An orange bandanna, two green tank tops, black shorts, bare feet. Beer in a silver can. AC. Heat outside like sand in the air. No jeans to be found in this city. The wail of cicadas, or whatever they are. Met a photographer last night and drank with him sitting on the pavement. Tokyo Rose gave me a slice of homemade banana cake this morning. James is coming round to use the Internet. My lucky bamboo flourishes. In the newspaper, families all over the world are killing each other and trying to cover up the evidence.
On Sunday morning, hungover fingers to forehead as we sipped coffee and ate sad fried eggs, Matt, Ben, Miyuki, and I decided to head out to the amusement park at Tokyo Dome.
When we got there it was all flashes of too-close lightening reflecting off miles of neon and metal: the very roller coasters were shut down, bright blue tarps were flung over tug-boats, the trampoline competition was postponed indefinitely. We wandered around, getting rained on and quiet, when we saw it: The Horse Racing Pavilion.
Of course, we all thought there would be real horses. When we discovered it was televised, with electronic betting kiosks, everyone was disinterested except Matt. But we went. You know, for him. And what a place! It's in downtown Tokyo, generally a clean place (not to be confused with Noborito), and yet when we mounted the concrete steps and stepped into the great hall of gambling, every assumption was shattered. Every single person in there was a man: a sad, shabby man, with a dirty baseball cap and nicotine fingers. Hundreds of men. The concrete floors were littered with cigarette butts and empty cans of beer and torn-up gambling cards. Most men had newspapers folded open to the racetrack pages, with careful notations made in green plastic pencil. They also had thick notebooks with endless columns of odds, yen bet, results. We got our cards, picked our horses (my first one was Heaven Sent), and fed the cards into the machine. Then, we joined the lines of the damned to watch the race on one of dozens of TV's hanging from wires from the ceiling. When the horses raced the final stretch, the silent room erupted in tormented screams: "Sumimasen! Go, go! Baka!" We all lost. We tore up our cards and threw them to the ground, with the others. I lit a cigarette.
Gah, insects! I am not scared of them, but I dislike their pervasiveness. They flit around, vibrating, attaching themselves to my ankles and sleeves and drinks. Ugh.
Well, maybe I am scared of the two-inch-long cockroaches that fly. Yes, I'm scared of those.
I've kept a dream journal off-and-on since 2000, and was reading through it today for the first time in ages. I recorded a dream in June 2004 that featured a woman moving into a house with a futon and a Coke vending machine. So odd that, as of October 2006, I have lived in just such a place ...
... Check out this Mika video. It rocks out!
Last night: walking down the river at midnight, insects and humidity and sad, lonely salarymen on their way home, ties loose. A drink at the Antique and Junk. Masta explains to the British girls, through rather crude use of hand gestures, that the relationship between Matt and myself is a sexual one. At home, one a.m., Nyree barefoot and amused on the pavement. Other arrive with more drinks. Cigarettes, tarot, sake. Time for bed. An Irishman is passed out on the dim green couch: I say, "G'night, N." He opens his eyes and says, very clearly, "I will see you in HELL. Or. Tomorrow."
Last night I went to a burlesque show where the dancer was actually a model, who sat in 2-minute poses. We were given thick pencils and expensive, textured paper. Alcoholic prizes were offered for the best sketches.
We were instructed to give one of the sketches a 'religious' theme. I drew the dancer with no head, reaching blindly for an ornate platter on which rested the severed head of St. John. I didn't win the prize.
I brought it home and showed it to Matt, and he gave me a very odd look. In fact, in seven years of baffling behaviour followed by odd looks, this is the very oddest look I have ever received.
Never trust a Chicago Dave.
Never trust a kendo master Japanese bartender with a penchant for sho-chu. Love him, shower his premises with business, admire him, but don't trust him.
Never trust a hippie with a cell phone.
Never trust guitar rifts with Asahi and sarcasm.
Especially, never trust the written word.
Good Lord, the heat! It's 30 degrees at the moment, with 42 per cent humidity. And I'm going to venture out into it in a few minutes, for writing and coffee, then a couple hours at one of my schools, helping out for the speech contest. Matt has returned, and with him messiness and clutter, but it doesn't matter cuz I missed him and he brought me back a present -- an Anui bracelet. Also smoked eggs, which I didn't want, so he's giving them to Masa and Cookie, and also the filthiest Asian porn you can imagine, which I believe he intends to post to Dave Chenery. Yes, it's like he's been home forever. :)
Loretta Lynn drunkenly monologues, I bat the fruit flies away from my bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and plan for a sunrise hike up Mt. Fuji.
I've never been the type to ogle good-looking men (unless I'm hanging out with Ben, when one feels an urge to keep up), but in Japan there is a sore lack of eye candy for straight women, so whenever I see a beautiful man, I stare at him quite frankly. I was doing this the other day, for so long that he finally noticed and smiled at me, so, bashful, I dropped my gaze, only to see his shirt, on which was emblazoned my LEAST FAVOURITE WORD! You know, THAT ONE! I actually made a choking sound and then started laughing, which confused him to no end. What a shitty day!
