Hiroshima Bugi: Atomu 57

1. Ronin of Rashomon Gate

| 1 | RONIN OF RASHOMON GATE | 1 Ronin of Rashomon Gate The Atomic Bomb Dome is my Rashomon. Come closer to the stone, over here, out of the rain. You are the first person to visit me in these ruins. This is my unearthly haven in the remains of the first nuclear war. Only the dead rush their stories under this dome. The gate of ruins. The rain, the moody rain, a reminder of that bright and vicious light that poisoned the marrow and forever burned the heart of our memories. Rain, rain, and the ominous stories of black rain. No one can ever be sure of the rain. The park ravens break that inscrutable silence at the wispy end of a rainstorm. Listen, the shadows of dead children arise from the stone and shout back at the ravens. They mock each other, a parade of ghosts forever teased by the rain. Sit here, near the ropes. Twisted reeds? My kabuki theater. Raven sumo. Kabuki of the ruins. Fierce beauty. Shadows of the dead. Ghostly souvenirs. Atomu war. Curse of black rain. Hiroshima by chance. Kyoto preserved. Twice by irony. The Rashomon Gate was in ruins too, more than eight centuries ago. Brutality so old it has turned aesthetic, the fierce cruelty of beauty. We might have been there, waiting for the rain to end just as we are today. Akutagawa wrote our stories. Kyoto, a grand city of shrines and willow trees, was wasted, as you know, by natural disasters, war, and wild fires, and that oncemighty gate was taken over by animals, thieves, and ghosts. | RONIN OF RASHOMON GATE | 2 | The warrior ghosts. Kabuki scenes. Memory is our gate. The Atomic Bomb Dome has been registered as a World Heritage. Preserved, as you can see, for the tourists, sentimental bystanders, and, of course, for the cryptic outriders and politicians of peace. Early in the morning, every morning since this river city was decimated , at this very site, the ruins of the hypocenter, shadows of the dead gather in a ghost parade. The children of incineration, and the white bones of an empire war, arise in a nuclear kabuki theater, and the slender shadows come to light in a ghost parade at eight fifteen, the very same moment of the explosion on August 6, 1945. My life ended before the bomb. My life started with the occupation. My father sent me away. My father was an army sergeant. My mother was a cripple. My mother was a bugi dancer. My only friends are lepers. My only friends are orphans. Our stories are eternal, and the ravens are wise not to break the absolute silence of the ruins in the morning. Stay overnight and you may see a theater of human horseweeds and perfect memories. This is our new story. Chrysanthemums? My shirt of tricky shame. Printed flowers? Mocks the emperor. Ruth Benedict? Story of guilt not shame. The government poisoned our prize chrysanthemums because of their fear of leprosy. The mere touch of a leper shamed the great beauty of the flowers. The empire of shame. Crown stigma. Sovereignty of the ruins. My theater is liberty. Hiroshima arose out of the nuclear ruins to become a testy, prosperous city of peace and victimry. Millions of tourists treasure | 3 | RONIN OF RASHOMON GATE | the origami cranes and forever recite the tragic stories of Sadake Sasaki. Discovery is the cure. Never leprosy. Listen to the distant thunder. The air is thick, heavy, black in the distance . A few days ago lightning struck the dome and demons sizzled down the beams. Have you ever thought about being struck by lightning? Lightning evades me. The perfect death is by chance, and the thunderous, terminal turn of a conversation in the rain. The last perfect vision is a burst of bright light, and then the mighty rage of memory. I pray for lightning. For death? Yes, a natural liberty. Stop praying. Suddenly, bright, and true. I was tormented by terrible dreams the first few nights alone here in the ruins. The horror was inescapable. I was caught in the same nightmare, night after night, and could not scare myself awake. The children and lonesome dead crossed over the circle in the ruins. My nightmare lasted sixty years. I was surrounded by white bones and burned, puffy bodies. The river was packed with bodies that never floated out to the bay. I was dead...