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.
