The new students edged into the room gingerly. MacDougal was waiting for them. The protocol required that they undergo a test to see what level they had reached in their long exploration of language learning.
“Where is the cat?” he barked.
The irony was not lost on Shou Mi. He went into the top level group.
“Which is the bigger garden?” he probed.
“My name is Monday,” said…errr…Monday.
Monday went to level 2.
“And you,” shouted MacDougal, “why do you say nothing?”
“I’m the new teacher,” said Mr Landfill.
“Then it’s Level 1 for you.”
Why are koans never bloody simple? What is to be gained from sitting around trying to uncover the hidden meaning that lies within? Within what exactly? EXACTLY! And suppose the whole universe was nothing more than a typo.
What makes Monday any better than Shou Mi. Was MacDougal wrong about his new pedagogical partner? Perhaps Mr Landfill should have protested more? But he was a Canadian and far too polite.
Can you be too polite?
Ask a Norwegian anarchist.
THIS BE THE VERSE
Looking back, it’s so bizarre
It runs in the family
All the things we are
On the back seat of the car
With Joseph and Emily
We only see so far
And we all have our daddy’s eyes