Katunayake airport -- in place of the bus stand which it resembled when I flew in to Colombo in '67 was now a small but tastefully-constructed modern building. While I was sitting in the lounge waiting to board, a purser walked by carrying a small box with a large label reading 'HUMAN EYES'. Rather startling. Even eye-opening. Once on board we barely had time to take off -- smoothly -- rise above the turbulence of the clouds, have a cup of tea, and fill out landing forms, before we were circling over the Madras airport.
Madras airport, of course, has not changed: India has an atmosphere of non-change, and the red soil -- a pale reddish brown -- looks as old from the air as it does from the ground. Riding into Madras on the airport bus I felt, again, the turbulence and dynamic undercurrents of India and already Ceylon began to seem a quiet provincial backwater. Symbolic was the billboard sign ('The right bank in the right place') posted just outside an old ruined building. Although the ruin was not, in fact, the bank, the impression that it might be lingered. Outside a Hindu temple -- one of those very solid decapitated-pyramid style South Indian fantasies with figures cascading down all the sides in a mythological unifying embrace of all extremes -- was a sign advertising 'The Greatest Show on Earth'. It might have been advertising all of India. And I had forgotten the sacred cows that roam the streets trying to nip vegetables from the market stalls. Madras has a baked (100°F. by late morning) colonial air to it still, mingled with the South Indian culture -- the North appeals more to me, where the cultural development has been more through accretion than refinement, yielding more diversity than subtlety -- but the native culture is probably felt more fully in some of the . other places -- Tanjore, Madurai, etc. -- that I've not seen, so perhaps my feelings about it are not well-based.
The train trip -- of two nights and a Hay -- to Calcutta was uneventful except for the peculiar fact that on the morning after we started the sun rose in the west. There is no doubt about this: we were travelling northwest, and facing the direction the train was travelling the sun clearly rose on our left, and continues to rise higher in the sky, all morning, on our left. 'Putta and I notices this independently of each other, and mulled over various explanations, pondered possibilities, considered probabilities, and mused many a musing for about three hours, when we turned from contemplating the bright patch of sunlight pouring in the western windows, and discussed what possible -- or impossible -- phenomena might account for this. Apparently only the two Buddhist monks on the train han noticed this -- or if anyone else had noticed it they had not noticed anything odd about it -- or if they had noticed anything odd they had had the good sense to keep it to themselves -- and the only explanation we could come up with which did not call for immediate rejection was that 'This is India, man.' At noon the sun reached its zenith and slowly descended as it had risen -- in the west.
Oh yes, one other thing happened in the afternoon of the same day. Two we dresses Indians boarded the train and sat down near me. One of then asked me where I was from, and we began talking. The other Indian said nothing at all, so I conversed with the first Indian and found him quite alert, interesting, and open-minded. He, like some other Indians whom I've met, seem to be very interested in the 'Krishna Consciousness' movement, which they all insist is 'very big in the States'. (Is it? What is it?) But I rather enjoyed our talk and was glad to meet a fairly intelligent man. At the next stop, however, our talk was cut short when the fellow abruptly rose from his seat and marched off the train, leaving all his magazines and newspapers behind him. The second Indian gathered up these papers and picked up his valise, preparing to leave also. Just before going he turned to me and said, 'The person you were just talking to is mentally disturbed. I'm his warden, and I'm taking him to the insane asylum nearby', whereupon, he too, got off the train, leaving me feeling somewhat disconcerted. After all, one hardly expects to hear such things of a person one has just been pleasantly talking to. The obvious explanation, of course, is that he was the last sane man in India, and had to be locked up before he did any damage.
In any case, I find the spirit of India very much a refreshing coolness after the hot and tight attitude of the Sinhalese for almost 5 years. An initial release of energy (which may account for this long monologue) may be nurtured and developed in India, where the entire culture is much closer to the days of the Buddha than Ceylon ever was. Everyone can do their own 'thing' without evoking any surprise, without arousing other people's hangups (except, perhaps, the fellow who was being taken off to the asylum -- but I don't know his story: maybe he wants what he's getting -- presumably so, since he went through whatever one has to go through to get it), or, indeed, without even being taken seriously, and all through North India the culture is set up to accommodate people who want a life without social bonds and ties--the society is organized to support those who haven't the slightest interest in supporting the society (whereas in Ceylon the Sangha exists largely as a pillar of society rather than -- as it was originally intended to be -- as an association of people who have given up the lay life), and as a result is more fluid in its own way.
Such is life inside a pinball machine.
30 July 2008
29 July 2008
Letter 2.52
The situation here is, as you say, messy. There are two completely different wars going on in Ceylon. One of them, as reported by the government, is daily on the verge of ending (weeks ago we were 'warned' not to become 'complacent') with the complete collapse of the rebellion: the few remaining 'pockets' of active insurgents are being 'flushed out' (the government's phrase) as the rebels, their food and war supplies running out, futilely flee while patriotic villagers cheer and aid the army and police in glorious pursuit. In this war there are a few thousand young people who have been misled by sinister (i.e. unpatriotic) forces. Many of these youths are surrendering and their leaders kill one another and themselves as they see their plans collapsing about their ears; but a few 'hard-core' insurgents still cause a bit of trouble. The main task of the country is the rehabilitation of the surrendered and captured rebels and the reconstruction of damaged areas (which are ever being revealed to us as more extensive than we thought yesterday).
The other war -- the real war -- is not so easy to find out about. Everyone has his own version of what has happened and continues to happen: the isolated farmers, the impoverished villagers, do not have the same experience and background as the Colombo socialites who hold nightly 'curfew parties'. But, from my own observations, from first-and-second-hand reports, the space between the lines of the government's tales, and from snippets from the foreign -- mostly Indian -- press (which the government tries to keep from the hands -- and eyes -- of its citizens), the following version seems likely.
Because the insurgents assigned to the Wellawaya area (at the southeast base of the central highland tea country) opened their attack a day too soon -- whether by error or necessity is uncertain -- the uprising of April 5 fell short of its goal of immediate victory. The government had time to secure the major towns, and to defend some of its positions. An attack on the Prime Minister, Mrs. Bandaranaike, never came off. Forewarned, the police of Polonnaruwa post hid in the trees and wiped out a bane of 70 insurgents who found themselves unexpectedly trapped in the deserted police station they had planned to seize. A large cache of explosives was discovered on the University of Ceylon campus, near Kandy, shortly before the uprising, along with thousands of blue uniforms (hidden in the girls' dorms) and battle plans, and the projected attack on Kandy never came off.
Attacks on Colombo were sporadic, unorganized, and doomed. Nevertheless, large areas of the country came into rebel control in the first days of the uprising. Although the rebels numbered only 10,000 to 20,000 at first, and had not the strength to hold ground against sustained attack, in the next two days their numbers swelled to between 75,000 and 100,000 as large numbers of youths -- a few of them pre-teens -- joined up and surged into rebel territory. Weaponless, untrained, and unorganized, these boys -- and girls -- lacked the resources and the heart for fighting and quickly fell back -- or just fell -- wherever the government counterattacked. Vast numbers of them quit the movement as readily -- but not as vociferously -- as they had joined it; those that did not quit made up the bulk of the 30,000 to 50,000 death toll of the first month of battle. But many towns (there are no 'cities' in Ceylon in the American sense: even the capital has only a few hundred thousand people) -- any towns continued to be held by rebels for weeks until they were driven out (along with everyone else) by bombing raids and heavy artillery: many of the towns 'liberated' by the government were reduced to ashes and rubble: it is widely believed that much of the destruction cane after the police-army forces recaptured towns and villages known to have produced many insurgents. My Lai? Shhh! 'Rumor-mongering' is a crime under the Emergency Regulations, and more than one newsman has been thrown out of the country for telling the truth; more -- many more -- than one citizen has been arrested. Perhaps the comparison is not apt -- after all, in most of the world police and military brutality is not an issue, but an accepted fact -- but still, the government has been most reluctant to acknowledge that many of the battles were won from the helicopters which the U.S. supplied (via Britain): after all, Saigon is not so far from Colombo.
As foreign supplies poured in, the army and police (about 25,000 men, backed up by reserves) were able to get the upper hand on the rebels, and by the
end of the month the last towns were retaken -- although many villages are still under insurgent influence. A four day amnesty at the beginning of the month further weakened the insurgent forces: about 4,000 of them surrendered. These, however, were mostly the late-comers; the original cadre has yet to be broken, and may even be stronger today than when they first set out, their strength emanating from concentration and experience. They have retreated into a number of densely jungled areas where, apparently, they stored massive supplies before the troubles began. With the monsoon expected to begin any day -- rendering heavy equipment ineffectual -- they will not be easy to dislodge. They can be expected to wage continued battle for a long time to come, specializing in guerrilla tactics.
Ceylon, however, is not Viet Nam: since it is an island there is no possibility of establishing an equivalent of the Ho Chi Minh Trail; the people are used to peace and may not react to a long siege with the same -- what? equanimity? stoicism? restrained grief? -- that the Vietnamese seem to show. Nor do the combatants have any long murderous tradition of combat to maintain and to maintain them. And, in spite of its ineffectiveness, Mrs. B's government won a sweeping election victory less than a year ago and still retains much of its popularity (though much of this is being dissipated by widely believed -- and probably true -- stories of atrocities, primarily perpetrated by the police). The rebels are a politically rag-tag band of sophisticated (by Ceylonese standards) students and graduates, and simple semi-urban semi-rural dispossessed, and they have put forth a plethora of schemes and programs -- the government has allowed only the most outrageous of these plans to be made known (the rebels lack all facilities -- perhaps interest as well -- to communicate with the populace except by word of mouth, which means, again, that it has no unified program) such as the plan to solve unemployment by killing everyone over 55 years old, and to solve the food shortage by killing everyone under 8 years old. While it is not likely that these sort of programs represent the views of the leaders, the leadership seems to exist only on a very limited and tenuous basis (there are a number of groups of rebels in different parts of the country: communication between them must be a difficult proposition), but the bulk of the populace seem, oddly, to have believed these tales, although they don't seem at all impressed by the so predictable atrocity tales of the government press -- tales which don't sound very atrocious, particularly when compared to the tales one hears of the police. The police in Ceylon, of course, are no more concerned about the poor than are the police anywhere else, but their excesses of the past month -- often revenge killings -- would be a major public issue even in Ceylon except that under the Emergency Regulations public issues -- and even private issues -- are illegal if they are critical of anything the government supports, and you can get 20 years! for breaking that law.
So much for the revolution.
The other war -- the real war -- is not so easy to find out about. Everyone has his own version of what has happened and continues to happen: the isolated farmers, the impoverished villagers, do not have the same experience and background as the Colombo socialites who hold nightly 'curfew parties'. But, from my own observations, from first-and-second-hand reports, the space between the lines of the government's tales, and from snippets from the foreign -- mostly Indian -- press (which the government tries to keep from the hands -- and eyes -- of its citizens), the following version seems likely.
Because the insurgents assigned to the Wellawaya area (at the southeast base of the central highland tea country) opened their attack a day too soon -- whether by error or necessity is uncertain -- the uprising of April 5 fell short of its goal of immediate victory. The government had time to secure the major towns, and to defend some of its positions. An attack on the Prime Minister, Mrs. Bandaranaike, never came off. Forewarned, the police of Polonnaruwa post hid in the trees and wiped out a bane of 70 insurgents who found themselves unexpectedly trapped in the deserted police station they had planned to seize. A large cache of explosives was discovered on the University of Ceylon campus, near Kandy, shortly before the uprising, along with thousands of blue uniforms (hidden in the girls' dorms) and battle plans, and the projected attack on Kandy never came off.
Attacks on Colombo were sporadic, unorganized, and doomed. Nevertheless, large areas of the country came into rebel control in the first days of the uprising. Although the rebels numbered only 10,000 to 20,000 at first, and had not the strength to hold ground against sustained attack, in the next two days their numbers swelled to between 75,000 and 100,000 as large numbers of youths -- a few of them pre-teens -- joined up and surged into rebel territory. Weaponless, untrained, and unorganized, these boys -- and girls -- lacked the resources and the heart for fighting and quickly fell back -- or just fell -- wherever the government counterattacked. Vast numbers of them quit the movement as readily -- but not as vociferously -- as they had joined it; those that did not quit made up the bulk of the 30,000 to 50,000 death toll of the first month of battle. But many towns (there are no 'cities' in Ceylon in the American sense: even the capital has only a few hundred thousand people) -- any towns continued to be held by rebels for weeks until they were driven out (along with everyone else) by bombing raids and heavy artillery: many of the towns 'liberated' by the government were reduced to ashes and rubble: it is widely believed that much of the destruction cane after the police-army forces recaptured towns and villages known to have produced many insurgents. My Lai? Shhh! 'Rumor-mongering' is a crime under the Emergency Regulations, and more than one newsman has been thrown out of the country for telling the truth; more -- many more -- than one citizen has been arrested. Perhaps the comparison is not apt -- after all, in most of the world police and military brutality is not an issue, but an accepted fact -- but still, the government has been most reluctant to acknowledge that many of the battles were won from the helicopters which the U.S. supplied (via Britain): after all, Saigon is not so far from Colombo.
