Fabulous Friends (or DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!)
Thursdays have a habit of being wonderful for me. Thursday is the day Matt grants me late night babysitting and I run off to Osaka to play. Usually, I just go to Cafe Absinthe to scribble away in my notebook for a couple hours, but occasionaly I am joined by friends and my enjoyment of the day soars. Yesterday was one of those days.
I first had dinner with a friend I haven't seen in months and months. He makes for excellent dinner company. We talked Camus and De Sade and the unstoppable passage of time. We lingered a long time to catch up on all drastic happenings in each other's lives and promised not to let so much time pass before we spoke again. Delightful. We said good-bye and he caught his train back to Kyoto just in time for me to meet up with my next friend.
I had promised to take out one of the other teachers from my school to my little cafe/bar so that he may sample absinthe for the first time in his life. This man is high energy and great fun. Plus, he's one of the few people I feel no hesitation in practicing my terrible Japanese with. He actually liked the drinks I ordered for him and we got to have one of those wonderful discovering friendship and each other's lives conversations. Then he took me dancing.
Dancing! I have not been dancing in two years. But I absolutely love it. Because my friend is Japanese, I was able to go with him to a club that foreigners do not visit. I was the only gaijin in the house. It was an older crowd - which I prefer, and the music was very dancable. It looked like any other dance club I'd been to back home in America, dark corners, occasional smoke machine, girls in sparkly tops, men smoking cigarettes at small round tables. Yet, the vibe was totaly different. People barely moved on the dance floor. They all looked like they were having fun, but the dancing was so... stiff... and reserved. Plus, people were not really dancing with each other. On one side of the dance floor, the wall was covered by a giant mirror, and almost everyone danced by themselves facing the mirror. Sway sway. Smile smile.
My friend and I were not affected by the sway and smile regimen. We stood out, to say the least. I forgot how wonderful dancing feels, especially in the half dark with the music pounding. It was almost cleansing, except for the obnoxious smoke machine and plentiful smokers. A small half circle of men would always be dancing behind me, but as this is Japan, they stayed in their own spaces and did not intrude at all. So very polite. A couple of graduated students were in the crowd and freaked out to see us there. They hollered and smacked hands with sensei, but were too shy to dance with us.
At one point, the music lowered and a pretty girl who'd been dancing in the crowd was called up to the dj booth to say a couple things into the mic. I asked my friend what that was all about and he said that she was last year's Miss Universe Japan. Omoshiroi!
Anyway, it was a fabulous time and we're going to go dancing again when the quiet New Year's holiday is over. Plus, having a friend with a car is an unbelievable luxury to one such as me whose nights must usually be concluded by the last train home. (An early 11:30) I didn't get home until past three last night. Of course, today I'm exhausted as it's been ages since I've stayed out that late. The long night was quite a strain on my little body.
Christmas Cheer
So another Christmas has come and gone. This was a quiet holiday for us. Kiomye and I decorated the fica tree with mini lights and stars and had a small batch of presents to open (mostly sent from my mom!). Santa came to Kotoen and Kiomye got a Kittychan scooter and I got an electric violin. Yea!
My mom also sent Kiomye a little art desk. It was delivered in a giant box full of packing peanuts. Kiomye could climb in and totally disappear. Very funny.
We did have a scare when I picked up Kiomye from school and was told that she'd hurt her arm while playing with one of the teachers. It looked OK, but when I asked her to rotate her palms up, she started crying and couldn't do it. Oh, crap. I had to take her to the doctor. Luckily, two of the teachers came with me to act as chauffer and translator. The doc spent about 30 seconds feeling her arm, then made a deep yell and cranked her arm back and forth twice. My eyes about popped out of my head. I thought for sure Kiomye would start screaming, but as soon as he did it, her tears stopped and she started to smile really big. "OK now," the doctor said. Apparently, she had dislocated her elbow. Ouch! She's ok now, but the doc said that because it has happened once, it is very likely that it may happen again. He said that she won't be able to hurt it herself because you can't exhibit pull on your own arm, but that I probably shouldn't even hold that hand until she's seven or so. SEVEN!!! Sheesh.
