|Box||bubinga, ebony, boxwood||13"x6"x3-1/2" (approx.)||sold|
Echoes of Aja
It's about the monk.
Remember when you wrote me your "weird self introduction" and mentioned the story of Masamune and Muramasa? I've been thinking and talking about it ever since. Something about it sounds good to me, but I was never sure what.
As a craftsman, I thought it had to do with the swords and the sorcery that created them. I wondered, if it were possible, what steps would one take to imbue an object with magical qualities? Real magical qualities. It would have to be in the details, the rub of a thumb, skin subtle, something just slightly below or outside the viewer's normal perception, so as to "sneak into" their experience without them being consciously aware of it, to make a presence felt but not known, to tweak a thought, to appeal to them without appealing, exactly. Myself, I've always been fascinated with these kinds of effects, but, although there are those that think I'm okay at it (or so they say), I'm really not. My hands are blunt and blundering, like my attempt, in this box, to sway the viewer's perception of its "stance" by splaying the legs just a little, tiny bit - 1½°. Can you see it?
Still too much.
Of course, the magic in the story led me down that path. The other accounts. How many people were there, for God's sake? A multitude of witnesses, each with their own interpretation? Some swearing they saw...
You know, I'm sure, that one of the ways to judge if a chisel is sharp is just to look at its edge. If you can see the edge, the chisel's not sharp. Which means if you can't see it, it is sharp. Interesting, don't you think? The absence of evidence - you can't see it - provides the evidence - it is sharp.
Let's think about the circumstance:
Of all the ways to test for sharpness, why drop your sword in a brook? Which of them suggested this test? Why? Was it, possibly, the monk? Did he know what would happen?
So there they are, at the stream's edge, master and student. Was it a beautiful day? It should be. Let's let it be a glorious day, springtime, sun streaming through the trees, a serenity of bird songs and flower fragrances. The brook gently gurgles. Muramasa lowers his sword - I've heard it called "10,000 Winters", a bit chilling, you might say - into the waters. Leaves strike it and are severed. A gold fish (please, not a koi, please) errant on its way to supper, leans against the edge and is instantly decapitated. This is one sharp sword. A swallow skims the surface and... is split in two. A sword, for sure, for WAR. For victory!
Muramasa is elated. He spent hours, days, weeks, crouched over this sword, working it, perfecting its mettle, sweat-drenched and coal-fired, beating it, imbuing it with a warrior's heart - a sword should, must have such a heart - with one thought, to win, to prove its worthiness, to show the world, to show that old man...
Who, gently lowers his sword into the running waters. A shy smile. Muramasa waits. And nothing happens. Nothing. Muramasa begins to giggle, a chortle, then an outright guffaw. He had nothing to worry about. The old man knows...nothing? Is that possible?
The fish swim by, uncaring, unknowing of their carefully tabulated significance. Leaves sail downstream, swirling into the future, unharmed. Birds peer down from a lazy breeze. Nothing happens. Nothing at all.
Minutes go by.
(You can hear the music, can't you? An angular banjo...)
The monk has been watching. He walks toward them, bows. The world shifts. He explains what he's seen. He's watched the swords in the stream. He's studied Masamune and Muramasa. He knows that Muramasa's sword has done exactly what it was supposed to do - slaughter life. And he's seen Masamune's possible (very possible) ineptitude. He cannot know, there is no evidence that Masamune's sword did anything. Nothing happened. How would he know, what could he have perceived to persuade him that Masamune's sword changed the water's current so that nothing would strike it? He could not have seen that. There was no evidence, there could be no evidence. It was just a sword in the water, thngs floating idly by.
But he's a monk. It's about the monk.
He knows things.
His words ascribe qualities to the swords in the model of their makers. Both swords. Both makers. He's been sitting there by the stream, watching, (strumming) and he quietly suggests that these creators have perfected their craft to such a degree that they have imbued their swords with their own personas, their very souls, and by doing so, by postulating that this could be true, that by our own works and our own hearts we can perform miracles (like making a sword that cuts anything, or, better yet, making a sword that hurts nothing it shouldn't)...
he sets us free.
Anyway, thanks for the info about lacquering the stones. Am I supposed to lacquer the sides and the bottom or just the sides? Can't get cashew lacquer here so I'll try regular brushing lacquer.
Please send my warmest regards to your Dad. I love the stones. Tell him I'm still using Western planes because that is my tradition, in my life, and even if they don't provide the best or the finest cut they're still my friends, still my allies. And forever will be.
As will you both.
(Profoundest apologies to Donald Fagen and Walter Becker)