“CAPSULE”

A search for identity set in modern day Japan

BY JOHNNY PRESS

© 2004

Capsule One: -------------------------- Strangers     pg 1

Capsule Two ------------------------------- Worlds   pg 9

Capsule Three:---------------------- Impressions pg 16

Capsule Four: --------------------------- Borders   pg 25

Capsule Five: =============== Relations    pg 34

Capsule Six: --------------------------- Intimacy    pg 41

Capsule Seven: _________________Silence    pg 51

Capsule Eight: ----   ----    ----    ----  Memory    pg 61

Capsule Nine: ---------------------------------“I”    pg 70

Capsule Ten: -----------------------Nationalism    pg 77

Capsule Eleven: ----------------------Simulation   pg 91

Capsule Twelve: ------------------------- Spirit    pg 112

Capsule Thirteen: ------------------------Body    pg 114

Capsule Fourteen: ------------------ Subway      pg 124

Capsule Fifteen: ------------------------ Home     pg 135

 -Capsule One: Strangers -

This really happened. I say this while remembering that walls between fiction and fact are never as clear as we'd like them to be.  In fact, more than most people, Beni (who is my co-star in this book) was fictional.  He had lived a life that was of his own design. 

We were both were facing big decisions when we met.  Mine was whether or not to stick with my fiancé.  His was whether or not to stick with the life he’d built for himself in Japan.  Big decisions really require you to ask fundamental questions about yourself.  Decisions that will define you for years are best made after scrupulously exploring who you are.

This book contains our wide - ranging scrutiny of identities.  This final tally will hopefully reveal who we are and what we must do. 

Fiction is always breathing down your throat when you are traveling.  You can tell a stranger that you are a gardener or an international gold broker. Your story is as convincing as you make it.  Traveling is always as much about unchartered identity exploration as it is about unchartered terrain.  Distance makes a free-zone possible, where you can try on different masks. 

In reality one does have a life history.  But that too is a montage.  Which parts do you emphasize when introducing yourself?  How deeply do you go into your secrets?  Every time a traveler speaks, she or he is subtly conscious of the fact that they might not be believed. 

Traveling also facilitates the most perfect honesty possible.  Telling strangers of your deviancy and regrets is often easier than telling intimates (or those who might know the intimates). 

That is why I can let you read this book and trust your feedback.  It would be disastrous if my fiancé found out about the contents of this book - Drugs and worse!   Similarly, Beni will only get an edited version in order to not hurt his feelings.  [Note to self: Erase the previous line after finishing the Beni version].  

Both of us were painfully aware that deciding what type of life to have and person to be is fatal.  Your tombstone refers to what you did do.  Very often life is strikingly either/or.  The path not taken isn’t.

Japan is an amazing backdrop.  Being in Japan allowed me to learn about being American.  It is a known irony that one can never learn of their culture from their culture.  One’s ways are “what people do.” One’s understandings seem to be common sense.  From the outside, however, American idiosyncrasies become stark.  To be in a country so alien is to encounter parables concerning nation (and self) on nearly every block.

When people ask me where I’m from, for example, I usually avoid the word “America.” The name “America” rightfully belongs to the whole western hemisphere.  We are rude, ignorant, and arrogant to usurp it.  In Japan no one understands “The States.”  Despite the politically correct discomfort, you quickly learn to understand here (more than at home) that you are from “America.” 

Being American, furthermore, is an unavoidable and prominent aspect of your essence.  Leftist geo-political hesitations about unfairly usurping names have a kind of generosity that is foreign here.  The idea of cultures as equals is a given in American minds.  Fairness for all people is what we assume all cultures want.  The Japanese assume, rather, a racial nationalist competitiveness. American notions of universalism don’t translate. They aren’t common sense.

Gems of realization are to be found where peoples separate. 

            Rappongi is the area in Tokyo where most of my story happened.  Rappongi is well known as the section of Tokyo where foreigners party.  It means “six”, “oblong shaped objects”, “wood”.  But translations cannot always be done with a dictionary. Like lives, words without context have no meaning.  Without understanding the culture, there is no way for me to appreciate the physical and emotional resonance to “six”, “oblong shaped objects”, “wood”.  Go figure.

            The buildings of Rappongi sparkle and the streets are packed.  It is an international bizarre.  French, Nigerian, Israeli, Americans, Chinese.  We are all united by the fact that we are strangers in a strange land.  Debauchery and sleaze are the common currency on the surface of Rappongi.  Marketing and anonymity tend to exasperate the exploding demand for such things.  But a need to understand each other and find community as foreigners really explains the congregation.  Rappongi is very popular.

Only a minimal amount of talking is required for commerce. There is a lot more conversation in Rappongi than material needs dictate. Talking provides imagined connections.  For the conversation to be comforting, people minimize explorations of differences.  Isolation is also reinforced by the fact that most people mainly speak with those who share their heritage.  Being foreign is existentially terrifying. 

Beni and I felt urgency in exploring the walls of misunderstanding and the ways in which they encircle all of us.  Finding the bedrocks of our identities didn’t only have abstract relevance to our lives.  This urgency was born out of our both having important decisions to make.

On the night on which I met Beni, I was on a long and arduous search to find a bar where I might interact with some of Rappongi’s international scene.  When I met him I had already had a lonely drink at one promising bar (where I spoke with absolutely no one) and was heading to another. 

My Lonely Planet guide book said there was a bar nearby, called Bar None, where one could meet foreigners without being overwhelmed by techno music.  Having a guidebook named Lonely Planet is ingenious.  It keeps people dissatisfied and searching.  Anyhow, I needed the goal.  Being lost, I could ask strangers if they had any idea where the bar was.  This provided a feint hope of companionship.

As I turned right up to go up a hill, I had the marvelous fortune of encountering my future friend Beni.  Beni said he had no idea where Bar None was, but wanted to know what I sought there.  What was to be discovered?  The description appealed to him.  He could go for a place where one could hear themselves think.  And he was gratified to find one of his age out and about in the fun district.  Most travelers tended to be younger. 

Beni is half a foot taller than I and looks like a school marm.  Thin as a rail, his round wire-rimmed spectacles make his shaven face look intelligent and upper - crusty.  He would not be out of place on a yacht.   My years wear more obviously on me.  Usually adorned with a goatee, my bulk is Russian peasant with early teen years spent working out.  He’s Where’s Waldo.  I am Victor Mature. 

How oddly our descriptions clash with our characters (at least in my mind).  He looks suave and refined and I look like a football player.  Yet, despite his image, Beni prefers sex to books. Some day I will get the, “academic most likely to be confused with a truck driver” award.

Even our knowledge bases are backwards.  I’ve spent years in academia, love the study of language, and yet am nearly monolingual.  Beni is fluent in five languages!  He has the background to have all kinds of academic insights, but he’s never sought them.  

Originally I suspected that Beni was gay.  This suspicion came partly from his tall thin frame, polo shirt, and glasses.   Then there were his mannerisms.  He had a comfort in his own skin that was very feminine.  I realize now that I was falling into the trap of confusing the femininity\masculinity scale with the gay\straight scale. But as far as first impressions go, his body type, cleanliness, and high-pitched raspy voice seemed convincing.

It didn’t take ten minutes to know that he would be an interesting person to spend time with.  He had been in Japan for seven years and was rather excited.  He had just landed two really good gigs.  Tomorrow he was to sign a contract to work in a university. It was a teaching job that would get him maximum pay for minimum hours. That he had gotten this gig, and that he valued it for the freedom it would provide, impressed me.

He shone as he told me that he was also about going to go from being hourly to salaried for his weekend work of performing wedding ceremonies.  A priest!  My gay suspicion grew. 

“The ceremonies are only twenty minutes, and then I can go.  I do this about eight times a weekend and get paid a tremendous amount.  It’s too easy.” 

“Are you ordained?” I asked, suspecting that he was.

“Oh, no!  I found a Web site that said that anybody should be able to be ordained.  I just printed a certificate from their Web site and no one has ever questioned the legitimacy of my credentials!  It’s amazing. But I really put a lot of love and good intentions into every ceremony.  I don’t take it lightly.”

“Are you supposed to stay afterwards though?”

“No.”

“It sounds like in India where you’ll see groups of wandering transvestites.  They survive by attending weddings.  It’s considered good luck to have a transvestite at your wedding.”  I wondered if my India reference would impress him.

“Exactly.  Here, it’s considered up-scale to have a white guy take part in the ceremony.  I just say some memorized words in Japanese.  After that I’m not expected to hang out at all.”  In a turn around of trumping, his not even mentioning my having been to India as being special impressed me.

“Wow!  That is great.  I used to live with a gay priest.  He did gay wedding ceremonies. And since not a lot of people do those, he got a lot of business.”  This statement served the double purpose of conveying that I had worthwhile conversation to share and implying that I was gay.  If erroneously flirting was what it took to get a friend, I wasn’t entirely above the idea. 

But when he asked what I was doing in Asia, I had to burst the bubble.  I told him I was visiting my fiancée in Korea. 

He, like everybody else, was amazed that I could have a relationship at such a distance.   And his voice conveyed no hint of diminished enthusiasm now that my sexual orientation was apparent.

“I just got married,” he volunteered. 

“Congratulations.”  I said with an enthusiasm that was partially about my realization that he wasn’t gay.

“Well, it was just for visa purposes.  I was going to have to leave the country and a girl friend of mine helped me out.  Now I can stay regardless of whether we continue to live together or not.  And in four years I’ll have permanent status.  I’ll be able to do everything but vote and never have to worry about my visa again.” 

            “Wow.  That is great.  You’ll be like a citizen.”

            “I’m not Japanese though.” His disappointment was carried by an upside down smile that cringed at the edges.

            “But legally, for all practical purposes . . .”

           “Yeah, you’re right, In terms of legal working and paperwork status . . .”

            “That’s great.” My tentative inquiry reflected his dimmed tone.

            “It’s great and it’s scary.   This gig is too perfect…  Citizenship and easy money.  It feels like it may trap me.  It may have already trapped me.  I don’t know if this is where I want to end up or invest more years.”

            “I can totally relate to the question of whether or not you should continue to be wed to a cush job.  I teach history, psychology and philosophy in a high school in L.A.  It is a great job, but I’m in my seventh year and I think that life should repeat as little as possible.”

            “Teaching high school is a great job?”

            “Totally.  Our kids are great.  We’re the fifth best high school in L.A.  That’s why it is so hard to leave.  I don’t know that I’ll ever find another school this good that lets me teach what I want.”

            “Traps.”

            “Gilded.” And with those one word punctuations we had found a connection. It was a friendship bonded by a similarity of linguistic styles. We had a similar background. We understood each other perfectly. Beni agreed to search for Bar None with me.  If it wasn’t loud he said he would come in and have a drink with me. 

When Beni described himself as being American he didn’t mention the fact that he hadn’t been there since he was seventeen.   Using early memories and location to describe oneself -- when one is older and hasn’t been home in so long -- seems illogical at first.  But travelers know the depth to which their country defines them.  Reiterating our earliest times makes us a known commodity (to ourselves as well as others).  At any rate, it was too early for Beni to delve into his convoluted history with me.  I still got the standard “American” answer.

When I am asked where I am from, specifically, I must say, “Los Angeles.”  This never seems to sit well with me.  Am I really, once more, of that city that I left for so long?  Perhaps being back in my original city, and the one my family is in, gives me the mental luxury of being able to question my loyalty. Beni seemed to remember his American affiliation without question.  There is a certain intimacy with which memories that are never to be refreshed are held. 

While we talked, we walked and asked for directions.  In Rappongi, when someone gives you directions they are based on the fact that behind every certainty is a hunch backed by some vague beer drowned memory. Fantastically, random people -- with their more right than wrong guesses about where they think your destination is -- can eventually get you there. 

 Bar None was perfectly to our liking.  No one was there.  At first we thought a comedy show was about to start, but it turned out that it had just finished.  The only entertainment left were two guys getting their publicity stills taken on stage.

“The photo they are taking,” Beni informed me, “is a common comedy formula here in Japan.  There is one straight guy and one slap sticker.”  (All being metaphor, I’m not sure which I am in this tale.)

Beni’s comment made me feel like I had just received a gift.  Though not very important, it was the kind of insight that you could only get from a person who is a local.  Learning the nuances of cultures and mindscapes is the delicacy that I travel for.  It is why I cross oceans.

Speaking of straight and comedic men, when we got drinks Beni wanted water and I had a beer.  They were 500 yen each.  Japan is expensive. Four-dollar water!  Beni paid for both without comment.  I said I’d get the next round.  I will never be even with him.

Without my asking, he reassured me that although he didn’t drink he didn’t mind at all if I did.  He was in Alcoholics Anonymous, but just for alcohol and smoking.  He still smoked pot occasionally. 

Beni was living the life of a nomad.  That resonated with me.  There is a romantic nomad tradition shared by Californians in my generation.  We were raised in the post-sixties dream of endless choices.  We anticipated the post-modern, in that there were no limits of class or culture or obligation that applied. It was made extra romantic by the fact that one so free was so excruciatingly alone, in that we forsook the affirming, comfortable identities that society approves. It was enlightenment, in that it had unlimited possibilities.  This California lifestyle and dreamin’ brings adventure.

Yet, “utopia” also literally means “no place”.  Not having a commitment or tie to something larger than one’s day-to-day existence leaves one with no accumulation.  Cultivation of structures (be they religion, culture, country, history or relationships) pays dividends.  Cultivation of such soil is a necessary precondition of our “freedoms.”  Jack Kerouac found jobs and cars waiting wherever he went.  You don’t reap what you sow, but what you sow and tend. Given that, Sartre’s idea that making your story part of another story is living in bad faith, haunts me.  He who would give up his liberty for security is lost.  Golden cages are still cages.  Californians dream of endless varieties of freedoms never lost.

I have known many people who live a faith-based life.  They care not for tomorrow and have many great todays.   They are comforted by Jesus saying that the lord will take care of us.  Less theocratically, they believe that the “universe will provide” for them.  And, as often as not, greater things happen in their lives than they could have consciously planned.  For example, fate (accepting such a concept for now) led me to Beni.

_______________________________________________________

You yourself, Tomerella, are a great example of this.  You probably don’t have two cents to rub together. But you are living your dreams.  You’re really brave.  My monk friend, Friar Moose, would be another example.  By the way, he taught me the difference between a friar and a monk.  Friars are homeless.  Monks take shelter in monasteries (like a pope cowering in the “Pope-mobile”).   California dreams are born of a deeper spiritual faith.

_____________________________________________________

Again, after having worked for six years, doing nine months a year of full-time teaching, I was at a pivotal moment.  At thirty nine youthful dreams of cutting loose called me.  They opined one last time or never again.  I trembled at the destruction of the rocks that may greet me there.  The sirens of country, history, culture and community also called me.  Yet keeping the course year after year is like having a book with just one repeating chapter.  Working a repetitive job is the ultimate existential death for Californians of my bent.  Old habits die hard.

Was Beni to be an inspiration to destruction?  Perhaps he would scare me back into the cage.   At any rate, the musings of one who has unequivocally chosen freedom are always more interesting than one who accepted (not chose) the straight and narrow.

Capsule Two:  Worlds

We sat at one of the many empty bar stools surrounding small tables that were separated (in order to make as many islands as possible) in the middle of the vast wood floor.  We did what most men who don’t know each other do: we spoke of our work.  In courtship one first talks of one’s glories, not one’s issues.  In our case, we both had extracurricular creative projects to disclose.  I think we impressed each other.  I know we enjoyed talking with each other.

Beni was working on something I was not to appreciate the genius of until later, when I actually heard it.  That was probably because he discussed it in terms of business and not in terms of art.

“I have a fully produced book and CD that kids can learn English with,” he said[LL1] with an intense squinting that made him look slightly unstable. “It has songs and dialogues, and I’m working on the work book.  It alternates.  First a song then a dialogue then a song…Each dialogue-song combination covers particular areas of language.

“The theory is that singing is speaking.  It’s all making sound.  The Japanese really have trouble with this.  They learn the words and grammar and then don’t take that final step and speak.”

“It’s the same in Korea.” I added. “I taught there for nine months.”

“Really? Neat. When?”

“Seven years ago.  And I remember how hard it was to get them to speak.  Because of constant testing, for them, it was either wrong or right.  And they were afraid to make mistakes.”

“Exactly the same thing happens here.  With my songs they will hopefully enjoy the singing and characters and will disassociate the whole thing with school work.   All the characters are part of the lives of kids going to a high school.

“Textbooks [LL2] have that school feeling to them.  Plus they are never looked at once they are finished.  This CD is something they will use it at home long after I’m gone.  It is something that can get the Japanese to speak.

“Actually the entire thing should teach itself without me.  That’s the goal.”

“Wouldn’t it kind of put you out of business -- not needing a human?”

“Well that hasn’t happened yet.  In the past I’ve played the songs and worked hard for the students.  But this year at the university, I’m going to make the students almost exclusively use my CD and book.  I want to make them independent of me.  If I’m really strict about their following it, I’m sure they’ll be able to learn an amazing amount and develop that sense of independence that’ll allow them to use it without me.”

“I’ve been told I can be really lazy with the kids, but I’m going to be really strict.  These tapes aren’t just for fun.  They will have to work the system.  There will be practice sheets and they will have had to have memorized passages for each class.” 

