MEMORIES & DISSOLUTION

* * * 1 * * *


When I was a child I thought the world would never end. The summer holidays seemed like a lifetime and I spent a lifetime dreaming. In those early years, my world was understood as my bedroom, the family home, and my imagination. My parents weren't wealthy people, but, neither were they poor. They provided the best they could for my brother and I. Our house was the typical three-bedroom dwelling found in Tokyo at the time. My father and mother shared one average-sized room, my brother and I shared another, and the third bedroom was converted into a study for my father who often brought work home. Even though my brother and I didn't have our own bedrooms, we weren't unhappy with this arrangement because my parents let us have the biggest room in the house, and this became our playground. We were happy. My family was happy.

My brother Ken and I thought the whole world was ours, and it was, for the time being. It belonged to us and no one else. We were content and felt protected behind the walls of our bedroom fortress. Of course, our world was limited to the physical confines of our home, but that was more than enough for us. Most of the time we stayed in and listened to music or read stories. When the music stopped playing and we had finished our books, we imagined our own heros and heroines and sang our own songs. Our world had no barriers and stretched past our neighborhood, and eventually, far beyond the horizon of place and time. The sky was our frontier.

Unlike other children my parents never pushed us too hard when it came to making the grades. We never knew the daily burden and stress other children experienced. We felt free, free as birds in flight. We saw the world from a bird's eye view. We were two eagles, soaring high above the clouds gazing down upon the wondrous landscape. We could see the boundless fields that laid beneath. We could see the herds of cows grazing in the farmers' meadows, the farmers' children playing hide-and-seek down by the brook, and the farmers and their helpers tending to their animals. We could see everything, even the farmers' wives in the kitchen preparing meals.

We weren't any different from other children growing up in the seventies. As we got older we started spending more time outdoors, but we also liked staying home in our room too. When we did go out, we often played along the train tracks, rode our bicycles until the sun went down, or played catch in the streets. Sometimes, we ventured even further than the weeks before to discover new places to call our own. The days were endless, the nights were magical, and the future seemed bright.

But, as I grew older it felt like the borders of our world were receding as the outside world intruded into our private realm. Time no longer stood still and things were changing. The world was no longer simple and flawless. The older I became, the smaller my territory was becoming. Time no longer marched to my command and hadn't stood in attention to my orders either. In fact, it had sped up so quickly that I was losing track of the days, weeks, and months that slipped by.

When I entered secondary school the life my brother and I cherished had disappeared. The outer world had smothered most traces of what we treasured as kids - our domain had been breached by signs and signals we could no longer recognize or comprehend. We felt out of place and lost in our new surroundings. We no longer played as freely as before, no longer took long walks after dinner, no longer rode our bicycles through unfamiliar streets, and no longer dreamed of a future of our own making. Our wings had been clipped. We could soar no more through the blue skies of our past. Our blithe and limpid existence was gone for ever.

I was forced to understand the world around me on very different terms. I thought it was a complicated world, an inhumane world, a world of shadows. These shadows took the appearance of everything that was true and pure. Because the landscape had been altered to such an extent, I had trouble making sense of my surroundings and was no longer sure of where I was. The world was radically and fundamentally transformed and my footing in it was unsteady. Consequently, I began to doubt my own essence. The circumstances I grew up in had evaporated before my very eyes and existed only through my reminiscences now.

This decline continued during college. I found myself at odds with my classmates and was rarely ever in step with the other students on campus. I never attended clubs and hardly went to parties. Social engagements didn't make up part of my life then. It wasn't as if I was anti-social, I was preoccupied with other concerns. I did have a girlfriend, however, whom I went steady with for over a year. We had a close relationship, but upon graduation she seemed to have lost interest in me. After she had entered a large financial corporation, a whole new world was opened to her. I was badly hurt, but this was inevitable. She was surrounded by men of all ages and backgrounds. She no longer needed or wanted me. But, however great my pain was at the time, the break up was not the real reason I was never able to enjoy those years. There existed something unexplainable gnawing away from within me. The world took on another complexion, a bleaker one. Everything appeared shallow and insignificant, even absurd. As a consequence, I became more disillusioned. My self-confidence waned as I lost trust in others, as well as, in my own judgement. My world has remained this way since, and all the while, I've been tormented by phantasms.

