Monday, June 22, 2009

When flowers rained from the sky at a lonely location

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 14

Outside of a small town in Iowa, we walked down a long country road.  It was morning, and the weather was fair, birds flew across the street no doubt preferring that side to this side. Continuing down the road, we encountered a middle aged man waiting at a bus stop.  We stood next to him, certain that the bus would take us someplace more interesting than where we already were.  As we waited, an astonishing precipitation began.  Before our very eyes, delicate flowers began to fall from the sky.  Stunned, we ran from where we were, first gathering the flowers, then attempting to catch them, then, fearfully, attempting to discern their origin. We squinted into the pale blue morning light in an attempt to discover their cause, but seeing that they fell as if from the air itself, we asked our host to inquire of the local man as to an explanation.

“Don’t rightly know,” was the reply, and the man resumed tapping the keys of his mobile phone.

“What could he mean!?” we implored our host. Did the man not see that there were flowers falling from the thin air around him? Were our eyes deceiving us?  Were we mad?

“You’re not crazy,” the man said without looking up. “They fall most every day.  I’ve gotten used to it.  They’re a slight nuisance is all.”

A nuisance!? In all our travels, never had we seen something so extraordinary as this….this apparition of divine grace. 

“Is strange now that you mention it,” said the man.  “I suppose I don’t see them anywhere else.”

At this time, the rain of flowers slowed then ceased, and the bus pulled up.  The man put his phone in his pocket and climbed aboard.  The bus’ wheels whined, and the vehicle departed leaving us standing on an empty road with a faint smell of petrol lingering in the air.

“The man is a buffoon,” we remarked.  “How unmoved is he by life that he would look at his phone as a miracle occurred before his eyes.”

“Look into the sky,” our host said.

We did.

“What do you see?” our host asked.

“Nothing,” we said.  “clouds, the morning star.”

Our host stood in silence for a moment.

“Write him down as saying this:” our host said at last. “Ah, how heavy is the everyday.”

We sat, and committed what we had seen and heard to our records.  In an hour another bus arrived, spiriting us away.

Monday, June 15, 2009

The Moon and Me: A coming of Age story

A actually used to think this was science. If memory serves (which it does not) I wrote it in 3 hours when I had an extremely high fever.  Please excuse the errors.  I was in a fugue state.

The marathon monk of Mount Hiei

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 13

We were in the high forest above Kyoto, and we had gone to sleep for the night.  At about three in the morning, we were awakened by a quiet rustling just uphill from where our camp had been made.  A dark figure carrying a pale light glided past, his shadow danced on the surrounding trees. 

He wore a long hat in the shape of a boat which glided smoothly through the mist, unshaken by the monks footsteps. His walking stick played a lonely rhythm on the path and I attempted to stand and intercept the figure in order to ask why he was awake at this hour.  Our host put his hand firmly on my shoulder and motioned me for to remain in our camp.  The man carried a long knife, our host told me, and if he was stopped, he would disembowel himself on the spot. To aid him in his journey, the younger monks spent each day clearing his 20 mile path of rocks, twigs, and brush, to ensure that the passage was clear. 

As the sun came up, mist hung low in the trees and we made our way to the monastery, hoping to meet the returning monk.  Wiping the sweat from our brows and finding our breath short at this altitude, we were told that the run, which passes all two hundred and seventy holy shrines on Mount Hiei must be completed every day for 1,000 consecutive days.  The total distance the monk would cover over that time was greater than the circumference of the earth.

When the tapping of the walking stick could finally be heard traversing the old stones of the monastery, our host again motioned for us to be silent.  We were served tea, and sat with the runner, who was serene, showing no outward sign of exhaustion.  I could not think of a question to ask of this man, but he noticed me staring at the matted blood on his sock. 

As we descended again I could not stop thinking about the runner’s feet, wondering as I walked which young monk in his hurry had left a sharp stone on the path.

Troubles and self-mummifying monks

I noticed today that this blog is being victimized by robots who are trying to sell people things.  They have names like ndghdspoign, and they post links to their websites that sell generic Prozac.  This is annoying, but not so annoying that I would try to mummify myself.

Today I learned about Japan’s self-mummifying monks, who are amazing.  Apparently there are loads of these in Japan, and even more who have Tried and Failed.

For three years the priests would eat a special diet consisting only of nuts and seeds, while taking part in a regimen of rigorous physical activity that stripped them of their body fat. They then ate only bark and roots for another three years and began drinking a poisonous tea made from the sap of the Urushi tree, which contains Urushiol (same stuff that makes poison ivy), normally used to lacquer bowls. This caused vomiting and a rapid loss of bodily fluids. Finally, a self-mummifying monk would lock himself in a stone tomb barely larger than his body, where he would not move from the lotus position. His only connection to the outside world was an air tube and a bell. Each day he rang a bell to let those outside know that he was still alive. When the bell stopped ringing, the tube was removed and the tomb sealed.  Source

Dead. On his own terms.

