The monk in the tower block is not too hard to find, he’s not even on the top floor, maybe about six or so flights up, enough for the stairs to be a pain in the arse and and at a height that makes the view open rather than majestic. Some of the local kids know about him because if you buzz his number then he’ll always let them in and then they end up riding up and down on the top of the lift before they get bored and leave to set off a fire hydrant instead. He doesn’t dress in beautiful orange robes either, but just in a tee shirt that’s a size too large for his bony frame and some baggy tracky bottoms. He doesn’t watch the TV or own a smartphone or computer. He doesn’t play any music though he sometimes sings to himself. He has a number of bird feeders set up on his balcony and sometimes tries to copy the sound of their chirrups and warbles with his own whistles and chants.
Sometimes he heads down onto the grounds around the tower block to pick up rubbish from the hedges and lawns. Sometimes he crouches down by a smashed bottle, picks up each sliver of glass and places them into his palm before frittering them into a bin. If a piece draws blood he waits for the wound to congeal before continuing, sometimes cursing his clumsiness.
He once kept a cat for a while, a malnourished stray that he found on his daily walk along the canal. One day it found its way onto the balcony and killed one of the birds. He decided it was best to keep the balcony door shut but the cat became frustrated at the sight of the creatures chirruping away at the other side of the glass and thought it would find a similar opportunity if it climbed through the slightly ajar bathroom window. He only knew what had happened when he heard the panicked yowls of the creatures clinging tight to a narrow ledge and by before he could formulate a rescue plan the strong gales formed by the thermocurrents between the blocks swatted the creature to its doom in the same way it swatted at the little feathered creatures at the feeders.
He realised then that he had made a mistake in allowing the love he felt for all things to intensify around the form of such a sad and needy creature. That the love he felt for all things should not calcify into attachment. To rescue something is more an act of forestalling than it is of defeating the blind forces of fate.
He keeps plants too and is in awe of their wisdom and the little fits of care it takes to sustain them. He sees a kind of knowledge in their ways of living, knowledge as the ways of the world rather than bright, compelling pictures within the minds of one particular species. He used to read, a lot, and he still keeps the odd poem here and there to re-discover while on his daily rounds, but decided he had read enough a few years back and gave them all away.
He’s largely left alone as it’s relatively well known that he has nothing worth stealing. There was the odd break in now and then and dealing with the door repairs was so much hassle that he decided to leave his door unlocked all the time. His bag of rice seems to go down by more than he uses for himself and the little trails leading to his door let him know that it can’t be mice. Whoever it is, he hopes that it eased their concerns. Sometimes a neighbour tells him that he needs to keep that door locked if he doesn’t want to end up living in a traphouse. He smiles, thanks them for their concerns. If his living room fills up with sick, addicted souls, he will try his best to remedy their conditions. He feels no need to sit in a certain way or drill his desireless gaze into a favourite blank wall. Whatever manifests in his vision is a worthy subject of contemplation. He’s read all of the holy books you can think of, took in what was needed and cast the rest aside. He has forgotten how many winters he has known. He barely remembers his mother’s face. He sometimes intuits that all things have the same face and it is our way of looking that creates the differences. He cannot count the winters he has left, just the one that’s coming.
2024-09-17
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