The Wind

I used to be the best and the brightest
and the world was my oyster.

I used to have interesting stories to tell
and people to tell them to.

I used to want to hit home runs, or design buildings
and make millions doing what I loved.

Now all I want is to write words of enduring beauty
but who will listen.

Not even the wind.

The Samurai- Part 4

10.
Jun awoke early. His plan was to watch the camp, slowly stirring from slumber, to get a feel for its demeanor. He rose, gathering himself, just before dawn. He watched the sun rise,  meditating upon the soft rustle of grass and flowers bending in the slight breeze.

The camp was a cluster of large tents, sleeping four men per tent. There were twenty, no, twenty five tents, including the tents of the overseers. All said and done about 100 men were living and working at the river.
As the sun rose, so too did the men. Most were young to middle age. A handful looked more aged. They seemed to be performing the lighter work, stoking fires, making breakfast.

All were filthy.

Jun roused his comrades and they all joined the men in their morning meal. Through mouthfuls of rice and fish, Jun learned that most of the men had come from the village or the surrounding valley. Many were here in the hopes of earning enough to expand their fields or put a new roof over their heads.

A small pocket of the men claimed to be ronin, masterless samurai. Their master being recently killed in defense of his holdings. Lacking a master they had no real hope of attaching themselves to another. So they walked, picking up food and work as it came.

Jun had his suspicions about the true intentions of the ronin, but said nothing. There would be time enough for inquiries later. For now, with their bellies full, the three friends stood and went forth to begin their survey of the bridge.

11.
Jun had been told to speak to Chief Architect Aswade. After minimal searching, Aswade was located in his tent, inspecting his designs with a handful of other officials, as well as giving the days instructions to the foremen.

Jun would have described Aswade as beady, or shifty, if he had not been so rotund. The man was obviously fed well. But there was a look in his eye that bespoke, no doubt, to the years of boot licking, back stabbing, and more or less constant infighting that were sure to go along with rising to the top of the heap as one of the Shogun’s closest advisors.

“Most Honorable Aswade. I am Jun. My father, the magistrate has sent me to aid in your endeavors and understand your needs as fully as possible, in order to fill them to the best of his ability.”

“Master Jun, I welcome you to our humble camp. Your father is indeed a great man and trusted ally of the Shogun. Your presence is most appreciated and can only increase your father’s already impressive reputation as a gracious and hospitable lord.”

Following a round of introductions and bowing all around, Aswade began to show Jun the plans for the bridge. It was truly a work of wonder. Jun had never heard of such a construction having ever been undertaken, in his village to be sure, but nowhere else in the world as far as he knew.

It was massive. A high arching bridge of stone and wood, requiring six ten foot square support structures being built in the water up to a height of twenty feet in the center of the bridge.  The largest structure Jun had seen with his own eyes rose barely five feet on three legs.

“Master Aswade, I am sure that no bridge will know its equal,” said Jun in awed tones.

Aswade, it could be said, was rather fond of praise. Jun allowed a smile to play across his consciousness.

12.
They left the tent, Aswade leading the three young men to the construction site. The men had begun the work for the day, hefting large rocks into barrows and dragging them to the water’s edge.  But to Jun’s eye, very little work had actually progressed on the construction. It looked most like two small piles of rocks just beginning to show from the surface of the water.

“Master Aswade, forgive my incompetence, but should there not be four more bases, and the beginnings of legs after so many months of work? I am surely no expert on the matter, and I beg your forgiveness for asking such an impertinent question.”

“I would normally be most upset if one, such as yourself, asked such a question. However, in this circumstance, it is most warranted. Sadly, the river has been largely to blame. When we are able to make some progress, the river just washes it away. It is most frustrating.”

“But sir, there must be a solution. May I ask your methods? How are the men attempting to build the structure?”

Aswade opened his mouth to speak, but just as he did the men became ready for fresh attempts. He promptly gestured in the direction of the men by way of explanation, and what Jun saw was beyond comprehension.

It became immediately clear why the bridge was being built where the ancient ferryman tugged himself across by the rope and pulley suspended over the river.

One man had been tied into a harness attached to the center of his back by a long rope, itself hanging loosely from the main pulley rope. On the ground next to him was an enormous boulder with large metal rings protruding from four points on its surface.

