We are fierce and now is the time but the words come out, spill out, drill out and we can’t get out, we can’t get out. No one believes us and hates us and maybe we are but OK computer we just want to be alone in the dark with that drink and it’s starting again, it’s starting again…

Put your peace in an origami box. And the ghosts are back again. Waiting to get us, out of their minds to get us. And we’re sick of screaming sick of seeing things that aren’t quite there. So far out we can never return. Can’t think straight, can’t think straight. Dried-up sponge cake soaked in glue. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We know, we know…the world is too. And they always figure it out, always.

So why’d we do it? Why’d we do it?

Wouldn’t you?

WOULDN’T you.

Headache pounding…no, no…not again, but yes it is – and he knew it would, the nightmares promised they’d never go away. Want to curse, but all tongue-tied. Here. The answer is there. Inside the where it’s hard to stomach. Hungry for the starve again. The bloated disbelief and the what to do in front of him; with a coin on the tongue, he wants cucumber eyes.

Alert the alter to all pages. Whatever he’s irritating is not what they spill. Microns of prattle and cycle afoot. Non-stop clatter combing his skull. Halfway not there. Erase and deflate, delete and elate. Berate and escape. Can’t eat until the laughter’s gone, he mumble-grumbles – and there goes a yawn. Unable to focus, his chew is spent. That’s what he bought for her – nine of them, but she lets her fears and worries become real, breakable things…

…like walking money.

He giggled.

…but then they brought it to him.

And left him snickered, he tasted blood.

From one into the other, then two out from the four – the answer knocks from behind a door. GRUESOME. There’s a remark for when your lantern’s out: you’re dead.

Their memories tumble to the sound of the word. Sneaking peeks from behind his shoulder – he knows. They’re always watching.

“It’s not meant to be a struggle.”

He hears them giving directions – but when lost – lost…and the wanderers in the world will never find their way.

Can’t cut straight.

A pigeon in the park this morning. Feathers scattered, neck clotted with blood. A crow had attacked it, but decided not to finish it off.

Feels a bit like you and me.

…a come-and-get-it code.

Candied perfumes and colognes mingle and collide, competing with an ever lingering rust-tinged stink. Neither masks the whispery drafts of charcoal-flavoured food, though. And nothing can erase the musk of sweat stuck to the skin. Obscene pouring pitter-patter…the rampant flickering of plastic sheets and streaks of glaucous lightning. Impossible to evade the wet or outrun the boom of Asian thunder. I watch the chase and crush and keen…

I am somewhere else, alone in a nowhere place I swear I’ve been before. Am I remembering..? Or simply here again..? I am somewhere else, but I am not myself.

“We tried to warn you, what did we tell you? We said we knew you wouldn’t last. We knew you’d crumble and give in. Now welcome to daytime – figure it out. How long did it take to forget who you are? We tried to warn you, what did we tell you?”

They lead me to a nowhere somewhere on their barren frontier, and I take notice of the sky for the first time. I have never seen daylight as clear as this, and am astonished that it doesn’t hurt my eyes. So I stare into sapphire blue, and the warmth of the sun begins to heat my face…singe my face…burn my face as my sweat starts to boil and smoke my skin. The foxes suddenly whip and I turn to look-

Where?

But they have all disappeared.

I stand in place, dumbfounded. In a few minutes I hear the rustling of magnetic wind, it is strong enough to jostle small rocks on the ground. There I see the shadow of a skeleton moon, and the scent of nutmeg drifts in upon the weather.

Where am I?

Soon there are peals of thunder, as clouds hurry together, cling and balloon. A storm is approaching so I vet the perimeter, hoping to radar the foxes; but instead, I behold silhouettes distributed along the length of the horizon – a caravan has gathered…unrecognizable shapes with unknown baggage – all regarding me.

Fear.

The wind’s ruckus crescendos into an ominous mantra, and the riders on their camels lend their voices to it – a haunting didgeridoo-like chant; their baritone song causes the desert floor to quake.

Then the rain begins, flinging sheets of virulent wet across magenta ground, and through the deluge I can see the riders break to depart. The skies crack open as the thunderclouds boom, and the rainfall sluices. It is hot against my leathery skin. All at once the skies tear apart, detonating the heavens. I cover my ears to shield them from the noise while dropping to my knees and body stiffen. A valorous sun tries to pierce the dark, but cannot – and the chanting continues.

I’m in Hell, aren’t I?

The thunder answers with a deafening roar…

The end of the world three nights in a row with the old man and his garden of bones. The undersea casinos, MaoMing’s ‘Symphony of Gloam’. Conversations with the unspeakables and echoes from the tomb.

Coughing up blood and spitting out oil, snake-powdered tea cups and water to boil.

He goes where his words always get lost to, two left feet in the same wrong shoe…

I wanted to tell her I thought she had the most beautiful eyes, but she never saw me.

There is someone who I long to hear from, a warm whisper in the dark on days with this much rain. Tokyo trash, baby. Asleep on the trains. Half-smoked cigarettes to smoke later on again.

…and now the fast begins.

Press your luck and it may give, but you can’t save your rainy day.
Fracture the method, scrutinize your will.

DEAD IN LINE.

Where did they put my pills? …and who’s your prototype? Questions bought at supermarkets. ATM debilitated. We don’t want the world to know. Spineless in the faculty. Face left in the sink. Afraid to leave the flat. Never coming home. Holes unplugged in skin. Clawing to get out…

THE EVERYDAY HANGOVER.

