~~~
Jasmine entered her studio in search of a distraction. It was so quiet. She turned on the radio in an attempt to fill the void. Riley Lee, master of the shakuhachi, was discussing how the instrument could be traced back to the Zen Buddhist komuso, the ‘priests of nothingness’.
Now that’s a state to aspire to, she mused.
The traditional sound of the bamboo flute flowed into the room, echoing the hollow sound of the north wind that was sucking the moisture out of her last living plants. The contemplative music began to relax her and she set out some paint on a palette.
Lee interspersed his playing with a discussion of the shakuhachi’s connection to Japanese haiku poetry. Jasmine listened intensely. Recently she found herself craving the spirituality of the meditative arts of ancient Japan. Inspired by the succintness of haiku she was combining her own poetry with painting; the Japanese call this combination ‘haiga’.
‘Why am I always searching outside my own culture … whatever my own culture is? Hey Sartre?’
Sartre knowingly sniffed the air.
Jasmine lit a green tea scented candle before slumping into the old cane chair facing several upright canvases. She had previously divided each into three vertical panels and painted them shades of blue-black. Very subtle, almost Zen-like, she considered. The sections equated the Haiku rule of three lines of poetry. She planned to paint the centre panels with images of ‘ah ha moments’; oranges in a Moroccan bowl to represent winter; thunderous clouds, and a sleeping dog to echo the moodiness of late spring; tiny fish in pools of water to reminisce the magic of summer. This week afforded her the seclusion to transform her poems into tangible objects, and the rules of haiku provided the structure to hang her artistic hat on.
Jasmine was recycling old canvases from an earlier series. She brushed on thicker layers of paint to erase the previous images, but some raised letter shapes appeared creating the effect of an ancient palimpsest that had long given up its content.
Obscurity is part of contemporary art, pondered Jasmine as she searched for a glimmer of significance amidst her brush marks.
As she painted she envisaged Luke presenting his research paper on Alzheimer at Kyoto University. His lecture is bound to make a valuable contribution to the mystery of memory … and he’ll be experiencing authentic Japanese culture while I have to be satisfied with a mere whiff from secondary sources. Soy sauce? Hmm.
She pondered how living with Luke for the past six months had filled her life and stopped her dwelling on the past or future. Luke’s absence made her aware of an emptiness she had been trying to fill most of her life. She found ephemeral happiness when painting but Luke offered her a sense of completeness.
Hey, I’m an independent woman. I don’t need to be validated by anyone or anything.
The dog rested his shaggy head on her lap.
‘Not even you, Sartre,’ Jasmine protested as she replenished his drinking bowl.
Angrily, she brushed more paint onto the negative, bluish-black backgrounds. I may be a ‘priestess of nothingness’ one day … sooner than I think, most likely.
From the radio, Lee continued to intellectualise. ‘… traditionally it was taboo for women to play the shakuhachi because of the sexual connotations. The vibrations of the instrument––’
Jasmine switched off the radio. She didn’t want to hear or think about sex today. The ringing phone compounded her thoughts. It must be Luke?
‘Hi?’
No one answered.
‘Hello, hello …?’
Nothing. Jasmine checked her laptop for emails. None. A walk up the driveway to the letterbox also proved fruitless. Nobody loves me today – she recalled her late mother’s lament whenever there were no letters.
Jasmine returned to the studio, opened a cheap bottle of white wine and set up some still-life objects to paint: a yellow bowl, a white teapot and a blue oriental vase. Painting occupied her mind and eased the thought of the long week ahead.
The hot windy days passed slowly with an interplay of contemplative paintings representing empty vessels and a new CD of sachihachi music that she treated herself to. Lonely evenings were spent experimenting with her sudden passion for Japanese food. Udon, ramen and soba noodles, salmon, wakami, bean sprouts and spicy XO sauce replaced the mean Lean Cuisine.
Seven moonless nights passed along with her dreams of dead ancestors. There was never anything worthwhile on television, her friends were all preoccupied with their own meaningful lives and her bed seemed incredibly empty. No messages arrived from Luke.
‘I’ll just cook up my wasabi-tuna noodles and finish the bottle of sake. At least the noodles are sh … sho … shoba,’ Jasmine slurred and joked to Sartre who was also developing a taste for raw fish.
