Tuesday, June 30, 2009

A man becomes part of the largest circle ever drawn by human beings

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 19

It was in the evening and we were brought face to face with the reality of death. We had been in the back of a milk truck in Pakistan when we caught an odd scene towards the side of the road.  An old tottering villager had at last been taken under by a flu, and his family members rushed round to prepare his body for burial.  They washed him, and wrapped in in a white garment as prescribed by their Prophet, and lay him into the ground on his right side at the precise spot where he last drew breath.

Our host translated the grandson’s explanation.  “Laying on his right side, he is facing Mecca, which is far away.”

“Towards what purpose?” we asked.

“The community is laid out in an array like this,” the young man said, motioning a circle shape with his arms. “My grandfather is now part of a circle that is magnificent and large, perhaps the largest circle ever drawn by human beings. Like rays of light we lay ourselves out from a single source: in life and in death. In life we are arrayed vertically, like the beams of the sun as it rises in the morning.  In death we lie horizontally, like the sunlight hitting the clouds as it sinks in the evening. The array is only visible to God, or to your mind’s eye, but it is real, as real as the body of my grandfather who has been put in the dirt.”

We paid our respects to the man’s family, and moved on.

—-

Rumbling along on the milk truck, the large ceramic bottles clacked and clattered around us.  The liquid within could be heard to turn and fall.

“We feel as if we have entered into a dream,” we told our host.

“Indeed you have,” our host said.

“That man who was laid in the ground, was he also part of our dream?” we asked.

“What do you think?” asked our host.

We clattered on in silence along an uneven dirt road.

Thoreau’s Music Box

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 18

We had come down from the hills and found ourselves in a cemetery at the foot of Bedford Street, and it was called Sleepy Hollow.  Among those resting was Henry David Thoreau, whose grave was marked by a simple stone bearing his first name only: “Henry”. 

Someone then remarked upon what Thoreau had achieved, and someone remarked upon how much there was to be learned from the man and his life.

As this when on, our host strayed away and sat on a small stone, no doubt also a headstone of some famous man’s grave.

We walked to our host, and asked the reason for this isolation and this silence.

“You have likely not heard of Thoreau’s music box,” our host said. “It is mentioned in the diary of Nathaniel and Sophia Hawthorne, who knew Thoreau when he was a young man.”

“We have not heard of it,” we said.

“It was a magical music box, which Thoreau spent his life winding,” our host said. “It can still be heard today.”

We sat in silence, and the wind blew in the trees, rustling one thousand needles and shaking one thousand slender branches.

“What does it sound like?” we asked.

“Like this,” our host said.  “Like silence and human voices. Like the spaces behind words.”

——-

We sat for a long time.

“We asked you before by what art mysteries are concealed from us, and you urged us to be patient,” we said.

“I did,” said our host.

“To us that seems preposterous,” we said. “We require answers.”

“Then ask the right questions,” our host replied.

We looked into the trees and the light was gold and grey.  We looked down at the ground, covered in pine needles, and there was a rustle in the boughs of the trees.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

The bridge which became a point of interest during a grey month

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 17

It was a grey place, a grey month, and the bridge was grey.  The water was grey, and beneath it, grey stones were motionless. It was November.

On the one end sat an old man in a folding chair.

As pedestrians approached the bridge, he inflated a white balloon with helium and tied it with a ribbon.  Before they crossed, each person was handed a balloon.  Standing a distance away, we watched as one balloon after another quietly drifted over the bridge, seemingly without the aid of human hands.

“How interesting it would be to know where each balloon goes,” we thought aloud. “And how interesting to know the motivations of the elderly gentleman there.”

Our host smiled at this, but said “There is poetry neither in the past nor in the future.”

We retired to a coffee shop, and discussed the events of the day.

In which frustration is felt: The unexplained appearence of kites high in the mountains

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 16

Though night was coming very quickly, the sky was still pale yellow, and the wind swept down off the mountains and blew our hair.  We were high on a mountain pass in Afghanistan, and the next day we planned to cross over the large ridge that was now casting a shadow over the entire valley. 

