Tonight, if all goes well, I will be a monk in a good-sized Buddhist temple. I am hoping it will be in Nara, at Todai-ji perhaps, or Asakusa at Senso-ji, or better still somewhere in Kyoto, although it might well be in the Myanmar jungle or somewhere deep within the Laotian highlands.
One problem with that world is that I have no control over it, which, come to think of it, leaves it like the waking world which has never hewn to my direction.
I’ve had this desire for weeks on end, and I suspect tonight will be no different, and I will spend eight hours sorting files, writing cease and desist letters and trying to convince myself that even that is a form of mindful meditation and abiding kensho will arrive in the next rapid eye movement.
The Hawaiian language has 12 letters which is important to understand particularly if you consider writing an apostrophic poem, not to a person or thing, but to a letter of the alphabet.
It might help to explain why Hawaiian poets never write about zoology or the role that zygotes play in life, and leave zymurgy to the haoles, for native Hawaiians prefer a linear life, free of endless zigs and zags
I don’t imagine I will try and learn Hawaiian any time soon, although with twelve letters, I’d have an easier time of it than Russian, say, but nor will I write an apostrophic poem to the letter Z although I will open a bottle of zinfandel to honor it.
Watching French movies you know why Hollywood seems less real than the giant letters stuck like pushpins into a hillside. Even in translation laughter remains universal but you begin to think in word pictures that have utterly no meaning le neige gris la belle chat la lumiere fantastique and you imagine dreaming in a tongue you have never spoken.