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  • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

  • Fiction
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations:  Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

  • Non Fiction
    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

  • Interviews & reviews
    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    From Euromaidan: Three Ukrainian poets to spoil Westsplaining fest in Italy – Zarina Zabrisky

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

  • Fiction
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations:  Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

  • Non Fiction
    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

  • Interviews & reviews
    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Everything Moves and Everything Is About Relationships. Susan Aberg Interviews Painter Louise Victor

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Videos from worldwide readings in support of Ukrainian writers, September 7, 2022 – Zoom Readings Italy

    Reportage of War and Emotions, the Tour of Three Ukrainian Poets in Italy

    From Euromaidan: Three Ukrainian poets to spoil Westsplaining fest in Italy – Zarina Zabrisky

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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WAITING FOR THE DARK, by Mia Funk

Courtesy of Mia Funk for The Dreaming Machine

May 3, 2020
in Fiction, The dreaming machine n 6
WAITING FOR THE DARK, by Mia Funk
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She had long legs for a Japanese, at least for what I imagined Japanese women were like, and that’s why it took longer to dispose of her. I always thought of them as shy and submissive, short and malnourished, like the kids in my barrio. He told me she’d been a dancer. He talked a lot, more than I expected of a Japanese. Of course he could have been lying, they do that. Try to get you on their side, so you’ll understand and maybe feel sorry for them because they’re afraid you’ll rat them out.
But I’m always discreet, part of the job. Mama taught me that, how to be invisible, but always there. Do what is needed, nothing more.
The legs were holding us up. If we could cut them off, I said, it would be a lot easier. Funny where people draw their line, he could strangle her but not touch her legs.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You never saw her onstage. She was wonderful.’

Waiting for night, so we could carry the body to my car without witnesses, he told me about his life in a series of before and afters. Before meeting Michiko and after. Before becoming a diplomat and after. Before his son, Taiki, who’d been conceived in Newfoundland and born in Addis Ababa, and was five years old when he was abducted and held for ransom. Mr Oki didn’t go into detail, it was obvious what had happened. Taiki had been mentally impaired. Luring him away would have been easy.
He said animosity poisoned their marriage after Taiki’s ‘disappearance’. Still can’t bring himself to say that other word, although it hovered behind, years afterwards, tainting everything. The boy’s body was never found and Mr Oki blamed his wife’s carelessness, her fearless way of seeking out danger. She’d been a vain fool, a tramp. He wasn’t sure if her sleeping around began before or after that but blamed her anyway.
He resigned his post.
He got jobs consulting, whatever that means. They wandered the world.
‘Making money is boring.’ He says he prefers collecting butterflies.
This is one of those weird rich man’s hobbies I’ll never understand: hunting flying insects. Harder prey: try and catch the Japanese mind. But he’s being open with me. Cramming all his life into a few memories. Like he wants to remind himself––my life had meaning once. And telling me all his rich guy problems, all the cities they lived in just to escape the loss and as I listen I keep thinking––if only someone would drive up and take away my extended family. Even for a week. A marriage without children, stepmothers or abuelitas, all the money I could wish for and the chance to travel, seemed like paradise to me.
He saw it differently.
Michiko had not been an easy woman to live with. As he talks, I sweep up broken glass, a meter running in my mind. My eyes on the rug in the corner, rolled up into the shape of a woman.
It was only when they moved to New York that she stopped hiding her affairs, started having them openly, sometimes inviting her lovers to live with them. But by then he was beyond caring. It became a game, taunting him, seeing just how much he could take.

Everyone’s interested in how I make my living. Don’t I find it weird working with my mother? No, we’re a team: she cleans up, I take care of disposals.
I love my job and nights like this when I get out of the house.
We fell into it by sheer luck. Five years ago, Mama’s employer was murdered. When she found his body she stayed to clean up. Did such a good job that she was asked to clean more crime scenes. Gradually, people started coming to her with strange requests, things she did not want to do. So she passed this work to me.
When people come to me they want a professional. I talk to them. They feel guilty. Who am I to judge…half the time they just need someone to listen.

