In an appalling turn of events, the chilly spring Tokyo weather reverted back to a winter scowl; just cold enough for the fingers to hold a revolution against trills, fills, and ornamentation. The guitar doesn’t even want to be played when it’s cold and damp. Like any cozy creature it would rather hibernate. Huck thought about turning on the heater but it was too expensive and he was too spiteful of the weather to give it the satisfaction. So in hopes that the air would heat up just a little bit he let loose Camaron de la Isla instead. How many months had he gone without listening to Flamenco? In just two months he’ll hit the two year mark since leaving Spain. What a wild ride with good friends through blurs of festivity. He put on the album, “La Leyenda Del Tiempo.” Just a few tunes in the warmth hit home.

In all fairness the sudden chill wasn’t so sudden at all. Cold winds and cloudy skies hung around for all of the cherry blossom festivals, and accompanied him to all three hanami picnics. As cherry blossoms spread out into a blaze of fireworks above the parks of Tokyo, large picnics of blanketed, jacketed, and sufficiently liquored Tokyoites huddled below. The cold didn’t really kill the buzz, thankfully. All around one would see bubbles being blown, scooters where scooters shouldn’t be ridden, frisbees flown, badminton birdies tossed, and crane shaped kites held fast by kids on the open lawn. A harmonica and acoustic guitar duo reading casually through some pop tune scores next to the fountains which just go on through the motions. A group of college aged girls rehearsing choreography. A human statue of, “The Madonna and Child,” looking longingly at the audience of passersby’s to volunteer as Jesus thereby completing the work. An array of selfie sticks floating around the park. A group of men in their 30’s opened a giant bottle of bubbly whose explosion sent the cork flying over to a group of women on the opposite side of the tree. New friends. The scene was business as usual. Tokyo wasn’t about to let cold weather dampen its spirits.

This year’s hanami picnics were, 3 out of 3, about saying, “Farewell,” and, “Safe journey” to those who were leaving Japan. What more beautiful time to say goodbye than during hanami? The springboard for new journeys felt right at home there. After all, who would make a fuss about the sky falling when it comes down so delicately and majestically, petal by petal? It really had that feeling around sunset. As the last drops of rosy sunlight seeped into the shapeless clouds, distinguishing between the flowers and the sky became increasingly difficult. Swoop. Swoop. They came down embracing gravity, but on their own terms and in their own time.  Swoop.

This was the second time Huck had seen this brief magic cast over Tokyo; but looking back, listening back, 2016 would be the third year since he had first become acquainted with these blossoms and their stellar spring performances. As Camaron’s album finished up, Huck thought back on la Valle de Jerte in Extremadura, Spain. He browsed his music library, took out a book and got ready for bed.

He woke around 7:30, first thoughts: it’s Wednesday which means it’s Recycle-Day as well as the only day I’ve left to prepare for my meeting at the Embassy tomorrow for my passport renewal. His first actions: after getting cleaned up, he took out the recycle and took a walk. In stark contrast to the day before, sunlight claimed the skies this morning and while crossing paths with hundreds of commuters he observed the difference it made. Seeing Nakano’s main street fluttering away into washes of blossoms brought him back to the train of thought he’d begun the night before. La Valle de Jerte. It was cold, rainy, and should have been miserable. In fact, every year he’s been around to see cherry blossoms it was cold and rainy. That was just the nature of the season. He could still remember the trail leading from the main road up into the terraced orchards. Huck had never seen anything like it. There must have been thousands of trees in that valley. His boots picked up mud all along the way, and his jeans gathering as much rain water as they saw fit. Gorgeous beads of water jeweled the branches which helped weave light into the picture despite the cloud settling above the mountain range.

As Huck set foot by foot down Nakano-Dori he noticed clear cut shadows appearing on the sidewalk as the sun came around the high rises running down the avenue. Young college aged kids handed out flyers for gyms, eye contacts and the usual fare. All along the way, he remembered that walk. How the jewels clung to his clothes when he walked the thin terrace ridges towards the valley’s interior. The stillness in the mountain town below… The surprise and wonder that rushed in, being in the middle of all those white blossoms. The mixed emotions that he carried to the valley. The grief, the resolve. How simple events can become monuments.

He turned at an intersection just before Arai, back towards Nakano Central Park. The whirl of the world whizzed by in taxis, buses, bicycles. Green buds started to peek out reluctantly from the ginkgo tree branches. But his shoes sloshed a bit, and slipped up the steep soil inclines of La Valle de Jerte. The smell of rain, soil, and flowers held strong against the noxious clutter of Tokyo.

