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A Japanese pop song keeps going through my head:

ANO SUBARASHII KOI WA MO ICHI DO

I should get audioblogging so I could sing the little phrase for you. It must be the biggest hit right now as it’s tailor-made for not being able to get out of your head. The lyrics are over-enunciated so that even the drunkest might be able to sing it at karaoke. The mood is ebullient — full of the vitality of teen sex — those who are able to do it again and again. The syllables of the punchy phrase break down like this:

ANO

SUBARASHI-I KO-I WA

MO-U ICHI DO

It means: “That wonderful romance (sex/love) one more time!”

Somehow my subconscious keeps translating it into:

ANO SUBARASHI KUNI WA MO ICHI DO

Which translates as “That wonderful country one more time!”

There’s a nursery-rhyme quality to the Japanese language which makes it especially suited to little jingly phrases and songs. I kept thinking, on rainy days, in spite of myself, over and over:

AME GA FUTTE IRU MO

SOTO NI IKIMASHO

(Even if it’s raining, let’s go outside).

It didn’t rain so much on our trip. Most of the days were surprisingly shiny. I think I mentioned that before. One moist day was the day we took the train from Takayama to Kyoto — an exquisite ambling five-hour trip during which we had endless opportunities to watch the mist rise from the volcanic hills…

There is nothing greener than a rice paddy at this time of year.

I wanted to throw myself into the rows of tea bushes and roll around in them, devour them.

Japan is deeply aromatherapeutic. Everywhere, ocha (tea), osenko (incense), and good fish smells.

Walking back home in the evening to Daishin-in, the subtemple at Myoshin-ji, a striking temple complex not far from Ryoanji, where we stayed for one night in Kyoto: intense wafting fragrance of gardenias.

I like to really involve myself in eating a bowl of noodles, letting the broth steam up my face and inhaling deeply. I like to become the broth even as it’s becoming a part (a party) of me. Else why make the bowls as big as a face?

Ramen under the train tracks in Shibuya — I forgot to order menma! Stupid.

Karaoke until the wee hours on our last night in Japan — wistful — hanging on to the mike like hanging on to the experience — singing KOI NO VACANSU, RINGO OIWAKE, and also, just to be perverse, THOSE WERE THE DAYS.

I don’t think that Heriberto, in his essay not long ago bashing karaoke, quite gets it. I guess if you don’t love it you just can’t get it.

Sawako was there! Sawako! I loved meeting you! She laughed at my choice of songs, and at one point said to me, “You’re so Japanese.” It’s funny — she was born there, and Japanese is her native tongue. But altogether, I lived there longer than she did.

I realized, yesterday, talking to Nick and Toni about our trip, that I lived in Tokyo longer than I ever lived in any one other place. When I was little I moved around Chicago and Northern California a lot. I lived in San Francisco for five years and now I have lived in Brooklyn for five years. But I lived in Tokyo for eleven years, eleven very important years.

ANO SUBARASHII KUNI WA MO ICHI DO

is the little tune.

Not that Japan is perfect — I know that my lenses are rose-tinted from both the honeymoon effect and also my outsider privilege. But I love how the culture is all about anticipating human needs — it feels buffered, sweety, comfort! happy!– there are nice things to drink everywhere, and beautiful toilets when you need to expel the drinks — little salty snacks (in great packages) — all the noodles one could ever dream of — bright colors — arrangements of tiny objects — loveable series — a coddled landscape — pruned — attended to — all natural materials attended to — fetishized — each daily object provides aesthetic satisfaction — even, for example, the strange boatlike rubber booties one wears to clean the bathtub —

here, it’s like… no one… cares…

except for a kind of harsh angular “glamour” that doesn’t interest me because it distances rather than appeals… it’s even in the porn here — power trips — status — chrome — I don’t long for that.

6/18

Back in our steamy New York thunderstorm apartment, disoriented and happy, surrounded by the contents of our just-unpacked suitcases.: piles of notebooks, geta, bags of tea, comic books, ticket stubs for Kyoto temples, toys, bags, yukata, cute stickers and stationery, photo albums, hair ornaments, and miniatures… we bought too much and I wish I’d bought more. I wish I could buy that whole weird country to keep in my apartment. I would like to buy the rivers and the mountains and the pine trees and bamboo groves and the craggy rocks by the river out of which grow little pink flowers. I would like to buy every canned beverage, pachinko machine, every tacky love hotel replete with its faux classical statues, every bottle of plum wine, every weird pickled cucumber and bag of dried seaweed, every pair of socks with a separate place for the big toe, every train with their plush seats and immaculate passengers. I would shrink everything down even more than it’s already shrunken down, and get special magnifying glasses so that I could look at it whenever I wanted, a giant kami sama, my hair would sweep down on it like Gojira perhaps… Japan is the strangest place n the planet but I love it more than anywhere except India, where I’ve never been and might not love so much when I actually get there. It hurts my heart to be back in New York, because I can’t be in Japan. It shouldn’t hurt my heart to be here, because here there are so many people I love who I can talk to about matters of substance. Here there are overflowing opportunities for urban spelunking and kaleido-cultural immersions. The only problem is that it is not Japan, with its particular forms and flowers and customs and light.

