Throughout my time in Japan, there wasn't a moment I was on a train when I didn't have headphones in. I made a playlist of the songs that stuck to me the most and were often on repeat. I think they make good train music, traveling music, thinking about motion music. These are the songs you'll find linked in the folder below.
::Download this playlist::
1. "The Storm" - Briana Marela
2. "Jack-ass" - Beck
3. "The Sounder" - Gorillaz
4. "Flying to You" - Ilaria Graziano
5. "The World At Large" - Modest Mouse
6. "Wish You Were Here" - Incubus
7. "空忘れ" - MUCC
8. "Starlight" - Muse
9. "Electric Bird" - Sia
10. "You Only Live Twice" - Bjork
11. "Hallelujah" - Jeff Buckley
12. "I'll Follow The Sun" - The Beatles
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
It's been real.
"I'll follow the sun."
I wasn't going to write this now. It's six in the morning, I haven't slept yet tonight, and I'm back on American soil. When I got off the plane, it welcomed me, bounced beneath my feet. But then again, that could have been the extreme lack of sleep talking.
I awoke the morning of the 9th, later than I intended...because that's how I roll...and was interrupted from packing at around 10am by one of the landlord's dreadlocked lackeys reminding me that I should have left hours ago. I told him that my flight left at 6pm so, sorry, for the time being I wasn't going anywhere. Unable to make anything logical from my blunt answer, he just sort of backed out of my doorway and told him to call the office when I was leaving.
I flitted about, cramming my belongings into my obviously overweight suitcase and the souvenirs into the bag I bought for that specific purpose. At around noon, I gathered all of my things by the doorway, and looked at my suitcase, bag, guitar, and oversized purse sadly as I realized I had to walk 15 minutes to the station. At that moment Todd--or at least, I think his name is Todd--volunteered to help me carry half of my shit the whole way. I have never been more grateful in my life. On the way, he explained to me that he had nothing better to do at the moment because he was in between jobs anyway. He also said that he spoke fluent Chinese and lived in China for many years. I am always astounded to hear peoples' stories--some Irish guy I normally wouldn't give a shit about, and here he has this amazing past of traveling around the world and being proficient in a staggering number of Asian languages. I hope one day I'm able to tell stories to young travelers like that.
He dropped me off at the station, where I disregarded John and Masa's advice of taking the cheap route, which confused the hell out of me, and just decided to take the Narita Express from Shinjuku. I took the private line from Shinjuku to Takadanobaba, thinking that even though the private line did end in Shinjuku, I would have to walk all my shit at least four blocks to get it to the main station, and I wasn't about to do that. So I paid an extra buck fifty or something to take it to Takadanobaba to transfer to the main Shinjuku Station, figuring the Takadanobaba Station had an elevator. I was, of course, mistaken, and with the help of two amazingly kind female strangers, hauled all of my shit down the dark corridor of stairs to the platform.
I somehow managed to get my stuff onto the JR Yamanote line, two stops to Shinjuku Station which, thank the lord, had an elevator. I followed the signs to the ticket office to buy a pass for the Narita Express. I looked at the lady and inquired "Airport?" She printed me a ticket and pointed in the direction that I had to go. "Faivu," she said, and held up one hand. So I went and stood at platform five. After about half an hour of waiting awkwardly with my bags and being joined by other people with various kinds of luggage, the Express came and, after being helped with my suitcase to get it lifted up onto the shelves at the end of the car, I took my seat.
Sunglasses on, sitting alone, I clutched my guitar as the train honked loudly and began to move. Startlingly, it didn't move forward, but backwards; the wrong way on its tracks, taking us stealthily and efficiently to the Tokyo airport. The scenery zoomed by--towering buildings with mirrored exteriors, flashing electronic billboards, oversized television screens. The high-rises and ads became apartment buildings all crammed together, which soon became houses, and after that became small expanses of field. I moved backward the way I had come, as if going in reverse through my memories. It was almost as if nothing in Tokyo had ever happened. I was overwhelmed with relief at the thought of getting back to a country where I could understand every channel, order intelligibly from a menu, make people laugh with actual jokes as opposed to just being a confused American. But then I made the mistake of remembering the look on Masa's face as he stood in the doorway of the Big Wave 21 Community Living Room the night before. I had the same look on mine the day I left my hometown to go to college.
"Listen, I'll be back, okay!" I said, with a big, fake smile on my face. "And we'll be able to have a real conversation in Japanese, I promise!" He smiled weakly and waved at me before he left the room, as I jammed my nails into my arm to avoid freaking out.
Before I realized it I had been crying, for about half an hour, before the train pulled into Narita Station. There were two terminals, on two separate stops. I had no idea which terminal was mine, so I guessed terminal one--thankfully, I was somehow right. Forcing myself to get over emotions because I never have time for them, I dragged everything with me into and through the airport up four floors at a snail's pace. I made it to the bag check, only to be informed that one of my bags was just fine, but the other was 6 kilograms overweight. I have no idea what 6 kilograms is in human terms, but I knew that amount of stuff wasn't going to fit into the other bag. "Maybe you can exchange some items into the other bag?" they suggested. "Or maybe you can put it in your guitar case? Or hold it? Or throw it out?" The airport staff was so nice and concerned and helpful and would throw themselves under a bus before making me pay the overweight bag fee. But I laughed and told them it was just fine, and forked over the $25.
I stumbled through the security entrance and tried to find my gate. But then I got distracted by two beautiful golden arches in the distance. Remembering that it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten yet, I lazily stepped onto the moving sidewalk that crept painfully slowly toward beautiful McDonalds. Once I got to the counter, I opened my mouth to order in Japanese before I realized that the young lady's name tag said "I SPEAK ENGLISH" on it.
"Do you really speak English?" I asked.
"Er...yes." she replied. I was so happy.
"I'd like a double quarter pounder with cheese, no pickles and no mustard. That means you're going to make it fresh, then, right? Also I'd like an orange juice but go easy on the ice because you never get, like, any liquid in those goddamn things in the end. And fries. But not just fries, I mean like fucking huge fries--overfill them, it's okay if they spill open in the bag, I don't care." She blinked and pressed buttons on the register. I got my meal and sat down at one of the one-person seats across the way. I unloaded everything and started cramming it into my face like a ravenous tiger. I looked up to see a man sitting with his own cheeseburger, watching me fearfully. "Do you want thum?" I asked with my mouth full of food. He shook his head.
Eventually I found myself at the gate and boarded the plane. It was refreshing to hear all of the safety instructions given in English. After we took off, I tried to sleep. Soon it had been an hour. Three hours. Six hours. Soon ten hours had passed, and I had done virtually nothing but stare out the window with my headphones on. The O.C.D. woman next to me wearing a face mask couldn't stop moving and twitching and using hand sanitizer and organizing her wet naps and I did my best to ignore her. Around the 7th hour or so we crossed the international time line and the stars turned into a sunrise over the ocean. I filled out my customs and immigration card, and, only having an hour to get through customs, recheck my baggage, and run across the entire San Francisco airport to get to my Seattle flight, fucking booked it as soon as the plane touched down. I ran through all of the customs gates, answered all of their bullshit questions about fruit and weapons, and got to the luggage carousel, only to wait. My bags hadn't come off the plane yet. I stood and waited, flipping my shit, anxiously tapping my foot as soft saxophone music played in the background. Finally, someone pointed out that they had switched out carousel number without telling us. I ran and got my bags and booked it to the new baggage check. I dropped them off only to run into the back of the new security line, which wrapped around the United check-in counter. After 15 minutes of waiting, and another 5 trying to figure out how to remove all of the metal in and on my body, I grabbed my things, put my shoes back on, and booked it like a motherfucker to the terminal my gate was at. Of course it was at the very end gate, and I ran madly along the moving sidewalk, yelling at people to get out of the way. I arrived with three minutes to spare before boarding, and another woman, extremely out of breath as well, asked me where I had come from. I told her Tokyo, and she said she had just run through customs after coming from Australia. I was so happy to have talked to a stranger, that as soon as I sat down on the plane I began harassing the couple next to me about where they were from, where they were going, and what kind of tourist activity they should engage in. After they got sick of me, I once again tried to sleep and failed. Upon arriving in Seattle, I found that even though I stacked my luggage one bag on top of the other when I delivered them to the second bag check, they had somehow lost my larger suitcase...the one that mattered. Eventually it was delivered to my Dad's house, and after about four more hours of being in a half-conscious coma, I fell asleep for a good 24 hours.
