I have paintings, poems, stories, translations of oral traditions to finish that I haven’t even started yet.
If I had more time I’d make them shorter.
I stepped outside of myself and saw a blind man going down life’s street. Neither of us had seen each other before.
Dressed in rags, he stooped under the weight of a torn shouldered bag. He had no left hand. His right hand stabbed cracked cement with a crooked staff. In the middle of the sidewalk he stumbled into a parked motorcycle, adjusting his way around it. Chinese schoolgirls eating sweet junk food on sharp sticks whispering silent secrets about his stupidity passed me with empty black wide eyes.
I remembered...if a man wants to be sure of his road he must close his eyes and walk in the dark, and a blind man crossing a bridge at night is a perfect example how we should live our lives...the enlightened mind.
I followed him. I sensed a lesson in existence.
He continued scraping his staff against steps leading to shops and worked his way along a long concrete wall.
At the far end sat a beggar in rags made from boiled books. His skeleton supported a battered dirty greasy cap, threadbare jacket, no socks, broken shoes. He struggled to light a fractured cigarette. His cracked begging bowl was empty.
The blind man ran into him.
“Go around” screamed the beggar. “Can’t you see I’m here you idiot!”
“Sorry, I didn’t see you.”
“This is my space. Pay attention. Keep moving you fool.”
“Sorry to bother you. Maybe you’re a little sad, angry or lonely? Maybe I can help you.”
“What! Are you completely crazy as well as blind? I have no wife, no children, no parents, no friends, no home and no job. I live here hoping people will take pity on me.”
“I see. I know the feeling. I’m on my own. Maybe we could work together, be a team.”
The beggar rubbed his stubble. “Hmm. Let me think about it.”
“Take your time. Knowing our destiny means there’s no hurry.”
“Really? How can you be so sure?”
“Call it a hunch. Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.”
The beggar laughed. School kids passed them. One dropped a coin into the bowl.
“Thanks kid. Good luck on your exams next week.”
“I hate school. Too much homework. It’s so boring and tedious. I’d rather be home playing computer games or chatting online with my friends. I am an only child. I am a little Titan in my universe of want, want, want.”
“Your attitude sucks. Only 5% of the Chinese population has a university degree. Did you know that every June, six million students graduate from a university and 60% will not find work. They will wander the street like us. Your society faces hard cruel lessons, a reality outside your textbooks. Your people have fucked up your environment. Do you sleep where you shit? Sixteen of the most twenty polluted cities in the world are in this beautiful country. You sound like one of those single pampered little emperor kids I see every day. Busy, busy, busy. Get used to it or you’ll be out here with us.”
“A fate worse than death,” said the kid walking away. “My father owns a factory. He is rich man making huge profits off the sweat of poor illiterate fools and idiots like you, you bum. My future is filled with lots of money, a big house and a new car. Thank God for the one-child policy. I will buy a trophy wife. I will give her blood diamonds imported from mines in Africa or Burmese rubies. My country is investing huge amounts of capital all around the world to export raw materials. We feed our machines of consumption 24/7. As you know our country was squeezed, manipulated and exploited for years by big nose foreigners. Now it’s our turn to cash in billions of T-bills and let them dance to our sweet tune. And my family has a multiple-entry visa for Macau so we can leave whenever we feel like it. So, fuck off beggar man.”
“Yeah, begging isn’t a job, it’s an adventure.”
He looked back at the blind man.
“A team, eh? What’s your name?”
“My friends call me Yin. And you?”
“I don’t know my name. What’s a good name for a beggar?”
“How about Yang.”
“Does it mean anything? I’d like my name to mean something.”
“Why does it have to mean anything?”
“Well doesn’t a person’s name mean they have an identity, you know, like it defines their character, personality or something in the abstract?”
“Well, Yang symbolizes many things. For example, it stands for original integrated knowledge that has become buried by mundane conditioning.”
“You don’t say.”
“Real knowledge tends to become submerged in the unconscious.”
“Well, all I know is that my real knowledge says I’m hungry. If I don’t eat soon I’ll be unconscious. So, let’s say I take this Yang name. How will it help me realize my true nature?”
“It will give you dignity. Self-respect. Everything has already happened. We just need to experience it. Experience is the greatest teacher. A name like Yang will give you strength.”
“I need some of that. Ok. From now on you can call me Yang. Shake on it.” He reached out taking Yin’s dirty right hand. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Let’s get some money and buy some food.”
“I’ve been here all morning,” said Yang, “and all I have to show for it are a couple of Yuan. How about you? Any luck today?”
“I’ve been collecting old plastic bottles from trash containers,” said Yin shaking his bag. “I know a man who’ll give us some money for them. He’s not far from here.”
“Ok,” said Yang, “let’s go. Maybe we can get some spare change along the way.” He struggled to his feet and took Yin’s stub.
“What’s across the street?” asked Yin.
“A bunch of cheap restaurants for the high school kids,” said Yang. “Let’s beg there. People are happy to share their change when they have a full belly.”
“Good idea. Life is change. Can you help me get across?”
“Sure. We have to be careful, it’s busy - lots of pedicabs, trucks, buses, bikes. Let’s go.” Yang guided him across the river of traffic dodging bells.
“What fine music!” yelled Yin.
“It’s incomprehensible to me,” hollered Yang.
“It sounds like an angelic orchestra rehearsing for a play.”
“You are one strange animal.”
Yang stationed Yin outside a place filled with tongues and food smells. “This is a good spot. Do you have a begging bowl?”
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?” He fished it out of his bag. It reflected 10,000 things.
“Wow! It’s beautiful. Where’d you get it?”
“From a kind stranger in Tibet.”
“I’m impressed. Never been there. I wonder how beggars survive at high altitude. May I see it?”
“They practice compassion and meditate on the process of death. Here,” said Yin. “Take it. See if it brings you good fortune.”
Yang accepted the gift and gave Yin his wooden bowl.
“Good magic. You stay here and face this way. I’ll go next door and beg in the kitchen where they sell mutton. See if they’ll give me some scraps.”
“Ok,” said Yin. “Good luck. See you later.”
He stood silent inside the swirling chaos of humanity and took three deep breaths. He meditated on a single breath, a point of awareness. In-out, in-out. The emotional monkey mind loving the circus of sensory entertainment fell asleep.
He felt still, calm, quiet, focused concentration. He returned to The Temple of Complete Reality at Qinchengshan.
It was a clear above the mountain as wisps of white clouds circled the temple. Autumn colors exploded red, orange, and green near turtle and dragon gate guardians. Streams of life danced around rocks.
Feeling balance and harmony he meditated on the root below the surface of appearances.
A coin played in the bowl.
“Thank you very much.”
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