Some of you may recall that for 5 years, I updated you on the adventures of Gregor the Lotus who lived in his home in Muddy Waters Pond. Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that Gregor will not be with us this year.

I just received an email from him. It reads as follows:

“Greetings Vertabrate:” (Gregor has something of a complex about being a vegetable. You might say he has low self-esteem.)

“By the time you get this message, you will have learned that I sold Muddy Water’s Pond and have moved on. The decision was a surprisingly easy one for me. Yoga is not what it once was, especially if you’re a lotus.

“I made the decision a few months ago, after I picked up a copy of a new ultra-slick Yoga monthly, “Yoga Today”. Perhaps you’ve seen it. It was the one with the article on “In Utero Yoga – Putting the Yogi within you ahead of the curve.” Well, I needn’t tell you that an article like that has no relevance to a plant.

“On the very next page was an article called “The Blanket, Your Baby’s First Prop.” Below it was an ad for a line of high end yoga outfits for kids, called ‘Downward Facing Doggies.’

“A few pages later I came upon a full-page ad for Antarctic Yoga Expeditions. You leave from Tasmania and fly to the South Pole, the only place in the world apparently where you can be in total karmic balance. They claim that you can’t call yourself a practitioner of yoga until you perform their forty-seven ritualized, fully patented and completely trademarked, asanas, in minus 70 degrees and 80 mile per hour hurricane-force winds. Hot yoga, they claim, is for sissies. Their motto, if you can believe it, is “Live Like the Krill, At Home Under the Ross Ice Shelf.” Talk about knock-offs.

“After that I was treated to an interview with Lester Trochanter, the 16-year old Extreme Yoga Champion for 2007. Lester won this year’s award for performing a artachandrassana 600 feet up the south wall of El Capitan in Yosemite with only his big toe attached to the rock face by a carabiner. Here’s some of the interview:

Yoga Today: “Lester, you’ve done El Capitan, what’s next?

LT: “I’m planning to go to South America in a few months to attempt deep meditation in the Parana River. I want to challenge my powers of concentration.”

Yoga Today: “Do you attend school?”

LT: “I quit this spring when I signed with ‘Environmental Yoga Designs’ to do a new line of Hybrid sticky mats. They’re for the environmentally conscious. You know, like green and all that.”

YT: “What are your plans for the future?”

LT: “Well, I’m in negotiations now with Halliburton to bring extreme yoga to Abu Graib. I understand that Muslims spread their mats five times a day. When I get really old, like twenty or something, I want to be an actuary.”

“So you can imagine my state of mind when my daughter Tibia breezed by on her way to the other side of the pond and mentioned that I had a phone call.

“Who?” I asked her.

“Hey um,” she said.

“Hey um’s no way to address your father, young lady,” I said.

She looked back over her leaf and said “no, Heyam’s his name,” and she gave me the number:

“Heyam, Dukham and Nagatam,” the receptionist announced when I called it.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“We’re the law firm, Hayam, Dukham and Nagatam,” she replied.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Hayam,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s busy at the moment nonviolently communicating.”

“Okay, Mr. Dukham, then,” I said.

“Oh, Mr. Dukham is unavailable at the moment,” she sniffed. “He’s out avoiding the suffering that is to come.”

“Wow, this is some full-service law firm,” I said to myself. “Can I talk to Mr. Nagatam?” I asked.

“I’ll see if Ms. Nagatam is available,” she said and put me on hold.

While I was delighted to learn, repeatedly, that my call was very important to them, there was nothing to do but take a long slow breath in and a long slow breath out.

After a time, Ms. Nagatam got on the line. “We represent Colonel McYogi, the multi-pond yoga conglomerate,” she began. “And we’d like to make you an offer for Muddy Waters.”

“That’s my home,” I protested.

“They have some very nice condos in town,” she said. “Even Howard Levin is moving there. You should listen to our offer.”

Well, if Howard was moving to town…

And then I was reminded of Lester Trochanter. What did I know of the yoga that is to come? The handwriting, I began to think, was on the wall especially for us old folks who began doing yoga when the mats were made out of mastodon hides.

So, to make a very long story shorter (for Howard’s peace of mind), Ms. Nagatam persuaded me to sell the pond. I’ve rolled up my leaf.

The very first thing I did with the money was invest in First Metatarsal, a company that they say is well-grounded. While I was down town, I decided it might be a good idea, now that I had cash, to see the world, so I went to the station and bought a one-way ticket to Nirvana on the Chataranga cho cho. The train wasn’t leaving for a while so I went into a nearby diner. Just after I got there a rowdy family of four came in, took up a booth and started eating some fried onion rings. Then….

At that point I got an error message: “Server Is Bored and Has Decided that it is time to Meditate. You will now lose all unsaved data. Don’t forget, your business is very important to us. Contact your Internet Service Provider for appropriate obscenity mantra.(signed) Your friends at Microsoft.”

For those of you who have joined us in the middle of Gregor’s adventures, I will explain:

Gregor is a lotus who lives in Muddy Waters, a pond that can be found in the very middle of the Great State of Imagination. Gregor, like his namesake, can metamorphose, which is very fortunate because without that ability, there wouldn’t be much of a story. He’d never go anywhere or do anything.
As usual, the opinions expressed by Gregor and the other characters in this tale are their own and however distasteful, should not be attributed to the author or Feathered Pipe Ranch, both of whom are well-known to have no opinions whatsoever.
No loti have been injured during the creation of this tale.
Parental indiscretion is not only advised but encouraged.

A Greek chorus chants:

Behold fiery Mercury
In golden chariot doth haul
His blazing orb
Where above Muddy Waters’
Tranquil realm
He does install
To bake and boil and vapors make
That timid loti to stir and quake
While bold Athena to Rove is giver
Of lethal bow and ample quiver
That he may harry on distant shore
Beleaguered yogis
He doth abhor
And douse the light of
Moon and stars
To pave the way
For fearsome Mars.

Gregor gave himself a present for his sixth birthday. Unlike in each of his previous years, he would allow himself to sleep late. And so, it was long after the ice had melted from the surface of Muddy Waters pond when he scratched his roots, gripped the bottom mud tightly and poked his curled-up leaf into the sunlight.

“Ah,” he sighed as he unrolled on the water’s shimmering surface, stretching this way and that. Then, he flopped over and did a couple of downward facing leafs before turning back, right side up, for a bit of photosynthesasana. He took in a look slow breath of carbon dioxide, one…two…three, held for a moment, then breathed out oxygen, one…two…three. It was only then that he looked around him and noticed that he had a lot of room to stretch and pose. No other loti were pushing or shoving, crowding him. There was plenty of leaf space all around. Where had all the loti gone?

Gregor looked to his left and then to his right. There he saw them, tangled together in two knotted packs, one on each side of the pond. The entire middle was vacant space. And then he noticed that the pond was much lower than it ought to have been at that time of year. What was going on?

While he was pondering this question, a water bug rushed by; its spindly legs dancing over the ripples. “The pond is shrinking!” it yelled. “The pond is shrinking! The pond is shrinking!”

Gregor held up his leaf and stopped the bug. “That’s obvious,” he said. “Any fool knows that without the loti covering the entire surface, its going to evaporate fast. But why are they all bunched up on the extreme right and left?”

