Horoscope vol. 3
Celine Marks
time beings
beating against the breast bone
sauntering through the hips
growing by the second
hours into days
we wait
bodies breathing
time beating still
The Unknown 

”なぜだか 私はあれ以来 毎日木を彫っている”
For some reason, I've been carving wood every day since then.

Ewelina Skowronska/ @ewelello
A portrait of THE UNKNOWN

Edi (@everyday_is_a_f___in_holiday)
Peeping through the curtain into the unknown city.

Never know who they are, where there are from, and why they are "tokyomelting".

People don't give a damn F__k.

A moment of THE UNKNOWN.

Printed by SHOEI INC
Suzanne Mooney
It’s a strange time to move. 
Every day I explore the new neighbourhood a little more. I am starting to recognise my neighbours, but wonder if I will know them when they finally uncover their faces some months from now.
It’s a strange time to start something new. 
It’s a strange time not to. 
I have all the time in the world to read, but focus is hard to find without the constant motion of the train. Commuting was the most constant part of my daily routine. "And travel is more than a pleasure. My mother swears it’s in our blood, to travel, a welling up of this need to be somewhere else. It’s like an itch, or perhaps it's an uneasiness with the familiar. 
It’s a strange time.

The Unknown
Yeka Haski

The outside life is suspended,  the jungle in my head is growing. What are those feelings and reflections tangled like creepers? Who are those creatures in the mirror I've never met before?

Like a light arrow

Mateus Bagatini
"Someone just found out that time passes faster in the tall sharp peak of Tokyo’s Skytree. At the same time that such puzzling scientific discovery was being made public, someone inside a twelve square meters apartment, located in the Yanaka neighbourhood, checked a map to find out that the same tower was about four Km far from the house, and figured out that it would take about one hour to reach that destination."

Click here to continue reading on Medium
Russian Clowns Are Wankers
Random Thoughts from Lockdown (in diary form)
Adrian Francis

Day 4.
This morning I did something I never do—left home before breakfast.
I took a walk along the aqueduct that runs by my apartment. I headed left—away from the station, work, the centre of town. As I walked, I tried to daydream.

Day 1.
These next few weeks, I plan to make big inroads into editing my documentary. By mid- May, I should have something resembling a reasonable shape. I’m daunted and excited in equal measure.

Day 22.
I showered today. Memory is notoriously unreliable, but it’s been four days since the last one. This has been a great liberation—not having to care about appearance, or personal hygiene.
Many years ago I read that people bathed only once a week until the 18th century. I don’t know if this is true.

Day 30.
This photograph of Picasso by Robert Doisneau has been on my wall for years.
Day 3.
I’m luckier than some. I can work from home. Everything is online. For better or worse, this 15-inch rectangle is my window to the world.

Day 15.
My thoughts are beginning to slow.

Day 33.
Starved of physical contact, cheap red wine is a reliable friend. And her faithful companion, cheese. In moments of loneliness I drink; or spend too much time on Grindr. Today was one of those days.

Day 9.
People are posting articles on how we can all be more productive during lockdown. Fuck that. Productivity to what end? For whom? Have we ever had a better excuse to be idle?

Day 19.
Zoom party. My social life feels busier than ever. Skype. Line. Houseparty. Repeat. I never have time for me anymore, I complain. (To myself.)

Day 16.
I made fish tortillas for the first time. They were rather good. Before the apocalypse, I cooked once a week. Now three times a day.

Day 12.
I look up hermits on Wikipedia. Through history these people have isolated themselves from others, shedding the material trappings of society, most often for enlightenment. We’re all hermits now.
Also, I found this very cool picture of a saintly hermit sharing his meal with a bear.
Day 18.
Another walk along the aqueduct. This time I see a pair of ibis. Or are they cranes? By rights they shouldn’t be here, grazing in this shallow urban water. They seem oblivious to passersby, otherworldly, content.
Have I looked upon the face of god?

Day 8.
I read Arundhati Roy’s essay “Pandemic is a Portal”. Pandemics have always forced us to break with the past and imagine our world anew, she says.
This one is no different.
It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred … or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world.

Day 23.
Today I made it to the post office. The smallest tasks are expanding to fill hours.

Day 6.
A nightwalk. The streets are all but deserted. This lack of sound. I find myself wishing people were never around.

Day 27.
My friends Ewelina & Mateus ask me to create something for a COVID project they’re doing about The Unknown.
I say yes—and immediately regret it.

Day 38.
By now I have procrastination down to a fine art. I amuse myself with mental games designed solely for this purpose. In one of these, I invent a random acronym, and speculate as to its meaning.
R.C.A.W., for instance, might be Rectal Cancer Awareness Week. Or alternatively, Russian Clowns Are Wankers. And so on and so forth.

Day 30.
These last few weeks I’ve spoken to some of my oldest friends in the world. Some of their lives have changed profoundly—others, not a bit.

Day 41.
I watch Powell & Pressburger’s “A Matter of Life and Death” (1946). Such incredible colour, romance, narrative invention.

This film opens as we track across the galaxy, with the gentle musings of an off-screen narrator:
This is the universe. Big, isn’t it?

Thousands of suns, millions of stars.

Separated by immense distances and by thin floating clouds of gas.

The starlight makes the gas transparent.

And where there are no stars,
It appears as dark obscuring clouds.
Day 25.
Photos circulate on the internet of clear-skied cities that were previously a murky brown. City rats, without their usual food sources, have turned to cannibalism. Everything changes when you remove people. I imagine the cities overrun by vines and wild grasses; animal species recolonising places they haven't been for decades.

Day 17.
For some reason I think about the British artist & AIDS activist Derek Jarman. I find a documentary from the 80s in which he says:
Television replaced the hearth, as we know historically.
In the hearth were the household gods.
It was a spirit.
In the fire was the spirit of storytelling.
The spirit of storytelling was in the home, and belonged to the people in the home
—not anyone outside.
Television came along and stole the spirit of storytelling and destroyed family life.
More than us gay men.
Day 24.
I haven’t been near the centre of the city for weeks. Instead, I cycle aimlessly deeper into suburbia. There are small farm plots. Meandering parks. Showa shop-fronts with faded signs.

Day 43.
I read in the news that the government is to announce specific measures for returning to normality.
Outside a spectacular lighting storm rages—and rain washes through the empty streets.

“Paper City”—the documentary I’m working on about the firebombing of Tokyo:

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