I try not to think of the shadow people. For when I think of Japan I think of the shadows of people obliterated by the Bomb who left a shadow burned into the pavement where they were sitting. Like flashbulb existentialism: here one moment, poof! gone then next, but photographed by nature as a witness to the apostasy and outrage. A world of interchanging blast shadows. Motherf*cker. And I wonder if Koji Yakusho, a native of Nagasaki, thought of such shadows as he dwelt upon the relativity of all things.
I've been thinking of Japan from time to time in the last few years. Mt. Fuji. Aokigahara. The Sea of Trees. Where the foliage bleeds komorebi. I believe in euthanasia. Old men, too. I can see the haiku pouring through the branches of the trees. Aye, Aokigahara. Like Dylan would say, I'm already there in my mind, and that's good enough for now.
And now, a haiku break:
shadow of your smile
a Heraclitus river
I can swim all day
#####
This article originally appeared in Counterpunch on March 29, 2024.
(Note: You can view every article as one long page if you sign up as an Advocate Member, or higher).
