Chapter 3 Chapter One

For a long time, I always insisted that I saw my own birth.Whenever this matter was mentioned, the adults laughed, and finally felt that they seemed to be being mocked, so they stared at the child who was so pale that he didn't look like a child with a slightly disgusted look.Occasionally, when I mentioned this matter in front of some unfamiliar guests, my grandmother worried that people would think I was an idiot, so she stopped me sharply and asked me to play aside. Adults who laugh at me usually try to convince me with some kind of scientific explanation.It is said that the baby hadn't opened its eyes at that time, and even if it opened its eyes, it would be impossible to have a clear consciousness and leave a memory.It has become customary for them to give cheerful, somewhat theatrical, easy-to-understand explanations so that children can understand them.They shook my still suspicious little shoulders and asked me if this was the case, and at the same time, they seemed to realize that they had almost fallen into my trap.They thought they couldn't be careless thinking that he was a child.This guy must be setting a trap to ask "that"; if not, why not ask more innocently like a child: "Where did I come from? How did I come to be?" Huh?"——They fell silent again, with inexplicable faint smiles on their faces, as if their hearts were deeply hurt, and they looked at me quietly.

However, they overthink it.I didn't mean to ask "that" at all.Not only that, I'm even very afraid of hurting adults, so it's impossible to come up with any tricks to set up a trap. No matter what they tell me or how they laugh away from me, I always believe in the experience of seeing my own birth.Maybe it came from a memory of someone who was there talking to me overheard, or maybe I got it from my imagination, but it must have come from somewhere.That's the rim of the basin that gave me my first bath since I was a newborn.It was a fresh wooden basin for the first time, and from the inside, the light shone faintly on the eaves.Only that place, where the wood shines, looks like it's made of gold.The water was rippling, and the tip of its tongue almost licked there.However, the water under the eaves of the pot, perhaps due to the reflection of the light, or the light also shines there, reflects quietly, and the small sparkling water waves seem to be constantly colliding.

— is considered the strongest objection to this memory, that I was not born in the daytime.Because I was born at 9:00 pm, there is no possibility of sunlight coming in.So could it be the light from the electric lamp?Despite being so mocked, I still think that no matter how dark it is, there may not be no sunlight shining on only one place in the pot.I thus entered the paradox without difficulty.And, the flickering rim of the basin, wanders in my memory many times as the content of the first bath I did see myself born into. I was born in the third year after the earthquake. 10 years before that, my grandfather resigned because of a corruption case that occurred in the colonial governor era, taking the responsibility of his subordinates (I am not playing with rhetoric. The kind of stupid trust that my grandfather had, its perfection, I haven't seen anything comparable in half my life).From then on, my home, I would say almost humming a ditty, slid down the slope at an easy pace.Huge borrowings, foreclosures, real estate sales, and then as poverty deepened, like ignorant impulses, more and more blazing with morbid vanity. ——In this way, I was born in a small town with bad customs. The house is located in the corner of the town. It is a dilapidated rented house; it has a pretentious iron gate, a front yard, and a Western-style room about the size of a church in the suburbs.Seen from the slope, it is a two-story building, and from the downhill, it is a three-story building. It makes people feel that it is a dimly smoky, somewhat intricate and domineering house.There were many dimly lit rooms; six maids and grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, ten in all, lived in a house that creaked like a broken cupboard.

The grandfather's desire for career, and the grandmother's disease and wasteful addiction are the source of troubles for the family.Grandfather was often tempted by blueprints brought by dubious sycophants, and traveled far away in his dream of gold.The grandmother who came from an ancient and famous family hated and despised the grandfather.She has a lofty, aloof, indomitable, crazy poetic soul.Her chronic illness—cranial neuralgia—has eroded her nerves for a long time and stubbornly.At the same time, it added unhelpful clarity to her mind.Who knew that the manic episode that lasted until her death was left to her by her grandfather in his prime?

