And even with the lights out we'll glow...

((

))

Crank it up.

I watch Capoeria.

And I can feel myself become weightless.

My legs know the movements, my head realizes the vertices on which I can twist and suspend my figure in moment for a moment.

Yet my back realized its limitations, and keeps me from flowing to and fro in my house.

Eins would not approve.

Yet I feel a gliding feeling deep withing my sternum, growing and flowing and glowing.

I get off.

There is a passion hidden in the hearth that cannot be explained with simple words in simple times by simple minds.

The feeling of companionship as you glide over the surface almost like ice, heel to toe, I will forever remember that day we crashed and burned and got back up yet to do it again, swinging in the lift to catch that perfect rail, to accomplish what keeps us young, to completely hate our bodies enough to suffer and enjoy.

Jason, thank you. It'll be the best we've ever known.

And the snow falls, cutting communication. I always knew it made everything silent, serene, and ultimately beautiful in the silence very few can achieve. Muffling the cars from the freeway, letting us walk in peace and solidarity, observing the beauty that we never experience when the air is clear and dry and the sounds come vaulting over the boundaries. But I want a certain voice to speak out to me, to call, to fill my mind and shake the rules I have identified for myself.

Snow, the curse and blessing of my winter.

To my sister, tribulations may pop up here and there, we may run and laugh and glide and slide and complain about the bruises we receive, but I am truly glad of the things we share, and the times we laugh and carry on. Don't forget, even the small things matter. Cry as you need, but remember tomorrow comes, as does a completely new person.

I'm staring at my reflection on my glass topped desk, and I must say, I am not pleased with what I see. It is not as I have wanted, as I once was, prime and peak, the capabilities of many men. I frown, and I can see it not only in the hell bound curves of my mouth, but in my eyes. A stillness that does not tolerate weakness. Perhaps that's not a bad thing but the weakness it does no longer tolerate is my own.

Poetic, is it not? I have been accused of many things, but nothing else has hurt so much.

I saw a girl, laughing and smiling in New York, and I have only told one other person about it till now.

She was about seven or eight, as happy as can be with one hand firmly in her father's grasp, the other gingerly balanced within the palm of her mother's. It was a sensation I felt. A child, pure innocence and outlook for a bright future. Yet as I told that one person, I couldn't help but wonder: Who's going to fuck your life up darling? Who's going to change you? How hard? And how badly? And after the change, how happy will you be for the future? And in the end, when your head is held high, what will you think back upon? I hope you envision that city, so bright and large and crowded and

loving. Forced in together, you have no choice but to attempt to survive.

Do so, for your sake and the future of your lineage.

Yet I call out to the path of my own. And what I see before me is desolate.

But I am not clairvoyant. I possess not the ability to see the circumstances which will lead to my rise/downfall. And I don't want to. It's much more interesting to see exactly how things play out in real time.

I see my reflection and I smile, genuinely.

First time in a long time.

And I owe it all to.

Ain't that just a bitch?

Bwahahahahahahaha.

I am as weightless now as I have ever been, and I ride the currents of YOUR thoughts. Yours.

And the sugar don't stop...

As always: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SjVZB34ibNo

I dunno, just kinda feel like I need to throw something up here.

I've got three little books, all bound in black.

One for business.

One for observations.

And one for the thing.

For business, I find old outlines of my resume, places I wrote down to call for rent check, etc. etc. Had a to-do list. Never got done.

The second.

"Why am I here? To be the next Dante. Who else is more referred and alluded to?"

"I'm so tired."

"The heavier the metal, the more umlauts."

"*Mark - Scruffy but cool ex-nursing major. Knows Mitch from H.S. Works @ coffee shop. Very personable."

"The same 6-button wool peacoats. The bootcut jeans. The fried hair swept across the eyes. Daintily puffing on a cigarette in a shadowed doorway. Refusing to return a nod or 'hello'."

"It would be nice if life were like a song, that way the music would do all the work."

"I hate how this asshole is always late. It's disrespectful, even if this is a 101. He should be ingraining the correct procedures on these kids. But hey, I'm not the one with a Ph.D."

"The sound of a thousand people applauding mimics that of a toilet flushing."

