Friday, 30 October 2009
Thursday, 29 October 2009
The Game
Some time ago, someone proclaimed “let the game begin.”
Wait, when did the game begin?! Maybe when it was labelled a game. Maybe when the rules were laid out.
The Rules
1. Are completely made-up
2. You only have one chance *
3. You must give up ownership of yourself
4. Time and place regardless: this is the most important game you will ever play.
5. Personality regardless: you will never be trusted
6. The opposite team will dictate the rules
7. Again, regardless of time, place or personality.
8. If in doubt, please refer to Generic Love-Game Situation Handbook: Volume I: age 15-20
9. Love to hate!
* This is by far the most important rule, and will explain most/all of anyone's actions/paranoias during gameplay.
Gambatte ne.
Wait, when did the game begin?! Maybe when it was labelled a game. Maybe when the rules were laid out.
The Rules
1. Are completely made-up
2. You only have one chance *
3. You must give up ownership of yourself
4. Time and place regardless: this is the most important game you will ever play.
5. Personality regardless: you will never be trusted
6. The opposite team will dictate the rules
7. Again, regardless of time, place or personality.
8. If in doubt, please refer to Generic Love-Game Situation Handbook: Volume I: age 15-20
9. Love to hate!
* This is by far the most important rule, and will explain most/all of anyone's actions/paranoias during gameplay.
Gambatte ne.
Wednesday, 28 October 2009
Big doors divide everything. Big doors that stand from floor to ceiling
Partitioning corridors, these doors often stand quietly in the middle. Their capability to divide the entire lot isn’t lost by their status; looming at the side. They can break apart even the most spuriously arranged by just
shutting. They were all shut when we met.
Perhaps they’re meant for big robot machines, I joked. We opened one
And clung together
And thought the same
We should have thought the same.
It shouldn’t have been so fleeting
You look like a spider, you said
I have to weave webs, I said to your back. Everyone does what they can to feel at home.
We didn’t know how to stop the doors from shutting. You motion the shutting action with your hands. I look down at my spidery fingers. Clumsy, you once said.
Everyone does what they can to feel at home, I sigh.
Webs are so fragile. They break.
It’s fun to throw little things at spiders’ webs, you said. So we threw things at their webs, hoping to see them rush over and eat the trick flies. But the webs just broke, and the spiders disappeared.
Partitioning corridors, these doors often stand quietly in the middle. Their capability to divide the entire lot isn’t lost by their status; looming at the side. They can break apart even the most spuriously arranged by just
shutting. They were all shut when we met.
Perhaps they’re meant for big robot machines, I joked. We opened one
And clung together
And thought the same
We should have thought the same.
It shouldn’t have been so fleeting
You look like a spider, you said
I have to weave webs, I said to your back. Everyone does what they can to feel at home.
We didn’t know how to stop the doors from shutting. You motion the shutting action with your hands. I look down at my spidery fingers. Clumsy, you once said.
Everyone does what they can to feel at home, I sigh.
Webs are so fragile. They break.
It’s fun to throw little things at spiders’ webs, you said. So we threw things at their webs, hoping to see them rush over and eat the trick flies. But the webs just broke, and the spiders disappeared.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
I tried writing a blog entry in Japanese. But i wasnt sure if what id written was right, so i pasted it into an online language translator and this is what came out:
"Present class is difficult, was. The Japanese [be] it is we are unskillful today to do, but Japanese you speak we like. I become the Japanese rainbow [yo] thin. Much. Now apply to England you want, is. There is no money. It is there is no present [ku]. "
and this is what i originally wrote (to anyone who can read japanese..)
きょうのクラスはむずかしいでした。日本語べんきょうoするのはへたですが日本語o話すはすきです。私は日本語にじょうすになります。たぶん。
今イギリスにかえたいです。お金がない。たのしくない。
That online language translator is probably (definitely) not accurate. I wish it was though. I had no idea i sounded like such a nut..!
