The Whale

Scott Hallal-Negishi

Copyright © 2015 Scott Hallal-Negishi

All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: ISBN-13:

4

THE WHALE

Chapter 1

My heart lay slattered, Treasured by those who yearn for morning and mourning, Frost and soaring, Lost adoring. Those who whisper, Like the forever wish. Missing. The groan that grows beneath me. Never a chance. Never a chance. Never a chance. The sea beneath me. Like a story. Like words. Like sounds. The whale. Like many years ago. The man in his boat. The whale passing by. A girl.

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She hears prayers, Drifting with the waves. And down into the sea, She plunges, Fast and deep, The living sea. Racing. Racing. Silent for so long. No words. No prayers. Nothing between man and whale, Nothing between man and sea, Man and shark, Man and fish, Man and me. Nothing for man. Nothing for me. Together we used to be, Fighting for the way to be. Fighting together just to see. Just to see. Man and me. Man and whale. Man and shark. Man and fish. Man and sea. Prayers in the waves, Prayers between man and sea. But then silence. Silence for so long. What was out there, Forcing men to cease to be? What ghost this be?

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What mutes this voice that speaks to me? And five hundred years, And five hundred years, And five hundred years. All but silent now. Not even whale to whale. Not even man to man. I drift past the islands of Hawaii, The islands of Korea, The islands of Japan, Past Australia, New Zealand, Samoa. I drift to see, What plague has man, That forces him to cease to be, That mutes the voice that speaks to me. I felt the darkness start in Hawaii, In the peninsula of Oahu, Right near the icy waters of the Kaena Point. I saw it spread. The greed that followed. I heard the promises. They came from below. The fires that spread, Sparked from the flame that jumped from the sea, Then started talking. First the flames that danced on the beaches went out. Then the children were gone. Then the arrows, Then the swords, Then the bullets, And the tanks, And the planes, And the bombs.

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Now the minds of man. Gone. Fed to the ghost to keep it talking. Sometimes I see the eyes of man on his boat, Looking oft into the world of the ghost. No longer wondering. Just back. Not even the moose of Alaska know. Just drifting. Drifting. I miss my friends.

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The first of the cries could start to be heard off the shores of Korea. Whole families opening their throats as if they once again were opening their ears to the voices and cries. Once long ago like perfect harmonious. Entire cities claiming some masterful. As if growing children. Not like the useless, but the grown of children lost, like finding again. Choosing not to listen to the voice like fire. Not peer into the place so unknown that gives you everything, but taken away. Away and away under some notion that it must be done. Like the enemy. The mad. The crazy. The weak. The poor. The worthless. The past. What, the samurai in the fables. Like bullets so silver they pierce through wood. With the deception that only love and truth can afford. Whole cities trying to remain positive and feel unsputtered entanglement that time has revealed, but never can trust. With all the knowledge, this cancer that doesn’t make its way under the sea. Sharks know all too well the speed and rapidity that must be carried out to avoid such brute golly wagging and rum dum candy waggle. To come together and attempt this speech like crying. Crying crying. They walk along the beach trying trying. Working together with the compromise in mind. Refusing to stare out into the ghost. Agreement to love and trust without ever beseeching. Those grown children. Laughing and playing. Born into the working fields. Plowed by some familiar faces. But still not completely together. Still not speaking to me. Nor to the sea. To the shark. To the fish. To the way we used to be. Yet the admiration I pay to them. Drifting in and out of the bay paying some respects to their attempt. I sat in that bay for more than 10 years watching their children grow. The compromise seemed to fade. The way of life taking hold. Regaining love and trust and smarts. Breathing the air and staring up at the sky. The whole of clouds melting and transforming into one shape or another. The sun gleaming in and out and around. The deepening of say. This word having substantial meaning. Enough to earn a right of passage into the next man’s world. The passing of hands from a father to a son. Their working ways making a big difference. A wooing cattle or a marble tie. A long awaited dream.

