Bits of Tokyo

I could tell you stories about how I was the victim of a scam by the criminal fraternity of Nigerians in Tokyo, or how I discovered and took a stroll on that fine line between romantic pursuit and stalking, but no one wants to know about that. Instead this:


There are too many bicycles on the pavements here. You have to be quite alert when walking, limit your sightseeing to that space a few paces before you. Unfortunately there are no beautiful temples or impressive skyscrapers in that field of vision. Only no-smoking signs painted on the floor, and concrete. Luckily for me I like concrete. When the fast wheels of the bike comes into that field of vision, one can only hope that they are adept enough to swerve away from you, which they usually are. It's just that I can't help imagining that this field of vision will end up with me under the wheels of a bike, unable to free myself from the tentacle-like spokes, being dragged along towards my fate under the deathly wheels of a bike. But this observer is not quite ready to puncture a tyre yet. There's plenty more to see.

Like that Japanese doll-girl over there. She's far too manicured to be displaying anything at all natural. Even her walk is unnatural as she hobbles along about on heels as high as Icarus. It's like watching Bambi learning to walk all over again, figuring out that odd relationship between ground and feet. And of course the story ends just as tragically as that of Bambi's. The girl's mother was gunned down by hunters right in front of her. Strangely similar to the fate of Bambi's mother too. If only she was wearing more practical footwear, she could have intervened. Oh well. (She actually just horrendously fell over).

To your right up here, at the end of my road is the local park, which has solved that age-long problem of grass by having a green painted floor. Best of both worlds. Looks kind of like grass and avoids issues of maintenance, like cutting, and shit. A brilliant notion, one that the managers of Central and Hyde park would do well to heed.

Across the road, over there, is an office worker, or kaishain, as they are called here, as inconspicuous as a black suited salary-man in one of the many financial districts of Tokyo - which he is. So that was a pointless simile. Must do better next time, like a black suited Japanese office-worker... He is unhappy you see. For in Japan most people who work in offices are labelled as kaishain, a generic one-for-all term applied to pretty much everyone. But he is much more than that! He is a systems analyst coordinator, and he wants to go to the top of the Tokyo Skytree and shout it to the world! But he can't for although there is probably a word for it, here in Japan he will always be a kaishain. But deep down in his heart of hearts he will always coordinate analyses of systems.

To your right you'll see a group of Yakuza. The correct collective noun is a smank of Yakuza. They are very common and can usually be seen in one of the seedy, sex-filled side-streets of Shinjuku, or Kabukicho for short. Although this sighting is a little more out of the ordinary, or extraordinary, if I was more to the point, which I'm not. There are over ten of them altogether hanging around a doorway that must lead to the offices of the sex club just below. I believe they've just had a conference. The suited older men are probably the only few in Japan that are not labelled as kaishain, even though they do probably spend most of their working lives in offices as public as any other, with plaques of their Yakuza group on the entrances. Oh twisted world that places more interest on the lives of Yakuza than systems analyst coordinators. It's obvious that they are Yakuza. You don't need someone to point it out, for there is a swagger of un-inherited confidence they have, expressed in every movement. It's quite riveting to watch. This sense of entitlement has to be earned though, and the younger members among them are in the process of doing it, opening the doors of the convoy of people-carriers lining up to drive the bosses away. I can't loiter about too long though, just look over like any normal passer-by observing a large group of people. Don't push your luck though and ask for directions or maybe even a group photo, using the reverse camera function on your smartphone. The temptation is strong, but I resist. I must remain the observer in this one. Also the next one, for your humble observer must dart off to the next scene.

