| [OT] Art Rec: Anotsu, bound |
[Mar. 18th, 2009|03:07 pm] |
|
Not to be missed: a beautiful kinbaku pic by babyrubysoho who has lots of lovely images like this. Ngk. |
|
|
| |
[May. 13th, 2008|11:04 am] |
He feels lightheaded and dizzy, lets himself slide into the sand. His legs fold under him, tiredness taking its toll, and even searching his backpack for a bottle of water seems too much of a chore now.
The sun tickles his nape, a warm hand in the back of his neck where he's tied his hair. Anotsu goes boneless under the unexpected caress. He's tempted to close his eyes and fall asleep on the shore, curl up on his jacket and let the wind and waves wash over him, but his joints won't unlock yet, so he grabs a piece of flotsam and starts twiddling, using it to part the ( sand in front of him. ) |
|
|
| The great path has no gates. |
[Mar. 14th, 2008|12:37 pm] |
He's not given to contemplation, although he has tried. He's not given to an appreciation of the art of irony either, although today... might be a first.
He's sitting on his heels, ratty hair pulled back into a knot so tight it hurts his scalp. Fingers splayed on his thighs, just listening.
"Hatsumi-sensei has made his wishes clear, I believe-"
"But he has not formally appointed a successor-"
"Gentlemen, we have formidable dans in this school; it shouldn't be this difficult to..."
"Exactly. We have one hachidan and two nanadan, that settles it, doesn't it."
If anybody asked Anotsu's opinion, he would have to say that Hatsumi's oversight was inexcusable, but no-one asks him, and it's just as well. He looks at the polished grain of the wood and doesn't contribute. It's only when the others are about to rise, still arguing among themselves, that he says, "I believe those grades to be largely symbolic. So far I haven't seen any proof that they're related to skills."
It comes out firmer and louder than they've ever heard him here, and when he looks up, he isn't smiling. |
|
|
| |
[Jan. 29th, 2008|09:13 pm] |
The squeaks and shuffles of sneakers in the corridor outside the changing rooms. Excited voices; mostly boys, a few girls. The girls aren't gigglish, he's noticed; if anything, they are better at reining in the brute strength the others are only just discovering. He's watched them with a passing, detached interest, more to assess his own skill as an instructor than anything else.
The sounds of mobile phones and small portable music players mingle with the voices outside the room. Unthinking, he flips the switch on the kettle for some tea when there's a soft knock on the door.
"Come in." He's tired. He should make this brisker, more decisive perhaps, but he can't be bothered. When he looks up from the steeping tea, he's surprised to find a freckled face from last class, intently peering at him - waiting for him to take note and appreciate the boy's smooth bow.
"Sensei, I had ho-"
"I told you not to call me that outside classes," Anotsu grunts.
( Read more... ) |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 27th, 2007|12:01 am] |
His cough worsens as he arrives back at his bedsit. Undisturbed, Anotsu toes off his shoes and kneels to arrange the things he picked up on the beach: branches and reeds still covered with frost, one twig with shriveled red berries, a moss-covered piece of rock, and a handful of perfect seashells.
He wasn't taught how to do this, and it irks him, as always, that he has to improvise. But this is as good as it's going to get. After setting the bowl on the orange crate and lighting an incense stick, he puts his hands together.
Then he slips into bed, without dinner, without having washed. If his hand on his forehead is to be trusted, he's running a fever, but he smiles faintly, falling asleep. |
|
|
| |
[Dec. 18th, 2007|11:11 am] |
His fingers are frozen stiff. It's not his coldest winter, not by far, but it finds him without much of a skin. Shrinking deeper into his clothes against the wind, he watches the ground and wanders deeper into the dunes.
Winter seclusion –
sitting propped against
the same worn post
As he bends to pick up a few twigs, he can see his breath in the air. |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 24th, 2007|05:23 pm] |
Anotsu slumped against the door. He was laughing without sound, keeping himself upright by jamming the heels of his hands into his thighs. When he gazed down, he saw that the kite's streamers were tangled lika soba noodles. A small tear in the bottom corner, where a particularly sharp gust of wind had sent his flying fish into the reeds. If he put his mind to it, it would soon look as new.
Listening to his own breathy chuckle, he examined his right hand, wrapped in a handkerchief, bleeding where the tug of the cord had cut it. How soft his hands had become. The familiar calluses from axe and sword were fading, and he grimaced at the thought before pushing it away. So he toed off his shoes, set the kite against the bed, and grabbed towel and soap: his hair was getting ratty from the sea. As he ducked his head under the faucet he wondered, again, who'd tied the kite to his door. |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 12th, 2007|02:18 pm] |
Anotsu hears the little monster launch himself with a grunt and neatly steps aside. "Not good enough, Martin." Quick shake of the head. "Try again." The boy growls like a dog and re-assumes position. He's frothing, Anotsu knows; more brute strength than anything, no control, no awareness.
