Arriving at Daniel's hotel room, I knocked on the door. He
immediately opened the door and there I was speechless, for he had in his hands
this gigantic piece of amber. Behind him, the curtains were open and a strong
shaft of light was hitting the amber just right too, for it was glowing.
Silently I noticed that in the middle of the honey colored, glimmering chunk of
amber was a million year old red bug.
What could this mean, I wondered? (Even in my dream it was
all so unexpected).
He said that he wanted to get his coat and as he put it on,
I noticed that his briefcase was also full of amber. And like happens in
dreams, the golden honey color just infused the entire room with color and warm
fragrance.
"But I thought you were here to talk about China?"
"No," I am here to talk about my new theory."
I waited for him to tell me what (knowing it must have
something to do with that piece of amber in his hands).
"The Three Kings from the East, the Magi, they didn't
bring frankiscence, myrrh and gold. What they brought with them on their long
trek to the King was frankiscence, myrrh and amber."
**
My dream was so unforgettable in its sensuality-- the warmth of the color of amber. Even in our drams, our senses being the old fashioned way we know the world, they embed us in time and place. Creating meaning, they sustain our souls.
Proust, I am sure was right when he concluded that an hour is not merely an hour but rather is "a vase filled with perfumes, sounds, places and climates! . . . So we hold within us a treasure of impressions, clustered in small knots, each with a flavor of its own, formed from our own experiences, that become certain moments of our past."
Not all that long ago, he told me about the time he had fallen in love in Hong Kong; described reading novels together with his lover in bed; and about feeding each other mango pudding with a red lacquer spoon. When they could, he said, they would steal away to his room where they would spend afternoons making love after swimming. Then happily talking and long dinners.
To say that his story drew me in would only be an under-statement. For you will agree Dear Readers, that it is rare today to hear stories of a love affair. I mean, we hear all manner of complaints and about filing suit; we hear reports of all kinds-- relationship reports, the usual cost-benefit analysis reports; what I did over the weekend reports. But how often do people really talk about the delights of a love affair?
To speak of delight....
And, to listen in delight...it was like falling into a bd of rose petals-- and I could taste the mango pudding on my tongue.
**
I too fell in love in Hong Kong. In my case, though, it was Hong Kong itself that I fell in love with. And, it was for me, love at first sight.
Sitting in the back of a taxi from the airport, we headed toward Wanchai. It was back in the late 90s. The bridges and the water reminded me of San Francisco, but only even more beautiful. And the way the light was filtered through mist reminded me of the small misty valley where I grew up in LA. Mountains and water-- and sunlight veiled softly in mist. That was before I saw the harbor. When I got my first glimpse of that-- well, that was it. This was it.
Isn't true love not always like this, though?
Barthes describes this perception of perfection (of the Beloved) using the word "adorable!" The object of one's desire is loved in their entirety-- a state which no word can describe. And yet... for want of a better word, the philosopher calls this adorable! I call it perfection, which is only to say, I love you because I love you.
Perfection somehow fits perfectly in your hands. It is something you long to touch the moment your eyes rest upon it. And no matter how many times you see it, you always seem to find something new about it; something else to fall in love with. It never ceases to delight you, in fact.
In Wanchai-- it was the traffic; drinking tea in Times Square; the Metro; the trams; the unending crowds of people. I loved to see them switch the blinding lights on at night over at the race track.
And, in Happy Valley sometimes, waking up i the mornings there, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. In the mornings, if ever there was a break in the traffic or the jackhammers, I would always hear the sweetest sounds of birds singing (escaped songbirds someone told me living in the trees)... there was the fresh food market and the flower sellers just like in Japan-- but better.
For me, though, Mui Wo was perhaps as close to perfection as it gets. The food (don't you hate people who can't talk about food?) the Bay; hiking up to the temple for lunch. Adonis loved it there and the little piggy toddled his way from dimsum restaurant to seafood place. We spent hours on the beach playing. For him, the trams, the subway, the train out to that famous pigeon restaurant up on the hill by China University, the Peak Walk, the star ferry, hovercraft to Macao....it was all his vision of perfection just like it was mine.
**
People often seem surprised when they hear about my feelings for Hong Kong. Several of the Readers of these Pages, in fact, have written to ask me, Why Hong Kong?
Even my tea teacher was surprised.
We were in her garden. It was May and the peonies were in bloom. Her famous, famous peonies. Brilliant magenta (in Japanese 牡丹色 peony color), each flower was larger than a small child's perfectly shaped little head. She had me holding the bamboo basket as she knelt down in an azure kimono to snip just one flower for the tokonoma.
"Hong Kong?"
"Yes, Hong Kong."
"But, it's all about money, isn't it? And Peony, you love art and music. Culture. What could you possibly see in Hong Kong?"
I had never thouht of it before. (Does anyone ever think of reasons why they are in love?) And so I just said, "Well, opposites attract, I suppose."
**
The other day, though, I realized something else about the city. Isn't Hong Kong, after all, the silk road city par excellance? A vibrant trade city-- just prior to the Handover, they said it had one of the freest economies on earth.
It's a funny thing about Hong Kong. Yes, like Japan, people are very brand-oriented. They like to show off-- fancy cars or designer clothes-- Hong Kong's infamous tai tais in head-to-toe Prada and Chanel. Vacationing in Japan. One could never keep track of the fashionable bar of the week. Hip restaurant of the month. And yet, I would not say that Hong Kong is about spending money. Nope. To me, Hong Kong was always about making money. Trade. Free trade. Trade without ideology. I also heard that a huge portion of the world's exports passed through its harbor.
