Tokio Whip (18 page)

FLAMES

Of passion, certainly;

Flames too of accident.

Eastwest!

All the best,

Cafferty

The young man then looked through the envelope of notes that Lang – this new acquaintance – had handed over to him. After a short while, he was able to figure out their order, but not their poetry. He decided, finally, to leave them stand.

A.

S
ENJUOHASHI

“Senju Big Bridge”

“When we disembarked at Senju, my heart grew heavy at the thought of the thousands of miles that lay ahead, and tears welled from my eyes on leaving my friends in this world of illusion.”

– Basho

The Great Thousand-armed bridge was the first across the Sumida, 1594, very north, and near an old Edo execution ground. (For serious crimes, the authorities really did parade the criminals through the city, as in Mizoguchi's,
Chikamatsu Monogatari
.) Now this is interesting: the temple, the Kozukappara Ekō'in, that the criminals were then buried in, was affiliated with the Ekō'in, which is the one that honors those who died in the Fire of the Long Sleeves. Not bad company for arsonists, robbers and murderers. Another: that Hiraga Gennai is also honored – if that's the appropriate word – here; after all, he was a murderer.

NB: How it all comes together along the river and the bridges and subways. The bridge in fact later became known as the Kozukappara Bridge, a bit more colorful than Great Bridge, perhaps, but the color seems a morbid hue.

(Anyway, the Bridge was washed away and doesn't exist anymore.)

B.

S
HIRAHIGEHASHI

“White Whiskers Bridge”

1.

A
KIHABARA

The kiosks are all different and none have Snickers, there is a “milk bar” in the station, an incongruous Akihabara supermarket and department store, but it is the warrens spelling our future that the place is known for. I prefer the small stalls in and around the station: thousands of cables, or clips, or doo-dads that only specialists understand, and the true Tokyo types selling them. They are of course dwarfed by the big stores, screens, and constant shouting (by those other “true” Tokyo types).

The Occupation, once again, did not know what it was creating when it moved a bunch of open-air shops from Kanda to Akihabara. Now it's all here, the nerd-geniuses.

C.

S
AKURABASHI

1987

“Cherry Blossom Bridge” – yes, the blossoms here are lovely, but couldn't they have come up with a better name? No, probably not.

D.

K
OTOTOIBASHI

“Asking-for-Word Bridge”

The poet Narihara sent a Miyako-dori – a seagull – asking for word of – appropriately – the capitol (but the other one).

Green, poetic (tragic?)

Mukojima, Basho's hut, Tamanoi renamed Pigeon Street, and Kafu's great story,
east
of the river. (Where was Fuji Ice, his favorite café?)

New Year's crafts fair, a walk along the river, happier days for us all.

(All that nostalgia for the Yoshiwara too – 18 Great Connoisseurs! – astringent indeed when you think of the women behind cages, all ready for fine “conversation.” Query: why did footbinding never find a taste here?)

2.

A
SAKUSABASHI-EKI

At the foot the Stationary Museum, where one knight fells another with his lance, Castell. Here too two realms are united: love and writing: the Belle Grande Hotel and a Kokuyo billboard. Sorobans and felt-tips battle forever against the calculator and computer. (A flying skull?)

E
.

A
ZUMABASHI

“Bridge of My Wife”

“Alas, my wife!” – a self-sacrificying deity.

1774, later 1887, steel girders.

The view of the bridges from here glitters like some pink and green lace, lingerie.

It is best viewed from a middle distance, looking east one sees the land higher than is the bridge.

F.

K
OMAGATABASHI

“Colt-Shaped Hall” (or “Cuckoos over Komagata”)

Pretty, elegant.

3.

R
YUGOKU

An art space seems to be here – what the hell does that term mean, anyway – what is an “art space” – presumably a space allocated for art. But why separate? That's not the spirit of things! And “installations” – what are they? I come into a gallery and stay there a while – am I not installed, have I not installed myself? Does some sort of permanence or prestige have to emerge? Do I not already possess it myself?

Anyway, the big draw of course is that the sumo tournaments are held here – the blood rushing to the face, the scent of the beasts' hair rising into the stadium.

I saw the Hara Setsuko photo show here. In an art space. It was installed.

Off there to the right, looking west, by the post office, Yanagibashi, that's where the boats emerged, sailing up the river. The soldiers too.

G
.

U
MAYABASHI

“Bridge of the Stables”

Site of the Shogun's stables.

Yellow, galloping.

H.

K
URAMAEBASHI

“In Front of the Storehouses Bridge”

In front of the storehouses, ho-hum.

4.

K
INSHICHO

Wasn't there a decent Mexican restaurant there once? Was this supposed to offer an alternative to Shinjuku? What kind? Shinjuku, where the best shit was available, and I mean it literally. Now Kinshicho is all cleaned up.

