Friend,_I_call_him (unedited)

I started a bit of text that was supposed to be a simple writing exercise based around a dog describing the busy Hachiko Crossing in Shibuya. Unfortunately, it blew out of proportion and a short story emerged from the murk of prose. It did, however, make Hannah cry, so I must be doing something right.

Friend, I call him

I’m so hungry. I’ve become nothing but skin and bones and have developed that endless shuddering that I’ve seen the others of My kind get. It’s not a good sign – I know that much. Not long after they start shuddering, they fall into a long sleep and they never wake up again, like that thing inside them, that warm thing, has gone. Lost. Forever.

So, so, hungry. I keep looking at Them, the tall, two-legged ones out there, pouring past in front of me. I show Them my sadness, my hunger, with my eyes, but they never give me anything to eat. In fact, none of Them out there ever give me anything, except for my favourite one of Them, the brown one with the big hair and the strong smell. Friend, I call him.

Where is Friend? Actually, I haven't seen him around here for a long time. So, I will continue to look at Them – but they don’t look at me for long, certainly not the way the brown one with the hair does. He’s normally around here and we share food and then sleep. He gives me many kinds of food. Usually it’s dry and chewy, but sometimes it is different. My favourite is the soft, wet food from the little shiny packet. It makes my mouth sing, my stomach warm – even just to think about it.

He sleeps, like me, on the hard cold ground. When we lie there he rubs my head and neck and spine, and I relax and sleep like a stone. None of Them ever do that.

There They all go again, through the hard grey square. It happens all day long. They wait together for a while, as the big, hefty, dangerous things slide noisily through the big space. And then, all at the same time, out they pour into the square like a river, going to the other side with a scurry in their step. I never know how they know when to go without being hit by one of those big things. How can they be sure it’s safe? I wonder if it’s a game or something different.

At first I thought maybe they were friends, that understood each other and I could join in, but then one time, many many nights and days ago, when I was young, I tried to walk out there and nearly got hit by a big green shape that stopped just before it was about to strike me. It let out a panicked shriek before I scampered out of the way. It was deafening. I haven’t gone out there again.

Yes, it is dangerous. I – I have even seen one of the two-legged ones get hit before. It was one of the ones with the long hair, tall feet and strange eyes. She ran out at a bad time and a large square shape got angry and hit her. She flew through the air, hair flying, and landed in a heap near where I sat. I learnt the two were definitely not friends.

I ran over to her, to see if she was okay, but when I tried to lick her face one of the other tall ones got angry and kicked me with his long legs. But I had managed to check and, yes, she was okay – not good, but okay - and so I was happy.

But then, a strange smell filled the air – I’m not sure what it was, as I had never quite smelt anything like it before. It was kind of like the smell of the flowers of change that happen in the colourful time, and it was also similar to the smell of the dead pieces that fall from the sleeping trees in the cooler time. It also smelled like the water when it goes hard in the bone-chilling time too. It smelled like the oppressive heat that comes but never stays too long. It smelled like all these things and much more. It was most peculiar. I don't think they, the tall ones, noticed it like I did.

Just after the smell, her front part stopped moving in the way that we all seem to have, the tall, short, those that soar in the air among us. And then the warmth inside her started fading, same as those that shudder and then sleep, so I could tell she had gone for the long sleep and wouldn’t wake up anymore. I whimpered to let the other tall ones know, but they missed my words, as usual.

And then what happened was even stranger. Once that warmness thing had faded, a kind of brightness started coming from her, quite bright, quite blinding. So - so I got scared and ran away and hid behind a low tree. When my courage returned and I went to look at her, the light had gone and she had no warm thing left at all, just coldness – the sleep. I felt ashamed for being so cowardly, but it was terrifying and I was left whimpering all night. Friend – the brown one with the big hair – had to stroke my hair for a long time to make me relax that night.

Where is Friend?

Ow, my stomach is sore. Feeling tired too. I know these tall ones have food, but they won’t give me any. Trembling. I’ve got to go find him before I fall asleep. My fear is rising. Maybe he’s in the dark place across the square on the other corner; I haven’t been there since I was young.