New Visitors
I have a new reader in Kanagawa (Okayama) I am infinitely curious about. Do send me a mail and tell me who you are.
Thanks Mom!
My mother caught the drift of my blue mood and managed to send me flowers and chocolates despite being an ocean away. Wonderful surprise.
(Though I can't help but wish they were from a boy. Any boy, really.)
Exaultation and "oh crap not again"
Bonenkai. Bonenkai. Bonenkai. The “forget the year” party lived up to expectations. A classy, extravagant dinner followed by drunken revelry, revelations and reverberations. My co-conspirators took me to a hostess bar. I’d never been to one, and was surprised by how wonderful it was. Being a girl myself, I thought that the girls would not lavish me with the same adoring attention they give the men. Not true at all. I love the hostesses. I want of my own. She can mix my coffee just the way I like, help me on with my coat when I leave and tell me how lovely and sophisticated I look when I come home exhausted from a long day at work. Yep. I really really want one.
I love bonenkai.
Then there are things I do not love.
One late rambling evening, a dear friend lifted me up so high, that the next day, when he let me drop, it took all my strength not to shatter into a million pieces.
Another friend of my, dearer still, showed me that the ground is not such a bad place to dwell and aren’t I stronger with my feet firmly placed?
And then another friend, my sweetest of all, let me know it’s still OK to dream of lifting into clouds, even though the fall hurts me each time.
I can’t forget. Despite being asked. But I am weary weary weary.
Kiomye shows us the snow!
The snows finally came to Kotoen! (I know you can't see it in the picture, but just trust the look of joy on Kio's face.)
Back to Eartha
So, you may have noticed from way way back how much I love my ipod. This intense affection spills over to include itunes. After much delay, itunes became available to those of us expats living in Japan. Supreme joy. So much music! So easy to make it all mine mine MINE!!!
My most recent download is Eartha Kitt's "Bluebird's Best." I am really digging on this album. Why? That sweet, drip honey voice with lyrics like these:
"if Beale Street could talk,
married men would have to take their bags and walk,
except for one or two who never drink booze
and the blind man on the corner who sings the Beale Street blues."and these (which are, of course, dedicated to my beloved Jenny):
"I've posed for pictures with ivory soap.
I've petted stray dogs and tried clear of dope.
My smile is brilliant.
My glance is tender.
But I'm noticed most for my unspoiled gender.
I've been made Miss Rinegold, though I've never touched beer.
I'm the person to whom they say is sweet, my dear.
The closest I've been to a bar is ballet class.
Prim and proper. The girl who's never been kissed.
Well I'm tired of being pure and not chased.
Like something that seeks it's level, I wanna go to the devil.
I wanna be evil.
I wanna spit tacks.
I wanna be evil
and cheat at jacks
I wanna be wicked
I wanna tell lies
I wanna be mean and throw mud pies.
I want to wake up in the morning with that dark brown taste
I wanna see some dissapation in my face
I wanna be evil
I wanna be mad
much more than that
I wanna be bad!"This is an incredible album. Her voice is clear and perfect. She somehow manages that slight low rumble and also a high trill.
Eartha Kitt. To listen is to love her.
Oh, and to friends back home, this legend has not yet passed. Not only that, she's performing at
Jazz Alley in Seattle this February 14-19. You would be CRAZY to miss it. My birthday is on the 15th. Go for me. Get your tickets now. The show is even pretty cheap, under $50. Please, SOMEONE, go!!!
To friend in the mid-west, Eartha's hitting Minneapolis January 27th and 28th. Check it out
here.
How I love to hear my lines in another person's mouth.
A clip from one of my stories was recently read on a hip and happening podcast. You can listen to the show simply by clicking
here.