"Fairy tales don't come true, but we can always hope. That's what keeps us going, isn't it? To keep working towards that point of perfection where things become nice again."

The third book.

"Always give a reason why."

Bis Später.

Just start to laugh, and God says no...

((

))

So this is how it comes about.

I've used it many times, but never has it seemed so proper.

"I grow old, I grow old,

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled"

Prufrock's lament to the passing of time, his previous impotence when it came to doing what he wanted. The inability to digest even the simplest of fruits.

So maybe that's why I've always loved this poem. Aside from the indigestion. A mirror to me.

Behold, for I am Gabriel Conroy, grabbing for the lame and useless words to comfort those around me. I am the jealous and ineffectual man who sits at the head of the table and makes a frightful ass of himself.

Twenty fucking five years.

Twinnyfife.

By this age most people have already set out about on what they would most like to do upon the earth.

But screw those guys right in the ear I guess?

Twenty five years of experience. What has that gotten me so far?

A hippie disposition.

An awesome dog.

When life gives you lemons, fine a guy with a bottle of vodka and throw a party.

Unfortunately that guy is usually myself.

So, here's to a quarter century gone, halfway to 50.

25 more and maybe I'll have a decent grasp on personal opinions.

Where the livin meet the dead....

((

))

The sound of bone against flesh reverbrated against the walls of the warehouse as Martin let his fist cut across Robby's cheek. Blood flew from the fresh wound onto the concrete floor in small droplets.

"Where the fuck's the money" asked Martin, rubbing his sore hand.

"What money" countered Robby, wincing at the pain of speaking.

Another sickening thud as Robby's teeth loosened from another right hand to his jaw. His face burned with pain as the dull ache in his ribs began to flare up at his labored breath. The single bulb hanging above them in the warehouse illuminated a small circle on the floor, displaying proudly the blood that had been shed over the past few hours as if it were a masterpiece. His eyes caught the bright yellow gleam on on the blood before his vision was rocked in the opposite direction as a left hook crushed against his temple.

"Tell me where you put the fucking money!"

Robby spat out a wad of phlegm and blood towards Martin. The green-red combination clung to Martin's blue tie, sullying the fine silk tie that swayed on top of the guido's muscles. Robby shook the concussed feeling from his head and tried to focus his eyes on his assailant.

"This is a bit cliched, is it not?"

Reality began to unwind.

And I know, that you'll see...

Fuck the rest of the story. Here's a bit of fiction I wish I would have worked harder on.

F:

I roll wherever I go. Just tuck your head between your knees, grab those ankles and make sure whatever you need to get to is downhill from you. It doesn’t matter what the time of year is. In the spring I get to see a world surrounded by flowers and baby birds. Not just on the ground or in the air, but both for each! In the summer there is warm grass for my face to smush up against. I do have to stay away from the pavement, though, since it burns a little bit if I don’t make that tumbling a bit faster. Then there’s the fall, the best time to roll wherever I go. The crunch of the leaves below my feet, knees, neck and back sound so sweet, like the ripping of wrapping paper. I’m opening up a whole new world for myself. And in the winter I get to bundle up, a little bit of cushioning against the ice below. And there’s not so much rolling as there is of slipping and sliding, but I suppose I get a few good seasons of rolling in, I can afford to spend a few flopping around in the snow.

My parents hate it though. It’s always ‘When are you going to stop ruining your shirts?’ this and ‘Oh how are we going to get the motor oil out of your hair?’ that. Dad’s the worst of the two, always saying how my brothers never rolled like I am and how they have enough sense to use two feet to get around. I tried to explain that when rolling, the feet are the most important of the circle. They alone decide whether or not you’re going to finally stop, and that’s pretty important, especially when you’re down by the river. But as usual, he just sighs and shakes his head while I roll off into the kitchen to get some juice. Mom just smiles and fusses at me, but I can tell from the way she looks at me that she knows I’m going to keep on rolling. And she’s right.

