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of the Four Noble Truths cracked open her head. (I always tell people in AA that once you work the
Steps
, move on to the
Truths
.) See, Buddhism’s like anything man puts his hand to; one day you wake up and everything’s turned to shit. The magic’s been replaced by cliques of assholes with policies, slogans and gibberish, empty rituals. I think Kelly might have been feeling some of that, the emptiness of it, the is-that-all-there-is-ness of her practice (though not in a good way), and the kids reset her clock. God bless the children.
[sings]
“God bless the child who’s got his own!
Who’s got his own . . .”
    Still, I wondered how this fellow managed to slip Buddhism into the curriculum. Wasn’t that a violation of church and state? As liberal as folks tend to be around this part of the country, you’d have to be naïve not to expect resistance from
some
of the parents, right? But Kelly said that Dharmabud
was very careful not to push Buddhist doctrine, at least not directly. He wasn’t converting anyone. He just wanted to share the concept of compassion, to convey the preciousness of life. He covered his bases: meditation equaled nothing more than the traditionally vaunted “quiet time.” Probably his strongest message was how Mother Earth needed respect and taking care of. (I suppose a Republican might have a problem with that.) He made the Buddha into a generic but dignified cartoon character who carried the message.
    The pediatric Magical Mystery Tour—which suited
this
Namaste-at-home dad just fine!—came along at the perfect time, giving my wife some much-needed juice. As the licensed in-house observer, I sensed the groundwork for something being laid. Suddenly, Kelly got
very
busy. (Which was great, in that she was no longer crawling up my ass on an hourly basis.) When she wasn’t “managing” the zendo, teaching yoga or doing her jail thing, she tagged along with Dharmabud, auditing his classes. She started missing our mandatory suppers and made up for it by “intensives” with Ryder just before bed. Whenever I stood by the door to listen, it was all bell, book and Buddhism. She even gave pop quizzes. It reminded me of those awful movies she used to watch over and over—
Little Buddha
and
Kundun
—starring the once and future Dalai Lama and his tutors.
    I don’t want to sound bitchy. The truth is, she was completely devoted to our son. Things were chugging along famously until I learned that Kelly was keeping something from me—my codependent, beleaguered, overachieving wife had been tutoring at the women’s prison for months, and now was poised to continue the work.
    At San Quentin.

    The next day he was late for our session, and entered hurriedly.
    Sorry—ran into the Gossiping Monk. We had an exchange of information . . . please omit from final transcript! I don’t want people identifying him.
    Oh, before I forget, something popped into my head when I was up the hill that is weirdly amazing. You’ve read Gary Snyder, the poet? He’s extraordinary, far
better for my money than Jeffers. He’s still alive—Snyder not Jeffers. (Jeffers had a place up here in Carmel, Hawk Tower. Built it himself. A real he-man. And I understand Ferlinghetti still owns the cabin Jack wrote about in
Big Sur.
) Snyder and Ferlinghetti are pretty much the last of the living Beats, at least the ones I consider to be of any pivotal importance. You know, historically. Ginsberg and Burroughs died just a few months of each other, back in ’97; Huncke went the year before. I would have loved to have met Lucien Carr 1 , the one who killed the teacher that was stalking him. Carr and Burroughs were friends from St. Louis, I think—the tangled web of all these folks, the
genealogy
of it
blows the mind. You knew that Kerouac helped cover up the murder? There’s supposedly a book about it that