SOME ADVICE TO MYSELF, FOR USE WHEN ENTIRELY DESPERATE
Section A
1.
Thinking is not your friend.
As complete abstinence from thought is not possible, keep
discursiveness to a minimum.
Above all, avoid “figuring out”.
2.
I thoroughly approve of the magazine rack I see here before
me, with titles like: VIRGIN HARLEY, GARAGE LIFE, ON THE BOARD, PERFECT BOAT,
BIKER-MON, and THRASHER. On the cover of
nearly all these titles, a person appears ecstatic, suspended in mid-air.
Ideally the world would be saved very quietly, so that all
the foolishness could just go on.
3. tulip tree
Instead of thinking – observe.
Despite its bad reputation, there’s a lot to be said for the
external world. In fact, it may be
attempting to rescue you.
This tulip tree here on the corner, which just three days
ago appeared a virgin at the altar, and is now that same bride in the same
dress after a 72 hour orgy. The tulip tree is
waving to you in her spoiled tatters, reminding you that, contrary to what
monotheists claim, virginity keeps coming around.
4. schedule
Five days of responsible pragmatism, compassionate
engagement, budgeting, et cetera.
Followed by two days of batshit crazy.
Still, he feels some security in knowing he has a schedule.
5. hall
Something essential about Tokyo, it seems to me, is
expressed in corridors like this one. Here at Motomachi-Chukagai station,
between the ticket gates and exits 1 and 2.
A hall short enough to walk and too long to imagine, with white tiles
and a low ceiling, so long and featureless you assume at first it has to be a
trick with mirrors.
6.
Some people, as soon as you hear them say, “I made it
through” – you know they didn’t.
7. drink
Expat children beside the magazine rack, with Japanese faces
and American voices.
“At the hotel I gave them my card, right, so I could drink
as much as I want. Turned out I drank san ju man en, three hundred thousand!
It’s not even a disaster.
In the next breath he talks about his girlfriend, where they’re going
next.
8. scuba
These two cardboard figures, for example, here in the lobby
of the Tip X gym in Shibuya. They appear to be wearing scuba masks. What’s the message supposed to be?
Consider the enormous delicacy of Tokyo, the unparalleled
discretion and tact, the fact that I have managed to live here for nearly a
decade, without ever knowing what the hell is going on.
9. exercise
Buddhist wisdom is very helpful. However, if you do not have the time or
inclination, or if you always meant to learn but never got around to it --
aerobic exercise works as well or better.
10.
Thirty seven minutes after midnight on the Namboku Line and
everyone (everyone) in this train car
is drunk. Drunk passed out with their
mouths open. Drunk peering into their
phones as if into a bottomless well.
Drunkenly looking around, he wonders, “Is it so terrible
just to be here?”
11. hook
With some people it’s very tricky. Because it’s not like you can actually see the hook in their lip or their
flank. The rusty bit of iron that run
clear through their throat. The slave irons,
the wire that binds their feet.
And yet the hook is there somewhere, almost always.
12. clues
Here in the lobby of the luxury gym, beside the newspapers
and the stacks of manga, are full-scale replicas of
a) a
head of cauliflower
b) a
bunch of white asparagus
Perhaps these clues have been placed here to remind us of
the dreamlike quality of the world.
Unfortunately it is not possible to look back now and pinpoint – was the
world real at some point?
13.
A large sign at Shibuya station reads FIGHT JAPAN!
I know what they mean, but I also think it is increasingly
possible that they also mean it the way I mean it too.
I struggle to explain, when people ask, “Is it difficult to
be a foreigner in Japan?”
Yes, it is difficult.
But it is nowhere near as difficult as it is to be Japanese in Japan.
14.
It is commonly assumed that foreigners stay in Tokyo for the
money. In fact this is rarely the case.
Overwhelmingly, foreigners stay in Tokyo because they get
away with things here that they could not possibly get away with anywhere else.
I should say “we”.
15. hook
May I concoct within myself that hook-dissolving
elixir. The antidote for poison, wire,
glass, nail, bomb. That which aches,
burns, bites. That which is
irretrievable. That which is beyond
repair.
May it melt. May it
melt. May it melt.
16. my Tokyo
It can also be a tremendous comfort – the gray anonymity,
the hygiene and privacy of it. Like the
small room in the hospital where they bring you to tell you that your
sweetheart is gone.
It is possible, even then, to feel grateful for that airless
and colorless room. For the simple gray
emptiness of it, for the fact it does not attempt to console. For the comfort and security of knowing you
could bleed to death and not stain anything.
17. anyone?
Perhaps you are waiting for someone?
Now that we’ve begun – maybe it makes sense for someone else
to arrive?
But in Tokyo it takes a long time for people to come along. Sometimes a very long time.
18. identifying marks
Shinjuku around 8 in the morning:
A high school boy’s uniform, still in the style of war. From his backpack, a bushy animal tail bounces
as he walks.
The sweet-faced octogenarian has a marijuana leaf
embroidered on his baseball cap.
A white bus with tinted windows and the slogan PREMIUM
DREAM.
19.
Are you remembering to not figure anything out?
Do not attempt to figure anything out.
20. manual
A kind of instruction manual. For when you cannot go on.
The sort of friend who just gets in her car and comes over.
21. messenger
Always the same:
The people who most need help – do not attend. The disaster is already underway. The nightmare’s in full-swing. Also: rent’s due, phone’s ringing,
something’s burning, what’s that kid
bawling over now?
Always:
How to help and how to get help through?
I cannot even figure out a way to get a message to myself,
that nearby person. Often underfoot,
often exceedingly faraway.
22. theory
He has a theory he ought to behave as if he were about to be
rescued. As if it has all been arranged:
a helicopter, an exorcist, an artist’s grant.
Now all he needs do is compose himself and act calm, as though he’d been
calm all along, confident he is about to be rescued, certain he deserves to be
saved.
He knows there’s nothing to this. It buys him time.
23. disappears
Once a week he disappears in Tokyo. Wide-awake at 5am, everything he needs
springs into his bag. Bounding down the
stairs, he jaunts to the station, buys a hot can of espresso from the vending
machine.
The train is still peaceful at that early hour, though even
then there is no place to sit. Props
himself in the corner, and reads John Ashbery, as the Circle Line goes
round. Happiness is coming, he
thinks. When in fact the very best
moment is already underway.
24.
My mind has only these tiny baby hands. Almost transparent. Holding on as hard as they can.
25.
Breakfast he eats at the counter in a cheap place near
Shinjuku South Exit. A double portion of
minced raw tuna and a raw egg, which he unofficially believes makes him just
slightly bionic.
26. petition
If I believed in prayers of petition, I would say to the
mystery, Give me some small task I can
actually do or allow me to die.
Dearest mystery. I
trust that you will not mind if I live as though you had said, Take notes.
27. pleasure
He’s never heard anyone mention it, but it is for him the
great pleasure of Tokyo. The essential
pleasure.
After transferring twice or perhaps three times, he exits
the station, turns off the main street, turns left twice, then right again, and
finds himself in front of a coffee shop.
It is the faultlessly bland branch of a ubiquitous chain. Entering, he orders a coffee, carries it up
three flights of stairs, and looks for a seat in the corner.
There, he organizes his thoughts and sips the tasteless
coffee with real pleasure, certain that he will not be found.
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