Hey Mortality (5 page)

Today the photograph
lays discarded by my bedside. The noise of chanting and humour drifts in through the single pane of my window glass. Outside, the festival that the homeless man told me about is taking place. I decide that today, there is nothing left to think about, nothing left to do but to enjoy the festivities. A distraction from the insane.

Imado Festival is in full swing, people are cheering, and the chimes of an ice cream van jingle fills the air; an old man singing in Japanese. Typically, the song takes up the space in my head that is usually reserved for contemplation and creative thinking. But recently, other than the whistle of a tofu truck every evening, I sit suffering in silence. Today I will suffer with the ice cream song playing over and over in my mind, like a broken merry-go-round.

Outside the Plum Ship, men are carrying the portable shrine of Imado. It really is a welcoming sight seeing people dressed in traditional clothing and chanting indecipherable chants. It does however appear, that the clean-up effort by volunteers yesterday has already been forgotten, as trash, empty
nihonshu
cups, and plastic trays of takeaway noodles litter the area around my home.

Men shout and march forwards and backwards with the heavy shrine that houses god on their shoulders. People watch, randomly applaud, and are in, what can only be considered, a good mood.

It really makes me think about how the people in Nihonzutsumi can be so forgotten, but when an event like this occurs, they rally together. I might well be the only foreigner here, watching in delight and deep fascination. People smile at me as I join in with the applause, as the shrine known as
Mikoshi
is moved past Joe and into the arcade where homeless still sleep; despite the mid-afternoon blazing summer sun.

It makes me wonder if I can help. Help the local residents and homeless residents of this impoverished society, those who suffer because the government would rather play host to the sex industry and ignore the people that need support the most. Money, a fraction of it at least, could transform this area; an area that right now I am almost proud to call my home.

I see the residents here, they live in fear and sleep with nothing, but they do so because they are not offered a real chance. We are here in the most expensive city in the world, and for what? To hide the homeless, sweep them away to a place that even history books are afraid to acknowledge exists. This is the real Japan, and one that will never be forgotten by me, for as long as my death continues or my life revolves onwards.

As for the festival, makeshift tables and chairs, and beers, they await. Await the hard working carriers of
Mikoshi
. The sweating men that so proudly carry their deity. I wonder if they will be forever ignored.

An old lady smiles at me as a watch, her smile is deep and genuine. The parade itself is fascinating, and the shrine, whoever made it, should be worshipped as a god. The craftsmanship beautiful, the artwork of gold and purple creates a delight of reflections in the midday sun.

This is an important moment for me, and for those that live in Nihonzutsumi, not just because everyone has got together to help with this parade, but because I have realised that maybe, it is no fault of the locals that they ended up here. Born into an ancestry of untouchable misery and ignorance from those in power. Everybody is surely entitled to another chance. Everyone here should not be forgotten. They should be treated as the humans that they are, but they’re not, and it makes me angry on this day of joy.

The festival continues until dawn, and spirits remain high. The street food stalls set up in the market seem to be turning good business, and it is fair to say, the residents of Nihonzutsumi are starting to feel the effects of the flowing alcohol, and the power of god.

It is completely without distraction of boxes or men wearing bandanas or photographs or lost loves or demons, that I enjoy the festival to the full, and stay to help clean up the streets as it approaches its end. But, I still feel an obvious sorrow for the Nihonzutsumi residents.

This is perhaps the best day in weeks for me, one where morals and judgement became stronger, and have managed to dissipate most of my emotions in the festivities and enjoyment of my surroundings. But with that said, tomorrow might well be another day of misery and confusion, absent again of any god.

After sleeping for
an entire day, I wake up to find one skipped. My mind has been mentally tired recently, so it can only be good that I am well rested for now. I still have images of that demon from the Kangaroo Hotel in my head, a thought that cannot be shaken away. I still have the sound of festivities in my ears too. An imbalance that sways more toward sorrow than happiness.