As we looked up at the ridge envisioning the next day’s journey, we saw a bright spot of color jump out over the peak, then another, and another.  Soon, the entire sky over the ridge was full of dancing pieces of colors.

We called for binoculars, and looked closely at the colors.  They were kites!  Though we had thought that this area was uninhabited, it now seemed as if the ridge was concealing a village of people, and a festive people at that.

As we watched, we counting nearly 600 kites, though determining an exact number was extremely difficult, as even as we had gained an understanding of what we were seeing, the kites dipped one by one and spiralled down the ridge towards where we were.  The people on the other side of the ridge, it seemed, had cut the kite strings, sending some kites higher, some lower, some spinning out of control.  After several minutes, a few kites landed softly near us, and we found that they were exquisitely constructed and painted with lovely poetry in a language that no one could read.

Confused by the kite’s sudden appearance and the manner in which they were cut loose, we forced ourselves to sleep, knowing that we would need energy in the morning to cross the pass and meet festive villagers on the other side of the ridge.

We slept, and when morning came we climbed over the hill in search of the village that had made the offering of kites the night before. Crossing the summit ridge and looking down into the valley we found it to be completely empty.

We conducted a complete search of the area, but all we found were tracks, made, it seemed, by a simple cart.  Following these tracks for some time, we came upon and old man riding on a donkey and towing a dilapidated wooden cart.  Upon interrogation, he verified that the tracks and kites alike had been his doing, but he would not reveal the craft by which he had achieved this feat. 

—-
We turned to our host.

“By what art did this occur?” we asked.  “And by what art are mysteries concealed from us?” we asked.

Our host smiled, but eyes have a way of revealing hidden sadnesses.

“Write this down,” our host told us. “So when the time comes that the veil is lifted, you can remember what it felt like to not understand. “

“We don’t understand,” we said.

Our host just smiled.

“Write this down,” our host told us.  “write this down.”

The climber of Chengdu

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 15

The time came that we were high on a mountain in China’s Szechaun Province, a place far away from the places we knew, in a time that seemed far away from any time we were familiar with.  It was morning, and the light that was streaming down onto the peaks was white, unlike any we had ever seen.

As the hillside turned grey, scrambling footsteps were heard, and a porter was seen coming down off the high rocks.

Running towards us, he sent a cascade of rocks from beneath his feet, and his shadow moved peacefully over the slope, though his own form was tossed about by his motion.  When he arrived, he was breathless: “He is gone! He is gone!” he gasped.

We were disturbed by his words, and asked him who it was who had disappeared.  “The mountaineer!” he said.  “He ascended too far!”

Confused, we asked for clarification.  Indeed, it was on this day that a mountaineer was scheduled to climb Mount Gongga, known for its vastness, its solitude, its beauty and its danger.

Signing as best he could, the porter described the ascent.  He and the mountaineer had reached the summit, when a great wind had come up, and blown snow off the peak in a great cloud.  The mountaineer, we understood, had placed his spiked boot upon the pinnacle of Mount Gongga, and, turning back for just an instant, had leaned forward, pushed off, and continued his ascent.

“I was so frightened,” said the porter, “that I could not speak. He walked on the wind.  He walked on nothing.”

Rapidly, we began preparing a rescue party.  Surely the porter had become delusional at such an altitude, and surely the mountaineer was within reach still.

Knowing our thoughts, our host spoke.

“He is not within your reach,” our host said. “But do not be afraid.  Where he has gone, one day you will go.  Where you are, you must remain.  Though what has happened is beyond your comprehension, you must stay for now.”

We looked up at the peak.  Snow blew still from its upper reaches, and fell silently down into the valley below, no doubt becoming rain that would flow to the ocean.

Our thoughts turned to places far away, and we lowered our heads.

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 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.

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.”

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.