Back then, the trip into the mountains of Extremadura did so much to help sew up the grieving process and now walking through the pleasant streets of Nakano he felt just how far things had come. Two years since Jerte, three years since Polly’s last walk among the budding April flowers. The Huck now was looking back on the Huck then, proud that he stuck it out and kept his word. The peace and clarity that he enjoyed under today’s sunlight was thanks to that 25 year old kid living in Spain trudging up muddy terraces in the mountains.

In Central Park the breeze took a cast of white with it, which mixed into the flow of suits, blazers, skirts and heels. It felt entirely unreal, just watching this scene. Could he have imagined peace like this three years ago? Is that why this journey started in the first place? It’s hard to say. What could be said was that the initial cutting pains have been digested over time, in actions and inaction.

He decided to pinch himself. See how real this was. Pulling out his phone, he cued up, “The Girl in Byakkoya,” and plugged in his headphones. It brought back memories of the sunny morning memorial service where he and Riley performed a lively acoustic version. It brought back memories of how much Polly hated the film Paprika, which emphasized how much she loved this opening song. So bright and energetic, it wasn’t hard to see why it suited her.

The song finished, and he was still admiring the falling blossoms and their cooperation with the wind. He was still happy, still smiling, and this was most certainly still real. Each year since the first big farewell among the white crowned trees of Jerte in Spain, he had arrived at a happier, freer future and now he felt that momentum carry him into another year. As the lyrics in Camaron de la Isla’s “Leyenda del tiempo” go,

El tiempo va sobre el sueño

Hundido hasta los cabellos

Ayer y mañana comen

Oscuras flores del duelo.

 

Post return to Japan after the holidays, post applying for fun part time work at a coffee shop, post receiving “Congrats! You passed the Japanese Language Proficiency Skills Level N2” exam results, post flu, post helping a friend with his dubious J-Pop project, and post getting the flu – spring came around the mountain like a new Emily Dickinson poem. Same old tune, whole new stanza of revelry and revelation.

Rainy and cold weather held Huck indoors for most of it, but as the plums phased in and out he made a few mad dashes outside with a backpack full of potential and a brain full of cabin fever. He only had two days of freedom to use before the Queen had him summoned back for five days of clowning, monkeying, and eikaiwa-sensei-ing around.  Tongue-twisters, ice-breakers as well as other hyphen-me-not’s like balloons and blindfolds would be packed into his Buddha bag of trick-or-treat’s and toted station to station. Granted, this should all be quite the honor for it very much plays the tune of the tenth phase in the famous Zen picto-parable, “Ten Bulls” (Ten Oxen), in which having transcended the self (as well as the bull, the whips, the ropes, and other kinky paraphernalia involved in this classic Zen tale) the having-transcended-pro-and-anti protagonist returns to society barefoot and half naked like a Woodstock vet on the Rainbow Road dishing out toys and games to the children of the world from their dusty rucksack.

But, what stressful and tiring business it is to work irregular hours running around in a classroom full of screaming, laughing, kicking, and universe creating children! Let us not forget, where there is creation there is also destruction. So on this day of rest, Huck played it cool. He tore off another tear away Tear O’ Card Calendar page. “Savage Indulgence.” He would start this savage indulgence, of course, with a hot cup of functionality.

Glitch Coffee Roasters supplies several Tokyo shops currently riding the high tides of international bean fashions. Whoever can best replicate the top stores abroad will ultimately define the best stores here. Pretty simple recipe but Glitch does produce some exceptional light roasted coffee. Today, Huck would head out to Counterpart Coffee Gallery nestled neatly between the dirty crevices of Shinjuku and Shibuya. Technically its address is in Shibuya, but we all know how to get there: Oedo-sen. West Shinjuku Block 5 on the Oedo line will drop you off at Counterpart’s sliding-door step. Now, don’t be fooled by the Kanji in its name, the O in Oedo actually stands for O as in Oh, because whenever you find out you have to use the Oedo metro line the first word that comes out of your disappointed mouth is, “oh,” as in “oh, that 48 meters (157 ft.) below ground metro line whose train cars look like what the 1980’s thought futuristic deep tunnel military emergency train cars should look like Toei Oedo metro line.” Said Toei Oedo line is all at once the most round about line to take anywhere and simultaneously, suspiciously, also connects to every other metro line in the city at some point on its evacuation circuit peculiar lasso shaped loop around downtown Tokyo.