So I roll on my way to school, the books in my bag pressing against my back with every revolution. I speed across the crosswalk, passing by the other kids who are laughing and pointing at me at a rapid pace. I smile against my knees because I know I’m getting somewhere faster than they are. While approaching the next crosswalk, a car’s brakes begin to squeal. I see a few whirling images of a red car blocking my path and slap my feet down as soon as they come around. Mr. McChutney leans out his window, his big mustache flapping in rhythm with his jaws as he tells me what a fool I am and how I’m going to get hurt one of these days. His face is starting to get redder as his rant goes on, almost as red as his car.

“Yes, Mr. McChutney, smeared across the road, uh huh, I understand. Thank you, sir, but I need to get going.” I smile and wait until he drives across the intersection, giving me the ol’ stink eye the entire way. I think I can still see his face hanging out the car window. Oh, I hope he doesn’t hit that car in front of him. I smile and continue to roll on, that familiar ‘thump-thump thump-thump’ vibrating through my bones. The land begins to level out and I begin to slow, but its different today. I’ve lost way too much momentum to get through the front doors and find myself stopped on the sidewalk, scuffed up shoes pointing directly where I want to still be going. Mr. McChutney’s diversion must’ve thrown me off a bit today. I couldn’t move without a little boost from someone, but they all just walk around me. A river of kids flow around me, the rock in the middle. I sigh deeply and look up at the doors as they swing closed on the last of the students. The bell rings. I sit and wait.

The weather begins to change and dark clouds fill up the sky. Another minute passes. Then the rain comes, beating down on me and my book bag. I feel the water begin to soak through my shirt, my skin prickling up with goose bumps as the rain continues to fall. How did I get into this situation? I’ve never lost speed like that before. I always gained it back, tightening my knees and back up just a little to give me that edge. Why today? In my little shell I begin to think of just why this was happening. I couldn’t come up with an answer though.

Then I hear the roar of an engine, accented by the crashing thunder rolling across the sky. I peek out from beneath my legs, and see the red car scream down the street towards me, its windshield wipers beat away at the glass, clearing away the water and revealing Mr. McChutney’s grinning face. He must have taken off for his lunch break. The car speeds towards me, swerving slightly, and crashes into the small lake forming against the curb and the road.

The wave of water spreads up and over the sidewalk, I see it crash towards me and hold my breath. The water pours against my already soaked shirt and knocks me forward. I hold onto my ankles and keep my breath in my mouth as I feel the ground start to spin beneath me. My feet hit the steps to the school entrance and leave the ground, twirling through the air. Only to stop, face first into the glass doors. I slide down and feel my feet catch the ground underneath me. They buckle for a moment and my hands catch on the cool, metal handle of the door. I push the door open and felt the cold air rush against my face, chilling the cold clothes clinging to my skin. I look behind me to see where I had been sitting the whole morning. Just a short little distance away, travelled with ease each day. The chilly air from inside the school presses my clothes to my skin a bit more firmly, reminding me of the rain, the cold, and Mr. McChutney’s face smiling maniacally at me from behind the steering wheel of his cherry red automobile. I don’t think I ever want to go through that again. What a miserable day. I take the first, shaky step inside.

R: Screw First person present.

So kiss me, I'm shitfaced...

((

))

I think the statute of limitations has expired for my story.

New York City. Dirty, muddled, pristine, streamlined, beautiful and a sin.

Everything I could ever hope for in one place.

Everything I have always despised, ignorantly, right here in front of me.

I'll start where the action begins.

I walk out to the curb, my thumb jutting out from my fist like a hooker's exposed leg. I smile and say hello, hop in the passenger seat, set my room key into the pocket built into the door, and strap my ass in to the seat.

My heart's fluttering, and I have to force my breath into it's usual rhythym. We smile and chat. I comment on just how flamboyant the Chelsea district truly is, she makes a comment about the Meat Packing district. I relax for a moment and let the buildings soak into my vision.

Heights amuse me, seeing them from the ground, feeling them...well...tower over me. It's a nice feeling to have something blocking out the sun and breeze.

We smile and chat.

Park.

Exit.

Observe.

Repark.

Smartass comment.

And decide on which bar to hit first.

I was told that Thar Be Trolls Here (Trolls, not Dragons), but holy shit that bouncer was huge. I don't think I've ever seen someone so frigging massive in my life. Everyone in the bar was well behaved, except for the hispanic couple sucking each other's faces off at one of the beer pong tables.

