Scissors Seppuku.
I dream in the morning. In the last dream, I am in Japan again. Except this time it looks like my idea of India. Theres sand everywhere, and I am in a tent. In the tent are folding chairs divided into two groups, an aisle down the middle, theater-style seating. Theres some type of competition between the two groups involving a historical artifact, perhaps a holy relic. Each group competes to name the holy relic. The first group that succeeds at determining the spiritual value of the relic is the winner. The losing team must select one volunteer to commit seppuku.
Some players pray. Some players jump from their seats, wildly guessing. Some players seem to speak in tongues but I cant understand any languages here. Some make a maze out of it, avoiding the obvious answers like dead ends, weaving through lanes of hypothetical home bases. Some people make a maze out of it, and decide that the obvious answers are the most non-obviousthe relic means hope in the face of adversity or love thy neighbor as thyself or some tenet of eastern philosophy but this is my western dream.
Nothing about this dream is Japanese except my deeming it Japanese.
I am on the left side inside the tent. I sit quietly because I cant understand. My side of the tent loses the relic-valuing competition. A man from the front row volunteers for the seppuku.
He is an American. He has a red mustache. Hes young, maybe thirty.
He rises from his metal folding chair. He doesnt make eye contact with anyone. There are scissors in his handthey are the scissors I keep in my kitchen, in real life, the ones with the green handle. The green handle lets me know they are mine.
He submerges the scissors into his stomach. I know he must be in pain but his face remains calm; he concentrates. Hes turning the scissors. No scream. Just like hes cleaning out the gutters. A normal chore. He turns and turns and I claw my fingers down my face and look away.
Yet at the same time I think, what a cultural experience! How very Japanese! Because of these thoughts I feel both compelled and obliged to watch, to record in my mind the supposed "Japanese-ness" of it all. You will only be in Japan once, you know. I think, This is the last time.
Suddenly I hear a sound like a very large piss. I turn my head back to the American man. His back is to me but between his legs (and he is still standing) pours a stream of blood as wide as a sink pipe. There is no sputtering, no splashing. The blood pours out neat, as if encased in a clear plastic tube. It hits the floor with the even hiss of a piss. The puddle of blood grows. I claw my face with my fingers and watch.
He then takes the scissors with the green handle and sticks them in his mouth. He plunges his throat. Blood pours from the corner of his mouth like a strip of red paper unrolling. He collapses to the floor. He will die. Everyone leaves the tent, including myself. I walk through a shopping mall for a while and thats just about it.
love.luz.
I dream in the morning. In the last dream, I am in Japan again. Except this time it looks like my idea of India. Theres sand everywhere, and I am in a tent. In the tent are folding chairs divided into two groups, an aisle down the middle, theater-style seating. Theres some type of competition between the two groups involving a historical artifact, perhaps a holy relic. Each group competes to name the holy relic. The first group that succeeds at determining the spiritual value of the relic is the winner. The losing team must select one volunteer to commit seppuku.
Some players pray. Some players jump from their seats, wildly guessing. Some players seem to speak in tongues but I cant understand any languages here. Some make a maze out of it, avoiding the obvious answers like dead ends, weaving through lanes of hypothetical home bases. Some people make a maze out of it, and decide that the obvious answers are the most non-obviousthe relic means hope in the face of adversity or love thy neighbor as thyself or some tenet of eastern philosophy but this is my western dream.
Nothing about this dream is Japanese except my deeming it Japanese.
I am on the left side inside the tent. I sit quietly because I cant understand. My side of the tent loses the relic-valuing competition. A man from the front row volunteers for the seppuku.
He is an American. He has a red mustache. Hes young, maybe thirty.
He rises from his metal folding chair. He doesnt make eye contact with anyone. There are scissors in his handthey are the scissors I keep in my kitchen, in real life, the ones with the green handle. The green handle lets me know they are mine.
He submerges the scissors into his stomach. I know he must be in pain but his face remains calm; he concentrates. Hes turning the scissors. No scream. Just like hes cleaning out the gutters. A normal chore. He turns and turns and I claw my fingers down my face and look away.
Yet at the same time I think, what a cultural experience! How very Japanese! Because of these thoughts I feel both compelled and obliged to watch, to record in my mind the supposed "Japanese-ness" of it all. You will only be in Japan once, you know. I think, This is the last time.
Suddenly I hear a sound like a very large piss. I turn my head back to the American man. His back is to me but between his legs (and he is still standing) pours a stream of blood as wide as a sink pipe. There is no sputtering, no splashing. The blood pours out neat, as if encased in a clear plastic tube. It hits the floor with the even hiss of a piss. The puddle of blood grows. I claw my face with my fingers and watch.
He then takes the scissors with the green handle and sticks them in his mouth. He plunges his throat. Blood pours from the corner of his mouth like a strip of red paper unrolling. He collapses to the floor. He will die. Everyone leaves the tent, including myself. I walk through a shopping mall for a while and thats just about it.
love.luz.
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That is one craaaaazy dream girl!