"The sword is the soul of the samurai." -Tokugawa Ieyasu, third and final unifier of Japan
No other country has a relationship between the sword and its culture like the Japans. Though during the warring eras, the bow (and at the end, the gun) was more the primary weapon, the sword is the one constant in the Japanese armory. For samurai, the ruling class of Japan for 800 years, the carrying of a long sword in public denoted their status and they had the unquestionable right to cut down any commoner who offended them. (If you're suspecting most samurai were assholes, you're right.)
Sword making as an art almost died out after WWII when the making of swords was outlawed by the American occupation. That decree was lifted in 1953, and members of what was called the "lost generation" of sword smiths returned to their craft and over the decades it has completely regained its vitality and the selling of katana swords is a thriving industry. Most modern versions, however, are not made the ancient way.
Sword making in Japan blossomed in the 12th century as techniques were refined to bring us the famous curved shape we know today (original swords were straight). Some katanas of this period are considered the finest ever made and are kept as national treasures, handed down from generation to generation. And though many secrets of their making have been lost, the art lives on even with superior technology making the folding of the steel obsolete in recent years. Regardless, the problem of steel remains:
The solution? Simply put, it was to encase softer, less brittle steel (shingane) within razor sharp hardened steel (kawagane) to provide the best of both worlds. The soft steel gave a supple yet strong support as backbone when striking while the extremely hardened steel maintained its edge even through repeated use. The difference between the metals also causes the curvature of the sword as each substance cools at different rates creating a natural bend in the blade. Obviously, it takes a great deal of skill and knowledge not to make too great or too little of a curve.
The properties of steel - particularly its hardness and ductility - depend on the carbon-to-iron ratio and how it is heated and cooled as it's processed. Carbon content for a typical Japanese blade is 0.7%. As it's heated and cooled, the crystalline structure changes depending on the initial temperature and the rate of dissipation. A slow cooling releases carbon (softening it) while a quick splash into water traps the carbon. By varying these methods, artisans are able to control the final properties of the steel. Traditional sword making takes years of apprenticeship and the honing of one's skills with a complete dedication to the craft.
Tamahagane is the gold dust for traditional sword making. In iron rich regions of Japan, a melting pot of iron ore sand and charcoal is stoked for seventy two straight hours. By the time the smelting is done, 13 tons of charcoal and 8 tons of iron ore sand have been consumed, leaving two tons of iron and steel which is then sorted out for suitability for forging. It's been done this way for hundreds of years.
In the centuries of warfare that shaped Japan in both its beauty and horror, sword smiths were considered quasi-alchemists, turning rough metal into shiny blades of artful death. For nearly a century Japan was a country with no government, no rules - but for the sword. Oda Nobunaga, the first great unifier of Japan made it clear his aim was to bring the nation "under one sword". Days of shiny glints of steel poised for battle in the midday sun passed on, but in the Japanese heart, the sword lives forever.
The wavy line you see is called the hamon. The sword maker determines the style and depth of it using clay to retard the cooling around part of the blade.
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Katana swords in Japanese culture:
Sword in battle
Now you see why I'm an anarchist
The sword is never obsolete in Japan
Musashi Miyamoto, considered the greatest swordsman in history. Note his use of two swords. Musashi didn't defeat individuals, he defeated an entire dojo of swordsmen.
Sword films are hugely popular
The sword as an extension of oneself.
Tightly bound stalks are used now for demonstrating a sword's effectiveness. In the old days they used corpses - and condemned criminals.
For a more detailed look at the art of steel, watch this most excellent video: The Craft Of The Japanese Sword is considered the bible of sword making and was a reference for this posting.
America is losing the "war on terror" - as expected. We have not won one battle, nor are we winning on a single front, nor does it look like we ever intend to. (Some will falsely claim we have "won" in Iraq. Reality is we lost by the sheer fact we invaded.) The truth is we have capitulated to the terrorists without reservation. Our sons and daughters are not fighting for our freedom, the only threat to our freedom comes from ourselves. A bunch of cave dwellers halfway around the globe cannot invade and overtake us.
But they knew the hypocrisy of America (if not their own) and knew America would destroy herself if they deemed her to do so. So in burning hatred they did. The previous President described himself as a "teenager with a credit card" and thus every day we sow our financial doom in endless wars because today we don't feel the pain of what we purchase. But there's a far worse bankruptcy afoot.
The terrorists revealed our moral bankruptcy: jettisoning the freedoms we paid for in blood, abandoning our principles and ideals that made us strong, caving in to mass hysteria with mass cowardice. It's always been mankind's folly to believe we can save the body without saving the soul. There is no safety in selling out our values - or selling out justice.