In my car, heading out to the Valle de Bravo butterfly reserve where he’s decided to bury her, he tells me that for three or four years, his first years of life, he’d been poor. He hardly remembers anymore what it was like. Dirt poor, shoeless poor, surviving on hand-me-downs, and when they had nothing to hand down, they would grab and steal. The youngest of five children, born in a slum on Hokkaido. One day a big black limousine drove up and a finely dressed woman stepped out. He remembered liking her silver-white hair, thinking she looked just like a queen, and the way the driver held the door open for her. And his mother meeting her at the door. All the children had been told to put on their best clothes and line up for the nice lady to look at them. Riki (older than Oki by only a year), Naoto, Araki and, the oldest, Ren. Oki was the only one who wasn’t dressed well because his little stained sailor outfit had been handed down so many times that it was practically rags now, but they’d scrubbed his face clean until you could see the roses in his cheeks and combed his natty hair and when the lady came to him and handed him a piece of rice candy and saw the joy in his face as he unwrapped it, he had no idea that it was him she’d chosen. Well, he’d been a cute kid, everyone said, a little rascal, but cute and he guessed cause he was the youngest, and so the least damaged, the most worth saving, that’s why she’d picked him and not one of his four brothers, who were more coded and set in their ways. He hardly remembered the rest or how he was told he was going to live with the lady, it all happened so quickly and suddenly he was in the car, sinking into the plush dark leather seat. He went immediately to the console island in the middle and started pushing buttons and found out the ones that made the seat vibrate and the ones that made the electric windows slide up and down. He didn’t even realise that his family had come out to wave goodbye to him until he started playing with that button and saw, separated by the moving glass, his mother and brothers standing at the bottom of the shabby stairs. He didn’t realise it was the last time he’d be seeing them, but his mother must have known because she was crying and his brothers all looked very solemn, but were fighting their desire to grab him back. He thought it was a game, like going on a ride at the fairground that took you high above, but after a few minutes of giddy spinning, deposited you on the ground again, returning you to your family.
He says, ‘And all I did was play with that stupid console and laugh as the electric window, like a motorized guillotine, moved slowly up and down. Off with their heads! I giggled. Amused by the illusion as the window sliced up and down. And then the beautiful lady with graying hair got in beside me and I couldn’t see them anymore and the car pulled away. It was the last time I saw them. Years later, I read in the papers that Riki had gotten involved in the Kudo-kai and was killed over turf wars.’
He says all this quickly and off-handedly, like they were distant events that didn’t matter much or touch him anymore, he just wants me to know he was poor once, too. Maybe poorer than me now. So what, who the fuck has the right to measure poverty? I wasn’t an unhappy kid. Sure, until Mama started cleaning, we often went around in rags. That’s all past. The thing is he has money now and that’s what matters most. I’ll get paid for my dirty work. I’m not complaining. Is a poor Mexican worse off than a poor Japanese kid?––but that’s the point of his speech, I guess, that we’re more alike than we think.

He takes out a map to show me where I need to turn off, but I know the place already. I drive out there some nights when I want to be alone. Pretend I have a job somewhere and instead I just smoke and wait for the stars.
He finds the place where they’d spent that last night. Explaining how they’d come down for the Festival de la Mariposa Monarca. Saying how magical it was for him. How they sat on a flat rock and he told her he’d named a butterfly after her. A Mexican Bluewing: Myscelia Michiko. Then he winces, remembering how the kids from the local village eat the butterflies. ‘It’s so appalling. With a switchblade they cut off the feelers then fry them up on a pan. Stick the knife through the butterfly then eat it right off the blade.’ He seems almost more upset about this than his wife’s death. Or maybe it was just that numb way he had of speaking, so I don’t know.

It’s hard to read his face in the dark.

Please, he says…

We are looking into the gorge when he asks me to do it

Shoving a roll at me. Hard to resist the swish of cash.

Trees papered with butterflies like stained glass.

And the moon and the big looming gorge behind him

and his eyes large and helpless

like craters with no bottom.

Says he wants me to push him into the pit with his wife.

