Kek Lok Si REDEMPTION DUSK ...apparently with gaping mouth I stare at the worn-out sandals of the man I call the Gatekeeper -- of society thus far unknown to me. Society, in which faith is understood, even lived, as a natural phenomenon; part of everyday ups and downs. I am unable, even with overwhelming resolve, to make a friendly step toward this man, to whom I was introduced by the tiniest of women -- most likely of Chinese origin -- who is now eyeing me suspiciously, quite understandably, and is probably pondering whether I truly mean what Im trying to say in my weak attempt at speaking English; my confusingly shoddy anglophone presentation which she has absorbed with an understanding expression on her face and in her penetratingly wandering, slanted eyes. I suspect her absolute and single linguistic domain is Chinese. I am not aware of any invisible barrier of movement; no matter how long I search for one, resolution eludes me. How laughably pathetic is it, considering all the horrors and hardships one goes through to achieve a certain thing, that when you finally stand in the ebb of things and are close to being confronted with your Truth, you find every possible reason not to believe it? The Gatekeeper stays silent, his eyes focused on something behind tiny me -- I wonder if he even noticed my presence at all. He listens to the chatter of the small -- yet under the circumstances grand woman without reaction and I have the sense that he is thoroughly and secretly enjoying himself. Without any doubt this is just a game for him. Aside from my kinetic paralysis I feel unimaginable pressure on my temples and chest. I find it hard to breathe and the only thing I think I perceive is that my head is slowly dropping lower and lower...roughly towards his sandals. After a while I hear a question and grab it for myself instantly, not even sure if it was meant for me -- and really not caring. What do you want? I fold together English words into an origami I hope is at least distantly related to a sentence, trying to explain my wish to take part in the final work on the worlds largest statue of Buddha, found in the Kek Lok Si monastery, in which we are conveniently just standing. In a moment of -- perchance just for me -- complete silence I steal one more question for myself. Why? The first talon of uncertainty rips deep into me. Hasnt my attempted charismatic speech been obliterated and my transparency become clear in the last several minutes that dragged on like hours? At least to me it seems so. My answer, that I simply want to be part of something big, is immediately exposed as a lie and at that moment the pressure disappears, nearly sending me tumbling forwards over my invisible step forward. Invisible, because for some time already, during the simulation of a dialogue, it had not been taking place. I do not fall forward to the Gatekeepers sandals -- though I wish I had -- since my leg instinctively makes the stride for me and I instead step towards the now smiling monk, all the while trying to find some support from the tiny grand woman. But she is not smiling -- no, she is laughing hysterically, and summoning more and more of her tiny grand sisters in faith... I am let into the higher levels of this truly divine building and from that moment on nobody pays me any attention. What now? I decide that I had already fulfilled the lot of a harmless idiot and so I summon the courage to go look for the boss of this place, who will hopefully finally tell me whether I can offer up my time to work on the finishing of the grand monument of stone and bronze. One story up I find a group of focused scribes, who are writing on something I never considered could be used in such a way. Up to that point I lived under the impression that roof tiles are only good for keeping the rain out of a house...how quickly our realities can change. Seconds later I am observing the strange way they clutch their bamboo sticks, whose ends I imagine are chewed so the ink is drawn in and leaves a mark on the tiles. The ink is prepared in specially chiseled stone basins by crushing a solid pigment substance and mixing it with water, though after all Ive seen here I wouldnt be at all surprised if there were other secret ingredients. Calligraphy has been a passion of mine ever since the first grade, when my class teacher embarrassingly showed everyone my love letter, addressed to the class across the hall, and used it to explain that motivation is the most important aspect of any form of study. At least that is the way I remember it, though the memory is possibly molded so as to better defend my emotions expressed by writing... The incredible becomes reality and the monks ask me to show them my style. My laboriously regained confidence is in ruins once more and with disconnected movements I start looking for any item that would allow me to write. I see a paintbrush on the table and as it is my only hope not to lose face, I promptly and simply confiscate it while muttering unintelligibly. The beaming faces of the monks around me after I copy a couple lines of English text are the first and probably last pleasant satisfaction Ill get that day following the complete demolition of my feigned composure and all-encompassing worldview. He is here. He is simply standing among the rest of the monks and wondering what that weird, seemingly tanned European is doing. He has been informed about my presence as well as my socially unclassifiable request to work on the statue without pay, side-by-side with the specially chosen artists of the monastery for whom the work is the highest degree of personal honor. All of them working at peace, with slow premeditated movements, the polar opposite of my own expression, which is currently full of confusion and chaos in both words and body language. I receive my answer; again with mouth gaping wide, as I am presented with absolution for my sophisticated lie. Return now to your own country. You will find your peace only when you resolve that for which you are trying to atone by helping finish this statue. Seeing you work with a paintbrush I can tell you would be a great help, but I cannot release a soul and mind which is as weighed down as yours among my charges. Come back when you know your mind is the way you feel it should be in here. The boss has found me. Character is very difficult to recover... L.T, California, USA translated Joachim Vesely
Posted on: Sat, 05 Jul 2014 06:25:57 +0000
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