Ahoy there, and before you do anything, just look at this boy (below) MOVE! I mean, he's a statue. His name translates literally to Ode to the Peppercorn, hence his uppermost adornments -- I mean LOOK, at how seriously BIG he really IS. Merits upper case if nothing else.
See how his eyes, kind of, follow you? Let's take a closer look,
shall we?
Wuw. Somewhat akin to the Lisa, Mona, but perhaps even more ambiguous, at once wholly calming, exuding auras galore from his gigantic pores (each one can swallow a small child, we're told), and at the same time uncannily unsettling, disarming, dissociating, generally speaking a bunker-load of negativising prefixes, enough to set any unassuming passer-by off kilter. Whoa Derek, yes mama.
Lips too, each a luscious ladleful of languor, curving blithely t'ward roseate cheeks.
OK that's that. No more adjectives. Lips, nose, what's next?
Ears, like ears of corn (simile does not equal adjective HA), sagging because each one is a storage place for dreams. Buddha has dreamed a thousand thousand dreams. That is a lot. Does he serve his purpose though? Let us see.
Construction started in 713. Unfortunately Hai Tong (chief architect, ascendant of Kevin McCloud of G.D. fame) pissed away too much of the project's funding on opiates, cock-fights and supercilious exhibitions of wealth. However, when duly admonished by contemporaries and/or circumstances (regret's wrath doth sting like a scorp'), he gouged out his own eyes. This demonstration of sincerity fell on deaf ears, however, and he soon died of no-eyes and/or too little blood.
Eventually, another chap sponsored the build, and Buddha's final toenail was clipped 90 years after start date. Can you imagine something taking 90 years to build? Can you actually? Right now, no one will embark on a 90-year project (except, yes, OK, John Malkovich and Robert Rodriguez, whose film 100 Years will be released in just under 100 years, thoughts on that after class), because no one knows what state the earth will be in a century from now.
Seriously like what. And but when? The Mosul Dam is under threat, and will wipe out a million if/when it breaks - no one even knows! Nuclear weapons, obviously. Naomi Klein wrote This Changes Everything and of course it didn't - it just cemented certain ideas in certain already informed and already sceptical minds. I haven't even got round to reading it yet - what difference am I making. We live in oblivion and BUDDHA SITS AND CALMS THE WATERS. Or does he?
That's ^ the point, really. Buddha was erected all those years ago in order to quell the waters whose turbulence was just too turbulent and whose tumult was just too etc. for the shipping ships who shipped goods from one place to another. Did/does Buddha do the job - this is the question which is unanswerable and in fact invalid, because did he accept the job in the first place, and because if he's doing a job then he deserves to be paid at least minimum wage (I say living wage) therefor, and so the crux is a tangle of you know what I mean. NEXT
This is just a fraction of the cue, but we played our cards right so we didn't q for 2 long.
Symmetry, squares,
pillars round, lanterns abound,
kid's gone and found himself a pound. SOUND.
Beware the red liquid.
Beware the Panda! That reminds me. Sophie and I were tasked with writing a 15-20 minute play for the Foreign Language Department students, to be performed in May. Boshed it together in no time at all (a week maybe) and it is called Beware the Panda. Anyone who wants to come and see it PM me for details, we can't cover flights but I'll cover noodles (cover you with oodles of noodles).
What do we think of that? A-OK.
Rumour/legend has it (Kenzie told me) that Buddha was a gorgeous hunk of a man, true sex-BOMB if ever there was one, and that his attractiveness plagued him. No one would take him seriously. Solution? Get mega fat. Then everybody will take you seriously. So he did, and grew jocund, jovial and wholly jolly. Did people take him seriously, now that he was as roundly rotund as a beach ball?
My two cents: no more, no less, or maybe...yes, less.
Let's say Chubbuddha is not chuffed with this roundness. He misses the days when the distance from bed to beach was a mere jaunt. His newfound weight lends him buoyancy but reduces slickness in the water. He yearns for abs, bi- and triceps, the whole shabang. One night, he has a dream.
In the dream, he is ripped, curled, bedecked in patterns and stripes. Well bronzed and certifiably slammin', people flock from here AND there in order to gaze upon his lashes and sultry chin(s).
There is a knock at his giant golden door. This door is cantankerous and can be seen from space - we are in the future. Buddha is tech-savvy, though maintains an analogue facade.
