Sunday, March 19, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 10
(tenth in a series of ten)
I walked along the path between the dark river and the humming green hillside.
My trouble is I constantly want to compare that hill to a giant wave, which is unfortunate, considering recent history. Still that is always how it felt, a vast lush green wave, towering above me.
In real life, I understand, the wave is low and dark and wide.
But I am thinking of the ordinary waves as they swell on a bright day and you glimpse the seaweed and the fish suspended there for a beat before the wave breaks into foam.
Such was the vast green hillside I walked beneath. The trees and homes and stones were all suspended there; nothing was permanent. The main area of the city was across the river. Along the path were houses and clusters of hard-working banana trees.
Boys on bicycles circled me a few times, shouting and laughing, before speeding off.
Other younger boys played butt-naked in the river and grinned and waved as I walked past. Meanwhile, little girls in dresses played in the dirt. It appears that no age is too young to not require feminine modesty.
As I passed one weather-beaten house, the usual patchwork of corrugated tin and scrap wood, the house began to pulse with techno. I was surprised to find such an unexpected heart and I danced a little, there in the road. A mother playing with her child next door laughed at me.
People laughed at me all day long. Took one look at me and started laughing. Laughed at every word that came out of my mouth and laughed if I didn’t say anything. The laughter was more inviting than mocking, as if to say, “Let’s laugh together at you!”
Big frogs lay flattened on the edge of the street. Cats and roosters dueled for scraps in the orange cement enclosures where trash was burnt. There weren’t any dogs, for which I was grateful. Dogs were believed to be filthy. The Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, kept a cat.
Even with cats it was better to be careful. The proprietress told us that one of the expats had been scratched by her own cat one night when she got up to use the bathroom in the dark. She’d thought nothing of it; soon she was dead of rabies. She’d been the only foreigner, the proprietress assured me, that absolutely everybody loved.
Gray clouds overhead, the five o’clock light turned the mountainside thunderstorm green. A woman walked by and asked me, “What are you looking?” I told her I was looking at the goats, the river and the sky. “You have a beautiful country,” I said.
“You’re handsome too, mister,” she said. And before she walked away, she winked.
I walked along the path between the dark river and the humming green hillside.
My trouble is I constantly want to compare that hill to a giant wave, which is unfortunate, considering recent history. Still that is always how it felt, a vast lush green wave, towering above me.
In real life, I understand, the wave is low and dark and wide.
But I am thinking of the ordinary waves as they swell on a bright day and you glimpse the seaweed and the fish suspended there for a beat before the wave breaks into foam.
Such was the vast green hillside I walked beneath. The trees and homes and stones were all suspended there; nothing was permanent. The main area of the city was across the river. Along the path were houses and clusters of hard-working banana trees.
Boys on bicycles circled me a few times, shouting and laughing, before speeding off.
Other younger boys played butt-naked in the river and grinned and waved as I walked past. Meanwhile, little girls in dresses played in the dirt. It appears that no age is too young to not require feminine modesty.
As I passed one weather-beaten house, the usual patchwork of corrugated tin and scrap wood, the house began to pulse with techno. I was surprised to find such an unexpected heart and I danced a little, there in the road. A mother playing with her child next door laughed at me.
People laughed at me all day long. Took one look at me and started laughing. Laughed at every word that came out of my mouth and laughed if I didn’t say anything. The laughter was more inviting than mocking, as if to say, “Let’s laugh together at you!”
Big frogs lay flattened on the edge of the street. Cats and roosters dueled for scraps in the orange cement enclosures where trash was burnt. There weren’t any dogs, for which I was grateful. Dogs were believed to be filthy. The Prophet Mohammed, peace be upon him, kept a cat.
Even with cats it was better to be careful. The proprietress told us that one of the expats had been scratched by her own cat one night when she got up to use the bathroom in the dark. She’d thought nothing of it; soon she was dead of rabies. She’d been the only foreigner, the proprietress assured me, that absolutely everybody loved.
Gray clouds overhead, the five o’clock light turned the mountainside thunderstorm green. A woman walked by and asked me, “What are you looking?” I told her I was looking at the goats, the river and the sky. “You have a beautiful country,” I said.
“You’re handsome too, mister,” she said. And before she walked away, she winked.
Short Walks in Sumatra / 9
(ninth in a series of ten)
I told the proprietress, “More people speak to me here in an hour than have spoken to me in Tokyo in the last five years.
“I envy you that,” she said.
Still, I thought she was the lucky one. In the course of a half-dozen evenings it seemed I knew a few strangers better than I knew my closest friends in Tokyo.
Friendship in Tokyo is an imported tropical houseplant. You can get it to grow there but it takes a lot of patience, a lot of fussing, and even then it still seems stilted.
Gardening here was a whole other matter. “All we do is cut back,” said the proprietress. Even the marigolds looked set for global domination. I’d never knew the green world could exert so much force or blaze so with power.
