Why Buddhists Must be Done with Buddhism

Why Buddhists Must be Done with Buddhism

In the second century C.E. the great Buddhist teacher Nagarjuna wrote _Verses from the Center_. Almost lost among twenty-seven chapters and 448 verses are four simple lines. They are among the most important four lines in the Buddhist literature.  

When buddhas don't appear

And their followers are gone,

The wisdom of awakening

Bursts forth by itself.

Stephen Batchelor, _Verses From the Center_ - _A Buddhist Vision of the Sublime_

If Gautama Siddhartha's original message of liberation is anything more than an interesting development in the history of religious thought in Southeast Asia then it has to have a vitality that stands on its own, transcending incidentals of personality, time and place. And most certainly transcending centuries of historical baggage that followed in its wake.

Nagarjuna clearly thought that it did.   

So let's put it to the test.

Let's be done with the Buddha and with buddhas. Let's be done with the followers and the teachers and the sages, the patriarchs, gurus, monks and nuns. Let's be done with all Buddhist scripture and commentary and the myriad Buddhist branches, schools and traditions, oral and written. Done with the cult of the cushion and the technologies of meditation, along with lineages and genealogies, titles, caps, robes, rituals, chants, mantras and koans, and all Buddhist beliefs. Let it all go, Gate, gate, para gate, para sum gate. Done, finished, over. 

Let's dare to throw the baby out with the bathwater, the good out with the bad. Throw out what works out along with what doesn't. Wash our hands of anything and everything that stinks of the word Buddhism and let the very word Buddha and all memory of it be long forgotten. 

Now what?

What is this wisdom of awakening that will burst forth by itself?

First, what it is not. The wisdom of awakening is not a few rules of ethical behavior. It is not a prescription for a noble life or a strategy for living. People don't need religion or philosophy or some wisdom of awakening in order to lead a good life. About that there have always been reliable sources of sound advice including simple common sense and fundamental human decency.

The wisdom of awakening is also not about an abstract esoteric doctrine of emptiness, although that is getting close to the chase. The Buddha's original message of liberation was not an otherworldly metaphysical vision of enlightenment designed to engage the attention of scholars, pundits, metaphysicians, priests, or the educated elites of the Indian subcontinent. The wisdom of awakening was an insight accessible by all regardless of their station in life, education or sophistication. The idea of emptiness was a way to unlock, to release the wisdom of awakening, not an end in itself.

So it must be with the new wisdom of awakening -- it must be a vision, a message, a simple insight available and accessible and understandable by ordinary human beings, living on the earth, concerned with earthly affairs, at all levels of society, regardless of sophistication. And it must be an insight of great power, not some easily dismissed nostrum.

This is what I think it will look like:

The wisdom of awakening that originally burst into the mind of Siddhartha Gautama and will burst forth again on its own in the mind of someone who looks, is simply this:  

There is no supernatural. There is no supernatural anything; there never has been; there never will be; ever. There are no gods or goddesses or deities or supernatural powers above you or below you or on either side; none are there to be found in the mountains, or the desert, the forest, the jungle, the grassland, the river, or the sea, or on the farm or in the village or city or in the schools or universities or temples or monasteries, none in statues or stone or in painting or on paper. Nothing supernatural can ever be found in any man or animal, vegetable or mineral, living or dead. None. There is no supernatural authority anywhere and no one wields any authority backed up by any supernatural anything. They never have had any such authority. There is none to be had.

In ancient India there were those who immediately understood the power of this profoundly liberating insight. India and the ancient world had soaked for tens of thousands of years in a suffocating supernaturalism that permeated every aspect of human life, from the cradle to the grave, a supernatural cultural current dominating the individual, the family, the village and all levels of political, economic and religious life.  

It was impossible then, and is impossible now, to be free in a world where you believe in any supernatural anything. The most ancient, the most powerful, and the ultimate in authoritarian ideologies, is the belief in the supernatural.  

For the perceptive and receptive Indian mind steeped in the cultural background of the supernatural the revelation that the supernatural was simply an empty fantasy was a truth of overwhelming potency and liberating power.  

For those whose understanding was not so deep or immediate the wisdom of awakening was not just one more ideology to be taken on faith or simply believed. The invitation of the Buddha was simple: look and see for yourself. In fact, you have to look and see for yourself. Look at the world around you, the comings and goings, the natural processes, the forms contingent and interconnected and ever changing. And now look at the content of your own minds, reflecting those endless forms; now you see them, now you don't, they come and go. So too, look at the sacred images within your mind, the gods and the goddesses, the devils and demons and all sorts of supernatural beings and forces and undercurrents that populate your conscious and subconscious thoughts. Simply look and see. They are not real. They are empty. There is nothing there to fear or worship or to respect or stand in awe of or to revere or to submit to. Look and see. The supernatural has no hold on you whatsoever. The supernatural does not exist. It never has. It never will. There is no supernatural power underlying your life or any aspect of your life.

Simply stop believing in the supernatural and the direct and undeniable experience of the natural world is what is left. Live in that world, the only world there is.