He calls upon a minor to open the ruddy door, lest the knocker grow tired and take their gifts elsewhere, dote on a different pseudo-deity or demigod (what do we call him?? something alliterative!!). Because, you know, who doesn't love myrrh? I'm one for mirth, myself. Myrrh or mirth, urban space or rolling hills, apples or ice cream - so help me.
The little one runs straight to the door, inputs the code (techie Budd) and undoes the golden latch.
Interlude: wild Sophie appeared!
You threw bait.
Wild Sophie ran away.
An angry Wiggum pushes on the door with such force that the wee chappie is launched into the wall and mashed to to a pulp. Buddha's dream is dutty, for sure.
Wiggum's gnarled brow's arch resembles that of his lute, which he plays with fiery verve. His beard tufts waggle - prehensile and pernicious, like Medusa's snakes. He strums a standard 4-5-1 before he is assailed with questions. Will he not apologise for squashing Buddha's boy? Has he no heart?
He angers, and his red eyes turn green. His facial tufts clump together, because strength in numbers. He unsheathes his sword and looks almost as if he will lunge it into Buddha's bare breast.
Real Buddha, in his sleep, tosses and turns - will this be the end? The monstrous nostrils of his potential assaulter are cavernous and intimidating. There is no snot, only depth. In a blink of his mind's eye, he thinks of a funny punny about depth of snot and photography and boogers but forgets it before he can write it down.
Back to what matters: ostensibly irate and bearing down, bearded beast of a Wise Man twirls his mighty weapon, its black surface glinting NOT ONCE in the candlelight, and aims it directly at the smushed corpse of B's servant. A blue ray of pure light and rejuvenating NRG shoots from its tip and reconstitutes the boy. Everyone's OK, gosh we're glad!
He retrieves from his East-Pak messenger bag a Zip-Loc bag containing goodies, which he lays at the foot of Buddha.
These snacraments please the Buddha greatly. The joy he feels fills the room, and is breathed in by all present. It puts hairs on the boy's chest, and increases the foliage on the man's face,
until he has a right big bush framing his visage, and swells with pride.
Buddha opens one of the packets of food. Gosh, these look delicious. Where did you find them?
At the Kwik-E-Mart, which we all need, replies Brown Beard, reminiscing about the television of his (equally tech-savvy) youth.
"If I may," he continues. "You grip the golden balls thus, 'twixt thumb and forefinger. That way it will not slip from thy grip." As he says this, his beard unravels. It is spectacular, and Buddha thinks ooh crikey, I wonder what that would feel like between my toes. He is distracted by this vision, which invokes a reverie so immersive and all-encompassing that he can only give himself over to it.
Buddha awakes, finds himself hungry.
Chewing on a papapapaya, he wanders outside. The flesh satiates his thirst, the sweetness cools his head. He feels a million dollars, and finds this red chair to boot. Winner winner, vegetarian dinner.
*
This door opens into Buddha's giant stony butt.
No it's not.
Obligatory overload of photos of the cool thing that we saw of which there are already literally millions of pictographic iterations saturating the web. Hey, what's a few more drops in the ocean...?
Feet for perspective. Each foot weighs the same as THE WORLD'S PROBLEMS and that's a fact - that's a thing you can't deny.
Umbrella for perspective. This one's actually a toy. The Budd's not even that big.
Lost City of Atlantis just over the way. Enshrouded by a mist which promises much and delivers much of a muchness.
Parabolicking is illegal in 22 of China's 23 provinces, the exception being Hunan, where it is institutionally encouraged. Reward = 5 yuan and a bunk up the boco per kg of parabollock I mean parabolic certifiably parabollicked.
Afterwards, we went and got a bit silly in Leshan. Spot the foreigners!
There they are! We have all converged in this place to eat and drink and be merry, so we shall.
Remember when you're feeling down
to play your favourite tune--
stick some chopsticks down your gullet,
feel your body swoon.
Stick 'em right inside your throat
and yell "I'm really doing it, Brune!"
Tickle your trachea well
and fill your lungs with Clair de Lune.
And check out Thewlis as Verlaine and DiCap as Rimbaud in Total Eclipse - it is a movie! And yes I am in publicity now. Bubye!
Fab! It was already sunny here and now it's even sunnier, sonny. xxx
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