Prayers to Sheos. Part Six.

   I left Lucifer in Pusan and took a flight over to Tokyo, determined to see what all the fuss was about, but before I could see anything, I got trapped in the madness that is the Tokyo subway system. It wasn’t long before I had given up on the trains and just started walking the tracks. Without the threat of a third rail setback—they put theirs above the train—my meandering proved quite calming. Even the prayers didn’t seem that intrusive.

Answerable,
      Yeah, and you should sit there and contemplate this concept for the rest of your existence. How does this number sum up the entire course of universal development? What more can I do to unlock its secrets? Who invented toast? I swear, you people hear some nonsense from a Brit and you’re ready to devote yourself to 42-ism -- though I suppose this religion is just as good as the next.

       I came to Shinjuku station to the astonishment of a platform full of faces. I thought about mentioning something about a chased cat, tragically lost to the unyielding appetite of the tunnels, but decided to just let it go and fade into the mix of people that had no thoughts of anything beyond the rise of the escalators—discretion always being the better choice.
       Lessons learned.
       I popped up to the familiar sounds of city life and headed south. Shinjuku felt like any other part of any other fast moving city I’d ever been to, complete with its shady back alleys and fiery neon signs. If a noir story were to be placed in Tokyo, Shinjuku is where it would all kick off. So, with a feeling of “been there, done that,” I kept walking, hoping to be surprised by something on the way to wherever. That surprise came to me way after sunup, when I stumbled into Akasaka. Bikes were everywhere, and though this could be said for Shinjuku as well, they seemed much more at ease here, many taking the time to rest against telephone poles or even on their own kick stands. None of them wore chains.
       Artsy and pretty, I know that as far as attraction was concerned, I warmed to Akasaka immediately.
       I even came across a stand selling used books, something I hadn’t happened upon during my entire stay in Korea.
I grabbed a well-worn copy of Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood and continued on my way.

Quinn,
       It was not published for the same reason a lot of amateur poetry isn’t published: It’s fucking stupid. But don’t worry, there’s always Hallmark to give people with work of this caliber a job. Just think, your words will be in Kroger gift sections across the country, really touching the masses. Only watch out exactly where you touch them. People sue over that kind of thing nowadays.
       In all seriousness, Kyle, I get the irony and sarcastic edge to your words, but I was never a fan of poetry to begin with, especially now that people have linked it directly with the bases of human emotion. I mean, come on, there’s more out there than pain and love lost and agony. There are better colors than pink and black. For fuck’s sake, pick up some Galway Kinnell or Denis Johnson for a taste of what real poetry is, or at least should be. But until the Goth Tophatters are banned from their writing instruments, you can cut the first lines of your poem.

       After strolling through a cemetery in Aoyama -- Japan has an unusually beautiful way of keeping in contact with their dead; not that it really matters. Well, not to the dead anyway -- I hiked back to Tokyo station and bought a train ticket for Kyoto.
Kyoto was attractive, especially as it snowed on the old palace grounds. With the snow coming down in March, I didn’t know if I was subconsciously affecting the weather with my own ideas of aestheticism, or if the clouds were just in a mood, so I decided to leave the long walls of the palace and stroll the Path of Philosophy. There an older man on a bike tried to sell me a rock on which he had painted geishas, landscapes, characters, and other Japanistic things. When I neglected to buy one, he gave me a bag of crackers for my time.
       On the Path of Philosophy, I tried to zone out, but instead I got a prayer asking that I divulge my own brand of wisdoms.

Sleepy,
       The two main truths of the world are probably going to play a major part in the answer of this prayer. First truth: All men are jerks when it comes down to the nitty-gritty (Yes, I said "nitty-gritty", and if you don't like it, you can stop praying to me.).        With the influx of Dr. J's Sin-Juice spreading through their bodies, how can you blame men when they turn from Lancelot to simply Lance, that guy with the bulbous beer-gut?

       Second truth: Crazy assholes are just attracted to you. By some strange act of nature, your blood is magnetic to these guys and they can't help but steer the same course you have set for yourself.
       Just remember, whether it's one or both of these truths, you are not to blame. It couldn't possibly be that every man you date is a crazy asshole because you make stupid, shitty choices with regards to the people you choose to love. It's not like these guys come about and you Choose to stick with them rather than going with Jerry the soccer nerd. It's not like you CHOOSE to stay in the same type of relationship guy after guy. It's not that you CHOOSE this fate. You wouldn't have anything to do with the CHOICE portion of this whole situation. It's not like you could CHOOSE to go out with an entirely different type of person, CHOOSE to see beyond primal instincts and notice that you've fallen into a pattern.

       Do I need to say "choose" one more time?

       I mean, I thought about it, but considered that maybe pointing out the obvious would be kind of, I don't know, like rubbing a person's nose in the stupid shit on the floor that they can't seem to stop creating, or at least quit bitching about.

       CHOOSE!

       The next day, I had the bed-hair of a man that had taken a long sleep. Maybe too long. I entered the main room of this small inn I had found in the night and sat at their dining table. I call this place an inn and not a motel or hotel, mainly because it lends an old fashioned respect lost to places like Holiday Inn and the Ramada.
       As I sat, the innkeeper greeted me.
       He took great care in making a cup of coffee, first pouring hot water into the cup, draining it into an awaiting basin, then pouring the coffee itself. He spoke no English, except to say that he spoke no English, and when I told him that it was all right, he only nodded his head. He sat the cup down with great care and said something I could only imagine should be carved into stone, or at least embroidered on a pillow. A man like that, I thought, should not leave this earth silently, though that’s how it would probably happen.
       The coffee was excellent.

Tom,
       People write to advice columns because they feel abandoned, yet still unable to rebel against the programming ingrained into their being. But let me expand.
       With the Judeo-Christian upbringing most Americans have forced upon the entire world, writing to advice columns fits in with the structure that supports the model. Writing to an advice column is like writing to the Holy Zombie or his father, only there’s a stronger chance that this faceless extension at this particular address will actually answer their woes and concerns.
People write to these things, because prayer stopped working a long time ago. However, instead of giving them up, they simply made prayers evolve.

       My next stop was Hiroshima, and after arriving late, I decided a walk was in order. I ended up in some dive called Opium, listening to a DJ spin records and drinking vodka tonics. I don’t know why, the drinks didn’t do a thing for me, but the vibe was nice and I didn’t want to ostracize myself by being the creepy straggler in booth two.
       The next day was a lesson on the aftermath of nuclear holocaust.
       Been there, done that.

Candy,
       There are a number of factors that make this simple question more complicated with every added variable. One might say, that the number of licks it takes is unique to a person, like a fingerprint, only more delicious. Therefore, the general answer is not acceptable on any scale. It takes work and patience, unless you’re like that damn owl.
       Fuck that owl.

       Everything ended in Fukoka, where I treated myself to a new man-purse from GAS (inappropriate laugh) and finished Norwegian Wood. I took a ferry back to Pusan and returned to Lucifer place to find the lock wrenched away from the door and half his things gone—the most obvious of which was his spiffy computer. Lucifer never returned to his apartment, and I was already feeling serious misgivings about staying in Korea.
       The thought occurred to me to just go back to Japan, and I would have, had I not promised Rabies I’d meet him in Tijuana. The fucker still wasn’t answering me, so I knew I’d just had to wait him out and see if he’d show in Mexico.

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