The situation is not all that different for anyone today or for anyone living in a time when all memory of Buddhism will have been long lost. Belief in the supernatural is not a bug in the human mind, it is a feature. From infancy the human mind is overwhelmed by a natural world seemingly beyond understanding. Things happen and how and why are at first a complete mystery and may remain so for all one's life. It is easy and natural to believe that supernatural forces are at work in the natural world. And societies are dominated by superstitious beliefs of a bewildering variety. Almost everyone, it appears, believes in some form of the supernatural. It is not so easy to break free of a suffocating culture. But it can be done.   

The wisdom of awakening that will burst forth on its own is freedom from the supernatural and all the guises of the supernatural, from all the promises of otherworldly understanding or insight or metaphysical enlightenment or special powers. And freedom from all those who claim authority based on the supernatural or their understanding or interpretation of the supernatural. All those people are simply human beings just like everyone else.

If Gautama the Buddha's insight liberated the Indian mind mind from the stultifying supernaturalism of the ancient world, then Nagarjuna's insight liberates the modern buddhist from Buddhism, from the baggage and the mysticism, metaphysics, and supernaturalism that has steadily eroded and corroded the original message of liberation.  

Walk in freedom on the earth.  There are no gods above you and no demons below.  There are no spirits to the right or to the left, in the forests or mountains or deserts or in the sea. There is no supernatural power behind any secular or religious authority; nor is there any behind the priest or the guru or the saint or the sage or the metaphysical scholar.  

If it is true that the truth shall set you free, then the greatest truth is that there is no supernatural anything; there never has been; there never will be.

  

Now go about your business.

Dixi

LLP

Nostradamus Speaks - Syllabus

The Syllabus

Paris-Sorbonne University, a prestigious world class center of intellectual fire power does not suffer fools gladly, sadly, or any other way. If you want to do fortune telling get thee to a local strip mall and set up shop -- or go anywhere -- just not to the Sorbonne. 

Dr. Nostradamus presented the English series of his lectures consistent with this syllabus as an outline and framework for discussion. 

The Tradecraft of Historical Pattern Recognition and Projection - A How-To Guide

--  Doctor Michel de Nostredame --

Introduction --

Learning how to think --

  Conversation -- the Foundation.

  Writing -- Polishing the Diamond.

Perfecting the Art of Memory --

  Experience is creation.

  Remembering is re-creation.

  

Ground yourself in the natural world --

  The Philosopher's Stone --There is no supernatural.

Be guided by the light of practical reason --

  Brainstorm -- The power of imagination: unleashed, disciplined, focused.

  Stay grounded -- rigorous, disciplined, critical thinking.

  There is no supernatural. 

See the world as it is -- 

  Avoiding ideological lenses and opinions.

  Comprehend cause and effect;

    dependency;

    conditioned arisings;

    contingency.

   Let go of fixations and reactivity.

Cultivate your tradecraft -- 

  Maintain a view of the world that is open minded, expansive, and inclusive. 

  Practice discipline and concentration.

  Be mindful, attentive, diligent, careful, responsible.

Participate.

Review and Conclusion.

Over the course of seven days lectures originally scheduled for two hours soon lasted far beyond, even into the early morning hours. The number of attendees grew to standing room only, then spilled out into the halls.

Dr. N could give a lecture on assembling IKEA furniture and fill an auditorium full of Nobel prize winning thinkers.

It was at this lecture series that I started to think that maybe Michel de Nostradamus really was Merlin. 

Ingrid was sure of it.

Dixi.

Nostradamus Speaks - Paris!

Paris!

Wonderful! Back in Paris. Back to where I once belonged or at least stayed for a month while running a souvenir shop near the Eiffel Tower. Memories came back as we approached Charles de Gaulle International. Landing was smooth and life was good.

I only had my wheelie carry-on so debarking and getting through customs was quick. Coming down the escalator I spotted the sign, "Number One" and correctly deduced there was my ride. 

"Bonjour Numéro Un," the chauffeur said, "Bienvenue à Paris," meaning, "Good afternoon, Number One. Welcome to Paris."

"Merci," I said, "Thank you."

The chauffeur took my carry-on and I climbed into the back seat of a Peugeot limousine. I figured I didn't have to tell him where to go since I didn't have the slightest idea of where to go, but not to where I had stayed before.

Nice. The driver pulled into the valet entrance of an obviously very expensive hotel. I didn't even have to check in. The hotel maître de escorted me to my room, gave me the card key, and, after declining my proffered tip, bid me a pleasant, "Have a nice stay in Paris, Monsieur." 

Having a nice stay was exactly what I had in mind. Whipping out my iPhone I texted away: Ingrid, Liebling, I am on assignment in Paris. Love to see you again, XOXO, and pressed send. Then I wired flowers to her apartment.

Where are you staying? Ingrid texted.

The Hotel Les Bains in the Marais, I typed back.

I'm on my way, Liebling.

The Hotel Les Bains was expensive, very expensive. I was not complaining but I couldn't help but wonder why Dr. N was content to have his Numéro Un spokesman live in a dump in Little Saigon and then check into a place like this on assignment. Dr. Nostradamus was a man who moved with ease and indifference in whatever social strata he chose. He could appear and be regarded as a person of great wealth, or as a common laborer, as he wanted. My apprenticeship was clearly more than just learning how to remember and how to write. 