Up the escalator in mid-levels, there is a beautiful synagogue. One of the oldest and most thriving Jewish communities in Asia was a part of Hong Kong's history. The Sassoons and the Kadoories-- you know. It is the stuff of fortune-amassing legend.
Vibrant neighborhoods which for the most part are mutually-tolerant--African, Indian, Expat ("We've been here 25 years and still don't know how to say goodbye in Cantonese...." they said on their last day before heading Home). Chungking mansions, Discovery Bay-- need I say more?
Old World cosmopolitanism that is never a melting pot so much as a huge bazaar with two-way trade serving as the main conduit between people. Like Leh, like Venice, like Ithaka,- Hong Kong too stands a city of dreams--positioned smack in the middle of pilgrims paths and trade routes that first crisscrossed mountains and then crossed oceans.
I dreamt I was in Lhasa. It was the glorious Tang dynasty (618-907), and I was an honored guest of the King of Tibet. A short dream, it was extremely vivid. Dressed in dark colored velvety robes, I wore elaborate headgear and dangling earrings. My triangular shaped hat was the same velvety color as my robes and was adorned with a big red coral bead on the top. There were long chains of red coral and turquoise beads that tinkkled in my ears when I walked. While it resembled the headgear worn by the ancient empresses and other royal ladies of Tang China, the coral and turquoise chains were in the great tradition of Tibet.
In the dream, I was standing in a large room. It was very airy and yet also very warm. Huge windows of handmade glass allowed a tremendous of amount of brilliant sunlight into the simple room. The room was in a multi-story building located on a mountainside overlooking the old city of Lhasa. It was the view out the window which dominated. The city seemed to go on and on endlessly-- well, that is until one's eyes reached the mountains. The mountains. On that day, they were mostly covered in clouds.
Below us spread the valley of Lhasa. White-washed houses were piled practically one atop another. Prayer flags waived in the breeze and the city was surprisingly green from the many, many willow trees. It looked very frigid outside. There was no snow, but the moment I stepped away from the warm stove (located in the center of the room) I felt the frozen air of the mountains coming through the glass. The floor was covered in a felt carpet the color of the sky.
I was aware of two things. One was how beautiful my headgear was. Every time I moved, the coral and turquoise beads tinkled in my ears in the most charming way. My velvety hat also had a pleasing heaviness.
The other was that it was the 8th century, and I had traveled back in time. A time traveler, I noticed every detail. I thought, "how comfortable it is here." And, that coming from a girl who does not like to "rough it." I also thought, "It must be different out there." Life in the palace, though, was warm comfortable and very refined. "Not bad for the 8th century," I thought to myself.
Although I was calm and feeling extremely agreeable about my surroundings, there was much going on around me. The great Gialbo had rushed in. Everyone bowed to the King of Tibet.
During the Tang dynasty, the Empire of Tibet had reached its zenith. A thousand years before the infamous Great Game between the British and Russians who vied for colonial power in that part of the world, the 8th century was also a time when great powers clashed. These earlier super powers (Arabs, Turks, Chinese and Tibetans) had contended for control of the region. With the great Abassid empire to the west (under the greatest Caliph of all, the magnificent Harun al-Rashid), and the Chinese to the East (under the Tang), the Tibetans somehow reigned supreme.
After bowing to the King, tea was poured. The royal ladies retreated to the area by the window where I was standing and we all listened as the generals briefed the King: They were sending most of the army north to meet the Chinese head on. Jumping to his feet the Great Gialbo said forcibly, "Prepare my horse, for I will ride with the army." Marching toward the door, he turned and with great kindness looked at me and said, "You will be safer inside the Palace. Please wait here till my return."
As the King exited, a great gust of cold air blew into the room. We all shivered. I thought to myself, "It would be the perfect time to leave." I didn't think "escape" but I suppose, I was thinking it was time to return to my own time. And yet, the room was so warm and comfortable....
Thinking this, I then woke up.
It is rare that waking from a dream, I actually feel that I want to go back. Usually, I try to shake off the dream and immediately turn to the tasks of the morning. This time, however, so pleasant and so warm was this dream-- well, I have to admit, I was a little disappointed waking up. My headgear had been, afterall, incredibly beautiful. Women of modern Heisei times, have so few chances to wear accessories like that!!
It could have been any of the Kings of the Empire of Tibet. However, if the King in my dream was the Great Trisong Detsen (who I think it was)-- well, that battle would go well for him. Even more than his skills in the battlefield, however, Trisong is best known as the great promoter of Buddhism in the region. Having invited many famous philosophers of India and monks of China to come and teach in Tibet, his court was a place of great scholarship and intellectual excitement. He arranged the famed Two-Year Debate (the "Council of Lhasa" as it is also known) between the Chan (Zen) monk, Moheyan (the "Mahayana Monk") and the Indian Buddhist philosopher, Kamalashila.
The Debate was on the topic of methods of enlightenment. The Zen faction argued (as it still does) that enlightenment was possible in an instant. The Indian philosopher, however, disagreed. While the actual moment may happen suddenly, enlightenment must, argued Kamalashila, be preceded by years of study and training that prepared the mind. Moral and mental training is essential in other words. Our King eventually sided with Kamalashila -- thereby introducing Indian-style Buddhism into Tibet. Trisong, incidentally, is also traditionally associated with the construction of the legendary stupa of Bodnath in Kathmandu.
