Jan. 2nd, 2006


Jan. 2nd, 2006 11:46 pm
shiva_wusan: (Dragon)
It comes in the usual way.

An intermediary is sent with word. This is the way it used to be done.

Nothing so crude as a challenge on a street, hurled threats in a back alley somewhere, a punch thrown on rooftop.

Folding the piece of paper, I slip out the window and despite actually having something to look back for, I still do not. The first time there has been something to look back at since Richard.

The phantom pain is pushed aside with the same amount of difficulty it has always given me. As much as those around me, those who see me would find it simpler to find me without emotion, humans are simply not so. If I were to rid myself of all emotion, I would not longer be human and the things I strive for would not longer be valid.

I strive for perfection.

One cannot be pefect in all things. This is impossible. One fascet of life maybe possibly be perfected. If one dedicates every moment possible to it.

To the untrained, watching a dancer, a skater, a diver or a gymnast, one may be struck by the beauty of a move or even a series of perfect movements. Where someone is in synch with the world. The person moving seems to have done it the best it can possibly be done. To those who have been trained, these moments come more rarely than that as they can see the imperfections but when they see these moements, they see the movements and the clarity of spirit behind them.

There are guards, of course, one of them sent up as sacrifice, to see if there is anything I give away before the fight. A chance at seeing an imperfection where there is none. I make my way through the others, leaving the sacrifice behind me, the heat already leaving his body, leeching into the floor beneath him, the air around him. Someone, somewhere will mourn his passing. I do not. I simply continue on, step by step.

The challenger is younger than I would have supposed. Cassandra's defeat of me has been telling in this manner. It is always a little bit difficult to do this with those who have promise to become more. Those who have promise to be the one I am looking for. His hair leaves his eyes in shadow as he watches me approach and I can feel the corners of my lips lift faintly in something like a smile.

There is a school of thought that nothing cam be made perfect, nothing can be perfect. The Japanese call it wabi-sabi. A concept derived from the Buddhist assertion of the first noble truth - Dukkha. That in everything there must be some imperfection. I have begun to understand this invest in myself. Watching my moves, there are no imperfections. There is nothing that can be seen in my motions that is anything other than art, anything other than beauty. Even masters have been known to watch me and weep at what they see. There is no hubris in these words. Simply truth. A perfection of movement. No, my imperfection is elsewhere.

There are few others I have known who have acheived this. The one who first comes to mind is a fighter but his grace of movement comes not then but only when his feet are no longer touching the ground. There are moments when he is breathtaking. There are others of course but this is not the focus of the matter.

Sui Jerk Jai sees the flaw but her view is not clear. Neither is the other Little Bird's view clear. My own is likely not, either. I am understand if there is anyone person who can see the imperfection but it is made manifest in the perceptions of it by those around me. I must accept this imperfection if I am to find perfection elsewhere.

The fight is a good one. It is worthy of the challenge that has been given to me. Still, it is not I who lay on the ground broken at the end of it. The final blow is the Leopard Blow, something to honor him with, something, at least, to tell his family. He fought the Destroyer and fought well. Some part of me always feels envy of the souless body that is left behind. A yearning of some sort to know what it is I bring to others, to experience it. The wish for death is not something I can explain to others. They understand it or they do not. There are so many parts involved that I can no longer seperate them all.

It is a long trip back, seeming longer than the trip there, to a city seeming even farther from the apartment where Vic is than is truly possible in physical distance. Slipping back in the window, it is a short time later, after having washed the obvious signs of death from me, that I slip back into bed and close my eyes.

It is time to send Sui Jerk Jai another letter. Perhaps it will help us both find further clarity of our imperfections.


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January 2006

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