I woke the next morning to a text alert: Meet me at Paris-Sorbonne University. Tuesday evening, 6:30 p.m. Go to reception and you will be directed to the classroom. N.

Can I bring a friend? I replied.

Yes. Ingrid is welcome. N.

The plot thickens.

Today was Sunday. Ingrid texted she would take the train from Vienna to Paris, a tiring 12 hour trip, please meet her at the Gare du Nord Monday.

I spent the rest of the day walking around the Marais, a trendy Paris neighborhood. By now it was almost automatic for me to internally narrate my walks. I returned to my room and walked through the Marais in my mind.

Monday was a beautiful reunion with Ingrid. We kissed and made up and wandered around Paris and the Marais, which I now knew as well as a native. In some respects better.

I told Ingrid everything I knew about Dr. Nostradamus. It was funny but I knew almost nothing. I had no idea where he lived or stayed. I had no idea if he had an office or business location or where. I actually learned more from Wikipedia about the historical Michel de Nostradamus than I did from the real one in person. Of course, dry historical facts and speculations were one thing; face to face meetings and conversations quite another. But seriously, I was a grown man, I did not think Dr. N was the historical Nostradamus. That would have made him more than 500 years old. Childhood stories.

Ingrid and I spent a romantic night at the Hotel Les Bains. It was like our break up spat never happened. 

Late Tuesday we made our way to the Sorbonne. Arriving about 6:00 p.m. we were directed to a building and room wherein Dr. Michel de Nostredame would be conducting a series of seminars on historical pattern recognition and projections. Interesting? No.

The classroom was empty when Ingrid and I took seats at the front. At 6:30 p.m. precisely, Dr. Nostradamus entered through the door to the right of the lectern and came over.

We both stood up. "Dr. Nostradamus," I said extending my hand.  "This is my friend, Ingrid....."

"Yes, Madamoiselle Ingrid, "the good doctor said, "Vienna. I apologize for not taking the time to be introduced....I see you've changed your hair."

I looked over at Ingrid. I didn't notice anything different about her hair. 

Ingrid laughed, "Yes Doctor, I've added a few highlights. I'm flattered you noticed."

I then stood by marveling as Dr. Nostradamus practically seduced my girlfriend right before my eyes with nothing more than a few comments. He remembered that she had tiny gold heart earrings in Vienna and was wearing L'Air du Temps, but not today. I was not surprised at the clarity of his recollection, but I did wonder why he was telling her all that. He never did anything without purpose. I would have been worried, but he was old enough to be her grandfather, or great grandfather. Or great, great, great,,,,,,,,

Then, without further ado, Dr. Nostradamus was the professor. He handed me a brochure. "This is a syllabus of the course I teach this week. I want you to attend starting tonight, and of course, Ingrid is welcome. As is our custom, for you-- and for Ingrid -- there will be no note taking, no recordings. Leave the brochure after you've reviewed it."

Students started filing into the class room and Dr. Nostradamus stepped back to behind the lectern, watching each in turn as they entered.

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Landed in Paris

Landed in Paris!

Dixi

Note from me LLP:
This is bullshit.
LLP

Nostradamus Speaks Note from Me LLP

Note from me LLP:

Hardly had my finger lifted off the mouse blasting the latest Nostradamus Speaks post into the email airwaves than blowback began. 

"Good idea to stop sending this Nostradamus Speaks shit out on your email account," one idiot who shall remain unnamed wrote. "I didn't want to be in your stupid sleeper cell email network in the first place. I'm not asleep and even if I was I do not want to wake up because I am what I am and that's all that I am."

My response to Popeye is, "Go fuck yourself." I didn't ask for this job and they don't pay me enough to do it. In fact, they don't pay me anything and while my fingertips are getting tenderized Number One and Dixi or whoever the hell he/she/it is are getting an all expense paid trip to Paris. WTF!?

This is not easy. I'm retired and old and my writing and typing skills are rusty. It takes me a half hour to write a single fucking sentence because if I make a mistake some nitwit meter maid level enforcer of the grammar police will bust my balls over a comma or semicolon or you name it shit.

I have a life and a wife and dogs and an old grandma to take care of not to mention a back yard that has turned into a jungle because of all the rain. I should go out and clear the gigantic weeds from my once-beautiful succulent raised garden beds but I'm afraid a raccoon will jump out and grab me with his claw hands. They do that with dogs -- jump on their backs and grab them, hold on and then bite the shit out of them. A man should not have to be afraid of going into his own back yard. 

Then Number One sends me a new post that I am not going to publish because all he says is: "Landed in Paris! Dixi" That's a waste of valuable internet space and bytes not to mention my time. 

Thanks for letting me vent.
 LLP

Nostradamus Speaks - Settling In

FYI from me LLP:

Reposting Number One's Nostradamus Speaks through my own personal email account is clogging things up so I am shifting everything to my website http://wuzzappnin.blogspot.com/

You can view them or review as you wish, in the privacy of your own computer. 