In my dream, perhaps the Great Gialbo had just learned of the Chinese troops amassing on his northern frontier. 200,000 Tibetans rode to meet the Chinese head-on, and there, they literally wiped the Chinese into the dusts of the desert. Victorious, they rode on to the Tang capital of Chang'an. It was the greatest city on earth. Arriving just in time to fill in the great power vacuum that had ocurred as a result of the An Lushan rebellion, the only way the Chinese could get rid of them was to grant them all the lands of the much vied-over Kokonor (where today the Chinese governmnt tests its nukes and dumps its toxic waste).
As if gaining victory over the Chinese hadn't been enough, Trison was to spend the remainder of his days with his eyes turned West. He got as far as the Oxus River, and it was probably only the Arabs' hastily agreed-upon alliance with the Chinese that stopped him from going all the way to Baghdad. It was one of the most glorious periods of Tibetan civilization.
**
Jetlagged in Los Angeles. I dreamt of a kind and gracious King, who had manners so exquisite that he thought to turn around and bid me to stay-- where it was safe and warm-- as he Himself headed out to battle. More than that, though, was the beauty of my headgear. Waking up, I could not get it out of my mind. Red coral had been greatly valued throughout the lands along the ancient Silk Road. Symbol of safe passage, life after death and one version of the philosopher's stone (Atalanta Fugiens), red coral beads were often painted adorning Madonna and child in Medieval and Renaissance Europe.
My man in the mountains suggests that the Tibetans of the 8th century probably got their coral from the Bay of Bengal. I like to imagine, however, it originating in the Mediterrean, where-- like amber-- the beads were carried on the backs of donkeys and camels traveling East from Constantinople where it was traded for silks, brocades and other commodies. Located pretty much as far as one could get from the Sea, I wonder what the ancient Tibetans thought these corals were. Like torquoise (which they also valued highly), perhaps, they thought it too was mined in the mountains of Persia and Turkey. Never having seen the sea, what else could they have imagined?
Yesterday, Athena and I rode in our bronze chariot over to the Florentine apothecary shop on the other side of town.
With its exquisitely crafted wooden perfume organ and handmade glass bottles, it was reminiscent of the medieval shop at Santa Maria Novella. And so, not surprisingly, stepping into the shop, we were therein immediately transported back in time.
***
Recently, Robert Harrison did an entitled opinions show on the history of listening. Generalizations are always problematic, he said, but there is one generalization you can make about western civilization that won't get you into any trouble. And that is that Western civilization is one that thorougly priledges vision over the other senses. There is no question about this; from Plato's Ideal forms (eidos: visible aspect) to Proustian vision, it was spiritual vision (and rational in-sights) that were thought to be the means to knowledge. Harrison mentions being amazed at the way our video technology progresses constantly--while that of our audio continues to degenerate. This is also something that is unquestionably true.
And what of our sense of smell?
Smell remains the most evocative of the senses and the mistress of the shop explained that it is the sole sense that bypases the neocortex---being the most primal and well as the most primitive, I suppose. With no dicernible cell phones in the shop, no computer screens and not even a cash register within view--indeed, we felt ourselves back to an earlier time-- a time when the senses really mattered; back at that ancient crossroads between the sacred, the medicinal and the everyday...
The mistress of the shop, Sarah Horowitz was herself like a Florentine vision--emerging from the back in a cloud of tuberose, gardenia and orange blossoms.
After settling in, I told her about my dream.
It was mid-Winter and my friend Daniel was in Tokyo for a lecture. I had agreed to pick him up at his hotel and escort him to the lecture hall and was racing through Tokyo Station thinking about the things I wanted to talk with him about. It was the morning rush hour and the station was packed with people rushing toward the exits in thick coats, bracing themelves again the northern wind which was howling outside.
Arriving at Daniel's hotel room, I knocked on the door. He immediately opened the door and there I was speechless, for he had in his hands this gigantic piece of amber. Behind him, the curtains were open and a strong shaft of light was hitting the amber just right too, for it was glowing. Silently I noticed that in the middle of the honey colored, glimmering chunk of amber was a million year old red bug.
What could this mean, I wondered? (Even in my dream it was all so unexpected).
He said that he wanted to get his coat and as he put it on, I noticed that his briefcase was also full of amber. And like happens in dreams, the golden honey color just infused the entire room with color and warm fragrance.
"But I thought you were here to talk about China?"
"No," I am here to talk about my new theory."
I waited for him to tell me what (knowing it must have something to do with that piece of amber in his hands).
"The Three Kings from the East, the Magi, they didn't bring frankiscence, myrrh and gold. What they brought with them on their long trek to the King was frankiscence, myrrh and amber."
**
Sarah had mentioned that in those days incense and frangrances were worth their weight in gold and were gifts worthy of kings and queens. Of course, Queen Cleopatra famously lived in clouds of perfume as did the Japanese aristocrats of the Nara and Heian periods dwell in a dream-like world of perfumed baths and robes infused with the scent of precious incense brought from the exotic lands to the west.
There was aloeswood, camphor, and sandalwood from Southeast Asia; cinnamon and musk from Vietnam and Frankinscence from Somailand. Cloves were used to freshen the breath. These aromatics were used to treat both body and spirit as they affected the totality of the person: body, mind and soul.
As Sarah blended my perfume using the frankinscence and myrrh of my dream --with a touch of peony and roses from this blog, along with some lemongrass from my travels, I thought of my tea teacher and how every week in the tea room, we were to cultivate all of our senses. Always there was high quality incense at the start of the ceremony --to create the shared mood and consecrate the space. There were artworks to stimulate our minds-- and as for sounds, my teacher always gestured toward the sounds of the water boiling in the brazier or maybe to the frogs singing outside, the sound of the cicadas, like rain 蝉時雨.