Seems a little thing doesn't it? A mere legal decision. Sort of like the decision on what O-rings to use on the Challenger. What could it possibly matter? Nobody's looking, who cares? Blindness to reality as our savior.
Let's visit Nisour Square in September 2007, and recount the events dismissed by the judge. Only let's Americanize the names and change it to Times Square in New York.
Government officials - the most highly valued lives in our country - stormed through the streets in a convoy "of four large armored vehicles with 7.62 millimeter machine guns mounted on top." For New York police, "it had become a standard part of their workday to stop traffic to make room for U.S. VIPs to blaze through."
David Smith, a NY traffic cop, "remembers vividly the moment the Blackwater convoy entered the intersection, spurring him to stop traffic. But as the vehicles entered the square, the convoy suddenly made a surprise U-turn and proceeded to drive the wrong way on a one-way street. The convoy came to an abrupt halt. According to Smith, a man atop the third vehicle began to fire his weapon 'randomly'."
That was because Tony Romo was about to enter that one-way street driving the correct direction, and for that was shot dead. His mother was in the car and started screaming, "My son! My son!" Officer Smith raced towards the car and signaled back to the convoy to stop shooting. A car which had not even entered the traffic circle, one that "did not closely approach the Blackwater convoy until the driver had been shot in the head and lost control of his vehicle," as reported by the NY Times.
Officer Smith's signal was ignored. In the next instant, Romo's mother was shot dead. In fact, so many shots were fired the car exploded in flames. Panic ensued on the street as bystanders fled for their lives. Officer Tom Jones was on the scene and reported, "Whoever stepped out of his car was shot immediately."
NY lawyer Thomas Paine also witnessed the event. "I saw women and children jump out of their cars and start to crawl on the road to escape being shot. But still the firing kept coming and many of them were killed. I saw a boy of ten leaping in fear from a minivan - he was shot in the head. His mother was crying out for him. She jumped out after him, and she was killed."
Paine, in fact, was behind the convoy when it stopped and was told to reverse his direction and go back. As he complied, his car was shot 12 times, four of which entered his back.
Officer Smith described the aftermath. "Each of the four vehicles opened heavy fire in all directions, they shot and killed everyone in cars facing them and people standing on the street. When it was over we were looking around and about 15 cars had been destroyed, the bodies of the killed were strewn on the pavement and the road."
Even the Blackwater guards knew it was out of control:
In all, the melee reportedly lasted about fifteen minutes. In an indication of how out of control the situation quickly became, U.S. officials report that "one or more" Blackwater guards called on their colleagues to stop shooting. The word "cease-fire" "was supposedly called out several times," a senior official told the New York Times. "They had an on-site difference of opinion [sane vs. insane]." At one point a Blackwater guard allegedly drew his gun on another. "It was a Mexican standoff," said one contractor.
The final tally? 17 men, women and children dead, and more than twenty wounded. "Within hours, Blackwater would become a household name the world over." In Iraq, however, it was not big news that a few Americans more or less were dead plus they fully believed Blackwater's account they were "violently attacked" and "acted lawfully and appropriately" and "heroically defended American lives" even though not one shot had been fired upon them. Besides, that kind of news interrupted their watching of "Iraqi Idol".
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Nisour Square guard and his lawyer, laughing at the ruling
Last Friday, a federal judge dismissed all criminal charges against the Blackwater guards, "saying that prosecutors built their case on sworn statements that the guards had given with the idea that they would be immune from prosecution." Now why would they do that? I'm no lawyer but I'm smarter than most of them and it's pretty obvious this was rigged to get thrown out of court while at the same time we could say, "Aw shucks, we tried!"
But really, why should we care about justice for Iraqis when all we did was conduct the greatest terrorist attack on them since Hitler invaded Poland - a blatant land grab without provocation. It's fun storming through their country like Aryan gods shooting anyone we see. Why did we get so mad at that D.C. sniper when he's just doing what we as a nation condone?
I saw your soul today, America - and it will not be made safe by bullets. It will never be safe without a blind devotion to justice.
In abandoned buildings, holes form allowing eerie whistling winds no man should hear. Same goes for souls.
Boredom is a unique and special jailor. It promises no release and brooks no pleas. Time warps to a crawl and afterwards, when asked how long the sentence, the answer's always "an eternity". What makes the boredom cell so scary is the feeling an invisible hand is slowly squeezing the spirit out of you like a leaky tire.
Then you can end up flat.
