I’m not going to say it.”
“Why won’t you tell me what you were just about to say?” I demanded.
“Nada, it doesn’t matter,” Gustavo lamented.
I asked again.
“Forget it Xavier.”
“Don’t ask me questions, I’m asking you questions!” I barked.
Gustavo quickly countered, “This is my table, and if you don’t like it, go hang out in el baño again. Callete! This world is real, that is, uh… temporarily real, created by thought, illusory-like in its 3D manifestations.”
He looked down and tapped the table in consideration. “You know, maybe I just answered your question... pero éste es el mundo de lo espiritual, y ahora, tu estás en el. This was the message from every real prophet in every time and place before you changed their words.”
‘Caw, Cawmeh…’
Distracted by the birds, I hesitated to translate what he said.
Gustavo continued, “Listen to the characters you’ve played: rodeo clown, false prophet, ‘advanced’ alien, hobo, trans-dimensional spirit, cult figure, exotic dancer, politician, teacher, trash man, amigo, sibling, you know… all of those things, even El Luchador - yourself now… all of them are just an experience, but not ‘You’. Choose who you want to be, and name yourself any name you want. Remember, evil rudos have no lasting purpose and are symptoms of choice moving against the torrent.”
That was interesting, but at the time, no more than the monster truck extravaganza on the wide screen. That’s why I needed Gustavo to hurry. I still had questions, though the shallow part of me was quite dense, like manteca.
“Xavier, the attraction of your lazy back to the bed is a big part of the problem.”
‘Caw, Cawmeh… Ga, Gaw, Gamesh’
“Listen to the squawking!” Gustavo crowed.
The bird was making a terrible racket.
“Levántese! Get up! The sun’s beating down on you.” Yet the closest thing to a fiery orb was Gustavo’s smoldering cigarette.
“Get up. This isn’t the amateur ring, and there’s no after-world where Luchadors sip añejo Tequila and feast on genetically altered vírgenes!”
I pondered out loud, “Whether it’s cowardice, laziness, conscious rebellion or an itchy butt, who’s to say?”
Red-faced, Gustavo yelled, “¡Soy! I am! I’m to say. You and I have never been so real. That’s why you’re having trouble doubting.”
I was trying to listen, bouncing between sensations. The panicked birds made it difficult.
‘Ck, Ck… Caw, Caw…’
The cawing fluctuated in volume and timbre.
“Escucha you filthy feral goat! Before-life and after-life exist in the now, as paint spilled about the mat of the ring. But like a wrestling gimp, you’ve relied on your prosthetic arm! That’s why we’re here.”
‘Ck, Ck… Caw, Caw… Ga, Gaw’
Was it Gil?
Everyone around the table agreed, nodding heads and cheering each other.
‘Caw, Ck, Ck… Cawmeh… Ga, Gamesh’
It was Gil… that pesky bird, growing more distant with each beak-gnashing squawk.
The squawking stopped. For a moment, everything was in the present—even the things that appeared to fly away.
“Like the Altiplano of Mexico, you have no boundaries, except where imagined,” Gustavo instructed.
in my imagination, thought had a tattoo of a clock. I understood that the light reflected from funhouse mirrors, the microwave heating my popcorn, the electricity that shocked in the pain endurance game, the exaggerated inches I bragged to women, the counting of cards that made me fat stacks, the gravity I experienced falling on my ass after too much booze, and all the trinkets I ever won—were ultimately transitory conveniences.
Gustavo continued, “I’d rather be drinking a cervesa at the bullfight, but your satchel is stretching precariously thin for its over-confident huevos. That’s why it took this long for you to float above the waters, like a soaring crow. You better listen, because your mural will soon be covered by other’s brushstrokes… in blood, tu sangre! A toe tag should mean nothing. You’re my embarrassment… you keep questioning because you need your old trophies. You’ve got to know why… La Gran Fiesta can’t be thrown on any particular date, and the makeup smeared ‘i’ is a one night stand.”
Sick of being in ignorance, and nauseated from the boat rocking rebellious, the problem was I wasn’t sure who was who. I stewed in uncertainty.
“You’re a frozen armadillo!” someone wisecracked, as jeers erupted from every corner of the bar.
Gustavo made a fist and shouted, polishing the entire event with a scornful taunt, “Let’s hear some of that goddamn pinche carnival music!”
"Pero éste es el mundo de lo espiritual, y ahora, tu estás en el... this is the spirit world, you're in it now."
“Thought, at best, can lead you towards relative dualistic ‘truths’. It has no ability to capture and comprehend the Absolute. The space between thoughts is your doorway.”
“Duality isn’t an enemy. It’s the result of the desire to create theater in deeper, richer emotional colors.”
“The Mexican Altiplano is located in most of northern and central Mexico, a seemingly endless arid plateau.”
