Interview with a House Cleaner

[Guest guest]

Suffice it to say that at one time there seemed justification enough

to employ the services of a bi-weekly house cleaner. The process of

choosing the "right one" proved to be more challenging than initially

anticipated, however, and after a number of potential candidates were

considered and rejected, a friend told me about Veronica.

 

Veronica had immigrated to this country from Argentina the previous

year, and so I began the interview by mentioning that the Tango

happened to be a personal passion of mine.

 

She nodded and said:

 

 

"Tango as Western Tantra:

embodiment of

Life flow, expressed

in moving form of

yin/yang lovers'

embrace. Her Face!

Sistine Chapel's

touched fingers

slinking down

off the ceiling and

calling

seduction's bluff.

The touched toes.

The plaintive tango nuevo

bandoleon of Astor Piazzola

perfuming the stops and

small quick steps, slides,

glides, where love plays hide

and seek, the sleek

combed hair, the sneer

and faux leer of passionate

indifference in the closed

flair. The promenade,

the sudden clutch and wheel

into the open whirl-away,

the spot

lunge, the counting,

flame mounting,

opposites dissolving in

one heart-piercing

glance, the trance

of movement sans

movers,

just this

impossible melody,

no dancers, only

dance dance dance

under this moon,

tonight -

 

and all of us, just

 

dancing

 

dancing

 

dancing

 

 

for Dear Life!"

 

 

Well, this was certainly a promising start to our labor negotiation,

and so I proceeded:

 

"Indeed, indeed! And yet, what of the seductive inclination towards

an exclusionary cult of pairs subtly implied in the cheek-to-cheek

promenade?"

 

To which she replied:

 

"Like anything that must expire

incarnating as desire

the closer to the source it hums

the more transparent it becomes."

 

 

With this reply, I sensed that my search for a qualified house

cleaner might be drawing to a satisfying conclusion. Yes, and

although it was probably not really fair of me to ask, I suddenly

couldn't resist the question:

 

"Veronica Dear –

are you at all familiar with the Blue Head Peanut Man?"

 

She grinned and chirped right in:

 

"Even a man who is pure of heart and says his prayers at night,

may become a blue head when the peanuts roast and

the moon is full and bright!

As a matter of fact,

the Blue Head Peanut Man

is one with his vegetable oil.

It is not blue.

He is blue, but curiously

happy in his blueness, having come

to peace and acceptance of his

brilliant transitory blue nature, and

the endlessness of blue

it is arising and dissolving in..

Krishna at times appeared to be blue.

Did the Blue Peanut Head Man

emerge from the Blue Pearl?

If you stop to ponder this question,

already you are miles away.

In the same way, if you were to claim:

`Tastes good!'

it is already a memory.

 

I once shared a bag of salt peanuts with Love, strolling

the lovely Botanical Gardens in the magical Emerald Park.

Clouds and sun intermingled, and the wind carried a

thin layer of fog above our heads as

we sat with a quail in the

company of Succulents.

 

We said little, because everything said it for us.

Soon the peanuts were gone, and what was left was

more magnificent than anything I could ever say.

 

The Blue Head Peanut Man was with us,

as he always is.

He was neither laughing nor grieving –

just a friend when you would like one.

 

Few hear the secrets hidden within his shell -

who has ears for such music?

 

Anyone who feels the slightest separation from

the one they love may find themselves straining

to hear his silent song, forgetting it is

their own silence,

singing.

 

If peeled from his shell, does he wish to return?

 

There are hundreds of ways to enjoy his good taste –

why stop at the obvious?

 

The hunger of the heart will not

by assuaged by imitations.

 

Later we wander down to the beach.

He skips behind, playing

hide & seek among the trees.

 

Sometimes, just when we say

'Aha!'

he is off and on his way again.

 

Funny Blue Head Peanut Man!

 

When we wade out in the ocean, all our salt dissolves. "

 

 

There was little doubt now that she was the destined one, and I was

prepared to happily offer her the job.

 

"I sense that you would be an excellent choice!"

 

Of course, she obligingly replied:

 

"Assume any random imaginary position, and choice and choicelessness

may appear as possible alternating interpretations of the experience

of cause and effect.

The truly curious inquire,

`Is this true?'"

 

"Just so, Senorita!" I enthused, and then asked whether there was

anything else she wished to add that would aid me in my final

determination.

 

"Only this," she answered slyly:

 

"Prior to life before land, and even now, and infinitely after, there

is I Am. What is prior, and after, is only appearing within Now,

which is I Am. All of the comings and goings, ascension and

descension, paths and end of paths, appear within I Am as the dreamy

substance of perception. I Am What Is. The pretense of a you & me,

self & other, is the Play of I Am. I Am is Itself a fiction, the

ultimate humor of Mystery, of Unknown. Wise lies are still lies.

Nothing can be pointed to, or described, or objectified. Nothing can

touch This, for there is nothing that is at any distance from This --

This Being What Is.

If there appears to be a seeking for This, it is Only This. If there

appears to be an end of a seeking for This, It Is only This. This may

seem to reveal Itself to Itself, but there is only This. Anything

said about This, including this, is nothing but This. Therefore,

everything said is true. If there is anything that is said to be

true, it is a lie, because there is nothing to be said. Therefore,

truth and lies are meaningless, except what may be attributed to them

as an interpretation. All interpretations are transient and

arbitrary -- the causal origin of separation. There is no possibility

of separation. Thus, what is confounded is the motive to

differentiate. When that motive is undermined, What Is Only is re-

cognized to be This. What re-cognizes This is This Itself. Thus,

there is only the perpetual re-cognition of This by This. Even though

there appears to be no re-cognition, That Itself is only This. There

is no wisdom in This, for that would imply that there is something

that is different than wisdom, but there is only This. There is

nothing to be un-done, nor is there any liberation from What Is,

since there is only What Is. The dream of sleeping and awakening,

freedom and bondage, are merely interpretations upon perception. When

interpretation ceases, What Is, Is. Prior to the cessation of

interpretations upon perception, What Is, Is. What Is, Is. This

cannot be understood, for that would imply that there is something

different or separate from What Is, which is either understanding or

not understanding, but What Is, Is. Only. Always!"

 

"Delightful and insightful!" I exclaimed, "And yet, isn't all this

wordiness a hindrance to a good day's work?"

 

With a genuinely radiant smile, she sweetly replied:

"Wherever I work, I clean and go with a smile! "

 

And with that we entered into a mutually gratifying relationship,

although she never did windows.

 

 

"If there are no walls,

there is no need for a window."

 

~Rumi~

 

~b

 

 

LoveAlways,

 

Mazie & b