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.