As foreign supplies poured in, the army and police (about 25,000 men, backed up by reserves) were able to get the upper hand on the rebels, and by the
end of the month the last towns were retaken -- although many villages are still under insurgent influence. A four day amnesty at the beginning of the month further weakened the insurgent forces: about 4,000 of them surrendered. These, however, were mostly the late-comers; the original cadre has yet to be broken, and may even be stronger today than when they first set out, their strength emanating from concentration and experience. They have retreated into a number of densely jungled areas where, apparently, they stored massive supplies before the troubles began. With the monsoon expected to begin any day -- rendering heavy equipment ineffectual -- they will not be easy to dislodge. They can be expected to wage continued battle for a long time to come, specializing in guerrilla tactics.
Ceylon, however, is not Viet Nam: since it is an island there is no possibility of establishing an equivalent of the Ho Chi Minh Trail; the people are used to peace and may not react to a long siege with the same -- what? equanimity? stoicism? restrained grief? -- that the Vietnamese seem to show. Nor do the combatants have any long murderous tradition of combat to maintain and to maintain them. And, in spite of its ineffectiveness, Mrs. B's government won a sweeping election victory less than a year ago and still retains much of its popularity (though much of this is being dissipated by widely believed -- and probably true -- stories of atrocities, primarily perpetrated by the police). The rebels are a politically rag-tag band of sophisticated (by Ceylonese standards) students and graduates, and simple semi-urban semi-rural dispossessed, and they have put forth a plethora of schemes and programs -- the government has allowed only the most outrageous of these plans to be made known (the rebels lack all facilities -- perhaps interest as well -- to communicate with the populace except by word of mouth, which means, again, that it has no unified program) such as the plan to solve unemployment by killing everyone over 55 years old, and to solve the food shortage by killing everyone under 8 years old. While it is not likely that these sort of programs represent the views of the leaders, the leadership seems to exist only on a very limited and tenuous basis (there are a number of groups of rebels in different parts of the country: communication between them must be a difficult proposition), but the bulk of the populace seem, oddly, to have believed these tales, although they don't seem at all impressed by the so predictable atrocity tales of the government press -- tales which don't sound very atrocious, particularly when compared to the tales one hears of the police. The police in Ceylon, of course, are no more concerned about the poor than are the police anywhere else, but their excesses of the past month -- often revenge killings -- would be a major public issue even in Ceylon except that under the Emergency Regulations public issues -- and even private issues -- are illegal if they are critical of anything the government supports, and you can get 20 years! for breaking that law.
So much for the revolution.
28 July 2008
Letter 2.51
You have, presumably, read something about the political flare-un here -- in fact you probably have more information about the general picture than I do, since there was a clamp-down on communications and, with no newspapers, the only information I could pick up was second-hand reports and 'official announcements' (which, of course, are hardly reliable).
In the areas of the major towns, such as Kandy, there was little fighting, and Udawattakelle itself is particularly safe (it's only a few hundred acres, and with its steep hills the only exits are roads into populated areas: any insurgency forces that were foolish enough to enter would be effectively tramped). However, at night I could hear sporadic gunfire from a distance, out Matale way (to the north): never anything like a battle; rather, I would suppose, sniper action against the military patrols. The curfew, of course, did not affect me, since I had no need to leave the jungle anyway, and could walk within the jungle without hindrance: but after the first few uncertain days (when curfews were noon to 6 AM and, for one day, 24 hours), the curfew now seems to be 4 PM to 7 AM. Between 7 and 4 all is quite normal and everyone goes about their business unconcerned, then there are some quiet hours, and after nightfall occasional gunfire is heard -- the noisiest night I heard perhaps 5 dozen rounds fired over a period of about 6 hours -- 4 or 5 shots, then nothing, for maybe another hour; last night there were a lot of firecrackers going off (it was New Year's Eve, and though fireworks have, of course, been banned -- there was none of the extravaganza of skyrockets that I saw last year -- obviously, with the tension now largely dissipated (even in the trouble spots, such as Matale, full-day curfew has now been lifted) people wanted to make something of the most important national holiday of the year.
Since the insurgents are a bloodthirsty anti-American lot, they probably have the backing of the Chinese equivalent of the CIA. I've known about their plans, their views, etc, for some time now: they don't hate Americans, but rather America, and are -- or, at least, were, perfectly friendly, conducting themselves toward monks as is expected of them in a Buddhist country -- actually some of the university monks are members of their group ('university monks' are a special breed of malcontents who have nothing to do with the Buddha's Teaching) -- however, in spite of 4 or 5 scattered incidents in the last few months, I was surprised that they should have taken up arms so soon. Probably their hand was forced by the discovery of a large hoard of explosives and the accidental detonation of two of their munition 'factories': they could hardly pretend to be a secret organization any more (though, of course, even before, everyone but the government knew, and ignored, their activities in the lackadaisical attitude of Southeast Asia: why should anyone inform the government?)
The future will probably involve continued flare-ups from time to time -- it is most unlikely that the insurgents will actually be wiped out -- as sporadic strikes are launched against the army and police. The immediate future will be quiet as the insurgents reorganize and lick their wounds; the middle future will see more such incidents; and, unless the government can make the necessary cultural (not merely economic or political) changes so that the populace will be able to see a non-violent way of bridging the gap between where they are and where they want to be -- and the policies they are now pursuing (isolationist nationalism) are not going to help people readjust their basic patterns of thinking (a narrow-based, rigidly traditional semi-fatalistic non-responsible et cetera) -- the distant future will see the sort of forced revolutionary change of thought pattern which is, in fact, what is making China a major influence. I don't know. Maybe that really is the best way -- or only way -- or most likely way -- that Southeast Asia is going to avoid the fate of the dinosaur. Certainly no other system (Singapore or Hong Kong cut-throat capitalism wouldn't work in this climate) -- can claim much success.
I've been discussing with two friends -- 'Putta and Vimalo -- the possibility of spending the summer in the Himalayas with a view to going to see a particular teacher in Thailand in the fall. Nothing is settled yet, but it's possible that we may actually go, in which case it will be sometime during the first half of May.
In the areas of the major towns, such as Kandy, there was little fighting, and Udawattakelle itself is particularly safe (it's only a few hundred acres, and with its steep hills the only exits are roads into populated areas: any insurgency forces that were foolish enough to enter would be effectively tramped). However, at night I could hear sporadic gunfire from a distance, out Matale way (to the north): never anything like a battle; rather, I would suppose, sniper action against the military patrols. The curfew, of course, did not affect me, since I had no need to leave the jungle anyway, and could walk within the jungle without hindrance: but after the first few uncertain days (when curfews were noon to 6 AM and, for one day, 24 hours), the curfew now seems to be 4 PM to 7 AM. Between 7 and 4 all is quite normal and everyone goes about their business unconcerned, then there are some quiet hours, and after nightfall occasional gunfire is heard -- the noisiest night I heard perhaps 5 dozen rounds fired over a period of about 6 hours -- 4 or 5 shots, then nothing, for maybe another hour; last night there were a lot of firecrackers going off (it was New Year's Eve, and though fireworks have, of course, been banned -- there was none of the extravaganza of skyrockets that I saw last year -- obviously, with the tension now largely dissipated (even in the trouble spots, such as Matale, full-day curfew has now been lifted) people wanted to make something of the most important national holiday of the year.
Since the insurgents are a bloodthirsty anti-American lot, they probably have the backing of the Chinese equivalent of the CIA. I've known about their plans, their views, etc, for some time now: they don't hate Americans, but rather America, and are -- or, at least, were, perfectly friendly, conducting themselves toward monks as is expected of them in a Buddhist country -- actually some of the university monks are members of their group ('university monks' are a special breed of malcontents who have nothing to do with the Buddha's Teaching) -- however, in spite of 4 or 5 scattered incidents in the last few months, I was surprised that they should have taken up arms so soon. Probably their hand was forced by the discovery of a large hoard of explosives and the accidental detonation of two of their munition 'factories': they could hardly pretend to be a secret organization any more (though, of course, even before, everyone but the government knew, and ignored, their activities in the lackadaisical attitude of Southeast Asia: why should anyone inform the government?)
The future will probably involve continued flare-ups from time to time -- it is most unlikely that the insurgents will actually be wiped out -- as sporadic strikes are launched against the army and police. The immediate future will be quiet as the insurgents reorganize and lick their wounds; the middle future will see more such incidents; and, unless the government can make the necessary cultural (not merely economic or political) changes so that the populace will be able to see a non-violent way of bridging the gap between where they are and where they want to be -- and the policies they are now pursuing (isolationist nationalism) are not going to help people readjust their basic patterns of thinking (a narrow-based, rigidly traditional semi-fatalistic non-responsible et cetera) -- the distant future will see the sort of forced revolutionary change of thought pattern which is, in fact, what is making China a major influence. I don't know. Maybe that really is the best way -- or only way -- or most likely way -- that Southeast Asia is going to avoid the fate of the dinosaur. Certainly no other system (Singapore or Hong Kong cut-throat capitalism wouldn't work in this climate) -- can claim much success.
I've been discussing with two friends -- 'Putta and Vimalo -- the possibility of spending the summer in the Himalayas with a view to going to see a particular teacher in Thailand in the fall. Nothing is settled yet, but it's possible that we may actually go, in which case it will be sometime during the first half of May.
27 July 2008
Letter 2.50
I've returned to Kandy. The monk to whom the kuti was given has disrobed and gone home, and upon learning of this I thought it best to return, rather than leave the place vacant and untended, since it was originally built for me. I find, though, that it's been much altered in my absence. So it goes.
To answer your question, why 'everybody' doesn't meditate: I don't know. Why doesn't everybody become a real -- estate dealer? Or a shoe salesman? Is the store worth watching anyway? Let those who think so watch it, and those who think not may ignore it. I don't feel that I'm returning anything as 'payment' for the food etc. I'm given (although, obviously, the people who feed me feel that they're gaining something by doing so, else they wouldn't no so -- but whether their gain is from me or from the act of giving itself is another matter). Nor have I any interest in providing a return -- commerce is not my game. (I suppose that were I actually starving I might fine some interest -- but then again I might not: I reckon that I could live off the jungle's fruits, nuts, herbs, berries, leaves, and roots.
A few evenings ago I heard -- but could not see -- a fight in the tall grass in front of the kuti: between, to judge from the sounds, a mongoose and a viper. The mongoose's sounds were recognizable, but the opponent did not hiss, but rather hummed in a peculiar -- though obviously aggressive-manner. Cobras, I think, don't hum -- they hiss -- so I suspect a viper.
The monkeys come by only very occasionally nowadays, largely because a village dog comes around to eat up the leftovers. An elephant (and its keeper) happen along once in a while to feed (the elephant feeds: the keeper just chews betel).
To answer your question, why 'everybody' doesn't meditate: I don't know. Why doesn't everybody become a real -- estate dealer? Or a shoe salesman? Is the store worth watching anyway? Let those who think so watch it, and those who think not may ignore it. I don't feel that I'm returning anything as 'payment' for the food etc. I'm given (although, obviously, the people who feed me feel that they're gaining something by doing so, else they wouldn't no so -- but whether their gain is from me or from the act of giving itself is another matter). Nor have I any interest in providing a return -- commerce is not my game. (I suppose that were I actually starving I might fine some interest -- but then again I might not: I reckon that I could live off the jungle's fruits, nuts, herbs, berries, leaves, and roots.
A few evenings ago I heard -- but could not see -- a fight in the tall grass in front of the kuti: between, to judge from the sounds, a mongoose and a viper. The mongoose's sounds were recognizable, but the opponent did not hiss, but rather hummed in a peculiar -- though obviously aggressive-manner. Cobras, I think, don't hum -- they hiss -- so I suspect a viper.
The monkeys come by only very occasionally nowadays, largely because a village dog comes around to eat up the leftovers. An elephant (and its keeper) happen along once in a while to feed (the elephant feeds: the keeper just chews betel).
26 July 2008
Letter 2.49
Godawaya. Going for walks in the afternoon, sometimes I pass the fishing Village -- about 15 huts on the beach. The huts are made of cadjan in an arch shape, held in place by a framework of sticks and vines and tied with jungle creeper. The huts are about 10 feet by 20 feet on average-long and narrow -- but one hut is somewhat larger and serves as the native equivalent to the American drug-store -- tea, biscuits, tobacco, social life, can all be obtained there. A few mongrels sleep on the sand in front of this hut, waiting for a windfall. The village is still going up -- the fishermen have just moved to Godawaya for the half year when the wind comes from the NE. When it turns they take their houses down and sail off to another part of the island for the other half year.