In this home, my father married a delicate and beautiful bride—my mother. On the morning of January 14, Taisho 14 [1925], labor pains hit my mother.At 9 o'clock in the evening, a baby weighing less than 5 catties was born.On the night of the seventh day, I was put on a flannel sweatshirt, milky white spun silk underwear, and a kimono made of shredded white pattern cloth. My grandfather, in front of the family, used honsho paper [a kind made of moraceae plant fiber 2] Premium Japanese white paper] wrote my name and placed it on the altar, in the alcove. Hair is always blonde.It became dark in the olive oil that was applied all the time.Parents live on the second floor.My grandmother snatched me from my mother on the 49th day of my life under the pretext that it was dangerous to raise a baby on the second floor.It was a grandmother's ward with its doors and windows closed all the time, filled with the choking smell of disease and old people. My bed was laid beside the sick bed, and I was brought up like this.

When I was less than a year old, I fell down the third flight of stairs and injured my forehead.That was when my grandmother went to the theater. My father’s cousins ​​and my mother were arguing together during the break. My mother suddenly went to the second floor to get something. I chased my mother, and I was caught by the hem of my kimono and fell down. . They sent someone to the Kabuki venue to find the grandmother. The grandmother stood at the gate, supported her body with the crutch in her right hand, stared intently at the mother who came out, and said every word in a strangely calm tone. As if to engrave it, say:

"Already dead?" "No." Grandmother walked into the house with the firm steps of a witch. ... — On the morning of New Year's Day when I was 5 years old, I threw up something that looked like red coffee.The attending doctor came and said "I dare not guarantee it".I was injected with camphor and dextrose.I couldn't feel my pulse in my wrist or upper arm, and I had been in this state for two hours.People looked at my "dead body". After preparing white shrouds and favorite toys during his lifetime, the family gathered together.After another hour, pee came out.My mother's doctor brother said: "It's saved!" It is said that this is evidence of cardiac pacing.After a while, I urinated again, and gradually, the hazy light of life reappeared on my cheeks.

That disease - self-poisoning [poisoning from toxic metabolites occurring in my own body] became my chronic illness.Once a month, light or heavy, it always visits me, and there are many crises.It was the footsteps of a disease approaching me, and my consciousness became focused on distinguishing whether it was a disease close to death or a disease far away from death. My first memories, the ones that haunt me with images of unimaginable definiteness, begin here. I don't know if it's my mother, nurse, maid or aunt holding my hand.The seasons are also not clear.The afternoon sun fell dimly on the houses that surrounded the slope.I was held by a woman who didn't know who it was, and walked up the slope to the house.Someone came down from the opposite side, and the woman pulled my hand hard to leave the road and stood there.

I have reviewed, strengthened, and concentrated this memory many times, and every time I do this, it will definitely add new meaning.For, in the wide surrounding scene, there is only the appearance of the "man coming down the slope", with unreasonable precision.Nevertheless, for it was my first memorial image, though it tormented and frightened half my life. A young man descended from the slope.Carrying the dung bucket back and forth, with a dirty towel wrapped around his head, with a good-looking cheek and a pair of bright eyes, he walked down the slope with his legs sharing the weight.It was a toilet cleaner—someone who scooped up excrement.He was wearing rubber-soled cloth shoes and navy blue pants. As a 5-year-old me, I stared at him strangely.The meaning was not yet determined, but the first revelation of a power, a dim unimaginable call to me.The appearance of the toilet cleaner is initially allegorical.Because excrement is a symbol of the earth.Because what calls out to me is no different from the malicious love of the mother who is the root.

I had a hunch that there was some burning desire in this world.I look up at the filthy young man's figure, and the "I want to be him" desire, the "I want to be him" desire binds me tightly.It clearly occurred to me that there were two important points in this desire.One is his navy blue underpants, and the other is his profession.Navy blue pants clearly outline the outline of his lower body.It trembled softly, and I couldn't help feeling that it was coming towards me.I had an indescribable admiration for those underpants. His occupation—At this time, I had the same structure as other children who wanted to be an army general as soon as they were sensible, and the yearning "want to be a toilet cleaner" emerged.The reason for this longing may be said to be the navy blue underpants, but it is by no means just that.This theme, itself intensified, developed, and developed in a peculiar way within me.

