We descent a set of stairs of the main drag, Little Nigeria as it is called
and I see the first spider of this trip, it's been a week without any notion
of micro-Tokyo. Even the damning cicadas kamikaze-ing for the faces of
too-tired business men or anybody really were hardly considered small.
But with the realization of seeing two spiders subdermal to Tokyo's neon
acne-ridden facade, slick and ever restless, an angsty teen of a city filled
with the oldest souls, conflicted by notions of honor and repression,
behind all of that, there must be a livelihood to these eight-legged creatures.
So the night goes on, and the questionable hooker Coco and her
cerulean, Aeropostale-donning pimp? mingles with the passive-aggressive
hipster from America who showed up with my crew and insisted Elmer's
was the best way to wax and curl a moustache for days. God-forbid he
wound up dead in an alley way, unable to pay off Coco's exhorbitant fees;
only the best in Roppongi. I knew then and there I had to find myself there
as a means of utilizing my hotel, the unlikely Ritz-Carlton looming over
the madness of aggressive men wandering the streets below, asking the visiting
white guys, "Hey, hey man, hey listen. What are you up to tonight? Oh, you have plans?
Cancel them. 5000 yen, and these girls, they like to fuck. What, too good for that?
Listen man, you have to help me out with this. Serious. They'll kill me."
I floated back to the Ritz, where more nuanced, reformed predators lurk.
The waterfalls are turned off, and I pass a Maybach, and a Maserati, and a Mercedes,
a few Porches, a Lambo, a Ferrari, a Rolls, a Bentley and a vintage Aston Martin.
Sweet Japanese Jesus!
Finally, back in the safety of my hotel, where the cigar smoke has faded and the
seemingly underpaid are spot-cleaning the Grand shining against the moonlight
in the main ballroom. Goodnight, Tokyo.
The following day, I find myself in Rikugien. The garden helps me forget
of the mana-powering orchestrated chaos machine of this island giant.
Between pictures, I enjoy watching turtles climb rocks and fall onto one another,
elongated necks and the koi staring onward in such a stupifying manner that
it felt cartoonish to me as I stared back (probably looking about as stupid)
and thought about the way in which Japan has taught me
to appreciate the use of space and arrangement.
And my legs were taught that mosquitoes exist most everywhere.
A lesson effectively remembered by the 26 bites on my legs alone.
So I left the park and navigated to Akihabara, which means "Field of Autumn Leaves"
but should really be called "Field of anything electronic ever made ever."
It was a poignant reminder of how unfulfilling anything out of balance can be.
I'm no stranger to neither technology nor consumerism, but Akiba is
all of that on meth. After spending hours in one six-story store, trying on
thirteen-thousand dollar headphones and watching eighty-four inch televisions,
passing rows of camera tripods and lenses that were the size of an elephant penis,
taking escalators up and down more times than I cared to and trying to understand
what anything about the place, I left, walked 2 kilometers, ate the best dumplings
and called it good for now. City life just isn't my thing.
02 July 2013
Flowing asphalt guides hitchhiking souls only so far,
before giving way to trails unblazed, unrecognized.
On a personal journey to find the tranquil Sanctuary,
Eden's Garden of self-acceptance in the world of flux.
But not before losing oneself in the shadows stretching
outward, clinging forth to its cooling veil, enticing those
burnt and scorned by the brutality of unadulterated exposure
that comes with walking alone without direction and forgetting
that one is hardly lost.