a-bomb dome, hiroshima, japan
i’m drinking dos equis in a mexican restaurant on top of a building. we’re in tokyo’s fixed gear district which may just mean we’re in the fixiest of all fixed gear districts across the world. a chandelier modeled after some mythical mayan serpent covered with feathers snakes down in enormous spirals from the ceiling. the restaurant is aptly named hacienda del cielo, when i look out the window our table sits pressed against, i can see part of this enormous city spiraling and sprawling out upon itself into the darkness.
a man at a long table in the center of the dimly lit room wears a tall hat with a feather in it. his companions think it either ridiculous or ridiculously cool because they keep yanking it from each other’s heads and setting it on their own. skinny japanese girls walk to the bathroom wearing skirts and native american themed animal shirts that my old art majoring college roommate would have salivated over. both young men and old men wear tailored suits and matching ties, you can just tell they’re expensive. as is usually the case in this country i feel extremely underdressed and out of my element, but i shake my head, shrug it off, and order another beer.
i’ve tried to come here for ages, dorothy says, it’s always booked. friday night, 10pm, it’s no different. the place is packed, people crowd every aisle with extra chairs around extra tables, pushed against the walls, crammed into the bar. we eat, we drink, we pay, we leave. men and women wearing white uniforms in the stainless steel kitchen duck under the hanging pans and say thank you for coming in three different languages on our way to the elevator. we step inside, go down, and return to the street.
at a bar called xex it’s revealed that some of the girls have never seen dumb and dumber. i don’t know how it comes up, but that it does means we’ve been drinking for a while. this place is small and dark, a band plays in the back but i can’t see them. there are blankets on the backs of chairs to put on over your lap and a man lays spread out on a booth next to us with a towel over his face and an empty glass in his hand. for unexplainable reasons, a large cone of ice sits atop the bar in front of two very large men dressed in very large suits, and that’s it. that’s where dumb and dumber comes up. i tell mika i’ll give her 100 yen if she sticks her tongue to the ice. i’m betting it’ll stick, and someone calls to the collective mind when jeff bridges sticks his tongue onto the pole of the chair lift from the movie.
we laugh and more drinks come. vanessa asks if a singapore sling is supposed to taste like a sling and i say only in singapore. the man sets his glass on the table and rises unsteadily from the booth. he walks into another room and disappears from sight. a couple walks in from the cold and drape blankets over their shoulders in the corner, huddle together in a singularity that only two who have known each for a long time can form. i talk about spain and learn about japan, listen to what it is to live in this city. when the five of us step into an elevator to leave and an elbow or an ass accidentally presses the button to open the door as it’s about to close, a waiter dressed in black, bowing ninety degrees to the floor lifts his head confused, but does not break his bow until, presumably, as the doors close and he rights himself to walk away. the girls laugh at the awkwardness on the way down.
the movie store doesn’t have dumb and dumber, they say on the phone, does it have a different title in japanese maybe? i don’t know, and nobody else does, so they bring home another equally as stupid movie. hot chocolate made with milk and something spicy is passed around and we sit, in this immaculate roppongi apartment, on the floor and on the couch, leaning into each other, drinking and falling asleep in the hours of early morning.
I think of the chimp, the one with the talking hands.
In the course of the experiment, that chimp had a baby. Imagine how her trainers must have thrilled when the mother, without prompting, began to sign to her newborn.
Baby, drink milk.
Baby, play ball.
And when the baby died, the mother stood over the body, her wrinkled hands moving with animal grace, forming again and again the words: Baby, come hug, Baby, come hug, fluent now in the language of grief.
-Amy Hempel, In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried
a house on the edge of San Diego, white and empty, cold through the winter.
bicycles hung with hooks on the living room wall, a large blue fish opposite.
a thirty mile walk to the ocean, through the hills of northern california, cigarettes, sandwiches, and poetry in a backpack.
sailing through clean blue water, wearing a jacket, dolphins jumping in the wake.
typhoon saloon, the cat lounge, beachcombers, pac shores, sunshine, hamilton’s, and every other shit-hole we used to go and get drunk at.
climbing into windows, pushing cars in neutral down long winding driveways, cutting the headlights off half a mile away.
theme parties that i hated.
driving miles and miles through the night to say i’m sorry, pick up drunks, clear my head.
relationships working, relationships breaking, lives entwined, and lives unravelled.
living words, drifting through a wood house, caught in a summer breeze flowing through an opened window.
hotels, prisons, bars, airports, train stations, gas stations, bus stops, rest areas, hostels, couches, bathrooms, schools, yards, cemeteries, bedrooms, parks, museums, bridges, boats, and the beach.
seattle, san diego, san francisco, san sebastian, surat thani, shiojiri, madrid.
she sleeps on the floor of the san francisco airport.
her head rests on my jacket, i took it off for her.
these places are so full of windows, light washes over everything.
two small children enter the bathroom with their father, a girl sips water in yellow shoes.
there is little for me left in the place we are going.