For, with regard to his profession, I feel a certain extreme sadness and longing for this burning sadness.I feel "something tragic" in an extremely sensual sense from his profession.From his profession overflowed a sense of so-called "coming forward", a sense of self-abnegation, a sense of closeness to danger, a sense of amazing mixture of void and vitality.They approached my 5-year-old self and captured me.Maybe I misunderstood the profession of toilet cleaner, or maybe I heard some other profession from people, misidentified it because of his clothes, and forced it to fit his profession, otherwise, it cannot be explained. Because of this emotion and the same theme, it was soon transferred to float drivers and subway ticket inspectors, from whom I couldn't help feeling strongly about the "tragic life" that I didn't understand and felt that I was forever excluded from it.Especially for the subway ticket inspector, the mint smell like chewing gum wafting in the subway station at that time, combined with the golden buttons lined up on the chest of his navy blue uniform, could easily trigger the association of "tragic things".Somehow it makes me think that people who live in that smell are "tragic".Where my senses both seek it and reject it, the life, the events, the people that happen to have nothing to do with me, these are the definitions of my "tragic stuff", the sadness that I am forever rejected by it, always transformed and Dream about them and their lives.I seem to be trying to participate, through my own grief. If so, the "tragic stuff" I sensed might just be a projection of the sadness I quickly felt would be rejected by it. There is also an initial memory. Since I was able to read and write when I was 6 years old, but I still couldn't read comic books at that time, so I still remember when I was 5 years old, and there is nothing wrong with it. At that time, among the many villain books, there was only one, and it was the only painting that was opened, which always moved me and made me prefer it.I can forget long boring afternoons just by gazing at it.And as soon as someone came over, I was worried about being discovered for some reason, so I hurriedly turned to other pages.The care of nurses, maids, especially bothers me.I wanted to live a life where I could stare at that painting all day.When I turned that page, my heart was pounding, and even when I read other pages, I was absent-minded. That painting depicts Joan of Arc riding a horse and wielding a sword.The horse's nostrils were distended, and its strong front hooves kicked up dust.Joan of Arc is wearing a silver-white armor decorated with beautiful patterns.He revealed a beautiful face from the visor, and his shining sword pierced the blue sky, maybe he was rushing towards "death", in short, he was rushing towards some kind of object with ominous power.I believe that he may be killed in the next instant.I quickly turned to the back, maybe I could see the picture of him being killed.The paintings of comic books may often switch to the "next moment" unconsciously. ... However, sometimes the nurse casually turned to the page and asked me, who was peeking in the background: "Young master, do you know the story of this painting?" "I do not know." "It looks like a man, doesn't it? But she's a woman. Really. It's a story of a woman who disguises herself as a man and goes to war to serve her country." "female?" I was completely overwhelmed emotionally.I was sure it was him but it was her.This handsome knight is not a man but a woman, what has become of it. (Now, I also have a deep-rooted, inexplicable distaste for cross-dressing.) This, especially, was like cruel revenge for the rosy fantasies I had harbored about his death, the first "Revenge from reality".Years later, I read Oscar Wilde's poems praising the death of a handsome knight. A knight is handsome even when he is killed, Lying face up in the reeds... Since then, I have thrown away that little book and stopped reading it.Eastman [1848-1907, French novelist and art critic. ] The mystical impulse of Gilles de Lay, who wrote in the novel "There" "about to take place in the nature of the transition to the most exquisite cruelty and subtle crime", was due to the sight of Charles VII It was because of the unbelievable deeds