“So is this totally made?” 

“It’s recorded and packaged.  But I’m still working on the workbook.  That is what I have to do as we’re working through it this semester.”

“Is it just you on guitar?”  Why do I have the sadistic tendency to destroy and belittle other’s accomplishments?  I hope he didn’t pick up on it.

“No.  I have a whole band.  There is a female vocalist, a bassist a cellist and a drummer.  I hired them and rented the studio time and made this product.  I’m really proud of it.”

“Wow.  What a lot of effort.  I’d love to hear it.”  I said somewhat relieved that spiteful condescension hadn’t sabotaged our new-born friendship.

“Sure! Except for the workbook, the product is done.  It’s in several book stores, but it isn’t selling.  Not yet.  The stores aren’t pushing it.  I’m sure it would do better if only they would market it for me.  I went to one store and it was on the bottom shelf and almost hidden.  But if I can get it selling, it could be really popular, because you don’t need to be enrolled in a school or arrange for a teacher to use it.”

“It’s the old catch-twenty two -- it has to be popular to sell a lot, but you have to sell a lot before it’ll be popular.  It sounds like if you don’t need to be in an institution to use it, a lot of people could potentially buy it.  And if it worked it could spread by word of mouth.” People like people that concur with them and I concurred.

            “That’s the idea.  I’ve put the product out there, and the Japanese need it.  They are a rich country and study a lot, but they cannot speak English.”  Beni emphasized the last three words.  “Unless they find a different way than what they’ve been doing, they’ll never learn English as a country.”

            “It could foster international understanding.  If it is self-teaching, it could be a real Rosetta Stone.”  Beni’s face seemed to indicate that he knew about the translating stone that gave us the key to deciphering ancient Egyptian.  “The world is supposedly moving towards English. And to the extent that people want to be linked, your CD could make it so that we could all understand each other.  Who knows, it could be helpful with international understanding and stuff.  It could help stop them from bombing us again!”

            “Well, that’s a little lofty.  Anyhow, their culture is their culture and talking at each other wouldn’t stop them from attacking us.  That’s my thought.” 

            “Yeah, when I taught in Korea I always felt like I was aiding the enemy.” Eesh.  I hoped I hadn’t just degraded his profession.  Beni looked down reflectively for a moment, heightening my anxiety.

Dejectedly, Beni mumbled, “I’ve never thought of that, thanks for being honest about how you see it.”

            “I try to push things into lofty geo-political categories.” I said defensively. “That’s just my tendency.”  Without that it’s just another language tape.  Why bother? I completed the thought internally.

“But either way, it’s impressive.” I continued the thread aloud.  “It’s conceptual.  I like it.”

“My real goal,” Beni continued unabated, “is just to get my product out there and then be able to live off of it.   If people were teaching themselves and these things were selling themselves I could be free and financially independent.”

“Right now it’s not selling at all?”  My motives for asking this were tawdry.

“It’s selling okay in a couple of cities.  Best in Nagasaki and Kobe.” 

“Nagasaki.  That’s shows cosmic significance.  More than others, they know the value of discussion . . . or negotiations . . . or mutual understanding.  You know what I mean.”  Then I swooped back down from my perch.  “How many do you sell a year there?”

“Only about twenty a year.   I need to sell about 2000 a year to be self – sufficient.  That would get me about twenty thousand dollars a year.  At retail I can make about ten dollars a sale.”

“Two thousand is nothing when you think of the millions of school kids in this country.  You’d just need to get about . . .   thirty schools a year to adopt it at one hundred per school.  Traveling could be a part of your work as you sell them in different cities.  Then you could fly as you re-did them for other countries and languages.”

“And translate the workbook.”  He added to remind me of the workload. “And rerecord songs to address the particular needs of the different countries’ problems.

If it took off I would consider doing that.  Now I’m just trying to get it bought here.  I’ve thought about it though.  I purposely made the vocal tracks different from the other tracks for that reason.”

“An idea without marketing is like a tree in the woods.  It barely exists.  I guess that’s how ideas are like people.  Marketing, marketing, marketing.”

“You’re totally right about marketing products anyhow!” Beni’s puzzlement showed he didn’t fully get my sense of humor yet.  “This product is self-teaching and needed.  But I don’t know anything about marketing.  That is the thing stopping my sales and your world-wide revolution of understanding.”

“I’ve written a book too.” I slyly mentioned, quickly enough for it to be ignored. “But you’re right.  The marketing and publishing thing is really hard.”

            “So you’ve written one too, eh? What’s it about?”

            “I kind of hesitate to say.  My book is really controversial.”  I really didn’t want to alienate my new friend by getting into this topic.  But it was too late now; the cat was out of the bag.  I was going for broke. 

“It’s an environmental manifesto.  But you really need a lot of background before you jump to conclusions about the conclusion, though.” 

“Oh, I won’t.  I almost promise.  Tell me what it’s about.”

            “Well, in the preface I start by saying it is like an inoculation against the ideas presented.  It is a poor argument for an evil idea.  That way when someone who is eloquent comes along with the same evil idea, they’ll be prepared to fight against their argument.”

Nervousness always made me extend the telling about the preliminary parts of my book before I couldn’t stall any more and had to announce what the end was about.

            “A disclaimer is always important before you make an argument.” Beni remarked, revealing some droll humor skills. 

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  My flat reply acknowledged his humor.  We were building some rapport.  It felt good. 

“The book then goes on to talk about the origin of consciousness.  Ooohhhh.  Heady topic!  It traces the long, tortuous process of how our modern mind came about.  Most folks don’t know that our way of thinking is earned and cultivated, not automatic.”

“Most people haven’t spent years in other countries.  It’s beyond a gap in thinking.  At some point, it’s a gap in feeling, seeing, in…everything.  I cannot -- no foreigner can -- be friends with the Japanese.  All my friends are ganjis.”

“Ganjis?” I asked.

“People from another land.  After being told you’re not part of them many times, you realize that your community must come from outsiders.”

“Wow!  That’s totally fascinating to me.   I normally just talk about the distance between modern minds and ancient minds.  I think -- maybe I’m wrong -- that that is an even huger difference.  They were totally insane, sort schizophrenic like until modern times.”

“Cool.  So what is the shocker you’re so cautious about?”

“Well, once I establish intelligence as special, I show that we are not the last stop in intelligence’s development.  Computers and machines are getting this special characteristic too.”

            “I don’t know about that.  But…?  Long story short, hit me with it!”

            “Hold on!  We also need an ethic that will guide us as neuroscience re-engineers man and destroys his sacredness.  That ethic is based on the ultimate value of intelligence -- computer, human or whatever.”

            “Intelligence?”

            “Yeah.  Intelligence.”  I paused as he pondered. 

            “Okay.” I launched into it as to not build more resentment through excessive intro or invite further questions.  “I conclude that we need to sterilize a lot of people to allow intelligence to survive.”

           I nervously checked his expression for some kind of shock.  But he just seemed to continue nonchalantly looking at me. 

            “And of course I deal with Hitler because any book like this has to.  But you have to read my whole argument before you can judge it.” I added in defensive haste.

            “Well, I can see why people would be shocked.  Genocide is wrong.  Isn’t that obvious?” he said with what I imagined was a little rise in ire.

            “No...”

            “No.  It’s not wrong?!”  He shrieked a little when he was upset.

            “Of course genocide is wrong!  But it’s not genocide.  No one would be killed.  And it isn’t genocide, cause I’d count on it not being perfectly efficient or used everywhere.  Some people would continue to reproduce.  No one would be killed at all.  Killing is wrong.  If for no other reason than it isn’t conducive to intelligence.  It makes people panic.”

            “Oh, sorry I interrupted.” He must have known he had a tendency to shriek too much.

            “That’s okay.  But statements out of context can be radically misinterpreted.  That’s why I like to tell everything about this book slowly.  Genocide is not only wrong, it’s inefficient.”

            “Inefficient.” He said with a big grin that acknowledged my irony. “Still, I believe in mother nature and I think that eventually water and stuff will get scarce, and disease and the greenhouse effect will cause the population levels drop.  We should let nature take care of herself.”

            “We can do it that way.  But it’ll be really messy and we’ll have wars and no intelligent selection about who survives.  And who would survive -- doctors or warriors?  Do you want to live in a world where there is famine and tough guys rule?  Intelligence can do better.  We’re supposed to be conscious, not lemmings.  Humans.”

            “No.  I guess it’s better that we interfere in potential disasters.”

“The only question is who to choose.” I continued, throwing hesitancy away.   Feeling quite professorial and confident on my own turf, I continued my rant. “It isn’t feasible to do sterilization person by person.  So we can just blanket all the earth equally, be random about it -- or we can choose where to do it.  And, as you probably figured out, I’m pro-choice.” 

I paused as we both smiled. He was getting my humor.

“The discussion should be around which cultures foster intelligence best.”  I continued with a seriousness that conveyed that the joking was over.  “Which  preserves the best of humanity sustainably.  That’s much better than just blindly overpopulating ourselves to death.  It’s more dignified.”

            “Who is your target audience?” Beni asked, realizing that we had a common obstacle: marketing our ideas and making them more than just private musings.

“Everyone.  I’d like to make cultures at least receptive to these ideas.  Maybe people will be less outraged if it happens and they’ve heard the reasons beforehand.  When I discuss these ideas with folks individually, they see the need and compassion involved.  But I need to break through that wall of political self-censorship that creates borders around what we can think as a society. 

Ultimately, a rogue scientist or group would have to hear about these ideas and do it without government support.  But to hear about it, it must be on the list of discussed topics.  If something isn’t in the public discourse, it isn’t an option.  It won’t be considered.  If an idea is not thought about, it doesn’t exist.” 

Our projects had a commonality in that they created absolute self-contained worlds that were potentially transformative.  His work could make him self-sufficient, as it teaches self-sufficiently.  It creates an independent, autonomous teacherless learner.    It can work without help from outside itself.  Mine includes a system of morals based on putting intelligence above the all-too human.  From the premise, you could not logically escape the conclusion.  Intelligence must intelligently defend itself. The logic was self-contained in both projects.

Meeting Beni was a really neat happenstance.  People that have the ability to create thought constructs are rare.  When worlds collide, new ones are formed.  We could have fun and great insights exploring world views together. 

We decided to get falafels.

Capsule Three:  Impressions

Walking in Rappongi is a trip everyone should take once in their lives.  It gives you the opportunity to explore your limits.

On the one hand, there are the delicious but mundane attractions that have always tempted man.  Every ten feet there are Nigerians trying to strong-arm you into a bar, or Chinese girls trying to sweet-talk you into their full-body message parlor.  “Hey. What you looking for?”  “Come in. Cheap beer.”  “Come look. Girls. Why not?” “Messaggeee?”  “Where you from?”  Now their arms interlock with yours. “You want messaggeee?” 

Extricating yourself takes effort, and the pitch doesn’t lessen as you become a recognized refuser.  It just gets more friendly or whiny or somehow nuanced.  The constant effort to entrap you by means of your physical needs is bothersome in proportion to its being tempting and insulting.  You want it.  But you’re not proud. 

Beni said he had a way to get rid of them, but he’d never tried it.  So when the next girl approached him, he uttered the magic words and moved his hands around at waist level. She fled as though propelled.  

“What did you say to her?”  I asked in amazement.

“I told her that my penis is spent.  I had been taken care of.” 

“And the hand movement?” 

“The hand movement backs up what the words mean: literally, the words mean ‘the towel has been run out.’”

“So romantic!”

On the other hand, there is a great variety of worldly characters to be encountered here.  Asians, Europeans, blacks, Americans, rich and poor, in whore wear to casual, circulating together. They are all going somewhere.  Some are with friends, some headed to meet friends. Some were doing what Beni and I had been doing: just wandering lost and waiting to get hooked in. Individually these were neat folk.  They are all refugees or explorers. As I thought about the various combinations of these individuals we could encounter I was fascinated.

All were here for to take advantage of the promise of Rappongi’s million lighted signs. When people go out they want stimulation.  This happens in art houses as well as whore houses.  Something different and random would make the evening memorable.  People’s inability to deal with life on its own terms, their seeking of something more, is laudable.  Doing it in the most predictable of ways is pathetic.  I wasn’t sure that we’d get many valuable insights from the international adventurers in such a venue.

But Rappongi didn’t disappoint.   Just nodding at the black men with that combination of  “Hey we’re tight cause we’re Americans,” and “I’m down with black folks and sorry about slavery” looks was interesting.  It was interesting because you realized right away that these men had never been to America.  They were Nigerian and had no idea about the cultural background your look entailed.  Certainly, their being black and totally alien made them people you could learn from.  Just nodding was an insightful experience.

What would you do in Rappongi’s streets of red-light promises?  If you have morals you are limited in what you can do. There are many varieties of wickedness to be avoided or explored here.  If you have no prejudices, then you do not have the “you” to control the situation.  You are whatever situations happen to “you”.  

These are the streets that try men’s souls.

We found the street falafel stand Beni had been leading us to, and I got a beer.  Self-consciously, I sort of apologized for having another beer within 15 minutes.  Beni reassured me that he had no attitude at all about that.  We shared histories of addiction.  His was with alcohol and all kinds of smoke.  Mine was with marijuana. 

“Beer doesn’t imprison me.” I stated.  “Every person has their drug that they cannot do in moderation.  Mine is marijuana.  It controlled me for much of my young life.  Then I went nine years without smoking it.  If we wrestled, it won.  My actions became all about getting it.  It was like it colonized my brain and turned me into one of its minions.”

“So either it had to go, or you had to go.  I understand that.  Wow.  Nine years.  That is an accomplishment.”

“Was.   I recently broke my sobriety streak.  I am in the danger-lands again.

“Some friends and I went to Mammoth to snowboard.  And one of them, Leo, was being so selfish and inconsiderate that I was really pissed.  For days he had been making impulsive whimsical demands on us. Go left! We’re leaving! I was pissed and trapped in this pissy mood when a hand came out of our van right before we were to snowboard.  ‘Johnny P.  You wanna hit on some of this?’ Leo asked me.

“I did it.  As soon as I hit it my mood inverted.  I was so happy.  The mountain was glistening white and amazing.  I couldn’t wait to get at the mountain.”

“How about your attitude towards your friend you were angry at?”

“He squinted up at me as he was putting on his boots just a little after we smoked and said, ‘You know I love you, Johnny P.’  And all bad feelings between us melted instantaneously.

“So I successfully got out of myself and had a fabulous time.”

“One little hit can definitely invert the way you see things.”

“It is amazing.” We both shook our heads in wonderment.

“And how has your control been since?”

 “I’ve been near perfect at keeping that stuff away from me.  Only once in Brazil. . . no, twice in Brazil.  Those were contained under the rule, no smoking except on foreign land.  Then I did smoke once at my ex-principal’s.   That was another exception to the rule.” 

“Watch out for those multiplying exceptions to the rule.”

            “It hasn’t been a problem, even without constructing elaborate rules. And anyhow, Beni, I’m glad that you don’t mind that I drink beer.”

“Not at all.  Alcohol and smoking are all I stay away from.  I smoke pot sometimes. But cigarettes, never again.” 

Wow. It seems that most AA people are allergic to all things that  control their minds except for AA itself.  I was really impressed that someone could go to AA and not become one of their black-and-white, God versus the devil minions.  He was committed to AA but not entrapped by their dogma.  To the extent that one is conscious of the reasons for one’s decisions, one is immune to indoctrination.   Beni only knew how to create his own realities on his own terms.

Later, as we walked back from the falafel stand in Rappongi, Beni stopped to talk with one of the street vendors.  And to my surprise, he went into a fluent Hebraic conversation with him.  I knew he spoke languages, but it was still sort of jarring to see him just open up in a foreign tongue. 

Whereas Beni was clean cut, this guy was a hippy and had the long curly hair and prominent lip and nose that many Israelis have.  He was selling what looked to be North African jewelry.  There were also some Indian looking statues. 

            In the middle of the conversation, Beni turned to me and asked, “Are you Jewish?”  I nodded with an affirmative mumble.  They went back into speaking that incomprehensible language before I could explain that I didn’t speak any Hebrew. 

            Right after we left that guy Beni said rather enthusiastically, “I thought you were Jewish!  But you didn’t respond when I said ‘Le Chiam’ to you.” 

            “I didn’t hear you.  You said that in the bar?”

            “Yep.”

            “Isn’t that interesting how you only hear what you expect to hear.” 

            “I thought you might be Jewish when we first met.  But then when you didn’t respond to ‘Le Chaim’, I figured you weren’t.”

            “Beni, how many languages do you speak?” I asked, being uncomfortable with and thus steering away from the current topic. 

            “I speak five” 

            “Jeez!”

            “That is how I have survived.  When I was 14 my mother died.  That fractured my family.  I got sent to Israel at 16 and stayed seven years. I studied and studied before leaving to Israel.  I began to think of language as my ticket and passport and I have been moving with it ever since.  I’ve hardly been back to the United States.” 

            “Where have you been?”