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The passing of spring brought about all kinds of changes in the people. Young and old, their spirits were high. Summer rains made happy faces as children played in the mud. School grounds had funny pink flowers over the windows and playgrounds were full of joy. The rise and rise could only go so far. In an empty drain and a sought out club, the splintering feeling like something awful was about to happen. Yet people don’t dare. The mothering of man to whale has nothing but blank stare, blank all over, not even recollection. Memory fades as such, and people never imagine the ways of a great bond in the sea and land, between voices and squeals, as if one needs the other. Yet playing together, children and old, dancing without premonition of the coming of it all. Sparkling eyes. It was a once in a lifetime thing. This group of young children, quite different from the rest. The growing of trees and birds all around them, pacing up and down the streets, like blooming brooding stones. I watched those children for so long, wondering what could become. Not a notion, but a groan. Questions. Belief. Harboring myself in this small town. Nothing quite like it. Nowhere else to be found. The sea longing for more. Awaiting people’s call. But nothing. The growing children. The people. All secure. Determined. Gracious and plum. But mark my word, such an answer would come. A fancy idea. This group of children, probably four or five at the time I starting noticing the change of heart in the air. Puffing up for air and sensing the unique enchantment falling over this crowd. Lighthearted nothing. Not a feeling or a care. The important unanswered premonition, waltzing through the unhampered lines of sequential matter, mattering not, but rather on a stroll. Seeming but unrevealing. Only this bunch. Only these children fare. And through the air. I stand watching over these children and families with unacquainted wonder. Their starry eyes attaining for growth. The limbs of a daughter. The rise of a son. A few families would get together on regular basis on the beach. Spending time in the sand and feet in the water. Loving the ocean moving in and out and over the feet and legs of the spinning, warbling mom, carefully and assuredly. Sand traps, just like wonder. Remarkable.

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These families became close to the beach and to the sea. And almost so close to wondering what lies beneath. Never seeing but believing how close we are to one another. Only footsteps away, and I would creep under the water’s waves, trying to see them up close. See their unattaining eyes. And for the first time see their fear. Sensing that I had come too close, I relinquished back into the sea. That daunting sight still haunts me to this day. As if crying through vision itself. How could the eyes see? How could the eyes see past the blurry truth that scars? Truth blinds I guess. The adults hiding some unknown force of nature from the children. The movements of the legs and the arms the voices in disguise hide the formable truth. The children not knowing what even it could have looked like. Walking under the false pretenses that must rely on the adult nature to guide. Must rely on the advancement of truth to decide. And the playing seems too real. The laughing almost real. The feeling almost real. To sense what’s forcing them to shy away from the divine and stay centralized on remaining strong. The light of day gone. No mention of the future. No mention of today. The adults hiding. Hiding from themselves. Hiding from the outside. Hiding from me. And no mention of me. No mention of anything beyond the reliance that needs to be. To know how those children felt, I do not. I cannot fathom what they see or what they need to be. And sorrow fills their hearts. Sorrow from a fear they do not understand that looms in the eyes and hearts of their parents. The sand in the hands. The sand between their toes. The sand in their sand pales. Never breaking, not even for love. But how I adore them. I cannot keep my thoughts from drifting to them, just as the water drifts to the shore. It keeps me here in the bay. Knowing the efforts being made to protect them. I would like to follow them through their lives. And so I did. So I did. From the age of five to the age 15 at the hour of their death. The icy water consuming their vessel. The calls from a far. The cries and the yells. The beginning of a new age that brought us all together once again. But the age of five looked so fun. I could see them leaving the beach at the

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sun’s drop and still see them getting in their car and still see them driving to their home. I could still see them getting into their beds, getting up for breakfast, going to school. Playing in the school yard. Playing in their homes. Playing in the grass. Playing in the fields. Telling stories in their beds. Telling stories in their schools. Telling stories in their homes. As if sheltering the true light of day but bringing the joy of light into their each and every day. This one family in particular carrying on in such a fashion as to catch the discerning eye of a whale. A certain aptitude in the way they smile. The mood they carry. Joyous harmonious laughter filling their home, filling the sky, catching the attention of their neighbors. The boy’s fancy room. Filled with toys and trains and planes. Those little things only the age of five can know. Like jumping on the bed. Like strolling down the hall. Like waking up to a mother’s call. To fun filled day. To the school. To the play yard. To home. To mother. To father. To sister. To room. The girl’s most atrocious grin. Still three and yet so old. Knowing full well the implications of the day. Of brother. Of mother. Of father. Of the most intriguing. And most deceiving. The most of it all. Like play itself with the fantasy. Without the words. Without the wisdom. Without the voice. Like playing as if playing were playing. The melding tie between them. The glue grown gold generating laughter and smiles and joy and love. Their life set out before them. From dawn till dusk. From morning words. To evening dress. To the sheets tucked beneath them. Continuous apologetic sensing not what words can possibly describe. The morning ritual carrying out into the school room. The family’s obligation. An issue that not carry the importance of movement outside, but rather that of continuous and diligent movement inward. We as a people, inwardly, only. We make tea in the morning. Send out children off to school. We learn our rituals. We earn a way of life. But happiness somewhere out there. The young boy’s day beginning to take root from the toy on his lap. The budding relationships between him and his classmates. That bond that makes inwardly possession so familiar. A rough sketch of the way life used to be. The relationships between boy and girl redeeming and restoring good