It has been nearly two years since I have left Japan. I miss it terribly--and perhaps more than anything I miss the shared calendar of seasonal events that create what was for me a heightened awareness of mood and the senses. Our senses being the old fashioned way we know the world, they embed us in time and place. Creating meaning, they sustain our souls.
Proust, I am sure was right when he concluded that an hour is not merely an hour but rather is "a vase filled with perfumes, sounds, places and climates! . . . So we hold within us a treasure of impressions, clustered in small knots, each with a flavor of its own, formed from our own experiences, that become certain moments of our past."
***
Chariots and sandalwood...
Asked to come up with a name for my perfume, I have been left feeling myself in Hamilcar's garden, and so I am thinking of naming it: Salammbô
Just back from Shanghai, it was part dream journey (臥遊) and part time travel (タイムスリップ)-- → like this.
It was also a trip down memory lane.
On the plane on the way over, I sat next to a Lady from the Kingdom of Shu (蜀國). The women of Shu have always been renown for their beauty, and she was no different with her flawless pale skin (like moonlight), beautiful eyes and feather robes of exqusite shu brocade (蜀锦).
Her name was Hagoromo.
And, Hagoromo never stopped talking (and it was a 14 hour flight!) Luckily, women from the city of angels can also be quite chatty...
++
Named after her feather robe (羽衣), the noh play, Hagoromo, is thought to be one of the earliest noh plays. The story of a moon goddess descended to earth; a fisherman comes across her exquisite feather robe hanging from a pinetree (maybe she was bathing in the sea?). So entranced by the robe is he that he seeks to take it home with him. Before he can get very far, however, the beautiful goddess appears before him and tells him that without her robe, she cannot return to heaven. The fisherman is, of course, swayed by her obvious agitation and agrees to return it-- if only she will dance for him. She agrees, but then the man begins to waiver. Won't she ignore her part of the bargain as soon as she gets her feather robe back...?
But she tells him: “Doubt is for mortals. In heaven, there is no deceit.”
Ezra Pound was also fascinated by Hagoromo, the moon goddess. He wrote his version of the play after the great Orientalist Ernest Fenollosa's widow had provided him with a translation. William Butler Yeats then wrote the introduction. Pound produced the play in 1916, but would re-visit it again many years later when he was jailed in Pisa. Imprisoned for treason, he was only allowed access to a few books in his cell. And this play of his own creation was one of them. He would write in his Pisan Cantos:
and the nymph of the Hagoromo came to me, as a corona of angels one day were clouds banked on Taishan or in glory of sunset and tovarish blessed without
He was a crackpot and poet to the dictator and yet one can only marvel at the incredible number of allusions--from Homer to Zeami-- in the Pisan cantos; seemingly all dredged up from memory, with notes scribbled on toilet paper!
Was it cultural theft or cultural exchange?
Scholars will argue but for me, I somehow understand his life-long fascination and appropriation of Hagoromo (among a million other images and imaginings in which he would delight). As one of the earliest plays in the noh theater repertoire, this play illuminates the relation noh had to the God dance. In this way, noh theater has always reminded me of the spiritually transportive qualities of Javanese dance--especially the story of Hagoromo. This feeling is also part, I suppose, of my own personal narrative as it was Javanese dance that was the start of my story; a story that began in Java and ending in Tokyo was then told last week in Shanghai. Like I said, it was a walk down memory lane.
Anyway, by chance, I stumbled upon this amazing youtube video (below) of Rick Emmert (whom I am a huge fan) performing Hagoromo to Javanese gamelan with Javanese dancers. The collaborative dance is so unusual not just because of its Javanese-Japanese collaboration but also it is the Javanese dancers who wear the masks and Rick (the shite) is mask-less. The chanting is classical Javanese court style and yet... I would say it is the noh play that really creates the mood and atmosphere of this.
There exists a great arc dotted with Buddhist cave temples that stretches from the State of Maharashtra in India reaching all the way across the Taklamakan Desert-- deep into the heart of China.
And within 5 centuries, dozens of cave temples covered in murals of impossible beauty were to be created across thousands and thousands of miles along the Silk Road-- all the way to Japan.
I told him: We really should start a railway company and put down tracks to connect all the temples so that pilgrims can ride with us on our glorious mural express.
Being a practical sort of guy, he was dubious about the diplomatic and political hurdles, and so I sought to persuade him.
It would be a very sexy start, that's for sure. I mean, starting in India, the wonderous Murals of Ajanta would set the mood in every way.
He said he was listening. So, I continued:
It must be a little ultramarine blue narrow gauge train with a carmine red engine and red caboose. "Just like the one we rode to Shimla," I say. Not just anyone shall be allowed on the train either-- for like Mecca, our train will be a place reserved only for true believers of love and beauty.
He smiled and answered that, It wouldn't be easy since the mountains kind of get in the way.
That's when I tell him my plan to dynamite our way through the mountains:
What do you think about blasting a huge tunnel that goes for miles and miles under the Himalaya—and then we can use laser lights to recreate all the murals that were lost on the tunnel’s dark walls for our dear passangers? Wouldn’t it be romantic? They can dine on Cantonese cuisine by candlelight as they watch the evening laser light mural show? After all, so much has been lost. Are you in or not, my darling?
I'm in, he says at last. And asks, Where to from Ajanta?
Well, first it's up to Ladakh.
Ladakh? Isn't that a little off the beaten track?