(Extra: And Shinjuku was once called the “anus” of Tokyo, with people lined around the corners waiting to pick up some shit. For their small farms or gardens. Too, who was it told me years ago he – yes, I recall who, but had better leave him nameless here in case these notes come into the wrong hands – had come to understand that curious desire some people have for sex involving, well, the materials of the toilet? Said he'd been in Golden Gai, at Gold Dust, Y––'s place till she moved to Ginza – and had gone to the toilet, having forgotten that she had gone before him. Well, it seems he opened the door – no one ever bothering to lock it, the bar being so small one always noticed when someone had gone – so had he in fact forgotten? – and there she was, asquat, round, white, beautiful butt fully exposed, a few longer pubic hairs on view too – it probably was a compelling sight; and she had obviously just shat, the scent filling the tiny cubicle. The combination – the woman, her flesh, the scent – lead him to understand how that desire might occur, he said, assuring me that no, he did not have the peculiar taste for it himself. Too, it – Shinjuku still – retains its Piss Alley. What was the old black marketeers slogan – a sign at the east exit: “Let light spread forth from Shinjuku.” – Anal light.)

I.

R
YUGOKUBASHI

“Bridge of Two Provinces”

First to be built south of Senju, after the Ohashi; built after the Fire of the Long Sleeves; here fireworks; 1693. Joining now the sides of the river, all contained.

J.

S
HIN'OBASHI

“New Great Bridge”, 1912; then tragic: 1923.

5.

K
AMEIDO

When the Sunday painters are in Meiji Jingu, I am admiring the wisterias here.

Though the plum has gone, it remains in the spirit of the great scholar-poet Michizane.

This is where Osugi Sakae was put to death. No more plums indeed.

K.

K
IYOSUBASHI

Named after two districts to either side, Kiyosumi east, and Nakasu west.

L.

S
UMIDAGAWA'OHASHI

“Big Sumida River Bridge”

For traffic; the River deserves a far better tribute.

6.

H
IRAI

Like Osaki, an in-between place.

M.

E
ITAIBASHI

“Bridge of Eternal Ages”

Romantic. “Crossed the bridge itself the day sky at night. Lit blue.”

Now the oldest. 699, then again 1808, 1925; single span.

Like a folding fan, or interlaced fingers.

Very romantic: Nihonbashi (the last shogun wrote the characters for the bridge), Kayabacho, Monzennakacho.

N.

T
SUKADA'OHASHI

Here I crossed the great river for the first time; the sun was glistening on my lover's neck, thin arms, shining on my first, late, feeble steps. And on the other side was transformation, washed by river light, the lover's light – we dove dreaming and came up for air. All bridges light.

1964

O.

K
ACHIDOKIBASHI

“Shout of Triumph Bridge”

(Victory over Russia, 1905)

1940, double drawbridge.

7.

S
HIN-
K
OIWA

&

8.

K
OIWA

Just the other side of the Arakawa – just awful. The future of a faceless Tokyo.

What kind of shape do these notes form? Can something be made of them – something written, that is? Explore the names more? Get more history and anecdote? Study bridges? Or – ?

But I've sailed under, walked across, and behind me the setting Sun.

PART ONE (B)

THE YAMANOTE

Chapter 7

SHINJUKU–SHIN-OKUBO

So there was Lang in Kichijoji, and enjoying it; it wasn't Roberta's Tokyo and so it felt like a kind of truce; she had no interest in the west, and so Lang could feel like a pioneer, he'd made his discovery – and then she made her move – it wasn't against him so much as it was for herself, she'd found a place she could finally call “home” – she moved to the low city, you know, the old city – nothing could have surprised Lang more, but Roberta was happy really, happy, she loved her new/old Tokyo – Roberta'd made her last move.

***

cheeks blown out

thought frustrated

hair swept back

a woman in black

the next day's train

***

Night, love and wine to all extremes persuade;

Night shameless, wine and love are fearless made.

– Ovid

***

THE HAPPY ISLES OF VAN ZANDT

“The hibiscus will flower, the coral will grow, but man will die.”

Big picture of Gretchen crying out. Then wild cry across the chaotic landscapes. Ranges of mountains split open to the left; behind them boiling waves.

“Art consists in eliminating. But in the cinema it would be more correct to talk of ‘masking' ... the cameraman ought to create shadow too. That's much more important than creating light!”

He wrote to his mother: “I wish I were at home. But I am never ‘at home' anywhere – I feel this more and more the older I get – not in any country nor in any house nor with anybody.”

He sold the business and bought a magnificent estate – it was a miniature paradise.