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nature between human beings. Their wonder as if real in the particularities of hair or finger nails or little voices. This young boy sat down for the first time next to the girl who would become the infatuation of his life. Just like it really was. Inward inhibition, plain to see. Yet captured by the girl who sought great wisdom from the boy that never ever knew the rights to men and to truly capture her dream. At the age five, the untangling and tangling of hair in a worriless bliss that formulates answers to unanswerable questions. Truly seeing to believing. True love without the confines of unbridgeable differences nor of that like the voyage and conquests lay slain to the throne. Pillars and pillars between them. Hills and mountains divide them. Rivers and streams cut through them. And at this beginning, they recognize the value and importance of friends. Growing bonds through the inherent guidance of the teacher. The cool flowing words of the morning stories and children’s rhymes. Fables of the moon and tower and little green men. Framework after framework. Generation after generation. Titles of old and titles of new. Those few memories we hold onto in that age of unacquainted bliss. Unanswered wonder. Boys and girls. Just simply stated. The newness of school provides a growing ease for families alike. The princes and princess safe and sound during the midday rush and afternoon pull. Roadside assistance made possible while sons and daughters sit in their chairs with grins and giggles and bonds that will last a lifetime. This new life of school and work for my family dear, I know holds so close to their hearts. Going home after a long and draining day at the office to come home to that wonder creeping from the school day. A bewilderment of everlasting unknowns and new knowns that will carry on for the rest of their lives. My family dear sitting quietly at the dining table with a new found glory upon their hearts and minds and bodies. Temperate gone. Uneventful comings of bliss. Wordless meanings. Words without meaning. In times like this I long to be human, and to sit amongst their families while eating rice and bread and wine and whatever.

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Its those first moments, you see, that last a lifetime. Running down the hall. Catching a splinter of dust before its falls. Toy chests and green bins of joyous occasions that fill the room with excitement. And as the evening winds down, the hour falling near when it is finally time to go bed, mother finally giving a great big sigh. The pajamas and the kisses and the bed sheets and the stories. Cradled up against daddy’s arms, lying in bed, the boy and his sister fall fast asleep.

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Chapter 2 There is no premonition in these times. The water is cold, that is true, but that is of no concern to me. The wind carries the black sand through the water and I can’t seem to find judgment. Wave after wave and still nothing. No calling. No talking. No breathing possible through the darkened water. Knowledge used to drift with the ocean’s current. A storm is approaching. There’s a school of fish in the warm waters of the Pacific. A whale has died. Now I feel the current and nothing. I spend much of my time in the outer water of the bay catching fish and eating krill along side the other marine life. That is what it is called these days: marine life. We hunt for food, protect ourselves from predator, and do our best to coexist in a deteriorating environment. It suits us well actually because of our lack of communication. Many of us simply drift through life succumbing to the natural course of action as termed fate. I sometimes catch a dolphin or shark or even a whale break the bonds that have attached us to this cold, meaningless life and pass through the human’s undiscerning eye. The response is miraculous and exciting. Some even give their life for that one fleeting moment of freedom. Take whale for example, who got caught in a fisherman’s net. He twisted and squealed until man came out on his boat. The test of good in man sent whale into a whistle of excitement and twisted himself even more. Man made all his attempts at freeing whale, but to no avail. Whale was happy to die knowing man and whale had some sort of bond based on the mutual respect of good. Shark is a whole other story. Shark makes fleeting passes through the human’s understanding of perception all the time. Swimming close to the beach, showboating his fin, sending the humans running. Feed me feed me it says. Humans love when their darkened needs get lifted by the sea. We love it too. We love it too. As a whale, days and nights pass in different ways than for humans. The