You'll see on your left a rebuilt and serene looking temple overlooking a large sandy rectangle in the middle. It is empty except for a few people, which means it wouldn't be empty, would it? God, what's wrong with me, another badly phrased sentence. Must to do betters next times. Further along behind the temple, in a secluded corner resides a tiny tranquil pond, over which a tiny bridge connects to an even tinier island, hosting the tiniest of shrines. The red bridge fits perfectly with the red kimono of a Japanese bride, beautifully make-upped and proud. She is holding the hands of her new husband, appropriately decked out in a formal kimono, albeit a little less colourful, black with elegant white reliefs. On what I suppose could be called the mainland were the parents of one of the happy couple taking photos on the normal camera function of their smartphones, along with a professional photographer, capturing memories for no more than 6,000 yen/hour. The going rate he would say. This idyllic fragment of nature lies in the shadow of one of the most densely skyscrapered communities in the world, the towers of west Shinjuku. I have seen it so many time in films before, seeming impossible that this place existed, yet here I am now observing this most traditional of Japan under the peaks of the most modern of Japan.


P.S.

Right, I'm off to write an essay about this:

Against the Clock

(The following blog has been ripped apart from its true place in time. It　was　originally　intended　for　posting in mid-August,　but due to circumstances out of my control it is destined for the worst kind of fate - displacement, but not of a physical kind. This is a displacement of time. A lonely, wandering blog, it is a nomad of time, a foreigner in its own land and all other lands to come, and thus a blog to be treated with suspicion. For how can it's claims be treated with respect if the author cannot afford it it's true home.

The blog's true home is mid-August and the sun is out. With the help of foreign athletes and international optimism Britain has redeemed itself with the Olympics. However its not too long till our hearts and minds must divert their attentions to those in Syria. So like the lift I am stuck in at Shinjuku station I don't know whether I am going up or down. An old lady with a hat whose brim is big enough for the both of us gets on the lift. I then get off, then back on, then off, and then back on again, with my large suitcase. A pathetic embodiment of indecision, without the eloquence of Hamlet. I am hot and tired for I am moving that day into the centre of Tokyo.

"Foreigner easily confused by new country," she says, surprising me with her good English.
"Yeah. Sumimasen," I say.
"Where are you from?" she asks.
"England."
"Ah, England. Something good has just finished there."
"Yeah.")


It is another Tokyo summer, so I am told, but this is my first, which technically makes it the first Tokyo summer. It's stifling so I am told. I am told many things though, it is one of the benefits of being a foreigner. Being told things, and being an eager learner, I am ready to listen. At least to make up the days at school when I thought it was better to try and give the teachers a nervous breakdown than learn anything. I still do. I regret nothing.

These thoughts of past days at school do nothing to help the heat though. Never does. I open my balcony window to let at least some breeze in, but the air rests still, lying plump and stationary, like a revered older lady. No moving it. I have now had to resort to closing the door and turning on the air-conditioner. The tired, plump old lady is no longer my friend. I have met someone new, and her name is Mitsubishi. She keeps me cool and grounded in an otherwise boiling hot, tiny flat. She doesn't judge me, she is kind. However, this machine imbued with human foils, unfortunately has the disorder of narcolepsy, automatically turning off every three hours. So like a twisted form of relay, when she switches off and goes to sleep, it is my turn to wake up. The plump old lady comes creeping back, pulls back my covers and lays right on top of me while I try and sleep. Eventually I get up gasping for cool air, reach over and press that red button for Mitsubishi, my sweet cyber love. And just like that the plump old lady goes rushing off, hoisting her large floral frock over her feet to help her escape, with all that is missing to make it a classic 19th Century romantic opera is a bit of cross-dressing and a duel (acceptable and illegal, respectively), fanning her heated menopausal breasts as she runs.

I don't like bugs at the best of times, but who does? The heat and humidity only serves to put a healthy spring in their step, with large beetles buzzing heavily near your head, smaller ones bold enough to crawl in your hair. Cockroaches scurrying in corners and the large rigid hulks of dead cicadas littering the streets. If I can and I see a spider or insect that can be deposited out the window, then I deposit, but there are some situations that require death. The insect my be upon a surface that negates the tried and testing cup-and-paper technique (a cushion, bedding, and the like), or may be quickly scurrying to a corner. In these situations a fast and deadly approach is required. There is no time to think of your fellow creatures. There is no time to think at all. The perfect time to kill. One grabs the nearest cloth or tissue and expunges the life from the cute little critter. However, with bigger ones that require the old "final solution" I need to build up the killer inside me, and to do this I usually yell out my war cry at the precise moment I kill.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKER, DIEEEEE!" I seem to recall myself screaming, and I am sure my neighbours also recall. When one has a death cry for insect victims, it follows that the person may start questioning their outlook on insect disposal - an issue that has troubled man from the very beginning. However one day I screamed my scream of terror just before I killed the bug, and the insect in perfect response to my yelling quickly walked in full view to the nearest window and jumped out. To think that I could have been giving insects a verbal warning all along, instead of this mindless, hate-filled blood-letting.

