In the news: Clare got my heater working. Awesome! It feels like a toasty womb in here!
The week was good --
Saturday: A random Shinjuku izakaya with the Urban Sage and Kenta. Made friends with the French-speaking Japanese guys at the next table and feasted on nabe, seafood salad, fried rice, etc. Kind of like two hours of pure serenity. A hideous train ride home though, train packed so tight you were sexually assaulting people just by standing there -- BUT -- back in Noborito by 1 am, watched "Dave the English Teacher" with the Urban Sage and Prince Harry. It's like an English-teaching horror/zombie movie, very low-budget, very satisfying.
Sunday: Virgo action I think. Cleaning and the like. Hiking in Ikuta Park with lots of British people. Going shoe shopping with Prince Harry.
Monday: Nothing.
Tuesday: Shimokitazawa with Jude the Obscure. Drinks @ Asian Trip, then an altercation with a UFO Catcher in which Jude wins not one but *four* stuffed animals. I got to keep the Snoopy. Later, Free Factory, a Japanese visual artist.
Wednesday: The marathon competition at my school. Very cold, but neat: hiked 45 minutes to a park and then watched the students run for a couple of hours. I was wearing dark jeans and an olive jacket, along with my new Magic Shoes (story later), only the Magic Shoes were very very WHITE sneakers and I felt horribly like Jerry Seinfeld.
Thursday: In all honesty I can't remember. Possibly I watched a movie or read books. Maybe went to James's house? It's a blur. No, wait -- it was Jude the Obscure again, we read tarot and I taught him to read a bit -- he's pretty much a natural, very cool -- bought some deli food and chilled out.
Friday: Went to a Hawaiian bar in Yokohama (Kannai) with some co-workers. Great conversation and atmosphere, very cheap drinks also. Too cheap! I stumbled home at 8pm, a little drunk, and did a mini writing workshop with Helen. She has the most awesome style! Decided to chill out with her and others in the lounge, but there was a message from the Press Analyst and so I found myself half-cut on the train, heading out to Shinjuku. Picked up Jude the Obscure at the station and we weaved our way to *that club* where various calamities ensued. You want fist fights? Jealousy? Illegal drinks? Oh, you know: buy the ticket, take the ride. Take it. Take the ticket! Drinks in the park down the block; dirty dancing on a kind of dais, the Press Analyst having left in a fury. Stumbling out into dawn, passing out on the train, awakening in Fujisawa of all places: grit teeth. A 20-minute train ride turns into two hours. Fuck, fuck. But pretty fun!
(15 seconds of goodness from my mobile phone video recorder)
In an extraordinarily melancholic mood, due to listening to Elliot Smith I guess, the realization that he is dead and so I can't stalk him, etc. You see how it goes.
Mid-way thru the weekend: that disjointed, fuzzy area between rampages. There will be a respite for six hours at least. Picture me in Noborito: plaid hat, Marlboro cigarette, notebook and empty beer can and sunshine.
Read tarot for someone a couple of hours ago.
Thursday saw me reading Haruki Murakami at work (Norwegian Wood), then flailing a bit at home before venturing out to Shibuya, collecting Jude the Obscure at Hachiko, and watching DJs at the Hub. Met up with a bunch of friends, mainly Brits, and had urgent conversations coloured by beer and misunderstanding and all the rest. I scribbled poems in between the despair and eventually we wound up at Le Fabrique, more DJs (better ones) and lots of Tokyo angst and neon and gloriousness. I convinced myself I had lost 7000 yen and so didn't drink anything -- which was good -- remained sober all thru the a.m.s, the 2 a.m.s and the 3 a.m.s and the 4 a.m.s, etc., met some interesting people, tired to dance but really -- really! -- I suck at dancing. Staggered off to the train station at dawn but once again Shibuya wrenched me back: the Brits went home and Jude and I turned away, wandered the grey streets, picked up more beer from a conbini, argued, deconstructed, wound up at a cheap Italian restaurant for "breakfast" that was actually just a bunch of white wine -- well, and pasta --
I returned to Noborito around 7 in the morning -- not without incident -- I think I will resign myself to a whole lifetime of getting lost on simple journeys -- and fell asleep until 2:30 in the afternoon, when two of the Brits knocked on my door and took me to Wendy's. We ate lots of grease. One of the Brits was depressed and fearful so I made sure we all got more alcohol to smooth things over and then we went to James's house, sat on the floor discussing stuff. Back to HH. Collect the Urban Sage and Prince Harry, we go to a Thanksgiving 'do in Kichioji and the Sage's man tries to teach me how to dance but I was too uncoordinated. I believe I was holding a turkey at one point. Some political debates with Americans. Strife. Great music and lots of mashed potatoes! I return home at a ridiculously early hour, write a little -- unsteadily -- and crash to sleep.