“I spent seven years in Israel and then went back to America for school.  And I decided to study languages.  And since America is such a monolingual country I got scholarships to go abroad and study languages there.   At one point I had two simultaneous scholarships.  I went to France.  I was there 5 years.  Then I went to Germany for a couple of years.  I spent a little over a year in Russia.  But I never got good at Russian.  I was four years in Spain…”

“Wow!  You stay a long time in each place you visit.”

 “To really learn a culture and a language you have to stay in a place a while.  Like in Israel, I went there knowing some Hebrew.  When people asked me where I was from I told them France.  That way people would only speak to me in Hebrew.  I got good pretty quickly.”  

“I’ve been”, I said, throwing down the gauntlet of competition (or at least trying to qualify to talk with such a worldly person as Beni), “to West Africa, North Africa, South America, Central America, Europe and lots of other places.  But the place I like best is India.  I stayed there three and a half months. 

“Other than that I haven’t stayed in any one place for a long time.  Well….  I guess I was in London for 6 months and Korea for 9.”

“I came here because of the language,” Beni said.  “The grammar is pretty much the same as ours.  I was going to go to China, but I figured the economy was stronger here.  I don’t know if I made a mistake or not.  The grammar of China is supposed to be really simple.  But the sounds are intimidating.” 

“Yeah.  China is taking off.  But they’re very cloistered.  There is more opportunity here.  Things seem freer.  Like, I don’t think your Jewish friend could just set up on the sidewalk and start selling in China.”

“Oh, it looks like that, huh?  That guy’s been here for about fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years!”  I said, astonished.

“Oh, yeah.  It isn’t at all what it seems like. That guy’s actually a wealthy businessman.”

“A wealthy business man?”  I asked with fresh astonishment.

“Yeah.  He has a Lexus and a really nice home.  It’s a costume.  He sells way more if he looks like a sort of gypsy type.  People buy more from him.”

“Huh.”  I said absorbing the reasonableness of the situation and only half.

“It’s funny.  People buy from him, in a way, cause they feel sorry for him.  But he’s way richer than the folks that buy from him.”

“Damn.”  That one took time to flush all the way down.  “But, still, that proves my point.  There’s opportunity here.  In China the sidewalk is not free for the taking.”

“That’s another thing.  There’s more control here than you think.  He has to pay off the mafia to have that space.”

“The mafia!”

“Yeah.  The Japanese mafia control a lot of things.  If you set up without permission they find you immediately.  And, you have to pay for protection or split.”

“Wow really!?  A mafia.  A real working mafia?”

“Oh, really real.  They don’t fuck around.  If you don’t pay and try to defy them you will die.  It is their way or no way.  Anyhow, my friend has long-standing relations with them.  They really do protect in a way.  No one will sell goods like him in this prime part of Rappongi.”

“Wow!”  All of these hippy vendors were part of a brutal hit squad mafia organization.

“Have you been to Israel?” Beni asked me. 

            “Yeah, but I didn’t like it.  The kibbutz seemed like a cross between an old folk’s home and an insane asylum.  Along with China and Cuba, it is the third Communist place I’ve been.  Folks were so beaten down that they couldn’t conceive of leaving.  I remember folks who were eating the always-white food saying too adamantly that they were going to escape.  But I knew they weren’t.  If you’re in your thirties and you haven’t escaped you won’t.  So I filled up my floor six inches deep with plastic beads from the plastic factory I worked in as an expression of madness and split from that scene in the middle of the night. 

The first thing I did was get a falafel and a Coke.  These foods were my choice; no one bought them for me.  And choosing Coke was a celebration of capitalism and freedom.  I was glad to be out of there.” 

            “Why do you think they couldn’t leave?” he asked.

            “When you are used to others making your decisions and designing your life for you, you lose the ability to walk on your own.  Your muscles atrophy.  These people couldn’t conceive of finding a job and a place to stay, and getting their phone hooked up and all you need to do to get set up in the real world. 

“You must exercise your freedoms or lose them.  And those kibbutz people had been sucked down into a system that smothered them like an over-bearing mother.  Their ability to be self-reliant and apart was gone.  They were encased like a mummy.  Kibbutzes kill people.

            These statements accurately reflected my memories of the kibbutz.  But only stressing the horrors also kind of helped release my tension around this topic. To me, Judaism is like a big monster that wants to consume me.  For me it’s as physical as claustrophobic intimacy.

I continued. “My family was atheist and, as such, not traditional.  My secular view of the Enlightenment stresses the individual over the group.  If Judaism was not a temptation, however, it wouldn’t bother me to talk about it. 

I guess it’s like my project -- or Judaism itself.  You have to beware of people and systems that have thought of everything for you.  If their utopia happens then you’re trapped.  You’re living another person’s dream, not your own world construct.”

“Well,” Beni finally interrupted me, “I really loved my years on the kibbutz.”  He then paused and assumed a more thoughtful and interior looking expression than I had seen on him.  HHHHH COLON?A new facet to Beni.

“I had the power to leave….  I was in the Israeli military, ya know.”  Beni continued after thoughtful silence in which he seemed to be deciding whether or not to open up this still raw subject.  “I probably spent too much time in Lebanon.  I left when they wanted me to kill.  I just couldn't hate other people.  It’s like you said. You can get trapped by these systems.  Thank God I was strong enough to just go.”

“Maybe it was your world travels that gave you the perspective to see how parochial -- er -- local it was.” I feared being considered condescending, but didn’t want to use words that were above his head.  It is a teacher problem.  I went with ‘local’ without detection. 

“Maybe.  But I remember one moment in particular that really made me decide to leave.

This man came at me and really wanted to hurt me.  He was a Palestinian who had had his son killed and his home destroyed by the Israelis.  I have never seen or felt such rage.  I sure he was going to kill me.  Luckily, the man’s friends held him back and explained that this particular young Jew -- me -- had nothing to do with it.  I wasn’t in uniform at the time.

I realized then that killing wasn’t going to work.  I couldn’t hate this man.  I cried a lot afterwards from just absorbing some of his rage.  God, I hope I never know pain and anger like that. 

After that I quit.  I left Israel and never went back.”

As we sat on the sidewalk and ate the last of our falafels, Beni made a stunning suggestion.  “Hey.  How’d you like to do some psychedelics with me tomorrow night?” 

            “Wow!!!  Yeah, cool!  Would I?!?!  That would be too much and great.  Is that possible here in Japan?”  Oh, my God, I thought.  Wait until the fellas back home hear about this.

            “Oh, yeah.  There are places where they sell them on the street.  They made mushrooms illegal, but there are other things.  I think it is time for me to do this sort of thing right now.  You’d make a good partner in the experience.  We’ll stay up all night and explore and be free and wild.”

            I was flattered and enthused.  He showed me a capsule hotel that I could book for the next night and we agreed on a five-o’clock rendezvous.  My mission to find a place to stay and party close to the center of Rappongi had succeeded beyond my expectations. 

            I had made a connection.

           While waiting for the subway, two hot looking girls passed us.  One of them, I thought, sort of turned and looked back at us with a slowness that showed interest.

            At that moment I made a resolution.  I was going to be bold with them and thereby close the deal with Beni.  Hanging out with me would be more enticing if I was someone I totally wasn’t: a player.  With all of my nerve I transcended myself.

            “Hey!  How are you?  You’re dressed beautifully, and it’s early.  Why are you going home?”  I spontaneously blurted, my nervousness showing.

To my total astonishment, they were receptive.  Perhaps transcending my limits would lead to a new me.  It seemed, momentarily, as if I were no longer there.  I wasn’t sure who the hustler that had replaced me was.

            The requisite ‘where are you from, why are you here, and how do you like Japan’ were quickly supplanted by more immediate concerns as we got on the subway.  Nothing cuts small talk like the knowledge of the scarcity of time.  Having different exits was about to separate us.

“We cannot go out.  My friend is student.  She must go home and to study.”

“But you can go out.”  I said, knowing she’d refuse, and so risking nothing like having to spend time with her while appearing daring. 

“No.  I tonight start new job and I am tired.”

“What is your new job?”

“I am dancer.”

“I thought you might be.  You have such a hot little body.”  Beni uttered, going way past anything I could ever imagine myself saying to a woman.  I thought it, but…

“Where do you dance?” I asked.

“The club name is ‘Climax’.  Did you go there?”

“No.  We were asked by many people, but we didn’t go into any of those types of clubs.”  My subtext was that I wasn’t like the other johns.   I was a good and respectable guy.  My upbringing dictates that I think that women want that and wouldn’t have sex for fun.  I’m also programmed to believe that women will get angry if you are crude.

“We’d love to come see you dance, though.  You are so hot.”  Beni said, completely revealing what had been implied in our conversation, no matter how uncomfortable.  I was with the sentiment.

“Thank you.”  Her response did damage to my categories of decorum and propriety.  I am a sheltered nerd.

“Do you like stripping?” Beni asked while I ruminated. 

“I like dance.”  She replied while doing some serious gyrating.  “The mens look at me is strange.” My vindication concerning prudery was undercut by her too-sensual-for-public grinding while she made this statement.

“I think that it should be an Olympic sport.  In Mexico, I saw girls hold themselves on the top of the pole with their ankles and slide down in really beautiful and graceful ways.”  I tried to demonstrate my complicity in seediness.  Not a nerd.  And though all laughed, my appreciation of stripping as an art was an obvious attempt at cleaning up my image.

We found out when she was doing her thing before she got off the subway, and said we’d try to catch her show and maybe go out afterwards.  I think she was attracted to Beni’s directness.

Beni seemed really hyped by the prospect of a guy’s night out with a hunter like myself.  I had pulled it off.   What a man won’t do for company.  In faking I had confused myself -- felt the exhilaration of growth and the fear of the unknown.  How divergent can your self-image be from your actions before that image must bend?  Who would I be if I ceased to be me?  Did I want to find out?

Since climbing off the wagon (not falling), I had been struggling to integrate old habits into my new clean life. 

Values tell us who we are. Borders and boundaries make a conscience.  We are as defined by what we wouldn’t do as we are by what we do.   Beni wouldn’t kill.

I have often been adversarial to those who laud their having an “open mind”.  Study and reason comprise my well-considered opinions and decisions.  I have made my mind up.  To not be “prejudiced” can be interpreted as not having previously judged anything.  Would one be proud of never having decided anything? 

“If one doesn’t stand for something, one may fall for anything”, goes the trope. 

Of course we get our values from our surroundings.  You don’t want to be proud of your stands because you are stuck like a kibbutznick.  Such people project their fear of certain actions into virtues.  The measure of their resoluteness is the measure of their fear. 

Perhaps the liberation that comes from the anonymity of travel will help me cocoon into a new person.    Did I wish to be free from restrictions, or was acceptance my true goal?  Would I pervert my beliefs or actions for that end?   Perhaps an experiment of how far I could push myself into being that party-animal we all dream of would be an interesting check-up in identity land.  I suppose one must occasionally leave their comfort zone in order to say that they are really choosing what they usually do.

I pride myself on standing for thoroughly reasoned morals.  On the other hand, I didn’t want to be seen as an unadventurous drip either.

Capsule four:  Borders

I woke up that morning really enthused and hyped about my capsule hotel, and my coming capsules of mind-blowing.

The capsule hotel was in the ROI building.  Upon entry to the front area, you had to take off your shoes.  You then put your shoes in a locker and inserted two quarter-sized coins.  After removing the key from the locker you were to sit down and put on a pair of the numerous blue hotel sandals.  You could then proceed into the reception office space.  When you gave the front desk the key from your shoe locker, they gave you the key to your locker.  Later, when leaving, you return the key to your capsule and they give you the shoe key back.  When you use that key to get your outside shoe back, you get your Japanese 50 cents back.  It’s hermeneutic. 

At a little before 11A.M., I arrived at the hotel really needing to go to the bathroom.  I violated protocol by going into the reception office space with my street shoes.  Sometimes such strict codes and lines must give into nature’s demands.  Fortunately, I was able to sneak behind a big planted pot undetected on my way in.  Thankfully, I made it there on time.  But as I crossed through the reception office space to get back to the shoe storage lockers, a considerable clucking was made.  They saw me. 

I will probably never understand the significance of shoes in the Asian world.  There is a fair amount of protocol surrounding them.  Protocol verging on ritual.  The enforcement of boundaries over which they cannot cross seems superstitious.  Hygiene cannot suffice to explain this obsession.   And the enforcement and emotional impact of transgression are too strong for it just to be habit. Every traveler, perhaps most tourists too, have as an unstated goal the understanding of the words and cultural rules of just this sort of hermeneutic.

There is a complicated protocol concerning the management of shoes invoked by many Japanese establishment. The ROI building was no exception. Probably the best way to grasp the levels of meaning world of shoe protocol would be to diagram it.  Alas, I am not sure what all the implications of the shoe regimen is.  Shoes crossing lines could represent disrespect to the establishment or a lack of class or aesthetic sensibilities.  My problem in analyzing these possibilities is that neither respect, class nor aesthetics carry the same nuances in Japanese as they do to the American mind in English.  Manners are just another synonym for inauthenticity for us.  We do not have the patience for the stranglings of such beautiful signs of cultivation.  Class and poverty are also terms that come assumptions concerning the meaning of life and dignity and shame. But assumptions about their significance would not be similar across cultures.

America assumes the romantic ideal of freedom.  Conformity to rebellion’s dictates is our version of cultivation.  Slapping a librarian makes more sense to us than elaborate shoe protocols.

Once I’d negotiated myself over to the hotel reservation counter, properly clad and keyed, I ran into three harsh rules.  A sign in English said that no one would be admitted to the facilities who did not speak Japanese.  The woman and two men behind the counter pointed to this rule to let me know that they didn’t want to let me in.

Having already checked out of the affordable and often sold-out hotel an hour plus away, this was an emergency.  Somehow, I conveyed to them that my friend, whom I had been there with the night before, was going to be joining me at 5 p.m.  They remembered Beni from the night before and that he spoke Japanese.  With the language hurdle of rule number one overcome, they let me in.

The capsules themselves are amazing.  I shudder at their implications as I am calmed by their efficiency.  They are approximately 3X3X7-foot boxes with beds in them.  If you are lacking for a visual, think of shower stalls lying down and stacked.  Creepier yet, remember the mausoleums in which they put bodies in filing-cabinet-style drawers. 

Outfitted with TVs, lights, radios, air conditioning units, and smooth walls that paradoxically suggest an absence of limits, capsules are worlds you could live in without lack. Everything a human being needs is there.  Except for waste-elimination, they are self-contained and need not be left.  Just think -- we’re only three tubes away from being totally storable.  One in-tube and two-out tubes would do it.  And if they had one of those car washes that go back and forth over your car installed for showers, we’d be ready to be sealed. 

To be in a capsule is to experience a return-to-the-womb lack of differentiation that is hard to convey.  Except that the capsule experience isn’t warm and fuzzy or biological.  You feel as though you might be plastic.  Biology ceases there.  Yes, it’s exactly how plastic feels.

It is an impossible space.  It has no cultural or ideological references.  It is life sheered down to what would be required in outer space.  As one of many identical bodies stored in identical rows and columns, you cease to be individual or human.  Life support without reference to real lives.  Mine is number 44.  Third row from the bottom, five in from the left side of the wall.

Unfortunately, I have a tattoo on my left shoulder.  It is the logo of the band “Black Flag”.  If you didn’t know, the Black Flag logo consists of four staggered vertical rectangles that look something like a bar code. The reason I called this fact unfortunate is that rule number two is: no tattoos. 

“The bars”, as this tattoo is often called, represent prisons and limits, either mental or physical.  They are an attempt to invert the all good that the capsule hotel and society represent into a muckraking exposé of primitive emotion.  My rebellion is not for this place.  Tattoos are not placid.  I must join them in the conspiracy of silence if I am to fit in here. 

The night before, Beni had told me not to worry about having a tattoo, that this rule is just to protect against mafia types. [LL3] They are the only tattooed people in Japan.  But I worried about it.  Not only was the “no tattoo” sign in English, but it had pictures of tattoos encircled with red lines through them.  There was no pleading ignorance. I did not want to get kicked out of my hotel and rendezvous site. 

Second to getting a capsule, my goal was to take a shower.  The guy that handed out towels could easily see the locker they had assigned me.  Changing without revealing my tattoo would be difficult.  First I backed up the row of lockers to establish a natural pacing pattern.[LL4] On the time back in which IWhen I paced back, actuallyI took off my shirt and put a towel over my left shoulder. Suddenly, ,  a woman walked past the row!  How could she not know to stay out of the men’s dressing area?  What was she doing in here? I asked myself with an indignity fueled by my nervousness over having just broken a rule and gettening away with it.  

My shower was Hitchcockian.  Right across from the shower stalls the woman I had seen pass by when I was dressing, and another, gave natural mud messages  to two men on tables.  Thus their intrusion into our sanctum of nudity was justified by their jobs.  Oddly enough, these women touching you was not seen to be sexual or sensual.  For this reason their entrance into our inner sanctum of male nudity [LL5] was not provocative.

Nevertheless, the women made me uncomfortable.  If they saw my tattoo, they might get me booted. As strange as it was to shower in front of strange women, hiding was stranger.  I showered with my left shoulder to the wall and wrapped the towel around my tattoo when I emerged. 