I tried to think of a link to my next topic, but I couldn't, so this itself is the link.

What is all this Instagram camera stuff all about then eh? Sounds suspiciously like the alias of a coke dealer who knows a thing or two about punctuality. No one actually knows what Instagram is. Many claim it to be a funky new camera app, that imitates old square shaped Kodak amd Polaroid images. This is not true. It is the Big Lie, hidden and mysterious, the one that can masquerade as truth and no one is wise to it. Be wary of this one for it distorts all true images to look cool and funky and makes the most hideous of images, like the grinning faces of a happy couple, look beautiful. Take a photo of a rotting turd and you'll think Gauguin came back to life and created his masterpiece. Take a photo of a bland Tokyo suburb complete with ugly apartment blocks and multi-story car-parks, and you'll be fooled you are gazing at the beautiful mythical lost city of Shambhala itself. Take a photo of Stalin's pock marked face with his torture-prone buddy Beria, and you'll be forgiven for thinking you are witnessing the very heart of God's compassionate self.

But hey, since when was it new that the image lies? Is that not a part of photography? Is not the choosing of a frame (its subject and composition), itself established from the subjective view of the cameraman, a lie? Isn't Instagram a continuation of the photographic traditiom, or a step too far at the risk of those hard earned frames?

Oh, Ive got another one. Take a picture of the 2010 England riots and you will end up with images of a equal and content utopian society.

Get the picture? If not, get the picture app. They're all doing it. Where's yours?

(It is early September and there is a faint freshness painted in the air. The heavy rain recently has cleared the air, non-figuratively speaking. Autumn is tentatively approaching, still a little afraid of the remaining sun's dominant heat. I have just hastily finished my blog in a tiny internet cafe cubicle, conscious of the hours I have spent here and the consequent charges. I am now comfortably settled in a nice house in a new area of which you will read about in later blogs. It is Tuesday, but of course my blog will never see the day. For although it is here now, it was also there then, and no entity but consciousness can exist in two places at once. But please be forgiving of my new blog because what we know can't exist now may be able to in the future. And only when time, past, present, and future, finds a shared plain of reconciliation, can my blog, possibly find it's home.)

Second Time Over

I saw a man wearing a Royal Mail jacket the other day. One of those thin blue ones that they used to use in the early 2000's, when that style of uniform was used. You see I follow the uniform trends of the Royal Mail, it’s a natural hobby. And I'll confront anyone with the rough end of a pillow should they say otherwise. They will feel the wrath of my pacifism if they so wish to test me.
I was looking at it for a few seconds before I felt that something was a bit weird. For a brief instance there can sometimes be moments when knowledge of where you are can be toyed with. Did I just forget that I was in Japan and think I was in England? Of course not! How could one item of clothing transport me back home? So there I was slowly coming to the terms with this new oddity this land has thrown at me, an oddity too silly to be repeated.
Two days later it was repeated. This time it was one of those orange and blue affairs, those thicker coats that are worn in the winter by our native postal workers. It's anglophilia gone mad, I tellya!


