(Author's note revised: The previous edit was to inconsistent with my original purposes, as the story parts (That were meant to be metaphorical) Took over with the introduction of the character Rune. I have been writing a repurposed, stand alone version of the story around Rune and my other characters. The first person narrator in that other writing will be the third person, Dean. This is now much more consistent to what this work should look like)
(Section Four) Surf Iowa [and ghosts!]
It was not remarkable that I was skating down a mild slope, just barely an incline to perpetuate the forward motion of the board. I was compared to modern standards, an unremarkable skater. What made this stand out, as I rode, at a sensible pace, wearing my black trench-coat, was that it was around midnight and about zero degrees Fahrenheit . . . I watch skateboarding as much as I can catch it, and there are some skilled riders making beautiful runs . . . make the near impossible seem easy . . . but I had more in common with those skaters and their Z-Boys tricks . . . the thing that true skaters all have are balls. Not just to pull off stunts in a half-pipe, but the balls to participate in such an outlaw sport . . . think about this, there are laws against skateboarding in public places in quite a few towns and cities (anyone can ride a bike just about anywhere) and there is a considerable consensus that skateboarding is not even a sport.
"I never saw my dad on a midnight wave, Ripping in the darkness wild, I never saw my dad on a girlless beach, I never ever thought I would . . ." from the song Kill, by the Raveonettes, written by Sune Rose Wagner.
Balls, and the understanding of the ungraspable phrase, "You have to find yourself, lose yourself, find yourself again" (Quote origin unknown). Also, in my defense, this was before breakthrough skateboardist Tony Hawk was plastered everywhere. He deserves the hype, but I simply had no one around or available to imitate.
Even with that having been said, I was a surfer at heart. I may have just searched for the perfect "wave" (skate-able hills [or run]) and found that pure moment . . . "lose yourself" . . . a precursor to the meditative freedom of Buddhism . . . and probably still not waste my effort on jiggy tricks. I was a stoner to the boner at the time as well as a skater. I a bit lazy because of that. One of my favorite runs was down east Nuckolls st. I always rode at night. Since I started on a hill off of my main objective (a tributary street I would call it) that went under a railroad underpass, so I had to navigate at night because the only way I could see cars coming was to look for headlights. After that the run slipped down to a entire block of a medium grade slope. The wave broke on the corner of Lynn st. where that hill sharply dropped and I gained a short burst of speed. There were three driveways, two very steep, the third driveway, on the opposing side of the road, was at a lesser incline but tough to navigate. When I hit the peak, where my momentum stalled (The place in the driveway that the board would naturally stop) I flipped a 180 and hit the other two, and then all that was left was to coast past a four way stop on Chestnut st. The perfect wave.
I finally got around to asking Valentine some questions, things I had not made up about her yet, like what was life for her in Spain before she somehow wound up in Southwest Iowa. She spoke with barely a hint of an accent, her English was just too perfect; Also she avoided speaking in Spanish, even when she was angry or excited, it was a refusal to commit what seemed to be a sin, in her eyes. Despite the fact that bilingual speech, especially Spanish-English, has been acceptable for many years. In her clear, concise and measured voice she said, "I grew up in Carballo, I surfed, what else?" Like I would know what else.
She went on describing her beach combing childhood in Galicia, taking to the Playa De Razo waves at the age of twelve. I was lost in this information about places I could not even imagine. "The only thing I truly hate about Iowa is that there are no good places to surf, I did get to surf in the jaws of Pe'ahi (pronounced Pay- Ah- Ha) on Maui, I took a vacation that I took from reality a few years back, but I have the bad habit of spending too much so I'll probably never see those beaches again." I found myself again when Kiki walked into the room wearing only a sheet like it was a toga, and even though I could cause her to do whatever I pleased, I would never see her nicely proportioned breasts naked, even in a fantasy I have guilt about straying from my marriage. Val imposed on my reverie, saying, completely out of the blue, "I thought about surfing on the Missouri River, though."
"I got sand in my shoes, And death on my mind. But it's over, It's over, for now" from the song Endless Sleeper, by The Raveonettes, written by Sune Rose Wagner.
