National Calamity

This season

Lost in water

Paper boats,

Lives

Children.

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Treasure trove

It was meant to be a lunchbox but only held sea shells. Every holiday, every cousin, every friend and family outing- you go to the beach of course.

A natural tendency; geography ruling people. We never left till sunset, poor lighting makes for bad pickings but makes your haul look great. Maybe you need exhaustion to appreciate sea shells, possibly reaching unconscious poetry collecting the remnants of the dead while the sun sets before an endless ocean. A treasure chest was an inevitable requirement.

Somehow the shells kept piling on, I kept them meticulously, neatly while my cousins threw them away. Where? They could not remember. The box grew heavy, the shells broke under their own weight, faded and rotted away. I would hesitate to open the box anyway, I don’t know why.

Now and then I had to open it, sand always got out, where did it all come from? I lost the box and memory of where it went long ago, and I live far away.  Still the smell of the sea always remained in my memory and the box while the shells decayed.

Moss lands

A woman laughes without any hesitation cutting right through the neighborhood, reaching me on the 7th floor.

Small towns have large areas of quiet, parking and shaded greenery that lull you into a sort of luxurious laze. No wonder life seems more pleasant here. Looking down you’ll see just green cover, the coconuts trees give away the boundiers between homes, every house has them.

Maybe apartments makes voyures of us all. Natural vantage points and a view right into your neighbors home. I can see my neighbors at their worst, their uninhibited habits and routines, glimpses of who they are when no one’s looking. It’s like trees across seasons, changing habits and routines slowly but in circles. The same arguments, the same hunched positions at their tables.

I see right into the apartment across the street where others also look for the laugh. There’s no one we can see, only a few dogs sleeping on roofs. They make the best of the steep incline that the neighborhood is on.

I can smell the sea in the air so I stay on the balcony while the rest retreat indoors. It’s a smell you grow fond of.

A lazy motorists makes his way into his yard behind the apartment. He’s got a stream behind him and space he’s done nothing with. The moss grows green on his walls. All old house, old neighborhoods and old memories are closed off by green, green moss. Everything goes back to sleep.

Horror in my hallway

Junji Ito is both brilliant and disgusting. I’d had meant to write about this a while back but between my personal computer dying with a frightening knock sound and long awaited exams (only delayed by a month) I had to put it off.

While my friends were faced with the horrors of parroting behaviorists who were convinced the mind didn’t really exist (you’d be inclined to agree after reading their mindless ideas) I was enjoying Ito’s work. I no longer have access to those chapters but I think simply recounting his stories should work well enough.

Ito writes short horror manga that’s unlike anything else out there. It’s not particularity scary and the body horror isn’t enough to make you turn away. Most people I’ve convinced to read him end up giving me a look of concern and get to repressing the stories from conscious memory.

Ito’s Japanese background might help, there’s an Asian sensibility that I’m never able to put my finger on. But what really makes his work click is that uncanny sense of familiarity. There’s something about his stories that seems to echo an almost conversational recollection of horrors, ghosts and monstrosities. Relatable cultural taboos, settings and moralistic implications that I could see coming from so many people I know. He writes horror simple, weird and relatable.

There’s one story that features a demon that seduces houses. Another has a time traveling bird demon that feeds lost mountaineers but then never decides to stop helping, visiting them everyday for a force-fed meal of human flesh. One has a fortune teller behead an unfaithful boyfriend with a single strand of hair. He won’t die till he lets his head drop of course, so she forces cockroaches down the gap to get him to let go. My favorite involves a man who develops a fetish for living- yes living- secretly inside peoples chairs.

The most wholesome I’ve seen him is a story where it turns out half the people in it are actually dead and one where a abused social worker comes back as a vengeful spirit and helps a neurotic young girl overcome her anxiety by killing her ex boyfriend.

If you’ve got the stomach and a little time for some weird, uncomfortable horror try starting with the Enigma of Agigara Fault- .