In the morning Jude the Obscure texts as he is accidentally, long-story-ly in the neighbourhood, so I go out to meet him, give him chocolate, wander around for a bit in the bitter cold, return to my place where he judges my reading material, yearn for karaoke (or I did), tarot, thoughtfulness. He went to meet his "friend" in Shibuya for lunch, and I messed around on Facebook and decided not to do laundry or -- indeed! -- anything productive. Now I'm sleepy again. Sleepy, sleepy ....
Internal monologue shrieks at me on dastardly too-early trek to work -- normal, that -- only today it's using a lot of caps -- "THE FAMILY MART GUY IS DIFFERENT TODAY," it informs, and "I THINK MAYBE YOU'RE STILL DRUNK," and "WAS THAT SHIRT A WISE CHOICE? JUST ASKING, LIKE, IF YOU THOUGHT IT WAS WISE OR NOT." As the train clacks past destinations -- Azamino, Eda, Ichigao -- Internal Monologue brings out the poets and won't shut up -- "NOT FOR ME THE FIRESIDE / NOR THE WELL-FILLED PLATE!" and "THE ICE WAS HERE / THE ICE WAS THERE / THE ICE WAS ALL AROUND!" and "THERE IS SOME SHIT / I WILL NOT EAT," and "DADDY / DADDY / YOU BASTARD / I'M THROUGH," and "WHO LET THEMSELVES BE FUCKED IN THE ASS BY SAINTLY MOTORCYCLISTS / AND SCREAMED WITH JOY." It got difficult to think, even; kept getting the concept of Joy riding on a train mixed up with snowy gulags in novels from the early 1970s, or truck stops with ghastly pinging gas pumps (Dear Mr. Henshaw, I think) or Plath half-dead, teenaged, under a suburban front porch. Tried to shut it all off in favour of music: played Thelonius Monk in my head, then Charles Mingus ("Thursday Night Prayer Meeting"), but it gave way to obscurity, Mo Koffman of all things, discordant; then David Foster's '88 Olympic theme. Fuck. Desperately wanted to get my hands on a copy of the Old Testament -- I've only got the New here in Japan -- and reread the prophets: Ezekiel and Daniel and Hosea in particular; Ezekiel's concept of 'a wheel within a wheel' clattering about in my head lately, insistent -- need also some Buddhist texts -- Ben, can you grab me some from the Lotus Pond next time you're there? -- did some reading on the four Noble Truths yesterday and want to research them more fully -- mulling over Jude the Obscure's comment last night, drunk at Dot: "You shouldn't be dating black guys, you're in Japan: you should date J. guys while you've got the opportunity;" a head-rush of clarity not 20 minutes ago as I realize that Nature -- trees, ivy, etc. -- has many of the same qualities as a Messiah -- disturbed by details of William S. Burroughs: you'll recall his cut-up technique, in which he sliced his manuscripts with razor blades and pasted them back together, haphazard -- well apparently he also used to do this -- mentally -- with people -- would deconstruct their personality and character and then re-arrange it to suit his fantasy world -- this strikes me as horrifying and familiar -- the cold settles into my pores, it must be nearing zero degrees, can't stop shivering, and clearly can't stop thinking: should probably do a shit-load of drugs or have lots of sex to calm things down a bit -- but -- the fourth Noble Truth talks of developing a detachment from craving and desire so perhaps I should watch movies instead, read trashy magazines, meditate, stare at bodies of water. Or at least think about doing these things. Text received from Prince Harry just now: "There's a really cute boy on the train drinking a tall apple chu-hi -- and I thought I had problems -- lol," and all around me at Work the soft padding sound of fingers pulling books from shelves and whoosh of paper through shredder and click of keyboard rhythmic as ballet and chairs being sat upon and my coffee silent in its red mug and the second-hand on the clock moving grimly and slowly forward -- really I guess this is just a typical hungover Wednesday but it feels charged somehow, encased in a kind of phosphorescence that demands scrutiny, posterity -- all I want to do is bellow and smash martini glasses on my desk but unfortunately I've become socialized, plus this is not a Goddard movie, you know, this is not a goddamn French New Wave movement -- I think there are dark circles under my eyes but daren't check -- renegade poet: I'm addressing you! Ben Rawluk! Strike mighty fist on plaything typewriter and breathe life into that which had no life! Build a window to Noborito and step out of it into these ragged streets, these mini-epistles of ecstasy and destruction!