Heavy rain finally arrived to quench the parched garden. The early morning electrical storm had caused a power blackout. Jasmine sat quietly in her dark studio surrounded by the week’s effort, seven fine haiga paintings all nearly resolved to her satisfaction. Sartre rested at her feet, glancing up to admire her efforts.
From the window she saw the taxi arrive and Luke struggling towards the house with a bulging backpack. She pretended to be absorbed in her work when he appeared at the door with his broad, well-travelled smile.
‘Oh! I didn’t expect you home today … you could have rung, or texted me.’
Luke put down the pack and embraced her. She resisted his affections. Still beaming, he presented her with a long, thin gift wrapped exquisitely in silver and blue patterned silk.
‘You’ll never guess,’ he grinned.
Jasmine had an inkling. She unwound the cloth slowly.
‘It’s a traditional 55 cm bamboo flute … very popular with women in Japan today, the shop owner told me,’ explained Luke.
Jasmine offered a vacant smile.
‘Now you’ll have something to practise, whenever I’m away.’
How could he be so unaware of my paintings?
‘Anyway Jasmine, tell me what you’ve been up to.’
‘Oh, nothing. Nothing much at all.’
The sound of the shakahachi played softly in the background as it hollowed out the ancient sounds of the Priests of Nothingness.
Saturday 27 July 2013
Roadhouse
Winsome Smith
Lithgow, NSW
A story told in exactly two hundred words.
Trucks of all sizes: twenty-two wheel, eighteen wheel, enormous semis, were all parked in front of the roadside fast food café.
The tourist coach disgorged its weary passengers at the entrance. Brenda queued up, ordered coffee and found a seat at a table. Truck drivers, tough, muscular, handsome, exuding good cheer and testosterone sat at other tables.
Brenda sugared her coffee and as she stirred it, looked up straight into the eyes of one such man. He was sitting at a small table opposite hers and he was staring intently in her direction. She noticed he had brown eyes.
She preened, flicking her hair. He gazed. She straightened up and turned slightly allowing the better side of her profile to be seen. It was flattering indeed to be attracting attention at the age of forty, and after a long, tiring journey.
She sipped her coffee slowly, making it last. Whenever she looked up the man was looking in her direction.
She finished her coffee and, wondering if a friendly ‘Hullo’ would be appropriate, picked up her bag. She slowly stood up.
As she left the table he continued to gaze – at the television set on the wall behind her chair.
Saturday 27 July 2013 4 pm
The Killing Floor
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
Today go down upon the killing floor
amid the blood and gore,
slit a bovine throat and watch the light go out,
or moved by mercy finish off a wallaby
hit and left to die , a ruined temple bleeding in the dust.
Feel the anguish of these passings not un
like your own.
They say god lives within all things that live,
they also say god lives above,
and too they say that he’s a god of love,
but doings in the world seem not to be the artefacts of love.
I myself was put upon this world to question,
a thing beyond control,
and looking to the sentiments above do spy a world of work ,
endless echelons of inquiry receding beyond seeing.
Does god live within the world or
does he live beyond and having done creation
moved on to watch his work unfold?
Is he real or not and if he is is he a system,
emergent from the substance of automata?
Is it within the power of a single little mind
to grasp and hold these vast and primal things?
But all this talk is meaningless to me
for I have yet to find a reason for the universe to be ,
and if the universe is not the end of inquiry,
what reason would there be to be?
Sunday 28 July 2013
For You, Daughter
Ruth Withers
Uarbry, NSW
For each of you, daughter, this life,
This body, this soul and mind.
All that I am, ever was or will be –
For each and all of you.
For each of you, this old, grey head,
The lines and the scars that I wear;
The purpose of me ever was and will be –
For each and all of you.
But for you alone, daughter, these tears,
This desperate ache in my heart.
The darkness and cold embracing my soul –
These, daughter, only for you.
Sunday 28 July 2013 1 pm
On Waking
Ruth Withers
Uarbry, NSW
You came and sat beside me;
You touched my face and warmed me;
You told me that you loved me;
You embraced me and you healed me.
Then I awoke.
I will never sit beside you;
I will never feel your touch;
I’ll not hear a loving word from you;
And I will not be healed.
Why must I awake?
Sunday 28 July 2013 6 pm