The bug shrugged several of its limbs. “How should I know? You’re the lotus, not me.” And she began to set off.

“Hold it,” said Gregor. “If you’re going to be broadcasting the news, you might as well get the whole story. Why don’t you just hop on my leaf and we’ll go find out.”

The bug smiled. “I’ve always wanted to be embedded,” she said excitedly.

Gregor shook his leaf. “Parasites get embedded,” he sighed, “not bugs.”

First, they headed over to the right side of the pond where they saw a crowd of rugged individualist loti marching obediently behind a pudgy yogi posing on a litter being carried by four buff (but straight) young yogi bearers. His name was Rave.

“The pond is leaking water,” he raved, “because all those loti on the left side of the pond are rootless. They go around shamelessly with their stem above water against God’s law.”

“Can I quote you?” asked the water bug.

Rave scratched his leaf and thought about it. “Don’t use my name,” he said. “Only the part about the leak. Ascribe the leak to an undisclosed source.”

So then they went over to the left side of the pond. Here, they had a much harder time. Although these loti claimed to believe in working for the common good they were leaderless and everybody wanted to be quoted. They were marching around with picket signs all saying: “Me!, Me!, Me!, Me!, Me!, Me!.”

After a while of this, a big fat lotus in a baseball cap pushed his way to the front of the crowd and began to shoot a movie.

“Press,” yelled the water bug. “What’s your movie about?”

“How the loti on the other side of the pond are being swindled,” he said. “They only have half-asanas over there. But if they come over to this side the can get their asana whole.”

“What’s your movie going the be called?” the water bug pressed on.

The big fat lotus pushed his baseball cap to the back of his leaf and smiled. “Celsius zero,” he said, thinking himself clever.

“Why?” asked the bug.

“The temperature when ice melts and all the water leaks out of the pond.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” said Gregor who was listening carefully, “but melting ice has nothing to do with a leaking pond.”

“Ha, Ha, Ha,” laughed the film-making plant. “You know that, and I know that, but look at them.” He waved his leaf over at the right side of the pond. “They’re clueless over there. They’re all in a persistent vegetative state and only a good scary movie will shake them up.”

“Well, actually,” the water bug sniffed, “you’re all in a persistent vegetative state. You’re lotuses.”

It looked like there was going to be a fight but Gregor slid between the water bug and the film-maker. “I just figured out why Muddy Waters is drying up,” he said.

They looked at him surprised. “You have?”

“Yes,” Gregor nodded. “It’s as our great sage, Abraham Lotus long ago prophesized.

“A pond divided against itself just doesn’t hold water.”

“and none of you guys who can get the word out are doing anything to help.”

Just then a deep voice boomed out from somewhere beyond the clouds.

“Gregor….Gregor…”

The film-maker grabbed his cap to prevent it from being blown right off by the reverberations.

“It’s God!” the water bug whispered in awe.

“Actually, it sounds more like Morgan Freeman,” Gregor replied. “Yes, hello, who’s there?” he called back toward the voice in the clouds, as if it were a dinner-time telephone solicitation.

“If you want to bring the Loti of Muddy Waters together,” rumbled the voice of Freeman, “You must journey to Never Pond. There you will find the answer.

Gregor was aghast. “No, not Never Pond! Anyplace but that,” he cried.

“Yes, Never Pond,” bellowed Freeman. “A great contest is taking place there and everyone know that in time of crisis there is only one thing that can bring all loti together.”

“And that is?” interrupted the water bug.

“A media circus,” boomed the voice from above.

“I’m outta here,” said Gregor. He grabbed the water bug and headed straight back to the middle of the pond.

“You can’t run away from celebrities,” Freeman warned ominously.

Soon, a great storm came up and began to lash and batter the pair as if they were holed up in a double-wide that was in the path of a class-four hurricane. Just as they were about to give up, a giant Hirudo leach, its muscles rippling, its jaws gnashing, rose out of the boiling waters and scooted toward them. Extension, flexion, extension, flexion.

“That’s the biggest damn leach I’ve ever seen,” Gregor sputtered.

“Oh no!” screamed the water bug. “It’s Balco. We don’t stand a chance. He practically invented the headstand.” She was about to launch into a further exposition of the effects of anabolic steroids on the common leach when Balco lunged and with one perfect pradayama, swallowed them up.

For forty days and forty nights (although in the belly of a steroid-enhanced leach it’s hard to tell one from the other) they were bashed and bullied as if they were one of Baron Baptiste’s boot-campers.

Then, suddenly, Balco spit them up on dry land.

Gregor blinked his eyes. “Why’d you puke us up?” he called after the retreating leach. “What? We weren’t good enough for you?”

The leach shook his enormous, puffy head. “Don’t take it personally,” he explained. “I just tested positive and have been suspended.” He shrugged. “I thought I was taking ‘Arnold’s Nutritional Supplements.’ Really! And then he dove under the surface of the pond.

“Look, over there, Gregor,” yelled the excited water bug. She raised a couple of legs and pointed. “It’s Never Pond.”

And there it was. A giant castle with the light of a thousand video games blinking on and off, a suggestive silhouette in every window. Everywhere, happily smashing things and spraying each other with defoliants were little loti.

In the middle of this, Lewd Lotus, looking a little washed out, floated serenely in his own private pond, meditating while above him hung a neon sign urging the little ones to “Beat It.”

“Maybe Freeman’s right,” the water bug whispered to Gregor. “If this can’t bring all of the loti in Muddy Waters together, nothing can.”

“There it is.” Gregor pointed his leaf at a cluster of brightly colored tents, their peaks bristling with antennae and satellite dishes. “The media circus.”

The closer they came, the more evident the madness. Everywhere rats scurried about, microphones in hand, jamming the things into the faces of the unwary. They’d snap a few questions as if attempting to catch flies, then scramble away before their victims could finish their answers.

Along the midway, somber, disembodied, talking heads of lettuce and cabbage, jabbered gossip, speculation and opinion, then answered questions no one was asking.

A ponderous elk pointed his sharp antlers at the sky and explained that it was not raining on him at the moment but that sometime soon there just might be the possibility of a storm — maybe.

A pair of crow holding legal pads, went out on a limb. “Caw…Caw…Caw,” they cackled, wondering whether Lewd Lotus would get convicted.

At the main gate, a slick fox, his vixen companion grinning through glistening fangs, assured his listeners that what he was saying was fair and balanced, and that “Gossip is Great!”

“Hey,” Gregor called to the circus performers, “isn’t anyone interested that Muddy Waters is drying up?”

“They have a verdict,” someone yelled out and they all rushed to the courthouse like a flock of lemmings.

In no time, Gregor and the water bug were standing all alone in the midway. No one wanted to listen to a story about a leak in Muddy Waters. Before they could say “The leaf don’t fit,” the tents were struck, the satellite dishes packed and the circus had left town to cover the story of a Cheetah who cheated and then chewed up the evidence for Christmas dinner.

“Freeman!” Gregor yelled, looking skyward, rolling his leaf into a puny fist. “That slick fox and his crew aren’t going to help pull things together in the pond. They don’t cover the news; they cover it up.”

“I have just three words of advice for you,” Freemand basso replied.

“Yeah, what now,” Gregor asked skeptically.

“Heyam, Duhkam, Anagatam,” said the voice from on high.

