...My son lay down in the boat as the oarsman labored. He kept his eyes shut, bathing the tender skin in the morning sun. He knew that when he tried to see again, that the faces of his captors would be revealed slowly from behind a wash of redness, enveloping every corner of the universe.
The waters were calm, and he focused on the sound of rhythmic breathing and the oars slapping the sea, the sensation of warmth on his skin, the air smelling bright and green. It occurred to him that the distance between this moment and the next was infinite. That entire lives might be led in the space between contemplation and captivity. Each life dividing the distance in half, and so long as there was a distance to half, the final bridging could never be made. It had been a riddle posed by the Englishman, who attributed the trick to a magician from Greece, who had discovered the infinity of turning inward by watching animals chase one another.
The sea was cupped by the lip of the boat. He, held within, atop, beneath. Listening for the dream of the dragon's shores, but hearing only the voice of the oarsman, humming some sailor's tune, Does this remind you of rowing up the river with a woman in summer, my son asked, I should think not, the oarsman replied, Try and let it remind you of that, said my son, the oarsman became cold, I have never done it and so it can't remind me of any such thing.
My son allowed a few moments to go by quietly, and started to whistle a slow and innocent tune, mimicking the high whoops of a crane, the low rush of fresh water. Are you reminded yet, he asked, Not in the least but if you will be quiet I will say that I am...
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
of the gardener's son, there are only legends
Recall, young lady, that my son had been dismissed from his master after the Christians were killed in the south. They had learned of his family. Of my occupation. And though for a time after Ieasu's rise, it appeared that upward mobility had a champion, there is always with us the desire to see things in their proper place.
Instead of returning home as he had been instructed, my son took his pay and set about looking for a ship that could take him further south, to the shores of the dragon he had seen in his dream. But none were willing to sell to him, not even the Dutch.
And so he used his pay instead to hire a crew of vicious men, and with them he commandeered a vessel out of port, and made haste to evade the wrath of the Daimyo. But he could not outrun the Daimyo's ships, and after a month of chase, my son was forced to engage them on open seas.
His foremost fear was that his crew were too vicious and selfish to remain loyal to him. That if they were offered reprieve, they would not hesitate to kill him themselves, and offer his head to the Daimyo's retainers.
On the evening before the morning, when he knew he must give the order to come about, my son locked himself in his cabin and contemplated dismemberment. The virtues, he had heard from a wandering monk in the marketplace, of removing one's own femur and then, before the blood-loss had taken the mind, carving an image of the Buddha from the bone, and offering rice and tea and incense. And after this, he allowed himself to dream, but not to sleep, as would have been improper.
At dawn, which the Dutch have told us is rosy in Greece--but to my son appeared only bright and silent as blood--he ordered the ship to come about. He handed his bow to the first mate, an Englishman, and ordered himself placed under arrest, to be handed over peacefully to their pursuers in exchange for leniency at sentencing...
Instead of returning home as he had been instructed, my son took his pay and set about looking for a ship that could take him further south, to the shores of the dragon he had seen in his dream. But none were willing to sell to him, not even the Dutch.
And so he used his pay instead to hire a crew of vicious men, and with them he commandeered a vessel out of port, and made haste to evade the wrath of the Daimyo. But he could not outrun the Daimyo's ships, and after a month of chase, my son was forced to engage them on open seas.
His foremost fear was that his crew were too vicious and selfish to remain loyal to him. That if they were offered reprieve, they would not hesitate to kill him themselves, and offer his head to the Daimyo's retainers.
On the evening before the morning, when he knew he must give the order to come about, my son locked himself in his cabin and contemplated dismemberment. The virtues, he had heard from a wandering monk in the marketplace, of removing one's own femur and then, before the blood-loss had taken the mind, carving an image of the Buddha from the bone, and offering rice and tea and incense. And after this, he allowed himself to dream, but not to sleep, as would have been improper.
At dawn, which the Dutch have told us is rosy in Greece--but to my son appeared only bright and silent as blood--he ordered the ship to come about. He handed his bow to the first mate, an Englishman, and ordered himself placed under arrest, to be handed over peacefully to their pursuers in exchange for leniency at sentencing...
Monday, May 18, 2009
Dreams of the Lazy Samurai
Tsunetomo Yamamoto was fond of sleep. He confessed he wished to sleep away the remainder of his life, only allowing his legs to do as much work as was absolutely necessary. His dreams, coated in bloodstains, were the silences left by gods who had abandoned him. None remained. His was a mad and useless death.
And I have been dreaming entire lives for two nights. It will likely continue for five more.
I was hollow this morning. It was a nothingness. And this reminded me to be sad again about love.
Bright blue light comes into the bus, flickering behind the leaves of passing trees. I have forgotten where I am going. That I am meant to have joy in this moment.
That I may burst simply from waiting to see you.
There are no forks in path. Perhaps in a path, but not in "path." It is solitary, singular, unicursal.
And I realized today that there are seventy-two Japanese citizens all learning to the tone of my voice, growing accustomed to my cadences, and I shall either be mindful, or else cursed with their song.
And I have been dreaming entire lives for two nights. It will likely continue for five more.
I was hollow this morning. It was a nothingness. And this reminded me to be sad again about love.
Bright blue light comes into the bus, flickering behind the leaves of passing trees. I have forgotten where I am going. That I am meant to have joy in this moment.
That I may burst simply from waiting to see you.
There are no forks in path. Perhaps in a path, but not in "path." It is solitary, singular, unicursal.
And I realized today that there are seventy-two Japanese citizens all learning to the tone of my voice, growing accustomed to my cadences, and I shall either be mindful, or else cursed with their song.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Saturday, May 2, 2009
i do not miss you (can you tell)
Waiting on a green scout t-shirt to come in the mail and not allowing too much silence, sometimes I pick up books and flip to the opening chapter, but I cannot proceed so I boil water and watch it clear butter from the bottoms of plates and unclog the sink, in this mood I would in the past have drunk myself to sleep, but this is among somewhat forgotten tendencies, and there is a desire to visit the ocean, a desire but not a will... I will try to read the one about New Orleans, or the one about birds.
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