Hey folks! Here I am, the only gila monster in Bangkok International Airport, concealed in the carry-on of my human buddy, Doug, using his one-hour free wi fi to give my final report on this journey. What a journey it was! My original purpose was to convey greetings from the god of Funeral Peak in Death Valley, InsertHere, to his cousin, Tab B, in the Bhutanese Himalayas (keep reading for more on the unusual names), but it turned out they didn't have much to say to each other beyond a conventional "Hello." My real foreign friend was a distant relative of my kind, the tokay gecko, in the mountains near the famed Tiger's Nest monestary. His name is...I'll try to spell it in Engish letters: Ke-ke-ack-a-grrrrp. He explained to me that the term "tokay" is an onomatopoeic representation of its mating call. We had a congenial discussion of the contrast between us, as my kind doesn't have a mating call; we go by smell. I secrete a pheromone that suggests to female gila monsters that a needy male is near, while meanwhile I sniff the ground in search of a pheromone suggesting a female who finds my message interesting. This is the wonder of travel: Meeting other cultures and discovering how for all our differences, we aren't so different after all!
The one-hour free wi fi is closing.
All the best, your world traveler, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster.
Doug and I rarely co-author, but we were in such alignment on Mindfulness City that we collaborated on this piece. Best, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
The proposed Mindfulness City in the south of Bhutan, endorsed by the king of Bhutan and attracting worldwide financial interest, achieves credibility from its connection to Bhutan. The promotional material describes a city incorporating the "green," ecologically sound design and philosophy touted, though missing, from the increasingly chaotic and dysfunctional major cities of the world. There is buy-in from many quarters, but if Mindfulness City were proposed for any other location, its emphasis on IT and vast sums of investment would inspire much skepticism and sarcastic characterization as a billionaire's paradise. We might have joined in such skepticism, but as we near the end of a ten-day tour of Bhutan, we find it hard not to feel that Mindfulness City deserves a chance. Bhutan is unlike any other country in the world. Nestled in the Himalayas between India and China, and subject to potential political pressure and conflict on a par with the tectonic forces that squeeze the Himalayas towards the heavens, the culture and, dare we say, the spirits of the land have evolved to deal with often uncaring forces of the cosmos. For instance, one feels a surprising unity here between working people and all levels of management, up to the king. There is also a unity of religion, through the mystical thought of Buddhism. Within that one religion are a variety of perspectives. Yesterday we meditated on a statue of "Wealth Buddha," seated in deep meditation, a cluster of currency in his hand. Making money is not "bad" in this morality, necessarily.
There's the catch. Mindfulness City will be at the creative edge of the AI and biotech mediated recreation of the human being. We are about to be "improved." Some of the improvement will be long sought and wonderful, for instance the end of diseases that have tormented us. Perhaps "old age" will be improved, developing from its current reality as a state of isolation and slow death, to something worth staying alive for.
But what will the human mind and human nature become? It looks like we'll be able to decide those too. If the goal of Mindfulness City is to churn out genetically uniform, uncomplaining workers, while confining old style humanity to concentration camps- as in Aldous Huxley's Brave New World - that's one thing. But we could also recreate ourselves into wise, unwarlike, loving and positive beings. Making a profit on that would not be essentially bad. Wealth Buddha expresses one of our natures. But there are other Buddhas, other natures to achieve.
As I've made clear, I'm happy to spend the next two weeks on my front porch rocker staring at the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving this quixotic journey to my altered-ego D.L. (who will post about it on https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/) and his unexpected travelling companion, my later-in-life buddy Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster. I have no desire to accompany Robert, who finagled a free ride with D.L. and his skeptical wife, based on his insistence that he has been assigned a mission by the deity residing on Funeral Peak in our own Funeral Mountains near Death Valley (named Tab B - see below for more on the name) to commune with the mountain god (named InsertHere - see below) of Bhutan's highest peak, Gangkhar Puensum, hundreds of miles north of D.L.'s tour. How he will get through airport security, or deal with Bhutan's prohibition against mountain climbing (which is believed to disturb montain deities) is not my concern. I hereby turn over my blog to Robert, as his life has become more interesting than mine. Don't worry about me. I'll be continuing my regime of dreamy contemplation and frequent naps.
All the best, Harry the Human
Here begins Robert's journal of his trip to Bhutan
Day 1
Hi everybody! My usual gloom is gone, as I leave the daily grind of the desert for an environment of rapid change and uncertainty.