No, not really. For in that remote region, downtown Leh might as well be downtown Manhattan. And everyone loves Manhattan.
Just a few kilometers outside of the town of Leh is-- of course-- the Monastary of Alchi, which has paintings that have almost stained my mind with their dazzlingly rich colors. As I have written in these pages before, sometimes when I close my eyes before sleeping at night--even now all these years later-- I see those colors. And, it was Alchi that first inspired me to dream this dream journey dream from Ajanta to Dunhuang and then all the way across to Horyuji-- traveling on the glorious mural express.
**
I spent some time last year translating two documents for the Oriental Library about two other cave temple sites along the Silk Road: Bezeklik and Kizil. As I looked at photos from the sites, I become dazed like a pilgrim-- nearly blinded by the beauty of the Flaming Mountains and and the seering noonday sun of the desert, I imagine stepping into a darkened cave temple, and there I find myself in another dimension-- a place of pilgramage.
This from my translation:
The architecture follows an iconographic programme, functioning as the stage for the carrying out of a Buddhist pilgrimage. device for this procedure. Entering the cave, the pilgrim first contemplates the past lives of the Buddha as he or she passes along murals depicting scenes from these past lives. The pilgrim would next circumambulate the corridor moving in a clockwise fashion. Along the back walls, the pilgrim would view scenes Sakyamuni’s nirvana scene and in order to contemplate his or her own existence...
Like falling in love; like mountains of the mind; indeed, like all pilgramages-- this is an imaginary possession achieved via the colloboration between physical form and human imagination; a dream journey that occurs at precisely that disjuncture between the real and the imagined. Pilgramage. I wonder if this is not yet another essential human practice on the decline (an endangered species?) Pilgramage being of particular significance since it is both practiced collectively together with others and serves to connect inner and outer understanding.
And then-- this morning-- appropos of everything...
...the mysterious and sexy Csomo de Koros emails to point me to his new website:
And right at the top of the page are the words of the Dalai Lama:
A pilgrimage through wild, open lands provides visions that help shape the proper attitude and inner awareness for religious practice.
I have written again and again of feeling myself in a flimsy boat (Palinurus at the helm) being tossed about on the open sea. And so I re-listen to the TED Talk lecture with Matthieu Ricard, on his book the Habits of Happiness. In the lecture, Ricard talks about the Buddhist idea of a pebble being tossed about on the waves on the ocean. Most of us exist in such a state that like a pebble being tossed about in the water, our state of mind is so dependent on outside forces that we are happy when things are going well and then crash when bad things happens. The Buddhists tell us to combat this doomed way of being, we need to cultivate our inner serenity, inner freedom, and confidence through what Ricard calls mind training (ie meditation). For it is mind that "translates" all our outer experiences into inner meaning, he says. As a translator myself, this image of mind "translating" experiences into meaning speaks to me very strongly. Ricard urges us to think about how illusory our control inevitably is over outer circumstances. And indeed we meet people all the time who have everything in the world and yet remain unhappy. And vice versa, those suffering great adversity who seem strangely quite happy.
In the end, I think just as Ricard says, it all comes down to working to cultivate practices and habits which will enrich us by forming and strengthening what is an underlying ethical-aesthetic sensibility-- for it is that which will help us to flourish and feel serenity. Ricard talks of meditation while the Dalai Lama speaks above about the "shaping power" of pilgramage. The Dalai Lama's words above recall the project of the Confucian Rites as proper comportment through the cultivation of ethico-aesthetic sensibility, don't you think? I know I am not the only one who wonders what is at stake for the human race when collective and shared practices which have long served to connect inner and outer understanding via the human heart are lost forever (Are we really destined to become McPeople like I fear?).
In the spirit of Csomo's new project, I too want to imagine that the Mural Express will have a special line that travels West to Bamyan, which stands as the ultimate symbol of that which is lost forever. But East to Bamyan or West all the way to Japan. For what better place than Japan to end up? Land of the Great Antiquinarians, the Japanese have been obsessed with the Silk Road since the 1980s and scholars continue to work to re-create what was lost--in reproductions or in digitalization--in what in itself is an act of pilgrammage
As you set out for Ithaka hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you.
Odysseus in exile. The ultimate reluctant hero-- all he ever really wanted to do was return home. But as everyone knows, exile and place is never a matter of location --but rather is a matter of meaning; for as the Poet Cavafy says above, "the Lestrygonians, the Cyclopes and the fierce Poseidon: these are all things we carry within our souls.
Robert Harrison, in a recent Entitled Opinions show about Heidegger, talked about Odysseus' Second Journey. The one that occured after he finally arrived back to Ithaka. Made to set out one more time; this time he was to carry an oar and walk as far as he could go until reaching a land where people didn't know salt or seafaring ships, and there, he was to plant his oar deeply into the ground and perform a sacrifice to Poseidon.
It's interesting, isn't it? The way a Hero must wander into exile/meaninglessness-- that is, he is required to go to a "place" where he is world-less, ground-less, and blindist. To walk to a place where the meaning of an "oar" is no longer meaningful, and there, to plant it in the ground to make new meaning.
Is this not the existential journey par excellance? For as Harrison explains, those that do not undergo these journeys into foreign lands and instead stay at home without undergoing this kind of "estrangement" will forever remain estranged--estranged right there in their own homelands.
