◊ exegesis
◊ current (p)log
◊ poem library
◊ experiments
◊ the wardrobe
(why?)
SIN SUM SON is a short story, or three short stories that go together, that I wrote in 2008, although part one only really came in 2011. Please excuse the typos and errors, this is still a draft really, I don't have an editor. Ah the joy of being your own editor! One day, someone will call me and tell me they want to be my editor, and I'll be their friend for life.
Jump down to part 2: SUM or part 3: SON
When I was at school I used to gaze out of the second story window of my geography classroom and wonder why nobody there could teach me what I really wanted to know. My fascination was growing in "the teaching outside the scriptures" and as soon as I had finished the final exams, I walked away from academia without so much as a backward glance.
I found myself following a road that few had trodden before. It was littered with the poems of great sages - Lin Chi, Ramana, the Shobogenzo. But otherwise I quickly found that I was entirely on my own. Trusting my intuition, I carried on.
After a time on the road, I took a rest on a rock on a holy mountain in India. A book lay open beside me. But I concentrated on my breaths, on my thoughts, on the source of knowing. What was knowledge? Could it really be taught? Concentrating on the source of thought took all my energy. Time and time again I turned my mind to the rhythm of my breath, and so turned to the source of mind, the source of sensation — and finally to the blankness that lies behind the mind. This I studied.
For days and weeks I trained myself in this. Each time my mind would become calm, but then would rise again — "I wonder what I will eat?", "It's time for bed" or dwelling on the past, replaying events with amazing clarity. There seemed to be nothing sublime in my head.
Unexpectedly, I was drawn into the world again, and once there, I relaxed into its comforts. I found myself in the arms of a beautiful woman. Waves of sensate bliss engulfed me. We made love by candlelight and touched that lightning rod — that blankness — that lies inside all things.
After a few weeks it ended, and I found myself on the road again, homeless. It was April in Europe and as it began to rain I climbed a mountainside and found a makeshift shelter. Again my mind turned to childhood memories, the voices of my parents played themselves through my head again and again, giving me encouragement.
A chance meeting on a street corner in a remote German town with a monk led me to a monastery in the countryside, where I found lodging for the summer. In between frenzied dancing in front of the monks' holy deity, we tilled the earth and harvested the straw. The wholesome lifestyle worked its mending ways on me. My skin was tanned brown and I shaved off my hair. When I had free time I sat in fields of sunflowers and meditated — I followed my breath again to that silent place, and held my concentration there, as if drilling through solid concrete.
Autumn came and I wandered south aimlessly, into and out of towns, sleeping in caves, railway stations, begging for food, not thinking of the future. In Venice I found myself in a church looking at a painting of Saint Anthony, living in a cave and I thought "how futile! — and yet that is exactly what I have been doing — I have abandoned the logic that runs the world and I am free — entirely free!" I wept for I knew that all around me people were in chains, and though the key was right in front of them, they could not see it.
After a few days I came to a town in the southern sole of Italy, where caves were hewn out of the solid limestone walls of a canyon. I resolved to stay here and finish my work — the path had come to an end. There was no need for further travel as all the tools I needed were in my hands, and the treasure was inside me.
Time unwound as I sat in the cave, ignoring mosquitos, and the passing voices of villagers, who knew nothing of me. Stray dogs would come right up to me and sniff before running away. I remained motionless in meditation. My hungers and pains faded away as I chipped through the stone of silence in my mind with the pure force of concentration. Slowly the world faded away as I flicked away thoughts like insects, effortlessly becoming subsumed into the fire of pure consciousness.
*
16 September 1998 — The body of a young Australian man has been found dead in a cave in a town in Southern Italy. Italian police say the boy had been dead for some time before he was found by local villagers who were led to the body after a dog was found gnawing on a dismembered human hand. The boy’s parents have been informed.
* * *
I first became a student at SUM at the age of 12 after the government schooling ended. My father paid the fee for the first six months after which I got a job in the library answering enquiries (which I felt ill suited to answer but had some guidance from the second years) which paid my fees and gave me a good chance to read and learn something of the various ways of the world.
I loved the buildings that housed the school. The library was a tall structure full of light and air like a modernist cathedral. It was unadorned and bare — the front wall of light blue tinted glass sat above a white stone courtyard near a lake in the centre of the city. In the morning, when I arrived to study and work, the cool golden light poured in through the glass and onto the rows of books arranged along twelve balconies to the roof. I spent a lot of time alone on the floor coiled up in a volume off the shelf with the sun shimmering around me. On Fridays I would go to one of the lecture halls where a second or a third year student would be giving a talk. I also took guidance from an old second year student who taught me a lot of things about the school and its obscure protocols.