“What’s it mean?” Gregor asked with trepidation.

“A dried up pond can be overcome,” said Freeman.

“That’s it?” asked the water bug.

“That’s it,” said Freeman. “You have to chant it. It’s your last chants.”

Gregor was skeptical and shook his leaf. “Forget the media.”

Let’s get back to the pond,” said the water bug, pulling on a corner of Gregor’s leaf. “We’ll just have to do it ourselves.”

Had the media committed suicide? Was news reporting really dead? We’re the loti stuck in a bad Greek tragedy? It looks might grim, folks.

This just in. A recent Kagehiro market research poll says: “Go with the happy ending.”

Okay, I will. Once again Kafka to the rescue.

And in the nick of time, Gregor heard the ringing of bells and he realized that he had fallen asleep during shivasana. When he rolled over on his side, he saw that Muddy Waters was crammed with loti from one end to the other. It was then he heard an elderly lotus call out; “Chaim zucke Natan,” which means “Harry go find Nathan.” But in the interests of narrative continuity, it reminded him that the pond we save may be our own.

So Gregor decided to give Morgan Freeman his last chants. “Heyam, Duhkam, Anagatam, Chaim, zucke Natan!”

And the Greek Chorus then got off their collective rears and chanted:

Now mighty Zeus
His bolts doth hurl
And brings forth rain
On waters muddy
A myriad lotus leafs unfurl
Arising now from game and study
With poses supple to unite
Save placid pond from
Sword and spear
Complainers scatter
From their sight
Ere Judith’s final bells
We hear.

Namaste.

TROCHANTER PRODUCTIONS
In Cooperation with
UNDISCLOSED LOCATIONS, LTD.
Presents: Gregor the Lotus
In
THE GERMINATOR

Before we begin, I have a short announcement. In compliance with the Patriot Act, I was required to submit my thoughts to censors at the Dept. of Homeland Insecurity and that made a few small edits, which do not, I repeat do not detract from the quality of the story.

“One morning, Gregor woke up….
(Turn several pages, hesitate, turn several more pages)

“And lived happily ever after.”

This is what the censors cut out:

On a morning, just like tomorrow, Gregor spread his leaf expecting to be able to stretch on Muddy Waters Pond, just like he did every day…well, almost every day. But though he twisted and turned he could not find enough room.

“Would you be willing to shove over?” he asked a neighbor.

“Sure,” said the amiable Lotus nearby. “I’d be willing but I’m not able. In case you haven’t noticed, Muddy Waters Pond is cluttered with a yucky, oozy goo that’s taken over most of the pond. We Loti have all been squeezed into a small corner. Its sucking up all the oxygen, like it owns it. Once it gets onto your leaf, it takes over until you drown in the ooze. It’s very intolerant of other plants.”

Gregor looked around and for the first time admitted to himself that he had been gasping for a long time. He had tried to ignore it by meditating, but the ooze just kept advancing and now that he could no longer avoid it, enough was enough.

It all started, Gregor recalled, when someone planted ugly Bushes on the shores of Muddy Waters Pond. They just flopped there like a sloppy Tadasana.

A few of the Loti wanted to get rid of them and were looking around for support. That was when Ascholt came along.

Now no one seemed to actually know who Ascholt was. He just turned up one day. He had charm to spare and really prodigious roots that impressed everyone when he flexed them. And since he had never done anything worthy of note, no one had anything against him. So he was chosen head lotus. Besides, he had such a nice smile.

“It’s too expensive to remove them,” he said of the Bushes. “Why not just cover them up. Otherwise we will have to raise taxes.”

“A cover-up!” some Loti screamed.

“No more taxes!” others yelled.

In the end Ascholt’s scheme prevailed.

“I know where we can get some reeds that will do the trick,” he told the assembled Loti. “They grow fast and it won’t be long before no one will notice the ugly Bushes.”

“Where do you get these reeds?” someone asked.

“De Nile,” explained Ascholt, impressing everyone with his knowledge of geography.

And so, to avoid new taxes, the Loti of Muddy Waters Pond planted Ascholt’s reeds of De Nile that they hoped would cover up the ugly Bushes.

Soon reeds of De Nile were all over the place and had turned into oozing slime, crowding out Loti, choking the fish and amphibians. Worse yet, the ugly Bushes were still there.

Gregor shivered at the recollection.

“Coming through!” shouted a raspy voice. In the next instant a salamander popped up close by, her head covered in yellow yuck.

“Who are you?” Gregor asked as he pulled his leaf back to avoid a collision.

“Sally,” said the sleek amphibian.

“What’s the rush, Sally?” Gregor asked as he tried to unwrinkled the crease in his leaf.

“Sorry,” said Sally, “I’m choking on reeds of De Nile just like everyone else in the pond and needed some air fast.”

Gregor shook out his leaf. “Yes, I know,” he said sadly. “But what can we do? It is so invasive. Once it started, there was no stopping it.”

Sally flicked her long tongue. “Actually, we can do something – but it won’t be easy. We have to get to the root of the problem and to do that we have to go back to the beginning….”

Gregor scratched his leaf. “I don’t understand.”

“To get rid of the De Nile reed,” she explained. “we have to go back to before the time Ascholt planted it. It’s too invasive to get rid of now and we have to get the ugly Bushes when they were still little sprouts.”

“How do we do this going back in time thing?” Gregor asked.

“Close your eyes,” said Sally, “click your roots together and say ‘Anti-Em(perialism) three times.

“Anti-Em(perialism)!” Gregor exclaimed. “Do you really expect that a hackneyed 60′s slogan will get rid of reeds of De Nile?”

“It’s working for Michael Moore,” Sally shrugged.

Gregor cleared his throat. “Why do I have to close my eyes?”

“You can’t return to where you once were,” she explained patiently, “if you’re paying attention to where you are. It’s obvious. I warn you though, we’re in for a fight.”

And so, Gregor dusted off his old warrior pose, closed his eyes, clicked his roots together, coughed up an Anti-Em(perialism) and presto, they were back in time.

“Look!” said Sally pointing excitedly, “there’s Ascholt. He’s morphing.”

There, before their eyes was Ascholt morphing into a bulging hamstring and dog-posing before a Bush.”

“Why that’s the oiliest looking Bush I’ve ever seen,” Gregor exclaimed.

“Shush,” Sally hushed him.

“Oh, great oily Bush,” winced Ascholt the Hamstring, who was now stretched to the limit. “What do you command of me?”

“We Bushes have had our first metatarsal so firmly planted in what was that we can hardly move now,” said oily Bush. “We need you to move us over to that pond.”

Ascholt looked over at Muddy Waters Pond and shrugged. “Nice pond, Why?”

“It’s not oily enough, yet,” oily Bush explained. “I want you to germinate it.”

“How do you want me to do it?” Ascholt asked.

“Here, take this bag of seeds of reeds of De Nile, but be sure to plant them in the water or they won’t germinate,” oily Bush said looking at his watch. “Oops, missed another roll call….Oh by the way, watch out for a slinky salamander and a yogi lotus named Gregor. If the catch wind of our plans we’re in trouble. Give ‘em the big shivasana,” oily Bush winked, ” and see that they don’t come out of it.” Heh Heh.

“Oh my,” Gregor exhaled, putting a non-existent hand in front of his non-existent mouth as Ascholt morphed back into a lotus.

