Post by Grimm on May 15, 2018 10:35:43 GMT -5
Ah, yes, spring has sprung. Spring, when a young man’s fancy turns to love. Birds take up their songs once more. Robins, warblers, sparrows, and finches serenade those who will listen. Flowers awake from their winter slumber. Redbuds, Quaker ladies, rue anemone, and dead nettles fill the meadows and blanket the hills. The air is verdant with a honeysuckle perfume. Hilltops thaw and frigid meltwater rushes through the creeks in a bracing wash.
A new season. With new life. And yet.
A menacing orange haze tints these crossroads, threatening one of those violent spring thunderstorms. An ozone charge thickens the air. And still, they dance.
In for two, and back for two. In for two, and back for two. Jump to the right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back two, three, four. Back home, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back two, three, four.
They dance to a set of jigs picked out on a solo mandolin. Nothing but the Blarney Pilgrim, the Kesh Jig, and the Morris Jig. No trains, no barges, and even the crows know to mind their tongues. Only the click of a pick on the strings and feet shuffling in the dirt.
Right hands in center, turn clockwise for four, drop and turn with left hands in center, counter clockwise back home. Jump to the left, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back, two, three, four. Back home, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back, two, three, four.
Phinehas Dillinger was no prodigy. He is not a virtuoso. But by study and application he made himself into something of a solid session player. He holds his own alongside the fiddles and concertinas on a Thursday night down at The Owl and Eel. Other than a little ornamentation here and there, a simple hammer on or a pull off, his playing is sparse but devastating. Much like his fighting. Phinehas is not one for superfluous shows of emotion or undue sentiment, but he takes pride in his playing. There is a particular kind of honor in knowing what one wants, doing it of one’s own volition, and making something of oneself.
Pride. Honor. Integrity. Something Hiroshi Yukio once steered his course by. He stood as an example in a business where such qualities were often found lacking. But no more. Maybe Yukio struggled in his transition to professional wrestler, but so had many when they first joined PCW. What many had not done, though, was somehow, for some reason, align themselves with Alexa Black. Alexa Black, of all people. A complete anathema to all things Pure Class.
As such, Hiroshi has squandered his honor. And without honor, he is no sumo. He has brought shame upon Azumazeki.
Upon his family.
Upon himself.
And for what? Yukio may have made it to the second round of the Icemann Invitational Tournament, but as of Trauma 232 the smart money says he will be no closer to fame and fortune (fear and respect? What are you after?) than when he was but a humble-yet-honorable sumo. A voice crying out in the wilderness. Those days are gone. Along with any respect anyone may have once held for him.
What now, Yukio?
Examine your conscience.
His conscience at rest, Phinehas stands on a stone left behind as a barn’s foundation. A stone which had been repurposed from a megalithic monument to pagan reasoning. Phinehas stands and plays backlit by May Day bonfires. The May Pole already consigned to the flames. Its ribbons torn off and twisted into a rope for…well, later festivities back in the town square.
Smoke and cinders rise in a bittersweet shimmer. The dancers have smudged their faces with ashes from the fires. Have masked themselves in patterns of their own design.
Left hands in center, turn counter clockwise for four, drop and turn with right hands in center, clockwise back home. Gent turns to the lady on his right, sink and grind on right foot twice. Take right hands and turn in a circle. Gent faces the lady on his left, sink and grind on right foot twice. Take left hands and circle home.
May. Spring. Not to be confused with any other season. These winds are not cold. Are they? The corn has just been planted, and the sheaves will not be gathered for some time. The fox is safe from the hunt for now. They all wait in expectation of the blooming, not a withering on the vine. Roots and branches have not yet rotted. Ghosts do not trouble them. Not yet.
The trios take hands in a line and step in for two, back for two. Drop hands, pass right shoulders, and take up the dance with a new set.
They dance through these shorter nights. So, yes, spring…
…but it is always Harvest Time in Hangtown.
A new season. With new life. And yet.
A menacing orange haze tints these crossroads, threatening one of those violent spring thunderstorms. An ozone charge thickens the air. And still, they dance.
In for two, and back for two. In for two, and back for two. Jump to the right, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back two, three, four. Back home, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back two, three, four.
They dance to a set of jigs picked out on a solo mandolin. Nothing but the Blarney Pilgrim, the Kesh Jig, and the Morris Jig. No trains, no barges, and even the crows know to mind their tongues. Only the click of a pick on the strings and feet shuffling in the dirt.
Right hands in center, turn clockwise for four, drop and turn with left hands in center, counter clockwise back home. Jump to the left, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back, two, three, four. Back home, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Up, hop back, hop back, two, three, four.
Phinehas Dillinger was no prodigy. He is not a virtuoso. But by study and application he made himself into something of a solid session player. He holds his own alongside the fiddles and concertinas on a Thursday night down at The Owl and Eel. Other than a little ornamentation here and there, a simple hammer on or a pull off, his playing is sparse but devastating. Much like his fighting. Phinehas is not one for superfluous shows of emotion or undue sentiment, but he takes pride in his playing. There is a particular kind of honor in knowing what one wants, doing it of one’s own volition, and making something of oneself.
Pride. Honor. Integrity. Something Hiroshi Yukio once steered his course by. He stood as an example in a business where such qualities were often found lacking. But no more. Maybe Yukio struggled in his transition to professional wrestler, but so had many when they first joined PCW. What many had not done, though, was somehow, for some reason, align themselves with Alexa Black. Alexa Black, of all people. A complete anathema to all things Pure Class.
As such, Hiroshi has squandered his honor. And without honor, he is no sumo. He has brought shame upon Azumazeki.
Upon his family.
Upon himself.
And for what? Yukio may have made it to the second round of the Icemann Invitational Tournament, but as of Trauma 232 the smart money says he will be no closer to fame and fortune (fear and respect? What are you after?) than when he was but a humble-yet-honorable sumo. A voice crying out in the wilderness. Those days are gone. Along with any respect anyone may have once held for him.
What now, Yukio?
Examine your conscience.
His conscience at rest, Phinehas stands on a stone left behind as a barn’s foundation. A stone which had been repurposed from a megalithic monument to pagan reasoning. Phinehas stands and plays backlit by May Day bonfires. The May Pole already consigned to the flames. Its ribbons torn off and twisted into a rope for…well, later festivities back in the town square.
Smoke and cinders rise in a bittersweet shimmer. The dancers have smudged their faces with ashes from the fires. Have masked themselves in patterns of their own design.
Left hands in center, turn counter clockwise for four, drop and turn with right hands in center, clockwise back home. Gent turns to the lady on his right, sink and grind on right foot twice. Take right hands and turn in a circle. Gent faces the lady on his left, sink and grind on right foot twice. Take left hands and circle home.
May. Spring. Not to be confused with any other season. These winds are not cold. Are they? The corn has just been planted, and the sheaves will not be gathered for some time. The fox is safe from the hunt for now. They all wait in expectation of the blooming, not a withering on the vine. Roots and branches have not yet rotted. Ghosts do not trouble them. Not yet.
The trios take hands in a line and step in for two, back for two. Drop hands, pass right shoulders, and take up the dance with a new set.
They dance through these shorter nights. So, yes, spring…
…but it is always Harvest Time in Hangtown.