The man waddled over to the stone and grasped the rings with hands and feet, gave a nod, and the rest of the men began tugging  on the pulley. Slowly, the man raised off the ground, tendons threatening to burst through his skin while blood and sweat rushed to his face.  Swinging to and fro, he was pulled just a short distance from the shore, cursing and grunting as he went, and centered over the first small pile. Once in place, the men onshore gave up a cheer, signaling the impending release. The remainder of the camp came rushing to the shore, waiting with baited breath and prayers.

The man spider, in one convulsion freed hands and feet, sending the rock  spinning down into place, only to have it roll free of the pile and start washing downstream. Dejected, the camp went back to business. The man reeled in looked like he would never walk the same.

Jun turned to Aswade and said, simply, “I see.”

The Samurai- Part 3

8.
“Come in, come in!” Saito exclaimed.

He stood and walked, with little regard for his steps, but somehow not disturbing  the slightest ripple of fabric or strand of hair. The man was incredible.

“Jun…Hideki!, my friends, come and sit awhile,” he said with a hearty laugh, but under his breath he added, “I’m unsure whether I will be able to remove myself from these wily clutches. I’m not sure that I would want to.”

“You’re still planning on joining us, out to the bridge construction?” Hideki asked.

“No, he’s proposing that we stay awhile,” replied Jun, offhandedly.

“Not at all,” Saito said with a catbird grin and a mighty wink.

“Daylight is wasting, and I want to return before dusk. Coming or not, we should proceed. But when we return I would like to help untie the knots on your floor, there,” added Jun with mild innocence.

Thundering laughter and glad handing all around, the three began their preparations to venture forth from the den of nearly drunken debauchery.

The debauchery could wait.

9.
They rode through the well worn streets of town, until the streets gave way to dirt road, and the road dwindled to a path through the forest. This was the only route out of their valley that led, eventually, to the capital, as long as one could ford the river that bisected the path and ending in waterfall  from the plateau upon which the town was perched.

Until recently, the only means of doing so was to pay the ferryman and wait as the old codger pulled slowly at the rope strung across the swirling torrent.  He did not ask much, a handful of rice or a coin or two, but his barge was only large enough to carry  between four men or two men with horses at a time.
Therefore, it was put forth by the Shogun, wanting all of his loyal subjects to have easy access to the capital, especially when they might be carrying all of that precious iron ore to trade. The town, nestled in a mountain valley, among crags and peaks, had discovered that they were sitting on a veritable gold mine’s worth of iron ore.  So they started mining the ore.

Is was soon realized, however, that the ore would only come trickling out of the mountains as long as there was no reliable passage across the river.  And that simply could not stand.
The Shogun dispatched, with all possible haste, his loyal surveyors and architects, and they devised a means by which the river could be bridged. But with the volume and quickness of the waters, the plan was easier set than completed.

Forming the support structures in the water was proving to be quite the deadly endeavor. So far, eleven workers had been washed away downstream, found battered and bloody at the base of the waterfall. So many had succumbed that the chief supervisor on the project had ordered the construction of a small camp at the base to attempt a speedier recovery of the victims. It always happened so suddenly, it was hard to be sure whether the men were dead on arrival or surviving the fall, only to have deeper injuries take them in due course. At least two of them looked as though they may have been alive long enough to crawl ashore before expiring.

The Shogun’s advisors were asking Jun’s father for more men to replace the fallen, but word had spread. The wages kept increasing, but so, too, did the danger.  It was to this end that Jun was asked to ride to the construction and see if he could assist in any way, primarily to study the structure and report back the true nature of the dangers involved. Jun was no architect. He was intelligent and had good instincts, as well as the complete faith of his father.

The Samurai- Part 2

4.
She may have been there the whole time, but he doubted it. She appeared near enough to shore that she could have waded in, but not close enough that Ganpei wouldn’t have heard her steps, at least under normal circumstances. But these were hardly normal.

She had the round face and wide bright eyes that he couldn’t resist. Her dark hair was down, the tips gently brushing the waist deep water. And she was naked, walking towards him.

Thank the gods, he didn’t have the energy to become aroused. 