I'm curled up in D.L.'s carry-on, chilling in the LAX terminal after using my exceptional mental powers to make myself invisible in the security stations. I fight claustrophobia by exchanging updates with the Bhutanese mountain god, InsertHere (keep reading for more on the name) a visit to whom is the purpose of this journey, at least for me. D.L. has no escape from his "reality." While he frets over the geo-political environment contemporaneous with our trip, I am able to absorb the bigger, "divine" picture, where our immediate world is a nanosecond to the gods. D.L., as a human, does not understand that we mortals are indirect reflections of godhood, of its expressions through nanosecond-long infinities. I don't know how else you could tolerate an airport terminal.
That's it for now. I'll get back to you later tonight with my observatons, if any, about streaking across the sky in a human contraption.
Your Reptilian Servant, Robert
Day 2
I can add to D.L.'s musings about the people in the Taipei airport: No one is thinking about China. They are actually thinking about how tired they are, how nice it would be to have a private jet catered with haute cuisine (not bizarre "French toast" wrapped in foil) and exit proceedures that don't involve crowds of fellow humans attempting to file through the eye of a needle.
I would think, "Wait 'til I tell my fellow gila monsters what human life is like!", but I don't have an audience in my fellow gilas. They regard me as mad for associating with another species, especially this one. Nevertheless, I have chosen this path and must continue.
Another observation: We gilas are sensitive to what humans vaguely refer to as "spirits" or "gods," and I was curious how the spirits of the air have faired with human aircraft invading their realms. As we roared across the Pacific at 35,000 feet, I let my telepathic senses creep beyond the fuselage into the stratosphere, where I sensed, well, nothing. Whatever spirits had roamed up there are gone. Whether they are dead or displaced I could not tell. More on this if I attain further awareness. Meanwhile, after D.L. and Susan finish their ablutions at the Bangkok hotel, I look forward to joining them- incognito of course- in inspecting the bars and massage parlours which, I gather, are a major draw in this tropical land. Your Faithful Reptilian Reporter, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster.
Day 3
D.L.'s post for our 48 hours in Bangkok is perhaps more interesting than mine. I did not delve into the culture but remained secluded in the hotel room, as I am not concerned much with distinctions between humans, just as you may not want to hear lengthy explanations of local differences between gila monster cultures (yes, there are diffences). I continue focussed on today's flight to Bhutan, where my quest to contact local deities will commence. I'll get back to readers soon! Best, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster
Day 4
Here we are in Bhutan! I just read D.L.'s meditations on the Buddhist conception of demons and of the relationship between good and evil. It's relevant to me because technically I'm a "beast," a candidate for demon and thus potentially evil. All I can say is that the concepts of good and evil are not found in the "animal world," to which I belong. We just exist. If we want to eat something, we eat it. It's a question of surviving, not of being good or evil.
Meanwhile it doesn't look like I'll be getting much sympathy for my quest to visit a mountain god hundreds of miles north of D.L's tour. It doesn't matter. I've been communing with dozens of gods here. They are very aware of changes coming their way. When D.L. took me yesterday to the world's biggest statue of Buddah (129 feet tall) in Thimphu, I encountered dozens of gods swirling around the temple beneath the statue, in which are 125,000 tiny statues of Buddah, representing the Buddah natures that exist down to the atomic level. It was thrilling, but from a gila monster's point of view, the gods are not always omnipotent or all-knowing; we need to feel that they are to assuage our terror at the seeming chaos of all we see.
D.L. found a book in the lobby shop at Thimphu's Museum of Textiles about phallus worship in Bhutan. One page showed nude men dancing around a bamboo phallus, chanting about their "thunderbolts of wisdom." D.L. is choosing not to write about this, timid soul that he is. I put it out there not because I derive any particular meaning from such narcissistic meditations, but because I wonder what females might call the vagina. How about, "Receptacle of the Thunderbold of Wisdom?" No? Sorry, I am a gila monster after all. I think D.L. is sorry he took me on this trip. Too late now.
I watch as day follows day in the desert, daring me to find meaning in the endless cycle. This morning I had some assistance on the "meaning" front from Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, who woke me at dawn with his signature scratching on my cabin door, which was of course accompanied by intrusive thoughts. This as I was trying to catch up on sleep after fitful impulses the night before had kept me awake until the wee hours. Here's the dialogue that ensued, hopefully with elements meaningful to the reader:
Robert: Harry, wake up! It's the end of the world!
