"Flying squirrel": This image consists of only squares but appears to be distorted. pic.twitter.com/STRkmOSQmq— Akiyoshi Kitaoka (@AkiyoshiKitaoka) April 21, 2017
Sunday, April 23, 2017
Friday, April 21, 2017
In the night town, it is pitch dark. An endless column of people stand in the road, each row of women followed by a row of men. As one, each of the men pins a little padlock brooch to the side of the waist of the woman in front, quickly and easily. I try to pin mine to your waist but tear your dress a little, and so it fails. It's late. Now the last few from the crowd are dispersing and I'm in an empty car park above the park gates, but I can't find you. There is a steep, grassy hill which will be a shortcut down to the railings and the main gate, where I can almost catch up with the crowd. I edge down the narrow beaten track. But halfway, I think I will lose you completely this way, so I go back up to the car park. I think about taxis, but there aren't any at this hour. It occurs to me that I might contact you by phone. At first I try my smart phone. It has a wonderful but incomprehensible display of clockwork wheels and cogs, and I don't know how to work it. Then I try a tiny phone but it's dead. Walking home from town, out of the corner of my eye, a dark figure flits by on the other side. I make my way to some small, unfamiliar Dublin streets, where I'm not sure if there's anyone around.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
It's always in a crowded place, last time a concert, this time a meeting. I am always a little late arriving. When I get to you, I lean my face against yours, so you can tell me something in my ear. I notice you have blotchy skin, and are quite thin. You tell me something, but I can't make out the words.
Monday, January 30, 2017
I am anxious about my habit of always going naked at gatherings. I went to a small coffee shop to see the star. When I have taken off all my clothes, the place fills up. It's only a small shop. Soon we hear the sound of the star playing and singing, as Donovan appears. He hasn't changed much, a short guy. Everyone in the crowd is encouraged to get up and have their pictures taken. I feel a bit embarrassed. Where did I leave my clothes? They are strewn over two chairs. I put on underpants. "I'm an old hippie," I say.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Upstairs in this place. I'm going to take a string of pearls away with me. It's mine anyway, so that's okay. But then it's much longer than I thought. Twice round the neck is not enough. And apart from pearls in a row, I find it also has those chunky, fashionable glass and acrylic shapes. I'm worried now that it might not be mine, after all. I take it off and put it in my coat pocket where it barely fits. Down a flight of stairs and J.... is working on the landing floorboards, by an open door to a grand, empty room. Without ceasing to work, he makes his usual self-possessed and good-humored banter about me leaving. Normally I would stay a while and go into the room, but I'm too worried that he will notice the pocket of my coat bulging with the huge necklace, which I try to keep turned away from him. Even though it was mine, I feel like I am stealing it from the house.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
In a hotel room. The small picture is doing something terrible, something it doesn't want anyone else to know. What it was is about to vanish from my mind, so I put it on the corner of the bed, and try to capture it by filming with my phonecam. But it resists by creating a deafening sound and starting to burn, the more I try to get an angle to record it, the more intense the burning. It burns like magnesium, only crimson. There's someone at the door. I answer, though all will be lost. A person is there and there are many other people looking out of their doors or near their doors in the corridor. "Your music is very loud."