for bloodredrosez

(hope it answers a few of your questions!)

From September 2004 when I used Manji and Rin as my profile picture exclusively....

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Blade of the Immortal

by Hiroaki Samura

1998 Media Arts Award

....and my profile picture.....

Some of you may wonder why I don't change my profile picture very often, or what the picture in the profile means. I don't change it because it expresses the themes of my personal writings and life better than any other image I have found.

The story is wonderfully written and illustrated. His characters are incredible and their motivations are real. The artwork is a work of art; sometimes it hurts to read because it is too brutal or too painful. The situations he puts his characters in can be oddly strange, but familiar feeling too. The relationships between his people are real, imperfect, honest, and you connect to each one, even when you don't want to.

The story is gritty, warm, yet painful, just like the ones I want to be able to write someday.

They use words like "historic epic of passion, violence, and stark beauty" to describe it, or my favorite description, "streetwise and violent and yet possessed with a dark grace and beauty"... this is not just a "nice little story"- this is a story for adults who are prepared to have their hearts ripped out and their emotions trampled on, time and time again.

This is a story for people who are disturbed by the violence yet see its role in storytelling. (And yes, this story's images have given me nightmares- it is not for the young or the queasy).

This is the story of Blade....

Manji is cursed. He has bloodworms in his body that will heal any injury. If he loses an arm, or is stabbed in the heart, the bloodworms will heal him. In order for the curse to be lifted, he must kill one thousand evil men. (And at the rate he is going, that won't take too long). He carries more weapons on his body than items you'll find in the average woman's handbag, and is adept at using them. He is getting sloppy in his skills though, since he knows he will survive any attack.

But then a sixteen year old girl-woman named Rin hires him as her bodyguard/revenger. Rin's parents were slaughtered in front of her eyes by a group called the Itto-ryu which is run by one of Japan's deadliest swordsmen, Anotsu. The story is about her quest for revenge and the cost of her journey. 

You are prepared to hate Anotsu, but the writer refuses to give you the satisfaction as you are drawn into his life, as you watch him growing up, as he shows the child trying to kill him mercy, or gives the bride he loves happiness.

Meanwhile, Manji is beginning to feel twice cursed, learning to cope with traveling with a girl as independent yet emotional as Rin.

He feels that the only grown up things she does at times are eat and cry, yet he reminds her of the purpose of their journey early in the series, saying, "Sure, the memories hurt. But if you can hold on to them...sometimes they can make you strong as steel." 

 I find myself wishing happiness for the pair of wanderers, and I worry about Rin when she leaves Manji behind to deal with Anotsu herself rather than letting Manji get cut to pieces over and over to protect her.

I watch her as she meets a dying Anotsu and makes the decision to help him instead of kill him, saying, "friend or foe, I think any one who has been pushed this far at least deserves the choice (of deciding how to die)" offering him the poison that could end his suffering.

He refuses it, and volume 13 ends with this:

Currently Reading Blade Of The Immortal Volume 13: Mirror Of The Soul (Blade of the Immortal) By Hiroaki Samura see related

1.   Asian Media

 

... movies, dramas, anime, manga, toys, etc....

2.   The Beach

 

... in the snow, in the rain, in the sun...

... with all the family there to chill in the beach house, play games at the arcade, walk the boardwalk, drag things to the beach...

3.    Diet Coke and pizza... and brownies... and french fries...

 

... all the stuff I can't have right now....

4.   Hanging out with family and friends and talking for hours....

... even if it's just in Richard's garage... how does he make a living on the days he does my car???

5.   Add your own 5

and 6 here

7.     Going exploring with friends and my camera

... up the mountain, out in the country, down stream, across town...

8.    Hearing an old favorite song right after a favorite new one

 

9.   New toys

... all kinds of toys...

10.    Road trips

... driving for hours with the music cranked... seeing new things... talking about nonsense... 

11.    see 5 and 6

 

so... lemme see your list!

If you had asked me recently if I was the same person or different from the person I was in high school, I would have said that we were totally different people, with little in common any more. And then the Murph re-entered my life and a flurry of emails later... I find that neither of us are all that different from ourselves at 16. We've had a lifetime of experiences that have affected us and that have added bits to us, but if you strip all that way, underneath, the essentials are still the same.