This particular episode features Haruki Murakami, Raymond Caver, me and Uncle Weed. The theme happens to be drinking and failed relationships. Hmmm. One day, I will find a new plot line. Really. Truly.
Maybe.
The podcast is a literary collage called "
Postcards from Gravelly Beach." I'm a subscriber. You should be too.
At the Royal Horse jazz club in Umeda
The drummer is reluctant to give it up. We rubberneck his flailing over our Vodkas and Bourbons just like the car wreck on the side of I-5. At last, the sax enters in and spins off a riff that spirals up to the full yellow moon that hangs over Osaka tonight.
One moment, when my eyes are trained on the hands of the piano player and my busy pen has ceased scribling in reverence, my dear friend leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I bet I know exactly what kind of men you fall in love with.”
I smirked.
Try your best. You have no idea.“It’s those artistic intellectuals. The talented big dreamers. Except, they haven’t hit it yet. They are full of potential and frustration.”
My mouth drops open and I flush from head to toe. Only power was forgotten. I love their frustration, potential and power.
At arm's length
(inked two weeks ago)
I am scared tonight, scared of loneliness and what it may bring. I think of knocking on doors, of riding trains to neighborhoods, of lingering entanglements. Yet something within says this loneliness is an experience I must suffer through, or else be destined to repeat. My love came too easy, too young. I have never been truly alone before – not like this. And even this current “truly’ may be debated with all my at arm’s length companions. Yet despite the outward appearance, arm’s length exists as quite an uncrossable ocean to me.
I can never hope to recover the quality of love that I have already experienced, so all I can hope for is to improve the quantifiable quality of man. These things I judge men by. Shall I lay them down for all to see?
Sure. Take a chance.
Intelligence. How many of my sentences must I repeat again in simpler terms? How many can I leave incomplete, or even unsaid, yet still fully understood?
Prowess and endurance. Is your heat all posturing, or in the night do you deliver with subtle sanctity, enduring with full presence of mind, body and heart?
Sense of self(determination). If I dress in heels and something bold, how do you hold yourself at my side? Do you keep your head high and your smile accessible? Do you know that you belong with a creature such as me? Do you feel pride - in me, in you?
Tenderness and strength. All important and utterly dependent on one another. It takes a great deal of strength to be tender with me. I am hard and challenging, quick thinking and quick moving. Most men retreat to self defense and bewilderment or bitterment. But those that extend to me tenderness and nurture I respect above all others. My mind machine is ruthless, but my heart is still that of a young girl.
*What you cannot see in this post are the snippets I removed. My best writing is always my most honest. It pains me to cut those passages away, yet I must. I name names and deeds and intentions and the lack thereof. My conspirators must breathe deep sighs of relief when I leave them clean and untouched - yet in retaliation I write that I lose a little respect for them each time I must keep their secrets for them.
Happening in Harajuku
Venturing into ground zero for street fashion in Tokyo, I stroll through layers of Lolita shops and punky boutiques stocked with skull rings and striped black thigh highs. Tokyo’s Harajuku makes an impression.
Eminem blasts from one gaudy store front, while Orange Range competes with Hendrix just across the cobblestone way. The stores are stacked on top of each other, accessed by narrow straight-up staircases or grungy creaky elevators that surprisingly don’t reek of piss. The small boutiques on Takeshita Street provide intro and warm-up for the big brand stores on Omotesando. This is the training ground for the teens so that when they finally have some serious cash they'll be ready for the big time. Christmas is coming. There’s a giant tree in front of the famous Laforet department store, dripping in wind blown strands of shiny blue tinsel boas.
I can’t say that the shops here are all that different than the ones in Osaka’s Americamura. It’s basically the same fare - girly clothes, punky cloths, gothic clothes, head shops and cheap accessory shops. The only viable difference is the sheer density of these shops along a couple narrow roads. In Americamura, if one gothic Lolita shop doesn’t have exactly the hot pink corset of your dreams, you may have to walk a couple blocks to check out the inventory at the next store. Not so here – simply climb up or down a flight of stairs, or – heaven forbid – cross the street.