Tumult!
Or not really I guess.
Thursday I met up with Shoko at an izakaya in Machida -- she's Japanese and lives in Canada; I'm Canadian and live in Japan -- a good study in contrasts. We talked of what we love, and what we hate, about the 2 respective countries. Both of them rule. But Canada has bigger apartments. And Japan has cheaper cigarettes.
Friday I met up with the Press Analyst and he cooked me dinner. So awesome to be cooked for! (ha, Clint, I ended a sentence with a preposition YET AGAIN!!) Fish and tomatoes and a kind of Green Vegetable and soup, etc. Okay, people are beating futons next door and I can't concentrate --
After dinner we went to a club and hung out with lots of interesting people. That sentence contains a whole shit-load of backstory I'm not going to get into here. Because like I don't have to.
Saturday I dodged rumors in Sarah's room and then she, Stiffy, and I headed out to Shibuya, met up with Jude the Obscure, and flailed a bit at the Hub. Progressed to an indie night at some forsaken hotel and I spent most of the evening with a J dude called Manabu. First J dude I've kissed who actually knows how to kiss! Very cool. Neon and long unnecessary walks. A bleary dawn train. Circuitry --- what is it? How do the neurons or whatever work? Cuz I've got too many thoughts on the go ... Brain like a machine you've thrown water onto -- all the mechanisms disabled but still, oddly, functional at SOMETHING. Got to figure out what the something is and then I'll be ok.
(Inspired by Miranda's comment, I've decided to write an epic prose-poem about the colour of my hair. Here's the next bit.)
Red as the plates in a Bill Gaston short story.
Red like the mark left when my brother Lance shot me point-blank in the arm with a paint-ball gun deep in the eerie underbrush of Silver Star Mountain -- one minute sitting on lawn chairs smoking weed and the next blood dripping down my arm as Lance laughed, sorry and surprised -- tossed the gun into a cluster of bushes as though to erase it and ran to his trailer, fetched a tiny, expensive bottle of emu oil and dressed the wound as my fingers shook --
Sweat collecting in the cracks of her palm: a kind of wild-eyed, fucked-up expressionlessness as she navigates Tuesday morning sun-bleached Fujigaoka smoking cigarettes absently walking above dead, immaculate leaves distrusting memory trying to care about mythology worried about her handwriting, its deterioration and lack of impact, sniffing the air like a cat, sips of cold green tea from a fearfully and wonderfully made bottle -- her father once worked in a bottle factory -- in Lumby -- horrible town -- or was in the 80s -- rednecks who shot deer and sad thick-waisted teenage mothers with big shoes and stained Disney sweatshirts -- Fujigaoka similarly horrifying but details far different, the scenery more along the lines of hawk-eyed 20-year-old salarymen dragging themselves to their offices of despair, or yellow-hatted children dashing across six lanes of traffic trailing umbrellas and luck, or hunched oba-sans glaring at her and her cigarette as they stoop to pick up somebody else's butts -- everyone is misunderstood, even the dogs are a little peculiar, walk sideways at times, or stare uncomprehending at the silence on the pavement.
My hair is scarlet!