"You only live twice, or so it seems. One life for yourself, one for your dreams."
I had a list of things I maybe would have liked to accomplish while I was in Japan, but honestly, I had no expectations and went overseas blind and ready for anything to happen...which it certainly did.
There are parts of my day that were so common for almost three months--taking the trains, walking everywhere I wanted to go. The flashing lights and booming techno music emitting casually from the high rise buildings as night fell. The thick, incomparable masses of people politely shoving their way through the city to get to work or go home. The flashing strobe lights of the claustrophobic karaoke room and the midi tracks behind your own strained vocal accompaniment. The strangers on the streets with their never ending smiles passing out promotional flyers and packets of tissues. The confusing ticket machines at the stations, the eastern toilets that hardly qualify as toilets at all. The air of sterility and humility encased in the buzzing lights of a thousand electronics. It's only been days, and even now it seems like it was a dream. I unlocked my car door, sat inside, and started the ignition. The cheap seat rattled beneath me, the vents blew out a puff of warm, stale air, and it was as if I had never left.
One thing that never ceased to astound me was the kindness of the people I met in that country. I have a feeling it has to do with the sense of politeness that is instilled in every Japanese person from the time they are very young, as to keep a sense of honor among their family lineage, respect the companies they work for, etc.. From the students at Tamagawa helping me find electronics and hanging out with me well after my term there had ended, to the guest house staff who were ridiculously lenient about my late rent money, to Masa who was randomly so nice and quick to give me advice, to Junko who made me a meal and dressed me up in a kimono, to the staff at Gonzo studios who let us sit in on their voiceover sessions. That doesn't even include all of the many strangers who helped me carry things, purchase tickets, and give me directions.
That sort of brings me to the things that I came to notice while I was there. There were a good many nights when I would wander the streets alone, find a cafe, and sit outside smoking and staring at the stars just thinking about what the fuck I was doing there and where I wanted to go. Robin told me before I left the U.S. one night, as we sat in my dad's driveway in his rumbling idling 50 year old Volvo, that you learn a lot about yourself when you travel alone. He wasn't kidding.
One thing that happened was I sort of got over the fragile sensitivity of making big leaps in my life. There are some instances where I feel sorry for myself, and it took me some time to realize that my life was virtually a living hell before I turned 17, and no matter what happens after this point, it probably won't be as bad as what I've already been through. And even if it is--events end, times change, a life isn't a span of 5 years or even 10; if things work out properly, it's a damned long time. A few years ago, I didn't think I'd actually be able to take the trip to Japan. But I did. And who knows--in 5 years, maybe I'll be happily living in Somalia. Or Australia. Or Germany. I don't know yet. I guess what I mean is, The Hard Part is almost definitely over, and even though I grew up in a town with a population of 5,000 and one main road, the world is virtually endless and I'll never run out of cultures to drown myself in.
I learned that even though I love Japan very much, there are things about that don't really click with my personality very well. The politeness, for example. It is an amazing thing, the guaranteed kindness and compliance of any stranger on the street. But in my eyes, a great deal of personality is lost in wearing the mask of the polite stranger, representing X college or X corporation. It is a uniform. I realized that I would rather take the harsh diversity of personality on the street in America than speak to a Japanese person I'm not too familiar with, knowing full well that they are judging me maliciously in their head and that the sweet smile on their face means nothing. My essence is built out of words, and in my opinion a person's soul is projected by what they say, their attitude, and even how they dress. In the sea of Japanese business suits, crisp white shirts, tailored blazers, pencil skirts and high heels--there is very little attitude, and few words at all. No snark, cynicism, sarcasm, anger. No wistfulness, hope, or even happiness. It's all seemingly lost in the ocean of anonymity and respect. And that fucking kills me.
One strange thing that changed while I was overseas was the decline of my interest in Visual Kei. Visual Kei is a music genre that originated in Japan focusing on the fashion aspect of rock and roll performance as opposed to the music. Men in drag with glorious intricate gowns, hair teased up feet above their heads, colored contacts and glam makeup slamming on drums and guitars and singing dark, gothic lyrics with an over-dramatic vibrato. Very Boy George, very KISS, very David Bowie. The music ranges anything from heavy death metal to peppy pop-rock. It originated in the late 70's, and still holds some popularity in modern Japan with young adults currently forming Visual Kei bands today. I won't lie, it was a bit of an obsession with me, and the reason I learned Japanese and wanted to go to Japan in the first place. I know the names of every Visual Kei pioneer. I know the bands that started it all, the ones that retained popularity, VKei history as it molded and metamorphosed over the span of 40 years. Every guitar riff, every drum fill, every death and revolutionary album and major photo shoot. My useless archive of Visual Kei knowledge is exercised only in internet forums, Livejournal, and the rare occasion where I can bring something up about it in conversation. I have an addiction to visual indulgence, and for me VKei was the perfect combination of music, my passion, and visual decadence, my obsession. It began when I was about 16 and Chris Hensley came into my house and popped an X-Japan CD into my stereo. From that point, I was done for. These days, I am a fan of a few particular VKei bands, and follow every artist's albums and photo shoots and interviews online. Coming to Japan gave me a new perspective on things. Instead of having to work my ass off to research what was coming out, I could walk outside and see posters for Visual Kei bands plastered along the sides of buildings. Commercials played on cable showing clips of their music videos. The massive television screens in Shibuya advertised for the release of Alice Nine's new single, and The GazettE's new album. Miyavi's remix album had it's own cardboard displays in Tower records, and there was a whole section devoted strictly to visual music. In Harajuku, the girls that dressed up in glamorous costumes were all cosplaying Visual Kei Jrock stars. I could point out who was dressed as The Ruki from this month's issue of Shoxx, Aoi from 2007's Neo Genesis photo shoot, and Mana from a Cure interview over ten years ago. Visual Kei wasn't just a fantasy genre--it was real, it had real followers, real young obsessed fans. Hundreds of people knew what I know, dressing up as their favorite stars and giggling incessantly about the concerts. And so it became less of a faraway, wondrous concept, and just became another set of franchises with a never ending supply of annoying fans.
I'll still follow the genre, of course--but I realized that apart from the limited handful of Visual Kei artists that actually record quality music, I had been following all of the genre's artists' releases just to follow them, thus making me pretty much everything I hate about humans.
And of course, my Japanese needs to improve. Greatly. Immensely. I revolve around words, and when I can't express something with a flowery vocabulary, let alone at all, it's beyond frustrating and easy to give up. A part of me hopes that upon becoming fluent in the language in a two or three years, I'll be able to greater understand what makes Japanese people brandish the shield of politeness and maybe see what makes them tick underneath it. But still, nothing will change about their culture, and the rigid, unspoken rules of quiet respect will remain. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and personally, I need expression, and more importantly, comedy. Sarcasm is a much bigger part of my life than I realized, and it doesn't really exist to Japanese people that haven't been extensively exposed to western culture. I realized that I kind of need to be in a place where I can communicate smoothly, with humor and metaphors, and I should probably just stick around in a place that speaks English for awhile.
The last thing that's probably notable is the fact that I didn't end up in the hospital the entire time I was in Japan. I have an anxiety problem, and a history of freaking the fuck out for little to no reason. Usually only under the influence of caffeine or drugs, but I have been known to lose it under instances of extreme pressure or stress. There are times when, if I'm left alone long enough, I will turn into sort of an agoraphobe, refusing to leave my apartment for days at a time for fear that I'll forget how to drive, or walk, or breathe, or that my heart will spontaneously stop. I spoke to my psychiatrist before I left about how I was more than a little nervous about being in a foreign country alone for three months. She told me that it would actually be good for me, and give me the confidence to get up and do anything after I got back. And she was actually right. If me, the paranoid freak afraid to ingest caffeine or smoke anything that didn't come out of a carton, can survive in the wilds of Tokyo's concrete jungle, I can probably be okay just about anywhere...let alone outside of my apartment.
