Kayda Matsushita

Brother Kenji walked slowly down past the monastery vegetable garden and through the zelkova trees to the swampy ground beyond. It was a path that dear Brother Akimitsu had often taken in his last days to stand watching the birds as the Sun slid westward.

Zoroaster spoke of the path, Buddha of the noble eight-fold path, ‘Tao’ means ‘path’, the Hebrew word for ‘law’ is ‘the walking’, ‘shariah’ means ‘the path to the watering hole’. ‘Ask for the ancient path, where the good way is, and walk in it, and you shall find rest for your souls.’

Brother Kenji stood and stared over the marshy ground. Kayda Matsushita – her name meant ‘little dragon under the fir tree’.

It had been hard, after years of helping Brother Akimitsu in his little ceramic studio, to adjust to being without him. It was a year after the death of his old friend that Brother Kenji was summoned to the abbot’s office. The Maeda Hiromi Art Gallery in Kyoto’s Minami-ku ward – between the To-ji Buddhist temple and Nintendo’s head office – wanted to put on a major retrospective of Brother Akimitsu’s work. They were sending someone to go through the work still in his studio, any unfinished work, any journals and sketches and workbooks. Also, photographs of the studio, of ceramic pieces in situ in the studio, atmospheric shots of the monastery would all add to the exhibition and to the accompanying book. Brother Kenji had been closest to Brother Akimitsu, had helped him, had known most about his ideas and work – it made sense for the abbot to appoint him to liaise with the representative from the gallery: Kayda Matsushita.

Over the next months, Brother Kenji and Kayda Matsushita spent hours together pouring over old books, directing the photographer, classifying works and building up an overview of the old master’s work.

Brother Kenji watched the swallows, his feet and the hem of his robe wet and muddy from the edge of the path, as the evening approached.

A common feature of Brother Akimitsu’s work had been the use he made of words – incised in the ceramic surface or painted with startling precision in the smooth glaze.

That day, Brother Kenji and Kayda Matsushita had found in one of Brother Akimitsu’s sketchbooks ideas for a piece that he never seemed to have actually completed. Across the curve of the shape, words in medieval Italian:

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
ché la diritta via era smarrita …

Midway in our life’s journey, I went astray
from the straight road and woke to find myself
alone in a dark wood …


Dhiraja

How I met your father

It was a dreary town, a weatherboard and corrugated iron island in an ocean of pine forest. The primary attraction was proximity to a choice of larger towns with greater charm. Petrol stations and the KFC on Highway One were beacons, places to refuel, get a feed, take a piss, before driving on. The railway line ran parallel, carrying its relentless rolling stock loaded with logs. Even the trees were leaving. Residents turned left off the highway into the town centre - New World and Four Square, a TAB, video shop, and several well-patronised pubs. The skate park and courthouse were gathering points for interchangeable gangs of dull-eyed youth.

Like my great-great-grandmother, disembarking to mud and bush in 1883, I had gambled my future on a blind-folded step into the unknown.

The angel: Free will has a lot to answer for, but then I didn’t set the rules. You could argue that without choice, there’s no opportunity to learn. But if you make the wrong choice, and end up taking a detour down one of life’s sidings, it’s we who are charged with getting you back on track. Destinare, destination, destiny. A detour is not a divergence, after all, just an alternative path to the place you are meant to be.

Community radio was a world away from the broadcasting career I imagined. I sold time in thirty second increments to aging appliance retailers with hair transplants. My drink hard, play hard colleagues were locals. Occasional ambitious, talented graduates from Broadcasting School soon followed the trees out of town.

Breaking point came. Alone at Christmas and stranded on the wrong side of Cook Strait by an airline strike, I made a resolution: time to leave. Then one particularly homesick Tuesday afternoon in February, I felt strangely drawn to the public library and the three-day-old pages of my hometown newspaper, where by chance, by sheer good luck, I saw the vacancy.

The angel: Chance? Good luck? Oh yes, I’ve heard that a million times. Yet, your life does not unfold at the whim of a rolling dice. Your better angels plant seed that blossoms as the inspiration you claim comes from nowhere. You’ve probably said it yourself, haven’t you? “I don’t know what made me think of it but ..” or “The idea just popped into my head…”. Angels whisper, whisper, whisper until we are heard.

