ArchivedLogs:Metta

Metta
Dramatis Personae Bruce, Hive	2015-08-09 "Isn't that ultimately what it means, to take refuge in the sangha?"
Location <NYC> Mahayana Temple - Chinatown
The facade of the Mahayana Temple overlooks a busy three-way intersection on Canal Street in the heart of Chinatown Manhattan. It looks disconcertingly like a dynastic period Chinese building embedded in a modern western one. Sweeping green tiled roof, cinnabar red pillars, and a white railing protrude incongruously from a bland yellow concrete block. The visitors, numerous and mostly Chinese, do not seem much put off by its bizarre construction, forming a steady stream both coming and going. Inside, the temple looks more decidedly eastern. A towering gold Buddha statue overlooks the capacious main hall, which is flanked by shrines to the Bodhisattvas Guan-yin, Manjushri, Di-tsang, and Pu-shian. By Sunday afternoon, the temple-going crowds have thinned. Standing half a head above most other visitors, Bruce emerges from the temple shop with a small bundle of incense sticks. He wears a gray button-up shirt with a mandarin collar, charcoal slacks, and black dress shoes. He lights his incense and bows deeply to the image of Shakyamuni, leaving three sticks to smolder in the gigantic urn before the alter and moving off into the Manjushri shrine, otherwise abandoned at the moment. The Bodhisattva of Wisdom holds in one hand a flaming sword and the other a long-stemmed lotus, perched on the back of a wrathful lion. Kneeling before the altar, Bruce bows low, holding the incense sticks between his upright palms, then rises to place them in the (much smaller) urn before the statue. Abandoned, perhaps, though there's an uncanny sense of being /watched/ in the room regardless. This, despite there being nobody in it. Probably? Maybe? At least it doesn't seem like there is, at least. Not for quite some time. Eventually, though, there is a faint additional curl of incense smoke from the back of the room. Quiet footsteps. Hive's attire leaves something to be desired, when it comes to Places Of Worship. Faded old jeans, once black but now closer to grey, their hems frayed at the bottoms, scuffed and dragging over a pair of workboots. Pale denim shirt (fraying and fading as well), sleeves rolled up over skinny-bony elbows, worn unbuttoned over a tee with a picture of the Death Star reading 'ceci n'est pas une lune'. There's a stick of incense held between his calloused nicked fingers. Kind of lazily. Drooping. Bobbing. Twirling. There's a distinct slouch to his shoulders; it takes him a considerable while before he seems to make up his mind to actually proceed further /in/. Head tipped slightly to one side, half-lidded eyes drifting first over Bruce before over the lotus on the statue. Bruce lingers by the urn, watching the incense burn. His mind buzzes with stray thoughts--he really needs new clothes, a stray equation spools away in abstract graphical form, how will he find an apartment with such horrendous credit, perhaps he should just go find the meditation hall, or some food... He does not seem troubled by the mental noise, however, nor does he spare much attention to them. Nods to Hive as he enters, eyes lingering long enough on the t-shirt to parse the text (without rendering it into English), smiles faintly, then looks back up at the Bodhisattva's serene face. Hive nods back -- at somewhat of a delay, eyes widening just slightly like he is, perhaps, startled by this acknowledgment. Just for a moment. Then slipping back to their previous half-lidded state. There's a small but noticeable unsteadiness to his gait when he moves forward, setting his own incense down before he takes up a spot kneeling -- not quite in front of the altar but over at the side of the room. His hands rest on his knees, his eyes slowly growing a little more focused as they lift ahead of him. << ... Place just around the corner. Mulberry. Fantastic dumplings. >> It's a kind of gruff quiet voice, the accent -- who /knows/, Hive's native Thai bastardized into unplaceability by too many years in Montreal and New York City. /Foreign/, though. In cadence and in its oddly casual intrusion into Bruce's mind. Bruce starts, sucking in a clearly audible breath. Casts around him, dark brown eyes wide and fearful. << Telepathy, >> he tells himself, inner voice deliberate and calm, << just telepathy. Not that uncommon. >> Some dubious statistics on the prevalence of X-gene mediated psionic abilities spin out of him memory and fade away again without imparting much reassurance. << You /are/ a telepath, right? >> That idea, as uncomfortable as it makes him, seems preferable to whatever alternative his mind stubbornly refuses to name. His hand drops into a pocket and closes on--something. Hive's head bows, here. His hands fold neatly together, his own breath exhaled slow and soft as Bruce sucks his in. His shaggy dark hair falls down in a thick black curtain, shading his expression from the other man several feet to his side. << We are, >> comes back to Bruce at first with the feel of an affirmation, to that question. Though after a pause it is followed up with: << ... surprisingly more common than people like to think. >> Bruce closes his eyes. His hand comes back out of his pocket, clutching a mala strung with polished lotus seeds. << /We?/ >> His discomfort has given way to the leading edge of panic, though the prayer beads grant him some grounding. The Heart Mantra wends its way through the tightening grip of his fear without any conscious inward recitation on his part. << Who's /we?