So I guess, I learned something today. Take a risk, earn some money, go out there. Way far out there. Embarrass yourself. No, more than that--make an absolute ass of yourself trying to communicate your thoughts, ideas, desires. Meet people, keep in touch with them. When bizarre situations find you, which they will, roll with them. Walk for blocks, get lost. Get off the train in a place you've never heard of. Have coffee with a stranger. Smoke a brand you've never smoked before. Order something off the menu you can't pronounce. Spend all your money. Fall in love. Get your heart broken. Learn who you are. You'll learn to love yourself for it. Just don't don't forget to pack normal deodorant.
I wasn't going to write this now. It's six in the morning, I haven't slept yet tonight, and I'm back on American soil. When I got off the plane, it welcomed me, bounced beneath my feet. But then again, that could have been the extreme lack of sleep talking.
I awoke the morning of the 9th, later than I intended...because that's how I roll...and was interrupted from packing at around 10am by one of the landlord's dreadlocked lackeys reminding me that I should have left hours ago. I told him that my flight left at 6pm so, sorry, for the time being I wasn't going anywhere. Unable to make anything logical from my blunt answer, he just sort of backed out of my doorway and told him to call the office when I was leaving.
I flitted about, cramming my belongings into my obviously overweight suitcase and the souvenirs into the bag I bought for that specific purpose. At around noon, I gathered all of my things by the doorway, and looked at my suitcase, bag, guitar, and oversized purse sadly as I realized I had to walk 15 minutes to the station. At that moment Todd--or at least, I think his name is Todd--volunteered to help me carry half of my shit the whole way. I have never been more grateful in my life. On the way, he explained to me that he had nothing better to do at the moment because he was in between jobs anyway. He also said that he spoke fluent Chinese and lived in China for many years. I am always astounded to hear peoples' stories--some Irish guy I normally wouldn't give a shit about, and here he has this amazing past of traveling around the world and being proficient in a staggering number of Asian languages. I hope one day I'm able to tell stories to young travelers like that.
He dropped me off at the station, where I disregarded John and Masa's advice of taking the cheap route, which confused the hell out of me, and just decided to take the Narita Express from Shinjuku. I took the private line from Shinjuku to Takadanobaba, thinking that even though the private line did end in Shinjuku, I would have to walk all my shit at least four blocks to get it to the main station, and I wasn't about to do that. So I paid an extra buck fifty or something to take it to Takadanobaba to transfer to the main Shinjuku Station, figuring the Takadanobaba Station had an elevator. I was, of course, mistaken, and with the help of two amazingly kind female strangers, hauled all of my shit down the dark corridor of stairs to the platform.
I somehow managed to get my stuff onto the JR Yamanote line, two stops to Shinjuku Station which, thank the lord, had an elevator. I followed the signs to the ticket office to buy a pass for the Narita Express. I looked at the lady and inquired "Airport?" She printed me a ticket and pointed in the direction that I had to go. "Faivu," she said, and held up one hand. So I went and stood at platform five. After about half an hour of waiting awkwardly with my bags and being joined by other people with various kinds of luggage, the Express came and, after being helped with my suitcase to get it lifted up onto the shelves at the end of the car, I took my seat.
Sunglasses on, sitting alone, I clutched my guitar as the train honked loudly and began to move. Startlingly, it didn't move forward, but backwards; the wrong way on its tracks, taking us stealthily and efficiently to the Tokyo airport. The scenery zoomed by--towering buildings with mirrored exteriors, flashing electronic billboards, oversized television screens. The high-rises and ads became apartment buildings all crammed together, which soon became houses, and after that became small expanses of field. I moved backward the way I had come, as if going in reverse through my memories. It was almost as if nothing in Tokyo had ever happened. I was overwhelmed with relief at the thought of getting back to a country where I could understand every channel, order intelligibly from a menu, make people laugh with actual jokes as opposed to just being a confused American. But then I made the mistake of remembering the look on Masa's face as he stood in the doorway of the Big Wave 21 Community Living Room the night before. I had the same look on mine the day I left my hometown to go to college.
"Listen, I'll be back, okay!" I said, with a big, fake smile on my face. "And we'll be able to have a real conversation in Japanese, I promise!" He smiled weakly and waved at me before he left the room, as I jammed my nails into my arm to avoid freaking out.
Before I realized it I had been crying, for about half an hour, before the train pulled into Narita Station. There were two terminals, on two separate stops. I had no idea which terminal was mine, so I guessed terminal one--thankfully, I was somehow right. Forcing myself to get over emotions because I never have time for them, I dragged everything with me into and through the airport up four floors at a snail's pace. I made it to the bag check, only to be informed that one of my bags was just fine, but the other was 6 kilograms overweight. I have no idea what 6 kilograms is in human terms, but I knew that amount of stuff wasn't going to fit into the other bag. "Maybe you can exchange some items into the other bag?" they suggested. "Or maybe you can put it in your guitar case? Or hold it? Or throw it out?" The airport staff was so nice and concerned and helpful and would throw themselves under a bus before making me pay the overweight bag fee. But I laughed and told them it was just fine, and forked over the $25.
I stumbled through the security entrance and tried to find my gate. But then I got distracted by two beautiful golden arches in the distance. Remembering that it was 4:30 and I hadn't eaten yet, I lazily stepped onto the moving sidewalk that crept painfully slowly toward beautiful McDonalds. Once I got to the counter, I opened my mouth to order in Japanese before I realized that the young lady's name tag said "I SPEAK ENGLISH" on it.
"Do you really speak English?" I asked.
"Er...yes." she replied. I was so happy.
"I'd like a double quarter pounder with cheese, no pickles and no mustard. That means you're going to make it fresh, then, right? Also I'd like an orange juice but go easy on the ice because you never get, like, any liquid in those goddamn things in the end. And fries. But not just fries, I mean like fucking huge fries--overfill them, it's okay if they spill open in the bag, I don't care." She blinked and pressed buttons on the register. I got my meal and sat down at one of the one-person seats across the way. I unloaded everything and started cramming it into my face like a ravenous tiger. I looked up to see a man sitting with his own cheeseburger, watching me fearfully. "Do you want thum?" I asked with my mouth full of food. He shook his head.
Eventually I found myself at the gate and boarded the plane. It was refreshing to hear all of the safety instructions given in English. After we took off, I tried to sleep. Soon it had been an hour. Three hours. Six hours. Soon ten hours had passed, and I had done virtually nothing but stare out the window with my headphones on. The O.C.D. woman next to me wearing a face mask couldn't stop moving and twitching and using hand sanitizer and organizing her wet naps and I did my best to ignore her. Around the 7th hour or so we crossed the international time line and the stars turned into a sunrise over the ocean. I filled out my customs and immigration card, and, only having an hour to get through customs, recheck my baggage, and run across the entire San Francisco airport to get to my Seattle flight, fucking booked it as soon as the plane touched down. I ran through all of the customs gates, answered all of their bullshit questions about fruit and weapons, and got to the luggage carousel, only to wait. My bags hadn't come off the plane yet. I stood and waited, flipping my shit, anxiously tapping my foot as soft saxophone music played in the background. Finally, someone pointed out that they had switched out carousel number without telling us. I ran and got my bags and booked it to the new baggage check. I dropped them off only to run into the back of the new security line, which wrapped around the United check-in counter. After 15 minutes of waiting, and another 5 trying to figure out how to remove all of the metal in and on my body, I grabbed my things, put my shoes back on, and booked it like a motherfucker to the terminal my gate was at. Of course it was at the very end gate, and I ran madly along the moving sidewalk, yelling at people to get out of the way. I arrived with three minutes to spare before boarding, and another woman, extremely out of breath as well, asked me where I had come from. I told her Tokyo, and she said she had just run through customs after coming from Australia. I was so happy to have talked to a stranger, that as soon as I sat down on the plane I began harassing the couple next to me about where they were from, where they were going, and what kind of tourist activity they should engage in. After they got sick of me, I once again tried to sleep and failed. Upon arriving in Seattle, I found that even though I stacked my luggage one bag on top of the other when I delivered them to the second bag check, they had somehow lost my larger suitcase...the one that mattered. Eventually it was delivered to my Dad's house, and after about four more hours of being in a half-conscious coma, I fell asleep for a good 24 hours.