I've watched the Discovery Channel during their Fuck The Sea, It's Scary Shit week. I've seen Octopi (octopuses?) cling onto steel for dear life and sharks clamp down on bait hard enough to almost capsize a boat, but I've never seen humans capable of such suction. I think the girl's hairline moved forward half an inch with each kiss.

A pitcher of beer poured into dixie cups and ping pong balls bought and wetted. My first time playing. My palms begin to clam up, motor skills shut down, and I can feel my hands tremble. My only hope is to get just a bit of alcohol in me so I can relax, be calm, be smooth, beat some ass at this game.

And I do. But graciously, I down most of the remaining beer after I whip major ass.

Yes, I graciously downed most of the pitcher that was bought by someone else. I'm a gentleman like that.

Gotta get my breathing under control. Doesn't seem to want to escape my throat.

We laugh and chat.

And move on to the next bar.

A waitress, slightly angry that we plopped into a booth after ordering our drinks at the bar, let's us know exactly how shit's gonna play out for us later. The usual...eh...don't want to alienate, but the usual frat boy crowd shuffles around in the middle of the bar floor.

Sandals, khaki cargo shorts, button up shirts, cocked baseball caps, greased hair, flipped collars. You name it, they had it. A dropped glass, an angrier waitress. She comes over with the scoop and broom. I'm pretty tipsy at this point, but I'm fairly sure I remember one of them simulating sodomy with the broom. I wonder what others see when they look at them.

That badass. That brosef. That idiot. That hottie. That catch. That...

Top heavy dumbass with skinny legs. Shot to the knees and it's done. But that's just me.

And I remember the conversation. You's gay. No matter what, you's gay. And the other part too.

By the time we leave, I've had a good amount of liquid courage in me and everything seems to come naturally. Hesitation isn't an option for me any longer. We walk and smile and chat. Things are getting progressive! We enter an underground bar after a chat with a guy who has a badass hat. Like a damn cool hat. My kinda hat. That guy was fucking cool. I get an address from him, and try to remember it.

That fails, but I at least catch the name.

We slip on down amidst the cacophony of the band, playing covers with their own flavor.

A Guinness Stout, an Appletini, and two shots of tequila. My stomach churns, but hesitation is back at the hotel watching pay-per-view, so down it goes. We smile and chat, lollipops and music. Another Guinness, another tini, two more shots of tequila.

Music and laughter.

"We danced right there."

Ouch. Dunno. Dancing's one of those things, y'know. Everyone should know how to do it. Everyone should be free enough to just flow. I'll learn one of these days. But nevermind that.

Everything gets a bit hazy, as well it should. I've seen more tonight than I have any other night. Taken in more faces, scenery and noise than I could ever get anywhere else.

I'm loving it.

But there's still booze to be drunk, so back to the second bar. Two shots of Jameson (Hat Guy gets extra props for that) and three shots of vodka shared between the group. I'm not too definite about this point, but I end up sitting next to a guy with a thick African accent, laughing and exchanging stories with him, advice from person to person passes with the ease of alcohol induced socialism. I'm a god damn butterfly when you get enough in me, apparently.

Then it hits, and I find myself outside, smoking a cigarette. I flick it to the street, and place my face gingerly near the trash piled on the curb, hoping the copious amounts of liquid I have consumed comes out painlessly. It fails to do so, and we sit. Something feels...Hesitant?

I smile and say ok, and begin the short walk back to my hotel, stumbling, rumbling, fitting in maybe? Just another slightly swaying figure on the street.

Ahhhhh shit, I gotta get my keys ready for the door.

I slap my back pocket. The other one. Wallet. The front pocket. Cigarettes. The other one. Cellphone. Ooooooh shit.

A phone call and an incoherent conversation. "Dudeeeeee I need my keysh."

I don't remember if there was an answer, as I sit on the stoop in front of my hotel and begin to smoke, wishing they had a real lobby, wishing I didn't have to have a key to get inside.

Eight more cigarettes, 6 more phone calls, and nothing.

Bwahahahahaha.

I wake up in between the double doors of an apartment complex four doors down from my hotel. Rubbing my eyes and checking to make sure I have everything, I stumble back onto the sidewalk, the sun pressing down on the buildings across the street.