of Joan of Arc, who became his bodyguard, that he was cultivated.The Maiden of Orleans also played a part in me, albeit on the contrary occasion (that is, as a distasteful occasion). —and one more memory. It was the smell of sweat.The smell of sweat drives me, arouses my longing, and dominates me. ... Listening carefully, there was a muddy, slight sound that seemed to frighten people.From time to time, there was a simple, inexplicably sad song mixed with the sound of trumpets.I grabbed the maid's hand and urged her to hurry up, hurry up. I was held in the maid's arms, and I was eager to stand at the gate. It was the army returning from drill that passed in front of my house.I'm always happy to get some bullet casings from soldiers who love kids.A secret pleasure was added to the fun, as my grandmother considered it dangerous and forbade me to ask for it.The clunk of heavy military boots, the filthy uniform, and the bristling weapons on the shoulders are enough to captivate any child.But it was only the smell of their sweat that attracted me, and was the hidden motive behind my demand for bullet casings from them. The smell of soldiers' sweat, the tidal, gilded seaside air, pulsates in my nostrils and intoxicates me.My first smell memory, maybe it started from here.The smell, of course, was not immediately associated with sexual pleasure, but gradually and deeply ingrained in me my thoughts about the fate of soldiers, the tragedy of their profession, their death, the distant country they should see —these sensual desires. ... It was these monstrous apparitions that I encountered for the first time in my life.In fact, it stood in front of me at the very beginning with a degree of perfection disguised, and without any flaws, it made me, the source of my consciousness and actions, visit here. The concept of life that I have held since I was a child has never deviated from the predestination theory of Augustinus.It is true that I have been troubled by many useless delusions, and still trouble me to this day, but if this delusion is also regarded as a depraved sinful temptation, then my doom theory will not be shaken.It gave me the menu before I could comprehend the uneasy totality of my life, the so-called menu.If only I had just a napkin facing the table.Even when writing such a strange book now, the menu is well written, so naturally I saw it at the beginning. Childhood is the arena of time and space disputes.For example, the volcanic eruption, the rebel riots, the news from various countries told by the adults, the grandma’s attack that happened before my eyes, the big and small quarrels at home, and the incidents that I was still indulging in the fantasy of the fairy tale world just now. They are always considered to be equivalent and of the same series.I can't think that the world is more complicated than building blocks.Unexpectedly, the so-called "society" I had to enter soon was more bizarre than the "world" of fairy tales.A limitation arose inadvertently.Moreover, from the very beginning, all fantasies reveal inexplicable and complete despair under the limitation of resistance, which itself seems to be a kind of passionate desire. Lying on my bunk at night, I saw the splendor of the city floating in the extension of darkness that surrounded my bunk.It is eerily silent and full of glorious mystery.Those who came here must have been stamped with secrets on their faces.The grown-ups returning home late at night, in their speech and behavior, there is a hint of slang, like members of the Freemasons; in addition, there is a dazzling fatigue on their faces, which is afraid of being looked at seriously.Just like the Christmas masks, if you touch their faces with your hands, silver powder will be left on your fingertips, and you seem to understand the color of their paint that decorates the night city. After a while, I saw "Night" lift the curtain in front of my eyes.That was the stage of Matsuhisa Tenkatsu [a famous magician from the Meiji to Showa period in Japan]. (That was when she rarely went to the theater in Shinjuku. In the same theater, I saw a stage hosted by a magician named Dundee a few years later. It was several times bigger than Tiansheng. But that Dundee is also good, Wanguo Neither the Hackenbeck Circus at the Fair