2025-06-16

It is finally hot. Humid.

Bare feet, sleeveless, and even thinner layers.

Writing brushes that I washed and wiped a week ago.

I tried writing with them, and when I inserted them into a glass filled with water to wash off the ink, they looked beautiful, so I watched them every day as the water steadily evaporated.

Along the way, I had a flash of inspiration that maybe the whitish hydrangea petals I borrowed in exchange for some good-willed litter picking would turn blue, so I swapped them into the ink water, but they wilted in an instant. Sorry about that...

I remember clearly for a reason that when I tried this with a carnation in kindergarten, it dyed well, so I thought hydrangeas would be the same, but it was different.

Depending on the combination of leaves, flowers, vases, or glass, I can think of them as being like humans—some wither immediately, some get moldy, and some coexist.

Perhaps because my experience with sutra copying is paying off, I have come to like my own handwriting more than I did two or three years ago. It has gained strength and softness.

My "unexpectedly" strong yet soft "body, physical self" feels as though it has been far from recovery ever since the trajectory that led to my injury. I can no longer force it to rebuild. I have been meandering and wandering along a boundary line that I cannot cross by just muddling through. (Meandering!)

I wanted to have prepared, inspired, and gotten things done quickly by today, but the more I try to grasp them, the more they slip away. Before, (fueled by alcohol) I would pin things down with my feet, get inspired quickly, expand on images, and just let things flow in a vague, plausible, eccentric, and fluffy way... like grabbing clouds, weightless, but at least I was doing it, and I could do it better than now.

Now, I can no longer keep up with that; it slips away and runs off.

However, my motivation and my own center of gravity are finally starting to align.

I used to live in a realm where the honey of secrets, like the floating world, where I couldn't/wouldn't emit light without the light shone by someone else, and where being distorted was permitted/forgivable, but now that is no longer permitted/forgivable, and my motivation has changed.

Oh yes, while riding my bicycle today, the words came to me that it is becoming very difficult to try to see things just as they are.

Greetings and circulation through social networking services...

I have truly spent a long time with the "as is, as it is" that accompanies light or sound associated with neon or electricity rather than natural light, and the "as is, as it is" (of the body) that does not accompany them.

I thought (and still think) that the importance and immeasurability of such things existing is what matters.

The "as is, as it is" that stands still while anticipating a special filter bathed in light through electricity, and the "as is, as it is" that stands still while emitting light on its own...

The need to place such words, struggling until the very last minute about molting, sutra copying, and whether or not I can visit a bathhouse tonight. I hope I can go.

If only I could live on mist right now, how wonderful that would be...

Come to think of it, I suddenly decided to declutter my old Twitter posts, and I got caught in a whirlpool of nostalgia and the urge to retweet things. I've only managed to delete about 100 so far. I'm sure at least half of them are unnecessary. When I think of it again, I want to keep deleting images and dull tweets that repeat the same things.