In front of the huts are the boats -- each made from a hollowed-out coconut tree with clapboard sides built up, a mast in the center of the boat -- but many of the fishermen now have outboard motors -- Evinrude, Johnson, etc. -- and do not use their sails. The boat would capsize at once if it didn't have an elaborate outrigging on one side. Three men to a boat, they sit on narrow seats which leave no room at all for shifting weight, let alone moving about. Like fishing on a tight-rope. In the evening they push the boats into the sea, row some distance out from shore and then either start their engines or set their sails. At night their lights -- lanterns on each boat -- can be seen blinking on the horizon.
At night I've seen a curious phenomenon on the beach. While walking – only when the moon is up and nearly full -- where one has stepped, the sand glows green, and one can see his footprints phosphorescent for some minutes, as well as specks of sand that were kicked up while walking. Drawing pictures with a stick and watching the green lines appear (and disappear) is great fun (art is short, life is short).
Near midnight on a full moon night -- or nearly full -- the giant sea turtles come to land sometimes to lay their eggs. These turtles are about 4 feet across and 6 feet long -- i.e. their shells -- and they are very slow and stolid. Some distance above the high-tide mark the turtle will dig a hole with its front paws (claws? hands? feet?), shoving the sand about until there is a rather deep hole. Then it will ponderously crawl into the hole, clearing more sand as it does so, thus making the start of a trench, lay its eggs, and cover up the hole.
Now all along the beach people own 'turtle rights', and on appropriate nights they keep the turtle-vigil: if any turtle lays its eggs on 'their' land (though they do not own the land -- only the turtle-rights -- obtained from the turtles, I doubt) they will wait until the turtle (which takes absolutely no notice of anyone at all -- it is quite possible to ride on its back, and it will continue about its business as if it had no passenger) has finished laying its eggs, then remove the sand and collect them. One turtle can lay enough eggs -- each the size of a ping-pong ball -- to fill a bushel basket, and the eggs will fetch five (Ceylon) cents each in the market. As a result the giant sea turtle is -- like the elephant and the bhikkhu -- a dying race, and has all my sympathy. They will live, I'm told, for several centuries, so perhaps, will be able to wait for better times. The turtles themselves are never harmed, I'm told -- by a person who owns no turtle-rights -- that the turtle is considered an excellent creature (he pronounced anathema on the owners of turtle-rights) and related several stories of turtles doing good deeds, such as rescuing drowning sailors. I have never eaten turtle eggs (which are soft-shelled and look gooey), so can't say if they're any good.
In any case, I can see no good in eating them, and prefer peanuts. Sometimes I amuse myself by translating some Pali verses (from the Dhammapada) into English verse, and find it's rather like eating peanuts: as soon as I've done one I want another.
In front of the huts are the boats -- each made from a hollowed-out coconut tree with clapboard sides built up, a mast in the center of the boat -- but many of the fishermen now have outboard motors -- Evinrude, Johnson, etc. -- and do not use their sails. The boat would capsize at once if it didn't have an elaborate outrigging on one side. Three men to a boat, they sit on narrow seats which leave no room at all for shifting weight, let alone moving about. Like fishing on a tight-rope. In the evening they push the boats into the sea, row some distance out from shore and then either start their engines or set their sails. At night their lights -- lanterns on each boat -- can be seen blinking on the horizon.
At night I've seen a curious phenomenon on the beach. While walking – only when the moon is up and nearly full -- where one has stepped, the sand glows green, and one can see his footprints phosphorescent for some minutes, as well as specks of sand that were kicked up while walking. Drawing pictures with a stick and watching the green lines appear (and disappear) is great fun (art is short, life is short).
Near midnight on a full moon night -- or nearly full -- the giant sea turtles come to land sometimes to lay their eggs. These turtles are about 4 feet across and 6 feet long -- i.e. their shells -- and they are very slow and stolid. Some distance above the high-tide mark the turtle will dig a hole with its front paws (claws? hands? feet?), shoving the sand about until there is a rather deep hole. Then it will ponderously crawl into the hole, clearing more sand as it does so, thus making the start of a trench, lay its eggs, and cover up the hole.
Now all along the beach people own 'turtle rights', and on appropriate nights they keep the turtle-vigil: if any turtle lays its eggs on 'their' land (though they do not own the land -- only the turtle-rights -- obtained from the turtles, I doubt) they will wait until the turtle (which takes absolutely no notice of anyone at all -- it is quite possible to ride on its back, and it will continue about its business as if it had no passenger) has finished laying its eggs, then remove the sand and collect them. One turtle can lay enough eggs -- each the size of a ping-pong ball -- to fill a bushel basket, and the eggs will fetch five (Ceylon) cents each in the market. As a result the giant sea turtle is -- like the elephant and the bhikkhu -- a dying race, and has all my sympathy. They will live, I'm told, for several centuries, so perhaps, will be able to wait for better times. The turtles themselves are never harmed, I'm told -- by a person who owns no turtle-rights -- that the turtle is considered an excellent creature (he pronounced anathema on the owners of turtle-rights) and related several stories of turtles doing good deeds, such as rescuing drowning sailors. I have never eaten turtle eggs (which are soft-shelled and look gooey), so can't say if they're any good.
In any case, I can see no good in eating them, and prefer peanuts. Sometimes I amuse myself by translating some Pali verses (from the Dhammapada) into English verse, and find it's rather like eating peanuts: as soon as I've done one I want another.
The Truth having heard,
the sage does become
like a lake that's unstirred,
sedate and unplumbed.
(v. 82)
Although a throng a million strong
one might defeat on fighting field,
by far the best is that conquest
that over self one wields.
(v. 103)
25 July 2008
Letter 2.48
Well, it’s a good thing I didn't wait a day before posting my last letter, for the next day the government, having made foreign postage rates uniform, which is a good socialist measure towards uniformity, then proceeded to the next good socialist measure, which was to increase the rates. (The rates for bookpost were increased 400% -- a message there?)
As I predicted in that letter, I am now wandering -- for the last 3 weeks. This trip is far and away superior to all the wandering I've ever done before -- at last my meditation, I find, is sufficiently developed that I need no diversions. I stay off the bus routes, preferring to walk on the tea-estate roads, footpaths, and jungle tracks. I walk for a bit, then find a friendly tree to sit under for a bit, then walk for a bit more, and thus pass each day without discomfort, weariness, or anxiety. Since I don't need diversions from this, I don't have to carry all the paraphernalia I required before. One small Dhamma book is quite sufficient: otherwise my requisite of three robes, the mosquito net, and a few small things (soap, toothbrush, bandages, sitting cloth, etc.) make up my whole burden, which I manage with ease. So I've been having an exceptionally fine time so far, putting in 8 or 9 miles a day, some days less, on circuitous routes which so far -- so I'm told -- have brought me about 45 miles from Kandy.
I spent a few days in hermitage to have a few things sent to me by Mahinda, the American monk now staying in the Kandy kuti; in fact, he took a bus to where I was and delivered them personally. He seemed so pleased to stay in the kuti that I gave it to him. If I should again want to settle somewhere, I may find another place. If Mahinda wishes, he may let me stay in the Kandy kuti, or, possibly I can go to either Bundala or Godawaya, both of which are presently vacant. In any case, it matters not at all to me. My home is mindfulness.
You ask why I'm interested in giving up. The answer is that I find that by doing so I am happier for it and also more understanding of my situation. The Dhammapada -- as well as all the other texts -- states the idea frequently in verse, which I translate a bit freely, and unpoetically:
This is such a satisfying state to achieve, and the path toward it is so satisfying, I can't see why I should think to do anything else. (Case in point: When I gave Mahinda the kuti: I was gladdened not merely by making a gift, but by the relief of knowing I no longer needed the place. It was pleasant to live there, certainly, but to need it is not at all pleasant, and I just find my life became better, more pleasant to live, when I no longer had any reason to care for something as unimportant as a kuti; as bound up with both its idea and substance.
Does this answer your question? No? Well, sorry. As far as music, art, and literature, it was not so much a matter of giving up anything that mattered to me as much as it was a matter of watching my interest fade away in the face of a much more interesting occupation: meditation. As you have not cultivated this ability, you can know nothing of the subtle, non-sensual pleasures it offers, compared to which the pleasures offered by the world to the senses are akin to creating artificial itches and then providing the means to scratch them. My own slight experience confirms the report of all the intent meditators -- of all religions -- that it is the superior pleasure. This, of course, you can only accept -- or reject -- on hearsay evidence, which is not the case with me. Meditation and renunciation, you may see, go hand in hand.
As I predicted in that letter, I am now wandering -- for the last 3 weeks. This trip is far and away superior to all the wandering I've ever done before -- at last my meditation, I find, is sufficiently developed that I need no diversions. I stay off the bus routes, preferring to walk on the tea-estate roads, footpaths, and jungle tracks. I walk for a bit, then find a friendly tree to sit under for a bit, then walk for a bit more, and thus pass each day without discomfort, weariness, or anxiety. Since I don't need diversions from this, I don't have to carry all the paraphernalia I required before. One small Dhamma book is quite sufficient: otherwise my requisite of three robes, the mosquito net, and a few small things (soap, toothbrush, bandages, sitting cloth, etc.) make up my whole burden, which I manage with ease. So I've been having an exceptionally fine time so far, putting in 8 or 9 miles a day, some days less, on circuitous routes which so far -- so I'm told -- have brought me about 45 miles from Kandy.
I spent a few days in hermitage to have a few things sent to me by Mahinda, the American monk now staying in the Kandy kuti; in fact, he took a bus to where I was and delivered them personally. He seemed so pleased to stay in the kuti that I gave it to him. If I should again want to settle somewhere, I may find another place. If Mahinda wishes, he may let me stay in the Kandy kuti, or, possibly I can go to either Bundala or Godawaya, both of which are presently vacant. In any case, it matters not at all to me. My home is mindfulness.
The mindful exert themselves
To no abode are they attached.
Like swans that quit their pools,
Home after home they abandon.
To no abode are they attached.
Like swans that quit their pools,
Home after home they abandon.
Dhammapada (v. 91)
You ask why I'm interested in giving up. The answer is that I find that by doing so I am happier for it and also more understanding of my situation. The Dhammapada -- as well as all the other texts -- states the idea frequently in verse, which I translate a bit freely, and unpoetically:
“The distracted man, whose delight is in the abundance of family and flocks, whose mind is set upon his holdings, is seized and carried off by death as a sleeping village by a great flood.” (v. 287)
“It is not a strong shackle, the wise say, that's made of iron, wood, or rope. Far stronger is the longing for wealth, diversions, sons and wife. That bind, the wise say, is resilient, supple, and hard to break. This too they cut off and, giving up sensuality, without any longing, they renounce.” (vv. 345-6)
From attachment springs grief.
From attachment springs fear.
For one wholly freed of attachment,
Whence grief? Whence fear? (v. 214)
From attachment springs fear.
For one wholly freed of attachment,
Whence grief? Whence fear? (v. 214)
This is such a satisfying state to achieve, and the path toward it is so satisfying, I can't see why I should think to do anything else. (Case in point: When I gave Mahinda the kuti: I was gladdened not merely by making a gift, but by the relief of knowing I no longer needed the place. It was pleasant to live there, certainly, but to need it is not at all pleasant, and I just find my life became better, more pleasant to live, when I no longer had any reason to care for something as unimportant as a kuti; as bound up with both its idea and substance.
Does this answer your question? No? Well, sorry. As far as music, art, and literature, it was not so much a matter of giving up anything that mattered to me as much as it was a matter of watching my interest fade away in the face of a much more interesting occupation: meditation. As you have not cultivated this ability, you can know nothing of the subtle, non-sensual pleasures it offers, compared to which the pleasures offered by the world to the senses are akin to creating artificial itches and then providing the means to scratch them. My own slight experience confirms the report of all the intent meditators -- of all religions -- that it is the superior pleasure. This, of course, you can only accept -- or reject -- on hearsay evidence, which is not the case with me. Meditation and renunciation, you may see, go hand in hand.
24 July 2008
Letter 2.47
While astrology continues to not fascinate me, I do, on the other hand, have an interest, of sorts, in breathing, and am glad to know that while doing your yoga you do a great deal of breathing. So no I. Actually, my fundamental meditation practice is mindfulness of breathing, whereby one simply sits down, continues to breathe normally, but 'watches' (mentally) the breath -- i.e. one is aware of the breath as it touches the tip of the nose. This practice results in a feeling of great calm and ease (which becomes greater as one becomes more experienced), and also in a certain clarity of perception. Due to the calmness the breathing (as well as other bodily processes) slows sown; but the emphasis is not on the breath as much as on the paying-attention-to-the-breath.
So you can sit in the lotus position, can you? Perhaps I inherited my own ability to do so (in spite of an otherwise rather unsupple body) -- and perhaps the corresponding ascetic inclinations -- not entirely out of the blue.
Do I want a tape-recorder? Well, I don't want the possibility of involvement with the customs people -- and also I don't want a tape-recorder. Gradually I'm coming to understand that the way to find a solidly-based happiness is not by acquisition but by renunciation. If it is better to give than to receive, it is better yet to give up.
