An explosive anime available only on Amazon Prime (read: domestic legal), is the Kabaneri of the Iron Fortress, coming from Musashino, Japan. It is (gratefully) streamed in its native language (though subbed) and all of season one is available (12 eps overall).
Mumei by WLOP
Kabaneri follows the story of a post-apocalyptic, steam-age universe where 'kabane' (glowy zombies) have spread their virus across industrial era Japan. As a response, the people have walled themselves up (see the parallel's with Attack on Titan?) at strongholds that serve as railway points. Their only lifeline to one another, for critical supplies and information, is to run armored trains to and from. The lives of the people are governed by this mobile source of protection and information.
The two primary characters, Ikoma, an unappreciated engineer and creator of a weapon that better kills the kabane (who have only the heart as their weak spot), and, Mumei, a mysterious young noblewoman who can also dispatch the kabane with some ease. What sets these two on the same path is they are both (little spoiler) a hybrid of human and kabane, thus the term kabaneri. They still have their human wits about them, but hunger for blood, and have stemmed the spread of their disease.
Mumei by Guweiz
Where Kabaneri succeeds where I feel Attack does not, is that the story is more limited in scope, the characters not so world-weary (there are actual moments of happiness that are not broken by abject destruction). The fight sequences are well thought-out and not as groan-worthy as some of the deaths of the Attack kids.
I'm including two great artists that captured Mumei's vulnerability and fierce warrior stylings - WLOP and Guweiz from DeviantArt.
"Requiem"
By Bei Dao, translated by Eliot Weinberger
for Shanshan
The wave of that year
flooded the sands on the mirror
to be lost is a kind of leaving
and the meaning of leaving
the instant when all languages
are like shadows cast from the west
life's only a promise
don't grieve for it
before the garden was destroyed
we had too much time
debating the implications of a bird flying
as we knocked down midnight's door
alone like a match polished into light
when childhood's tunnel
led to a vein of dubious ore
to be lost is a kind of leaving
and poetry rectifying life
rectifies poetry's echo
He didn't go to work Tuesday. He had drifted in and out of sleeplessness. Overeating. He felt on the verge of sickness but nothing clearly came to hurt. A funk.
He tried not to think of her. Yet he made another outing Monday after work. This time he did ask. It's amazing how little people even pay attention. The guy at the comic store said he didn't even remember me. I've been going there every month for three years.
He switched to straight cigarettes, as much as he could not afford them. He went through the whole pack ("stockade" cigarettes, the cheapest he could find in the vendie), sitting on his balcony, the sky knowing it wouldn't rain, but stayed grey anyway. He went through his current playlist twice ("grey_18sep32"), almost two hours per. Every part of him cried out now that she was gone. His skin ached, his eyes burned, there was a mild, nagging pain in the back of his head, right above the neck.
He went to work on Wednesday and got chewed out for not making quota. "You are non-functioning, Charlie, you are on the verge of being on assistance." He wanted to laugh at that. Everyone was on assistance. It only meant getting a little less. I don't care. Who does?
...
The call came on Thursday, after work. He was just getting a bit better, back on track a little more. He was at his console and his phone glowed green. Eversong Administration Plant.
"Yes?" Glowing spring tides and butterflies came to him when he realized that Eversong had her: they would only call for that reason.
"Charles Johann?"
"Charlie. Yes."
"We have her."
...
He had to wait until work was over but he got there right at dusk. He tried not to look too anxious, but the week of worry had done enough. She'll know that I missed her, then.
He walked into Eversong and had to wait for a technician. "You should have had an appointment."
"No one told me of an appointment."
"You hung up before I could tell you."
He waited for an hour and forty minutes. A kid came out, couldn't be a year out of university.
"You here for Magdalena? Follow me."
When he walked into a little diagnostic room, she sat with her back to the door. He didn't say anything, hoping that she would turn around and pour tears into his chest. Her face was already half-turned, but she did not move. She did not blink.
After a few minutes of silence, he saw the kid was staring at him. He bristled in his skin.
"Where...?" Charlie asked, not knowing what to ask otherwise.
"As far as we can tell, she wandered all the way to the Cape. There's a beach there that is all rock."
"Fleur Point."
He nodded then looked at his screen. "By what I could tell by GPS, she was there Thursday afternoon. She didn't move. A park ranger found her underneath some rocks. The exposure made a mess of her recorder." He walked around her, still discerning, "I ran diagnostics. I could see that she fell into rampancy spiral. I know this means you both were very close. I..." He trailed off, they both knew there was a falling out.
Charlie just nodded and put his hand on her shoulder. She was cold. Her flesh was not the usual gelatinous feel, it was as if rocks were underneath the surface. She did not move. Her eyes were open, but cloudy. There was no power.