Darian was flat. He didn't draw much anymore, just doodled. His pool of pity didn't allow much inspiration. "What's the point of drawing when you can't have friends?" As in times before the shelter, his self-talk resumed with a vengeance. He ran away from the shelter - from himself - continuing his lifelong running and it had only been a matter of time before he ran out of places to go.
Wounded and desperate, his darting eyes had spotted this empty haven safely outside the prying eyes of shelter dwellers. He hated it but his pride demanded its love. Like any abandoned place, Darian rummaged through looking for scraps of life. And as always, none were found. No matter. It was anonymity he truly sought - and that he got. And hated.
Ruler of hell, stood he. Like a character out of a Shakespearian tragedy, Darian mockingly hailed his domain of debris, his realm of rot, his kingdom of cockroaches. In simulated adulation, he held out his arms over the vast nothingness he surveyed. His piercing eyes went beyond the walls to all spots in the world both open and hidden - and found nothing there either.
Darian had cracked under the weight of his torment. So adamant were his attackers his pain was not real he retreated to a fulltime job of death for the first time in years. It had been a minor miracle of timing he even got it and for once Darian assumed the gods must be smiling on him for doing as they wished. He wasn't human anymore, he was leftovers. Shuffle along, be happy you're a janitor and "productive". But this lie could not stay buried regardless what worldly gods decree.
In the shelter, Darian's inner dream came true, meeting Cassie, a social worker whose ethereal spirit alone heals the soul. But needing her wasn't part of the bargain and when time came for her to move on, his bitter jealousy ate him alive. Now, in karmic revenge, another woman faced Darian: Vickie, the anti-Cassie, a "corporate creature" bent on destroying him. She immediately sniffed out his independent spirit and using her position as supervisor did her best to make his job a living hell.
He couldn't understand: why the miracle of getting this job only to be faced with this witch??
Awash in guilt, Darian could not stand up to her, failing himself yet again. Embracing his martyrdom, he refused all comforts. He cursed himself as he wrongly assumed Cassie would want. Any indulgence must be wrong if it helped this worthless being to live. One thing he didn't do was pick up the bottle again, which surprised even himself. None of it, however, cleared his guilty conscience
He drifted into temps jobs and that's where he found himself at that moment, in a windowless white room painstakingly placing tiny electrodes into tiny holes in circuit boards to be soldered later. At break times, he'd stood apart from the others outside, staring into nearby trees he imagined leapt from a Monet painting, seeing a hidden poetry there; wondering what planet he was on. Every fiber, every cell in his body wished to rush into those trees, to explore their secret, to throw himself upon the mercy of Life.
Twenty feet to paradise and yet unreachable in a lifetime.
Back inside the salt mine, Darian listened in crushed despair as co-workers spoke of the advantages of the solderers, how they got more hours and more pay. People to be valued. Darian was never one of the valued people. He was the bad guy wanting to burn everything down so he could live. Love never seemed so far away.
"Dear God, what have I done to my life?"
Suddenly, the door burst open, each head in the room instinctively turning with the energy rushing in. Darian almost died. Cassie! She found him! Ushering him out the door, she fed his soul once more, explaining this was no place for him, that he deserved to nurture his soul and come back into the fold of dreamers. "Yes!" he grinned, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Just like before, Cassie triggered a string of Yes’s within him, always saying the right thing, knowing the right answer, giving the right amount of love. Saved at last.
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Despite the spiteful words in his head, Darian had indulged himself in his empty hell-hole by buying himself car magazines, a passion of his youth. Nothing could be further out of his reach than a car but as a child he drew amazing, fantastical cars several stories high capable of doing anything his dreams desired. But when Darian awoke from his Cassie dream, the sight of the magazines inflamed him. She's gone, you idiot! Get that through your head! He flung the periodicals across the room, landing between rusting cans of hazardous waste.
Flames. Roasting flames encircled Darian, no here gets out alive! His soul ablaze, he fled into the night, swallowed by the darkness. How much longer could he run? Where did he have to go?
Bagged up clothes, faded hopes Left in a discarded rush; On the ground There's a feeling of despair; Coughing parents, Sickly children, See their icy breath; And on every street corner you'll see:
Screaming yells, funky smells, It's eviction day in the city! Time to die, suicide, Soon it will be shelter time!
Families thrown out And the cop cars Swirl a bright red and blue, As the looters rush Home with their booty
Hear the banks laugh Counting money In their limousines, Dark tinted windows Don't see:
Screaming yells, funky smells, It's eviction day in the city! Time to die, suicide, Soon it will be shelter time!
Now you fell! Go to hell! Have fun in your shelter grime! Life's not worth a single dime!