No, I have no objection at all to seeing other people, along a river bank, or anywhere else, nor any particular interest in seeing other people. Also I have neither objection nor interest in their seeing me. What I do try to avoid is fusses, which are seldom if ever worth the trouble; and I've learned that if I ever sit down to meditate (or sometimes merely sit down to rest) when other people around me a fuss is very likely to be made over me -- 'What country are you from?' etc. etc., cups of tea, and endless quantities of socializing, all of which I find simply not worth the effort of being involved in -- and therefore I have a preference for solitude, where there is nobody to fuss over me and nobody for me to fuss over. It is possible, of course, to simply ignore people, but 1) this requires at least some effort which might otherwise be more profitably directed elsewhere, and 2) sometimes they can intrude themselves in a very positive and aggressive manner. (Their conversation -- with rare exceptions -- consists of a series of questions all of which are totally predictable since I've heard them so many times before and which are also, therefore, of no interest at all even if they had any intrinsic interest to begin with, which they didn't, and generally concern subjects which I find no pleasure in thinking about and are not really even my concern; finally, often enough I really don't know how to answer the question without arousing hostility. For example, when wandering about if I am asked 'where are you going to?' often enough I'm not 'going' anywhere at all, but simply wandering about; but not only would people be totally dissatisfied by a reply 'Nowhere, I'm just wandering about' -- for they want positive content, something they can know and cling to: 'I'm going to Colombo': that they can repeat with assurance that they have understood -- but, being dissatisfied, they would either plague me with further equally-difficult-to-answer-and-equally-dissatisfying-for-them questions or otherwise try to pass off some of their dissatisfaction onto me. In short, then, I avoid people because -- with certain exceptions, of course -- it is usually well worth doing so.)
Now that this diatribe (explanation? you asked, after all) is over, I find that so is this aerogramme.
So you can sit in the lotus position, can you? Perhaps I inherited my own ability to do so (in spite of an otherwise rather unsupple body) -- and perhaps the corresponding ascetic inclinations -- not entirely out of the blue.
Do I want a tape-recorder? Well, I don't want the possibility of involvement with the customs people -- and also I don't want a tape-recorder. Gradually I'm coming to understand that the way to find a solidly-based happiness is not by acquisition but by renunciation. If it is better to give than to receive, it is better yet to give up.
No, I have no objection at all to seeing other people, along a river bank, or anywhere else, nor any particular interest in seeing other people. Also I have neither objection nor interest in their seeing me. What I do try to avoid is fusses, which are seldom if ever worth the trouble; and I've learned that if I ever sit down to meditate (or sometimes merely sit down to rest) when other people around me a fuss is very likely to be made over me -- 'What country are you from?' etc. etc., cups of tea, and endless quantities of socializing, all of which I find simply not worth the effort of being involved in -- and therefore I have a preference for solitude, where there is nobody to fuss over me and nobody for me to fuss over. It is possible, of course, to simply ignore people, but 1) this requires at least some effort which might otherwise be more profitably directed elsewhere, and 2) sometimes they can intrude themselves in a very positive and aggressive manner. (Their conversation -- with rare exceptions -- consists of a series of questions all of which are totally predictable since I've heard them so many times before and which are also, therefore, of no interest at all even if they had any intrinsic interest to begin with, which they didn't, and generally concern subjects which I find no pleasure in thinking about and are not really even my concern; finally, often enough I really don't know how to answer the question without arousing hostility. For example, when wandering about if I am asked 'where are you going to?' often enough I'm not 'going' anywhere at all, but simply wandering about; but not only would people be totally dissatisfied by a reply 'Nowhere, I'm just wandering about' -- for they want positive content, something they can know and cling to: 'I'm going to Colombo': that they can repeat with assurance that they have understood -- but, being dissatisfied, they would either plague me with further equally-difficult-to-answer-and-equally-dissatisfying-for-them questions or otherwise try to pass off some of their dissatisfaction onto me. In short, then, I avoid people because -- with certain exceptions, of course -- it is usually well worth doing so.)
Now that this diatribe (explanation? you asked, after all) is over, I find that so is this aerogramme.
Letter 2.46
Since I was presented with my horoscope (unasked for), I presented it to you (unasked for), merely for your amusement -- not for what you'd make of it (if anything). While horoscopes may be in the same category as reading cards or tea leaves -- i.e. that the reader is more important than the system with which he is shackled -- and it might be conceit to think that the great stars influence (not 'determine') one's life, it might also be conceit to imagine that one is free from all such influences. A good case can be made for astrology. A good case can be made against astrology also. For myself, I have no particular interest in systems of any sort. A system is necessarily a complete view, and it is impossible for an existing individual to have an outside, or complete, picture of his own existence, since as existing individual he is enclosed within and part of his world). Still, I did find it amusing -- and possibly even useful. Whether or not there's anything 'to it' is totally irrelevant. The only important question is not 'is it true?' but 'is my relationship to it a true relationship?', and if it is then its truth or falsity doesn't even arise. Can I not only apply statements in the reading to myself but also do something about it?
What Yoga book are you using, mother? And which exercises are you doing? I find that I've dropped many of the exercises I was doing and now concentrate on just a few, doing them for longer periods of time. It's a matter of experimenting to find which exercises make you feel better; but it's always a good idea to include at least a few of the exercises that tone the glands (which are usually the stimulating exercises, and one feels invigorated afterwards). Iyengar's 'Light on Yoga' is the best book I've seen: Schocken Books, New York. Since we're on books, I've just read Berne's 'Games People Play', and found it one of the best non-fiction books I've read in a long while: Black Cat Paperback (Grove Press).
The few acres of clearing I'm in abound in fruit (as well as flowers), and guava are now ripening on the tree and there's enough around for the monkeys, the village children, and even myself. Also a kind of fruit like a large pink grape, slightly tart, but rather refreshing. Jack fruit grows year around, as do papayas. No bananas here, but there are several different kinds of berries which night be nice if cultivated but wild tend to be small and not too flavorful.
What Yoga book are you using, mother? And which exercises are you doing? I find that I've dropped many of the exercises I was doing and now concentrate on just a few, doing them for longer periods of time. It's a matter of experimenting to find which exercises make you feel better; but it's always a good idea to include at least a few of the exercises that tone the glands (which are usually the stimulating exercises, and one feels invigorated afterwards). Iyengar's 'Light on Yoga' is the best book I've seen: Schocken Books, New York. Since we're on books, I've just read Berne's 'Games People Play', and found it one of the best non-fiction books I've read in a long while: Black Cat Paperback (Grove Press).
The few acres of clearing I'm in abound in fruit (as well as flowers), and guava are now ripening on the tree and there's enough around for the monkeys, the village children, and even myself. Also a kind of fruit like a large pink grape, slightly tart, but rather refreshing. Jack fruit grows year around, as do papayas. No bananas here, but there are several different kinds of berries which night be nice if cultivated but wild tend to be small and not too flavorful.
23 July 2008
Letter 2.45
The difference between August and September is greater than that between any other two consecutive months. August 31 is still summer and September 1 is already looking towards another winter -- an attitude which persists even here in the tropics, where it doesn't hold true. The rainy season ended in early August (well water after a rain is both ice cold and muddy making washing more difficult -- and I'd used up all my firewood and no more could be collected that wasn't wet -- though I could heat a bit of water on a small kerosene stove) and we've had three weeks of fine balmy weather, but the last week has been again cloudy with frequent rain and some fog. The rain was not entirely unwelcome, for it allowed me to collect water (off the roof) into some barrels, so I've a fresh supply of water now and need not go to the village to bring it up. I can collect enough now for about a month, though would increase my storage capacity with some more barrels. At any rate, we've not gone so long as a month between rains since I've come to
A few weeks ago I took a walk to the top of the mountain which I look at from my kuti. It seems to be about 1500 feet above
The Mahaweli Ganga, the largest river in
Some time ago a telegram arrived from Bundala announcing that Ñānasumana was dead. It took some days to find out what had happened -- he seems to have been bitten by a viper (vipers are prevalent in the dry area) and for some reason -- I still don't know the whole story and have heard conflicting details -- there was a long delay in getting to a doctor (vipers are not all that poisonous, and if promptly treated are not normally fatal to a healthy adult). Strange and sad news. You may recall that the goal of my first carika -- or wandering -- in 22 July 2008
Letter 2.44
The description of my kuti is now outmoded. I was offered -- and accepted -- an asbestos roof, which has now been constructed and so all problems -– whoops! I'm writing this at night, by candlelight, and just felt a mysterious creature pushing against my robes which, upon investigation, turned out to be a frog who, friendly but shy, hopped off -- and so all problems with repairs, etc., seem to be ended. (The straw mats which previously formed a movable -- they could be rolled up and down -- part of the stone wall have now been made into a ceiling and replaced with jute -- good looking also). As for other natural resources, there's a small stream at the bottom of the hill, a well about 150 yards away, and less than a mile is a movie theatre that serves Kandy and is equipped with 70mm projectors, stereo, etc.
Yes, I remember the 'Golden Book Encyclopedia', and also remember the trouble I had choosing between it and the 'Golden Book Bible' when, one day at Shirley Jaffee's clothing store, you said I could have one of them. The encyclopedia, I recall, was two pages longer than the bible. Do you remember that?
Yes, the political climate has changed. Although the new government calls itself 'socialist', it strikes me (as an outsider) as being rabidly nationalistic and will attempt to promote the welfare of the Sinhalese majority by attacking the Tamil and Moslem minorities. (As in most every country I've seen, the minority groups in Ceylon are simply 'better people' -- more cultured, economically more successful, harder workers, etc. -- than the majority. Perhaps this is, in most cases, necessarily so, else the minority groups would simply not survive as coherent groups. Anyway, if the government survives for long, which is by no means certain, it's likely that they will breed a great deal of unrest if they carry out some of the oppressive -- rather shocking -- measures which they are now talking about carrying out. But in Ceylon -- as everywhere else -- most political talk never amounts to more than just talk.)
Yes, I remember the 'Golden Book Encyclopedia', and also remember the trouble I had choosing between it and the 'Golden Book Bible' when, one day at Shirley Jaffee's clothing store, you said I could have one of them. The encyclopedia, I recall, was two pages longer than the bible. Do you remember that?
Yes, the political climate has changed. Although the new government calls itself 'socialist', it strikes me (as an outsider) as being rabidly nationalistic and will attempt to promote the welfare of the Sinhalese majority by attacking the Tamil and Moslem minorities. (As in most every country I've seen, the minority groups in Ceylon are simply 'better people' -- more cultured, economically more successful, harder workers, etc. -- than the majority. Perhaps this is, in most cases, necessarily so, else the minority groups would simply not survive as coherent groups. Anyway, if the government survives for long, which is by no means certain, it's likely that they will breed a great deal of unrest if they carry out some of the oppressive -- rather shocking -- measures which they are now talking about carrying out. But in Ceylon -- as everywhere else -- most political talk never amounts to more than just talk.)
21 July 2008
Letter 2.43
Yes, creativity is important to me -- which is one of my reasons for meditating, since meditation is a creative art using the 'artist' himself as the medium. But it is a very difficult art form.Right now the monkeys have just finished eating the remains of my breakfast, and about half a dozen of them are perched on my new stone walls -- one looking over my shoulder, several on the floor -- in the hope that there might still be a stray banana peel (which there ain't). Now, with the stone walls (about 2-2,5 feet high), a new sand-and-mud floor, and a wall portion made of large green bamboos vertically placed, the room looks clean and right -- at last. There are still things to be done (e.g. construction of a cistern to store rainwater, cementing over the mud which was used between the stones, etc.) -- I suppose there always will be something more that could be done -- but it can not be done too.
The monkeys have gone away now and I can see them jumping from tree to tree. One of the females gave birth last night and showed up this morning with her baby, the umbilical cord still attached to the baby. It is quite an education -- and now always a genteel one -- to observe the monkeys. By now I can recognize them as individuals. Some of them have distinct personalities. The Big Chief, for instance, is fearless and sits himself down in front of me at feeding time with a grunt, expecting at least half of everything going as his natural right. His queen (who is, in my opinion, the ugliest monkey in the troop) reminds me of Snow White's stepmother. Some are bold, some afraid, some friendly (one of them lets me pet him), some gentle, some aloof, some unsure of themselves, etc. There is a very definite power structure in their society. One small monkey will climb up onto my lap and pry open my fist to get at the piece of bread; but when the Big Chief is around he won't even pick up food when I throw it at his feet. (Whether he is simply a 'good subject' or whether he's particularly afraid of the top brass I haven't yet learned. Certain monkeys tend to hang out together, forming sub-clans within the larger community. They have definite sounds for warnings, etc. Arguments -- almost always over food-are settled by force (backbiting) only when there is no doubt who will win; otherwise there is a fairly elaborate series of sounds and gestures conveying anger, threat, conciliation, etc., which they will go through, coming to blows (or, rather, teeth) only in a rare last resort. Even then, no quarrel ever takes more than a few seconds to decide and only a few more seconds to be forgotten (though perhaps the overtones linger longer, creating the social structure and changing it, constantly needing to be renewed and the balance of power reweighed).