I think that if I ever mummified myself I would pose like a fashion model.  That way I’d be the most popular mummy in the museum.  Everyone would say “Oh la la, look how skinny that model is.”  They would be shocked to find out that I actually mummified myself and that I was not a real fashion model.

Seriously though the more I learn about these Japanese spiritual trends the more I am thinking that they take themselves a bit too seriously.  I mean really.  Mummifying yourself?  Just chill, people, you will die soon enough and then your pals can mummify you.  These are Buddhists who have never heard of the Middle Way.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

The beast of burden, which, covered in bells, twinkled like rain

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 12
A simple encounter:  Coming over a mountain pass in the Karakorum, we heard a noise that recalled the formation of raindrops high in a cloud. Seeking its source, we came upon a young boy leading a cow that was completely covered in tiny bells.  Though we marveled at this quiet cacophony, we moved on without a word, as our host motioned for us to be still, and not ask questions.

The fashioner of forms

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 11

The village was unremarkable, unless one found its lack of amenities noteworthy.  The manner in which sewage and rubbish was disposed of was matter-of fact.  A single ditch, dug behind the main row of huts, led into a small gulf in the forest bordering the inhabited area.  A young woman, who had remained silent throughout our visit, indicated as if to induce us to follow her to this ditch.  We hesitated, as even from several feet distant, the smell of rubbish and waste was palpable. 

As we drew closer, however, the reason for her insistence became clear.  From the bank opposite, hulking forms became clear, and as proximity increased our perception, we realized what we were seeing.  The bodies of the animals of the forest had been crafted, apparently by this one woman, out of the earth by the side of the bank.  Using leaves, bits of rubbish, twigs, and small stones, she had beautifully rendered the wild beasts with which she was familiar.

She lifted a figure of a rhesus monkey from the ground in order to display it, and she placed a tin can on its head as a crown without displaying the slightest hint of humor.

We chuckled to ourselves, but felt a sincere sense of pity when the monkey began to crumble in her hand; removed from the dampness of the riverbank the air had quickly dried the soil and was turning it to dust.  We asked our host to express our sympathies, and the young woman perceived by our tone what we intended to convey.

“She asks you to save your pity,” our host told us, “Decay is the mother of her craft.”

Monday, June 08, 2009

Things that Wade saw

Here are photos Wade took.  Two of them are actually of Wade.  I guess he gave his camera to someone else for those.

In which I am spoken to without hearing anything:

It was not an easy day, so I went outside.  I had extremely heavy boots. I was feeling down, so I went outside.  I kicked at the rocks.  I saw a bird fly overhead. 

Suddenly, the feeling was too much, and I was sunk.

“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON!?”  I yelled. “AHHHHHHHHHHHGKJHERRWLENFOEW!” I added.

I didn’t hear anything.  A car drove by.

I went back inside. 

I got back to it, whatever it was.

I am thinking about the Bible story in which Mr. Jesus leaves His tomb and goes I don’t know where.

It happened that they were going up the hill to the cave to look for Mr. Jesus, when suddenly an angel came down and said, “What are you doing here?”

“Our friend is here,” they said. “And we’d like to be allowed inside to see him.”

“Your friend is not here,” said the angel.  “You should go back into town.”

They looked into the cave, and sure enough, Mr. Jesus had flown the coop.

“Where did he go?” they asked the angel.

“Beats me,” said the angel.  “But he sure did look peaceful.”

They turned around and wandered back down the hill. 

“I wonder if we will see him again,” they wondered.

“Maybe someday,” they thought.

Sunday, June 07, 2009

The boy who painted his body in every color, and as a result nearly died

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 10

We heard that in the village there was something to see, so we came down from the hills.  Entering the village, we saw that a small crowd had gathered outside of the one room hospital.  Inside, we saw an odd thing: Two nurses, scrubbing a boy that from head to toe was colored in every color in the world.

“What happened?” we inquired. “What has become of this boy?”

“The situation is serious,” we were told.  “His mother is an artist, and upon finding her paints, the boy mistook his own body for a canvas.  Mother Mary! Mother Mary help him, it will kill him.”

Indeed, the race was on to remove the paints, which were blocking the ability of the boy’s body to breathe. In all of Greece, there was not a doctor that could save him, only soap suds and a prayer could be offered.

“God save him! God save him!” cried the crowd.

“God will save him,” someone said.  “If God loves nothing else, God loves the inventors of new colors.”

Indeed, as these words were spoken, the paint running off the boy’s body twisted into a color that had never before been seen, and perhaps will never be seen again. Standing outside the window, the crowd was silent, and many crossed themselves at what was heralded as a miracle.