by Mark Tiro
“It was… a flash of hell. I cried. It was like a knife had cut into me, torn me open and taken out part of my soul.”
“That sounds terrible David. I’m sorry.”
“That wasn’t the worst of it. Do you know what the worst part was Maya?”
“What?”
“After the tears stopped, I was still there. And Ella was still dead.”
“I can’t even imagine. I am so sorry,” she said as the anger at last drained out of her. She leaned in closer to listen.
“You know, at first, I started to feel dizzy. But nothing was actually spinning. It was just a void, and I was just numb. Numb and dizzy. I didn’t feel anything. I was still breathing, but inside I may as well have been dead.”
Maya was quiet now. When he stopped, she said, “well you’re not dead now.” It was the only thing she could think to say.
“It’s okay Maya, you don’t have to be scared of the silence. It’s okay.”
“It is not okay David. Ella is dead, and instead of being out—free—to mourn her in peace, you’re left to rot here in jail.”
“That’s not what I mean. If you look at what happened, it’s devastating. I don’t think my wife will ever recover. Not in this lifetime at least.” A look of sadness moved across his face.
“So how is it that I can come here and talk to you David; that we can sit here and talk? It doesn’t look to me like you’re devastated.”
“Like I said, I was devastated, numb. But not too long after that, this irresistible impulse came up in me to fix it. But I couldn’t Maya—I couldn’t fix anything. I was sitting here in jail, and she was still dead. It was obvious that there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. But that impulse to fix it bumped into my powerlessness to actually do anything, and they just simmered there, together, until I boiled over into a rage. And then—I just got depressed. At some point, I became so depressed, I could barely move. But you know what? That rage—it had never actually left me. It’d just been pushed down, under the depression. And truth is, the rage—underneath—it consumed me. If I had actually been able to function, who knows what I might’ve done. As it was, the rage of being powerless, of not being able to do anything at all to fix it, just swirled in my mind. Every few hours, the whole thing would become too much to bear, and I would just fall back on my bunk and sleep. I guess that’s what they call the sleep of the damned….”
“Well it probably didn’t help that you got the shit beaten out of you in jail and you almost died,” Maya interjected.
“No, that helped a lot, actually. You see Maya, that was my last forgiveness lesson.”
“Huh? You mentioned this last time we spoke, too. This is where you start to lose me David.”
“The anger Maya—it’s never justified,” he said, slowly emphasizing the last word. “None of it is justified, ever. Anger, rage, fear, frustration, depression… a mild twinge of annoyance even—anything that’s not perfect peace or perfect love: none of it is ever justified.”
“What does that even mean?”
“When we feel those things, it’s a sign that—in that moment—we’re identifying with our wrong-minded thought system. That’s when we forget we’re really just love, and nothing else.”
“You may as well be speaking Greek to me, for all I understand you. Listen David—let’s try to come back to reality here. Your daughter died and you’re in jail. Those are things, facts, actions. They don’t have anything to do with… thoughts. And anyway, how are you not justified to get angry? I mean, everyone gets angry, and certainly in your position, there’s nothing you can actually do about it. You have every right to be angry.”
“Maybe we can’t change the world. But I can tell you, even in here,” he said, motioning to bars and security glass, “we are always free to change our minds about the world.”
“It was the car accident that made you angry and depressed David, not that you used your mind the wrong way… not that you chose the wrong thoughts. That would be ridiculous.”
“No Maya. Nothing outside of ourselves can make us feel anything. There was some part of me deep down, forgotten and unconscious, that wanted the whole situation to happen.”
“That’s crazy. How could that possibly be? Why?”
“Because then I could feel how I unconsciously really wanted to feel—angry, depressed, guilty. But because it appeared outside of me, I could blame something external and never realize that what was really happening is that I unconsciously chose to attack myself, to feel what I did. From that, the whole situation—”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why on earth would you want to go through anything like this?” she asked him, cutting into the silence. “Why would you choose to feel any of it?”
“I suppose the specifics of the situation could have been different. The form wasn’t really the important part of the lesson. Any similar situation would have done just as well.” He looked up, and Maya thought for the briefest second that she could see the faintest twinkle come back into his eyes.
“But this one was my own personal hell,” he continued. “This unconscious part of our mind, the cause of the projection, is split off. Forgotten. The projection—and of course, projection is inevitable for anything we have denied, repressed or forgotten—has as its only purpose to keep us looking outward, so that we never turn within to look at the real cause of the projection itself.”
“So, what you’re saying is that the entire world is only smoke and mirrors? Just one big illusion?”
“Exactly. As long as we’re angry at what other people do—at external events and things that seem to happen outside of us, beyond our control—we keep looking outward and never turn to look within. This is how we avoid having to come face to face with the real source of the problem itself—which is our mind’s decision for guilt. And so by not even looking, we avoid ever being able to solve the problem where it is.”
“In the mind?” she volunteered… tepidly.