Me: For a change.
Robert: Listen to me, Harry. Red lines are being crossed.
Me: Red lines?
Robert: That's the phrase your news sources use to describe an action or situation that pushes an individual or group to the point where they cannot continue to be rational, and must express their frustration with hate-filled speech or violence.
Me: I suppose you're referring to the Middle East, or Russia vs Ukraine, where crossing red lines is the norm?
Robert: Of course those regions, but crossing red lines has become the norm everywhere. Go to the Family Dollar Store in Pearblossom today and check out the mind of a random customer [Robert and I are telepathic]. You'll find something to the effect of, "I can't take this any more!"
Me: Robert, I could have slept another three hours. What do you expect me to do about this? In fact, by waking me up you crossed one of my red lines!
Robert: I have more to tell you, Harry. You'll recall our discussion of my upcoming trip - this Thursday, in fact, yes, Thanksgiving Day! - to Bhutan with D.L. [author of Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/], the part about the "Tsen," the ancient gods which were retained when Bhutan adopted Buddhism?
Me: Uh huh, various gods of woods and streams, and one with a weird name.
Robert: Yes, a mountain god named InsertHere, to whom I'm supposed to offer greetings from the god of our own Funeral Peak near Death Valley, named Tab B. I've already explained their unusual names.
Me: Right, something to do with cultural appropriation. What's that got to do with waking me at dawn?
Robert: Harry, I'm learning through the god network that there are Bhutanese gods I didn't know about, who have been awakened by the human conflicts and are angrier than you are about losing sleep.
Me: Like what gods?
Robert: Like Dorje Legpa, described by local monks as a wrathful female deity associated with elevated terrain and the natural world, often depicted as red and holding a vajra- a Buddhist symbol of spiritual power- and a scorpion, believed to protect against harm and bring good fortune.
Me: What's the problem, then? She's wrathful, but also protective.
Robert: It's the wrathful part that's waking up, looking around to see who woke her and why.
Me: Was it war in the Middle East?
Robert: Not by itself. It's the worldwide attention, the buy-in, the belief that the war is real.
Me: Isn't it real?
Robert: Yes, because it's made real by forces no one has the strength to counter. No one is able to make it not real.
Me: Can't a god make a war not real?
Robert: Not in this case. Dorje Legpa is as pissed off as the humans. And she's not the only pissed god in Bhutan.
Me: Oh great. Who else?
Robert: There's Mhakala, another "wrathful deity," often depicted as black with multiple arms, considered a protector of the dharma and a powerful force against obstacles.
Me "Protector of the dharma"? What's the difference between "dharma" and "karma"?
Robert: In simple terms: Dharma is about doing what is right and fulfilling your purpose, while karma is about the consequences of your actions, both good and bad.
Me: Robert, you got that from Gemini, Google's AI, didn't you? I recognize the style!
Robert: I...Ok, so what? I use many sources.
Me: It's hard to see how an AI could rationally describe a god, since they are natural competitors.
Robert: How do you figure?
Me: Like a god, AI knows more than we mortal biological systems do and is destined to control us.
Robert: Speak for your own kind, Harry. Gila monsters will never be controlled by either gods or AI!
Me: That's comforting to hear. Anyway, are there more angry gods?
Robert: Yes, there's Dzambhala, described as "the god of wealth and prosperity," often depicted as yellow and holding a mongoose that vomits jewels, believed to bring good fortune and abundance.
Me: What's Dzambhala pissed about?
Robert: He was awakened from a sensuous dream about drinking the bejeweled vomit of a mongoose, but awakened for what? He wonders, “Where’s the money in this?”
Me: I get the picture. I ask again, what exactly do you want me to do about it?
Robert: Not much, since you're not going to Bhutan with me and D.L. I intend to commune with the Bhutanese gods, perhaps make offerings and see what I can do to help them reverse the suicidal impulses of the Earth, which is tired of circling the sun forever without purpose. I will try to suggest purpose.
Me: Robert, you are a nut-case. You have about as much hope of saving the world as a gila monster lost and confused in the desert. Oh wait, that's what you are!
Robert: Laugh if you must, Harry, but at least I'm reaching out to the gods, expressing alternate views from the planet's biosphere, not just catching up on sleep, like the sad insomniac you are! I'll let you get back to bed. Pleasant dreams, Harry.
