"SPLINTS"

Haibun -Japanese: 俳文 haikai writings - is a literary composition that combines prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and includes, but is not limited to, the following forms of prose: autobiography, biography, diary, essay, historiography, prose poem, short story and travel.

The haibun may record a scene, or a special moment, in a highly descriptive and objective manner or, on the other hand, it may occupy a wholly fictional or dream-like space. The accompanying haiku may have a direct or subtle relationship with the prose and encompass or hint at the gist of what is recorded in the prose sections.

Typically, the haibuneer takes care not to state matters directly, but rather to paint a sketch, to employ allusions and metaphor, and to craft his writing with purposeful ambiguity in order to allow readers full use of their imaginations and participation in the written experience. Present tense, brevity in prose, objective detachment and implication are common characteristics of modern haibun in English but no characteristic is an inviolable rule.

I can't say what is written below is 'haibun' per se; (see Haibun expert and his peers Jeffery Wood's blog http://haibuntoday.blogspot.com/ for a more official look at the difference), but it is a good reference point for what is being done and has been for many years in many forms around the world. What you will see below is what I prefer to call 'snapshots', think of what a Polaroid photo would like with only words and since they no longer make Poloroids (though they do have an application for them on IPhones) this is clearly the best I can do. Be on the look out for more 'snapshots', music reviews, SL reviews and anything relevant to the Brass Hat tao or sense of that in a more integrated way.

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We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art." – Henry James

She breaks things. It happens. Does it matter if she cared or if she didn’t? Does it matter it matter if they can never be fixed? These rhetorical questions are just another bunch of whatevers that the great writers love to lament upon.

So as Asta moved from foyer into the main room the scent of perfume followed. It smelled fresh and reminded him strangely enough of their trip to Leap Castle located in north in County Offaly, Ireland. It was a tour they both went on during their vacation of Ireland or Éire as is called by the locals.

He remembered that scent and for some reason, and oddly on this night that that memory was sparked by her passing smell. It reminded him of the fun they had together on that day, during the tour given by a rather old docent whose passions and knowledge such of this supposedly haunted castle that even the scent was explained in great rhapsodically spoken detail where the mention of ghost orchid petals and tulips were at one point a mainstay throughout the castle. When the docent spoke of the lore of Leap Castle she made sure to point out that these were no ordinary tulip, but rather they were 'Asta Nielsen' tulips. Asher remembered this explanation and wonderful giggle and snort that Asta let out, emblematically whimsy that she sometimes made when overwhelmed with a joy, of all kinds of varieties that could strike at any moment.

For Asher it was those kinds of rarefied idiosyncrasies that made him fall in love with her during those uncorrupted incipient days. It was the memory of those kinds of days and that girl, who that most likely kept him around. Why she stayed, at this point of their relationship, was as lucid to his sensibilities as those "spooks" that supposedly frolicked among the orchids and tulips in that old Irish Castle. Sometimes finding reasons, does not find solutions to the problems that were, are and might forever be.

He was seated, muzzled and in his head, as she walked, tall and fast, past his feet, the bourbon glass that sat brown and sad on his maple side table. He quickly reached down for the swill as she passed, disdain or happiness he couldn’t tell, as the ice fresh from the box rattled like a baby’s toy in the crystal cut container.

“Drink up,” he thought quietly to himself, because this might be another long one.

Things around the house had not been the same since the miscarriage even though three years had since past.

The mention of babies or even the mere sight of them on some random television commercial could set-off the silence to which he was now accustomed, thanks in part to his good friend James Beam. There was hollowness in the air that made Tom feel uneasy as it mixed with the scent of dry bourbon and potpourri perfume. He drank yet again to drown the other to sleep, but to no avail. She moved back across the room appearing to be weeping as she walked. He didn’t look her straight in the eyes; because the sound was suffice to bleed whatever warm blood might be left. At least nothing broke tonight, at least not yet…

He lit a candle for no particular reason that he could readily think of other than he wanted to see some fire. The room was already well unmistakable, particularly so with two table lamps, a tall black halogen one by a dying fichus plant in the room’s far corner and the additional light that bled through the kitchen hallway to where he was seated. The candle was scentless and flickered light, as if wanting to go out if gusts or gods deemed it so.

She used to like many candles blazed, beaming not in the Jim way that soothed Asher, but the big bright ones, reds and blues whose aromas evoked memories forgotten from childhood and days spent doing nothing, but sitting quiet and comfortable together. Communication is overrated, especially when you’re comfortable.

As he sat there waiting, waiting for the time to pass, waiting to feel comfortable, waiting for nothing he felt nothing and that in itself was sad. Sadness like the candles that used to burn had faded with fire and smoke, blown away from the breath of one to another. Just a metaphor, but enough for him to see sad and well lit.

What becomes of our greatest mistakes? Do they get enshrined with accomplishments, in halls marked for greatness by men and women long since gone whose deeds are now but stories? For most, himself included, he was one of the fortunate ones who get to bear their own crosses in well lit rooms where the lighting can always be changed. He smiled for a second, not needed a scent to remember and then looked down at the dying candle and blew softly, enough to make end the light, enough for now…

When Asta came home there was a wrong, slightly jarring note: Asher on the back terrace, in the dusk; alone, just sitting there, with a glass of something.

"Honey? What's wrong?" She asked.

"Just waiting for you." He replied so quietly, so tacitly, but ever so caring.

"Ok dear," she nodded with a slight wince and a crumpled note in her hand and made her way back inside the house.

She loved him more than he could ever know; he loved her more than he could ever show.

…Time had passed, and time continued to pass, like random items in a drawer their days, weeks, months, and years casually tumbled together in the entrancement of adult life; and this was a peaceful confusion, like a succession of vivid and startling dreams that, after you've awakened, you will be unable to recall except as emotions. The dreams were good, but it's good to be awake.

Asta sat on the white wrought-iron bench beside Asher. They'd had this heavy thing, now weather-worn and chipped after its most recent repainting, forever.

"Everyone is away, I think. It's like Chateau Elan here."

"Chateau Elan?" Asher looked at her, quickly.

"You know. Mom's and Dad's old place."

"Do they still own it?"

"I guess so. I don't know," Asta laughed and leaned against him. "I'd be fearful of asking."

She took Asher's glass from his fingers and sipped from it.

"Alone here. Us alone. I'll drink to that,” she said looking directly into his eyes.

There were no awkward moment this time, looking the syncopic way of those primary days, when the passions were more than mere phantasms that used to riddle her mind. These were the rivets, the days, the times, similar to the way he was endeared by her giggle that wound up making her love him. Those days at Chateau Elan were more than a series of ignes fatui. Sometimes there has to be more than a spark to start a fire, but for now, for right now this moment was real and it was theirs. And that was enough for all of it.

To Asher's surprise, she kissed him on the lips. The first she'd kissed him, like that, girlish and bold, full on the lips, in a long time.

Indeed.

~ fin ~

"Wine Glasses"

~Pomp and Circumstance~

WGA (c) 2003 - RJF

Revised 3.22.2009