She came nearer, advancing slowly, like a child reaching out for a wounded animal. He thought of snarling and hiding his hurt, but he could see she was interested in little else. She reached out and put a gentle, insistent hand on his shoulder, and he was at ease, suspicions put to rest. It was as if she was drawing the hurt and fatigue, the sorrow and suffering, out of his broken body like wine out of a barrel. She didn’t take it unto herself. Ganpei would swear that he could see it pouring out of him and into the shallow waters where it swirled and combined with the water, and the silt, refined. Purified.

She helped him to his feet, and out of his remaining tattered garments. She led him into the deepest waters, coming up just past their navels. She bent and scooped a handful of water up to his brow, and let loose a cool splash of water down his face. She bent again and again, slowly washing every inch of his body, slowly and thoroughly, while carefully avoiding his tender man parts. And with every handful, he could feel an equal amount of strength return to his body, his soul.

She stopped and looked at him with such pain in her eyes, glancing down to his wound. He knows what’s coming.

She reaches down and delicately starts to untie his handiwork. The halves of his penis would flop and peel apart if it weren’t for the blood, dirt, and willpower keeping them together. He had done his best to clean the wound before tying it into a splint, but not being the most objective bystander to the procedure, he had figured that gently rinsed would suffice. She starts crying in earnest and starts to scrub.
Each pass with her hands feels like a million tiny arrows finding their mark in his groin and guts. His brain explodes in a violent explosion of white light fireworks. And then he floats down the white waters and into oblivion.

5.
When he comes to, the disorientation hits with nauseating force. He’s dressed and covered, next to a fire with the woman stirring a pot of boiling liquid.

“I dressed your wound,” she said, “but don’t look. You shouldn’t move for a few days. Do not worry, though. I will stay with you.”

After what seemed like hours of staring at the stars and trees overhead, watching the flames in their sinuous dance around the pot that she stirred, the smell of fire, and earth, and something delicious.

“Drink this” she said, handing him a small stone bowl full of a steaming liquid. His need was so great, he hardly paused from accepting to guzzling the sweet sustenance and almost jumping out of his skin with impatience waiting for a second helping. Nothing but broth, and fish, and some herbs, but each drop brought him one step back from death.

“Who are you?” Ganpei asked, wiping his mouth.

“ A friend. My name is Mizuki.”

“How came you to this place?”

She thought for a moment. “I was born in this pool. My family lives nearby. It seems as though I am always here, washing, singing…listening.”

“Listening to what?”

“The water” she replied.

“It’s sound is beautiful, lapping up the shore, rippling and splashing against the rocks.”

“It is that. But there is more. The wisdom of the water.”

He wanted to ask more, not being entirely sure what she meant. But with a full belly and a broken body, he drifted back to sleep.

6.
Cloudy frog trees whistle  hair flying flailing sweat and essence hair melding moisture. Dirty fog aroma rock bird death. Rocky path rut juts akimbo rising falling rhythm heavenly orchestra. Purpose fury tossing sack rice umbrella gripped member soothing waves of agony. Searching hunting sniffing remnant secretions. Erections rage. Toothy grin grim freckles face seeking finding fancy fine dragon scale silken fire master.

The Samurai- Part 1

The Samurai

1.

Ganpei wasn’t exactly sure how his penis had been split clean up the middle, but the blood was cold on the inside of the samurai’s legs as he stumbled up the hill, into the clearing.

He knew well enough when it happened, and who had done it. That rotten Jubei. He’d crossed swords with him in the past, but never in the thick of battle. But even Jubei hadn’t expected this cut. His upward slash was meant for arms or legs, or stripping Ganpei of his sword.  The penis was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Those were his final thoughts as he crested the rise and saw that he was alone. At that point, he fell limp in the dead leaves and bracken, barely able to draw breath, and wholly unable to remain conscious.

 2.

He awoke to sunshine slowly roasting him in his armor and the sound of trickling water.  Surveying the area, he was relieved to see a small pool in the clearing. Cool and fresh, he could smell the water, such was his thirst. A few passionate gulps later, and it was time to take stock.

He began by removing his helmet, crushed on one side by a war hammer’s glancing blow. He was thankful for the helmet staying in place long enough to save his life. However, he had sustained a nasty cut running down his temple, parallel to the ear. Painful and ugly, but not deep. He washed it clean then applied a thin layer of spongy moss to help stem the flow of blood.

