Tuesday, June 02, 2009

The boy of Michigan’s upper peninsula, who wishes to fly

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 9

Though he did not reveal by what craft he had captured the birds, or in what environment he kept them, the boy indicated that he renewed his attempt at flight each morning.  Though it was unclear how he had secured the yarn around them, or by what magic they were uninjured and unescaped, he nodded solemnly when we inquired into these details, ensuring us that he had taken the birds welfare into consideration.  The cold winter’s morning brought that strange feeling to our noses, and our breath was visible as he trudged out into the field.  Looking around, he seemed satisfied that there was plenty of space for an attempt. 

He gazed quietly up at the clouds, perhaps judging windspeed, or contemplating the conditions of Michigan’s upper atmosphere. Then, he looked down, holding his chin against his chest, and with a flourish he extended his arms, allowing the birds to extend their wings.  They surged upwards and for a moment the silence was broken by their squawking, struggling attempts at liftoff. 

The boy did not look up, but after several seconds had passed and his feet had not left the ground, he sighed and lowered his arms.  Pulling on the lines of yarn one by one, he brought the birds back into his arms and covered them with his jacket. Black feathers floated down around him, landing one by one in the snow.

“I try,” he said quietly. “Everyday I try.”

He began walking quietly back to his home, where his mother, and perhaps his daily chores, were waiting.  While our boots crunched the snow, he paused, and we caught up to him, and he looked up at the sky again.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

The Leafy Sea Dragon

Atlas of Curiosities: Part 8

While heading in to shore off the coast of southern Australia, we were approached by two men in a small rowboat who claimed to have an animal unlike any we had ever seen.  Holding up a large glass jar, we were confronted with a mass of foliage not unlike that of a carrot, or a clump of seaweed.  Remarkably, the plant began to move about, seemingly in possession of not only the gift of locomotion, but of sentience.

Asking for a closer look, we were told that the creature could only be viewed for a price.  Growing irate, a young member of our crew leapt from the deck of our vessel into the sea and hoisted himself into the rowboat.  In the ensuing scuffle, he won control of the jar, only to see it smashed in his hands by an oar swung the more dexterous of his adversaries.  Diving into the water after the beast, the young man found himself in a sea full of weeds, and for the life of him he could not discern the direction in which the true specimen had fled.

“Lost!” he moaned as he climbed back aboard, “lost forever.”

Once ashore, we met a town doctor, who was familiar with the species.  After telling him of our misadventures, he remarked that the young man’s actions had likely saved the specimen’s life, as he could not fathom such a creature surviving in a glass jar for more than a few hours. We passed this information on to the young man, who, upon seeing the rendering our artist produced of the beast, insisted upon the jar being drawn as well.  Without it, he said, the depiction was “wholly unbelievable.”

The last haiku of Kobayashi Issa

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 7

Wandering through the Nagano prefecture of what was once the Shinano district, we came upon a grassy field. In the distance there was a lone tree in full bloom, though it was not the season for flowers.  How was this possible?

Our host told a story which to us seemed tangentially related:

“There was once a pauper living in this district who was called Issa.  He was an orphan, which in that place and time meant that he had little chance of material success or happiness. Beaten as a child, he traveled from place to place, living off the kindness of others and writing short poems to himself.  In time achieved enough stability to get married and have a son. Soon though, even this short period of calm was disturbed as his wife and his son both passed away.  Despite his great suffering, his haiku are radiant in their humility, their compassion, and their friendliness towards life.”

How was the story of this pauper related to the tree in full bloom, we asked our host.

“Issa believed that all things issued from a central source which was, if nothing else, beautiful. This was how he was able to maintain his compassionate nature despite the trials life threw at him.”

Yes, yes, but the flowers…we urged him.

“Near the end of his life,” our host said with a sigh, “Issa lived alone in a small wooden hut in this district.  The old man had three possessions: A lamp, a pen, and a bedroll. During a stormy January night, he was preparing to sleep when with a bump from his elbow he toppled the lamp and set the straw floor of his hut ablaze.  He escaped, but it was only a matter of minutes before his hut was fully engulfed in flames.  He walked away from the blaze in the quickly deepening snow.  As he walked he grew weary, and, knowing he could go no further, lay his bedroll onto the snowy ground. 

He was found in the morning; he had passed away in the night.  Under his pillow was found the last of his 20,000 haiku.”

We listened, in silence now.

“There are thanks in order:
the snowflakes on this bedroll,
they too, are from god.

This is the last haiku of Kobayashi Issa.”

Wind blew, and we were no closer to understanding the mystery of the tree in full bloom. I asked that the scene by committed to our records, along with the verse as our host had translated it. Strangely, the tree’s resplendent bloom eluded our artist, who was forced to settle for bare branches in his recreation.

The stone currency of the isle of Yap

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 6

While in the state of Yap we were shown the remarkable form of currency used by the local population since antiquity.  Giant stone disks, crafted on Yap or on neighboring islands are valued not only based on their mass, but on their age and history.  Strangely, the money often changes hands without being moved, as it would take over twenty men to lift a single coin.  In past ages, we were told, the giant monies were moved by canoe, though today they are largely stationary.

Producing a coin from our treasury to show our host, we were met with laughter. “That is your great wealth?” he gasped. “That?”

