FLOWERS OF HOMECOMING
RETURN:
Kazushi Sakuraba battles Marcel Duchamp! By Fireball Lee
Tokyo, Japan– birthplace of the sun, and a land of complete civility. I cannot express my gratitude for this location, having just returned from a 2 week jaunt through the beautiful and harrowing social jungles of Thailand, out the back-door of Shanghai (thought I’d have been slaughtered like a duck), plopped back (sickly) on my sweet-smelling grass-mat floorboards and restless nights ahead.
There are no words to describe the level of surface kindness tucked tightly around the solid heart muscles of the casual Nihon-Jin. I battle the desire to shake hands with strangers as I shuffle through Narita airport. “Praise Buddha for blessings upon Tokyo! I’ll never leave your warmth again.”
I carry myself from the NEXpress train to the cozy cove of Shinjuku station and I am relieved to inhale the familial scents of it’s comfort and convenience-slow-witted and delirious from weeks of drinking, travel and sleeplessness. Dry-mouthed, I approach a vending machine, colorful lights blinking, etc… Cold, bottled green tea at my disposal with the swipe of a train card against it’s smooth surface–the clinking sound of falling beverage greeting me at the flap.
“Okaeri,” it murmurs, rolling–label face-up. “Welcome back.”
“Thanks, vending machine. You are a pillar of modern comfort in this garbage heap of a planet.”
Freshly delivered, I sprint, taking two steps at a time. WAS AN ADVENTURE, I think and consider my exit, slightly baffled to be back. 24 hours in the Bangkok International airport: paranoid thoughts breeding unhealthy actions and movements. Nodding off with eyes open. Sweating onto hard plastic, all the while avoiding any sort that might seem overly helpful (bastards all). I had it comparatively easy.
Plenty of the others swore they’d been marooned in Bangkok’s tyrant clutches for nearly a week. The toils of flying standby on this side of paradise during the busy Japanese Obon holiday–a Buddhist ceremony to honor the dead turned familial reunion. Ball-ache of the decade.
“Never again”, I whisper looking towards the rafters and through the glass to the dead air above.
“Where are you trying get to?” I ask a young man standing nearby. He is in line, looking to get on the same flight.
“Iowa. I’m from there.” He is dark-skinned and very tall. He talks to me like we’re bros. “Everyone is trying to get outta here on standby, man. No way back. Fucking sucks. Might just have to buy a ticket.
God damn standby,” grumbling.
Everyone flying Delta has to get back through Tokyo. Fuck me. I live there. Just let me on the plane, dammit. I’m nearly broke. Bought two packs of gummi-worms and a cup-ramen–stomach all twisted up.
My cookie crumbles and I’m forced to buy a ticket on credit. What an inconvenience. I haven’t paid for a regular ticket in years. Been flying off of Grandfather’s buddy passes since I was a kid. Bite the bullet.
40,000 yen and 20 hours later, and I’m on a Chinese airline to Shanghai. The flight is relatively short. I arrive at Shanghai’s immigration counter and am surprised by their level of congeniality. A control panel on the desk of the customs agent which reads RATE MY SERVICE blinks green and red. I mash the button under KIND AND HELPFUL and he smiles. I exit and am quickly convinced I’m to stay at the nearby Shanghai hotel.
“I’ve only got 4,000 Japanese yen,” I say. “No Chinese money.”
“No problem, no problem,” the guy says and snatches the wad of blue and sand-colored bills from my clenched fist and leads me outside and into an old teel van. The driver speaks no English. There is one other passenger sitting in front of me. He looks to be about 50.
“Hello, my friend,” grasping my hand. “I am (something unintelligible). I am from India.”
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Kris…an American.” A young couple on a motorcycle rides by the window, drowning me out.
“I guess we’re both in the same boat,” he says. “I missed my flight this morning. Now I’m in this van.”
We’re both in the van. This van will carry me to my execution. Through the window I see twisting highways, roads and street signs in Chinese characters. In the distance, the heart of Shanghai.
The hotel is an old, 2 floor building along the highway. The carpet is stained. A plump woman is working the lobby, eating pan-fried pork fat and drinking a coca cola. She is sweet and smiles the whole time. Loves her pig. I am thirsty, but I’ve got nothing but an empty check card. Graciously, the Indian man buys me a bottle of water. I give him a snack cake. He is hungry and a vegetarian.
“Good luck, son. Safe travels,” he says.
I retire to my room, shower and fall asleep hearing people screw in the room next to me–paper walls, Chinese TV drama, dreams…
POST-SCRIPT:
Do not allow the above tone convince you that Thailand was anything less than delightful. It was Colorful and dynamic, with a fiery cuisine that matched the sincerity of it’s people, but near the end of the second week I had to make a dash for door. Here now and slightly departed from the beautiful loneliness of brief and intense travel, I gather my rosebuds and convince myself to a swelling for production. Nothing but drinks and laughs for the past 3 weeks. The spirit of summer rolls on. How many more? 10 before it’s all washed out?
About a year ago, I told of few of the boys that we (Goons, Bastards,etc…) were losing our Summer Culture, which was a way for some of us to explain a prolonging of freedom from the shackles of some unnamed suffering. It appears as though we continue to grip the rope for for our sweet lives. I cannot honestly decide whether or not it will lead to a wasting. As they say, time will tell and the curving backbone of it will whip through the snow-white foam towards the top of the break like some monstrous megalodon and the gnashing of razors on meat at the end.
For now, we will continue to argue the the value or lack there of in authorial power, the undeniable importance of the mother we call NARRATIVE and the nature of flying leg locks– pitting the great IQ wrestler of our hearts against the surrealist behind our eyes. It is an exhausting forever war. It carves us into into pleasing shapes– sliced pears, gold leaves.
I Recently heard a few of you are searching for the heart of the world. Like the corpse of Dracula it was split into 5 parts. Reawaken the warmth of the heart to lift a curse.
Kometkind, all of you–K
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