LLP

Settling In

I settled into my new office. I took down the disbarred attorney's name from the storefront, leaving only the word, "OFFICE", but the blank spaces betrayed the identity of the previous tenant. I called Brenda and invited her to see my new digs and celebrate the grand opening. She came the next day.

"Brenda!" I said, coming out from the back after the door bells jingled the arrival of a customer, "I've really missed you." Brenda stood in the center of the office and slowly did a 180, taking in the entirety of the office, obviously creating an internal verbal description of everything she saw. Upon completion of her survey, with nary a word of farewell, she walked out, the bells behind her jingling the departure of a customer. 

I can't say I was surprised. The disbarred attorney's office was a dump when I moved in and pretty much remained a dump. I think I finally got over Brenda that day. If she didn't want me, then I didn't want her. And anyway, she was the one who blew through most of the company's cash which got me into trouble which got me into this dump in the first place, so good riddance.

I refocused my time and energy on learning how to write and practicing tradecraft. If you happened to have been in Little Saigon late 2009, early 2010 and saw a crazy man talking to stone dragons, decorated door jambs, or nothing in particular, that was me.

But it was working. As the months passed and I continued to practice the tradecraft secret agent memory development internal verbalization protocol, I found at the end of the day I could lay down on the couch in the back room and walk through the entirety of Little Saigon and see, literally see, so much detail it felt like I was really there. 

Thus it was in February, 2010, the door bells jingled and I walked out to greet what unsuspecting customer had wandered into my lair. Nobody ever came so I was ready to warmly greet anyone at all. Anyone at all except -- holy shit! The Dragon Lady! Yes, her, the little old lady with the perfectly coiffed black beehive hair and gold pin above her left ear with tattooed eyebrows and eyelash lines who scares the shit out of me. With nary a greeting she handed me an envelope gripped between long sharp red talons and, like my ex SoCal hottie Brenda, turned and walked out.

Inside was an airline ticket to Paris and 1000 EUR, in cash. A computer printout note read, See you. N. 

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Pink Shoe Laces

Pink Shoe Laces

When next I saw Dr. Nostradamus he was at our increasingly usual Starbucks watering hole. I was standing in the ordering line when he arrived. I noticed he was wearing tan shoes with pink shoelaces, not unusual for southern California teenagers, but not what I came to expect from Dr. N. I filed away a mental description of the shoes and laces. 

I had long ago adopted the tradecraft practice of, "See something, say something", meaning that if something caught my eye I needed to turn my attention to it and verbally describe it in detail. I did not evaluate its importance. It did not matter if it appeared common or unusual. If whatever part of my mind noticed it, it called for attention and that meant a mental verbal description. And since the shoes and laces were something I noticed about Dr. Nostradamus they would find their way onto my Nostradamus Speaks post.

Dr. Nostradamus nodded to me, "Number One," he said, "Would you be so kind as to fetch me a coffee, black, no sugar, " then fixed me with a gaze of uncertain import.

Nothing Dr. N did was casual or unintended. He was a master communicator, in spoken and body language. He could walk into a room and draw attention to himself without any obvious posturing. He could disappear just as easily. Every gesture conveyed significance. Or maybe I was simply becoming more adept at noticing ever more subtle things. 

Still, subtle though the cues were, I was promoted to look more closely around the coffee shop. Nothing unusual; no one dramatically stood out. But one barrister caught my eye; she seemed quite a bit older than the normal crew and I didn't recall having seen her before. I mentally memorialized everything I could see about her, watching in an indifferent way that should not arouse her attention. Sometimes women have a sixth sense they are being looked at. Nothing else in the room prompted closer scrutiny. At times it felt like I was in a grade B secret agent movie when I was around Dr. Nostradamus. He assured me he was not a spy and did not work for any intelligence services. He had bigger fish to fry, as he put it.

Our meeting was shorter than usual and Dr. Nostradamus did not weigh in on any particular topic. He rarely made small talk but this day did speak about days at the orphanage. I wondered if the older female barrister had triggered a memory -- in both of us -- a memory that prompted me to interrupt and apologize. "Sensei," I said, "After all this time I feel ashamed to have never asked about Mrs. Nostradamus." I stopped myself, afraid to question more closely.

"She died the year after you left for University." Dr. N said. 

"I'm so sorry," I said.

He continued. "I have lost so many that I have loved so dearly that oftentimes I feel it is not worth it, living so long. But sorrow and grief are a living thread that ties us to our distant ancestors. Archeologists have said that when they opened the tenderly prepared grave of a child who died tens of thousands of years ago they felt the grief of the child's long dead parents, sweeping across the centuries, bringing their tears to them. 

"Living so long may not be worth it, but it is my fate." 

As I wrote this post my memory triggered lyrics from an old rock and roll song. Googling, I found Pink Shoe Laces by Dodie Stevens, 1959. I have no idea what Dr. Nostradamus' intent or message was in this and remain puzzled by the contrast to his heartfelt recollection of a dear wife. Dr. Nostradamus did not do or say things accidentally. I feel certain everything about the day tied together.

