I was doing some deconstructing the other day and came across a leaflet for a Buddhist getaway. The flyer said something about peace of mind and deli sandwiches, so I figured I give it a go. I arrived at 7am sharp, stood my bicycle up against a tree, an elm, so it was, shimmied my rucksack off my shoulders and headed for the dining hall, thinking to myself, almost transcendentally, almost, a Liverwurst on light rye would be a nice way to start my peace of mind training. The Buddhist cook, a sickly looking fellow with a shiny bald head, the likes of which I had only seen on television and the leaflet announcing the getaway, said in an even sicklier whisper, ‘Pastrami or Mock Chicken?’ I nodded, pushing the cone of my left shoulder towards his right shoulder, a trick I’d learned at a Jehovah’s Witness jamboree, and in a low even monotone staccato voice, carefully so as not to frighten or unsettle the cook, said, ‘neither either or.’ I outstood my bicycle, hooked my rucksack over my shoulders, cinching it in front with a nylon toggle, and sped home, careful not to unsettle or frighten the attendees that were making their way towards the getaway in rows and tiers and parallel lines that seemed rather odd on such a hot milky day.
