The Revolt

One fine day the people of Larsa got tired of enjoying the fruits of freedom and democracy. Not that they clearly knew what these two words meant but they did feel that there were discrepancies somewhere along the way between the written representation of the terms and the implications attached to them. In a figurative way, and since almost all their government speeches had become a sole metaphor, once the harvest had arrived and it was time to collect the produce, the crop was found bitter and rotten.

The day had come when nothing was as presented but made believed as such. “It is as obvious as when they tell us that the world is flat even though we know it is round”, said Eliades, “and we see it flat though it is clearly round”. The truth, which significance had changed over and over for the past decades, was purely a fabrication, like any other product of the financial ruling system that the State of Larsa had embraced for as far as anyone could remember. But wasn’t it okay to create and produce as there was not other way of surviving? Surviving wasn’t enough, they wanted to live… but fear inundated their glands and it was released through sweat and tears. No one had ever hesitated to question the operations of their society because, all of the answers had been provided and as they had well learned in school, “when wondering arrives then close your eyes and count to ten as you pray”.

“We need to start all over”, said one of the elders while meeting in a barn. No one replied. The elder himself did not know where to start as his life was almost reaching an end. And the rest, if they happened to contemplate any idea that would help them exit the crisis, they were afraid to express it as they were induced to control their thought. “It is clear”, said Eliades, “if a fake reality has become our daily routine, let’s make them believe we are not aware of it while we come up with a plan”. But the walls had ears and the news boiled the venom that ran through the tentacles of the medusa. The early stages of a nascent philosophy were one-day flowers.

“We are very concerned”, said the Leader of the Church to masses of parishioners, “a seed of division has fallen into the cracks of our hardly-built community and wild mold is growing amongst us, let’s pray, so our minds, receptacle of God’s grace, do not succumb to the contaminating threats of evil”. But no one prayed including the priest. Praying was no longer an act of meditation but a scenic representation of an imposed tradition. “We are aware”, said the Chancellour of State, live on television, “that subversive agitators have infiltrated the peace of our households. In a free society like ours, innocent families should not be disturbed by such nonsense. Dear citizens, exercise your rights, denounce those upsetting minorities and we will implacably enforce the law on them, peace and order will always reign amongst us as it was written in our ancient Constitution and exercised by our beloved patriarchs”.

The viewers stared at their TV sets as the official credits faded away on the screen. A sensation of emptiness invaded their bodies as if mites had eaten their organs from inside-out and they were suddenly hollow. Silence was the early stage of their unconscious revolution. Their consent had been inoculated in order to respond to certain stimuli, but a stronger virus had started to spread within their heads and no one, absolutely no one, was prepared to vaccinate it.

Nevertheless, it was not the hollow feeling what disturbed them, not even the recurrent lies presented as truths, or the uncovered wolf-like repression dressed in sheep-clothed laws what invaded their organisms as a pandemic illness. It was death itself what hit them in irrecoverable spots.

“Our pure society is not a perishable democracy”, had said the Foreign Affairs Minister to the Congress, “we have survived multiple attacks on our international settlements for centuries. It is not new. Year after year we have had to strengthen our military strategies to contra-rest the attacks of those enemies of freedom and individual liberties. We have eradicated terrorists and planted democracies were corrupted tyrannies attempted to erupt. We would do the impossible this time to protect our own people and we will set the record straight to enlighten a world which leans to obscurity and violence.

After a standing ovation all the parties voted unanimously to empower the Head of the State. The new inland security law, Operation Eagle’s Nest, brought troops out to the streets before dawn and military armory raised up on every corner as the dark sun of the day. “But this time executions began on our own territory”, said Eliades, “contrary to what must residents were accustomed to. In the past, thousands of heroic citizens had immolated themselves for unknown causes in foreign fields where unspeakable languages were muttered”. Official history recorded the great courage of young privates, the audacity of war veterans who had collected medals on their chests and roses on their graves and the altruism of sacrificial mothers who gave their children away to a just cause, cause that gave them in return a vase filled with ashes to be placed above the fire place. But it was no time for outer glories and history had to be rewritten. The battle moved freely along barren roads. The blood of the curious, the unsatisfied, the fearful, the poor, the disoriented, the insane, the bohemian, the utopian, the drunk, the brave, the night workers, the radical, the early risers, the old, the disadvantaged, the discrepant, the indifferent, the different and the undermined, Eliades included, painted the walls with the scarlet colour that was to coat a new waving flag. The massacre of the innocent inaugurated the first Remembrance Day of a future era.