"Present class is difficult, was. The Japanese [be] it is we are unskillful today to do, but Japanese you speak we like. I become the Japanese rainbow [yo] thin. Much. Now apply to England you want, is. There is no money. It is there is no present [ku]. "
and this is what i originally wrote (to anyone who can read japanese..)
きょうのクラスはむずかしいでした。日本語べんきょうoするのはへたですが日本語o話すはすきです。私は日本語にじょうすになります。たぶん。
今イギリスにかえたいです。お金がない。たのしくない。
That online language translator is probably (definitely) not accurate. I wish it was though. I had no idea i sounded like such a nut..!
Monday, 26 October 2009
Dozo -continued from last post-
(By the way, this blog has turned into a rather abstract account of my time here in Tokyo. Apologies)
“Ahhh” he finally breathes. “You should go to the student affairs office and tell someone. Is there anything else?”
I lift my head. It’s all heavy. I gaze at him, willing the rest of the words to roam out like freed animals, but my mind has become blank and frozen.
“No, that's all." My smile is a little wonky. I reason that my askew smile is a direct reflection of the level of honesty in that statement. My eyes wander across the room again, picking out details in the clutter. There are so many books, flashcards, piles of corrected essays, little trinkets. Nothing interesting. I return to what’s important. The gentle man and I stare each other out once more, before I thank him, bowing my head slightly and making my excuse to leave.
Making an excuse is like moulding a ball of play dough. You just reshape the same lie to fit a different situation. Don’t mould it too much, it’s best left simple. I gather my belongings. Just a red and white striped shoulder bag that I stole from outside a charity shop. Stole. I glare at it for a split second, and smile warmly once more at the nice man.
It is quite clear that we both feel this has been an unsatisfactory meeting. But it’s too late; I’m already drifting towards the door, my legs creaking. The wooden door frame framing my body. Curving, fragile. A smile splinters across my face once more and I’m out. I’m running. My feet pound the concrete. Flip flops are disintegrating. They refuse to hold my feet, I think. They’re trying to escape.
“Ahhh” he finally breathes. “You should go to the student affairs office and tell someone. Is there anything else?”
I lift my head. It’s all heavy. I gaze at him, willing the rest of the words to roam out like freed animals, but my mind has become blank and frozen.
“No, that's all." My smile is a little wonky. I reason that my askew smile is a direct reflection of the level of honesty in that statement. My eyes wander across the room again, picking out details in the clutter. There are so many books, flashcards, piles of corrected essays, little trinkets. Nothing interesting. I return to what’s important. The gentle man and I stare each other out once more, before I thank him, bowing my head slightly and making my excuse to leave.
Making an excuse is like moulding a ball of play dough. You just reshape the same lie to fit a different situation. Don’t mould it too much, it’s best left simple. I gather my belongings. Just a red and white striped shoulder bag that I stole from outside a charity shop. Stole. I glare at it for a split second, and smile warmly once more at the nice man.
It is quite clear that we both feel this has been an unsatisfactory meeting. But it’s too late; I’m already drifting towards the door, my legs creaking. The wooden door frame framing my body. Curving, fragile. A smile splinters across my face once more and I’m out. I’m running. My feet pound the concrete. Flip flops are disintegrating. They refuse to hold my feet, I think. They’re trying to escape.
Friday, 23 October 2009
“Dozo”
My fist floats at the slightly ajar door, about to knock. He’s sitting at his desk, peeping at me from behind a thermos coffee cup. “Dozo” he says, those peeping eyes blink once. I enter. I sit in the chair slightly to the right of him. His legs swivel round to face me. Among this room of stuff, somehow we manage to put me back together.
“You have to tell people when things go wrong” he says. I nod. Everyone says this to me. I don’t know what else to tell them; already I feel as if I’ve given nearly all my secrets to the world. The thought of any more exposure makes me exhausted, much like I’d just awoken from a night of lying upon a windswept hill.