Stressandworry. Panic. Fear. Uptight. Distraught. Misunderstood by everyone. Stink of numbers. Counting sheep that growl and bark at you. Unable to cope. Alone and self-destructive. Unleash. Again. It never end and never ends…

EXPLODING PORCELAIN.

Bang. Bang. You’re red.

Selling everything that was ever dear to me, just to be able to go on.

Interim not like this, not this way.

Still, I ask myself, “Is it important enough that you’re willing to give up your life to see it through?”

And can only answer…yes.

Counting every mistake I’ve ever made, but the results refuse to add up. Step into me, hear the whine of the drill…biting holes into bone. This was not supposed to happen. This is not supposed to be. Sinking into outer space, what is happening to me?

…and here is my repLIE:

Take five, take two…take everything.

Sometimes memories serve to remind us when our look-to-the-future forgets.

Slow down to a stop, all give up and nowhere to go…

Tonight is the first night in many without any rain, while last night’s downpour was severe enough to cause flash floods all along the Izu peninsula. As is my habit, I went out to play in the dark in it, eventually found myself alone at home with several bottles of wine and the wet pounding on my windows wanting to come inside.

I let it in, of course, and then I let it out. Tears for precipitation. Sobs for stormy weather.

…and through it all I couldn’t help but hear his voice, the Brahmin landlord in Pushkar who kept me company with card tricks and stories of the significance of brass bells.

“You can either run from the monkeys, or you can run at the monkeys. Me? I run at the monkeys.”

Another bottle of wine, and crow-infested streets for monkey temples, then…

Somewhere in all three am I, but somewhere else is nowhere at all. Cold and wet and lonely, only the sound of a downpour, occasional thunder – and countless itinerant souls wandering lost in it.

I am searching for…her…I think. Why else would I subject myself to this? I can sometimes catch the scent of her perfume, but like a ghost, as soon as there is gone.

Sleepwalking in a dream. Or is this a memory I’m reliving? I wouldn’t care except my want for her is insatiable, my determination unyielding. And I can’t shake the sense of guilt for a wrong that may have been committed.

This is not real, but I believe.

I don’t know why, but I give in.

I belong here.

Tonight the Joy-Joy’s are on display; ultra-pastel spandex troops downing nuclear-coloured drinks with dignity, shamelessly posing for the rest of the cliques. They’re only upstaged by the bar’s look-alike waitresses strutting dangerously across the Kaleidoquake-SIM floor, confidently remoting their hovertrays along like obedient pets.

And SylviDo scoffs at the contests of pretensions, particularly at the way the waitresses flounce, because it’s a move that she made kakkoi. Yeah, SylviDo is critically pissed because she has to work tonight and there’s nothing she can do about it. Tonight’s her turn to cover for SylviFa, who pulled a last-minute double-shift for her last week.

SylviDo’s dying to be out and kilometers far, getting herself doped and maliciously high, but she resigns herself to her dreaded fate – starts by sneaking shots of BoppityFizz.

Yeah, by the end of the night things won’t be so bad anymore…

Am I remembering? Or simply here again?

I am somewhere else, but I am not myself; instead, I am…a manifestation of my shame…of wretched emotions and festering blame…a whirlpool of gripes and self-deprecation, and the list goes on-and-on how much I hate myself. How much I detest the filth that makes me who and what I wish I could no longer be.

I am punishing myself without cause or good reason – without even an excuse to implicate. But then I swear -I swear!- I’ve done all this before. Been through all this before. Am still in anguish from the last bout of before. It’s sadistic, to the core. I know. and yet, I relish the pain. Contentedly, I tolerate the hurt, but…

…now there’s something here that feels deeper than the sea. It’s underneath my flesh and crawling in the bones inside of me. The voices infiltrate and echo in my head…

Are you sure you alive? You could be dead.

“Random?”

Staring at the ghosts in the glass, remembering her laugh…that sound that used to make angels stop and listen. Losing myself as I rummage through my variable realities. Sifting through the what IS from the what WAS. Weeding out the what COULD HAVE BEEN from the what WILL NEVER BE. Trying to discern what MIGHT have been from the what’s been MADE UP.

And finally surrender feeling more jaded than before, because…sometimes what IS never WAS, or wasn’t entirely altogether. And maybe…maybe now as I prate and unprofoundly complain, maybe now still ISN’T, and I’m only taking for granted that it is.

I am somewhere else, alone in a nowhere place I swear I’ve been before.

Am I remembering? Or simply here again?

I am somewhere else, but I am not myself…

The numbers. The numbers. The numbers.

Time: 3:00 a.m.

I feel blurrrrrrrrred…like melting plastic, whatever sleep I’d found now only an orphaned dream. Uncategorically frazzled, classic in pathetica. Debilitated, and not in any capacity to deal with the consequences of my earlier encounter with my earlier self.

…but then hey, that’s what you get when you disco in Qu13e; it’s like the morning after a night of phenomenal sex, but then waking up and finding out you did it with a mannequin.

Coming down, yet hardly there…dig?

I open my eyes to watch the downpour’s fury quiet into calm, eventually reduced to a warm, light drizzle. And the once was only cinerous sky slowly bruises spotted terra-cotta, as if nightfall was tentatively at work, plotting to invade the DOWNTOWN.