Gary and I agreed that this trip was the most fun one we had ever taken. I knew he would love it there, would be completely absorbed into the comic book aesthetic of it — he’s a natural.

It was a trip full of high points. Here are some of the highest —

Takaragawa onsen in Gunma prefecture — a vast outdoor bath of slightly sulfurous water that made our skin feel like satin — mixed bathing so we could be in the bath together — a rushing river next to the bath — arrangements of stones & stone lanterns — mist rising from the water — wooden changing room — accessible by paths through delicate landscapes ….

(here I stopped out of sheer jetlag…)

I’d expected a gray and humid rainy season here in Tokyo, but the sky is deep blue and the sun as shiny as can be. !!Lucky!!

In a sense, it’s as if I’d never left. Some vocabulary has evaporated, but I find myself happily chattering away in Japanese — a great relief to be able to trust my organic hard disk.

Things are a little newer here, more modern — Starbucks everywhere, including my favorite ‘hood, Shimo-Kitazawa (sort of the East Village or Berkeley of Tokyo) — but there is still the delightful surprise of the old (shrines, little bent old people) nestled among the new.

Gary has been diligent, taking amazing pictures on our new digital camera his mom kindly gave us, and writing every little bit of weird English he sees in a tiny notebook he’s dubbed “Language Heaven.” He notices and fixates on things that I totally take for granted — it seems he has to stop and look at every vending machine, which is to me both annoying and endearing.

He loves it here, and I’m so glad. It’s an enchanting place. I took him one day to my old neighborhood, a little fairyland of twisty streets and shops selling sushi and little cakes and shopping bikes, blessed with both a Buddhist temple (famous for its shrine to lucky cat statues — pictures to follow eventually) and a Shinto shrine where I used to steal dolls from the “sacred burnable garbage” area. Blooms everywhere: huge bushes of St.John’s Wort, hydrangea — the splendid irises in the iris garden in Yoyogi park… the “tropical” aspect of Tokyo’s “semi-tropical” climate is gloriously evident.

G. can’t wait to get out of the house (we’re staying with my old friend and colleague Kathy). He just said to me, “Girlfriend’s writing a novel. You can’t wait to write a novel until you retire?” [He still calls me “girlfriend” despite our new status — although he did also say today, “you are my wife now and you have to do what I say” (!!)] It’s still very early, though the light is bright. We’re jetlagged. I’ve never been so jetlagged. It’s much harder coming here from NY than from SF. I’ve gone, after four days, from waking up at 2 am and not being able to sleep at all to waking up at 5:30 after sleeping like a boulder, unable to go out with friends to party at night because too catatonically sleepy. Sigh. Tonight we will be sure to view the neon kanji everywhere.

This is such a much more delicate place to live than New York. I’ve been revelling in the convenience stores, where we have been buying stuff for our breakfasts — little mini packs of eggs and ham and pastries as well as hijiki salad with lotus root and devil’s tongue or, this morning, nanohana no karashi-ae (broccoli rabe in mustard sauce??). Barley tea in cartons. Gary and I pigging out at Fujiya bakery on anmitsu desserts — mine had “soft cream” (like frostyfreeze ice cream) little squares of agar-agar, a plum, a piece of apricot, and sweet bean paste, drizzled over with kuro-ame syrup! How could I have forgotten how charming it is?

The tatami smell, even more fragrant in the heat, brings it all right back like a Proustian injection right to the bloodstream. It makes me feel many things at once, suddenly reexperiencing recalled parties and assignations, intense loneliness and piquant joy… ohhhh… Japan…

More wedding photos, courtesy of my mama.

(bottom two photos kind courtesy of Brian Kim Stefans)

My bridal henna, “hand”iwork of Suraiya of Raheela’s salon on Coney Island Avenue:

Maid of Honor Marianne:

Monkey R.I.P.

Yesterday, Monkey, aged about nine years old, beautiful and mysterious beloved feline companion of Marianne Shaneen, surrendered his earthly tenure.

We will miss him.

Dream this morning I’m standing on a high hill in a city with Drew in the far future. The sun had got much smaller and closer to the earth, and it orbited once every few hours, giving a kind of time- exposure effect to the light as it passed over the fabulously overbuilt city whose buildings were in the shape of twists and circles and strange sharp angles.