Huck descended down the boring escalator rides meant to entertain the time between entering a Toei Oedo station and arriving at the subway platform 150 feet below. After a nap, and a cup of tea, he finally stepped off the amuseless ride only for his starlit commuter hopes to be confronted by heavy booms and beats bailing out of the pair of headphones some idiot lost on the ceiling. On the ceiling, my friends. The headphones rattled away delivering the most wretched podcast imaginable. Over and over, the radio dj’s delivered heaps of monotonous upon the old echo chamber 50 meters below sanity. Huck came to the conclusion that either the dj’s were rehearsing their lines for the real deal later on, or their jumbles were what amounted to so much sheep herding. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long, the metro scooted up.

Skidaddling out of the West Shinjuku station onto the polluted but spotless streets of Tokyo, he Huckleberry hustled over to Counterpart. A group of three travelers inside the shop turned to him as he slithered through the slide door. “Konnichiwa!” they said to him with sincere glee and chuckles.

Huck briefly forced a smile and said, “It is sublimely early indeed,” making sure to leave just a dash of embarrassment in his eyes to sell the cake. It has to look real after all. Wax foods aren’t playthings for the hungry. Turning quickly 90 degrees left towards the counter and 90 degrees away from the hipster tourists he ordered his damn coffee.

“Hey, your Japanese is pretty good,” said the goateed, bereted barista.

“.” Huck responded. He even tried. At this point, he just didn’t know how to respond any more than by pretending they didn’t say anything and just moving along with the conversation as if the compliment never happened. He’d gone through the phases. Denial: “Oh, no no no – I’m only just beginning!” Frustration: “Look, let’s be real. It’s not that good.” Compromise: “Well, if you mean compared to the 8 a.m. konnichiwa hipsters over there discussing the ways they prefer to make tiramisu then yeah – I can see where you’re coming from. It’s ok. I guess it’s ok to say that my Japanese is O.K.” Depression: “BUT IS THAT REALLY WHERE YOU’RE COMING FROM? IT CAN’T BE!” Acceptance: “Yeah, it sure is cold today. Hey, can I get one of those apple and sweet potato baked thingamajigs you got over there. They smell pretty good.” Huck finally responded.

“Yea man f’sho!” said the barista. They took care of business and the next customer slid open the door, folding up his umbrella and placed his order as he tried to finagle his umbrella into the stuffed umbrella bin.

The Cotton Hatter female barista makes his Kenyan coffee with discipline and then brings it over. “Here you go. Kenyan. Do you live near here?”

“Yep. Two stations away. Shin-Nakano. Pretty close.” Huck said.

“Pretty close,” said the mad hatter. She left him to his business and she went about hers.

What was his business? Trading in the phantoms of dreams for the phantoms of daily life: destination Adult. Boy did he get there. He was journaling. Listing. Planning. Thinking his way through the pleasures of timeline’s taunts. Vacations, trips and holidays have long replaced the sirens on top of those jagged rocks. “Come, work your heart out to get here so you can play!” they say. Sure, getting wrecked on your vacation is alright – but at least get there in good health. A half drowned pirate is no use to a half beached mermaid. Anyhow, where was he? Musing, writing, letting the murky waters of sleep roll back into his head. Suddenly, the barista who made his coffee took it upon herself to make conversation with him during a lull.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“AJ”, Huck said. “What’s yours?”

“Natalie,” Natsuki said.

“Nice to meet you. Be nice to me.” They both said.

“Nice to meet you. Be nice to me.” They both said again, finding it strange to say the same thing at the same time.

Now that the formalities were out of the way, they shot the shit for a bit.

“We usually don’t make customers sit cramped over there on the bar behind the espresso machine. Just that the boss has the bike in today due to the rain” said Natalie.

“I thought that was a strange place for the bike. Nice bike though. Someone clearly went through lots of money to make it a pleasurable ride,” Huck said.

Natalie smiled, but only with her lips, before saying, “Well, this bike usually sits out front of the store, for appeal. But the boss doesn’t want the rain to ruin the piece so we lean it up against that window.”

There was a bit of a lull. Huck was deciding how far to entertain the conversation. In all honesty he came to distrust the politeness and friendliness of Japanese people. Not its sincerity, but its compatibility with his own ingrained ideas of friendliness and politeness. He didn’t want to make her feel like she had to make small talk with him for the sake of business protocol. But, maybe he’d continue on today.