Deja vu. I sigh and avoid eye contact with the gentle and charming man opposite me. I am a magician, a chavette. I have this hood that hides my expression. Even though I can’t wear it indoors, I feel like my expression is somewhat hidden by it anyway. All around me there are things and objects arranged into strange piles of tamed chaos. I think of the insides of my head, spilled across these piles. Seeping into the pages. I look up at the man and smile for a second. He remains pensive, polite. A smile won’t do, I think. He wants me to talk to him. Another long silence that probably didn’t last as long as I thought.
“I can’t afford this city” I finally say. As the words leave my mouth they suddenly sound much smaller than when they were in my head. I want to grab them and stuff them back into my mouth, but they’re too light; they float away. Angry, I remember why I never talk to anyone. The man’s expression doesn’t change either; we’re like a pair of parking meters or toasters or refrigerators. I wonder if he beeps when he gets hungry. I wonder if his eyes which peep are backlit with LED lights.
“Ahhh” he finally breathes “you should go to the student affairs office and tell someone. Is there anything else?”
I lift my head. Its all heavy. I gaze at him, willing the rest of the words to float out like freed animals, but my mind has become blank and frozen.
"No, that's all," I smile.
“You have to tell people when things go wrong” he says. I nod. Everyone says this to me. I don’t know what else to tell them; already I feel as if I’ve given nearly all my secrets to the world. The thought of any more exposure makes me exhausted, much like I’d just awoken from a night of lying upon a windswept hill.
Deja vu. I sigh and avoid eye contact with the gentle and charming man opposite me. I am a magician, a chavette. I have this hood that hides my expression. Even though I can’t wear it indoors, I feel like my expression is somewhat hidden by it anyway. All around me there are things and objects arranged into strange piles of tamed chaos. I think of the insides of my head, spilled across these piles. Seeping into the pages. I look up at the man and smile for a second. He remains pensive, polite. A smile won’t do, I think. He wants me to talk to him. Another long silence that probably didn’t last as long as I thought.
“I can’t afford this city” I finally say. As the words leave my mouth they suddenly sound much smaller than when they were in my head. I want to grab them and stuff them back into my mouth, but they’re too light; they float away. Angry, I remember why I never talk to anyone. The man’s expression doesn’t change either; we’re like a pair of parking meters or toasters or refrigerators. I wonder if he beeps when he gets hungry. I wonder if his eyes which peep are backlit with LED lights.
“Ahhh” he finally breathes “you should go to the student affairs office and tell someone. Is there anything else?”
I lift my head. Its all heavy. I gaze at him, willing the rest of the words to float out like freed animals, but my mind has become blank and frozen.
"No, that's all," I smile.
Saturday, 17 October 2009
coral
I am running. My chest aches quickly; I have a smoking habit which stops me from running as fast as you. And my legs are short, I think. Whatever. We keep running. You reach back and grasp my hand, dragging me, begging me to go faster. You throw your head back and say something but it is inaudible and lost to the wind. Your grin tells me it was something nice. Hand in hand, we keep running. Earlier you grinned the same grin while you ate a jam sandwich. Why get a jam sandwich in the middle of Shinjuku, I thought. Because it’s cheap, you said. I look down at my coffee cake, which I could only afford on the negotiation that today I won’t eat lunch. Jam sandwiches are children’s foods, I think. I light a cigarette and glare at the girl sitting at the table next to us. You capture my glare on camera.
Later, we emerge from the basement coffee shop onto a wet and luminous pavement. In Japanese, ‘coffee shop’ is ‘kisaten.’ Because you get ten kisses, you say. It’s raining. The air is moist and saturated and the neon lights appear to have become more than colours because their night-time quivering gives them a mysterious organic quality. Like we’re walking around a coral reef. The buildings are coral, and all around us there are fish darting into coral nooks and crannies and corners.
If we got married, you say, the only witnesses would be the ominous dark waves from Ponyo (an anime). Their salty spray groans would send the news home via the sea, I say. And the sea would handle the information like a message in a bottle: pushing it gently towards its destination. Eventually the news would get home; ominous dark waves crawling through the front door. Whispering fragile salty messages to our parents while they sleep, dreaming of sons and daughters on pastures unknown.