I've also been observing the butterflies (of which there are numerous varieties hereabouts) and find that they seem to have a primitive social structure too, and seem to be surprisingly aggressive for such beautiful and flimsy appearing creatures. Lightning bugs, on the other hand, seem to get along with each other without difficulties.
So much for nature studies. (Says the creeper to the vine.)
The monkeys have gone away now and I can see them jumping from tree to tree. One of the females gave birth last night and showed up this morning with her baby, the umbilical cord still attached to the baby. It is quite an education -- and now always a genteel one -- to observe the monkeys. By now I can recognize them as individuals. Some of them have distinct personalities. The Big Chief, for instance, is fearless and sits himself down in front of me at feeding time with a grunt, expecting at least half of everything going as his natural right. His queen (who is, in my opinion, the ugliest monkey in the troop) reminds me of Snow White's stepmother. Some are bold, some afraid, some friendly (one of them lets me pet him), some gentle, some aloof, some unsure of themselves, etc. There is a very definite power structure in their society. One small monkey will climb up onto my lap and pry open my fist to get at the piece of bread; but when the Big Chief is around he won't even pick up food when I throw it at his feet. (Whether he is simply a 'good subject' or whether he's particularly afraid of the top brass I haven't yet learned. Certain monkeys tend to hang out together, forming sub-clans within the larger community. They have definite sounds for warnings, etc. Arguments -- almost always over food-are settled by force (backbiting) only when there is no doubt who will win; otherwise there is a fairly elaborate series of sounds and gestures conveying anger, threat, conciliation, etc., which they will go through, coming to blows (or, rather, teeth) only in a rare last resort. Even then, no quarrel ever takes more than a few seconds to decide and only a few more seconds to be forgotten (though perhaps the overtones linger longer, creating the social structure and changing it, constantly needing to be renewed and the balance of power reweighed).
I've also been observing the butterflies (of which there are numerous varieties hereabouts) and find that they seem to have a primitive social structure too, and seem to be surprisingly aggressive for such beautiful and flimsy appearing creatures. Lightning bugs, on the other hand, seem to get along with each other without difficulties.
So much for nature studies. (Says the creeper to the vine.)
20 July 2008
Letter 2.42
I've built a small hut on the edge of the jungle here, not far from the Forest Hermitage (if you went there when you were in Kandy you'll know which jungle I mean) and have been here a month now -- fantastic scenery and all that jazz.
I've also had time to re-read Worthy Bones, which gives me quite a bit to gnaw on, though I might wish I felt more sympathy, or indeed any sympathy, or even any empathy for any of the characters. My relationship to them seems to be lacking. Whose fault is this? Mine? Yours? Theirs?
Hope by now Notes on Dhamma will have reached you (you may find yourself in the same relationship to Notes as I found myself in with Bones) -- it was sent sometime ago.
So it looks like it's maybe all over with the Island Hermitage and me -- again, lack of empathy for the characters, I suppose.
The hut is perched atop a small mountain overlooking the Odeon Theatre, Mt. Fujiyami, and some granite cliffs reminiscent of those in the interior of Crete. Then there are the gentle dusky green and rust-brown hills which roll away beyond the clearing, lowbushed, surrounding my site, with closer and heavier jungle on three sides. I am, presumably, not far from a lunatic asylum to judge from the number of madmen who visit me or pass by on strange quests.
Tucked away at the bottom of the mountain, out of sight -- like the outhut -- is the village where I collect my food and mail each morning -- a rather mixed bag which would not meet with the full approval of your dietician. Tucked away at the top of the mountain, consuming stringhopper hearts after carefully unraveling the string, I wish you a happy (Sinhalese) New Year (April 14), a Merry Vesak (May ?), and continue trying to undo what is to be undone.
(Your letter arrived after sealing this. Shall be happy to receive a new set of Bones -- shall donate the old set to the local museum of Natural History -- they will closet them. Does your Notes have English translation?)
V.
I've also had time to re-read Worthy Bones, which gives me quite a bit to gnaw on, though I might wish I felt more sympathy, or indeed any sympathy, or even any empathy for any of the characters. My relationship to them seems to be lacking. Whose fault is this? Mine? Yours? Theirs?
Hope by now Notes on Dhamma will have reached you (you may find yourself in the same relationship to Notes as I found myself in with Bones) -- it was sent sometime ago.
So it looks like it's maybe all over with the Island Hermitage and me -- again, lack of empathy for the characters, I suppose.
The hut is perched atop a small mountain overlooking the Odeon Theatre, Mt. Fujiyami, and some granite cliffs reminiscent of those in the interior of Crete. Then there are the gentle dusky green and rust-brown hills which roll away beyond the clearing, lowbushed, surrounding my site, with closer and heavier jungle on three sides. I am, presumably, not far from a lunatic asylum to judge from the number of madmen who visit me or pass by on strange quests.
Tucked away at the bottom of the mountain, out of sight -- like the outhut -- is the village where I collect my food and mail each morning -- a rather mixed bag which would not meet with the full approval of your dietician. Tucked away at the top of the mountain, consuming stringhopper hearts after carefully unraveling the string, I wish you a happy (Sinhalese) New Year (April 14), a Merry Vesak (May ?), and continue trying to undo what is to be undone.
(Your letter arrived after sealing this. Shall be happy to receive a new set of Bones -- shall donate the old set to the local museum of Natural History -- they will closet them. Does your Notes have English translation?)
V.
19 July 2008
Letter 2.41
I'm getting settled down here now, although with typical Ceylon inefficiency I've not yet finished all the work on the kuti, I wonder if I ever will? For always there seems to be some little thing that can be done to make the place more… complete? For instance, there is a supply of fine granite rocks close by, and, as sand is brought up, I'm gradually making stone walls to replace the wooden ones, which will make the place more natural in its surroundings, and eliminate problems such as termites (which, in all tropical areas, are very much of a problem -- at Island Hermitage I've seen them build their tunnel in and out of the pores of a cement post to reach the wooden ceiling). This is not such a big job, actually (except for bringing the sand), since my walls are only two feet high.
Between the roof and the walls I have placed a number of straw mats sewn together, which can be rolled up in nice weather and rolled down and fastened tightly in windy weather or for complete privacy (though without any walls at all the location is already as private as can be). This has worked out very nicely so far, and we've already had some very heavy wind and rain. Also the mats are good looking. They probably won't last a year, but they are altogether only about 20 rupees -- 2 dollars -- and easily available, so replacing them should be no problem.
The roof will need replacement every year or so, since it is cadjan, and since the pitch is not great enough for cadjan alone to be leak proof, it has been covered with a brown-colored tar paper, which works quite well. Corrugated asbestos, and tiles are both too expensive, and shingles (which are also coated tar paper, aren't they?) are unknown here. The roof is single-pitched except for a bit with its own pitch over a small storage area, which almost runs into the rise of the hill.
The posts are independent of the walls, and two supporting the roof are of a green species of bamboo that is about 6 inches in diameter and very strong, set into the ground at an angle of about 30° sloping back, so that no pillar obstructs the view and to match the slope of the mountain (Pujiyami?) in the distance and blend the place as much as possible into its niche in the jungle.
Hut enough?
Yes, leeches are a nuisance, but if you're going to live in the jungle then they must be endured. They only come out with the heavy rains, when it's very wet, otherwise the paths are free of them and their bite is no more irritating than a mosquito’s, but you tend to bleed a few drops if they actually do bite, which stains my robes (how do you remove blood stains?) -- often I don't know I've been bitten until I feel the blood trickling -- and they are tenacious and a bit difficult to pry off (they're not slimy or anything) -- on the other hand, they don't fly, so given the choice I'd rather put up with leeches than mosquitos (though I've got a few of them too). A nuisance, not a problem. They rarely get inside the kuti.
I have an outhut hidden away behind some bushes, though, of course, any place equipped with running water will have a flush system. For my water I must bring back a bucket from the village every few days, when I can't collect rain water (though we've had a lot of rain this past week and I've collected it).
On the many paths and in the open spaces grows a coarse, thick-bladed grass that never gets more than an inch high and is extremely pleasant to walk on (when dry and leech-free).
Today is Sinhalese New Year -- last night and tonight I've been watching many skyrockets over the hills of Kandy (have you seen the comet lying low in the east about 5 AM?), and enjoying the holiday fare that is given me in abundance at each house on my alms rounds -- bags full of sweets, stacks of milk-rice cakes, bottles of fresh milk, and so on. Also very little spicy foods. Sinhalese (and even more so Tamil -- i.e. South Indian) chili peppers are much much hotter than the hottest Mexican varieties. The Sinhalese truly don't believe I can stay healthy on a diet in which I avoid them as much as possible. I don't see how they can…
Yes, I've heard about the World Fair in Japan. In fact, I've been planning for a long time not to attend. Having lost my interest in sports, I've decided to give up not attending Olympic Games, and switch to not attending World Fairs.
18 July 2008
Letter 2.40
Arthur C. Clarke (who wrote the screenplay of 2001, which seems to have been a film) was one of my favorite science-fiction writers in the days when I read SFI. I was aware that he lived in Ceylon, and in fact the house on Sanghamitta Mawatha is rented by a friend of his who co-authored at least one book with him.
Behind it (the house) my hut is now finished to the point where I am living in it comfortably -- most of the remaining work is just 'winterizing' -- i.e. getting ready for the rains, which begin here about early May.
Some lumber mill donated enough wood to eliminate the need for mud walls, but mud, in this climate, is by no means to be berated as a building material. Certainly in an area where there is snow it is quite impractical requiring far too much maintenance, but in the tropics it is a fine structural material -- cheap, sturdy, strong, and cool. When plastered over with the mud of termite piles it is not only long lasting but also attractive both in color (tan) and texture (which can be anything you want depending on how finely the termite pile is ground up and how it is applied). Bricks, after all, are only baked earth. In the tropics the earth gets baked naturally. There is a product called 'swishcrete' (love the name) made of 1 part cement to 14 parts earth, which lasts 20 years or more.
The walls, however, are wood, since for mud walls -- which I rate as superior to wood -- there would have been problems transporting the quantities of water needed. (Water is the most serious 'problem' here -- there is a small river with pools running at no more than a gallon a minute at the very bottom of the hill, but that's quite a climb -- especially back up, by which time I would need a bath again -- so I go to a grotto about 1/3 mile away where there is a well in picturesque surroundings, bathe there and carry back the gallon of water I need daily -- usually from the village, which has tap water, saving me the need to boil or filter the water -- but also usually people bring the water for me, so that the water problem is not 'serious'.)
The roof is of cadjan (coconut leaves woven together), which, being porous, is extremely cool. The land is about four acres of hillside (descending farther the hill becomes almost precipitous) with jungle on three sides, but the 4 acres are almost treeless and, being atop a hill, afford a rather spectacular view -- mountain peaks, coconut plantations, and the whole works-—yet is protected by the jungle from most of the weather and noises of Kandy (which is within walking distance -- a 2 mile walk through the forest reserve will bring one suddenly into the very heart of town). Pacing west I can enjoy some fine sunsets. Bushes are (so far) in perpetual bloom, and all in all the land in a similar location in the U.S. -- say a few minutes drive from the heart of L.A. yet still almost entirely natural, quiet, secluded -- would doubtless be much sought after property. In the distance, at dusk, I hear the muezzin calling his chants from the Moslem mosque in town, and watch the endless stream of bats flying across the skyline. In the day time it's monkeys, parrots, occasional water buffalo through trees that must have come from a Japanese garden-so I'm quite content here for now even without a color TV.
Lamb me tell ewe some otter gnus. Right off the bat, first morning in the gnu home, just after having eaten breakfast (which included an onions-and-chilie-pepper sandwich – pugh! -- which apeset me so horibully that verminit I thought, 'Iguana be eel! I've been pythoned! Where's a dogtoe?' -- perhaps, though it'll put heron mynah chest) a parrot mastiff elephants lumbered by my newt haress on their way to work, which was carrion off the huge coconut-tree logs lion about the place. The two antelopers (who were racoonpanied by their drivers) thrushed their trunks hunter their staggering birdens, pigged them up, and weaselly boar them byena hare. (They are for ocelot too heavy to lift even when cut insectshuns.) Wallaby damned, I thought. Monkey around with them animules and weasel be in a fine cattle of fish. I wouldn't want them for anemone. But of horse sow capabull creatures we shell rarely meat. It did my hart good. The frog lifted and the morning was pheasantly wormed bison, and to snake my thirst I drake a long swallow of water. I cassowary ibis one log after a few inches terrier of a roof sunport -- deer deer, I quailed -- and oxed the driver if the elephant colt be eggstra careful hen his aukward fitchewation. 'Serpently,' he replied. The elephant steered the log with his trunk, terning it carefully eaglempt it in his jaws, and gently brute away from mouse. I watched them aphidly owl morning. At noon they went away. (Lemur know if ewe want furother gnus and alligator round to it. When read several times this paragraph may become intelligible. Tiger beast ewe kine, hmm? And if heifer ewe asp wether amphibian or just kitten, owl condorly adder least llama gnat lion.) Whelp, I goose that'll rabbit up for now. Any moa this stuff chincilla guy.
