Tom wrote:I used to smoke ganja and race Mongolian ponies with a dude named Zhang San Feng. He would blow incredibly precise representations in smoke of the Yijing hexagrams . . . they never lasted very long (things change, y'know). He would get really stoned, stand up by the campfire, then begin to sway and rock slowly, like a piece of seaweed moving underwater. I would throw the kettle at him, boots, saddlebags packed with Ulan Baator's finest . . . he just swayed and they slipped by him. Finally I poked him with a 13-foot-long flagpole we'd ripped off from one of the Manchu Banner battalions after a night of partying with Michelle Yeoh and Zhang Zhiyi. Made contact with his center, set and thrust, and got hurled a good forty feet back and fifteen feet up into the grove of pine trees (lucky for me). "H-h-h-how did you do that?" I asked, wiping the pine pitch from my hands after climbing down. Zhang leaned down (he was a big hairy dude, easily 7 feet tall), his eyes widening, the whites looking like New Jersey highway maps. "Taiji," he whispered, breath reeking of chou doufu and cannabis resin . . . then he disappeared in a clap of thunder.
That was a couple of centuries ago and ever since then I've been searching for and on occasion finding glimpses of that ol' dance between yin and yang embodied in the intent and shenfa of practitioners of CMAs, most recently with an 88-year-old man in Beijing with the surname of Zhang, who does some very skillful things and may just be some distant cousin several times removed of San Feng. You never know.
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