 Next, he removed his weapons, gauntlets and gloves, and aside from throbbing stiffness from overuse and most likely a broken forefinger, all was well.

Breastplate and shoulder guards, riddled with nicks and dings from arrowheads, smeared with blood, mud, and who knows what else, but intact. He thinks to himself that he really must show his gratitude to his personal blacksmith, and wonders how, and when.

But before his thoughts could tarry much on gifts or his prospects for survival, a mighty throb shot up his abdomen and threatened to make him blackout, not even enough time to curse or scream. He slowly peeled off his pants and plate tunic, to reveal something strange. It looked like a gut fish, but it was attached to his body. He couldn’t rectify what he was seeing with anything he had ever seen before. There was no hope for his member, to be brought back to normal. He knew that. But left untended, it would be his death.

3.

Ganpei ripped strips of cloth from his pants and found two short, thick sticks, as lacking in jagged bends and tips as possible. In a daze, he walked slowly into the water, up to his knees. He paused.

Being the first son of a samurai, he had been raised to be without fear. His was a long lineage of strength and glory. Up until this very moment, he felt he had done right by his ancestors, and that they were proud. But right now, he was terrified. The thought of the water touching his most personal of injuries sent a shockwave through his soul. But logic and a lifetime of pain won out. He sat, and tended to his wound.

And there she was.

Floodgate

Floodgate

Prologue:

My earliest memory was seeing my great grandmother’s brains seeping out of her head and into a large stainless steel mixing bowl.

It happened on the front porch of a distant relative’s farmhouse in rural Southern Idaho.  It had been an idyllic afternoon of fresh baked bread with homemade strawberry preserves and horseback riding.  The house had that non-descript smell of old people’s sweat soaked into the polyester sofas, mountains of knit blankets, throws, arm covers, doilies, and fake flowers everywhere with just a hint of pig shit wafting from the shag carpet.

Imagine an exterior taken straight from a first grader’s backpack.  Square house, yellow siding, triangle roof, red rectangle front door, square windows with a white cross brace.  Even a tall, fluffy green tree off to the right.  It was raised from ground level at least three or four feet, which made the treacherously steep concrete porch seem like a good idea.  Astroturf or no Astroturf.

My great grandfather was a stubborn little man.  I have fond memories of being mesmerized by his liver spots.  But for some reason he insisted that his wife use him as a steadying force rather than the hand rail down from the porch of doom.  She seemed to be progressing nicely, except for the occasional brush slap to keep grandpa’s hands away.  But in the tussle she lost her footing, fell back and cracked her head like an egg on the corner of a step. 

I remember the few seconds pause while the adults took in the scene, and the sweetly metallic smell of the blood evaporating from the pavement.  Then she talked and started sitting up. 

Several things happened at once: she looked faint and shuddered, an aunt and a cousin shrieked at the sight of the wound, my mother ran for the phone, my uncle, the always practical farmer, collected the mixing bowl, while grandpa stood in dumbfounded horror.  I stared until I thought my eyes would implode.

I remember the discussions about the possibility that the doctors could somehow push the brains back in her head and she’d be right as rain, at least until the paramedics covered her for good. 

I’ve always believed that the overwhelming feelings of responsibility were what sent my great grandfather into premature dementia and frailty.  But what he didn’t know was that it wasn’t his fault at all.

It was mine.

1.

I was born.  Four weeks premature, but I lived. 

I remember hearing how the rest of the hospital was a ghost town. Dust collecting in hallways and drinking fountains.  The rest of the patients, tenants and workers had been moved to the new hospital across town.  If I hadn’t come early, I would have been born there too. Officially the last patient discharged from a small regional hospital. Lucky me.

2.

I grew. Not much, to be sure. Small for my age, until I got old enough to be fat for my age.  The coke bottle glasses in the tortoise shell frames, complete with crossbar over the bridge, worn from the first grade on, made me stand out. Quiet and bookish, I kept to myself most of the time.

3.

For the most part, I remember reading or playing quietly in my room. The only punctuation coming when things happened. I suppose I should say “Things” happened. No one else seemed to notice much, and my young mind could barely keep track of what I wanted to be for Halloween, or which toy I wanted for Christmas much of the time. Not really fertile ground for noticing patterns. But patterns there were. And are.

