荒木の作品 (Japanese photographer Nobuyoshi Araki)
Dispatching lone smoke signals from my little room upstairs in California.
In one single swing, beheaded was the maiden in the red felt pen. Some guy punched her arm and ran away. Why me? She wondered. The water drifted thoughts along with debris from overworked lizards. She asked the concrete floor why she had to give herself to nearly everyone that passes her way.
Feeling torn, worn out with countless ins and outs in the bedroom, how can she stand up again the next day to meet the sun that blazes on through the blinds? It showers inevitably onto her face – the warmth makes her feel sick.
Love is force fed to the point that she can’t handle it anymore. Love that’s sad and lonely, a kind of love where you can’t do anything. Mom grips these small slices of time and compartmentalizes them, preserves them into flux boxes. Love is filling every categorical rim. Will you be ok mom? It’s a kind of love that’s slipping as time tells us it’s time things change.
Yasujiro Ozu, must we let time carry us through?
Akira Kurosawa, come with me and we’ll fight against it!
Muffled as she sinks below the covers, there’s rustling as the futon rumbles. Whoa, she’s wrestling with the caress of the polyester sheets! How brave! More rustling, more wrestling, but pretty soon… she gives in.
Mom, you are so brave.
To collect and calculate her strength is to stare a raging bull right in the eye. How did you take care of us all these years? How can I ever surmount this preposterous love to some stranger the way you’ve given so much love to my little sister and I?
Mom, I’ll take care of you. Where would you like to go?
Kobo Abe, I don’t want to squirm around in the sand anymore. It’s uncomfortable and I can’t get rid of the sand. The shore isn’t even that far away from the dunes! You lied, I’ve been to Tottori to see it for myself.
A slap in the face. Don’t say such things! Some things just are the way they are. I drink in her wisdom and I drown myself deep into submission. Every sound that encompassed the shack amped itself up, demanding its presence.
To that I raise my cigarette.
emptysignified 