Archives for posts with tag: MarIsQuess

Dustless | Volume 8 | Comb
It is known as the Still Building.

It is the building reached through the mind: the building of a different world.

But what happens if the world of the mind grows greater than the world outside the mind? And the ordinary life of pebbles and trees, of family, of work, grows dim and unreal? But the illuminated life of the mind grows brilliant and free?

People speak of delusion, of delirium, of madness: but have they ever truly entered the Still Building?

There is an old ZirCong saying: When the mind swallows the world in which the mind lives, that is the beginning of a new truth.

Along a remote road, to the north, in winter, travellers meet with a man who has entered the Still Building, and become lost there.

Can the travellers believe the strange tales they are told of a world reached through delusion, delirium, madness? If you remain in the world of the Building, wandering without end, will you find in there only loss and decay, the same dust that is found in the ordinary world?

Or is the Building greater than the world from which it rose? Might it be Dustless? Might you find inside you the beginning of a new truth?

Dustless | Volume 8

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Volume 1 | The Sentinels

•DUSTLESS-FIN1

Dustless | Volume 1 is approximately 20 pp./a5

status | published 11 02 2013

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Dustless | Volume 8

It is known as the Still Building.

It is the building reached through the mind: the building of a different world.

But what happens if the world of the mind grows greater than the world outside the mind? And the ordinary life of pebbles and trees, of family, of work, grows dim and unreal? But the illuminated life of the mind grows brilliant and free?

People speak of delusion, of delirium, of madness: but have they ever truly entered the Still Building?

There is an old ZirCong saying: When the mind swallows the world in which the mind lives, that is the beginning of a new truth.

Along a remote road, to the north, in winter, travellers meet with a man who has entered the Still Building, and become lost there.

Can the travellers believe the strange tales they are told of a world reached through delusion, delirium, madness? If you remain in the world of the Building, wandering without end, will you find in there only loss and decay, the same dust that is found in the ordinary world?

Or is the Building greater than the world from which it rose? Might it be Dustless? Might you find inside you the beginning of a new truth?

•DUSTLESS-FIN8

The nature of sight cannot be seen by a blind person. Nor can the nature of blindness be seen by a blind person. By the same token, the nature of blindness cannot be seen by a person with sight, nor the nature of seeing by a person who can see.

Only a person who has been blind, and then sees, understands the nature of sight and of blindness.

Only a person who has seen, and is then made blind, understands the nature of blindness and sight.

The Building that resides in all people is mysterious.

Most people never even realise the Building exists within them at all. They are either blind, or seeing: they are limited ones.

They are ignorant, even of the fact that they are ignorant. They are like blind people, or people who have always only ever been able to see.

Only those who grasp the limits of their ignorance, that they are ignorant, may start on the way that leads to the Building.

Only those who have been blind, and then see, may realise that, as seeing was beyond blindness, so there is a condition beyond seeing.

Similarly, only those who could see, but are then struck blind, may grasp, through the loss, the illusion of their seeing, the limits of sight.

The Building that resides in all people is mysterious.

In order to understand, one must first cease to know.

Dustless | Volume 9

The half-blind hermit lord, Sokosozuin, performs SeriaYi, the formal recounting of an episode from one’s life

…‘There is a play of the poet Aginsozura, from the Perfect Calm Era, which tells the terrible story of the RoMayZine Lord Ysokan of the Clouded Era: and in that bloody play, Ysokan, finding that in a fit of MalSol, he has put to death the members of his own blood family, gouges out his own eyes, so that he may never see the pure light of the wonderful day again – well, it is a harrowing story. To my imperishable shame, I would have wished to gouge out my own mind, in order to rid myself of the dirty illumination that had taken root there, and was continuing to grow like a fibrous and vigorous weed – but I could not, for one’s own mind is the very basis of the universe, and we are taught that the life of our own mind is the foundation of the Way.

Sai. It is so. It is like that.

And still, the rain fell.