It was at this time that I also started seeing a lot of Anika. She loved me and I loved her. We walked by the lake and smoked together. She was an artist and lived in a loft in the old part of the city where she painted and pontificated about the faults of the school. I wrote my essays and laughed with her over a bowl of wine. I slept on her floorboards sometimes when it was too late to get back to the school. The view from her window overlooked a row of pin oak, and those leaves turned a brilliant red in autumn. It was a very high loft for that part of town, in an old Victorian gothic building, three or four stories above the street.
When I was 18 I was approached by one of the second years who suggested I sit my exam. I didn't even know there was an exam but supposed on reflection that there must be some way to get from first year to second year — although there were people I knew who had been in the first year forever. A couple of days after hearing about it, and with no idea of what to study, I was ushered into a large empty room in one of the rear chambers of the school. A robed second year student indicated a table at which was placed a single white sheet of paper — “your time starts now” she said. I sat down and began to draw and write until I had covered both sides of the sheet of paper. I couldn’t say now exactly what I wrote — but when I had finished the second year came over and picked it up. Reading through it quickly she smiled and said “congratulations, you have passed”.
Moving to second year increased my commitment to the school. Not that I was bothered about many of the restrictions at that age, such as not joining the military or a political party or owning shares in a business or running a shop. There were also a few more rules on our movement, and about what we could say about the school and about our studies. Furthermore as a second year I no longer had to pay fees, and I was invited to participate in the running of the school a bit more, I could even lecture eventually, if I wanted to do that.
Anika wasn't very happy about the change as she was no longer allowed to see me in the evenings, and my new room was in a part of the school where only students could visit. This was the second largest building in town, known colloquially as the 'catacomb' as it was so easy to get lost in it. I began working in the kitchens and the garden, basic duties, and was under close supervision from other second years who furthered my learning. I was encouraged in a sort of philosophical essay writing and also began to participate in some of the consulting work that the school engaged in, working with government and industry and individuals who required a deep and thorough examination of an issue from the unique perspective that the school could offer.
It was this role that the school had within society that protected it. Many centuries before, society thought it had little use for such seemingly abstract studies. The focus was on the measurable achievements of individuals and nations. It was only through the agonies that followed the collapse of technology that people realised that in an infinite universe, the unmeasurable, unknowable and the unintelligible are always present, no matter how far you extend your understanding. A stable system had evolved to give space to these things within the structure of society, and allow them to form a counter balance to the tangibles of science and the material world, without one or the other ever having the upper hand.
I began to have more contact with the third year students, who were recognisable by their red or orange apparel (second years usually wore blue — I had a nice indigo scarf) and who introduced me to some of the deeper strata of thought that underpinned the schools design and purpose. “This is the source” they would say — then point me toward the work of some old poets.
Anika became more distant at this time, she found work with a design company and was often out of town. I missed her deeply, and it was the only time I ever considered leaving the school, and fought at its restrictions. Although I had found comfort and new company within the walls of the school and in old books and manuscripts, it was easy to feel that I was missing out on life in the real world, missing out on something exciting. I spoke to a third year about it, who encouraged me to take time away from the school if I wanted — but the proviso was that I would have to re-enter as a first year, and that I might never be given the option of taking the second year exam again. Recognising that I was at a crossroads in my life, I dawdled over the decision, and Anika slipped away.
SUM wasn’t a school that taught you how to get on in the world. If you wanted to be a lawyer or a doctor, to study something vocational, it was necessary to go to a university. SUM’s teaching was useless in a directly practical conventional sense. On the other hand, although it mightn’t be preoccupied with study of the world, it was concerned with the study of life, and of the ultimate — It presupposed the existence of an ultimate purpose, if not a being. To get on in the school, it was necessary to put aside your personal goals and submit to the “great purpose”. What confused me at first, was that there was no easy definition of this purpose. As a first year, it seemed that the great purpose was to work out the nature of the great purpose. This idea didn’t work so well now that I was in second year — in fact most second years seemed to be toying with the idea that there was no great purpose at all.
Some of the third years travelled and I accompanied one on a journey to the Unistadtz one year, I think I was about 26. We flew into Seattle where there was a famous school, one of the founding institutions. As we descended over the countryside I was amazed by the snaking concrete rivers of traffic and the power lines, in between green fields and forests just turning yellow at the beginning of autumn. Before this I had never seen big civilisation. The school was an enormous structure of glass and steel, along familiar lines, although the central point was a huge black tower almost without windows, just one or two narrow slits at irregular intervals and a small turret balcony several hundred stories up on one side.
It was here that I was first introduced to an honours student. I had known that people sometimes go on to take honours but there were none in my school. This person was dressed entirely in white and they sat in at one of the meetings the third year I was accompanying had with the other students there. I couldn't see the honours student's face properly and he or she only occasionally whispered to a third year from the Seattle school, they were giving advice on certain issues. I was told they rarely speak and only to certain senior third years. Most of their time is spent in solitary meditation in a special area of the school. Their advice is treated like nectar, like poetry.