Beside the road an empty-faced boy sat in the dirt and played with a saw. He drew it back and forth across a piece of wood and made no cut but only a sound. I waved and tried to get his attention. I think I’ve been him sometimes. He ignored me.
Across the river, among the more modest houses, were occasional real mansions, much taller, painted tasteful shades of ivory with red or blue trim and shutters. These houses would probably survive and still look new even when the more humble homes around them had long since collapsed.
These houses had a distinct advantage: their doors would never open, their windows were black glass on brick. No person would ever live in them. These houses were only for the birds that entered them through tiny holes to build their edible, highly profitable nests. These bird houses would persist and even years from now would still look elegant. Fortunate houses.
It is a great strain to have a human heart.
I told the proprietress, “More people speak to me here in an hour than have spoken to me in Tokyo in the last five years.
“I envy you that,” she said.
Still, I thought she was the lucky one. In the course of a half-dozen evenings it seemed I knew a few strangers better than I knew my closest friends in Tokyo.
Friendship in Tokyo is an imported tropical houseplant. You can get it to grow there but it takes a lot of patience, a lot of fussing, and even then it still seems stilted.
Gardening here was a whole other matter. “All we do is cut back,” said the proprietress. Even the marigolds looked set for global domination. I’d never knew the green world could exert so much force or blaze so with power.
Beside the road an empty-faced boy sat in the dirt and played with a saw. He drew it back and forth across a piece of wood and made no cut but only a sound. I waved and tried to get his attention. I think I’ve been him sometimes. He ignored me.
Across the river, among the more modest houses, were occasional real mansions, much taller, painted tasteful shades of ivory with red or blue trim and shutters. These houses would probably survive and still look new even when the more humble homes around them had long since collapsed.
These houses had a distinct advantage: their doors would never open, their windows were black glass on brick. No person would ever live in them. These houses were only for the birds that entered them through tiny holes to build their edible, highly profitable nests. These bird houses would persist and even years from now would still look elegant. Fortunate houses.
It is a great strain to have a human heart.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 8
(eighth in a series of ten)
Any hotel in Sumatra that intends to survive must make a friend in the police force. “We’re lucky here,” the proprietress said. “Our policeman is first-rate. Anytime we have a problem, we just call him, and the problem disappears.”
I resolved to never be a problem.
Certainly he was an impressive man: the largest Indonesian I had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles stretched his uniform and his black boots gleamed.
This is not (just) a fantasy. This is an actual policeman.
Most afternoons he stood, diligent and alert, on the edge of the street directly in front of the hotel.
He was a stickler for safety, our policeman. He pulled over anyone riding a motorbike without a helmet, or riding more than two to a bike. (There were often as many as four people on a bike. People had seen as many six. He could fine them all.)
When he’d collected sufficient fines he came into the bar and drank. The girls arrived soon after. They drank with him and laughed and excuse themselves, now and then, to go and puke.
What extraordinary boots he had, our policeman. They nearly reached his knees. He must have loved them as much as I did. Any time I saw him they were gleaming black, immaculate.
Any hotel in Sumatra that intends to survive must make a friend in the police force. “We’re lucky here,” the proprietress said. “Our policeman is first-rate. Anytime we have a problem, we just call him, and the problem disappears.”
I resolved to never be a problem.
Certainly he was an impressive man: the largest Indonesian I had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles stretched his uniform and his black boots gleamed.
This is not (just) a fantasy. This is an actual policeman.
Most afternoons he stood, diligent and alert, on the edge of the street directly in front of the hotel.
He was a stickler for safety, our policeman. He pulled over anyone riding a motorbike without a helmet, or riding more than two to a bike. (There were often as many as four people on a bike. People had seen as many six. He could fine them all.)
When he’d collected sufficient fines he came into the bar and drank. The girls arrived soon after. They drank with him and laughed and excuse themselves, now and then, to go and puke.
What extraordinary boots he had, our policeman. They nearly reached his knees. He must have loved them as much as I did. Any time I saw him they were gleaming black, immaculate.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 7
(seventh in a series of ten)
I asked the proprietress, “Please teach me Indonesian. I want to say, “Excuse me, I would like to ravish a fisherman.”
“You’d better be joking,” she said.
“I am 100% joking,” I said.
Moslem nations are what the imagination is for. So many men, so little permission.
I had to remind myself of this repeatedly—generally moment to moment—as strangers smiled and held my eye or whistled at me and put their strong work-hardened hands around my arm.
The men were especially beautiful here, I decided, as I’ve decided every place I’ve ever been, every day of my life since birth. Men go on being beautiful!
No surprise then that I stagger a little when I walk. It’s a wonder I can think at all and most of all I think of them, the beautiful men. My mind belongs to them; every now and then I try to take it back and think a little.
I asked the proprietress, “Please teach me Indonesian. I want to say, “Excuse me, I would like to ravish a fisherman.”