Sleight-of-hand manipulation of the mind.

I start to run but the ground resists, transforms into resinous slime – a plasmic shite.

…and I end up glued solid to it.

My eyelids droopy; me, wrecked and exhausted, and taxing myself to make sense of the origami-geometry: dizzy-fuzzies goBBa-gobbLING wigga-wIgGa-wiGGa wif tWizZle-stICKs of fireworks and dynamite going crickle-crackle-kaBOOm! Kadee!

Suspicion pours itself on me then, lathers me with a coat of criminality; the perception is vague, viscous. Shallow…a sinister abstraction, like wanting to scream at yourself for remembering you were trying to forget.

Ahhh, she butterfly kisses the stars to sleep, one by one.

…we are intoxicated, entangled, enraptured on a desolate Asian sand dune. The evening air is restless but graciously cool, mildly fragrant with soft perfume. It reminds me of spiced wine.

Our movements are fluid and compromising, but the moments themselves are fleeting; a torrential cascade dirtied with macabre and counterfeit memories. Her head is cradled in my arms; my fingers exploring the thickness of her sable hair.

We are intoxicated, entangled, and…

…I am on top of her. I am inside of her. Her stifled cries of exhilaration fueling my lust sincere. A platinum moon spies upon the both of us jealously, blatantly; it hangs so low in the sky I am thoroughly convinced that if I only reach out I could touch it. Pluck it like forbidden fruit and take a godly bite.

For I am debauchery. I am immaculacy.

And then…

…she is disappeared, and I am cast into an abysmal nothingness, being grieved by a constant, muted thud against my skull. I sense distress…and acute solitude. It leaves me stultified, hostile to brood in microscopic self-loathing.

I wanted to open my mouth and scream awake. I may have tried; but if I did, nothing came out.

“Let him pimp it off.”

The words spiraled around me like crippled satellites.

“Random’s finally back from the dark side.”

…a purification of night, of midnight into morning. Dissolving into a starry dream…Euphoria in sea of sordid feel-good misery…the same prelude to every nightmare I’ve ever had…I am me – and know myself. And I am everywhere all at once. Sprawled licentiously across infinity’s bed, and I am…

…s t r e t c h i n g

Until…

POP!ped, left standing awestruck in a theatre of shadows.

They flicker to-and-fro in variegating curtains of dusk-tinged twilight, drearily strobing in-and-out of view like an otherworldly ballet of drunken silhouettes.

I walk towards the scene, and then…

…I am falling, then splashing underwater -GULP!- breathing in a super-oxygenated sea. Incandescent schools of fish zip past, turning right-angles on a collective whim that leaves behind them helices of ebullient bubbles. It is capitulating into marvel, one more vivid than any high I can remember. It feels like being vaulted into outer space – I am flying around the world and back, reaching out and swishing stars about a b e j e w e l l e d sky. I am holding on to the tails of comets and riding them to unpopulated planets where I can sulk in my despair and long lost isolation.

Is this dying..? I ask no one during the wanderlust scene shifting. I am garbled. Torqued and feeling pins and needles. I am amaretto sweetness laced with bile, and I want to be dead; except, I don’t even know if I’m really alive.

I sigh, just for the sound of it – this one deeper and longer than the last…

…and then consider asking the bartender for his opinion.

Always enjoy the rush hour when the world is rushing the other way. I get on the Tokyu Toyoko-sen, Limited Express, bound for Yokohama. Empty train car, save a sleeping boy cat-stretched across four seats.

Never mind, off we go.

3 minutes later – Naka-Meguro Station. The sleeping boy remains sacked out, slumbering. Passengers glance and frown at him, but soon take their places and feign ignorance. By Jiyugaoka I begin to worry, the sleeping boy hasn’t moved – not a muscle in 9 minutes.

It’s then I notice, beneath his dangling arm, a mobile on the ground. I get up to retrieve it – and then see blood – trickles of it dried down the side of his mouth. Something’s definitely wrong. I feel the stares of others fixed on me – I’m causing a scene. But I tap the sleeping boy on the shoulder anyway, nudge him and ask if he’s all right. No one bothers to offer assistance and I feel angry as I have to ask, “Someone call a station attendant!”

But no one does. No one moves, except to look the other way.

8 minutes later – Hiyoshi Station. Passengers pouring into the train car, passengers streaming out. Everyone jostling for their favourite positions as furtive looks are cast my way. And then out of the blue, a 20-something female acknowledges me. She apologizes as she makes for the doors, says she can’t be late for work but she’ll call for help.

And I’m left in a moment that almost goes on forever…

Until a handful of station attendants appear like whirling dervishes. They scurry inside and methodically proceed. Passengers are ordered to clear the area, and I’m pushed to the side as they identify the sleeping boy and carry his body onto a stretcher. I remember the mobile and attempt to explain, but it’s ripped from my hand as they all whisk away.

In the end an empty train car, save me. Bloody fucking efficient, I think.

…as I feel the cross stares of those who’ve been delayed, inconvenienced by my interference.

Beware when doing good deeds.

Illogical process. Arrested progress. Spill Burgundy. Halo 13.

He writes it all down, when no one’s looking. Clickity-clack away, no one cares.

Underneath the up above it’s in his spiral down you see.

Alert the alterations to the illuminated. Whatever he’s irritating is not what they sing.

