The Red Monk’s Journey To Zen:

The Red Monk tells me now that in their nightly meetings in Tushita he has begun to receive detailed notes of the master’s journey through China and India, which he calls his rahnāmag, a pilgrim’s guide to zen. We have been thinking about publishing it here in Dysutopia and, if you are actually reading or hearing this then we have not worked in vain.

The Red Monk tells me now that in their nightly meetings in Tushita he has begun to receive detailed notes of the master’s journey through China and India, which he calls his rahnāmag, a pilgrim’s guide to zen. We have been thinking about publishing it here in Dysutopia and, if you are actually reading or hearing this then we have not worked in vain. He tells me stories of visiting the master in his cave in Tunhuang, in an oasis in the great northwestern desert. He thinks it happens in a kind of dream because the Master has been gone for fifteen centuries. He thinks the Master is an eternal possibility that wakes in various situations, like dreams and roadside diners, laundromats and hospitals, anywhere a mind happens to let him in. Wherever there is an open door or a crack in the wall he passes thru, like an ocean. I tell him not to worry about the metaphysics, I just want to hear about the latest part of the adventure. § Selene and Dahma were in Egypt, he says, about 430 AD. They got out of Hippo just before the Vandals seized the harbour and burned or captured all the Roman warships, for their own fleet which would become a force of desolation around the Middle Sea. Such was all the talk in Alexandria where everyone was asking if Alexandria would also fall, the Roman garrison being so small. Now they were travelling south, up the Nile road in a small camel caravan. He had acquired some delicate objects of Etruscan gold and Selena had saved a little from her casual labour as a travelling scribe, a writer of other people’s letters in formal or elegant Greek script so, richer than they looked, they chose the relative safety in numbers and travelled with others in small caravans. They were taking the slow road to their spring rendezvous with The Captain at the Red Sea port of Berenike. Winter was warm. The palms were tired of the dull, sometimes sandy sky. Such is the weary world until the first flowers peak from the dead gardens and the dream of spring wakes to the dawning glory of its reality.

Copyright asserted by Douglas B. Wilton 2020