surprised me as much as the original Tiansheng.) Her plump limbs are wrapped in clothes that remind of the great whore in the Apocalypse, and she walks around the stage leisurely.That exiled aristocratic air of air and a melancholy loveliness of the juggler, and that heroine-like demeanor, resonates wonderfully with the commitment to counterfeit clothes that radiate all the cheapness. , Like a female wave [also known as the wave minor.A traditional Japanese craft form, accompanied by three-stringed strings, and sang while talking. ] The heavy make-up like that of a master, the white powder painted even on the toes, the magnificent bracelets piled up with artificial gemstones, etc., show a melancholy coordination.From the delicate texture of the skin cast by the shadow of incongruity, it brings out a unique sense of harmony. I am vague but understand that there is an essential difference between the desire to "become Tiansheng" and the desire to "become a float driver".Its most striking difference is that the former lacks, so to speak, the desire for that "tragic thing".For the expectation of becoming Tiansheng, I didn't appreciate the mixture of longing, guilt, and anxiety, and it was over.Nevertheless, although I was very painful to suppress the throbbing, one day I quietly entered my mother's room and opened the wardrobe. Among my mother's kimonos, I dragged out the most gorgeous and dazzling kimono.The belt was painted with crimson roses in oil paint.I wrapped it like a Turkish dignitary.Standing in front of the mirror and looking at it, the appearance of the impromptu turban reminds people of the turban of the pirates who appeared in "Treasure Island".So, I slap myself in the face with an insane glee.However, my work is far from over, and there are many, many more.My every movement, down to the tips of my fingers and toes, had to fit in with the mystery that was created.I tucked the small mirror between my belt and dabbed some powder on my face.Then, bring the silver flashlight in the shape of a stick, the fountain pen with the antique gold carving, in short, everything that is bright and dazzling. So, I walked solemnly to my grandmother's living room.I couldn't hold back my crazy funnyness and joy, and I said: "Tiansheng, I am Tiansheng!" while running in circles. The grandmother on the sickbed, the mother, the visitors, the maid in the sick room were all there.My eyes didn't see anyone.My fanaticism is all focused on the awareness that the Tiansheng I dress up is appreciated by everyone, that is to say, I only see myself.But when I woke up suddenly, I saw my mother's face.My mother was pale and sat there blankly. When she met my gaze, she quickly lowered her eyelids. I see.Tears welled up. Did I understand now, or was I forced to understand something? Is the theme of the later years, "the first and the remorse of the sin", hinting at its beginning here?Or did I learn from here the lesson of how lonely it is to be clumsily seen in the eyes of love, and at the same time learn from it my own method of refusing love? —The maid stopped me.I was taken to another room, like a plucked chicken, stripped of its indecent disguise The desire to dress up was heightened by starting to watch movies.It continued visibly until around the age of 10. Once, I went to see a musical called "Fra Diablo" with my schoolboy. I couldn't forget the court dress with long lace fluttering on the sleeves of the actor who played Diablo.The valet laughed contemptuously when I said how I'd love to wear that dress and wig.Even so, I knew that he usually dressed up as Yaegaki Hime in the maids' room to show them and make them laugh. But after Sky Victory, it was Cleopatra that fascinated me.It was a snowy day near the end of the year, and my close doctor came to see the movie at my begging.Since it was the end of the year, there were very few spectators.The doctor fell asleep with his legs straddled on the armrest. ——I was the only one looking at the screen with strange eyes.Gazing at the queen of Egypt, carried by her multitude of slaves, on a strange river crossing, as she made her way to Rome.Gazing—all lids painted blue like goggles—with melancholy eyes, gazing at the otherworldly attire.And stared at the amber half-naked body peeping from the Persian blanket. This