I used to be in the dark place quite a lot when I was younger as there was usually food around there, if you searched for a while. But then one day, I was sniffing through a bag of smells and I heard a low rumbling behind me. At first I thought it was just one of those big square things that moved around there sometimes - like the ones in the square. But then when I turned I saw Foes. Yes, three angry four-leggers, snarling, with their teeth bared at me. They were big too – bigger than me, and they weren’t happy to see me. “You’re in our area,” was the message. But I didn’t quite understand as I had always been there. But - but I lowered my head and whimpered a “sorry.” But when I went to leave the Foes ran at me, shouting, all three of them. They threw me to the ground, standing over me whilst they bit me and tore at my fur. I thought I was done for. However, Friend, who had been sleeping nearby, awoke and got angry and started shouting at the foes. He grabbed a big stick, striking the ground to stop them. Nonetheless, they weren’t scared of him and attacked him biting his arm and trying to take out his feet. Friend was strong though, back then, and hit them and fended well, making it through the foes to me. He picked me up and I hung limply in his arms. As I felt life go out of focus, I remember Friend backing out of the alley with a fierce look in his eyes. I awoke the next day a little sore and scratched, and thanked Friend by licking his hand.

I never returned to the dark place again.

Nonetheless, I have this strange belief I must go over there, now. I must go across the square and look in that place. How do I know? How can I be so sure? The world tells me so. A voice tells me, he is there. And so, I must.

There are countless two-legged ones already waiting at the crossing. All different shapes and sizes, colours and smells. I move up slowly through the crowd and stand between two of them near the edge where the noisy machines are. I look up, but none of them see me, like normal – none of them want to. Okay, so, I wait and then when they go, I go. Yes. Yes. Wait and then I go and then they go. No. No. No. I wait. They go, and then I go. Yes.

The heavy noisy objects continue to pass by out the front of us. Big ones. Small ones. Long ones. Narrow ones. Quiet ones with one of them sitting atop. Everything else around here is noisy. So much noise. How can they even have time to hear their voices – or each others voices?  They’re walking!

They all swarm into the road like a infestation of insects to a newly dumped trash bag. Go! And out I walk with them.

They give of no mood as they all criss-cross through the square. The colour is white and senseless. I tread carefully, head down, through the mass of walkers. One of them doesn’t see me and accidentally kicks me before scowling at me. It’s a clear message from that one; he hates my existence.

Sorry, I murmur, but it has already shot off at a rate. Don’t worry. I’m almost there, to the other side.

I made it. I turn and look back and see the big noisy things have started moving through the square again, the two-legs already beginning to gather for the next one.

Now, the dark place. It’s just over there beyond the stunted trees that somehow grow on the hard ground.

As I approach, it grows quieter, more peaceful; I can here the earth and the distant song of those that fly in the air. I notice there are less of Them, the two-legged ones, around the dark place.

Are you here, Friend? I need you. I need you. My shivering spasms and my stomach pangs with pain. I look into the dark place. It stretches off, long and shadowy, with scattered dross rustling in the wind. Light breaking the shadows here and there. I see a few felines slinking around and lazing in the distance, but no signs of the Foes. The air fills with the smell of my terror. It – it’s a stench to my own nose.

Come on.

In.

But my jittering legs won’t go.

In. My legs just won’t go.

I turn, sit, shivering, with my back to the dark place and look to the sky above the noisy square in the distance. There it hangs, the erratic sky. What would it have me do, this ever-changing blue?

Go, the yon says, softly.

I – I can’t.

Just go, it adds.

And then silence.

The sky. It's so cool, blue, nearly the colour of Friend’s eyes…

And then I see everything there is to see about the day and its offerings. All becomes clear. That which is behind me is now in front. And I must face it.

Whether I shiver now from hunger or fear, I do not know, but something has changed. I turn and walk into the forbidding shadows. I’m coming Friend. I’ll be there soon.

Whilst watchfully peering round corners and peeking into nooks and crannies, I walk for a time and become accustomed to the shifting light and deathly quiet. I walk calmly past the felines lazing in the slashes of glowing sunlight across the littered path. As useful as it would be to ask them if they have seen Friend, our kind does talk to them.