Thematically the music for the skateboardist movement was American Punk, I specify American because the movement was popular in Europe at least a decade before I even had heard about it in . . . Sorry, I forgot what I was doing, the black squirrel with the brown tail and ears, that I named Two-tone ran between the trees in my front yard. I have not seen old Two-tone for weeks . . . oh . . . uh, what . . . Punk and skateboarding. I did listen to some true Punk bands a little, like The Dead Kennedys (DKs) Henry Rollins's mutations and X (Under the Big Black Sun is a phenomenal album by a fairly unremarkable band) But, alas! I was too trendy to be a true punk because I really liked the dinosaur rock band Pink Floyd. Trendy!
Since both Punk and skateboarding mean to go against the grain of society, at least on occasion, I had no real qualms about going with more mainstream 70's and 80's rock artists, such as David Bowie (even though my favorite album, Lodger, was off Bowie's beaten mainstream path, that was only because that sound was years before its time, it barely negated Bowie's star power) Thomas Dolby, who was the herald of modern Techno; he unfortunately was delegated to the one-hit-wonder corner with the song, She Blinded me with Science, it was Dolby's signature to have a lot of fun with at least one song per album, the public latched on and did not take his other work as serious (note: listen to the album The Flat Earth, and the thinking will be "stream" as in good flow, not as in "main") Thomas Morgan Robertson (his non-stage name) got revenge by making serious buck as a technology entrepreneur, unfortunately though, his albums are a scant few. Before I end this digress, I have to throw out the name DEVO, a band that was too Punk to stay Punk. I'll return to music later.
Punk was the style of having no particular style, but since actual humans were involved, style became foremost in the movement . . . Punk was dead before it started, it was ole all over Johnny before it even hit The States. Talk about ghosts.
Ghosts.
Ghosts inhabit my waking world as well at my experience in the Dreamtime, so many of my friends, organic, as well as. friends I acquired through my twenty-five years of being a professional caregiver, are now dead. I have a tinge of survivor's guilt when I think of the numbers. It is August sixth, 2018, my birthday and I have officially outlived my Aunt Laura. Along with that notion, and the memories of my Dad and a recent death of a younger friend increases my guilt. Happy birthday. Time to write my way out of this path strait to Hell.
Valentine, Kiki, and I moved into a post-Victorian mansion in our small town of Glenwood, so decrepit that the rent was almost nonexistent. That was still surprising considering the landlords in our town were the rural equivalent to Slum Lords. The first room we walked into was huge, with a three-tiered staircase lining the north wall, the paint and wallpaper was lacking a decorative je' ne sais quoi, which was unimportant, as the largeness of the beastly house was a perfect staging ground for massive parties. It was 1988 and we were listening to 1999. So we planned to party just like that.
After a few kegger brawls and brouhahas, we realized that the weird creature with the long black hair was not just some random Goth girl (since the Goths in a town that size would number in the ones and twos) but something upsetting, a little sinister, and supernatural. She was a ghost, specifically an onryo. The onryo was already living there, the cheap rent made sense now. Living apparitions of the dead really hurt real estate values. Just think of what happens when developers build over ancient Aboriginal graveyards. One of our cemetery sessions took place on a rough morning-after, and weed was the only nutrition our bodies could accept. Kiki got mad at the dead. "Damn lazy dead in this boneyard! C'mon, rise! I want to go home to our ghost."
An onryo ( pronounced "Awn- Yo" [or "On- Rio" with a rolled, weakened [r]) is a particularly nasty traditional Japanese ghost, often a part of a curse or cursed woman (they are usually female) a typical onryo makes its victims life a living Hell, close friends and family will start to disappear, then be found murdered outright. The poor soul that this ghost is actually haunting will be the last to go. That's a good plot for a horror movie, isn't it?