"I'm sorry. She was a grant?"
He nodded in response and that would end the conversation. She was provided by the Counsel on a grant. If you lose one, you cannot get a replacement. Charlie would never be close to buying his own. He was escorted out of the room, but he stood near a door where he could look in at her.
They ran a circuit to Maggie from a service port, which made her go into a fetal position, easier for movement. They covered Maggie in a translucent bag and that was it.
...
They tell you to never to take pictures. They tell you not to get too close. It's a joke, they do this to control us. They put us in a cocoon until we are broken and we don't care if they pull us out.
There were many pictures, he didn't realize how many. He dug through two thousand until he found it. The time they went there. She wore her hair up. It was a brisk day, but she only had on a black vertical shirt and white cut-offs. She had these little, cute white boating shoes on. She smiled at him and he remembered smiling back.
As he predicted (although he mixed the word in his head, a miswire in elementary, to "predicated") Maggie disappeared. It had been three days. Three days and I only just thought of her. Work, drinks, dinner, home, repeat. Three days since she paused in the doorway. He slept in on Saturday morning, stretched and enjoyed the freedom of no one there.
...
That night. "Where'd she go?" He didn't look at Bryon. Instead intent on the thick drops of condensation on his mug, turned into dark lines. They ran down the glass and across the glass top. This was the worst kind of drunk. Too angry to feel good, too nauseated that the swooning hurt. An induced swirl, like riding the teacups at gunpoint.
"Do you c-?" The bartender hit the flat of the sink with a frozen bottle. It pushed grey slush to the bottle's lip. She cut it with ouzo and stirred it into a tall glass with a handmade black licorice. Who the f*ck would drink that?
"What?"
"Do you care? I mean do you really, really care?" Ugh, that word. By pulled the rest of his Killians down and fingered for another. Til' didn't even need to acknowledge, her curly dark hair swirled around as she expertly grabbed, pulled and mixed for everyone. Her eyes had a green tinge on their extremities, as did her lipstick. She was awful at conversation. So bad that no one even bothered anymore.
"I..." don't. But he couldn't let it out. It was overly brash. He did not care, but it wasn't right to put it out there, not like that. It's not a fair thing to ask, not yet. "And you, By, do you care if Lola left you, then?"
He smiled his crooked, stupid smile. He was pissed tipsy, hovering in place. A lumbering giant of a guy, with wicked crooked teeth, like how he pictured the Artful Dodger should look. Crooked teeth are the sign of a crooked heart. Byron smelled like sh*t, too.
"You know their kind right?" And, then "I don't let her leave." He leaned into the bar to stop the rotation. Take off your jacket, you smell like Doritos and piss. Byron stared ahead and didn't say a word for a few minutes. His face struggled with something, then grew dark, "Who wants to be lonely, then? Eh?"
He waved to Til' for another one. The bar top glowed with the bill. I hit the limit. He quickly flipped Byron's drinks off of it, approved and pressed his finger down. A new bill flashed in front of Byron and he bristled straightaways. "What's this then?"
"I can't afford you, By. I didn't make quota this week," it was true.
"Well, sh*t. I don't have skrill." That was true too.
He sipped his drink, "Not my problem."
...
He left right after, not knowing if he would ever see him again. Edifying = no. I just fell into hanging out.
He swung around the places he knew that Maggie would go, only stopping short of asking around.
At the Juice he walked around the solid walls of sound, the lights turning in and out of color, texture, or switching to laser. They walked all around him, taking it all in. It worked better if they moved. The music was what you would typically expect at a club, but it was off by one bar, it was off on a back beat, or just that little something so you knew it was not right.
He made a beeline straight for the bookstore. He felt the instant ebb of warmness that his hunch was right. She would be there (like solving a puzzle more than anything else). What would I do if she is there?
He stopped and peered through the window. It was a spot he knew no one could see him and he didn't look like a creep. I would just say 'hi', perhaps she would say something alarming enough for me to sit. We would talk for fifteen. It would be nice, actually she would make sure to keep it light, light enough to have him sit and enjoy the conversation after so long a week, after so many drinks. They would talk and realize they should order a tea. I wouldn't even have to ask, I know she likes English Breakfast with creme and sugar, no honey. They would talk and then, after a time she would talk about one of his favorite books, something deep she would offer and he would, almost unknowingly, ask her to explain her posit. Then, they would walk and find themselves at home. "Come up." "No." "You should, come on, it's late and its silly not to. Just sleep, nothing else, I swear." But then they would talk more, like old friends. It has been three days. And they would stare at one another, or feel one another's hands. The warmness, the loneliness rushing over his member and it all would go. And it would be that sweet love. Slow and tender, thoughtful and when she came she would pull a little tuft of hair on the back of his head and breath into his face. Her breath was always incredible.