Their writing is not hard to come by however, and was among that recommended to me when I first joined the second year. It was always published anonymously so it was impossible to really know who the author was, even if they were still alive or a historical figure. Some of them painted or did other things, a few composed music. Otherwise they seemed to have a very low profile in the day to day running of the school.
I was admitted to the third year after ten years as a second year student, mainly on the strength of one essay I wrote, which had been published by the internal system and was well received by other schools, which gave our school some international attention for a while. Becoming a third year student was a much greater commitment than I had had till now, and there were only a few hundred of this rank in my school. Traditionally we engaged in the most menial tasks such as cleaning and repairing pipes. However we were also responsible for the running of the school and in selecting the membership of the senate at capital hill.
I had already been tutoring the new first years for some years and now began to give occasional lectures. I also corresponded with other third years across the globe on various issues to do with the education of the first years. However the primary change for me was the beginning of the solitary life. My new dormitory was very small but I had my meals delivered so I was able to meditate for long periods of time undisturbed. This suited my temperament and improved the quality of my thought.
The meditation techniques I had developed over time as it was part of our learning at first year level. What effect this has on your work and life is hard to describe. It is a subjective effect which influences what is experienced as the world and as time. To someone outside the school however it would probably seem as if I had a particularly absent mind. It improves the quality of thought and is of course the cornerstone of the schools reputation.
After some years as a third year student I got an invitation to visit Seattle to take part in some meetings about governance over the course of a couple of months, and had my second encounter with an honours student. This student wanted to discuss one of my books with me. We took tea together one afternoon. We talked a little but spent much of the time in what they call silence. This was my first experience of what is a remarkable kind of conversation, a flow or transmission of something unable to be captured by the nuts and bolts of language. There are old stories of the historical Buddha having conversations with up to eight disciples simultaneously in this way.
The meeting had a powerful effect on me and I began to make enquiries about taking honours. I was told to apply with the governing council in England who would invite me to interview if they thought me a suitable candidate. Some months passed before I received a little red envelope in the mail. Inside was a letter inviting me to interview — it asked to bring along some recent papers I'd written. I had no idea how to prepare. My fellow third years could offer me little advice as none of them had ever applied to do honours. I found some old references to it in the library but they were elusive as to any actual selection criteria, if there was any. I did find one passing reference which seemed to use the phrase “taking honours” interchangeably with “taking poison”.
I arrived in Old Sarum, in England, in the cold January of my 50th year. The Sarum school is small but exclusive and it was rare for third year's to have a reason to visit. When I arrived I was given lodging in a simple stone tower, which was unheated, and invited to tea the next day to discuss my application with the council. When I entered the room I was faced with a dozen honour students sitting in a semicircle around an oval table. They were pouring tea and invited me to sit. It is difficult to describe the interview as anything other than taking tea. We did discuss my work but not in an analytical way. They asked me whether I took sugar or if I liked my tea black. There were long silences. Eventually we all finished our tea and I was ushered out, it seemed the interview had finished.
I was led back to my room by an old man wearing a grey tunic. He asked me if I'd had any sugar in my tea, I said no, I wasn't used to taking sugar. He seemed pleased by that. The next day I returned home to my school, where life continued as normal for a number of months, however I stopped writing papers as this was a requirement whilst my application was pending.
One morning I awoke and felt a sudden relaxation of every synapse in my brain, as if a film I had been watching was suddenly burnt through by the projector beam. I had had moments of satori since my teens whilst meditating and this was comparable but it resonated deeper — no longer contained within my human frame, I felt like the pixels of my vision were the sands of an hourglass, and I was witness to the swirling forces of time, eons in fast motion flashed before me as the great plan of the universe unfolded — which was as ordinary and as beautiful as a spring morning.
I decided to begin my studies without the authorisation of Sarum. After making some enquiries, I decided to take up my studies at a much smaller school near Düsseldorf where a few of honours students lived and worked. The day to day routine was mostly menial but some of the other students were involved intermittently in high level advice to various school councils around the world. My own school didn't contact me at all for the first few years. I was grateful for the time alone.
One day the man in the grey robe appeared and spoke to me about my study. We made tea — and the next day when he had left I found a white robe in my room. That night I began work on my dissertation, which has absorbed me completely to this day. It has been fifteen years and I have nearly finished the first page.
You ask me if the man in grey was himself a student. He was doing his PhD. I don't know if anyone has ever actually 'graduated' from the school. I suppose that is an outdated concept. Some say that the founder was a graduate, technically. Others say that graduates just slip back into the world. But I can't see myself ever graduating. It is like an atomic particle approaching the speed of light requires all the time in the universe to overcome that last increment of acceleration.
I am a lucky man. I live simply. And I am grateful to my school for teaching me about life. I like the smell of a fresh cup of tea. And I like the autumn leaves and the smile of a friend. I like silence. There is very much more to these things than is apparent at first glance, although perhaps I should rather say that everything is contained within the first glance, but we keep looking as though we have not seen it, as though we are blind.
* * *