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Dear Dr. Nostra

Dear Dr. Nostra

"Boss," I said, "It's hump day and that means it's Dear Abby day, it's cards and letters day, it's time for -- drum roll please -- Dear Dr. Nostra.

Dr. Michel de Nostradamus sighed. He had long resisted the direction his precious Nostradamus Speaks was turning, but the fact is his sleeper cell sleepers have real lives with real problems and want his advice. He is, after all, The Man.

We had met at Starbucks and The Man braced himself for this morning's mail bag with a Grande Latte Mocha, whipped cream and sprinkles, jacked with a triple shot of espresso.

"Make it so, Number One." 

Alice from South Dakota writes:

Dear Dr. Nostra, Hank wants to come back. He says he loves me and is sorry. What should I do? Alice.

Dr. Nostra says:

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum

Say your boyfriend Hank is a bum.

If you can't get that through your thick skull,

Get your sorry ass back to school.

"Next."

The Rev. William Roberts (Billy Bob) of Fredericksburg writes: Dear Dr. Nostra, I am worried about the future of my Evangelical Christian fellowship. Have we lost our way? The Rev.

Dr. Nostra says:

Drinking tequila that promised them power,

They ate the worm from the proud tower.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall,

The worm will turn and them all devour.

"Next."

"That's a pretty grim scenario, Sensei," I said. "Hump day is supposed to, you know, provide inspiration and guidance."

"I prognosticate, Dungbeetle," the Maestro said, "That's what I do. 

"Next."

Grandpa from SoCal writes: 

Dear Dr. Nostra, I like my life the way it is and I didn't ask to be in your sleeper cell and I don't want to get woke. What can I do not to get woke?

Dr. Nostra says:

Hold your head in your hands,

Your ears clamped close,

Your eyes tight shut,

And loudly shout, "Lalalalalalalalalala."

"Next."

Virginia from Virginia writes:

Dear Dr. Nostra, I would like to form a recipe exchange group within the Nostradamus Speaks sleeper community. Can you help?

Dr. Nostra says:

No.

No.

No.

No.

"Next."

"That's it for today, Doc. I think you can be proud that you are making a difference for those who measure out their lives in coffee spoons." I took a sip of the exquisite Starbucks espresso brew. "This is exceptional."

Dixi 

Nostradamus Speaks -Tradecraft Trainee

Tradecraft Trainee

When Dr. Nostradamus directed me to set up an office and said we'd get started I naturally expected we would get started. But it was more than six months before I saw him again. 

In the meantime I rented a strip mall office from a Little Saigon lawyer who had been disbarred. The place was not bad but I would have preferred my own place. Alas, Dr. N or whoever ran the books would only front or reimburse office expenses and minimal personal expenses  -- payback for having blown through so much company cash in the early days. Live and learn.

But this was a real job; an unusual job to be sure; and a mysterious job working for a man I had known of my entire life but did not know anything about. Wikipedia says the historical Dr. Michel de Nostradamus was born in 1503, so maybe he really is 300 years old, or 500. Maybe us kids were right, that he is Merlin; that he could fly. All that was of course childish stuff but I had to ask myself, how did I get all the way from an orphanage in New England to Vienna to Little Saigon in Westminster, California, and then find myself enrolled in a mysterious apprenticeship? Spooky, and silly, and fun.

I took the doctor at his word, enrolled in a writing class and joined a writing club. He was right, I did need to learn how to write.

I also set about training my memory, practicing what the Maestro called tradecraft:

"Young Apprentice, the tradecraft I teach has been known for centuries and is to this day practiced by intelligence operatives. It is simple in concept, difficult in application: Whatever you do, wherever you go, you must not be passive. You can not be just a watcher, a listener, an observer. You have to be mindful and attentive, and a participant. 

"Now listen up because this is important: I am not saying that you should jump up and make the rounds, glad handing everyone. Not that kind of participation. The kind of participation of which I speak is internal, mental, and to be more precise, verbal.

"For example, when you go into a restaurant and sit at a table you draw the entire restaurant into your view. At the same time that you look you must expressly verbalize, and describe what it is you see, with precision. You don't have to try to remember, but you do have to make the effort to see and describe what it is you see. 

"The remembering happens in the mind on its own. It is an internal dialog, an active intentional dialog that knits together images appearing in the visual cortex at the back of your brain with the abstract language creation and analytical cortex in the frontal lobes. United they stand; divided they fall. 

"Obviously you must be selective. You could drill down onto the spoon you are holding and describe it in ever tightening detail. You could spend an entire afternoon and never get beyond the four corners of your table. Tradecraft requires judgement as to what is necessary and what is sufficient to relive and recall in detail what needs to be remembered. Practice.

"At first this is difficult, and even exhausting. The art you practice takes years, decades -- an entire life. But with diligence the time will come when you can move at will back through the times you have experienced, reliving in detail each moment. The past is not prologue as has been said, it is not even past."

