December 6th, 2003
107071461288906990
A little R&R
I had another Friday night scuttled thanks to my rite-of-passage project at work, but defiant to let leaving the office at midnight kill my hana-kin [Flower Friday, term used in Japan meaning on Friday everyone generally leaves work early and goes out to celebrate], I met Mikiko at Yoyogi eki at about 12:30 for some fun. We proceeded to karaoke and cheap whiskey for about ninety minutes of necking and Frank Sinatra. Crazy and wanting more punishment, I got up at 9:30 after about six and a half hours of quasi-sleep and met the father of my last summer’s host family, who was in Tokyo on a business trip.
We walked around Shimbashi (I thought there would be more there) for about forty minutes looking for some food and ended up back in front of the eki at an unagi-ya [eel restaurant] for a long lunch. I gave him my usual round of questioning for Japanese: opinions on politics, corruption, voter apathy, the Emperor’s relationship with God [popular belief used to be that he was], etc. I had eel steak for the first time and walked away with a small bone (still) lodged in the flesh at the back of my throat, in addition to an up close demonstration of how the food goes in minutes from a vainly writhing mass to the topping on my rice. The hearts still beat minutes after they’ve been removed.
I came home about 2:30 and caught Miki just waking up, messed around for a bit and then promptly passed out for about two and a half hours of not-sleep. After some failed attempts at level 8 super hard on Panel de Pon, I discovered I had inadvertently downloaded another hentai episode of sex demon queen while looking for FLCL. Out went the garbage and here I am yet again at One’s. I’m not trying to draw any inaccurate generalizations but why is it one large, silent man works stoically preparing the main course while the smaller, attractive waitresses slice vegetables and serve drinks? If you think about it, that’s the way it usually is. I guess it’s because women are just more settling and pleasing to interact with, by nature. At least for me.
 |
 |
As usual, an array of liqueurs and Virgin Radio, London are my companions as I reflect on how I can’t accurately describe how happy this city makes me. I’m usually met with surprise when I tell natives how much I love it here or how beautiful I think it is. Even in English I have difficulty emphasizing how the ambient energy and endless variance makes my heart swell with sick love.
[after some necessary coasting around Harajuku on my bicycle and the procurement of a cheese-like substance...]
I’ve said it many times before, but I love this city. It fills me with a tingling excitement that comes from feeling my heart stirred in so many ways at once. I want to live in East Harajuku above a pop clothing shop, one of dozens. I want to see the soot stains along concrete walls greet me as I climb the stairs to a unique flat with a view of rusting awnings and crystal clear store windows. I want my art to blossom like a rising fountain, an outpouring that effervesces from my soul and twists tendrils of arching electricity that’s made of the stuff in every heart from the farthest mountain campsite to the nexus of a morning commuter train packed with perspiring, glassy-eyed hopefuls carving a living in a quietly pulsing organism of culture, money, lust and tradition. I want to draw all of this in deep inside with one breath like a joint and have it simmer up through the pores on my neck. To dream and write and drink and cry and hurt a thousand tragedies at the cusp of joy, that is the trash novel I want to live inside.
