Cadiz

Omar and Akiko entered a student cafe for pan, butter, strawberry jam and coffee. The place hummed with readers, writers, calculators, talkers and dreamers. Students checked their phones to tell time. They told time where to go. Silent time told them to eat faster and get their sweet ass to class. White gamma rays bathing the room sang through skylights.

I visited Ashiakawa on the island of Hokkaido one fall, said Omar. Speak memory, said Akiko. Beached summer red and yellow canoes were tied up for winter. Ducks and mallards rested on water. Women gathered leaf shadows along wide paths. At a Shinto temple on a small island an old brown structure imposed its sentinel protection. Sacred space.

There was a Tori gate, cement bridge and guardian lions in the small courtyard. Crows cackled. At the temple was a square stone basin of water with four wooden ladles resting on a crossbar. A single cup of water dipped and poured back into the basin created a visual ripple effect. A drop on the surface released a thousand colors as a golden and brown pebble bottom exploded. One drop created smooth colors before emptiness and stillness.

A visitor dropped single splashes. Ephemeral beauty. I inspected paper prayers and 1,000 white crane offerings fluttering near stone steps. Two women arrived at the water basin, drank deep, spat water out, walked up steps, clapped their hands three times, bowed in prayer, clapped three times, threw coins through wooden slots into the temple, clapped twice, walked down stone steps and threw remaining water on stone lions, laughed and crossed the stone bridge. Leaves floated reflection shadows in the world.

Akiko laughed, I don’t have a particular god.

The Dali Lama said the only true religion is one of love and kindness, said Omar.

I understand.

They walked to the Playa de la Caleta beach past a shit-covered statue of Simon Bolivar on his bronze horse singing his mercenary exploits in Panama, Venezuela, Peru, Cuba, and Bolivia. They felt sand below a blazing sun. Men in blue coveralls raked and shoveled trash into a wheelbarrow. Violent foaming wild southern flanks of green blue black sea smashed rocks. East water was calm.

Spanish women under umbrellas knitted gossip with bright red yarn. Memory cards captured digital coastlines, long human shadows and a solitary cane as an elderly person performed her rebirth in water transformation therapy.

She swam to Kampot, Cambodia and married a pepper farmer. She gave him twins named Alpha and Omega. She taught them Spanish and oral storytelling magic. They introduced her to orphanages and Zen meditation practice. She swam back to Cadiz to find her crutch. It was gone.

Tavia Tower next to the Music Conservatory displayed a 360-degree perspective with tight white Moorish cubist homes slanting into cupola cathedral spires tolling eternal songs.

Religion is larger than human existence because we promise eternal salvation, said a friar, a monk and adept Brahmin.

History’s ocean was vast, spectacular, sad and incomprehensible.

Akiko cried farewell. Waving into an empty blue sky Omar vanished in Islamic, Catholic, Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish and Shinto shadows. Akiko’s energy spirit, strength, freedom and dignity was a sweet memory called the past. Stable and fluctuating mirages.

Playing his Honer blues harp in the key of C he wandered deserted Cadiz noon streets singing about a train leaving the station with a red light on behind. Taking my baby away. All my love’s in vain.

Good love story said Tran.

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Akiko

“The fear of living, observing and experiencing in absurd detail where others lack the self-scrutiny or courage to voice them,” said David Foster Wallace.

*

            Sheep fear watching other people make things happen and not knowing what the fuck is going on, said Z. Sheep and robots fear taking a risk. They know it’s easier to do nothing than take a chance, said Leo.

            I cut useless meaningless vague words blocking the narrative river. I am innocent, happy, empty and brave. I am not afraid to make wise selections when it comes to editing this massive amount of verbiage, said Zeynep.

            Where’s the burn bag, said the janitor.

            I fear Room 101, said Winston Smith in 1984.

            Poor schools makes it easier for SYSTEMS to control ignorant citizens.

            Leo - In Utopia we learn the less we do the fewer mistakes we make. The fewer mistakes we make the less we are criticized. I remain safe and happy. It’s called THE SYSTEM. Brainwashed. You see this in every Asian education system.

             Students shuffle in, remove their brains, soak them in a cleaning solution that is not the solution for fifty tedious minutes and replace said gray matter at the end of class. It’s endemic. Social conditioning.

            A teacher is Parent #2. School is your first dictator.

            Big Brother is watching. Save face. It’s your karma.

            The fear of humiliation is greater than the fear of death, said Death.

            Karma is the universal law.

            Will your characters discuss moral ambiguities? Yes. They will speak with nouns and verbs and use specific adjectives for description, playing with words like Joyce. They will play with ideas, like Borges, said Zeynep.

Attributes of good ideas said Devina.

a.         Simple

b.         Unexpected

c.         Concrete

d.         Credible

e.         Emotional

f.          Story-containing

            Good writing is clarity, simplicity, brevity and humanity. There are people who talk about things, said Zeynep, People who talk about people and people who talk about ideas. The life of the mind.

            Is a place a character, asked Tran, Sure, said Devina, A place has character like Kroma, Cambodia, a sleepy river town, famous for pepper, Sunflower’s hands, Milling Around and the SIGN ones, said Rita.

            Writers use a specific location in their work, said Omar. Cadiz, Spain worked its way into my morning pages. I traveled with a nomad after 9/11.

             His laughing axe synthesized metaphors of death, sacrifice and letting go. His mirrors became gifts (hello beauty) and gifts multiplied gifts with gratitude. The gift keeps moving. It was imperative to leave the united states of confusion and Morocco behind.