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beautiful, majestic water creates a soothing rhythm that moves and sways the temperament of the day. Like music in perfect time and perfect pitch, the movement of marine life fleets left and then right, finally down, catching a fish in the single swift movement of chance. The yellow and blue twilight, glistening, shimmering dancing. Beautifully orchestrated sway of the deep water algae. Floating islands made of the most tasty greens a whale could ask for. With the fall of the sun and rise of the moon, the dark water as that which appears during the day becomes a magical, luminescent foray of life. The brilliance magnifies one thousand times, then one thousand times over again, building and building in the monotonous spatiality that can not exist in no other place than the sea. Water’s timid, yet fanciful, caring ways make their way in the night. The quietude of the outside transforms the erraticism of human integration into a no man’s land that replicates the one consistent frame time tracing all the way back to the dinosaurs. For moments on end, the whisping, whipping, whisking, whishing, whizzing, whelping pureness of reality becomes true. The starlight in its own pure infatuation with existence shines down into the sea and lights up, not only the vibrant freedom as seen through the eye, but the oneness of truly being yourself, till the heightened, exponential, magnificence that only life’s bitter end can afford, having been eaten or eaten, or triumphed above all other needs and wants and desires, all because it is right here in front of us. With each passing night, our fondness of the sea grows, attaching us more and more to the inevitable consequences of life. Time does pass however and I knew my having chosen to stay in the bay would impact my health. As months passed and the currents swept the fish out to sea, I was left without anything to eat but the vegetation hidden in the rocks. By moving the rocks with my nose, I was able to free a ton of the stuff into the open water. It did not satisfy my hunger, but it kept me alive and kept me strong. For many months I had seen no fish and the family never came to the beach. It was cold for them, I could tell. Winter months find humans powerless. Cooped up in their homes, unable to roam freely on land or in the sea.

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My family was spending long hours in their home. The boy’s limbs growing. The girl’s laughter building. The man’s belly bulging. The mother’s patience thinning. It was a winter of discovery for the boy. The father and mother’s own discovery beckoning too as the boy’s excitement from experiencing new things overloads their tolerance for cuteness. For the first time, the boy was given his own room. This was a nerve racking experience for mom and dad, but for the boy, his imagination began settling into the idea of a world where fantasy took place. A room just for the boy. And of course his toys. A boy and his toys are inseparable. They teach and guide one another through continuous newness in design, game, capability, and enchantment. A boy’s toys become intertwined with his mind in an ever-flowing, cascading of imagination. A new day, a new hour, each and every time the mother or father would walk into the boy’s room to check on him, the room metamorphosed, as if completely transparent of the boy’s thoughts. The willingness to share and complete openness that the young exhibit is something almost sacred. To trust without thinking to trust creates a unique and most empowering form of love. It is this sacredness that draws me to these people in the islands of Korea. My starvation serves them. It serves the need to know more. To become as close as possible to knowing what that sacredness feels like. To almost hold a trusting bond that envelopes all reason, all doubt, and blankets all existence in a most warm and caring shadow of time. Not even time. I watch this family lose itself to this transparency. A secret into the hearts of man. And I want to know more. I want. I want. I want. I want to know more. The possibilities, the boy thinks. Knowing just what to do. A piece here. A train there. The tracks going this way. Now that way. The bells and whistles blow. A train is on its way. Gates down. The boy is lost to the world around him. At 5, the boy has been taught the lessons of life that will guide him until the end of his days. Mom and dad no longer have control.