time, behind my grandmother's and parents' backs, I (already with a very guilty pleasure) targeted my younger sister and younger brother, and became obsessed with being obsessed with dressing up as Cleopatra.What the hell did I expect from this drag queen?Later, I found the same expectation that I had in Heliogabus, the emperor of Rome in decline, the destroyer of the ancient gods of Rome, the decadent beast emperor. With that, I finish with the other two types of premises, which need to be reviewed: the first is the piss picker and the Maiden of Orleans and the smell of sweat from the soldier; pull. There is another prerequisite that must be discussed. I dabble in all the fairy tales a child can get their hands on, but I don't love princesses.I just love princes, especially princes who are killed, and princes who are dying.I love all the young people who were killed. However, I still don't get it.Why among Andersen's many fairy tales, only the beautiful boy in "The Rose Fairy", who was stabbed to death with a big knife by the devil and cut off his head when he was kissing the rose that his lover gave as a souvenir, cast a deep feeling on my heart deep shadows?Why among many White's fairy tales, only in the story of "The Fisherman and the Mermaid", the body of the young fisherman who was salvaged on the seashore and hugged the merman tightly turned me upside down? Of course, I also really like other childish things.My favorite of Andersen's works is.I also like to read many cartoons that are childish.But maybe I can't stop my heart from going to death, to night, to blood. The phantom of the "Killed Prince" is always chasing me endlessly.Combining the princes' revealing bodysuit attire with their brutal deaths is fantastical, and why is it so enjoyable?Who can explain this clearly for me?Here is a Hungarian fairy tale, the colorful and extremely realistic illustrations captured my heart for a long time. The prince in the illustration wears a black tights inside, a rose coat with gold thread embroidery on the outside, a dark blue cloak with a red lining, and a green and gold belt around his waist.A golden helmet, a bright red long knife, and a green leather quiver are his weapons.Wearing a white leather glove, he holds a bow in his left hand and rests on a branch of an old forest tree with his right hand, with a serious and sad expression.He looked down at the terrible maw of the great dragon that was about to spring upon him.There was a determination to die in that expression.If this prince bears the fate of being the victor over the dragon, how little will be the temptation to me.But, luckily, the prince bears the fate of death. Unfortunately, this fate of death is not perfect.In order to save his sister and marry the beautiful fairy queen, the prince experienced the test of death seven times, but by virtue of the magic power of the diamond in his mouth, he survived all seven times, and finally enjoyed the happiness of success.The above-mentioned painting is from the moment before his first death—the death of being bitten by a dragon.Since then, he has been "caught by a giant spider, injected with venom and devoured", drowned, burned to death, stung by a bee and bitten by a snake, thrown into countless caves lined with blades, He was crushed to death by countless boulders that rained down from the sky. The chapter "Bite to Death by a Dragon" is particularly detailed. It reads: "The dragon immediately chewed up the prince. The prince was in great pain during the process of being chewed. But he tried his best to endure it. When he was completely chewed, he suddenly returned to his original body, and quickly moved from the It flew out of the dragon's mouth without any scratches on its body. The dragon fell to the ground and died on the spot." I've read this passage a hundred times, but I think there's one flaw that shouldn't be overlooked, and that's the line "no scratches on the body".As soon as I read this line I felt betrayed by the author, thinking he had made a huge mistake. Before long, I accidentally made an invention, that is, when I read this place, I used my hands to cover from "you suddenly" to "long" and read.In this way, the book takes on the appearance of an ideal book... "The dragon immediately crunched and crunched