And then, in the distance, I see a lifeless figure drape upon the pavement. Friend. I run down the alley, my heart racing and pull up to him, feet skidding. His eyes are closed – but he’s not sleeping.

I lick his hand but he does not rouse.

Wake up, Friend. Wake up, I call loudly. Nothing.

I lick his face this time. Nothing.

I continue licking anyway. It will wake him.

After a time I here the wind shift and as a low rumbling develops behind me, I am caught between the familiar smell of Danger and my immediate sense of fear. I smell Foes. My calling must have alerted to them.

I whirl around to meet them with my heart raging, from within me. Their pitted muzzles quiver, dripping with foam.

Look who comes whimpering back to us, one of the foes mocks.

No whimpering today, I shout. Go! Be gone!

You’re pitiful, but you’ll make a small feast, another adds. Get him!

The three of them lunge at me, but I evade them smoothly and although one nips my tail, I am out of the reach of their claws and teeth. They lunge again, and again I am nimble enough to jump out of their way. They shift and fan out their formation, ready to strike.

Wake up, Friend! I need you, I call. Nothing.

I refocus on the Foes. They have me cornered against a big blue object with a slatted object leaning against it. Nowhere to flee to this time. Wait! That object is like a bridge up onto that blue thing! My heart seizes me and I run at the blue thing, with my Foes charging behind me. As I clamber up the object one of them bites, grabbing a hold of my leg. Searing pain. Then, as we scramble, the bridge starts to slip from under me. I manage to dive as his jaws slip from around my leg and I make it to the top of the blue ledge.

I’m safe! I’m safe! I shout.

The ladder – or bridge - gives way and falls with a clatter to the ground, falling and pinning one of them underneath it. His whining agony echoes around the dark place and tells me he is lost, for something is surely broken inside him. The remaining two Foes barely even slow and start to jump and bark at me, louder than ever.

They only do this for a moment, however, as they soon spot a new prey – Friend.

No matter. Looks like we’ll just be moving on to your friend here, one of them chides. They lazily saunter over to Friend, who lies motionless on the hard ground.

Friend! I howl.

My cavernous stomach spasms pain so sharp my vision goes hazy and I drop to my belly.

Friend! I call – now a moan. He stirs, his eyes flickering ever so softly.

The Foes now circle Friend while he sleeps. Why did I come here? Why was I sent here? I try to push myself up, my legs shudder and give way.

Come on!

Friend! I call again – a little louder than a moan this time. He stirs, his eyes flickering ever so softly.

He’s awake. But not good.

The bigger of the Foes bites Friend’s arm, ripping the fabric of his clothes and shakes him, his body rocking limply.

No! No No!

And then there is strength coming from somewhere in me. Life. Beautiful strong life. I jump down on to the fallen object and the lame Foe shrieks at my weight. The two dogs drop Friends arm in an instant and round on me.

Get away from my friend! I shout with force.

Back for more, the bigger one says blandly. This time you won’t get away, little dog.

No! I roar.

And then I seize the fallen dog’s throat and rip my jaw away in one fluid movement, shaking a wet mouthful around violently in front of them. Their eyes widen and their countenance drops.

Come to me, you cowards! I bellow and then call to the sky.

They stay still – frozen.

No?

I run at the bigger one but they bolt away in the other direction into the shadows. I chase the two of them, biting at their heels as they whimper and cry.

You’re in our area, I shout to the heavens. They feel my ghost. I continue to chase them out of the dark place and into the crowds of Them, the two-legged ones. I stop skidding on my back paws, but the two Foes continue and run flat out into the busy square. But it is not the two-legged ones time out in the middle. It is the noisy beasts and the two Foes are hit and slam with a thud to the hard deck.

I don't wait to see after them. I turn and head back to Friend, my life now draining from me again. No. I scamper lazily down through the shadows, back to him, but it’s no good. Once he’s in sight I get dizzy again. I drag myself the last few pieces of distance to him and lay my head on his lap and breathe for the moment. The world is still around me and as I look up I see the sky again. Blue, mostly blue. I gather energy to lift my head and place it near Friend’s and start to lick his nose and bristly cheeks softly.

