Musashi Mix Inq

Palliativity 112: Jump-Cut — The Lost Decade

Posted on December 31, 2010

Jump Cut

We are Generation Jump-cut the abrupt change of tempo; the endless burst of disruption.

We are captivated by the fast flicker in the mirror.

Without lift, we ride onward on pure momentum. The promises of endless possibility in the shadow of the past millenium.

We are the sophmore slump.

Where did the good go?

Embrace the Collosus in the corner: Welcome to the End of the Oughts.

Jump-cut: Continuity is not the goal. Rhythm: communication lost in the fall.

We are Atlas's cigarette-break, the bang-brushing unreadable shrug.

Like the single-geared track-bike, we un-invent the wheel.

We are the Roadwarriors of Goodwill; Vintage without the Vantage.

Y2K+X=Then. Analog turns to Digital.

Our war is syndicated before the bodies go cold. Terror is knowing what only could have been...

We have outgrown the old gods and harvest the blood of titans; a greasy fingerprint on the face of a world dug hollow.

This is my 1080HD Resolution.

Jump-cut— don't think too long. We are the break-beat, one-two punch to the soul.

We are malapropism misfits flash-mobbing at the end of the rainbow. Though distant, we are in constant contact.

Through viral memes we see the face of god.

Don't blink. It's already over.

<¤•∞•¤>

Here's to tropes and new beginning. Here's to toasts and winter nights.
All I ask is that we keep spinning, and give us each our chance to-

Fight the Future, Save the Past

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Jump Cut

2000

The Lost Decade

On Thestral Wings

Posted on December 29, 2010

1921-2008

Grandma,

I miss you —

Those hands that held me tight and crafted hundreds of agezushi, played cards and taught me to cook, rubbed my stomach when it hurt and wiped tears from my eyes. Those hands that picked flowers in the dust-bowl sun and found hope in the desert that no barbed-wire could contain. The hands that held this family together for generations and taught me what it means to live a good life.

You were there when I graduated college and blessed me on my wedding day. You have always been my wings. When I miss you, I only have to lie down and dream - I fetch you your green tea and your smile shines bright enough that I awaken and call for you in the dark...

Ξ

Grandma

Forever, a piece of me will be sitting on your couch two years ago, holding your hand. Three gerations frozen in a moment beyond the bounds of time. We counted breaths and stroked your hair. Like Daruma, you sat and faded. You asked us where your mother was and I knew you would be with her soon.

We dropped you more morphine and removed the oxygen. Mercy is no longer just a word to me. Dignity is as firm as marble.

Palliativity, the culling tide.

On Sundays, I burn incence bright and place fruit and flowers on the alter. I ring the singing bowl and with hands together retrace the steps you made to honor those who came before and pray for the generations to follow.

Amen.

Love,
David-chan

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Palliativity 111: New Perspective

Posted on December 23, 2010

new perspective

As a child, I was obsessed with symmetry. My inner window to the world was trying to find balance and order in a universe crafted by chaos. Decals on model planes. Parts in hair. The way my mittens overlapped my sleeves in late December. Legos at least had the decency to arrive in precise bricks.

My father gave me my first camera when I was two years old. In grade-school, I began developing my own pictures in our basement dark-room. I received my first Nikon SLR at the age of ten.

Photography taught me what it truly means to be fascinated by this floating world.

I learned that photography is a good walk spent chasing after your freinds/family as a result of waiting for that perfect moment to open the shutter.

In high-school, I learned that my natural perspective is a wide-angle lens; 18mm is how I see the world. Symmetry still held on tightly, but its grip had slackened on my lens.

As I began my digital collage art, I could see the endless possibility of combining pieces of my past experiences with those of others to create something greater.

Through the alchemy of imagery, I play witness to a silent battle across time and space. I discovered through hours behind the lens and the computer that one must see the big picture as well as the smallest detail on equal ground and weigh one's choices wisely:

Formal balance is dynamic symetry

We are all greater than the sum of our parts.