Inquiring about the history of our coin, he was concerned to find that we could not tell him who the previous owners were, nor where the thing was made or during the reign of which ruler.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

The Sirige

Atlas of Curiosities: Part 5

The Sirige is the most impressive of all Dogon masks, standing an impressive 15 feet tall.  When it emerged at the beginning of the procession it rivaled even the trees. 

A villager seated with us said that the height symbolized a link between this world and another world, and we marveled at the motion that the dancer achieved: now dipping, now rising.

When we inquired as to the mechanics of the dance, the same villager motioned to his own toothless mouth, the mouth of a dancer, as the bulk of the sirige is secured by a wooden bar gripped in the dancer’s teeth; the entire weight of the stunning mask supported by only his jaw.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

The old man who paints without ceasing

The Atlas of Curiosities: Part 4

I was standing under the bridge watching the water move when I saw an old man painting beneath the underpass.

“Excuse me,” I said to him, “why are you painting?”

“Come back tomorrow,” he said.

I came back the next day, and the day after that, and everyday the old man sat and he painted.

As time went on I noticed the odd fact that the old man would, from time to time, finish a painting, and immediately, without thought, throw it into the river.

I approached him again and I asked him, “My friend,” why do you throw your paintings in the river?”

And he said, “come back tomorrow.”

The old man painted continuously.  No matter the day or the time, every time I came to the river he was there, painting.  It seemed he never slept.  Every hour, on the hour, he would complete a painting and let it slip into the water below.

I became upset, confused.

I went to the old man again.  I was angry.  I shouted at him.

“How is it possible that you paint all day?”

For the first time, the old man picked up his paint brush from his painting.  He turned to me.  He looked me in the eye.  All around me I was astonished to see that the world had ceased to turn: the river did not flow,  birds were stalled in mid flight, people’s faces caught in joy or anger or sadness, everything, time itself, had stopped.

The old man looked at my eyes.

“How is it possible that I stop?” he said.  He turned back to his painting and the world continued to move.

Monday, May 04, 2009

The voice in the small room

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Atlas of Curiosities Part 3:

It was a small room.  Inside, it was dim and filled with smoke.  There were people, yes, and we could see them at first.  Someone remarked upon the crowd; they were silent, staring, waiting. The music began with old fingers hitting old drums.  The men playing them told us later that the rhythms they played had been passed down since the time of the Prophet; these were older than words, older than poetry and music and custom.  The men were the first to vanish, though we didn’t see them disappear.  The man with the cymbals let them rattle together and he began to spin: slowly at first and increasing at his own pace.


A spotlight was turned on, and she moved from a corner to the middle of the crowd.  Her dress was both bright and dark, and it was laced by with coins from civilizations long vanished.  She stood, she sang, and my eyes changed, making everyone but her appear as silhouettes.  Only she was visible, even my own form had been obscured by the smoke and the sound of her voice in the small room.


Had her voice had a magical effect? Had we been bewitched, intoxicated? Or had their bodies always been nothing but outlines, and we the parties changed, our eyes aged as if by time at the sound of her voice

Saturday, May 02, 2009

The Mountaintop Butterflies

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Atlas of Curiosities Part 2:
The climb was longer than we had expected.  We picked our ways over ancient stone stairs covered in slick moss and slime, and took paths through the grass cut by wandering elephants.  Our legs were bleeding from the leeches that took every opportunity to latch on to us, and shaky from hours of ascent.  As night came on, we were high enough to be within the storm clouds of the monsoon, the lightning that surrounded us was sometimes overhead and sometimes below us in the valley.  Exhausted, soaking wet, and cold, we sat to rest.

We were found quite improbably by some caretakers of the temple lights, who offered us tea and rice, and a bed for the night.  Three hours before sunrise, we rose again to continue the climb.  The storms had dissipated, and we walked by starlight, which was indeed enough light by which to see.  Arriving at the mountain’s pinnacle at sunrise, we were surprised to see a cascade of white butterflies flowing from the temple, which were beautiful and unafraid of human beings. Indeed, the monk who lived alone at the top of the peak handled them as if they were his companions as they greeted us.

Friday, May 01, 2009

The Holy Man of Ethiopia

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Atlas of Curiosities Part 1:

Arriving in Aksum we were brought to a man who was claimed to be the guardian of the Arc of the Covenant.  Dressed in white robes, he greeted us with hesitation, as if unsure whether we were worthy of his trust.  The building that housed the arc was filled with dust.  Crossing its threshold, I missed a breath due to the closeness of the air.  What little light that made it into the room fell in tight lines, illuminating the dust and incense smoke that the monks kept burning at all hours. The Arc was shrouded in thick cloths, not unlike burlap, a fact I learned not by sight but by hearsay, as we were unable to cross even into the room in which it was hidden.

I inquired as to the possibility of seeing it first hand on a later trip.

“It is impossible,” the monk replied.

Our disappointment was no doubt visible, because in moment following the monk offered us proof of the Arc’s existence.

“If you require proof,” he said, “I can show you its effect.”

We followed him a mile or more out of town, where we were brought to a small wooden building with a sunny exterior.  Upon entering we found it to be filled with volumes, scrolls, and manuscripts of enormous size.

Convincing the site’s caretaker to pose for a portrait, we were told, “The Arc has caused an increase in the size of books, papers, and all other written things.  Here is your evidence.”