DEPAYS8 STACK005

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Son casas de mi pais, as they say in Cuba. Things from my imaginary
country, which I’ve peopled with myths going back to my childhood,
when I read Flash Gordon and saw Utopia in the form of great gleaming
cities, crisscrossed with hanging avenues where people ceaselessly came
and went, part cat and part Asian… My imaginary Orient where Asians
looking like cats play baseball before caged elephants, where underground
cities are freshened by fountains bordered with a keyboard of full and
hollow ladies. A looped recording of a bird recalls that seven stories above,
the birds may still exist. My Orient where the tangle of bikes will never be
untangled, where the public scribe will never receive an answer from Alain
Delon, where the message confided by the stag of Nara will never be
transmitted, where the dapper leftists of Narita will have no more luck than
any others at making their catacombs cathedrals -but where O Inari, the
Honorable Fox who has his temple among many others at the top of the
great Mitsukoshi department store, may perhaps protect the lady who
came to pray to him while doing her shopping, where perhaps the
accordionist will make it to the end of the italian song in the middle of
the tea ceremony -where perhaps the arrow will reach the end of its
flight… but there, it doesn’t matter any more. Everything is in the
bowman’s gesture. The arrow has no clearer target than life: what matters
is politeness towards the bow. Such are the things of my Orient, my
imaginary Orient, this Orient I have totally invented, totally extended,
this Orient that disorients me to the point where I’m no longer myself
outside its disorientation. My Disorient.