Hey Mortality

by Kinsella, Luke

  What followed for the next forty-five minutes was that the three to four hundred strong crowd of believers chanted non-stop the sacred mantra of, “Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō.”

  After this, two of the newest neophytes were brought onto the stage and asked to tell their stories. They of course spoke in Japanese, but tears flowed from their eyes as they recounted their tales of enlightenment and conversion.

  After the ceremony was over, I needed water to cleanse my dry throat, broken by the chanting. Instead, I was asked to meet Mr Murakami, and again to convert at the main temple. Of course, I declined.

  After the incident at the temple, I received over fifty emails telling me that I would never be happy unless I prayed to the true Buddha, or that my life, though maybe good right then, would end up in turmoil and despair. Both facts have since become true, however, propitiating to savages such as the Nichiren is of no interest to me. It is said that they are focused on murdering the peaceful religion of Buddhism, therefore, I will never convert.

  I was told once by somebody that if you are sitting in a bar in Japan, and you say a hateful thing about the Nichiren, and if a member is listening, they will call in other members of the cult, and beat you, punish you, torture you, or maybe even kill you. Worse than the Yakuza are these religious cultists.

  It is probably best for me to remove these words from these pages, and live peacefully and safely, but freedom of speech and to address fear is important to survival and to forewarn future potential converts of the danger imposed.

  After arriving home from the execution grounds, I search my room, and eventually find a letter that I received after the Oko Ceremony. I am not sure why I kept hold of it with such fondness or protest, but it had this to tell me:

  “June is the turning point of the year. It is important to review the first half, and to break the evil mind which slanders the Buddha. We follow the true law, and if we sincerely follow it, it becomes the joy. We believe the true Buddha, and if someone practices without beliefs, it’s like a person going into the treasure mountain without hands (they get nothing).

  “When we say believe, there are two meanings. The first is normal understanding, to believe in the Buddha as the only way to happiness. The second is deeper understanding, to substitute belief for Buddha’s wisdom. Gohonzan itself is the truth of the universe, it is the universe itself. And, it can be said that we are actually the same as Gohonzan, involving the whole wisdom of the universe.

  “And, there are two kinds of, ‘Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō.’ The first is Jigyo, to practice for oneself. The second is Keta, to practice for others, spread the true law, and make others truly as happy as Buddha.

  “Gohonzan is the core. If we chant, ‘Nam-Myōhō-Renge-Kyō,’ towards other objects of worship, it doesn’t work. A person who practices true Buddhism sincerely is clearly different from others. We only have normal abilities to recognise this world; we can’t know what is important, what is higher or lower than ourselves. So, the original Buddha, Nichiren Daishonin, left Gohonzon as a shape we can see. The truth.”

  7

  After reading the letter last night, I slept the deepest and most peaceful of sleeps in a long while, and I am not entirely sure why or how. But today the dead stopped staying dead, and the demons returned.

  Somebody began working alongside me at the Kangaroo Hotel, an Australian born twenty-three-year-old. He is most probably the Devil; perhaps the very thing that the Nichiren were trying to warn me about. He makes me question the very meaning of life and whatever is left of me now. Nothing, nothing but the burning suffering that I am fated to endure. And just like Laplace’s Demon, the boy knows all of my dreams and all of my secrets. He makes passing comments from his pretentious childish self of my thoughts; thoughts that he could not possibly know.

  He is somebody beyond life, perhaps even beyond death. He frightens me. Frightens me by his very presence. Just knowing that I am in the same building as him, working in the same place as him, the Kangaroo Hotel, it chills my bones.

  This man, this boy, he has an arcane ability to know my deepest feelings, and my wildest fantasies, to the point that just hearing him speak, just imagining words from his lips is enough to make my skin crawl off.

  He can see my dreams, my desires, and my horrors. He knows all and is mostly immortal. He knows every little thought, every dream I have ever had, and he taunts me with his words.