"You only live twice, or so it seems. One life for yourself, one for your dreams."
I had a list of things I maybe would have liked to accomplish while I was in Japan, but honestly, I had no expectations and went overseas blind and ready for anything to happen...which it certainly did.
There are parts of my day that were so common for almost three months--taking the trains, walking everywhere I wanted to go. The flashing lights and booming techno music emitting casually from the high rise buildings as night fell. The thick, incomparable masses of people politely shoving their way through the city to get to work or go home. The flashing strobe lights of the claustrophobic karaoke room and the midi tracks behind your own strained vocal accompaniment. The strangers on the streets with their never ending smiles passing out promotional flyers and packets of tissues. The confusing ticket machines at the stations, the eastern toilets that hardly qualify as toilets at all. The air of sterility and humility encased in the buzzing lights of a thousand electronics. It's only been days, and even now it seems like it was a dream. I unlocked my car door, sat inside, and started the ignition. The cheap seat rattled beneath me, the vents blew out a puff of warm, stale air, and it was as if I had never left.
One thing that never ceased to astound me was the kindness of the people I met in that country. I have a feeling it has to do with the sense of politeness that is instilled in every Japanese person from the time they are very young, as to keep a sense of honor among their family lineage, respect the companies they work for, etc.. From the students at Tamagawa helping me find electronics and hanging out with me well after my term there had ended, to the guest house staff who were ridiculously lenient about my late rent money, to Masa who was randomly so nice and quick to give me advice, to Junko who made me a meal and dressed me up in a kimono, to the staff at Gonzo studios who let us sit in on their voiceover sessions. That doesn't even include all of the many strangers who helped me carry things, purchase tickets, and give me directions.
That sort of brings me to the things that I came to notice while I was there. There were a good many nights when I would wander the streets alone, find a cafe, and sit outside smoking and staring at the stars just thinking about what the fuck I was doing there and where I wanted to go. Robin told me before I left the U.S. one night, as we sat in my dad's driveway in his rumbling idling 50 year old Volvo, that you learn a lot about yourself when you travel alone. He wasn't kidding.
One thing that happened was I sort of got over the fragile sensitivity of making big leaps in my life. There are some instances where I feel sorry for myself, and it took me some time to realize that my life was virtually a living hell before I turned 17, and no matter what happens after this point, it probably won't be as bad as what I've already been through. And even if it is--events end, times change, a life isn't a span of 5 years or even 10; if things work out properly, it's a damned long time. A few years ago, I didn't think I'd actually be able to take the trip to Japan. But I did. And who knows--in 5 years, maybe I'll be happily living in Somalia. Or Australia. Or Germany. I don't know yet. I guess what I mean is, The Hard Part is almost definitely over, and even though I grew up in a town with a population of 5,000 and one main road, the world is virtually endless and I'll never run out of cultures to drown myself in.
I learned that even though I love Japan very much, there are things about that don't really click with my personality very well. The politeness, for example. It is an amazing thing, the guaranteed kindness and compliance of any stranger on the street. But in my eyes, a great deal of personality is lost in wearing the mask of the polite stranger, representing X college or X corporation. It is a uniform. I realized that I would rather take the harsh diversity of personality on the street in America than speak to a Japanese person I'm not too familiar with, knowing full well that they are judging me maliciously in their head and that the sweet smile on their face means nothing. My essence is built out of words, and in my opinion a person's soul is projected by what they say, their attitude, and even how they dress. In the sea of Japanese business suits, crisp white shirts, tailored blazers, pencil skirts and high heels--there is very little attitude, and few words at all. No snark, cynicism, sarcasm, anger. No wistfulness, hope, or even happiness. It's all seemingly lost in the ocean of anonymity and respect. And that fucking kills me.
One strange thing that changed while I was overseas was the decline of my interest in Visual Kei. Visual Kei is a music genre that originated in Japan focusing on the fashion aspect of rock and roll performance as opposed to the music. Men in drag with glorious intricate gowns, hair teased up feet above their heads, colored contacts and glam makeup slamming on drums and guitars and singing dark, gothic lyrics with an over-dramatic vibrato. Very Boy George, very KISS, very David Bowie. The music ranges anything from heavy death metal to peppy pop-rock. It originated in the late 70's, and still holds some popularity in modern Japan with young adults currently forming Visual Kei bands today. I won't lie, it was a bit of an obsession with me, and the reason I learned Japanese and wanted to go to Japan in the first place. I know the names of every Visual Kei pioneer. I know the bands that started it all, the ones that retained popularity, VKei history as it molded and metamorphosed over the span of 40 years. Every guitar riff, every drum fill, every death and revolutionary album and major photo shoot. My useless archive of Visual Kei knowledge is exercised only in internet forums, Livejournal, and the rare occasion where I can bring something up about it in conversation. I have an addiction to visual indulgence, and for me VKei was the perfect combination of music, my passion, and visual decadence, my obsession. It began when I was about 16 and Chris Hensley came into my house and popped an X-Japan CD into my stereo. From that point, I was done for. These days, I am a fan of a few particular VKei bands, and follow every artist's albums and photo shoots and interviews online. Coming to Japan gave me a new perspective on things. Instead of having to work my ass off to research what was coming out, I could walk outside and see posters for Visual Kei bands plastered along the sides of buildings. Commercials played on cable showing clips of their music videos. The massive television screens in Shibuya advertised for the release of Alice Nine's new single, and The GazettE's new album. Miyavi's remix album had it's own cardboard displays in Tower records, and there was a whole section devoted strictly to visual music. In Harajuku, the girls that dressed up in glamorous costumes were all cosplaying Visual Kei Jrock stars. I could point out who was dressed as The Ruki from this month's issue of Shoxx, Aoi from 2007's Neo Genesis photo shoot, and Mana from a Cure interview over ten years ago. Visual Kei wasn't just a fantasy genre--it was real, it had real followers, real young obsessed fans. Hundreds of people knew what I know, dressing up as their favorite stars and giggling incessantly about the concerts. And so it became less of a faraway, wondrous concept, and just became another set of franchises with a never ending supply of annoying fans.
I'll still follow the genre, of course--but I realized that apart from the limited handful of Visual Kei artists that actually record quality music, I had been following all of the genre's artists' releases just to follow them, thus making me pretty much everything I hate about humans.
And of course, my Japanese needs to improve. Greatly. Immensely. I revolve around words, and when I can't express something with a flowery vocabulary, let alone at all, it's beyond frustrating and easy to give up. A part of me hopes that upon becoming fluent in the language in a two or three years, I'll be able to greater understand what makes Japanese people brandish the shield of politeness and maybe see what makes them tick underneath it. But still, nothing will change about their culture, and the rigid, unspoken rules of quiet respect will remain. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and personally, I need expression, and more importantly, comedy. Sarcasm is a much bigger part of my life than I realized, and it doesn't really exist to Japanese people that haven't been extensively exposed to western culture. I realized that I kind of need to be in a place where I can communicate smoothly, with humor and metaphors, and I should probably just stick around in a place that speaks English for awhile.
The last thing that's probably notable is the fact that I didn't end up in the hospital the entire time I was in Japan. I have an anxiety problem, and a history of freaking the fuck out for little to no reason. Usually only under the influence of caffeine or drugs, but I have been known to lose it under instances of extreme pressure or stress. There are times when, if I'm left alone long enough, I will turn into sort of an agoraphobe, refusing to leave my apartment for days at a time for fear that I'll forget how to drive, or walk, or breathe, or that my heart will spontaneously stop. I spoke to my psychiatrist before I left about how I was more than a little nervous about being in a foreign country alone for three months. She told me that it would actually be good for me, and give me the confidence to get up and do anything after I got back. And she was actually right. If me, the paranoid freak afraid to ingest caffeine or smoke anything that didn't come out of a carton, can survive in the wilds of Tokyo's concrete jungle, I can probably be okay just about anywhere...let alone outside of my apartment.