(cell phone photos courtesy of Marianne Shaneen)

Married now for two full days. Marianne had asked if we had done anything special the night before our wedding — no — Gary fell asleep early and I read the New Yorker — having just come home from a spa (gift certificate courtesy of Annie Hollowell) treatment that included having my entire body vigorously scrubbed with something like sandpaper by a Korean woman who could have been a wrestler had she chosen a less benevolent vocation. The dead skin came off in gray rolls; I may as well have been a snake.

Up early the next morning, the sky cool and cloudy, we ate flax waffles, gathered our necessities (license, metallic pink heart-shaped ring boxes, passports) and got ourselves out the door (chilly!) and on the F train in time to go meet Mitch and Marianne at the little chapel at the Brooklyn City Hall, where on the steps a man was hawking bouquets of white and purple plastic roses and informing us that he was a photographer as well. One of the guards downstairs hassled me for standing in the wrong place. “Why are you standing here?” “I’m getting married. I’m waiting for my witness.” “Could you just move over there, ma’am.” Still not satisfied, he made me wait behind the glass door. Turns out Marianne and Mitch had already gone upstairs, both of them dressed up and looking gorgeous. A moment of overwhelm before going into the office. I walked in crying, “Am I smudged?” — a stupid bridal moment. Plunge. Everyone jolly, brimming with jokes. In the waiting room we talked about Guy Maddin. Then a middle-aged woman (but what am I?) who looked like she could have been anyone’s elementary school teacher unlocked the chapel and told us we could go in.

More laughter! A room in the shape of a half-circle. Behind the podium, a giant screen made of round welded pieces of stained glass in 70s colors. Super kitsch! Everything else institutional: a sign reading “Do Not Throw Rice. It is Extremely Dangerous.” A row of plastic seats along the back where Marianne and Mitch sat beaming and looking a little like they were going to crack up.

Turns out the elementary school teacher was the officiator. Turns out she had a very warm sort of gravitas; I had the sense that she liked her job.

No sooner had we joined hands before her than zip! zip! we’d exchanged rings and said I do, I do, and we got pronounced and whoosh, we were outta there. That was the most blindingly efficient bureaucratic transaction I have ever experienced in my life.

It went so fast that Marianne didn’t have a chance to get her video camera to work, so the precious moment is preserved only in our fallible memories. I do, however, have a marriage certificate, addressed to (??!?)Mr. and Mrs. Gary Sullivan, to prove that it actually happened.

Out the chapel’s back entrance (we all loved that there was a “discreet” back entrance — for who knows what kind of alarming situations!), everyone high and giggling, wandering around Brooklyn Heights looking for more breakfast. Gary and I shared fresh strawberries and I helped myself to Marianne’s challah French toast and bacon.

M. & M. admonished us to go do something fun on our first day of married life: “Go to Atlantic City! Gamble like there’s no tomorrow!”

Instead we ended up picking up our drycleaning, dallying, eating lunch at La Moutarde in Park Slope. I went to my dance class.

Then… Gary and I met at Film Forum to see the new cut of Godzilla, which to my surprise is a cinematographically stunning film (shots of wind blowing through trees, of the tiled roofs of fishing villages, of bubbles moving through water) whose depth of message left me utterly moved. It was the last reaction I had expected from Godzilla (although, granted, my emo reaction could have been colored somewhat by the fact that not only had I just got my period, but it was also my wedding day). The audience laughed a lot at the so obviously fake special effects. I laughed too, but you know…

I didn’t think the effects were cheesy at all. I didn’t take them as an attempt towards a simulacrum of reality. I saw in them a worship of the miniature

and they were infused with the sadness of the destruction of the miniature. (After all, the Lilliutian scale models through which the guy in the rubber suit playing Godzilla tromped had been clearly lovingly assembled by some sort of fanatical team of hobbyists.)

Japan is all about “the miniature.” Smallness of scale a necessity for survival in cramped quarters. Keeping order and sanity through the elevation and cultivation of tininess. Godzilla is the reluctant (and pathetic) destroyer, awakened against his will by the machinations of The Large. The Axis of Large, if you will.

I could only think, watching this film, what it must have felt like to be Japanese and to see this film when it was first released, the memory of the bombs and the firebombing and the senselessness of the war (from the point of view of at least some civilians of the time, I would imagine) still fresh and awful. It reminded me of the time my butoh teacher hypnotized us into experiencing the bombing of Tokyo and then had us dance through the aftermath — that stunned, bereft, numbly furious feeling.

I didn’t know, because I had never seen it before, that Godzilla is a beautiful and highly effective piece of antiwar propaganda. How could someone watch this film and listen to the auditorium full of schoolgirls in it singing hymns of mourning and still have any interest at all in waging a war?

That’s a rhetorical question. War is here. Is. Has been. Was. Will always be?????

And as for me, I’m just… married…!