“You’d better be joking,” she said.
“I am 100% joking,” I said.
Moslem nations are what the imagination is for. So many men, so little permission.
I had to remind myself of this repeatedly—generally moment to moment—as strangers smiled and held my eye or whistled at me and put their strong work-hardened hands around my arm.
The men were especially beautiful here, I decided, as I’ve decided every place I’ve ever been, every day of my life since birth. Men go on being beautiful!
No surprise then that I stagger a little when I walk. It’s a wonder I can think at all and most of all I think of them, the beautiful men. My mind belongs to them; every now and then I try to take it back and think a little.
Short Walks in Sumatra / 6
(sixth in a series of ten)
Aya was specifically banned from the hotel and yet, when she arrived that evening, the proprietress let her in.
Every great hotel requires drama, as the proprietress no doubt understood. An Aya is essential now and then.
I was chatting with an Australian saxophonist at a table by the river. He was a genuine big lug, a lumberjack of a musician. Also irrevocably heterosexual, as I’d sadly ascertained. I got so tired of delicate musicians, of tenuous flautists and febrile cellists.
Aya sat down at our table. She apologized, though the saxophonist was obviously delighted. She seemed older at night; her extraordinary hair merged into the black sky and left her with a slightly too small head.
She said she was glad to see me again. “You’ve got good shoulders. I looked at the salon.”
We sat and drank our beer. Aya asked a few times if she was disturbing us. She got up to leave and sat down again. The saxophonist assured her she was welcome.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and when Aya said, “I like bad boys”, I said, “Yes, so do I.”
She was confused.
On a napkin, we did our best to draw her a chart. (The saxophonist was also keen that she figure it out.)
“You’re a bad girl who likes bad boys. And I’m a bad boy who likes bad boys. Whereas, this gentleman here is a bad boy who likes bad girls. Therefore. . .”
“You like bad boys,” Aya said.
“Absolutely.”
“So you’re a bad girl.”
“No, I’m a bad boy.” I tugged on my beard.
“You’re a bad girl!”
“Maybe sometimes,” I allowed.
She explained that she was from one of the most conservative parts of Sumatra and she was a good Moslem woman, though she did have a webcam at home and was actually engaged to an American man she’d not yet met in person.
“Is that conservative?” asked the saxophonist.
“He’ll convert.”
She was worried, however. He was a plumber.
We assured her that plumbers in America made good money.
She was also worried because he lived with his mother.
“You’ll be one happy family,” I said.
“She’s tried to kill herself three times.”
“I’m sure that’s no reflection on him,” the saxophonist said helpfully. Aya was definitely warming to him. Meanwhile his interest was so obvious he might as well have had a cock sprouting from his forehead.
I was just jealous. I excused myself and went upstairs to my room.
Aya was much more grand as an Evil Queen than a supplicant of tourists. To be a whore is commendable; it did not suit her to beg. At the thought of pleasing how we are reduced!
She’d been banished from the hotel for having sex for 700,000 rupiyah. It only sounds like a lot. There are more than 9,000 rupiyah to the dollar.
Aya was specifically banned from the hotel and yet, when she arrived that evening, the proprietress let her in.
Every great hotel requires drama, as the proprietress no doubt understood. An Aya is essential now and then.
I was chatting with an Australian saxophonist at a table by the river. He was a genuine big lug, a lumberjack of a musician. Also irrevocably heterosexual, as I’d sadly ascertained. I got so tired of delicate musicians, of tenuous flautists and febrile cellists.
Aya sat down at our table. She apologized, though the saxophonist was obviously delighted. She seemed older at night; her extraordinary hair merged into the black sky and left her with a slightly too small head.
She said she was glad to see me again. “You’ve got good shoulders. I looked at the salon.”
We sat and drank our beer. Aya asked a few times if she was disturbing us. She got up to leave and sat down again. The saxophonist assured her she was welcome.
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and when Aya said, “I like bad boys”, I said, “Yes, so do I.”
She was confused.
On a napkin, we did our best to draw her a chart. (The saxophonist was also keen that she figure it out.)
“You’re a bad girl who likes bad boys. And I’m a bad boy who likes bad boys. Whereas, this gentleman here is a bad boy who likes bad girls. Therefore. . .”
“You like bad boys,” Aya said.
“Absolutely.”
“So you’re a bad girl.”
“No, I’m a bad boy.” I tugged on my beard.
“You’re a bad girl!”
“Maybe sometimes,” I allowed.
She explained that she was from one of the most conservative parts of Sumatra and she was a good Moslem woman, though she did have a webcam at home and was actually engaged to an American man she’d not yet met in person.
“Is that conservative?” asked the saxophonist.
“He’ll convert.”
She was worried, however. He was a plumber.
We assured her that plumbers in America made good money.
She was also worried because he lived with his mother.
