The Real World ... Blogger Style: tassajara

Monday, September 12, 2005


It's so early in the morning.
I am doing laundry and packing. I haven't been there since the summer of Ought-Two.
I don't know what it will be like. I don't know what I will remember. I don't know who I will encounter.
I lost a turtledove and a hunting hound. I wonder if they are there.

Think of me in the cold zendo with the incense writing fragrant sentences on the air.
Think of the yellow light made by kerosene and tall glass lamps.
The smell of sulfur, which you get used to, and the bells, which you don't because you have to pay attention to them.
The sound of a mallet hitting a wooden block has its corresponding percussion in my sternum.
Crickets, creek, profound silence.
And human intrigue, which, pray god, I will have no part in.
I will visit Sanshi's grave and the white stones that part the creek.
I will walk to the water fall and lie on the white stones in the sun. I will get drunk on the light.
And see the morning stars again, through sleep-crazed eyes. I will stumble on stones in the path. I will shiver and freeze. I will willingly eat oatmeal and bathe naked with strangers. I will work. I will sleep. I will talk very little.
Nine bows in the morning--or is it twelve?
I will pray in Japanese.
And before the wall, with burning knees and pain shooting from my coccyx up to my neck, the white wall where the cracks make figures, like cartoons, abstract, moving, meaningless, and the voices in my head try to up the ante, and it is all I can do not to scream. And wait for the bell of release.

Edit by boz: Tassajara