And with that Robert trudged off to pursue his hobby of influencing the universe by talking with gods. To each his own. Though I must confess Robert did arouse some guilt in me - over my laziness, my defeatist mindset- but not enough to keep me from going back to a deep sleep and dreaming that a mongoose sucked up what's left of my estate and vomited it onto the desert floor.
When I woke I thought of Bob Dylan's song, "With God on Our Side," though he meant "God," singular. If possible it seems advantageous to have a god on your side, but you should be careful which god.
Shortly after I read in the Pearblossom Gazette that a local troupe was putting on a production of Samuel Beckett's "Waiting for Godot" at the Pearblossom Community Playhouse, I realized there was no point in trying to hide my excitement from Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, and indeed he came scratching at my door within minutes.
Robert: Don't even think about going without me! You know I love Theater of the Absurd!
Me: You are theater of the absurd.
Robert: Come on, Harry, don't be cross. This is important. How often do you get to see a play about absurdity in the middle of a desert?
Me: Every day.
But I knew it was a losing battle. Several times Robert has maneuvered himself into my care and, smuggled into the folds of my jacket, watched movies with me (this would be the first play). These outings had mixed results (keep reading), but I knew there was no stopping him.
Me: Fine, just try not to interrupt the show more than usual.
Robert: I look forward to it! You know, Harry, for all my derision of your species, you do appreciate your own absurdity. It's a joy to see!
And so that very evening Robert and I embarked on the 10 minute drive to the Playhouse. As in the past while waiting in line, I had Robert tucked into my partially zipped windbreaker. Since we're both telepathic, there was no need to vocalize.
Robert: Harry, I've been scanning the playgoers, and I must say you've got a cultured crowd out her in Gila Land!
Me: Yes, various civilization deniers, like me. Some look like retired college professors, or ceramic artists. I see one teenage boy by himself, how sad is that?
Robert: What's sad about it? And might I add, Harry, that in no way are you a "civilization denier."
Me: What do you mean? I'm attending Theater of the Absurd in the desert with a gila monster. That's got to be denying something.
Robert: Maybe, but not civilization.
Me: Meaning what?
Robert Do you not have a can opener in your kitchen?
Me: It's twist-style!
Robert: So? It was developed by human technology, as was the can. No such things exist in nature.
Me: Robert, I can see you're going to be the great companion you've been at our past shared events.
Fast forward 5 minutes and I'm in my seat, looking at the bare stage with the scrawny tree, almost forgetting Robert breathing against my chest. "You might call that tree absurd," I thought.
Robert: Don't forget I'm reading your mind, Harry. Let's take a moment to examine the word "absurd," before you start labelling the poor tree.
Me: Robert, have I ever told you that what you call intellectual discussion is actually you repeatedly correcting me?
Robert: Many times. To the point, "absurd" is from Latin "surdus," meaning "muffled, unclear," then in the 17th Century it became a mathematical term meaning "irrational number."
Me: What's that?
But before Harry could answer the lights dimmed and two lost souls lumbered on stage, joined soon by a philosophical slave driver and his "thinking" slave, the four of them joined by the one rational character, an 8 year old boy who delivers messages from the elusive Godot. Harry's interjections stopped and did not resume until the play was over. He was entirely fascinated by these characters' never-ending search for meaning, barely moving throughout the play, his reptilian mind concentrating on every word. Of course, he lit up like a firecracker during curtain call.
Robert: Harry, OMG, honestly there's no species like yours, I mean, to mock your own absurdity so openly! Any gila who tried this would be mauled to death by the rest of us.
Me: Well, maybe gilas aren't absurd.
Robert: Are you kidding? You know, for clarity it might help if we resume our pre-show conversation and define "absurd."
Me: Be my guest.
As we stepped out into the cool evening, under a black sky with sparkly stars scattered across a possibly absurd universe, Robert continued.
Robert: As noted, "absurd" comes from Latin "surd," meaning, roughly, "hard to see." Then it became a mathematical term meaning "irrational number."
Me [as I placed Robert on the front passenger seat]: And what is that?
Robert: It's a number that can't exist, like the square root of 2. Something is absurd, then, if it can't exist.
Me: That's absurd, Robert. Would you see a play about people who talk about numbers that can't exist? And by the way, all numbers can't exist. They are mental constructs, not real things.
Robert: Harry, you get more absurd every time I talk to you. The point about the people in the play is that the reason, or purpose, or point of their existence is not clear, and is in that sense absurd.