  He makes the occasional passing comment during a cleaning shift, usually something that references the woman I loved. His references to a life that is left behind, to Liar. He shouldn’t know about this, and even if he has this advanced and obtuse knowledge of my life, I wonder why he brandishes his phrases and his mockeries. Only a poisoned soul would do such things, act in such ways.

  The other members of staff talk about him when he is not around. They hate him, and he fills them with the same fear that washes over me when I am in his presence.

  This is the problem. This is what made my decision easy, to leave the Kangaroo Hotel. Now I am not only without her, but without work; I am left with nothing. No job, no income, no dreams, just a demon stalking every thought, waiting to crush me, waiting to squash me under some immortal power.

  It is in these thoughts as I sit at the steps now with only a home and my bed of nightmares, I consider that maybe I am already dead. Is the life I lead now a quiet transcendence from the life before? Living and dying as ever one. And if it is so, how would I ever know? How could I confirm that this life is in itself the hell that this demon has created for me? This demon, or soul, or person of utter darkness.

  This life is a lot worse than the life I had before, before I lost her. A life now offering only suffering and pain. So therefore I must surely be already dead. There is nothing to heal me, nothing to protect me, just loneliness. Everything shattered to dust, swirling away in the wind.

  And it is in this vast expanse of loneliness, that I sit and I contemplate as to what to do next. It is at this moment that I have absolutely nothing to lose. It is at this moment that I decide to finally stand up, finally resolve my fate.

  I cross the road, and at the sushi restaurant, I silently lift the lid to the box. The silver lid slides off with ease to reveal a yellow bucket. A bucket full to the brim with the stench and brown stains of soy sauce and fish guts.

  But, I wonder who collects soy sauce stained fish guts at two in the morning. It is with this thought in mind that I carefully lift the bucket from the box. The swishing of liquid and the occasional spilling of soy sauce and guts make me retch; the smell strong and difficult.

  Beneath the bucket sits the single object of my desire. A photograph.

  I don’t know why there is a photograph below the bucket. It is old, black and white, torn at the corners, frayed at the edges and fading; like my dreams. But as I look and inspect the photograph I see an image. A festival. A festival in Yoshiwara.

  I recognise the festival from a collection of recent photographs around the red light district. It is none other than the Asakusa Kannon-ura Ichiyō Sakura-matsuri Festival, one that is full of tradition and takes place every year in April.

  A beautiful woman is dressed in a satin kimono, face painted white, the Oiran, a courtesan and the number one ranking prostitute of the year. She walks the street in arms with a man. A large man with a smile on his face. Confident. Security. In the photograph they walk the streets of Yoshiwara. His hand on her shoulder, hidden beneath his black and white Yukata.

  And as they walk, they are captured by this photograph. Behind them, a crowd. Seven people standing and watching, but I am sure there are more; not enough boundaries to the photograph to capture everyone and the beautiful whore.

  I stare in horror, as amongst those Japanese onlookers, there is an image of myself. A foreigner at the very least, and at a time when there were no foreigners in Japan. I can see myself clearly smiling as I watch the parade. I am there. It is absolutely me. It is me for sure, but I have no idea why or how. Perhaps this is
the doing of the demon, another way to taunt me. Maybe some kind of trick, a forged image created by a prankster. The photo is so old that it cannot be so. A photograph so out of place, and me, so out of time.

  The image offers nothing close to reality. A photograph collected in the morning. A photograph of me, perhaps the same age as I am now, and I have no idea why. If I existed back then when the photograph was taken, then I am indeed dead now. I must be dead now. Either dead or immortal and erased of any memory. Dead, only to be risen again to endure hell in the slums.

  8

  Today the photograph lays discarded by my bedside. The noise of chanting and humour drifts in through the single pane of my window glass. Outside, the festival that the homeless man told me about is taking place. I decide that today, there is nothing left to think about, nothing left to do but to enjoy the festivities. A distraction from the insane.