I glance at the photograph with obvious confusion. I wonder if this really could be me. It looks exactly like me. I am not wearing modern day clothing, but it is almost certainly myself. I don’t know how it is possible that I ended up in a time that wasn’t my own.

Today I decide to take it easy and distract my mind from thinking about the photograph. With no job now, or purpose, I will kill time by wandering around the Nihonzutsumi area, observing the ordinary folk as they go about their daily lives.

I start from the steps, and already events are occurring in their usual manner. Outside the Plum Ship, a homeless man in his late seventies is punching a cardboard box; really beating it up for no reason that I can see. This act, his frustration, and why anyone would get so angry about cardboard confuses me. Punch, punch, punch; Rocky Joe looks impressed. His smile always stays the same, but he does look happier than usual in a strange contorted way. Joe stares directly at me from his location outside my building, therefore, can only be watching the man punching at cardboard with painted eyes from his peripheral.

And it is from these steps that above me I hear the loud stamping of heavy footsteps, which can only mean one thing, Yakuza Guy; the man in the white bandana. As he opens the door above me and slams it behind him, I stay frozen staring at the man punching the cardboard box, which can now no longer be considered a box at all, having completely lost its shape.

As the footsteps grow louder the man sweeps past me, and for the first time, Canadian Guy and the story he told me is confirmed. The man is today wearing a suit, a jet black suit, black trousers, polished shoes, a white shirt, and a black tie. Hair slicked back with mousse or gel. He looks impressive. Either ready for a funeral or to commit a heinous crime. I have never seen him like this before and it shocks me.

As the stamping slowly decreases and the man makes distance from the house, those five immaculate suits hanging on that rack is the image that brings itself to the forefront of my mind.

I consider following him; he wouldn’t be too difficult to track, I imagine. Perhaps he stamps for attention, wants to be noticed or heard, or maybe he wants to be followed by somebody.

As I sit to light a cigarette, the homeless man wanders off into the arcade. Moments later, people stop and take a photograph of the statue of Joe, as often happens. Sometimes couples or groups of businessmen. I watch with curiosity and see the excited looks on their faces. An unexpected statue on their way to work. Completely out of place.

I see a homeless man riding his bicycle. He passes the steps and disappears out of sight. A few moments later I hear a huge crash. Intrigued, I peer once again from the steps, around the corner to where the Chinese restaurant sits, to see that the man has collapsed while cycling. He is on the concrete, on his side. Feet still touching pedals as he retains his cycling pose. I watch as other people walk past, walk around him, and completely ignore him. Six or seven people do nothing. I suppose I too do nothing.

Eventually a young man stops. He is perhaps in his early twenties and rides a foldaway bicycle. He makes a quick phone call and leaves. Five minutes later the police arrive, two officers on white bicycles. They manage to stir the man awake. The man slurs his speech and begins to get angry at the police officers. After five minutes of this, the police officers shake their heads in disappointment, get back on their bicycles, and leave the man as they found him; on his side, hugging concrete.

I decide that I have seen enough and to go for a walk. Through Yoshiwara I am once again asked for sex by the man outside Silky Doll. It doesn’t feel unsafe here in Yoshiwara though. I am always being watched by the security men outside the brothels, in their smart suits and with earpieces; their consortium keeps me protected in a strange way.

It is as I walk through this area, that I begin to notice more and more images of eyes. They look like the character from
kabuki
, a Japanese dance drama. Their eyes form the face of the character that represents justice. A yellow background with black eyebrows, a black outline, and red eyes. They appear everywhere; on vending machines, in flower beds, on telephone boxes. I never really noticed them before, except once at Yoshiwara Shrine. I am not sure what these eyes are doing, and why the rest of their face is missing. Just his eyes. Justice Eyes. Perhaps reminding me not to commit a crime, that I am being watched all of the time. Scaremongering, an example of the panopticonic society I live.