“We have to stop him from getting elected head lotus,” Sally declared.

Just then, Ascholt picked up his head.

“Now we’ve done it,” Gregor said. “He’s heard us. I think that we should get out of here.”

“That’s a 10 on my duck index,” said Sally.

They ran and ran until they were able to hide behind some rocks. “I wish you hadn’t said that,” said Sally when she thought they were safe.

“Said what?”

“Should,” Sally replied, putting her claws on her salamander hips. “You shouldn’t say should.”

“So I shouldn’t say should, shouldn’t I,” Gregor snapped.

“He’s coming!” Sally interrupted, “and he’s morphed back into a hamstring and he’s bearing down on us!”

“No problemo,” Gregor replied with bravado, suppressing a yawn. “I can stop that big ugly muscle-bound plant with four sentences, watch.”

Gregor stepped out from the hiding place. “You are getting too close,” he told the germinator.

“I’m not close enough,” the angry hamstring replied as he charged forward.

“You should reflect on the root causes of your anger,” Gregor suggested. “Shall we explore your anger?”

“I’ll feel a lot better when you’re in my dinner salad,” said the hamstring as he went into flexion.

“You’re just acting out your own powerlessness,” Gregor told him next.

“Hasta la vista, baby,” the Germinator replied as he prepared to lunge.

“And your fly is unzipped,” Gregor pointed.

“Huh?” said the Germinator, looking down.

“Run!” Gregor yelled to Sally.

“Nice job,” Sally muttered between pants as they ran. “Very impressive.”

Gregor smiled as much as possible for a lotus on the run. “The last statement always works,” he huffed. “After the first three, they’ll believe anything.”

“What do we do now?” Sally asked, nearly out of breath.

“Into the pond,” said Gregor. “A bulging hamstring doesn’t swim well. He’ll have to morph into a lotus. I’ll tangle his roots. You jump on his leaf and shred him.”

That’s what they did. Gregor snarled Ascholt’s roots and Sally began shredding his leaf until it looked like Dick Cheney’s Energy Task Force Report.

When Ascholt was finally sunk in the mud, Gregor turned to Sally and asked, “Would you be willing to celebrate?”

“Meets my needs,” Sally replied happily.

But just as they lifted a flute of Muddy Waters to toast, the big ugly hamstring burst to the surface of the pond and loomed over them like a drooling moose, roaring like a maniac. The waters seemed to part as the muscle, first in flexion and then in extension wormed its way after them- unstoppable.

“Shit,” Gregor exclaimed. “I’m plumb out of poses. Any ideas?”

“In there,” Sally pointed to the briar patch of ugly Bushes. “At least it will slow Ascholt down.”

“What now?” Gregor asked as they nestled under the nettles.

“I’ll have to consult my Sutras,” Sally told him as she sat back on her long tail, crossed her hind salamander legs and brought her fore-claws together in a prayerful pose. “Ah yes,” she said after a while, “here it is, but I’ll need some help. The Germinator is very powerful and to defeat him we have to all work together.

Okay folks, let’s say it: ‘shred’im, sock’im, an’sink’im, Again, shred’im, sock’im, an’sink’im’”

“One down, two to go,” said Sally.

“How do we sock’im?” Gregor asked.

“He’s not properly stretched,” Sally pointed out. “Let’s give him the old twisted Trikanasana routine.”

As the hamstring got to the patch of ugly Bushes, Sally jumped up to his side. Ascholt turned his hip and extended to grab her but as he did, Gregor popped up on his other side. “Nyah, Nyah, Nyah.”

Ascholt turned his shoulder in an abrupt jerky attempt to reach for the insolent lotus but just as he did, there was a “pop”.

“Ouch,” the Germinator screamed, his hamstring throbbing. He flopped down helplessly and began to writhe in pain, tearing up the bushes around him.

“Better than expected,” said Sally. “He’s popped his Achilles too.”

“You dropped the seeds, you big lout!” oily Bush yelled as Ascholt rolled over on him. They both reached frantically for the bag of seeds. “Watch it, you’re damaging my roots!” oily Bush screamed.

They flipped and they flopped all over the briar patch, ripping up the bushes as they fumbled for the bag of seeds until they were so tangled up that they could not escape each other.

“Now let’s sink’em,” Sally urged as she picked up the bag of seeds.

Together, they pushed Ascholt and oily Bush into the pond where they thrashed and thrashed until exhausted, they sank beneath the rippling waters. And the last words Gregor and Sally heard as Ascholt went under were: “I’ll be back!”

“I would feel comfortable if we burned those seeds,” said Gregor, pointing at the bag Sally was holding. “We don’t want another head lotus to get a hold of seeds of reeds of De Nile, now do we? Yes or no?”

Sally looked down at the bag. “Yes,” she agreed. “Reeds of De Nile are a weapon of mass distraction.”

“Well, that’s that,” said Gregor a short while later, rubbing his hands together over the fire.

“Maybe,” Sally replied skeptically.

“What do you mean?” asked Gregor. “They’re sunk.”

Sally shook her head. “You heard what Ascholt said. We won’t know for sure whether we have changed the future until the next chapter, “Morning/Mourning in Muddy Waters.” She looked off across the pond wistfully. ” And it’s up to you Loti to make sure we get the spelling right.”

The End

As usual, Gregor™ souvenirs are available in the lobby. In addition to tee-shirts and water bottles, this year we have three exciting new Gregor™ products. The “Gregor” DVD entitled “Profitable Poses” featuring interviews with an expert panel of orthopedists, physical therapists, acupuncturists and chiropractors giving tips on the Yoga poses that make them the most money. The Gregor bobblehead, sure to be a collector’s item and Lotus in Mud Cake that has just flown in all the way from the Greyston Bakery in Yonkers to be one with Judith Lasater. Join us for a taste.
Namaste.

Friends, it’s been a year since we left Gregor at the pond but, sad to say, he is still having his ups and downs. He’s not content. And when a lotus is not content, we may surmise that it has something to do with water.

“Cough…cough…” Gregor cleared his lotus throat and looked down with his lotus eyes. “Oh my god,” he exclaimed. “I can’t see the bottom. What’s with all this mud?”
Just then, a large green-brown bullfrog jumped on his leaf and sat down.

“Would you be willing,” Gregor asked in his best NVC voice, “to get your big fat ass off my leaf face?”

“Uurrup,” said the frog.

“Excuse me,” Gregor persisted. “I wonder if you’d mind letting me know what you just heard me say?”

But the frog was not buying into this dialogue. “What’s wrong with mud?” he muttered.

“What?” Gregor asked.

“What’s wrong with mud?” the frog repeated. “You were complaining about mud.”

“And you’ve been taking too much yoga,” Gregor observed in a snit. “You shouldn’t believe that all Loti (that’s a Latin term) are at home in muddy water. And by the way, you’re still sitting on my face. Do you mind?”

“I don’t mind, ” said the frog, and he stayed right where he was. “There’s a whole pond full of Loti here, how come they’re at home but you aren’t?” he probed.

“Get your damn butt off my leaf and I’ll tell you,” Gregor snapped.

After a massive “URRUPP” the frog lept off Gregor’s leaf and dove smartly into the mucky brown ooze of pond scum. He surfaced a few moments later. “So?” he asked.