Infinite prattle and cycle afoot. Non-stop clatter combing his skull. Ever always halfway not there.

No…can’t sleep until the laughter’s gone. He mumbles and grumbles and there goes a yawn. Unable to focus, his chew is spent; that’s what he bought her. Nine of them. From one into the other, then two from the four – the answer speaks from behind a door.

Yeah, there’s a remark for when your lantern’s out – you’re dead.

Gruesome.

His memories tumble to the sound of the word.

Standing in the center of the hustle and bustle, a fly on the wall in the shift and shuffle.

Grown man, blue raincoat. Running like a chicken with its head cut off. Swerving in-and-out of the rush hour crowds while screaming at the top of his lungs.

Staring at the tottering drunk spitting out his breakfast as passersby pass blindly by…until a woman with headphones, who takes them off, slows down and gives him a packet of tissues.

And he, for a moment surprised to his senses, able to thank her small act of kindness (but she’s already long lost gone).

Faces good bye, a wink of an eye. Waves after waves of unheard soundtracks.

We’re all moving so fast, without real direction; our paths influenced by complete strangers.

I need this space to relax.

Plunged into nightmare…

CUT TO – APOCALYPTIC TOKYO

Everyone in gangs or starting up news ones – paint gangs, brush gangs, scrap metal gangs. Boy and girl at a dockyard warehouse. Argument into a fight. Break up, boy joins a ramen gang (all members splinters of other gangs) who’s at the moment at war with a hieroglyphs gang.

At an underground party, boy sees girl again. They talk, she tells him she’s become the leader of a DJ gang. Sometime later boy finds out girl’s new boyfriend is the club’s owner. Jealously turns to resentment, arguments turn into fights. Suddenly noise, explosions, screaming like the sky was afire. But wait, this is a dream. Isn’t it?

Can’t escape nightmares…

CUT TO – A HOLE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

Lucid rainbows. This isn’t good, rainbows in dreams. There, in the mud, half-buried. An antique rotary telephone. Military black, its cord rooted into the ground. Crows flying overhead, cawing mockingly. Picking up the receiver and screaming as if revealing…

“The end of the world has a door!”

Eyes wide open. Suddenly alert…albeit confused.

I’m leaning against a plastic grey wall, sitting in an otherwise empty row of dark blue seats – space for three.

Kathakita-thakita, thakita-thakita…

Wrapped in my US Navy pea coat, which I discover is the source of the stink. As if to prove I’m in fact awake, I pat myself down, but it doesn’t do any good because 32-ounce Melton wool is carpet thick, and my coat’s one size too big. I have to reach inside my breast pocket to check if my wallet’s still there. Reflex. Just in case. And it is, so I check my other pockets. Everything seems to jingle and jangle the way I last recall, I think…but something’s still not right.

Then…a voice. Something in the background, out of thin air – a clingy nasal resonance muffled beyond recognition. At first I hardly pay attention to it, but as soon as do it dawns on me just who’s voice it is…

Kathakita-thakita…ka-ka-kaaaiiieeeeeeeee!

Fuck. Fuck…FUCK!

I scream it over and over inside my head until nothing else echoes in my brain. Disappointment. Panic. Despair. Several other emotions hit me all at once. Realization strikes as the sound of screeching metal against metal slows to a jarring stop; reality sinks in like heavy gravity pulling at my chest. Something isn’t right at all: adverts I failed to notice before, a bright red fire extinguisher affixed to the wall. Above me, dangling evenly-spaced from a chrome gallows, small triangular plastic nooses. And especially the double-doors that at the moment look conspicuously like skulls.

Train.

I’m on a fucking train.

Definitely wrong.

I fell asleep on the fucking train.

Indeed.

Fffuuuccckkk…

This is how my night and new year begins.

Eyes open…squinting again.

My brain begins to register while my vision struggles to resolve a variegating blur of miscellaneous shapes.

Focus: a large window with rounded corners looms across from me, pitch black darkness intimidating behind its foggy glass. A phantom reflection trapped in between the two. Mine, I presume. Beneath the window, an empty row of dark blue seats – backs diagonally patterned, space for three. Something’s not quite right, but I can’t put my finger on what that something is. Reluctantly, if not grudgingly, consciousness comes to.

I assess my situation.

An uncongenial hangover. It’s cold because it’s December. There was a party. Party? In Zushi, the Marina. Oh yeah. Mizuki’s birthday and New Year’s Eve celebration. Right. Then the beach, the bonfire – that’s why you reek. Underneath me, electrically heated seat cushions. But I don’t remember leaving.

Disorientation.

Did I leave? Not sure. How did I..?

Wait a sec.

The window. Electrically heated seat cushions?

Kathitakita…ka-ka-ka… Kathitakita…ka-ka-ka…

That sound…

Where the hell am I?

I think.

I mean, I think it’s waking up I’m doing. Attempting, rather. I’m too half-asleep to tell, too bleary to care. My head, dizzy. Mind…disconnected. My thoughts, tuning in-and-out like garbled voices on a transistor radio trying to find a station. Hands and feet ice cold, but heat underneath me. Doesn’t make sense, but it will later.

Just need to wake up.

Fluorescent brightness penetrates my eyelids, muscles past my eyelashes and stings. I curse, squint – squint harder – but only succeed in letting in more light. More pain. Hugging myself with my hands in my armpits for warmth, Damn, my feet are freezing!

