The Last Letter


One day he writes to me: Description of a dream: More and more of my dreams find their settings in the department stores of Tokyo; the subterranean tunnels that extend them and run parallel to the city. A face appears, disappears, a trace is found, is lost. All the folklore of dreams is so much in its place that the next day when I am awake, I realize that I continue to seek in the basement labyrinth the presence concealed the night before. I begin to wonder if those dreams are really mine, or if they are a part of a totality, of a gigantic collective dream, of which the entire city may be the projection.

The train inhabited by sleeping people puts together all the fragments of dreams, makes a single film of them, the ultimate film. The tickets from the automatic dispenser grant admission to the show; here I would rather say the zone, where things appear in moments of time and memory. Here, the persistence of reality disintegrates as a process.

Waiting, immobility, snatches of sleep, curiously all of that makes me think of a past or future war. Night trains, air raids, fallout shelters, small fragments of war enshrined in everyday life. He liked the fragility of those moments suspended in time, those memories whose only function is being to leave behind nothing but memories.

I find a statue of two feet standing firmly together. The body is not of relevance. The posture, one of an obedient soldier, is the key. It is a true celebration, a mirror of understanding, an ideal for all the participants, the people losing the ground beneath them. It is so clearly presented, no one can see it in its true context. One can decipher the idea only when they leave this place. Even birds have their totem. I wonder why this sculpture exists. At first, I think it is another sign for the waiting people, one that forces the idea of normality, of a system in tact with nature. Later, I see birds amongst the waiting people and decide it is a sign for them, an instruction of normality, and proof of control aimed at nature and God as one.

Reality no longer uses metaphors. The metaphor became reality. Land of imagery, land made of images, land for images; nowhere else the eyes so busy, so used to working overtime. Nowhere else is vision harnessed like this to the service of seduction; nowhere else, so many longings and needs, because nowhere else has vision become so addicted. Nowhere else has vision been so eroded.

Here, a direct look in the eyes carries too much life. It becomes lethal for the state of consciousness that we are addicted to. The safe meeting point is the reflection. I see her, she saw me, she knows that I see her, she drops me her glance, but just at an angle where it still possible to act as though it was not addressed to me, and at the end, the real glance, straightforward, that lasted a 24th of a second, the length of a film frame.

It has all happened, virtually and in reality, just as every train line repeats its path every minute, each day a year, thousands of times. Every time is new, yet more, and more faded and blurred in the image of memory. A point through time becomes a continuous line. We erase and learn to ignore the presence of things that keep repeating themselves, repeating themselves. New images override the last ones. Memory is lost to itself. The image of memory repeats itself. Duplicates of images pass by every day at the same rush hour. The combination is different, but the code is the same. It repeats itself redefining its presence, or the lack of it.

It is precisely the opposite of disembodied. Bodies are left to shake at the inertia of the mechanics. A man uses his hand to move the mouth and hands of a doll, puppet. People are touched by this. The man embodies his dreams into a mechanical combination of movements. It appears lifelike, lifelike. The sweet faces of the couple watching, the faces passing by, bodies moving death-like, death-like.

Drops of water that have emerged in the deep tunnels after a rain outside slowly drip onto the tracks at one station. Beneath the tracks, a stream of water flows into the dark ends. A calm sound of simmering water pleases my ears. No one notices. But it must have an effect on them? There is no room for instinct or things uncertain, unknown aspects of human thought, or yet feeling. Self-awareness is reduced to intellect in the most elementary sense of the word and winded to function on a proven base.

The colors mix, the window shows me something new. It is not transparent as it seems. It is the medium of creative thought inflicted by every passenger; colors of lights, the speed painted walls outside, and the lightly painted portraits and auto-portraits at all, a hologram of our emotions, with style unprecedented.

The persistence of reality disintegrates as a process. Light flashes from different sides and frames of life disappear behind echoes of electricity. Sewer liquids drizzle beneath train tracks, and the sound disperses through endless tunnels as if it were a clear water stream. Warm winds of solitude swipe the pale expressions of people waiting, sleeping, immobile, frozen in time. The dreams have lost touch with the totality they are a part of. Frozen memory, peaceful as if dead. Inside, their dreams tremble just like the picture I created, searching for that totality we are a projection of. They all breathe. I can hear each one of them. They move in search of signs, anything that will wake them from their dream.