Reading Michael Connelly novels. The step by step of the legal comings and goings of courtrooms, attorneys, intrigues, secrets, evidence, assorted crimes, the ennui, the innuendo, the shenanigans, the bare fabric of truth, the sometimes cynicism of justice.
Then this from Ch’iu Wei (8th c):
On the mountain top one thatched hut,
Thirty li from roads.
Knock on the door: no disciple to answer;
Look in: only a table for tea.
The firewood cart is covered;
Have you gone fishing in the autumn stream?
I look among the pools, but miss you;
I try but fail to pay you my respects.
Grass shines in the fresh rain;
Pines murmur at evening windows.
Here at this moment a harmony,
Profound and unrivaled.
The self completely cleansed,
The heart, the ear.
Although there is no guest or host as such,
I’m able to intuit your pure thought.
Purpose fulfilled, I head back down the mountain.
No need now to wait for you.
--Ch’iu Wei (8th c)
There are signs and remnants everywhere. People arrive, stay for days, I do not see them. Like a wraith occupying a different dimension I remain out of view. I breathe, nap, and read. I practice an upside-down overlay of shikantaza and zazen. A spate of incense, a flicker of candle. I occupy my cell.
Even so I am barely in that place. Dreams take me away. An assortment of sleep-dreams bring different people into different scenarios without any intention or plan. These short films of otherly-pre-conscious awareness sets me always elsewhere wondering how to get back home.
Wherever that is.
I take pills and sip tea.
Steam rises from cup.
Cellophane from cinnamon streusel coffeecake wavers in breeze from open window, falls to rug.
I no longer have any thought of the day, nor of tomorrow.
I want to leave a note:
No need to wait for me, go on your own!