“Open your eyes…”
.
.
.
“C’mon, open yer eyes!”
.
.
Out of the depths of an enchanted dream, as sweet as morning dew on the tip of your tongue, this all too familiar voice faintly echoes through the cavity of your mind. Desperately trying to hang onto the threads of a web, both spellbinding and as flimsy as a butterfly, you nevertheless feel it rapidly slipping away from your grasp, to be forever lost in reality.
Agitation quickly takes over, fueled by the knowledge that this sweet nectar; this safe, familiar realm, would soon fade back into shady crevices, beyond memory’s reach. Aware now of the slow process of surfacing, taking place against your own free will, you franticly struggle to dive back into the mist.
.
“Now, open your fuckin’ eyes!!!”
As if struck by a sudden gust of icy wind; by the shock wave of a horrid shriek, echoing off the walls of your mind, the veiling mist blows over, leaving you all exposed; naked and shivering and all exposed.
Sit your bare rump down on that rock you’ve been pushing around your entire life. Wrap yourself with a blanket, made out of animal skins, sewn together by threads of ancient dreams. Stand your rocky ground; your warm, familiar ground. Nobody has the right to pull you away from the safety of your solitary cave, not even your very own self. For, after all, what is the point anyway?
“Whaddya mean, what’s point, huh?” screeches the voice.
But you’re simply trying to stall, and it damn well knows it. Sooner rather than later, stage directions would be required, costumes worn, lines memorized, curtains would need to rise and a production of yet another day would need to be faced.
That’s merely the way of the world.
This is not some sort of a clinical depression or anything like that. Haven’t been depressed a day in my life. Been down and blue, joyless, pointless or even hopeless at times, but never in any way chronic about it all.
Then again, never been one for ecstatic behavior either. Can’t recall a moment of sheer joy, meaning or purpose, not overshadowed by a spot of skepticism, pessimism or detachment, for as far down the slope of my life as the mind’s eye would reach.
Learned to regard my emotional range as a most limited spectrum, about as curvy as a dead-man’s life line. It kinda made sense, in the end; makes living rather more simple, once you get used to the idea. Oversimplified, at times.
“So, whaddya go around asking ‘bout the ‘point’ for anyway? Everybody knows there is no point, and that, by itself, is the fuckin’ point!”
And you damn right know that’s what it’s all about, really. No matter how many layers of honey, onion or whatnot we may be trying to coat it with, underneath it all; buried beneath numerous layers of compelling human arrogance, idealism and dread, we’re still just a bunch of hunter-gatherers; still fuckin’ peasants, as far as I can see.
“You open them eyes, face whatever’s out there, do yer best, grab a bit o’ joy, try to avoid as much sufferin’ as you can, and just be grateful you get to close ‘em back once another day’s over and done with.”
Like a swarm of worker bees, too keen on replication to take notice of whatever additional stuff they might be producing along the way, we all go through life as if it’s an obligation; a burden we must carry. That’s the human drama for you, entirely reduced to humping and abiding, if you will.
* * *
Don’t you just hate having your thoughts dictated to you? After all, we are all autonomous human beings, with different, authentic points of view and utter sovereignty over them. Therefore, this mental process of narration ought to be ours and ours alone!
Then again, is it really? After all, the language we use is not a construct of our own device, nor are the terms and images that form its building blocks. Thoughts are not much freer than choices and actions in this world, yet we all view them as such. We do so because, while abidance is slavery, acceptance creates the illusion of freedom while placing the burden of existence on the titanic shoulders of society.
Indeed, it all used to be so much lighter; much more organized and better simplified, while you were swimming with the stream; back in the days when the Outskirts were still but a nice holiday resort. You thought you knew Right from Wrong and what ‘real’ life is all about, and was planning to dive right into it just as soon as your little vacation ended.
Every morning held numerous exciting possibilities, various unique situations, new experiences to learn from; fresh kinds of trouble to get out of. All but variations on a predetermined script, bound by preordained laws. Somewhere along the road, though, you seem to have lost that script.
The future may very well hold many more exciting possibilities; strange new hints of values and essences worth waking up for. Nevertheless, in the anarchic here and now, you seem to lack even the incentive for opening your eyes and facing the world.
Hell, it’s safe in here; cozy and pleasant and so very safe. Here you are, engulfed in reminiscences; cushy bits of past memories and fun little images of what might possibly come to pass. On the other hand, out there is where Past and Future turn into this thing called the Present; where doors to various possible universes open and close; where experience is put into practice, mistakes often made and various pipers demand payment.
.
“There bound to be a cup o’ coffee for you out there somewhere, if you’d just get yer lazy arse outta bed and go lookin’ for one,” echo these words of reason, and just when you though it was giving us a wee break. But that kind of leniency is just not in our nature, and you might as well know that better than anyone.
Nevertheless, words of wisdom or folly, the inner mist is still as thick as a thief, stealing away all traces of recollection. The forest of your mind is shady and foggy at this primeval, pre-coffee & cigarette stage of the day and the best you can possibly do at this point is to take a guess, roll with it and hope for the best.
You attempt diving into several semi-conscious parts of the box, and surface with a half-hearted sensation of being somewhere around the European continent. Yet, deep down inside, you also suspect that it’s the wrong half transmitting.
“Seem to recall Spanish speakin’ of late,” it throws in a half-baked trace of its own, but these hints aren’t getting you the least closer to a decent sense of focus.