“In the mind. Instead we just go on doing what the world does: looking for things and people outside of us to fix… and to blame. We’re happy when things work out for us in the world, but then we’re angry or depressed when they don’t.”
“That’s just normal. And anyway, what’s the alternative?”
“The alternative? The alternative is to forgive—the appearances we think are causing us our pain. And to forgive ourselves for our mistakes, our judgment and our perception of everyone and everything. It’s all one and the same. Forgive—illusions of the world outside, and illusions of ourselves inside. That’s the only way to undo the cause and the effect in the one place it can actually be undone—the mind. That’s the only permanent way out of pain that will actually work. And that’s the only way to ever experience peace of mind. Nothing keeps a problem in place like looking to solve it someplace it’s not.”
“But what about what happened David?” Maya asked, turning serious once more. “You crashed your car. Your daughter died. You’re in jail now, and may never get out. Those are all things, facts, actions. Again, what does any of that have to do with, well—thoughts?”
“We all have the same split mind. The same wrong-mind. That’s where all this vicious fear and hatred and separation lies. It’s from this that everything, the whole world, is projected out. But we also all share the same right-mind as well. And if we think with our right-mind, we are all the same—in content, if not in form. We are unchanging, perfect love.”
“No we’re not. Everything changes,” she shot back. “Yin and yang? Good vs. evil? Light and darkness? I grew up with yin and yang, at least my grandma would talk like that sometimes—until one day when my mom decided we needed to all become baptized. I can’t for the life of me understand why any Asian person would feel the need to do that when we have perfectly good religions of our own, but whatever.” She sneered, and then went on. “Anyway, after that, growing up, it all morphed into good and evil, believers and sinners. But I knew the truth—even the
n. It was all the same crap—just a different version of us vs. them. Everything just changes David. Isn’t that obvious? I mean, if it didn’t, there’d be no reason to work out. If nothing ever changed, I may as well just eat pizza everyday.”
“Just pizza everyday? No ice cream?”
“That too!”
“Of course, of course,” he laughed gently now, then became serious. “But that’s only the form that changes, right? Even your mom trading in yin/yang for good/evil—you said it yourself, right? It was just a different version of the same thing. Different form, same content.”
“Good point.”
“But Love never changes. Everything just is. You—the real you that remains unchanged beyond all these illusions of birth and death and time and space—are the same perfect love you have always been. You’re perfect. You’re just not ‘you’.”
“Thank you for making perfect sense David,” she said. Sarcastically.
“We all share the same split mind, Maya. The same wrong-minded thought system and the same right-minded thought system—we are all brothers. Every last one of us—brothers.”
“Hey, I’m a girl!”
“Sorry. There’s no really good gender-neutral term for it, I’m afraid. And the word ‘comrade’ was already co-opted to within an inch of its life by the time I got here. ‘Brother’ was the best I could come up with on short notice. The point is, we are all the same—in reality, if not in form.”
“Uh, ok.”
“In any event, everyone always seems to hear ‘don’t get angry’. But that’s not what I said. I didn’t say ‘don’t get angry’. What I said was anger is never justified. It would be just another terrible burden to feel like you shouldn’t get angry. As long as you believe you’re here, in the world, of course you’re going to get angry. And frustrated. And mildly annoyed. Even being a little mildly annoyed is like a cloud over your right-mind though. Even the smallest bit of frustration is a stone wall in your mind that keeps it split and focusing outward.”
“So if I shouldn’t get angry—”
“I didn’t say that,” David said, cutting her off. “If you were to run around believing you shouldn’t get angry, what do you think would happen when you did get angry?”
“I’d push down the anger, I guess,” she answered, tentatively. “I’d be in denial that I was angry at all?”
“That’s one. Yes,” David answered. “You wouldn’t admit to yourself that you’re even angry, would you? You’d act nice.”
“Of course I’d act nice, David. I mean—I’m not an asshole.”
“Of course you’re not. You’d act ‘nice’ because that’s how you’d believe it’s appropriate to act. That’s two. And?”
“And then I’d have my simmering… ah! Rage. My simmering rage! I get it!” Her face lit up with the light of sudden understanding. “I’d be sitting here acting nice when really, underneath the surface, I’d feel that I’d been coerced into acting some way I really didn’t want to. Into acting nice, when all I really wanted to do was attack. I think I’m starting to get your point, David.”
“Yes, you are. That’s three. Good. And there’s one last thing. It’s this. When you believe you shouldn’t get angry, but you do—which is inevitable here—you feel guilt. Four is guilt.”
“Well, I think I can see…”
“It’s why repressing anger is so insipid,” he went on. “Denying we’re angry doesn’t make us any less angry. But when we act nice—as opposed to kind, which is completely different—when we believe we shouldn’t get angry, and then we do—we feel a tremendous guilt.”
“And so we project that guilt out, to get away from it?” she ventured.
“Yes. Exactly. The whole world, the universe—it is all a projection of the unconscious guilt in the mind. That, Maya, is the universe, in a nutshell.”
“Huh?”