Fuuuuuuck.

I reach into my front pocket and find my keys. 'What the hell? Did they come by and shove them in my pocket and not wake me up?'

I make my way up the stairs of the hotel, and a man calls out to me.

"You know where you're going?"

"Yeup, 502, fifth floor."

"You were sleeping outside on the stairs you know."

"Yeup, won't be doing that again."

I lock my door behind me, strip my clothes off, and collapse on the bed. A better, less concrete lined sleep takes me away.

Later: "Yeah, I checked, your keys weren't in my car."

So, kids, check your fucking pockets, else you end up sleeping on the streets of New York.

A friend commented upon this whole situation in a roundabout way: "Dude, you look like a fucking hobo. No wonder nobody fucked with you"

Maybe he's right.

Just maybe.

It's good to see that passion still lives...

Somewhere.

I'd really like to get to know you...

((Ok, if a pic's sideways, just click, it'll be rightside up))

((



))




Screw NY tobacco prices, we come prepared.



I spent more on toll than I did on gas.





Pardon me while I snicker like a kid.



Mental prep for a stroll amongst the citizens.













Fuckin metal.









I am proud of this shot.



I thought it said "The Hater Building", which would have culminated into me laughing in the streets. Unfortunately...



So much bling they plate their doors.



YES! Guy tending bar had a heavy accent and had his timing on Guinness pouring down to a 'T'.



Pay money, park car, have it raised, someone else parks below you. Friggin ingenious way of using up every spot of land and air available.





Oh what the hell?!





Moved the camera too quickly, much to my surprise.



Glass and steel.



Proud of that one too.



Taken way too many pictures of high class offices closed down for the night. Something even emptier about them.



You will not, I repeat, will NOT fucking sit here. I guess it fits the city. Nowhere to really sit unless you're in a park. Gotta be moving, gotta be making that dollar, gotta be giving it away, but make sure those feet don't stop. No rest for the wicked.





Your $500 dresses and scummy remodeling do not match. Try next fall.



Buy my shit. Chicks dig it.



My street.



That's what I was talking about...

Time to sleep and wake up at 7 to move my car while they sweep. Goodnight my darlings.





Hahaha I just friggin had to.

Nicht ist für dich...

((



))

Sitting in my room, pants off and a towel around my forehead to keep the sweat at bay, I think about the past few hours. Walking around the city during the day was a little weird, but eventful.

I’ve seen a chick on a bicycle threaten to go upside another lady’s head for stepping out in front of her. I think that would have been a high point.

Talked with a guy about MMA while watching a class through the windows. For once, I said ‘Fedor Emelianenko’ without getting a confused look. Rawksome.

I heard one of the greatest cover bands in my entire life last night, boozing it up to a bar tab that I most certainly did not expect. Also learned a valuable life lesson, maybe two, that I’m not gonna forget anytime soon.

Check your pockets, kids.

But wow, that’s a lot of damn people, as I strut down 5th Ave. and get closer to the shopping districts. Immaculate storefronts and rows upon rows of silky white dresses here and there, souvenir shops scattered about, clothing, shoes, hats (Picked up a new one. Part of that life lesson), and all sorts of other shit. People carrying bags, their children, their dogs, anything they can get their hands on it seems.

I still haven’t heard a New York accent yet.

So many beautiful, random, intriguing people, all in one city. The prime culmination of civilization it seems. But there’s so many. Astounding people, I’m sure. Yet I’m supposed to mean something to someone? It’s a bit depressing, just to take it all in, sitting in a chair amidst potted flowers while taxis scream by 10 feet behind you.

More and better thoughts as they come.

"If you step out in front of me I will fucking hit you!"

Damn bicyclists.

Ain't no stranger...

((



))

It's almost amazing what we notice when we slow down. There's still kids all over the WSU campus. Having people running around, laughing, screaming, that kind of thing always kicks up a bit of nostalgia.

There's a group of hackers down the way from me, kicking the bag around lazily. No urgency or requirement of skill, just the Golden Rule of not being a douche bag. I'd like to slide on over, show them how it's done, but that's intrusion. That's not me.

Breaking the flow, unbalancing the circle, blasphemy. Yet I feel the pull.

