Bruce Wagner - Memorial

They made love then he gathered his things.

She cried as he left but Chester said he would see her soon, on the wigged-out beaches of Goa, the ash -rammed shit- and blood-strewn alleys of Benares, the cubensic deserts of Rajasthan, in the dreammachines of Agra. (She said, “Why Agra?”—he thought she’d said something else.) He wanted to scope out Bodh Gaya and Calcutta then join the reunion with Laxmi’s Father in Pune. He knew none of this would happen. Best for her to press on alone, there was something to be said about the gravitas of aloneness, the aloneness America knew was brummagem, it was loneliness, aloneness of comfort and convenience, prideful, convenience store pride, and prejudice, no, now they would seek True Aloneness, not that of hedonists or ascetics, but Aloneness before the eyes of God. Best for her soul to be without him on this journey, he got her this far, she’d gotten Chess further, in her own way, both had done as much as they could for one another.

They would do for themselves, now — in solitaire.

That was how it should be.

He laughed out loud: “My Favorite Weekend”! I should dash something off and fax it to the Times …“I like having satsang with an avatar, after devotions to Durga. Then my girlfriend and I crap in a hole and

He was done with little mind-goofs. His goofs had ended with Maur

He walked until dusk

On a vast boulevard of whores where women stood before flimsy curtains and he thought of his camera, what an incredible location, I am a location scout still (Ramesh said that on their deathbeds, even holymen responded to their birthnames), but now I am scouting for Her, and for Time and Space. I am one of Her soldiers and mascots, waterboy in Her imperial army. He asked a passerby, a tourist, for money, and they smiled like they didn’t understand or pretended not to, maybe he wasn’t making sense, maybe he had only imagined he was talking but was really just thinking. He swallowed 3 Oxys. The sky darkened and the inkiness of the bay became like an unruly crowd and he began to beg in front of the Taj Mahal Palace and Towers Hotel but was shooed away and as he strolled toward the Gate of India he asked everyone he encountered, man, woman, or beggarchild for money, asked the beggars themselves! some of whom laughed and some got angry, that is what the guru said to expect, not from begging, but from the world and its dualism: laughter and anger, horror and joy, deformity and pulchritude, barrenness and fertility, poverty and wealth. Chester made certain to ask the poorest of the poor, the most diseased of the diseased, the most indecently scarified, made sure to ask each BardoBeing for cash because what difference did it make, all he had was Time, everything an ocean of time and space, all Hers, did not the beggars share those same radiant choppy waters? were they not created by his teacher? and if they had forgotten and washed ashore would they not return? If only everyone, both prosperous and needy, could see —from the dumb pisspoor park of the Gate of India, Chess saw — Elephanta Island and flickery boats in the harbor, and thought i will ask for money with my begging bowl, on the way to see the Mother. i have no shame nor have i pride. i am grateful. and if it is not Your plan to let Enlightenment happen to this body, let it not happen, O Lord! i am but a pilgrim He thought again of the mushrooms and remembered being brought to his knees, inadvertent posture of prayer in that small desert motel, watching intricate woof of carpet when there was none, head down, as if in a great basilica (which he was), this happened near the end of his cubensis journey, end of time with plant and planet, of voluntary conscription in Her army, divine enraptured bugle boy, end of time with Her as overseer, now he was drafted, a careering soldier, and in careening desert recalled these very words: if at least i find myself in the cathedral, i shall be honored. if in the end i am beggar or pilgrim on my knees and that is all, then i shall be honored. honored and grateful and moved. if at the end i am beggar among beggars in this cathedral, then that will surely be enough. how can i ask for more? how moved i will be. for She has said there is nothing to join nor is there anything to guard or protect, there is No-Thing

to take a number at the Hilton. Thousands of people: Barbet and Joan were #’s 2,178 and 2,179. But the feeling was all flowers and love, that old hippie feeling, rose oil and canyon good vibes run amok, and besides, it would take a shitload to bring her down, she was so fucking rich. Barbet held her close and she didn’t feel alone. You really need a hug, huh, he said. You need a hug from God. And you’re gonna get one.

He was funny, her Barbet.

A man in front of them reminded her (physically) of the Nicobar Islander on the Tsunami anniversary show who said the earth balanced on a colossal tree that could be jolted by spirits and that bad spirits were at the tree trunk trying to hurt people and good spirits were trying to save them. She thought of Lew and the branch-hanged Esther, and Samuel’s lost skeleton, and kept wondering if Andy Goldsworthy was going to do something like the piece he did in Tatton Park, a sheet of ice stuck between the bole of a Haw-thorn bisected by lightning. Ol AG had a lot of tricks up his sleeve.

She wondered what Calatrava was—

Barbet said they should have brought the pillow that Cora gave her mom. That way, they could’ve charged money for people who wanted hugs but didn’t feel like waiting on line. Then he said, “Oh, by the way, Calatrava’s out, Ando is in.” “Ando?” “Tadao Ando. What can I say. What’d I fucking tell you? The Birdman of Alcalatrava has flown. It’s like Russian roulette. Russian River roulette! Seems our friend Freiberg — isn’t that like My Friend Flicka? — ran into Tom Ford and Richard Buckley. Went to see the pied-à-soleil in New Mexico, with the indoor underground swimming pool? Got all hot and bothered. Ah so. So solly for Mr Ando. Tadao now have to deal with body of Jew woman hanging in bonsai tree! Maybe Tadao shrink bones. That way Jew Lady fit in bonsai tree. Tadao then stick Jew Lady and bonsai tree in stone alaah to honor Brentwood Country Mart Buddhism. Andy Goldsworthy make stone snake leading to dhau tree. Mr Goldsworthy make ness of dhau thorns, antlers and ice. Mr Goldsworthy make look like Spiral Jetty. Mr Goldsworthy make Eliot Ness.”

Joan said Ando would probably do something origami-like, in homage to Esther’s Eastern flirtations — like that black steel shop he did in Tokyo, hhstyle.com/casa.

Then she said that standing in line— and since when do you say “on line,” Barbet? What are you, suddenly from New York? — was like waiting to go on the Matterhorn.

“The Matterhorn’s been closed for, like 10 years!”

“OK, then Magic Mountain.”

“Also closed.”

She swayed gently into him, like a docking buoy against a pier. She emptied her mind then let it go where it would. Joan had looked at a house in Zuma that was gorgeous, 3½ acres smack on the coast. She wondered if it might be too cold for her mother. Plenty of room to build, which was nice. She could design something fun. Everything had been set in motion to create the Marjorie Herlihy Giving Foundation. Joan wasn’t sure exactly what charitable function it would perform but knew she wanted to do something major in India. For as long as she could recall, Marj had this thing to alleviate misery — it was never too late, as Barbet aptly reminded. Joan was in touch with Pradeep, in Delhi; he was brimming with ideas. She would travel there, maybe a year or so after having the baby, see that part of the world for herself. Who knew? Maybe Mom would be in better shape by then and be able to go along. One day, Joan would pour her mother’s cremains into the Ganges at Varanasi. It was the one wish that Marjorie had actually handwritten, in the margin of a travel book, before things went south.