Stuff that I talk to my Psychiatrist about....

Being a Zen "Dharma-without- scriptures" Buddhist, means that I know things wordlessly. Which is a major, unresolvable paradox to those who don't see how there can be such a thing as Direct Transmission of the Dharma. And even less can those who are unacquainted with the Middle Way appreciate the uncertainty and the sovereign indifference in the mind of Zen Buddhists as to whether they've been "taught" the Dharma, or just somehow happen to know it, or, possibly even, are just making it up. It takes a degree of self-confidence akin almost to ego-mania to be a Zen Buddhist in America--and yet, essentially, the truest and most American ethical philosophy, American Transcendentalism, even without direct transmission of the Dharma, may be seen as Zen on Steroids. Whatever else we heirs of Emerson and Thoreau have in common, deepest kinship, with us, is absolute atomic individualism: Our souls alone--and the universe. Dost thou attend me?

In this, of course, American Transcendentalism is only sharpening the focus of a certain peculiarly Western European concept of the Responsible Individual Inner Self, whose sway is etiologically and geographically coterminous with sexual masochism--i.e., it exists only in Western Europe, English-speaking North America, Australia and New Zealand. Thou attend'st not.

And yes, this does suggest that this brightest Jewel in our Crown--of Plato/Socrates-derived Occidental Ethical Theory--our lovely, absolutely autonomous Inner Self, is for some, perhaps not a few, who are consciously subject to it, a deformative, relentless onus; something they must have lifted from them by violent (painful) sense and/or rôle deconstruction, or at least by partial paralysis of the central nervous system (complete paralysis, of course, being death), before they can engage in satisfyingly uninhibited sexual relations; or, presumably, satisfyingly uninhibited anything else. The fucking cowards. Dost thou hear?

Well so--whether I received this knowledge, along with ¿who knows? how much else, when Bill Weaver transmitted the Dharma to me directly that night of the full moon in Cancer 1972, or whether I've always known it, or just simply figured it out--a great part of my understanding of the Dharma, is about what I have always called [whenever it's been necessary to refer to it. Not often, because to the vast majority of people it's a space-alien, impossibly difficult concept] "Levels of Intelligence." I now know, since yesterday (doing some catch-up, Arahat/Boddhisattva-serendipitous reading) that the Boddhi faculty I'm employing in this perception is called, in Pali, Cetopariya -- The Power of Discernment of the Mind of Others. It's the third of the "sixfold path of supernatural knowledge or super-wisdom," or Chalabhinna, which supposedly is known to the "Third Type of Enlightened People," which I apparently am, "who enjoy eternal peace or Nirvana and have been liberated from the cycle of life and death by the forty methods of meditation and have gained miraculous psychic power and supernatural knowledge far beyond that of scientists. They have practiced meditation with the eight devices (kasina) until they have reached the fourth stage of absorption (one-pointedness of mind in each device. They are able to walk on water, fly in the air, or become visible [sic!] or invisible and can go anywhere within seconds. They perform many miraculous powers which we ordinary people [God bless 'em!] cannot understand...."

Now that all sounds like a kick in the pants indeed, and I 'd certainly claim to be able to do it if I could--but I can't. The only thing I absolutely can infallibly do is Discern the Mind of Others:

[I] by my own heart "investigate and discern the hearts of other men [and non-human beings]...passionate minds, minds free from passion; minds filled with hatred, minds free from hatred; infatuated minds, minds free from infatuation; intent minds, wandering minds; exhalted, unexhalted minds; concentrated, diffuse minds; free minds and unfree." And more than that, like I say, I directly, with my heart, perceive several Levels of Intelligence, in both human and non-human beings:

Level One, of course, is the Buddha Mind (as in Bill Weaver), which is not only capable of, and aware of, Enlightenment, but able to transmit it.

Level Two is me and my friends, capable of being Enlightened, but not capable of (and not interested particularly in) imparting Enlightenment--This level is attained, notably, by most humans, bonobo chimpanzees, domesticated dogs, some cats, horses, cattle, and cetaceans, and also by geese, parrots, goats, and, to my knowledge, some eight-legged creatures such as octopuses* and spiders**. I have even seen fish exhibit what I consider the principal characteristic of Second Level Buddha Mind: Awareness of Benevolence. I have seen pictures, for example, of a koi befriended by a golden Labrador retriever, rising to the surface to dote and be doted upon, with every sign of esteem and affection between the fish and the dog--plain as day to one who sees with his heart. Compassion, a sense of social and moral equality*** having nothing to do with physical size or social rank, self-respect and respect for the individuality of others, playfulness, and what, for want of a better word, I call "wuv" ["disinterested friendliness" plus delight] are the chief qualities of Second Level Buddha Mind. Most Second Level Buddha Mind human/non-human relationships--e.g., with cats and cattle--are non-verbal, but surprisingly many are verbal (on the human part, of course), and show considerable understanding on the part of the animal--e.g., of dogs, horses, cetaceans, and some birds--of human speech. Affectively, the relationship of human and non-human upon the Second Buddha Mind Level is the same as the social interaction among humans (dining, playing games, talking) at its most polite and most agreeable. It goes without saying that creatures of the Second Level ought never to kill, harm, or threaten one another (though they do, of course, incessantly).

