INK OINK ART INC.                            writing and things
I love that somewhere in the world, cows roam freely. People pass them in the street and greet them like old pals. They feed them out of the windows of cars. The cows sleep unmolested and carefully navigated around in the middle of roads.

A friend was telling me about a beach where she holidayed with her hippy dippy pals, while cows slept nearby in the warm sand. One came up to nuzzle her husband and was fed grapes.  Wild dogs played in the waves. Everyone just minding thier p's and q's. Sounds like heaven. But it was, in fact, Goa.  Considering that cows over here have such grim lives, I call that balance... 

                                          and it makes me think of  Stephen Segall. More below.

This is the honest-to Pete story of a man who was a lama. 

Or …

I have no idea if it's really true, so in an effort to offset the tarbrush of slander, let's call our hero Schmeeman Schmeagall.

Most of us sleepy Plebes barely remember what happened this morning. Let alone what happening in a past or adjacent reality. Not so with Schmeeman. Not only did he remember who he had been before he wound up inhabiting a robust little body of the Schmeagall lineage, but others remembered his tracks through the ethers too, including, it is said, the great spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama of Thibet. Yes, that one. Lama with one 'L' .

Perhpas Thibet knew she would need warriors. Whatever the reason, with the spin of the wheel of rebirth, the body within which young Schmee. took up residence, was one DNA encoded by a long line of shit-kickers. The chin of it, had it been examined by a physiognomist of the old days, would have been pronounced "a Martian chin." The belief being that the body bits correlated directly to our solar system's bits. Mars, being the god of war, well, you get the picture. Schmee's jaw alone was a snowplough of pure volition. If no consciousness at all had inhabited the little Schmeagall body except the memories that bloomed in it's blood, it might still have laid all kinds of waste.


As it was, as the hulking form stretched to it's full magnificent size and set it's masthead of a chin into the waters of life, it only laid waste to a little good taste(though, taste, she varies). 

Thank all the stars and planets, that tamed by the lama's guiding soul,(which sat in his attic like the Mona Lisa holding a very long leash) the thing carried out it's evangelism of fist and foot in the land of Make Believe where the blood was made of corn syrup and food stain and the blows never fell on tender flesh.

Schmee became an actor.*

Thus after hundreds of years monking around the high hills of Tibet, banging gongs and writing soft psalms in sand, Schmee, the soul that was a lama with one L, comfortably, balanced the passive lives he had led in one gaudy chain of harmlessly faux brutality. And one body, a cyclone of biological imperative and pure pow-pow, expressed itself, free of bloody karma. 


*it's my theory that 'acting' is remedial human school, and it's a good thing to corral all those otherwise psychotic individuals that do it and give them some leggo.)