/ >> comes strained, reluctant, tainted with existential dread. This time it is Hive who draws in a breath, quick and audible. << Sor -->> Even in mental space he catches himself, sharp. His hands unfold, reach to his own side. "... apologies." Spoken, his voice carries the same accent as it does in their minds, though audibly it creaks -- hoarser, rustier, less soft, words coming less easily. When his hand turns upward there's a very similar set of lotus seed beads nestled into his palm. His eyes fix down on them before his head turns, slow, to refocus his gaze cautiously on Bruce. "It's complicated. I didn't mean to frighten you. Sometimes I forget --" A small crease forms between his brows. "The dumplings really are good." Bruce jumps at Hive's voice, but a vast relief follows swiftly on the heels of his comprehension. He sinks down to kneel himself, his gratitude wordless, immense, and not directed at anyone in particular. "Complicated," he echoes, his own voice soft and low. He would make a decent public radio host. "I can only imagine. Not very well, and I'm glad of it." A shadow of the fear that had left him returns, ugly and abrupt, but he sidesteps it with the deftness of long practice. "Do you forget not to read people's minds?" Not quite an accusation, but certainly quite displeased. << Reflexive, perhaps, as are most senses. Implications for privacy unfortunate. >> He heaves a shallow sigh, resigned, recalling his hunger. << Dumplings /would/ be nice... >> "Vegan-friendly?" There's a twitch at the corner of Hive's lips, a small breath -- almost a laugh. << Can you turn off your ears? >> The words come soft, just a shiver of thought skating over the surface of Bruce's mind with no real weight of needing to /answer/. Even while this thought flits by: "I forget," this is soft, too, Hive's forefinger and thumb rubbing slowly at one of his beads, "which mind is mine. It's all vegan." The short huff of breath from Bruce might pass for laughter, too. << Not the factory-issued ones, no. >> "Wish I could, sometimes." << Maybe some day. >> A dizzying cascade of chemical formulae tumble through his mind--novel biomolecules he's studied or, in some cases, created. They overlay a hazy memory of a syringe in his hand, empty, then darkness. Fear flashes through his mind, then resentment, then anger, bright and brief. The lotus beads slips between his fingers, one at a time, to the droning mental undercurrent of the Heart Mantra. The negative emotions subside into a fragile kind of serenity. "Does that make cultivating metta easier?" he asks, slowly and evenly, eyes still shut, "Or more difficult?" A few of those formulae are lightly poked at, quiet mental fingers touching upon them curiously to lift them back up, turn them over with a soft inquisitiveness. << Do you really think you could? >> Outwardly, Hive's fingers just curl. Tight. Clenched, his own mala clutched into his knobbly fist. He lifts his hand, presses his knuckles to his lips. Finally, on a shaky breath of /actual/ laughter: "Yes." Bruce's eyes open, but do not focus. In his mind the formulae transform into structural diagrams, and fold themselves into arcane knots of proteins. Bruce's method of visualizing them incorporates the axis of time, too, so that they spin through conceptual space like intricate fractal serpents. But then, dully, << Those failed. >> His shoulders sag, though his fingers do not cease moving the beads. << Maybe. Haven't tried tweaking with senses specifically. >> Possibilities flit through his mind, labyrinthine diagrams in four dimensions. "Not inconceivable," he concludes, after perhaps a minute of consideration, "but improving implant technology is probably still the easier path for that." He turns a keen, piercing gaze on Hive. "I find you terrifying, frankly. But I'm afraid of a lot of things." << Is it more frightening being born with augmentation? Than coming by it through -- >> Hive's mind echoes back to Bruce's. Diagrams, formulae, twisting knots of proteins. << One way or another, it's humanity evolving. >> The telepath's eyes lift to meet Bruce's, dark and deeply shadowed in his gaunt face. "There's a lot to be afraid of. Would you believe me if I told you I found humans terrifying?" The roughness is slowly easing out of his voice as he uses it more; soft, now, by all evidence sincere. "But I probably don't scare you half so much as I scare myself. That -- might be the hardest part. It should be the first step, right?" His head shakes, slightly. "Some days, though, the /world/ comes easy. Where do you go when it's /yourself/ you can't --" His words drop off, eyes lowering back down to his hands. "Yes." Bruce's reply comes with a deeply unhappy certainty. "To me." The memory comes insidiously, a voice from the next room that doesn't exist in this place and time: a man's voice, rough and low and slurred. << That boy isn't right. He's a mutant, an abomination-- >> But Bruce has slammed the door /in/ the memory, and it cuts off there. "I believe you," his own voice sounds small and tired now. "Humans terrify me, too. I don't think it's the intent of the dharma to dictate your path. But as I see it, if you can find metta for the world, then perhaps you might seek it for yourself through others--or /in others./" The beads stop moving in his hands. "Isn't that ultimately what it means, to take refuge in the sangha?" Hive pulls in a slow breath, eyes closing as that memory reaches him. His fingers clench, then relax; the beads have left dimples in the palm of his hand. << In others. >> This time his voice sounds different, faraway, an odd echoing cascade of mingled voices twining together in soft chorus. His hand rubs slowly against his cheek. << There are so many -- >> "... paths," his voice, tired, picks up where the odd whispering chorus of mental voices leaves off, eyes squeezing shut and then slowly opening. "Need to be careful that I don't mistake a refuge for a prison. Minds can be -- dangerous places to live." "What...I don't--" Bruce frowns, his thoughts unquiet and unfocused, fear returning at a subtle creep. "I can't really comprehend your struggles." He begins to rise, slowly, so as to let feeling return to his feet. "But, all the same...may you find peace." Something in him wants to just run away, but he stands tall, puts his palms together and bows to Hive. "Mulberry Street, was it?" Hive is quiet, his fingers curling back tightly around his beads. "Two blocks," he finally replies. "Then left on Mulberry." He turns, slightly, beads draped now between his fingers and down his palms as his hands come together, head bowing as well. << And you. >> Layered somewhere underneath the words, distant and faint, a quiet suggestion of: << (thank you.) >>; though there is little to indicate what /for/. There's a quiet rattle as Hive's hands lower, his attention returning to the altar in front of him. The tumult in Bruce's mind quiets again, with an effort. He turns and exits the shrine, the mala still dangling from his hand. His << Thank you >> comes across more confident even as he leaves, though equally nonspecific.