Naturally, I wanted to have one of these mud massages.   But there was no way of knowing if the women would have turned me in.  At any rate, they didn’t see my tattoo.  When I went into the saunas I didn’t remove my towel.  As naturally as possible I kept it draped over my left shoulder when it wasn’t facing the wall. I’m sure this looked suspicious. 

So this was what it was like to be hiding and afraid of expulsion.  I felt like a cross between a World War Two Jew and an illegal alien.  I avoided detection.

The influence of their system on my internal state was profound.  My actions and public identity were all meant to conceal.  I would conform for the sake of housing.  Was this deal with the devil too big?  No. I didn’t plan on spending much time there. 

The third rule was that you could not be under the influence of any intoxicating substance.   Thank God that only showed on the inside.  I could conceal my insides and still do all I wanted.  I could surrender without giving myself away.  Appearances and reality could coincide in harmony. 

            I waited for Beni in one of the overly cushioned recliners that faced the giant TV in the lower-level capsule hotel lounge.  Unlike the other people reclining, I wasn’t in a bathrobe.  Hopefully, I didn’t detract from their perfectly reassuring environment.   My suggestion of non-sterility and the need for movement didn’t seem to annoy anyone.  They were oblivious. Serene in the assurance that their walls, rules and recliners would stave away the terror, they relaxed.

When Beni arrived an hour late, I told him of my tattoo ordeal.  He told me there was a delay in his university contract signing. 

“But all went well?”

“Yeah.  Really well.  I negotiated and got the salary and bonus structure I wanted.  Negotiating isn’t part of their culture, but the bonus structure they offered didn’t make any sense.  I explained why it didn’t. I stuck to my guns and got what I wanted.”

Beni then said he hadn’t realized that I had a tattoo. This lapse made me wonder if he had a hole in his memory or had more serious mental or moral problems.   “They might have kicked you out.  It’s not just mafia that they are excluding, but a feeling of elegance that they are protecting.  They are drawing class lines.”

  Relaxing country-club gentility was their goal.  Tattoos weren’t part of the sensibility they sought to cultivate.  Good thing I went with my instincts about hiding.   

Beni also said he really worried about his smell.   I suggested he use my deodorant.  He must have asked five times if that wasn’t going to violate my standards of hygiene.  I didn’t have to let him.   It was no problem if I didn’t allow it!   When done despoiling byfinished using my roll- on, he gingerly wiped the deodorant with tissue paper as if to separate off the top layer of deodorant.  The mixing had been avoided.  The unpleasant contamination had been sufficiently covered. 

In order that we could get to know one another better prior to our excursion (and to get the recommended nutrition required before lift-off), we went to a Denny’s.  Denny’s was chosen so that I might experience their version of our vision.  He was into cultural exposée.  Our encounter was a blessing.[LL6]

The décor was a perfect replica of any Denny’s in the U.S..  The Japanese are noted for the ability to emulate.  When Admiral Perry, the first Western invader, came to their shores, they begged 50 years leeway in order that they might give consideration to allowing trade.  In that time they mastered our technologies.  Copying is one of their primary survival skills.

I had originally planned to go to the Tokyo Disneyland.  That is, until I heard that it was an inch- for- inch duplicate of the one in Los Angeles.  Wow!

In Asian art generally, innovation is not as valued as copying. To perfect a form that has already been repeated repeatedly is excellence.  This is in sharp contrast to our constant revolution and rebellion at the past.  This Denny’s served their need for replication and mine for the novel.

In my Denny’s replica, it soon became apparent that books often vary from their covers.  The first hint of difference was apparent when I looked at the menu.  Apart from the salads, I had never heard of anything that they were serving.  No “grand slam” breakfast here.  The resemblance was purely superficial. 

Beni started the conversation. “So, you teach history, eh?”

“Hm.”

“My girl and I we talked about that and I found out that she had never seen the American Century video series. Do you know that one? With Peter Jennings.”

“Yep. I sure do. It’s a staple of all American High Schools now.”

“That’s why I think she should see it. She’d get me more if she understood the past of my country I think.”

“That’s a good guess. I should get Soo Hee too watch it. It’s hard when neither spouse knows the background to the story of the other one’s life. So you liked that series, eh?”

“It was okay.” At that Beni made an upside down smirk and tilted his head. “Well Peter Jennings is a Cannuc.”

“A Canadian!” I laughed in sympathy. “Really.”

“Yeah. Couldn’t you hear his ‘Aboots’ and ‘Found Oots?’” It was informative to see that Beni could still respond to a little American centered chauvinism. He still had an identification with the United States. Just before our smiles wore off he continued. “But I always found that series a bit strange too.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because it seems to short change life. All those people had lived and died. So many lives. A whole damn decade and they turn it into an hour. Was that all it was worth? Was that all that happened that might even have mattered?”

“I guess your right. The real stuff is just momentum you can’t even tell in a million hours. That’s a good observation though.”

The waitress came totally clad in authentic Denny’s wear, gave us menus, poured us some water, spoke to us in Japanese and bowed away. 

“I’m glad you’re here to translate.”  I said with earnest appreciation.

“Do you know what she is doing?” BeniHe asked with a somewhat insane gleam in his look glint in his eye.  “When she pours us water, she apologizes for it.  She is saying that she is sorry for disturbing us when she brings us water.  Can you imagine that?.  We should be thanking her, but Japanese do not take credit.  They apologize for everything and are sure to always make everyone feel like…  lLike they are not responsible, or the, how can I say it?… They apologize for themselves instead of taking credit and make you feel like you shouldn’t blame them.”

“Its like super defensiveness in advance.”

“Exactly.  Its so weird.  But they mean it.  It is in all spheres of life.”

“But when a teacher teaches he doesn’t apologize.  Does he?”

“No, then the student does.  It rides on the back of a constant hierarchy in which all relationships are boss- to- worker.  There is no human warmth of equality.  There is always this apologizing, groveling, servant thing going on.”

It crossed my mind that Beni had possibly been in Japan too long.  He was fond of pointing out the ludicrousness of their habits.  Perhaps histhe interest level had dropped because he pretty much knew everything.  But if he really didn’t like Japan he shouldn’t be living here, I thought..”

.

            “Beni, are you just amazed by the Japanese culture or do you not like it?  Is it interesting to you or do you hate it?””

“There are good parts, but I’ve got to tell you, the Japanese are the meanest people I have ever known. “

“OhOh!” I spontaneously protested. “But whenever I’ve been lost needed it, they have gone really out their way to help me.” 

“Yes.  But that is superficial.  When it gets down to it, you are always GangiGangi.”

“You mentioned that before.  And I’ve heard others use it.  Is it just the word for “foreigner”?”

“It literally means, "foreign land".  But what it really means is you don’t belong here.”

“Yeah, the Koreans are racist like that.  They won’t let half-breeds into their public schools.  They are nice, but wouldn’t let you marry their daughter.”

“Or even be friends with you.  I worked at this one school for nearly two years.  I worked my brains out playing music and singing with the kids.  You know what they told me?”

Normally I would have put in the rhetorical “what” here, but Beni was starting to get into one of his hurt and angry wind-up-to-a-diatribe moods.

 They told me to stop wasting time with the kids.   After years of passionately teaching there, no one had ever taken the time to see what I was doing.   Furthermore, they never asked me why I did what I did.”  His look of pained empathy for himself self-pityt was so over the top now that it created a little  spontaneous revulsion reaction in me.

“Students, teachers, parents -- anyone that had been in my classes never talked about what I had been doing with other staff members.  There was no communication.  Nor did they care to listen.  When I tried to explain what I had been working on and what I was so passionate about, do you know what their response was?

I shook my head in an empathetic “No” look.

“They said, "You are Ganji.[LL7] Do your job.  You are here to work.  That is all.” 

That was with people that I had worked with for years.  I had gone on canoeing trips with them.  There was no interest in my thoughts or care about me as a person.  There was no communication.”

“It sounds like being “Ganji” puts you in the servant part of the hierarchy.”

“Its worse than that.  It means that you are put in another separated category from “us Japanese”.  And for them, Japanese equals human.  I don’t really mean human.  I don’t know how to put it, but you are put into a separate category.  No sentiment or human kindness or sympathy crosses that gap.  Not only are you not a priority, but you are totally unimportant toin the mission of the group.  Owed no sentiment.”

You can ask any GangiGangi, do they have Japanese friends.  They will all say no.  You can go on boat trips and out drinking with them and think you’re friends.  But there will never be any love there.  They consider us inferior and as tools.  They can be so cold it is monstrous. “

“That would fit in with these nice helpful folk’s behavior in World War Two! They were insanely cruel.

Right then the waitress came back.  She took our orders and bowed at us as she walked away backwards.

Beni repeated, with fresh amazement, “She apologized again in Japanese for taking our order and the time it took!”  Then with a radical shift in posture and voice he said, as though he was revealing some really juicy hot gossip, “Hey she’s pretty hot, isn’t she? She hasd nice breasts.”

Inside I was shocked.  I don’t talk to or about women that way. 

The standard modern interpretation would be that I am a product of a repressive upbringing that said such talk was to be repressed.  She wais an attractive young girl. But talk of asses and tits just always struck me as indecent and gross.  Sex is messy.  I’d rather not discuss it.

For whatever reason, I had been never comfortable joining in the women- ogling discussions. 

Awkwardly, I tried to play along. But I could feel a rift opening up between Beni and I.

“Yeah she is something.  I think she is half- black.  She has nappy hair.”

Beni said that he didn’t think so and it hadn’t even occurred to him.  I was sure that it was because he hadn’t looked above her neck!

When she came back he addressed her in English.  She smiled one of those blushing, beaming smiles that only Asian societies’ sense of shame produces on women’s faces.  So enchanting. 

She immediately broke into black- accented English.

“Ma daddy was in the service.  Ma momma is from here.”

“So you grew up there?”  I probed asked.

“Yeah.  I only been here ‘bout two years.”

“How’s your Japanese?”  Beni probed in his area of expertise.

“Not good.  It’s comin’ along.”

“Your mother didn’t teach you Japanese?”

“She always spoke to us in English.  Its funny ‘cause her English ain’t that goodt.”

“What a shame.  What a missed opportunity.”

“Yeah.  Its alright.  I’m getting’ it.  You want anymore water or anything?  I gotta keep working.”

“No, we’re cool thanks.”

She bowed as she left!

Beni immediately  thereafter glared at herout with a nearly slobbering enthusiasm., “Asian eyes always predominate in interracial offspring.   It makes the women so beautiful.  I just want to eat them.  Aum.” 

Wow.  Eesh.  I am overly squeamish.  Benny was a quality person, but he was capable of giving me that feeling of alienation that people who aren’t me often evoke.   The feeling is that e“Either I’m an alien or he is, but we’re not from the same world”.  Deep down I know that I’m the alien. 

The problem isn’t  feeling self-conscious or less than proud about my prudish nature.  I accept that that is who I am and its okay.  Rather, I worry that others will not accept me for being the way I am.  They might shun me because I make them feel self- conscious.  I usually try to reassure them with a little inauthentic, leering- body- part reference of my own.

Later, as our comfort grew, we discussed such issues. 

But fFor the time being I just changed the subject.  “In my classes I used to use an article about the L.A. Riots.  You heard about those, right?”

“Yep.”

“Many of the hostilities were between blacks and the Koreans thatwho had liquor stores in the black neighborhoods.  This article went over how the tensions were largely over differences in cultural expression.  Black culture is really expressive.  You come into a store with your hands held high for a high-five and you yell “Whassup, homie?!”

In Korean society you always keep your hands at your sides.  The Korean sees the black as out of control and animal- like.  The black sees the Korean as totally cold and inhuman.  Communication is really important.  It must be a trip for our waitress.  She came from a boisterous culture to one of the most polite societies on earth.”

Even after we spoke in English, the waitress continued to bow before she left our table backwards and bowing.  “I wonder how long it took before the whole bowing thing was just second nature to her.  She knows she needn’t bow to us.  We’re westerners. But it’s second nature to her now.”

“I don’t know.” Bennie replied.  “Culture is really physical.  Language and bowing and all of that stuff goes down to your bones.  She seems to have it in her now.”

            Despite our differences Beni and I could connect.  We understood some of the same things. 

What about the greetings of the bBlack, the Korean and the white person?  Words were not the only things that separated our languages.  Affect separates culture’s experiential worlds. [LL8]   These differences in aesthetics meant that we inhabited different worlds at the same time we inhabited the same world. 

Though not normally oin my mind, contemplating the world space of the Japanese’s hierarchal categories fascinated me.  Not only iwas having a hierarchy foreign to American English, but the categories themselves don’t exist in our culture. 

What were the nuances were the feelings that they had towards each other.[LL9]   All white Americans wonder what it’ is like to have that authentic exuberance of the black man.  What would it mean to have soul?  But we rarely ask what its would be like to be totally formal.?

Hurt feelings, riots, wars and even slavery could be justified on such vacuum sealed chasms.[LL10]

Real translation is impossible.  Perhaps the answer to the problem of culture is people like our waitress who is on both sides.  Maybe, with explanation, the people in my capsule hotel could accept and appreciate my tattoo. 

--Capsule five:  Relations—

On the subway over [LL11] I noticed all of the people on cell phones. 

Japanese girls are particularly obsessed with cell  phones.  They always seem to be checking messages or looking at pictures on them.  They were rarely talkking.  

The men look at the pin-ups that they have made available on the tiny phone displays.  Aren’t they aware that people were watching them look at these pictures?.  At their age these men are probably married too.  No one will ever determine for sure if cyber-cheating is really cheating.   I guess the Asian proprietynotion of looking at such images iwas different than ours. Men looking at pin-up women might have been be something akin to females leering at a Vvogue magazine spread.

I would be embarrassed to be seen looking with such sensuous intent on my face in public.  To me, leering at an image of a woman is more embarrassing than leering at a real one.

I wanted to talk to Beni about the cell phone phenomenon, but the elevator phenomenon kicked in.  It is rude to talk about people you see on a subway.  It is pretty much rude to talk too much on a subway.

            As we got off the subway, there was a couple with a stroller standing on the platformdock.

“What a cute monkey.” Beni said to the baby in a half baby-talk voice.  It was an exceptionally cute child.  Pangs of sentiment for the beauty of family momentarily stirred in meus. “So sad that I didn’t have mine with me..”   The thought was nearly accompanied by tears.

I aAs usual, my feelings quickly went to the geopolitical.  Mom was Asian and Dad was white.  I fleetingly considered the political and logistical difficulties of that.  He hadn’t produced one of his own and neither had she.

“What a gorgeous baby you have.”  Beni now more directed his statement at the Dad rather than child. Said to the father.

“Yeah. Shay ez..”  Dad said with a strong English accent. 

“How old is she?”

 “She’ll be two in four monfs.”  Said dad, looking proud and happy to have someone to talk to that wasn’t in his family. 

            We asked for directions and he gave them in a peculiar way.  “You’re going to be going… and den you’re going to be going…”  The mood of the directions also showed him to beHe seemed excited for us.  His emphasis on the “you’re” conveyed a sadness at not being able to join us in his directions. 

Beni thanked him and congratulated him, and my feelings rose as we nearly jogged off in excitement.  As I looked back I saw them stalled, himand not sure which exit to get out ofuse.  For that moment  I was glad I didn’t have a family.  Baby was nice to see.  But running with the boys was more funnerer for now.  No stroller.  No old lady.

Nothing too important.  All was a game.

            It was finally fully Friday  night, I thought excitedly to myself, as we emerged from the subway.  I was nearly overwhelmed.  Seemingly thousands of young party goers were crossing an intersection that went to a plaza in front of a super- mall building.  Never in all of my life had I seen such a concentration of people walking.  It was more of a swarm than a crowd.

            When the light signaled pedestrians to walk, it was if a flood gate had been opened.  In the background I could see masses of peoples walking through glass tubes that covered the outside of large glass buildings.  It really is remarkable how easily we distinguish ourselves from all of the people that surround us.  

            I turned to see that the real action was behind us.  Wall to wall night- clubbers filled these sign- blanketed sci-fi streets.  The streets had the feel of hipterism[LL12] that all alleys do.  They were streets with the feel of alleys.  This was the party region called Shinjuku.  Not only were the buildings sci-fi, but the people were in costume.  We weren’t in California anymore, Mr. Toto.  Had the down-to-earth hippy thing ever existed here, it had been skittlized (made like the candy) [LL13] and forgotten.  Artificial colors and flavors abounded. 

What did these modern- day vampires want?  Was this a psychedelic freak show or an orgy waiting to happen, or just good clean fun?  Anyhow, it was a spectacle.  As part of the crowd we could just as well ask ourselves that question.  We were of, as well as in, the masses.

Beni moved out towards the belly of the beast.  We went in the directions of the most lights and the giant TV.  The TVs was probably two stories high and played advertisements that featured bands.  How the commercialization of culture spreads.  Still, the fantasy element of the local’s clothes didn’t express lifestyle as much as style life[LL14] .  The TV wouldn’t have flown in the youth scenes of my day.  “Commercialism” and “sell-out” are old concepts.  I don’t think they’ve been relevantative in America for a decade.  Observing that the music industry is an effective “ministry of consumer programming”  is no longer done.

