Usounds - le Internacional

I have told you many times now that life is suffering. Yet still you beset me with the felonious sending of marijuana buds and leaves through the mail. They languish in my mailbox, delicious scent wafting through its small holes, their purpose in life tragically wasted.

I understand that you mean well, dear friends, but I have rededicated myself to living a life of simplicity, honesty, and harmony. A life that is chaste, pure, and free of the soothing pleasure of resinous orange-hair marijuana buds . In the words of Shunryu Suzuki, "the world is its own magic."

And so it was in my world. It was a magical place bisected by the twin rivers of peace and freedom. I meditated frequently and strolled quietly around the monastery with a simple joy in my heart which I believed to be the essence of the zen experience. It was a life free from the beautiful, yet sinful, cannabis plant which I have discovered grows quite easily in the forest surrounding the monastery with just a small bit of natural fertilizer. I no longer have an interest in such things, of course, so this knowledge is wasted.

In recent weeks I have taken up the art of the proverb, which has distinguished me among the other monks. Even new Master Li (who became our leader after last month's hostile takeover which resulted in our monastery becoming part of a large multinational conglomerate) praised my work and seemed to consider my every word very carefully. Li was a much respected Master who was once invited to stand behind the Beastie Boys in SPIN magazine, so it was a great honor that he praised my work so highly.

I spent the day in a quiet spot by the stream and began to write the wisdom that flowed from my heart since I have rededicated myself to zen Buddhism and freed my mind from earthly thoughts.

Looking at a tree across the river at the sparkling sun, I wrote:

"Master the mind. Do not be mastered by its desires."

I nodded my head in agreement with myself. How true. Gazing deep into my own soul, I wrote:

"If a bud burns in a pipe in the forest, does it make one stoned?"

The world was truly a perplexing place. As I was becoming a bit bored of imparting wisdom, I slid a CD into my IBM ThinkPad's CD ROM drive. It was an album I had owned for quite a while, but never quite listened to, Yoshinori Sunahara's Crossover.

As I put on my headphones I thought I could smell the slightest whiff of luscious burning marijuana plants, but of course it was just my imagination. In my mind I painted pictures of beautiful plants and wrote:

"A painting of a sweet marijuana bud does not make one stoned."

Strange voices started to speak in my ears. Talk of robots, strange love, and more robots reverberated in my skull. Voices were funny, cute, kitsch, disturbing. Music was mysterious, perfect, melodic, anarchic, confusing, elegant...steel drums brought me back to another age, when I was 17 and in Jamaica, blissed out of my mind for who knows how long...

I settled into my spot on the grass and gave myself to the music as only one who is enlightened can. Piano, flute, keyboard effects, and especially those steel drums tickled me in ways I didn't know were possible.

With a powerful mind I opened my eyes and looked to my left, following my nose's earlier intuition. Two of my brother monks were loading a couple of massive buds into a 4 foot purple bong painted bright orange and red.

Brother Lu turned to face me, eyes shot with the deeply rich blood of the truly stoned.

"What is the meaning of this?" I said in a disdainful and disappointed voice. But I did not mean it. How could I? Not with my mind on Yoshinori and the electronic Caribbean mysteries he painted with his sampler.

"But brother Terrence," one of the monks began, it is as you say, "To drink water and find pleasure is goodness. To use water for the bubbling pleasures of liquefied hydro bud is divine."

Taken aback, I realized that these two young monks had completely misinterpreted the metaphors of my work. I started to correct them, but quickly realized that it was I who had missed the point. I had been such a fool!

Without saying a word, I grasped the bong and in one swift motion flicked my Bic and inhaled a massive chamber of thick, purple smoke. As I exhaled, I did a little dance underneath my saffron robes and produced a large 80's boom box from its folds.

I pressed play and the Crossover sounds of hip-hop beatz, steel drums, synth drops and cute incomprehensible and electronically altered lyrics gloriously broke the fragile silence of the peaceful day. The two monks danced around the bong and me as if we were sacred totems from another age. The music flowed around us like an elegant Japanese trade wind from beyond. I felt like I had a revolution on my hands.

Later that night, as I was about to fall asleep, I would write:

"If a life is free of pleasure, is it really free at all?"

USOUNDS || 1999