Later still, we watch two foreign fishes fall out of a tree. A troop of photographers capture the moment. Silly fish, I think. They come all the way to Japan only to hide in the trees. Better to sprawl on the grass, I think. We sprawl a little. Infringing on each others’ 20 metre radius. Tomorrow, we’ll be on the news: students arrested for naïve aspirations after declaring autonomy and freedom at the park.
Eventually the coral calls, the coral glimmers and glistens and tells us to retreat to it after a long day out at sea. The waves are harsh. We rush. It’s good to get out of the storm.
Later, we emerge from the basement coffee shop onto a wet and luminous pavement. In Japanese, ‘coffee shop’ is ‘kisaten.’ Because you get ten kisses, you say. It’s raining. The air is moist and saturated and the neon lights appear to have become more than colours because their night-time quivering gives them a mysterious organic quality. Like we’re walking around a coral reef. The buildings are coral, and all around us there are fish darting into coral nooks and crannies and corners.
If we got married, you say, the only witnesses would be the ominous dark waves from Ponyo (an anime). Their salty spray groans would send the news home via the sea, I say. And the sea would handle the information like a message in a bottle: pushing it gently towards its destination. Eventually the news would get home; ominous dark waves crawling through the front door. Whispering fragile salty messages to our parents while they sleep, dreaming of sons and daughters on pastures unknown.
Later still, we watch two foreign fishes fall out of a tree. A troop of photographers capture the moment. Silly fish, I think. They come all the way to Japan only to hide in the trees. Better to sprawl on the grass, I think. We sprawl a little. Infringing on each others’ 20 metre radius. Tomorrow, we’ll be on the news: students arrested for naïve aspirations after declaring autonomy and freedom at the park.
Eventually the coral calls, the coral glimmers and glistens and tells us to retreat to it after a long day out at sea. The waves are harsh. We rush. It’s good to get out of the storm.
Thursday, 15 October 2009
Picking it all to pieces
I was once described as volatile by somebody’s mother. The person who informed me of this was amused by my surprise at such a description. They teased me about it a bit, and then assured me that it was completely accurate.
I’m sure the word ‘volatile’ has cropped up in many people’s thoughts when they’ve spoken to me. As they’ve stood there, slouching. Hearing me say all these words that just seem to fall from my mouth like apples. They ponder for a moment…What is this girl..? Suddenly another word attacks them. Volatile. The word greets them out of nowhere with the same force as the wind from a speeding train punching a newspaper on a soaking platform or a barber with a fine pair of scissors, chopping away. They snap back to the conversation, and suddenly I’ve warped into the most fluid and unreliable being they’ve ever laid eyes upon. Perhaps they grimace slightly.
The Unalchemist
The unalchemists
Turn wine into water
Every single day.
They don’t like gold
Instead
They prefer to cast spells and transform
The gilded into coal.
Some say the unalchemists are
Not of this world
Due to their manners:
They are completely spaced out.
And the only way to understand them
Is to liken them to
Other unworldly things:
A tiny monster.
A ragdoll, rolling down the hill.
I’m sure the word ‘volatile’ has cropped up in many people’s thoughts when they’ve spoken to me. As they’ve stood there, slouching. Hearing me say all these words that just seem to fall from my mouth like apples. They ponder for a moment…What is this girl..? Suddenly another word attacks them. Volatile. The word greets them out of nowhere with the same force as the wind from a speeding train punching a newspaper on a soaking platform or a barber with a fine pair of scissors, chopping away. They snap back to the conversation, and suddenly I’ve warped into the most fluid and unreliable being they’ve ever laid eyes upon. Perhaps they grimace slightly.
The Unalchemist
The unalchemists
Turn wine into water
Every single day.
They don’t like gold
Instead
They prefer to cast spells and transform
The gilded into coal.
Some say the unalchemists are
Not of this world
Due to their manners:
They are completely spaced out.
And the only way to understand them
Is to liken them to
Other unworldly things:
A tiny monster.
