An old, old man comes shuffling through the cafe tables to the one beside mine. His teeth brown, hair on his head just a wisp, a suggestion. He balances a porcelain tray in both hands, a miniature cup filled with espresso strong enough I can smell it before he's even close. He grins.
Then, trying to maneuver: a stumble. The cup falls gently, muffled by the beige serviette. Carefully he wipes the spilled coffee off the tabletop. Stares at the empty cup. Sits. Does not order another.
I was looking through an old notebook today and found a list of "potential titles" -- titles I desperately wanted to use for stories one day. I think Matt, Ben, and I made them up. They rule!
- Porn for Losers
- Can-Lit's One-Hit Wonder
- Res Sex
- One Lone Bolshevik Against the Night
- Solving Small-Town Problems with Iron-Clad Dictatorships
- A Shotgun Wedding for Lovers
- Dates Are Fun, But Not Date Squares
- Weed: The Gateway ... To Forever
- "And That's Why I'm Not a Stockbroker!"
- And For Some Reason, The Scissors
- Window Number Six
- Co-hosting the Gong Show
From the same notebook, author unknown (but due to the content, probably Jay Praine or Matt):
"Once in the Sims I had two guys and a girl living together and the two guys fell in love and the girl had nothing to do but play chess, and she went crazy and started peeing herself."
A random insect in deepest, darkest Yokohama. It was longer than my hand. I am weary, weary of this life!
I have a didgeridoo now! It all happened quite suddenly, but was mostly my fault. I can't even play the thing. There have been derogatory remarks. In other news, I got ahold of a green headscarf and have put it on, am pretending to be a kind of Arabian priestess. Maybe it's time to go back to work ...
I've written two non-fiction articles for an online content agency this week, both of which were accepted but have not yet sold. I'm working on another today. Also critiqued a buddy's screenplay, and am working on the second draft of a short story Ben critiqued for me last week. Thanks for that, dude! You are spot-on as usual. Any ideas for a title? ("Unheard-of Notions," perhaps?!)
I had a spot of social anxiety last weekend, packed into a tiny izakaya in Chiba with around 30 other people. I completely lost my ability to speak and chain-smoked recklessly, gulped many gin-and-tonics (which, fortunately, were watered down). The noise level was phenomenal and I only knew a few people -- two of them were on either side of me, but it was so loud that even if I yelled they couldn't hear. My mind was a train wreck, following different thought patterns and then crashing them into other thought patterns. There was deep-fried cheese, which helped some, and the birthday girl was Yeliz and she is so beautiful that nothing else really mattered, but nevertheless, I left early and caught the train home, shaking in the fluorescent light.
Japan had a 7.2 earthquake last night. It was over 300 km away and it still woke me up -- at first I thought it was me -- a Joy-quake -- that I was having convulsions or breathing too quickly. Weird.
It's so hot I don't want to do anything but stay in my room with the air-con, reading Alice Munro. I've been waking up at about 5 for the last couple weeks, and even that early it's so hot I'm drenched in sweat before I even get dressed. Gah! Regardless, I went to the immigration office today to get my new visa straightened out (I am an 'instructor' now!). Also bought an essential oil burner, and interesting little boxes.
Thanks for the Gravity, Colin.
Went to an awesome restaurant in Shinjuku last night: Sizzler! It featured an all-you-can-eat salad bar which, to a kanji-illiterate vegetarian ex-pat such as myself, was nothing less than miraculous ecstasy. Imagine going to a restaurant and being able to actually eat the things there, and not only that, but have choices! I loaded up on salads, sliced vegetables, an actual whole wheat bun, and many different rice-and-bean things. Could hardly walk after: all told, the two plates I had represented more than I've eaten in the entire past week. Felt good. Oh, plus: bottomless orange juice. Shinjuku can be a fantastic place.
I wonder if, when Adam and Eve had spats, Eve ever shouted, "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the first man on earth!!"
Keeping busy, thanks to the efforts of a few great people.
Mid-afternoon karaoke, followed by chu-hi on the river, and later wine at a posh-ish place. Helen nearly died @ karaoke when she sang the Macy Gray song containing the lines, "I try to say goodbye and I choke / Try to walk away and I stumble / Though I try to hide it, it's clear / My world crumbles when you are not here," and then caught the look on my face ... Ha, it was funny after a few seconds. :)
A glorious tropical BEACH with Sarah and Helen, where we awkwardly body surfed, napped in the sun, and ate lunch in a shore-side hut. I burned rather spectacularly, but it looks nice now. I love the beach. I want to live on the beach.