And then his eyes flicker again, fluttering and then they open and reveal his blue-white eyes. And through his hairy face his smile grows again.

He says something – I don't know what – and then scratches my head for a time while talking to me, so softly.

I start to drift off, to sleep or beyond, I know not. And then from behind him he pulls a little shiny bag and I smell it straight away – it’s my favourite food, the wet soft kind. He puts some on his fingers and I lick at it, but I’m too weak to chew much, or even swallow. Even still, the taste is warm, like eating the morning light that comes every day. I let out a breath that feels like my last.

And then I smell it, again, the waft of something near indescribable. Something akin to the flowers of change in the colourful time, and not that different to the dead pieces that fall from the sleeping trees in the cooler time. And also like the hard water in the bone-chilling time and of the oppressive heat that comes but never stays. I smell of all these things and then as I lay here with Friend, his fingers stop tickling my forehead and the smell grows strong and then all is white and I sleep like water in the winter.

Dirty_

Part 1

Breathless, I am. Breathless, She.

The lust. The rage. The want to need.

To lie. To lie. To lay. Inside.

The violin’s rage, my heart strings cry;

they rub and moan and fuck and grin.

She breathes. She cries. She peaks. She sins.

She tells me, she is on the brink.

She stammers, she lows, we quake – we sink.

The ash, it rises, from mortal rest.

The dust, it settles, upon her breast.

One last dance, I know there’ll be.

Will I sway, or will she bleed?

Part 2

If darkness swayed, would light provide,

the ballast, the song, the night’s horizon.

If stars were still within its breath,

would orbs be statued in black tide’s breach.

Envy_(For_Rhian_)

Autumn falls.

Autumn falls.

Autumn dreams.

Autumn dreams,

of green, so green

of green, so green

Autumn weeps,

Autumn weeps

brown tears, falling falling falling, freed.

Winter slides.

Winter slides.

Winter dreams.

Winter dreams,

of brown, so brown

of brown, so brown

Winter weeps,

Winter weeps,

blue tears, freezing freezing freezing, freed.

Spring soars.

Spring soars.

Spring dreams.

Spring dreams,

of blue, so blue

of blue, so blue

Spring weeps,

Spring weeps,

gold tears, blooming blooming blooming, freed.

Summer warms.

Summer warms.

Summer dreams.

Summer dreams,

of gold, so gold

of gold, so gold

Summer weeps,

Summer weeps,

green tears, rolling rolling rolling, freed.

Jesse_

“The sportive, knightly battle awakens the best human characteristics. It doesn't separate, but unites the combatants in understanding and respect. It also helps to connect the countries in the spirit of peace. That's why the Olympic flame should never die."

— Adolf Hitler

Luz said Chancellor Hitler‘ll be shakin hands with the victors this afternoon.

The victors. Gold. Silver. Bronze.

Will he want to shake my hand, if I win? I’d imagine not. Me bein me n’all.

Maybe I should ask Luz. There he is, warmin up not far from me, shaking the limbs hanging of his muscular German frame and staring off down the 100-meter length of track in front of us all. A paragon of focus as usual. He looks like a sour kind of a fellow, his brow always furrowed and pinched like he’s deep in thought, but once you get chatting to him he is as warm and friendly as the next man, on and off the field. In fact, those pointers he gave me yesterday on my long jump technique were very helpful and it was very nice of the man to help me. I had been struggling with my run-up timing and his suggestion saw me through to the next round and on to my first gold. I’d easily venture to say that had he not given me that advice he would’ve taken that gold medal, about as easy as pie from a window ledge. But he is a nice man, and truly, I am in his debt.

Ten more minutes and then we’re on. My, that crowd is loud.

And damn, my back is killin me – I don’t know if I can run this thing today. I’d better stretch it some. Nice and slow, don’t want another crick. Oh, yeah, come on, straighten those kinks, Jesse. Damn, it’s tight today. Back, then left, right, for’d, then back again. That’s it.

