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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