Paradise Hotel / Hiromi Suzuki

Detective poster under railway viaduct is blown in the wind, and remnants of flyers for missing appear at brick wall. Fliers tell that cats and dogs ran away and a parrot flew away. The rain and wind expose a “Face” in an assemblage of the daily lives. Maybe the “Face” is a wanted criminal. I remember it is a heinous criminal who was reported on television news and on the front page of newspapers several decades ago. What kind of evil sin did he commit? The “Face” was exposed to rain and wind, and forgotten as an assemblage of the daily lives.

As soon as a woman enters from the automatic door, she says “What is that?”, points at the table on the corner. A man escorts the woman to the window seat. “Carnivorous plant.”, he says. “Paradise.”, the man murmurs and smokes behind me. It is rainy today. However, the vapor in this glasshouse changes to the drops of dew shining like meteors at my tumbler of iced coffee. On the ground floor of the hotel, a coffee shop which uses the materials of the previous supper opens for the lunch. I live in this hotel only temporarily for a month, but I did not notice that Drosera rotundifolia inhabits beside dusty Steinway & Sons. It is unexpected that the coffee shop in this hotel is a glasshouse floating on a marsh. I recognize it is the reason why the blue ink on the diary keeping the words of my daily life disappears faintly as if they ooze into the next pages by splashed water. At the tips of Drosera rotundifolia’s glandular hair, mucilage like water droplets give off a sweet scent.

Last night, there was a luxurious recital. From the outside of glasshouse, I saw the gray spheres of old people dressed up were swinging delightfully. An old man in a white hemp jacket, an old lady in a lace gown, a foreigner wearing a polka dot flared skirt. Roast beef, Foie gras terrine and many hors d’oeuvres were on the table. The steam of Sukiyaki satisfied their appetite and vanity. The drum roll by a gentleman in a bow tie greeted the audience. At the same moment when the lights turned off and the bubbles of champagne faded into the insubstantial lives, the quartet performance of the violin not tuned sounded.

A hotel drifting in the rainy city on a marsh. I thought of Titanic unintentionally.

I see the outside world through the glass window of the coffee shop. Immortal rain falls as ever. Drosera rotundifolia’s mucilage shines waiting for a prey. I am devouring vaguely the remnants of time with iced coffee.

hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan. The author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013), logbook (Hesterglock Press, 2018) and INVISIBLE SCENERY (Low Frequency Press, 2018). Her works are published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Hotel, Burning House Press, DATABLEED, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Hotel, talking about strawberries all of the time, Mookychick, Coldfront, RIC Journal and 3:AM Magazine. More work can be found at hiromisuzukimicrojournal.tumblr.com.

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