That Hitler is a strange kind of man. I can’t quite put my finger on why, but he has a creepy mood around him, like something is off and aint quite right with him. Mind you, everybody has that feeling around this place; there is an odd kind of something, not only around the buzzing stadium with its hoards of fans, but all around the city of Berlin; there is a certain vigor. Only, it is different to the crowds at sports events back home – these folk are more … Hmmm, I do believe the only word that comes to mind is frenzied; they look almost frenzied. But I guess it’s just national pride. The Olympics does that, I spose.

There’s my teammate, Ralph, I wonder if he’s worried about the handshake with the Chancellor? He looks relaxed, just like Luz.

Damn, I think I’m more worried about that stupid handshake than I am about the race itself. I really should focus, but my mind is racing a hundred miles an hour …

But, no, the Chancellor won’t want to shake my hand; not that this would be any different to the kind of behavior I’ve experienced back home in Bama – or Ohio, for that matter. There is always one Joe or another tryna keep a man down with ideas, or his hate. Never mind. Look to the good, my poppa used to say. And he’s right, s’all you can do really, just look to the good and stay above it.

Poppa. Damn, I wish he could see me now! He wouldn’t believe it. Although, it is kinda strange that of all the things I could’a done in my life, here I stand in front of the chancellor and those strange men, and as the focus of thousands of cheering German faces – tens of thousands, in fact. I spose I coulda worked the steel, like poppa and my older kin, but somehow I ended up here.

I remember back when I was seven with that damned bronchitis from the cotton fields. I was always sick – year in, year out. One winter, I had wasted away into nothin but skin and bones and the doc thought I was a dead man – or dead boy, I should say. Those were bleak days all right for my kin, all right. I remember Poppa prayin next to my bed for hours on end, callin out to Jesus to save me. “Dear Jesus, save my boy. Please, dear Jesus, save him.” Over and over again he prayed it. Hot damn, that all seems like a hundred years ago now. Anyway, somehow, by some kind of providence – a miracle of healing, the pastor said – I am here, fit and healthy, runnin for Olympic gold for the U.S of A in the 100 metre sprint.

Yeah, I coulda worked in that gloomy sweat hole to earn my keep, but by some peculiar twist of circumstance, here I am, in front of this crowd.

This crowd – damn, it hums endlessly.

Come on, Jesse, how you feelin – how you feelin? Stay limber. Come on. Stretch out those legs. Come on, all the way. Forward down, squat, up. That’s it. Nice and deep.

Yesterday, at a medal ceremony where a German shot-putter had won gold, the entire crowd – and it was a prodigious crowd – saluted in that German manner with their hands straight out like an arrow. They saluted Hitler and the hefty athlete over and over whilst yelling something in German. I have no idea what. It was an awesome sight, if not a little spooky. Made me think something weird really is going on in this country.

Damn, my mind is wanderin far and wide today and if I don't rein it in I won’t be shakin no hands at all. Come on, focus, boy. Coach’s voice in my head.

Keep on shaking out those legs, Jesse. That’s what coach would say. Stretch. Stretch that back. That’s it. Arms too. It’ll be time soon. Stay loose.

Damn, just how many of those strange red flags with the black and white cross-pattern in the middle are there. There are hundreds of them all over the stadium. What did Luz call it? A swastika or somethin. I don’t know, maybe it is normal. Did we have that many of Old Glory flappin in the wind back in ‘32 when we held the Olympiad in LA? I can’t quite recall. But there is something stark and menacing about those red flags that takes a man aback.

But, well, it’s not surprising, I spose; the papers back home before I left were filled with articles about this year’s games, about people wanting to boycott it because of some kind of political issues, racism and what not. I just wanted to run. I can run damn quick, so why not run – politics be damned.

Come on focus, Jesse. Forget that stuff. Loosen up. Keep ya mind on the track – all hundred metres of it – that’s where you gonna be running soon. Right down there. Legs pumping. Men in my dust.

A German reporter, called Eric – with one of those swastika-things on his arm, I might add, asked me about my technique for running and training the first day I arrived.

