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We have our difference in common 2.

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Brian Spellman

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“Lobsters fascinated me. Everything from their name to their claws to their magnificent red had me hooked. My hair was that read, the kind of read that looks okay on everything but people, because a person's hair is not supposed to be red. Orange, yes. Auburn, sure. But not lobster red. I took my pigtails, pressed them against the glass, and stared the nearest lobster straight in the eye. Dad said my hair was lobster red. My mother said it was Communist red. I didn't know what a Communist was, but it didn't sound good. Even pressing my hair flat against the glass, I couldn't tell if my dad was right. Part of me didn't want either of them to be right. "Let me out," said the lobster. He always said that. I rubbed my hair against the glass like the tank was a genie's lamp and the action would stir up some magic. Maybe, somehow, I could get these lobsters out. They looked so sad, all huddled on top of one another, antennae twitching, claws rubber-banded together.”

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“I still occasionally feel angry at the pundits who seduced me into believing that enduring enlightenment is attainable. I mean what are the odds? Maybe the Buddha got there, but I have not met anyone who has experienced anything more than satoris - brief openings of enlightened awareness. Over the decades I have met numerous gurus and spiritual teachers who claimed to reside permanently in illumination. Whenever I was around them long enough, I soon saw evidence of dissociative delusion or egotistical grandiosity. The grandiose ones were the most common. The flaws of these "Masters" leaked out commonly as less than kind superiority. Frequently, they sexually or financially exploited their followers. Even those who presented a convincing facade of loving gentleness were typical harsh to their closest devotees when no one else war around.”

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“So full. Full of lobster meat and the sadness of the lobster meat. Full of the feeling of having cracked hundreds upon hundreds of precious shells. Full of the sound and the sight of destruction, the lobsters dead in a pile, some of them with lipstick marks on their empty husks. Their voices piled up on one another. I felt a whispering coming from deep within my belly, the voices not yet at rest, and they said in a tone sympathetic and unsympathetic at the same time, Next Next Next. 'Well,' I said, 'what do we do next?' 'Lobster dinner?' he asked, chuckling a little as if I ought to be chuckling with him as well.”

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