Drinks with Nyree in Shimokitazawa, and the next day, watching Clerks 2. For a completely foul and offensive movie, with jokes structured around bestiality and homophobia, I enjoyed it rather more than I thought I would ... Jay's dance scenes stole the show, as usual.
James coming round to fix my computer and then drink beers in Ikuta Park. Excellent James stories and observations.
I've completely changed the layout of my room, which feels good and fresh. Still not eating more than a cup of yogurt a day, but whatever. One of the best things about stress is that you lose weight. I appreciate all the overseas friends with their wonderful emails! More than I can possibly say. And I'm excited about planning for the future.
My relationship of nearly seven years just ended on Monday, and it's crazy how such an event can produce both great optimism and crushing despair. Of course, going to the grocery store produces both optimism and despair. Riding the train does. Un-corking wine does. Writing in green ink does. Fuck, I'm not trying to make light of this, or relegate it to the mundane: just to say that what life does to you, it does; and what you do to life, that also is done. There's no mistakes and the best thing is you get better. I hope.
(no comments please)
Went to Ginza yesterday, with Hiromi and James. Ginza's like the fashion mecca of Japan, very high-class, very expensive, very image-oriented. I was trundling about in my cargo pants, tight black tee, and orange bandanna, collecting more stares than if I had been naked. These women had SOCKS that I swear cost more than my entire outfit. We went to an art gallery where Hiromi's friend had some pieces -- good stuff, all pop-culture-critique-in-digital bite-the-hand-that-fed-you type stuff. Dug. Met a friend of Hiromi's who was dressed to kill in a 3-piece suit. His very first words, in perfect English, were, "It's too damn hot!" It was. I nearly collapsed on a quest for food, even going so far as to suggest MacDonald's as it was directly in front of us and air-conditioned. Hiromi wisely steered us to a Spanish place where we had a 4-course meal with drinks for only 1500 yen. How did she find it? The waiters were uber-rude, which was odd cuz we were with a Japanese person and this usually ensures far better service than a group of whites on their own, and it finally dawned on me that it was because we were in Ginza dressed the way we were. It was insane. The restaurant wasn't even fancy and they held this view. It was neat to think about though: In Shibuya everyone is fashionable but punk. In Ginza they're fashionable and too expensive to touch. In Noborito ... Well, in Noborito we shop at Uniqlo and spend less than 100 dollars when we go to the hair salon. Good old battered Noborito! It's realer than most places.
Then we took the MonoRail to another place because I was craving water -- visuals of water -- and we wound up at a riverside patio bar. Hoegaarden in large mugs; pickled vegetables. Heat so bad we could hardly speak. Green, green, lush things on the side of the river. Live music. Super-casual waitstaff. Felt like a different country.
So here I am 25 and having shots for breakfast for the first time since I was 19. Woe, woe is in the air! My only wish is that Patrick Lane could be at the end of it, 8:30 in the am writing the word FUCK on a blackboard in front of wide-eyed university first-years, telling us not to be afraid of writing poems about flowers.
In lieu of Patrick Lane I've got the ivy on the back patio, I got coffee that could be ground, I got heaps of brains and a sky-blue cell phone.
I'm not really looking for Marilyn Monroe. Just wandering around, buying shirts, drinking beer, stopping for cigarettes. I have no idea it's Thursday; thought it was two days earlier at least. The weather is humid and I sit dripping sweat in a bar with a red door, reading my tarot cards. Later I go shopping for bras but can't find any, wind up in another bar with an overpriced pint of Hartland beer and a 3-month-old copy of Weekender. I called Joe earlier asking him to join me but he was at work; like I said, I'd forgotten it was Thursday. So I'm there alone, staring out the second-storey window at the lane below -- it's a great lane, lots of wild bamboo -- and then the TV, mute in the corner, is playing Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Marilyn, lips so red, squeezing through a tiny, circular window on a ship. The camera zooms in on her ass. Janis Joplin is playing on the hi-fi. A white girl with a guitar comes in and orders a water, lights a cigarette. There are times when you hate someone for no reason, and I hate this girl. The music changes to Nina Simone. It's getting darker outside, evening finally here. The barmaid -- beautiful, Japanese -- comes over and turns on a lamp for me, without me asking, and it's one of the best lamps in the world: a rectangular box coloured ivory, a soft bulb inside. On TV, Marilyn wears magenta, dances. There's times you're so lonesome you can't even cry, and when you're so happy you do cry, right there in the bar, just a second later, it's like the sky is falling, like they're closing up the minstrel show, or taking the needle from a record.
