I arrived at my parents' house in Vernon after many modes of transportation -- walking from Hello House to Noborito Station, train to Shinjuku, kind of posh train to Narita, airplane to Vancouver, shuttle to some kind of dank alley, skytrain to bus station, bus to Kelowna, Pa's truck to Vernon. Trains! Planes! Automobiles! International Date Lines!
I was on Canadian soil for no more than 10 minutes before someone shuffled up to me and bummed a smoke. Ahhhh ...
Outside the bus station a man with a shopping cart and a wide-eyed, highly chemical aura approached me and asked me to give him a lottery ticket.
I bought my bus ticket and had an hour to kill, so I wandered around, thinking vaguely of breakfast, and stopped below a sign that said "Hostel Pub/Cafe." I went in, to discover it was not a cafe at all, but rather the infamous Ivanhoe Bar. (I was last at this establishment aged 18, after picking up a future French Foreign Legion serviceman named Dan on the ferry.) I decided to roll with the punches and ordered a Pale Ale from the dour, beaten woman behind the counter. Took it to the smoking room and found myself surrounded by the usual Christmas Eve, 11 a.m. assortment of drunks: old men mostly, with long stringy hair and lumberjack coats; a lone woman with shopping bags reciting Christ and St. Paul; several beefy motorcyclists; a shifty looking man with a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes, drinking straight scotch and reading the comics in "The Province."
I trundled in with my Mary Tyler Moore coat and suitcase-on-wheels, lit a cigarette, and smiled warmly. Made friends with an electrician from Prince George; a videographer from Glasgow; a couple of guys whose jobs I didn't catch. Whores kept walking by and waving through the window. I ordered another beer. Made friends with an old, old man on U.I. who tried to buy me another drink. He bought $20 worth of pull-tabs and sadly tugged at the cardboard; he won two bucks. Patsy Cline played on the jukebox. It was time for my bus.
On the ride up to Kelowna I sat beside a rugged Australian divorcée and we discussed literature, travel, family. A lot of trees went by the window. No one's phone was on manner mode, which set me on edge a little. I tried to read my Sherlock Holmes collection but kept falling asleep on the Australian's shoulder for 5-minute stretches. At pit-stops in places like Chilliwack, Westbank, I smoked cigarettes with the rest of the riff-raff and screamed with cold and they smirked, intrigued: "You think this is cold?"
The bus pulled into Kelowna at 6:40 on the dot; my beautiful father picked me up in his truck and took me out for Chinese food.
I'm leaving on a jet plane in about 3 hours and in a mild panic as there's not nearly so much money in my bank account as previously believed ... About half, in fact! Should be okay, will just have to tone down the spending in Canada, but gah. I don't like not having unlimited (for me anyway) funds.
Yesterday I met up with N. at Tokyo station, after an unprecedented 30 minutes trying to find each other. Mostly my fault. He finally located me at the wrong exit on the wrong floor, smoking absently in a large, fish-tank-like smoking room with water dripping from the ceilings. Later, we were walking around the Imperial Palace grounds, and saw a small tent set up for 'Lost Children.' "Do you want to go there?" he smirked, and I didn't get it, until he said, "They should set up a "Lost Foreigner" tent at all the major train stations ...." Not a bad idea, that! A good day -- long walk down the river, Hibiyua Koen, the Illumination of Tokyo Tower, an underground izakaya in Shinjuku, and City Hall where, on the 45th floor, you can observe all points of Tokyo, laid out in neon. すごい!
At 10:30 I was sleepy so N. went off to get drunk with his cousin and I smoked a cigarette outside the station before heading home. After a couple of minutes I was approached by 4 Japanese guys, one of whom peppered me with questions about Canada before announcing, "I'm curious about you because I don't have a girlfriend." "That's very sad," I said. He said, "Oh, yes, very sad." Then, brightening, "I study international foreign policy."