“You’ll be one happy family,” I said.
“She’s tried to kill herself three times.”
“I’m sure that’s no reflection on him,” the saxophonist said helpfully. Aya was definitely warming to him. Meanwhile his interest was so obvious he might as well have had a cock sprouting from his forehead.
I was just jealous. I excused myself and went upstairs to my room.
Aya was much more grand as an Evil Queen than a supplicant of tourists. To be a whore is commendable; it did not suit her to beg. At the thought of pleasing how we are reduced!
She’d been banished from the hotel for having sex for 700,000 rupiyah. It only sounds like a lot. There are more than 9,000 rupiyah to the dollar.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 5
Aya I met by chance when the proprietress and I arrived at the salon for our cream bath. She sat in her salon chair like a queen spider in the center of her straight black hair which was so long that the two attendants combing it stood against opposite walls.
She smiled at the proprietress in the mirror. “I’ve been saying terrible things about you,” she said.
“I’m sure you have.” The proprietress also smiled.
Introductions were made; both women spoke with the warmth and intimacy that only hatred can inspire.
Today’s special cream was avocado and the cream bath was as good as it could have been with a girl and pants on.
Aya I took at first to be a rich wife of power and leisure, the kind who shops and has affairs and can have people beheaded if she wishes.
Her daughters were there with her, aged ten and five. The ten year old was an exact copy of her, in miniature. “She’s already winning beauty contests,” Aya told us and we admired the photos carefully, so as not to smudge them with avocado cream as the attendant massaged our shoulders with the pale green paste.
I studied the winning costume. “She’s beautiful,” I said and meant, there’s no hope for her. She looked like a teenaged whore, nothing to her name but the scraps of clothes cowboys had left behind.
Imagine being doomed and ten.
When Aya was finished and stood up, her hair cascaded past her waist.
I wish only virtue was beautiful, but that’s not the case. Malice is a splendid ornament. Aya glittered as she bid us good-bye.
“How’s that man of yours?” Aya asked the proprietress, as if she’d just now thought of him.
I’d seen his picture in magazines: a golden celebrity of the surfing industry, on a boat ten days out of twelve.
“Good as ever,” said the proprietress.
“Be sure to tell him I’m looking for a lover,” Aya said and walked out the door.
“She’s banned from the hotel,” the proprietress said, as soon as she was gone. “She had sex with one of the guests.”
“Is that wrong?”
“She charged him 700,000 rupiyah. After I told her specifically not to.”
As the attendants sponged our backs with hot towels, the proprietress closed her eyes and smiled in satisfaction.
“She’s an evil dirty whore,” she said, so matter-of-factly it seemed a simple taxonomic classification: red-winged cardinal, rhesus monkey, Latin name to follow.
She smiled at the proprietress in the mirror. “I’ve been saying terrible things about you,” she said.
“I’m sure you have.” The proprietress also smiled.
Introductions were made; both women spoke with the warmth and intimacy that only hatred can inspire.
Today’s special cream was avocado and the cream bath was as good as it could have been with a girl and pants on.
Aya I took at first to be a rich wife of power and leisure, the kind who shops and has affairs and can have people beheaded if she wishes.
Her daughters were there with her, aged ten and five. The ten year old was an exact copy of her, in miniature. “She’s already winning beauty contests,” Aya told us and we admired the photos carefully, so as not to smudge them with avocado cream as the attendant massaged our shoulders with the pale green paste.
I studied the winning costume. “She’s beautiful,” I said and meant, there’s no hope for her. She looked like a teenaged whore, nothing to her name but the scraps of clothes cowboys had left behind.
Imagine being doomed and ten.
When Aya was finished and stood up, her hair cascaded past her waist.
I wish only virtue was beautiful, but that’s not the case. Malice is a splendid ornament. Aya glittered as she bid us good-bye.
“How’s that man of yours?” Aya asked the proprietress, as if she’d just now thought of him.
I’d seen his picture in magazines: a golden celebrity of the surfing industry, on a boat ten days out of twelve.
“Good as ever,” said the proprietress.
“Be sure to tell him I’m looking for a lover,” Aya said and walked out the door.
“She’s banned from the hotel,” the proprietress said, as soon as she was gone. “She had sex with one of the guests.”
“Is that wrong?”
“She charged him 700,000 rupiyah. After I told her specifically not to.”
As the attendants sponged our backs with hot towels, the proprietress closed her eyes and smiled in satisfaction.
“She’s an evil dirty whore,” she said, so matter-of-factly it seemed a simple taxonomic classification: red-winged cardinal, rhesus monkey, Latin name to follow.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 4
(fourth in a series of ten)
Nights at the hotel were lucky. When it was quiet the proprietress would sit with whoever was there and talk. She never drank alcohol, only coffee. “I’d give the place away,” she said.
The proprietress, as she spoke, pressed frangipani blooms rapturously against her face as though to eat them. Later, I picked up one of the flowers: it was entirely scentless.