As a hero's journey, we are talking of imaginal journeys into authenticity; where a person journeys and comes to terms with their own existence/death. This is exile. It is a journey away from the inauthentic; which Heidegger characterized as "idle curosity, gossip and diversion/entertainment"-- sound familiar? However you define it, Kierkegaard was probably not far off when he defined the inauthentic as the lack of any passionate commitment. Hence, in Proustian terms:
'The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes--Proust
So the Hero goes into exile. He goes Blind in order to get new eyes. And only then does he return Home, in Aletheia (ἀλήθεια). And he does all of this in time. In Being and Time. In meaning.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing left to give you now.
The Greeks and their destiny. In the end, though, is Cavafy not also suggesting this same idea that our destiny is probably nothing else but the inner journey of meaning itself, no matter "where" we find ourselves? For as many of you will recall, Cavafy, the great poet of foreign lands and times past, never in fact traveled to these places that he was writing about. Writing his epic historical and romantic poetry, he lived alone for 25 years, working as a clerk in the employment of the Ministry of Public Works of Egypt, in Alexandria.Indeed, when I think of him working by day in a government office and at night writing poetry of such passion, well, not unlike how I think of Mandelstam writing in prison, I am almost overhelmed by this triumph of the human spirit.
The foreign lands, the exotic goods, the unending oceans and the heroes of antiquity--these were all lands he visited in his exquisite imagination. Dreaming of Ithaka, I think it is true that what really matters is what happens in the breathing and seeing/blindist heart.
I have tried to write Paradise Do not move Let the wind speak that is paradise-- Ezra Pound
The winds of paradise-- surely they are musical, floral, and exqusitely fragrant.
They say, Cleopatra herself lived in a cloud of incense and in a dream of purple. Perfumed in Frankiscence, myrrh, lotus, sandalwood, and rose water... she traveled the Nile on a boat with purple sails so perfumed, that the winds were love-sick with them …
Surely the winds of paradise are like that--perfumed and love-sick. And closing my eyes and taking a deep breath of the fragrance. I am immediately transported.
Paradiso.
I've long wondered, why it is that everyone prefers Dante's Purgatorio to his Paradiso?
Am I the only one who-- while utterly unable to imagine hell-- often finds myself lost in dreams of paradise?
Like a Persian garden, I imagine the fragrance of roses, jasmine and gardenias intoxicates. There is music, gently perfumed breezes and unending picnics. My Adonis flies a kite as philosophers wander nearby discussing Aristotle with my friend Señor Borges. As they talk, they are looking for the name of God in the pattern of the rose petals. They are just close enough to hear-- just close enough to be able to join in in the conversation too. The great Sam Hamill is there reciting poems from Almost Paradise as Tullio draws maps of imaginary worlds in black ink.
Averroes and Avicenna are there. Izumi Shikibu and Lady Rokujo are also there debating with each other in the most charming way-- as are all Genji's lovers. But so too is Beatrice and Hannah Arendt (Heidegger, I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear, didn't make it this far). My lover the Emperor sits not too faraway (while the object of my affection sits closer still). The philosophers speak in all the great languages that could once be heard in the teeming markets of Chang'an.
And, of course, Anna Karenina and her Beloved the Count sit cuddling under a great Chinar tree.
Picnics that never end include Persian yogurts and every type of biryani; the finest oolong tea, like champagne, from the misty mountains of Formosa, or green tea served in heirloom teabowls by Tea Masters with long lineages. The tea is served with beautiful sweets from my favorite shop in the Province of the Clouds faraway-- everything the verdant color of new grass. There is Japanese chocolate and dimsum from Hongkong so delicious I brush away tears of delight. The 豆腐花 so divine-- well, I know that I must be in Paradise....And pizza, in a garden with a view.
In the distance, a great ziggurat rises toward the shimmering blue sky. Containing every book ever written, it stands as a place of great possibility.Beijing is there with Borges writing his books. I rarely go there. For I prefer my unending picnicking under the Chinar trees listening to the sound of flowing water. A book of poems, by Conrad Roth, lies there on the blanket-- just within reach. Icarus he writes,
the wind sang in his wings, and his wings wandered and wended their wanton way to the sun—
It's not just Icarus either, for everyone is wearing wings--rainbow wings.
There are long tunnels covered in wisteria-- white, yellow and purple... They remind me of the covered walkways at the Summer Palace outside Beijing that I have read about. Long covered walkways which the Dowager Empress in Qing China would walk for her exercise-- sometimes reading a book as she walked along. Long, shady flower tunnels-- all leading toward ancient wisteria trees, which one could circumnambulate like Mount Kailash, before choosing one of five other flower tunnels each leading in a different direction to travel down.
I am, however, still lazily sitting on a large quilt with a friend who has a giant pink peony tucked behind his ear. He is urging me to try another sweet as music from a harpsichord draws my attention toward the towering mountains in the distance. There, I see the two little children in their kimono with the wings as they alight from a colorful dragon boat on the river with the 10,000 curves. They begin slowly walking toward me.
Watching them, I recall that Makiko-- 10,000 miles away in Turfan-- is probably seeing paintings depicting the same birds of paradise on the walls of the Buddhist temple caves there.
The Buddhist bird of paradise is known in Sanskrit as Kavalinka (迦陵頻伽). It is the bird whose singing begins before it even hatches from its egg. Little voices of paradise, their song was thought to be so beautiful, they were likened to angels.
Angels, arias and manicured gardens being common to most people's ideas of paradise....
On the other side of the river of lights is the Double Greeting Wanton Shop with its $10 prostitutes and BBQ pork. You can take a number at the counter and have your fortune told in the back. The Ambassador is there, sitting with Professor Wang. Splitting a piece of Hungarian cheesecake, they are waiting their turn, happy.
