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Perhaps it was the middle of April in the past year that I first started thinking about boing. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the sun; the dappled fall of pink-filtered light upon my hands and the stone bench I sat on; the carpet of sakura petals on the ground around me. Yes, it must have been the spring time, and I was taking a walk around the neighbouring park, for I remember a feeling of idleness as I sat observing the falling sakura petals from my bench. Boing. The reverberating sound in the otherwise silent park called to me, and I looked for its source. I peered through the idly falling sakura petals. My eye lodged for a moment upon the pool of sakura petals on the field opposite my bench, and the old story of the stained and tattered battle pennant came into my mind. I thought of the the company of stained and tattered samurai, kneeling with swords in hand. Boing. Rather to my relief the sound interrupted the thought, for it is a thought based more in my mind than in the history told by the museum guide, a thought that reflected more of me than would perhaps be wise. Boing. There it is! The source of the boing. A child bouncing a ball against the trunk of an old and large sakura tree.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then leave it… Perhaps in an effort to protect ourselves? Boing. I wonder if that child is alone, for if he is, then he is sure to be from the neighbourhood. Boing. What wrong might that old sakura tree have done to him, for him to keep assaulting it with his pink ball. The irony. Throwing it with all his childish might, impacting that old tree repeatedly. Boing. Boing. Boing. The tree becomes increasingly bald as the petals fall before their three day lifespan is up, and the green buds meant to replace them are not yet ready. Boing. The lower branches of the half closer to the boy look dead. Has the boy’s childish tantrum succeeded in killing the ancient tree? Is this a portent of the future, of the young killing the old in a fit of temper? Of beauty being lost to anger? Is the world… Boing, boing, boing. The ball has escaped his grasp. The boy no longer lives.
My eyes follow the ball as it bounces onto the pathway. Boing, boing, boing. It gives one last boing against the foot of a teenage girl, then it is still, dead. The girl is arguing with a teenage boy. They seem to be a couple. Yet those passions appear negative. She is screaming. At him. I get only a few scattered words that the wind brings to my ears. Liar. Cheater. She throws a small glittering object at him. Over. Dead. She raises her hand, and with all her wronged might, she brings her hand down towards his face. Boing. The sound of her slap reverberates through the silent park, leaving an impression even after they both run off, the girl first and the boy chasing after her. His calls of her name fade quickly with their departure. But even after they both pass from the world of the park, the boing of her slap reverberates and remains.
Boing. The sound lingers in the silent park. It lingers in the minds of those who hear it. It lingers. It lives and is defined by itself. It is boing, for it reverberates. It is the product of a counterforce that pushes its cause in the opposite direction, but only after impact with its victim. Boing is not confined to mere childish games. Constraints on it merely reflect the fear of those who seek to control it. It goes beyond a spring; beyond a bouncing ball; beyond the childhood game of boing-boing. The use of force and the necessity of impact so central to the concept of boing requires the presence of a victim, on whom the force is exerted and the impact experienced. The reverberating sound of boing requires a sufficient force, such that its reflection breaks the silence and gains a life of its own. Boing requires a victim to be hurt. Its repetition shows a form of enjoyment of violence; a type of sadism on the part of those who go “boing-boing” in the name of amusement. They trivialise boing in an effort to deny their sadism. But even in the trivial…
Boing. In the distance. On a day much like this pink-tinted one, but filtered in red instead of pink. A pale hand, tipped with finely manicured nails lacquered blood-red. A glittering knife, held firmly by the red-taloned hand. Brought up, much like the girl’s hand, in preparation of descending. Swoosh. The knife cuts through the air. It impacts its victim. Boing. The knife springs back up, bringing with it a pool of red. Swoosh. Boing. The pale hand is now completely red. Swoosh. Boing. Swoosh. Boing. Swoosh. Boing. The pool of red spreads ever wider. Swoosh. Boing. Suddenly, the red hand stops.
Bo-boing. Bo-boing. The beat of the pierced heart drives ever more red out of the victim. The red hand is distracted by it. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. The opposing forces of expansion and contraction that act on that red heart forces red out of it. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. It finishes the task of the red hand’s swoosh-boing. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. It spreads red all over the ground. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. All over the red lady who is attached to the red hand. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. All over the mind. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. The mind is forever stained by the red boing. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. It becomes defined by that boing. Bo-boing. Bo-boing. That boing reverberates through time and space. Bo-boing. Bo… It lives beyond the existence of its victim. It possesses a form of pleasure for its source. That boing, in its perfection, it completes…
“Boing-boing” followed by laughter. An red-tinted old woman is poking her own cheeks. She uses boing-boing as an onomatopoeia to encourage the baby in front of her to do the same. I peer at the baby. I can only see her in profile. She lifts her soft chubby hands in preparation. The old woman and I still. Become silent. Then lean forward in anticipation and hope. Hope that her boing can break the thrall of that red-soaked boing. She pauses, turns and our gazes collide. White to red. I gasp as the red cascades over her. Her plump features are washed away by the sea of red. Only her skull remains. Her skull and her cherubic cheeks. Her hands descend. Boing-boing. Accompanied by her jaw falling open in a macabre parody of a smile. I become drawn into this image. I reach for my knife, my glittering knife, to make it a reality. To preserve this image, and add this innocent red boing into my collection of boings. I feel the pleasure of boing calling to me. My eyes are locked onto the red eye sockets of that cherub-cheeked skull. I gather myself to stand. Boing.
I snap out of my red daze. I see the pink-filtered light on my empty hands. Boing. The boy has found his pink ball. He is bouncing it on the pathway as he walks away. Boing. Boing. Boing. He is revived.
“Boing-boing” followed by laughter, again. The pink old woman is poking her cheeks. The baby raises her pink chubby arms. She brings them down. Boing-boing. they bounce off her pink cherubic cheeks. Her eyes glitter and her pink mouth opens in a baby smile as she issues her babyish gurgling laughter. Innocent. Unsullied. Pure. The old woman repeats her “boing-boing,” this time in tune with the baby’s movements. Boing-boing. “Boing-boing.” Boing-boing. “Boing-boing.” Boing-boing. “Boing-boing.”
I look at my pink hands, tipped with their red talons. I take a deep breath of sakura-scented air. I lift my hands. I clench my fists. I close my eyes. I see only a pink-tinted darkness. Boing-boing. “Boing-boing.”
THE END