I see another kid jump off of the wall near the fountain. He's managed to get a cast on his arm since I last saw him, being chased around by a girl with a frisbee full of muddy water.

That girl's gonna date you kid. Just you watch.

Then the jealousy kicked in. Another boy ran by, snatching the frisbee, playing keep away, then trying to same water throwing move. Then a hilarious thing happened; a crowd of white knights came to her rescue, blocking the water, chasing the other kid to get the frisbee, each one vying for the girl's attention, positive or negative. Just attention. I suppose that's the natural order of things though.

'Aggrivate them till they love you'. Things really don't change, children to adults. Grown ups are just smarter and label it as 'testing the limits without getting smacked'.

I think that's an apt enough description of it.

But the kids are enjoying themselves, which is more than I can say for most of my peers that I see wandering about the campus, passing me by, sneering as the smoke curling around my lips before the breeze dissipates it.

Fuck you, hoity toity.

A few college kids pass, shorts cut up enough that you don't need any imagination to see what you want to see. Summer dresses, khaki shorts and sandals, ripped jeans and skater shoes. Chains and hair and piercings and perfume laid on so thick that the birds deem the area they pass a no fly zone for a bit.

A few of them smile behind their shades, cheap sunglasses, designer eye wear, bug eyed visors, but I'm not so sure that smile ever reaches their eyes. It certainly doesn't even shiver down their spines and lend an extra push to their feet. All the posing and posturing and heightened guffaws, there's no extra...zazz!

Not like the kids taking turns jumping off the ledges by the fountain, that 6 foot fall so exhilarating and addictive in the summer sun with the sweet breeze catching their shirts and hair.

Maybe they've got it right.

Maybe we take ourselves too seriously...

BURNINATING THE COUNTRYSIDE!...

((



))

Embodiment of the Birds

Michio Takeyama’s Harp of Burma is filled with many literary symbols which reoccur throughout the novel. The one that attracts the most attention is the harp carried by Corporal Mizushima which represents tranquility within the unit, but also their safety. The harp is used at many points to either distract a threatening company, or to signal Mizushima’s own company on whether a certain area is safe or not. While the harp and the music that is played on it are often seen sprouting up in many areas of the story, it only covers a portion of the characters presented in the novel; namely Mizushima’s brigade as well as their British captors. One particular set of symbols does have a larger philosophical impact upon the novel and gives a broader perspective in regards to not just the Japanese soldiers but the native Burmese as well. These symbols would be the birds that observed and interacted with by the Japanese soldiers. Through these interactions, we are given a clearer perspective on just how this particular unit of soldiers views the war, Japan, Burma and themselves.

A peacock happens to be one of the first birds the brigade encounters, and the first clue that most of what the narrator will describe throughout the book is but a surreal reimagining. In the scene leading up to the peacock’s entrance, the soldiers are gathered around Mizushima while is playing the harp. The scene is described as almost picturesque, the company being on the edge of a lake near a broad forest filled with laughing and chattering creatures. Then the peacock “fluttered down from somewhere” and “paraded in front” of the company for a moment (14). While this is a work of fiction, peacocks materializing out of thin air are out of place in this work. The timing of the bird’s entrance is almost impeccable, coming in while the music is still playing and there are still monkeys and birds playing in the trees. While this does, in fact, make for a “truly happy memory”, it is suspect in that the moment seems too good to be true, as if the narrator threw the wonderful aspects of nature in to glamorize the event of Mizushima’s harp playing. The act of parading around in front of them is echoed and contrasted later in the book during the funeral march of the English soldiers. While lining up for the procession, many of the upper class women are noted of having “golden bracelets and jeweled earrings. But their make-up was unusual – Their faces were spotted with patches of yellow powder” (67). These ornate decorations and strangely specific markings on the face correlate with the markings of the Burmese peacocks. This time the setting is not thought of as a joyous moment, but rather somber as the carriages carrying dead English soldiers jerk the reader out of the beauty of the moment and present them with the truth of the matter; this was a war, and people are dead because of it. This display during a funeral holds a very Burmese point of view, that death is not such a terrible thing and can be beautiful. This view, set next to the Japanese view that life and advancement are the keys to happiness, shows the bias the narrator feels towards his countrymen as he would much rather see a peacock during a simple evening listening to the music of his company rather than a reverent funeral procession for foreign soldiers.