            It was almost hard to follow Beni throughew the rapids of the crowd.  But a bit upstream he paused at a street vendor.  OhOh, my god!  Street vendors had open suitcase- types of set- ups reminiscent of watch seller’s set up during America’s great depression.  The difference here being that the sign on the inside of the open suitcase top read, “Legal Drug.  Psychedelic Love Happy.  Kaos International.” 

Beni directed me said, “Let’s go to the next one.  I know the guy.  I’m comfortable with him.”  As far as I could tell the assortment was the same.  The case had many organized baggies.  There were vials called “Pinky,”; black bags that said “DMT,” bags of pure crushed herbs of some sort, baggies of black powder, and one with a silver foil in it called “Trip thunder”. 

The proprietor of this small enterprise looked like an L.A. skater stoner. He had black hair with dyed brown highlights that intimated that he’d spent a lot of his time in the sun surfing.  Authentically, he also had the requisite Levi’s and quasi- military light jacket over his blue tee shirt.    His was the only retro- style outfit on the street that wasn’t iconoclastic. 

Beni and he spoke in Japanese for a while.  It was the only time I saw Beni not ask for information without confidence.  Not demanding, he was a petitioner.  He seemed to be trying to get a personal  selection recommendation from a guy who had good things to say about each product.  I wondered how deep his relationship with this guy went.  It seemed like a standard salesman- to customer relationship to me.

Finally we decided to go ahead exactly as had been planned.  He got two vials of the clear “pinky” liquid.  He had said I might want to only get one, b.  But I went for the whole she-bang.  $30 Thirty bucks each.  Ouch.  But this was for a once in a life time ticket.  Mostly I was just wowed at my fortune of being in this unreal situation in Japan with such a cool guide and about to take a psychedelic.

“Okay!” I exclaimed as we had just given  him our money and were now facing each other with two baggies each.  “Which way and where?” 

Needing liquid to pour pinky in, we went to a fast food joint.  We got cheap burgers for cover [LL15] and drinks for consumption and went upstairs[LL16] .

The décor was cool.  The world wide- diffusion of icons in our age is amazing.  Newspaper front pages each describing a Beatle adorned the walls.  “Johohn.  The literary Beatle”,  “George.  The quiet Beatle”.  The relation of these sound biytes to the Beatles as we know them was interesting.  Each Beatle pretty much stayed true to their packaging. 

And, shrunken to cuteness in an antiseptic future, was Jimi Hendrix, upside down in a ball most definitely riding in a whirlwind of drugs and sound.   Marketing had really done a lot to marketportray this guy as anything but dangerous.  Jimi’s lifestyle and energy were not things that you could passively consume. 

I smirked at the Beatles and said a little prayer to Jimi. 

“I like the decorations.  Johohn really was the “Literary” Beatle.”

[LL17]

“We are the only ones here that have ever heard their songs.  No one here knows what any of their lyrics mean.  They are just images of famous Americans.”

We both smiled knowingly at the “Americans” part. 

“Even in the Sstates, they only play certain dittddies over and over.  The heavy stuff doesn’t get on [LL18] the radio.  They have been controlled and made into just another easily consumed pop band.   I’m not sure what they mean to our culture anymore.”

“Well they’reir not just another pop band.”

“No.  I’m not sure anymore.  They just give smiles to people who enjoy their ditties.”

“Look at Jimi.  What a maniac.  Too bad he died from drugs.”

“Nah.  He had to sacrifice himself to take us on the journey he wanted to take us on.  There is no way he could have gotten to where he got to -- i.  Into that little ball playing backwards -- without going all the way.”

“You can’t fake that level of intensity, huh.” 

“No way.  Jim Morrison didn’t write “There’s a killer on the road” without knowing about it.  He took himself on a real adventure.  Boyce and Hart, the song writers for the Monkey’s, could never have conceived of those lyrics.”  Boyce and Hart.  I know too much about rock history

“I guess its only a shame that they died young to us half- assed, slow- livin’ old farts.”

“That is why it is so cute that they’ve taken these real madmen pictures and turned them into safe little icons.  They are our connection with adventure we never have.”

“Well, Jimi will live again in us tonight!”

“Righteous.  My dose will be done with a toast to his burning chaos.  But first though, though I know it’s only a superstition...I feel like taking a drug and then going to the bathroom is a waste.  I’m going to try.  I’ll be right back.”

Beni waved me off with a pontiff like movement of two fingers and a look like vomit was on its way. 

I smiled and winked as I left.  I guess he didn’t need to hear about my going into the bathroom before I did it.  Before he took drugs.

[LL19] The toilets talked in this establishment.  When you entered the stall they spok[LL20] e.  And then the sound of a small water fall was heard as you sat ‘n’ shat.  Another fine cover up on our way to a clean, clean world.

No one heard or knew what was happening in there. When you emerged and your friend saw you, you could pretend that you’d just been for a leisurely swim.  Maybe the water was to spare the listener from the sound.  Who knows.  Either way, it showed a schizophrenic approach to defecation. 

The hot- air hand dryer was folded over on itself so as to create a two- sided slot for your hands.  Why hadn’t Americans thought of and adopted that?  It was the first hot- air hand dryer that had ever fully dried my hands. 

Drugs in Japan.  The Japanese had thought of everything.  Clean and total.  It made me comfortable and paranoid.  Everything on this trip would be safe. I had nothing to fear but fear itself. 

When I came back out Beni was ready to go in.  His drug vials were empty.  I got the last drops out of his and put mine into my drink.  There was Jimi.  Safely encased as Japanese fast- food decoration.[LL21]   Were he here he would dose. 

How is it that the Japanese allow drugs to be sold on their clean streets? 

I read my “Kaos International” baggie that the vials had come in.   

TheyIt featured a declaration explaining how much they are opposed to drugs.  Subtle.  Warnings can make one sense their limits and then lunge desperately, desirous of that which may now be out of reach.  It was as if there was a battle between the cultural desire to control everything from shits to zits, and a counter tendency to entropy and the ugly truths about life and death. 

I took mine with as sacramental an attitude as my atheist spirituality could muster.  I was inviting this substance into the holies of holies, across the blood- brain barrier.  This was going into my personal thought machine.  Grateful for all I had enjoyed in the region where imagination reigns supreme, I reverently welcomed the stranger in.

Beni was in the can so long I started to worry about him.  Had he been hypnotized by the sound of water running over pebbles?  All I could do was wait.

Jimi and the lads from Liverpool were hung over booths completely occupied by girls with notebooks full of photograph stickers that they were manically showing each other. 

I had been in a five-5 story entertainment complex earlier.  There I saw a floor of girls using photo booths.  Always in costume, they would pretend to be other people and pose as if having the time of their lives.   Now I had the rest of the story.  These girls were posting the photo booth pictures in photo albums.

They would also stop and take pictures of their enjoying the pictures and send them to others via their phones.  How bizarre.  Were these supposed to be the real memories that cemented their relationships?.

Not real memories, but pictures in costumes with shared smiles.  This was the basis of their relationships.  It was a big “smile for the camera” moment. They were smiling because they were supposed to be smiling.  They weren’t doing anything that was fun except taking pictures of looking fun. 

All model’s’ smiles are forced.  Weren’t these poses for the camera somehow false?  When one pretends to be happy, are they?  The capturing of the moments of fun was the fun.  Perhaps this was a new form of happiness.  A greater happiness.

Pausing for a moment I thought I’d better get a name for these cards.  After a little manipulation the words just came together:, “Purest happy- feeling stickers.”  I liked it.  It had a Japanese ring to it. 

Fortunately, two dimensional images don’t talk and move yet.  That could have forced them to include content with their pictures. I don’t think I’m being a curmudgeon here.  I don’t see that pictures taken in costume, when received by the intended target, convey any substantive message.   Just a feeling of fun.  Another reason we’re fortunate that two dimensional images don’t talk and move yet is that if they did, unfrozen chards of glass would fly out of Jimi’s chaos- moment poster and cut the cute “purest, happy- feeling stickers” girls. 

Will stickers of people you’ve never met suffice for a circle of friends?  How about sending them to a computer photo exchange.  The computer splicesd together pictures of us -- a.  And wha-la!  We are instantly really good happy friends with long shared memories.  Petting your composite friend’s face’s image on a screen is nostalgia.  Picture as tear- jerker.

Americans are big into knowing, and somehow relating, to our stars.  Are these relationships any more real than the sticker relationships?  Isn’t celebrity- following just a lame relation to consumer items?  For many of the outlaw rockers, they tie us into a set of memories and attitudes we take pride in, but never really lived. 

There is only one person that should have had a Jim Morrison poster: Jim Morrison.  Perhaps you could existentially justify his band mates and his parents, if they’re still alive, possessing ones.  People that are on enough drugs that they are open to the musical experience should have pictures of celebrities like Jim Morrison.[LL22]    To me his songs were more than jingles.

Sticking stickers and sending costume pictures is a celebration of the surface beyond what an American could stomach.  I’ve seen the “purest happy- feeling sticker” booths in the States.  But they’ve never caught on.  People don’t realize how important they are supposed to be.  Americans are too hung up on the real for that to be so important in a relationship.

Japanese pop runs deep.  It is a reassurance.  It is a digital way of feeling connectedion in the Tokyo matrix.  Perhaps in this increasingly digital world, intimacy by quantity of stickers is the future.  My loved ones are mostly remembered through images.

Still, the mature me prefers real things to pop.  How would I define real things?  That is a good question.   Is there a reason that having read a book is seen to be a legitimate memory and seeing a movie isn’t?  Here’s a stab.  Reality is something that is nuanced.  It is better because it stimulates thinking and involves a variety of emotions.  Celebrities don’t do that.  Most movies don’t do both.  Happy pictures cover more than they reveal.   

When will America learn the lessons of Andy Warhol?  When will I be able to enjoy my pop icons with no intimations of “real experience”?  The stars of my generation were trying to communicate meaning.  American idol corporate pop bands let us know that the meaning is the message.  Who am I kidding?  MTV jingles sold my generation it’s brands, outfits and outlooks on life.  There is a logo tattooed on my arm, for crying out loud.

Yes, strife and confusion are signs of a life well lived.  As much as I enjoy the pure superficial rapture of pop art --;  the rat- – a- –tat- – tat of a Roy Lichtenstein war image for example --, I cannot and I will not pay attention to “Hello Kitty”.  It scares me.  My 1960s American upbringing endures.

About an hour later Beni emerged from the can[LL23] !  I asked no questions.  We went down stairs and decided to walk to the park for the start of the ride[LL24] . I hadn’t been there, but Asia is known for having fantastic parks in the middle of their cities. 

The parks awere supposed to be big enough that you could be totally unaware that you’re were surrounded by city.  They’re parks are there to evoke the quiet space of nature that iwas the necessary corollary to the urban jungle.  I’ve always believed that if gang kids could see stars and nature they would lose their animosity in a paradigm shift. 

The Japanese needed to see us inside the whole of nature. [LL25] In contrast to our abstracted play ground parks, theirs really convey the magnitude of nature. 

How does this tendency coincide with the pop glorification of all artificial?  Perhaps it is in an overall level of belief in the value of the experience of the individual.  Nature subsumes us.  Shopping products fill our day.  No need for a Western quest for individual realities we prize so much.  Angst isn’t a big source of motivation in their lives. 

But as with the affect of a native speaker of the black American dialec[LL26] t, I will never understand what photos, “Hhello Kkitty” and parks mean to them. 

“Elvis impersonators congregate here during the day.” Beni informed me.

“Wow!  How can they conceive of the cultural roots of Elvis?.  That is why I love the Japanese.  They are pure post-modern pop.  They are unconcerned about the real.  There is no center.  They seem to stop at the surface.  No other culture could have invented “Hello Kitty” .  She is a disassociative testament to vacuity.  There is no product or story.  Pure image.  Pure pop.”

I don’t know how a people that are so dedicated to parks that integrate you into nature can seem to be so astronaut[LL27] at other times.”

As we walked, nature started to sway in her customary spirals.  The silhouettes of large bonsai- like trees violently danced in the wind.   Shiva the ddestroyer as represented in a basic field of physics spread messaged the transparent veil from over our reality.[LL28]   She came in the form of whirlpools of wind.

Beni had to keep reminding me to slow down.  The persistency of my feet’s ambition often outstrips my minds’s ability to rein them in.  Walking behind Beni was the only way I could remember to remember to compromise on our pacing.

“Do you see the wind?”  I asked.

“No.  But I see the trees moving.  Is that seeing the wind?”

“They are connected.” I said with humorous intent.

 “We are engulfed in the same wind.”  Beni uttered without humor, as though talking to himself.  “It’s nice to see wind.  Its like breathing.  I remember breathing.  God, its stormy like our insides.  The shit is starting to kick in.”

“No doubt.  I’m not only seeing, but having insights.  Like, that buildings deceive us into thinking that everything isn’t moving.”

“Right.  Nothing is still.  All things are being aeffected and worn by time in a dance of life and death at all times.”

“Scary.  Its nice to be connected at another level.”  I said, partially out of the fear of knowing that I was going off on a trip with someone I barely knew.

“Dark does that.  The cycles of night and day are important reminders. Night is especially important.”

“I often wonder how we are different from the people that had to endure the long night, without the option of artificial light.”

“They put us in a context of the infinite and the finite.  They probably had less hope.” 

“And less illusions about safety.”

“Right on.  We are groovin’ together.  Two minds chewing on the same awarenesses and thoughts.”

“Nice to be hanging with you, bro.”

“Ditto.  I’m glad we got hooked up.”                

“That’s funny, they are[LL29] the only moving things I’ve seen in a while.”

Just then, while looking over a small lake under the moonlight, his cell phone rang. 

As he spoke to his friend about some business or other, I drummed on the bridge.  My drumming was patterned on the spirals of the dancing, breathing trees. 

He made a second call to Aya [LL30] to tell her he’d be back in the middle of the night or later and to not wait up for him.

Drums, and the ability to conjure fractals through them, are a dividend of a long- term investment in rhythm.  I’ve played drums so long that it is burned into my essence.  Pattern weaving is one of my great joys.  I find it really calming.  Perhaps it is reassuring because it reassures me of my having some special skill.  Perhaps it is calming because it ties me in with tribes of old and the beats of the universe. 

Beyond the concerns about pop art and Jesus and words and noise, was a heart beat of existence.  We were all burning and dying like Morrisons to a flame[LL31] .  And my beat was the hypnotic flame that drew the moths in.  It wasn’t a trap.  It was an enlightenment.

Beni apologized for being on the phone.

-----Capsule six: Intimacy----

As we walked deeper into the park I asked if it would be okay if I took a seat.

“I want to get grounded.  Feel the earth.”

“Cool.”  After much silence Beni asked, “What are you looking at?” 

“The people on that sign have been moving.  Its not that they are moving much.  But this stuff is great.  This is an interesting culture.  They have a neat blend of old thought and new paths.  I don’t really get it.”

“JohnJohn?”

“Yes.” I replied tentative and afraid of what was going to come next.  His “JohnJohn” was definitely on the verge of asking permission to proceed.

“What do you think of me?”

Wow.  What a direct question.  It was uncomfortable.  That wasn’t something that I had had anyone askNo one had asked me that in a long time, if ever.

“You’re a really admirable person.”

“No, really.  Do you think my life is on an okay path?.”

“I don’t think you know how spectacular you are or your life has been.?  You are able to ask yourself if what you are doing is the most greatest thing for you right now.  That is something that you’ve earned by seeing possibilities and going for it.  Not everyone considers international options as real possibilities.

You are brave to be living without a built-in identity made out of a culture.  Do you know what I meanI mean,?  Most people, they do what their society expects.  They are comfortable and watch football and go to work and don’t question what they could be doing.  You have definitely not gotten to where you are by blind accident.”

“I don’t know.  Maybe I think that I am getting comfortable.  I used to be like that, but now I am in something because it is convenient and it isn’t really a good thing to do.   The jobs will be great.  My house is really in a nice neighborhood. 

But what am I doing for a seventh year?  Is this where I want to make my stand and home?  After 3 more years I’ll have all of the rights of a full citizen.  Except voting…which I’ve never done anyways.”

“You’ve never voted anywhere?”

“No.  I left the States when I was 16 and haven’t really been back since.  Foreigners can’t vote anywhere.  I’ve lived in so many places that I can’t make up my mind about staying here.  I’m not really friendly with the Japanese, but this is a nice place and it would give me a pension.  And, health care.  And that is really important for when you get older.  I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life.  It feels like I’m not doing anything but getting by.

One of the other professors told me that I don’t have to teach anything.  You can have the studentsm sit and read the text book and then give them oral exams.  If you give them a lot of A’s you won’t hear anything from them.

But that would be boring.  So I’ll work on my work book and program really hard. But after a few years, it’ll be no sweat.” 

“That sounds like a great plan.”

“I just wonder if I’m still here because its easy.  Maybe my life is settling and I don’t know what that feels like.  Where do you get your [LL32] passion to just havedo a safe routine?” 

“I don’t know.  That’s a hard one.  What is it for that you do such a thing?[LL33]   I guess one benefit is that you really can makegrow roots there.  You can stay long enough to feel enough a part of it that you want to vote or aeffect that part of the world.  I’ve put a lot of blood, sweat and tears into America.  I don’t think I’ve ever missed an election.  In fact I usually work on them.”

