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10/20/2020
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The herbs of Kailash
I'm in base camp at about 30,000 feet. The diffuse green fabric of my tent is leaking, I sit outside and feed on the light. One hundred and eight times one should circle Mount Kailash to reach enlightenment. In the year of the horse, each round counts six times. We have rat. So it's no use.
The Tibetan plateau is barren. Above all the gravel shimmers an olive green ocean of withered flora. Wind blows the wormwood from the mountain range, ethereally brushes sage from the steppe, tells elemically of citric forest, soon shines lavender-coloured. Like prayer flags they flutter green, purple, yellow, on a string on my tent. They suddenly tumble, mix together, at the Buddha's mountain, how healthy this smells here.
From India, clouds of incense flow, hesperidically bright. The weather is probably getting spicier now. Warmer too, probably. The Tibetans carry dry oregano on reddish glowing guaiac litters along the plain, the wind whirls it into my face, I cannot see Kailash before green spices. He sends me his healthy ointment. It yints and yanks before my nose. Sage winds its way through the dense village, taming the threatening Orekan. Then the scent colours shimmer like confetti, the herbs turn in a kaleidoscope, forming a colourful picture of nuances, ethereally sharp, warm, green and even further, incense resin next to musk cistus, citroponax next to light wood. They are all enlightened. Sage and oregano perhaps a little more. But they swim away so beautifully and slowly, in the holy resin of Brahmaputra, the light woods of the Indus and the herbs of the boundless Ganges.
It's quiet up here. The wind blows close to my skin. For hours I contemplate Buddha's mountain, then I set off. A hundred and eight times. It doesn't help
(With thanks to PallasCC and Caligari)
The Tibetan plateau is barren. Above all the gravel shimmers an olive green ocean of withered flora. Wind blows the wormwood from the mountain range, ethereally brushes sage from the steppe, tells elemically of citric forest, soon shines lavender-coloured. Like prayer flags they flutter green, purple, yellow, on a string on my tent. They suddenly tumble, mix together, at the Buddha's mountain, how healthy this smells here.
From India, clouds of incense flow, hesperidically bright. The weather is probably getting spicier now. Warmer too, probably. The Tibetans carry dry oregano on reddish glowing guaiac litters along the plain, the wind whirls it into my face, I cannot see Kailash before green spices. He sends me his healthy ointment. It yints and yanks before my nose. Sage winds its way through the dense village, taming the threatening Orekan. Then the scent colours shimmer like confetti, the herbs turn in a kaleidoscope, forming a colourful picture of nuances, ethereally sharp, warm, green and even further, incense resin next to musk cistus, citroponax next to light wood. They are all enlightened. Sage and oregano perhaps a little more. But they swim away so beautifully and slowly, in the holy resin of Brahmaputra, the light woods of the Indus and the herbs of the boundless Ganges.
It's quiet up here. The wind blows close to my skin. For hours I contemplate Buddha's mountain, then I set off. A hundred and eight times. It doesn't help
(With thanks to PallasCC and Caligari)
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