“Coffee’s good, by the way. But I’m a little low. Any espresso recommendations?” Huck said.

“Yeah! The natural process Ethiopia,” she said. She seemed pretty lit up. Maybe Huck hadn’t pushed his luck after all. “You’re second drink here is half off, by the way. Just espresso?”

Huck made his way to the counter tripping a bit as he fished change out of his backpack. “Yeah, straight espresso please.” He passed her 220 yen and she dosed, grinded, groomed and extracted a fine shot of espresso. “Have you guys been open long?” Huck said.

“Not entirely. We opened 2 months ago, but the roasters have been around for a little longer. Here you go.”

“Thanks. Pretty solid business for just two months. Reminds me a bit of back home strangely. Maybe it’s the music. Is this Charles Bradley?” he asked.

“Charles Bradley? No idea really. The barista in here before who took your order, he’s upstairs now, but he’s the one who knows the music here. Mind if I sneak past you?” she pointed behind him.

Huck looked over his left shoulder and beneath the staircase he saw the sound system along with a few rows of cd’s.

Huck shifted over and she grabbed a few of the cd’s. “Maybe it’s, Seal?” she said judging by the cd cases.

“What? Seal? No way.” Huck said in disbelief. Maybe in horror.

“I don’t know. Like I said, he knows the music here.” Natalie said returning behind the counter.

Huck finished the shot. “This Ethiopian was delicious, by the way.” Huck put the cup and saucer on the bar and then attempted to gather his stuff together as gracefully as possible.

As is customary just about everywhere in Japan, Natalie ushered Huck out of the shop following him to the door and saying farewell as he left.

With newfound functionality, Huck made his way on to the gardens way out west on the Chuo Line in the burbs of Tokyo.

Huck normally took the Chuo out past Kokubunji on his long commutes during the work week. The Chuo line heads due west from Shinjuku out towards the end of Tokyo prefecture and the beginning of real Japan. It’s famous for spring suicide delays, the five thousand stops between Shinjuku and wherever your destination is, as well the few cities that experienced cultural booms during the Showa era. It’s actually quite a pleasant train line to live on compared to other parts of Tokyo. Huck got on at Shinjuku station and took out a book to stick his head in lest it should be blown away by the dull monotony of riding the Chuo line to Kokubunji. There were no rapid express or rapid trains for the next twenty minutes. “Local” stop –stop trains were his only option.

“The next stop is Kokubunji. Exit on you right side.” Compared to the station platforms, the government takes measures to equip these trains with their own speakers. Their programs are properly rehearsed but they still lack substance. This captive broadcasting is either taken in by the submissive, or blocked out by the rebellious who, like many rebels, are hoisted by their own petards. These counterculture rebels essentially lead an ineffective campaign, unless that campaign is to obliterate their hearing.

Stepping out onto the platform, he put his book away and headed out the station through the bakery shop crowded south exit and down the alley towards Tonogayato Teien. He could hear Jim.

“We did make it out to the plum trees atop that garden, you know out on the Keio Line. I told you about that, right? Me and my family were worried it would rain but sure enough it was quite nice! Here, take a look at the photos we took. Peak blossoming for the plums there. And you know there really weren’t many people. It’s not a well known, or at least to my eyes, well traversed park. You should definitely go. It’s almost like the Tonogayato Teien in Kokubunji,” Huck remembered his co-worker saying during one ten minute slot between classes. The mention of Kokubunji brought Huck’s pointed ears around. He was always looking for an excuse to step off at Kokubunji, as he passed it nearly every day during his government endorsed torture treatment on the Chuo theme-less ride.

“Kokubunji? What kind of garden is the Tonogayato Teien?” Huck asked.

“Well, right around the turn of the century, not this one of course, but the last one. Right around the 1900 mark one of the power house families who have managed to retain wealth throughout the violent swings of history, think you know – like the Mitsubishi families and the like – yeah they had a country home and garden in Kokubunji when Kokubunji was just, well the country I guess as at that time Tokyo wasn’t nearly as spread out as it is now. Over the years Kokubunji became less and less a getaway spot just outside the city and one of the wealthy family ended up donating it to the government. It’s a really nice garden. Yeah, you should check it out.”

