Ghosts of Nagasaki- On the Train
Pasted below is an excerpt from Chapter 1 of Ghosts of Nagasaki. Enjoy!
In my Tokyo apartment, staring into the screen of my laptop, I simultaneously stare out the window of the Shinkansen into the Japanese countryside. Though the fingers typing these words to you are twenty-six, my eyes are now twenty-two. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s overcast, I can’t explain exactly why, but as a twenty-two-year-old I’m much older than I am at twenty-six.
The train continues on its way to Fukuoka. There I will switch trains and go to a place called Nagasaki. The name bears no meaning yet, but when I say it quietly to myself it comes easily, with a disturbing amount of familiarity.
I brood.
I brood for my very life, and I wonder why I’m even here.
I clutch my chest. I don’t know why, yet, but I’m starting to experience a kind of pain there―heartburn perhaps. What will I miss when I die? Eighties hair bands, the movie Heavy Metal, high school cheerleaders, and V8 juice―yes, thank God for V8 juice.
I’m looking over my newspaper―my pornography of disasters and misery―when I notice her. The girl in the school uniform with a face even grimmer than mine. She must have been wearing normal shoes at the time because nothing seemed off. But now, when I think about it, when I think hard and deep the way dispirited ghosts in the mountains do, I can see her red shoes with the dirty shoelaces―old-school Converses. They somehow make me feel more comfortable with the world. They come from somewhere deep and pure, not a shoe manufacturer but someplace more beautiful.
She looks so young and awkward, her navy blue school girl uniform clashing with her bright red sneakers. Do all the girls wear nerdy shoes like these? I think to myself now, though I have no way to think it back then other than through the movement of these fingers.
There is something infinitely sad about her: her face, long and motionless, her eyes on the verge of tears, she sits there quietly waiting for something. All this clashes desperately with the silence of the train and the blank faces of its passengers.
That’s when we enter the long tunnel. I look down at my paper and notice the word “politician” and “politicians”—these two words seem to be everywhere. My mind turns to people in my past: to the con artists of my youth, my foster parents, and the vague memory of an elementary schoolteacher. I’m twenty-two, but I feel old. My hands ache, my knee hurts, and the newspaper in my hands seems forced, the means of an oppressed soul to shoo away the time.
The train comes out of the tunnel. I look once again to try to find the girl, her downcast eyes searching the Shinkansen floor. My hands search across the keyboard for this sliver of memory, hoping to pick it up with my touch. But it seems lost for the time being.
That’s when I realize that somehow I’ve left the gloom behind. Suddenly, I’m traveling
through tall hills, looking down at vast green valleys. The world is flush with interesting angles, colors, and textures. Instead of just seeing what’s around me, I feel as if I can fall into it and rub it in my eyes.
The geography of my situation suddenly upsets the logic of it. I wish I knew some famous Japanese travel writer to plagiarize. I would, too. I’d steal the phrases like so much unattended baggage and not think twice. As it is, my eyes overcome the poverty of my words. They fall out the window and deeper into the mountains. Somewhere, out there in the mountains, I see myself as I could have been―a Lost Boy. Safe, content, I fall asleep.
In my Tokyo apartment, staring into the screen of my laptop, I simultaneously stare out the window of the Shinkansen into the Japanese countryside. Though the fingers typing these words to you are twenty-six, my eyes are now twenty-two. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s overcast, I can’t explain exactly why, but as a twenty-two-year-old I’m much older than I am at twenty-six.
The train continues on its way to Fukuoka. There I will switch trains and go to a place called Nagasaki. The name bears no meaning yet, but when I say it quietly to myself it comes easily, with a disturbing amount of familiarity.
I brood.
I brood for my very life, and I wonder why I’m even here.
I clutch my chest. I don’t know why, yet, but I’m starting to experience a kind of pain there―heartburn perhaps. What will I miss when I die? Eighties hair bands, the movie Heavy Metal, high school cheerleaders, and V8 juice―yes, thank God for V8 juice.
I’m looking over my newspaper―my pornography of disasters and misery―when I notice her. The girl in the school uniform with a face even grimmer than mine. She must have been wearing normal shoes at the time because nothing seemed off. But now, when I think about it, when I think hard and deep the way dispirited ghosts in the mountains do, I can see her red shoes with the dirty shoelaces―old-school Converses. They somehow make me feel more comfortable with the world. They come from somewhere deep and pure, not a shoe manufacturer but someplace more beautiful.
She looks so young and awkward, her navy blue school girl uniform clashing with her bright red sneakers. Do all the girls wear nerdy shoes like these? I think to myself now, though I have no way to think it back then other than through the movement of these fingers.
There is something infinitely sad about her: her face, long and motionless, her eyes on the verge of tears, she sits there quietly waiting for something. All this clashes desperately with the silence of the train and the blank faces of its passengers.
That’s when we enter the long tunnel. I look down at my paper and notice the word “politician” and “politicians”—these two words seem to be everywhere. My mind turns to people in my past: to the con artists of my youth, my foster parents, and the vague memory of an elementary schoolteacher. I’m twenty-two, but I feel old. My hands ache, my knee hurts, and the newspaper in my hands seems forced, the means of an oppressed soul to shoo away the time.
The train comes out of the tunnel. I look once again to try to find the girl, her downcast eyes searching the Shinkansen floor. My hands search across the keyboard for this sliver of memory, hoping to pick it up with my touch. But it seems lost for the time being.
That’s when I realize that somehow I’ve left the gloom behind. Suddenly, I’m traveling
through tall hills, looking down at vast green valleys. The world is flush with interesting angles, colors, and textures. Instead of just seeing what’s around me, I feel as if I can fall into it and rub it in my eyes.
The geography of my situation suddenly upsets the logic of it. I wish I knew some famous Japanese travel writer to plagiarize. I would, too. I’d steal the phrases like so much unattended baggage and not think twice. As it is, my eyes overcome the poverty of my words. They fall out the window and deeper into the mountains. Somewhere, out there in the mountains, I see myself as I could have been―a Lost Boy. Safe, content, I fall asleep.
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