Dr. N was right. Training my memory was hard work. I quickly learned my powers of observation and description were lacking. I ran out of words. At times I felt as if my head was exploding. At first I thought that it would all end up a jumbled mess. But even at the very beginning it worked. I could take a long walk seeing and verbalizing with detailed description all that I could. When I got back to my office and closed my eyes, I could again walk along that same route and see in detail the twists and turns of the insignificant crack in the wall I had stopped to see and actively describe, and the bug that crawled out of it. Patches of clarity would come into view as I walked along the path. I started to work out the how and why some places and things were recalled with photographic clarity while others remained vague and cloudy. One thing was for sure:

There was something to this shit.

Dixi

Note from me LLP:
My head is exploding.

Nostradamus Speaks - The Sorcerer's Apprentice

The Sorcerer's Apprentice

"Boss, thank you, thank you, thank you, for rescuing me from the curse of the Dragon Lady. Seriously, that woman scares the hell out of me."

Dr. Nostradamus' face briefly registered a hint of mirth and perhaps, a stifled snort. "Yes, Number One, a formidable presence indeed. Now let's get on with the purpose of this meeting -- your job."

"Absolutely -- the job. What is my job?"

Dr. N began. "I am starting a publication, Nostradamus Loquitur. Your job is to transmit my message on that platform."

"What's Loquitur?"

"It's Latin for 'speaks'."

"Nobody speaks Latin, Boss, nobody except Catholic priests. You do not want to be associated with that bunch. Just use English and call it Nostradamus Speaks."

"Good point, Number One. Nostradamus Speaks it is."

All right! I was proving my worth. "How can I be of service, Maestro?" 

"You are to memorialize every encounter, meeting, and conversation you have with me and publish that description in detail on Nostradamus Speaks."

"That's it? Piece of cake, Doc. I cometh prepared." I said, and spreadeth out before the Maestro my iPhone, pen, and note pad. 

"No," Dr. Nostradamus flatly said. "There will be no recordings. You will not take notes; you will not keep notes. You are to rely entirely on your memory."

I was expecting something along the lines of an attaboy. "That's going to be a stretch, Boss. If you want me to accurately record every meeting and conversation -- in detail -- I'm going to have to take notes. I have a good memory but not that good."

"Your apprenticeship begins today, Grasshopper," Dr. Nostradamus said. Train your memory."

"Apprenticeship?" I puzzled. 

Dr. Nostradamus ignored my question. "When you have a meeting or conversation with me you must be able to relive it -- The setting, the exchange in detail, word for word -- Facial expressions, body language, dress, mood. Everything."

"I don't have a photographic memory, Boss." 

He elaborated. "I did not say, 'remember it', Number One, I said, 'relive it'. You will develop the ability to revisit an encounter in your mind and relive the experience in detail as if you were there again.

"Along with your evolving skill in reliving and recalling the details of a meeting, you will have to exercise judgement in deciding what to include in the account you publish.

"For example, what I say and how I say it are of great significance, but what I was wearing at the time is probably insignificant and not needed in the narrative," said Dr. Nostradamus who was wearing a white shirt, no tie; a tweed jacket that looked right out of a 1930's detective movie, Levi's, and blue Nike tennis shoes. No socks.

"Then," he said, "You need to learn how to write -- to put everything together and present it in written English."

I defended myself. "I can write. I have a university degree."

"Grasshopper, language is far more complex than people realize, and written English is a separate language from spoken English. Written English can be understood world wide and easily translated into other languages. Spoken English can be highly parochial and an English speaker in one part of the world may find it difficult or impossible to understand an English speaker from another. Your task, to memorialize and effectively communicate our conversations, is even harder. 

"Do not underestimate the difficulty of the apprenticeship upon which you are embarking."

"Apprenticeship?" I asked again.

“Set up the office and we'll get started." With that Dr. Michel de Nostradamus bid me adieu.

Dixi. 

Nostradamus Speaks - Responsibility

Responsibility

I accept I may have been somewhat irresponsible. After getting my first big payday from Dr. Nostradamus -- $16,000 in cash and a cashier's check -- I got a bit carried away. 

I got a room at a Holiday Inn, and set about exploring sunny southern California. I visited Disneyland, then Knott's Berry Farm, then Disneyland again, the Queen Mary, Magic Mountain, Universal Studios, and the Hollywood Walk of Fame, back to Disneyland, and many other wonderful points of interest.

Along the way I met a cute blond SoCal hottie, Brenda, who thought I was cute too.

It is shocking how much money you can burn through in a very short time. And in a shocking few weeks I was back in the Dragon Lady's shitty little room, sleeping on the couch and eating Maruchan Ramen Noodle Soup. Brenda did not return my calls.

I started thinking about beautiful Vienna and Ingrid.

Thus it was when I was down a text from the Maestro walked me back: 

I'll be there in 10. N. 

I anxiously texted back: Where? 

There. N.

I frantically set about cleaning my dump of an office, moving boxes of cleaning product from one side of the room to the other and dusting off the sofa and desk. 

Ten minutes later a knock at the door. I opened it and there he was, Doctor Nostradamus, Merlin, not having aged a day since last I saw him in Vienna. Dr. N looked at the sofa and sat at the desk. I sat on the sofa.

"May I see your expense log, Number One?" he said, extending his hand.

"My expense log?"

"Yes, your expense log. The list of expenditures you had while setting up your office."

"Nobody said anything about setting up an office. I thought that was my salary."