The same shade of red as wine tossed carelessly onto an expensive and fluffy white rug -- by some mad, coked-up movie star with a penchant for strategically timed rages -- who sleeps until 2 o'clock in the afternoon and then awakens to scream and throw ash trays at the maid -- who takes his solemn martini to the pool and floats, listless, on an inflatable ring as he listens about himself on the radio -- who fucks a different starlet every weekend but never comes -- who stumbles through the V.I.P. areas of the-right-kind-of-nightclubs, knocking over glasses and posing handsomely for paparazzi and then shaking on the floor of a stall in the men's room trying to tear off his own fingernails to see if some -- any -- emotional response can be attained and then bashing his head against the handle of the toilet, again and again, when he realizes it can not.
Jude the Obscure dyed it for me last night, and it was far more complicated than expected -- multiple trips to the drug store -- several different people trying to translate the instructions -- smoking cigarettes terrified the chemicals on my head would ignite and explode -- rinsing my hair under freezing cold tap water many, many times -- accusations -- "Hold still, stop squirming -- wait, you're not crying, are you?" -- a frantic visit to Clare's room for a hairdryer -- more anguish -- but finally finished, and it looks fab! Jude dyed his blue and it looks fab, also.
Bit of a mixed reaction at work today -- rather vocal gasps in the teachers' room; shrieks of delight from the students -- but even though I'm not supposed to dye my hair mid-semester, the principal said he liked it so I think I'm okay. :)
An excellent Virgo day! Breakfast, laundry, vacuuming, the Airing of the Futon. Taking out loads of empties, eliminating other squalor, etc. Room looks great.
Yesterday Prince Harry and I purchased several bags of take-out fast food and brought them home to Nyree, had a picnic on her floor as we clutched our heads and traded accusations/stories from the night before. Nyree managed to pull herself together to go meet her private student, so Prince Harry and I went on a long, long walk to meet up with his former roommate in a condemned Nova apartment. This roommate had been described earlier as 'morose' and he was certainly that: wild-eyed, uncertain, endlessly replaying what options he has as a job-less, soon-to-be-homeless foreigner living in Japan.
I made dinner!
And then a group of us huddled under blankets in the lounge to watch two movies in a row -- "Notes on a Scandal" -- stunning performances by Blanchett and Dench -- great score by Phillip Glass -- subtle but emotional script. I would have liked to see the illicit 15-year-old lover more overly sexualized, a la Lolita -- as stands, the viewer is not fully convinced his teacher would risk everything for him -- but that's minor and the film is the best I've seen all year. The other movie was "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" -- first time I've seen it -- and I heart heart heart it! Want to learn all the songs!
Mid-way thru the weekend .....
Friday saw the Urban Sage, Mary Poppins, and I marching off to Chat Noir to write; eschewed this in favor of vicious gossip over coffee and blank notebooks. Helen joined us and we went to the supermarket -- half a block away, but she nearly took out AT LEAST half a dozen pedestrians with her bike ...... I was in possession of a bag of organic potatoes harvested by high school students in their garden plot -- too cool! -- so we bought salmon and spinach to go along with it and trundled back to HH, salarymen throwing protective arms around their comrades as Helen pedaled dangerously past. A most fantastic dinner! Helen is the best cook ever! Drinks in the lounge room, and sadly in bed by 1 a.m. as I had to be up at six for work (on a Saturday! the indignity!)
Very restless Saturday evening; Prince Harry and I contemplate going to Ageha (largest club in Asia; still never been), but wind up headed for Shinjuku instead -- meet a guy on the train, half-Japanese-half-Spanish, can't figure out which of us he's into as he gives his number to both, and the second he's off the train (wrong stop) we text him. Get off at Shinjuku, battle our way thru the heavy rains, chug combini beers, and step into *that club.* An excellent scene: cheap drinks, good music, lots of colour. The Urban Sage and Kenta show up, as promised, and also Tomo, who has just awesomely moved to Tokyo (Chiba?)! Then suddenly I'm outside on the top of some very steep steps drinking beer with the Press Analyst's roommate of all people. Interesting guy: from South Africa. Two hours pass; I go back to the club and Sage hisses, "Where the fuck have u been!" and then "The Press Analyst is here." "Yes yes I know ..." Met up with him, talked a little bit about how I don't appreciate promises to call followed by STATIC, and it comes out that once again it was one of those 'unsupported number' scenarios that I had ignored and not connected -- all forgiven -- we leave about 3, Prince Harry calling languidly from the bar, "Protection, honey," and off to Mejiro, as I lose the second umbrella of the day.
