-Exponential Theology-

 

Much

Mu-c-H

sitology

si-t-ology

Mu-si-c-t

Music-t

Music

others

othe-rs

t-othe-rs

to-the-rs

to the

H-rs

Hearts

H- ear- ts

H-ears-t

Ears

H-t-ology+E

Theology

~Music to the Ears~

                                                           

 

Docity -Ability to Learn Quickly-

Birds of passage depend on the earth's magnetism to reach to north. 

Adventurers explore the world following a compass’s indication. 

The attraction of gravity pulls an apple to the center of the Earth.

 While living in this world surrounded by pullers, it is not easy to realize the way the compass is pulled to the North Pole physically. The same goes for the way people are drawn to Earth－but I knew how I had been gravitated by some invisible attractions at one time.

Skills. Everyone might have some “skill” for each. The ability to run fast, to read a lot, to play the piano beautifully, and mine was just the ability to learn quickly, while noticing the process. It was not because I was seeking to require the sense with my interests, but to live. I obtained the skill of crying instantaneously at the moment I had been born into this world; it was because I needed to breathe. I noticed my fear emerged in my mind; it helped me with escaping from a danger of darkness. I even determined to bring out the first word by myself; I needed to tell when I wanted to fulfill my hunger. The invisible attractions for the little baby became a direction to hold my life. I learned the ability to live as soon as possible. It lasted until I entered the institution that destroyed children's individuality and their meritorious ideas. 

Rule, order, humility, and accommodativeness: they dominated me living on this tiny planet. I still remembered the moments when I had the sense of my brain’s growth process, even now. It was because the unforgettable experiences were too astonishing, too exhilarating, and too fascinating.

But now? High school? I was not sure where I was going to next. No one would accept my excuse even if I said my lost docity was caused by the previous institutions. Instead, people might say I was just out of line for a student. I got confused with the situation that I could not rely on my past skill of learning soon. It used to lead me accurately, cheerfully, and confidentially. But the ability had gone, like it rested its hand forever. It left me looking for the next way desperately. I wanted to escape from the darkness and hunger with my unclear future.

My room was dark with the gray plain curtains closed at the two windows and no lights on the ceiling. I pulled the blanket in black over my head on a bed. My thatch short hair became untidier in the separated cave. The key on the door － locked. The desk telephone next to my pillow － disconnected. The cellphone under the bed － out of juice…I made sure there were no means of access to the outside world.

I didn’t remember how long I had been barricading myself inside of my room. I felt I heard my mother’s sob at a kitchen downstairs. It might have been a true that my father heaved a groan, thinking about my future. With the compass that was my talent to survive the cradle, I had no ability to stand alone. Without the compass that should have led me a certain way, I had a desire to walk forward by my foot. I opened my eyes in the blanket. (Sure, still the caligo lasted.) Then I had a private chuckle about the irony of my life.

――A locomotive's whistle announced that it was five o’clock p.m. I was listening to the sound of the evening for a moment. But then I felt the whistle was too long. I let my head out from the space full of carbon dioxide and turned out. I got out of bed and moved my bare feet to the floor. After trailing toward the windows, I pulled open the curtains to look outside. The sound stopped then. Alternatively, I saw the sun about to be setting. There was the nostalgic atmosphere, the slowly-running time, and the color of the glow of evening. I almost forgot that I was in an apartment at the busy city, Tokyo. I heard a cry of bird in a bit further sky and found it soaring in the sunset. I was gazing the migratory wildfowl for a long time.

Then I remembered the compass on my closet near the door on a sudden. I used it only once at the age of eight. I went camping at a river one hour far from my house. But the memory was not quite fun at all. My father scolded me, blaming my mimic adventure when I was back on the next day. Since then, the compass had nowhere to go but on the closet.I moved toward the closet a little rapidly, bringing my wooden study chair. I stood on it and reached out my hand to get the compass. I touched the object and felt some coldness. I hold it and removed the dirt hiding the pointer, with my thumb. I was somehow glad to see the needle still pointing north.

I then noticed the compass also indicated me to see the bottom of the bed silently. I climbed off the chair and fumbled under the bed. I was looking for something that the compass was pointing at. When I found the brochure of an art school, my heartbeat started to accelerate. I  remembered the old days, with my abstract and audacious works in the art class of elementary school. The sky and ground drawn in one gray color, the drawing paper cut the edges by scissors, and my broken name that it was barely readable: All of these works were denied by the adult getting upset. Reminding the discarded memories, I still felt they were treasurable for my life. Looking at the front cover of the brochure the school’s name written, I decided to go downstairs with my absolute hope. It had destroyed by my surroundings once, but I wanted to believe in the excitement in my mind and the indication by the compass in my hand.

I might have flung the “docity” by myself. I needed have enough time, revising the plan, aiming for the next stage more. It would take a supreme time to obtain the skill to become an outstanding artist. But I determined to speak to my parents once more and tell my dream...

“One day, I will turn into 

like the bird of passage going to the north.”

