A Bus Story
Getting back onto the bus already, my friends? We have barely spent any time by the road side. Come, come back down from the metal stairs of the bus and stand beside me for just a few more moments - you should not fear that we will not move on with our journey. How often do we get to stop, step down from the bus, and take a closer look at the scenery outside of the bus? No! Don't take your bag and papers with you! Take nothing but your senses, and allow the scenery to open itself to you. You simply have to gather all that you see, all that you smell, all that you hear, all that you taste, and all that you feel, into the emptiness of your memory - why spend your time memorizing things you can look up on the bus? You have tables and formulaes all written out; facts and biographies in charming little notebooks; but you do not have all that is before you. What is before us?
Speak no more - Human discourses are for bus rides. Do you see the valley opens up its arms to embrace us high at the cliff? Look up, there's the sky, with angel's feathers spread across, hiding the blushing sun as it is ending its daily course, moving to the underworld. The two pairs of dark wings gliding in the sky are not airplanes; oh no, but they are migrating geese. They have been flying in this course for millions of years, and are, unlike us, no strangers to this neighbourhood. Look down below the valley: a gentle stream, like a seamistress, splits the green fabric in half. A town, like a button, attaches itself in the far end, rather animated with the noise and the smoke, but a lack of care renders it into lifelessness. But look! Two pieces of logs float atop the mirroring surface, and with them sit a few quiet ducks, watching the sun set. They, too, have been doing that for the past million years, and are, unlike us, no strangers to this neighbourhood. And what is immediately before us? Down at our feet, a few wild flowers and weed grow along the winding road, between cracks and cleaves of modern highways and sidewalks. Buzzing among the flowers are busy-little-bees, preparing for winter, a good recurring friend, merciless, and merciful; and an thin line of ants too attempt to move a piece of bread, probably left by some thoughtful, or thoughtless person while he takes his brief rest on the street. Now feel the decreasing warmth of the sun, and see how the yellow-ness of the flowers change accordingly. Snuff a little - do you smell that? No, it is not smell of exhaust gas from the bus, or the smell of rust from the bumper; no, no, such a rare scent, so subtle, yet so pleasing, it is the smell of the pines behind us. The gentle winds deliver it here. Close your eyes now: do you feel the gods above us? They have watched this neighbourhood for millions of years, and care very little about us. They laugh, they play, they jest, they toy...how happy they are, without human cares.
And here we are: divinities, men, heaven and earth - all fourfolds are gathered together at this site, in us. But only when we stopped and take a closer look at things, as things. But look at you again: hurrying back to the bus. Why? What will the notebooks and papers do for you? What will busying yourself with affairs do for you? What will speaking - "language-ing" - do for you? You have, so to say, gained the entire world, but you've lost yourself - not your soul (what's that? A bundle of sensations?), but your consciousness, your Being. Am I speaking non-sense when I say "I want to be one with the universe"? But off you hurry onto the bus, with your notebooks and papers, words and formulaes...Very well, let us away onto the bus. Where is this bus going anyway? To the Gates of Dis!?
Speak no more - Human discourses are for bus rides. Do you see the valley opens up its arms to embrace us high at the cliff? Look up, there's the sky, with angel's feathers spread across, hiding the blushing sun as it is ending its daily course, moving to the underworld. The two pairs of dark wings gliding in the sky are not airplanes; oh no, but they are migrating geese. They have been flying in this course for millions of years, and are, unlike us, no strangers to this neighbourhood. Look down below the valley: a gentle stream, like a seamistress, splits the green fabric in half. A town, like a button, attaches itself in the far end, rather animated with the noise and the smoke, but a lack of care renders it into lifelessness. But look! Two pieces of logs float atop the mirroring surface, and with them sit a few quiet ducks, watching the sun set. They, too, have been doing that for the past million years, and are, unlike us, no strangers to this neighbourhood. And what is immediately before us? Down at our feet, a few wild flowers and weed grow along the winding road, between cracks and cleaves of modern highways and sidewalks. Buzzing among the flowers are busy-little-bees, preparing for winter, a good recurring friend, merciless, and merciful; and an thin line of ants too attempt to move a piece of bread, probably left by some thoughtful, or thoughtless person while he takes his brief rest on the street. Now feel the decreasing warmth of the sun, and see how the yellow-ness of the flowers change accordingly. Snuff a little - do you smell that? No, it is not smell of exhaust gas from the bus, or the smell of rust from the bumper; no, no, such a rare scent, so subtle, yet so pleasing, it is the smell of the pines behind us. The gentle winds deliver it here. Close your eyes now: do you feel the gods above us? They have watched this neighbourhood for millions of years, and care very little about us. They laugh, they play, they jest, they toy...how happy they are, without human cares.
And here we are: divinities, men, heaven and earth - all fourfolds are gathered together at this site, in us. But only when we stopped and take a closer look at things, as things. But look at you again: hurrying back to the bus. Why? What will the notebooks and papers do for you? What will busying yourself with affairs do for you? What will speaking - "language-ing" - do for you? You have, so to say, gained the entire world, but you've lost yourself - not your soul (what's that? A bundle of sensations?), but your consciousness, your Being. Am I speaking non-sense when I say "I want to be one with the universe"? But off you hurry onto the bus, with your notebooks and papers, words and formulaes...Very well, let us away onto the bus. Where is this bus going anyway? To the Gates of Dis!?
posted by Tristan at 9:12 p.m.
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