Even in Huck’s memories just days after his initial briefing, the length of Jim’s comments couldn’t be updated to a 2016 format.   Everthemore, Huck was grateful of course. Jim’s information had always been on point, never disappointing.

There he was. It took just about as much time to replay the memory as to arrive at the garden entrance.  A helicopter sat fat to the northwest shelling out dull vibrations like a boulder in shallow waters. Nearby some howling gremlins had escaped the confines of chalky boards and dusty curtained windows terrorizing the streets. The smell of fallen plum blossoms littered the air leading from the gravel walkway towards the ticket booth.

“One fake ass bitch?” asked the old man.

“Yep, just one I’m afraid.” Huck responded.

“Here you go, buck fifty please,” the old man said gently slipping the ticket beneath the plastic shield between him and legions of savage tourists.

Huck returned his living wage yen back to The Source. 150 yen wasn’t much to part with, but separation took its toll nonetheless.

“Thanks,” Huck said. “Entry just over there?”

A seasoned set of wrinkles smiled up with a nod, after which the old man said, “Yep, and there are maps in multiple languages just to your left if you want one. Enjoy!”

Giant pines and cedars skytree-ed above an ambiguous lawn whose center piece ruptured the space with humble harmony. The smoothest giant’s skipping stone emerged sunny side up from the earth just before a stout boulder sized maze of gnarls and needles. Huck moved on. How many meters high does bamboo grow? He could hardly tell. If one looks up into the leafy sways near the top, the suspicious movements filter sunlight into a finely distorted shimmer. However much a mirage they can be up top backed by the sun, near the base they’re exceptionally sturdy and simple; just a cylinder shooting up into the sky. Bamboo, just another one of nature’s goofballs. Huck moved on. The path teased out into a pond. All sides of the pond wrapped up towards the sky giving depth to the view from both above and below. Water from the bamboo thuh-dunk maker flowed down from the top parting into three or four paths as it raced downwards to the pond below. Like any traditional Japanese garden worth its wabi, anywhere a carpenter could fix a bridge one instead found a series of delightfully shaped boulders or rocks joined together by the flowing water which they parted.

Hopping up the stones, Huck sat down beneath the roofed patio. Every 17 seconds or so the thuh-dunk maker would fill with water, tip all the way over, and knocking its back end against the stones below create a terrifying awareness of just how pleasantly quite Kokubunji is. At some point one of the thuh-dunk’s caused Huck to reflect on how exhausting the noise of pollution in central Tokyo is. After that, it was just, “thuh-dunk,” every few 17 seconds or so.

“Tokyo’s been good but, now all the boxes have been checked and the remaining ones lie beyond Tokyo in other parts of Japan.” Thuh-dunk.

“Time to make some lists, make preparations to tackle the next projects.” Thuh-dunk.

“But, maybe still too soon to be hooked on time again.”

“This pace is nice.” Thuh-dunk.

Huck moved on.

Thuh-dunk.

6:30, freshly puffed streets with capricious slush line marks. Nakano’s first snow of the year woke Huckleberry with the sound of snow on snow; an unmistakable pattern known to any Wisconsinite. Pulling the curtains aside, the joyous site filled him with enough courage to leave the comfort of his three blankets to step out into the chillbox and start his morning. A pot of sencha tea, yogurt, and a bowl of oatmeal. While the water on his solitary stove top rustled from its own sleep, Huck threw a refreshing toss of cold water over his head. What he would give for a hot towel to dry off with.

Outside of the apartment, large clumps of snow leap off higher perches making great splashes down below, or on the balcony, even the walkway outside the front door. These Tokyo houses weren’t necessarily designed to house snow.

Breakfast he spent nested in the kotatsu which made good on its promises of undeniable warm comfort. Kotatsu heaters are that lover you just can’t bring yourself to part with even though you know deep down inside that there’s something ‘productive’ you should be doing. But sitting in the kotatsu gave Huck time to look back on the past month. “Back in Japan for two weeks already, how did that happen?” he thought. After last we gathered, Huck did in fact make it to the embassy the following day, did get a temporary passport, and finally arrived home after barely getting through customs in Canada on time to catch his flight to Chicago. On the ride home to the Wisconsin, the folks offered to take Huck to a steakhouse on the way. Huck hadn’t had steak for years. This would be good. Real good.