A ragdoll, rolling down the hill.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Hell Scrolls, Hiroshima and the Cultural Revolution
I went to the Tokyo National Museum. It's Japans’ oldest and largest. We only had time to look in the main hall (Honkan). It contains exhibits chronologically arranged from 10,000BC-late 19th century. I thought the arrangement was of particular interest. The second floor was ‘highlights of Japanese Art: Jomon-Edo’ and the first floor was Sculpture, Metal art, Lacquer ware, Swords, Modern art…Swords and modern art?! I found this juxtaposition strange and thought-provoking.
The military attire on display was actually very old, dating from the Heian to Edo period (12-19C). Every piece was beautifully adorned and embellished. I am pretty sure that functional Army clothing in the UK has never been so heavily decorated. But the Heian period was a time of individualisation: Japan was creating its own identity away from China and therefore areas such as military prestige were of the utmost importance. This Cultural Revolution is apparent in every aspect dating from this time. Japanese Kana script was developed, which meant the beginning of literature. For example the Genji Monogatari, which is widely considered to be the first novel ever, is an account of court life written by Lady Murasaki Shikibu in the Heian Period.
Other markers of change in the Heian period include the Jigoku Zoshi, or Scroll of Hell (declared a national treasure in 1956). This animated and horrific piece was created in the 12-13th Century (late Heian-Kamakura period) and depicts the six realms in which damned souls reside, according to Buddhist beliefs. Each realm has a different title, including Hell of Excrement, Hell of the Flaming Cock (!) and Hell of Pus and Blood. Like many popular religions the idea behind the scroll was to induce fear into the innocent and therefore attract more believers to the movement of Buddhism. The actual scrolls are beautiful and awe inspiring. They look convincingly like complete other-worlds and are rather scary to look at.
I was struck by the similarities between the Scroll of Hell and the Hiroshima Mural, created by Maruki Iri and Toshi in response to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, a full 7 centuries later. I personally find their murals more explicit and heart-wrenching because the hell which they depict is a hell which happened; a hell closer to home and a hell which to me feels more real than the realms of Buddhist hell.
The final theme of the day was modern art. In particular, the changing style of painting during the westernisation of Japan. In any culture, I believe art to be a response to the happenings in society at the time. These ‘modern’ pieces were created in the Meiji-Taisho period, 1868-1926. This was a time of modernisation (westernisation). I do not believe that to be modern one has to be western, but this is the path which Japan was led down. The importance of this time of change can be seen in paintings such as Portrait of Reiko by Kishida Ryusei and Night at the Railway Station by Takamura Shinpu. These paintings wouldn’t look out of place in the European Renaissance, but here they are sitting in the Taisho period. Japan had to prove its worthiness to the rest of the world, regrettably altering its traditional style and adopting another. However this sense of regret lasts only a moment…I feel that Japan may honour/respect its traditional past more so than the west.
The military attire on display was actually very old, dating from the Heian to Edo period (12-19C). Every piece was beautifully adorned and embellished. I am pretty sure that functional Army clothing in the UK has never been so heavily decorated. But the Heian period was a time of individualisation: Japan was creating its own identity away from China and therefore areas such as military prestige were of the utmost importance. This Cultural Revolution is apparent in every aspect dating from this time. Japanese Kana script was developed, which meant the beginning of literature. For example the Genji Monogatari, which is widely considered to be the first novel ever, is an account of court life written by Lady Murasaki Shikibu in the Heian Period.
Other markers of change in the Heian period include the Jigoku Zoshi, or Scroll of Hell (declared a national treasure in 1956). This animated and horrific piece was created in the 12-13th Century (late Heian-Kamakura period) and depicts the six realms in which damned souls reside, according to Buddhist beliefs. Each realm has a different title, including Hell of Excrement, Hell of the Flaming Cock (!) and Hell of Pus and Blood. Like many popular religions the idea behind the scroll was to induce fear into the innocent and therefore attract more believers to the movement of Buddhism. The actual scrolls are beautiful and awe inspiring. They look convincingly like complete other-worlds and are rather scary to look at.