So I guess, I learned something today. Take a risk, earn some money, go out there. Way far out there. Embarrass yourself. No, more than that--make an absolute ass of yourself trying to communicate your thoughts, ideas, desires. Meet people, keep in touch with them. When bizarre situations find you, which they will, roll with them. Walk for blocks, get lost. Get off the train in a place you've never heard of. Have coffee with a stranger. Smoke a brand you've never smoked before. Order something off the menu you can't pronounce. Spend all your money. Fall in love. Get your heart broken. Learn who you are. You'll learn to love yourself for it. Just don't don't forget to pack normal deodorant.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
"You mean, besides the brutal rejection?"
"Yeah, besides that."
"...I dunno. Even though I was kind of bored some days, nothing notably horrible really happened. Well, except for getting stalked...but that was kind of flattering."
"What's one word you'd use to describe your experience?"
"One word??"
"Yeah, one word." I thought hard, chewing my nails and tapping my sandal against the coffee table.
"Umm....,"
"I am notorious for asking difficult questions."
"Yeah, I fucking know."
"No rush." I bit furiously at my cuticles.
"....pivotal."
"Pi...fo..."
"Pivotal."
"Spell?"
"P-i-v-o-t-a-l."
"What it means, this word?"
"Uhh.....sort of like, when something big happens and changes your life."
"Ah, big changes?" "
Yeah. Real big changes."
"What changed the most?" I leaned back with my hands behind my head.
"I got over myself."
"....what does this mean?"
"It means...you know how I'm usually super overdramatic about everything?"
"Ah--yeah."
"I would get upset when something even sort of negative happened. If I missed a train, I would be really mad. If I missed a sale on something, I would be pissed off. Even this rejection--I dwelled on it for days and days kicking myself for it."
"So..."
"So, I thought about it. A lot. For a few weeks straight...because I ended up spending a lot of alone time with myself and the English language. And I sort of figured out that I should just slow down," I sat up, "for the first 16 or 17 years of my life, I was miserable. My parents were split up, I hated school, I was never at home, I was constantly suicidal. And then, slowly, because of my actions, things began to change. It didn't happen all at once, but eventually, I earned happiness. Now, when I find myself getting upset over one person's words, one person I might never see again, I have to stop and think--is this really worth blowing up over? Because I feel like I've come a long way since the misery of my adolescence. I sort of learned to...appreciate everything."
"And why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you think this change happened?" I sat back.
"I'm not sure. I think it's because I spent a lot of time alone....and I was pulled out of the environment I had grown up in. Plus, I made the most amazing friends, and everyone--with the exception of Yohei Kato--has been unbelievably nice to me." He laughed.
"These hard experiences make you stronger, more beautiful. You know, you need to stop taking him so seriously."
"Yeah, I know."
"You're so young."
"Okay, seriously, if you call me young one more time, I swear to god."
"You're only 20."
"I feel like I'm...27."
"A girl isn't attractive enough to date until she is....at least 25."
"What!"
"25 is the age when a girl is mature enough to be with."
"You're full of shit."
"You should wait, I think, to look for someone."
"For what, 5 years?"
"Time flies very quickly when you're as young as you are."
"....you suck."
"Mm, maturity." I flipped him off.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Bonus Mini-Blog 4
"It's time to leave this town, it's time to steal away."
All this, and I still have a massive pile of things I can't fit into my suitcase which goes as follows:
- laundry basket
- red scarf (my original belt from my first day here after the bastards at the airport confiscated my badass one)
- 20 hangers
- wall clock
- pink stuffed animal from crane machine
- 2 books
- unopened package of printer paper (don't ask)
- about ¥500 in change
- cup o noodle
- 2 books
- traditional Japanese sandals
- belt
- large bag of rice
- stack of blank note cards
- pair of black kitten heels
- half a bottle of laundry detergent
- hair dryer (it had to be done--it just wouldn't fit [that's what she said] )
- bottle of perfume
- black sweatshirt
- pair of scissors
- container full of tacks
- collapsible umbrella
- weird yukata that was a gift from Rory's homestay family...periwinkle doesn't suit me
- Subway membership card
- Tully's membership card
dare I once again say....what?
Don't play the game of time
Things that happened in the past
Only happened in your Mind."
It is no secret by now that strange situations have a habit of finding me.
I came home one day from doing god knows what, and I found a note taped to my door. It read, "Please to call Hana at office hour, thank you bye bye". Hana is my landlord. Upon reading it, I immediately became nervous. I know I don't have a phone, but it's a little weird to come home with a cryptic note taped to your door handle. Considering that I had paid last month's rent a day late, because I am a moron, I thought that maybe I forgot something else. I racked my mind for anything I could have possibly forgotten. Did you forget to pay again? No, you paid in full last time and got your last receipt. Did you forget to check out? No, your plane hasn't left yet, dumbass. A noise complaint? I stopped, and figured that must be it. Like every neighbor I've ever had, I was sure that it was somebody calling to tell me to stop blasting 90's industrial metal at 4 in the morning. Nervous, I booted up Skype and called my landlord.
"Guesto Housu!"
"Hi, Hana? It's Alex."
"AH ALEXANDRA-SAN!! Thank you so much for call!"
"Yeah, no problem."
"Ah, Alexandra-san, I have question?"
"...okay, shoot."
"Do you like kimono?" Hana went on to explain that a woman in the area had seen an ad for the international guest house and called her up, asking if she knew of any young western women that would be willing to have a kimono put on them. The woman's name was Junko Uno, and she is going to Canada in a few weeks to put kimonos on white girls for a fashion show, and felt that she was horribly uneducated in the art of trying to wrap one around a pair of big tits. I agreed, relieved that I wasn't getting booted out of my room. She told me that Junko would meet me at the guest house at 1pm on Monday. Ten or so minutes after I hung up the phone, I was startled by a knock on my door. It was Tadashi, the same dude that had led me through my first tour of the guest house. He sighed heavily, and thrust a cell phone in my face.
"For you," he said. I took it.
"Alexandra-san!! Hana again. Junko will actually meet you at the South exit of Tanashi Station. This okay for you?"
"...you sent Tadashi all the way over here to make a phone call?"
"Yah, this okay for you?"
"Yeah, this okay for me."
"YAY OKAY! Jaa, sank you talk to you soon bye bye!" I hung up and handed the phone back to Tadashi, who saluted and went back to his deranged painted van.
This afternoon, I was greeted by a confused looking woman behind the station.
"Alex-san?" She hesitantly approached me.
"Yes! Junko?" She was delighted that she had picked the right foreigner...although there really aren't any in Tanashi...and I got into her car and she drove to her house. Her English was a bit broken, but still very good. She explained that she had no experience at all with putting kimonos on 'western girl', and wanted to get the hang of it before the fashion show in Canada. She was older, maybe in her late 50's, and her house was one story and very nice. I was a bit nervous at first, just because I'm usually on guard around older adults because blah blah generation gap blah blah anarchy viva la revolucion blah blah etc.. But she was very chill, and extremely nice, and I stepped into her house to hear "Magical Mystery Tour" playing on a stereo. "You like The Beatles?" I asked, as she rushed around, pouring me a drink and getting the hundreds of layers of kimono fabric together.
"Ah, yes! Sutoraaberi Fiyodu, I like!"
"Yeah, Strawberry Fields is a good one." She stood me in front of a giant fold-out mirror, told me to take my shirt and pants off, and began wrapping folds of fabric around me. First a super light silk robe, with a long skirt around my waist.Then a large strip across my stomach. Than another strip. Then a cord tie, and another strip. Another cord and strip followed by a layer of puffy cotton over my chest and a piece of fabric over it to keep it in place.
"Is it okay, I practice English?"
"Totally, go for it."
"Where, you came from?"
"Seattle, in America."
"Ah! My English teacher came from Seattle also! Her husband Japanese, so she teach English here. She say, many Japanese people there."
"Yeah, there are hella Japanese people in Seattle. Koreans, too."
"Ah, really? Wow. If I may ask," she yanked a cord tight around my waist, nearly knocking the wind out of me, "what is your mother job?"
"My mom works at an antique store."