Shivering, and my body demanding I do something about it; all I can manage is to shut my eyes and gather my wits.

Sense movement and an accompanying repetitive sound; a deep and gentle rocking and knocking – somehow familiar. I listen mesmerized, breathing in-and-out cigarette stink and bonfire smoke, as well as the aftertaste of beer and vodka. I want to brush my teeth but know right now that’s probably impossible.

Absolutely vile, exactly how I feel.

Katha…ka-ka-ka-ka-ka… Katha…ka-ka-ka-ka-ka…

[Continued at: Ms. In9 Jondō - Part II]

On the edge of Tokyo, absolute midnight.

I meet her here.

Among the castaways, runaways, and stowaways all lackadaisically killing time until the end of the world at a dregs of society family restaurant – Soon to become a government-sponsored franchise!

Me, watching; always watching: the JiyuGoths scribbling performance art onto-and-into tabletop counters. The miniskirts-and-thigh-high boots-in-winter vixens privately publicizing displays of affectionate arguments. The “Don’t Notice Me’s” behind the scenes of junkyard flea markets near the restrooms. I count thirteen neon-coloured JoyJoys, watch as their faces blossom into tropical fruit.

“Looking for someone?” she asks.

“Just looking,” I say.

It begins to rain. Lime-green lightning.

“Looks to me like you’re lost.”

How do I make it stop? How do I make it all go away?

“Or found…out.”

Someone squeals. Another screams. Then an explosion.

What follows is time-lapse pandemonium. Bodies wrestling in undirected motion. Loudspeaker warnings in Japanese that only incite the pornography. JSDF units spilling out of the cracks like corpulent bugs. A cacophony of shrieks and rush hour panic. 逃げろ！逃げろ！逃げろ！People clawing at-and-over each other. The ‘jin-horde gone berserk. Here is the end of the world.

No one escapes. Everything vanishes.

And I wake up lonely, as if she’d left me behind…

· Hypnotized faces shoveling mobile screens like pigs sniffing for truffles
· Manga perverts, geeks, and zombies recycling magazines and creepy stares
· Homogeneous banal conversations contending for top volume
· Cuteness > courteous, pretty > polite; ignorant and isolated, trivial and trite
· Headphone pod-people exempt from the noise they make

(and the list goes on and on…and on…)

So who’s really to blame if one should lose their senses and self-control; lash out with knives, poison the neighbourhood, or jump to their death in front of a train?

The world heralds hope with Barack Obama, but here in Japan it’s still setback old drama…

that goes on…

and on…

and on…

Futako-Tamagawa Station. Wasn’t I just here? and What am I still doing here? Should already be, at least on the way, home in a prefecture far far away. Searching for the time; find it on a train announcement board – an hour and some after midnight. It’s cold, I don’t have a coat. And I’ve got a sneaking suspicion I’ve done something wrong.

This isn’t where I’m supposed to be.

Survey my surroundings, decide what to do.

Nothing else to do but wait, I’m in no condition to do anything else but…

Enter a 24-hour McDonald’s feeling disgusted I’ve been reduced to this. Stagger to the counter and struggle to place an order…Why can’t I read the menu? Why am I here at all? Somehow manage a chicken burger; take it back to a seat where the least number of people can see me. Sit down, leave the burger in its wrapper on the tray, rest my forehead to the table and feel for the contact lenses in my eyes that should be, but aren’t there.

Animated voices from assorted conversations flit thoughtlessly in the air, intermingling in-and-out of recognition.

As I drift into-and-out of consciousness…

…noticing the details in dreams; the words we sing while we are sleeping.

The lines we’ll forget by the time we wake.

Never be seen unseen without your towel.

Sleepwalking through bicycle graveyards. Stumbling upon long lost storage lockers. Black light sabers. Magenta glare. Existence feels like daedal tests. Hearing voices – “I am the lock, I am the key.”

Remembering maps and ends of the world.

And then suddenly, a real-life Random middle of the morning telephone call.

“I’m in serious trouble. Desperate measures. Have to go.”

INT. – STUDIO 1813

Art. Photography. Being paid in sex. Paint brushes flare like Roman candles. Permanent orange. Competing moans. Space age lounge and a chalky voice from a stereo on the floor in the middle of the room:

Yes, she smiled, and at you;
but the look wasn’t worth half the time that it took.
Oh, you sped through a yellow light when you should have hit the breaks instead.

INT. – UNKNOWN

Murder contests, hide-and-seek rooms. Nightmare daylight. Prussian blue. Death Star construction sites – undersea ghost towns. Counting down humans. Gaslight ruse.

“Who the hell turns this city on?”

Caught in the middle of inside out of touch.

EXT. – IKEBUKURO STATION

September sweat. Grim humidity. A ubiquitous reek of old-man’s Mentholatum. Guerrilla graffiti in disposable black spray painted all over cracked white walls: スプリンターネイル！

CUT TO – BIRD’S EYE VIEW

Swarms of drunken karaoke ‘jins. Like sitting ducks from where I stand, at the middle of the top of Sunshine City. Feel for my gun, but someone calls the police instead. Stormtroopers in. Riots break out. Intense heat. Safety in serial numbers…

And then suddenly, an explosion.

“I’m in serious trouble. Desperate measures. Have to go.”

Obstreperous invidious individuals.