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Just hold on, they say, reassuring themselves of the place that the boy holds in society and their hearts. To touch and to see the boy’s activity of rearrangement in his room is to gain a glimpse of the closeness they once shared. But to know that it is wrong also looms in their minds. The independence that must be established in order for the boy to grow and develop. I have never had children of my own, so I wouldn’t know what it’s like. I watch the boy playing in his room and wonder how it would be for children of my own to be swimming in the deep, warm water beside me. I could give them their own little room between the crevices, and we could have a home of our own. Their thoughts sacred. We could trust own another. They could play with the fish and have toys and be happy. I could watch them grow. I could teach them to feed. I could show them everything I know. Just like the family. Perhaps I will have children some day. I will liken them after the family. Just the same and there will be two human voices in the water. A family in the sea. But ten years from now, I am no different than today. I have watched this boy live, and grow, and die. And nothing. I do not feel the need to spawn. I do not feel the need to love. I loved this family. I loved this boy. And now I love no more. The sea, on the other hand lives, as you will see. This family’s sacrifice and the sacrifice of all the families like them made this possible. The voices return to the sea. The sea’s life once again returning, as if a breathe of fresh air had been dislodged and unbroken. A fluidity so pure and so wild with life that it cannot ever be stopped again. Humans and whale and fish and shark in a world where one is not the other. Our voices. Our seasons. Our calls. Our worries. Our troubles. Our joys. Our life. All now one. Our dreams. The boy’s and mine. When in the night and sitting softly still in the twilight water, feeling the movement that sways and rocks to sleep. Allowing my thoughts to slip away from me, upward towards the moon and stars. Searching for the connection to the home where the family sleeps. Searching for the boy’s thoughts in the nightscape. Searching for the watchful eye that protects and stands guard over the children’s dreams.

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The senses play a significant role in the dream world. They must guide the mind, taking precedence in the chain of command. There’s no way to really control the dream state, but knowing about the role of the senses does create opportunities to peer in and create connections between the real world and the dream world. I have from an early age been taught the dream world through the way of the whale, which is to fully understand the significance of the senses and the distinction between the two worlds. That they can never meet. I try every night to search for the family’s home and connect with the boy’s dreams to more fully understand the sacredness of truth and love and magic. Every night I get a little bit closer and a little bit better at seeking out the boy’s dream state. On this particular evening, I struck a chord with the boy that my mind was able to comprehend in lieu of the indecipherability of sight, taste, and sound. The boy was in a school with other boys and girls when all of a sudden a whale passes into view. This whale must be me. How a whale swims outside of water, I do not know, but there I am playing right along side the children. Those children nevermind my existence of a whale and simply carry on despite my presence. This gave me a chance to discuss matters with the young minds on life, and love, and family. I must have had an influence on them because for some reason we were now in the ocean, in my own environment, which must be perplexing, but I cannot say that anything really bothered any of them. I tend to stay away from sharks, so they are safe to roam about without fear of being eaten. The children must have been good swimmers because they understood the rules of the water by that I mean they were not talking with their mouths and instead communicated by other means such as spinning, smiling, and flying. Oddly, they resembled the sting ray the most and soon a school of them came whistling by. I thought to swim and scare them off lest the children look one in the eye and become frightened. In doing so, one child caught my eye and just as that moment passed, all the

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other children were staring blankly in my direction. The comprehension of reality seemed to converge on the sensory vision, and I made the quick determination to cast my shadow of presence on their senses to fully ease the situation and put their minds to rest. The children were back to their ways, and I was made to swim around them in circles. Despite my accomplishment in easing their fears, the children made their way back to the school and I choose not to follow. My mind returned to me in the ocean then, and I woke up in the cold, dark, quiet waters, hovering above at the surface, using my ears to hear the activity of the land. This form of lucid dream gave me insight into the possibilities of communicating with the boy and so I made the decision to pursue this activity more and more. Rather than swim and watch the family from the shore, I would cast my mind and senses towards the boy and his family to see what connections could be made. I had heard of the old ways of meditation from my mother. Connecting to the moon and stars and sky. Seeking a union with my ancestors. Reaching out to them as if just to say hi. That place where sound and sky meet. Where my call is heard and moves my mind away from my body making one with the all seeing eye.

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Chapter 3

Just before dawn, the quiet night can be felt. A breath or an angel can be heard. A man’s coffee is brewing as he prepares for work. The beds are full of children and mothers. The break of dawn just over the clouds. Away the father goes. Out the door, into his car, and down the road. A future is being born. An alarm for the morning. A breakfast. And school. The three of them hold hands as they walk down the road on their way to school. Morning bells chiming. A mist somehow residing. Anticipation clinging tightly to a lunch box and always smiling. Never has a child’s dreams been so possible. A mother and daughter kiss this little boy goodbye, sending him off to learn arithmetic and writing. Not just a future being born, but a moment caught with laughter and joy and friendships made possible only by those numbers and letters that bind these young minds together. The boy sits down at his desk awaiting role call, motioning to his peers who motion back, mimicking the sea beside them in the repetition and casting life out of the repetition. Familiarizing himself with the faces he would come to know more than anyone can possibly know. Even more than his family. Even more than his dog. That someday these faces would take on feelings like love and valor. That someday yet still here and now. The teacher begins one name at a time. Each name being pronounced clearly, and not just clearly in intonation, but clearly as in a message being clear that only the word special can describe. A name and its message. The whose it and whats it. The smell, the sound, the look, the feel that each name affords to the character and identity that presents itself in response. Present. Present! Present? Present.

