Climbing Mount Fuji
It’s been said, “He who climbs Mount Fuji once is a wise man; he who climbs it twice is a fool.”
I am a wise man — who longs to be a fool.
As I recall, on a clear day you could see Fuji-san from my barracks. Among my many regrets as a member of VQ-1 was that in my self-involved, nose-in-a-book, face-in-a-scotch-glass worldview, I focused on molehills rather than mountains.
My friends, thankfully, saw the world differently.
I don’t remember how they conned me into the climb, or even how we got there. But I still carry a few clear, colorful moments of that day.
The Walking Stick
It had flat, smooth-cornered sides that were ideal for branding. At key points along the climb a caretaker would remove a glowing iron from hand-stoked flames and sear a crude, but crisp Japanese symbol into the stick’s surface. With faint smoke and searing heat, the ritual was repeated along the journey, gradually transforming the walking stick into a poor man’s obelisk, memorializing the day.
The Show-Off
At the time I was overweight, didn’t exercise, and smoked two or three packs a day of non-filtered Pall Malls (a pack of cigarettes was only 15 cents in Da Nang, a little more in Japan). And yet, there I was, climbing Mount Fuji. Out of breath, panting, struggling with each step. “This is hard,” I thought. “This is work.”
Then I caught a glimpse of a smallish woman. She was old, at least to my 23-year-old eyes. Thin. Wiry. Wearing a traditional, print-laden kimono and a big backpack, marching mechanically past me. Step-step. Chop-chop. Determined. Swish whish then gone. I was on a day-trip. She was on a mission. From that day to this, I can see her colorful ghost chastising me up the hill, toward the top of Fujiyama.
She embodied all that I came to respect and admire about the Japanese: A fine, honorable people with a good work ethic. Determined. I remember, at Atsugi, watching a Japanese repair crew move intensely about and around an airplane, like ants on honey, and then watching an American crew work on an identical airplane . . . in slow motion, between coffee and smoke breaks. I wondered to myself, “How did we win the war?”
Walking on The Crown
Sometimes you get what you want and ask, “Is that all there is?” The fever breaks and equilibrium returns, followed by emptiness. Not so with Fuji-san. The climb was memorable, but experiencing the top was the stuff that dreams are made of. The crisp, mean air did not let you forget for a moment where you were – and that you were alive. I can’t recall the view, but I can close my eyes, open my mind and re-live the being-ness of being there. The icy, lung-needling deep breaths. Eyes darting about, exhilarated, exhausted. There are much bigger mountains that I will never climb. But I have walked on Fuji’s crown.
Joy Run
Getting me to the top of Mount Fuji took a small army of sailors, but getting to the bottom just took gravity. We cascaded down the volcanic slopes, jump-running, big- stepping, hop-scotching, each giddy bounce moving us forward and out. All the while knowing that one slip could send any one of us face-first into rock and ash. But none of us fell. Instead we laughed and screamed, creating a fool’s symphony that only a mesmerizing mix of danger and delight can orchestrate. Then, suddenly, it was over.
* * *
It’s been well over 40 years since I climbed Mount Fuji. Someday I want to go back and re-capture that fragile, sweet memory. I have neither notes nor photos from that first climb. Not even my branded walking stick remains. Nowadays, I find myself too often describing life rather than living it. That day in Japan, on that beautiful sky-kissed mountain, I lived — a full measure, “pressed down, shaken together and running over.”
Excerpted from my book "Orange Socks," available on Amazon at:
https://www.amazon.com/Orange-Socks-other-Colorful-Tales-ebook/dp/B00VH6XR38
Playing With Fire
Standing with my pants around my ankles my two friends are near, I gasp for breath. With one on the ground holding his sides, the other standing with a bemused look on his face I pull up my pants as they burst into flames. I dive onto the gravel driveway and begin to roll around.
"ROLL AND DROP, STOP!" I couldn't see who yelled but judging by the laughter and gasps for air surrounding the words it was Carl, still holding his sides. I floated back to my feet as the flames grew closer to my face from my right pantleg. I tried to beat the flames back only to have them regrow some of the hair on my hands.
I stopped all movement as I watched the coffee can call back the flames it spread on the ground and bounce back into Gregs hand. The look of suprise was stripped by his face by the explosion of flame that was sucked back into the can.
Carl was no longer laughing as he pulled a stick out of the concotion that held the flame flickering every so gently on the tip. "Out went it, more some get me let." Words that didn't register as the three of us stood around playing with homemade napalm one drab, unsupervised Saturday afternoon.
Q.
Q: The most useless letter in the English alphabet. Not only does it not have a unique, distinct sound, but it mandates the additional use of the letter "U" whenever it appears. Can you imagine if there was a number with this kind of arrogant uselessness? "Hi, I'm the number @! I have the exact same value as the number 8, but I'm always followed by a 3. The next time you count to one hundred, it might go something like this: 81, 82, @3, 84..."
Let's discuss phonetics - I submit that any word containing "qu" could easily and more understandably be written with "kw." It's kwite simple and kwikly understood.
I propose that the elimination of the letter Q would not only make the English language simpler, but would also free up real estate in the standard keyboard that could be used for valuable, oft-used symbols, such as the degree symbol. Both weather forecasters and recipe bloggers are dealing with an unnecessary frustration with their inability to quickly discuss temperatures in the written format. Let's help them out - down with Q!