My phone started beeping in new ways last week. This was no ordinary call, text or alarm alert. This was something new.
“What new devilry is this?” I whispered to myself. It was a Sean Bean from The Fellowship of the Ring moment, if ever one called for it, save the moments before a swarm of Orcs surround you in a dungeon. I immediately picked up the phone to see that it was an earthquake alarm. No more than two seconds later, before I could even react to the alert, the walls began to shudder and I could feel that gentle sway beneath me, much like being moved my the motion of a train.
It would appear that punctuality knows no bounds here, even when it comes to earthquake alerts. No earlier, no later. Personally I would prefer a little earlier, just so I can prepare myself more readily. But who am I to question the most technologically advanced nation in the world? I will just have to learn to find comfort in those last two seconds, should they come.
The second time it happened, the tremor was much worse, with no warning. It was scary to say the least, and when one is pushed to extreme situations, articulation is shaken also. The best way to describe it, is that I felt the ground was angry with me. The very foundation I was standing upon was displeased with me and felt the need to vigorously tell me so.


“Buro-job?”. I am pretty sure that I did hear something like that when I was walking a main road in Shibuya. I did the sensible thing. I let it pass. It could have been anything. Then only a few yards on, again:
“Buro-job?”. Now that was definitely the same thing as before, right? Same words and intonation. This time I couldn’t let it pass. I stopped and walked back to the questionable speaker.
“Excuse me. What did you say?” I enquired.
“Yeah? You wanna bro-job?” she said.
“Ah. Yes. I thought so… er, no sorry. No blowjob tonight thanks.”


I've never scrubbed so much in my life. It was a mistake to buy red wine in the first place. Red wine just asks to be spilled, I do it all the time. I have accused other people before, just to escape the blame of being the wine spiller. There is no one else to blame here. Here is only me, and thus only I spilt the wine. I am told the property owners are fussy here. The slightest stain means uprooting the most comfortable of carpets and most settled of wallpapers. There is no middle ground. I wish there was. I like the middle ground. It means compromise, and I like that. It means give and take. The two parties both win some and also lose some. But I fear, here in Japan, I will be the one losing. And I hate that, especially after scrubbing so hard. I really did try.


There will always be a second time. There always is. I only hope I am more prepared, for whatever decision I may take. Do we not learn from the first time? Are we not always ready with soapy water and a sponge? If not, then a third time will be sure to present itself. No matter how costly, or inconsequential.

Cherry Blossoms and Nikons

It was inevitable that I was going to walk into someone at the Shibuya crossing. That iconic vision of Japan. The patient crowds waiting on the pavements, huge forces on all sides growing rapidly as more people spill out of the underground station. The build-up is immense. And then there is the release. It's in all of us, but we see it best collectively, as the snap strikes through and like a freed animal the crowds surge forward. Were it not so terribly messy and real it could almost be described as artistic as the uniformed masses so naturally press forward to meet so confidently in the middle. People threading through eachother, joining and mixing like some kind of fucked up human osmosis.

I practically rugby tackled a Japanese man in my participation of this phenomenon. I foolishly turned around to talk to a friend. When one does this the surface area in the direction you are going is reduced, as you are side on. Much like advice given to us in our sword-fighting classes at school. This new availability in space is quickly occupied by anyone wise or foolish enough to see an opening. Such a high demand for space increases it value, and in doing so increases the inventiveness and desperation in utilising space (you will hear more of this in later blogs.) As I turned back around to see where I was going I slammed hard into a man so forcefully that he was pushed back, my shoulder hitting his face square on and my arm striking his chest. I mean this was bad. This was an unpleasant clash. The kind where one wonders whether you have caused a bruise, or AIDS, or worse yet... a cold. No amount of apologies could ever remedy the situation. And believe me I tried.
"Sumimasen! Sumimasen! Sumimasen!" I kept shouting as a turned back to see his angry face.
At this point I realised that I was looking behind me again. You can guess what happened next. Whenever you walk the Shibuya crossing, always pay attention to where you are walking.

Given that the greater Tokyo area has about 35 million people living in it, the first thing one notices is that there are a lot of people. Shinjuku station, the busiest train/underground station in the world with literally hundreds of exits, is an apt example of Japan's striking example of human existence. Black suited salary-men wearing straight, smooth, smart overcoats rub shoulders (well not quite) with visitors looking up, searching, attempting to grasp some sense of order and direction in the madness, only to wander out and further baffle their senses as they arc their heads back even more to take in the beautifully monstrous skyscrapers of Shinjuku.