I guess the shoppers are different too. These kids know they are being watched. They dress in layers of cool. One ripped vest and a short skirt trimmed in fur just won’t cut it. That’s canned fashion. To stand out here you’ve got to reach a little farther – OK, a LOT farther. You must add chunky black boots with teal lacings, checkered knee high socks, two dangling gold lame purses, and a glitter scarf. Throw a jacket with bad English embroidered on the back over one shoulder and stack purple and blue eye shadow in thick wide stripes above your eyes. Sprinkle gold glitter on your cheeks and drape yourself in bulbous necklaces. Pile your hair high and twist it into a Munich replica, secured with Hello Kitty clips. Now simply add 10 more accessories and an angry scowl and baby, you’re stylin!
Pure madness.
I break with the crowds for a short while. I eat lunch with my friend at a hip black and red Yakiniku restaurant at the Jingu intersection. This place provides us with a view and a soundtrack of Coltrane played at just the right volume. We’re four floors up – high enough that the brown autumn leave ride the winds just below our plate class window, but low enough that I can still witness the drama below. On the corner opposite, the fashion magazine photographers cajole posed shots from the more beguiling street walkers. My friend and I try to guess who they will single out of the colorful hoards next. We fail each time. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to their selections.
In a moment, we’ll plunge back in – back into the cold and the crowds and the scene the whole world is watching. Youth culture ground zero – happening right now
Throb throb throb - stupid floor!
I think I broke my big toe. Dammit! I've broken both of my little toes before, so I know the sensation. There's really nothing to do about it. Even if I went to the doctor they'd just say "yup" and hand me a bill. You can't splint the damn thing. I just don't have anyone around to give me sympathy, so I decided to whine about it here.
いたい!! I need someone to say "Awww, poor Kelsye." Then I'll feel better.
Although all sympathetic sentiments are tempered as I'm not going to let a little thing like a broken toe stop me from tromping through Harajuku tomorrow - in three inch heels no less. :-D
Photo Play from Osaka
(click to enlarge)
I love to witness little scenes like this. I wanted to move in for a close up. Sadly, I was a little too timid.
Americamura graffiti that caught my eye.
千葉 Ghosts
再びあなたの声を聞くのは良いです。 今夜、私の夢では、ウサギはプレーするでしょう。
Hey, Mr. Podcaster
The Joyce caught me at just the right moment. Maybe that's why I couldn't listen to it until so much later. Thank you.
Calculated Confessions
I’m back at Absinthe. I can hear the cook chopping the mushrooms for my penne with crème sauce. I came alone – my little heart broken once again, once again, once again. Even small pieces shatter easily these days.I’ve been thinking of pod casting my incomplete novel. It’d make for a very enthralling “episode by episode” cast and I could built up Ms. SlickSxyCool with an accompanying site of quotes and stills. Plus, once I reach the end of the material I have completely already, there’s accountability of audience to finish the dang thing. I’d kill to have some earlier chapter with me here and now so that I may pour and ponder and imagine all that could be and all that was.
And all that was.
“Shi” and I are different now. I feel as though I’ve forgotten parts of her. I’ve lost touch with the compelling reasons for her madness.
When I think of my unfinished novel – when I contemplate retracing my steps and resuming the downward spiral of words – I am seized with a mild terror. A vast undone lays before me, naked, bare chested, vulnerable and weak. “Shi” simpers – desiring fulfillment. I recoil.
Tragically, I am repulsed by the “Shi” I was then. That death was unbecoming to the vast intellectual I pretend to be, a truly liberated woman. Freedom comes in love and so many steps I danced away from that fruitful core.
I do believe. I do believe - my dear friends, sisters - in the God of love.
This online journal has become a tricky minefield to navigate. My dearly beloved reads (hello, first love of mine) so I dare not publish anything that may tear at his heart any more than I have already in real time and space. My sweet (pretending) unassuming parental figures also drop by occasionally, so I clean up the language, dampen the sadness and extinguish the sex.