Behind it (the house) my hut is now finished to the point where I am living in it comfortably -- most of the remaining work is just 'winterizing' -- i.e. getting ready for the rains, which begin here about early May.
Some lumber mill donated enough wood to eliminate the need for mud walls, but mud, in this climate, is by no means to be berated as a building material. Certainly in an area where there is snow it is quite impractical requiring far too much maintenance, but in the tropics it is a fine structural material -- cheap, sturdy, strong, and cool. When plastered over with the mud of termite piles it is not only long lasting but also attractive both in color (tan) and texture (which can be anything you want depending on how finely the termite pile is ground up and how it is applied). Bricks, after all, are only baked earth. In the tropics the earth gets baked naturally. There is a product called 'swishcrete' (love the name) made of 1 part cement to 14 parts earth, which lasts 20 years or more.
The walls, however, are wood, since for mud walls -- which I rate as superior to wood -- there would have been problems transporting the quantities of water needed. (Water is the most serious 'problem' here -- there is a small river with pools running at no more than a gallon a minute at the very bottom of the hill, but that's quite a climb -- especially back up, by which time I would need a bath again -- so I go to a grotto about 1/3 mile away where there is a well in picturesque surroundings, bathe there and carry back the gallon of water I need daily -- usually from the village, which has tap water, saving me the need to boil or filter the water -- but also usually people bring the water for me, so that the water problem is not 'serious'.)
The roof is of cadjan (coconut leaves woven together), which, being porous, is extremely cool. The land is about four acres of hillside (descending farther the hill becomes almost precipitous) with jungle on three sides, but the 4 acres are almost treeless and, being atop a hill, afford a rather spectacular view -- mountain peaks, coconut plantations, and the whole works-—yet is protected by the jungle from most of the weather and noises of Kandy (which is within walking distance -- a 2 mile walk through the forest reserve will bring one suddenly into the very heart of town). Pacing west I can enjoy some fine sunsets. Bushes are (so far) in perpetual bloom, and all in all the land in a similar location in the U.S. -- say a few minutes drive from the heart of L.A. yet still almost entirely natural, quiet, secluded -- would doubtless be much sought after property. In the distance, at dusk, I hear the muezzin calling his chants from the Moslem mosque in town, and watch the endless stream of bats flying across the skyline. In the day time it's monkeys, parrots, occasional water buffalo through trees that must have come from a Japanese garden-so I'm quite content here for now even without a color TV.
Lamb me tell ewe some otter gnus. Right off the bat, first morning in the gnu home, just after having eaten breakfast (which included an onions-and-chilie-pepper sandwich – pugh! -- which apeset me so horibully that verminit I thought, 'Iguana be eel! I've been pythoned! Where's a dogtoe?' -- perhaps, though it'll put heron mynah chest) a parrot mastiff elephants lumbered by my newt haress on their way to work, which was carrion off the huge coconut-tree logs lion about the place. The two antelopers (who were racoonpanied by their drivers) thrushed their trunks hunter their staggering birdens, pigged them up, and weaselly boar them byena hare. (They are for ocelot too heavy to lift even when cut insectshuns.) Wallaby damned, I thought. Monkey around with them animules and weasel be in a fine cattle of fish. I wouldn't want them for anemone. But of horse sow capabull creatures we shell rarely meat. It did my hart good. The frog lifted and the morning was pheasantly wormed bison, and to snake my thirst I drake a long swallow of water. I cassowary ibis one log after a few inches terrier of a roof sunport -- deer deer, I quailed -- and oxed the driver if the elephant colt be eggstra careful hen his aukward fitchewation. 'Serpently,' he replied. The elephant steered the log with his trunk, terning it carefully eaglempt it in his jaws, and gently brute away from mouse. I watched them aphidly owl morning. At noon they went away. (Lemur know if ewe want furother gnus and alligator round to it. When read several times this paragraph may become intelligible. Tiger beast ewe kine, hmm? And if heifer ewe asp wether amphibian or just kitten, owl condorly adder least llama gnat lion.) Whelp, I goose that'll rabbit up for now. Any moa this stuff chincilla guy.
17 July 2008
Letter 2.39
My walk ended some time ago with visits to Bandarawela, which I didn't find nearly so lovely as the tourist booklets claim, Buttala, where I stayed with a 104-year-old monk who lives in an open cave in the jungle all alone -- a fine old man -- and a few days visiting Mark at Godawaya. Things have not yet worked out suitably for me to stay at the house in Kandy which I mentioned earlier, so I'm temporarily staying with Ven. Piyadassi in a forest reserve adjacent to Kandy town -- from parts of it one can overlook the entire town -- yet it is very quiet and secluded. My residence here, however, is temporary. Most likely possibility is to get a mud hut built somewhere in the preserve, which much appeals to me. But here too some possibilities are less than others, and so nothing is definite.
We interrupt this letter for a Special News Bulletin. Since the preceding paragraph was written I have a) found a suitable location, about 200 yards behind the house, for a hut, and b) found someone willing to arrange for construction of a hut. This will take me one or two weeks to do, unless there are unforeseen delays. The place is on a grassy hill accessible by a charming footpath. Jungle all around, but a patch of a few acres are bare of trees and afford a splendid view of Kandy's hills -- village nearby (1,5 mile) for food, well already there, needs cleaning only. I will be a 'squatter' on government land (Crown Forest), but am not likely to be evicted since the D.R.O. (District Revenue Officer) would have to be the one to evict me, and part of the cost of the kuti is being paid for by the D.R.O.'s wife. As soon as further details become known the News Service will interrupt this letter with further Bulletins. We now return you to our regular letter.
Here the weather is in the high 70's in the day, middle 60's at night, sunny with showers every few days (leeches are only a problem for 24 hours after a rain; after that the ground becomes too dry for them and they disappear -- I don't know where too -- and even for the day after a rain if I remember to soap my feet well they'll keep clear of me), usually in the evening -- typical February weather hereabouts. Also, typically, there may be a postal strike, in which case a foreseen delay will hold up this letter.
We interrupt this letter for a Special News Bulletin. Since the preceding paragraph was written I have a) found a suitable location, about 200 yards behind the house, for a hut, and b) found someone willing to arrange for construction of a hut. This will take me one or two weeks to do, unless there are unforeseen delays. The place is on a grassy hill accessible by a charming footpath. Jungle all around, but a patch of a few acres are bare of trees and afford a splendid view of Kandy's hills -- village nearby (1,5 mile) for food, well already there, needs cleaning only. I will be a 'squatter' on government land (Crown Forest), but am not likely to be evicted since the D.R.O. (District Revenue Officer) would have to be the one to evict me, and part of the cost of the kuti is being paid for by the D.R.O.'s wife. As soon as further details become known the News Service will interrupt this letter with further Bulletins. We now return you to our regular letter.
Here the weather is in the high 70's in the day, middle 60's at night, sunny with showers every few days (leeches are only a problem for 24 hours after a rain; after that the ground becomes too dry for them and they disappear -- I don't know where too -- and even for the day after a rain if I remember to soap my feet well they'll keep clear of me), usually in the evening -- typical February weather hereabouts. Also, typically, there may be a postal strike, in which case a foreseen delay will hold up this letter.
16 July 2008
Letter 2.38
With the same post as this letter will go a request to an individual to unearth a copy of Notes on Dhamma for your consumption. He will presumably send you -- if he sends you anything at all -- one of the original copies, i.e. without, the many later additions including translation of various texts. This may be a disadvantage -- I'm not sure if your Pali is good enough to manage the more difficult passages without a crib -- and if so, my apologies. If you are really taken by the book -- and I must say that of all books this one most requires the reader to 'live with it' for some months or years--no doubt arrangements can be made to supply you with some or all of the missing sections and later additions.The views of your two friends on the Letters was of some interest. They were both obviously very shocked by such a direct presentation of Buddhadhamma (“The world, for the most part, Kaccana, upon hearing this Teaching, quakes and fear and trembles”) and try to account for it on the one hand (by P) by thinking that the shock was due to Ven. Ñānavīra's discussions of suicide and on the other (by D) by perhaps a more healthy but nonetheless still fearful cynicism. After all the Dhamma can be frightening -- it may be -- will be -- (wrongly) apprehended by most of us as an attack on our most precious possession, our 'self', and it takes a considerable amount of strength developed through calmness (samatha) to be able to look down into that chasm without contracting vertigo.
One other point that P raises is worthy of comment, namely the acceptance of the texts and the age. As you say, Ānanda didn't have a tape-recorder (though he did have, apparently, a remarkable memory, having memorized all the Buddha's discourses). But even if it were shown that the texts were not 25 hundred years old but 25 years old this would demonstrate nothing whatsoever except that historical scholarship is a farce, which is already known. The sole criterion for accepting the texts is whether they are useful. (I know I needn't tell you this, but your friend P seems to feel that how old a text is is somehow relevant to how useful it is and also to either be unaware of or to ignore Ven. Ñānavīra's attainment of sotapanna, and, of course, as a sotapanna he is using the texts as a formulation of his own direct knowledge. Anyway, the whole question is complicated -- too complicated for a letter -- but both points are dealt with very well in K's
Concluding Unscientific Postscript (among other works), a reading of which might be profitable for your friend P.
Odd, is it not, that P, after a thoroughgoing attack on acceptance of the Pali texts as a guide to exploration of one's own experience, should then proceed to describe himself as a 'good Madhyamikist'? As to the Note on Suicide (whose is this? yours or D's?), I would only remark that if we did not enjoy life considerably we would not need to contemplate death, and that the only true way to com it suicide is to nibbāna. In a sense, this is the essence of the Dhamma.
Thanks very much for your poems. In exchange I offer my latest haiku.
I knew a man who
though he could not name the stars
yet could see them.
V.
15 July 2008
Letter 2.37
I once had a little black box inside of which dwelt a genie. The rear two thirds of the top of the box was hinged and could open up - the hinge was on the back side, not the side side. On the front third of the boxtop was a silver lever jutting up and forwards. Beneath it a plate indicated that it was OFF and if it were pushed backwards it would be ON. I turned it to ON, and, at once, from the entrails of the box, came a chirring, rumbling, groaning sound. Slowly, the box rocked from side to side while the clattering continued. And then, slowly, slowly, the lid of the box rose and a little green hand reached out of the box, grasped hold of the lever, and pushed it back to OFF. Then the hand retreated, the lid closed, the rocking ceased, the groaning was silenced, and all was normal once more… If a machine can be made to turn itself off why not a man? Although the hand never left the box, the rabbit may not only leave its pit but fill it in as well. Because an act of will is itself insufficient to renounce (or to see) sakkāyaditthi [1] it does not follow that no conditions attainable are adequate. A bubble can burst from the inside. Strangely -- and wonderfully -- enough the ground is real: it is the abyss that is illusory, whether or not one strives (for Freedom or Bondage), the cleavage -- or what one takes to be such -- is the real problem.
I'm out wandering now -- about halfway at the moment between Kandy and Pollonuruwa -- and your words, panting and out of breath (or, perhaps, that was me), caught up with me and delivered themselves. As to the letters, you are perfectly free to make use of them without any time limit and to share them. But, when you are finished, the next designee is the designer. My own copy was lent to an individual who now will not return it -- talk about misappropriation of the Dhamma! -- and so I should like to make use of the copy now with you. As I'm out for a while, and since you will doubtlessly send it by air, there's certainly not even a near-future need of it, though there will be, perhaps, in a few months, by which time, I suppose, the need in B.C. will have been partially assuaged.
As for sending you a copy of Notes on Dhamma (I'm sorry to inform you that it's not a great hoax), as I say I'm out now and have no copies available -- in fact I've had to put my spare copy away in order to protect it from aforesaid individual and it is now unavailable to me. As soon as I return to the Hermitage it will become available and then I shall be happy to send it to you. In the meantime you can have a rest of no-reading for a few months to prepare you for the shockwaves of Notes.
I'm perched on the side of a small mountain where, sitting on the top of a rock beneath which is a fine cave, I can look down on the paddy fields in the valley, which have just been transplanted, and every field, separated from the others by small dikes, has its own shape, internal pattern, and distinct shade of green through which can be seen the reflections of the sky and the coconut groves on the hill across from me. To my right are some jagged barren mountains, all around me are a profusion of wild flowers. I can wander through the village, along narrow dirt paths winding about: re-crossing the paddy fields, and collect my alms food, and then climb back up my mountain and sit on the rock, under it, or beside it (or even nowhere near it), and enjoy my stringhoppers, bananas, mangoes, sweets, etc. Then I can lie back, light up a beedie or shrootie -- I usually get some native smoke on my alms round -- and rest contented. Most of the day I just sit on the rock and watch the trees, fields, sky, etc., perhaps not entirely unmindfully.
