I think sometimes that Tokyo's train routes are built above ley lines, like the El Camino trail: pockets of mystical energy rising from the tracks and through the metal and machinery to infiltrate commuters as they trance their way between appointments. You can see it in the un-lined faces of sleeping businessmen, in the flicker of eyelid or sudden jerk of the head -- these are not dreams that stir them -- they have remembered what it is like to be a baby or an angel, and you can tell that the books of anime porn drooping from their fingers are just a kind of smokescreen.
A lot of people commit suicide by jumping in front of the Rapid Express trains. Mainly businessmen, I think. Every couple of days, as I slide my sherbet-coloured train pass into the electronic turnstile, I glance up to see the following words, cherry-red, scrolling across the marquee: Train delayed between Kyodo and Shinyurigaoka due to accident. Clean-up crews cordone off the area, and service is suspended for as long as it takes to remove the shoes (you can not go to Heaven with your shoes on), cover the remains with a sheet, and mop up the bits of bone and flesh. The families of these jumpers are presented with a bill: for the cost of the clean-up, and for the loss of revenue due to re-routed trains. I picture the instant widow receiving this bill. I picture the exhausted businessman leaving neatly printed kanji regarding bank accounts, assets to be liquidated, and a brief explanation, before selecting a pin-striped suit and coal-grey socks.
Finally went to the sinful and notorious Roppongi -- not for sex or drugs or vice, but to visit the dentist. He is the world's coolest dentist, which I told him, to his delight. He is wry. A couple of examples:
"Do you see this plaque?" [presenting a hunk of it on the tip of a metal pick, taken from my teeth.] "There are 6 billion bacteria in this one little bit." [pause] "I've never counted it though."
[I ask if I can smoke after he used a LASER BEAM on my wisdom tooth infection.] "You can smoke four packs of cigarettes." [pause] "You can drink an entire keg of beer."
Needless to say, I admire him enormously.
Last night for dinner I had sliced bananas, sections of orange, cheese on crackers, and red wine.
Writing has become a grudging, bitter battle. I hate the inconsistency of the words I produce and would like for there to be a more reliable formula. This negates any idea of creative writing, however, and so not only do I combat the words but also my attitude: slumped on ancient stone benches as the trains go by, pen on page a kind of loveless sex, a despoilment. Some of it's good though so it's worth it.
Yesterday Matt and I hung out in a private kareoke room for three hours. We sang dozens of songs. I seem to have a flair for early No Doubt stuff. With six drinks each, the total came to $40. Hot damn!
Some kind of oil distribution company here has the brand name JOY. So there are these large oil tankers with rotating thingies on the back emblazoned with three-foot-high letters spelling JOY hurtling about.
A couple more wild evenings at the Antique 'N' Junk. Matt kissed a guy from Peru.
The indigo children have been maddeningly elusive as of late -- they jeer at me from the ceiling and speak only to each other. It's rude, but I keep telling myself it's just a Stage. And if all the world's a Stage, which one is it? I think disgruntled middle-age.
Matt, observing the empties: Some people would say we have a drinking problem. I say we have a can problem.
Books placed neatly on the new shelves. Clothing remains crumpled in suitcase. Picnic lunch on tatami-mat floor: egg sandwhiches, cheddar cheese on rice crackers, peach green tea. The smoking lounge has both a vending machine and a pay phone! We are a 5-minute walk from the 100 yen grocery store, which is about the coolest thing I can imagine. Our room is a lot like the Margaret Atwood Boarding House, but smaller -- it's got that same bookishly musty feeling, as though you should be wearing a woollen skirt and carrying a carpet suitcase, holding out a letter saying, "Miss Waller? I'm expected? I'm here about the secretarial position? Dr. Kipling sent me ....."
I feel I need to point out here that Matt bought margarine in a tube a few days ago.
Went to dinner at a Thai place with Ryan and Aya the other day. Aya continues to maintain her reputation as the World's Coolest Japanese Person by 1) Claiming she wants to make a t-shirt that says I KNOW I'M YELLOW; and 2) Misunderstanding Ryan when he said 'kamikaze' one too many times and bursting out, "I can't understand your fucking accent!" In addition, she claims to have married Ryan because she is actually a racist and having a white person around to slur is convenient. I am not making this up. To fully appreciate these ramblings you must know that Aya is drop-dead cute and very polite and gracious most of the time .....