I was struck by the similarities between the Scroll of Hell and the Hiroshima Mural, created by Maruki Iri and Toshi in response to the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, a full 7 centuries later. I personally find their murals more explicit and heart-wrenching because the hell which they depict is a hell which happened; a hell closer to home and a hell which to me feels more real than the realms of Buddhist hell.
The final theme of the day was modern art. In particular, the changing style of painting during the westernisation of Japan. In any culture, I believe art to be a response to the happenings in society at the time. These ‘modern’ pieces were created in the Meiji-Taisho period, 1868-1926. This was a time of modernisation (westernisation). I do not believe that to be modern one has to be western, but this is the path which Japan was led down. The importance of this time of change can be seen in paintings such as Portrait of Reiko by Kishida Ryusei and Night at the Railway Station by Takamura Shinpu. These paintings wouldn’t look out of place in the European Renaissance, but here they are sitting in the Taisho period. Japan had to prove its worthiness to the rest of the world, regrettably altering its traditional style and adopting another. However this sense of regret lasts only a moment…I feel that Japan may honour/respect its traditional past more so than the west.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
typhoon
It’s been raining for 4 days straight. On the weekend the weather was somewhat indifferent. Like when you see a friend after ages and the anticipation of seeing them completely tips the actual experience overboard and you land with a splash inside a cold pool of de motivation, acted out in the form of a tiresome afternoon of ‘aahs’ and ‘hmms.’
It rained a little last week. However there is a major difference between last weeks’ rain and this weeks’ rain. This week Japan is anticipating a typhoon. I’ve been keeping up with the weather; we all have. In the morning while chewing on a perfectly formed piece of toast. While trying to recite my dreams to myself, while trying to regurgitate vocabulary for the daily test and simultaneously trying to swallow that perfect lump of unspoilt bread. Gazing through my thoughts, past my lashes, and over the raven dark heads of other weary college girls chewing on their flawless toast, an image cascades across the television. It’s been crawling towards that digital representation of Japan for a while now. The typhoon has been getting closer, and this morning it arrived.
The approaching mess of chaotic unknown which so objectively goes against everything Japan as a nation stands for, has been chartered and labelled. The winds are growing stronger and stronger (in fact as I write this I have just noticed my cherished yet somewhat dead potted plant has been blown into oblivion) however, I attend a hardworking university, and no amount of blustering gales and precipitation will stop classes from running, so I must brave the wind and rains (admittedly, it is sunny right now. But that wont last) and drag myself through the park which may or may not be flooded. I am somewhat nervous and expectant of great things happening in this gale, but part of me is also ready to be let down by its lack of force. They said we might get a day off! It was all lies! Already, I can feel myself diving into that pool of indifference and de motivation.
It rained a little last week. However there is a major difference between last weeks’ rain and this weeks’ rain. This week Japan is anticipating a typhoon. I’ve been keeping up with the weather; we all have. In the morning while chewing on a perfectly formed piece of toast. While trying to recite my dreams to myself, while trying to regurgitate vocabulary for the daily test and simultaneously trying to swallow that perfect lump of unspoilt bread. Gazing through my thoughts, past my lashes, and over the raven dark heads of other weary college girls chewing on their flawless toast, an image cascades across the television. It’s been crawling towards that digital representation of Japan for a while now. The typhoon has been getting closer, and this morning it arrived.
The approaching mess of chaotic unknown which so objectively goes against everything Japan as a nation stands for, has been chartered and labelled. The winds are growing stronger and stronger (in fact as I write this I have just noticed my cherished yet somewhat dead potted plant has been blown into oblivion) however, I attend a hardworking university, and no amount of blustering gales and precipitation will stop classes from running, so I must brave the wind and rains (admittedly, it is sunny right now. But that wont last) and drag myself through the park which may or may not be flooded. I am somewhat nervous and expectant of great things happening in this gale, but part of me is also ready to be let down by its lack of force. They said we might get a day off! It was all lies! Already, I can feel myself diving into that pool of indifference and de motivation.
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