“One day, I will meet my success pulling me 

like the gravity.”

-Forming by My Five Senses-

Will be the sound of the falling rain.

Will be the taste of sugar and salt.

Will be the feel of a concrete paving block.

Will be the sight of white tracks of a small boat.

Will be the flavor of romance by a bridge knowing the face of the opposite shore.

And, they will form you anytime.

-A Link-

 ― Most things in this world are meaningless, aren't they?

A man trying to conceive a plot intones so.

He gets tired of gathering the threads of his new story.

He is about to give in to despair.

― Think about when you kept on walking, covering your eyes and ears,

and when you are destitute of help.

Then, what could you do

if there were a huge block,

if you stepped on a fierce wolf’s tall, and

if your legs were caught by the ocean of trees?

You know, you would go with the wind.

Alack…who will notice you have no guide in your life..

Who will find any meanings in such a horrendous hazard.―

***

Then, the man feels he heard a sound like slurping tea.

The man “sees” the one which has been listening to his words.

“…Uh-huh, so I could do nothing but depending on YOU, right?”

The coming new central character, a dwarf, says so blissfully,

in the corner of the man’s frontal cortex.

-Originality-

I was looking for a mind-boggling idea.

So, I put a leaf on my head 
and went downtown.

Then you appeared, 
pulling a ball over your face.

Isn't it outstanding?

You said so with your unclear voice.

NOT AT ALL

I said angrily.

After coming back home,

I soon looked for a ball like you had.
It's pretty damn good, I said.

I happily went downtown,
wearing the ball again.

Then I met a man with a leaf on his head like I had.

Isn't it outstanding?

I said so with my unclear voice.

Hum, he laughed, passing by me without saying anything.

I flung off the ball from my head.

And I slept for about thirty years.

When I woke up, there was a forest outside.

His leaf has become a cotyledon, a tree, a grove, and the forest.

I finally made up my mind

and lived, holding a chicken for the rest of my life.

-Criticisms Make One Stronger-

"   is  a     t   l    k"  

A woman says vaguely and sighs, looking at one of the scarce avant-garde works set on a wall. Her robotesque tone stops a critic-like man in a twinkle of an eye passing nearby her. The woman gave him a subtle smile, and it made him frown for a brief second. Ignoring what he heard, the man shifts his focus to the work she was looking at. He then eyeballs the painting and gets closer to it with his sullen look.

"Well," he begins talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to the woman, "just putting a plain canvas on a wall is very recondite, isn’t it?” He raises his brow sardonically.

The woman turns her face around the man, and again, says.

"   is   a   a t  ul    rk"

He pretends not to hear the noise from the woman. Instead, he still gazes at the white work eagerly. It is as if trying to establish his ideals with his ambition behind his eyes unconsciously.

"Well, no matter who made this work, he or she should have put some nature on this canvas." He criticizes it so like his mouth is itching for discussing how the man’s taste is marvelous.

"T is  s a   a ti ul  ork"

The woman says, with her lips a little bit wider, staring the man's side face. He returns her stare, but he doesn't recognize what she is trying to state.

"If I were the artist," he goes on, having a swing at a pencil held in his left hand like pretending to make some brushstrokes on the campus, "I would leave the history of colors like putting bouncy rhythms here." After displaying his dreamy painting, he slowly starts to realize what the language-disordered woman is observing now. Her eyes are being caught by the painting on the campus obtaining one's concrete ideas.

"T is is a b a ti ul work"

The woman says so again. The work now has a lush forest and somehow darkish sky. Yet the colors on the scenery are put lightly as if they dance. It reminds him of Van Gogh's original brushstrokes.

"....and if there were a street lamp and a person like me?" The man says to the campus wonderingly yet with some expectation. Then he sees the moment that the continuous work by something still attracts the man in astonishment.　Perceptively, some of the trees on the campus are being shone in a lamplight in warm orange. There is also a man with a frayed gray jacket and convex glasses, who is just like the critic next to the woman with her shining eyes.

Looking at the art work on the wall, the woman finally says staunchly.

"This is a beautiful work."

The man hears her words and nods in agreement automatically.

-Life Is an Assemblage-

-bark residue observing a part of one’s life-

-factory noise-

-mouses in abysmal condition-

-still mechanical shriek -

And -a cheese…*quintessential*-

"What are you doing my boy?"

-a plump mouse asking to his son, who has been nibbling at a piece of the cheese-

  Dad, I’m making. □□□

-the tiny mouse’s innocent eyes-

"What are you making my mousy?"

-patting the little mouse on his head-

-the adult’s plan scheme of praise for anything/ the father’s smother love-

-pat, pat, machine sound, and pat, pat-

□□   I, I….

-very short hand-

-trying to a construct some with the cheese, looking for a bigger piece-

□□□  I want to make a house.

-a limited floor space-

-dad: takes no notice of his son’s try-

-too softy and fragile materials-

-yet-

-the son's framing going on, going on, in order to make his image visible for himself…-