Night before last I watched a movie from 1946. See a Dark Stranger. It was black and white, set in
I’m guilty as charged. I am an expert at getting riled up and holding grudges. Current targets (today) include the Post Office, and Verizon support. I’ve been told to “let it go.” But it just feels so damn good having a target for my upset-ness.
In our day to day lives the universe is full of surprises. The surprises are even more infuriating when we haven’t got enough facts to understand them. In my decades of life and decades of model railroading I’d never had a wiring problem that came down to such a small fraction of an inch. It was there waiting for me. Is it any wonder that I can’t fathom more complex systems or the inner machinations of interpersonal relationships? Which brings me to the Monk Ki tale of the day.
“Master Ho Ha! Master Ho Ha!” the thundering footsteps of Monk Ki are only fractions of an inch behind the bellowing voice coming down the hallway. Master Ho Ha, happy to be alone for a few moments reading a discarded issue of some American tabloid called TV Guide, sighs. “What now?”
“Master Ho Ha! Master Ho Ha! Are you in there?” Monk Ki’s voice rattles the door on its hinges.
“Never a moment’s peace. Just a minute, I’m sitting.” Master Ho Ha finishes sitting and flushes the toilet.
“What is it Monk Ki?” The old man slowly opens the door to see perhaps whether his student is on fire or just raving stark mad. No such luck, his student is standing there holding a photograph of some mountains.
“Look at this picture!” The photograph is thrust at the old man in a blur and stops so close to his face that he finds it impossible to view it. He grabs it and holds it at arms length.
“Yes, a photograph. Mountains. Nice.”
“Look closely! There, see?” A stabbing digit descends onto the picture. A few points in the halftone stand under the fingernail.
“Smudge?” The old teacher looks at his student.
“Anama Li!” his student smiles. “I found her.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t see enough detail. I wish I knew more. If it is her, she certainly knows how to hide in the mountains.”
“I’m positive it must be her.”
“Everyone dreams. Did you know that in January 1986 there was a television show called “Murder She Wrote” and the broadcast told a story about some people who got sick from eating strawberry jam?”
Monk Ki looks up not knowing what to say. “Anama Li!”
“Ah yes, she is sweet. Just like jam. I wish I had seen this television show. Sounds like wonderful entertainment. Thank you for showing me your picture if that is Anama Li it certainly is not her best photograph. I wonder if we have any jam in the pantry.”
And so often that is the story of my life. I’m always hoping for a story in the little details. The story might be there I’m just not good enough to see it.