4.

Mostly I recall the large events. Going to preschool and walking in on a teacher diddling one of my classmates. My aunt stopping by with every new beau, only to have them leave her shortly thereafter.  A smurf teaching me how to fly and buzzing around the living room.  That might have been a dream.

But looking back on it, the same things have been happening all along.

5.

In the small town, on the border between Utah and Idaho, things were fairly quiet, at least back then. The tree lined streets, small local shops run by generations of families, families out smiling and shopping and walking. I remember when we got our first McDonald’s. It opened five blocks north of downtown proper, and everyone thought it was in the boonies.

The only entertainments were the one screen movie theater with the huge and gaudy sign, green casing with orange neon spelling UTAH, surrounded by small flash bulbs.  We never got a movie that was newer than last year.  That’s the best way to describe the town. Last year.

The farmers still drove their tractors around town. There was the occasional cow running through a drive thru. The blackest people I’d seen ran the Chinese restaurant.

Really, only two things put our little town on the map. A regionally respected cheese factory and being the last outpost of humanity before reaching the wasteland of Idaho. Everyone knew everyone. Shopping was a four hour ordeal, after bumping into everyone from your neighborhood/school/congregation and glad handing all around.

Needless to say, there wasn’t much to do, or see, or say. Long lazy summer days droned into long cold winter nights.

6.

From an early age, I could swim.  Like a fish. By age four I could keep up with the best of them.

Almost every afternoon my mother and I would leave our house on the hill, dinner prepared and cooking in silent expectation and drive down the long street. It connected the hill where the University campus and housing gave way to the cemetery and one of the newer, better off neighborhoods in town with the older, rougher neighborhoods at the bottom. Further up the street, on the hill, were the golf course and the Old Money. But where we were, everyone drove fuel efficient economy compacts. Mostly foreign.

The drive would take us past the football stadium across the street from the cemetery.  There were real pioneers buried there. Past the rundown houses and brown lawns, some sporting a tireless Firebird, further on past the older of the two elementary schools in town. The playground was fenced, and shared the chicken wire with some small pasture lands, divvied up in years past, and soon to be a strip mall.

Just across from the pastures, barbed wire rusting and weather beaten posts, was the middle school and adjoining public pool. Where we would swim.

7.

On the day in question, I remember arriving at the pool. Running around the edge, too fast, and getting the whistle. I remember looking at a pretty girl chatting up a good looking guy, twisting her hair and playing coy. She took a step back, inching towards the deep end of the pool, and there was just enough water on the deck to make her slip and splash into the pool. Talk about embarrassing.

I remember feeling shy in the locker room, by myself. Pulling down my trunks, all the while trying to cover up my inchworm, trying not to look at the gray matted hairy cocks of the old fat men that seemed just a little too comfortable walking around buck naked in front of a five year old. Toweled off and dressed we began our return journey.

It seems like we would have been listening to James Taylor. Or maybe just the radio. That’s one of the things that has faded with time. I can clearly see the angle of the sun, streaming through the window and causing the water to steam off of my swim trunks. Talking about this and that with my mom. Looking up, I saw a man on a motorcycle. Not a fancy bike, like a Harley or something, but one of those big dirt bikes from the early eighties. Lots of red plastic and power.

He had on a helmet that was much cooler than the bike.  Black and shiny with the visor that kept his face obscured. Having never really seen a motorcycle, I asked my mom what it was, and why it didn’t have an enclosed cabin. And why the man was wearing a helmet.  As she explained that it was for protection we came to a stoplight next to the man on the bike. I looked at him, and he turned to look at me. Flipped up his visor to smile with a mischievous glint in his eye. He wanted to show off.

The light turned green and he was off like a shot, heading back up the long road, just passing the pasture and the barbed wire. Too fast. Or something broke. His front wheel rapidly shaking underneath him, the panicked arm movements. He veered off to the left, narrowly avoiding our car, cut across traffic and bounced down into the drainage ditch.

It looked like that was going to change his momentum enough to stop him in his tracks. But by some trick of physics and a cruel twist of fate, it actually seemed to propel him forward, ever faster toward the fence behind.