In America she’d been a waitress. In Sumatra her foreign birth prohibited her from officially running the province.
Well, perhaps her sphere of influence was not really so large--but the queen of a small nation is not necessarily less grand.
She wore vintage cat’s eye glasses. With rhinestones. She had the expression of an accountant and the body of a goddess.
On those lucky quiet nights the proprietress told us tales of perfectly evil people, of reprobates utterly debauched, of downright snakes. Then the doorbell would ring and—speak of the devil! The proprietress rose with a cry of joy to greet the evildoer, who promptly accepted our warm invitation for a beer and a chat.
How respectfully we listened as they discussed their charity work with the indigenous population and we sat thinking, “He does kind of look like a pedophile” or “She should have known better than to attempt such a complicated sexual position on a public staircase!”
All this was a good reminder for me, since generally I think I’m the only liar.
Nights at the hotel were lucky. When it was quiet the proprietress would sit with whoever was there and talk. She never drank alcohol, only coffee. “I’d give the place away,” she said.
The proprietress, as she spoke, pressed frangipani blooms rapturously against her face as though to eat them. Later, I picked up one of the flowers: it was entirely scentless.
In America she’d been a waitress. In Sumatra her foreign birth prohibited her from officially running the province.
Well, perhaps her sphere of influence was not really so large--but the queen of a small nation is not necessarily less grand.
She wore vintage cat’s eye glasses. With rhinestones. She had the expression of an accountant and the body of a goddess.
On those lucky quiet nights the proprietress told us tales of perfectly evil people, of reprobates utterly debauched, of downright snakes. Then the doorbell would ring and—speak of the devil! The proprietress rose with a cry of joy to greet the evildoer, who promptly accepted our warm invitation for a beer and a chat.
How respectfully we listened as they discussed their charity work with the indigenous population and we sat thinking, “He does kind of look like a pedophile” or “She should have known better than to attempt such a complicated sexual position on a public staircase!”
All this was a good reminder for me, since generally I think I’m the only liar.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Short Walks in Sumatra / 3
(third in a series of ten)
I walked along the path between the river and hill and every time anyone said, “Hello, Mister” I said, “Hello, Sir”, “Hello Ma’am.” All my life I’ve been hopelessly formal. I am terrible at routine transactions in the world, at interactions with so-called ordinary people.
I don’t believe in ordinary people. At least, I’ve never met any.
Often I’m up at the counter, it’s my turn to order coffee, and no words are coming out because this functionary, this part-time gal, is obviously a princess of the celestial empire.
Does this happen to anyone else?
Once I actually met the Empress of Japan and when I met her I thought, “My god, I’ve been meeting empresses all my life.”
Here he stands before me, Walt Whitman’s own radiant bag boy. “Paper or plastic,” he wants to know. “Would you like your milk in a bag?” And I am expected to actually respond. Something casual for this mere functionary—yeah, sure.
And naturally what I want to say is, “As Your Lordship deems best, I will humbly obey.”
Which really gets me looks in late-night Chicago.
The state of the world: When you show someone respect, they assume that you’re mocking them.
Everyone nowadays is supposed to be on first name basis. Me, I want to bring back the ‘thee’s and the thou’s.
I must learn to speak naturally and off the cuff. I must learn to pay no attention to the great light as it streams out your patient face.
I walked along the path between the river and hill and every time anyone said, “Hello, Mister” I said, “Hello, Sir”, “Hello Ma’am.” All my life I’ve been hopelessly formal. I am terrible at routine transactions in the world, at interactions with so-called ordinary people.
I don’t believe in ordinary people. At least, I’ve never met any.
Often I’m up at the counter, it’s my turn to order coffee, and no words are coming out because this functionary, this part-time gal, is obviously a princess of the celestial empire.
Does this happen to anyone else?
Once I actually met the Empress of Japan and when I met her I thought, “My god, I’ve been meeting empresses all my life.”
Here he stands before me, Walt Whitman’s own radiant bag boy. “Paper or plastic,” he wants to know. “Would you like your milk in a bag?” And I am expected to actually respond. Something casual for this mere functionary—yeah, sure.
And naturally what I want to say is, “As Your Lordship deems best, I will humbly obey.”
Which really gets me looks in late-night Chicago.
The state of the world: When you show someone respect, they assume that you’re mocking them.
Everyone nowadays is supposed to be on first name basis. Me, I want to bring back the ‘thee’s and the thou’s.
I must learn to speak naturally and off the cuff. I must learn to pay no attention to the great light as it streams out your patient face.
Spring Ham
Itsunori warned me that this was budding season: I should expect odd things to happen and people to act a little mad.
The day before he’d seen a young man on the train--well-dressed, ordinary-looking--and the young man was calling out in a loud clear voice for 8 Man, a famous Japanese superhero.
