Palliativity 151: Scissors beats Paper
http://www.behance.net/gallery/SCISSORS-BEAT-PAPER/3736619
NATO is at the gates of my fair metropolis. They are trailed by their groupies of counter-movement leaders, impressionable followers, demonstrators, patriots, freedom junkies and those just looking for a fight… and tear-gas.
This isn't a protest; it's a time-bomb.
Respectively, the citizens brace for an invasion of the Post-Occupy Movement's disenchanted and directionless orphans. In other words, a bunch of revved-up people that have no fucking clue what to do with their weekend are chasing their next windmill; their next dragon. This is what happens when a movement falls through.
• • •
With my art, I don't intend to glorify war or to romanticize militarism. My family, my perspective, has been defined by the world at war model; the Westerosian seasons of apocalypse and rebirth.
Millennials: We are the children of Autumn… or is it still Summer? These times of relative calm are defined by our last engagement with the enemy— the pretentiously defined other; the demons that survive us…
"What doesn't kill us, defines us."
The Zero Effect
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Palliativity 150: Technologic
Technology and Art will always be hand-in-hand. Each leap forward forces us to view the world again as new. And yes, the subject and object in the previous sentence were meant to be ambiguous. That's the point.
And now:
BULLET-TIME LIGHT-PAINTING!!!
Painting with light and strobe bullet time. from Richard Kendall on Vimeo.
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Palliativity 149: Lost in the Desert
[ Issei • Nisei • Sansei • Yonsei ]
We count our generations because history would otherwise forget our story.
Yamamoto family, 1925
We are an inconvenient truth; documented but not published.
We are enemies of the State.
We are still lost in the desert, tracking sand across America.
We don't know where we're going.
But we hold on to what we can; all that we can carry.
And it is the few of us who rise up and choose to remember with pride and dignity.
That for their suffering, I live and breathe—
For their memory, I create.
Amen.
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Palliativity 148: Made in America
I'm proud of my family's history and I'm quick to judge my own country's past actions.
Let me be clear: I am not anti-American.
I am not a protestor nor do I claim to fight the system and the powers that be.
I'm just here to tell a story.
Everytime I am at a sporting event, the National Anthem still gives me pause. The chills and shakes hit me as I think about all the lives that were sacrificed to keep that flag held high; the faces of all the Nisei I've interviewed, the disabled veterans I teach judo to, the photo of my father's grandparents' farm in California before Pearl Harbor changed everything…
My mother's family fled Prague before the Cossack's invaded in 1820. In 1905, my father's grandpa escaped conscription before Japan went to war with Russia. Later, my great-grandmother left Hiroshima to come to America as a picture-bride.
I could title my family memoirs
Fleeing from Russia with Love.
I am proud to be an American at a time when blind-patriotism is the only kind anyone wants to talk about. Both sides of my family fought for this flag, putting their lives on the line from the Civil War all the way up to the present. We've more than payed for our debts to freedom.
I am the Rising Sun. I am David's Star. This is a an American tale.
This is my country, home of the Brave.
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Palliativity 147: Observing Prayer
After a lifetime of being asked "what are you?", the follow-up question is generally what faith was I raised in. I understand what everyone is trying to do and that generally they don't mean to offend me. They just want an easy answer. I don't really have one. Sorry for the inconvenience. My heritage and beliefs are not all that concise ;)
Over time, I've learned to enjoy watching the conversational mine-field dance steps taken by the overly curious when they suddenly realize they've ventured too far over the line.
Going back to the "raised in what faith" question, my answer is "No". Religion never really clicked for me. As a kid, I was definitely given the option to go to temple or synagogue, but I never really saw the point of doing so. My grandparents on both sides never really treated religion as a guide. The importance of religion was that it supplied a great way to get family together while celebrating cultural heritage… and EAT.
Not regularly attending services meant that no matter what religious institution I was visiting, group prayer and song seemed to spontaneously happen around me. My parents told me to just follow along with the standing and sitting and bow my head. As a kid (and still as an adult) I would sneak glances at those in the process of worship with fascination. I think of it as observing prayer.
• • •
My cousins on both the Japanese and the Jewish sides however, took religion much more seriously. The Japanese side has followers of two sects of Buddhism as well as very enthusiastic Christians. Japanese American Evangelical Christians are a ethno-clave all to themselves. Before having a meal, my uncles and cousins always give a very indepth and personal grace. For a population that generally avoids any overt expressions of affection, grace gives an interesting opportunity to express one's self to your family and loved ones. This openness always filled me with a sense of awe.
The Jewish tradition in my mother's family, orthodox and reformed, has much more to do with punctuating the cycle of life. Every part of life has its own celebration and ceremony: birth, adulthood, marriage, death, mourning, and renewal. The cycle of the Torah is never ending and gave strength to formerly secular Jews in the aftermath of genocide. Synagogue for me is a place to be thankful for life and to appreciate the human struggle to understand and grow while fighting to survive in an uncertain world.
• • •
Returning to the pre-ramble, what do I believe in? I think that's a question that can't be answered in words. I believe in action.
The alter pictured to the left is my family's Hotokesan. I inherited it from my grandmother who inherited it from her parents, making it at least 100 years old. After leaving the Gila River Interment Camp, my grandparents bought the 3-flat where I grew-up (and currently live) in 1953. When I was small, the building was home to my great-grandmother, grandparents, great-uncle, uncle, my parents and I. I now live in what was my grandparents' flat.
Though my partner and I have painted over the walls and renovated, I still think of it as my grandparents' home. The alter sits where it always has, as far back as I can remember. Within its gilded walls are family treasures, funeral name-plates and white ashes.
Every Sunday I burn incense, as my grandmother did, and take a moment to remember my history. That's all the spirituality I need.
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Palliativity 146: Concealed Carry Me
I'm in Florida in a strange time in America's history of violence.
This entry is not about guns, but rather hiding in plain-sight.
The gear sling bag I carry everywhere serves many purposes. The 2011 Maxpedition Colossus is a concealed-carry incase-of-apocalypse everyday action-pack! It is made of mercenary quality nylon and sports a bevy of hidden clip-holders, grenade pouches and places to stash semiauto hand-cannons…
Oorah?
My chronic pain condition requires an armory of weapons to balance out the bad. The gear-sling's most unique feature is that the bag also functions as a ninja sling. My left arm is able to hang completely relaxed all the time, a reflex going back to the recovery period following the initial injury.
It's liberating to be able to rely on myself to carry all the medicine and tinctures I need to get thru daily life adventures, built into a platform that gives adequate support while keeping up appearances.
After a decade and a half of practice, I'm starting to get a handle on this.
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