“I’ve thought about going over to China.  That is where I was thinking of going when I came to Japan 7 years ago.” 

“If you keep teaching here you’ll get sSummers off.  You could go to South America [LL34] during the sSummers.”

“Yep.  That’s true.  But, I told you, just touching a culture isn’t enough for me;, to really understand it you have to live the language.  The Japanese aren’t my favorites.  I don’t think that I could ever feel settled living amongst the Japanese.  They’ll never let me be a part of their community.”

“As a foreigner you could never vote.”

“Yeah, voting.” Beni said dismissively.

 “How about the woman you’re married to. You guys live together, right?”

“We’re married and live together. But I didn’t ask her to marry me.  When I told her about my visa problem, she just offered.  I told her that we can do it in ceremony, and that’d be good enough for me. 

Anyhow, she’s not the one.  She isn’t the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.  She is not someone I can naturally call pet names.  She said she understood and that we could just be lovers.  That that was enough for her. 

So we got married and moved in together.  Only now I’m sure that she’s starting to get more and more emotionally attached.  She started to ask me where I was going at night and stuff.  And wWe had an argument a.  And now she doesn’t ask, but I call her when I go out and…  She’s getting more attached.

 She is a resting place.  Maybe I need to break free and look for that real one.  I meanI mean,, it’s the same thing as my job. I’m pretty much just having sex with her because she’s convenient.”

“How long have you known each other and lived together?”

“We’ve lived together for two years and known each other for six. We’ve been good friends for most of those six.”

“Why don’t you stay and try to see if you could not make your relationship with Ayaher work?.  You guys have a lot of history.  She sounds like a really good person who really cares about you.  And you guys must know each other well.  Maybe that’s enough.  Perhaps youra heavier love will develop as you get older.”

“When I wake up I’m not excited to see her.  She knows it. I could never be in -love with her.” 

“Such a fine line separates "lLoving" someone and ‘being "in -love" with’ someone. Especially unrequited [LL35] love.  It is one- sided and so very sharp.  And it lets you kill with a smile.  ‘It’s not my fault -- I love you.’  Or ‘sorry I don’t love you.’     The devil must be happy.”

I gave him the advice I give myself.   “I don’t remember much from high school,. bBut I remember one guy that said ‘love is a choice.’.  Don’t you think you could decide to love her?. I meanI mean,, you’ll never find that perfect one.  Maybe that is a myth. Maybe you should love the one you’re with. But if you wake up and give yourself that message tell yourself that she isn’t the one you love, you don’t love her, et cetera,c. t Then you won’t. B but if you try . . ...”

“I’ve told her and I tell her that I don’t love her and I could never love her.  I meanI mean,, I love her as a friend.  A lot.  But, no…”

Ouch! I thought.  He tells her that he could never love her.  What a weird relationship.  This man is awesome.  He may be crippled emotionally or whatever, but he has the capacity to be brutally honest.  If I could do that I wouldn’t be in the permanent quandary I’m always in.  I’ve never been able to be honest with my girlfriends for fear of hurting them.  The closest I ever come to honesty is passive aggressiveness.  He told her he could never love her!  Ouch!  Hot!

He continued right over my thoughts.  “I meanI mean,, I tell her why I go to Thailand.  That is where I go for sex.  She knows.  But she’s asked me not to tell her that I could never love her anymore.  So I don’t say it anymore.  But I don’t want to lead her on into hoping for something false.  And the thing that’s bothering me is I’m having sex with her.  And we have good sex.  But is it right?  For her?  For me?”

“Maybe you can’t love her because you caouldn’t love a woman that takes that much shit from you!  I’m sorry . . . .  I didn’t mean to say that.  But you’re really brutal to her.”

“No.  I’m just honest.  I meanI mean,, my father --, he’s been married six times and now travels around with his wife in a mobile home -- he, tells me that the problem is me.  He says that I’m fucked up.  That I can’t love.  He says it’s not with the girls, but with me.  But he’s one to talk.  All of his many marriages were serious, right?  He tells me he’s really loved each one and the current one is the real one.

Maybe he’s right.  But the way I see it,  either  you love them or you don’t.  SheAya isn’t the one.  And maybe I’ll never find the one.  I’m getting older.  And now I worry that it will never happen.  The more time I spend with Aya, the older I get.” 

I said, “I just think that that concept of ‘the one’” is a destructive concept.   Love goes through phases.  There is that “Love phase”.  But  that gives way to bills and the mundane.  Then there is that deeper love of sharing a life.”

“She knows, and I know, that isn’t going to work out, .  JohnJohn.  Didn’t I tell you?  I DON’T LOVE HER THAT WAY.  God, you’re like a fuckin’ machine.  “Couldn’t you lie to yourself?  Just pretend and it’ll be true.”  Eegads, what an attitude.

There is a “one” out there!”  Beni respondedsaid emphatically and with confidence.   “I had one and lost her.  Now, she’s married and I’ll never get her back.  But I still know that Aya could never be my partner for life. 

So should I leave her?  I don’t want her to feel bad.  I do care about her.  But being romantic with her is hard.  And if she had a baby!  That would be the end of my life.”

            “Have you discussed what you’d do?”

            “Yeah. I told her I’d want an abortion.  A baby would be a terrible thing, it would land- lock me.  I wouldn’t have any more choices.  It would be a disaster.  She says she agrees and would do it.  But I’m not so sure.”

            “If not, you and Aya would be stuck together for at least 18 years.  And there is always a risk.  I really believe that if you take that risk and you make a baby, you should stick together till its grown.  The baby’sies’ life is your responsibility.  That’s how I’m conservative that way. 

I think the two of you shouldn’t be together.  Not if you’re not willing to raise a baby with her and you have no hope ofin staying with her.  I meanI mean,, you wouldn’t work at making this relationship lasting because you don’t love her.  So there’s no long- term hope there.  Every day invested in the relationship is a day wasted if you’re not going to stay.” 

“But, we do like each other’s company, and we live together and…”

“It’s convenient.  I’d  just feel sorry for a child that came out of such an offspring.  arrangement.  Every time you have sex with her you are betting against a twenty year commitment.”

“Beyond that,” Bennie kept exploring mused, “I don’t know if what I’m doing with my life is meaningful right now.  I meanI mean,, am I just hanging out?  Is there something else that I’m supposed to do? 

            I’ve thought about working on playing guitar with all my free time.  I meanI mean,, really dedicatinge myself to learning how to read and write and play properly.  I made the CD.  But I get stuck in the same patterns because I don’t read music.  Right now I just diddle on the guitar.   If I read I could really build some really worthwhile music.” 

“Working seriously on your guitar is probably a good idea.  You need to invest in something.  Just didoodling, as you said, doesn’t get you anywhere.   My drumming doesn’t improve because for years I’ve just putzed around. 

There is something refined and beautiful about an old person who has really refined their craft.  Someone who’sse put a lifetime into that one craft and is really able to make exceptional music or art or whatever.  It is a pure refined beauty.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Beni said with a small lift in pep. “Maybe I’ll just take this year to enjoy the comfort and the time the year allots me.  I’ll dedicate myself to classical guitar, which is something I’ve been meaning to do forever.  And I can work on getting my book looked at.”

“God.  I am often filled with despair over the wasting of my life.  I don’t know if life is supposed to have a meaning, but it lays heavily on me too.  My book is meaningful to me.  Most people find meaning in their relationships, b.  But I’m not taking care of anyone.  Like, if you were taking care of your kids you’d feel needed.  You’d have a purpose. But Soo Hee – she’s my fiancée -- is away and independent.  She doesn’t need me. 

And, beyond finding meaning  of it,” I continued, “my relationship is one of turmoil and anguish and just generally not very good.   I have been with Soo Hee for 7 years, but we’re .  My fiancé’s name is Soo Hee.  Soo Hee and I are separated by a lot of water. Literally.!  She lives in Korea and I live in Los Angeles. 

These days when I tell strangers, I hedge.  I say 6.  It sounds less ridiculous that I've been waiting for her for 6 years rather than 7.  In fact it’s definitely coming up on 8 years that I’ve been waiting.   It has been really painful.” 

OhOh, my gGawd, Ttommers, I have lasted typing for sooooo long.[LL36]   But now it is time to pee.  It was a really commendable stretch of effort.  It looks like this drugs- and- typing thing was a good gamble.  I’m able to type after all. 

Okay.  Returned from the head with a slurpy and coffee! I love this place!  The draft will start at theis point from where the last e-mail left off.  Thanks for reading further.  JohnJohn

“Why doesn’t sooni…  What is her name?”

“Soo Hee.  S-o-o space H-e-e.”  I always hated spelling out her name.  It made me feel the futility of us and the distance between us.  The spelling was always done with a burning rage and indignity.

“Why hasn’t Soo Hee come yet?”

And the snare [LL37] is that there is always one more thing before she’s coming.  There was the rice farm lawsuit, and her restaurant, and waiting for her sister to get married, and selling properties.  And it seems that it just goes on and on and it seems that you can’t get off.   And the whole thing seems like an obvious parable in that the more time you sink into it the more time of your life is spent alone and wasted.  Except it’s not a parable, its my life that I feel is wasted.  

The other night[LL38] we were driving through a part of Seoul together called Itaewon.  Its where the military and sordidother people go for nightlife.  I mentioned stopping and walking.  The traffic was making our progress nearly non-existent anyhow. 

She said no. 

“Why? So I could go chasing the cheap girls again?  What was the Canadian girl’s name?” she asked.  This tirade was a reference to the last woman I went out with before Soo Hee.  Now the only thing that she ever mentions to me with a feeling of spite, Soo Hee had once driven me from club to club to connect with her.[LL39]

I didn't remember her name.[LL40] Soo Hee called her "The stupid girl" in a mean way.  And why was she being so hardsh on this girl she didn’t even know?  At that moment I had to ask myself, what do I have in common with someone who uses the phrase ‘cheap [LL41] girl?’  What have I done with my life?

That night I nearly cried out loud in our shared bed.  Actually, she was in the other room.   She likes to sleep on the floor with the air-con on when its hot.  All of my thirties wasted and gone.  On such a stupid dream.  The last time I was free was theat night I first met her in Itaewon.  That was it.  I haved been on a shelf ever since.  “OhOh, the shame the indignity.” I finished said mockingly melodramatically.

“I got really dramatic with myself.   LikeThen I thought about howthat my kids could be 6-7 years old by now.  Instead  they' are going to have an old dad.”

“You wouldn’t consider living in Korea?”

“No.  Her English is better than my Korean could ever be.  Anyhow, I’m not interested in Korea.  There’s nothing there for me.  They are racist againstwhen it comes to mixed couples and it’d just be way easier for us to blend into America.”

“So what’re you going to do?”

“This trip actually was Actually, I planned this trip after she, for the first time ever, said that she didn’t think we were as close anymore and suggested I be free.  It had been ten months since she’d come and seen me.  And I am damn sick of it.  But then we decided to forget our phone break-up conversation and see each other in person.

So, in my mind, this is a break-up tour. But I can guarantee you we won’t break up.  We’ve been through so many confirmed break-ups.  Then I realize what I’ve lost or she cries and pleads and we reconfirm our plans and I go back to waiting. 

Thankfully,”  I added sarcastically, “it’s just waiting for a little bit longer.  Year 8.”

Beni just sort of contemplated in silence stayed silent.

“To top things off, these days I keep thinking I want a family.  And I am so out of touch that I can’t even tell anymore if I really want a family or if I just want a way out that doesn’t involve rejecting and hurting Soo Hee.”   

             “If I stay with Soo Hee her, I can't have kids.  She has known that she was sterile since she was old enough to know what sterile means.” 

"OhOh, cool. "Beni said breaking his silence. “ So you can put it in her over and over and never  have to wear a condom or worry about her getting pregnant."  It was a revolting statement.

“God, Beni!! Soo Hee is a remarkably strong and wonderful woman.”  I shot, somewhat angry and defensive for that last slight to her honor.  “She knew that from an early age and so had to think up how to survive in a world where women are only prized for their male offspring.  Women friends in Korea don't refer to each other by their first names or surnames.  They call each other "Mother of so and so." 

If a woman doesn't produce a male, the husband is still allowed to get a second wife.   Or if he likes he can send her back and not return the dowry.  Soo Hee had to ‘de-breast’ herself likeas Llady Macbeth and find a way to fit into the male world.  She has used her wilesbrain to amass a fortune and position in a world with no place for her.

Putting it in her has nothing to do with anything!”

“Sorry.”

I only barely acknowledged this apology with a hint of a facial expression of disappointment on my face.  To get things back to the appropriate level of sensitivity where they belonged, I made a heart felt statement.

“I think she might love me because I am the only person to whom who she can be totally feminine with.  With me she doesn’t have to battle for position.”

“To be brutally honest, my thinking goes partially like this. …She has money . . ..”   My discomfort with discussing this matter was evident by my momentarily positioning my pointed horizontal index finger along my closed lipsI was never comfortable discussing this matter. 

“Our plan has always been for us to quit work and just travel.  That has been our plan for years now.  But since I met her I have traveled less than ever and do nothing but work and remain alone.  Well, if I’m going to be working every year for the rest of my life anyhow, I might as well have a family. 

The fantasy of endless travel and freedom is also a big pull for someone that has so little use for the mundane work world.  But then again, maybe I’m getting older and it’s time for that childish fantasy of never having to work and grow up to end.  Maybe part of a full adult life is taking on responsibilities.  But then I think about working and struggling through twenty- five years of hard labor to have kids that won’t even live in the same city as me when they’re grown and….   I don’t know. 

Families used to be a much better deal.  My family isnies aren’t close.  I don’t even speak to my sister.  I have issues with family generally. ”

“My family was torn apart by my mother’s death.  I haven’t felt at home on the planet since.”

“Wow.  That’s heavy.” 

Its amazing how loud pregnant pausessilence can be.

“Okay!”  Beni said insistently, to indicate that the funeral mood could pass.

“By the way, it may not seem romantic, but I totally feel that geo- political historical thinking should enter into your life choices.  Identity must be anchored on, cultural soil that facilitates economic strength.  Without an infrastructure and a dependable system of law, utilities, and economics, my secure, blissful life is gone.  Without this stuff YOU WOULDN’”T BE YOU.  When considering personal choices and values, someone prioritizing your substratum’s health is necessary for our survival. 

 And I’m not just avoiding my feelings or some such Freudian crap.  Feelings are not the center of the universe. Our civilization didn’t advance on the basis of feelings.  That’s a 1960s romantic thoughtink.  Politics and economics are thought about by conscious thinkers. I am my country.  I am the success of my history.  And they are, meI.  As personal as it gets.

“Well, values have history.  They rise and fall with civilizations.  I love my values.  To not be able to put your values in a historical or economic or ideological context is to not be conscious of what you’re creating.”

“I guess that makes [LL42] me unconscious.”

“Set free to find a new illusion.” I said lightheartedly, trying to take the sting out of the unintentional barb I had just twalked my way into delivering. 

Beni said, “Even with all of that going, I say if you really loved Soo Hee, it’s a done deal.  All that cultural survival and economic shit doesn’t count.  I don’t trust your logical love or any of that stuff you’re talking about.  Relationships run deeper into you than any of that stuff.”

“I love her tremendously.”

“You’re full of shit.”

We’ve been together for eight years.  What the hell?  You don’t know how I feel or what I feel. 

“Staying together doesn’t mean you love her.  It doesn’t mean  that you even ever loved her.”

“Well I do!”

“Fine.”

“I just also love other things, like my civilization.”

“That’s passion for ya.” He cut with ironic nasty biting sarcasm.

“Well, and it sounds to me like you could never love yours[LL43] .” I said in a reflexively ad hominen attack. 

He looked down like he was taking his chastening to heart.  I hoped I hadn’t wounded him, or our friendship.

“Yeah.” He said chillingly,[LL44] “And I’m starting to have to drink to have sex with her.” 

And for the second time in the last ten minutes I sort of felt pity for poor Beni.  Then he mumbled in a melancholy tone that scared me,  “We’ve been going I circles in the park for a long time.” 

“Well, we’re going in circles,  and I’m stuck at a fork in the road.  But it sounds to me like you’ve hit a brick wall.”  This was said with a soft tone of sympathy.

He didn’t respond to my statement. 

I told him that the way out of the park’s loopk was to just take a straight line in any direction and make sure not to bend back into it. 

“Of course that’s easier done in parks than in real life.”

“But which way do we want to go to get back to Shinjuki?”

“When we get outside of the park, we’ll be able to see where we are.”

Beni expressed disappointment.  “You know, I thought that we’d get higher.”  

I told him that I thought it was a great trip.  Really neat and aAs much as I had imagined.  We had really spoken of issues that were important to us.  And I reassured him, that I still considered our friendship solid and a happy thing even though we had had somewhat heated exchanges.

He temporarily raised his distracted head in the middle of his funk and looked me in the eyes.   “No doubt.  We have to disagree.  I really like to see what other people think. Its cool a.  And I appreciate your honesty.” 

“And me yours.”

“And anyhow,” he continued as his head slunk back down, “…I’m not saying it wasn’t a good experience.  Its just that the last time I got much higher.” 