"Ah, really! This is nice!"
"She got me this ring for my birthday." She took a look at it.
"Very beautiful! This is good for your mother! And what, if I may ask, does your father job?"
"He sings."
"Ah, really!!" She took a beautiful orange kimono off of the wall, embroidered with large yellow flowers and intertwining designs.
"Whoa."
"Hands here, please," she helped me get my arms through the holes of the kimono, the immensely long sleeves dragging on the floor. She cinched it around my waist, getting on her knees to tie the obi around me. "So what, if I may ask, does your father sing?"
"Old songs, some he wrote."
"In concerts?"
"Yes."
"Wow! What songs?"
"You might know them, actually, if you listen to The Beatles. 'Happy Together'." She thought for a moment, tying a knot around my waist, then froze. She looked up at me, stunned.
"Ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba ba ba ba, ba ba ba ba!" she sang.
I cannot escape.
"Yeah, that's the one."
"まじで、すごい！！" She continued to excitedly wrap the layers of the obi around my waist. "I remember this song when I was young! It is such good feeling song! Your father, very famous!"
"Yeah, I guess."
After finishing with the obi and assembling the half-dozen cords that tied around it, I was fully in the bright orange kimono, shaped like a tube and unable to breath.
"It suits you!" She snapped pictures of me with her camera as I stood near the window facing her garden. Afterward, she made me some special traditional dark green tea and gave me some kind of gingery dessert. Upon hearing about my love for octopus, she also made me some takoyaki - chunks of octopus encased in dough in a teriyaki-esque sauce that you eat with a stick. I asked about her family, and she said that she had two daughters, aged 26 and 30, who were, much to her disappointment, not yet married. She said that she's nervous that they'll never be married and have children. I told her I didn't think there was much of a rush, and asked her why she wanted to learn English. She said that when she was young, she had dreams of moving to America because it seemed really cool. Her decision to learn English was spurred on by her love of the Andy Williams show. I laughed.
It took a good 10 minutes to get out of the kimono, after which she drove me to the station so I could go to Harajuku. I left her my address so she could send me the pictures she took, and I said goodbye to her.
Harajuku was hot, crowded, and horrible like it always is, but it still remains my favorite place in Tokyo. I walked along the main strip of Fashion Street, trying to locate a shop I found that sold cheap, oversized bags, seeing as how all of the souvenirs I bought are sure as hell not going to fit inside my suitcase. On my way there, I was drawn into a visual kei fashion shop. I decided that, since it was my last day, there was no harm in just looking around at everything. I'm going to desperately miss being able to casually walk into a store with walls of hanging chains, torn up trenchcoats, medical masks, and every article of clothing studded with massive, pointed spikes. I was looking around when I spotted a rack of ties. Rifling through them, one caught my eye. "Oh, no," I said, looking at the three large, beautiful silver buckles across the front, as well as the price tag. $50. Knowing full well that I was doomed to buy it, no matter what it cost, I went to the register and asked the cashier to remove it from the wall. I stuttered my Japanese.
"Excuse me."
"What."
"This one, please."
"Sure." She lazily removed it from it's spot on the wall and brought it to the register. "Do you speak Japanese?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, whatever, since this is ¥5000, you get a free gift of one of these things." She motioned to the display at the register. A wrist band caught my eye, with horrible Engrish printed across the front.
"I have got to have this." She rang everything up.
"So like, you live here or what?"
"Not really. I'm an exchange student."
"I see. Where?"
"Tamagawa University. It's near Machida."
"You like Japan?"
"I love Japan!"
"Ha, no fucking way. Why?"
"Well...the fashion. I mean--look at this shit. The clothes are amazing!"
"And...you like the music too, right?"
"Oh hell yeah. Dir en Grey, D'espairsray, The Gazette--although D'espairsray's last album went in a really bizarre direction, don't you think?" She chuckled at me and handed me my change and my bag.
"Yeah, it makes sense now." She gave me my receipt. "Your Japanese is better than you think it is." I realized I hadn't had a communication problem the whole time.
"Oh...yeah, thanks."
I left the store, and spent my last few minutes in Harajuku before waving at the entrance to Fashion Street and getting on the train.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
almost done.
To rid yourself of vanities and just go with the seasons
It's what we aim to do, our name is our virtue."
There is a lady that walks down the hallway, maybe every hour, stops at the big sink, and hocks a loogie into it. I want her to die a horrible, fiery death.
In other news, Holy Jeepers Batman, I have only a few days left in this Asian metropolis of gothic lolita girls, constant anime spam, and mayo covered pork cutlet.
I spent today attempting to clean my room (there are 12 full massive plastic bags full of trash lined up against the wall....maybe I should have thought about this more constructively earlier) and went out to buy Engrish t-shirts for everyone. I spent an appalling amount of money, and I'm still sure I left people out. I will cry when I figure out who they are. But picking them out was damned fun, and I spent way too long giggling hysterically in the aisles of shops and open air markets upon reading the oversized text on the front of each shirt. Among my favorites includes the gem I'm wearing now, "SHOUT ACROSS THE ENTIRE AREA TO GET SOMEONE ATTENTION". Not over; across. Be sure to remember that part.
The cliche of Japanese people wearing Engrish t-shirts is extremely true, and most teens and college students, even older adults, can be seen sporting a t-shirt that says something to the effect of 'Bisexuality&Homosexuality myLOve forU'. There are no real distinctions between words, and there are never distinctions between lower case and capital letters. Capital letters just seem to appear in the middle of words, wherever they feel like showing up. I'll often be standing on the train and glance at the shirt of the person next to me, read something like 'Kindof A outrageous LOVEby HOT poWer', and have to turn the other way to avoid making eye contact as I silently laugh uncontrollably. In all fairness, America is just as bad with 'Asian' style shirts that feature one or two poorly drawn characters and a tiger on the front, but seeing the tables turned is almost unbearably amusing.
On the subject of fashion, everything seems to have changed within the past few days. The traffic of "The Outfit" of the white t-shirt, black vest, and jeans slowly started dissipating, and suddenly people began showing up in the same long-sleeved, long-cut shirts with light scarves. The weather hadn't changed that drastically--really, it hadn't changed at all--and I glanced around the train bewildered as the texture, cut, and color palette changed to be slightly softer and darker than it had been just a day or two previously. The topic came up one night as Masa, John and I sat around the television watching some bouncy, seizure-inducing game show that I couldn't understand. "Ye know what it is, don't ye?" he exclaimed in his thick English accent, rubbing his bald head. "Why they've all gone and changed their clothes? I'll tell you what it is, it's the first of Septembah!" Masa nodded and smiled as he plucked away at his guitar strings. "Ye noticed, all of the fashions in the windah done changed," he continued, "they're like clockwork, all of 'em!" And they are all like clockwork, shopping frantically for the new fall fashions and donning them before anyone can name a specific running trend. It leaves me sort of terrified. Coming from Olympia, land of home-knitted sweaters and unshaved legs, I still can't help but feel a bit out of sorts in a land wherein if you are older than 18 and haven't donned your makeup and high heels before rushing out the door, you should be ashamed of yourself. After purchasing said gaudy makeup and high heels and re-concluding that it isn't really for me, I'll still sit on the train in my jeans, tank top, and Doc Martens, swinging my legs like a 6-year-old, looking around at all of the meticulous work that went into each outfit as I gnaw on a lump of onigiri.
My favorite fashion accessory, by far, has to be the glasses. I've always wanted glasses ever since I was a little kid because I thought they made people appear simultaneously smart and sexy. I still believe this to be true. If ever I was to encounter a human being that was fairly good-looking with nice hair, I would agree that they weren't half bad. Add their naturally bad eyesight into the mix, and I'll be head over heels. I can't really explain it; I think it has something to do with the public display of vulnerability. Whatever the case, glasses are damn sexy, and I've always been disappointed that I can't wear any.
