On the bus to the Kyo, sitting behind two Germans. Judging by the fact that one of them has a pair of souvenir chopsticks, they must be tourists. During their limited time in country, with what eyes do they see?
Do they notice the mompe-clad gateball players? Or do they notice the nearby river's concrete banks?
Do they notice the mountain rising from the sea to punctuate the landscape? Or do they notice the paper-factory in the foreground, its high smokestack a raised middle finger?
Do they notice the quaint little farmhouses which line the valley? Or do they see the pork-built bridge high above, throwing midday shadows across their fields?
At what point in time does the eye change? And why does it cease to admire the pale, soft beauty, being drawn instead to the blemishes and scars?
On the turntable: Madness, "One Stop Beyond"
On the nighttable: "Not So Funny When It Happened" (Tim Cahill, ed.)
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1 comment:
I think your post answers your own last question. Even when it starts seeing the blemishes and scars (and starts to experience the scarred one's coldness, borderline schizophrenia and rejection), the mind doesn't stop admiring the pale, soft beauty.
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