Iris

By Marlin Eller

Too long have I with one eye looked upon this land I now call home. So I shaved off my curly locks, burned off the harvest chaff, plowed the fields, and left my Buddhist bowl bare to spring. Slipping on my soft-soled shoes I sought the city streets. I walked along the ridge where the dragons ripped and snorted and played with one another. But, I sought a more serene moment and so dipped below the ridge. Among the shades the sounds took on subtle colorings. Compost nearby, children playing, gardens being rebuilt. Wind chimes sound. Lilacs waft the air. So much life.

I'd like to thank my parents of their gift of life. If not for them I'd have never seen a green blade of grass shove up through dark earth or hear a muted saxophone blow the blues. They'll never know the things I've seen, for my life is not theirs. They gave it to me to do with as I wished to squander as I choose. They made me free and alive. Who could ask for more? I fear that they grow old. I know that they will die. This knowledge is not new but does not come often and thus has a special reverence. It is a sacred place from whence I began and to which I will return, but now I am alive.

The dog came to me today. He saw an old hound lying on a porch and as I approached he quickly flew inside the old carcass, opened up the eyelids and summoned up a whiny bark to greet me as I passed. "Hello," I said, and he laid the hound gently back down. To look down in the valley I walked over a freshly plowed vacant lot sown with beer bottles and tarpaper shingles. The dog found another body, this one a mangy shepard, who snuck up behind me to sniff my heels. "Oh, you scared me! Just as you did when I was a child. Why do you do that?" He stuck his tongue out and panted, "Because I am a dog, silly!" Yes, I know you. You've been a friend for a long time. You've even been in this body now and then haven't you? When I prowl the streets at night I know you're around. You can be in a tree or in my Buddhist bowl, but you fit so well into puppies and wolves for they are the perfect size for chasing cats, eh?

Well, the time has come to descend into the green and woody valley. Wait; do I hear the buzzing of insects? Have I seen this bush before? I used to live in this valley. This was once my home. I know this glen. It what here and there I knew a blond pigtail with my tongue. No, a myth, a legend. Stories of a man who had my name but I think not this body. No, he was much younger. A samurai I think. He dashed about and did some thing or other. I don't entirely remember. I'm just and old monk passing through. Going down. Descending across the stones.

Each one talks to me through these shoes. Each step shakes the bones. Why do the endure it? They endure it because they are bones. The flesh wants to go somewhere, do something, it needs the bones. One day the joints will grow weary. With each step over a curb they will cry in the memory of when they first learned to walk, run, jump. They will know too much. They will leave this plane and they will leave behind the bones. The Buddhists in Nepal eat their rice from a bowl made from a human skull. I am growing one now.

Ah, here, around this curve, virtually unseen among this foliage is a path, the last leg of the journey into the valley. I duck through the trees and step onto the damp earthen path. What? I stop and sniff. Dog shit. Looks like someone stepped in it. Uh oh, suddenly the soft-soled shoe recognizes that slippery feeling. "Dear friend dog! I remember you too," as I shuffle wipe across the grass. And then at the bottom it levels out to the garden. O-san. Most holy shrine. Wooden gates. Stone lantern.

Five dollars for an annual pass. Why not? No need to tell them tat I steal into the garden in the dead of night over the fence. This may be my third annual pass this year. Who cares? Bury it in a pocket and enter. Stone steps. Waterfall. Azaleas. Iris at the water's edge, Snowy carpet of cherry blossoms under the trees.

"Pardon me, do you know what kind of flower this is?"

Lipstick and plastic glasses. Not at all the voice I'd have expected.

"No, I don't know." (I am but a fool, be not confused by my shaved head and soft-soled shoes. I know nothing. See my stupid smile?) "Maybe azaleas."

Does it matter, the name? This is Honroo of okasaben conjuring some kanji conjugation. Who cares? Get beyond the babble of syllables and see the brilliant blossom.

Stone. So hard on the feet. Harder even then bone. Stone lanterns. What beauty! Photographers everywhere. Tripods squinting. Quick, catch that azalea in full bloom. Etch it in your mind. Scratch it onto film. Cut it into stone. These fragile blooms last but a moment. We must remember them.

Why?

Why? An azalea blows open a blossom of exquisite design to fall off in days. That is beautiful. Carving that into stone will not keep the bloom on the branch a moment longer. Look at these shutterbugs trying to make this dance look like stone. Why? Which is really stronger? Tomorrow the bloom will be gone. The stone lantern will remain. But next year... other blooms, and the year after and after. Which is stronger - the blossom or the stone?

Perhaps I've sat too long here, too serene, too calm. I see the cameras turn to me. A shaven head and soft-soled shoes sitting in half lotus. No, I'm not what you think. I know nothing! I'm a fool. I'm just enjoying the day, as are all of you. I catch it in my camera. I etch it into words. I cut my own memories into my own stone. I am guilty. I am human. I enjoy watching humans. Just as dog enjoys panting.

A young girl, blonde (Swedish?) braid, flowing dress with pastel print appears as fresh as any bloom in the garden. Her father sends her across the pond so he may Kodak her up against the iris. Foolish parent! You cannot keep a beautiful daughter any more in celluloid than you could in your head. She will vanish. Ah, beautiful child to respect your father’s wish, to crouch down on the stones over the lake drooping the dress into the water, oops! Look embarrassed trying to hold dress up out of the water while daddy exposes the crack of his ass to the world bending down to shoot the artistic shot through the arch of the stone lantern. Snap! Got it.

Why do I think I can say it? Why should I? Let everyone find their own fathers and beautiful daughters and blossoms and stone lanterns.

It is time to walk. Ah yes, the sun. Oh yes, how warm on my prickly scalp. It's been a long winter. A mallard suns himself on the rocks at the edge of the pond. What is this, a bumblebee? The bumblebee. Wallowing in blossom. Do you know a bee? Can you see his face? Where are his eyes? Have you ever looked? Have you ever lived?

A quick sip at the stone fountain and then on under the rhododendrons. Wait, that fragrance! God I'm drunk again! The bee climbs into my head and rams my nose into a blossom. I wallow amid your petals, my lotus blossom. I root and snort and get my nose hairs filthy with your pollen. I must have more! I want all your itchy grains up my nostrils until my eyes stream with tears. I must have you!! Then the bee leaves me. Leaves me with my nose sunk to the hilt in some bloom. God! What am I doing here? Did anyone see me? I was drunk, the fragrance... I'm just a fool, see... shaved head, it was the bee.

Yeah, it was the bee.

I stroll to the bridge. Beautiful hand crafted wood joinery. I squat and look into the water. Bugs dance on the surface. An ant scampers across moss-covered granite. From this low vantage point I see the metal bolts holding the bridge together. It is a sham. Not real wood joinery, not a real garden. It let me in on it's secret. Now we share a secret. We are just a Seattle garden pretending to be a Japanese garden. That's OK. I'm not really a Buddhist either.

"Do you see any fish in there?"

Squint upward toward the voice. Can’t see through the sun.

"I've heard there's fish in the pond."

Stupid shit, asking me about fish. What do I know about fish? I was talking to the bridge.

"Uh, no, I haven't seen any."

"Well, I've heard they're there."

How incongruous. The fish seekers, the Swedish daughters, the iris in the water, the lipstick and plastic glasses. The only thing I didn't see was some fool with a shaved head. I must go home and fix some dinner. I hope someday someone will eat rice out of my head. I will rest well when someone slakes their thirst using this old skull as a dipper