I applied, with the naive confidence of youth, for a management role in a place I loved. The interview lined up with my travel plans for Easter, the time for new beginnings. Providence meant they chose me. When things are meant to be, it’s like a guiding hand at the elbow, a gentle touch pointing the way.



Rosemary McBryde

A shooting, mate

It’s not like Anthony ever expected any journey by car to be easy or smooth or to be undertaken in a reasonable amount of time – he had lived in Auckland long enough to get over that expectation.

Back in the 90s, when ‘let’s go and hit the slopes in Howick’ was a new and exciting joke, there had been the night that Mr Hin So, fresh off the boat, had jumped his brand-new car over the median strip and sent Anthony and his mates rapidly from the Vic Park Viaduct to Auckland Hospital.

A decade later – and how many tens of thousands more cars? – the year spent widening the Mangere Bridge on the South Western had resulted in a year of a narrowed Mangere Bridge. Sometimes it took Anthony longer to drive the fifteen kilometres home than it took him to cover the fifteen kilometres home the times he ran.

Then there had been the work at the corner of SH20 and Kirkbride – enormous excavations and constructions all done while maintaining some kind of flow of traffic to the airport. Sometimes the tail was backed up to not far from the bridge. Zero kilometres per hour.

But that Tuesday morning there was a helicopter hovering over Greenwood Road, and a fire engine and more police cars than Anthony had seen before in one place.

Greenwood Road is not Broadway. On one side, behind the wire fence, a mix of harakeke, ti and manuka, the inevitable piles of rubbish – a broken television, a tire, carpet, bottles, a cushion, random pieces of timber, lurid pink artificial flowers, junk mail, a toaster and a fan. On the other side – a green paddock with a herd of black-and-white steers and, beyond that, a line of tall pines.

And at the end of the road, preventing further access, a single policeman – and, held across his chest: the Bushmaster XM15 M4A3 Patrolman assault rifle, used by special forces in the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and … on Greenwood Road.

"It seems like a shooting, mate," Sharon Davis told 1 News.

Barnaby McBryde

Detour Ahead (with fond memories of Essie Summers)

"Don't forget to tell your mother I won't be in tonight - I'm on late shift."

James gathered up the parcels his dad had carefully packed, grabbed his bike and headed to the hospital. It was January 1945. He had left school a year earlier, and was assisting the war effort by working around the district on farms where and when required. Now with his mother in hospital he was required to assist at home. Arriving at the hospital he parked his bicycle and headed inside. He never went in the main entrance. The little door at the side entrance was a lot shorter and therefore quicker.

Today he was in more of a hurry than usual. The local football team for which he played, was running a social dance and he was pretty keen to attend. It was important to get back home, finish the other tasks, be ready to meet the team and catch the bus out to the country where the dance was to be held. He took the service lift up to the second floor, got out and sped down the long corridor. Two signs halfway down appeared. One said Detour; the other said Wet floors. There was also a lot of equipment scattered about. Ignoring all the signs and increasing his pace he slipped, fell awkwardly and went crashing into a sturdy network of trestles and ladders, some of which he managed to dislodge, falling across his spreadeagled legs.

Two tradesmen came to help him up. A sharp pain indicated something was broken. He was in the right place. One of them walked down the corridor to a phone. A few minutes later the medics appeared. A quick jab and he was pain free and on his way to the A and E centre. From there to the hospital ward. The bone had to be reset once the swelling was down The packages accompanied him. A nurse called Elizabeth Bennett came to look after him. She offered to have the packages delivered to his Mum and to inform his Dad of his current predicament. Over the next couple of days he saw quite a lot of Nurse Bennett and at one time he heard the Ward Sister chiding her, "Nurse Bennett there are other patients in need of your attention!!!"

The courtship was not whirlwind but two months later, after the Nurses' Ball and a number of outings, they became an item. Chance intervened when James entered the side door and took that particular route. Ignoring the detour sign, though calamitous, had been opportune for him. Yes! Two years later he and Elizabeth married. The course was straight. It was full steam ahead but it was not without some deviations.



Grant Ward

September

This is the fourth offering that the Artistic Director offered for this month. The power of veto is alive and well. See how you go this month with 'Detour Ahead'.

Stories to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 30 September, as usual.  Happy writing!