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The rhythm of the day begins to take shape. And so begins the journey from numbers into fractions into geometry and trigonometry with words like obtuse and concave that would eventually become the new rhythm of the day. But for now just those names and faces. We laugh looking back on our own school days, wondering how those images came to be such as nerd or jock or outcast or popular or pretty. Is it from a TV show or does TV copy the likes of me? It begins so early that’s why. The first grade. The second grade. Do we ever really change? At the end of the day the hearts melt of all students. Some get picked up by parents. Some wait for the bus. Still others walk home alone. Though all their hearts are flaccid. For your information, the act of a hundred school children’s hearts deflating does not make a sound. It is not a phenomenon that has been evidenced in the scientific manner. Yet there is a clear and relatable understanding that overwhelmingly resound throughout a city upon the ringing of a school bell at the end of a day. A distinct feeling can be followed and traced back to a schoolhouse increasing in resonates the closer you get no matter where you are in the world. This relatable understanding carries to the home of every student constructing the very foundation of the latter part of the afternoon and evening as such. Because it was a ritual, the mother and daughter picked up the boy at the bottom of the stairs just outside the schoolyard, and they all walked home together. And the ritual continued once at the house and on up the stairs to his room, where the boy would play and wait for his father to return home while is mother cooked their meal. It is in this room where the boy would grow and distinguish himself from his peers. In fact, they were all in their rooms blooming and blossoming through the toys presented to them. Playing. Attracting. Attracted. Lifting. Pushing. Tooting. Cuddling. Cooing. Bowling. Rolling. Molding. Cradling. Something for everyone. Each and every one of them. This particular boy started noticing the color and manner in which a ball

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rolled and bounced across the floor. The sudden shift from left to right as it maintained its speed and agility no matter what it bounced into somehow made sense in the fashionable liking that attracts boys like him. The ball rolls and knows and holds and goes. It sinks it sputters and wanes and shames. Red and green are particularly resounding. Red balls and green blankets. Marbles and rocks. Peddles and phones. Riddles and socks. Sisters and locks. The history and stoic legends all began in this same way. A little momentum into one direction, necessitating the importance of individuality that grows into togetherness. Across the city landscape rooms are lit up. A grand and eloquent warmth illuminates and or permeates through the windows as if candles were burning rather than phosphorescent lights. As we enter through a door the room opens up like a Walk Disney dream of Epcot proportion, and we carry on up the stairs through the hallway and into the child’s eyes. Forgetting about puppet strings of John Malkovich, we draw out, passing through the window on over to the next house where a young boy is playing wild soldiers and trucks. Another house where the roo is filled with dolls and it is quite hard discern the young girl out of the heap of figures and clothes. And fragrances change from one room to the next, one house to the next, one piece of mind to the next. The freckled light spans across moonlit air as this perspective wisps across the town towards the sea. The whale can be seen in the distance hovering above the water, and as we get closer it pushes up out of the water and dives back in as we swoop down across its back, its tail pushing up into the air and back down into the water, back inside the whale, back inside me.

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Chapter 4

Word of the murky waters around the lower tip of the peninsula came in the spring of that second year I was in the bay. Now, humans don’t know much about the logic of animals above or below the water, but there was a clear consensus drawn by those traveling over the winter months of an increasing darkness looming around the shores surrounding the peninsula, and that this darkness could be found in more abundance where there were ships motoring across the water. These giant ships have been seen for many years by the whales and fish and sharks, but never before have they cast a shadow into the sea in their wake. Such darkness can only originate from one thing… carelessness. Humans have always had a respect for the sea despite their more than obvious abandonment on land, and up until now man-made vessels have been tight and secure, their intentions clearly in alignment with the sea. Recently though there have been