Friday, August 26, 2005
We stood in line cheerfully. The lady monk who gave us instructions said she had seen lines four city blocks long in the rain...this was nothing. The Cambodians were by far in the majority, and they were very friendly.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:23 PM
In the middle of a prairie suburb south of Minneapolis, a Cambodian Buddhist temple sprung up from the offerings of the Hmong refugees. Today we stand in line to see the relics of the Buddha and his principle saints, then nosh a little at the Cambodian culture festival across the way.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:21 PM
Underneath the golden umbrella, there were several saints relics. The lady monk who greeted us in line said to expect the relics to have the same presence as the saints themselves. I was curious and open minded, but a bit skeptical. As I approached Shakyamuni's blood relic, the relic of Buddha himself, my cell phone rang. It was my son, who had not talked to me in seven months, inviting himself to dinner. That was miracle enough for me.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:18 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 8:15 PM
If the mystical holiness of blood relics of Milarepa and Siddhartha himself were not enough to lift your spirit to the door of eternity, there were tables of lingerie and bras marked down for the pilgrims, special.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:14 PM
Across from the temple housing the touring relics of Buddhist teachers and saints, the rubber thong slippers were priced to sell.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:12 PM
Boiled peanuts, bubble tea and Vietnamese tea on a cinder block wall. It says Cambodian Culture Festival!
Posted by zeitguy at 8:10 PM
As we left the temple where Siddartha the Buddha rang our phone, we saw a man and his dog next to a tent full of promise. Our promise had been fulfilled. Our blessing sat lightly on our hearts, like whipped cream.
Posted by zeitguy at 8:02 PM
The ore docks an hundred years, the birds a few, the yellow field flowers a day and another, then. For me, a moment.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:42 PM
Who can live in the day-long cities of clouds, and survey the millenial waters? Who knows time as the percussion of his own wings against the rush of light, and the air as his instrument of melody? The bird, the song that sings itself against the sky.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:40 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:35 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:34 PM
This thing is the despair of all empires...the fruit and seed of life which cannot be made to kneel before your king. It is to be wild that all life aims, and strikes. And wildness is this thing, so small and peaceful in its sexual sleep. Tremble when it wakens, if you would rule.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:32 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:29 PM
Two and a half billion years ago, this stone was formed. Those billions are never to be yours. The stone shares some laden sense of years, of folded secret age...but billions? I can't do it. I can't go in that direction, of such heartless numbers. They aren't mine, or yours to know.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:27 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:24 PM
See? What did I tell you about her? It is all true. It is all in the truth, in the seeing. Right there.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:22 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:21 PM
This layered dream of hyacinth and lily pad and lily, where the poor come to smell the wanton nature, and the rich come to choose among the dreams.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:20 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:17 PM
In the brilliant hall of transparency and living clouds, a stellated dodecahedron hangs amids the bird-like bones of steel. It is pure geometry come to shine its tempered symmetry on the hothouse, on the lascivious lily below.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:14 PM
Why does this carosel horse look toward heaven with the anguish of a fallen angel? How do we find pleasure amidst these startling truths, the story of the fall carved and painted and set to spin our children round?
Posted by zeitguy at 6:09 PM
Posted by zeitguy at 6:07 PM
Sara frames the hand painted carosel flowers with the serene beauty of a woman who never forgot her own childhood.
Posted by zeitguy at 6:06 PM