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Wandering drunk in Roppongi Hills...

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Journal Entry:

2007.07.27 Friday

02:30am [Propaganda, Shot Bar, Roppongi]

jesus.  when ur fucked up in the "land of the free and the brave," especially at 2:30am in the morning, the world tends to revolve a little bit slower, ethics tend to revolve a little bit lower, and you realize although its really friday, that thursday night hasn’t quite ended.  Two and a half hours til sun-up, perhaps three, and all of the sudden the night seems far longer than one expected.  the entertainment quarters becomes the pleasure quarters, and the pleasure quarters becomes the catacombs of the night.  The animal within comes knocking on the door, and the call of the wild rides strong on the wind.

i’m only floating halfway between a wired fence and the hot pavement of Roppongi…the hills are truly alive, and the creatures of the night run abound.  Its taskmasters riding with the wind, the hot breath of it’s mare high against one’s back.  and one walks, deep into one’s mind, up and down the avenues, looking for the light of morning, looking for that moment of sanity, looking for a breath of fresh air, within, ti fill one’s insatiable lungs, of the spirit of the night.

she sounds so familiar, though her face looks the same, the tides of her banks seem so foreign, she ebbs and bleeds with the flow of the lights, twinkling in the dark, refusing to be still, a lonely candle in the wind, a lonesome ray in the shadows, the heart of the night beating still harder, denying the break of the morning, yet smothered in the ashes of yesterday.  And so my feet carry me, where my eyes do not, into the bosom of the Roppongi night, and I embrace, the very edge of my own time, so short in the face of the morning, so long in the mouth of the night, yet she stands, open mouthed, tongue in cheek, smoldering, sexy, soft, glistening in the glitter of [the] streets, receding into the cobwebs of my mind, and I find my own mortality, my own wants, my own fears.  the mother of the night perched on my shoulders.  and I smell roses.  And sulphur.  and the remnants of yesterday.

Where does one go to escape escape?  Where does one find, the staggering heart of the wind?  In the back alleys of a timeless place, in the beating ether of the void, in shoes of leather, and feet of sand.  on the shores of the glorious why nots.  Because because is too far away to hold onto, at least, for the summer twilight, of her nameless face.  The face, i call home.  Tadaima.  Okaerinasai.  peas.


05:15am [Roppongi Subway Station]

Roppongi Station @ 5:00 in the morning, is truly a sad sight to bear witness to.  some barely have the energy to stay awake.  some have barely enuff energy to stand, to walk, to be, and most barely have enuff humanity left from the night before, to even be alive, inside or out.  it takes a rare breed I guess, to see it in the morning, to be it in the morning.  to even be.

but there’s enuff flesh, enuff blood, enuff bones to appear to walk, to talk, to dance about, animate enuff to breath.  The taste of Roppongi is bitter in the morning, smelling of ash and ashen-faced before the morning.  sun.  a scab upon the horizon of Tokyo’s face.  A scab upon the mind, upon the memories of the failed night of existence before.

And little by little, life breathes into one’s lungs, as the subway carries one back to being, back to sobriety.  A pity that its ugly with or without.  A tired night of endless lines, of alley crawls.  The creatures of the night do not, so much roam, as they do come to life, as the last rays of the setting sun grace their facades, and then they sit, eat, shit and breathe the language of fire, of sulphur, of empty ecstasy.  of hopes and dreams lost and won.  of infinity… and zero.  The lights get brighter, and then you put them out, forever.


?? [Films to Acquire]

Linda, Linda, Linda
When the Last Sword is Drawn
The Hidden Blade
Swing Girls
Hula Girls


Evening [Oimachi, Convention Hall]

Funny that i should watch Hula Girls on the flight to Japan, and now i’m watching hula girls on stage.  25.  who’da thunk Japan would be the stage for hula, or belly dancing, strange land for strange brew.

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photo by: maka77