(Reflection of Shrine @ Imperial Palace)
(Tokyo Tower in the Mist)
(Statue and Intimidating Vermin in Tree)
Saturday - One of several going-away do's for the Brits. Actually, this whole week reminds me a little of the week-long birthday parties given by Hollywood royalty -- less champagne and swimming pools, perhaps, but just as much debauchery and far more calories, without a doubt. Went to an izakaya in Shimokitazawa, flailed about and ate seared fish, avocado salad, and deep-fried cheese. On the train home I became over-excited when I saw a beautiful Japanese man reading Jane Eyre (!!) and Helen and I pestered him almost all the way to Noborito as he stealthily inched away ....
Sunday -- The celebrations continue at the Hub in Kichijoji. A bit of a hair-of-the-dog display.
Monday -- My first day back at work after the staff party debacle in Yokohama. Sheepish grins exchanged with all of the 2nd grade teachers. One of them inexplicably presented me with three pages of soccer statistics from an important game the evening before -- in English -- and I panicked -- What had I said about soccer that night?.
Tuesday -- Jude the Obscure was back from Korea and we went to Shibuya, roamed around, decided to go to the Standing Bar -- "But we can't stay if it's filled with obnoxious foreigners," I said, "the only obnoxious foreigner I want to talk to tonight is you" -- stayed for three beers, made fun of the obnoxious foreigners, went to Gas Panic for a drink, and then wound up at an izakaya overlooking Shibuya station. On the way home I nearly missed the last train: got lost, spoke to bums, pondered reality ...
Wednesday -- the going-away celebrations continue at Duma-Duma. Went to kaza after, my best song being "Santa Baby," Marilyn-Monroe style.
Thursday -- in bed by 9:30.
Friday -- after a final celebratory izakaya experience, the last of the Brits leave. I hugged Helen and Clare beside the bar and almost cried -- truly, they are Princesses among Anglophones ..... The Slum won't be the same. Miss. Miss.
Robert looks at Janet, anguished, from across the breakfast nook and Janet begins to sob and accuse him of all the usual intellectual infidelities and Robert quotes Kafka and Irving Layton and *smash* goes the coffee mug *smash* goes the plate and none of us can concentrate on the morning news -- there is a blockade in Moose Jaw; the loonie is rising, too -- "Can you turn them down?" asks my sister. "Can you mute them, somehow?" "Mute, you guys," I say, and Janet starts throwing cutlery at the television set -- "Fuck you, Tony Parsons!" she shouts -- that's the newscaster -- then turns on my sister and me and says, with absolutely no intonation at all, "None of you ever gave a damn about my poetry." Something's burning on the stove and Robert opens a window and my sister slams her hand down on the tabletop -- hard -- and says, "What do you expect us to do, Mum? We're not metaphors for crying out loud, we're not goddamn rhyming couplets --" The doorbell rings and Robert panics, says, "Shit, the Danielsons! I've forgotten about the Danielsons, the Danielsons," and I lose it also, shout, "No one here even seems to care about world events! No one," and I turn the volume on the TV up as high as it will go.
(copyright Joy Waller 2007)
The two of 'em just kids -- 14, 15 -- shirts off in the girl's father's barn, and the boy's brought cigarettes, nicked off his auntie -- John Players Special, as strong as they come -- the boy and the girl take turns, press the lit ends to each other's chest or bicep or hip or the soft, dream-like part between the curve of two ribs -- constellations appear on that flinching flesh, and the myths to go along with them -- here is where we were born, they say, and here, here is where we went on a quest, here's where we loved someone, and here's where we die, here, here is where we die, this whole goddamn barn going up in flames.
(copyright Joy Waller 2007)
(1)
D: My buddy met a new guy and they were about to fuck and then he saw his dick and said, "Honey. I wanna be fucked, not annoyed."
(2)
KENTA: [highly drunk] We're in the KKK! We're in the KKK!
NYREE: You're not even white! You can't be a white supremacist!
(3)
NYREE: Do you ever want kids?
ME: Sure. I'd like to adopt, but if the dad was really into biological kids, sure, why not.
NYREE: Really?
ME: Yeah, dude, it's only a vagina.
(4)
D: [in the smoking lounge, observing our silence and slight fear when the Landlady walks past] Dudes! This is not right! This is not the fucking Anne Frank house!
Today I out-drank the entire 2nd-Grade Teachers' Platoon @ my junior high school. It was the Christmas party. They weren't expecting it. I sat down in the swank Yokohama restaurant and one of them said, "Joy is dangerous. Joy is heavy drunkard," -- he was half-joking -- and I proceeded to down two to their every one and remain standing. Kudos!