Every now and again, in a Claire's or something, I'd see a display stand of fake glasses next to the normal sunglasses. I would try some on, look at myself in the mirror and think of how cool it would be to have them, and put them back. Everyone would know they weren't real, and who the hell wants to walk around wearing glasses they don't need. But here, it's a different story. Not only are glasses in fashion all the time, you must carefully coordinate them with your outfit. "It's Thursday, I feel that today I shall wear my pink and yellow tank tops with my periwinkle cardigan. But what about the accompanying glasses? Surely, I can't wear this outfit without an accessory on my face. Square black frames are too much, and this horn-rimmed pair only go with my leather boots. Today I shall go with the rimless, oval lenses!" and thus, our Japanese co-ed is off to conquer another day of texting and shopping. I thought I was just seeing things when I would go to class at Tamagawa and a few of my friends would be wearing glasses one day, and be frameless the next. But I figured that maybe they just simultaneously--and fashionably--didn't want to put their contacts in. Upon seeing that every student showed up at least once a week with a coordinating pair of glasses and noticing a shop in each mall fully devoted to the sales of fake specs, I put two and two together and concluded that this was my ultimate favorite fashion phenomenon.
I enjoyed seeing Japanese people on the trains and in the city with their fedoras and thick-rimmed glasses as they lived the lies of people who are not visually impaired. Soon I began to lose my fear of trying them on in stores--some outfits even come with matching glasses attached to the tags. As much as I didn't want to succumb and live the lie, I eventually broke down and bought a pair of black, square-rimmed glasses with black and white checkers on the sides. When I put them on, it makes me feel smart. Sometimes I even put them on when I'm home alone reading, just because I want to suck just that much more intelligence out of my book. The whole ploy works perfectly until I'm out in public and rip them off, squinting, to read a far away sign.
The most depressing thing about Tokyo, perhaps even more than the lack of normal deodorant, pretty much goes without saying. Everything costs an arm and a leg. I lucked the fuck out, having gotten a room in the ghetto of some unknown neighborhood for around $530 a month, but most people don't have it so lucky. Plus, I wouldn't really consider myself lucky, what with the commuting I had to do. Like I said before, at the beginning of this program all I heard was that the school was "in Tokyo", so I got this place because it was the cheapest I could find. I had to take 2 lines to get there, and because of the distance, my daily commute to Tamagawa University alone cost about $13. Thus explaining why I didn't really eat on weekdays the first three weeks I was here. Every time the number detracted from my PASMO card would flash up on the little screen, my Jew senses would tingle, reminding me not to eat for another 24 hours or so.
I can be sort of notorious for being a huge Jew. Back home, I'll let the cash in my wallet slowly run out and resort to paying with my best friend, quarters, much to the chagrin of every Jamba Juice cashier. I'll cringe every time my debit card slides through the little machine. Which explains my history of kleptomania--something I'm far too deathly terrified to try in this country. I tried my best to keep up my penny-pinching habits--I unplugged the air conditioner so I'd never be tempted to pump coins into it, despite the 95 degree weather. I waited until I ran out of clothes, wore those clothes again, and then ran out a second time before paying $2 for the washing machine. I bought the cheapest bread and the cheapest off-brand jelly. Tap water against bottled, walking if I could avoid spending another $1.50 for a train stop. But even if you try your hardest to be a cheap-ass douche, there's something about Tokyo that just sucks every penny out of you. I blame part of it on the physical money system. In America, you got your penny--basically obsolete--your nickel, dime, and quarter. You might even be able to get a $.50 piece, or one of those bullshit Sacagawea dollar coins if you're lucky. Here, there are coins for each of those, too, but there's also a coin that's worth ¥500, the equivalent of $5. Being a Jew, I'm used to getting excited about having change and getting the opportunity to spend it. I don't realize it when it gets turned against me here. "That sandwich looks delightful. And look! I can pay for it with just this coin! Look at how clever and resourceful I'm being!" It's not until later after I've snarfed down the sandwich that I realize that I just spent $5. When the smallest bill of ¥1000 is worth $10, it takes you a minute to realize that you are slowly getting yourself into deep shit.
"Yesterday it hit me that I do all the little things that you do."
One of the late 2am nights that Masa and I were left sitting on the couch staring at the television, comparing the sizes of the tv announcers' tits to their potential fuckability, he asked me about love letters. Eager to do my cultural research, I told him that I had never gotten any, had given away one, and wanted to know how it worked in Japan. He said that love letters were quite common, and that he had given and gotten a good number in his life, one of which he received while he was with an ex-girlfriend--who immediately tore it into shreds. "She was Australian, you see," he commented, "she didn't understand." I recounted my experience with Yohei, slowly getting angrier and angrier as the story progressed until I was malevolently accosting the cushions of the old leather couch. He laughed for a long time, bemused at my hot temper and wistfully commented on how young I am. I'm not that young, goddamnit. He said that he couldn't tell what was up Yohei's ass by just hearing about him, but he probably would have been able to tell had he been around him. I asked how, to which he replied that he had a frightening talent for being able to tell things about people. I had picked this up from the first time I met him--Masa is the kind of person that is immediately lovable, but at the same time you're sort of apprehensive about it because you feel like he knows way more about you than he should. He said that during his experience with being a stage actor, he became obsessed with observing people, their behaviors, and interactions with other people. He would ride the train back and forth some days, standing close to people and behaving a certain way in order to experiment with their reactions. I told him he was nuts. He shook out his long black hair and told me to stand up, which I did. "Which side do you hold your bag on? Pretend you're holding it." I stood there in my pajamas, holding an invisible purse on my shoulder. "Now, walk around." I walked in circles in the living room, the tv set still blaring whatever manic embarrassment was happening on the game show. "Now sit down, and cross your legs." I did. "Now, which side feels weirder for me to be standing on? Your right, or your left?" He stood on my right side.
"You mean, like, you?"
"No, if I was a stranger."
"Oh. Uh....try the left side." He moved. "Mmm, no, the right side." He moved again. "Okay, left again." He stood at my left side. "Yeaahh, I would definitely want you on my left side."
"Why?"
"....I dunno."
He crossed his arms. "I thought so."
"....are we going to have invisible tea now, or what? Because I've been holding this invisible bag for a long time and my arm is tired."
"See? Stand up."
"Jesus."
"Look. Your purse is on your right shoulder. You take your first steps with your right foot. You cross your right leg over your left."
"....yes I do."
"And you felt more comfortable with a stranger on your left side. That's because you want to protect your right side." I blinked.
"Oh."
"Do you believe me?"
"Nope."
"Well," we both sat back down on the leather couch, "either way, you're all about your right side. There are many different combinations a person can be--crossing with their left leg, bag on their left, etc--but you're the same as me."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means you're strong, you know yourself very well, you focus on logic, and you are addicted to stimulation."
"Sounds hot."
"I mean like visually, audibly," he said excitedly, "You need that stimulation in your life but, at the same time, you can focus for long enough to write a song, or a play, or a book, and interpret that stimulation into what you do. That's why you make a good musician." I smiled.
"And what about the other types?"
"Well, the type that's the exact opposite of ours is the left-sided type."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that they step with their left food, cross their left leg over their right. They protect their left side. They're much more unbalanced than we are, and they seek stability." I smirked.
"And of course you know this because they're....,"
"....easier to pick up at parties." He finished my sentence and I laughed loudly.
I swayed on the train, yawning, changing tracks on my iPod as the JR Yamanote car opened its doors in Shin-Okubo. I was standing in front of a line of seated passengers, holding onto the strap that hung from the ceiling. The passengers standing to my right and my left both exited the train. Once they left, I shifted where I was standing and continued staring out the window. It wasn't until moments later that I startled myself--I had moved all the way to the right. There was no one on my right side, and the seated passengers dozed silently to my left. I stared at the other end of the seated passengers. There was no one standing on that side, either, but the prospect of moving over there freaked me out for reasons I couldn't explain, even to myself. Unsettled, I stood there for the rest of the ride.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fate
今ここに生きる意味を明日が来る理由を。"
"Flower; now, in full bloom you had told me
The meaning of living right here, right now the meaning of tomorrow's arrival."
Feel free to make fun of me for this, because I would.