There is a vihara higher up on the hill (I'm only about 200 feet up), and at evening they ring their bell. Then shortly afterwards the villagers will emerre from the dark shadows of the coconut trees surrounding their houses and walk, singly and in files, along the dikes of the paddy fields, a silent drift of calmness as they go to vespers. Watching them, with my robes around me against the wind, which rises at evening, in the last red light of the clouds which sometimes blanket the top of this mountain after a day of causing as little harm to creatures – myself included -- as I could manage, I feel a real quietness.
To prayer, to prayer I go… I think I go.
I go to prayer. Along a corridor of woe
And down a stair, in every step of which
I am abased. A cowl I wear.
I wear a halter rope about my waist.
I bear a candle end put out with haste.
I go to prayer.
V.
[1] sakkāyaditthi: (Pali) the point-of-view of the personality.
13 July 2008
Letter 2.36
Nuwara Hliya is perched atop a 6200 feet peak which seems to be made mostly of tea bushes, waterfalls, and dark boulders, with a few towns and villages on the way 30 miles from Gampola, where it begins its climb from 1600 feet. Tea estates look like green quiltwork with thin black borders around each patch -- almost the same dark green as coconut trees -- with widely spaced tall silvery trees (to hold the soil?) on hills which are usually at least 45°. Past Gampola (which is 12 miles south of Kandy) there are no other kinds of crops growing. About Nuwara Eliya are wide lawns, bright pastel buildings, and a few buildings with gingerbread including a charming post-office with a clock-tower. It's the summer resort of Ceylon, but January is no month to be there, for at night it is freezing cold -- into the 50's, (Actually it feels much colder than that because of a moist wind.) Even a heavy blanket and all my robes were not enough to keep me warm at night. The thin air warms up in the daytime and in the sunlight, which sends wisps of steam up from the ground, it can be quite pleasant. Some people wear long winter overcoats, others walk around in short sleeves and trousers.
On the way up, approaching one village, I came upon a big procession of children carrying papayas on sticks, the fruit decorated with various devices, and a couple elephants with a small boy atop each. The villagers told me that the two boys on the elephants -- each about 10 years old and dressed in matador-style clothing with tin-foil-and-sequined crowns -- were to be 'given to the Sangha by their parents' the next day -- i.e. they would be ordained as novice monks at their parents' wishes, not their own -- and that the parents had arranged the celebration of the event. The boys were solemn, wide-eyed, and frightened (whether of the elephant, the ordination, or both, I can't say), though everyone else was enjoying themselves (except perhaps the elephants for whom it was just another day's work). By the way, I found out that elephants can be rented by the day for between 50 and 100 rupees/day (depending, presumably, on whether it is an old elephant or a late model one), which at the tourist rate is $5-$10, or about what it costs to rent a car. Of course with an elephant there is no mileage charge or gas to pay (unless in another sense) and while it may not be as fast as a car, an elephant is certainly more versatile. The drummers in the procession were doing a peculiar sort of dance reminiscent of the Soupy Shuffle.
After coming down from Anuradhapura -- an eventless trip -- I spent a while with two Americans at their house before going on to Nuwara Eliya. They want to be Buddhist missionaries to the States -- although one of them is seriously reconsidering now whether it might not be better for him to find out first what the Buddha's Teaching is all about before giving it to the world. Also at the house was an Englishman, who had been ordained in Burma and after 8 years as a monk disrobed, since now he has a situation in England (to which he is returning) where he will be supported by some interested people and can continue his meditations under conditions which may be better for him than what he can find in the East -- i.e. a familiar culture, etc. -- but for which life as a monk would be difficult. It could be an advantage, but it could also be a disadvantage, particularly if the interest of his supporters flags. While I've met few people with whom I could discuss the Buddha's Teaching more freely, he tends toward the mystical view that (because everything is always changing, nothing really exists, whereas I do not accept the presumption that things are always changing -- they change sometimes and sometimes they remain the same for a while, and they certainly do exist), so I think we both only clarified our ideas for our own benefit.
You ask about the cyclist to Calcutta -- there is a ferry boat crossing the narrow Falk Straits which separate Ceylon from India (about 10 or 15 miles, I think and the fare cannot be very much for that journey. There are some Hindus who begin from someplace in India -- perhaps Benares or Rishikesh -- and roll to Katuragari in SB Ceylon, where there is a Hindu goddess living (so I'm told), and where there is a big ceremony every year, with fire-walking and all the other things (firewalkers, of course, are well-authenticated -- I've met many people who have seen it and a few who have participated. I've also met a fellow who, in a frenzy of religious (Hindu) fervor, puts nails through his arms, legs, and tongues, and neither bleeds nor feels pain) -- anyway there are people who roll to Kataragama (whether sideways or head-over-heels I've not learned), and while on the ferry boat they roll up and down the deck. So cycling isn't such a feat as all that.
Did I mention that Anuradhapura is the only city in Asia where I've seen corn-on-the-cob? To shuck Cornbelt Buddhists? In any case, it's extremely popular -- sold cooked (sans butter or salt) on the street.
I meant to say, by the way, that the bo-leaf was a symbol of my work, not worth.
On the way up, approaching one village, I came upon a big procession of children carrying papayas on sticks, the fruit decorated with various devices, and a couple elephants with a small boy atop each. The villagers told me that the two boys on the elephants -- each about 10 years old and dressed in matador-style clothing with tin-foil-and-sequined crowns -- were to be 'given to the Sangha by their parents' the next day -- i.e. they would be ordained as novice monks at their parents' wishes, not their own -- and that the parents had arranged the celebration of the event. The boys were solemn, wide-eyed, and frightened (whether of the elephant, the ordination, or both, I can't say), though everyone else was enjoying themselves (except perhaps the elephants for whom it was just another day's work). By the way, I found out that elephants can be rented by the day for between 50 and 100 rupees/day (depending, presumably, on whether it is an old elephant or a late model one), which at the tourist rate is $5-$10, or about what it costs to rent a car. Of course with an elephant there is no mileage charge or gas to pay (unless in another sense) and while it may not be as fast as a car, an elephant is certainly more versatile. The drummers in the procession were doing a peculiar sort of dance reminiscent of the Soupy Shuffle.
After coming down from Anuradhapura -- an eventless trip -- I spent a while with two Americans at their house before going on to Nuwara Eliya. They want to be Buddhist missionaries to the States -- although one of them is seriously reconsidering now whether it might not be better for him to find out first what the Buddha's Teaching is all about before giving it to the world. Also at the house was an Englishman, who had been ordained in Burma and after 8 years as a monk disrobed, since now he has a situation in England (to which he is returning) where he will be supported by some interested people and can continue his meditations under conditions which may be better for him than what he can find in the East -- i.e. a familiar culture, etc. -- but for which life as a monk would be difficult. It could be an advantage, but it could also be a disadvantage, particularly if the interest of his supporters flags. While I've met few people with whom I could discuss the Buddha's Teaching more freely, he tends toward the mystical view that (because everything is always changing, nothing really exists, whereas I do not accept the presumption that things are always changing -- they change sometimes and sometimes they remain the same for a while, and they certainly do exist), so I think we both only clarified our ideas for our own benefit.
You ask about the cyclist to Calcutta -- there is a ferry boat crossing the narrow Falk Straits which separate Ceylon from India (about 10 or 15 miles, I think and the fare cannot be very much for that journey. There are some Hindus who begin from someplace in India -- perhaps Benares or Rishikesh -- and roll to Katuragari in SB Ceylon, where there is a Hindu goddess living (so I'm told), and where there is a big ceremony every year, with fire-walking and all the other things (firewalkers, of course, are well-authenticated -- I've met many people who have seen it and a few who have participated. I've also met a fellow who, in a frenzy of religious (Hindu) fervor, puts nails through his arms, legs, and tongues, and neither bleeds nor feels pain) -- anyway there are people who roll to Kataragama (whether sideways or head-over-heels I've not learned), and while on the ferry boat they roll up and down the deck. So cycling isn't such a feat as all that.
Did I mention that Anuradhapura is the only city in Asia where I've seen corn-on-the-cob? To shuck Cornbelt Buddhists? In any case, it's extremely popular -- sold cooked (sans butter or salt) on the street.
I meant to say, by the way, that the bo-leaf was a symbol of my work, not worth.
12 July 2008
Letter 2.35
Being the most important tourist/pilgrimage site in Ceylon, Anuradhapura, overflows with many things, many strange people fulfilling -- or not fulfilling -- strange destinies. And being the rainy season, Anuradhapura overflows also with flood waters. Even the most ordinary citizens, in the currents and whirlpools of enthusiasm they have worked up in order to convince themselves of their religious certitudes, manages to cover his ordinary plain surface until all that is visible of him are his peaks, a few humps of personality protruding, like Mt. Ararat, above the floodtide of his ebullience, seeking doves with leaves in their bills.
The available leaves are all from the species ficus religiosa, or bo-tree for the main attraction, in the moistest center of the arena, is Sri Maha Bodhi, a tree of aforesaid species which according to legend -- and legend is probably correct in this case -- entered into the world as a branch of the tree under which the Buddha sat on the night of his enlightenment, which branch, having taken root, was brought to Ceylon by the daughter of King Asoka (whom H.G. Wells called the greatest king in the history of mankind) some 2200 years ago, making it the oldest tree in the world still living.
The Sinhalese make a very big to-do about it. Such a big to-do, in fact, that it is impossible to get close enough to have a decent look at it – surrounded as it is, by a gold-plated fence, not of barbed wire but of pickets -- and then an ordinary wall on a lower level and finally a third wall through which one can glimpse the branches of the tree -- which are thin and supported by iron posts -- and the leaves, which are of a peculiar reddish sheen unlike the normal green of the species -- more like the color of poinsettia leaves, I'd say -- and certainly there's no way anybody's going to sit down under it (which, of course, is the only reasonable thing to do with the tree). Therefore Ñānasuci was disappointed.
Because I had the foresight to put up in a resthouse close to the river running through town, I was able to become a refugee. The weather has been abominably wet (until a few days ago when it cleared up -- sunshine today) and one day the police came and told the resthousers that the water in the irrigation lakes had risen to the danger point and we had to leave because that night they would open the floodgates to release the flood and the waters would engulf the place. So I found refuge elsewhere in a derelict school-house smelling of cleaning solutions and mildew, where they fed me eggs until I was ready to burst open with the new supply of protein vitality and am stimulated protein-wise almost as much as the Sinhalese tourists (who insist upon calling themselves and me as well as 'pilgrims') are stimulated by their holiday-making orgies of faith (which, as Maugham correctly notes, is the most powerful intoxicant the world has ever known).
Perhaps the most interesting of those I've met so far is the 66 year old gentleman who, beginning at Maharama (near Hambantota) has bicycled here and intends to continue up to Calcutta, across Burma, and as far as Singapore before taking a ship to Japan. He has a shock of black hair, partly braided, and a double-wedged beard of white, baby smooth skin, burning eyes, a bicycle with no brakes, a T-shirt carrying slogans of the Family Planning Association in green and a wealth of self-contradictory ideas culled from various Eastern teachers. He speaks perfect English and says he has at various times been a tea planter, a teacher, a businessman, and a hermit (for some years) in the jungle living on roots, leaves, berries, and jungle fruits.
In the Anuradhapura area are many fine forests -- not jungles, but nearly parks, with tall trees (jungle trees are usually scrub) amidst lawns kept closely cropped by cattle and waterbuffalo and also some hills with caves in them in very beautiful surroundings. Several hermitages are here also, but I wouldn't be happy with the weather, which, I'm told, is either intolerably wet or intolerably hot, and although my mosquito net is proving invaluable I'd rather be in a place where it was not so useful.
Would you like a leaf from the Sri Maha Bodhi? (These leaves are not easy to get, and are available to me only on the basis of my white skin and brown robes -- if everyone who came here got one the tree would be stripped bare in a few days.) But this may have a religious significance for you that would be objectionable (although it has no religious significance at all for me -- its value is more as a symbol or reminder of my own work).
Wandering is hard, comfortless, and free. But freedom is a comfort. A state of mind rather: the ability to give up what one would keep. Therefore wandering is hard, comfortable, and free. But what is comfortable is not hard, Therefore wandering is soft, comfortable, and free.
In the two years since I last went out wandering I've acquired the strength to be able to appreciate -- i.e. understand -- freedom in a greater degree. Therefore I am progressing.
The available leaves are all from the species ficus religiosa, or bo-tree for the main attraction, in the moistest center of the arena, is Sri Maha Bodhi, a tree of aforesaid species which according to legend -- and legend is probably correct in this case -- entered into the world as a branch of the tree under which the Buddha sat on the night of his enlightenment, which branch, having taken root, was brought to Ceylon by the daughter of King Asoka (whom H.G. Wells called the greatest king in the history of mankind) some 2200 years ago, making it the oldest tree in the world still living.