I took his disappointment at our evening personally.  He suggested that maybe we should go back and get some more drugs of a different type. His debating whether or not this was wise reassured me that his disappointment was strictly with the high.  He wasn’t sick of me or us. 

I agreed to do more with him if he wanted to.  If you agree to a night out on the town with someone --, doing this kind of thing --, you do not bail out on them.  Some relationship rules are simple. 

Besides, regardless of rules, I was stoked to have a new continuation plan, goal and destination.

“Remember, [LL45] though, you  shouldn’t compare the next high to what you expected or didn’t get or last time.  Appreciate it for what it is.  It’s like comparing what could be with what is in our relationships and life plans.  It drives us crazy.”

“Okay, but what I took last time got me way, way higher and tripped out.  We’re going to do something different.  A different one.”

Capsule Seven:  Silence

As we walked back to get round two of the drugs, Beni told me more about Aya.

Tragically, Aya was raped by her father from the time she seven years old.  It continued till she was 14 years old.  He used to come into her bedroom in the middle of  the night and force himself upon her.  When she slept with her father and mother he would finger her in the same bed as her mother.  Her father was washingbathing her in the bath tub and washing out her vagina until she was 13. 

“She isn't sure if her mother knew.”

“How on earth could the mother not have known?.  If she didn’t know, it was because she didn’t want to know.  Even then, it would be impossible.”

“That’s what I’ve told her.”

“It isn’t normal for a father to be in the bathroom when his fourteen-14 year- old daughter is bathing.”

“Thirteen.  The bathing stopped at thirteen.” 

This correction let me know that Beni had heard about this situation often enough to where he’d incorporated into his life knowledge base.  This story had become a part of him.

             “Either way.  Dad, Mom, Aya.  They all knew, and should know that the others knew.”

             “The bummer is that Aya’s father had had a stroke at an early age.  He was 52.  It was related to his heavy smoking habit.   He became a partially- paralyzed invalid.  He needed to be fed and wiped, but didn't say much anymore.  He lived for 5 years in that reduced state of independence.  4 years and 7 months and 13 days to be exact.”  The date is was rattled off as automatically as a mantra.

            “And,” I said, guessing the horrible rest. “Aya took care of him, didn’t she?”

“It’s the Japanese way.  If you don’t take care of your parents…  Well, it is darn near unthinkable.  There were no other children.”

“Thank god.  Jesus, what an unadulterated nightmare.”

“That’s what I figure it must have been too.  She said it was bitter- sweet as she somehow still loved him.”

“OhOh, my god.  Give me a break.  Loved a man that did all those things to her?”

“Family bond is strong.”

“Not in my family.  But there is an incipient connection  that keeps us uniquely tied to each other.  My sister has run away from us.  She lives in France and never calls me or my father.  But I’m sure that it still eats at her.  I hope so.  I would say I don’t care, but it would be a lie.  As horrible as it is, I could see how Ayashe could still love her fatherim.”

“Its unfortunate that it wasn't all hate. It probably would have been easier if it was.”

“True that.”

“When he died Aya and her mother lived together, but they never spoke. They lived in a small apartment. The mother usually sat in a chair between the kitchen and the dining room.  At least, that's where she was always sitting when Aya came home from her work as a librarian.”

“God what a perfect job for  her.” I thought.  Enforcing silence amidst all of those words.

            “She cooked her food and did her laundry.  But in all of the years that she lived with her, they never spoke.”

I understood intuitively that, had Aya ever spoken to her mother again, there would have just been screaming that deafened both of them.  Why bother?  

“Ours place is the first place Aya has lived outside of her home.  She didn’t tell her mother she was getting married or that she was moving before it was done.  The mother was hurt [LL46] that she hadn’t been consulted about the marriage.  But she didn’t ask why.”

“So her getting you a visa wasn’t all about her rescuing you.”

“It wasn’t.  Its hard to live with her.  She has all of the silent places she goes to whereSometimes she just withdrawals into herself and won’t communicate.  I can’t reach her when she’s in that place.  It does.  That is a space that I can’t enter.  I can’t.  Even if she would talk with me about it, I could never understand the depth of her horror.”

“I guess weak empathy is as close as we can ever come to feeling another’s pain…..Too lonely.   I can’t know, but I know, that her silence is profound.”

“You can almost feel it.  When she’s in that place, it’s a thick invisible wall.  One of those total, ‘“don’t talk about the elephant in the living room’ things.”

“Does she spend a lot of time in that space?”

“It happens pretty often.”

“Does it happen when you are affectionate?”

“No our sex life is great.” 

Wow!  I said affection and he heard sex.

I finally understooand why Aya was with Beni.   There is safety in silence.

Beni said that Aya never liked it when he told her bluntly that he could never love her. So he didn't.  But he still had to let her know that they could never love so that she didn’t get any illusions.  On some level, that whole dynamic must have been very comforting to her.  I’d be terrified to love too if I were her. 

Now the only missing piece of the puzzle wais what happened to Beni that he was drawn to such a relationship. Neither one of them could be intimate. 

After a long silence, I blurted, “What an horrific story.” 

“I only wish it was just a story.”

“I sure am glad it’s just a story for me.  It gives new meaning to the phrase “History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.” Jesus.”

The silence that followed my culminating emotive utterance made the last one look like nothin’. 

“An appreciation ofis the silence is one of the main reasons that I am  such a fan of India.”  Broke the silence.  As I said thatit I almost blushed with the realization of the irony that  I was going to run away from the elephantine silence by eulogizing silence.

“Yeah?  How so?” Beni said, cementing the decision to move on in the conversation and fully buying into the silent silence- avoidance that conversation provides.

  “India has a cosmological sense of time.  We worry about the minutes.  Geologists, the tens of thousands of years.  But the Indians measure time in kKulpas.  A kulpa is like the time between the expansion of the universe, its contraction, and the next big bang.  This cycle of hundreds of billion of years has happened hundreds of billions of times.

In fact tThe head God, Brahma, floats down the river, a.  And every time he sleeps a lotus flower grows out of his belly button.  Vishnu is always in the flower when it opens.  And every time that Vishnu blinks, a new kulpa (think universe) is born.  That’s every time he blinks!!  There have been so many universes.  And to take the immediate problems in the one you happen to be in have now as incredibly important, is absurd. 

They don’t get worked up about their little stories in this little universe.  At the same time they’reir not taking themselves as the starting point of their reality;, they are fully aware of the unimaginable magnitude of their cosmology.  The awareness of the largeness of it all and their own smallness makes them tuned in to existence in a way we aren’t.   American’s aren’t cosmic.”

“I’ve had the feeling of being overwhelmed by the size of it all.  The Grand Canyon was one place.  Its too awesome.  It overwhelms you for sure.  It’s indescribable.”

“Exactly.  The sensible reaction to the grand Canyon it, but to silently be awed.”

I did the little head roll, bobbing smile thing that the Indians do.

We both laughed.  The heaviness had dissipated. 

“Yes!” Said Beni, not even stopping to appreciate the type of silence my story evoked.  And just like every other person who ever hears about India he asked the mandatory question. “But don’t they have a lot of poverty in India?”

“If you’ve never been in a home it is normal not to be in one.  They wake up as per the commute in Tokyo. The streets are lined with people.  As the sun comes up, they shake their families up and walk off to their respective jobs.

                 With India you must lose your categories.  Banares is the city of death.  People run through the streets with covered dead bodies on gurneys, singing songs;, hospices are full of people waiting to die. 

When they burn bodies, the smoke invades your nose.  The heat from the fires is scorching hot.  You sweat as if you are basting.  In a city with this kind of consciousness, your dreams of living longer through clean air have no relevance.  People are interested in being spiritually pure in order to go to the other side.  India is a parallel universe.  Your concepts of  pollution  and poverty don’t resonate the same way they do here over there.”

“Every land definitely has a different feel to their people for sure.  That sounds like an interesting place to visit.”

            “Communication across cultural gaps is hard.   But I really enjoy the Indian sense of silence.“  I summarized. “

But it is a dangerous place too.”

            “Crime?”

            “No. If you don’t remember your life back home and to take it seriously, you could end up dropping out forever.”

“OhOh.  I also heard that they spit in restaurants and pee openly in the train stations in India.”  Said Beni, again not pausing to enjoy silence.

“Not where I was.” I said with thea sort of listless despondence of one who was not getting their point across.

“Did you know,” I grunted in a silly, mock- authority voice,. “s…scientists have found that over nNinety percent of what is spoken is either misinformation, disinformation or distraction?”

“They’ve also found” he added gleefully, “that the other ten percent -- t.  The other ten percent isn’t really heard.”

“Touché!”

“Japan is sort of a culture of silence too.”  Beni continued, undaunted in his efforts to communicate.[LL47] “In the office they pretty much have no ways to communicate dissent.  Everyone must agree with the person above them.  Tempered disagreement must be really hidden. You have to apologize and pretend that your statement is a question that someone might ask.  And you have to be on a near equal power footing to even go there.  Mostly you cannot disagree.”

“What a trip.  Its like a Borges novel.”

“Who?”

“Some Argentinean writer.  But if there is no room for dissent then you must just go with the group.  There cannot be any individuals.”

“I’ve met some cool ones overseas.  But while they are here, y.  Yeah, t.  The system is them.  And they take on its values and are really defensive about it.  They are unified --, like we were after 9-11 --, normally.”

“Is that what happens to all the brash, loud, strident- looking you wild dressers we saw tonight?.  Does the system grind them down?”

“Yep.    They get ground down in the office.  In important areas like family and work, dissenting is considered really unthinkably rude.   So you keep quiet.”

As we walked I noticed a slow increase in the number of the brash young strident youth we had been referring to.  They were so outrageous it was hard to believe that they could be changed so quickly and efficiently.  Enough social pressure to silence God!

“Hey, speaking of loud silence, I think our walking is starting to pay off.  More signs and people means we’re getting closer.” I verbalized said.

“Yeah, its just about 6 blocks more to Shinjuku.” 

            It was kind of comforting to focus on my walking and the lights and the things outside of myself.  It required less internal effort.  Then something I had to share popped into my head.

“Korea has a really horrible system of shame and silence too.

I had a place n apartment in Korea whereand the girl next door had some kind of autism.  She would scream through out many nights. I thought there was a rape going on next door.  The next day the family would apologized to me. 

The family kept this girl in the back of this house and padded the walls so that no one would hear.  It was an unscientific view of a world that cared that made them do this![LL48]    Their having an autistic daughter was the result of a transgression by themselves or one of their ancestors (may we always revere their memories).  She was a deep seat of shame.  No one was to know of her. You could choke out a God with silence.

I only caught a glimpse of her through the doorway a half- dozen times.  She was down the corridor with an old woman who had her arm around her.  I wasn't sure if the old woman was being kind, or trying to hide the girl.  I could see that they were very entangled[LL49] .  But inof the few times we made eye contact and I tried to smile at her, ..  I tried to give her some warmth.”

“OhOh, Yeah.[LL50]   Your smile was to give her warmth?”  Inquired Beni with his incredulity on his sleeve. “It wasn’t to reassure yourself that it was okay if you stayed away and totally ignored her plight?”

“Ouch.  I never thought of it that way.  I think you’re right.  It was to block it out of my life and mind and feel good about it. OhOh, so guilty and busted.  Don’t sweat the big stuff, eh?”

A couple of blocks later, Beni announced.   “I hate to look at my face.  When I look in there I see an old man.  Being 44 is hard. Women who I want to pick up on call me sir.  My students call me sir.  And when I think about it, I am old enough to be their father.”

Yeah, I know what you mean.  Looking in the mirror sometimes gives me the creeps too. 

“I read a good essay in an anthology book about this, sort of.  It was about a guy that had no head.  All he knew for sure was that he saw throughfrom two holes.  Actually, that, and that there wais a little fuzzy round patch between them.” 

I said, going cross-eyed while demonstrating my cross eyed gaze at it.

“YourHis nose?”  Beni ventured.

“Yep. His hands, arms and body were also clearly also visible.  But he had never seen his own head.  There was an image that stared back from the mirror.  But he could hardly believe that was him.  [LL51] Anyhow, sometimes I trip hopefully on my not having a head.[LL52]

“Its kind of a sad image for me.“ I said by way of trying to make this answer sound like anything other than an evasion due to nervousness[LL53] . “Two lonely eyes never able to see the head that they supposedly  jut out of.”

Then returning back to Beni’s less than jovial vibe, I said,  

“And the [LL54] bad part is that we probably don’t know just how old we look to others.  For me, its not so much the fading ability to pick up girls.  It is the slow silent shroud of death slowly making me disappear.”

“You sometimes speak like a poet.  You maybe should be one.”

“Thanks.  But it is true.  When I look in the mirror sometimes, I think, “Who is that fat old man?”  it scares me. 

“Its horrible.”

“And as I don’t have any kids, there will be less and less sounds of life rejuvenating itself in my house.  There will be more and more silence.  That silence will more and more mock my words and I will get morose. 

My old face represents the slow, noticeable creeping- up of death.  It represents the futility of all I do and have done.”

“That is pretty damn depressing.”

“Well, my hope without kids is to add to the conversation that society has with itself.  That would be a contribution that lasts.  Only ideas and art last after a civilization crashes.”

“Is that right?”  I gave him time as it was obvious he was thinking. “The people and the politicians are gone.  But, what about the buildings?  They last.”

“Well, I’m counting thoseat as art.  But someone, hopefully, collects their stories and the paintings and the literature.”

“What about the technology?”

“Yeah.  I guess I gotta say that is part of ideas.  But I guess I’m stretching it.”

“Yeah. And the language continues in many of the words we use.” 

“Language, again, I guess is in ideas.  I meanI mean,, I it’s a broad statement, but as statements go, it does help you separate the important from the transient.  And, if not having kids, I could at least contribute to the ideas of my civilization.  Like with my book and all.

What an amazing act of national character that was.” I blurted aAfter a moment ofs agonizing silence, I blurted, “What an amazing act of national character that was.”.

“What?” He asked. 

“That the people of Israel decided as a nation to revise and use a dead language.  Because of this collective decision, millions now speak a language that had been silent for over a thousand years.” 

“It had been totally dead?” asked Beni incredulously.   I'm not sure if he was showing ignorance or subtly insinuating that I was missing some information. 

“Yes” I reassured him.  “It was dead.”  Then realizing I wasn’t as sure as I thought, I saihedged. “I meanI mean,, they brought back from being a language that scholars and priests [LL55] used and made it the street language of a nation.”

“Eesh.  The Word Judaism and meaning.  Whether or not that word has any meaning weighs heavily upon me.  I don’t know that it corresponds to anything, or is just a meaningless word?. Is there really a such thing as this quality “Jewishness”? 

You and me resonate as individuals, Beni, but I think just as individuals.  I don’t think I have more in common with most Jews than with other people.  In fact, I don’t even like most Israelis.  They seem really gruff to me.  Really macho Middle Eastern types.”

“Hey, those are my friends you’re talking about.” Said Beni with a defensiveness that was only half- silly.

“Sorry.  But I don’t feel the connection. 

One of the only times that I felt connection to Judaism as something real was when I was in a synagogue in India that was build in 500 b.c.”

“Wow.  They have a synagogue from 500 b.c. there?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be from that Babylonian exile[LL56] .  While I was there I saw a little Jewish boy stammer walk [LL57] up to the aisle and kind of falldrop himself into a big open book.  Wow.  Study.  That’s the Jewish connection.   But, of course, many Jews don’t study at all.”

“I never do.  That story is more amazing to me in terms of it going back to 500 b.c.  That’s cool.”

“Beni, did I tell you that I am the only real Jew, or person with my family name, left in my whole family?.  If I don’t have a kid[LL58] my family line dies.  That has been a source of discussion amongst family members a lot.  My grandparents would like another generation of Presses and Jews.  And I love my grandparents a lot.  If I had a boy, I could see myself naming him Joe after my grandfather. 

So if I don’t have a kid I will have killed not only my family line, but 5,000 years of tradition.  To make things worse, I’m a part of the priestly Cohohen tribe.”

“That is pretty harsh.  I’m not the end of my line.  My brother has lots of kids.”

“Should I end the story? My family story?  Judaism?  These things weigh on me.  But, is it my story?  Does it speak to me?  Or is it only a tale told by an idiot. Full of sound and fury….”

I paused to see if Beni would get the Shakespeare reference, but he didn’t.  “. . . Signifying nothing,” I concluded.. “By what authority is it my burden to carry?  I really don’t believe in God or anything.  I’m what I call a pain-in-the-ass atheist.  It only comes down to culture to me.

Those without God only have only  history as a connection.   Those without history have only… their personal stories.  Wow.  I like that.  That’s quotable.”

“Personal stories?”

“You know.  To make sense out of our lives, we can use God, history or our personal stories.”

“Yeah, I got it.”  He said irritated at the assumption that he might not have.  “What I meanI mean,t is that family can give you a place for your identity to have meaning too.”

“Okay then.  Only their personal stories -- unless they have family.” I said somewhat cowed.

“Right.  You’re right.  Thanks for pointing that out.”

“Sure.  I meanI mean, you do have Soo Hee.”

“And Soo Hee is more real to me than Judaism or even a family name.  What’s in a name?  A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Shakespeare!”  Beni uttered excitedly, proud to have hit a literary allusion said proudly.