the prince. The prince was in great pain as he was being crunched. But he tried his best to bear it. When he was completely crunched, he fell down and died on the spot." ——From this kind of tailoring, do adults feel unreasonable when they read it?However, the young, arrogant, and self-indulgent inspector, although he discerned the obvious contradiction between "to be completely chewed up" and "single plant fell to the ground", he was still reluctant to throw it away. any sentence. Also, I take pleasure in fantasizing about myself being killed and killed.Even so, I am more afraid of death than anyone else.One morning, I bullied the maid to cry, and the maid appeared again with a smiling face as if nothing had happened, and served me dinner. Seeing this, I read various meanings from her smiling face.I can't help but think it's the devil's smile of her way of winning hope.Maybe it was her attempt to poison me to death for revenge.My heart was pounding with fear.The poison must have been thrown into the miso soup.Whenever I have this kind of thought, I will never touch miso soup.And several times when I left my seat after eating, I stared at the maid's face and almost said "Did you see that?" Looking at the cold, even dusty miso soup. My grandmother cared for and cared for me who was weak and sick. At the same time, she also considered that I would not be bad, so she forbade me to play with the boys in the neighborhood.In this way, apart from the maids and nurses, the only ones who played with me were three girls that my grandmother chose for me from the girls in the neighborhood.Because, a little bit of noise, the sound of doors being opened and closed vigorously, the horn of toys, sumo wrestling, all loud noises can cause neuralgia in grandma's right knee, so our games must be quieter than ordinary girls.I prefer to read books alone, build blocks, indulge in wanton reverie, and draw pictures.Later, younger sister and younger brother were born, and they grew up freely like children under the care of their father (unlike me, who was entrusted to my grandmother).However, I am not so envious of their freedom and arrogance. However, as soon as I went to my cousin's house to play, the situation changed.Even I was called upon as a "boy".One early spring when I was 7 years old, I was about to start elementary school, and when I went to visit the home of a cousin—let’s call her Shanzi—a memorable event happened.Here's the thing.Since the aunts praised me repeatedly for "grow up, grow up", the grandmother who took me made a special exception to the food served to me.As mentioned earlier, for fear of frequent self-poisoning, until that year, my grandmother forbade me to eat "fish with blue skin". So far, speaking of fish, I only know white bodies like flounder, flounder, and gaki fish.Potatoes are only known to be crushed and strained.Snacks are not allowed to be eaten, they are all dry snacks such as light biscuits and crackers.Fruit is also known only as thinly sliced ​​apples and a handful of oranges.I had the pleasure of eating "blue fish" for the first time - it was yellowtail.That scent means that first of all I was given the qualifications of an adult / However, every time I feel it, it makes me unable to taste an unpleasant uneasiness on the tip of my tongue -- "the uneasiness of being an adult" -- -the weight of. Shanzi is a healthy and energetic child.When I stayed at her house and slept on bunks side by side in a room, I couldn't fall asleep. With a little jealous admiration, I watched Sugiko fall asleep as easily as a machine as soon as her head fell on the pillow.In her house I was several times freer than in my own.Because the imaginary enemies who wanted to take me away—that is, my parents—were not here, my grandmother let me be free.There is no need to keep me in sight like at home. But even so, I could not enjoy so much freedom. I was like a patient walking for the first time after illness, feeling the restraint of being forced to perform invisible obligations.But I miss the lazy bed.And, here, without saying a word, I was asked to be a boy, and I started an unsatisfactory performance.From then on, I began to vaguely understand that my performance reflected in people's eyes is a kind of performance that requires returning to