1980
Sleeping in a tipi in the Rockies at mid-winter and dreaming that my hip joint had frozen solid. I put too much yeast in the bread and it overflowed the pan in the oven. Then came a time when Pink Floyd was no longer relevant. I learned about my lineage by looking at modernist paintings.
1981-82
None of my paintings or drawings really said anything adequately. After 444 days the hostages were released. Remain in Light, the Köln Concert, feedback, whatever. The word “freaky” morphed into the word “bizarre.” At OCA, Gus told me that a brush stroke on my painting did not embody the essential Zen hum. John Cage smiled when he told our class “there is no communication and nothing being said.” Time magazine reported that a nuclear-armed Tomahawk cruise missile could be programmed to navigate through football goal posts from over 2000 kilometres away. When someone yelled “Rock and Roll” at the sound-art concert, the performers stopped playing, stood up, bowed, and walked off stage. Limitless at 5 am on the corner of Yonge and College with the wind blowing trash against my legs.
2004-2006
In Kyoto, Ken walked blindfolded towards the love stone, but he went wide of the mark and missed it. Later we strolled through a Zen moss garden and remembered David Bowie. Keith and I stood on a Himalayan foothill while boulders crashed and spilled around us on all sides. They must have been moving at around 100 kilometres per hour and some were the size of cars. Steve waved his arms from the gorge below and yelled “Get out of there now!” After Rajiv’s morning class, I invited Zoë home for porridge. The next day we hiked up to some ruins just north of the village. Then came a time when Jacques Lacan was no longer relevant. B.K.S Iyengar smiled at me and said hello. At around 5 AM in the Tibetan Gompa, I heard what I first thought was a swarm of bees, but later realized was the sound of monks chanting. I saw a young leopard picking her way through a construction site. Earl and I took a taxi to meet the Karmapa Lama. His security guards carried oily black machine guns. I gave the Lama a pure white Khata scarf, which he returned with an expression that I could not understand. Years later I gave the lama’s scarf to my friend Tim, who smiled at the gift. A troop of monkeys swung through the jungle outside the window while I stood on my head. Giving roots their due respect. A small temple overlooked the stream near the village. The Brahmin living there gave me an orange. Women washed their families’ clothes together in the stream.
Peter Jaeger is a Canadian writer based in Bristol,
England. He is the author of numerous books of poetry, fiction, and criticism,
as well as several artist books. Jaeger has written on such diverse topics as
John Cage, ecology, Marcel Proust, Zen Buddhism, and contemporary pilgrimage.
Recent publications include Postamble for an Invisible Sangha (If P then
Q 2021) and 10,000 Hand-Drawn Questions (Pamenar 2022). These poems are
from the chapbook SELECTED MEMOIRS, forthcoming in September with
above/ground press.
