Sunday, March 02, 2008

White Camellias Across the Way

The Rockrose Moon (A Serial Fiction) Part 47

Yesterday I wasn’t exactly whining… it was more like a reflective commentary on my life, about the fact that I am not writing. Christian suggested I just start writing a book. I laughed because that is what he is doing and he always recommends that I do what he is doing.

All for one, one for all but you know he is doing that old man thing; the thing Eliot did, turning to God. He is writing a book about the Gospels and Jesus. I renewed his library books online the other day. He still has the Christina Rossetti book of poems out; the one he lost about two years ago and 17 books on Jesus.

He’s always complained about Buddhism, even though he has a Vajra and an Endless (Meander) knot tattooed on his forearms but lately he is giving me space because he says what ever I am doing, the yoga, the half-assed meditation practice and lately working with a koan is making me much easier and more pleasant to be around.

And other than the not writing and not being in love I am pretty happy these days.

I went to a koan workshop at the Unitarian church where I go sometimes to hear music and be shown off a few weekends ago. I took the day off work. It was cool. The teacher John Tarrant is a real poet, not one of these sort of Anglo Buddhist I write small jewel like things that sound profound but I wouldn’t know a real poem if it accosted me in broad daylight kind of guys.

Like Peter. He was there of course for the Friday night session. He teaches koans himself, I was late and sat behind him and I don’t think he saw me.

My biggest darkest hurt with Peter was that it was me he liked, He never understood about the poetry. Crazy as it sounds I feel I would much rather have someone like my poems than me. I am not important. The work is.

Tarrant was as familiar with Eliot and Rilke as he was with Basho. And he is really funny. I finally understood about the subversive work koans do and like the chanting acts as a prophylactic against the sharp barbed little judgmental commentary one runs all the time in one’s head, the koan drops into the heart and turns it towards the light.

In a wonderfully mysterious way.

Heck, I haven’t a clue what I am doing with my life, let alone my poetry, this blog, my friends, all those endless middle-aged men.

Maybe I just need to surrender to the aforementioned mystery and roll around in the unknown, a cat on newly warmed tarmac on an early spring day.

3 Comments:

Blogger chiefbiscuit said...

47th instalment! Rose's story is developing nicely.

10:51 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

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11:47 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Equanimous here again : you have just re-awakened in me hte desire to go to a retreat, because I fear koans. I fear them becuase I think I am too dumb. I think you have just said that there is possibly an _I_ that could be accessed eventually who might 'get' koans - after enough chanting and cushion time. Hmmm, this means facing getting up at 4:30 ... hmmmm .....

11:52 PM  

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