“Well,” I said, “I let my feet spend as little time on the ground as possible. From the air, fast down, and from the ground, fast up.”

“That’s it?” he remarked, sourly. “That’s your big secret?”

“Yep. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Less time on the floor and more travelin for’d.”

He eyed me disapprovingly and moved along without a word to speak with Luz. What did he expect me to say? That's my mindset – and it works! Certainly worked back home. The rest of the reporters seemed to enjoy it. In fact, I felt like a Hollywood star when I first arrived with all the reporters bulbs flashing like I was Cary Grant or some such.

But, it has been a strange time here in Berlin, that’s for sure and not only because of the reporters.

At the ceremony the other day thousand of doves were released as a symbol of peace. It was a magnificent spectacle and inspired me to be a better man. And then, later that evening, as I left the stadium I saw a sign written in German. Actually, I saw many of this particular sign as I walked through the Olympic village and in shops and so on. So later, I asked Luz what it said.

“Oh, there are no Jews allowed in there,” he said rather sheepishly.

“That is common here in Germany?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. But not everybody thinks that way. They took some of these signs down prior to the games to appease the international community and to avoid the proposed boycott. But, sadly, many put them back up.”

“Is that a fact, Luz.”

Again, I couldn’t help but be reminded of home, specially growing up as a boy with so many limits. You can’t go here, boy. You can’t go there, boy. You have to sit here, boy. The amount of times I asked why and got me no answer. But you can’t dwell too deeply on it. Find the good. It's all around you. Even when it gets really hard – find it and hold it close, otherwise it’s all likely to consume you.

Another reporter the other day asked me what I thought about the boycott that was proposed by so many nations.

“What’s your take on the boycott, Jesse? And how has it affected your performance thus far?” asked a man in a grey-black trilby.

“Well, sir, I initially supported the boycott,” I replied. “Yes, I did want to, because I felt we needed to protest these inequalities. But Coach Collins, whom I deeply respect, advised me to take part and run anyway. I since have also realised that it is hard to say no to the Germans when we have the same issues back home. But, beyond that, I think, as humans, we need to overcome these things no matter what the cost. I’m here to run and to win gold – racism or no. I think I’ll let my legs do the talking on the track.”

“Well said,” the reporter replied.

Later, in private, when I asked Coach Collins why we shouldn’t boycott it, he told me that this Berlin Olympics is a big spectacle for the Germans. They are using it to “show the world”, as he put it, that Germans are superior to all others. They didn’t want Jews or blacks competing but they changed their stance after talk of the boycott arose.

“Jesse,” he said, “this is your chance to show the world otherwise. Your chance to shine and show that they are not superior. Not by a long shot. You go over there and run them ragged. They’ll never catch you.” I had never heard him speak with so much passion before.

And so here I am, and damn me blue, in another few minutes I’ll be running.

All right now, breathe in, that’s it. Stay self-possessed, Jesse. Be calm. This race is yours. Come on now. Show these folk that they ain’t the finest race, as they have said – they ain’t even the finest nation. That’s right, they ain't the finest race – cause I’m gon’ run the finest race. That’s it. I am the fastest man and it is time to show their little party here a thing or two – all these folk.

Breathe it deep.

At the starting line now and, oh, the silence. This really is my favorite part of every race – no matter where in the world I am. Gon’ run the finest race, that’s right, that’s right. Gotta wait for that crack. Gon’ run the finest race. The silence. Empty that mind, Jesse, empty it.

Silence …

Ready …

Crack …

Go …

~

Well the race was a month or so ago now, but the memory is still very very sweet, even if the post-games happenings haven’t been. I walked through that 100-metre sprint and took the gold medal, with my teammate Ralph taking silver. It was great, but not only that, to walk away with not one, but four medals from those games was a godsend – as sure as it was God that cleaned up my ragged lungs when I was a boy – it was a godsend. And all my fussing about handshakes seems to have been for naught, it would seem, as Hitler, for some reason, never made it to my medal ceremony. It was said that he had urgent business to attend to at that very moment and he left the stadium. I did laugh as the crowd did their silly salute to the German that didn’t occupy the top podium and the absent Chancellor that didn’t want to shake my hand. It’s a funny world.

