I've had moments of clarity, moments of perfection, where my senses perceived the rightness of something and were overwhelmed by sheer beauty and balance of the thing itself that I was momentarily lost--and yet, somehow, more myself than other. You can call it a Zen experience, I suppose, but that doesn't quite cover it.
The first was a visual experience. I was at a friend's house for a bachelorette party: about 16 years ago something kept drawing me out of the room where we were blowing up naughty balloons into a quiet study. I was directed, as it were, while something in my chest went boing-boing-boing. On the wall, a simple print by Dali, a musician blowing a horn, sweet notes dangling mid-air. It was perfect: the notes seemed to swim and dance (as real as anything you'd see on TV, as I thought) and I was stunned. My friend mentioned casually they had bought it at auction and it was purported to be "real"---ie, a print made by Dali himself and not of the goon printing companies that mass produced his work.
The second experience was one of taste: ten years ago I was mid-relationship (or mid-break up) with an Old Friend Turned New Flame and it wasn't going well. I left him in the US and flew home to China to start a new job. My daughter was appearing in a TV show that week and I camped out at the hotel with her at night and went to the new job during the day. One morning at breakfast I was served a dish of green beans cooked Chinese style with soy sauce and strips of fatty bacon. The dish was perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned: my mouth recognized immediately that I was in the presence of something without fault. Each bite was a revelation of perfect balance, and a wave of misery washed over me. This dish was without flaw, the real deal, simple but right, and my relationship--tortured, made-over, largely a thing of conversation and long-distance longing, was a sham. It was shite: it was false. This dish was what it should be, and that relationship could never hope to be anything but tawdry and shopworn at best. I knew then that it was over, and the misery was compounded by the thought that I had lost my friend in the process: a foodie like me, I knew I couldn't share the green beans, that moment of stillness and perfection, with him. He wouldn't want to hear it, all he wanted to hear was my declaration that he was nothing to me when indeed he was far too much...I have not eaten green beans since: even to look at them brings that wave of misery and sadness.
The third experience was auditory, and not as strong as the first two. In fact, I hesitate to put it into this category, except that it was a moment of delight if not perhaps perfection. Several weeks ago I went to a concert at the Forbidden City Concert Hall for a concert by the International Chorus Festival (or is it the International Festival Choir? I forget.) All I can say is this: I expected something very good, but I was blown away by the sweetness and perfection of the first piece. I was sitting next to a drunk who had been spitting over the edge of the balcony and shouting rude things about the conductor's sexuality, and even that asshole shut up. The first piece passed in what seemed like seconds. I detected no flaws (and wouldn't be able to anyway, except for the most obvious). But it's the first 30 or so bars that I remember clearly--so balanced, so in tune, so sweet. It was a lovely moment.
Ironically, I bumped into the conductor last week at Jenny Lou's. I was wearing scruffy clothes and had wet hair and no make-up: he was shopping with his buttoned-down "don't approach me" look. (Ah, that look, appropriated by many a celebrity: for all his faults, The Rose does not have it.) I was tempted to walk up and say, "Nick, that concert was tremendous," but I hesitated. For one thing, turning down an aisle, I literally bumped into the man, and the look of shock and horror on his face was enough to keep me silent. We are acquainted, I sang under him for two years some time ago, and we were neighbors in the same compound--having spoken to one another using first names for quite some time, you'd think I felt comfortable giving this man honest praise. I was: but I was also aware that he did not want to hear anything from me (lipstick or no.) How sad is it when an artist doesn't want praise from anyone they consider unworthy. Worse, the more I attempted to avoid him in the shop, the more often I ran into him. I finally headed for the check out line and guess who was in front of me...I put my stuff on the check stand, stone-faced, and looked away.
So there they are: perfect visual, perfect taste (and smell, really, which is the largest part of taste) and perfect sound experience. If I'm lucky enough I suppose the next will be a perfect sense of touch: silk? Cashmere? The touch of my godson's apple-like cheek? Have I ever created anything that was perfect, or gave anyone the sensation of perfection? Has anyone ever breathed in me and found something that resonated in their own soul? Has anyone else felt this--they must have, we must all have that experience, that Zen of recognizing rightness and feeling it call to your spirit.
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