The birds that symbolize the most are the chickens the unit had to prepare for dinner. This was a new experience for most men in the unit as they were astonished to see a chicken run around after it had been beheaded. An unnamed speaker pipes up and asks the men “how do you suppose it feels, running around like that without a head?” which seems to touch on the thoughts they would later have of Mizushima (35). Mizushima and his harp were viewed not truly as the heart, but rather as the mind of the unit, shown through his clever use of disguises and his bravery. Without Mizushima, the unit was basically milling about in the P.O.W. camp, letting their bodies work on their daily chores but never really doing anything that could be regarded as significant. This loss of guidance and purpose is a common theme throughout the novel. The entire Japanese squad could be regarded as the body of the chicken, erratically wandering through the Burmese landscape, avoiding bandits and Allied forces. Before their capture they are even shown to have been “huddled together under the trees” (15) while attempting to avoid an ambush, much like the flailing bodies of the beheaded chickens as they “Ran into the bushes, or cowered down in the grass” (35). The cause for their fleeing through the Burmese countryside was that they had lost contact with the Japanese military, and without that communication line they were not able to receive any guidance or supplies. Their head had effectively been cut off. Yet the comparisons can be expanded to a much larger level. For example; the Burmese natives could be regarded as the chicken’s head, calm but “reproachful” in their ways, merely closing their eyes and excepting whatever fate decides to burden them with (35). The Japanese would then be as the body, running around “drunkenly weaving” around in frantic circles, always looking to advance until finally they simply collapse after all of their wasted exertion to continue to live. What has been lost between these two is the concentration on religion; the Burmese opting for a peaceful way of life while the Japanese leaning towards education and industry to secure happiness for their countrymen.

To piece the unit back together, after the supposed death of Mizushima while on his very last mission, the last two birds are introduced. While profound in the messages they convey between the unit and Mizushima, they act as much more than feathery messengers. Each parakeet is trained to say a specific phrase. These phrases embody the entire essence of both parties. The parakeet trained by the imprisoned Japanese soldiers is told to say “Hey, Mizushima! Hey Mizushima! Let’s go back to Japan, together!” in hopes that the monk would hear their cries for him to rejoin them again (71-72). This one statement encompasses the only thing the unit has hoped for since their imprisonment, and shows their desire to be with their friend and companion once again. The company wants him within their ranks as they go back and try to rebuild what is left of their nation. Mizushima’s parakeet is trained to speak “Ah, I cannot go home!” which expresses the resolution of Mizushima’s pledge as well as the despair and sorrow that he has kept inside by not letting himself be a part of a group that he had grown so fond of during his time in the military. While the two birds, brothers as it were, serve as living symbols of these two different messages, they also tie back in with the imagery of the headless chickens flapping about aimlessly. At the end of the story, Mizushima has the essence of his old company riding on his shoulders, completing and comforting him while he works on his spiritual and mental quest. Through the ordeal of the sharing of music and the shock of the parakeet shrieking the company’s message into his ears, Mizushima is “happy and grateful” for the constant admiration of his former unit (131). Through this his wound has healed and he finds himself able to carry on. For the company, after receiving Mizishuma’s parakeet and letter, they finally come to accept that while he is lost to them, they have his memory and finally accept his true desires. The reception of the parakeet, a symbol for the true form of Mizushima, completes the company to a degree where they are “no longer sad” and can carry on back to Japan to rebuild (131). The two parties are bound back together through these birds, their losses recouped through the simple exchange of common birds.

Without discrediting the harp, the birds still remain in the background for most of the novel. Yet even while not in the foreground, they manage to encapsulate the ideas of unity not only between Mizushima and his unit, or his unit and the nation of Japan, but rather both nations, and all the people who inhabit them. To have such a broad effect over the novel, and to better clarify and display the themes that each represents with such little concentration on the birds themselves is uncanny.

Works Cited
Takeyama, Michio. Harp of Burma. Rutland, VT: Tuttle Publishing,
2001. Print.

Far away boys, far away boys, away from ya now...

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