Death of L’Amour
Kofi Fosu Forson
I look at an unusually curvaceous Japanese woman and I immediately think love is dead.
This blessed figure of love is reduced to the lowest common denominator. At first, she is of culture. She is Japanese. At once her body resembles that of an ethnic woman. As per the demonizing of the flesh, she is disposable. What would be blessed before the eyes of an artist…That this being is sculptural…has lent itself to the machinations of a fantasy.
Am I in love and politely refusing to recognize it? Or is it true that the rendering of the unusually perfect woman is equated not with lustful fever but the body as conquerable, much the way of the imperialist.
I’m not in love. I am chaste. This allows for the churning of societies plundering and pillaging. It is a form of absorption and manifestation.
The brick by brick layers which continue to exist within our conscience given the construct of pop culture, politics and socio-politics are detonated. One is led to realize do we lead or conform?
If love is dead, how then do we populate the world with a common understanding? It is not religion that governs, neither is politics. The metamorphosing of the soul builds character. And yet the body is a trap. Most people are left to entrust upon others fears, desires and hatred best explored within the realms of spirituality, Zen or an examination of love as conscientious.
What would lead one to say love is dead? Could it possibly be that by transforming from the general appeal of love, one demystifies the funk applied to love and finds a singularly palatable expression of love in its purest form.
Does the Japanese woman reach a conclusion in the mind as a person other than a conquerable “thing?” It is very much a matter of dominance and betrayal. Her body is a threat. It broadens the thought of terrorism and nuclear warfare.
Do we intellectualize the beauty of a woman or must we continue to conquer and claim territory?