"You haven't done anything yet."

"An advance?"

Dr. Nostradamus just looked at me

"Boss," I said, "This is not my fault. You lure me away from a good paying job in Vienna, flatter me with a meaningless fucking title, and send me all the way to Bumfuck, Egypt, and I still don't have the slightest idea of what it is I was hired to do."

Dr. Nostradamus paused for a long moment and then sighed, "You're right, Number One, I bear some of the blame here. Do you have any money left at all?"

"Hardly, and the Dragon Lady is making me clean up the salon or she will kick me out. It's humiliating Boss. I have a degree."

"Okay, here's a little more to tide you over. Get a room, clean yourself up, and we'll meet tomorrow to talk about your job."

With that Dr. Nostradamus walked out. I watched as he engaged in conversation with the Dragon Lady, who started yelling, waving her hands and pointing in my direction.

I closed the door and counted the money Dr. N had left for me.

Dixi

Nostradamus Speaks - Setting up Shop

Setting up Shop

I woke up on the couch in "my office"-- a shit hole room, in the rear of a shit hole beauty and nail salon, in shitty Little Saigon, in shitty Westminster, in shitty California. 

Not happy.

My phone beeped: Open the laptop. N.

What laptop?

Poking out from under the stacks and boxes of beauty product on the desk was the silver corner of a laptop. I cleared away the clutter and checked it out. Wow! A brand new top of the line Mac. Underneath was an unsealed envelope. A quick look revealed several thousand in $100 bills and a cashier's check for $10,000 USD.

My phone beeped again: Laptop and Network Name and passwords are all NostraD. Log on and change all passwords and Network Name. Don't use any suggested by Google or Apple. Time sensitive. I have backdoor. N.

Did it. I must say my mood was improving by leaps and bounds.

The laptop beeped again: Good work Number One. Relax for the rest of the day. Will contact. N.

I texted back: Whatever you say, Dr. N. Is it safe to leave all this stuff here? 

It's a safe house. No problem. Use your key. N.

I hid the laptop and all the money under the sofa and covered it with trash then left to get Vietnamese. I locked the office door behind me and left through the front. The Dragon Lady at the counter motioned me over and handed me another key, "Use the back door when we are closed."


Disclosure: This is essentially how my start as Dr. Nostradamus' spokesperson began. Everything happened as described but everything has changed so there is no security risk in this disclosure. In other words, you'll never find the safe house and the Dragon Lady has long since moved on. So don't waste your time trying.

s/Number One.

Dixi

Note from me LLP:
The pot thickens, I guess. I'm not sure what the point of all this was but I am on the edge of my seat in anticipation. Bring it!
LLP

Nostradamus Speaks - Sunny SoCal

Sunny SoCal

Picking up where we left off -- I landed at LAX on September 20, 2009. No one was waiting for me so I took matters into my own hands and got an Uber, destination Los Angeles' Little Tokyo. I snoozed most of the way and only woke when the driver announced, "We're here." I looked around, as good a place as any, and got out.

It took me about an hour of wheeling my carry-on baggage behind me before I finally asked and learned I was in Little Saigon -- Westminster, not LA. The idiot Uber driver.

My phone beeped: Are you there? N.

I texted back: I'm here. Where should I be?

I set up an office for you. You can sleep there until you get settled. N.

Me: Thanks, where?

It's in the rear of the beauty shop on Westminster. They are expecting you. N.

I was already too tired to appreciate how weird all this was but by sheer luck the Uber guy had let me out on Westminster Ave. It was just a matter of finding the one beauty salon in all of Little Saigon that was expecting me. Up and down, in and out of this shop and that, stopping for more than one cup of Vietnamese coffee which I was told is better than you can get in the former Saigon now known as Ho Chi Minh City.

 Finally, two hours later, after making my way up one side of Westminster Ave., then down the other, back to almost where I started, I walked into yet another of those mini strip malls that enrich the landscape of every city in America and in through the doors of a seedy beauty and nails salon.

A grim looking little old lady with perfectly coiffed black beehive hair and long sharp shiny red nails was at the cashier's counter. I walked up. The old lady handed me a key and jerked her head toward the back of the shop. 

By this time I was so jagged from jet lag and three hours walking and multiple cups of Vietnamese coffee that I just took the key and trudged back past stations that promised to transform everyday women into alluring vixens. 

I opened the door, which wasn't even locked, and looked in. "What a dump," I said out loud.

A ratty couch, a folding chair, and a desk piled high with boxes of beauty products. I closed the door and collapsed on the couch. "Shit!" I said to myself. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!" 

I zoned out, thinking about beautiful Vienna and beautiful Ingrid.

Dixi.

Nostradamus Speaks - Vienna Followup

Vienna Followup

I write at the request of Dr. Nostradamus to followup on my last post wherein I tracked a bit of my personal history and the very beginning of my role as his spokesperson.

Leaving the Vienna cafe after that fateful breakfast in August of 2009, I wasn't much for company and headed back to my apartment. I found myself reliving the happy days of my childhood and what snippets of memory that featured Dr. Nostradamus and his wife. I was surprised at the level of detail that came to mind and wondered if my memory wasn't as ordinary as I had always assumed. I really had no idea what he might want to talk about nor why he called me Number One.

