At the low, chestnut-colored table, trying to philosophize in my broken Japanese, I realize that eventually you get old enough that your goals become memories. You didn’t mean to leave them behind, on the rusted road, but there they are in the rearview: monkey masks on monkey faces, the missing left leg of Christ of Nazareth. The knotted rope that could have been undone, with the right application of pressure. But then again, there’s always the sword.
Alvin says, “Everything takes reps.” I have received this revelation before. Habit, the bloodiest and (therefore?) truest God. Alvin says, “The point is to do two things simultaneously.” Ah, there it is. Nothing is one thing. At minimum, two; usually, a hundred billion. Alvin comes out when I’m on the bench in the blue afternoon by the white and yellow irises and asks, “aren’t you cold?” and I reply, cheerfully, in the negative. I’ve been tracking one puffy cloud in the sky all hour, all my life.
During my favorite kata, there’s a moment in the middle when the practitioners all stomp their foot in perfect unison and it stops my heart every time. How to describe this in a way that will land? Brined in seed oil, chicken tender. Step on the face of the pietà and break your faith but prove it at the same time. Scar the knife with blood, knife the scar with intent. Two things, human and divine. Two things, soft and strong.
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