Aside from a Monday night all-u-can-drink-a-thon in Shimokitazawa with the Americans and the Brits -- ill-advised, possibly, after the 35-hour bender preceding it -- it's been a quiet week, so I've been studying heaps of Japanese. Here's a couple of reasons why:
1) Received a call from one of the Womb guys yesterday, trying to invite me on a date, but as his English-level is even lower than my Japanese, the conversation was mainly:
HIM: I like music!
ME: Oh, me too!
HIM: Pardon?
ME: Sumimasen. Guitaru Wolfu suki desu!
HIM: To date with me, yes? Onegaishimasu!
ME: Um, well, ha ha, tabun, um, doko ka ikimasho ka?
HIM: *a long string of Japanese I can't even begin to follow*
ME: Wakarimasen ....
HIM: I don't speak English!
ME: I don't speak Japanese!
HIM: Um! I love music! I love Joy!
ME: Um! No you don't!
HIM: Aaugh! I'm sorry! Sumimasen!
ME: Dai jobu!
HIM: Goodbye!
ME: Goodbye!
Just dissolved into tragedy really, and I was miffed that his English wasn't better, and then I was like WHO EXACTLY IS THE FOREIGNER IN THIS COUNTRY, MS. WALLER? And got to studying. And now when my junior high school students roll their eyes when they have to learn some complicated grammar structure I *really* want to say to them: you will rue this thoughtlessness when you drunkenly hook up with a foreigner in a Tokyo bar five years from now and then can't bloody communicate with them afterward.
2) Got lost on my way to the post office last week and asked, in Japanese, for directions from a few strangers, and thought I understood them, and then wound up out near Ikuta Koen with a horrible dread that I was nowhere near the post office. Approached the most interesting person I saw, a Japanese guy on a bicycle chugging a can of beer disguised in a vibrant bandanna. And he gave me very detailed directions in Japanese, which I didn't even begin to comprehend, and so he wound up walking me 30 minutes to the post office. Our mutual language levels were about equal, though I did discover one fascinating fact: his favourite band is the Bachman Turner Overdrive -- a rather obscure act, I always thought. And yet this whimsical dreamer named Ichiro drunk-biking thru Noborito loves them .... It was a pleasant, companionable walk, but I felt horrible that all I could discuss was music and the weather and where I come from. And then he asked if I wanted to come out for a drink after I retrieved my parcel and although I really wanted to, I didn't have the energy for another 30 minutes of painstaking conversation .... I felt bad declining but had no other option; felt I owed him something for the walk at any rate, and gave him a cookie. He seemed pleased.
So that's two reasons why I'm learning Japanese.
Saturday evening saw me meeting up for drinks with a guy I met at Womb last weekend. He's a part-time dj and owns a small IT company, so:
ME: I guess you studied IT in university?
HIM: No, I didn't go to university. Actually, I didn't finish high school.
ME: [quite intrigued] Really? Why?
HIM: [quite uncomfortable] Well, uh, I was, uh, kind of a bad boy. I was in a gang ....
And at my insistence he told me a few brief stories, best one being the time he went to jail for 3 months after hitting someone in the knees with a baseball bat! ("I never tell anyone this," he said, looking nervously around.)
After that I was meant to go see an Indian band, but went to a phone booth instead and rang up Jude the Obscure, agreed to meet in Harajuku. And then got locked in the phone booth. Had actually to shout at the thousands streaming past for assistance! No one stopped! I kicked and kicked the door and managed to get out after about 5 minutes ...