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Filed under: Blog, identity, Pain No Comments

Origins: Seven Breaths…

Posted on December 20, 2010

Fight the Future, Save the Past

4:28 PM; 5.28.05, ©MMV

Imperial Palace Hotel, Kyoto - 5.28.05 - age 21

5 years ago on a jetlag bender, I sat in the night-glow of my macbook screen. I was haunted by a captured image, a visage of a world in flux. The moment that my eye, camera lens and subject aligned in a perfect ray »CLICK« — I knew that a door inside of me had opened. Insomniac and meditative, I contemplated the threshold. 7 breaths—

"One should make decisions within the space of seven breaths— It is a matter of being determined and having the spirit to break right through to the other side." - The Hagakure

I uploaded and pondered the photograph with twitching palms and tinfoil in my teeth. I brought up my tool palette and began to work. Layer upon layer brought me closer to a feeling I'd been incubating for years and yet had never been able to express so completely.

When finished, I smiled knowing that there was no going back. To pierce through the veil of the floating world felt mischievous and exhilarating. This is where I belong. I aim to misbehave.

Kyoto Underground, ©MMV

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Palliativity 110: Altered States

Posted on December 16, 2010

altered states

Drugs are only recreational if you aren't trying to achieve anything. Depending on the individual, almost any activity can be seen as a type A or type B experience. What kind of ride are you in for?

For most users, drugs are meta-tainment; a self-fulfilling hypocrisy— MSG for the soul;
De-mented reality.

For me, its time to get to work...

When I'm flying free on shattered wings the angels cull the sirens down to sleep. Distracted by the dancing charms of sandal-snapping steps, thoughts echo crisply through my fingertips. My soul pings my head— status:
[¤] Away, you may be interrupting.

Layers and filters overflow. Pain is just one of many channels— I am aware of the signals that rebound through my nervous system, but I'm listening to another station dialed up to 11. This dreamcast is governed by the laws of entrippy. All your base are belong to none; a divide by zero clerical terror.

I blast over the landscape and excavate. Knees on frozen dirt, I dig until I find the way back to a time before the fall: Identity lost in the salvage. I find a pair of familiar eyes in the earth and a bright, pale face. I bring up the body and hug its form to me. Its arms stir and return my embrace. Tears, blood and dirt.

Pain in the deep and beauty in my eyes.
Bring us that horizon.

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Filed under: Blog, identity, Pain No Comments

Operation Vengeance: 56 Down

Posted on December 13, 2010

Operation Vengeance: 56 Down, ©MMX

For a time, Isoroku Yamamoto (山本 五十六), ruled the Pacific. As Naval Marshal General and the Commander-in-Chief of the Combined Fleet, Yamamoto was the Empire's greatest weapon. For hundreds of years the united nation of Japan had stifled and romanticized the glory days of war and honor when swords were not merely symbols of stature. If Japan was the scabbard, then Yamamoto was the blade. Despite inferior numbers, supplies and technology, Yamamoto stacked victory upon victory; a warrior in a warrior's time.

And so in a world at war, FDR put out a hit on one man.

"Operation Vengeance" was what they called it. The "sneak-attack" on Pearl Harbor still hung heavy in the heart of the United States. Revenge is rarely named for what it is. "Operation Vengeance" was born out of desire rather than strategy (think of the "hunt for bin Laden"). The United States had broken the Japanese broadcast codes long before and had worked carefully to keep the Japanese unaware. A high-profile assassination of could destroy this tactical advantage.

On April 18, 1943, Easter Sunday and the first anniversary of the  Doolittle Raid, a large group of specially outfitted P-38 Lightnings took off from Guadalcanal. They made contact with Yamaoto's escort group over Buin. The Betty bomber carrying Japan's most precious asset was shot down and crashed into jungle below. Upon returning to base, the words"I got Yamaoto" lit up the Allied radio: Mission Accomplished.

The Japanese quickly began searching for the body of their Commander. What they discovered was a mythic, epic and fitting end. Yamamoto's flight chair was thrown from the wreckage and sat upright and intact under a tree; Sidhartha on the battlefield. The Commander sat, his head bowed as if meditating on his own death. His white gloved hand still clutching his katana.

The warrior's purpose is found in death; Yamamoto was the true last samurai. Canonized as the modern Benkei of myth and lore, Yamamoto sacrificed everything for his country. With only scabbard and hilt in hand; blade shattered and lost, there was to be no recovery for Japan.

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Isoroku Yamamoto's nickname and code prefix "56" referred to the literal reading of his given name