“Where is 8 Man?”
“He should be here by now.”
“What’s happened to 8 Man?”
In this way he passed into the next car, calling out at every step for the overdue superhero.
Sure enough, as soon as I left class I felt a little odd. I couldn’t go, as I usually did, to the kissaten to study. Instead I walked along the river, following the Sobu Line to Yotsuya, to a place with cigarette smoke and fake wood paneling and the best katsudon anywhere.
As soon as I sat down at the common table, a man struck up a conversation with me. Which might sound normal to you, if you’ve never been to Tokyo.
In Tokyo this never happens. Strangers do not talk. Any stranger who speaks is assumed at once to be insane, which is something I ought to keep in mind.
He was a tidy black-suited Japanese salariman and his business was ham. He imported prosciutto from Italy, Spain and St. Louis.
I wanted to know. “Is the prosciutto from St. Louis really as good?”
A sigh gusted out from him. “I do not say ‘better’, I say ‘different’.”
Seriously, it was hell, he confessed, trying to sell that damned American prosciutto. The Japanese didn’t trust it.
Italian and Spanish prosciutto was famous. But this was perfectly fine prosciutto. It was made in Italian style by an Italian family, a family with a history of prosciutto, a prosciutto pedigree. It was just made in America and, yes, made from American meat.
American meat was perfectly safe. Never mind the current scandals. After the scandals it was going to be safer than ever. Tough new regulations, everybody double-checking everything. Nothing could be safer than American meat. It was perfectly safe, this first-rate pedigreed prosciutto, this prosciutto on which his livelihood depended, his wife and child he almost never saw because he was always on a business trip hawking prosciutto, perfectly safe first-rate prosciutto that absolutely nobody wanted.
“Maybe you should just stick to the Italian and Spanish kind,” I suggested.
He looked at me with pure hate.
I finished my katsudon quickly. I skipped the cabbage entirely. I really like the cabbage.
I stood up and made a small apologetic bow. He didn’t acknowledge me. I hurried away.
I reminded myself that I must be careful now. It was budding season. Care must be taken with the Japanese, who are reserved, who hold so much back, and are thus bound to be terribly strained during this very dangerous season.
I must be wary when I speak.
Heaven knows what prosciutto lurks beneath.
The day before he’d seen a young man on the train--well-dressed, ordinary-looking--and the young man was calling out in a loud clear voice for 8 Man, a famous Japanese superhero.
“Where is 8 Man?”
“He should be here by now.”
“What’s happened to 8 Man?”
In this way he passed into the next car, calling out at every step for the overdue superhero.
Sure enough, as soon as I left class I felt a little odd. I couldn’t go, as I usually did, to the kissaten to study. Instead I walked along the river, following the Sobu Line to Yotsuya, to a place with cigarette smoke and fake wood paneling and the best katsudon anywhere.
As soon as I sat down at the common table, a man struck up a conversation with me. Which might sound normal to you, if you’ve never been to Tokyo.
In Tokyo this never happens. Strangers do not talk. Any stranger who speaks is assumed at once to be insane, which is something I ought to keep in mind.
He was a tidy black-suited Japanese salariman and his business was ham. He imported prosciutto from Italy, Spain and St. Louis.
I wanted to know. “Is the prosciutto from St. Louis really as good?”
A sigh gusted out from him. “I do not say ‘better’, I say ‘different’.”
Seriously, it was hell, he confessed, trying to sell that damned American prosciutto. The Japanese didn’t trust it.
Italian and Spanish prosciutto was famous. But this was perfectly fine prosciutto. It was made in Italian style by an Italian family, a family with a history of prosciutto, a prosciutto pedigree. It was just made in America and, yes, made from American meat.
American meat was perfectly safe. Never mind the current scandals. After the scandals it was going to be safer than ever. Tough new regulations, everybody double-checking everything. Nothing could be safer than American meat. It was perfectly safe, this first-rate pedigreed prosciutto, this prosciutto on which his livelihood depended, his wife and child he almost never saw because he was always on a business trip hawking prosciutto, perfectly safe first-rate prosciutto that absolutely nobody wanted.
“Maybe you should just stick to the Italian and Spanish kind,” I suggested.
He looked at me with pure hate.
I finished my katsudon quickly. I skipped the cabbage entirely. I really like the cabbage.
I stood up and made a small apologetic bow. He didn’t acknowledge me. I hurried away.
I reminded myself that I must be careful now. It was budding season. Care must be taken with the Japanese, who are reserved, who hold so much back, and are thus bound to be terribly strained during this very dangerous season.
I must be wary when I speak.
Heaven knows what prosciutto lurks beneath.
Short Walks in Sumatra / 2
(second in a series of ten)
Fifteen minutes seemed like plenty of time to escape—and then I tried to actually climb the hill. It was the end of the rainy season: the earth was red and slick. Tilting steps jutted out in a few places, but mostly I made my way by scrabbling between slippery stones.
