i gutted fish in kathmandu, drinking wine and sunlight, listening to the wind make love to the ocean. higher than the stepchild of everest and k2, slipping between the past and present and future and everything between. yes, even between that. lights never more brilliant. sounds never more lucid. dreams never more real. i tell you it was something feral. that's for certain.
beggars find themselves drooling at the sight of oncoming traffic, listening for the sound of music or mouths pouring through a cracked window, staring blank, clean and empty as a new chalkboard, towards that opening which serves no further purpose beyound false hope for those who've slept where most have spewed, for those who weep while others wine, for those who dream greater than the lot of us all.
a squid. there was a squid and i remember kicking and splashing and yelling but i couldn't yell because of the water and i just remember seeing it in the back of my head. i saw it swimming fast and the tentacles reaching for me and the suckers grabbing my legs and i was scared. i was terrified. but i wasn't yelling. i couldn't yell. i don't know why i thought of it or what it really meant. i mean, people usually don't think of squid when they're about to die.
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gu san do(korean)
translation: nine mountain way;nine mountains path;nine mountain school.
actual meaning: son(zen,chan,dhyana) buddhism.
whats is written as the word is not what is seen. symbols of allegory and parables wear us thin, our lucid dreams perhaps seeping into our "reality". what do numbered peaks have to do with the absolution of self?
i say everything. the silence of stone, the rhetoric of clouds, and the trail threading one mountain to the other. the only connection between all three is the quiet observer, pacing between nine valleys, reassured that he does not exist.
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