The Sound of One Hand
Two Hands Clap and There Is A Sound. What Is The Sound Of One Hand?
– Hakuin Ekaku
“…in the beginning a monk first thinks a kōan is an inert object upon which to focus attention; after a long period of consecutive repetition, one realizes that the kōan is also a dynamic activity, the very activity of seeking an answer to the kōan. The kōan is both the object being sought and the relentless seeking itself. In a kōan, the self sees the self not directly but under the guise of the kōan… When one realizes (“makes real”) this identity, then two hands have become one. The practitioner becomes the kōan that he or she is trying to understand. That is the sound of one hand.” — G. Victor Sogen Hori, Translating the Zen Phrase Book
Tales from the Tube
T.H. Watkins, the late nature writer, recounts his powerful realization of waveriding transcendence while bodysurfing Dana Point as a boy in the late 1940’s:
“The lip of the wave curved over my head, and for one brief instant I found myself in a long, green translucent tunnel that stretched 40 or 50 feet on either side of me. That moment was when I heard The Sound — a high, hollow, almost metallic keening that cut through the outside roar of the surf until it was all that could be heard. It seemed to come from a great distance, like a cry out of the ancestral night, then swept over me and moved on just as the wave seized my helpless body and plunged it through the water and into the sand. . .when I finally surfaced I was certain I had been privileged to experience one of the essential mysteries. . .I remain as convinced today as I was then that I had heard nothing less than the voice of the sea itself.”
PHOTO: CLARK LITTLE
Back to Bali
The subconscious mind is shrewdly interesting — communicating with the conscious mind seems to be its little game. Most times, I’m unaware of my subconscious, blinded by the moves of daily life and habitual roundabout distractions: my job, my career ambitions, the insignificant happenings in my bubble around me. . .who knew that in these past 24 hours, my psyche would unwarrantedly be torn apart and fitted back together, leaving me with a renewed infatuation of my wanderlust passions.
The sickness had visited me. It began after a long day’s work, and after a 4 day, Chinese fire drill of a social bender involving binge drinking with friends, befriending strangers, and skateboarding through San Francisco like a banchee on wheels dressed in a wig, muscle suit, and devil horns. The sickness rushed over my body like a small demon, carefully and methodically infesting my innards, while my innocent mind was preoccupied with the Giants/Padres game.
At first thought: a delayed hangover, backed with extreme fatigue of the weekend. My stomach cramped, dull at first. The fatigue was overwhelming. I retreated to my bed at 9:00pm, no dinner.
Slipping into a delusional state, my mind wandered, and my condition worsened. Thoughts became streamed patterns of intriguing hallucinatory nonsense; my stomach pulsated with knives.
10:30pm: shivers come. I was cold to the soul, hot to the touch. The sickness had become a delightful psychedelic terror. Feet were icy, head was boiling. The demon had comfortably and subliminally etched its way in.
11:30pm: all hell breaks loose. Off to the bathroom, for a 45 minute purge, with simultaneous liquid combustions from all chambers. I cleaned up, looked in the mirror, and my skin had a dirty yellow tinge, dripping with sweat. Called in for reinforcements, and apologized to my roommate. The Bali Belly’s cousin Salmonella had come to visit me, perhaps a good slap to the face, and the only thing that would make me come out of my forsaken working man’s hypnosis.
I couldn’t help but think about the last time I remember someone puking and turding liquid at once: it was my friend Ben; he had gotten the Bali Belly while we were on a surf trip there, and was floored for 2 days. Picture Montezuma’s revenge x3. He thought it was Malaria in his delusional state, I reaffirmed he just had the belly.
I popped 3 Imodium, 2 Tylenol, gulped some Pepto, a bottle of water, texted my boss I wasn’t coming in, and went to bed.
My dreams were confusing, colorful, wonderfully rich psychedelic canvases of my past Balinese travels fused with vivid, imaginative future travels. Bintang time with Ben at Benyasa 1, laughing with the locals; eating steaks at a restaurant filled with traditionally rich Balinese art with my brother, and a liquor store in the back as big as Bevmo. Calling my dad on my cell phone in Bali to tell him about the amazing time we were all having, and telepathically almost sitting there with him. Surfing out at Bingin before sunset: a firey red-orange sky over a green stained glass ocean, with a majestic mountainous backdrop of the Bukit penninsula.
But there was always the reverb of white noised evil lingering about, lurking in the shadows. I woke, and off I went to the dunny again to repeat the cycle. 3 more times I would do this, each time making sure to hydrate afterward.
6:00am: completely stripped of all vitamins, nutrients, and minerals; my body was like a hard drive wiped of all information. I began sipping more water, and reflected on this experience I had just been through; it was as if I had been possessed by an entity that had forced me into this downward spiral of physical chaotic purging, in turn cleansing my mind, body, and spirit. I woke with a state of mental clarity I hadn’t felt in over a year, free of the convolution of the inane, mundane bubble that once consumed me. I slept all day, floating in and out of the dream world. Finally mustering the energy to eat, and go on my laptop, I browsed Indo surfing sites, read Indo blogs, and it dawned on me:
When Reality Becomes a Nightmare It’s Time to Live the Dream.
