Perfection and 'The Dharma Bums'.

A few weeks ago I put a prism and two glass paperweights on my bedroom window sill, and I hung a glass wind chime and my Gran's crystal necklace from the curtain rail. The intention was that in the morning, the room would be flooded not only with light but with little rainbows, too. It wasn't until today that there was much morning sun to speak of, and I've been waiting so long for it I was almost euphoric, waking up at 9am (very early for me), wrapped in quilts with the electric blanket on low looking at all the little rainbows. And when I turned around and kneeled on the bed resting my elbows in the window sill, the sky was vivid blue, the sun was bright, and there wasn't a single cloud. I made coffee for me and Big C and picked up The Dharma Bums, and I only had about 40 pages to go.

But it was so lovely outside and I've been waiting for it for such a long time, it seemed criminal to stay inside just to look at the sun through the prisms and glass and not enjoy seeing it face to face. I'm still on my hunt for spring, and it looked nearer. Of course, simply by the date, as we're getting to the end of February, spring is undoubtedly nearer, but the point was it looks nearer and that there is the difference that changes a person's mood and outlook. So I went for a walk, early enough to see the people go into the tiny church at the end of the path. As the mornings get lighter, I'm more amiable to getting up earlier. Last summer, I would walk (sometimes run) at five in the morning and it felt so good. Summer mist and sun rise is like nothing else. 

I wonder why I enjoyed this walk so much, how yesterday impacted on my thoughts today, indeed, how today has altered my perceptions (today, six years ago, I found out what happened the night before), and also, to what extent The Dharma Bums shaped my mood. It's rare, for me at least, to come across perfection in literature, to read a book which is absolutely and totally perfect, but that is what The Dharma Bums is. It is perfect.

And so I went for my walk. To be honest, I wasn't looking for spring, I was just looking. I walked along the path on the very edge of the forest, and turned up the dirt road to walk over the ford. A man drove past me in a bashed up Toyota Hilux and when I stepped onto the verge he smiled and waved his thanks. It reminded me of the village where I was brought up. It used to be like that: people would always acknowledge you at the very least, because chances are they know your face from somewhere. More recently, this pretty village of small historical significance, that isn't so far from town, has attracted a lot of commuters. "Townies". They don't say hello so much.

And so I walked on, past the fields with a group of sheep close together watching me as I walked. The greige fields and sage-green barks of the trees looked washed out under the bright sun, but it wasn't like Hardy described it. It looked like a blank canvas. Even the air was waiting for something to fill it: to say the forest smells of decayed, rotten leaves gives a grim impression with it's insinuation of death. But that is the smell, and it's not unpleasant at all, far from it in fact. It's wet and rich, and stronger in the autumn and winter. Today it was there, but not so strong. When I went off the path and into the forest, my boots were only slightly damp from dew. Not so many weeks ago they would have been caked in mud, my skirt and hem of my coat too, I have no doubt. But not today, so I carried on. There was still hoar frost in the shadows, and the bracken as unyielding under my feet - it broke and shattered and crunched as I stepped over it, so hard it was. I found a sunny spot and listened to the birds and the rustling and was glad to be alive. And on the way back, I met an old man walking his three, wiry looking terriers.
"Lovely day, isn't it?" he said.
"Grand," I said, "So lovely."
"Yes," he said, "Really lovely. Lovely, lovely day."
I knew he felt what I felt, and there was a good chance he hadn't read Dharma Bums that morning. "But let the mind beware," Kerouac's narrator Ray Smith says, "that though the flesh may be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious." Most of the time, that's enough.

I enjoyed studying Buddhism at university. Theravāda Buddhism, to be precise. But I didn't connect with it until years later. I don't identify as a Buddhist, not at all, but it means more to me now than when I studied it. I wonder if my background enhanced my enjoyment of The Dharma Bums, but I'm not sure. Not necessarily. If you don't know about Buddhism read it anyway. And I loved Ray Smith, the narrator of the book. He's so human, all the way through, as he seeks to find Dharma, or enlightenment. He is easy to identify with, and so his at times extreme experiences that people who have not practised Buddhism (like me) will not understand do seem somehow to be attainable. My favourite chapter is when he returns home, and writes of being "tremendously depressed".

[I] threw myself right on the ground, and cried, 'I'm gonna die!' because there was nothing else to do in the cold loneliness of this harsh inhospitable earth, and instantly the tender bliss of enlightenment was like milk in my eyelids and I was warm. And I realized that this was the truth Rosie knew now, and all the dead, my dead father and dead brother and dead uncles and cousins and aunts, the truth that is reliazable in a dead man's bones and is beyond the Tree of Buddha as well as the Cross of Jesus. Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live. I knew this! I also knew that I was the worst bum in the world. The diamond light was in my eyes.
My cat meowed at the icebox, anxious to see what all the good dear delight was. I fed him.

This is why I like Ray. He's real. He's humble. He feeds his cat after attaining some kind of enlightenment.

And the whole thing reminded me of suffering, the Four Noble Truths - Dukkha (suffering), Dukkha Samudaya (the cause of it), Dukkha Nirodha (cessation of suffering), and Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada (pathway to freedom from suffering). The latter, Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada inolved the Noble Eightfold Path to attain enlightenment, or Nirvana. Part of it involves detachment, something I don't think I could ever attain (possibly because I don't have a true grasp on what it means). Nevertheless, it made me think of letting go, and not hanging on to the causes of suffering. I deleted Rich's number from my phone. I could never contact him now, but that attachment might keep us both from something. Suddenly, after questioning and worrying all week about not wanting to go out to observe this anniversary with the others, and hanging on to his mobile number after his death, seemed futile. I worried all this week about being disrespectful to the dead, but when I was in the forest thinking about where I was, what surrounded me, my small knowledge of Buddhism (something he was far more "into" than I was), and, of course, The Dharma Bums, it seemed more respectful for me to delete his phone number, and I knew I'd done the right thing staying at home last night. I want to honour his memory, and not cling on to his death. For what it's worth, I don't think people who keep the phone numbers of their dead friends or relatives are wrong, but I believe knowing what I think I know, it would be wrong of me.

So, you could say I read The Dharma Bums at the right time. No doubt about it, in fact. You can see why I describe this book as perfect. It is perfect, but you know why I think it. And, as ever, it makes me want to read more 20th Century American Literature.

As for today, well, I will be a very late entry to Cassandra's readathon. I don't know what I read or how long I'll go for, but I'm fairly sure I won't be sticking to my "currently reading" pile. I'll happily pick them all up tomorrow, I love the connection I feel from reading great literature, but today, I don't know exactly what I want to read or how structured I intend to be. I'll be picking up The Buddhist Scriptures without a doubt. I think I'll probably seeing what 20th Century American lit I do have and working through some of that. Aside from all of the above, Kerouac has also made me excited about America again.