BUNRAKU REMIX

BUNRAKU



Equal Footing



Clouds drift low across the sky, scudding swiftly, promising rain. He sniffs the air and smells the intense quality of it – the promise – the tension – the waiting. When the Bartender ushers them into a nicely-sized barely boarded room (wood planks missing, you can see the grey-black clouds lowering), the Drifter feels as though he has entered an intimate world – the world outside cut off – leaving only the Samurai and him.



Their eyes rarely shift from each other – and the Drifter tells himself that it is a lust for blood which drives them – (no, no, not lust for flesh) – as they grapple, lunge, punch, kick, bite, claw and throw each other. When they roll through the sand – the Samurai can feel something hard press down on his thigh and he heaves, white teeth gritted – and when he kicks – as they both lay back in the sand panting, the Samurai wonders if the Drifter would see something more in him than even he could see himself (I can give you my all – as I did for my father.. if you find it precious enough).



Both of them know the truth (we are a fucked up generation who can only find peace in violence and... honour in death... and truth in each other). And as the sky breaks open, their eyes meet and they realize that there is something between them that neither of them can fathom. Such a realization is heavy for men who, until now, had only their fists to rely on – like release, it comes quickly – it comes quickly with the rain.



What is he fighting for? The Drifter wonders as he pulls himself up – as the tension breaks like a bow – as the rain begins to fall down. What does he find in me, particularly?



What is he fighting for? The Samurai wonders as he staggers to his feet, feeling every ache in his joints – as the rain drenches him. What does he hope to find in me?



It is a point of interest to note that when we think the battle is fought (and won) – how often we find ourselves revisiting the same place for the same cause. In this budding relationship, the tenacity of the Samurai surprises all.



He walks away from the Samurai, not wanting to look back – feeling that now familiar feeling rise in his chest –  not regretful per se – not a heavy regret – but an ephemeral, swift wistfulness. As he reaches for his jacket and hat, the Drifter realizes that the Bartender is approaching, limping awkwardly (no doubt the rain wrecked havoc with the old wound) – sans parasol. The Bartender's thumb jerks back and the Drifter turns.



Against the odds – and here, he is reminded sharply of himself – the dark head rises, the pale, beautiful hands (but no, there is hidden power in those slender wrists) wrap around the parasol's bamboo handle, raised in the resolute kendo stance. Their eyes meet through the rain (the rain doesn't exist anymore – nothing does between them) – and he recognizes the multi-layered invitation. To battle to the death. To find equality in death. To find serenity within each other. Both know that this will end with them on their knees. Together, they will fall, spent – in the bizarrely physical metaphor for the act of physical desire.



The Drifter smiles.