Things, not being there, may be more evident to the eye as they stand out in their absence.
It is the cleanliness of the asphalt here, to the extent that asphalt clean may be, the absence of
cigarette butts, dead leaves and the nondescript dust-coloured aggregates which normally would line a fairly busy road, that may discretely suggest the impression of unusualness.
Still, this being the quite high-end central Tokyo ward of Minato, were garbage strewn along the two lanes, its quantity and nature wouldn't manage to build the complex geography of debauchery my hometown's county roads can manifest.
There the occasional pedestrian daring to make his route by the speeding cars would have,
unraveling along his steps, the timeline of many a satiated and desperate weekends spelled out
in the unambiguous characters of empty beer bottles, boxes of erectile dysfunction drugs and
benzodiazepines, cigarettes and condoms.
Yet no seedy discos and prostitutes by the roadside around this downtown neighbourhood, rather Rolls-Royce and Ferrari's dealerships, plus a scattering of eateries to assuage the hungry
cavalry of white collars on their hectic lunchbreak charge.
Artless local landmark Tokyo tower and, on the other end of Japan's post-war architectural
continuum, the stranded spaceship of the Shakaden temple stand here within sight to point
out the chaotic nature of the cityscape furthermore.
The eye we left before perusing the asphalt now encounters a pair of worn-off sneakers pattering along the sidewalk's rim. Lifting up from the black surface in the all-encompassing July glare,
can then be seen that wearing them is a gaunt old man, back hunched by age and by the use of one those cruelly, inexplicably short-handled Japanese brooms.
His loose, faded t-shirt and trousers flutter around his bones the way a plastic bag stuck in the branches of a tree vainly struggles for flight.
The sweat dammed from his eyes by a towel tightly wrapped around his forehead, lightly
panting, mouth half-opened in the thick, hot summer air.
By this time of the year the city's air feels heavy on the skin, as though gravity had come gradually increasing after May's heavy rains left. Nights hardly bring any relief and one is left cherishing the memories of winter's dryness, static electricity visible in tiny sparks when undressing in darkness before sleep.
Heat and oppressive humidity notwithstanding the man keeps on steadily striving to accomplish his self-appointed task: palm by palm, the north-eastern part of the crossroad shall be swept clean of all garbage lying there.
Were a sad sarcasm to be used, this could be dubbed a form of housekeeping: the man calls his home the concrete banks of the canal which flows nearby, his roof the highway overpass.
Cardboard and blue plastic tarpaulin sheets, Japan's ubiquitous picnic implement, are what homeless rely on to build their shelters. The abandoned memory of someone's outdoors party repurposed as some destitute one's means to own, though hardly dignified, at least some indoors of sorts.
The ghost of an active role within society still haunting his world view, no matter how long out in the past the trail scattered with the shards of his life does stretch: he took on himself a duty, as unrequired as it may be, by means of which his presence in this city shall be justified this one more day.
As it is often the case for those in such a plight, he is intensely ignored by the steady flow of people who, on wheel or foot, move across this road.
Whether this is a display of insensitivity, or rather the Japanese expression of pity by sparing its object the humiliation of being acknowledged, it is hard to judge for the Western mind.
The eye we left before perusing the asphalt now encounters a pair of worn-off sneakers pattering along the sidewalk's rim. Lifting up from the black surface in the all-encompassing July glare,
can then be seen that wearing them is a gaunt old man, back hunched by age and by the use of one those cruelly, inexplicably short-handled Japanese brooms.
His loose, faded t-shirt and trousers flutter around his bones the way a plastic bag stuck in the branches of a tree vainly struggles for flight.
The sweat dammed from his eyes by a towel tightly wrapped around his forehead, lightly
panting, mouth half-opened in the thick, hot summer air.
By this time of the year the city's air feels heavy on the skin, as though gravity had come gradually increasing after May's heavy rains left. Nights hardly bring any relief and one is left cherishing the memories of winter's dryness, static electricity visible in tiny sparks when undressing in darkness before sleep.
Heat and oppressive humidity notwithstanding the man keeps on steadily striving to accomplish his self-appointed task: palm by palm, the north-eastern part of the crossroad shall be swept clean of all garbage lying there.
Were a sad sarcasm to be used, this could be dubbed a form of housekeeping: the man calls his home the concrete banks of the canal which flows nearby, his roof the highway overpass.
Cardboard and blue plastic tarpaulin sheets, Japan's ubiquitous picnic implement, are what homeless rely on to build their shelters. The abandoned memory of someone's outdoors party repurposed as some destitute one's means to own, though hardly dignified, at least some indoors of sorts.
The ghost of an active role within society still haunting his world view, no matter how long out in the past the trail scattered with the shards of his life does stretch: he took on himself a duty, as unrequired as it may be, by means of which his presence in this city shall be justified this one more day.
As it is often the case for those in such a plight, he is intensely ignored by the steady flow of people who, on wheel or foot, move across this road.
Whether this is a display of insensitivity, or rather the Japanese expression of pity by sparing its object the humiliation of being acknowledged, it is hard to judge for the Western mind.
Interesting insight from almost the down under 'planet'....
RispondiElimina