 “That’s for sure. My grandparents and history are real to me too.  But the gramps will be dead soon, and I could have an identity without a connection to culture.  Or cCould I?  There’s the rub”, (Nno comment from Beni.)  “I don’t believe in identities without cultures.   But I don’t need any more Judaism for my identity personally.  I’m Western.  Its really just a matter of whether I feel any debt or duty to continue the culture in the world.

And in terms of that spread of the intellect I was talking about in my book, .  Jews have kicked a lot of ass.  And that kind of ass kickin’ is the maaaaaaandate of evolution.”  I stretched mandate out to make fun of me.  “Talk about your large contexts to fit into.  Intelligence’s evolution.  Universal meaning!”

“You’re a weird one, Johohn Press.  Mr.  Geo-pPolitical.”

“Its like the problem that Hamlet had.  Do you know the story of Hamlet?”

“No.”

“Amongst other things, Hamlet's uncle kills his father and marries his mother (the meats not barely cold from the funeral were used to furnish the wedding).  And his father's ghost is telling him to take action and avenge his murder by his brother.  And if that weren’t enough, there is an army marching against the kingdom. And he’s in charge of seeing that the kingdom gets defended.”

Hamlet’s whole question, though, is, “How seriously do I take this play in which I am impressed in?”   That’s what he means when he asks the famous, "To be or not to be" in this play. Does all of this stuff matter to him?.  Does its command him to act, or does he care?”

“Oh.  I get it.  Well, what does he do?  Does he do his duty?”

“In the very end he does avenge his father and kills all as he is killed.  It’s a big blood bath.  His last words are so beautiful.  They are something to the effect of: "If I have meant anything, once in a while as you go romping through your merry day, remember me.  The rest is silence.”

Sooo beautiful.”  The last two words were said in the voice of Soo Hee..

Should I be responsible and suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?  Or melt into the world with Soo Hee?” 

“Soo Hee or not Soo Hee.  That is the question!”  Beni chimed in.

We both laughed at that one.

            “”Hey Johohn,”  Beni said in a contrastingly gently and tentatively.  “Wwould you come over to our house for dinner sometime? I’d like you to meet Aya.  You could tell me what you think of her.  Our house.  My situation.”

            “I’d love to.” I said, while already feeling my usual reaction of worrying about my time being taken up.  Despite my appreciation of India, My relationship to time is about as nervous as Westerner’s’ general relationship to silence.  It is like a fear reaction of smothering and suffocation.

            “Maybe tonight,.” he said.

            “Sounds good.”

            “Yeah. It’ll be neat for you.  Its rare that a Japanese person invites a Ganji into their home.  Plus she’s a really good cook.”

CAPSULE EIGHT: Memory

After some searching, we wound our way back to our dealer’s stand and purchased another E-ticket product from Kaos International’s fine line of neuronal enhancers.  After repeating the consultation ritual, Beni’s “friend” sold us some powder in baggies labeled, “Trip Thunder”.   This stuff was said to take about an hour, make you a little nauseous and then fly you far and high for about ten hours.  Daunting.

            After consumption, we meandered into a fun little situation.  Long story short, we went a- Karaoke-ing  (if that’s a word) with three women.

            We’d  actually had thought we’d be going out with just tthe two girls.  But, as per my suspicion and chagrin, the wife of the owner of the bar  where we met these women came along to chaperone.   Auspiciously, it was the grand opening of her husband’s British style bar.  So you’d think that she’d stay at the opening.  Unfortunately, however, her husband had passed out from drinking and so she came along for fun and to keep us all separated.

            “Country” was the translation of my companion’s name.  She spoke no English.  This has happened to me before.  It is so awkward and draining to try to communicate with someone that knows absolutely none of your language.  Talk about your walls.  The only tidbits of English she spoke were tiny snippets sewn into the Japanese rock she sang.

Because Beni was able to communicate and I couldn’t, I went across the street and down a bit to a book store, to keep occupied.  All they had were Japanese anime books.  I could read none of them and immediately returned.  By the time I did, the deal was sealed.  We were going to serenade each other.

            Neither Mine nor Beni’s of our ladies wasere sure to be hot items on the open market.  Their competitive edge was gone.  His companion had been divorced --.   That is a huge disgracer in Japan. Besides that she had a tooth that looked like it had been replaced.   My associate had a nice roundness to her body.  But at thirty you’re pushin’ the late end on the marriagability spectrum in Japan.  She’d spent less time in bars than Beni’s friend.

But aAll three were really nice, and welcoming, warm women.  They had nice souls and sang with spirit. 

            As was to be expected, Beni was too aggressive with his potential partner for my comfort.  He said she smelled so good it was driving him mad.  Demonology.

            When I put my hand on the back of my charge a couple of times without a responding touch, I took it as a green light to ignore her.  The cultural oddity of the songs and the singing were more interesting to me than she was.   My impression was that she was also more interested in singing.   She and I dominated[LL59] .

Beni’s big number was “Alone again, naturally[LL60] ” by Gilbert O Sullivan..  The lyrics chronicle support system after support system failing the vocalist.  The last one to fail him is God and then he is alone again, naturally.  Cool song. 

            The girls only sang bad generic rock songs that were imitations of imitations of bad products of the American pop music industry.  Perhaps there will be freer communication and total cross- cultural understanding when American industries have standardized all musical expression.  Anyways, I’m sure that’s the plan.

            Though not my scene, the karaokeing was really fun.  I got really into discovering songs that were totally culturally inappropriate for Japan, and then singing them.  I knew “White Riot” by the Clash would be totally incomprehensible to the Japanese.  So I sang it.  “Young Americans” by Bowie, a British person’s imitation of the cultural stereotypes of America,  AND the first song sung by a white guy on “Soul Train” was another selection.  And my personal favorite for the “most-odd-here” award, “Pink Pussycat” by Devo.  The scoring system reported me as the least faithful imitator in our group.

            These songs all reminded me of my youth.  What a trip.  Who’d haveof thought I’d have ended end up singing theose songs therein Japan at that age[LL61] .  When I was young these songs represented radical rebellions based on fresh insights that the bourgeois were too lame to appreciate.  Now, old and jaded, I had no white riot left.  My white population control book had replaced it.  “Young Americans” faded with my sexual ambiguity and flirting with economic nihilism.  And I finally realized that “Pink Pussycat” didn’t express alienation towards the power of women over us.  It celebrated the hunt.  I resonate with my first impression and was alienated from the modern interpretation.

[LL62]             I had become a different person.  The old one was gone, but the songs remained the same.

Also, as to be expected, when we parted, the girl who seemed obviously uncomfortable with having to constantly push away Beni’s uninvited advances gave him her phone number.  The girl whose autonomy I respected and I exchanged waves at a distance.  That wWomen wanting men who are forceful is obviously a hold over from tribal times.  Passion is a sign of the virility of the hunter.

When I told Beni about my observation, he said it meant nothing.  People in Japan always partend with, “Lets have coffee.”  But when you call you discover it was just a formality verging on a lie.  He doesn’t call them back anymore and tries not to resent their need to lie. 

            Anyhow, long live memory lane.  May songs always invite us back.  Long live rock.

Emerging from the Karaoke, we were surprised to see how empty the streets were.  We didn’t realize how much time had passed.  People had rushed to make the last subway just as we had gone in.  Post karaokeT there was a great early- morning feel to the area brought on by the nearly empty streets.   Late night taxis scavenged, driving near us slowly.  And a few recalcitrant people lingered, in refusingal to acknowledge the end.

After Beni puked, we took one of the scavenging taxis back to Rappongi.  Watching him gave me an empathetic sickness, so I pullwalked away. 

Driving on the wrong side of the road was fun.  The whole evening had been really fun and really interesting.  Our talk about identity and decisions was really cool.  It didn’t resolve anything;, it just seemed poetic and universally significant.  Having been so long, I had given up on the new batch of drugs having an effect.  And I was glad to be homeward bound. I felt very blessed for having had a chance to hang out with Beni.  The coming doze was well deserved.

Rappongi had quite a few people in it was crowded.  My first reaction to the realization that the party showed no signs of stopping in this barrio was a claustrophobic reactionfeeling that I would now never get to bed.  There was an angry resentment in my mind as I agreed to walk around for a while and maybe get a drink.

It lifted me with a jerk.  My feet seemed to somewhat berise off the sidewalk as a sort of heat and visual echo washed over me.

“I just got hit by a wave of high.  It’s starting!” I said, after recovering myself.

“I think I feel something too.”

“I don’t think, I know.  Wow!  This stuff is strong. Beni, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”  This was said with some trepidation and thoughts of bed.  But it was also said with the newfound awareness that I was in for an experience.  That was a big positive!

As the buildings started to take on an air of bending, it got harder to walk.  Not that it was hard to walk, but it was hard to concentrate on my feet.  Trip thunder was visually stunning.  People became obstacles we needed to avoid as the buildings became more an objects of concentration.  Foreground became the background and background the foreground.  I had not been looking far enough back into the back drop.

Then without much visual change, the meaning of the buildings started to change.  Everything was moving and nothing was differentiated.   The entire sky line bellowed as if it were one big flag blowing in the wind.  I realized that these buildings were a decision.  None of this needed to be there.  None had been before. It was as if man had conjured it as a social structure.  I’m not sure if our buy-in to this social configuration came before (possibly collectively) or after the construction.  But our assent is what allowed such shaped buildings to be the norm.  If society agreed, or had agreed upon, a radical design shift, it would or would not have happened. 

Rappongi’s buildings were walls of cultural and mental hegemony.  Imposing a majestic tribute to man and yet full of confinements, they weare projections of some psychic limitations or givens in our natures.  The sky was nearly gone amongst these monstrosities, t.  Their gigantic solidity giving the impression of an unquestionable eternal order.

And yet how nimble they were.  Each created as if out of dream stuff.  They demonstrated that any shape that could be imagined could be manifest.  They were also enforcers of a social order.  Hyper-modern, plastic and yet decided.  We will eventually molt out of these shells.  Acknowledging the fluidity of the solid will inaugurate the next phase of societal possibilities.

“Beni.  These walls could be anything.  Do you see that?”

            “Yep.  Okay.  Johohn.  I’m starting to rise too.   I’m with you.”

“Their reality is like some limit of meaning.  It is like the limit that grammar puts on our sentences.”

“Grammar is the key to communicating.”

“At some level.  But look at the visuals.  What do these buildings say without words?  What is the meaning of this visual sentence?”

“OhOh, .  I see it. Walls of walls with connection, like a sponge.”

“Yes.  You are high!!”  I said, laughing. “Like a sponge.”

            As if by magic, Beni disappeared.  He reappeared ten feet away at another one of his Israeli street vendor friend’s stands to tell him, in a near giddiness that could have been mistaken for boast, what we were doing.  Waiting, and tripping into my own world, and yet trying to convey subtle impatience,  I was horrified. 

For a second, before I quickly pulled my head away, I saw what his friend was selling. 

They were horrific, demonic exaggerated caricatures of celebrities.  My reaction to them was of that of hearing a truth one could not bear to hear.  Not cute.  These horrific celebrities were likeas friends who ripped off their masks to reveal themselves as demons that had been laughing at you your whole life.  My mind could not bear to think of the corporate structure.  The waves of lame thoughts that had been imposed in the names of these horrible faces.

My thinking and body temperature were getting visual and systemic while at the same time undulating and warping. [LL63] As we started to walk in a prolonged silence of awe, my shirt started to come off and go back on over and over.

Out of nowhere Beni asked, “What does your tattoo mean?”   Looking at myself  I realized that I had my shirt off. 

Boy.  I hadn’t thought about the origin of my tattoo for years. 

“My tattoo is a message sent to me from me a long long time ago.” As I relayed this I’m sure I made a face of a person looking back in time.  My eyes were open, but not looking out.  “When I was 19 years old I was in jJunior cCollege.  The long corridors reminded me of a perfect hallway of the work environment. They were so clean and office- like.

“The grammar of the building.”  Said Beni, delighting in the application of our new concepts.

“Exactly.  A young man doesn't know the intricacies of life too well.   But he can read a building.  It is intuitive.  The similarity of the construction materials, desks, the chairs, the paper work and fluorescent lights isn’t a coincidence.  In my mind I was destined, by continuing to take classes, to work in an office. 

I accepted my destiny.  But I did not want to have a spiritual lobotomy.  My fear was that I would just become a vacuous, T.V-. watching, non-questioning, automaton.  This didn’t seem like an unbearably horrible thing to me.  It just seemed like the way things were to go.  It would be redemptive, though, if every once in a while I had a doubt.  I remembered that there was anger and emotion and passion.  Not everything was pretty around the world.  I wanted to send this message to my future self.  So I got a tattoo.  A “Fly in the ointment"  tattoo.  My tattooIt’s of the great band "Black Flag."  Black flag means anarchy. And I still remember that there is a chaos behind the reality they present.  Death bites at the walls of all things clean. Cleanliness is next to godliness.  Godliness is next to death.”

“Wow.  It is a message from that hallway.”

“And that perfect lobotomized world never materialized for me.  Maybe that’s ‘cause I don’t watch T.V.TV  But I’d probably know about pain and dissonance even if I didn’t have my tattoo and watched T.V.TV.  But I’m glad I have it.”

“Gives you some kind of awareness.  An edge.”

“Yeaha.  Wait a minute.  Hold on.  I think I just got this tremendous vision.  This stuff is good.  Bear with me, I’m gonna try to get it out.  Okay?

“Sure.” 

“We’ve probably walked around in the same circle now for about 4 times.  But if we didn’t know, we’d never be able to break the pattern or have any idea that we could learn about things we’d seen before.

Once upon a time, mankind was like an animal.  He ate drank and slept and it was the same day over and  over again.  There was no once upon a time, it was all the same day or pattern.  There was no idea to accumulate things for next year.  You can’t have progress without a sense of change.  You can’t have a sense of change without a benchmark.”

“Like a baseline measurement,?”  Beni said, proud of his knowledge.

            “Exactly.”  I said, smiling because he was following me and so proud about his knowledge. 

“Learning is not possible without memory.  Maybe memory formation was the result of someone remembering where they had been.  They may have made a mark on a tree.  Then when they came back to that spot the next year, they could start to formulate a sense of before. 

“Maybe that is why they call a “benchmark” a benchmark. Someone actually marked a bench.”[LL64]

“Maybe so.  When they had a system of cumulative marks, people would then tell about what happened when such and such a mark was made.  Maybe that’s even how language got started --, trying to explain things that weren’t there anymore b.  But had been there in previous years.”

“Then cultures would start . . ...”   

“Cool!  I never thought I’d link my tattoo to the existence of civilization before.  Its been a marker to me that has lasted through time. Thanks for your patience.  I just all of sudden had a vision of history and place and memory.”

“No problem.”

“Did it make sense?”

“Yeah.  But I’m not quite sure how you got to cultures.”

“With historic memory, folks can plan and remember.  They can learn from their mistakes -- (hopefully). And remember and seek change.  So they told stories of the last time around their path.  Maybe they made their stories have meanings to remember what to watch for on their circle.  Perhaps they backfilled to the creation story of the first time around the loop.”

“Yeah.  So culture came from elaborating on their trip their tribe took around the circle . . . their tribe did…. Okay.” Beni’s final utterance was to convey conveyed a combination of enthusiasm and puzzlement.  I appreciated his enthusiasm.

“This can’t be an original thought, but I came to it myself and I haven’t heard anyone else point it out.  But, Beni, did you realize that every civilization is prefigured by a story?.

Greece was the outcome of Homer’s Iliad.  That book started their culture.  People think the event happens and then the book is written.   That’s the history way.  But in reality, the book is written first and then a civilization comes about from it.  The middle ages resulted from the Bible. Muhammad’s Koran came before the extensive empire.  Heck!  The communist manifesto and then The Soviet Union.”

“Huh.  I guess you’re right.  The story comes first.”

“I think it’s a rule.  And like the marker on the tree, or a marker on this street corner, if you can’t separate the past from the present, you can’t have a story.  All is just now.  And to function, a civilization needs a story.  Like a mind needs one.”

“What would ours be?”

The Bible.  We’re an offshoot of a particular reading of the book.  The Ppuritans read it stricter and took it more personally than the Catholics, (or anyone else I’ve ever heard of).

Such markers have huge ramifications, a.  As our identity is based on who we tell ourselves we are.  Right?  When I ask you who you are you tell me your story, your history.  And so cultures get their identity from the stories that made them up.  Of course, the reading is important too, and how does the United States read the Bbible today?” 

“Scary.  We’re kind of like a psycho- – Christian.”

“Yeah.  But I hope that we also see the Bibleit as the mythological springboard for our culture.  Like, I love the way the Puritans read the Bbible. But that is appreciation at a distance.  One of the big reasons I root for Western cCivilization is that I’m invested in the story.  If we or our civilization had no story then we wouldn’t have any motivation or direction, would we?

Robbed of memory we would be have no story.  If we had no story, no direction or motivation or reason, we would be as unconscious as the whirl pool.  Just spinnin’ . We would just bumble around until someone who had a destiny plundered us.  They’d have a reason to.  We’d become part of their remembered history.”

“Sometime it seems that America is just spinning for the sake of spinning.”

“That is why remembering our stories is so important