Jude and I walked from Harajuku to the 300-yen bar in Shibuya for beer and became so appalled at a group of posers at the next table that I nearly asked them to leave: they were all skinny white boys talking shit about all the fights they've been in when clearly they were so delicate if someone shoved them they would probably crumple. Unless they were Irish. If they were Irish then their stories might have been plausible. Roaming around Shibuya: lots of free hugs; a decision to dye our hair but all the dye we find is too normal; a sex shop where I purchase a vibrator; a night club, bottles of Asahi and black lights and kind of okay music, improved after the fourth drink; halfheartedly shopping for phones; some kind of ramen and I scribble a poem about the evening on the back of a flyer and Jude gets upset cuz he's not in it so I have to write another one; to Noborito cuz he's intrigued by the idea of Cookie Bar but when we get there it's Last Call but Kuki says she'll meet us at the Antique n Junk; once there, lots more beer, a bit of food, I find myself blurring around the edges a bit but stay for another drink, then one more; back at HH I read Jude's tarot three times in a row and then there is a Knock of the door. Now, the best-case scenario when I get a Knock on the door late, late at night is that it is Helen bearing gifts of canned chu-hi -- sadly, this was not the case -- it was the Landlady, in a raging fury:
HER: Do you know what time it is?
ME: Um. Three?
HER: Do you have a visitor?
ME: Um. Yes?
HER: Have you been drinking?
ME: Um. Um.
She wound up slamming the door in my face, which worried me a little. Ha ha, she made too much noise! Did she know what time it was?!
In the morning we argued a little about the definition of Indian food and read the first verse of the Gospel of John because I'm wrestling with the concept of language being pivotal in physical creation. It's interesting because "the Word" seems actually to be a metaphor for Christ, which means it's got nothing to do with linguistics at all. Then I said we should totally go for karaoke sometime and he said Okay, let's go, so we went but it wasn't open yet; iced coffee while we wait; then 2 hours of quite appalling singing on my part. I think I'm better at it in the evenings ..... We bought cool t-shirts and waited at the station for the Urban Sage and Bjorn and his brother, who is kind of a Pirate -- he lives on the Peace Boat and is vegan -- we wind up in Yoyogi Koen at a kind of picnic, with a mini-rave off to one side. Excellent to catch up with the Urban Sage -- she approves of my decision to learn Japanese -- and decided we should probably be roommates next spring, possibly in Yokohama. The usual Yoyogi revelry: the rave as I mentioned, plus the dancing Elvises, one of whom had the exact same posture as Neal Cassady; lots of independent music acts.
I had been drinking at this picnic and was deciding to be mature and go home with everyone else, but Jude the Obscure said: Wait, wait, we still haven't dyed our hair .....
So off we go, but in about 10 minutes forget that we're looking for hair dye and wind up at Arty Farty, 1000-yen-all-u-can-drink-2-hours -- GOD -- as many glasses of beer as possible and then an unsteady walk back to Jude's apartment, I pass out for a little while, awake, sober up, and we go out looking for cigarettes and food. Make up stories about the people we see. On the other side of the restaurant: a man and a woman, they receive their food and then the man pulls out a comic book and reads it as he eats while the woman discreetly brushes away a tear at the corner of one eye. What could the story possibly be?
Back to the apartment, shatter to sleep, in the morning walk past graffiti with bad grammar on the way to the station. Back in Noborito. So now I've got to do something productive -- likely, study Japanese.
A most excellent work party last night, at the Beer Dock in Sakuragicho. All-u-can-drink-and-eat, 2 hours, calamity ensues. Played "I Never" with some people from America for at least an hour. (Best one: "I've never -- uh -- had sex with more than -- uh -- three people in one night.") Randomly met the Ex-Lover outside of the toilets; laughter and conversation. Chinese food and red wine and getting kicked out like *one minute* after all-u-can-drink was finished ..... Fell asleep on James on the train home, only to have to wake up to transfer to the dreaded NAMBU Line, no seats, we meet a cute Indian guy and 5 minutes go by before I shout, consternated, "Look, WHAT? Are you gay?" "Yes," he says, looking at me a little irritably, before going back to hitting on James. A beer at Moko after, then to home, and the Ex-Lover's brother drunk dials me to tell tales of that crazy lunatic woman from Shimokitazawa who was recently talking shit about me. Off to Yoyogi Koen this afternoon.