I could go off on one about the absolute efficiency of the train services. The trains pull up, never too early, never too late. The workers know a "fare" amount of English, fairly adjusting fares based on your explanations. Such belief in honesty is a wonderful thing, one that would make me guilty to abuse it, yet open to use it. The workers wear smart navy-blue uniforms complete with a police-man style cap and white gloves. They are always there, on the platforms, behind glass screens, at the front of trains, always ready to help with a knowledge that could challenge that of a London cabbie, such is the expanse of the Tokyo area train system. Sometimes at the end or beginning of a train ride you will see a worker gesticulating and moving his arms around wildly, yet in a very precise manner. I have no fucking idea what they are up to. There seems to be no other workers they are communicating to. Maybe they are communicating to the ancestral spirits of transport.
"Nowt to worry bout. Train arrived on time. All passengers've got off, 'n now tis t'end of me shift." (All in strictly formal Japanese. Well they are talking to their ancestors)

A friend's arrival in Tokyo just five days into my arrival sped up sightseeing. One night we went to the restaurant that was used in the Crazy 88 fight scene in Kill Bill Vol. 1. It looked nothing like it anymore, but when you visualised it you could just perfectly picture a gangster falling from one of the balconies into the pool. The bloodied water splashing up almost into my ramen. The cries of the ghosts of 88 dead Yakuza filtering through the traditional Japanese music. Unfortunately no such gangland showdown was to present itself to me that night. Instead I was to be sat next to a large table full of Japanese and American businemen with their wives and suspiciously young girlfriends.

I swear I pass a house everday near where I live that I'm sure is haunted. The upper floors look empty and desolate, made the starker by jagged wood and cheap plywood for the sliding doors. There seems to be no decorations. The perfect place for the vengeful spirit of a Japanese girl to just hang around in. Still there's a game shop down the road where I can go in and roam the shelves pretending to have a Playstation to play them on.

I think I have also become more of a man. I recently purchased a wallet you see, and there is something undeniably adult about using a wallet. Being primarily a cash based society, with lots of coins and cards included, I felt it was time for me to discard my well-groomed doubts about wallets and get one. Paying things takes a lot longer now. It was only yesterday when all I had to do was grab a note or coins from my pocket and throw it at the cashier, for them to pick them up and work it out. Now I am a lot more considerate. I now treat them as equals. This is how I have grown. Ah, growth.

I am still learning the value of the Yen. For me it's a slow process. The first week I was constantly converting everything to pounds on my mobile phone calculator. Mobaculator, for short. £5 for a pint. Fuck! £15 for a novel. Shit! Etc, etc. Balls! I eventually gave up this need to compare prices and resigned myself to spend when spending was necessary, or in my case when it was desired. However I have characteristically swung the other way. I recently bought a work bag for £90. Nothing should cost ninety quid! Should've used my mobaculator.

The idea of destruction and regeneration has always been a “thing” with Japan. Its history of disasters due to its location makes it very advanced in preparation and response to such things, but has also fostered over the centuries a sense that everything is transient. What once was built as a testament to a culture can just as easily be taken away, by fire or water. The key to living in such unstable conditions is acceptance, and this acceptance leads to a readiness for what may come, and also a sense that all things must past. Oooh, I love generalising on a country before I've lived long enough to know anything about it. Here's some more!

I've looked into the eyes of men and seen madness. Or probably that would be better described as tiredness. Its often a long ride home after work. And time spent at Pachinko doesn’t help. How best to describe Pachinko? It’s a drug, an entertainment and gambling drug, that comes in the form of small silver balls that you must collect as they slide down a slot-style machine, hitting and bouncing off pins in the process. When you enter one of these neon drowned, metally box-fests you will immediately be numbed by the immense sound. Ridiculous electronic sound effects pointlessly accompany the incessant sound of dropping balls. It's so damn loud, you'd thinks Malice's cousin just revived from a coma after being defeated by Goodwill and decided to reign chaos over my fucking ear drums. Yeah! I told you I've seen madness. Now if the thought of trying to direct a multitude of silver balls into a container doesn’t give you a raging hardon, then you probably don’t get the subtle intricacies of style and technique the game involves. In terms of interest I would place it in-between getting your driving license renewed and scratching your balls. And I'm not talking about the Pachinko balls. There you go! Alright! I did a balls joke!