Since my graduation from college and after I had started working, my life began to fall apart. Life was without purpose. Day after day, week after week, and month after month I found myself doing one of two things. Either, I treaded aimlessly down every street in Tokyo after dark, or stayed shut up in my room. I had barely existed in this world. I remained secluded behind the walls of my own solitude; I was a ghost - even to myself. My world had stopped spinning.


Like most things of the past, the noteworthy and the commonplace seem to have blended together and faded away in the darkness, like the colors of twilight vanishing upon the arrival of night. Then there are periods, like a special moment during childhood, which we can recollect with such perfect clarity, that even we, find ourselves more than a little surprised. These lucid moments of reflection are not dissimilar to the feelings of dunking your head in fresh spring water during the mid-morning hours of a serene country day.

For one year since I've been exerting all my energy trying to recall something crucial that had happened to me. It has almost become an obsession, yet, I've found the process liberating and even salubrious. It has also become an extension of my childhood fantasies and acts as a buoy, floating in the ocean, off the shores of some remote port in the darkness my world. However, the problem of calling to mind images in a truthful and coherent fashion has been difficult. I've been inclined to misrepresent things of the past that have brought a great deal of pain. I've had a growing tendency to embellish the faces, feelings, moments and motives of those times, to shape them in such a way that suits my fancy with little regard for the verity of such occurrences.

The time which I refer to happened around a year ago, but ended almost as soon as it began; it lasted roughly the span of one season. That time seems so faraway now, like the scent of some foreign land, that I can hardly believe the days gone by - the events of my life that have passed over into the obscure oblivion of history - are really bygone days. They seem to have never happened at all. It feels like a dream.

One thing I want to get clearly across is that these trips are not some type of religious ritual, neither a confession nor penitence for my sins. This has nothing to do with religion; I have never been a religious man. This is not to say that I do not carry with me, even now, a sense of guilt.

For many years prior to the days I met them, Y and N, I had been unable to feel any joy in living. I could neither comprehend nor share in the spirit of those years. The change began gradually one early autumn day. Near the end of that time, I felt as if I had suddenly found myself awake on top of the highest mountain peak looking down. My eyes were opened and I could see. Everything became transparent. This change was not wholly the result of one life-transforming event, but much more from a series of slow agonizing experiences. I was in my office in Tokyo. It was on a Monday morning when my story began - a black Monday.


* * * 2 * * *


The silence was oppressive and hung heavily in the air. It was intensified in the darkness. It was utterly black and cold and reflected a state of nothingness. I was alone. This condition was not something I was unacquainted with, but had been eternally present. This was neither just a physical sensation, nor an emotional state. It had penetrated my essence.

Last winter, in a moment of weakness I even contemplated suicide. I was seized by this idea of killing myself. Then almost as abruptly, I found myself laughing it off as completely ludicrous, like some deranged fool, knowing all too well that suicide today was empty. How could it have any meaning when the world had lost its? If life had no meaning, then too, had death lost its force. Consequently, the act of suicide would have been devoid of any context since its relation to reality had been severed. Suicide would have been utterly absurd and completely without meaning. The days of the "honorable suicide" are dead and gone, replaced and subordinated by its appearance. It died decades ago with Mishima's final denouncement of a society that had lost its way, its root.

I remember sitting there in my office. I don't know how long I sat, but it seemed like ages. Then I stood up and looked around the room. I saw the desk in front of me, felt the chair beneath me, looked at the computer, the telephone, the calender, the notebook and pen. What did these things mean? Nothing. Not one thing. I was perplexed. Life? I was alive. I was breathing. But, I wasn't living. I sat down again. The next thing I remember was being overcome with distress. I was thoroughly exhausted. My body would not respond to the commands of my mind. It was not dissimilar to being paralysed, and I was stricken without the ability of movement.

