The Tokyo Diaries
Kiss Me You're Beautiful
Ed: This is Daniel’s first and only dispatch from Tokyo. Shortly after posting, he was deported back to the United States for committing acts detrimental to the security interests of Japan.
This city is deathly quiet. Wandering through Kōenji, the especially quiet town where I am staying, footsteps sound like bass drums. You can hear your own shadow; the heartbeat is a crescendo, the breath a resounding scream.
I’ve heard multiple reasons for this: Japanese people are courteous, the city’s infrastructure absorbs sound, the vast system of rules which governs this land wields a scepter of silence, muffling every cry, every shout of ecstasy, etc. No matter the reason, the silence is blaring. Even loud silence should be peaceful, a welcome escape from the searing digital hum ever-present in our ears, but I cannot find this peace. Always far away yet perhaps just around the corner.
Do Japanese people complain? Probably. I have not heard one yet. Granted, this is because I know a total of four Japanese phrases, but is there even enough time to whine? Rushing headlong everywhere, body and mind squeezed tightly into their proper shape. I complain constantly. Remonstrations pour from my soul at such a high frequency that menial observations contort into child-like wailing. It is quiet, it is cold, these letters make no sense, the train stations are large, I bought a chicken sandwich at the convenience store without realizing that the chicken is purchased separately, etc. Left with a coin purse full of complaints and a bun slathered in mayo, I trudge through the city streets, bow-legs staggering beneath a Dostoevskian hunch, beanie welded onto my head disguising its receding hairline. Goddamn I am beautiful. A woman loves me!
She has so many tattoos that I struggle to remember them all. This of course immediately inspires anxiety: do I love her enough, as she should be loved? Does love forget ink etched and stretched across familiar curves?
Let’s see what Reddit has to say:
From u/square-pulse: “If you're doubting or have the slightest spark of doubt whether you love them or not, you do not love them.” Oh no! I don’t like that one. Let’s try someone else. From u/Any-Bird-7974: “I just got married. Love is a choice you make every day.” Panic attack averted; I have mastered the wind and stars.
In Christopher Paolini’s timeless Inheritance Cycle, the invincible villain (Galbatronix) is defeated by a simple spell, a masterwork in magical creativity–he is made to understand the totality of suffering wrought with his hands. His mind breaks, the heroes win, the dragons reproduce. Regretfully, this mortal plane is dragon-less. People are having thoughts, scary ones, sexy ones, sad ones, sweet ones, all over the world, all the time. Innovation has taught us to broadcast these ideas through every possible medium of communication. We have bastardized the grand human quest undertaken so faithfully by our ancestors: to be heard by the heavens. Commenting, asking forums if we love our lovers, screaming into techno-oblivion: This is the Tower of Babel. We know entirely too much about one another and still so little.
Galbatronix would hate Reddit; like everyone else, he would love Instagram reels.
My magnificent Marxist ideology tells me that mankind is united in solidarity, possessing the capacity to overcome all obstacles and create a better world. This is a lie. The only thing that unites us is Instagram reels. In Thailand, on an ethical elephant adventure farm one hour outside of Chiang Mai, a tour guide is utterly locked inside an endless stream of makeup tutorials. Motorcycle taxis in Bangkok use the moment of rest provided by red lights to scroll, without sound, through a grand assortment of opinions lit by ring light. In San Diego, California, my father is watching videos titled “Five ways the Allied Powers pressured Hitler into war,” or “Milton Friedman’s BRUTAL takedown of LAZY SOCIALIST MEXICAN strikers” and having the time of his life.
On the trains here in Tokyo, they scroll with such class, such precision! Sometimes, a notice will appear on the information screen concerning a slight delay due to “personal accident or injury,” which usually means that a person has just thrown themselves under the wheels somewhere down the line. Everyone ignores it. After the initial shock, the recollection of how common suicide by train is here in Tokyo, I ignore it too. After all, my music is turned up so loudly that it drowns out any thought deeper than surface level emotional reaction, and I am busy judging everyone for being on Instagram.
Despite feeble attempts to forge a unique path, I am nevertheless a child of these times. More than half of my adult life has been spent hooked to some sort of device. I am wired to this dead machine; orgasm after orgasm I slide naked into the Lethe.
I met a man in a bar who studied abroad in Nebraska. He used to get in trouble with his host family for sneaking Megadeath CDs into his room. He bought me whiskey and forced the bartender to play Joy Division because of the tattoo on my arm. I had coffee and toast with two old women as we poorly communicated our dismay concerning the fires in LA. They gave me gelatinized coffee with condensed milk on top. A sweet man explained what I should get at a restaurant before telling me that I should let him cut my hair. This is really the only reason to live.
At 5:30 PM the city can feel like steel, a sharp wind crawling up the back of your neck, a cold sheet of glass against your skin. These little moments suffuse the cramped expanse with color; jumbled English and broken Japanese, there are fireworks everywhere. Perhaps I might find some confidence here, lift my head from the muck, or write a good poem. I can taste the words already, on the stumbling journey home and the packed train, missing love.
I leave you with the lyrics to Godspeed You Black Emperor’s “Dead Flag Blues.” There is good in every one of us, it has always been there and it always will be.
The car’s on fire and there’s no driver at the wheel
And the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
And a dark wind blows
The government is corrupt
And we’re on so many drugs
With the radio on and the curtains drawn
We’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
And the machine is bleeding to death
The sun has fallen down
And the billboards are all leering
And the flags are all dead at the top of their poles
It went like this
The buildings toppled in on themselves
Mothers clutching babies
Picked through the rubble
And pulled out their hair
The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal stretching upwards
Everything washed in a thin orange haze
I said, “Kiss me you’re beautiful
These are truly the last days”
You grabbed my hand
And we fell into it
Like a daydream
Or a fever
We woke up one morning and fell a little further down
For sure as the valley of death
I open up my wallet
And it’s full of blood