“We were not blind”, said the elder in clandestine antagonism “we just didn’t want to see”. Share

Latest Readings

The Fifth Business by Robertson Davies (Canada). I liked the narration style and the development of characters (their transformation). The use of time, going into the past and moving into the present in a broad life span. I thought it would make a good movie due to the elements involved (an old rural town, religion, a circus and its magician, the study of saints, World War I, Toronto’s society of the 50’s and 60’s). I am planning to read What’s bread in the bone from the same author.
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel (Canada): The interesting epic of a young Indian castaway (Pi Patel). The narration is great and full of metaphors. The end lacked the enthusiasm of the whole story.
Divisadero by Michael Ondaatje (Canada): A beautiful narration set in California and France. Ondaatje creates this lively characters filled with life and emotions. The story is fantastic yet real and close to one’s heart. The only element I disliked was the description of card games like poker.
I am now reading Snow by Orhan Pamuk (Turkey). I like his slow pace in narration and the description of an environment that is not familiar to me but seems as so. Share

Love Tenses

- When I woke up in the middle of the night and felt the warm life of your body, I loved you.
- In the past tense?
- In the past perfect
- I love you in the present continuos.
- And I in the present perfect.
- I love you, my perfect present!
- I will always love you... Share

The brand next demonic

It is pouring rice grains. Transparent umbrellas intertwine. My days in Tokyo are fading away like yesterday’s anti-perspirant. He’s gone. A part of me departs when my life-partner goes. I’ll meet him at home where our mutual memories lie. I am wearing my Harley Davidson t-shirt. In Japan everything goes. I read foreign slogans that say nothing. Who cares? Why would they have to say something… anyway? : “The brand next demonic”, “The void ultimate suddenly”, “peace counter-insurgence sweet”…

No one enters this island if not approved. The only territory for imperial ordeals is Media. I see many Angelinas Shimizu and Hirokis Pitt; a flow of exotic hair dues and brand-name walkers. They add their twist, ne? La vie a la Japanese! The filter is the culture of the bullet train, of the bowing waiter, of the talking robots and those omnipresent vending machines. Order is emperor. Balance is shogun. Subtle changes, unstoppable trends. I’ve passed by those timid eyes that see beyond. I’ve prayed in shrines.

At 7:59, as printed on the voucher, the Hikari arrived. Not before, nor after. Past one minute we fly at 400 KPH on the Shinkansen. It is an attempt to visit Mount Fuji; an excuse to re-encounter Tsuchiya, Hiromi san. But Mount Fuji is wearing a coat of mist. No point in diving to its shores. We will have to come back. Hiromi and us settle for green tea, instead. The best leaf in Japan: Shizuoka’s.

We talk about slang, idioms and dialects. And as the afternoon irrupts I wish I would write forever. Shall my muses arrive before I head off? If this summer is propitious, and the triggering whispers of creativity find me at work, I should produce some arousing thoughts. Neon would light me as I stroll through the water fields of sanitized Tokyo. One can get lost in random alleys even when stationary. Moving one’s eyes to the rhythm of varied stilettos is enough. I learn that sake is any source of alcohol. Let’s toast. The scent of okonomiyaki, and that of cigarette smoke, has already attached to my soul. Share

The Spirit of the Needles

We discussed Margaret Atwood's Lady Oracle in a noodle restaurant across from the Shigenji Temple. I told her I was interested in writing her love story. The one from 22 years ago and the most recent one. Their first meeting and their re-encounter. Do you think I should write my own version? she asked. The salad arrived: fresh devil canes and fiddle heads from Sapporo. We should write it together, I said, I'll say what happened and you'll tell what would've happened if the ending wasn't sad. She paused for a second. I am not sure I want to expose myself.

I prayed to the spirit of the needles, I told her, so they help me weave stories from old seamstresses and tailors. A few minutes before walking into the restaurant we had visited the temple. She told me how there is a piece of tofu inside that people stick an old needle into. It's so the monks can pray for its spirit afterwards. I threw a five yen coin, the copper one with the perforation, into a ceremonial container to buy a prayer. I was glad to hear that needles had spirits. I saw my mom's thumb and index finger sewing an old sock. Every artist has to come to terms with their tools. Tools are animated in Japan, as is any object considered inanimate elsewhere. 

Grey noodles followed the salad. I got acquainted with the art of eating them as we toasted with cold sake. She was smiling. Her sore heart was being visited by an interim joy. Five ladies in their spring kimonos stood from their tables and lined up at the door. Their see-through vests were new for me. We followed their Geisha walk with admiration as we undid our own steps along Shimokitazawa. Wild flowers grew through the cracks of the asphalt like tiny miracles. I thought of my needles and how I needed to find some thread. Back at the station we embraced each other before we parted ways... in silence.

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