Over the years, I've felt a lack of something, something essential and pure. I had not felt the warmth of another person, either through physical contact or emotional attachment for some time. My family was gone, the few friends I had impossible to find, and the memories of my last girlfriend dwindling away. My world had become dark and barren and there was little left in it I valued.

All morning I sat at my desk in my office doing little, occasionally looking out the window or staring vacanlty into the monitor of my PC. The rain continued falling throughout the early hours, although I could see small patches of sunshine now and then. The glow from the screen was the only source of light, besides the soft yellows and light blues that filtered in, between the slats in the blinds, from the other side of the room. This beautiful and endless glow reminded me of the neon signs in Ginza at night and represented a world far removed from my own. It was the world of my dreams which had always been only dreams - forever distant and evanescent. It was alluring though and I had always been attracted to its warmth.

An hour ago I had turned off all the lights and put on Mahler's 9th Symphony. It was now in its most sublime moment with the wail of vanishing faces. This was the Bruno Walter, Columbia Symphony recording. I felt slightly more at ease. Walter was the conductor, the person, who could truly see, feel, and empathize with Mahler's tragic life - a life where brief moments of ecstasy were tempered by the agonizing death of loved ones, from which Mahler afterwards was consumed, inexorably, in an eternity of sorrow. I could sense through one individual's tragedy, through song and tears, the universal despair of mankind - and to some extent - my own.

I needed some time to think about life. Yet, this was all I did everyday. I desired seclusion as a means to peace, even if for only a moment. I sat pondering. Listening to classical music was one way I could free myself to dwell in these thoughts and feelings.

It was a Monday, September 14th, 2009, and the first day of work week; but I had closed for the day. I had been closing earlier and earlier, for no other reason than I couldn't bring myself to do anything, especially any work. I had decided that the day's duties could be postponed. Work meant little to me in a life that had no reward. Besides, sales were never any good. My clients were hardly ever satisfied. My business plan rarely on target. Work was only a temporary distraction from loneliness and ennui. Day and night, I felt restless. I had lived this way for some years with no improvement and little relief.

My line of work was small business consultancy. I was a "consultant," however you wished to interpret that. The last few years, I seemed to have lost myself in this word. Sometimes I thought that words meant nothing. "Consultant." What did this word actually mean today? The vagueness of this word, a word diluted of meaning and stripped of significance didn't seem to have any genuine connection to the real world or anything tangible. This word had forfeited all signification and was little more than a hollow shell and I was the very embodiment of this shell. This signifier - "consultant" - existed today, concealed in a great fog of semantic drift, as I existed, concealed behind its signified.

Really. Who was I kidding? Who was I to advise others, when I had enough trouble with my own affairs? How could I help others when I couldn't even help myself? In addition, I knew without any doubt that I no longer possessed that naive youthful zeal I once had.

How ironic, that I had been caught in this cruel paradox, this insoluble web of contradictions, one which I could not escape. This dead end had come to symbolize my entire existence. It was emblematic of who or what I was.

Often, I thought of myself as little more than just another peddler in town. I felt like a vendor dispensing cheap sugary snacks - tasty at first bite, but leaving you feeling empty, dissatisfied, and of course, still hungry. I was dispensing "know-how" by the 500-yen coin. I was past my expiration date, and was now only imparting outdated business and marketing strategies. In business parlance, I had been made "redundant," and it was time for someone to show me out the door, only there was no one around to do this.

So then, why was I in the business? Like many things in life such as wealth, beauty, temperament, and intelligence, I had inherited it. So, like previously mentioned attributes, I had received the family business. The consultancy belonged to my late father. He spent most of his adult life working hard to build up the business, and before he passed away, he had been able to save a modest sum of money. Of course, I also inherited a good deal of money as well and this has helped me get through the bad times. Unfortunately, I've already used or blown much of that money, because I had never been able to generate much income from my father's consulting business.