Halfway up I was certain I would fall. Not only would I fall but in the process I’d dislodge a stone, and not just any stone but the very stone that was holding up the entire hillside. I’d fall, the hill would fall and the villagers would wring their hands. Damn Americans!
(On my passport I am accused of being American. A gross oversimplification. I have three hearts: one of them is America.)
In Tokyo or New Hampshire green is an ornament, a respite, a good natured custodian who cleans up and stays in the background. In Sumatra green is a fire, sending its tendrils into roofs and walls and roads, spreading everywhere, filling the air with its green roar.
Until I went to Sumatra I didn't know that green has its own sound. Even when the fishermen come home at night, turn on their stereos and brawl, the sound of the green is still louder.
Also, everything was in flower. The tips of the trees foamed white and red. Everything that could was blooming and I figured I might flower too, if I could just stay still long enough.
No one, I realized, had time to take me to the hospital. I began gingerly to climb down the hill, which was even worse than climbing up. Vines grew faster than I descended. Passing grandfather stopped to smile at me in encouragement and mothers peeked at me from their forest houses and had a cup of coffee in the time it took me to pass.
To my surprise, I arrived at the bottom of the hill alive. The hill likewise remained intact.
As a prophet I possess 100% accuracy, but no clue as to timing.
Fifteen minutes seemed like plenty of time to escape—and then I tried to actually climb the hill. It was the end of the rainy season: the earth was red and slick. Tilting steps jutted out in a few places, but mostly I made my way by scrabbling between slippery stones.
Halfway up I was certain I would fall. Not only would I fall but in the process I’d dislodge a stone, and not just any stone but the very stone that was holding up the entire hillside. I’d fall, the hill would fall and the villagers would wring their hands. Damn Americans!
(On my passport I am accused of being American. A gross oversimplification. I have three hearts: one of them is America.)
In Tokyo or New Hampshire green is an ornament, a respite, a good natured custodian who cleans up and stays in the background. In Sumatra green is a fire, sending its tendrils into roofs and walls and roads, spreading everywhere, filling the air with its green roar.
Until I went to Sumatra I didn't know that green has its own sound. Even when the fishermen come home at night, turn on their stereos and brawl, the sound of the green is still louder.
Also, everything was in flower. The tips of the trees foamed white and red. Everything that could was blooming and I figured I might flower too, if I could just stay still long enough.
No one, I realized, had time to take me to the hospital. I began gingerly to climb down the hill, which was even worse than climbing up. Vines grew faster than I descended. Passing grandfather stopped to smile at me in encouragement and mothers peeked at me from their forest houses and had a cup of coffee in the time it took me to pass.
To my surprise, I arrived at the bottom of the hill alive. The hill likewise remained intact.
As a prophet I possess 100% accuracy, but no clue as to timing.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Found: Febricula
Few things inspire as much as chance encounter in the dictionary.
Today in the New Oxford Concise Dictionary, I discovered:
febricula: noun. a slight fever of short duration.
Accept. in that spirit. these small notes: my collected febriculae.
Today in the New Oxford Concise Dictionary, I discovered:
febricula: noun. a slight fever of short duration.
Accept. in that spirit. these small notes: my collected febriculae.
Found: Human Spirit
From the The Daily Yomiuri, March 8th 2006:
"At Sanam Luang, speaker after speaker lambasted Thaksin. He was satirized in a comic opera, burned in a mock funeral and called a liar in song, all before the march began."
"At Sanam Luang, speaker after speaker lambasted Thaksin. He was satirized in a comic opera, burned in a mock funeral and called a liar in song, all before the march began."
Short Walks in Sumatra / 1
(being the first of a series of ten)
We were sitting for breakfast beside the river—a blooming frangipani overhead, the hill across the way waking up purple and full of birds—when Mark Cork said, “An earthquake may strike within the hour. I must plan my escape.” Peering over the river, he chose two rickety docks, a path between boats. He’d have an estimated fifteen minutes then to climb the hill before the wave arrived.
Of course an earthquake might necessitate a new plan entirely. Probably would. But path-making was a habit of the place, as disaster was standard breakfast conversation. We enjoyed it also for lunch and dinner, with beer. We lived in anticipation of the wave. Every place we went, we thought, “Now how would I get out of here?”
In the hotel where the foreigners gathered, a converted Dutch bank from a hundred years back, the wave appeared in nearly every conversation.
“Did you see the article in Time?”
“No--I heard about it.”
The fault had slipped on one end and it slipped on the other. Inevitably now, it must slip in the middle. The wave that would hit this city could be a 100 feet tall.
“Really a hundred feet?”
“Something like that.”
The expats had come here to work in the surf industry but the money was in disaster relief. Would they be safe on the second floor? Should they sign another three year lease?
The hotel proprietress, elegant in cat’s eye glasses, explained, “The thing about this place is: there’s an awful lot of Factor X.”
