Dreams, Akira Kurosawa's lovely film of eight short stories, begins with Sunshine Through The Rain, his take on the legend of sunshowers and the strange beings inhabiting that murky, soggy world — and the hard choices one must face when plunged into the land of the kitsune.
I thought a lot about sunshine through the rain last night after having dinner with Barbie from the Paragraph Factory. A nice woman who throws one helluva Halloween party, Barbie has a gentle demeanor that makes it difficult not to spill state secrets and matters of the heart. Thank God for my inability to speak the muse's name without falling apart in parts. As it is I said too much.
We talked for a bit about the insane stupidity of men and the confusing ways of women. But mostly we talked about all those little bits of life that get lost in the day-to-day madness. It was nice to break bread with a friend who doesn't want something from me. For an hour, I almost felt human.
Too soon it was over; back to work for the both of us, back to being silent boy for me, looking at life through detached retinas. Even the most beautiful days are cloudy now; the real sun is gone for good and it's never coming back. Being noble or clean did not halt this plunge into darkness. Neither did being unconditional. The narrow sliver of light and warmth shines through another window now, and I'm not allowed in that room.
A longing indistinguishable from loneliness welled inside me. I realized there is only one small room in my heart now, one with no window. No one else is allowed to see how black it is in there. I'm terrified at being there by myself; I can't imagine letting anyone else fumble around. Forget sunshine and rain: this is where the kitsune really live, and they have a tantō with my name on it.
I closed the door behind me: silence as I blocked out the deafening hum created by the world. Such an apt phrase, that.