But in God’s honest truth, my fondest memory from the Olympics is not winning four gold medals. No, not at all – not by a long shot. My fondest memory is my time with Luz. That man, despite the pressure of thousands of German spectators – not to mention Hitler and the other officials – never failed to rise with a true sense of unity during those games.  He even me hugged in congratulations a few times after events, and now in hindsight, I do remember the crowd growing strangely quiet, for just a moment.

And so, I’m back in good ole America now. Yesterday, we had a tickertape parade and a celebratory dinner for the athletes at a hotel, which I was looking forward to it. But, then while the other white athletes took the main elevator, and I took the service elevator in the back of the hotel, I must say, standing there in that tatty elevator with Ralph and the few others, my ire certainly did raise some. Even though I was used to it, I looked back on those Olympic games and wondered if I had accomplished anything of merit at all. I wondered if I actually changed anything. 
I laughed again yesterday after talking to some of the white athletes, as I now know for a fact that President FDR has met and shaken hands with many of the athletes that did well in the games. Had them over to the Whitehouse for dinner and everything. So far, I haven’t even had a telegram of congratulations from that man, let alone a handshake from him.

So, yes, now I do feel deflated. But well, it truly makes me wonder if America and Germany are all that different at the end of the day. And I do wonder what the futures of both of these mighty nations hold.

~ 

“People whose antecedents come from the jungle are primitive … their physiques are stronger than those of civilized whites and hence should be excluded from future games.”

— Adolf Hitler, on the Olympic participation of African Americans subsequent to the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

(Quoted from Albert Speer’s book, Inside the Third Reich, Macmillan Publishing, 1970)

Note: This short story is based around the experiences of Jesse Owens at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Please note that many of the events mentioned did actually happen, however, it is not historically accurate and should not be taken as a full historical narrative of the events. If you want to know the true story I suggest you research this phenomenal sportsman, his impact on the world’s biggest sporting event, and his touching relationship with the German athlete, Luz Luhmann.

Hachiko_writing_exercise_#1_

So, here is Hachiko writing exercise #1 (unedited).

The challenge: Describe Shibuya's Hachiko Crossing. Plus, personify one thing from the hectic intersection.

~

Hachiko Crossing, Shibuya, what could be called the throbbing centre of the sprawling city of Tokyo, is its typical mass of people at 12am on a Friday night. But it isn’t the significance of it being a Friday night that makes it busy – it’s simply always that way, regardless of the time or day.

Every few minutes the mammoth crossing’s lights blaze green, and literally thousands at a time swarm across, zigging and zagging out of each other’s way without fuss or conflict. From on high they would look like ants, of course, as do most areas of Tokyo at any given moment. 

After the kind little green man’s 30 or so seconds of midori, he turns irate, and starts flashing his warning, "kuruma kuru kara hayaku shina," – or "hurry up, cars are coming soon," if the little red-green silhouette with the trilby speaks English – which he probably does. But I’ve never asked him.

And a few stragglers are always to be seen trotting into the near-empty square moments before the man turns red. But in response, the taxi drivers are never too volatile, simply a few honks of the horn from them every now and then. But most drivers are more than happy to wait for their fellow Tokyoites to gallop across the road and gain that few extra minutes on the way to work.

From on high, a colourful 360-degree pantomime of videos, adverts, and music, surveys the mess below. It depicts a world it only tangentially embodies, and that world showers the people in and upon bicycles, cars, trucks and buses that traverse the roads subordinate. The din of pop gods and goddesses rains endlessly upon all those that zig, zag and negotiate through there, whether it be day or night. Yes, it is all seen, but not all of it is noticed.

Leading off from the colour and frenzied scramble of Hachiko, you’ll find a street snaking its way westward, away from the station. If one were so inclined you could follow this road and connect to Kyoto by way of an endless stream of cityscape and townships.

Tomorrow: Hachiko writing exercise #2 - Describe Hachiko crossing from a dog's perspective.