“Well, actually,” Gregor scoffed, “if you had been paying any attention at all, you’d realize that all lotuses are individuals. Some might be at home in muddy water (or due to a very provincial outlook, think that they are at home in muddy water…)”

“And you?” the bullfrog interrupted, “what do you prefer?”

“Le Source, baby. I’d like to lounge in a lake of Perrier-something nice and clean for a change. I’d like to see my roots. Those dumb lotuses I live with don’t even want to see their roots. This pond is so scum-muddy, sometimes I feel like a politician.”

“Foreign bottled water!” exclaimed the frog. “You better watch out that the Lotus-in-Chief of Homewater Security or his Absurdity General doesn’t get wind of that! What kind of a traitorous lotus are you anyway?”

“To tell the truth,” Gregor lied, “I’m not really a lotus at all. I just spend a small part of every summer as a lotus. The rest of the time I’m a biologist.”

“Really!” The bullfrog’s bug eyes grew even larger with amazement. “So what then are you doing down here at Muddy Waters Pond?”

“Collecting DNA,” Gregor said. ” I work for Michael Iceberg, President of Trocantor Productions, a division of the Wilt Ditzy Corporation,” Gregor said proudly. “We’re building a nature theme park over on that island, over there.” He pointed his stem in the direction of a tiny island in the middle of the pond.

“Come on,” the frog responded with skepticism. “What kind of park can you build in a Mickey Mouse place like that?”

“It’s going to have a Pre-Iyengar Period theme,” Gregor bragged. “To build it, I’ll need a lot of DNA from reptiles, snakes, lizards and amphibians,” he looked over at the now shaky bullfrog, “such as yourself. We’re going to call it Jurasana Park.”

“What’s the DNA for?” Bullfrog asked.

“Well,” Gregor explained, “out on the island I’ve got crates and crates of ancient ossified Pre-Iyengar Period poses and I need some modern DNA to bring them to life. Come on, if you dare, and I’ll show you.”

The bullfrog, now curious, agreed to check it out and they started across the pond, slowly, since Gregor in lotus form had to rely on a breeze from the right direction to push him where he wanted to go. But the breezes were not cooperating. Finally, he said to the frog, “Gimme a pull will ya, or we’ll never get there in time to allow the next act in this talent show to perform.”

When they arrived at the island they saw, just emerging from his hole in the ground, N-Ron Hubbub, the gopher, who managed the park construction.

“How’s it going N-Ron?” Gregor asked. “Meet my neighbor, bullfrog.”

“Great,” said N-Ron. “Everything’s in perfect shape.” He looked over at the frog. “Care to invest? We’ve still got a few shares left.”

Bullfrog ignored the eager gopher. “What’s that over there?” he asked, pointing to a pile of what looked like compost.

“It’s our place of refuse,” said Gregor proudly. “We all need a place of refuse to practice our yoga.”

Bullfrog tapped a back leg impatiently. “That’s refuge,” he corrected. “A place of refuge.”

“Oops.” Gregor shrugged. “I thought I heard refuse. Actually,” he confessed, “lotuses have lousy hearing. Can you clean that up?” he asked N-Ron.

“Not unless we get government funding,” replied the wily gopher.

“C’mon,” said Gregor, changing the subject. “Let’s take a look around….Over there,…see, a herd of Tadasanas grazing….And look at that pack of Pradayamas!….Boy, did I breath a sigh of relief when we finally got them together.”

Just then a group of Verabedrasanas ran by in a panic, almost trampling a snoring Shivasana laying under a blanket of leaves.

Thump…………thump…………….thump

“What was that?” asked Bullfrog.

“What’s what?” asked Gregor.

Thump

“Can’t you hear it?” said Bullfrog.

Thump

“I don’t hear very well,” Gregor reminded him.

“I hear it.” Thump….thump….thump, N-Ron said nervously. “It’s coming closer.”

A moment later, bursting out of a cloud of eyebags and a scattering of bolsters, there it was, coming toward them at a rapid clip. Its tiny upper claws extended, as if attempting to reach to a virtual balcony. Its massive quadriceps bulging. Rotators rotating. Spine in extension. It was a dreaded Tricanasana Rex.

“Shit,” squealed N-Ron. “Time to crawl back into my hole.”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Hold your horses,” Gregor commanded. “How the hell did it get out? I thought we had it restrained with belts around its pelvis.”

The reluctant manager looked sheepishly at Gregor, then fearfully at the beast bearing down on them. “Quick explanation,” he began. “….er…actually…,” he drew a circle in the sand with his hind paw.

“I, …er,…never bought the belts. I was going to but…I had a consultation with Robin Cash our accountant with Steele, Cash & Hyde, a very limited liability, big 2 accounting firm. He recommended that if we didn’t buy those belts we could write off the savings and apply the resulting deduction to receivables; borrow against that asset then lend the proceeds to an off-island yoga studio holding company in exchange for options that we could convert into warrants in a fully depreciated belt company that we could leverage on margin to buy a bigger place of refuse.”

Thump……….thump

And the last thing they heard him say, as Tricanasana Rex turned on the ball of one great foot and the heel of the other, squishing N-Ron into something that looked very much like a 1970s style sticky mat was…”It was all according to generally acceptable accountiiiiiing principppppplesssssssssssssssssss.”

“I’m outta here,” said Bullfrog and in two hops and a leap he was back in the pond.

Gregor quickly followed and in all his life, he was never so happy to be back in very muddy water.

The End.
As always, we have Gregor™ logo tee shirts, coffee mugs and, new this year, tote bags in the lobby.
Be sure to watch for the “Gregor the Lotus” HBO hip hop special entitled “Terrorism? Yo Mama!” coming soon.
Namaste.

Those of you who were here last year may recall the story of Gregor the lotus. Well, I’m sad to say that he has not lived happily ever after. A year of therapy seems to have done Gregor very little good. The only noticeable change has been his taste in literature. Gregor has recently rekindled a childhood affection for Lewis Carroll and as with everything else he does, Gregor has gone a bit overboard. (Unfortunately, he has also developed an addiction for reality television.) So let’s look in on the little guy and see what’s up.It is morning at Muddy Waters and the lotus community is abuzz with activity. Over on the shoreline, casting long shadows over the pond and in particular, Gregor’s part of it, is a TV production company. They are setting up their lighting. Making all the usual noises that production people make as they try to reassure themselves of the self-importance and the global significance of their efforts.

An oversized arachnid is simultaneously waiving his 8 massive striped legs, the size of backhoes. It is Stephen Spielmeister, the world-renowned director. “Okay, lets get to it,” he crackles in spidery language at the lotuses assembled in the pond below. He is sitting in a folding chair with eight footstools and the name “Spielmeister” emblazoned in golden script on the backrest. He gnashes pincers that could crush a Beetle, (Volkswagen, that is.) “It’s time to vote. Who will be the first lotus you are going to throw out of the pond?”

Now I can see that you are a pretty smart bunch and probably have already guessed the outcome of the vote.

Gregor, who one moment was snoozing peacefully in the shadow of an equipment truck, the next moment finds himself prone on the grassy shore, stem snipped and drying out rapidly.

“Whoa, now. Just wait a doggone minute!” he yelled in lotus tongue while rubbing his virtual eyes with virtual arms. “No fair, guys. I was asleep during the vote. Can we do it over? Would you be willing to do a recount?”

