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 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 procedures that don't involve crowds of 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 a 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
It turned out D.L. and his wife did not share my interest in bars, et al, so D.L.'s post for our 48 hours in Bangkok is perhaps more educational than mine. I did not delve into cultural stuff 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 differences). 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 I'm not 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 Buddha, representing Buddha 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 omniscient; we need to feel that they are to assuage our terror at the seeming chaos of all we see. I'm just saying.
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/.
