 Writing in the Sand | sitemap | log in
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Jimmy BervieJimmy Bervie stared out of his kitchen window, watching the boats bobbing in the harbour. Morning sunlight shone warmly on the red sandstone pier and glinted on the waves. It all looked so peaceful, but Jimmy was sure that the tranquility was no more than a veneer covering god knew what disturbances in the deeper layers of reality. It was time to do something.He turned resolutely and began to search around the room. In the kindling box beside the fireplace he found an old white paper bag. He carefully tore the seams of the bag then smoothed it out flat on the rough wooden top of his ramshackle table. From the mantelpiece he took a stub of pencil. Then he sat down and began to write. Dear Nag-dban bLo-bzan bsTan-’dsin rgya-mts’o,
All is well with me as I hope it is with you too. Thank you for the inscribed windmill which is a great comfort to me. I can not, unfortunately, understand the inscription – OM AH HUM VAJRA GURU PADMA SIDDHI HUM – and would be obliged if you would recommend a Tibetan Primer which I might use to translate it. Mrs MacKerril was asking after you and hopes you are well. She hopes to see you back here again soon. Her bed and breakfast business is doing well and she is pleased to display your written recommendation on the wall. She has even had it framed. Perhaps I could translate it for her if I can find a suitable Tibetan phrasebook. Jimmy paused at this point and chewed the end of his pencil. The Dalai Lama said that he inherited all the memories of his predecessor. And his predecessor had inherited the memories of the Dalai Lama before that. So Nag-dban bLo-bzan bsTan-’dsin should have all the memories of all the Dalai Lamas back to the first one ever, who luckily lived at just the right time. He continued writing. I wonder if you could cast your mind back to 1425. You may not be aware of this, but in that year the herring in the North Sea changed their normal practice and ceased to visit the Baltic. This was a crucial moment for this area. If you recall, Tson K’a-pa had just died, so the time may well stick in your memory. Was there any particular event in the worlds to which you have access that precipitated this? (I note in passing that the Emperor of China developed a passion for painting round about this time.)
Jimmy was not at all sure just how much the Dalai Lama remembered from one incarnation to the next, and he did not wish to embarrass him if in fact his memories of nearly 600 years ago were fading. After a long pause for thought, accompanied by much pencil-sucking, he continued. I know that I keep forgetting where I put the door-key, so I won’t be too disappointed if memories from 1425 have slipped from your mind.
By the way, I am having a little trouble with my sand-garden that you were kind enough to praise when you were here last August. An odd pattern keeps appearing that is not a natural disturbance. It is as if something is affecting the fabric of the universe. Studying the pattern of the lines in the sand, it sometimes seems that the tines of the rake have crossed over so that the damaged tine is on the left instead of the right. It almost appears as if the rake is twisting through another dimension. (Thank you again for showing me the practical use of extra dimensions. I remain astonished at your capacity to deal with seventeen of them when the rest of us have trouble enough with just a handful!) If, as we discussed last summer, a well-raked patch of sand mirrors the state of the surrounding world, then I would guess from this odd pattern that Cromness is about to disappear beneath the waves! If you have any clues as to what might be happening, do please let me know. May all beings be happy, Your friend, James Bervie P.S. I have included a packet of Mrs Mackerril’s tablet that you enjoyed so much on your last visit. Jimmy searched out a battered tartan box for the tablet, wrapped both the sweets and the letter and addressed the parcel to the Dalai Lama in MacLeod Ganj, Northern India, an address that never failed to cause him a shiver of wonder at the interconnectedness of things. A relative of his had been called Hamish MacLeod. Who knows, perhaps he was nicknamed Ganj. Or perhaps not. After all, no answer is also an answer, he thought. And perhaps no coincidence is also coincidental. He selected the pink sunglasses and the matching waistcoat with mirrored pockets and took the parcel to the post office. Site Last Updated - 18/11/2010 18:23:36 |   |
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