Alex, in the epilogue

These posts are a testament to the haphazard intersections of one's mind. It's true to content, and true to form, and it's vaguely reminiscent of some of the themes running through Nino Ricci's The Origin of Species. The happenings of life, the utter chance of it all, the movement of memories, the mind's eye.

"He had stopped reading. It was miracle enough, maybe, the thingness of things, their funniness. That there were clouds, that there was air, that stones formed from the sand and then turned to sand again, on and on. What were these things, where had they come from, what could they mean? How could they fill the mind and yet be so small? There might be gods beyond them, and gods of gods, and, beyond these, things unimaginable, that the human mind could not name or give shape to and yet it could think they were there, it could marvel at the immensity of its own ignorance. Somehow through the chance of events, the slow building of things with No Plan, the mind had become fitted for such thoughts, for such moments of wonderment.

A shred of memory came to him, or perhaps something he'd dreamed, beckoning there at his mind's mid-horizon. He was in a northern country, walking or cycling, it wasn't clear which, and it was raning or had rained or the sun was out, and he was travelling, he was on a journey. He has been here before. For a moment the place took on such a vividness he thought he could hold it whole, could possess it: there were farms, clapboard houses, the outskirts of a town, a view accross woods to a lake. The smell of things, the clarity of them, even while they slipped from him and refused to take on their meaning. It was like living a thing and losing it in the same instant. Where were those houses, that lake? He has been here. It was like a place in the mind he returned to to find its meaning, only to find that the meaning of it was simply that it was there."

And so it goes, so it goes.

From "Tashi Delek", an email, written Nov 10/08

I have found myself, as was to be expected, in Dharamsala, in northern India. Arriving here may have been on the agenda but encountering such a place of wondrous beauty was still pleasantly surprising. I made it here just yesterday morning, after a near-epic overnight bus ride on a bus which did not exactly brake as much as it grinded... loudly. Nearing Dharamsala, the road narrows into sharp switch-backs that remind you that, oh yes, the himalaya are definitely bigger and considerably more powerful than you.

(a side note on driving in India: aka, Your Mode Of Attack.

When you want to communicate with those around you, the method is simple. Lean on the horn, just so, with much strength; hold the horn steadily, and wait until you feel as if enough time has passed that you would have been suitably rude in a country such as Canada. Keep holding. Hold more, until you feel as if maybe you may have ruptured someone's eardrums, and then, hold for a little bit longer. Patience, now, because once you've held the horn this long, please double that time. Then, and only then, feel free to ease up on the horn at your own disposal.)

Dehli airport is notorious for its aggressive taxi drivers who are by any standard very successful con artists, driving you not to your destination but to wherever they can get commission off your tourist dollars. As in, good luck getting the taxi to take you to the hotel you actually want to go to. And the horror stories get truly horrid, with the murder of a single Australian women in recent years. I had arranged for a driver to meet me at the airport, which was, in the deepest sense of the word, an extreme relief.

I arrived, saw my name, a faint assembly of letters on a wrinkled sheet of paper. I discerned fairly early on that my taxi man's English skills surpassed my Hindi-speaking abilities by, oh, two words. Body language it will be. Needless to say, our slightly awkward aqcuaintanceship was completely eradicated as soon as we got into his car, when he turned the radio on bust and loud hindi pop music jumped from the speakers. The thing about loud Hindi music, you see, is that while at first it may compress the top two inches of the inside of your head, after mere minutes you get used to the higher frequencies of sound and it becomes quite enjoyable. And then, of course, you can actually start to get into it: tapping your feet, keeping time with your hands, thus inspiring your driver to go into all-out drumming mode on the steering wheel. True story. After the excitement of the hindi music mellowed down into mere background noise, my senses focused elsewhere, for instance, to notice the expertise with which my driver wove --dare I say dove?-- in and out of cars. I thanked my lucky stars that meditation had leant me a calm centre, for those less chill among us would probably be clutching the edge of the seat with their eyelids equally clenched.

I thought "I wonder what speed this guy's going?" A glance over to the spedometer showed that its needle lay flat and lifeless at the bottom of the gauge. Nice. Further inspection led me to see all sorts of blatant defiances of Canadian road safety laws, such as the suddenly obvious lack of a passenger-side mirror. Also nice. Big smiles all around.

Two hours of terrible traffic later, and I was deposited safely in my gueshouse in the little "Tibetan colony" in northern Delhi.

in context

Earlier I took to the sidewalks in the pleasant mild dampness of a spring evening. Walking these familiar streets is a journey into self, a path patterned by soft pleasures and consummated in old memories.

When I first returned home to lay claim to my personal heritage I wasn't actually struck by the many sprightly nyphs of my chlidhood; what I saw instead was continuity, a consistency between moments here and moments there.

I accelerated into the turn of Cook's Brook,
I found myself in the switchbacks of the mighty Himal.

I mulled over oranges in the Dominion supermarket,
I bartered rupees for fruit on the side of the road.

I make small talk with a local taxi driver,
I hear hindi music flit from car windows.

One of my first nights back, I take a spin to Cox's Cove and caught up with an old friend.

He said, "Dude, you have two realities in your head."

And then, minutes later, a guy in a white pontiac sunfire pulled up next to us and asked if we knew where Tommy's at.

Two realities.

Indeed.

Tonight I sang Patsy Cline, I rounded corners, I noticed the same sidewalks, I walked old routes. Looked at the pond, encountered familiar faces. This feeling of home is grounding, it makes staying and leaving both easy and difficult. Tonight I walked to feel my feet. Tonight I walked in quest, in a search. I think I know what I found.

Schools for Doug

And so, as someone wise must have once said, there's no time like the present. Certainly, if nothing else, we must be able to trust cliches.

As much as I would like to claim fervourous activity in my resumption of blogging, this post is a cheat. It was really written in Hong Kong, October 08.

Schools for Doug

Eyes wander high, low.
diffused light, bright
when it sees tall building
blocks, mirror windows. Man
made towers
fit
into rocky green hills
this scape backs in
famously
in
to Causeway Bay.
And the foreground: boats.
Big shiny yachts, new, white, yes;
but little vessels too,
held together with string,
sheltered in tarps,
bumpered by
old black tires,
strung on.
A Home.

The smell, the sea.

Thoughts gather, diffuse,
bright and below:
hundreds, thousands,
of tiny fish
hitting the surface like
raindrops.

re acquaintance

It is April, and it is spring. Spring 2009. It's been awhile.

Last week a friend of mine encouraged and inspired me to return to the blog. To shape it, hone it, get these words out in the the wide world of the English internets. So. Here it is.

I am now in the luxurious comforts of home:

a western kitchen
two elderly grandmothers, alive and mostly well
breathtaking sunsets
satellite tv
friends, new, old, near, far
mindfulness
meaningful fullness.

So from that list we can infer that I have been spending alot of time cooking, been taking in tales from wise old ladies, basking in the amazing clear light of a newfoundland spring, and watching North of 60 reruns on television most every weekday at 12:30. And that walking meditation has yeilded the present, bold and clear, nothing more and nothing less than it's self.

Oh, life. Grand.

But, as much as I am enjoying my homeland hermitage, I decided that spring is enough: along with summer comes my return to Korea. I have exactly four weeks until my departure, and until then, I will unwind the recoils of my recent mind's self into this blog.

I've tasted Taiwan, been dazzled by Hong Kong lights, kissed the himalaya, found myself adopted into the homes and hearts of Tibetans. Spent a winter in Corner Brook, a small-town snow-filled paradise.

It should be interesting.