Falcon-esc

falcon-esc
i'm bone hollow, fierce down, and weightless grace
so that i can better saddle the
full bodied tradewinds and go
where plump warmth won't allow
what a heavy thing comfort is
soft and gratuitous around the gut;
such merry men posses great gravity
but i'd miss my ferrel wandering
and the complete, barren freedom
of the flight.

On the Eastern seaboard of India there lies the industrial rural village of Mamallampuram. I was trekking down the cast of India not long ago when I encountered a brutally hot stretch of sand and shrub land. The only oasis was a hump of granite that rose from the coast and took stance against the endless stretch of sand. I made it past the emaciated bovine guards that stood munching cud on the edge of town and entered a historical labyrinth of limestone, marble, and stone dust. For the last 1200 years Mamallampuram has been a stone carving village. Through out the entirety of its existence Mamallampuram has been fought over by the various Hindu and Buddhist rulers of India. As each new ruler would come to power they would take the inhabitants of Mamallampuram and put them to work to construct great superstructures and testaments to their respective faiths.
Mamallampuram is a tiny village of shacks and mud homes that provide a palisade for the ghost empire inside. At the inner core of the village there lies a massive city hewn from slabs of granite that could swallow city blocks. Everywhere that one of these rocks loomed up from the earth the citizens of Mamallampuram carved temples and buildings straight from the side of the stone and erected monuments to their industry from the very bellies of the behemoths they dwelled with. Stone moves in the blood of the people here. Each man of this town is a stone worker and has been since birth. His father was a stone worker and his father before and so on for the last millennium. With century after century of each dawn bringing a new day to learn each nuance of the stone they work with and each craft to master it the men of Mamallampuram have become a class apart in realm of stone craft. For hundreds of years they have been sought after by all of India’s populace to craft for them works to challenge time itself. For they do more than just mould stone with precision and speed, the denizens of Mamallampuram breathe life into each piece and sculpt it with the skill of generations.
It was wandering through the vacant corridors of this timeless city that I met Rajaram, a young student who bears the burden of being the newest member of an elite stone crafting group that has prospered in this area since the first kings of India requested the talent of these men for Temples to worship in. I was broke and in condition to march once more through the daunting stretch of sand that coiled around Mamallampuram. He gave me a place to stay and I had the honor of eating with his family; though they had little to spare.
The vast majority of Mamallampuram’s income is from tourism these days what with a recent decline in the Indian governments need for stone monuments. However the recent Tsunami has caused a drastic decline in visitors to their region. Times being hard Rajaram and his family all bore their hardships with great pride and a deep love for the work they do.


Now however we have a chance to help. If you and yours have any desire for any stone craft let me know. If you find your life lacking a perfect gift, pendant, statue, piece of culture or merely an act of philanthropy call me at
509.521.9379
and place an order. No matter what you are looking for describe it in full detail and I will see that Rajaram is informed. The port authority of Madras and I are old friends and I’ve secured the safest shipping for the least amount of money. For a fraction of what it should cost for hand crafted art from the other side of the world you can seize this chance to not only help a family but provide yourself with incredible personalized heirlooms that will linger into the future generations.

Folowing the Zen Trail

This is a letter of apology.

I may never return from Japan. I would love to have written sooner but each key on the key board has at least 7 different characters it can produce and I couldn’t find the English ones for a good long while.

For the last four days I have been trekking through the mist burdened mountains of this sublime country, fasting and reflecting at the Zen monuments that nestle in the evergreen folds of Japan’s empire. After pacing the bright action packed streets for a day or so I realized that I would never be able to afford accommodations, what with a youth hostel running at $50.00 a night. So I packed up my satchel and made for the paths of enlightenment seldom trod in the winter months. Winter has been a forgotten delight, and one that I now gorge myself upon. The still courtyards of ancient Samurai temples are filled with freshly blooming cheery blossoms and bejeweled with snow lightly falling from the marbled sky.

If I don’t return, look for me trekking the lost trails of a foreign empire chasing the shadows of my soul.

The Machine That Is

China.

I’ve been caught up in the grinding cogs of a gargantuan factory. I hear only sounds, but no words. I met more people in secluded, sealed Myanmar who spoke English than here. China grinds and galumphs with churning, burning, spewing sounds crashing through the gridded cityscapes. There is no setting between off and max with voices, no inflection, only screaming, screeching, tearing words that thunder across you with rhythmic stride. Trains, and smog, and snow pulling, sinking, crushing on the same beat as the cars that push and pulse down the street.
There are no names, only ID tags with bold numbers pinned to the chest of every employee. As if each person were but a piece installed into the great red beast; labeled teeth gnashing in a yawing iron maw. Every where there are sparks faltering in the bitter cold as steel grates on stone.

A woman came up to me selling maps on the street. Fear flooded her eyes and she dropped the maps and spun off from me as a pod of men (all alike in height and breadth) strode past with equal stride and grabbed her. They didn’t struggle or hassle her, they didn’t even break pace, they just kept moving as they latched on and propelled her down the shifting corridor. People every where churned on unaware. They tugged her, pulled her, plied her onwards, down a cluttered shaft of an ally and beat her. The wall of figures shifted and the scene was swallowed.

I swirl alone on the crimson streets seeking some glimmer of warmth. I find scorpions on sticks freshly roasted; some brittle and poisoned heat to gnash between my chaffing lips. Wandering North I find a wall that never stopped anyone… except tourists. It’s pretty great, but also frigid, frigid and mechanical.

At every check point there is a scanner that reads your sore temperature. They are scanning feverishly for those with any thermal anomalies. The dark blue uniforms with silver number plates are seeking dieses, and stopping in their route those who are burning too bright.

Everywhere there is movement. Everywhere there is pulsing, throbbing, grinding, thumping, stuttering, shaking, pounding, silence.

China.