The Third Level of Mind is that of creatures (and perhaps of certain kinds of men) who are aware of other entities besides themselves but who have no Awareness of Benevolence and are entirely without Compassion. Marsupials (judging by my limited acquaintance with kangaroos, opossums, wombats and koala bears), some insects, sharks, sheep, reptiles, most fish, and most felines belong in this category. Generally speaking, creatures of the Third Level of Intelligence ought, where possible, to be politely ignored and not treated as if they were, as they sometimes appear to be, creatures of the Second Level of Intelligence: it is useless and dangerous, for example, to pet a wombat or a platypus. Although, where creatures of the Third Level intrude, threaten or present an inconvenience, they may be slain or put out of the way with impunity.

The Fourth Level of Intelligence is that of most insects, bacteria, carnivorous reptiles, and venomous lizards and snakes without warning rattles--creatures incapable of thought with any other object than themselves. They should be killed wherever encountered--even hunted down and eliminated--lest they live to harm, or even just merely inconvenience, those of a Higher Level of Intelligence.

Looking back over this impromptu treatise, a couple of amendments seem be in order. Practicality suggests that the Second Level of Buddha Mind ought to be sub-divided into at least Levels 2.5 and 2.75--for other Second Level intelligences; it being understood that Level One, to whom all things are equal, would not make such discriminations; or probably would not.

There are certainly, as well, Levels of Intelligence of at least a Fifth and a Sixth order, pertaining to viruses and less complex bacteria, and before them to RNA molecules. But now, curiously, as we approach hypothetical Seventh and Eighth Levels of Life/Consciousness--i.e., of "mere matter," we are reminded that, according to the esoteric doctrine of all three of the True Religions, "Mind is Matter, and Matter Mind." This has always seemed a compellingly profound vision of the Universe, especially when we have been stoned on LSD and Hashish; but the harsh reduction of Victorian Commonsense, on the other hand,

What is matter? Never mind.

What is mind? No matter.

has always seemed too funny not to be true, no matter how stoned we were.

* I have seen, propriis cum occiis meis, in a television documentary (one of Alan Alda's noteworthy scientific specials), an octopus in a fish tank in a laboratory, playing ¡Gotcha! with its human keeper***, with all the wit and espièglerie and histrionic "wickedness" of a kitten. Therewith, suddenly, I understood why the idea of eating an octopus has always nauseated me; even though I crack the shells and dig out the succulent flesh of boiled crabs, shrimp, crayfish and lobsters, and consume it with gusto and without compunction.

** Even in the turpitude of earliest childhood, I have never killed a spider. And I have at times, even long before I had any understanding of the Middle Way, gone to considerable trouble to capture them (even wild and venomous "black widows") and carry them outdoors, rather than smush them and have done with them. Not out of superstition--I am not, and have never been the least bit superstitious--but because, fortunately, instinctively, I have always shrunk from harming anything I suspected of having an intelligence like my own; especially any intelligence smaller than myself.

¿And how is it that I alone have always been aware of the intelligence of spiders, while I have never known, or heard of, another human being who shared this awareness? To put it simply, I have always been aware that spiders were aware of me--and were aware of my being aware of them. Furthermore, the mutual awareness between me and spiders has a peculiar force (Perhaps only detectable by Cetopariyassins like myself and Paul Pelisson)--astonishing when you consider the disparity in our size--of mutual respect and appreciation. Most spiders are, of course, wild and wary, and seek to escape as soon as they notice my noticing them; but even these, in my understanding, are aware of me as an individual/person, whom they acknowledge as not wishing them any harm; while, for my part, I perceive in them also a characteristic personhood--rational, courageous, and, for want of a better word, curious.

And so, a little about this dharma-buddy antecedent of mine, Paul Pelisson. He was one of Nicolas Fouquet's men--he who wrote the preface for Molière's Les Fâcheux performed the first night of that fateful fête at Vaux-le-Vicomte, which brought down all of an envious young monarch's jealous and destructive wrath. A Protestant and loyal, he was imprisoned in the Bastille for his brilliant and inarguable defense of Fouquet against Louis XIV's bitter determination to ruin him. While imprisoned, he made fast friends with a curious and sympathetic spider--apparently the first man in history to do so--and rumor of this unexampled friendship began to circulate, eventually reaching the ear of the governor of the Bastille. The latter on visiting Pellisson in his cell, asked to see his "friend," and when the spider was induced to come forth, brushed it to the ground and crushed it beneath his high red heel (see portrait of Louis XIV, above), saying, "Prisoners are forbidden to have friends." At which Pelisson cried, "I had rather you had broken both my arms than crushed that spider!"

And, finally, from my own experience: A few weeks after I had graduated from the University of Oregon, in early October--the first frost had not yet come--I was sitting at a picnic table, late one afternoon, in the city park in Eugene that stretches beside the Willamette River, writing in my journal. I sat back a moment, reading over what I had just written, wondering whether to continue--and a little, gray spider, very similar to the "jump spider" shown above, whom I had observed for a few moments at the edge of the table, suddenly, deliberately, with an air of determination, "marched" up on the open page, and stood at the end of my last entry, looking up at me with an attitude of half defiant, half friendly salutation. "Hey," I said to him good-naturedly, "you're in my way." And I leaned forward and with a puff of breath blew him off the page. He stood a moment, then with even more marked insolence, climbed back on the page, and started towards his former station. I put my pen across his path--and he jumped on it. So, with exaggerated decisiveness, I lifted my pen, with my new companion on it, and set it down a little further than the distance from which he had first moved towards me. He jumped off--and marched (there's no other word for it) right back to his station in the middle of the page. I put my pen down in front of him; he jumped on; I carried him over to his first position; he jumped off and marched back to the middle of the page; I put my pen down; and so on--a dozen or more times: I was giving "rides" to a spider. In exactly the same spirit, and with exactly the same mutual delight, with which one gives "rides" to a small child.