It was my father who had the vision of helping small business owners. It was he who had set up the consultancy. It was he who had worked hard over the many years to build up his clientele. It was he who had gained their confidence. It was he who had worked the long hours over many years. It was he who had sacraficed for the sake of his family, like many in his generation had done. Me? I was only the next in line. Honestly though, I did share his views and had accepted his work ethic, but, lacked the motivation and determination to succeed like he had. And when I talk of "success" I don't mean only financial success, but also the success one feels when doing what they believe to be noble and necessary. I'm proud to say that my father was a hardworking and honest business man. He belonged to the Baby Boom Generation. Me? I was a product of Generation X.

My work then, was only your typical family run business. My office was located in Shibuya Ward. My father started the consultancy there because the rents were more affordable at the time. I didn't have a partner, like my father had. I didn't have a secretary. I didn't even have an answering machine, not that he had one either. When I took over the business, I didn't change it that much, leaving it the way may father had had it from his first months of operation. From the beginning, I had to be resourceful and do everything myself. The desk and chairs were still the same. The painting of Mt. Fuji and the family portraits still hung on the walls. Even the sofa and coffee table were same ones my father had bought at a second hand shop. The clock and coat rack were antiques, but made well, built with durable materials. Of course, later I brought in a used computer, printer, fax-machine and refrigerator. I made well with the original telephone my father had bought when he started which was one of those black rotary types. Of course, it's been replaced.

Recently, work had slow to a halt, with the recession choking the life out of the more superfluous service-related industries like mine. Many small business professionals like myself - consultants, advisors, experts, and other "authorities" - were going to go under in a sea of red ink soon. This was inevitable. It was an inherent part of the system and I was one decision away from shutting my doors for ever. Maybe I even longed to be part of that history of forgotten men.

The span of history is like a bridge without end, sitting in a thick mist. I could see one end behind me and the other end within arms' distance, but that didn't mean that the bridge itself was finite. What remained within sight was little more than one small part of the bridge. It seemed that I was placed in this section, cut off from his roots.

I was tired of going through the motions of "work." It had become too torturously monotonous. Work: you shall reap what you sow. There was nothing further from the truth today. This association has long since been destroyed in the flames of falsehood. In my opinion, most of us have never reaped our just rewards for what we sowed. I doubt my father had. Our hands are neither tied to the soil we till nor do they even belong to us. But that shouldn't deter us from making an effort, should it? We must remain "busy" and busy I tried to remain.

The last two months were "busy" with telephone inquiries, but no follow-up visits by real people - the entrepreneur class - seeking either, money-making or money-saving advice, which came to the same thing. Maybe it was better this way. I could do without the stress, however much my consultancy needed the cash flow. At least though, the other tenants in the building seemed to be doing better than I was. Judging from the foot traffic in and around their shops, they looked fairly busy. But, of course, I couldn't say if this "activity" translated into a continuous flow of paying customers.