We talk about the journey... the journey... the journey... as if just going on the journey will leave us different at the end... but i'm finding that the things we've picked up on the way are embellishments- you know- those things you use on scrapbook pages to help you tell the story. The story is the same, but the embellishments give you a sense of the flavor of the experience. They help you access the emotions and reconnect you to the time quicker. Not that the experience doesn't leave you richer, wiser, more knowledgeable, or even better traveled. It's just that the person who packed for the trip is the same person carrying the luggage at the end of it- a bit older, a bit more tired, and probably has sore feet. They may look different, act different, have new fears, joys, and sorrows. They may have learned a new language or two, loved a few people- right ones and wrong ones, sung some different songs, danced with several partners, and seen a lifetime of sunsets.

But... when you unpack the luggage, give away the souvenirs, and crawl into your own bed, finally home, you realize that while the journey was a fantastic adventure and you'd leave again in a day or two if the opportunity arises that sleeping in your own bed is a very good thing.

Tall for his age, Sean'd just finished a growing spurt that left him all ankles and wrists with hands and feet too big for the rest of him. Long, crinkly blond hair hung wild and free in front of his hazel eyes clouded with shadows of things past he could never speak of. Skinny, too, so skinny his hand painted worn jeans refused to stay up until he cinched the belt tight like a nerd and he'd rather awkwardly yank them up when they slid too far down when he thought no one noticed. An old band t-shirt, a braided leather strap on his slim wrist, and a bulge in a pocket completed his carefully assembled look. The bulge is where things started to go wrong. He didn't want her to think the wrong thing. He'd planned this whole day out carefully, and she wasn't impressed, and now she was glaring at him. He was sure she was thinking the wrong thought so he reached deep in his pocket.

"It's not what you thinking," Sean stammered. "It's my knuckle ring, not a boner. Seriously."

She stepped back one giant step as if she was playing "Mother May I" and had been sent back. Sean pulled out the steel metal ring and fit it across his knuckles. "See. It's just my knuckle ring- in case we get jumped. I'm not thinking about you that way. Honestly."

She took another giant step backwards until you could fit three guitar cases between them. Sean held out his fist, the metal tight across each knuckle, a perfect fit, and the summer sunlight danced across it.

"You think we're going to get jumped?"

Sean started back pedaling, talking as fast as he could, taking small steps towards her. "It's not you. It's me. Nobody likes me. I got enemies everywhere. I just wanna be prepared. Ok? I don't think anyone is gonna' try to hurt us, but you never know. Last week, when I was in the city, five kids I ain't never seen hit me in the back. Left a big bruise. It's turning purple. Wanna' see it?" He turned around and lifted up his shirt. Across his pale skin was a long purplish red bruise, just like he said.

He could tell from the look on her face that she was gonna run so he plopped down on the grass and unsnapped his guitar case. Maybe that would keep her from running, he thought as he tuned it. When he looked up, she was crossing the grass towards the street. She was gone forever, he decided, and bit his lower lip before hitting a bad chord on his guitar. Lost in the sounds of the song he was playing, he didn't look up until a cold soda touched his back.

"Yours," she said.

"We could have shared one," he said, carefully opening his so it wouldn't squirt over the guitar or the girl.

"No way," she said. "I called my dad. He's picking me up in twenty minutes."

They sat on the street curb in the shade of an old oak and watched the Saturday afternoon traffic pass by them.

"Today was all wrong," Sean said.

"Yeah," she said.

Against his better judgement he leaned in to kiss her and she slid away just in time for his tongue to streak across her cheek. She wiped his spit off feverishly. "What's wrong with you? Are you a puppy or something?"

"I just wanted you to be the first girl I kissed," he said repentfully.

"Liar," she said. "If I was your first, you would have kept your tongue in your mouth." A car beeped and pulled up. She dusted off her jeans. "See you Monday in school."

The illustrator I can't get enough of, Jimmy Liao.

This has been life here nearly every day since we moved... I know we're NOT in ABQ anymore, Dorothy!