The Sinhalese make a very big to-do about it. Such a big to-do, in fact, that it is impossible to get close enough to have a decent look at it – surrounded as it is, by a gold-plated fence, not of barbed wire but of pickets -- and then an ordinary wall on a lower level and finally a third wall through which one can glimpse the branches of the tree -- which are thin and supported by iron posts -- and the leaves, which are of a peculiar reddish sheen unlike the normal green of the species -- more like the color of poinsettia leaves, I'd say -- and certainly there's no way anybody's going to sit down under it (which, of course, is the only reasonable thing to do with the tree). Therefore Ñānasuci was disappointed.
Because I had the foresight to put up in a resthouse close to the river running through town, I was able to become a refugee. The weather has been abominably wet (until a few days ago when it cleared up -- sunshine today) and one day the police came and told the resthousers that the water in the irrigation lakes had risen to the danger point and we had to leave because that night they would open the floodgates to release the flood and the waters would engulf the place. So I found refuge elsewhere in a derelict school-house smelling of cleaning solutions and mildew, where they fed me eggs until I was ready to burst open with the new supply of protein vitality and am stimulated protein-wise almost as much as the Sinhalese tourists (who insist upon calling themselves and me as well as 'pilgrims') are stimulated by their holiday-making orgies of faith (which, as Maugham correctly notes, is the most powerful intoxicant the world has ever known).
Perhaps the most interesting of those I've met so far is the 66 year old gentleman who, beginning at Maharama (near Hambantota) has bicycled here and intends to continue up to Calcutta, across Burma, and as far as Singapore before taking a ship to Japan. He has a shock of black hair, partly braided, and a double-wedged beard of white, baby smooth skin, burning eyes, a bicycle with no brakes, a T-shirt carrying slogans of the Family Planning Association in green and a wealth of self-contradictory ideas culled from various Eastern teachers. He speaks perfect English and says he has at various times been a tea planter, a teacher, a businessman, and a hermit (for some years) in the jungle living on roots, leaves, berries, and jungle fruits.
In the Anuradhapura area are many fine forests -- not jungles, but nearly parks, with tall trees (jungle trees are usually scrub) amidst lawns kept closely cropped by cattle and waterbuffalo and also some hills with caves in them in very beautiful surroundings. Several hermitages are here also, but I wouldn't be happy with the weather, which, I'm told, is either intolerably wet or intolerably hot, and although my mosquito net is proving invaluable I'd rather be in a place where it was not so useful.
Would you like a leaf from the Sri Maha Bodhi? (These leaves are not easy to get, and are available to me only on the basis of my white skin and brown robes -- if everyone who came here got one the tree would be stripped bare in a few days.) But this may have a religious significance for you that would be objectionable (although it has no religious significance at all for me -- its value is more as a symbol or reminder of my own work).
Wandering is hard, comfortless, and free. But freedom is a comfort. A state of mind rather: the ability to give up what one would keep. Therefore wandering is hard, comfortable, and free. But what is comfortable is not hard, Therefore wandering is soft, comfortable, and free.
In the two years since I last went out wandering I've acquired the strength to be able to appreciate -- i.e. understand -- freedom in a greater degree. Therefore I am progressing.
11 July 2008
Letter 2.34
Ñānasiha, the German monk, and I have come to his place at Cetiyagiri, about 30 miles north of Kandy. It's about half way up a small two-peaked mountain, green and rust, which is occasionally decapitated by a sharp cloud. To the south are the rocky masifs of upcountry, below are the long terraced rice fields in the valley before the Eastern hills rise, dusky in coconut groves. The rice fields have just been transplanted. Every field has its own shape, its own internal pattern and its own shade of green, and sometimes its own reflection when the several inches of water in them catches something worth reflecting. The ribbons of dark earth which separate the fields like a scrawl and the workers' bright clothing makes a fine painting with no need for oils, brushes, or canvas. Although this is supposed to be the NE monsoon season we've had only 2 rainy days here in 1 weeks and today is even hot. There is a large rock next to a small path, and when the sun drops lower I often sit on it and watch without reacting.
There are 2 Sinhalese monks living in some caves above the hut where I'm Staying -- actually the hut of Ñānajivako, the Yugoslav, who, you may recall, took his higher ordination at the same time I did. He's gone to Nuwara Eliya (the 'summer resort' town of Ceylon, high in the hills) for December -- what a time to go! Do Floridians go to Maine for December?
Outside his hut is all in flower-bright orange spots, pale purple spheres, dark purple ovals, a kind of flower which, although a very simple 4-sided monochrome, comes in clusters, and each flower is a different color. The whole scene, in short, is romantic as hell, but also pleasantly simple. I go down the hill in the morning and, after walking along one of the rice paddy field dikes, I wander along the footpaths of the village, away from the asphalt street, from house to house, collecting my alms -- beneath coconut trees (which are very cool) and close to the rubber trees (all austerely leaning in the same direction, with mottled trunk and sparce leaves -- not at all cool).
Ñānasiha has a mud hut about half way up the hill, or mountain, very solitary and quiet and a lung-clearing climb, which he has largely built himself -- a fine job. A paste made out of the dirt of termite hills makes an excellent plaster for the walls; mud-and-wattle floor, roof of woven coconut fronds.
I sure wish I could accept your pessimistic evaluation of the possibility of doing anything to alter some unfortunate facts, for then I could sit back and say, “There's no use my trying to achieve anything of real value, because it can't be done.” Unfortunately I'm not able to have the necessary confidence that there's nothing I can do about it (the 'it' refers to whatever you please), so I'm not able to sit back.
There are 2 Sinhalese monks living in some caves above the hut where I'm Staying -- actually the hut of Ñānajivako, the Yugoslav, who, you may recall, took his higher ordination at the same time I did. He's gone to Nuwara Eliya (the 'summer resort' town of Ceylon, high in the hills) for December -- what a time to go! Do Floridians go to Maine for December?
Outside his hut is all in flower-bright orange spots, pale purple spheres, dark purple ovals, a kind of flower which, although a very simple 4-sided monochrome, comes in clusters, and each flower is a different color. The whole scene, in short, is romantic as hell, but also pleasantly simple. I go down the hill in the morning and, after walking along one of the rice paddy field dikes, I wander along the footpaths of the village, away from the asphalt street, from house to house, collecting my alms -- beneath coconut trees (which are very cool) and close to the rubber trees (all austerely leaning in the same direction, with mottled trunk and sparce leaves -- not at all cool).
Ñānasiha has a mud hut about half way up the hill, or mountain, very solitary and quiet and a lung-clearing climb, which he has largely built himself -- a fine job. A paste made out of the dirt of termite hills makes an excellent plaster for the walls; mud-and-wattle floor, roof of woven coconut fronds.
I sure wish I could accept your pessimistic evaluation of the possibility of doing anything to alter some unfortunate facts, for then I could sit back and say, “There's no use my trying to achieve anything of real value, because it can't be done.” Unfortunately I'm not able to have the necessary confidence that there's nothing I can do about it (the 'it' refers to whatever you please), so I'm not able to sit back.
Aciram vat'ayam kāyopathavim adhisessati
chuddho apeta-viññāno
nirattham vakalingaram.
Soon, soon will this body
lie stretched upon the earth
unheeded, uncognizant,
like a useless stick of wood.
(Dhammapada, 41)
chuddho apeta-viññāno
nirattham vakalingaram.
Soon, soon will this body
lie stretched upon the earth
unheeded, uncognizant,
like a useless stick of wood.
(Dhammapada, 41)
10 July 2008
Letter 2.33
Your Bones [1] arrived last night and found a resting place -- no longer need they stalk the musty corridors leading to the offices and minds of musty publishers in search of a reader (not quite blinded by the must, although it makes him sneeze a lot). I was glad to find, again, sweet Carmen V. Paka [2], though I haven't yet found any reference to that famous Mexican bandit, Pancho Sila [3]. Did I steal Carmen from you, or did you steal her from me? She also occurs, rather obliquely, in A Foreign Retreat, the old piece I was having across Asia. Since then, by the way, I have finished several other books, but since there is no more room on my skin to tattoo them they have had to remain part of my oral tradition. Except, of course, for the collection of Letters which I hope you have received by now.
Well, if your diet is keeping you healthy what more can it do? Anyway, it's certainly good to avoid, as much as possible, the stimulation-soporific cycle of Sinhalese food. I don't know what amino acids and B complex contents are, never having been introduced, but they sound valuable, and I'll no longer allow anyone to rape my white rice and white sugar of them if I can help it. But can I help it? Is it my fault? Obviously not -- monks are not rapists -- we take what we get, virgin dark rice or a whore of a Nestomalt tin, or else we fast (weekly or monthly, as much or as little as we like). In other words, I envy the purity of your diet, but regret that in Ceylon even the lettuce comes both cooked and curried, which is better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick. How does one get out of this confounded rabbithole? The next stringhopper will be dedicated to you.
Betimes, here's something to tide you over, Mr. Wuthy Intalocketer:
All night I lay entwined in gold
so tenuous it seemed unreal
embracing what I could not hold
caressing what I could not feel.
All frail she kept in sleep a lone
and chartless dream while what she held
held me in keep. I might have flown
apart were I not grounded, celled,
Solidified. Yet when I tried
to free my pale schemed heart she kept
me bound and flightless by her side.
Reality, I found, was debt.
All frail she slept, and undefined,
but in the night I lay entwined.
And sumpin' else:
The goose that laid the golden egg
died looking up its crotch
to find out how its sphincter worked.
Would you lay well? Don't watch.
died looking up its crotch
to find out how its sphincter worked.
Would you lay well? Don't watch.
V.
[1] Worthy Bones -- what became our novel – Hum.
[2] WB's Jewish St, Joan -- a pun on the Pali kamma vipaka: 'ripening of karma'
[3] A pun on the Pali pancha sila: the Five Precepts of Buddhist morality.
9 July 2008
Letter 2.32
Your welcome letters have been arriving in this jungle of wild improbabilities like drops of syrup falling into a bowl of clear water. Now that winter of your content is approaching, you will be snowed by a large manuscript (Ñānavīra Letters) which I'm having sent to you. It is, in its own way, the jungle fabric of choice: rip-stop, though you will have to see for yourself whether or not it's double-stitched.
I've been doing something like your diet for the past few years: mostly fruit, vegetables, and grains; plain as possible. But I found that any rigid 'I will's' and 'I won't's' only lead to trouble, so -- after recovering from a massive protein deficiency earlier this year -- I remain flexible and healthy without hang-ups and still manage to get along well with the simplest fare, and therefore no need for flu shots, vaccines, etc. But -- there is always natural tree syrups (and a fine sort of syrup here made from the coconut-blossom pollen) which is, I am informed, full of all the undiscovered vitamins. This is an irresistible recommendation, and therefore I lap up syrups as they fall, dropwise, info my alms bowl of clear water, with all the joy with which waves lap a phosphorescent beach.
Long ago you once remarked that nibbāna could not be 'simply annihilation'. After having drunk the syrup of the fruitfulness of that remark, I reply: indeed, nibbāna can not be 'simply' annihilation -- or, rather, it is not annihilation at all, for there can only be annihilation if there is something to be annihilated, and it is precisely our delusion to assume, or conceive, the existence of a 'self' to whom annihilation (as well as birth, suffering, and death) might apply. A delusion, of course, is no illusion. But an insidious reality.
Your basket of preserved plums, generous windows, healing walls – my goodness yes. That time may come. That time may come.
The face in the borscht bowl
sends greetings to the spoon
that leaves no ripple.
V.
8 July 2008
Letter 2.31
There is a discourse where the Buddha says that it is not by going that one reaches an end. An end is reached by stopping. Activity is a means without an end, and therefore purposeless and empty. Reflexion at least might (and in fact does) reach an end -- although you will have to take that statement on trust until you see for yourself -- and is therefore purposeful. (In one sense, the purpose of reflexion is to understand what activity is all about, and in this sense they do in fact combine -- one can reflect upon activity -- in order to reach an end, to fulfill a purpose… If they are combined in the opposite way -- by acting upon reflexion -- then, as said above, there will be nothing achieved.)
Are thoughts about death necessarily morbid? Or can they be simply realistic? Is it not one's attitude towards death which can be either morbid or realistic -- morbid if one takes it as being something other than what it is -- an inevitable and frightening event awaiting each of us -- and tries to sugar-coat it (eternal bliss in heaven) or to ignore it by means of distractions (i.e. activity), and realistic if one decides that however frightening the event may be one will face it squarely and try to understand it (an absolutely necessary step on the Buddhist path) for what it is -- i.e. a real event we will not avoid simply by calling any concern about it 'morbid'. To one so concerned, of course, this is absurd and therefore humorous. Is it a morbid mind which sees the humor inherent in every situation? Or is it not true a truly morbid person is incapable of laughing, let alone at himself?
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