Cherry Blossom season (Hanami) is in full swing, with the Tokyo parks jam-packed with visitors drinking and eating under the trees. When a strong gust comes the scenery is peppered by floating blossom petals – pinks and whites making a veritable fauvist snapshot of the country. I can understand the fuss. It's beautiful. The trees are crooked and full of character as they bend left and right. Much like fashion in Japan the trees try incredibly hard to be completely individualistic and stand out from the rest. The branches too spread out at all angles, bearing load upon load of fresh buds blossoming. Usually there is one or two low hanging branches reaching out beckoning the passer-bys to look closer. And that they do. Attached to these branches are usually between four to eight long lenses focusing so closely at a particular bud that the camera (which is attached to a keen photographer) is often an extension of the tree. Cherry Blossoms and Nikons.

Henry's Similes

A man's quickening step can easily cause alarm among the dampened minds of mind-numbed plebs, and the man who invented the word "like", surely his quickening pace would cause greater alarm, for no other man could have more enemies.

This unassuming young man had all the hallmarks of a person. His two legs propped up his massy body, out of which grew two arms. All limbs were real and not made of plastic. His Romanesque nose ran regular gamuts of emotions, more so than his eyes. When he was angry his nostrils flared wider than 1970s bell-bottoms and when he was sad his nose seemed to grow pointier by the second. His eyes were both round and square, and he had so much hair that it would be pointless to count how many. Anthropologists guess over 197. All the same colour. Brown like wood.

Henry was his name, and he was much kinder to others than himself. Incurably selfless, he had a smile that painted tones of tranquility on peoples hearts. Unfortunately he had much reason to me angry and sad recently. For this reason his nose was both flared and pointy.

In 2022 when he was a student he often thought thoughts. Big ones, squidgy ones. Ones skirting politics, others downright fucking them. Some thoughts were hard and unrelenting, like hard unrelenting objects. Others soft like those ultra-balsam Kleenex tissues, although they didn't leave a thin film of soothing balm upon the mind. A shame that, because when a mind as brilliant as Henry's starts a-thinking, it can be difficult for the mind.

He often liked making comparisons in his thoughts, so he usually employed the word "as". "As" was invented ten years earlier in 2012 and was revealed to the world in a slogan for the London Olympics - "The London Olympics - As exciting as Thorpe Park". Thorpe Park being very exciting at the time, reaching its zenith in 2011. The word was a resounding success and from that moment the English language deepened, as speech and writing could now use comparisons. But the eager and fresh mind of a universitied Henry sort more. For him "as" was as uncouth and short as a racist dwarf, and he thought he could coin a new simile like as, as like when liking as, to like as is sometimes not enough.

His invention had the double-quaffed benefit of having another meaning, similar to that of the meaning of life - "agreeable, satisfactory, finding pleasure in". But this was beside the point, like the last letter in a word at the end of a sentence.

Anyway, as a student, in his last year, the word came to him in a dream as vivid as the London Olympic logo (ironically something Henry rather disliked). And the next morning he had it! Like. Like. Like. Likes growth to international fame mirrored that of a dyspraxic pensioner - slow and with difficulties, but soon the word spread like the super-bug MIRS, and ten years later in 2032 the word "like" became a staple among the world's 3 billion people (half of the population having been killed off in the MIRS pandemic of 2029). It also joined the ranks of "uni-words", words used globally in all languages that were invented by students at uni. Like "bum", "propinquity", and now like "like". But such an invention, like poorly designed cutlery, can have disastrous consequences.

It was these disastrous consequences that Henry was now experiencing as he broke into a run, looking back at the armed strangers that were chasing him.