Demián Luna
Santa Maria de la Ribera District, Mexico City

Related story by Mia Funk,  a sort of prequel, published in issue n. 7 of TDM.  http://www.thedreamingmachine.com/a-child-of-snow-by-mia-funk/

Waiting for Darkby Mia FunkShe had long legs for a Japanese, at least for what I imagined Japanese women were like, and that’s why it took longer to dispose of her. I always thought of them as shy and submissive, short and malnourished, like the kids in my barrio. He told me she’d been a dancer. He talked a lot, more than I expected of a Japanese. Of course he could have been lying, they do that. Try to get you on their side, so you’ll understand and maybe feel sorry for them because they’re afraid you’ll rat them out. But I’m always discreet, part of the job. Mama taught me that, how to be invisible, but always there. Do what is needed, nothing more. The legs were holding us up. If we could cut them off, I said, it would be a lot easier. Funny where people draw their line, he could strangle her but not touch her legs. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said. ‘You never saw her onstage. She was wonderful.’ Waiting for night, so we could carry the body to my car without witnesses, he told me about his life in a series of before and afters. Before meeting Michiko and after. Before becoming a diplomat and after. Before his son, Taiki, who’d been conceived in Newfoundland and born in Addis Ababa, and was five years old when he was abducted and held for ransom. Mr Oki didn’t go into detail, it was obvious what had happened. Taiki had been mentally impaired. Luring him away would have been easy. He said animosity poisoned their marriage after Taiki’s ‘disappearance’. Still can’t bring himself to say that other word, although it hovered behind, years afterwards, tainting everything. The boy’s body was never found and Mr Oki blamed his wife’s carelessness, her fearless way of seeking out danger. She’d been a vain fool, a tramp. He wasn’t sure if her sleeping around began before or after that but blamed her anyway. He resigned his post. He got jobs consulting, whatever that means. They wandered the world. ‘Making money is boring.’ He says he prefers collecting butterflies. This is one of those weird rich man’s hobbies I’ll never understand: hunting flying insects. Harder prey: try and catch the Japanese mind. But he’s being open with me. Cramming all his life into a few memories. Like he wants to remind himself––my life had meaning once. And telling me all his rich guy problems, all the cities they lived in just to escape the loss and as I listen I keep thinking––if only someone would drive up and take away my extended family. Even for a week. A marriage without children, stepmothers or abuelitas, all the money I could wish for and the chance to travel, seemed like paradise to me. He saw it differently. Michiko had not been an easy woman to live with. As he talks, I sweep up broken glass, a meter running in my mind. My eyes on the rug in the corner, rolled up into the shape of a woman. It was only when they moved to New York that she stopped hiding her affairs, started having them openly, sometimes inviting her lovers to live with them. But by then he was beyond caring. It became a game, taunting him, seeing just how much he could take. Everyone’s interested in how I make my living. Don’t I find it weird working with my mother? No, we’re a team: she cleans up, I take care of disposals. I love my job and nights like this when I get out of the house. We fell into it by sheer luck. Five years ago, Mama’s employer was murdered. When she found his body she stayed to clean up. Did such a good job that she was asked to clean more crime scenes. Gradually, people started coming to her with strange requests, things she did not want to do. So she passed this work to me. When people come to me they want a professional. I talk to them. They feel guilty. Who am I to judge…half the time they just need someone to listen. In my car, heading out to the Valle de Bravo butterfly reserve where he’s decided to bury her, he tells me that for three or four years, his first years of life, he’d been poor. He hardly remembers anymore what it was like. Dirt poor, shoeless poor, surviving on hand-me-downs, and when they had nothing to hand down, they would grab and steal. The youngest of five children, born in a slum on Hokkaido. One day a big black limousine drove up and a finely dressed woman stepped out. He remembered liking her silver-white hair, thinking she looked just like a queen, and the way the driver held the door open for her. And his mother meeting her at the door. All the children had been told to put on their best clothes and line up for the nice lady to look at them. Riki (older than Oki by only a year), Naoto, Araki and, the oldest, Ren. Oki was the only one who wasn’t dressed well because his little stained sailor outfit had been handed down so many times that it was practically rags now, but they’d scrubbed his face clean until you could see the roses in his cheeks and combed his natty hair and when the lady came to him and handed him a piece of rice candy and saw the joy in his face as he unwrapped it, he had no idea that it was him she’d chosen. Well, he’d been a cute kid, everyone said, a little rascal, but cute and he guessed cause he was the youngest, and so the least damaged, the most worth saving, that’s why she’d picked him and not one of his four brothers, who were more coded and set in their ways. He hardly remembered the rest or how he was told he was going to live with the lady, it all happened so quickly and suddenly he was in the car, sinking into the plush dark leather seat. He went immediately to the console island in the middle and started pushing buttons and found out the ones that made the seat vibrate and the ones that made the electric windows slide up and down. He didn’t even realise that his family had come out to wave goodbye to him until he started playing with that button and saw, separated by the moving glass, his mother and brothers standing at the bottom of the shabby stairs. He didn’t realise it was the last time he’d be seeing them, but his mother must have known because she was crying and his brothers all looked very solemn, but were fighting their desire to grab him back. He thought it was a game, like going on a ride at the fairground that took you high above, but after a few minutes of giddy spinning, deposited you on the ground again, returning you to your family. He says, ‘And all I did was play with that stupid console and laugh as the electric window, like a motorized guillotine, moved slowly up and down. Off with their heads! I giggled. Amused by the illusion as the window sliced up and down. And then the beautiful lady with graying hair got in beside me and I couldn’t see them anymore and the car pulled away. It was the last time I saw them. Years later, I read in the papers that Riki had gotten involved in the Kudo-kai and was killed over turf wars.’ He says all this quickly and off-handedly, like they were distant events that didn’t matter much or touch him anymore, he just wants me to know he was poor once, too. Maybe poorer than me now. So what, who the fuck has the right to measure poverty? I wasn’t an unhappy kid. Sure, until Mama started cleaning, we often went around in rags. That’s all past. The thing is he has money now and that’s what matters most. I’ll get paid for my dirty work. I’m not complaining. Is a poor Mexican worse off than a poor Japanese kid?––but that’s the point of his speech, I guess, that we’re more alike than we think. He takes out a map to show me where I need to turn off, but I know the place already. I drive out there some nights when I want to be alone. Pretend I have a job somewhere and instead I just smoke and wait for the stars. He finds the place where they’d spent that last night. Explaining how they’d come down for the Festival de la Mariposa Monarca. Saying how magical it was for him. How they sat on a flat rock and he told her he’d named a butterfly after her. A Mexican Bluewing: Myscelia Michiko. Then he winces, remembering how the kids from the local village eat the butterflies. ‘It’s so appalling. With a switchblade they cut off the feelers then fry them up on a pan. Stick the knife through the butterfly then eat it right off the blade.’ He seems almost more upset about this than his wife’s death. Or maybe it was just that numb way he had of speaking, so I don’t know.It’s hard to read his face in the dark. Please, he says… We are looking into the gorge when he asks me to do it Shoving a roll at me. Hard to resist the swish of cash. Trees papered with butterflies like stained glass. And the moon and the big looming gorge behind him and his eyes large and helpless like craters with no bottom. Says he wants me to push him into the pit with his wife.Demián Luna Santa Maria de la Ribera District, Mexico City

