@pscentral event 16: pride colors
@userdramas event 07: identity
Meeting you and spending time with you makes me enjoy my life again after a long time. What should we eat next time? What should I do with you? Just the thought of being with you makes me happy.
OUR DINING TABLE 僕らの食卓
2023
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An Introduction
I don't know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with
Nehru. I am Indian, very brown, born in
Malabar, I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one. Don't write in English, they said,
English is not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone. It is half English, half
Indian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don't
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair. When
I asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me. I shrank
Pitifully. Then… I wore a shirt and my
Brother's trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl,
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don't sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don't play pretending games.
Don't play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don't cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love… I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him… the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me… the oceans' tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself
I; in this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys which are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.
—Kamala Das, Summer in Calcutta (1965)
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“We are used to seeing death as a scary and threatening figure in all black. Perhaps what we believe comes after death is what causes us to see it in a depressive and pessimistic way, or we may be afraid of losing the chance of having another day with what we know and love in this life.”
Once one realizes that the scene depicts the death of a baby, it may get sad and maybe a bit uneasy. But as we examine it more carefully, we see that along with sadness, there is a certain type of calmness and comfort. The mother of the baby clutches it as she looks directly at death with angry eyes. While we can understand her anger and sadness, the general tone of the painting and Death's demeanor assures us that everything is alright.”
“The fact that Death's bare feet touch the ground shows that she is one with nature. She is a part of this hopeful environment. Furthermore, the way she holds her sickle to the ground and bends over to the baby suggests that she is there to do what nature intends rather than to attack and harm.”
Excepts from Zehra Kabak's commentary on a refreshing view on death in Janis Rozentāls' Nāve (1897).
JANIS ROZENTALS - DEATH (1897)
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Oda Kazuma - Catching Whitebait at Nakaumi, Izumo (1924)
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