Originally Published: June 17, 2012 by remingtoncooney | You awake early. 6.30 am. You can feel the remainder of last week still hanging over you like a drooping roof. The weeks have confused themselves. Your fiery schedule is now molten and has melted through May into June. The grey skies don’t seem to dissipate. Rolling around the bed with your breath, you finally rise from twisted sheets and stumble into the bathroom. The faded light through the window looks old. The window is fogged glass; no one can see in from the street lane. He will be here in half an hour. The shower is warm, as you wash off the night’s debris. You whistle and then try to sing in falsetto. You look into the mirror at your red, burning chest. It rises slowly. Soon you’re on the street corner. A white trucks rolls round. In it, a young man with a blue rain jacket. His smile has aged deep beyond his years. His eyes sparkle with wisdom and the wrinkles around the edges make them look deep, beyond his years. Down the highway in silence. Then a few soft questions. The mountains are hidden behind early morning mist. Your head, weighted on the head rest, watches the sedated city in the early hours of a Sunday. The bridge is long. Green. Empty. Petrified lions on either end. Mouths gaping. Questions unanswered. The North is uphill suburbia. Retired. An old village. Lost warriors. You talk with your companion, but his eyes never leave the road. His answers are steady. He stays under the speed limit. Climbing through the cross-streets. English names. Pretty, dainty houses. Bi-coloured with trim gardens. No wildlife. The truck pulls up next to one. Very close. You don’t have to step far to reach the fresh cut lawn. A wooden plaque ruins the disguise: “North Shore Zendo.” A stone Jizo Boddhisatva by the door mat. Its smile, petrified. You step inside. Remove your shoes. Remove your jacket. Zip up your sweater. Find your cushion. Bow at your cushion. Sit on your cushion. Keep your eyes open. The bell rings… you breathe count to 10 and then again you nod in out of sleepiness you wonder, “what for?” you picture your mind as a small monkey squeezing itself out of your gripping hands your foot goes to sleep the bell rings… you stand and stretch and seat yourself again you wonder, “what for?” your mind is still your mind is quiet your mind is loud your mind is a child a baby… your mind is innocence your mind is dirty your mind escapes you your mind is nothing you are nothing you are everything the bell rings… You rise. You chat. Casual conversation. Small talk. Warm hearts. Familiar, friendly faces. Shaking hands. Stepping into the cold morning, you wonder,”what for?” Still the sun remains hidden. Still the day seems hesitant. Coffee with your companion at the end of the block. The barista is irritable as you order. “It is only early days,” you think. Discussions of the Tao proceed. The Wen Tzu follows. Lao Tzu rode a water buffalo across China. “Hope for humanity?” ends the conversation. You ride the sea bus back home, alone. A young child’s wail, tests your patience. The city wakes with your arrival. The 22 rattles on home. The sun peaks through the clouds. Your plans are hazy.”Such is life,” you think and you wonder, “what for?”
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