I look upon all [living beings]
Everywhere [with] equal [eyes],
Without distinction of persons,
Or mind of love or hate.
I have no predilections
Nor limitations [or partiality];
Ever to all [beings]
I preach the Law equally;
As [I preach] to one person,
So [I preach] to all.

From the Parable of the Herbs
The Sutra of the Lotus Flower of the Wonderful Law
translated by Bunno Kato

This seems to make sense to me, and it boils down the depths and the limits of relationships and friendships.  Ultimately that final relationship between all of us, enlightened beings, potentially or actualized, has to do with passing on the knowledge of the fundamental nature of reality.  A father might love his son, but still must be impartial about exposing him to the truth in hopes that the son will pick up on it, as he would as a good student.  Of course, the Buddha being is greatly compassionate, even to this original prodigal son from sutra's parable.

And so, all works of literature must, if they tackle such core stuff, come upon one impartially.  Of course the Buddha is tactful in how he teaches, sensitive to the needs and capabilities of his audience to understand, but there are no favorites in his teaching methods.  The lesson to the beloved son is the same as it is to the stranger.


I wondered after years of working in restaurants if I had not made a great error.  My work it seemed emphasized a whole lot of escaping into pleasures of the senses.  Music, intoxication, sought out flavors...  It could have been worse, certainly, but as I came to get things more and more, I saw that the greatest matter was not that of all those customers having a happy time of it on a Saturday night (while, I to my credit, somewhat, was working away and in the meantime observing them.)  In a way, I've always felt alien, a stick in the mud, "in it, but not of it," when amongst people having a grand old time.  It was as if I liked a certain basic ability to enjoy such times, not that I wasn't perfectly incapable of it, just maybe that I always ended up seeing through it, sensing its fleeting nature, when deep down I would always be of the same mood anyway.  Burroughs writes somewhere, or maybe interviewed, that is was Kerouac's nature to always want to be sitting in the corner with a notebook, scribbling down notes and thoughts, even, as is perhaps implicated, when there was lots of stuff going on.

So, I would make a note of that basic unwillingness or inability to lift myself out of that distant mood, to join in with the joke.  I was always much better at being on the edges, like a servant observing while waiting for the next task to come, waiting, as they call it.  I've never minded waiting on people, not for a moment.  In fact, I find it liberating.  (I mean, you wouldn't want to work in some gross place, with drunken criminals betting over dog fights, or some exploitive place.  But, I must say, a lot of places offer loud music, thuggish culture, sex, aggression, drunkenness, hormones, a complete embrace of all the things that are false and fake and which lead to lust and crime and even murder, and I don't tend to willingly hang out in such places, even if only to observe.  Too sad, too unhealthy.)  Looking back on twenty years of it, I've worked in gentle places that fostered conversation and family, with Hank Williams in the background, give him credit for country philosophy and the portrayal of the human condition.

But, I wonder, sometimes, where do you draw the line from keeping the wine medicinal into seeking to obliterate suffering through more suffering (of sensual things.)  At one point does it facilitate the tempting devils of Mara, the Mara within you that is you?  On the other hand, there are occasions where a mellow conversation opened by a little wine makes perfect intuitive sense.

It serves me as a great lesson, the teaching of the Lankavatara Sutra that states that if you take all phenomena as being empty, based on no form and nothing, you're doing okay.  And, again, this is a good thing to have on a Saturday night when the world of the youthful city is involved in an exclusive mating ritual, blind to the souls left out of it.  To admit to myself that I wasn't a part of that, that I would be basically be happier home cooking a simple dinner, even if it was, perhaps painfully, by myself, was a good thing, a necessary thing.

As a recipient of knowledge, and hopeful of putting that knowledge into action, as art is action, I am happy to hear that Buddha dispenses his good stuff to all, and wouldn't say to me, 'forget you, you're a bum who's served too many margaritas and played too much loud music and done too many stupid things, I'm passing you over.'  He would include me too in his teaching.