In Dante's Paradise--there is no concept of enlightenment. The soul is not a resource and people do not aim for detachment or perfection of any kind. All that is required is love and hope. That's it. Faith and Fidelity are just other names for it.
And in this place of perfect paradise where poetry has been resurrected, being beautific is an intellectual occupation.
Kant would be displeased, not doubt, but in the realm of souls, reality is nothing but thought and spirit. And this, then, becomes the definition of inner freedom. For the burning hot Medieval heart; true love, true play, and any true heart's occupation (whether according to Kierkegaard or Proust or even Plato) will --no matter what-- be an end in and of itself. Souls being guided by their metaphysical pursuit of the Good/God ---generate a reality that necessarily determines itself (rather than being externally or causally generated). Along with kant, Hume too doesn't have a keg to stand on.
So, then, in addition to unending picnics, I imagine there is also an exquisite calendar of ceremonies, where just like in the world of Genji, sutras are read, incense is burned and dances performed by little children in wings-- not because anything will come of it, but merely because it is beautiful and therefore Good.
I dreamt of Caesar again last night. In Dante's Limbo, we were on the borders of Hell. I guess I had not heard that the Pope had already closed the Gates of Limbo. Or did he?
Well, in my dream, I was an angel descended from Paradise (a thousand years imagining paradise). No doubt, this must have greatly surprised my Caesar since he has come to believe that I spend my evenings flying round Japan on my broomstick... but guess what? I do that too.
It was my wings that gave away my angelic state. Sheer like the thinest, most finest silk in the world, they were shimmering rainbow wings (fairylike and reminsicent of Yang Guifei's famed dress of feathers):
Her most beautiful dress, a gown "shimmering like sunlight" was made of rare feathers brought as tribute to the Emperor. It was a fairylike robe which she wore to perform the famous Rainbow Dance (still preserved in modern Japan) before the Emperor. A dress of feathers was the dream of every woman of the Tang Court.
Touching down in Great Limbo, I found him there. Dressed like Dante all in white, he introduced himself to me as Caesar. And, thereby recognizing him in his ghostly person, I stepped forward and told him: On the edge of Hell, Limbo is the place where shades are punished by having many great desires but no hope.
Virgil was there, of course, as was Plato and Socrates. There was Euclid and Ptolemy; Hippocrates and Galen were there as well. Seneca and Zeno; Averroes and Avicenna. If truth be told, indeed, the company was so good in Limbo that-- at first-- one could hardly feel sorry for those who found themselves there.
And, none were sinners per se. But they lacked faith. And for no other evil then this, they find themselves forever Lost with no hope; living in longing.
Then in my dream I stepped very close to him and pulled out a scroll of an illustration a friend had once shown me from an old Bible. A tree of death (or the tree of sin). I there pointed to the very worst sin-- that of faithlessness (despair or apostasy).
And that was it.
The mood of the dream was very comforting-- everything was lit up in warm sunlight and my wings were pure shimmering splendor. Unfortunately, aftre waking from the dream I became increasingly downcast as I realized that the dream was not about caesar at all.
To have desire but no hope, being reminded of this state of limbo on the edge of hell, I thought of Dosteovsky's concept from Brothers K about hell being nothing more than the inability to love. And when you really think about it, what is truly necessary for love but hope and faith?
This is Dante writing to the Fedeli d'Amore:
To every heart which the sweet pain doth move, And unto which these words may now be brought For true interpretation and kind thought, Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love. Of those long hours wherein the stars, above, Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought, When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught As may not carelessly be spoken of. He seemed like one who is full of joy and had My heart within his hand, and on his arm My lady, with a mantle round her, slept; Whom (having wakened her) anon he made To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing harm. Then he went out; and as he went, he wept. (tr. D. G. Rossetti)
**
Adonis and I arrived safe and sound in the western part of his empire last night. Blasting music and dancing in pure joy, his grandma said: "Not many kids can move their hips like that, you really should sign him up for a hip-hop class"... and looking at him shaking his booty, I remembered the way the kids danced in Africa. Just like my baby.
I had fallen in love with someone else and so had broken off my engagement with his father... but going to visit him down there-- he was like a different person. In Africa. He danced in pure joy too. Sometimes people would come up to him in the streets and shops in Mafeteng and want to dance-- right there.. And-right there-- he would dance. I thought, it is a diferent universe here. Once we were driving way into the mountains of the Kingdom in the clouds and these two little girls were dancing by the side of the road smiling and smiling as they danced in the wind. There was no music. My baby dances like that. Sometimes when I think about South Africa, I think it must be how it feels like in Heaven-- a place where people can change.
For it is in giving we receive; It is in pardoning that we are pardoned; It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life." -- Saint Francis of Assisi, closet Buddhist
Wang-sensei had posted the above on facebook this morning. And, I think how lately, my dreams seem to loom larger than my waking life.... Like my dream of Saint Francis from last year. It still really lingers. It was one of those kinds of dreams that just stained the entire next day with its mood; one of those dreams that you just cannot shake from your mind.
I was in a beautiful forest that only could have been in Japan around this time of year. I say that because I have never seen quite the same shade of green anywhere else. Of course, I have not been to Ireland, nor have I seen my man Borges' lush green northern forests either. However, I am guessing that even there, I would still think the mossy green color one sees in Japan would stand apart as unique. In a universe where books and reality overlap, Señor Borges is a busy man, but I'll ask him what he thinks about the color green next time he shows up for work in the library.
