"Go back to China!"

A taxi driver driving, illegally, through the pedestrian crosswalk and up the curb yells this at me because I am trying to cross the street. (Green light: mine.) By his occupation and his accent I divine that he is even more of an immigrant than I am. I find this curious. By the time I think to spit into his open window he has driven away and I'm glad I didn't have the chance to anyway. Spin straw into gold, I tell myself, squeeze lemonade from lemons. So I use the opportunity exercise mind control in the form of vipassana meditation, and wait on the 110th St./Cathedral Parkway C train platform with my eyes closed focusing on my breath. I'm all plumb with corrupting thoughts, because even lovingkindness thoughts are corrupting, so on the train I focus on the sounds I'm hearing (creaking, rumbling, conversational din, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah coming through Laura's headphones) and finally, on the in-out-in-out semiregularity of my body's breathing. Instead of reaching enlightenment, I fall asleep. But it's worked, because by the time I'm at West 4th and wiping the sleep-drool from my jacket, I've forgotten all about my anger and have replaced it with a sleepy stupor. Thank you, Buddha, for teaching me peace.