            Exile suited our spirit. It was the irony of ironies, pressed irons with heavy starch in the collar please I told the world’s dry cleaner. Wash and wear. Dry a tear.

            Nothing is true & everything is permitted, Omar told Akiko, a Japanese fashion designer in Cadiz.

            Everything is permitted with fabric and threads, naked in the dark exploring their personal puzzle maps, tracing contours through the Sierras in Andalusia toward beaches woven with linen and silk.

            They were two orange and black butterflies dancing in a courtship ritual. They slept together in a Hokkaido love hotel filled with mirrors.

            At 2 a.m. Cadiz garbage workers in fluorescent yellow tiger stripes collected discarded words along narrow streets.

            Omar wrote the morning down as sky painted orange, pink and cerulean colors. A crescent moon hung in the west. He walked down Benjumeda Street as uniformed school kids gripped parental hands passing veiled grandmothers wearing widow market black at intersections on their daily economic briefing. Roman cobblestones rested in white shadows. Cool clear air dusted lungs.

            The Plaza de Falla Moorish red brick extremities shimmered in soft light. Arches formed prayer hands. Golden, cast iron, bronze, brick, tile, and papier mâché arch models in the world prayed for non-violence, dialogue, a ceasefire and arms control.

            Arms out of control waved goodbye to sanity and millions of orphans.

            Weary serious sad med students gripping texts crossed plazas toward class. Matriculation was a fading dream. Two men grimaced a ladder past a hospital and a fortune teller selling lottery tickets. Gambling was a big deal in Cadiz. Machines in bars with three virgin cherries rotated. ONCE lottery tickets bought the population where 40% were unemployed.

            Pay now pray later. The best is yet to come, said an unemployed Roma fortune teller.

            A nurse in white perfection entered a cafe for coffee. Old people hobbled in and out of a hospital. A woman left the hospital carrying one crutch. Needing Grave Digger she walked past an ambulance. I’m busy, said Digger, See my calloused hands.

            Death stood watch 24/7 in the big leagues.

            Book of Amnesia, V1.

Dogen

Language creates a false world (but) the only way out of that false world is through language.

Go beyond language through language.

Spirituality & Art. Impulse.

A deeper reality. Visionary.

*

Written by the mendicant monk Dōgen, September 26, 1242.

From the single blossom five leaves uncurled: Upon one single leaf a Tathagata stood alone.

Her vow to harmonize our lives is ocean deep,

As we spin on and on, shouldering our deeds of right and wrong.

*

Dogen's Death Poem

Fifty-four years lighting up the sky.
A quivering leap smashes a billion worlds.
Hah!
Entire body looks for nothing.
Living, I plunge into Yellow Springs.

Dogen (1200-1253)

Hokusai

"At 75 I'll have learned something of the pattern of nature, of animals, of plants, of trees, birds, fish and insects.

"When I am 80 you will see real progress.

“At 90 I shall have cut my way deeply into the mysteries of life itself.

"At 100 I shall be a marvelous artist.

“At 110 everything I create, a dot, a line, will jump to life as never before."

- Hokusai (1760-1849) The Great Wave

Mommy's Meltdown

“Mommy I saw you screaming and yelling at the man in the high chair. Why?”

“Yes, my darling shining star of fairness and gender equality. I was feeling unhappy, angry and cheated by life and if that wasn't enough I was playing like shit. The other girl was playing better then me.”

“Oh mommy, did you need a time out?”

“I needed more than a time out. I needed coaching from my box.”

“You mean like cereal from a box?”

“Kind of. It's a human signal thing when your coach in the box moves their hands close together meaning go to the net.”

“I've seen you go to the Internet. After you had a meltdown millions of sad, angry people went to the net to express their feelings and opinions. Most were about the mean old man in the high chair, tennis rules and something called double standards.”

“That's write honey bunny. Millions of my fans including 23,990 in the stands expressed their anger and vitriolic bitterness at the cruel tragic reality. I was going down in flames created by my inability to let it go, get focused and back in the match. I was facing elimination, loss, shame, and character assignation. I felt betrayed by the system.”

“Is that why you smashed your racquet mommy?”

“It's part of the reason, sweet. I knew I’d lose the match to a better player. She served better than me. She returned serve better than me. She moved better than me. I broke my racquet to show the world I am a strong woman.”

“The man in the high chair was calm mommy.”

“Don't be fooled my dear. He's a liar and a thief.”

“What did he steal?”

“He stole a point from me. He stole a game from me. He gave the other player my game. It wasn't fair. My actions had consequences and it wasn't fair.”

“No one said life is supposed to be fair mommy.”

“You can say that again darling. Anger and no self control is very expensive.”

“What happened to the other girl?”

“She ignored the crowd's psychotic behavior, took deep breaths, focused on her game and played one point at a time. She closed it out with Zen precision.”

“She handled the situation well didn't she mommy?”

“She had the right attitude. I was just another tennis player to her. She was cool to the end.”

“You displayed good emotional intelligence on the stage mommy. You hugged the girl and told the crowd to stop booing.”

“It's about self R-E-S-P-E-C-T and respecting others.”

“Life is a hard teacher, mommy. If you don't learn the lesson you have to repeat it.”

“It's not about tennis. It's about character. Tennis begins with love. Now get out of your high chair. I'm late for my anger management class.”

(The writer has twenty years experience as a certified tennis teacher/coach. He worked as a linesman and chair umpire for the Irish Tennis Federation Inter-Zonal Davis Cup matches.)