From Turn Left, Turn Right calendar... which I don't own... I would own an original Jimmy Liao if I could find one to buy... I think this is still one of my all time favorite movies too...

the good news is that the sun is shining!

Reports written, projects completed, and I start a new project asap. I want to put the screenplay in the mail today so I can focus on the new "paying" project... and then I'll be lost in a world I didn't create... I'll be in and out over the next couple of weeks, like when I have writer's block~!!! But... it's all good...

I've spent the last two day getting caught up with Murph and I wonder how we can just pick up where we left off all those years ago. We don't know each other very well right now and I'm listening to his music and of course I've introduced him to some of mine- only one Van Ness (I know... such restraint!), a 5566 (bc I'm listening to them non-stop right now), and a classic Lee Hom Wang... so while I'm sure he thinks I'm a bit crazy, he's known that for a long time!

It seems so odd to me to listen to music in English. It's like culture shock to my ears. I find I don't listen carefully the first time through- as if my ears reject it as not music- and then I listen again, and it feels familiar in an odd sort of comforting way. People don't believe it when I say I don't watch American TV or listen to American music, but my time with Murph has convinced me that I need to expand my viewing/listening habits slightly. It's just that the Asian stuff takes so much time that I don't usually have time left over for much else.

The other thing I've learned with my talks with Murph is just how self-absorbed we were as children- as if we were two moons circling each other and rarely touching. Full of the things that were important to us, and clueless about how the other felt most of the time. I'm ok with it though. I don't think I'd change it if I could. Those years of friendship with the Murph helped mold me into who I am today and while I'm not that different from the kid back then, I like myself a whole lot more now! Funny how the same things still drive us... the music, the writing, the passions... those haven't changed... just the bodies and the hearts..... Am I making any sense at all? No?? That is a very bad sign! *wanders away to find some breakfast... maybe that'll help!*

The very first thing I learned about the Great Murph was that he had incredible printing. The second thing was that he drew Snoopy better than the original, and the third thing was that he played the guitar. It was third grade, my first day in a new school, and the Murph sat across from me two seats. While the teacher talked, he drew. Lost in a foreign land where everyone was smarter/ taller/ more talented, I watched Murph silently. He looked up, winked, and slid his dancing Snoopy under his Mathbook. After class, he handed me a folded paper and inside was a happy dancing beagle.

In my old school, I was one of the Smart kids. I knew my times tables to five, read more books than any student in the class, and had lots of friends. But things were different here. Here the class was working on three and four digit long division, spelled long adult-like words, and had been together since kindergarten. The year was almost over and I was so far behind the rest of the class that there was no way I could catch up.

We weren't best friends in 3rd grade, and in 4th grade I was sent to the C class while he stayed in the A class. In 5th grade, I was back in the A class, and we still weren't close friends. The fifth grade teacher was into collaborative projects back before it was a buzz word, and the Murph's lettering skills had improved to the point that every group wanted him on their team. After lunch, in the lull of a warm Spring afternoon, the Murph pulled out his guitar, sat on top of his desk, and began to play, and a ritual formed. He played and I listened. I think I thought of him as The Great Murph from that moment in our friendship... the Great Murph... the kid whose talent drew people to him, the kid who had a heart bigger than the full moon, the kid who loved deeply. Creative, talented, loyal- and my friend.

Sixth grade was Junior High and the Murph had a crush on a girl in my circle of friends and the Great Murph and I talked... a lot- mostly about the girl he liked and the song he wrote for her. He played the song after school for her and she smiled, flattered, but unconvinced. He wrote another song and soon he had a notebook full of songs which he tried out on me, his willing audience, after school. And that was Junior and Senior High- The Great Murph wrote songs that I listened to as we talked about people we were crushing on, and we hung out whenever there wasn't something else to do or someone else to hang out with. I tagged along behind him as he practiced with one of his bands, listened to him play whenever I could escape from home (a rare occurrence), and maneuvered girls so they could hear him sing his latest original song that he had written for them. And I bragged about him- my friend, Murph- The Great Murph, I'd say silently. I don't think he knew I thought of him that way.