Anyway, in my dream, I was in a mossy green, malachite color forest. I was all alone and was suffering there from two terrible wounds-- one on each hand. Dead center in the palms of my hands. They were excrutiatingly painful and in my dream, I couldn't stop staring at them in disbelief. They were so perfectly round and looked like burns, but were more like gashes and I realized (in my dream) that they were just like the stigmata wounds you see in paintings of St Francis of Assisi-- perfectly round, in that same place in the middle of the hands. But instead of blood or what was said to be a "heavenly fragrance of perfume" coming from the wounds, my wounds were rotting black with tiny worms crawling in them.
Isn't that awful? It was such disturbing dream, really. For months afterward, I kept repeatedly checking my palms to make sure the wounds were really gone. I could not help but feel the dream was somehow telling me to take my wedding ring off too.
Strangely, too, I was transported in time and space-- back very vividly into my memories of ten magical days I spent a lifetime ago in Saint Francis' town of Assisi (where I had first seen art depicting the stigmata). My companion and I had a lovely room in the center of town. It was in an old house that was reached by walking down a long, narrow alley-- like this. There were flower boxes full of geraniums outside the house. However, it was the inner courtyard garden which was so like a garden that it felt like paradise-- well, if you like geraniums, that is. It was as if geraniums had-- at last-- taken over the earth.
Assisi was one of the last towns we spent time in on a trip which had taken us to a dozen cities: Amman, Delhi, Chadigarh, Srinigar, Leh, Simla, Vienna, Venice, Athens, Florence, Siena, Prague. I think we both just really fell in love with the city. However, for me, more than anything, Assisi overwhelmingly reminded me of Leh, in Ladakh (see, a "shining city upon a hill").
A Medieval City on a hilltop-- instead of up in the breahless heights of the Himalayan plateau-- the town was situated on a gentle hilltop. Still-- like in Leh-- mountains and valleys dominated. Another medieval cobblestone city with stone walls and two castles, countless churches and surrounded by stunning scenery-- more than anything it was the spirituality of Saint Francis which so impressed me. Just like the temple bells and squeeky prayer wheels turning in Leh-- churchbells rang constantly and Saint Francis was as central to life in Assisi as the Dalai Lama was to the Tibetan temples of Leh.
A city upon a hill. From the Gospel of Matthew
"you are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden."
And, if we say that Hong Kong is all about money (and falling in love: Hong Kong, bring it on).... then what about places like Assisi or Leh, Lhasa or Varanasi, Mecca-- the ancient pilrimmage cities of the world which exist as tremendous magnets-- drawing people toward them. This was also so of the great Puritan experiment, of course. However, whereas the Puritan project was one of creating, becoming-- a beacon of light projecting into the future, pilgrimage places are somewhat quite different, aren't they?
For while Assisi calls, there is no real "becoming;" as place is inward-looking, preservative, it soothes and calms, nurtures, cultivates since there is no where it is trying to go; nothing it is trying to become. Time faces the past.
My man Borges texted me from his ipod the other night-- en route by boat on a secret mission for the empire; he tells me about the feeling of exhiliration he feels arriving in a new city. He also feels this same way before departing a place he has grown used to as well:
All my senses are on fire and everything I have grown accustomed to seems new again. I can view the world around me, that I am about to depart, as if I had only just arrived. This kind of extended sensory sensitivity continues for several days after my arrival in the new (or, as is often the case, old) place as I try to settle into new circumstances. I feel almost as if this the only time I really see and feel a feeling of belonging to any place, and it is only fleeting as I'm drawn to the next place.
I have all my life felt just like him.
Assisi was different though.
Only in Assisi-- I think it was perhaps the only place I ever felt that I had arrived.
**
We were only there for ten days-- it seems so short, and until my dream I had practically forgotten it.
It was summer. Hot and dry. We bought several books about the city's prodigal son, and reading in the mornings, we visited all the churches and took long walks along paths that wove through the hillsides. Olive, grapevines, the smell of herbs and wildflowers; Fiery sunsets sinking behind dry oregano hills, the countryside outside the town was surprisingly green and shady. And, the dream brought back the most vivid memory of an octopus salad that we would buy in the market with bread and bring it back to the guesthouse and eat on the patio, reading and chatting. My travel companion had been brought up in part in the Greek Orthodox Church, and the churches in Assisi-- the words of Saint Francis, the art... it all somehow seemed to touch him very deeply as well, and he was surprisingly talkative-- almost as if he too felt he had really arrived somewhere.
**
Saint Francis. As a young man, he dreams he is in a great castle where he wanders from room to room looking at a large quantity of weapons-- spears, shields; each piece marked with a cross. He whispers, "Am I then to go to war?" And, it is within his dream that he first heard the voice of his lord. Years later, he and his companions, walking in the oregano hills outside town had happened upon a place in the road where birds filled the trees on either side. Francis told his companions, "wait for me while I go to preach to my sisters the birds".The birds surrounded him, drawn by the power of his voice, and not one of them flew away. Francis spoke to them:
My sister birds, you owe much to God, and you must always and in everyplace give praise to Him; for He has given you freedom to wing through the sky and He has clothed you... you neither sow nor reap, and God feeds you and gives you rivers and fountains for your thirst, and mountains and valleys for shelter, and tall trees for your nests. And although you neither know how to spin or weave, God dresses you and your children, for the Creator loves you greatly and He blesses you abundantly. Therefore... always seek to praise God.
**
Saint Francis' sermon to the birds. I wish you could hear the incredibly beautiful birdsong outside my window here in Los Angeles, in Tochigi.
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