In national emergencies such as this, Foxy News assembles only the finest assortment of legs anchors possible. So impressed was I, I felt it necessary to masturbate transcribe their efforts for SNL posterity. Even on short skirt notice a peerless panel of airheads reporters comes together to bring us up-to-the-minute propaganda developments. Here, in our moment of crisis, we are comforted by the three ho's pros of Bimbo, Empty Suit and Asshole to deliver us the laughter news we need!
BIMBO (hiking skirt): Like, Oh my God! We're all going to die!
EMPTY SUIT (plastic smile intact): Now, Bimbo. Let us manly men calm things down like the Bible tells us to do: not all of us are going to die.
ASSHOLE (pissed - as always): This is clearly Obama's fault! No way this happens under McCain! Hope you're happy America!
BIMBO (crossing legs like a cheerleader in the stands): Like totally his fault! Did you see how it was a Darkie who did this just like the President! OMG! [Yes, she literally said "OMG"]
ASSHOLE (more pissed, face looks like he's taking a dump he can't quite finish): Can't trust any of them! Want to tell me it's a coincidence they're both from Africa! Folks, don't be naive about this!
EMPTY SUIT (expression never changes from one of self-congratulation): I'd like to be fair about this - because fair is my middle name - and be the first to deny any conspiracy theories the President was involved with the alleged terrorist or fist bumped him in any way. Just to repeat: I'd like to go on record saying the PRESIDENT was not INVOLVED WITH the alleged TERRORIST.
Insert your own caption here
BIMBO (jiggling assets): I heard he had an atom bomb! He coulda blown up a whole state and left us with only 39!
ASSHOLE (getting Beck-ien at this point): Obama wants America to die!! He's fiendishly manipulating American patriotism to rally support for his failed foreign policies and deviant plans! That's something you never saw the previous President do!
BIMBO (hiking skirt again): Like, Oh my God! We're so all gonna die!
EMPTY SUIT (eyes furtively checking out Bimbo's legs. Finds he needs to cross his own) Just to recapitulate: We at Foxy News are denying all not-yet-PROVEN reports the PRESIDENT is IN LEAGUE with DARKIE TERRORISTS.
ASSHOLE (in hemorrhoidal rage): I'm sorry! I just have to speak the truth! We can't be fudging the facts in times like this. Obama is practically inviting them to come over here! If Michael Jackson can turn white, why can't he? Any true patriot would!
EMPTY SUIT (stiffening, clearly has mr. woody on his mind): You're right, Asshole! That's a fact no one can deny! I'd sure like to see the liberal media try to spin that one! I bet they'll try to spin it hard! Real hard! Hard as they can possibly get!
BIMBO (tossing legs up in the air): Please, somebody protect me in the Biblical way!
EMPTY SUIT (jumps on her in patriotic defense): God's will be done!
ASSHOLE (taking over the set, spitting nails and grabbing the camera for a close up): Get Obama now! Hang him high before he kills us all! All he wants to do is spread lies and foment hatred and whistle at white women! I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to fake it anymore! Obama is a raging, out-of-control traitor looking to incite violence against anyone who disagrees with him! Get him! Get him before he takes away all our women!
Asshole, Empty Suit, Bimbo These photos require no doctoring!
Harry the intrepid photographer was Harry-on-the-spot as snow came down in gusts up to 40 miles an hour. Not a lot had accumulated on the ground as it was still too warm but it was getting colder by the minute and I actually started to slide while standing still in the wind. By the end of the day I was half popsicle and my thin, artistic hands were in dire need of extended warmth.
Although it wasn't open, my first stop was the Japanese Gardens.
Courtyard behind the gate
Snowflakes reflecting the flash
Next I headed downtown.
Crossing the Trinity river. There's huge developments along its shores.
I found shelter under an eave
To my surprise I came upon this passageway
I found myself in this courtyard. The tables in back are from the famous Riscky's Barbeque.
Then I found this inner passageway off the courtyard
All the places inside were closed, including this eatery. Through the windows in the back you can see the outer street.
Back on the streets I'm reminded who runs this country
Wells Fargo Tower. It has a twin tower a block away.
Angel from Bass Performance Hall. The Bass brothers are oil billionaires who basically rebuilt and revitalized downtown Fort Worth.
On the way out of downtown I found these pretty Porsches all in a row.
I went north to the Stockyards
Wind was blowing like hell without protection of tall buildings like downtown.
Horseshoes are embedded in the sidewalk
This is me taking a picture of the Stockyard saloon through the glass. You can see my reflection. If you'll notice you can see they use saddles for seats at the bar.
Musashi Miyamoto