In 9th grade, we talked on the phone nearly every night as we studied algebra. My mother died that summer before school started, and I wasn't coping well with anything. The kids were driving me insane. My grandmother was making annoying demands. My father wasn't present- emotionally or physically... and I was failing nearly every subject. Algebra was first period. I'd get off the bus, go to my locker, visit the bathroom to throw up, and go to class near tears, in fear that the teacher would call on me. Murph sat next to me most days. Some days he slid the answers across and some days, he'd draw a cartoon character on my notes to make me smile.

On my 15th birthday, we had a sledding party at my house and Murph brought his guitar and his notebook full of songs, and played in the family room while I ran away from home. Hours after everyone went home, I returned to a furious father who threatened to ground me for life if I did something so stupid again. In tears, I retreated to my room, and on my bed was my birthday gift from Murph- a mixed tape of my favorite songs and his latest songs. Headphones on, I disappeared into the place where only music could take you.

The next day, the Murph called and things were back to normal as we talked about his gift and the girl he met at my party. He laughed a little about me running away from my own party and sang a few lines of "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to" since it seemed to fit the situation. "Next time," he advised, "Just cry. Don't run away when it's freezing outside. If you're going to run away, do it when it's warmer out."

The Great Murph... one of my best friends....

I had a message from him today on facebook. It said... "hi! i've tried to find you on facebook more than once... of my short list of people i wished i could see again, you are in there.... Murph"

A lifetime between us... nearly strangers... and yet, it made me smile like it did that first day in the new school when he handed me a dancing Snoopy to cheer me up. The Great Murph... he's on my short list forever!

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Update: The Great Murph's newest band... he said I could link you! and it has a pic of the boy I remember... And... this is EXACTLY the way I remember it... no literary license taken that I know of!

As the edge of Good Friday appears, I bury a tiny baby raccoon whose only sin was being born in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of God's most helpless creatures, I know I failed him as I dig a hole near the remains of the tree where he was born. Being sorry doesn't begin to express the sense of failure I feel. It doesn't return his life, doesn't bring back his home, and doesn't begin to make right the wrongs that left him alone in the cold, waiting for a mother who never returned.

One little perfectly formed creature gone because of our decision to remove a dead tree from our property, it reminds me of how alone Christ must have felt on the cross. Abandoned, with the guilt of the world on his back, he hung there, left to die, all our sins and failures separating him from his father. Good Friday- that day we remember the death of an innocent one, the one who faced death so that we wouldn't have to- it's always made me wonder why we call it "Good".

At school, we used to have a saying that we'd pull out when a kid was acting up. "God don't like ugly," we'd tell him, and instantly the offending behavior would stop- not because he was threatened, but because he understood the meaning behind the code. "You are acting in a way that will bring shame to your parents and Church." But it's the truth. God don't like ugly. Ugly is what keeps us from being close to him. Ugly is the lies we tell ourselves and the things we do that let us walk in darkness. Ugly is something that cost the life of his son. It's what makes his son's sacrifice critical.

Good Friday is tomorrow... the darkness over the land as we remember the hours of sufferings. Ugliness rules... but Sunday's coming.

Sunday- when the tomb is empty and hope reigns, when life is restored and faith has power again, when we can see the light beaming through the clouds.... Yep, Sunday's coming.

... and I get to breath again.

I have a couple of reports to do tomorrow, an editor to nudge, a quiet birthday to plan, and then life returns to normal. NO work is scheduled until a conference in July, and then another training session in September- so while I won't be making any money, I will have time to refocus, reload, and relax.

Of course, being the typical A-type crazy person, I'm already making a list of things to accomplish during this down time and yet I find myself holding back slightly- as if I'm not ready to be productive right now. I nearly crashed and burned with this last project- and I found myself totally hating and resenting the time I put into it. It didn't help that it wasn't my work and that I was only cleaning it up for someone else. I know that it's really hard for me to do that- but the pay was good... about a three weeks of subbing for 2+ days work. And I could have done it in two days if I hadn't fought actually sitting down to it.