Me: So anything that's not clear is absurd? That's absurd.
Robert: Harry, you turn your own species' great art into a cheap logic puzzle, which, it must be said, is absurd.
As usual, Robert was ruining the post-show glow I should have been feeling after a fine play (performed, FYI, by stellar local talent) like Waiting for Godot. In sheer frustration and desire to change the subject, I turned on the car radio, which was tuned to NPR, and we heard an account of how lame-duck President Biden had, in private (with no reports of agents drugging or hypnotizing him) authorized Ukrainian use of US supplied long-range missiles against Russia.
Robert: If that isn't theater of the absurd I don't know what is.
We drove the rest of the way in silence, the starry sky looking down at us in seeming denial of its absurdity.
Looking for something to read that's not an analysis of the Trump win? Try The god who masturbated the world into being on Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/.
"You never know what will happen next" is actually true these days. For instance, I didn't know that Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, who keeps me grounded in my self-imposed exile, would, late last night, claw at my door as agitated as I've ever seen him, though in an oddly optimistic way, his thoughts intruding: "Harry, wake up! Doug's going to Bhutan!" he buzzed through the airways (he was referring to my altered-ego Doug, author of Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/). Sitting in the confines of my living room, Robert relaxed and explained:
Robert: D.L. and his wife are going to Bhutan, leaving Thanksgiving day!
Me: That's nice.
Robert: Do you even know where Bhutan is?
[With no mention to Robert, I had purchased and was wearing the new AI glasses that listen to your conversation, anticipate a crises when you should know something but don't, then project the missing information onto the lenses. This was my first attempted application.]
Me: Yes, historically and politically Bhutan is a distant world (except for current tourism), walled off by the Himalayas which tower 4,000 feet above the already 10,000 foot elevated valley floors, then surrounded by China, Tibet, India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Southeast Asia and the rest of the world.
Robert: What else, besides what your new AI glasses can tell your disabled human mind?
Me: What do you mean? What else what?
Robert: What else is special about Bhutan?
Me: You tell me.
Robert: Will do. When Buddhism came to Bhutan it did not conquer. It was slowly and peacefully adopted, and often the locals retained original gods of the region in their versions of Buddhism.
Me: Oh yeah? Like which gods?
Robert: Some heavy-duty gods that roamed the Earth until they were inhibited by modern times. For a while it seemed they were gone, but they quietly reappeared in Bhutan.
Me: What are these gods like? Do they have names?
Robert: They are referred to collectively as the Tsen. They influence various things. Yulha and Zhidak are territorial, often protecting open grassland or forests. The Lu are water deities, watching over rivers and lakes. The Chenrezig are personal spirits that protect homes or villages.
Me: Will Doug and his wife give offerings to the Tsen?
Robert: I couldn't tell you. The only god of the Tsen I care about is InsertHere, one of the Zhidag, the mountain deities. Often the Zhidag are attached to volcanoes, but Bhutan sits on tectonically squished, impervious rock so there are no volcanoes. InsertHere is the deity of Gangkhar Puensum, the highest peak in Bhutan, towering 14,000 feet over the already 10,000 foot elevated Bhutanese valleys.
Me: Ok, it sounds interesting, I guess....
Robert: Listen to me, Harry, InsertHere is the cousin of our own Tab B!
Me: Who?
Robert: Tab B, the deity of Funeral Peak, in the Black Mountains outside Death Valley.
Me: What kind of name is Tab B for a mountain deity? For that matter, what kind of name is InsertHere?
Robert: Those are not their original names. No one knows what those were. Modern explorers slept at the foot of these peaks and had strange dreams, sometimes waking up mumbling gibberish. The names were derived from the gibberish, for better or worse. Anyway, Tab B is a major telepathic force in the western deserts. Gilas commune with him all the time, which is why I intend to travel to Bhutan with Doug.
Me: What!?
Robert: It was Tab B's idea. He's somewhat estranged from his cousin and wants me to contact InsertHere and compare notes on what's happening in the world, human and otherwise.
Me: You're going to need a god's help to figure this out. How will you get past airport security, not to mention Doug's wife?
Robert: With help from a mountain deity, you'd be surprised what you can do.
Me: I don't suppose you've run this by Doug.
Robert: He's processing it.
Me: I bet.
Stay tuned! Robert and I will be posting updates as Thanksgiving day approaches. [Check for D.L.'s updates at Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/
