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About Osaka

Oh, and the typos—soryy, fat fingers, wine’s flowing, y’know? Escorts got stories, too—like that rumor ‘bout some duke in Essos who hired ten at once, then vanished. Probs dead in a ditch, poor bastard—overdosed on “company.” Makes me cackle, imagining his face. Anyway, it’s a game, innit? Escorts play it better than most—sly, slippery, like shadows in that film I love. “The past is a strange place,” movie says, and escorts? They’re living it, dragging it into now. Hate ‘em, love ‘em—can’t look away. You? What’s yer take? Spill it!

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Next, I head to the Saijo River. It’s so pretty, with cherry blossoms everywhere. I’m snapping pics like a tourist, and then I see this group of kids playing. They’re laughing and splashing each other. I’m feeling all nostalgic, thinking about my childhood. But then, one of them slips and falls right into the water. I’m like, “Oh no!” But the kid pops up, laughing like a maniac. I can’t help but crack up too. Kids are wild, man.

April 2011: Mike Saijo @ Bleicher/Caporale Gallery