Resizing Tokyo while art gallery hopping in Shin-Ochanomizu. The parks, markets, and prisons secluded in between. Secret tunnels at the bottom of wells – going down in buckets – ancient rust, historic mold. Hidden keys in stone.

Training in Third World hostage negotiations. Tricking politicians out of their public relations. Nameless faces behind electrified windscreens. The “Don’t Touch Me Nots” and “Stand in the Ways”. Mars under the moon tonight. They keep coming. They keep screaming. I can’t remember what I was for.

Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!

Mosquitoes bite and buzz and back again.

Memories of Amiga parties at Shakey’s Pizza with Goth girls in plaid skirts and Doc Martin boots. “I’m married,” she admitted, but that’s why she sent him on a beer run after inviting me home.

I’ll tell you about the devil that night, but right now I’ve got souls to wake.

I should have been tired…

…I should have felt like sleeping a generation.

Nine o’clock’s approaching and the mad dash is on.

I’m at Joinus, on the corner between the Sotetsu-sen and Yokohama Blue Line, watching the morning, the day, this so-called life unfold…

…The old retirees in front of Daiwa Securities anxious for the share price boards to begin predicting their futures; the blatantly smoking in front of no smoking signs; the Red Cross bus pulling in and setting up shop; passersby talking too loud at their mobiles or else with their stares glued to their screens, others with their heads buried in manga.

Counting how many people enter a nearby kōban (always to ask for help, always directions). Counting how many people stop by kiosks to pick up breakfast or lunch. Counting the number of beelines to work, faces blank, expressions lost…Counting the number of occupations walking past, identifying them by their uniforms and dress: salarymen, delivery men, school girls, OL’s, hairstylists, grocers, florists, yobikomi, shinnyū-shain, pachinko parlour staff, food service clerks, department store employees – and the list forever never ends…

Watching city workers in matching creme-coloured baseball caps and pine green shirts stooped over, pecking about like pigeons with tongs, picking up cigarette butts and trash. Wondering how long after they stop the streets will take to become littered again.

So many different lives preoccupied with as many singular worlds, the city’s everyday morning rush metastability. It’d take a natural disaster to make them stop, take notice, see there’s others besides themselves with places to go, things to do, people to see.

The old versus young, the local versus lost. The already drunk or otherwise drinking. Couples spending time together, the homeless and alone. Students skipping school, workers enjoying the day off. The things people do when nobody’s looking, and the things people do pretending others are. Everyone getting in someone else’s way while going about their own.

Leaning against a wall, watching it all unfold – feels like I’m on some surreal holiday, or in exile, and the world’s slowed down to prove it. Everything moving at half-speed, in stop-motion, so I don’t miss the bigger picture; bringing me closer to my calculations’ terrible secret, a most terrifying truth.

Outside, rain.

Inside, cozy at a table in the darkest corner of the room, Mizuki reflects into Cabernet Sauvignon.

“The wind’s blowing like it’s the end of the world,” she whispers.

I look at her, comforted by the fact it’s her I’m here with tonight. It’s been a month of constant challenges, all splinters and nails, aggregately taxing to the nth degree. Relentless problem after problem, work and money not there, nightmares and dayscreams because nothing seems fair. An overwhelming spinning plates existence lately resurrecting dead-and-buried memories from a lifetime ago.

Like it’s the end of the world…

The way she says it, casually lipstick, almost makes me want it to happen.

“More wine?” I suggest.

Mizuki smiles for a second.

“Of course.”

…After another bottle and more all lost to intoxicating conversation, it’s rather obvious I’ve missed the last train home.

“Oh-no, the time!” she apologizes.

“No worries, I don’t care.”

Mizuki beams; the waitress notices and rushes over the bill.

“So let me care for you tonight.”
.
.

.

Only she could.

Who knows exactly where, or cares, after midnight…

Zombie drunks siphoning booze from discarded bottles of cup sake. Into the bins like crows.

And I’m somewhere in the clubs you never hear about, underneath the downstairs below. Hypnotically detached – my stare transfixed by snaking queues of impeccably-dressed fluorescent adolescents trying to get in to see Teenage Scratch Talk.

…until she breaks the trance, the one who brought me here, I already can’t remember her name.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, hardly convincing. “I’m okay.”

“You think we can get in?”

“I’m not interested, but feel free to try.”

A beat, then a pause.

Is she waiting for a punchline?

“I’m not that interested either,” she finally concedes.

“So, why are we here then?”

The question echoes in my head, like remembering ghosts.

She smiles and takes my hand.

“I know exactly where we should go.”

The look in her eyes says she’s dead serious.

And so I let her spirit me away…

…again.

Slow moving rivers of people, families, and arm-locked couples meandering aimlessly in-and-out of restaurant-lined alleyways. Bicycles blocking entrances. Letters and numbers scrawled on walls like graffiti secret code.

I’m in a pub hidden on the second floor of a souvenir shop/massage parlour; barely a room that’s overrun with postcards, posters, and photo albums of a recently deceased national opera star. The scent of sandalwood incense carries thick in the air, but not nearly as thick as the different exchanges in as many different Asian languages competing to be heard.

I’m here drinking a beer while listening to a trio of squawking middle-aged women inaccurately regurgitating bits of trivia they obviously heard on a weekly entertainment show. Japancentric opinions conveniently thought up and packaged by television programming directors to be broadcast to the masses for their exact affair: instantly agreeable, inane conversation.

