previous  |  main  |  index  |  next

August 23, 2003 ancient Chinese secret Many years ago, I regained consciousness in a Chinese laundry.  How I got there or why, I will never know.  It doesn't matter anyway.  The beginning of every story is preceded by nothingness. When my eyes blinked open, I lay upon fine white granules, like Gulliver on the beach.  Calgon!  But instead of Lilliputians, I awoke to an elderly Chinese gentleman who sat cross-legged upon a pink Formica clothes-folding counter.  In the fractured, tumbling manner of kaleidoscope glass, I watched the old man replicate and swirl, his pleated mouth clamped upon the gnawed stem of a scrimshaw pipe.  Eventually, I managed to sit up and the spinning stopped.  The old man became one.  Then he spoke. "Wanna know ancient Chinese secret?"  He smiled and used his pipe to draw an imaginary arc in the air. I rubbed the back of my head and felt a lump.  "I suppose, sure." "No matter how hard polish silver," he said, "never, never get rid all tarnish.  Better not to try."

©  2003 by the beastmaster