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by Charles Carreon
Longtime
ago, this place was here. Rocks and creeks were formed in profusion of
creative force. Longtime the alders have grown along the creeks, keeping
shade where it's needed. The cedars and the pines they seeded themselves
on down the slopes. The meadows filled up with grass, who knows what kind.
All kinds of creatures, filling niches in habitats. People there too,
sometimes, hunting and fishing, gathering plants and food.
Then white men, changing the face of things, too rapidly. Cutting trees,
making stage roads, a railway, a highway, a freeway.
Still the sentinels stand watch. Pilot Rock to the East, the Dragonfly to
the North, and Shasta to the South.
Men with long hair come, and women in long skirts. They pray to the
spirits of nature, and pray to the wind and the earth. They worship the
stars and follow the moon. They try to live right, and nearly do, until
they stumble.
Men in red robes come. They take note of all the auspicious signs, say
prayers, consecrate the Land for the Buddha's Doctrine, and entreat the
local protectors to lend their aid.
A great Buddha image rises to attract the faithful. The kind face of
Vajrasattva beams radiantly on all who behold him. His form was
constructed with the wild energies of untamed beings. His ideal appearance
purified all of their mistakes.
Many wish to dwell there. These people are possessed of a ferocious
intensity. They have travelled, searched, and wish to plant their flag
here. The place accommodates them, and they begin to dance with each
other. This dance is controlled for a long time but then begins to break
its boundaries. New interactions are happening at a rate faster than old
interactions can be resolved. Overlapping ripples create confusions, and
many see with double, triple vision, or worse.
They take to partying, feeling their oats in the anarchist solution that
appears to be emerging. Not possible to look back, or anywhere, for
guidance. What is coming is coming, and no one can affect it. Storm clouds
have hovered so long that we have given up all hope of rain.
Aug. 3, 1994, Colestine
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