Free Writing, Essentially
I'm scared. Im scared about what I'll do and what I wont do. I don't want to just post this as is, but I guess- shit I don't think I should have used the comma there. O well. Dang the H. Forgot the H. My foot is jittery. There's nothing here. But prose will know if I change it. I dont know how but they will and I'm thinking faster than i can type. My I isn't even capitalized on the last sentence. My stomach is squeezy. Cause I have to post this and I can't change it. Writing scares me because I want to live it. Love it I do enjoy it. I enjoy stories and all art forms that deal with story. Books. comics, games, movies. Etc. I'm just worried I'm not good at it or I'll have to never do it when I want to so badly. I just blank out and can't even look. I have to stop comparing and focus on me. I just need to write for me. Why am I writing. Why do i love it?
The Test
She is hardly a woman now. Her young eyes gaze upon a screen, focused, unmoving. Her skin illuminated by the bright computer monitor in front of her. The room is dark, and the only noise is her hands clicking on the mouse in desperation.
The screen lights up as she clicks on the testing icon. The first question flashes in black lettering before giving her one minute for an answer.
<< What is your name? >>
She types slowly, << Natalia Peters >>
She had spent a long time picking that name, scrolling through the name list for hours. She ended up picking Natalia on a whim, thinking it sounded pretty. She knew no one of the name, though she didn’t know very many people so far. No one with a name anyway.
The second question is up, << What is your Age? >>
She wants to laugh, it must have been a joke. Or simply a test to make sure the test takers knew exactly what they were doing. Everyone takes the test at the same age.
<< 18 >>
Natalia is eighteen years old and is just being given a name, a name chosen by her which makes it more promising. Before the test she was simply Student 099. She was the 99th person born in her year. Before she was classified as a student at the age of four, she was Child 099. That is how all people are raised here. Everyone’s big day is the test. The system has a way of knowing which are worthy to move on the next stage of the life cycle.
The test and the system were created in the year 0, 146 years ago. It was created by the Association, and the reasons behind this society is success and societal happiness. Natalia never questioned it. As she was raised it was implied that no one should ever, under any circumstance, question the Association.
The third question is up. << What is the highest rated skill on your Student graduation document? >>
<< Problem Solving >> She types, only glancing at the other document.
<< Second highest skill? >>
<< Creativity, Exploration thinking. >>
Natalia remembers yesterday, graduation. 200 students received their document, informing them of all they would need for the Test. It was their personality and knowledge levels listed separately. She knows that it is what the Association uses to determine what Work a person will do and where a person should be placed in the society.
Natalia remembers Teacher 003 as he handed her the results. He was an older man, accustomed to the system and its ways. He gave her the page slowly, as if trying to conserve their last interaction. He looked sad, his lip quivered, and his eyes showed a small sense of fear. He tried to hide it and swallow his guilt. He did something, something so strange for a teacher. He hugged her. It was a sensation Natalia had not felt since she left her early parental units. The warmth of a human embrace was something Natalia never thought she would cherish so much. It brought a smile to her face even though she knew Teacher 003 would receive light punishment for the action. She couldn’t understand why he did that, why he looked that way.
<< Lowest level skill? >>
<< Mathematics >>
<< Do you have a preferred work placement? List only one. >>
She had thought about this a long while too. Her interests seemed to be everywhere but nowhere with pride. She never wanted to be a teacher, or a mathematician, scientist, or doctor. She liked to doodle and learn. She especially enjoyed stories and interacting with others. Alas the work Artist died out long ago and there is only ever three Historians in the society at a time. All three of those positions are currently filled.
She typed the only thing she could think of, << Librarian >>
<< Please list a work assignment that would be displeasing. List only one. >>
This was easy, << Scientist >> sure there are other displeasing work assignments such at peace keeper and waste manager. But she was sure she did not have a chance of receiving those jobs. If she did it would not be the worst.
A set of blue letters flashes across the screen, << This is the last question. Are you prepared? >>
She selected the box what read, yes. She thought that this was another silly question.
The last question appears. She sucks in a nervous breath as she reads, << Should the society undergo changes? If so, please list them. >>
She types shakily, thinking quickly, she only has the minute.
<< We should have more ways to be creative, students should have more free time, we should pick names earlier, we should learn more about the association. >>
The screen goes dark for a couple of seconds. The computer analyses her results. Natalia’s palms go sweaty, all she can hear is the sound of her own hear, pounding rapidly in her ears.
The screen is plain white again. Words appear, words that should not have been possible.
<< Student 099, you have failed. Prepare to be terminated. >>
Her eyes widen and she stands quickly. The chair falls behind her and the lock on the plain steel door clicks shut. Natalia stumbles to the door, pounding her fists down on it. Why did the door lock?
A foggy white mists flows out of the vents, the horrid smell fills her nose.
Natalia can feel her mind fogging, she lets out a cry.
The last thing she hears is a voice over the intercom system. “Termination of Student 099 complete. Goodbye Natalia,”
Sich nach dir sehnen
Without the sun that drives the season’s day,
your absence stole the morning’s ebullience.
To wish for opulent flowers to stay,
must lure with one’s idyllic eloquence.
The passing aura of fresh morning dew,
led to stolen beauty of it’s glamour.
Where memories of the spreathed meadow rue,
has left my heart to an open dagger.
When darkness engulfs the summer sky,
even the stars refuse tranquility.
Yearning passion for one’s return is high,
but not as strong as love’s proclivity.
If the sun and the moon come together,
then would come the blooming of bell heather.