Marriage Patch 2.4
Yes, we believe everything should be patched . . . at regular intervals. Just think of it: friendships gilded, babies updated. This site, on the other hand, we’ll leave be. We wouldn’t want the Incompletes to lose its unfunctionable charm, would we?
Let me tell you a little story. It’s about a young, handsome, impressionable, young boy whose wonder for the world still ran ocean deep and of his adventures through Japan’s forest that, like the Siren Song or the Magic Eye 3D puzzles of the 90’s, are so mesmerizingly dear one can’t help but imagine all of life’s other callings: job, friends, family, the comforts of civilization melting away leaving an isolated life on the mossy rocks of foggy simplicity.
The story is also about a group of foreigners who joined the boy on his journey into the wild.
It’s called “Rape of the Sacred Mountain.”
Last week a few of the other teachers and I hacked our way through the overgrowth to the undeveloped center of my island. And when I say “hacked” I really mean drove. And when I say “overgrowth” I really mean paved roads.
After driving up most of the mountain we hopped on a rope lift with swinging chairs. Speakers adorned the supporting poles and played music akin to Yanni scoring your sweetest dreams. The voice on the loudspeaker kept saying, “Imagine you are entering a fantasy . . . and also, please keep an eye on your children.”
The new age infected skilift landed us near the summit of a stunning peak, standing majestically above the frozen ripples of the tsurugi mountain range.
We threw on clear plastic rain slicks and trudged our way up through fog and thick sheets of the god’s tears.
One would think the blue-lit stormy silence of the mountain would strike everyone on it into a subdued state of reverie and inner thought.
One would be idealistically foolish.
I don’t think a single person shut their mouths for a mere inch of our trek up the craggy hillside, almost as if they were tripping over each other to say the things that absolutely could not wait.
“This weather sucks.”
“The ground is really wet!”
“Hey, did you bring the camera? You didn’t? Well, why did we come up here then?”
“We really should’ve come on another day. This really sucks.”
“Where’s Heather? Oh, she’s taking pictures of flowers! Hey Heather? What are you doing? Taking pictures of flowers?”
“You know, I got this shirt for twenty-five dollars. It’s gortex. It’s nice and breathable, but it sorta feels like you’re wearing plastic.”
“Hey! Take a picture of me! Hey, did you get my legs in the picture?”
“Why don’t they make the lift just go all the way to the top of the mountain?”
“Guys, this sucks.”
All this was broken up with one man’s thesis on the Japanese economic duty to develop the mountain further in order to draw more traffic and increase revenue so as to not have the mountain go to waste.
You know what? I take that whole “everything should be patched” thing back. I was younger and more naive when I wrote that. Mountains should not be patched.
After a miserably unserene hike, complete with drawn stares from the other respectful Japanese hikers, we reached the top and found a small temple that served udon and sake. We stopped for a while and slurped delicious fat noodles while the dreamy blue-gray clouds rumbled outside.
Afterward we headed toward the summit. I noticed a split in the path, and took charge of my own destiny. The right way didn’t go to the top, but around the side of the mountain. I forked right without so much as a word.
“Hey! Christian! Where are you going?” they screamed. “Hey Christian! Pathway’s this-a-way. HEY!”
I let their calls get lost in the expansive blue hills and found a few moments to myself. I took off my rain slick and felt the rain on my face and the mountain air in my lungs. I let the wind speak to me, and it said nothing.
Which is exactly what I wanted to hear.
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