I've never believed in God. As far as I can remember, I've always been an atheist. When I was around 15 or 16, when my life was really a huge steaming pile of shit, I went to church and youth group and bible study and Sunday school and begged myself daily to find God. It never happened. I still haven't found him--although, Glyndyn says she found Jesus, behind the couch--but that somehow didn't stop me from believing in...something. I'm not really sure what it is. It's kind of that feeling you get when you're a kid and there's one present from Santa under the tree that your parents don't admit to having bought for you. A feeling that there's something bigger going on, but you can't quite figure out what it is. I myself don't believe in a robed, bearded puppet master wiggling his fingers above the Earth making sure we do what we're supposed to do. I think our lives are centered around choice. In my mind, I picture it like this: a massive fucking spider web detailing all the paths we have taken and the paths we can take. Whether I'd go as far as saying that different strands lie on different planes of existence, I have no idea. But I feel like there are an endless amount of paths we can take, but there is one particular route that is the optimum one. The one that will get you, more or less, where you want to be. A.k.a., happy, satisfied, content. It's just a theory. To me it kind of has to do with being in the right place at the right time. Sometimes, you'll be sitting somewhere--a Starbucks, an airport, a phone booth--and something small, or big, will happen, and you'll know. That it seems like you were supposed to be there, and that this was supposed to happen.
There are a few times when I've felt it; when I came home after couch-hopping for a few months in high school, when I half-smiled, half-made a tortured face as Glyndyn held my hand and we got our matching tattoos, when Kevin called me up and said he'd like to make a band together, when the tall man behind me at the Dir en Grey concert in Portland lifted me up so I could place my hand on my idol, Kyo, as he screamed into the microphone. "Yeah," I think to myself, "that was supposed to happen."
I believe in my own made-up spider web theory, at least much more than I've ever believed in any organized religion, and there are days were I literally panic about having taken the wrong strand. I feel like I live on that pre-woven web, and any choice is okay, but I want to take the steps that will ultimately make me the happiest. Sometimes I feel as though I've taken the wrong strand and am going to end up on a different side of the web than where I'd like to be.
I was walking back from Starbucks tonight, having sucked down some 12oz drink and worked on a half-assed novel I've been writing, and entered Seibu-Shinjuku Station. It was packed as usual, men and women with clean-cut clothes and briefcases shuffling toward and away from the gate between the trains and the rest of the world. I sauntered along with my headphones in, looking at the backs of peoples' heads, wondering where they were going and what they were doing. My eyes fell upon a couple, hand in hand. The guy looked fairly average, but the girl had almost-white, bleach-blonde hair. Dyed hair is average in Japan, but especially not that light, and usually not on women. Something ticked in my brain. "Wait a second," I breathed out loud, and hurriedly pushed through the crowd of people to get ahead of them. I saw her face, and I couldn't believe it. "....Shiro??" She turned. Her eyes widened in disbelief, and so did mine.
Last December, because I am utterly psychotic, I bought two tickets to see Dir en Grey live for their Uroboros tour. The two tickets were both for me--one for Portland, and one for the next night in Seattle. I went to the first show figuring I would stand in line and see the show without uttering a word, but I was fortunate enough to meet Shiro and Melinda, two lovely girls who were as cracked out about seeing Dir en Grey live as I was. We geeked out for the three or four hours we waited in line, and then shared what was, for me, the best experience of my life.
We stood at the station, bewildered, unable to do anything but stare at each other and laugh in disbelief. We exchanged a few words, her boyfriend awkwardly took a few pictures of us so we could remember, and we split up. We're staying in places in the same neighborhood of Nishi-Shinjuku, on the same private line.
I got on my train, unable to hear the music blasting in my headphones. "Huh...yeah," I said to myself, "that was definitely supposed to happen." I stood for awhile, staring blankly out the darkened window, the Japanese passengers swaying as the train sped up and pulled around corners. I was making an express evaluation on my life and where I stand right now, when inspiration kicked. Out of my mind strung a set of genius words I wouldn't have been able to come up with previously. I made a ruckus of scrambling about in my purse for a pen and paper, and scrawled furiously, writing up against the rattling train door.
"All the manners that I've been taught have slowly died away;
but if I held the door open for you, it wouldn't make your day."I'm going to have to face the music and say that I've never really been in a densely populated place in my life. My hometown had a population of around 5,000 and one main road. Olympia, although much larger, is also considered to be "quaint". I have spent a good deal of time in Seattle, which turns into utter hell around rush hour. But nothing compared to the daily masses of people walking around Tokyo at all times. It's as though the Bite of Seattle festival had sex with Bumbershoot and birthed octuplet festivals of equal size and patronage--that's how many people are wandering around any area of urban Tokyo at any given time. There is usually a 5-10 minute wait time in any cafe at the register, which is probably normal, and about that long--if not longer--to sit and wait for someone to get up if you want to sit down. It's a mad dash for empty tables, too. There are six Starbucks' surrounding Shinjuku station--I know, I've been to all of them--and it's always the same. You rush in, you find a table, and you call fucking dibs on that shit. By which I mean, you put either your bag or your purse or your jacket on the seat. In America, you would not only get laughed at, but your shit would be moved, get stolen, and someone would be sitting in that seat by the time you went to sit down with your drink. The amount of general trust in Japan is so high--anyone would just leave everything they brought with them to claim a table. And I have never seen anything get stolen. It's the same with street vendors and the like--there are hundreds of open air stores selling jewelry and clothing and hair accessories with maybe one teenage girl watching them. No ink lock tags, nothing. And yet, nobody steals anything. Why? I'm not sure. I guess that if they live in Tokyo, they already have enough money to afford anything they would want, so they don't need anything else.
There are so many people in the city, particularly commuting, that everyone is more or less used to being mercilessly squished into train cars. It's not uncommon that I will be standing on the train reading a book when suddenly thirty businessmen cram into me, because they have no choice. It's probably very awkward for them, and I laugh, the spine of my book wedged in someone's face and my hand pinned by someone's back so I am unable to change the track on my iPod. It's usually like this, so I'm really unable to argue with it. But there are times, ghost hours of the day, when there are mysteriously not many people commuting. Times like when the first train runs at 6am, and right before rush hour at about 5:30pm. There are enough seats for everyone to sit down, plus some empty ones. And what generally happens around this these times of day is I am reminded that, because of the general crowds, Japanese people tend to lose their concept of personal space. People will walk extremely close and bump into you for no reason when there is plenty of room. They'll sit next to you even when there are many open seats. They'll unconsciously lean into you while texting on the train. Luckily, I don't mind personal contact with strangers. In fact, I encourage it. Put a little love in your heart, folks.
In America--with the exception of Olympia--most women have hygiene habits that fall within the same general routine. But living here, I've found it to be just a bit skewed. One of them is something that I didn't notice until Diana pointed it out to me. "Do you see how all of their arms look so smooth? You thought it was just because Asians are generally hairless, right?" she asked. I nodded. "Wrong. It's because they shave their arms." I looked around wildly on the train. It was true. Every single woman had smooth, hairless, now obviously shaved arms. "Bitches!" I thought, as I discovered their secret. Being half Russian and just generally very gorilla-like, I must stand out atrociously among all of these women with hairless arms. Our friend Ayumi says it's part of her routine, just like shaving her legs. "Don't you....do it too?" she asked apprehensively. We shook our heads. Fuck no am I shaving my arms. What would keep me warm during the Winter?
Another strange occurrence, and probably my number one least favorite thing about this country, is the deodorant. You would think that in any normal drug store, you'd be able to find a nice, general, stick of deodorant. But of course, you would be wrong. Despite the 100 degree Summers, the crushing humidity and the constant walking, there is no stick deodorant. What there is, however, is spray-on deodorant. You've probably seen it in your local Wal Mart or Safeway, glanced at it, maybe even sprayed some into the air before shaking your head in confusion and putting it back. But that's pretty much your only option here. "You're kidding," I thought as I walked in and out of the aisles a the department store. But no one was kidding, and I had to return home with a bottle of liquified deodorant.
Not only do I think this shit is incredibly inefficient, I have no real idea of how to use it. I'm thinking the more I put on, the less likelihood I have of sweating through it. So I'll stand there, spraying this shit under my arms, for a good ten seconds. I can't tell the fucking difference. All I know is that it smells like summer flowers and babies, and it's not right.
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