Sensory data indicates the bed you’re in feels rather warm and cozy. However, calendrically speaking, you’re pretty sure it’s supposed to be winter right about now.
Are you all alone in this bed? Is it possible that you are completely naked, and if so, should you appropriately be so? And why, on top of all that, is there a definite aroma of hummus in the air?
It’s when it all starts mixing together; when all these memories, scents, sounds, languages, cultures, climates, people and experiences become blended in one another, that you may also become conscious of the possibility that you are but a vacationer on the outskirts of contemporary society no longer.
You were always planning to stay somewhere long enough; to stay with someone particular enough, but you never actually did. Somewhere along the road, a trip has become a journey; a journey has turned into vagabondage, and now, it’s this bloody guessing game every time you need to open your goddamn eyes.
Now, that you have become an Outskirter.
* * *
And so, you open your eyes…
The bed you’re lying in is soft, the sheets clean and the blanket as thick as a thief stuck down a chimney. This is a maidenly bedroom, and no doubt about it. The outlined remains of your hostess’ body indicate petite proportions of a questionable age.
To your relief, a quick scan of the rest of the room point towards an adult hostess of a probable Asian origin. You are quite familiar with the instinctive urge to quickly edge away from the scene of a one night stand. This bed, however, feels amicable, familiar even; it feels like a safe haven.
The rest of the room, now; that’s a different story all together. Each and every muscle in your body stiffens, instinctively aware of a numbing chill dominating every square inch of this room, and would refuse to take as much as a single small step away from the warmth of your blanket, even if the future of mankind depended on it.
True enough, a concern for one's own clarity in the face of the unknown that is real and immediate is the process of a rational mind. The only catch is that in order to achieve said clarity, one first has to face that chilling unknown for a spot of clarifying brew.
Thus, caught between a blanket and a hard-on, you elect to stretch diagonally, across the entire bed, and shut your eyes again.
* * *
Like it or not, the wheels have meanwhile begun lazily turning round and round, sending a few awakened neurons shooting back and forth across the memory board. Blinking lights invade the duskiness that dominates the interior of this box, revealing a homemade laboratory, the remains of a cat and a mental-note in a bottle.
“YOU’RE IN FREAKIN’ JAPAN!” states the note.
“Japan!? How the hell did we get to Japan?” screeches a voice out of an intercom.
But how do you go around answering such a question? You may slide several months back, to find yourself at the edge of the Siberian tundra; several years back, to find yourself in the sandals of a much younger and more naïve backpacker, stepping off the plane in Rio de Janeiro; several decades back, a chubby baby being born to a collective, raised, educated, picked on, popping zits, getting drafted, jailed, set free and deciding to take freedom as far as it can possibly go.
All these roads have apparently led to Japan. There were choices made and roads less taken, money earned in better-to-do countries and spent in worse-to-do ones, maintaining the delicate balance between Labor and Leisure. There was the company of friends and the kindness of strangers, the comfort of romance and the solemnity of aloofness. There was a three months long train ride and a ticking time bomb stumped to your passport.
Maybe it’s the Chinese government who landed you in this particular bed, for had they not denied your rightful visa, pushing you off the easternmost edge of the Siberian tundra, you would have been cruising their yellow brick road right about now.
Tourist visas don’t exactly grow on trees, nor tend to last forever for that matter, and Russia is definitely not the kind of place you wanna find yourself stuck in once the duration of your lawful stay has expired. Therefore, a compromise has been struck, generating one small, unforeseen trip to Tokyo, the closest alternate Chinese diplomatic representation, and offering in return one giant leap out of a most sticky situation.
A giant leap out of the frying pan and into the fire, it seems.
What with this earthquake and all that…
* * *
“…Earthquake? What bloody earthquake?”
Funny, could have sworn the world was quaking and shaking all about.
Yet shake now turns wobble, while the fog is once again beginning to clear. You quickly attempt to float back up from the depths, yet need to halt just below the surface of reality for proper decompression.
“Good moa’ning, Sarig San,” a tiny voice barely manages to penetrate the shifting mist, before itself becoming an integral part of it.
“Aiko coffee make!” echoes that squeaky voice again, blowing the mist over this time, while the bed begins to wobble once more. You manage a grunt and roll over to your side, buying yourself some time while simultaneously turning your back at the unknown; bringer of confusion and salvation.
“Her name is Aiko then,” volunteers your mind dweller. “We call her Aikoko, for short. A cute little lay, who happened to pick us up along the way. Gotten real lucky with that one, tha‘s for sure,” It adds. “Been resting our weary bones in her home for well over a week by now.”
Finally! A useful bit of information.
Nevertheless, at this point, you can’t help also wondering as to the emotional capacity expected of you in this particular relationship.
You quickly try tapping into that part of your mind labeled ‘Feelings’, as a warm, miniature body presses up against your back. However, it’s a complex mechanism at the best of times, and now is definitely not the best of times.
Therefore, the most loving smile you can muster under the circumstances spreads across your face. Eyes slowly open halfway, meeting eyes that are halfway open wide, a face as round and sweet as the moon itself, crowned with long, straight black hair and attached to a chubby, richly bosomed body, handing you a steaming cup of coffee.
“Ohayou Gozaimasu![1]” you manage a soft mumble.
“Aikoko today – happy?”
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[1] Good morning! (Japanese)