Pubblicato da Mia Funk su Domenica 3 maggio 2020

 

 

Mia Funk is an artist, writer, interviewer and founder of The Creative Process traveling exhibition and international educational initiative which has the participation of over 70 universities and creative works from 75 countries.. Her portraits of writers and artists appear in many public collections, including the U.S. Library of Congress, Dublin Writers Museum, Office of Public Works, American Writers Museum (forthcoming), and other museums and culture centers.
As a writer and interviewer, she contributes to various national publications. She’s on the advisory board of the European Conference of the Humanities and served on the National Advisory Council of the American Writers Museum 2016-17. Funk  has received many awards and honors, including the Prix de Peinture from the Salon d’Automne de Paris and has exhibited at the Grand Palais, Paris. She was commissioned by the Guinness Cork Jazz Festival to paint their 30th-anniversary commemorative painting of over 20 jazz legends. Her paintings of Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud won the Thames & Hudson Pictureworks Prize, were nominated for Aesthetica Magazine’s Art Prize, and were exhibited in Brussels for Bacon’s centenary, in Paris at the American University, as well as international arts festivals in Europe.
The Dreaming Machine is honored to collaborate with The Creative Process to celebrate the work of international writers and artists. One of the missions of The Creative Process is to celebrate the “invisible arts” – dedicated teachers, curators, editors, translators, producers, librarians, costume designers, artistic directors…who work tirelessly behind the scenes and are not acknowledged enough for their exceptional contributions to the social fabric of our culture. If you are a writer or from one of the invisible arts and would like to get involved, you can reach them at team@creativeprocess.info.
Tags: classcrime scenedancerJapanMexicoMia Funkparadoxpovertyshort storyunsavory jobsvideo

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