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likenothingnameable · 5 years

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When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.

#walking

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 6 years

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The Mechanical Dragon (Part 8)

She poses the idea to her father. “Do you think that you can do it?”

“Do ya think that she’s gonna let me?” He is still weary from the event days prior.

She knows that he is more than capable of accomplishing executing the blueprints she spent the night creating. She just has to get Azula to cooperate. The princess is still sleeping, sleeping and running a very high fever. “She will.” Zirin answers as she mixes up another fever remedy. “It shouldn’t be painful, just uncomfertable. I think she only reacts bad if you go ‘n hurt her.” In a way that was how Azula had always been, she just doesn’t hide it anymore.

Okon doesn’t give her a definitive yes or no. But she leaves the room anyhow—purposely neglecting to take the blueprints with her. She knows that when she comes back down that the blueprints will no longer be on the table and her father will have arranged the necessary devices.

Zirin sits the groggy princess up and tips the glass. Azula seems to go slack and falls against her. Zirin doesn’t move her. Instead she waits for the princess to move herself. She doesn’t do that for a very long while. Eventually Zirin decides that it is time to bathe the princess. Simply scrubbing the infected area is no longer cutting it. She leads Azula to the bathroom, fills the basin, and leaves to retrieve a bar of soap and some shampoo. Shampoo, she gnaws on the inside of her cheek before placing it back on the shelf. She finds Azula already sitting in the water when she gets back. Her legs are drawn up to her chest as she shivers against the chill of the water and she looks miserable. Zirin thinks that she is going out of her way to not look at the fresh scars splayed all over her body.

“Do you want me to…” Zirin motions to the bar of soap.

Azula holds out her hand and Zirin takes that as a no. It doesn’t matter, it is probably good for the princess to do things on her own again anyways. Personal hygiene and upkeep had always been a priority to and a high point for her.

She watches the woman run the soap carefully over her arms.

She feels weird watching.

She doesn’t know why.

She has seen Azula without clothing before. Many times in fact. Most times, Azula had been the one to initiate it. But that seems so far off. She wonders if there’s anything left of that. Azula herself is very different…

Very subdued.

But she doesn’t shoo Zirin away so, she remains. Her deep brown eyes linger on Azula, she hopes that she isn’t making her uncomfortable or self-conscious, not that she’s even seen the princess doubt herself before.

It is only when Azula stands, water running off of her in rivulets, that Zirin remembers that she had forgotten the towels and a change of clothes. The princess stares expectantly. She tries not to keep her waiting for too long. Mostly Azula dries herself, but then she hands Zirin the towels and turns around. It takes Zirin a moment to realize that Azula is weary of drying her back with such new wounds to watch for. So Zirin gently runs the towel over her back and—with more care—dabs at the areas closer to where the wings had once been. She notes to herself how pale the princess’ completion is, save for her blotchy, fever-flushed cheeks.

Zirin decides that she will take Azula into the garden. She could use the sunlight and she could use some fresher air. It is strange, Zirin notes, that before now, she has never seen Azula in her clothing before. Usually she stuck to her own attire, likely because it was more elaborate and made from pricier materials. Regardless of the simplicity, Zirin thought that the change suited her well. It is also good to see her on her feet again as opposed to being confined to a bed. “Azula and I are goin’ ou’side for a bit.” She calls to Okon.

He is in his work room, she notes with a smile.

And the blueprints are no longer on the table.

Zirin wonders if she should run the idea by Azula first, she gets a sense that the princess wouldn’t care what happened to her at this point as long as it didn’t cause her any more pain. “Are you feeling any better?” She asks once they are situated in the garden amid a host of fragrant flowers. Mint takes precedence over all other scents.

Azula pucks a firelily and twirls it absently between her fingers.

“At least a little?” Zirin tries again.

She thinks that she notices Azula nod affirmatively. The firebender tosses the lily aside and begins running her hands through the grass, Zirin sees the longer blades sprouting up from the cracks between her fingers. She assumes that Azula is pleased to see lush nature again. To have the sun on her skin again. To feel a warm breeze once more. But she still can’t seem to bring herself to smile, Zirin wishes that she would. Her smile is nice. She touches the back of her hand to Azula’s cheek, it is hot, too much so. Azula’s hand comes around her wrist and for a moment she thinks that the woman remembers the more tender times, that’s why she smiles. Only seconds later though, she finds that Azula simply did so, to move Zirin’s hand away from her.

Zirin doesn’t understand. “What did I do wrong?” She finally asks. “I found you! saved you!” She doesn’t mean to be harsh, but her impatience is taking its toll. “Again!” She adds, “I saved you again…” Her temper dies down and she trails off. She didn’t even realize that she had stood up so she sits back down. Azula watched the display stoically, it both aggravates and relieves Zirin. She rubs her forehead. “I jus’ don’t get you sometimes.” She thinks, not for the first time, that whatever happened to her in that dank cellar had frayed Azula’s already questionably stable mind beyond repair.

