The cuts of brother Orca carried certainty. Just like a human floating in the open sea and looking at a sharp and long dorsal fin approaching, facing the sword of brother Orca was knowing. Unstoppable and unavoidable, time and death rode on his kensen.
And yet, change. Gone was the certainty, or not. Perhaps his katana and his tenouchi became somebody else, perhaps not. I only know that nobody rode that kensen any longer, but it had become alive.
We know that change is gradual. Yet that is not what we see, so perhaps is neither what happens. Transform, innovate… Is it that we polish and polish, or is it that we discard the marble and start -anew or not- to polish another piece? Answers are to be found for ourselves, yet we look and copy. Perhaps is that why we look and copy, hoping to find in ourselves other pieces to polish, recognizing them in the mirror of others.
Once upon a time the sword of brother Orca reminded me of the long blades of windmills at the calmed and constant wind of his country. But today, today when I look at the circles that his blade draw in the air, I think in circles on paper. Not the perfect, constant and equilibrated ones that I can get out of my printer, no… but the circles that somebody has drawn, so long ago, on a thin paper, with brush and black ink.
Imperfect as change, as life itself.