A few days later, taking a break from a constant drunken state, I was out skating, searching for a new cement wave, I saw an obviously Asian girl, with long black hair, she was carrying a board, with a cartoonish shark on it . . . suddenly I remembered a dream . . . I was following a former coworker, very former as the man had died of pneumonia several years ago, we were climbing down a long wrought iron ladder, metallic grey painted . . . like the walking trestle over the tracks . . . pockmarked with rust . . . that old structure in reality given completely to rust . . . climbing downward . . . Out onto a large, flat yard . . . part of the massive yard around the house I grew up in . . . the day pleasantly warm and green . . . that section of the yard was big and flat enough to play volleyball on or mow with a rider in high gear . . . the grass was not growing from the ground, the grass was water . . .
I swam in the warm, crystal clear waters for a while, somehow, after talking to people at the house I was a woman . . . or maybe the character I dreamt into being was female . . . she swam into a secret room under the water . . . a hidden level in a "Mario" game more or less . . . a trapdoor locked into place behind her . . . she would drown . . . but my mind awoke halfway and I justified that there was some air at the top of the room and someone would find her . . . my creativity can avert a nightmare, or create one . . .
Later as I was waking up the same morning, I half-dreamed of an Asian maiden with long dark hair, she wore white, like the onyro's typical MO, but in the half-sleep she was carrying a katana. At the time I thought it was a recollection of our seemingly friendly party ghost, but the last name Tan was introduced. "Rune," the real time woman said.
"What?" I asked.
"Rune, my name is Rune . . ." I had not realized that I was not only standing right in front of her, but that I had asked her name. I shook my head quickly to break away from my thoughts, and put out my hand "Dean Huisenga."
She certainly had a firm grip, matching the solidity of her beautiful face, "Rune Yung Tan."
I looked her up and down, she was the one that came to me in a dream, after all, and she was wearing light beige clothes, Jedi beige without the darker robe and no evidence of a katana, let alone a light saber.
There was no way to fake solidarity, Rune and I hit it off flawlessly and immediately. She never let on in any way that she knew about my dream, which was more of a vision as she appeared to me; but our philosophy as skateboardists synchronized nicely, so we started a new religion. It was loosely based on Buddhism, called "The Way of the Cement Wave", and instead of following the tenets of Siddhartha, our whole faith was based on the doctrine of "Find Yourself. Lose yourself. Find yourself. Again." A Pure Land awaited us if we found the perfect smoothness, speed, and empty mind all at the same time. Surf music strains echoed in the distance . . . strummed by dead hands on the ghost guitar . . . it was love at first bite . . . I mean bail . . . he extended her hand, helping me up after a heinous bail when I bit some serious dirt . . . literally.
We traveled ahead in time, to 2018, and loaded our outdated MP3 players with tracks from the Surf band La Luz, and rode the waves of space/ time on our boards back to 1988, and listened the Hell out of those tracks. Such clarity when the best portable music technology available was a disc player with headphones. Clear, yes, but skipping with every movement? Not so good. We could have copped some smart phones but for the possibility for screwing with the continuity of The Time Line. Since prototype MP3s already existed in the late 80s. We were as one organism, what with concern for time line consistency and all. I fell in love, it was not sexual, even though that would not have been weird considering the connection we had made. It would not have been weird for me to have that kind of relationship with a character, I really want one with Kiki, but she's just not that into me. I could not see myself beyond a friendship with Rune, even before I knew she was a Ghost Killer.
Empty time spaces . . . the middle of the night . . . names, images, reflections . . . nothing but long black hair covering a grey- blue face . . . "My name is not Party- Ghost, it's Shizuko . . . and stop calling me Goth-Girl . . . oh sorry, wrong dream . . . meant to say that to Kiki . . ." Since that Party- Ghost, I mean . . . Shizuko . . . was invading my dreams I considered panicking. I skipped drinking for several days, smoked some weed to keep calm but it just made me freak harder . . . pot panic . . . I decided to go out and skate my fears away.
A focused reality is forced upon one when riding a skateboard. It does not matter if engaged in tricky street, park or half-pipe moves, or simply cruising. It is all kind of touch- and-go because nothing really stands between one's body and a hard surface. Padding protects a little, which I unwisely never used, but the pain of smacking , suddenly, against cement or whatever. So automatically a skater is devoid of any fears, fear is what makes one eat a hardy bail. The first thing I lose is worries about day to day life, then I have to lose the fear of crashing. What people are afraid of most usually comes true, particularly true on a board, be it a surfboard, snowboard or skateboard, if I think I am going to fall, I will certainly fall. When I lost my fearlessness I had to consider quitting. I did give up the steep hills and more tricky runs.
