when takashi was young, he liked to watch the tire fires in hell's kitchen at night, hiding in the junkyard streets.
even the idea of concentration makes me head into a lead-paned aquarium, everything swimming in lampless depths. suspended in dark waters, all i can feel are the slow moving collosal displacements of water- some cyclopean marine creatures threading their paths heedless of my little blot of identity. if i could see, i would notice an ocean floor littered with countless houdini's in bank vaults & milk cans, even as i know overhead, above the water, the sky is criss-crossed with a latticework of jimmy hoffa bridges. i sleep with the fishes every night, sent there by the mafia of my nightmares. houdini in a coffin, innards ruptured (tycho) by the blunt trauma of hands.
i stick by my guns regardless.
(national geographic, august 2000. page 69. photo.)