“Ha Ha. Would we be, Ha Ha willing, Ha Ha” the other lotuses laughed. “What is that? Some kind of non-violent communication? There’s no way you’re ever going to be a survivor in this pond, so you’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“But…but…” Gregor stammered, now appealing to the spider’s sense of justice and fairness, “I never even got a chance to cast my ballot.”

“Hmm,” the spider muttered as he thoughtfully stroked his formidable pincers with one leg while using two more of his appendages to turn the pages of a law book. “Says right here in Grubb versus Flubb, and I quote, ‘We don’t need to do no stinking recounts…’ and that’s the very latest last word from our Esteemed Court. You don’t have a prayer, so sue me, take a writ and sue me.”

You can imagine how poor Gregor felt just then. A lotus out of water, starting to dry up. Rejected by his community. Thrown out of court….

“Is there anything I can do,” he pleaded to no one in particular. “Anything?”

“Well,” considered Spielmeister, “There is one thing. ”

“What, anything…” Gregor interrupted in desperate hope.

“…there’s this Shivasasna tournament being held way over in Bikramistan.” He pointed a spidery thumb over one shoulder. “In seven days time. The grand prize is ‘Everlasting Happiness’. But I warn you, the journey is arduous and fraught with danger.” He turned and slyly whispered to a nearby aide, “and we’ll be covering every minute of it live.” Then, turning back to Gregor, he added, “Even if you do get to Bikramistan safely, I fear the temperature there is way to hot for the average lotus and one that isn’t firmly rooted in muddy water stands no chance at all. Besides that, all of the contestants are world-class shivasana masters. It’s no place for a rank amateur like you.”

Gregor was devastated as he heard this. Shivasana had been his natural state this past year. Indeed he had become so very attached to this activity that he practiced it every day without fail. He currently considered himself a master equal to none. Except, and he had to acknowledge this single weakness, his preference was to perform this pose in his own little pond as opposed to some hothouse in front of a crowd where, he feared, most certainly he would wilt in no time. Anyway, how, he wondered, would he get there at all? Lotuses, especially when they are out of water, are not particularly renowned for their mobility. They are, after all, plants.

Perhaps the spider took pity on him, seeing him so despondent when he heard the news of this challenge. Perhaps he was just mocking poor Gregor. More likely he was thinking of his next production when he proposed…”We can give you a map, a compass and a three day supply of muddy water. After that, you’re on your own.”

This hardly helped to perk up the little guy and he cried himself to sleep right there on the shore.

“May I touch you?” were the next words he heard.

“What choice do I have?” he replied dejectedly. “I’m a lotus out of water and couldn’t stop you if I tried.”

“Just a formality,” said the voice. “I’ve never actually met anyone who said ‘no’. That’s why I ask in the first place.”

A moment later, Gregor felt the pitter patter of a multipede tiptoeing over his leaf. It was a caterpillar in a psychedelic color scheme and it was dragging a water pipe. The bug curled himself around the pipe and lit up.

“Hey,” Gregor protested, “no smoking on my leaf!”

The caterpillar considered this for a moment and then grinned a caterpillar-type grin. “Gregor,” he explained patiently, “we’re in Montana, not California. Here smoking is a legal activity.”

“Not what you’re smoking,” Gregor argued.

“It’s okay,” replied the centipede, “it’s medicinal.”

“That’s California,” said Gregor, “not Montana.” Meanwhile he began to feel the effects of the smoke and, if nothing else, it took the edge off the conversation.

“They tell me you have to get to Bikramistan,” the caterpillar continued, “My condolences. It’s a long way off and not a very pleasant place once you get there. The ruler is an evil yogi who likes to turn up the heat.”

“They are having a contest there, that I have to win if I’m ever going to get back in the muddy water,” Gregor said with resignation. “And I’m a lotus. I can’t move on my own. I have to be transported. Someone has to help me. Give me support.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said the centipede from behind a cloud of pungent smoke.

“Why would you help me?” Gregor asked skeptically.

“Because I’m your Fairy God Insect,” the caterpillar announced.

“God Insect! What the hell is a God Insect?”

“Now watch your language,” snapped the caterpillar. “We bugs are getting a little pissed off that we get no respect around here. Do you know that there are more bugs on earth than any other living creature? And when it comes to respect, we get none at all. We just get eaten, squished , stomped on , sprayed and swatted. We get called ugly, fat and nasty. You wanna talk about discrimination and injustice! So just shut up and don’t look a gift bug in the mandibles.”

“Sorry,” said Gregor and he breathed a sigh of resignation.

“Apology accepted,” replied the caterpillar. “Now, down to business. Here,’ he held out one of his many hands, displaying two white pills.”

“What are they?” the wary lotus inquired.

“Pills, fool, Ain’t you got a life?”

“Well, actually,” Gregor admitted, “not much of one. All we do most of the time is float. Lotuses don’t take pills, per se, unless I’ve missed something. What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Since you don’t have a mouth,” the caterpillar noted, “I suggest that we dissolve them in some of that muddy water Speilmeister gave you. And you can suck it up your stem.”
Gregor was taken aback by the raw language and his leaf turned a couple shades greener. “Now, why would I ever want to do that?” he responded.

“So you can change, of course,” the caterpillar replied with much impatience. “You can’t very well get to Bikramistan as a lotus and I sure as hell am not going to carry you, so you are just going to have to change into something that can walk.”

“I used to be able to do that,” Gregor recalled, becoming nostalgic for those halcyon days when he was a businessman.

The caterpillar seemed to know what he was thinking. “You can be anything you want, except a businessman,” he announced. “If I were you, I’d pick some animal form that, much like yourself, asks stupid questions. Something people, especially, would want to stay away from. That way you’d stand a better chance of getting there. The way is quite dangerous, you know.”

Gregor thought for a moment. “How about a lawyer?”

The caterpillar brightened. “Good choice. Quick, now suck up this pill and make a wish to become a lawyer. But be sure to save the other pill. You will need it to change back into a lotus when you get to Bikramistan. You’ll have a much better chance to win a Shivasana contest as a lotus than as a lawyer. If you lose it,” he shuddered, “you’ll be stuck as a lawyer for the rest of your life,”

Gregor took the caterpillar’s advice and soon turned into a portly fellow with grey hair and an appropriately vulture-like stoop.

“Perfect,” said the caterpillar as he hopped on Gregor’s new shoulder. “Now, let’s get you a three-piece suit. I know just the place.” He directed Gregor over a nearby hill to the shop of the Mad Haberdasher. Soon he was fitted out in blue serge, wingtips and a red and blue striped tie with a gold tie clip, pocket watch, suspenders and a brown leather briefcase.

“Which way to Bikramistan?” Gregor asked of the Mad Haerdasher, in his best new lawyerly voice.

The fellow twitched his handlebar moustache. “You can go this way and you can go that way. There are lots of ways to get wherever it is you want to go. Some ways are safer, some are more hazardous, some shorter, others longer. Can you be more specific as to what it is you are needing?”

Gregor was flustered. “Well, er, which way would you go?”

“I wouldn’t,” said the Mad Haberdasher.

“I mean, if you were me,” Gregor clarified.