I've been listening to CBC Radio all afternoon and it's awesome! Though quite unusual to hear Canadian accents again. I don't think I've got a single Canadian friend in Japan. More Aussies than I know what to do with, heaps of Brits, a New Zealander or two, some Japanese, and more Americans than you'd expect, but no Canadians ... (Now I'm paranoid that I've forgotten someone ... Andrew, who moved to another part of Japan, is a sort of email friend. No, I think that's it. Matt and I are certainly the only Canadians among the 25 inhabitants of the Slum.)
An old, old lady riding a bike (bikes are called "Grandmother's Chariots" here), with a Playboy Bunny bag in the front basket.
A slightly old lady with a flowing sarong, dyed hair, and chic sunglasses -- and an aquamarine shirt covered with pictures of grapes that said in sinister black letters: GOSSIP OF THE DEVIL.
It's been a tremendously exciting couple of weeks, but I think I'll save the details for my next update. Some teasers: large, finally-healing gashes on my right foot; illegal romance car excursions, a seaside resort I can never return to, and nearly derailing a festival procession .....
On a yellow t-shirt: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. But successful! There are importants in life!"
Merciful rain. There is a typhoon warning but I don't care: the humidity is down to a level where you don't start sweating until nearly ten minutes outside, and the mind is sharper, the senses less slogged. Bring on the floods.
Four Brits and I in a park, trails going in circles, the smell of mulch. Cans of chu-hi. An old man with an old dog, good English: "Do you know the Okanagan? I played golf in Kelowna."
Swim suit shopping that ended in despair and no swim suit.
On the back of Bjorn's bike: he in a suit, tie; me in midnight and quiet. The ragged, past-last-train streets. The startled pedestrians.
Reading Joe's tarot in a smoky booth in Chat Noire Cafe. His Final Outcome is Judgement.
Sake in a small porcelain cup, downed crosslegged on the hardwood floor of James's apartment.
Two yellow sunflowers in a glass of water, planted like art beside my laptop.
A rousing goodbye-for-the-summer speech delivered, in Japanese, to a roomful of my colleagues. A burst of applause, cheery farewells -- followed, 5 minutes later, with me rushing back in to return an important piece of paper, the other side of which contained my Japanese Cheat Sheet.
Matt announcing, to a stunned audience in the bar, "Yeah, Joy's got shit social skills with people her own age, but put her at a table with a bunch of old guys and she's fine!"
Nyree by chance outside Noborito station, a plum-coloured bruise below her chin, and amusing stories on the other side of her eyes.
Writing wishes on special paper at Cookie Bar. Cookie lets us tape them into the window with the others.
Squid served in its own ink. Our tongues turn black.
Taking 26 school kids to the park during fourth period, to write haiku beside the river.
(whilst watching Crackerjack)
ME: God! Do Australians do that? Do they run around their apartments all day in their underwear? James, why is he doing that?
JAMES: [scowling] Because he's on the Dole.
ME: Oh. [pause] So when you're on the Dole you lose all dignity.
[James scowls deeper]
ME: Shit, sorry, James. I forgot you were on the Dole once. [recognition dawns] You did this, didn't you?! You ran around in your underwear, didn't you --
JAMES: [defensively] It was hot, all right? It was Australia, all right? If you can't afford a fucking proper air-con unit --
Drinkin: peach chu-hi
Listening to: Cat Power
One of my junior high schools had a Sports Festival last weekend, and it was an experience-and-a-half .... Finished the day off completely sun-stroked, but it was well worth it! I made only one glaring mistake -- sitting in the Grandfather's Tent instead of the Visitor's Tent. I wouldn't have minded staying, because I'm quite fond of old men and seem to connect with them more easily than any other group, but the Visitor's Tent was cool because it was right where all the action was: the finish line for the track events, the spot where student performers would stop and bow or sing a song, etc. Also it was the spot where a teacher participating in a relay race slammed into a metal dais. This wasn't pretty, but damn, bird's eye view ... I clapped for all of the competitors, of course, but particularly those who came in last place: the underweight, the unfit, and the overweight. It brought to mind the one Sports Day I actually participated in, as a child of nine ...
For weeks I had grown increasingly baffled during P.E. class as the exercises took on a more determined feel, with stop watches and the introduction of activities like shot-put and high jump. There seemed to be something important at stake; we were all given a lot of encouragement, and pushed harder than usual. I disliked sports and participated absently. Then one day, we had P.E. class at the high school sports stadium. It was different than usual: all of our parents were there, the grandstands were packed, it was Saturday, etc. I wasn't quite clear what was going on, nor what was expected of me. I had been given $2 -- also unusual -- which I spent on orange soda and potato chips. My friends were in races, and I clapped for them.
Then somebody took my arm and placed me in a starter's block. There were six of us. Everyone else seemed to know what was going on, and I looked anxiously at the finish line 50 metres ahead. I tried to leave -- discretely, casually -- and was guided back. Then a gun-shot! And I ran the run of the damned.
Twenty-five metres in, I collapsed. I was red in the face and miserable -- a combination of unfit and underweight -- and again tried to sidle off the course. The other competitors had already finished. A volunteer grabbed my hand and forced me to hobble the rest of the way, screaming well-meant encouragement and inciting the crowd to do the same: I crossed the finish line, my hand in his, to a roar of applause.