View Full Version : Times Matter

March 1st, 2012, 05:45 PM
Hi everyone! It's been a while, so I would like to be back with this excerpt/another point of view of a story/novel.
Any criticisms (as to my grammar in particular) are more then welcome:redface2:
Many thanks,

Times' Matter

The previous day, Em's father Michael had returned from Iaoan, for good. He carried another key within himself, he said.

Having finished his studies at Law School, Mike, the dad, had decided to live the zen buddhism life, for as long the monks, and himself would let him stay in their monastery. There he learned how to cope with the promptness of the Western culture, something that he had needed to know after he would receive his diploma, the key.

Em's grandad had been a farmer who never had a fear of his culture of work, a fear of being transcendentally dedicated to something. Although undereducated, or precisely because of that. His son, Em's dad, still remembered his father's everyday's fresh drops of sweat falling at that mom's freshly baked bread there on the kitchen table. The bread was always a bit sprinkled by sweat. ''It's the way I eat my bread.'', his father, an unorthodox worshipper, used to say come evenings. Mom always nodded to that, holding the Holy Book, reading it.

So day after day, the bread loaves received their liquid. Michael had seen the bread dough rise. He knew that water was needed to make a dough. He dreamed of dough one night. Water and sweat, the liquids of the bread.

As he grew up, and enrolled in college, it became clear to Michael that there really had to be something more to the world than the farms' plains' water. More than sweat and rain. He began reading about the zen. On his own he discovered that, strangely enough the sweat and the rain should have many things in common. By the time he got his diploma, he had already had his one way ticket to the Eastern world. ''It's all the same…everywhere!'', strongly whispered dad into Michael's ear, before the boarding the plain, as he hugged him goodbye, his way, inexperiencedly ruggedly. He was leaving his son to the Eastern world. A decade before he told his son: ''One of them saved my life, you know...during the war…'',dad said and saw sparkles in his Em's eyes. The eyes got fixated at the barn's dusty floor, then shut, after dad had added: ''…unwillingly. A matter of...'', Em was all ears, ''…chance was it.''

After Michael's, dad's, landing to Iaoan, the East opened its gates to him. He was able to chose the part of the country he wanted to visit, and selected a secluded monastery in the heart of that country. There he began studying Iaoanese. There he began studying Buddha's teachings. There was a lot of water in and around the monastery he had settled in. The sweat would find its way out Michael's pores as he worked out alongside with the monks. He was able to see himself in their eyes. The monks had accepted him for what he was: a dough rising.

''Sweat…Sweat…Mighty...Water...'', that was one of Michael's mantras. For the most of the time, it was only about saying mantras, mantras only, and crucifying back home hardened à la-s.

The period of those several years spent in the Buddhist monastery gave Michael the certainty of being beyond the colloquialisms of his home country, or home countries, as he saw it. ''I am returning back...home?'', asked he himself the day he was looking at a bird which sang freely, clutched firmly at its branch. Had he decided? Yes, he had. The next month he payed visit to the old, sweaty, sanctified in its own way farm. His child and teen years still lingered as dad and mom showed up with open arms. About themselves, they felt as no good ghosts. Michael felt just the contrary to that about them. Yes, nothing was hard enough.

And afterwards, on the farm, nothing was hard enough. Not becoming a real lawyer withstanding. The ploughing, the seeding, his first born son Emerson... all had been expected with a mighty peace. Michael kissed his loved one, whom he'd met at dance, and the very next month they were having their wedding. All wasn't hard enough. All was hard in an easy way. The way Michael had purposely learned to like, back there.

His son Emerson was growing up in an environment of strange ways. He didn't aprove the way of life that was being led on the farm, he didn't like the spontaneous boundaries that should advice him from within himself. And he didn't like the Eastern, the Saian people. Each time that he would see or hear, turn on the TV or the radio, and look at the gooks, or see them speaking English... it never seemed to stop adding to his finally deciding to become a real lawyer, just like his dad hadn't attempted to, and whom he never understood. For he never understood his grandad's and his dad's loose discussions on his dad's intermediate life back in the Saian Iaoan.

Emerson finished law school in two years. Then, in a twist of events became a hardened partner in a major law firm. He was explosive, touchy, brilliant. Positive enough for his firm to fight the positive State's immigration policies. It wasn't no to the the Saians that time, but no to the Jockiwans. They too were fine as far as Em was concerned.

A political gathering was taking place one rainy evening. The air was noisy, stail, foreseeing a fruitless end of it for some.

''Positive, you say, ladies and gentlemen. But we at our firm say positive is negative here and in all the cases similar! And we are being backed up not only, not only! by our World War veterans, who are with us as we speak standing tall although their life has been overproductive in many ways! We are being backed up by those...by those whom you wanted so much not to stand tall – the Yestrean veterans!'', Emerson was trying to remain calm in front of the people around him and the cameras being placed everywhere. ''What –Jockiwans in our country, in the VT of Erituca? We don't need them, they need God, let them talk to God...we talk to Him as well!'', it was enough, he was in his late twenties, and he joined the xenophobics' organization the day after.

Afterwards, everything wasn't easy enough. Promoting the organization's cause, showing at meetings as well at gatherings, fundraising, etc. such as actively i.e. latently supporting the militias in the ''areas struck''. The militias were human dumbies, the guards of the Jockiwan border enjoying their movie look-alike roles.

What the Jockiwans were doing to prevent the radicalism of the VTs, was to create their own organization, enhance the establishment of their pendants to the VT militias. The skies were dry those days, reflecting, as it were on the ground of the 'areas struck'. Em was all excitement: ''I seem to resemble you, father...after all...the gooks' sabres are all what our little wars here need...'', thought he as the weaponry had finally been decided upon by the two enemies, at a conference, accross some of the ever-changing border lines.

The Jockiwans had their own leader, sure thing. His name was Johck. Better known as ''Owen'' among the Eritucans. ''This is a long war of Iaonese sabres that we are to fight. No skirmishes are needed.'', decided he one night, surrounded by his wives of the 'blond nation', the region of their being momentarily under his control.

And year after year, and day after day, and no one was winning in that finders-keepers game. The areas had been gained only to be lost. There were training centres dedicated to the militias' priceless costs of lives. Both parties had hard times locating the centres of the enemious; the both led the same kind of life, they ate the same, they slept the same.

(To Be Continued...Maybe:-k:))

March 22nd, 2012, 03:39 PM