It's as if a small, suety cannonball keeps hurtling at him, over and over, and eventually Anotsu grabs him by the collar, jerking the kid in midflight. "I'll want to talk to you after class," he says neutrally, then drops the bundle to the mat. |
|
|
| |
[Nov. 10th, 2007|03:06 pm] |
It's the longest - and deepest - he's slept in weeks. Opening his eyes, the first thing he sees is the chrysanthemum in the tokonoma. Brown at last. The blossom is drooping like an old man, and Anotsu is relieved to see the natural order of things restored.
With that thought he turns over in bed, feeling the morning chill. "Nippy," Sanzo had called it. Still sounds like a milling pond of koi to him, nibbling away at a curious finger. But it is getting colder, and his bedsit is badly insulated. Yawning, he wraps in a blanket and pads over to flip the switch on the kettle.
Tea. Tea and a cigarette.
The second comes first and launches an ugly, rumbling cough that only subsides with the second cup of sencha.
He imagines he can see his breath in the air. Like back when he stood on a rock overlooking Edo castle, stunned at the mayhem two little girls could wreak. The year had been waning, and the explosions had caused some welcome heat, at the very least. Well. No good dwelling on that now.
He gets dressed quickly, wolfs down some leftover rice from the night before and heads out. Unless he finds distraction on the way, he'll simply head over to the dojo.
[open] |
|
|
| |
[Oct. 29th, 2007|03:31 pm] |
Scuffing one shoe against the low wall in front of the café, Anotsu sits with his backpack beside him, counting his remaining cigarettes. The last class of the day - his last class, anyway - has ended early, due to rather unforeseeable circumstances.
He'd been busy correcting a girl's stance, coaxing her into the right angle and approach with more patience than he ever thought himself capable of, when one of the boys in the back seemed to slip into manga-mode again, jumping at his sparring partner as if to take him out for good. The whole mess ended with a broken nose and a lot of yelling and screaming between 11-year-olds, and with a very irate Anotsu dragging the offender from the dojo.
He shakes his head at the memory, taking a drag from his cigarette. Maybe it would have been better to call in sick, to give himself more time to prepare, but then the blood-squirting little monsters have taken his mind off things for a while, and that's not so small a feat either.
The bag by his side contains only a few things, although they feel heavier than all of his belongings lumped together: a few sticks of incense and her ihai, wrapped in a cloth of raw silk. He wanted to get flowers, too, but time has run through his fingers today, even if he's had a chance to leave early.
About to face Sanzo... he doesn't know what to expect, after the metaphorical slap. Not that Anotsu isn't grateful, or that Sanzo wasn't gracious; only it was unexpected, and it still smarts a bit. Sanzo's words and his own reply, swallowed in the very second the thought took shape, had felt like a thunderclap. It surprises Anotsu that there's been no rain yet.
[tag: Sanzo] |
|
|
| "It's not much" wouldn't make sense; it's less than that. |
[Oct. 20th, 2007|11:41 am] |
continued from here.
The key scrapes in the lock and Anotsu has to lean against the door, press up against the handle as if to lift the thing from its hinges; else it won't open. What a silly manoeuver. "Please," he says in invitation, turning to Sanzo.
The monk has been looking down the corridor, one hand still in the folds of his robes. Despite himself, Anotsu has to smile; Sanzo's stance is so much in keeping with the print he's pinned up in his tokonoma: Shoko kyakka. ( Watch your step. ) |
|
|
| |
[Oct. 13th, 2007|12:27 pm] |
He's narrowly made it out of the dojo before first class; what a stink that would have caused, with him fast asleep in the spot reserved for the sensei. Place of honour indeed. Anotsu snorts, digging around the back pockets of his jeans.
His fingers are trembling as he lights up a cigarette. The nicotine hits him on an empty stomach, makes him queasy and weak in the knees, if only for a second, and he has to stop and lean against a scraggly, scrawny tree wedged in by two parked cars. He's long past hunger now. If it weren't for the cigarettes, he'd almost be feeling pure. |
|
|
| |
[Oct. 10th, 2007|09:18 am] |
He has exhausted his sense of stillness. And it's a good thing he has a key to the dojo. So he lets himself in afterhours, well past midnight. Bare feet planted wide on the mat, muscles screaming. He's done this night after night since the dream, only to return to his bedsit early in the morning and watch the sun come up over the sea.