He felt himself get hard and shifted. She's not here.
He walked another two miles, hitting parks, stores, a 24-hour pizzeria. Wherever Maggie was, it was not in this little part of the world. Where the f*ck is she? He would call, but she didn't have a phone.
And that's how it went. He satiated her, somehow, by simply being present. He floated around her as she went on, oblivious. He was a ghost to her living, There is a point where it is easier to remain quiet and allow life to happen otherwise.
She hung on his arm as he floated to the bakery in the morning, the library or the bookstore during the day, and making love at night.
She has to see that I don't exist. He only caught her eyes in fits, never admitting that he was not looking at them at all. If he had noticed, he would have seen them through the filter of his own dissatisfaction, her eyes would have been black orbs. But she went on and talked and sweated and came. He came infrequently, and only when he forgot himself and the friction of sex took over.
"Where are you?" She grabbed his face and made him stare at her. Her deep brown eyes glowed. She smile so perfectly he had to admit feeling. Then he sunk it down, pushed the feeling below the three weeks of inertia. He remembered to feel nothing and stared at her. "You don't love me anymore?" She lay back away from him, instantly cooling his chest as she did so. Her breasts lilted back and her nipples pointed to the ceiling. "Did you ever love me, I wonder?"
He lay there and a feeling of losing her came upon him, and he thought that it did multiple times the last three weeks. And, when her perceived threat to leave came, he felt it pull upon him like an anchor. "Of course I love you. I have said it many times." Maybe too many times. That was true.
She turned away from him to expose her roundness. Her curves from shoulder to thigh were impeccable. He wanted to reach out touch it, knowing that this was going to end.
"Saying is one thing, dear. Did you really mean it?"
He turned in his skin, he hated the word 'really'. It was unnecessary. It seemed to be a word loaded with narcissism, loaded with the need to justify. "I said it," flatly. He got up, sat up. His back cooled and it felt good. He half turned his head to her back, "What do you want me to say? Aren't we together? Did we just make love?"
"These are actions. You have not shown me any affection." Silence at truth.
She started to get dressed. I didn't know she could show shame, he thought. She pulled her breasts into the form-fitted soft cups, their shape ever appealing to him as he watched. "Something changed." She pulled up her stockings and he rose, happy that she was going to leave. Happy so he wouldn't say what needed to be said. She would go away for a day, maybe two. He would cool off, forget about her. Hate himself when he caught the fact that he hadn't thought about her. Make some plans with his friends. Read a book and be alone. No one nearby to ask an insipid question. It's as if the questions get more inane the more this goes on. Why doesn't see get frustrated and not come back. Why do I have to be the one to do something. He didn't see through his own weakness.
She was dressed and he was naked. He had blankly pulled on a vape stick, which seemed to be ever near. This week was gin. Not only did it have the high, crisp smell of it, but apparently it was infused with a bit of the alcohol. He blew it to cover the smirk on his face. This part wasn't bad: she goes away for a few days, however and whatever 'they' do. It didn't matter. It was the coming back that was getting more difficult.
She didn't even say 'bye' this time. She always had to get the last word in, but this time was different. He felt the pang, the small little ache he was going to lose her this time, but it was sadly getting better. Maggie paused at the door, for a good few seconds. At this, he stopped breathing. He hadn't seen that before, Maybe she finally had enough. Maybe she cannot go on like this.' She walked out, slamming the door slightly, but didn't say a word. One thing he did stop himself, every time, was never belittle her verbally. It was too cruel, even for him.
"Hm," he said and took another drag. The exertion of sex, the coolness of sweat as it dries...it mixes so well with the pull of a stick. He didn't have any more real alcohol, but that would've rounded out the feeling he needed. Instead, he sat, naked, in the dining room, pulling on the vape until he ran it dry. He stared out at the quiet city. The gray light and white dots, spilling white light on the sides of the buildings. Oddly, there were no sounds of either car or sirens.
Her hands trembled. Trembled slightly but perceptibly. She pushed a knife through a small green apple with her left hand. The uneven weight saw the apple teeter back and forth upon its edge. With her other hand, a green vape. It glowed along its length, a thin stripe that ebbed with use. It glowed anew when she took another pull. That hand trembled too. She tried to hide it by balancing it on her knee, "It's fine. It was bound to happen after all."
Her legs pulled into the cushion of the kitchen chair, black Converse tucked underneath her. The black stockings were ripped in places, in small circles. Her pristine pale skin underneath. Her comfort was the overlarge denim jacket. Maggie.
