Musashi Mix Inq

Gion Ghosts

Posted on November 8, 2010

Gion Ghosts, ©MMX

Femininity:

The alchemy of silk-lined

Alleys in Gion.

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Palliativity 104: Scar Tissue

Posted on November 4, 2010

scar tissue

Family means everything to me. I'm not just talking about blood, it's the connections we make in life that can never be broken; the unweathered well deep in our hearts.

δ

For a couple of years, death encompased my life. Enough tragedies can blind you and break you down. Lost in the wilderness, I blame the trees for the forest.

—2006-2008—
Suicide
Heart
Cancer
Drunk driver
Age

For my partner and I, the beginning of our relationship was steeped in death. The deep cuts healed us together, stitched at the heart. The greater the damage, the stronger the bonds: scar tissue that I know you saw... Looking at one another, we can see the jagged pain as well as the joy. We learned to accept life's contradictions.

The symptoms and proffered cures however are another matter—

Antidepressants
Pacemaker
Radiation
Trial
...Palliatives...

‡ Δ ‡

Tragedy can become a chronic condition if we merely tread water. Assess the damage and heal strong. Destiny doesn't pull punches, so why should we?

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Shadowland

Posted on November 1, 2010

Shadowland, ©MMX

My great uncle, Lt. Col. Steve Shizuma Yamamoto, is one of my heroes. While the rest of the family was locked away at Gila River Internment Camp, Steve was selected to become part of a special unit to fight in the Pacific. The US government shaped his language, culture and ethnicity into a weapon to fight the Japanese. As an officer in the Military Intelligence Service, Steve interrogated thousands of Japanese POWs at the detention camp in Papua New Guinea. The barbed wire fences made him feel right at home.

My family is from Hiroshima. When Steve landed on mainland Japan, he traveled to Hiroshima city to find the family and see the devastation first hand. At the border to the city, an MP told him that no one was allowed to enter. Undeterred, Steve borrowed a bicycle from a local kid and rode into Ground Zero—

←±•Ψ•±→

After my grandmother passed away in the winter of 2008, I openned a ceder chest that had been locked for decades. I found many photographs and souvenirs that her brother, Steve, had sent her from the Occupation. Among these I found a few unlabeled 4x5 prints. My heart stopped. The desolate, burnt terrain. The branchless-black trees. A trolley smashed into a building. This is Hiroshima. I almost dropped them and ran, but the tears and reverence froze me solid. Steve never told me that he had brought a camera with him...

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Ouroboros: it gets Brighter

Posted on October 28, 2010

Ouroboros

Step 1: Take one minute and look
ttttttttttttinto a mirror. Get up close.
Step 2: Breath
Step 3: Reflect
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

I am graphic designer to support the habit. Pain, drugs, love, and ontology are my enablers. I am powerless to my need to create. Madness, if anything, is encouraged.

My patron saint is Ouroboros, the self-eating snake. Each creation is a small death; I bathe in the ashes of the Phoenix. Each project begins at the epic conclusion of a narcissistic battle between the rational and the etherial.

When posting a new piece, I am the one hand clapping, hoping for the universe to clap back; Synchronicity with the beat of the open void shouting out the statically fried messages of a poetic radio-operator. Everything is subject to entropy, even creativity.

When I stare at a digital canvas, I envision that if I were to paint every possible stroke, a black page would remain. In the darkness I see my flat world reflected in gloss. I find comfort in this. It means that in a way, we are all connected through the vail of the floating void; the dark-canvas-mirror live-video-feed into each other's souls. Welcome to the inner depths.

Know this:

You are not alone

• ∞ λ ∞ •

Be brave. Stand strong. Be proud. Reach out. It gets brighter.

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The Long Way Home

Posted on October 25, 2010

The Long Way Home, ©MMX

On the cross-roads of

Life, hope is made of dust clouds.

Take the long way home.

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Palliativity 103: Phantom Pain

Posted on October 21, 2010

REsolve

I hear this word for the first time and my body goes cold. Long months of recovery, rehab and healing have brought me here; to the medical chopping block. I am 15 years old, t+2years since my surgery, and host to a chronic pain more powerful than the slice of a scalpel...

I am sitting in my neuro-doctor's office seeking to find my way to the path of ever-elusive progress. Every exercise, every minute my testosterone filled body gets stronger, the pain gets worse. At the time, I still looked to the labcoats for hope and answers:

"Phantom Pain" was the offered diagnosis, "There is nothing more we can do for you —".

Terminal suffering; there is no path.

Doc, are you telling me that a ghostly apparition of a body bound poltergeist haunts my nerves and tendons? This is science? Don't you offer exorcisms?

I learn in that moment that it is I who must take pilot's seat and steer this burning wreckage toward a better land on the far-side of self-distruction and the impulse to end it all.

We are all victims of our biology. Through the tears I find a tiny glimmer of strength and resolve, like the lone-star hovering in the red-glow-black of a city night's sky. Fuck physics and Fuck physicians; I am the ocean, the sky and the stars. I pull back on the yolk and ram forward the throttle with a roaring tail made of fire.

This is my life and I've got places to be —

"What doesn't kill you, defines you" *

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--------------

*The Zero Effect

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