He's losing his sense of self, and he knows it, even as he lets go of the bokuto and drags his tired body to the far wall. Curling up in a stiff blanket, listening to the last (first) cars passing outside, he falls asleep in the practice hall, joseki-side. |
|
|
| On Endings |
[Oct. 3rd, 2007|11:09 am] |
( A dream. Just a dream. ) He wakes with a jolt, heart pounding in his teeth. Grabbing hold of the nearest support, he pulls down a lamp and blindly fumbles for something, anything; for a bit of solidity that tells him he's not dead, and that it was a dream. Just a dream.
Attempting to rise, he slips off the bed, too fucking high up for his tastes anyway, slips off the damn bed and brings down the blankets and crawls to the small sink in the corner, dragging his bedlinens like a squashed bug will trail dirt and entrails.
Then he claws his way up to the wash basin. Thick and bitter, saliva is pooling in his mouth. Once he's finished vomiting, Anotsu sobs with relief. |
|
|
| |
[Sep. 29th, 2007|02:43 pm] |
The week had seemed endless. He had tried to meet adversity with as much composure and grace as his temperament would allow, but... Hatsumi had given him nothing but strawheads to train, kids that seemed to think they were in a manga and would get by without hard work.
Disgruntled, Anotsu opened the window and pulled himself onto the sill. He pushed his legs against the peeling window frame and looked at the sea.
Autumn was coming fast. He would need warmer clothes, for one. And he still felt sick without being able to tell what was wrong. He had been having strange dreams, too, these past few nights.
Autumn was coming, and he'd miss the deep red of the maples. |
|
|
| |
[Sep. 22nd, 2007|01:59 pm] |
He's gone hungry for two days now. Unhelpfully, his mind's eye provides him with a vision of black beans, tofu leftovers and a steaming bowl of rice, which is enough to almost make him retch.
He hasn't been sick in ages. At last he wills himself off the bed and into his clothes, even if the few steps to the door feel like fucking meifumado. |
|
|
| |
[Sep. 15th, 2007|12:14 pm] |
Thin strands of smoke rippled upwards, curling in on themselves before they broke and disappeared. It was a sad little shrine, improvised on a crate, but it had to do; the landlady had disapproved of any and all of his attempts to move the furniture around.
Although his thumb was clicking bead after bead of the mala, peace wouldn't come. His lips stumbled in silence, not finding a single sutra; his eyes were glued to the buddhist name on the tablet without seeing it. He hadn't cried since he had been ten years old, and he wasn't crying now.
So got up to wash his face. |
|
|
| baka neko ya shibarare nagara koi wo naku |
[Sep. 8th, 2007|12:57 pm] |
Anotsu's fingers dug between his toes for the last grains of sand. He'd been too stingy to afford a place with a private bath, which accounted for his current jumping around on one leg, one foot in the tiny washbasin. Just then a melody wafted up from somewhere. He paused, smiling.
ばか猫や縛れながら恋を鳴く
foolish cat, tied up
still crying
for love |
|
|
| The country is in ruins, and there are still mountains and rivers. |
[Sep. 6th, 2007|12:55 pm] |
He could hear the sound of fighting from the street, long before he even pushed the bell button.
A pimply teenager opened the door, mouthbreathing and blinking. Then he remembered his manners and bowed. "Yes, sir?"
Anotsu just stared at the kid, never bowing back. Instead, he shoved his right hand into the back pocket of his jeans and relaxed his stance. "I've come to see Hatsumi-sensei."
"Oh? Oh, of course." The carrot-haired teen stepped aside. "Do come in. I'll fetch him. If you'll just wait here?"
Anotsu replied with a grunt and walked into the hall. The judo dojo that hosted sensei's weekly lessons seemed humble but well appointed, ruled by functionality and a subtle sense of taste. Hard to say whether it was Hatsumi's or the owners'; that sort of thing tended to blend with the years and hard use.
Turning a second before Hatsumi could greet him, he put his hands to his knees. It was a good thing he was looking at his feet, too, because when Hatsumi addressed him without honorifics, he didn't think he could trust his eyes not to flash or his nostrils not to flare.
"Sensei." Anotsu came up in a smooth arc. "About your offer." |
|
|
| Marine Terrace |
[Sep. 2nd, 2007|02:15 pm] |
Cod.
Whiting.
Plaice.
Haddock.
Pollock.
Anotsu wiped his glasses on his shirt and perused the menu again, this time reading up instead of down. Still no tuna.
"Vinegar, love?"
The question didn't make much sense, but he nodded. "Yes, please." He tried not to look alarmed when the woman wrapped his food in newspaper, but sitting down on the promenade and unpeeling the pieces he thought he understood: the paper was supposed to absorb the... abundant... fat. Okay. He sniffed carefully.
It was only once he started eating that he realised how hungry he'd been. |
|
|