Musashi Mix Inq

Benshi (The Narrator)

Posted on November 29, 2010

Benshi (The Narrator), ©MMX

As Tokyo burns, we turn to the Benshi ; the box-seat view of Ragnarök—

The silent film era of Japan existed as an extension of the classic theater structure borrowed from Noh and Kabuki drama. The lack of dialogue was filled by live instrumentals and the voice of the Benshi 弁士 (narrator). In many ways, the Benshi was more than what his title first suggests. His job was not only to convey plot and dialogue, but to play as the interpreter of cutting edge technology to the masses. In a culture where photographs steal pieces of your soul, the introduction of film seemed malevolently occult.

The original film projectors required 5 engineers to run. The behemoth machines were loud, unreliable and could produce enough heat to set the film-reel aflame, "It's all part of the show, folks!" — Despite the technical wizardry required to screen a film, it was up to the Benshi to project the illusion that formed the raw images and orchestration into a narrative.

In Japan's silent film era, movie houses were not famous for what films they were showing. The selection was limited and yet the demand was high. This was the era of the Benshi. All films became scratch material for talented performance artists (much like the recent "Downfall" meme). Although the images remained the same, you could never see the same film twice.

True storytellers are not subject to content.


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Palliativity 107: What Does’t Kill You…

Posted on November 24, 2010

what doesn't kill you

For 2 years I've been self-injecting lidocaine as my only means of direct pain management that is not a narcotic. M357 is merely the void. My other meds are like background-radiation resonating from the initial injury; god's white-noise machine, his hand fumbling for snooze.

Every drug claims a part of me. It's time to take it back.

< }•[•]•{ >

I had my first Prolotherapy treatment two days ago. The underlying concept is built on the function of  histamines and the body's immune-response. When the body detects damage, whether illness or trauma, histamines are released and the chain-reaction begins. To heal, the affected areas become inflamed which results in higher blood flow. It always baffles me when Western and Eastern medicine speak the same language.

Prolotherapy intentionally provokes the histamic reaction. My body has settled into its current state; chronic pain is not recognized as an antagonist. It has literally become a part of me. The concoction injected is comprised of saline, lidocaine and sugar. The catch is that in order for the treatment to work I can't use ice, ibuprofen or M357. Disarmed, I scan the perimeter for the next attack.

I feel like I'm stuck in another MRI, unable to move and hoping that temporary suffering will help me find new hope. How does it feel? Like a knife jabbed into the side of my neck. Inotherwords? Not as bad as normal. The difference? I know that this pain I feel is a wake-up call to the system. This is a shock-and-awe campaign. We have an intruder among our ranks and the only solution is to

cut it out.


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The Fashion Monster

Posted on November 22, 2010

The Fashion Monster, ©MMX

Speculative fiction is the mythology of tomorrow. What parts of us will survive the next onslaught of technology?

The question is not, "do androids dream?", but rather, "will we?"


Purchase Print



Fudō Myōō

Blade Runner

Palliativity 106: Medicated

Posted on November 18, 2010

Medicated : one week


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Posted on November 15, 2010

Dignity, ©MMX

Hand-me-down democracy,
I think I found the prophecy,
A destiny lying dormant in my skin.

My eyes belie the broken trust,
For flags and ships and choking dust.
I seek to find the one who will be king.


I fly above and then within,
This frozen plain of time.
Thru kith and kin the arrows sing,
This shattered song of mine.

This desert is my homeland,
For forty years we walked.
Only to find another war,
Barbed-Wire in the Blood.


Palliativity 105: Dysphoria

Posted on November 11, 2010

dysphoria :/

I grew up with people asking me, "what are you?". I got used to it. I eventually learned not to play that game. To answer is to agree with the underlying assumption that I am the anomaly; an object of fascination that should be hunted, stuffed and installed in the great-room curio of a Victorian naturalist.

I was told that I'm half Japanese and half Jewish. For the observer, this genetic algebra equated to a whole person in their neat and tidy world. I wasn't put in a box. I was sliced in half; subdivided and subjugated, and yet I carry twice the heritage and just as much angst. I wish people could deal with me as I am— instead of where I need to be filed.

I've received the same type of treatment when I'm in treatment. My humanity is something rarely touched on. I am my affliction. My name is Miss Diagnosed.

I have been defined by many labels; prepackaged for mass consumption. My identity is pending investigation. We waive all responsibility if contents are damaged in transit;

I won't apologize for my existence. I am proud to be complicated.


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