There are days where it is hard to write in the same way it is hard to walk after you have hiked with a ruck-sack through the steep terrain of the mountains. You’ll be winded until you find your cadence of breath. Then your muscles will burn until you learn to take smaller steps up the hills and switch back your way down them. And when your joints hurt is hopefully when you are back home with a drink or that celebratory cigarette or what have you. You can rest a little bit until you are fine before you power through the next jaunt. Fortunately, I have balance in my life and write fairly regularly on a day to day basis. Though, some days are more productive than others. I’m sure it has something to do with confidence as well the comfort I feel when I know the right words were used.
However, I have noticed something else that has stopped me from writing. And, ironically enough, it is this strange desire to write things that have nothing to do with my book. These non-book related focuses take away from a goal, I feel. But, I am starting to realize that if I purge them through the written word, then it is easier to focus on the book. In truth, the same laws that apply to being unable to selectively numb (to numb fear, but not love; anger, but not patience) apply to creativity. I am trying to numb creativity that is pushing itself out through a short jaunt in an attempt to redirect it toward the goal that has been almost two years in the making. (I believe Isaac Asimov decided not to continue working with classified material in that keeping secrets in one way would restrain him in other ways.)
So here I am and writing about my thoughts; but the thought I prefer to focus on starts with a trip to Japan a little over ten years ago where I gaffed. In typical flair, I photographed something I shouldn’t have — I recorded it even. I tried to capture something that seemed unusual to me, but my curiosity and intrigue probably caused more offense than anything. And in typical cultural response, no one said anything, but they sure thought it. My Japanese companion at the time filled in the details for me and I understood. But, it was those details she mentioned that caused me to take notice of something I would have normally ignored. And it was those details that have marked me deeply.
The question, naturally, is what did I do? Well, we were crossing a river and there were these stone boats with little statues. Everything stood stationary with the shadows of the trees waving with the wind. Each boat carried a cylindrical votive figure. Some were dressed and some were tattered, but all were squished in as if the boats carried what they could with the intent of returning to make another trip. And when I found out the reason for the statues, I knew they would return for another trip, and then more, and still more until the end of humanity.
In Japan, there is a saint that has made a vow to wander through all the hells that exist and escort those souls from purgatory. With his staff, he would break down the doors of hell, and with his jewel he would light the way; and he will not be done until he is done. He is a bodhisatva in the truest sense in that he not only has found the door to enlightenment, in that he not only holds the door open for others, but that he guides others to the door that can’t do it themselves. Naturally, he is the guardian of children: a deity of deceased children, aborted fetuses, and stillborns.
Each statue was an offering to comfort the grieving that lost what was most precious to them while others made the offering to absolve themselves of a vengeful spirit. This was a sacred place under a bridge, and I buried it all under a constipated shit. Anyone watching was too polite to say anything while I snapped away. And I was too dense to take the hint that we should be moving on…
Later, during that same trip, I was on a trail between shrines. Each one I saw was gold leafed and painted and bright. And then I came upon one that was dilapidated and sunken in with a sag from woodrot. Moss turned the roof into a mass of thick green. The shrine was tall and thin and narrow and surrounded by a cyclone fence in the footprint of a small house. I wanted to get closer to see the details, but I couldn’t. So I used the view finder on the camera to zoom in onto the steps where I saw what looked like a faded box with a bow, and next to this box was a tiny doll with the stitching loose and slumped and faded from the sun. And behind them was that same figure.
I knew I had stumbled on to something significant, so I took pictures as I circled the fence, and I zoomed in and out as I recorded all angles of this wilting shrine. Luckily, this time, I was lone. But when it was found out what I had done, I was politely told it probably wasn’t a good idea.
It took a good long while for me to understand the significance of what now remains a memory. And I am reminded of it once in a while as I travel around in my thoughts. I would like to think I am a bit more sensitive to what is considered sacred and should be handled delicately so that people can appropriately grieve. Though, it was only a few days ago when I saw pictures posted online of another grieving mass in Ireland. He helped carry the casket on his right shoulder with a look of aimless resolve on his eyes. Lines of grief raked his face as he stared blank. His smooth hands that carried her belied the age in his beard. But the camera caught him because he was supposed to be significant above all others there.
And I studied this picture and felt what I felt at the shrine and at the river. I felt it intensely. But I also felt a deep reverence that turned to shame when I went to the next picture to see this swath of people in a current with one face standing out like an unlikely rock — he broke the wall that kept me anonymous as he stared back. His eyes sunken in the shadows of his face and hollow cheeks as he at once pitied me and accused me for catching him in this moment. Part of me wonders if it was him wanting to ask why I would do this, but he lacked the effort for anger since he already knew.
And I did what I did at the shrine and at the river, and I saved the moment. It’s important somehow, and I don’t know why. To remind myself of something easily forgot? To have a clue towards something I’m still trying to understand? There is meaning there, I know there is, and that is why I saved the pictures. However, part of me is afraid there is none when I want there to be, and dismissing the evidence will prove that.
I am me 