The garden gate, inside.

The night storm rages. Pouring

rain. And trees bent low. But silent,

the gate. A bell above it, silent. A few

seconds. But! Now the tongue of the bell

moves. Once. Then goes silent again, quite

silent. But then: at the porter's window. The light

shining out.

– Mayer

He would spend hours gazing out to sea at a sailing boat that went back and forth there every day. One morning he got to know the fisherman it belonged to, and astonished us by asking if he could go out with him. He often did so after that, and the fisherman told my parents that their son was a born sailor!

[WH speaks of] ... headlights gliding over rain-wet asphalt in the dark city, of rough seas, a dazzling sunrise, almost imperceptible gestures, facial expressions so eloquent that they reveal the soul within.

[In
Der Januskopf
– subtitled,
On the Borders of Reality
:] The idea of the statue begins to haunt the doctor, who sees it as a symbol of the duality of human nature. He offers it as a present to the girl he is courting, Jane Lanyon, who refuses with horror.

“Jaorana oe Murnau tane ...”

“... endless discussion over every effect of lighting. [He listened to us and said:] ‘All the things you're doing now with artificial sets I shall do one day in a natural one.' We laughed then, but when we saw his masterpiece ...”

Wilhelm was not captivated by the pretty ones; he was attracted rather by those who were sensitive or a bit odd, especially if they were witty too.

“... a sad place steeped in alcohol and jazz ... where the white man has transmitted to the beautiful, careless, childlike inhabitants his own civilization, including the Bible, brandy, syphilis, leprosy, and cheap cotton goods.”

All the splendor had become a wilderness. My brother decided to transform it into a paradise.

“The whole world had finally become a wheel, and the sky galloped backwards around them like a fiery top … Life can be so beautiful when one is in love and riding on the merry-go-round!”

[He shows us] an apotheosis of the flesh: the feats and canoe races are only pretexts for showing those godlike young bodies. He was intoxicated by them, just as [the camera] becomes intoxicated with light ... A sail unfurls like a sheet of shining silk, and suddenly the dark bodies of natives are seen among the rigging like ripe clusters on a grape-vine. Long, narrow canoes flash like fish through the transparent waters. ... In our appreciation of this complex entity we almost overlook the details, we almost forget – how could it be otherwise? – the love story.

The marble mask of the dead mother, where we see the white face of the drowning woman drifting on the gray waves of the lake.

FW in a letter: “Soon, when we have crossed the Equator, [the Southern Cross] will shine down on our books and dreams, for it is towards our books and dreams that we are voyaging.”

The Happy Isles of Van Zanten
, a novel by the Dutch author Laurids Bruun. (And
The Excursion to Tilsit
, by Hermann Sudermann.)

“The hibiscus will flower, the coral will grow, but man will die.”

***

Last night I saw the lights of the city, Kazuo contemplates. The city ablaze like some huge, tremendous toy, a Disneyland of its own. And it was a sign of hope and desire. The flashing cranes all over the city, the great neon signs of Shibuya and Shinjuku and Yurakucho; the low city and the dim lights of houses; the huge apartment blocks of the high city. All like a gigantic Yoshiwara, a nightless city, a gift.

***

REPORT (SEIZURE); STATE OF LANGUAGE, CITY

– Fiction a Verb Necessarily

“Comeon, I want to show you my favorite public telephone.”

***

–
I fall to pieces when I talk to myself.

–
So many do.

–
So, is it a phenomenon to be remarked upon?

–
Look, a Vietnamese restaurant next to the Colombian prostitutes who are next to an acupuncture clinic.

–
And the crazy lady feeding the temple cats, don't forget her.

–
All things pass, but not my way. Neither here nor there, a manly woman nor a womanly man. Who will come to me, say the word? Jeez, I'm beginning to sound like Marianne.

–
Maybe the people talking to themselves are really a secret band of actors reciting scripted pieces and no one knows, no one has ever known that they are listening in on these scripts, or in fact are ignoring or walking away from wonderful little plays, monologues, soliloquies.

–
But when someone does hover in to listen, it's the actor who sneers back and drifts away.

–
Gee, actors who insist on being totally anonymous, or ignored, or thought half-nuts.

–
Do they go home and become “normal”? Take off their crazy-person costume, and get on the phone? Do they wear masks?

–
Or – do they play their role their whole lives?

–
And are we the only ones who know all this? And now that we know, what happens? And why am I half-whispering this to myself?

–
Should we introduce ourselves to the cat lady? Could she be the Shakespeare of our times?

