Life in a Northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. B.M.A.T.C., and Etruscan typewriter erasers. Blogged by David Gorsline.
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An ancient tree rises from a shallow lake like a Franz Kline calligraph in the opening sequence of Kim Ki-duk's Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter... and Spring, a beautiful story cycle that takes place at a small Buddhist temple floating on that same lake. Kim dispenses with many of the staples of narrative. The Old Monk who minds the shrine, the Young Monk who studies with him, and all the other principal characters are never assigned proper names. There is no dialogue at all in the "Winter" chapter, and elsewhere there is so little of it that the subtitles seem superfluous. The resolution of the cycle, the repetition of the old monk/adopted toddler story, is never in doubt. What's important are the singular images: a boy standing on the shoulder of an immense stone Buddha, a multicolored sutra carved into the deck of the floating temple. This is a Buddhism that expresses itself not in moments of enlightenment, but in its ritual practices, like martial arts, calligraphy, or a moving ice sculpture of the Buddha holding a red-wrapped packet of teeth of one who has died. One can read this film as taking place over a span of forty years, as the Young Monk grows from toddler to middle age; or as a suite of stories taking place simultaneously, since the styles of dress worn by outsiders don't change, and the various actors playing Young Monk don't carry much resemblance to one another. Perhaps the spiritual climax—a monk ties a millstone to his body and then climbs a mountain in order to find a place to atone and pray—is overwrought. But there's no arguing that each of us carries around that stone every day. posted: 8:45:19 PM |
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The volume of the morning chorus of cicadas has increased to something between mezzo forte and forte. In the parking lot at Huntley Meadows Park this morning it was loud enough to interfere with conversation. From the saplings, Alan caught some individuals in his hands and showed us how to sex them: for the male, look for two membranes up under the wings that look like seed pods; and see the female's more pointed abdomen, which reveals her ovipositor. Out on the wetland, we've had a very successful year with the nest boxes, with at least fourteen clutches of eggs laid. On the way back, Alan re-found a Mississipi Kite (Ictinia mississipiensis) soaring on a thermal with two buteos—lifer #334 for me. The new flyover that carries Interstate 95 is now open to traffic, making a big left turn high in the air over the Springfield Interchange. posted: 7:35:17 PM |
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When Leta talks about Renaissance/Medieval re-enactors, and how most of the population of that period were not lords and clergy but dirt-eating peasants, I figure that she's exaggerating, at least about the eating dirt part. Guess again.
Even dirt-eating is a coping mechanism that shows its worth when times are tough. The medical name for dirt-eating is pica, and while it is considered a pathology among the well fed, among the poor it can add minerals to a diet that even in good times may only be corn or sorghum mush.
In Zambia, balls of edible clay are sold in street markets. In Angola, a dark dirt called "black salt" is sprinkled on cold food, but cannot be cooked because it loses its tang. And the dirt biscuits of Haiti - called "argile," meaning clay, or "terre," meaning earth - are not exactly a final cri de coeur against starvation.
posted: 7:18:26 PM |
 D. Gorsline, Proprietor
   
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