I appreciated this, the moment to moment nodding to Chance. A secular ‘God willing’: the tsunami clause.
The islands of Indonesia permit no final count; the number changes hour to hour. The earth is not forever; we do not stand on stable ground.
We were sitting for breakfast beside the river—a blooming frangipani overhead, the hill across the way waking up purple and full of birds—when Mark Cork said, “An earthquake may strike within the hour. I must plan my escape.” Peering over the river, he chose two rickety docks, a path between boats. He’d have an estimated fifteen minutes then to climb the hill before the wave arrived.
Of course an earthquake might necessitate a new plan entirely. Probably would. But path-making was a habit of the place, as disaster was standard breakfast conversation. We enjoyed it also for lunch and dinner, with beer. We lived in anticipation of the wave. Every place we went, we thought, “Now how would I get out of here?”
In the hotel where the foreigners gathered, a converted Dutch bank from a hundred years back, the wave appeared in nearly every conversation.
“Did you see the article in Time?”
“No--I heard about it.”
The fault had slipped on one end and it slipped on the other. Inevitably now, it must slip in the middle. The wave that would hit this city could be a 100 feet tall.
“Really a hundred feet?”
“Something like that.”
The expats had come here to work in the surf industry but the money was in disaster relief. Would they be safe on the second floor? Should they sign another three year lease?
The hotel proprietress, elegant in cat’s eye glasses, explained, “The thing about this place is: there’s an awful lot of Factor X.”
I appreciated this, the moment to moment nodding to Chance. A secular ‘God willing’: the tsunami clause.
The islands of Indonesia permit no final count; the number changes hour to hour. The earth is not forever; we do not stand on stable ground.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Art Appreciation
The Museum of Modern Art, Tokyo is neither large, nor popular, nor exciting and thus seems to me an almost perfect museum. 420 yen—cheaper than a coffee with aspirations—admits one to the permanent collection. Every season the exhibit is changed, but only partially, so that after three or four visits the art is 80% familiar and may, if you are quiet and lucky, allow itself to be seen.
The overarching trend in Japanese art is that painters live either to their thirties or to their nineties, with almost no dying in between. I have no idea how this is enforced.
After many meetings and with mounting embarrassment, I begin to remember names. I start, of course, with the best-looking. Ai-mitsu, staring with his square-jaw out of his self-portrait of 1944. If I were so handsome, I’d paint myself too. Or Sazo Wada’s South Wind, men on a raft, a pink skinned man with a tousled blue shirt over his head and his brawny chest exposed. An orange rag around his loins beneath his navel. Any minute now the wind will whip it off. All of us on the raft will have at him.
Admittedly, my art appreciation skills are still embryonic. I like sex, and also I like solitude. To move in a large empty room where almost nothing is happening is a luxury virtually unknown in Tokyo.
The best place in the museum is a lounge on the 4th floor. A bare room, hospital bright, with hard chairs. A vending machine hums in the corner. An enormous window looks out on the moat around the Imperial Palace. The water is the same dense green as the evergreens. Snow clings to the stones of the moat wall long after it has gone from every other place.
I like to sit in this bright empty room and drink a hot can of tea until I am empty and resonant. Nothing in my head but pictures and a hum.
The overarching trend in Japanese art is that painters live either to their thirties or to their nineties, with almost no dying in between. I have no idea how this is enforced.
After many meetings and with mounting embarrassment, I begin to remember names. I start, of course, with the best-looking. Ai-mitsu, staring with his square-jaw out of his self-portrait of 1944. If I were so handsome, I’d paint myself too. Or Sazo Wada’s South Wind, men on a raft, a pink skinned man with a tousled blue shirt over his head and his brawny chest exposed. An orange rag around his loins beneath his navel. Any minute now the wind will whip it off. All of us on the raft will have at him.
Admittedly, my art appreciation skills are still embryonic. I like sex, and also I like solitude. To move in a large empty room where almost nothing is happening is a luxury virtually unknown in Tokyo.
The best place in the museum is a lounge on the 4th floor. A bare room, hospital bright, with hard chairs. A vending machine hums in the corner. An enormous window looks out on the moat around the Imperial Palace. The water is the same dense green as the evergreens. Snow clings to the stones of the moat wall long after it has gone from every other place.
I like to sit in this bright empty room and drink a hot can of tea until I am empty and resonant. Nothing in my head but pictures and a hum.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Prehistoric Life
A guy sent me a picture of his cock next to a pack of Marlboros, just to give an idea of the scale. Impressive—though it seems entirely possible that Marlboro makes special miniature packs of cigarette for just this purpose.
In reply I sent him a picture of a Triceratops.
“Where are you?” he wanted to know.
“I’m inside.”
In reply I sent him a picture of a Triceratops.
“Where are you?” he wanted to know.
“I’m inside.”
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