Without warning, Azula stands. She is wandering and Zirin knows that she should stop her. But all the same she kind of wants to let Azula explore, at least that way she has something to do. At least it would give her some sense of control. So she lets the princess lead the way. Mostly they wander through fields, the same ones where Zirin is sometimes sent to collect herbs that aren’t found in her own garden. Eventually though, Azula finds the nearby village. “A’rite, I think that’s enough walkin’ for today, we should head back, yeah?”

Apparently, no. Azula draws nearer to the village. She hesitates, Zirin wonders if Azula really wants to encounter other people—she hopes that the princess will shy away. But she does not. Then again, Zirin thinks that maybe seeing other people would do her as good as a little sunlight. She had been so isolated for so long…

“A’rite, fine, we can go into town.” Zirin mutters as if it had ever been her choice to make.

She watches Azula pick up trinkets and beaded necklaces from random stalls, just to look at them and set them down again, much to the annoyance of the vendors who were hoping to earn at least a coin or two.

Faintly she wonders if any of them recognize their princess.

She passes various food stands, pausing to graze her fingers over a large peach. It only costs a coin, so Zirin buys it for her. No doubt, Azula could pay her back if need be—not that she plans on getting pushy over one coin.

Azula chews on the peach as they wander, occasionally she stumbles. “Are you dizzy?” Zirin asks. But the firebender dismisses the question and moves forward like nothing had happened. As they near the edge of the village they come to more curious things; a vendor selling superstitious trinkets, a man selling animal bones (Azula cringes away from this one very quickly), an older woman, scantily clad and adorned with faux gold preforming a strange and ancient dance, and a man with more tattoos than she’d ever seen on a person. He is quite a sight, his earlobes are stretched to fit small rocks in them. She wonders if he’d done the ink himself. Azula watches him for a moment before moving on. She finishes the peach and discards the pit.

Halfway home she seems to be losing her spark, her stride is becoming sluggish. Eventually Zirin is concerned enough to carry her the rest of the way back, regardless of looks she is shot and the other silent protests she is given.

.oOo.

Okon refused to work on her until her fever had come to pass. It seemed to last ages, but it finally did. Zirin instructs the princess to lay on her stomach and trust her. Turst. It is something Azula doesn’t give easily and Zirin resents that all of the trust she had earned was taken by circumstance. To something that wasn’t her fault at all. She is thankful, however, that she had built enough trust back to be able to persuade Azula to let Okon help her. She hands her shirt to Zirin and lays back down on the table, with her cheek resting on her arms.

“Yer gonna feel some pressure. It ain’t gonna hert but it ain’t ‘sactly pleasant neither.” Okon warns. “Hol’ still.” He turns around holding a drill.

Her composure slips immediately, she is on her feet, hollering, fire in her palms. The fear in her eyes is frenzied and unchecked. Zirin is angry that she didn’t account for this. Of course drills didn’t bode well with Azula, a drill is probably what drove the wolf-bat bone into her in the first place.

Zirin takes Azula by the wrists, doing everything she can to avoid hurting her. “He ain’t gonna hurt you, Azula. I promise. It ain’t gonna be the same as what they did.” She fights to keep her voice soft and level as the princess struggles against her. “Trust me. You gotta.” She regrets not disclosing her idea in full.

“She don’t hav’ ta do this if she ain’t want it.” Okon says. “We ken try again some other time.”

Zirin knows that his word is final. She knows that it doesn’t matter anyways, there is no way she’d be getting Azula back on that table. At least not then.

The next day is a different matter. Azula is calmer. Zirin watches her eat breakfast, thankful that the princess has her appetite back again and twice as thankful that she can keep her food down. With the fever a few days over, she—though pale—is looking at least some healthier. Just in case Zirin helps her apply aloe to the scars and the skin around the wolf-bat bones.

She decides to bring it up again. “They ain’t have to be ugly.” She motions to the jutting bones. “The can be somethin’ beautiful, you know.”

Azula’s gaze catches hers and she knows that the firebender is listening.

“I jus’ need you to let my father do his thing. He’s real careful. He ain’t hurt you yet has he? Not if he could help it.”

Zirin doesn’t know that her words have any effect until Azula is laying back on the table with her shirt off and her cheek nuzzled against her arms again.

“This time, ya hol still.” He instructs and reminds her that she’ll feel some pressure.

Azula, Zirin finds, is rather good at keeping still. She tenses some at the sight of the drill but lets him bring it to the wolf bone. He is working to hollow it out, the only movement made by the princess is that which is created by the rocking of the drill. Her face contorts in displeasure at points, but otherwise she takes it well.

The bone is hard to grind and Zirin knows that they can’t finish in one session. Such matters can’t be rushed. Azula pulls a sleep shirt on.

“See that weren’t so bad now were it?”

Azula doesn’t answer, opting to brush her fingers over excess fabric instead. Finally, she shakes her head no.

“No it weren’t so bad?”

Azula clarifies with a nodded yes.

“I tol’ you it wouldn’t be.” Zirin hopes to herself that this had earned her a heap of trust points. She believes that it has because this time Azula lets her hold her hand as they would to the bedroom.

#Azula #Avatar #Zirin #Azula/Zirin #Fanfiction

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