“I’m not, ” he replied, “and wouldn’t have any idea what I’d decide if I were you but if you were me and I had to get to Bikramistan, I’d follow that blue yoga-brick road over yonder.” He tilted his head in the direction of the path to which he was referring.

And so Gregor set out, with his God Insect on his shoulder, along the blue yoga-brick path, a cloud of smoke trailing behind.

By and by, he entered the land of the Hummus, a tribe of suicidal guerrillas who lived in a forested labyrinth known as the Tiger Woods. Almost at once he was confronted by a band of these fierce tribesmen, led by the massive, evil Tabouli, holder of a 6th degree black belt in the martial art of Tofu. “I’m going to turn you into a mound of baba ganoush,” he menaced.

After some negotiations, Gregor reached a settlement that included the collateral benefit of a very hungry caterpillar having a lot less to smoke in that pipe of his, but they managed to go on their way. Eventually, they came in sight of rocky crags enveloped in blustering storm clouds. Through the maelstrom they could just make out the grey stone towers of Bikramistan. Gregor’s knees began to buckle.

“Steady,” advised the caterpillar. “Shaky knees are not very lawyerlike.”

Gregor entered the city and signed up for the tournament. (And I have to say that his confidence was shaken a bit when he learned that the losers would be stuck there, forced to take yoga lessons, taught by high school gym teachers, for the next seven years.)

The next morning, the sun struggled fruitlessly to break through the dark blue billowing clouds. Gregor rose to much trepidation and soon joined the vast crowd that was headed for the arena where the tournament would be held: Capitalism-dot-com stadium, a newly built park named after the largest agra-industrial conglomerate in all Bikramstan, although it was built with public funds.

Imagine the scene. A crowd of many thousands pushing and shoving for the good seats, multicolored pennants flying from the heights, with slogans like: “discipline,” “attachment,” “judgment.” Hawkers in the stands shouting: “eyebags, sticky mats, blankets, bolsters, bolster equivalents.” And there was the spider, his production company filming the whole thing.
After a while, a trumpet fanfare quiets the throng. Then, strains of the triumphal march from Aida with the voice-over of Placibo Domino. A procession commences. First, the shivasana champions from many lands enter the arena. They are fat and greasy, like Sumo wrestlers and they are dragging their blankets, each with a unique logo: “Sleepytime Teas, Serta, Nestle’s Cocoa,” The fans go wild. Nearing the end, the three greatest champions make their entry.

First, the current world champion, blank-faced, head-shaved, his ample stomach covered with buttons spelling Qwerty. He is leading a mouse on a leash. It is General Protection Fault, who, it is rumored, is able to shut down indefinitely at a keystroke.

Next, a massive fellow the size of a refrigerator truck rolls in. It is Web Van Winkle who, legend has it, can maintain a pose through any distraction, including an economic crisis.

Finally, the current women’s champion of the WWF, Lady Doe, the princess of Shiva, enters. She is borne into the ring, prone on a litter, hefted by four muscular fellows in loincloths and shower caps.

They say she can stay in shivasana forever, or at least until she is kissed by Prince Smarmy. Only that will arouse her. But for that to happen, he would have to fight his way through her formidable four-man tag team.

A silence falls over the crowd as the dark yogi of Bikramistan, the Baron Tricky Nastier makes his appearance. He grabs the mike and screams to the crowd: “Let’s turn up the heat!” A wild, hysterical screaming commences.

The rules are simple. The one who holds the pose the longest, without going to sleep, wins (and is rewarded with Everlasting Happiness.)

“Now?” Gregor asks. “Is it time for the second pill?”

“Yes,” the caterpillar agrees. “Now.”

In the moment Gregor is transformed back into a lotus he bumps into one of the contestants. “Watch your asana, buddy,” he snaps.

Like All-England cricket test matches, the competition drags on into the third day. There are now only four contestants left, General Protection Fault, Web Van Winkle, Lady Doe and, you guessed it, a lowly lotus walk-on. The crowd has thinned noticeably. Then, as in many contests, the unexpected happens. The mouse wanders onto the General’s bare stomach, touches the wrong button and puts him to sleep. “It’s an illegal operation!” a judge from Macroslop rules, and he’s out of the contest.

A short while later, a couple of Marshals from Bankruptcy Court enter the arena with a Writ of Liquidation and slap the cuffs on Web Van Winkle. He breaks his pose as he is hauled off to answer to his creditors.

Time passes and Prince Smarmy can contain himself no longer. The urge to arouse Lady Doe is unbearable and he dashes out of the stands. He slams one of the bodyguards over the head with a metal folding chair. He grabs a second and twists his abdomen around like a barber pole. The third lunges, but the Prince parries successfully. He deftly lifts his femur into his opponent’s pelvic floor, putting him out of action. Seeing the futility of resistance, the last guard hangs himself by his feet. The crowd goes wild.

Smarmy swaggers over to Lady Doe and plants a big wet one on her puss. “You dog!” she shrieks. “You downward facing dog!”

“But I’m hot!” Smarmy explains.

“Well, I’m cold,” she replies. “Very cold.”

It’s all over. Gregor is the only contestant left in his pose. Tricky Nastier presents the prize: Everlasting Happiness. Spider directs his cameraman in for a close-up. All lights are on Gregor.
It turns out that Everlasting Happiness is the trademark for the Baron’s franchised yoga studios and Gregor has actually won a lifetime membership, good at any one of his 400,000 authorized locations, Sundays, holidays and special event days excepted.

“But, but…” Gregor protests, “all I ever wanted was to get back into the muddy water.”

“No can do,” sniffs the Baron. “I deal in happiness, not pond scum.”

“Now that I’ve won,” Gregor whines at Spielmeister, “you promised I could get back into the pond.”

“Oh…yeah…I guess I did,” the arachnid reluctantly admits. “But things have changed. The ratings on the show have tanked and our sponsors just pulled the plug. Seems the Yoga Tournament drew fewer viewers than a PBS special on plant supplements. Cut the lights!” He calls to his crew. “We’re outta here.” As he struts off toward his stretch limo, he calls back to Gregor over one of his many shoulders, “Have your agent call my agent.”

“I don’t have an agent,” he cries. “Got another pill?” he asks his God Insect.

The bug shakes his head. “You don’t need another pill. You won the contest. You’re the best practitioner of shivasana in the whole world. Your leaf will be on a cereal box by next week. Don’t live in fear. You’ll be just fine.” He sticks one of his thumbs into the bowl of his pipe and tamps down the fire. “Have a nice day.” And he waddles off.

With nothing else to do, Gregor closes his eyes and returns to his pose. Soon, almost like magic, he imagines cool ripples gently pulsating under his leaf and then feels his stem settle into moist, comforting mud. Indeed it has all the feel and smell of his pond. He decides to take the caterpillars advice and to not be afraid. The next thing he knows, he is blinking at the morning sun of another ordinary morning at the pond and floating as he always has done and he realizes that he has returned to his own true nature and that he was really at home in the muddy water all along.

Namaste.

Gregor the Lotus tee shirts, coffee cups, water bottles and other fine Gregor ™ products are available in the lobby.
Be sure to watch the HBO made-for-TV Gregor the Lotus™ movie: “Gregor in Muddy Waterworld” staring Bruce Willis as Gregor, co-starring Robert Downey Jr. as the caterpillar and Charlton Heston as Baron Tricky Nastier, coming soon.