Today I waited for an elevator and when the doors opened they revealed an elderly couple KISSING! That never happens in Japan! Whole Prime Ministerships have been ruined due to said indiscretions, with one's wife!
I stared, open-mouthed and pleased.
The old man shouted (drunk) "Hallo!"
"Hello," I said, and they weaved down the corridor, laughing at me.
In the usual, cheerfully expected swing of extreme highs and crushing lows .....
Friday night a gong show. Highly inappropriate behaviour. Awoke at 7a.m. on a train in Sagami-Ono, thanks to an urgent text from Prince Harry reading only: "WAKE UP!"
Returned to sweet home Noborito, had a couple hours of sleep, awoke with the Fear, battled it with toothpaste and breathing exercises, headed out to Asakusa to meet N. And what an awesome time! I had requested only that the day involve something with 'water,' and to my delight he took me to a boat which we boarded for a cruise through the rivers of Tokyo, culminating at the Rainbow Bridge, which was resplendent in thousands of green Christmas lights. Dinner, fireworks, ferris wheel ..... Too special. On the boat we saw a very Slavic man with a very Slavic mustache ("Mustache?" said N, intrigued, and got me to write it down), and for the next hour or so he and no less than three mustached friends reappeared at the periphery of things .... Everybody must have been a spy. Etc. Verdict: this day is in my Top 3 Tokyo Experiences.
The oddest thing about Sunday was running into German Guy #1 in Harajuku. In a city of millions, how is that even possible? Had to take evasive action. And why, if fate was going to be that way, could it not have been German Guy #2? Why does everything have to be in goddamn code ...
On Monday night in Shibuya I befriended a wide-eyed 19-yr-old boy from the Union of Myanmar, and Jude the Obscure and I took him with us to the Hub, where Jude re-connected with his dreamgirl waitress and got me to hand-deliver his number to her, written on a napkin, bracketed with hearts.
I haven't been able to get the word 'poplin' out of my head. I think it's a fabric?
Wrote this evening, hunched over coffee near the station in Mukogaokayuen. Trying to write without awareness or expectation but it's difficult.
Canada in 10 days!
I read Stephen Fry's 'The Liar." Highly odd; highly recommended.
Early Friday evening, trying to get the evening's plans on the go, but am procrastinating on all the complex texts that have to be sent out. Hm. All I know is: got to try to get to Heartland in Roppongi -- problem is, I forget where it is exactly -- cuz, the Casablanca ending to last weekend's Heartland experience needs a sequel if I'm ever going to understand it ....
Don't judge a whiskey by its bouquet, my pappy always used to say.
Or didn't.
Writers are liars.
Writers think whiskey makes them supreme god-beings with the ability to reinvent -- not only words -- but events -- at will.
Reinvent events.
Or not at all.
Nobody really knows what goes on in that goddamn closed mind.
Except that it likes cheese, and gin, and whiskey, clearly.
Today one of my 13-year-old students shocked me as, when I entered the classroom, he shouted, "Hey! Can I kiss you?"
"Your English is improving," I said, cautiously.
"Are you staying in this hotel? Let's go to your room!" he responded.
"What are you reading?!" I said. It turned out to be a sort of "adult English phrasebook," with various sentences carefully highlighted in yellow marker ....
Today I paid for my plane ticket! Tentative plans are 24/Dec - 30/Dec in Vernon with the fam, then 31/Dec - 4/Jan in Victoria with the renegade poets, then the 5th in Vancouver for a departure back to Tokyo on the 6th. What are your plans? Tell me tell me tell me! We've got to get up to mayhem!
My first love hotel experience on Saturday, well technically Sunday morning I suppose. A barrage of details. Will have to get it all written down in some forum other than a blog.
On Sunday evening at about 6 o'clock Nyree and I demonstrated our roundhouse kicks to a politely interested Canadian wearing a Rising Sun sweat band. He murmured a little when our kicks came close to the cans of beer we had set on the floor, and our cigarettes, unsteady in our fingers, got close to hair, but there were no major mishaps ....
