Japan

Let me take you to my house, my home. My home is a red spot in the middle of a white plane. It is a drop of blood on a piece of bleached parchment. It is the dawn, the early sun forcing its way to the foreground of the sky for the darkest eyes to see. My home is certain and planned. It is resolute, firm, and on top of that, ceremonial. I would like to think of my house as a trophy for all the lives I have lived, all the songs I have sung, all the love I have made, all the noise I have swallowed. And what is a trophy? It is a reward, a recognition, and an evidence of merit. No, it is an ornament. My house is an ornament: one that lives up to the very nature of ornaments, sickeningly pretty to those of taste.

My home’s doorway is built with fine oak. Strong and rigid, it celebrates me and my army. My men never stooped low, never limped, never jerked a knee. My men were the finest, clad in metal and specks of brown and black. These men were a class of warriors, these men fought for me. They fought my battles with ghosts that I imagine had bloodied me up and harrowed my ridges. They fought with no one with all their strength and with the grace of dancing ribbons. It did not matter who they fought with or for. They looked good, very formal, very grand�"very theatrical. And all watched them in awe with sunken eyes and gripped chests.

Upon entrance, my home enchants with marvelous pieces. Soft pieces, light and rosy like cherry blossoms with the fleeting scent of wood. My living room is an aphrodisiac, enticing the lamest of bones and the driest of tongues. I have here fountains that quench lust for beauty and warmth, the most soothing waters that trickle from moist petals and the musky taste of skin. I have in here the finest art, the blackest threads, the calmest lanterns, and the sourest lips. Lips from where rivers flow and fish swim for you. My living room is designed for you. It spreads its legs for you, counts the bumps of your knuckles to kiss each one. It has been built somberly for your comfort and pleasure. It has a stairway made for you so you can climb up and down swollen hills of breasts with ease. It wears a perfume that blazes to your nostrils like a flash fire and winks slyly at you. My living room wears a pale, pasty cream on her face to give you a blank facade that shyly covers her restless heat and fans herself while hiding under a bamboo parasol to keep the cream from melting off her.

To the left is my dining room. I have a long table with different sizes of pillows to suit my guests. I have the same guests more or less, the same kinds at least. Diverse, yes, but the variety is constant. The best ones are the ones stuffed with lard and all the glorious sins of gastronomy. These men end up half-naked, garbed only with white cloths around their groins and chopsticks on their heads. They never seem to be able to let go of their utensils. Those huge people, they are very entertaining and very artistic. They simulate combat with their gigantic frames and well-paced walks and jumps and the classic piling on top of each other. I feed my guests with raw fish and their eggs, seaweed, and silver-tipped, tip-toed tea and I feed the big ones with hefty servings of the same bland food that seem to catch the tongues of the elite and never the sweaty, calloused ones who like the stinging pangs of salt. Always, I serve my guests with the strong kick of a vomit-green concoction that targets the bone between the eyes, up to the temples and the back of the head.

Temples. I went to temples to keep myself calm and to isolate myself from the rowdiness of city trains that travel from spit to ground.  Uphill, upmountain, upsummit, I went on my way to temples. The paths made my feet hurt from stepping on too much green and brown and animal bone that dressed like mold-covered rocks. I did not like the discomfort so I decided to have myself a tiny temple inside my house, a room at the end of the hall, hidden from sight, unadorned. My own temple has no ornaments. It is as blank as the face of the new moon, viewed through a film negative. In my temple there are no wants and no needs. Only walls, damp air, and the burning, timed incense that murders the buzzing insects that keep me from having no wants, which is exactly what I want. My temple is solemn; it traps my soul in freedom. It makes me happy without the burden of exhaustion from pursuing it.

Near the modest temple, I have my bedroom, my throne. There, I am King. There, I stand tall and majestic. There, I do not serve. My bedroom sits at the brighter side of the hall, the more visible side, for everyone to see but never touch. The king is vulnerable and must be kept away from the rest of the world, only to be presented as an image and not a soul, a model and not a person. Never a person, only a symbol, a symbol of power, mandated by God. My bedroom sits close to the temple so I can be close to God. I must be close to God for I am King. My house is a monarchy. I am King but I do not speak, I only nod and look through my cheeks with my lids down. I see nobody but everyone sees me, only when I am in my bedroom, my chamber where I store disgusting, gold-plated mirrors and luxurious, political furnishings.

I, however, am not in my bedroom and you are my guest. I must treat you as such. I will show you the rest of my house.

Beneath the floorboards are the wirings and pillars that support my house. I have copper wires, gold wires, rubber-coated wires that rodents find delectable. Those wires make my house work. They power the city of my house; they are the infrastructure, the skeleton. Through them pass currents, rapidly, like winged snakes or sprinting thieves. I have in my house only the most advanced technology. Everything is state of the art, hidden under the floorboards, but gleaming through the cracks for everyone to see. My house is not just a piece of wood witch carvings and varnish, and pretty foliage. My home is innovation. My house is a robot.

You must come with me to the basement. It is where I keep my pets and my hobbies. I go there to amuse myself with trinkets that do not suit the rest of my house. Perhaps you feel a rumbling as we descend and calculate the way our feet slap the metal boards to my basement. That is my pet, you see, a giant octopus that lives through air. It does not need water. It only needs air and the scent of hairy c***s. It lives on coital juices and raw salmon. I keep it in an aquarium filled with gore and sand. It is very strong so I keep it held in chains, eight metal handcuffs welded to the asphalt wall. My octopus likes little girls with thin eyes, as much as I do. Does my basement amuse you? Here, I keep my holographic, cartoon ghouls with big eyes and spiky hair. Do you see all the colors, all the detail that you try so hard to suppress? I keep them here in my basement, hidden beneath my home. My home that looks minimal and graceful. My home that is as simple and tranquil as the dawn, my profligate, respectable home that should resemble a history book, majestic and clean on the surface, with maniacal dirt crawling betwixt the pages.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Chris]

Nyx,

You have a talent that few native speakers can touch. I don't know how long it took you to write "Japan" but ...you did it with style, grace, strength, heart, and a bunch of other words that barely describe how well you did nor the manner with which you did. And I NEVER blow smoke to an author.

Chris

[Coyote Poetry]

I like the description of location. I like the detail and reason for the thing to be in proper place. It is more of a story then poem. I like the thoughts of other cultures and belief. The world is a wonderful place. Each place with their way of living and thoughts. I enjoyed the description in the excellent story.

[André]

I can risk an 80 but not having been to Japan I cant honestly know how good you are. I've always admired Japanese engineering and I'm fanatical about the quality of their war planes in world war two. [not a big fan of war, but still]. Big Honda fan also... love my RED HONDA motorcycle. :-)