Before I tell this story, I have a few announcements:

Some of the language in this story may be unsuitable for small children and members of the religious right. If you are among these groups, you may wish to leave the room and consult with the volunteer attorneys that we have made available. They are out in the hall prepared to assist you with your: a) complaints, b) lawsuits and/or c) boycott plans–pick one.

Neither the management of the Feathered Pipe Ranch nor the creator of this story take any responsibility whatsoever for its contents.
The following could not have been made possible without the inspiration of Franz Kafka, Louis Carroll, B. Traven and Judith Lasater, although not necessarily in that order.

Special thanks go to the Water Quality Assurance Board and British Ford Corporation, the owners of Lotus™ who, together with other fine corporations, are working tirelessly to make every word in the English language someone’s intellectual property.

One morning, after his usual fitful night’s sleep, Gregor Salsa* awoke to find that he was up to his tuchas (That’s Sanskrit. It is spelled t-u-c-h-a-s. The “ch” is pronounced as one letter. “CHAH.” To say it properly, one should snort with the nose and prepare to spit the product, but not complete the act. Please try it. …. Thank you. Now swallow…
“Tuchas,” very loosely translated, means “lying on one’s back in a pond of …muddy water.

“Yuk,” said Gregor. “I hate muddy water. What ever happened to my home?” He blinked his eyes to make sure he was really awake and it was not all just a bad dream. He was. “Must be jet lag,” he grumbled. ” I gotta get outta here.”

He struggled to pull himself out of the pond but something was holding him back. When he looked down, he discovered that he was firmly anchored to the muddy bottom by what looked very much like a stem.

“A stem?” Gregor wondered. “How could that be?”

He decided to make a more careful observation of his situation. First, he tried to wiggle his arms…then his legs. He noticed that everything seemed to be….connected. It was like they were one big leaf. And, indeed they were one big, round, lotus-like leaf. Then, he looked around and discovered that he was surrounded by lots of similar leaves, all very close together and all lying on their backs in the muddy water.

“Shit,” said Gregor. “What the fuck’s going on here?” And he started to get angry. “I don’t want to be no damn lotus in a crappy puddle of muddy water!”

And he pulled and pulled and yanked and struggled but despite all his strength and all his effort, he could not free himself from his roots. Just as bad, his former arms and legs were starting to ache and burn from all of the unfamiliar stretching and twisting. His struggling with his roots was getting him nowhere and it was causing him pain and discomfort to boot.

Anger and frustration welled up and he felt compelled to utter several more choice profanities. (Feel free to fill in the blanks with the profanities of your preference. I can’t help you with everything. )

“I can’t stay her on my back all day!” Gregor pleaded with the God of his choice. “Help me! This is a waste of time. I’ve got e-mails and voice mails and snail mails to send and answer. I’ve got faxes to fax. I’ve got phone calls to make. I’ve got to download and upload. There are words that need processing and web sites that need surfing. How am I ever going to get anywhere if I’m stuck in this pond?”

No one responded to Gregor’s plea and his heart, if you could now call it that, sank. “Can’t anyone hear me?” Gregor cried. He looked around hopefully at all the other lotuses floating on their backs in that pond of muddy water. But they just kept going about their business, which was floating, as if they could not hear him, which was untrue.

Gregor began to scream, but after a while he became exhausted by the effort and fell silent. Not long after, a voice, disembodied, low, soft and seemingly distant, whispered, “I hear you.”

“Who are you?” Gregor asked.

“I’m your Cheshire cat,” replied the voice.

“I don’t believe you,” Gregor said. “If you are a Cheshire cat, where is your grin?”

“Grin?” sniffed the voice. “Grin? I don’t need no stinking grin!”

“Come off it,” Gregor snipped with annoyance, “we’ve all seen that movie. Now, who the hell are you?”

“I am your Super Ego,” admitted the voice.

“Super Ego, bullshit,” Gregor snarled. “My Super Ego hasn’t ever spoken to me in my entire life. Why would my Super Ego start talking to me now?”

“You were always so busy talking during all those years,” replied the Super Ego in a matter-of-fact kind of way, “that you never bothered to listen. Go ahead, scream if you like, but no one other than me and these lotuses can hear you. It won’t help at all. You’re a lotus, fool!”

“Well, if you’re so mad at me for never listening to you,” Gregor responded, “why are you bothering to talk to me now?”

“Actually,” the smug Super Ego observed, ” I’d rather not be communicating with you at all, but lotuses can’t talk and Barry had to have some way of writing dialogue for a stupid plant. It was either me or your Id and he decided to keep the story relatively clean.”

“Oh,” said Gregor and he found himself becoming very depressed. He decided that the best thing to do was to hold his breath and to pull against his roots real hard. Maybe he could tear himself free of his foundations. It was a prodigious effort, but it failed. Worse, it made his leaf all muddy and cold. He noticed that all the other lotuses seemed to be moving away from him and that while he was pulling and struggling, a breeze had blown them out of the shadows where he was and across the pond. Now they were all reflecting brilliant sunlight off their shiny green leaves. This made Gregor even unhappier.

“I’m hungry and thirsty,” Gregor whined at his Super Ego. “I haven’t had breakfast.

“No wonder about that,” said the Super Ego. “You can’t suck up water when you hold your breath and pull tightly on your roots. And you can’t make yourself breakfast when your leaf is all covered in mud.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gregor grumbled. “I want eggs and ham, or sausage, or bacon or maybe even a steak. You know, a real breakfast.”

“Fergeddit,” replied the Super Ego. “You got no mouth or teeth, not even a stomach any more. If you want to eat, you’ll just have to wait until the mud washes off that leaf of yours. Then, if you manage to convince the breeze to come up and blow you into the sunlight you might be able to make yourself a breakfast fit for a plant.”
“But I want Danish.” Gregor cried.

“Those days are over,” said the Super Ego, “and besides, you were getting too fat. Count yourself fortunate that you won’t have to worry about that anymore. No plant ever became overweight from too much photosynthesis.”

Gregor thought about it for a moment and was unmoved. “I’ve got meetings this morning, appointments, customers, people to see. What will happen to my business? I’m losing money. I’ll go broke. Just what do you expect me to do anyway, spend the rest of my life floating on my back and looking up at the sky? How can I be happy doing that?”

“Observe,” suggested the Super Ego, calling his attention to the other lotuses around him who were floating serenely up and down on the ripples, sunning themselves and seeming quite content about it, thank you. “It might give you some faith.”

Gregor did what his Super Ego said and for the first time in his life, he did the best possible thing for himself, he shut up. After a while, he began to calm down. And when he did, he began to notice that the muddy water was cool and refreshing. The sun shining on his leaf was warm and soothing. And when he did not fight against it, the breeze gently pushed him to places where he might never otherwise have gone.

An uncensored thought crossed his mind, such as it now was. This isn’t so bad, really. Shortly, contentment slid over him like the shadow of a friendly cloud on a hot summer’s day. He discovered that he was no longer hungry or thirsty. He began to relax.

“Now close your eyes,” said his Super Ego. “You won’t be needing them anymore.”

Gregor complied. As night fell, he found himself in his new home, sleeping the best sleep he had had in years.

“May we live like the lotus…at home in the muddy waters.

Namaste