In time I’m also wondering what it is I’m actually doing here; suddenly acutely aware of feeling alone. Almost pathetic in my brooding, scribbling down these notes as another wave of sandalwood permeates the atmosphere. Eventually tuning in to the background music, Bob Marley’s “Natural Mystic”. Slowly, I begin to recall the song’s lyrics, extracting the words from some long lost memory of mine.

Reggae classics in Chinatown – Yokohama, Japan.

“Things are not the way they used to be…”

I finish my beer.

“I won’t tell no lie…”

This is how my night begins.

And I’m reminded of him every time another somebody collides into me as I clearly try to dodge them. Now, I’m not talking about being out and about in Tokyo’s 23 wards and its horde of 8,000,000+ people; I refer to the smaller, safer, less populated spaces: a department store or shōtengai, in a hotel lobby or any public building, and especially train and subway stations. No matter how hard I aim to make or give way, always inevitably SLAM! into a shoulder.

It’s frustrating to the point of comedy, and so has become a game with me – initiating performance art-like “‘jin crashes”. Here’s how it goes: target someone walking towards you in the opposite direction. If possible, establish eye contact, although this is usually difficult because most Japanese refrain from making eye contact. Then, sidestep in the direction of your choice and brace for results. If you’ve still distance between yourself and the oncoming NYO (Near-You Object), sidestep in the other direction to purposely and unmistakably communicate your desire not wanting to crash.

Ultimately futile (and painful) of course, but that’s where the comedy relieves.

Where Whyte’s New Yorkers were “…walking slowly, skipping up steps, weaving in and out in crossing patterns, accelerating and retarding to match the moves of others.”, pedestrians in Tokyo tend instead to careen into out of and back into each other – undoubtedly contributing to mystery bruises that probably deserve a special name of their own.

I’m still working on a theory why Tokyoites seem incapable of crowd coordination; nevertheless, and again in Whyte’s words, “There is a beauty that is beguiling to watch.”

Naka-Meguro. Some local artists (including myself) have just finished a show and want to celebrate, but between the five of us there isn’t enough money for a proper pub crawl. Solution: we hit a konbini and stock up on as much beer, chūhai, and Black Nikka as we can afford. Shopping done, we drink at abandoned storage units underneath the railroad tracks.

Fast-forward to good night: I get on the express about to leave for Hiyoshi, thinking I can transfer to Yokohama there. It isn’t until I reach Hiyoshi Station that I realize it’s the night’s last train.

Taxi – not an option. Walking – out of the question (ask me about Isogo some time). Not much else to do but wait until morning – three or four hours to kill. Except it’s cold, and not a lot to see, so I look for and find a manga kissaten near the station.

Keep in mind this is before the manga kissa boom and today’s full-service (complete with shower/bath, gourmet snack food, private booths with PS3 stations and chairs you can sleep in) chains. This place is a single room divided by cheap-looking office partitions; a slightly outdated selection of manga limited to a single 150cm x 200cm bookcase. Coffee or tea only, but free – and there are PC’s with internet access so no complaints from me.

After signing in, I pour myself a cup of green tea and pick a terminal at the far corner of the room. Seems I’m the only customer in the shop. Grateful for the warmth, I remove my coat only to find, in one of my pockets, an unopened bottle of Black Nikka. Can’t remember how I wound up with it, but keep it out for later.

Fast-forward an hour or so: I hear the door open, someone walk in, and then a girl’s voice speaking to the clerk. Make eye contact as she enters the room, a very cute late 20-something dressed like she’s just come from the office. Her face makes me think of what’s-her-name from that new Kurosawa film I saw last week, Dopperugengâ. Our glances still met, she pulls a seat over next to me. I should be surprised, but instead intrigued.

“Miss the last train?” she asks.

“Looks like you did, too.” I reply.

“Stupid company party. They’re doing karaoke now.”

The small talk continues, both asking and answering questions without getting too personal. She tells me she works customer support for a well-known electronics company, but still looking for a better paying job with a better location, better colleagues, and better boss. She asks what I do, then asks for details when I say I’m a struggling writer posing as a struggling artist. I tell her about the recent exhibition and last night’s events.

“Sounds cool,” she sighs.

“In theory, maybe.”

We laugh.

“Care for a drink?” I ask, showing her the whiskey.

“Sure.”

The small talk continues, both seeming perfectly at ease with each other, despite the fact we haven’t traded names. Somewhere along the way she lights a cigarette; offers me one. We nurse our drinks, smoke our tabs, blah-blah-blah in-and-out of silence and disconnected conversation. How much time passes I don’t know and really don’t care.

And it’s exactly at that moment, as I consciously appreciate what’s happening, that the girl leans into me and kisses my mouth. She doesn’t stop to check if she’s offended; I kiss her back to show none taken. An exchange of lips takes place, each taking turn to taste the other’s. A prolonged kiss that’s shallow, purposefully slow, goes on and on like eating caramel. I take her head in my hands, begin to stroke her hair, wanting this to last as long as it can.
.
.

.

It was the station coming to life that broke the spell, music to announce the arrival of the morning’s first train.

Pleasantly drunk. On my way home. Getting off the Hanzomon-sen, making my way to the Tokyu Toyoko-sen.

Up the steps and just past the JR ticket machines when I hear my name.

I’m scanning the crowd for a familiar face, but at Shibuya Station on a Saturday night -with last trains approaching- everyone and everything’s a blur.

