samurai jack's table across the street caught my eye, which is no surprise; it's a most entrancing table.
the curve on top; i can't get over it. mostly, because i know the curve of the table matches the curve of samurai jack's samurai sword. it is no accident, either. the man gets shit done in a meaningful manner.
he built that table one meticulous moment after another last summer. i witnessed the event, which was pure genius in action and way better than tv.
it would be no surprise to me if the angle of his sword and table match the angle of the outside of the earth.
my dream is to see samurai jack, sometime this summer, with a long roll of fresh, uncut sushi set out before him on his perfectly curved table.
in a well-calculated instant, he slices the sushi into perfect little pieces. he delivers the first piece to his tiny asian daughter with the end of his sword. she giggles, eats it, smiles and hugs samurai jack. he transfers the second piece to his little asian wife, and she reacts exactly as the daughter did. the third piece, samurai jacks feeds to a squirrel.
i make eye contact with samurai jack.
he waves me over.
an energy comes over me and pulls me toward the table. i don't even feel like i'm walking. i'm gliding. samurai jack takes my palm and faces it up. the samurai sword rapidly, yet gently cuts me down the middle of my palm.
samurai jack squashes my hand into the table.
my blood soaks into the curved wood.
i eat a sushi from the sword.
i walk back to my porch without saying anything, knowing that something has occurred here, not knowing exactly what.
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