Rotenone

The longer I stay here, the more real this place becomes. The earthquakes become commonplace, the crowded trains annoying. The work becomes rote, the drinking a must. It's fast becoming real, this life of miine and that ratchets up the urge I have to escape.

Paradoxically, as it becomes more real, it also becomes more magical.

Raising the Magic Bar

Ah. There is a bar in Ginza where one sits and all the waiters are magicians who can do close-up magic. I sat next to the birthday girl and another man who I met for the first time. His English was good--not perfect--but good enough that we chatted easily about Confuscianism and Soseki Natsume. (Which is pretty damn good if you think about it.) Later, as he drank, he admitted to me that he suffered from depression and I wanted to...I don't know.

During the evening, he gave me a list of things that transcend culture. I was drinking, so I only remember part of his list. Number Two was sports. Number three was magic. (I don't suppose The Brain can conjure up what number one on his list was....No. I didn't think so.) To his list, I added, "Love." But Ai trumped us both when she added, "Drinking."

It was a magical evening.

I came home by last train.

Note to Self

briefcase strap caught in door delays train.
tension in the train rises immediately

I am on the morning train to Ginza. At Nihombashi, the doors open and people stream out and people climb in. The announcement plays for the doors to close and--the doors don't close. This is not uncommon. Sometimes the conductor will hold the doors an extra second or two (or even reopen the doors) for someone who would otherwise just miss the train by a second.

The announcement plays again. And the doors don't close. The announcement plays again. The doors don’t close.

A man in my car bends down, trying to pull the strap of his briefcase out of the door. The announcement plays again and he has not succeeded in pulling the strap out, so the doors don't close. A blue-jacketed official runs over and together they try to pull the strap out. It doesn't budge. We are a minute late. Tension in the train rises immediately. Everyone watches the scene playing out but no one moves.

Finally a man who is standing in front of me tosses his briefcase up on the rack above my head and excuses himself. He says in Japanese to the official and the man, "Let's try." The three try to pull the briefcase strap from the door and fail. We are two minutes late. They continue to work. We are three minutes late.

I think about what this means down the line. In Tokyo, the trains on the busy lines arrive at the station approximately every three minutes. This means that the train behind us will also be late, as will the train behind it. The people on the train are businesspeople, who, like me, are able to time their commute down to the minute because the trains are so dependable. Not today. Today a briefcase strap is the monkey wrench in the system. Four minutes is a lifetime to some of these men.

Finally, the briefcase strap is pulled from the door and its embarrassed owner stands, red-faced and shamed as the blue-suited official steps away and calls out an all-clear. The train pulls away from the station.

Drink Me

The last drunken entry? I thought about pulling the last drunken entry, but didn't. Why? Because those things are part of my life here, too:

What are those things?

Drinking too much and feeling foolish--and continuing to drink to erase the feelings of foolishness.

(I came home by taxi and I walked to the newly re-opened conbini where I bought two cans of grapefruit Chu-hi. Already drunk, one small can would have put me over the edge. I bought two of the large cans. I sat on the curb in front of my apartment building at two in the morning and popped open the first can and I called home.)

Pressed against a man I want and can't have on the train.

(The Handsome Businessman and I are on the 12:11 train out of Ginza. He puts his arm around me though there is no point in trying to pull me closer as we're already pressed tightly against one another. I put my arms around his neck and lean against him. I tell him I'm drunk. Then I pull away. He brushes my hair back from my face. There isn't much real feeling to our actions, but there is the habit of real feeling. But that's not enough. I exit the train at Nippori and I don't look back.)

Ghosts

(Two students write speeches about ghosts and I ask the others if they've ever seen ghosts. Most haven't. They ask me if I have. And I tell them about the ghosts on the subways. "What line do you take?" one asks, and everyone laughs. No, really. They ask more questions. I tell them that the ghosts don't seem to ride the subways but that I see them in the stations. They're going to work or coming home. They mix in with people. Sometimes they have no reflection. Sometimes they are only reflections. They don't know whether to believe me or not. I'm not sure I believe me either, but I tell them.)

I exist.

(A couple of weeks before my brother died, I came home from Shop QQ with a bottle of sumi ink, a cheap brush, and some rice paper. "You Exist." I wrote in thick black ink on the large sheets of perfectly white paper. I pinned it up on my door, recapped the bottle of ink, and haven't touched it since. Sometimes you have to write yourself down, write yourself into being.

So often, I am invisible here.

Sometimes that is a blessing.

And sometimes it's not.

)