  Imado Festival is in full swing, people are cheering, and the chimes of an ice cream van jingle fills the air; an old man singing in Japanese. Typically, the song takes up the space in my head that is usually reserved for contemplation and creative thinking. But recently, other than the whistle of a tofu truck every evening, I sit suffering in silence. Today I will suffer with the ice cream song playing over and over in my mind, like a broken merry-go-round.

  Outside the Plum Ship, men are carrying the portable shrine of Imado. It really is a welcoming sight seeing people dressed in traditional clothing and chanting indecipherable chants. It does however appear, that the clean-up effort by volunteers yesterday has already been forgotten, as trash, empty nihonshu cups, and plastic trays of takeaway noodles litter the area around my home.

  Men shout and march forwards and backwards with the heavy shrine that houses god on their shoulders. People watch, randomly applaud, and are in, what can only be considered, a good mood.

  It really makes me think about how the people in Nihonzutsumi can be so forgotten, but when an event like this occurs, they rally together. I might well be the only foreigner here, watching in delight and deep fascination. People smile at me as I join in with the applause, as the shrine known as Mikoshi is moved past Joe and into the arcade where homeless still sleep; despite the mid-afternoon blazing summer sun.

  It makes me wonder if I can help. Help the local residents and homeless residents of this impoverished society, those who suffer because the government would rather play host to the sex industry and ignore the people that need support the most. Money, a fraction of it at least, could transform this area; an area that right now I am almost proud to call my home.

  I see the residents here, they live in fear and sleep with nothing, but they do so because they are not offered a real chance. We are here in the most expensive city in the world, and for what? To hide the homeless, sweep them away to a place that even history books are afraid to acknowledge exists. This is the real Japan, and one that will never be forgotten by me, for as long as my death continues or my life revolves onwards.

  As for the festival, makeshift tables and chairs, and beers, they await. Await the hard working carriers of Mikoshi. The sweating men that so proudly carry their deity. I wonder if they will be forever ignored.

  An old lady smiles at me as a watch, her smile is deep and genuine. The parade itself is fascinating, and the shrine, whoever made it, should be worshipped as a god. The craftsmanship beautiful, the artwork of gold and purple creates a delight of reflections in the midday sun.

  This is an important moment for me, and for those that live in Nihonzutsumi, not just because everyone has got together to help with this parade, but because I have realised that maybe, it is no fault of the locals that they ended up here. Born into an ancestry of untouchable misery and ignorance from those in power. Everybody is surely entitled to another chance. Everyone here should not be forgotten. They should be treated as the humans that they are, but they’re not, and it makes me angry on this day of joy.

  The festival continues until dawn, and spirits remain high. The street food stalls set up in the market seem to be turning good business, and it is fair to say, the residents of Nihonzutsumi are starting to feel the effects of the flowing alcohol, and the power of god.

  It is completely without distraction of boxes or men wearing bandanas or photographs or lost loves or demons, that I enjoy the festival to the full, and stay to help clean up the streets as it approaches its end. But, I still feel an obvious sorrow for the Nihonzutsumi residents.

  This is perhaps the best day in weeks for me, one where morals and judgement became stronger, and have managed to dissipate most of my emotions in the festivities and enjoyment of my surroundings. But with that said, tomorrow might well be another day of misery and confusion, absent again of any god.

  9

  After sleeping for an entire day, I wake up to find one skipped. My mind has been mentally tired recently, so it can only be good that I am well rested for now. I still have images of that demon from the Kangaroo Hotel in my head, a thought that cannot be shaken away. I still have the sound of festivities in my ears too. An imbalance that sways more toward sorrow than happiness.

  I glance at the photograph with obvious confusion. I wonder if this really could be me. It looks exactly like me. I am not wearing modern day clothing, but it is almost certainly myself. I don’t know how it is possible that I ended up in a time that wasn’t my own.

  Today I decide to take it easy and distract my mind from thinking about the photograph. With no job now, or purpose, I will kill time by wandering around the Nihonzutsumi area, observing the ordinary folk as they go about their daily lives.