It’s better that way, sometimes, getting lost outside the crowd instead of in it.

But I hear my name again and then there she is, standing directly in front of me shaking dry her umbrella, Mitsuko.

A few pleasantries exchanged and how has it been? Not bad, and you? Same as always. Hey, why don’t you have an umbrella, it’s raining out there! I never use one. Well you should, you’ll catch cold!

Mitsuko asks if I’m drunk. When I tell her I am she laughs. She is too, she says, blows on my face to prove it. She laughs again, I smell shōchū…and laugh back. Then she excitedly takes my hand.

“Let’s go for a drink!” she says.

And I want to. We’ve only ever met once before, but we flirted our way then to now’s exact same proposition.

I want to, but I can’t. Not tonight. And when I say so, Mitsuko sneers, but tells me she understands. And she should, because she should know why.

“Next time, eh?” I offer.

“I could make you promise.”

Without thinking I kiss her forehead. It’s a stupid thing to do but I’m doing it, and then -too late- it’s done.

Mitsuko looks at me a little disappointed. Then she’s digging around in her purse, and before I have a chance to say or do anything, she gives me a slip of paper with her number on it.

“Next time, eh?” she smiles.

“Promise.”
.
.

.

I could have used another drink on the way back home.

Anticipating Mr. Wednesday Morningenuous’ return to his, at least, weekly routine:

· Board at Ofuna Station
· Stand right shoulder to door, pause, right hand brush off left arm (twice)
· Wipe clean bright white looks-new-but-aren’t-anymore Adidas shoes (twice each shoe)
· Reposition; right hand into right trouser pocket, remove mobile (clear plastic twist-coil strapped to belt)
· Ride nose-to-mobile screen (despite onslaught of boarding passengers at Totsuka and Higashi-Totsuka Stations)
· Exit Yokohama Station. Pocket mobile and head left towards East Exit

I wonder who he is, Mr. Wednesday Morningenuous. A taller-than-average, average build, average looking Japanese male. Early-forties. Wears glasses, and fond of wearing chinos, although he’s sported beige corduroy trousers since November of last year. Never wears a suit, so not a salaryman, unless Wednesday’s are his day off. What does he do for a living? What brings him out at six in the morning? Or who? He doesn’t wear a wedding band; a girlfriend perhaps? Maybe someone else’s wife?

Does he know that I’ve been observing him for months, ever since I first noticed him? Has he ever noticed me? Does he know that I wait for him each week? If he did, would he care? If he does, does he try not to? Or does he pretend not to notice because he’s terrified by my curious stare?

This time I discovered two new repeat commuters with routines interesting enough to warrant a search for next week.

Until the next…

A few minutes later and an announcement comes on the speakers, “We apologize for the delay. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

Several commuters take to their mobiles calling in to report they’ll be late. I look at the time on mine, nearly eleven, I’ve still got ten minutes.

Five minutes later and the same announcement, “We apologize for the delay. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

Something’s wrong.

I sit back and listen to the grumble and groans of being inconvenienced. Everyone’s time more important than the next. I continue staring out the window. Then three things happen at once and I know what something wrong is.

The speakers crackle back on, but the conductors are talking to each other instead of into the mic. Can’t quite hear what they’re saying, but it sounds serious. In the distance I see an ambulance and paramedic vehicle, both red lights flashing, making their way towards Totsuka Station – just as the conductors seem to reach an agreement, and one of them speaks.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we deeply apologize for the inconvenience. Apparently there’s been an accident involving physical injury. Please expect to be delayed a considerable length of time.”

Sighs and more grumble and groans of being inconvenienced. People start to stand up and move about the car, heads buried in their mobiles.

Train. Accident. Physical injury.

Anyone who spends enough time in Tokyo will certainly experience the cause-and-effect of a suicide train jumper. The first time can freak you out, but it happens so often in the city most consider it an annoyance; lost the patience to feel any sympathy at all. But…this wasn’t the Metro, not some dark underground overcrowded subway. This was clear bright skies and out in the open; on my way to wish a client a happy new year. Something unsettling about that.

But it’s what happens next that makes the moment surreal. I’m keying in an email to my client, trying to decide whether or not to cancel or ask our meeting be postponed. Out the window, I see a number of station employees running towards the train. I turn and look out the window behind me, only to notice more station employees already on the ground, hunched over directly beneath my window. One of them is unfolding a large sheet of white plastic, then there’s a stretcher, and suddenly it clicks: the body’s underneath the car I’m in. I’m sitting on top of a corpse.

The stretcher gets pushed/pulled out far enough that I can see a mutilated head and torso, as staff scramble to conceal and wrap everything up. I look around quietly, does anyone else realize what’s going on? No one does. Everyone’s still eyes on screens, heads shaking in frustration. I look back outside, watch the stretcher with the white cocoon disappear as it gets carried away to a waiting ambulance, undoubtedly the one I’d seen earlier before.

Finally another announcement, “Safety measures have been confirmed, we’ll soon be moving, we apologize for any inconvenience caused. Thank you for your patience and cooperation.”

Having decided to cancel (but go to Tokyo anyway), I finish writing my email and send it – all the while imagining what it’d be like to throw yourself in front of a train and end up seven cars down the line. The train begins to power up and move again; another wave of sighs and grumble and groans tinged with dissatsifed relief.

This is how the year begins.