I got my Tibetan Singing Bowls today. Four of them etched with Om Mani Padme Hum either on the side or inside. They are blackened, bronzed and beautiful. And they sing. The biggest one, 7.5 inches in diameter, chants like Tibetan monks in a hall. The smallest, 3.5 in diameter, sounds like an aria in an opera sitting on the palm of my hand.
They are temporarily tucked in a tacky magenta Japanese box that could have contained cheap lingerie and disguised in a brown starbucks paperbag. From where I sit, I see the strikers, freshly bleached wood and virginal, four of them in various phallic sizes are held tightly in bubble wrap. They will make the bowls vibrate later.
There’s an irony here.
But, anyway…
Beside me are three books by three of my favorite authors.
1) Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson. Now a Vintage Classic. I remember when the book was not considered classic. I remember The Passion.
2) I have the Palace of Illusions by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. I bought a mint condition pre-owned book of hers for P75 the other day (The Unknown Error of Our Lives). I remember The Mistress of Spices.
3) I also have Infinite Riches by Ben Okri. Last copy in the bookstore. It looks old. The story is. This is the third book of Azaro. I remember The Famished Road.
I remember these books because I loved them most (Okri in second year highschool, Winterson in my third year, Divakaruni, maybe seven years ago) – the first words taste like the first seconds of the first kiss. So I come back to these authors, again and again, every so often.
Except today, I just found them near me. Like the Tibetan Singing Bowls that I found serendipitously.
I always trust to find or to be found. I will find you if you do not find me first.
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