Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head and slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This is Audioccult, and it’s time to get low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA
Today I travel from Tokyo; first to Kyoto, then Osaka. This country has a way of assimilating the flesh and spirit in a way that Europe, for all its charms, can’t quite grasp. Beyond the incredible kindness and generosity of those I’ve met and DJ’d for, there’s a wondrous contrast to the population that makes a grandfather spend thirty seconds apologizing for bumping into someone before he heads out for a night of partying loudly with the other grandfathers, passing out blind drunk on the train ride home. Neither fear nor shame enters his mind, nor the minds of those around him. The wails of men drift out of doorways, hymns to the bound souls of Bon Jovi and The Carpenters dissipating into air humid enough to sous-vide the lungs that inhale it. My skin has never been more luminous, and the hole in my soul is finally scabbing over. For every scent of rot that hangs in the moist night air, there are three more that beckon the stomach. There are more platform shoes here than anywhere else on the planet, and they’re almost always on someone cute (or, occasionally, an unruly grandfather). Last night on the subway, someone tried to sell me anime insurance; sadly my collection is a ghost of its former shell.
My (male, deal with it) gaze rests now on the countryside that flows past my window beneath an iron sky, yet it isn’t the dreary gray of my beloved, slightly tattered Berlin. Rather it’s a gray that seems to absorb the lush, green life beneath it, and reflect it back in x2 intensity. A stream of images: a roadside fruit stand, the overripe flesh of the wares nearly split to burst; a village whose name I will never know, seemingly abandoned; a split-second glimpse of a laughing crow jackhammering his mate. After the vast consumerism of Harajuku and Shibuya, the peace of Yoyogi Park, the wonderfully dirty punkiness of Koenji, and the unspeakable Times Squarey-ness of Shinjuku, it’s an overload of organic information that engorges me. It’s both infection and balm, and I welcome it. 隠然 ~