I'm me.
Today at work a customer was reading a book on Psychic Powers and Spiritual Consciousness as my shift was ending. We got to talking. In our conversation about esoteric dilletantism she mentions the Buddhist monastery out off River Road-- I got this book in their gift shop she says. I hadn't known there was such a place. She gave me vague directions ('tho' out in Poolesville there aren't really enough roads for too much confusion).
I got off work. Went home. Rolled -- it's a beautiful warm sunny day: just right for a drive and better with good music, eh.
A nice drive all the way out River Road. I got in the zone. Reggae mix on audio.
Buddhist monastery - what expectations have I?
I have been to see monasteries and temples in Korea, Thailand and Bali.
What do I know?
What would a suburban American Buddhist monastery come on like?
She said I'd be able to see its flags.
I thought of appearing at the monastery with my string of prayer beads from Chogye Temple in Seoul - which currently adorn the rearview mirror in my car - in my hand and saying "hi, I, um, wonder whether you could, uh, like tell me what I'm supposed to do with these?"
These thoughts led to a sort of very christian self-recrimination for not having been more devout a spiritualist of any sort but particularly of the Buddhist sort who would decorate his car with religious implements he supposedly endorses. Superficial dilettante religion, spirituality. It's hip this spring in Paris, you know, to emulate the ascetic aesthetic.
Then thoughts of the Buddhist aesthetic: how it might come to pass that I fail to find my way to the temple and have to ask some local housing development contracting team the way and with what incredulity my appearance, given my location, my inquiries might be met. This thought particularly amused me and seemed like a scene from somewhere in Kerouac. Good- incidentally, Kerouac is to date my primary source of prayer bead etiquette.
Got to the end of River Road. T in the road. Turned right and mused for miles over the opportunities for and possibility of my stopping for such inquiry. Decided Right must have been the wrong direction & swung a U. Headed back: the left branch turned out to be River Road still. Seneca on right. She said turn right off River out by Seneca.
Turn. This didn't look like much of a road: narrow, featureless and mostly blocked by an 18-wheel flatbed truck with some kind of crane attached. Thought I could fit around. As I pulled alongside the truck I saw that there was a man (apparently the trucker) lounging in the crane seat. Almost basking in the sun. Music down. Window down.
"Excuse me." He stirred, regarding me. "Are you familiar with this area?"
"Yeah, pretty much." He leaned down.
"Would you tell me whether there's a Buddhist monastery around here?"
"Well, there's something." He waved his hand, "Just go through here and turn right. There's Poole's Store. You keep going, then out off Seneca -"
"Isn't this Seneca?"
"No. Go out there an' turn right on River. That's River. Out about three miles on Seneca there's a place with flags."
"Yeah, that's it. She said there'd be flags."
"Out River; right on Seneca and out about three miles."
"Right. Got it."
"What did you say that place was?"
"I heard it was a Buddhist monastery," -is that what she said?- "or temple."
"What are you going there for?"
"Well, I heard that they had an interesting giftshop, and that there were a bunch of nice trails, and' I thought maybe I'd go see a little bit of what Buddhism's about."
He leaned back up, relaxing into his seat.
I started rolling forward again and had advanced half the length of the truck when my eye fell upon the beads hanging from my rearview mirror and it occurred to me that I hadn't thanked him. I stopped, shifted into reverse and stalled; started the car and rolled back even with him, "Hey," I called. "Thank you."
"Hey man," he said, still comfortably reclined across the sunbeams, "that's what its about."