This morning, we made an early trek out to the Temple of Heaven. The parks around it, filled with hordes of people practicing tai chi, fan dances, and just general wandering, stretched in all directions, it seemed. The music and song of old China rose in pockets between the lines of trees, to remind us occasionally of the sheer age and depth of culture into which we were entering.
Within the actual temple grounds, we came upon the central Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest, a three-tiered monolight that punctured the gray sky above with its tip. The first tier depicted carvings of clounds; the second, the heads and torsos of an army of phoenixes; ending at the top with an army of dragons. These designated the realms of Earth, the emperor's domain, and Heaven, respectively. The temple grounds felt immense for such a small place, and in the distance, one could see the outskirts of the city, modest in its proximity as if scared to approach the depth of geographical sacredness the place held.
Following that, we dined at an ethically diverse cafeteria-type restaurant, the Yu Friendship Store. I tasted practically everything laid upon the inset turntable (to which I was quickly becoming accustomed), unable to contain my excitement to eat. (I suppose it is still one of my top absolute favorite things to do.) The bottom floor featured an arts exhibition, with glass shelves and counters arrayed with all manner and color of fabric by creation. I had earlier that morning bought a traditional-design robin's eggo blue sild pillow case for a friend, and decided that I wanted to purchase a small, darkly blue-and-purpled bird that sat among a flock of much taller roosters and pheasants, all of them inlaid with intricate patters of copper lining between which paints were set, fired, and glossed. Walking around, I became obsessed with the mastery of the makers of all these pieces, as they openly created them right there in the room for others to observe. I was particularly enraptured by the process of one man who painted -- in the centuries-old sumi-e style (I do not yet know the Chinese word for it) -- upon the inside of hollowed glass globes, pictures of everything from zodiac animals to market places to battlefields.
Our final group destination was the Great Wall. I captured everything I could on my cellphone camera, having sadly used up my digital memory from the previous couple of days and no time to upload it to the internet or somewhere. (Memory cards were intolerably expensive where I was, and I had had no practical foresight to buys any before coming.) I did my very best not to go overboard, allowing my senses to take in the most there was to experience in the place -- the age, the immensity, the singularity of its design and purpose, the sheer coercion of its construction without regard to slope or topographical obstacles. We stood together in the light fog surrounding the mountains, watching people of arbitrary ethnicities climb over and through the wall's convoluted structure, like ants investigating an ancient and warped spinal column in the cool mist. The very dynamics of its intended polarization -- inside and outside -- now deintensified by the lack of the geopolitical border it once maintained, made it seem lonely but forever tenacious in its purpose. It was one of those few things that highlights the sacred truth that the dead always live on.
The day ended with the best Indian curry (a vegetable kofta, to be precise) that I have ever tasted. Just when you think you have already had the very best of something...
Within the actual temple grounds, we came upon the central Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest, a three-tiered monolight that punctured the gray sky above with its tip. The first tier depicted carvings of clounds; the second, the heads and torsos of an army of phoenixes; ending at the top with an army of dragons. These designated the realms of Earth, the emperor's domain, and Heaven, respectively. The temple grounds felt immense for such a small place, and in the distance, one could see the outskirts of the city, modest in its proximity as if scared to approach the depth of geographical sacredness the place held.
Following that, we dined at an ethically diverse cafeteria-type restaurant, the Yu Friendship Store. I tasted practically everything laid upon the inset turntable (to which I was quickly becoming accustomed), unable to contain my excitement to eat. (I suppose it is still one of my top absolute favorite things to do.) The bottom floor featured an arts exhibition, with glass shelves and counters arrayed with all manner and color of fabric by creation. I had earlier that morning bought a traditional-design robin's eggo blue sild pillow case for a friend, and decided that I wanted to purchase a small, darkly blue-and-purpled bird that sat among a flock of much taller roosters and pheasants, all of them inlaid with intricate patters of copper lining between which paints were set, fired, and glossed. Walking around, I became obsessed with the mastery of the makers of all these pieces, as they openly created them right there in the room for others to observe. I was particularly enraptured by the process of one man who painted -- in the centuries-old sumi-e style (I do not yet know the Chinese word for it) -- upon the inside of hollowed glass globes, pictures of everything from zodiac animals to market places to battlefields.
Our final group destination was the Great Wall. I captured everything I could on my cellphone camera, having sadly used up my digital memory from the previous couple of days and no time to upload it to the internet or somewhere. (Memory cards were intolerably expensive where I was, and I had had no practical foresight to buys any before coming.) I did my very best not to go overboard, allowing my senses to take in the most there was to experience in the place -- the age, the immensity, the singularity of its design and purpose, the sheer coercion of its construction without regard to slope or topographical obstacles. We stood together in the light fog surrounding the mountains, watching people of arbitrary ethnicities climb over and through the wall's convoluted structure, like ants investigating an ancient and warped spinal column in the cool mist. The very dynamics of its intended polarization -- inside and outside -- now deintensified by the lack of the geopolitical border it once maintained, made it seem lonely but forever tenacious in its purpose. It was one of those few things that highlights the sacred truth that the dead always live on.
The day ended with the best Indian curry (a vegetable kofta, to be precise) that I have ever tasted. Just when you think you have already had the very best of something...
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