With a twang, the barbed wire snapped back in place, the bike still spinning wheels and sputtering smoke, as the man’s helmet flew into the pasture.

For the longest time, I convinced myself that he walked over, picked it up, put it back in place, and drove off into the sunset. Then I remember staring at the headless body stuck in an endless bloody push up. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

8.

I already told you what happened when I was six. It had very little direct impact on my life. The biggest factor was that I lived in a split level kitty corner to my great grandparents.

I remember standing in the bathroom in the basement, shaving with dad. And snow forts in the backyard, under the droopy trees. Willows weeping, or cherries sagging, who can say. The day my parents brought home our Japanese exchange student, or when I broke the tall drinking glass with my hobby horse, the shards sparkling in the blue shag.

Looking back, they occupied very little of my time. They were already ancient, less mobile. But good to watch me in a pinch. The visits wound round the ribbon candy, that had evaporated any flavor over the years, yup years, it had been sitting there on the table. A fine layer of dust would collect, and I would dust the candy. But every now and then, I would forget and pop one of the little buggers on my tongue.

From where the candy sat, I could go four directions, after I stopped running around in circles. To the display case, with pictures of my grampa in uniform, and medals, and sundry. Just down the stairs was a modest library. Reader’s Digest condensed stuff, mostly. Some war books, with dogfighting airplanes and army men in the rain. Out the back was a little garden, with a little porch, and hanging vidalias and a horseshoe pitch. Upstairs were the bedrooms and bath. Lots of peeing.

I want to tell you stories about hearing stories on grampa’s knee, or baking cookies with grammmama, but they aren’t in there.  It could have happened that way. I just can’t say one way or the other. I can say that I felt loved, and that goes a long way.

9.

After the accident, grampa had to go to the home. The Sunshine Daycare. Daycare? Nah, Daydream. The Sunshine Daydream. Lousy bastards. False advertising, if you ask me. At least he Daydream part was accurate.

The first few times we went there, I thought it was a wonderful place. A “Mom, can I live here when I grow up?” place. We went periodically to say hello. When grampa was in the wheelchair, chasing the nurses and talking about life on the farm in the 20’s. Hard life. He was a hard man, so I knew that was true.

We went with a church group to sing and play and entertain at Christmas. Someone made the foyer look like Santa’s Workshop with huge bundles of textile stuffing and construction paper. And each oldie got a Santa hat and a present, some gumming feverishly at the paper.  George Romero’s “Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

But after a few more visits, he started to slump a little lower. His tongue started to go black. Then he passed.

10.

Soon, their house was sold. Then ours was, and we moved across town, down to the nicer part of down the hill. Pretty close to the school, and the pool.

To the casual observer, the house was newish. Built in the ‘70s in all its goldenrod and lava rock glory. The real shame was the nice dark hardwood floors that had been covered in carpet. And while we’re on the subject, who GLUES carpet to hardwood? Lousy bastards, that’s who.

Now, in reality, I’m sure it couldn’t have been our first night in the house. And I don’t know if anyone could even clear it up, for certain. But it feels like it had to have been the first night. It all becomes a blur; when did the dancing hot dog wallpaper go in?, when did we finish getting the carpet off the hardwood?,  what’s the secret to SPAM Surprise anyway? I guess we’ll never know…

None of that matters, except to the timeline in my head. The fused memories from a place we lived in for less than a year. The school was terrible. The neighbors were boors. What little excitement was leftover from moving in was dashed into a million tiny pieces.

As I ran down the hallway, with the hot dog’s dancing as I went. Naked as a jaybird, possibly in a Superman cape. Footsteps pounding/shuffling on the hardwood/carpet.  Not wanting to remove sir’s cape, or have the stingy shampoo, and complaining that the water was too hot as my foot touched the bottom.

My father came bursting into the bathroom shortly after my mother screamed, which was even more shortly after the bathtub, which she was filling for my bath, sank six inches into the floor. Just in time to see the tub, free of its caulky bonds, finish the trip through to the unfinished basement below in a beautiful tsunami of porcelain and Mr. Bubble.  Thank Elvis for a mother’s catlike reflexes. In that split second she realized what was happening and yanked me up and out, dangling over the chaos.

Miik-u

would the body join
brain that's surfing, crashing waves
or fall into drink