Perhaps I slipped into a doze. The story of Lord Ysokan was on my mind. I remembered once, in a small town in Chian canton, a place of wool, in summer, seeing a group of travelling players performing Lord Ysokan for a ragged crowd of souls. The stage was a simple thing, and the make-up and acting loud and rude, with great clashing of swords and shields, when a battle was made out of yelled words, and five actors made up conflicting armies. The performance was beyond the perimeter of the town, in a clearing among the trees, held by night and lit by lanterns. Despite the crudeness of the stage, and the rough-and-ready talents of the troupe, Aginsozura’s poetry shone out and lifted all – actors and audience alike, and even the watching officers of KinChogan, who stood in attendance to ensure no impure scenes were played out there – all were taken from their present mind, and transported to the turbulent Clouded Era, and to the home of Shion Ysokan, over four thousand years ago. And when the time came for the shion to put out his own eyes, the bumpkin audience moaned and wailed, and called out to him to stop, pleading with the shion to show himself mercy, and to forgive himself. And when the play had finished, after the scene where the barbarian killers come, and find their great enemy blinded and helpless, and despatch him, such a silence fell on that clearing for a little while, it seemed as if we might have heard the needle from one of the nearby pines drop to the forest floor and make a soft noise as it landed.

At the time, I had been very struck by the power of art to transform the flow of our minds, to divert their courses, to canalise them along new directions, and to lift us from our substantial state into the world of imagination, where different laws apply.

Now, as I sat, slumped, leaning against the planking wall of that unoccupied beach house, listening to the sound of the rain and to the bash and drawl of waves as the tide heightened, images from that play played themselves across my wandering mind. The work was purely done, according to the legislation, in the old way, uncorrupted, in the Perfect Calm Era Style: the actors’ faces were masked in lurid facepaint, which shone in the hanging paper lanterns; the toy armour tinkled with a trashy sound during the acts of combat; and for long periods the actor playing Lord Ysokan wore a metal mask, which was only removed for the most tragic moments… The blinding scene was terrifying… Even there, shipwrecked on the coast of the MarIsQuess, destitute under an alien sun, I myself dreamily flinched when Ysokan raised his thumbs to his own eyes, and began to speak the words: World, too beautiful for these violent eyes of mine / and eyes which rage with sight of unforgiving blood / tender things, both, will this night meet no more / not even for one particle of a lonely moment…

I had begun to shiver. I saw in the theatre of my mind the tormented Lord of the Mountain Mark unlatch his visor, and the effect of seeing his naked face – and his eyes – so often hidden under the tin prop of his mask, and knowing his intention, seemed to suspend the blood in my veins.

A cold darkness fell across my soul. For a few moments, I assumed my feeling of approaching horror was related to the play. A sense of silence entered me, just like the silence of the audience as they held their breath, mesmerised by the scene before them.

My mind began to tingle. I can describe the sensation in no other way: there was a curious agitation in my mind, as if of wind chimes stirring at the approach of a breeze. And a shadow encroached upon my thought. I felt intensely sensitive. And yet, I also felt impersonal: it was as if my own thoughts were like insects in a nest, running here and there, organising themselves, making preparations for some coming event.

I opened my eye. Two riders were approaching through the dunes…

Excerpt from Comb, Volume 8 of Dustless

…‘When Shion Dezel finally vanished behind the dunes, I felt as if the last of my world were walking away from me. Sometimes, it is hard to be alone. The rain fell around me as if it would fall forever. I had no inclination to move at all. My thoughts lay stunned within me, like fish floating to the surface of a lake after a lightning strike. Even if they moved, they were hardly my thoughts anymore. I felt broken.

There was nowhere for me to go, and I was nowhere. It struck me as ironic, but I found myself virtually in a state of classic illumination – space and time had ceased for me, and my own being had ceased: there was just the sound of the falling rain on timber, a gushing and thrumming sound.

For where is there to go when a man comes to the end of himself? One cannot even die, for there is nothing to die. But one cannot live either, for there is nothing to live. Yet, my state was not one of pure illumination, for pure illumination is a condition of infinite peace and hope; whereas my condition was one of infinite exhaustion and despair. I remembered with chaste sorrow the words of the unfortunate younger son of Emperor Moin II, Prince Marinsomar: “The Way is all… The Way is both life and death, and neither life nor death; the Way is without life and without death, the Way is lifeless, and deathless”… I felt that day, in the remote MarIsQuess, a planet away from my home, as if I understood His Highness’s words for the first time; but, in understanding them, could do no more – I could not use them to further the beautiful Way, or to aid my fellow human beings in the construction of the great TanZo, which is the purpose of our lives under pure skies. Although, intellectually, I knew it to be impossible, still, I felt that I had come to the end of the Way itself. I was desolate, and numb.

In this state, I continued to watch the rain falling.

I have no idea how much clock time passed then. It felt like hours. I kept expecting darkness to fall, though I did not care whether it did or no: but the day continued on…

Excerpt from Comb, Volume 8 of Dustless