the essence for me. Only my natural reflection in people's eyes is my performance. mechanism. That performance was not my intention, it was a game that made me fight.Since my opponents were two girls, Sugiko and another cousin, it was a game that didn't fit a war game.What's more, the opponent's heroic appearance shows that they are not very interested.I advocate war games also for the opposite reason, the opposite reason that they must be displeased and more or less embarrassing. In and out of the house at dusk, we bored each other, but continued to play a poor game of war.From behind the bushes, Sugiko imitated the sound of a machine gun with her mouth.I figured it was time to end this.I fled into the house and saw one side screaming da da da.The female soldier who was chasing her put her hands on her chest and fell down in the middle of the living room. "What's the matter, young man?" ——The female soldiers ran over with serious expressions.Without opening my eyes or moving my hands, I replied: "I fought to the death." I imagined myself twisting and falling down, and felt happy.There is an indescribable pleasure in the state of being shot and dead.I couldn't help thinking that if I was really hit by a bullet, maybe I wouldn't be in pain. ... in childhood. ... I came across a symbolic situation.Now that scene makes me think that's childhood.When I saw it, I felt the parting hand of my childhood that was going to leave me.I have a premonition that all the time in me rises from within me, and is intercepted in front of this painting, and I correctly imitate the characters, movements, and voices in the painting. It was left to me, and probably only the only facsimile—a correct reproduction, so to speak, of my infancy.Anyone should have been prepared for such a thing in their infancy.It's just because it's easy to be regarded as a trivial matter, so it often passes without being noticed. The scene is like this - Once, a group of people who were holding a summer festival swarmed in from the gate of my house. The grandmother persuaded the craftsman for her own inconvenience and for the sake of my grandson. The picture shows the town's festival procession passing through the door of the house.Originally, this was not the route of the festival, but under the arrangement of the foreman, every year, I made some detours and passed in front of my house, which has become a habit. My family and I stood in front of the door.The iron gate with arabesque patterns was left open, and the stone steps in front were washed clean with water.The sound of big drums approached dully. Gradually, the mournful tones of the chant that even the lyrics make people get goosebumps, passing through the chaotic noise of the festival, we know that what seems to be the noise of the people is actually the theme of the real voice.I cannot help feeling that it speaks of a sorrow—the very vulgar copulation of man with eternity, the sorrow of a copulation that can only be formed by pious incest.In the intertwined and indistinguishable cluster of sounds, the metal sound of the vanguard's tin staff, the muffled roar of the big drum, and the chaotic chant of the porters carrying the mikoto can be heard clearly without knowing it.我的胸中（从这时起热烈的期待与其说是高兴不如说是痛苦），几乎是无法站立般地透不过气来地激动不已。手持锡杖的神官戴着狐狸假面。那神秘野兽的金色眼睛，勾魂似地死盯着我，它一过去，我感到自己不知什么时候，抓着身旁家里人的衣服下摆，从眼前队伍给予我近乎恐惧的欢乐，变成拉着架势要伺机逃走。我对待人生的态度，从这时起就是这样的。最终我只能从让我过于等待的东西面前、让我过于用事前的遐想加以过分修饰的东西面前遁逃。 不久，由使丁抬着，拉着稻草绳的香资箱走了过去，当孩子们的神轿轻浮地蹦蹦跳跳地一转过去，一顶黑色和金黄色的庄严大神轿走了过来。轿顶上的金凤凰像盘旋于风浪间的鸟一样，随着叫喊声耀眼地颤动着。由于我已经远远地看见它，所以它给予我一种华丽的不安。只因那神轿的周围凝滞着像是热带空气般浓重沉闷的无风状态，它具有一种恶意的懒惰，所以看上去像是炽热地摇动在年轻人裸露的肩上。红白相间的粗绳，涂着黑边的金黄色栏杆，那紧紧关闭着的绘着金粉的门里，有四尺见方的漆黑之地，在万里无云的夏日正午，这不断上下左右摇曳跳动的四四方方的夜晚公然而至。 神轿来到我的眼前。年轻人穿着套件浴衣，裸露着大半个身子，他们以一种像是神轿自己醉了般的动作，不断地走着。他们步履蹒跚，他们的眼睛不看地面。拿着大圆扇的小伙子，一边高声叫喊着围着人群来回跑动，一边鼓动着他们。神轿时而摇摇晃晃地向一边倾斜，马上又在狂热的叫喊声中被抬正。 这时，我家的大人们似乎从那看起来和往常一样的行进队伍的人群中，直感到某种力量驱使的意志，我突然被拽着的大人的手拉到背后。"危险！"有人喊道。后来我就搞不清怎么回事了。我被拽着手穿过前院逃去，然后从房子的正门冲入家中。 我不知道是和谁一起冲上了二楼。到了阳台上，屏着气息看着眼看就要蜂拥而入至前院的黑色神轿和那一群人。 我一直到后来都在想，到底是什么力量驱使他们如此从动。I have no idea.怎么能想到那数十个年轻人，像是策划好似的一窝蜂地拥入我家门里呢？ 花草丛被痛快地践踏。这是个真正的祭典活动。我都看腻了的前院，变成了另外一个世界。神轿被抬得满院子跑。灌木丛被大片地踩倒。我连发生了什么事都没弄明白。声音温和，使人不禁感到简直就像冻结了的沉默和没有内容的轰鸣声，混杂着造访那里。颜色也一样，跳动着涌出金、朱、紫、绿、黄、黑、白色。时而金色，时而朱色，使人感到是支配这整体的一个色调。 不过，只有一个鲜艳美丽的东西，使我惊异，使我透不过气，以不知缘故的苦楚填满了我的心。那就是神轿轿夫们的、在世间也是淫荡的、明显的陶醉表情。 ...