a city by the water, one i will return to many times in the next few years, the reasons for returning, less clear every time.
now she moves under a light layer of sleep, reaches out, and settles again on the floor.
we listen to mirah on your record player.
you live with your cousin? i can’t
remember.
the summer is dark and green,
people drink beer outside.
this house has high ceilings,
wood floors, cracked white walls.
outside, bugs on fire stream through
the night, blink off, on, and off again,
disappear into the bushes
at the far end of the yard.
it turns out that shoveling snow is not one of those things that a half decade hiatus can bring about a renewed appreciation for. lately, it’s been snowing like all hell out here in the nagano mountains. when i first arrived last year i remember asking about winters, specifically, the snow. oh don’t worry, they told me, it rarely snows here, and when it does, it’s just a few inches. hmm, i thought, that sounds nice.
turns out they were lying. big, fat, snow-white lies.
older kids outside the school currently scrape ice from the walkways with metal shovels. the younger ones sled down a half decent hill and occasionally slam into the trunk of the only tree around laughing hysterically. the snow hasn’t stopped falling for more than a few hours at a time since thursday night and i’m wondering when the hell all this freezing inside my own house is going to pay off and they’ll cancel school. they won’t, i’ve heard, and though it’s difficult to discern the truth rating of statements these days, this i believe.
the good news is that weekends still exist and now that i’ve begged and borrowed enough bits and pieces of equipment from pretty much everyone i know out here to put together a full snowboard set (boots, goggles, gloves, pants, jacket, bindings, board - seriously the only thing i personally own is a beanie (my mom sent it from america)), the snow is a lot more appealing when riding down the side of a mountain than walking to work in. considering it’s the first time i’ve strapped in for about three years, the results weren’t too surprising. suffice to say that around 5pm on saturday afternoon i found myself 50% sure i had broken my ass, wearing sweatpants, eating a corn dog, and sitting in front of a liquor store in an especially heavy bit of snow.
i know, i know, but it really only gets worse. i spent the rest of the night sitting on a couch drinking budweiser mixed with butterscotch schnaps and rum while watching harry potter. ahem. and while i can halfway exculpate myself by affirming that it totally wasn’t my idea, i’m certainly more than fully condemned by not resisting even in the least bit. like, not at all. i let the entire thing wash over me. also, people were wearing pajamas.
Comet Hyakutake’s tail stretches for 360 million miles—
in 1996, we saw Hyakutake through binoculars—
the ion tail contains the time we saw bats emerge out of a cavern at dusk—
in the cavern, we first heard stalactites dripping—
first silence, then reverberating sound—
our touch reverberates and makes a blossoming track—
a comet’s nucleus emits X-rays and leaves tracks—
two thousand miles away, you box up books and, in two days, will step through the
invisible rays of an airport scanner—
we write on invisible pages in an invisible book with invisible ink—
in nature’s infinite book, we read a few pages—
in the sky, we read the ion tracks from the orchard—
the apple orchard where blossoms unfold, where we unfold—
budding, the child who writes, “the puzzle comes to life”—
elated, puzzled, shocked, dismayed, confident, loving: minutes to an hour—
a minute, a pinhole lens through which light passes—
Comet Hyakutake will not pass earth for another 100,000 years—
no matter, ardor is here—
and to the writer of fragments, each fragment is a whole—
-Arthur Sze
this is another list.
i’m sorry.
i won’t bullet point, because i think it’s ugly.
and i know this is stupid, but because i’ve only had passing association with winter for the last seven years, i’ll endure it.
i’m sorry again.
clarity
wearing a hat indoors keeps you warm
installing a heater at the top of your 10 foot bedroom wall doesn’t make sense
heat is expensive
your fish will die if not properly attended to
acceptance
getting out of bed when you can see your breath is especially difficult
to wear socks
the joys of a warm bed
not to fuck around with cold weather
the importance of solitude
not to leave sealed jars of water next to the window
frost on the inside of your windows is quite normal and nothing to be alarmed about
the importance and usefulness of fortified drinks
cold floors suck
the water in your toilet bowl can, and will, freeze
cold fingers are bad, but cold ears are the worst
a partial list of, up until now, words i’ve scribbled in red permanent pen on fifth grade phonics worksheets.
i silence the phone in my pocket, a sign at the entrance asks us to do so.
my father orders appetizers, he only does this when he’s happy.
we drink wine. well, you and my mother do.
the sun drops low outside, comes through dirty windows, shines against the dust inside.
people line for ice cream and spill into the sidewalk.
it is summer. it is dry.
If you work at a steady rate
you may reach the river by nightfall
and if you have the will
a canoe will be waiting
by the ash factory
for you to take upstream
to the takoyaki shack
where you can eat delicious food
and drink as much beer as you like
until late into the night.
In other words you have
your whole life ahead of you
and no one can tell you
what to do or how to act
or what to say or anything
said the machine in the wall
before dispensing my receipt
in a tiny wadded ball.
-Ben Mirov