After I basically quit riding, I found getting on a board a great way to eat concrete sometimes with my back, ass or, yes, my face. No what to wipe-out is very forgiving, even the cushion of the ass. After getting scrapped a few times at a skate park many years later, some mouthy skater- dude told me "Yeah ya just need new wood." No, I needed new practice, and probably a new me.
I invited Rune to my house, with no ulterior motives, was easy. I wanted to have a deeply emotional and painstakingly honest conversation with her that only alcohol can permit. Later that evening, after close to a case of brew between us. Amazing for an Asian lady. Not racist or misogynistic! It's science, race and gender play a role in the ability for mass consumption, if not her size should have made a difference, she was so tiny. Night and inebriation swept in unnoticed . . . conversation ran hot and cold . . . dark and bright . . . freedom of speech unhinged jaws . . . word dust spilled out, all over the floor . . . a cold one in hand caused bonding . . . like the welding of steel . . .
Then Shizuko arrived.
I do not believe in ghosts, I would like to, but I simply cannot, I became somewhat jaded since all the visions I have had of ethereal beings came under the influence of drugs. I meant, actually, I would Love for ghostly hauntings to be a concrete thing, since ghost movies are my favorite genre in horror, especially with the Japanese influence on modern stories. Also the likelihood of lost spirits is much greater than the existence of Bigfoot.
With Bigfoot, for there to be a large enough population to support the species, so they would be seen as often as, say, moose. Or at least as much as mountain lions. Someone would have surely found a dead one sooner or later. Creatures from outer space landing on Earth (the term "alien" is derogatory) has more of a chance then the existence of unique beings, since life should be present somewhere in the universe, since the universe is virtually endless. Distance is the only problem, there. All ghosts really need to exist are dead people. There are plenty of those around.
Rune walked right over to the wraith and started talking softly in the dark, enigmatic language of the dead. Shizuko faded most of the way into the living room corner, I could tell she was there if I saw her at the right angles, but that was not curious behavior for our friendly ghost, her haunting skill set was obviously high, because she wanted us to know she was there, but was fairly subtle about it, unlike other ghosts who slam doors, move chairs or whatever, or posses antique china dolls with the spooky-ass eyes that rolled open or shut. None of that trash, Shizuko was a pro.
What made me curious, was the way Rune approached Shizuko, talked to her in what amounted to a foreign language, at ease as if it was another guest and not a supernatural being. She simply spoke to an onryo and went back to drinking.
A few days later I asked Rune about her involvement with the supernatural
"Oh, that. I am a Ghostkiller, so I speak the language of the Dead. Anyway, I had almost destroyed Shizuko when she became aware of reality. She promised not to battle me, at first, then later denounced evil and started helping me hunt more . . . uh . . . purposeful evil. Shizuko is now bound to me to gain redemption for the lives she destroyed, or strait up took, and she'll probably have to follow me and my progeny."
I looked off the page at my reader, with an incredulous look on my face, shaking my head and pointing at Rune, mouthing the word "Ghostkiller" and shrugged.
The last time I seriously rode a skateboard, I came out from my usual underpass and hit a thick sandbar of gravel, and I landed square on the top of my head and blacked out. Pretty sure I had a concussion as well. I not only seriously considered getting a helmet, I found that fear I thought was no longer there, and eventually quit riding, more or less.
"Are you gonna leave me, Are you now, Do you feel that it's OK? To leave a boy to drown, In this violent swell, Never gonna see you again" from the song Kill by The Raveonettes, written by Sune Rose Wagner.
(Quotes by The Ravonettes come from the album "Pe'ahi"; Released; July 22, 2014; The Beat Dies (label); Written by Sune Rose Wagner; Produced by The Raveonettes and Justin Meldal- Johnsen)
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