"Who says? You?" I took a drag on my stick. Where hers was green apple, predictably, mine was a weekly change. This time it was 'chrome'. It had a steel taste on the finish, finely tuned with the tobacco. I let it drain out slowly, vape covering my face. It gave me a second's peace.
I felt crowded. I felt restless and unhappy, which did not bode well for me or for my generation. We
fight against it constantly. I fought against the urge to pull out my phone and read whatever. It was already 9:18 and I would have gone through my pattern already. As the smoke cleared, she hadn't answered my question. It turned rhetorical.
Her, "It's Saturday."
I let her declarative lay there. What it meant was, 'What are we doing today?' I had no answer. I want to get out and run. I wanted to get out in the air. I wanted to go upstate. I wanted Saratoga Springs. I wanted Yaddo. I wanted to cut a vein and let it bleed along hand hewn paper. Scream. Breathe.
"Your face is dark," She took a drag and finally got the pinion on the knife, slicing a quarter of the apple. She picked it up and her half gone lipstick enveloped it. She chewed and made it always look cool. Her sunglasses, round and dark, never budged even when crunching on fruit. If I did it, they would bounce like a f*cking kangaroo. I sincerely am not cool.
"You're wearing sunglasses, darling." She made a grunt like a 'hm' and cut another slice. The smell of the apple infused the air.
Maggie. We first met, as was planned on the app, at the Parlor Pachinko in Fontana. She intoxicated me even before we met in person. Her breathing on the phone, heavier than most, came across with dazzling answers. The breathing sounded like she unmounted a wildebeest.
Me, "What are you into?" Dumb. Why?
"What am I not?" Pause. Breath, "Opera. Arcades. F*cking. Temperance. Old movies. Walks in the rain. What kind of f*cking question is that? It's so broad as to be worthless, it's so general as to be boorish."
"Shit." It was like a punch.
"Yeah," I had to meet her that day. And she walked in, as she looks now. Dark and denim. Hose and tennies. She walked with a swagger, not like a CG character. No offense, but there was femininity here. I'll f*cking say that in public, even if I am fined for it. I embrace my masculinity, and why shouldn't I? I may not have the right as dictated by the Clorventate, but I have some rights of free will, as warranted by the fussy fashions of the Assemblage. Whatever. Her body suited me. Her breath, a mix of vape and last night's lemonicello tea had me instantly hard. Her lips were like pillows. God bless us young and our prime. We f*cked like rabbits for weeks. I lost track of time and responsibility. I only remember hydration.
"Let's go to the comics store, Maggie," I said ignoring her. She got up to expose her lack of undergarments and my remembering, throbbing member made me wake up. Not enough to grab her and have her, like she was slyly trying for, but she had me again, at least for the day.
...
We wandered around The Dash, but I was found it better outside. I sipped at a crisp, cool red ginseng soda (I didn't recog the label) and it woke my slogging behind. I breathed in the city. DLA was clean this time of year - not quite summer, not quite fall. It was cooler air coming off the north deserts through the buildings. It mixed with the languid humidity of the Pacific. It woke my mind (finally) to the day. The smell of udon and a dark, rich soy sauce (frying?) lofted along the street.
She surprised me by jumping into my back. Her arms around me, her cheek resting on my neck. It was then I knew. It was then she bothered me. She broke my oneness with the moment. I let her hang there but I looked at the triangle of sunlight down the edge of Factory Place as it met Alameda and mildly cursed the weight on my shoulders. Knowledge is a dull, monotone thunder.
"Raymond Roy Ruth Herbet [sic]"
- August 14th 2016
The back of a crudely shorn bookmark, Louise Gluck, "Poems 1962-2012" Raymond Roy Ruth Herbet
Raymond with a languid finding of the 'a'
Roy and Ruth more sure
And Herbet incomplete
If it only had an 's' to start
A sweeter man he'd be.
...
Crawling back from the blankness
Promised darkness
In a thousand well read lines
But it lacked a colour, it lacks the blush
of light or dark.
The river was deep as it was wide
An ocean to most
Although I knew its shores on either side
Outlined its flow
And it glittered and played
And moved, horrifyingly so,
Its mass unstopped
And, for years, it was such,
And, for years, I was silent
A dam, but I watched
quietly and the shores defined
by the careful method of earth
that is constantly moving
but we simply cannot feel
The dam broke
And the torrents flowed and
We know their course
Perhaps I knew its end
Glorious as it were
The poetry of motion
Its curves, its grace
The momentous, clear
Dark clear
The reveries stilled
And I saw it gone
The blankness came
While in the desert
How apt now that it has come
Upon me, no blush
in lighted memory
But this