Next morning I reported for work and was given a telephone memo by the receptionist: "N called. Reschedule meeting until after work. Same cafe on Sonnwendgasse." That was probably a good idea because I was still relatively new here and didn't want to mess up. 

He didn't specify a time so I just took the bus after work and went straight to the cafe. He was waiting.

"I want you to come work for me," Dr Nostradamus said with no further greeting.

"Okay," I found myself saying without the slightest idea of what I was going to be doing or how much I was going to be paid, if anything.

"Good. I'll meet you in Los Angeles mid September or thereabouts. This will cover your expenses," handing me a cashier's check for 10,000 euros drawn on a Swiss bank. "Have a good flight."

He got up to leave.

"Wait," I said, "What's my job?"

"Number One, you are going to be the primary spokesperson and coordinator for my businesses. See you in sunny Southern California."

Dr. Nostradamus left, leaving me thinking that Ingrid was not going to like this and will think I'm an idiot. She'll probably dump me but that will save me the unpleasant task of breaking up with her. 

I wasn't very proud of myself at that likelihood but really, I was too excited at my prospective new adventure to care. Vienna was boring anyway.

I went back to my apartment and googled, "Nostradamus business."

Dixi 


Note from me LLP:
I don't know how this tidbit of background helps other than to confirm that Ingrid was probably right.

Nostradamus Speaks - Breakfast in Vienna

Breakfast in Vienna

They call me Number One, the name reflecting my position as spokesperson for Doctor Michel de Nostradamus. I have been so employed for a decade. 

I am 35 years old. I grew up in a privately funded New England orphanage and know nothing of my biological parents other than the genetic gifts they passed on to me. 

I am clearly of a mixed race heritage and move easily among a number of varied racial and ethnic groups. But my racial identity is blurred and does not appear to trigger racial animus in those so inclined. I'm ordinary. I fit in.

Along with good health, I received through my parents a native intelligence fairly described as normal or average. I have a good memory and like most people, can master difficult subjects if I work hard enough. It is clear the inspired genius of great mathematicians and musicians and artists will forever lie beyond my reach. I was fortunate to have had excellent tutors and instructors, and the opportunity for higher education.

What is extraordinary about my life is not my genetic inheritance or what I have made of myself -- or not -- but the simple circumstance of being orphaned as an infant and left on the doorstep of Dr. Nostradamus' orphanage.

Dr. N did not live at the orphanage and appeared at irregular intervals accompanied by a tall gray haired woman introduced as Mrs. Nostradamus. The Dr. and Mrs. did not deal directly with the children but worked intensely with the exceptional and dedicated staff. 

I think of my boyhood home as inseparable from Dr. Nostradamus. I don't know that he ever had an official title, but he was always treated with great deference by the staff and whenever he and the Mrs. visited we children would be lined up to greet them. I never spoke to him. To tell the truth we kids were scared of him. There were stories that he was 300 years old; that he was Merlin the magician; that he could fly. Magical stories children tell themselves and each other. 

By the time I left the orphanage and academy for university I had not seen Dr. or Mrs. Nostradamus for several years and my memory of them faded. At 21 I graduated and set out to travel the world and seek my fortune. I wandered, working a variety of jobs. I was a bouncer for two months in Berlin. I was a bank teller, a chef, a brick layer. I ran a souvenir shop near the Eiffel Tower. And more. I enjoyed them all and went everywhere. 

Finally, in the spring of 2009, I landed in Austria. Settling in, I applied for more respectable work at a Vienna based publishing company. Forgiving my erratic work history as a youthful fling, the human resources manager said they were looking for someone with my credentials. I was on my way. 

On a warm Sunday morning in August, 2009, I went for breakfast with my girlfriend to a little cafe on the Sonnwendgasse, recovering after a night celebrating my first big promotion.

We took an open window table and ordered up coffee to clear the fog of last night's festivities. I breathed in the fresh morning air mixing with the aroma of hot pastries. Another couple sat at a far table; an old man was at the counter, his back to us. 

I was happy, Ingrid was happy, we chatted about this and that.

Mid-sentence Ingrid stopped talking and looked up to a voice from behind me, "Pardon me, Mademoiselle." Then to me, "Good morning, Number One."

I looked, then stood up, "My God... is it....?'

The old man that had been at the counter continued, "Number One, can we meet in your office tomorrow morning? I'll only take a few minutes."

I didn't know what to say, "....Yeah, sure."

"Nine-thirty then." The old man tipped his hat to Ingrid, "Mademoiselle," and walked away.

We watched him go. 

Ingrid was irritated, "Who was that, your boss? Are you okay?"

I hesitated. "No, he's not my boss... maybe... I don't know.  It's a big company."

"But you do know him? What’s with this number one?"

"Yes....I know him."

"And....?" Ingrid said.

"Merlin... his name is Merlin."

Six weeks later I landed at LAX, single again, ready to start my new job.

Dixi

Note from me LLP:

Interesting. Turns out Number One is a real person, with a real life. 

LLP