The building I occupied was built in the 1950's and called "Parliament Place." (I'd heard it was initially named "Parliament Palace.") Don't ask me why because I don't think the owners even knew why; it probably just "sounded right." I was never good at communicating in English, but my skills weren't so bad that I couldn't order pizza in Chicago or beer in Manchester without screwing it up. And even I knew this name, "Parliament Place," was just a bit too much for a building like ours. After all, it was just the run-of-the-mill, four story office complex with the building management occupying the fourth floor, as well as an antique shop, a used record and bookstore, and my consultancy. There was nothing fancy about this place whatsoever. It was a plain concrete structure. The exterior was painted in a dull gray, while the interior was in a bright white. There was a small elevator made to carry six persons of average build, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Every time I rode in it I felt like I was traveling in a flimsy coke can inside a dilapidated vending machine. The only gripe I had with the building were the toilets, which were in the old style; you had to squat down every time you needed to unload. The entire first floor was used by - what seemed to be - the only profitable business in the complex: a pachinko parlor. Whenever its sliding glass doors opened and closed I could hear the nonstop clanging of silver balls bouncing around inside the glass encased machines. It was deafening. The second floor was door-to-door massage parlors - "Taiwan Massage," "Thai Massage," "Turkish Massage," "Tea & Massage," "Foot Massage," and of course, "Haircut & Massage." I had never gone to any of these therapies, but walked by a few times. For some reason, I never had the curiosity or the courage to enter one of these establishments. The third floor was shared by six tenants: a dance studio, a yoga studio, a hair & make-up studio, a beauty salon, a tanning salon, and a salon specializing in fingernail fashion and care. If you were looking for a one-stop pleasure zone our building would have been suitable alternative to Disneyland or Universal Studios. We had it all, however my floor was virtually empty. The management was hardly around, and the other shops barely had a few dozen customers between them - the odd bookworm, some vinyl freaks, and a few antique collectors on their last legs. The higher you went up in our building, the less chance you had of seeing willing customers or healthy returns.

So, it was the beginning of yet another week of drudgery, as I sat there letting the music distract me from my daily responsibilities. It carried me away, far away. I let my mind go, not contemplating any issues of practical importance, like creating new business opportunities, shoring up the balance sheet, or improving relations with existing clients.

When I felt restless or had little enthusiasm for life, this was what I did. So, I let my mind roam the dreamy pastures of my imagination; it meandered through its prairies; it drifted by its fields, and strayed along its meadows; I was lost in the ebb and flow of pure feeling. For the time being it didn't matter though, as I only needed to be led by the sounds of a sweet and somber melody in the pleasant darkness that engulfed me...


As I sat in my chair I heard the sound of knocks at my door. The sound grew louder and heavier. For a second, I thought my skull had been struck by a heavy object. I was startled out of my out of my stupor momentarily. I opened my eyes, but was still in a daze as I found myself on the ground. Fortunately, I wasn't hurt and just picked myself up and sat down, to listen again for any sounds.

I must've dozed off for awhile and fallen off to the music that permeated my senses. During my nap I had a strange dream. I always had them. I could only remember the dark tides sweeping in, one after another, crashing into the formation of rocks as they broke. The scene was the same and repeated itself over and over. Then, invariably, I would hear the thunder's rumble as it rippled across the skies. It was disquieting...

I looked at the clock that hung just above the filing cabinet. It was now two-thirty in the afternoon. The sound of the second-hand seemed to be getting louder with every movement. The clock was the only thing I could hear from the moment the sounds of Mahler's violins had slowly faded away into a deathly silence, like that of dying screams heard from a Mephistophelian forest. These intrusions - the knocking and the ticking - shook me out of the final traces of my slumber. I was still tired though. I thought I was under a spell, and had no control over my body. Then I was propelled forward by some force. It was like the hand of God, or his archenemy, or maybe neither - only a strictly epiphenomenal activity. My body advanced so rapidly that I found myself in front of the door before I knew it. Someone had knocked and my body seemed to have moved without my consent. As I was about to open the door, I was struck with a strange sensation - a premonition. I hesitated. Then I turned the knob slowly, pulling the door open like a person anticipating something ghastly on the other side.

I looked, my eyes half closed. But no one was there, not even a fleeting shadow. I stuck my head out into the hallway, twisting my neck both left and right. Again, not a soul. Not a hint of life - neither a smell nor a sound. "Strange!" I mumbled while shaking my head, almost in disappointment. The hallway lights were off too for some strange reason.

I shut the door behind me and leaned my body against its cold metal huffing and puffing. I breathed in once heavily, then exhaled with an equal amount of effort. This was odd, but what was even more bizarre than what had just occurred was the unmistakable feeling that I'd experienced it all before. It was clear to me, this sense of familiarity. The knock, the door, the expectations, and the emptiness, felt vaguely similar to some experience I had had before, only I didn't know what that was. It was inexplicable.