Crash and burning... I do that. I think of it as juggling and then I get tired of juggling and don't even bother catching the balls. I watch with idle curiosity as the fragile balls slam into the concrete beside me and shatter into bits. The guilt comes later- making it even hard to catch the next few falling. Once all the balls are broken, I walk away- not willing to sweep up the pieces even, and start over- if I can. The good news is that I don't crash and burn often- once every six years or so. I can juggle a long, long time, and I can tell when I'm ready to quit so I do a bit of damage control before the crash actually hits.

My college roommate says that I've run a marathon and need time to recuperate. She's probably right.......

So now? I'm making mental lists, but they all start with... in a bit, I'll.....

As a token of their appreciation, my company paid for transportation into the city Thursday night. Most of the group went to see a play but when I did the cost of the ticket times the amount of music that would buy, I headed for Chinatown with a friend. The town car we reserved turned up to be a white stretch limo which dropped us off at the corner of Mott and Canal Street during rush hour traffic.

My favorite store had closed, but the kid next door knew exactly where to send me- down the street, round the corner, to 2 Elizabeth where everything was $10. Unlike my previous store, everything was in Chinese and it was going to be difficult to figure out where my favorites were hiding. I picked up a couple of things immediately and my friend asked for a recommendation of someone to listen to if she was going to start listening to my music. Without hesitating, I suggested Lee Hom Wang and gave her about six reasons for trying him. The sales clerk stocking the shelves overheard me and chimed in, "He the best. The best!" She was all smiles and I grinned back before asking her about someone I couldn't find.

As she searched the rack for him, she held up someone new. "You know him? He very good." I had heard of him, but hadn't heard any of his music so quickly added him to my fastly growing pile.

"What about Van Ness?" I asked, knowing that I have two copies of nearly everything he's done, but it's part of the whole promotion thing.

The name stumped her. "Van Ness? Vannnn Nessss?"

"Wu Jian Hao," I said, saying his Chinese name with all the correct tones for a change.

"Oh, you mean Wu Jian Hao!" Her eyes danced as she tore through the lower racks. "We're all out," she pouted. "I have next time." She promised, but you could see her perspective of me changed slightly since I knew both his English and Chinese name. She paused a minute. "Chinese or Taiwanese?" She asked.

"Taiwanese," I replied instantly.

She literally danced in the aisle. "Me too! Her too!" She pointed at another clerk and a flurry of fast Chinese flew over my head as the second employee came to help me find the perfect sounds.

The whole store erupted in a game of find the perfect music for me. They'd hold up a DVD or CD and when I said I owned it already, they'd grin and return to the quest at hand. When they found something I didn't own or know, they'd grin and laugh. My stack grew bigger and bigger and I finally had to make some tough choices. When I rang up, I'd spent less than the Broadway ticket.

"One more thing," I said. The flurry of activity surrounding the search for the perfect last item stunned me slightly as they started pulling a variety of things off the shelves, but in the end, we found something just right- not Mainland or Taiwanese, but Korean- Rain's Comeback Concert and TV Special DVD. I have a stack of music videos, concert videos, and CDs of some of my favorite people. I also have a couple CDs of highly recommended new people.

This experience was totally different from any other shopping experience- the excitement of the staff as they hunted down the right item, their joy at my joy, and the pure fun of the hour was heady. Usually, no one cares what I'm buying or whom I'm listening to. They take my cash politely as if bored. To have others so engaged by something I love left me marked for life. I'm already regretting a few of the things I left behind, but being an adult means making choices- or so I've been told.

The stretch limo picked us up on Canal Street and people looked as if they were trying to figure out who would important enough to shop in Chinatown via limo. As we drove back to the hotel, I thought about the reasons why this time was different. It wasn't just because I knew Van Ness' name in Chinese- although that helped. It was because they appreciated the fact that I wasn't a random curious tourist, but am a serious fan/student of the music. They expected very little from me when I entered, but they were quick to identify me as "someone who belonged", who was a "part of their world". For me, it's rare that I find a place where I belong, where others love the same sound and can talk for days about it with me. In fact, I can't think of another time where that happened. I do know that 2 Elizabeth will be on my list of places to take all my cash whenever I can manage a trip into the city. And who knows... maybe they'll really have Wu Jian Hao Cds waiting for me next time!