In my broken thoughts, I continue my walk and contemplate. Surrounded by prostitutes, built on a graveyard, lonely. I wonder what to do next. I have nothing at all to do; there is no place for me here, it seems. I am enveloped in darkness and sadness. So lonely, so miserably lonely. The faces of others, even the faces that have nothing but time to kill, and time waiting to kill them, they look happy. They drink from their
nihonshu
cups or from cans of cheap beer and laugh through toothless mouths. Not me. I’m tired of being just the shell of a broken man, a complete wreck with nothing to breathe for; only pain, hatred for the demons, hatred for her for not coming back, hatred for all else.

And as the shadows break away, and the void cracks open, a light begins to shine. A light I discover by Hanazono Pond. Something more beautiful than life itself. A painting. A beautiful painting.

Standing in silence
, I look at the painting on the shutter door. It is of such detail, a wonderland of creation. I am fascinated. The shutter is layered in parts by thick dust; the dust covers the sections of the painting that lay in the grooves. It has been some time since this doorway has been cleaned. It has been perhaps many years.

And even though I have walked past it so many times, the splatter of paint, the symbols of joy, I have never noticed it. Paint hidden behind years of dust, and before presumed only to be another stained shutter; a shutter down. When you are searching for something, anything, a symbolic meaning or something incredible, something will eventually find you. And it does.

I soak it up, I embrace it as I let it wash over all of my thoughts, as I allow it to cleanse me. The box, the photo, the man, gone for now and replaced by this beautiful piece of artwork.

The painting itself is so very detailed, and depicts another world, a world most beautiful. Small colourful people live in vast treehouses of blues and greens. A crowd of gold carry a portable shrine. A boat sits on a river at the bottom of the mural, a party seems to be taking place. A green and black spotted giraffe carries children to the peak of a red mountain. An array of small characters dressed in the same blue outfit make a pilgrimage across a bridge that stretches to a world of colour. I want desperately to be inside that world, a world of colour and smiles.

If you looked at the shutter door from a distance you would notice nothing. It looks like a random splattering of paint and dirt. Even from just a metre away it is difficult to make out the details, but the closer you get, and the harder you look, objects and people emerge. Giant colourful mushrooms where the children play atop. An orange tree branch laid across a beautiful blue pond filled with carp. Every part of this image is so detailed, and the sheer size of this work must have taken months to complete.

A huge red chasm of white rocks and climbers. Panda bears crawling to their feeders. Birds of green and blue and orange feathers float onward toward their young in nests so high. Yellow birds perch on blue vines and green hillsides. A true paradise.

To the top of the shutter, small white squares are houses of blue thatched roofs, shrouded and masked by stalks and trees and other foliage. Far too much is happening, too much to describe. But the people, the tiny people look happy in their surroundings. Happy with the world created by someone’s mysterious hand.

Whoever dreamt this up was surely living in a place so much better than the area of misery that this painting so finds itself located. A world of joy enveloped in a world of darkness.

Floating platforms and a fading blue tower see people cheering and worshipping as they release balloons. Small cliffs attached to nothing float idly in the sky. Islands and occasional people. Pebbles and cliff faces.

I want to enter this world and leave behind the place I stand. Leave behind me the Yoshiwara area, the Nihonzutsumi area, and walk through this ever closed shutter to the world contained within, the beauty contained within.

I smile for the first time in a few days, and wonder how something as delightful as a painted shutter or a piece of graffiti can look so glorious. How there is such beauty in such small details and places. I wonder how I let myself become so wrapped up in the horrors of existence, the misery of living. I will free myself from the darkness and enter the light. I will find love and amazement in everything around me. I will look for life in things, rather than wait for life to end me.

And, every time I let the suffering return, I will return here instead. Stare at the abstract beauty that sits as paint before me now. Search the image for more and more details, things I don’t see the first, second, and third time I view it. So much to see and absorb. A reason to return.

Back at the Plum Ship I feel like I have been reborn; a new me. Optimistic and cheery as I perhaps once was when I was a child.

From my apartment, I can hear somebody quietly playing the piano from the building next to mine. I stand and admire the music for a while, before deciding to rest for the day and let the images of the shutter fill my mind in sleep.