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Hello Friends!
A long hiatus I know and to those few who know me I do apologise. My Art Junket turned into quite the adventure. As you know I was bound for places tropical with the spirit of Gaugin filling my sails and escape from the city on my mind. And escape I did into the sweet tropical airs. I sat beneath swaying palms, I sipped on cocktails, I wore my hibiscus shirt (kindly stitched by dear Norma Jean). The water was an aquamarine revelation, the greens archetypal, the sunsets led the way to heaven and the moon my guardian as I slept in a hammock, kissed by gentle breezes (and somewhat prey to mosquitoes). I shall never forget, on the evening of my arrival, wandering down to the beach and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the overwhelming sense of vitality as I looked upon the sand, the plash of the waves, the ubiquitous palms, the green hills, dark and full of life.
Not long into my trip I decided to hire a small dinghy and tootle around the bay. The sky was blue and the sea unruffled. I took a small hamper, packed for me by Mrs Piko, the hotelier, and ventured across the glassy inlet. The chicken and sweet pickle sandwiches (of which there were rather a lot and I admit I gobbled them all) conspired with the sweet pineapple juice, the flask of tea, the excellent fruit cake and boiled lollies to induce something of a soporific lull in the late afternoon and I dozed beneath the brim of my straw hat.
ALAS!
Somehow my barque had discovered the one small channel between the reef and the open ocean and I awoke beneath glowering skies, a fresh wind, the island a dwindling speck and no sign of other vessels nearby! Tomorrow I shall continue, but I am still weak and must rest...
5 comments:
Fom, dear,
Wake up! wake up! I am a little worried. You are like Amun-Re in golden barge, who travels to the horizon. But seeing it's dark - look up into the starry starry night and head for Scorpio - in about two weeks you should land in New Zealand. Do you have paddle? Now you have run out of chicken and pickle sandwiches - what will you eat? Keep me posted. Or, tomorrow night, follow the birds. They fly home at night. Perhaps you could take your nose off and use it for a paddle. You may find some useful things bobbing in the sea-lanes. Oil slicks will keep the waves down and so pretty to watch. But watch out for pirates. If you get anywhere near the straits of Malacca, they have 4hp motors. With just your nose for a paddle, they will get you for sure. I am rather anxious. But I have faith in Found Objects. You will know what to do.
Dear Mr Found Objects Man,
You will read this when you wake.
Aren't you pleased you didn't have plastic surgery?. Say to your nose; " Take me home, Nose".
Think of your nose as a Found Object. Finders keepers. Use that very Roman - (or is it Greek, or Afghani? ) profile - as sextant and a paddle.
For, my dear, the high Gods have made an orderly world. One form of energy converts to another.
What is trash to one makes a precious Found Object to you. Put some seaweed on your head to keep cool.
Some clues to you as you drift on the azure Pacific - all is well - the sun, the moon, the stars, move in courses that were set from the begining of things.
The sea - calm or turbulent - has a law of its own; the currents bent in a regular fashion by each island; the groundswells tell the path of storms, near or distant - and driftwood - flotsam and jetsam - will tell of land to windward.
So follow the Found Objects! Use your nose to paddle towards the Found Objects . Your salvation lies - again - with Found Objects. Take care - sea-weed will tell of a reef, up-current.
Look up at the clouds - a green could reflects a reef; the light of distant lagoon. A tall cloud an island.
And at night, the birds fly home. Fly home Mr Found Objects Man.
Dear Mr Found Objects Man
I know you are lost at sea. I am very worried. You have not said a word for three days. About your nose. Is it made of metal? It could save your life. Follow these instructions by Tseng Kung-Liang, from the Compendium of Important Military Techniques, 1044AD. (but you will have to use your nose instead of the fish mentioned by Mr Tseng Kung-Liang).
'When troops encountered gloomy weather or dark nights, and the directions of space could not be distinguished, they let an old horse go on before to lead them, or else they made use of the south-pointing carriage or the south-pointing fish to identify the directions. Now the carriage method has not been handed down, but in the fish method a thin leaf of iron is cut into the shape of a fish two inches long and half an inch broad, having a pointed head and tail. This is then heated in a charcoal fire, and when it has become thoroughly red-hot, it is taken out by the head with iron tongs and placed so that its tail points due north. In this position it is quenched with water in a basin, so that its tail is submerged for several tenths of an inch. It is then kept in a tightly closed box. To use it, a small bowl filled with water is set up in a windless place, and the fish is laid as flat as possible on the water surface so that it floats, whereupon its head will point south.'
So thats it. You will need a small bowl to put your nose in.
Thinking of you xx
watnoyMy name is R. T. Kohere and as I sit on my verandah I look out over the reef and I think of you. That is, if you are the Mr Found Objects Man I meet on the beach in Vanutha Lai lai. We had a long talk about the Un Being and you gave me a chicken and pickle sandwich.
Flow out, ebbing tide,
Flow far out to sea;
And here I sit and gaze,
On doorsteps at Mihi-marino;
How oft did I thee cross,
In days gone by.
Sing on thou cicada,
For thou art like unto me,
I'm like a bittern blowing in a swamp,
I'm like a kaka that chokes.
Is it Tawera I discern,
Hurrying across the sea?
Speed on thou star,
And stay with me the night,
For I am sore distrest;
I rave as one possess'd,
I reel as one drunken,
I'm as raupo down blown by the wind,
I'm as perehia that scurries afar.
When at myself I gaze,
My bones stare at me,
For food to me is useless,
It may as well be untasted;
Leave me then a thing void,
As crackling seaweed on shore.
Monks, listen to the parable of the raft. A man going on a journey sees ahead of him a vast stretch of water. There is no boat within the sight, and no bridge. To escape from the dangers of this side of the bank, he builds a raft for himself out of grass, sticks and branches. When he crosses over, he realizes how useful the raft has been to him and wonders if he should not lift it on his shoulders and take it away with him. If he did this, would he be doing what he should do?
No.
Or, when he has crossed over to safety, should he keep it back for someone else to use, and leave it, therefore, on dry and high ground? This is the way I have taught Dhamma (the dharma), for crossing, not for keeping. Cast aside even right states of mind, monks, let alone wrong ones, and remember to leave the raft behind.
Since the Buddha offered this advice nearly three millenia ago, there have been many crossings, and many rafts left behind.
1 P. Lal, trans. The Dhammapada (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. 1967. p. 30.
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