–
And if people have been talking to themselves for centuries, as I assume they have, then is there some sort of secret guild, with oaths and secret signs and all? If I speak a little louder so that passersby stare at me, do I get invited to join? Am I breaking the rules by reciting my own text? Should I be speaking Japanese? If I'm not supposed to say my own words, how do I get my text? Or is it texts? Do you get a new one every day, or every week, or what? And how do you get them? Are they passed stealthily on the train? Left in a portfolio on a seat? Faxed?

–
Or – oh no – maybe you only get one for your whole life. Like a mantra, I suppose –

–
One text, one monologue. But a really, really long one.

***

Her eyes all glittering and me all embarrassed in black – and she so gaily dressed. She shook my hand goodnight and asked if my hands were always cold. “No.” “Good,” she told me, “it's not good for hands to always be cold,” she said as if she were implying “come around sometime when your hands are warm.” This from a woman who knew nothing of me (except for the book I had with me), standing there, already half turned away, and saying this simple truth. (And I never met her again.) I wonder if Roberta and Lang know the pain these recollections bring.

***

–
Yes, but –

–
But no, Hiroko; you see, don't you?

–
No, but should it matter, after all …

–
Well, we do live in two different worlds. What's that song? I'll take the high road, and you'll take …”

–
Yes, but is the one all so bad? You seem to have turned your back to half the world without looking forward. You're only standing still, while I think I'm at least moving. You live and work now in Aoyama – Arlene's “Blue Hills” – and you seem to think that's all there is. I'm next door in Shibuya – well, at least I spend most of my time there – but I look at it and sometimes I feel “Is this all there is?” I don't think so.

–
“I don't think so.” Is that all there is?

–
No, but, and I know I'm not sure, but I do know there must be more. I guess. And anyway, what's so wrong about it? The low road does have its charm points. Maybe it's not so glamorous, but –

–
Name one.

–
Me!

–
Yes …

–
Myself!

–
True …

–
And I!

–
Very charming. But look, Hiroko, if it's so charming, why do you seem to always want to leave? Are you and Hiromi still looking for an apartment in Shibuya?

–
Yes, but we haven't found one yet. She's pretty persistent, stays over at friends' places a lot, but I usually manage to go home no matter how late we stay out at night.

–
Not sleeping around?

–
Oh, that was my earlier youth. And besides, I am fond of my mother's breakfast.

–
No tea and toast for you, eh?

–
Rice and fish and
miso
soup!

–
You're a strange one, you know.

–
No, I don't, and I don't think so. Deep down – if I may say so – I think I'm a regular girl –

–
Miso
soup …

–
No, that's not at all what I mean. I'm as confused as anyone, sure, but I accept that. I have a few dreams; I don't know now how to make them real. I've made a few bad moves, but nothing catastrophic. But too, I get inklings now and then, and –

–
“Inklings”?

–
Well, you know, occasional flashes of … of how I might proceed. Or, of how I might better develop myself, find out what I really want to do. Ok, so I'm not exactly clear about my future, but I do think I have a good one.

–
You sound pretty sure of yourself, hopeful, confident.

–
Well, yes, shouldn't one?

–
Of course.

–
Yes, I suppose I do feel confident, or at least not wrong about myself. If only I don't fuck up.

–
Have you?

–
Tell me about it! But I think, I hope, those days are over.

–
And Hiromi?

–
Well, she may not be the best example, but she has been a good friend.

–
No, I mean, does she fuck up?

–
Oh, comeon …

–
Ok, back to you.

–
What was I saying? Oh yes, I think I'm finally making some good moves, looking forward.

–
And not standing still?

–
Not standing still. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to criticize you; it's just that it seems to me that you could do so much more, want so much more.

–
What could I want?

–
Is that it? To be in an ad company, writing copy, drinking with clients, sleeping around?

–
Hiroko, there simply isn't much more in this state of affairs.

–
No, there has to be. What about home, love, travel, learning something about other people?

–
Nice, if it comes, but highly unlikely. I have no complaints. I like my job alright, my clients like me. I have some free time. I have some girlfriends, and I like to drink.

–
And love?

–
Oh comeon! I'll have a family, alright?

–
And love them?

–
Now really!

–
Alright. ... Well, as I was saying, yes, I would like to be with a man I can really love, have a family with. But he has to … you know, not stand still, know that we can change, move together, make things, make moves that most people don't even ever consider.

–
You sound serious.

–
Of course I'm serious. It just has to be possible. I know most people don't even consider it a possibility, but I think you can have a home and a “happy” – a happy life.

–
You also sound simplistic.

–
Yes, maybe. But I don't think I'm completely innocent. I have my inklings, and there's nothing simple about them at all. A couple, a family – doesn't that mean ... uhm, something … moving?

–
I suppose so. I don't know.

–
I mean, look at Lang and Roberta.

–
Hardly an example, Hiroko.

–
?