The winter slid precipitously into a bizarre chain of events now lost to the fog of progressive days, all of the same tone. To recall anything out of the noise… hospitals, burning yontan, symbols of faith and devotion, long lines of shaven heads, altars, shrines, some covered in gold; hanging tapestries, old bits of fabric, still used; coarse sand and gravel, the smell of incense… all of these images slid past at a rapid pace, too quick to be defined, only an overlying resonance that beat against the walls, the ceiling, that quaked and pulsed and above all soared, a field of view apart from what we were reduced to communicating, suspended in the peaceful rays of the birth of the cosmos, now still unfolding from box to box, from eye to heel. There is no moment that escapes the forward press. If anything the speed increases, now 80 km/h racing toward Seoul.
The city was overcast, the road was smokestacks filtering smoke behind the railroad, blending fog and CO2 into a pleasant fume that slid from view; past tunnels and sloping terraces, through cities and farmland, alternating food and sterile pavement.
On the bus, many questions. It gradually came to the small matter of external practice. The details became more clear with each telling – the refining of metal. My understanding was forged and on the page, here, further defined. It came down to describing the flow of life as the ground of meditation, not the heightened state.
A plumber dreams of dating a supermodel, but in his actual existence under the shit pipe what commands his attention is considerably less glamorous.
The flow is the manifestation of mind, the degree of interpenetration, the depth, the arc. It can’t be miraculously pulled from the ethers through imaginary forces, though we can dream. To access the deeper levels, the furnace, the forge, until there is nothing but heat, fire, the pulse of phenomenal existence, until the life is aflame, the rapture spilling out of every strand, every node; the eye of the eternal observes its own.