  I start from the steps, and already events are occurring in their usual manner. Outside the Plum Ship, a homeless man in his late seventies is punching a cardboard box; really beating it up for no reason that I can see. This act, his frustration, and why anyone would get so angry about cardboard confuses me. Punch, punch, punch; Rocky Joe looks impressed. His smile always stays the same, but he does look happier than usual in a strange contorted way. Joe stares directly at me from his location outside my building, therefore, can only be watching the man punching at cardboard with painted eyes from his peripheral.

  And it is from these steps that above me I hear the loud stamping of heavy footsteps, which can only mean one thing, Yakuza Guy; the man in the white bandana. As he opens the door above me and slams it behind him, I stay frozen staring at the man punching the cardboard box, which can now no longer be considered a box at all, having completely lost its shape.

  As the footsteps grow louder the man sweeps past me, and for the first time, Canadian Guy and the story he told me is confirmed. The man is today wearing a suit, a jet black suit, black trousers, polished shoes, a white shirt, and a black tie. Hair slicked back with mousse or gel. He looks impressive. Either ready for a funeral or to commit a heinous crime. I have never seen him like this before and it shocks me.

  As the stamping slowly decreases and the man makes distance from the house, those five immaculate suits hanging on that rack is the image that brings itself to the forefront of my mind.

  I consider following him; he wouldn’t be too difficult to track, I imagine. Perhaps he stamps for attention, wants to be noticed or heard, or maybe he wants to be followed by somebody.

  As I sit to light a cigarette, the homeless man wanders off into the arcade. Moments later, people stop and take a photograph of the statue of Joe, as often happens. Sometimes couples or groups of businessmen. I watch with curiosity and see the excited looks on their faces. An unexpected statue on their way to work. Completely out of place.

  I see a homeless man riding his bicycle. He passes the steps and disappears out of sight. A few moments later I hear a huge crash. Intrigued, I peer once again from the steps, around the corner to where the Chinese restaurant sits, to see that the man has collapsed while cycling. He is on the concrete, on his side. Feet still touching pedals as he retains his cycling pose. I watch as other people walk past, walk around him, and completely ignore him.
Six or seven people do nothing. I suppose I too do nothing.

  Eventually a young man stops. He is perhaps in his early twenties and rides a foldaway bicycle. He makes a quick phone call and leaves. Five minutes later the police arrive, two officers on white bicycles. They manage to stir the man awake. The man slurs his speech and begins to get angry at the police officers. After five minutes of this, the police officers shake their heads in disappointment, get back on their bicycles, and leave the man as they found him; on his side, hugging concrete.

  I decide that I have seen enough and to go for a walk. Through Yoshiwara I am once again asked for sex by the man outside Silky Doll. It doesn’t feel unsafe here in Yoshiwara though. I am always being watched by the security men outside the brothels, in their smart suits and with earpieces; their consortium keeps me protected in a strange way.

  It is as I walk through this area, that I begin to notice more and more images of eyes. They look like the character from kabuki, a Japanese dance drama. Their eyes form the face of the character that represents justice. A yellow background with black eyebrows, a black outline, and red eyes. They appear everywhere; on vending machines, in flower beds, on telephone boxes. I never really noticed them before, except once at Yoshiwara Shrine. I am not sure what these eyes are doing, and why the rest of their face is missing. Just his eyes. Justice Eyes. Perhaps reminding me not to commit a crime, that I am being watched all of the time. Scaremongering, an example of the panopticonic society I live.

  In my broken thoughts, I continue my walk and contemplate. Surrounded by prostitutes, built on a graveyard, lonely. I wonder what to do next. I have nothing at all to do; there is no place for me here, it seems. I am enveloped in darkness and sadness. So lonely, so miserably lonely. The faces of others, even the faces that have nothing but time to kill, and time waiting to kill them, they look happy. They drink from their nihonshu cups or from cans of cheap beer and laugh through toothless mouths. Not me. I’m tired of being just the shell of a broken man, a complete wreck with nothing to breathe for; only pain, hatred for the demons, hatred for her for not coming back, hatred for all else.