Yet this space has become important to me, so I maintain it. There are souls I have connected with here – for whatever small and thankful reasons – Alicia, Brett, Carol, Marcus. These are people I count as friends even though I know them only through unsubstantiated electronic connections. I can’t be 100% sure of their existence, but I have my hunches. There is more that I want to write here, to explore, to divulge to converse – but I can’t.
I simply can’t.
-----More from Absinthe to be typed soon----
Concrete, stilettos and the most beautiful woman in Japan
(Penned last week) The stone circle in the heart of Osaka’s Americamura glows in the half light of evening. The fading rays of sunlight can no longer compete with the street lights, neon letters and blaring video screens. I sit on a cold bench and pull from my bag ink and clean white paper so that I may sketch the concentric circles of brick and the stilettos that click across them.
Strangely, it is here among the fashion punks and docile gangsters that I feel most at ease. Suddenly, I am back on the central staircase in Seattle’s Broadway Market, watching the burly fairies stroll by and dodging the sidelong glances of the other adolescences playing hooky and hiding under dark hoodie sweatshirts. Same kind of place. Dark. Busy. Dirty. My kind of place.
Then just a few blocks and a world away, I ease myself into a slick black booth in café bar drenched in cool. Comfortable cool – swank I can slide in to. I drink my one strong drink and scribble ink in a tattered notebook. I do not fear being alone here, for I am foreign and beautiful. I wear tall black boots and a serious pout. I am worthy of this atmosphere. This scene clamps around me like silken nylons on curved calves. We fit each other’s groove.
Tonight, later, I will dine with the doctor of linguistics. I am charmed that he called me out. His New York ramble is very entertaining. He does not doubt for a second that I would be any less than enthralled with the minutiae of his inner dialogue. As we are still rather new to each other – his current assumption is correct. I am enthralled.
Last night, I could not sleep. Too many cups of coffee coupled with too many “not dones”. I am tired. It takes me a while to realize that the other Japanese woman in the long black apron is not who I think she is. She looks nothing like her, but I call her by the name of the other woman anyway. This girl is new here and stammers. I blush with embarrassment.
More than a couple Japanese people, once they have gotten comfortable enough with me to ask such a horrid question, ask me if, as an American, all Japanese people look the same to me. I hate this question. The honest answer is that when I first arrived, well, yes, many people seemed very similar. My students, with their legion of uniforms and short cropped black hair were particularly difficult to distinguish from one another. Yet, this condition of mine did not last very long. Within a month I found new ways to differentiate, rather than relying on hair color and skin tone. Now it is very difficult for me not to see the differences among Japanese people. But I still hate the question. After I hear it, an angry sentiment “White people think all black people look the same” ripples through my mind. Unlearning racism is difficult work, so it stings when it is assumed that I am not aware of my own ignorance.
The other waitress on duty tonight I know well. We’ve never really chatted – as I have with all the others. Yet her warm smile is as much of a fixture of my Thursday nights as the pernod in my curved glass. I’d love to sit with her and ask her questions about her life and who she is. But I must remember that she is on the clock. What is a place of sanctuary for me is a place of work and different necessity for her. She is, of course, the most beautiful woman in Japan – slender, stylish and full of silent grace, yet with a subtle strength and ripple of power that separates her from all the other sophisticated beauties. I would love to dive into her mind and witness the dark things lurking. She has survived something – but love or life or addiction I cannot name. I am infinitely curious.
I must head across town to meet the linguist. After I hand my yen to Kazuo, the young waiter that holds my eyes with his as he pours my drink, the most beautiful woman in Japan grabs my arm to stop me from striding out so quickly.
“I’d like to know your name,” she says. “I really should.”
I smile and laugh and tell her quickly. She repeats it twice to get the pronunciation right and then I ask if I may know hers.
“Chisaato,” she says.
I repeat it 100 times as I float over the pavement to return to my train.
