Around the World

by Adam Jeffries Schwartz

Dogs in Thailand

22 October 2005

At the meditation center where I am staying dogs are in charge.

The dogs on the female side hate men--especially strangers--but they don't like monks either. When they see one coming they form a triangular guard worthy of the Imperial Roman Army; no one gets near a Nun.

On the other side of the grounds Monks live in kutis (raised huts). Underneath each hut there's a dog who chose you:

The sweet old monk on my right has a timid shaggy white dog. He eats, he sleeps, he cowers.
The three-monk on my right has the sweetest blonde labrador.

(There are two traditions I just passed over quickly. Many lay Buddhists take vows during the rainy season, which we are now finishing. It's a popular thing to do before marriage, The King has to do this before he's crowned much, in the way the Prince of Wales has to join the Army.)

I've been chosen my the alpha male, which pleases me more than it should--probably.

The form of meditation here is Vippassina. In the morning there's a fifteen-minute meeting with "Teacher" which goes something like this:

I climb the stairs and say good morning.
The eighty year old woman in a house dress smiles as I sit down.

She asks, How is your practice? Have you seen Rupa (in Pali, the language the historic Buddha probably spoke, this means "matter" but is translated as "body.")
Yes, I say.
What Rupa she asks? There are four kinds of rupa: sitting, standing, walking and lying-down Rupa.
(I like the idea of an all position unregulated kind of meditation, otherwise my back hurts, you need special pillows, mats. I don't know if I believe or disbelieve but I like the focus, the rhythm of it, it's soothing in a hypnotic kind of way; I am not my body, I am somewhere eternal watching my body do things.)

Standing Rupa I say.
Anything else?
Walking also.

Sitting Rupa? she asks.
Sitting difficult I answer.

Foong? (Mind wanders)

When I sit I work.
She smiles, sitting Rupa later. See you tomorrow.

Across the street from the meditation center there's a row of shops. I slip out of the monastery grounds, buy a can of cold coffee and do my emails at a place that doubles as a daycare center. Kids play bang-bang games I'm too old to understand.

All of the stores had their dogs. Most of the store dogs are covered in sores, they're jumpy.
The email place has two puppies. One is black and the other fawn, the color of a Boxer. They're five pounds of unrequited love--the fawn one especially-- who leaps up at my shins and then turns belly up as I slide the door open. The girl in charge of the internet cafe wakes up briefly, growls at the pup, then goes back to sleep.

This morning, as I walk down the alley, I see the mother dog licking the fawn one's face. Strangely there's no response. The pup does not get up. She does not wag her tail. She doesn't move at all. I walk closer. The mother continues licking; there's a small pool of blood. There are only a few flies, this is recent. (You put fruit pit on a table and within seconds there's a battalion of red ants.)

The pups' face is bashed in but her body intact; a car didn't do this, neither did a moto. Even a bicycle would have done more damage No, someone stood inches from the pup. She was undoubtedly wagging her tail as she was bludgeoned.

In Vippassina-speak: Rupa (my body that is not my body) is standing. Nama (my mind that is not my mind) has a dislike. It's a soothing practice as far as it goes.
Thai people pass by, they notice the dead pup and quickly move on. All life is suffering, what's the point of emotions? In Vippassina this is good, it's equinimity.
But the mother won't stop, she licks her pup's face, it looks like kisses; she wouldn't stop. This is compassion, this is love.
The mother lets me stand and watch, she lets other people pass. But when an old man rides by on his bicycle she growls at him. She bares her teeth. The old man pulls a billy club. raises it. Neighbors yell-- at the dog-- not at the man. A child is yelled at. He picks up the pup with a shovel and tosses her in the trash. If this is equinimity then it's not for me.
I go back to my kuti, pack my bag and leave that afternoon.

---

The Mexican Boy

18 April 2006
Mexico City

The Mexican boy has a round face. He has the beginning of a moustache, the beginning of dreads also; his face isn't sure which direction it's going. With the voice of a child he says,

Whenever I try to touch her clitoris she cries.

I imagine him learning to walk: waddling, wobbling, falling down, getting up, smiling at me expectantly--as he is now.

What do you mean cry? She has an orgasm?

I wish. Fucking Church. Anything besides flat on her back and she feels like a whore. I'm so bored I could die.

Oh boy does he have the wrong guy. I only sleep with women when I can't talk them out of it.

We're under a closed kiosk in the Zocalo in Mexico City. There was a sudden rain, it's raining still. I was taking photos in the Zocalo in Mexico City because I'm recently separated (on Thursday, in Montreal).

I realize this really doesn't make any sense. Maybe you can ask me again when I'm myself.

So, here are some facts: I know nothing about women. I know even less about love. But I'm the only one here and he's waiting. Doe eyes seem the best description here.

You need a foreign girlfriend I say; they don't think sex is a sin.

No?

No, I say with the finality of a father's voice, a calming, authoritative voice.

No, there are no monsters.

No, you will be all right, I will protect you.

No.

---

Shipwrecked

Here we are, in order of appearance :

Olga is the oldest and gravest sister; her marriage plans are gone yet she carries on like a cow in the field.

Next is Marie, who even unbound sits statue-straight. I have no idea how she does it but I wish she would stop.

Then there's sweet, simple Tatiana all beautiful hair and nothing else.

Then there is me, the baby, save for the idiot child. I make up the games, which, you can imagine with this family, is quite the ordeal, especially now.

We round out the party with Papa who is kind and with Mama, who suffers from her divan. Her complaints are the metronome of our lives.

She has the gift for suffering, you'd think she was born Russian.

Shipwrecked

It's true, things are bad, there's no denying that. We're led into smaller and smaller rooms. There's less light, there's less air; but--thanks to Mama--we have all the same things: candlesticks, tureens, portraits, all useless now. We're shipwrecked; I don't mind actually--you just can't tell anyone but--it feels like freedom.

Life before was not free. I've no idea why I chafed, my sisters didn't, they didn't even see the cage for the golden bars. They were prepared to sleepwalk through the next seventy or eighty or however many more years of teas and polite chatter. All I dreamed of was escape--to act on the stage or to become one of those ladies they have in France; only Papa understood, and he was already yoked. Mama thinks I'm spoiled; maybe I am that also.

This havoc should have loosened bonds--but it's only made them cling more, it's maddening.

But I do.

Today Papa gave me a bon-bon ( Who knows from where?) And you should have heard Mama screech, it was frightening even for her. She almost stood up! She said,

Child, you don't understand.

But I do, I'm praying for release. I'm ready to start anew.

Author's note: Here's the trick to this one. Everything in it is true. If I told you the name of the narrator then you would know her immediately.

The Author

Adam Jeffries Schwartz is a writer and a traveler. He has stories in Descant and Grimm Magazines, Petit Journal and in the anthology Walking Higher. Online he pops up at many sites, including Ghoti (Fish) Magazine, Melane, LitBits, Magazine Shiver, Caprice & Anacoenesis Literary Journal.