Daniel Oh

June 11, 1987 – July 17, 2013 – February 7, 2016 –


오 세욱

1987年6月11日 – 2013年7月17日 – 2016年2月7日 –


























































I traversed the New World, which was by now a ruin, and proceeded to cross the Pacific on an eagle with invisible wings. Gazing down upon that tranquil deep my countenance was troubled, for only a thin layer of the ocean shimmers and dances like a woman cloaked in precious stones and dreams, while that domain beneath the gloss would gladly suck the breath from mine lungs and the light out of the sky. But once the immemorial void gave way to brighter shades of shallow blue, I traded wings for sails and made fall upon land where with my party was I greeted on a sandy sanctuary by a humble servant and steward of nature. At my feet were unhatched turtles nestled in sediment reminiscent of milled seeds of sesame who from first to final encounter with the sun would spare no care for the totality of names and numbers assigned by man to the revolutions of celestial bodies yet embody from birth a greater cognition of those heavenly movements than even the most educated or enlightened mammal of two-footed gait. I stood there, transfixed, then recalled that I had thirst, but before I could ask for drink a cooled concoction the color of desert dusk was brought to me on a tray and it was sweet. Follow the river upstream, he said, against the lazy current, and when you might place your palm flat against the cold stone gate of a guano-filled cave you will see the scrawl:




Who was it that was waiting here before me? Was it the Americans? It could not have been the Spaniards. Perhaps it was a Jap with a peculiar sense of humor. No. The local fishermen said it was a mystery. I placed mine ear upon the rock and waited for the earth to reveal how that graff had come to be, as it had been inscribed there long before anyone in the village could recall.






















I look into my eye

I cannot see my eye

I can only see my self