“The mind is more powerful than you could ever imagine. But it’s split, and in order to get away from the guilt, we’ve projected out the entire world. The entire world—the entire universe—arises from this.”
“From projection?”
“Not from projection. It is projection. The entire world is a projection Maya. Or to put that more accurately: there is no world. Once you wake up, like from a dream, the whole world just disappears back into the nothingness from which it came. No settling scores, no punishment, no divine retribution. Just a return to love.”
19
When she came into the office the next morning, Maya opened her office door and got hit in the face with a waded up ball of paper.
“Morning Donald. Nice to see you too.”
“Sorry. Office is having a contest. Did you see the email? The Public Defender herself announced that she’s holding a contest to design a new office logo. That one,” he said, pointing to the waded-up paper littering the floor all around the garbage. “That one didn’t work out.”
Maya looked over in the general direction of the garbage. None of the waded-up paper balls appears to have worked out. Or to have made it into the garbage either.
“Well at least the office isn’t trying to put together a basketball team,” she said, picking up one of the waded up paper balls and tossing it back in Donald’s direction.
“Donald, what are you doing? First you go to Harvard. And then you end up here. I get that part. Hey, I chose to be a PD too. Still...now you’ve decided you want to be a logo artist instead?”
“I’m sorry. It’s Graphic Designer. Some respect please?” he said, serious an instant before they both broke out laughing. “Ironic, huh?”
“What, you mean because of the great paper shortage?” she answered.
“Well, the office hasn’t had any paper for the past three months,” Donald said. “We’re a law office and management has decided to ration paper? I had to beg the head secretary to unlock the door where the last little bit of paper is stored, and turn her head so that I could pilfer enough paper to file a motion for one of my clients.”
“Uh oh. How much did it cost you?”
“Nothing,” he said sheepishly. “I’m paying it off in… favors.”
Maya blurted out an incomprehensible gasp, and then began laughing. “Favors Donald?” She shot him a knowing, mischievous glance. “Well that’s certainly going above and beyond for your clients. Does your wife know just how… dedicated… you are? For your clients?”
“Not sexual favors Maya! Stop that! Lakers tickets. It cost me two Lakers tickets from our season package. And yes, my wife will understand,” he paused before he looked away, adding, “Hopefully.”
“Come on though Donald. A law office with no paper? Really? That’s impossible.”
Maya glanced down at the floor, becoming suddenly serious. “You’re not making that up, are you? Ms. Management—er, I mean, the Public Defender—she really decided to have a goddamn logo contest when we don’t have paper? And what are you doing Donald? How many versions have you crumpled up? Wait, you’ve really lost it, haven’t you?”
She stopped talking, actually concerned that he might find a way onto the balcony outside. The balcony had supposedly been sealed off years ago, not too long after the building had been built. A young lawyer had just tried—and lost—his first case. The story goes that he had gone straight up there after the verdict came back, took a swig of brandy, and jumped.
After a few moments lost in thought, Donald and Maya suddenly looked at each other. In a near-simultaneous flash of inspiration, they both grabbed for the last piece of paper.
“Sisyphus!” Maya said, reaching for a pen.
“Sisyphus!” Donald answered.
They both busted up laughing, and Maya relinquished her grip on the paper to Donald. “Would you like to do the honors, or should I?” she asked.
That night, on the way home, Donald spent a small amount of his hard earned paycheck at an office supply store, making copies of his new masterpiece.
That’s how it came to pass that Donald made the onl
y submission in the Public Defender’s logo contest.
The next morning, most everyone in the office was greeted in their mailbox by a copy of Donald’s new logo submission. Donald’s logo was a picture of Sisyphus, an ancient mythological king punished by the Greek gods, who had been condemned to an eternity of pushing a huge boulder up a hill. But each time he would get almost to the top, the boulder would roll back down, and Sisyphus would be forced to start, all over again, rolling the bolder back up from the bottom of the hill.
Sisyphus was, in fact, the perfect logo for the Public Defender’s Office. As even the most idealistic young lawyer would admit, it described the job to a T.
The Public Defender, of course, did not agree, and had no comment on Donald’s lone submission. The next day, however, she abruptly pulled the plug on the contest, and outsourced the whole endeavor to the city’s professional graphic design department.
20
“Can I see you, Maya?”
In her door stood Roger Early. Roger was the investigator with the office who’d been assigned to work on David’s case. He had the distinction of being one of the few investigators hired by the office who wasn’t a former police officer. Most likely as a result of this, Roger always seemed (at least to Maya) to work twice as hard as the other investigators. She loved it whenever one of her cases was assigned to him.
Maya looked up from her city-issued laptop. It was precariously balanced with one edge on an old vehicle code book, forming sort of a half tent shape. Ever since the battery had overheated about a year before, melting itself halfway into her desk and causing an evacuation of the top three floors of the courthouse in the process, Maya had used the workaround. The rumor was that everyone was getting new computers at the beginning of the year. But with Donald having blown half the office’s paper supply for his artistic logo-making/basketball practice, Maya was dubious.