Not eating peanut butter for extended periods of time does something special to an American born son, but Huck hadn’t broken on through to that realm where near raw, fleshy, chewy, red steak is welcomed back into the system. The welcome is wary of course as the bacteria in his gut have moved on to other directions in life, and maybe their good old friend lightly-toasted-flesh-slab isn’t so compatible with their new found lifestyle. Huck wasn’t sure the poor things would be able to take the shock of meeting 6 ounces of bloody cow flesh so suddenly. But, hell, any time Huck travels people offer him adventurous foods and drink which he faithfully accepts – and how is this any different?

Sweet potatoes dusted with cinnamon. Mushrooms sautéed, and steeped in theirown fungi juices. Some rare breed of food much larger than any 6 ounces Huck had laid eyes on before. A White Belgian beer. This, his first meal back in the States after a year, was a real treat. Steak, had become the new sushi. People in the Midwest make a big fuss over raw fish but sashimi and sushi have nothing on steak. A good steak, that is. An overcooked steak is simply not steak, just as cooked fish is not raw fish. What I’m trying to say is that Huckleberry chewed and chewed and chewed with great curiosity as to how something so delicious could prove so difficult a challenge. It was edible, yet physically beyond the mechanics of his mandible masticating with abandon.

Getting to talk with the folks over dinner upon arrival was exciting. His parents were well into the rhythms of retired life and boy did they glow. Sure, it’s hard for Huck to keep up conversationally with them now, but despite the difficult speed of their flow, they both glowed wonderfully. Not that exhausted, mind on a thousand worries aura that one can so observe in young parents raising children – but that give-no-fucks do what I want, say what I want glow granted to the retired species. During the conversation Huck dined on another rare treat that you won’t find in Japan: politics at dinner. Oh, was it scrumptious. Throughout the duration of his stay at home, politics came up many times. The very same people who outspokenly disapproved of Huck’s interest in anarchism, communism, and socialism are now avid fans of Bernie Sanders ten years later. If the trend keeps up, Huck might actually have reason to hope for politics in the home land. Then again, ass hats like Donald Trump lead the opposing party in the Electoral Dope Show. Donald Trump’s ability to stay in the running is a testament to the poor state of our nation’s education. Are we so illiterate and spiteful of progress that a man such as Trump would get elected?

But, back to dinner with the folks. First meal back in the States: success. Plus, the folks brought Huck homemade Christmas cookies. That’s love, folks. They finished up and drove home where Huck was confronted with all manner of histories. Arriving to his bedroom he looked for a spot to lay his weary travel companions, Green Bag and Blue Bag. Left: books, instruments. Front and center: books, instruments, paintings. Right: more books, instruments, books about music, paintings, boxes and boxes of materials likely related to books, instruments and paintings. It was good to be home. Seeing these relics made it clear, though, that he’d spent a childhood hoping to find a way out of Wisconsin to see different parts of the world. Coming into contact with these playful ghosts reaffirmed that this wasn’t quite the time to sign off on those dreams just yet. Crude yet charismatic ceramics, letters from pen pals, Indian and Chinese souvenirs from family members, certificates of education, incense burners, journals, more journals, and deep somewhere in some box hidden away an incomplete binder for Kodak photos, partially filled out with memories captured with his first high school girlfriend.

A bounding ball of white fluff, the house princess Ruby-chan, flew into his bedroom interrupting the romance of his nostalgia. Golden doodles. Who would ever have thought a creature so silly could be so precious. Ruby was a symbol of the family’s current age. She hounded him to come down stairs and join in on Christmas festivities. The LP player was hooked up, the needle dropped, and the family enjoyed all time classics such as: “First Christmas Lights Viewing,” “Obligatory A Christmas Story Watching,” “Christmas Cookie Slam,” “The Eggnog Grog,” “The Ornament Ball,” and everyone’s favorite – “Us, Ourselves, and Bailey’s and Coffee.” The last track’s a bit complicated. It lilts more than the others, but if you’ve enough rhythm left in your shoes you’ll find caffeine and alcohol getting along swimmingly in your sugar plum-ed belly.

At mixed speeds judgments hailed down from family members about Huck living in Japan. Of course, not explicitly; there were no swears integrated into the transparently intended to be cleverly wordsmithed weapons of come-back-to-America steel. Americans have fallen under a special hypnosis by which they believe their speech patterns adequately conceals their thinking. Everyone also happens to believe themselves a genius in some regard, or – at least – special and important. These misperceptions contrast starkly with reality and subsequently make dealing with Americans a total bother.

Now, on the other hand, he brought back umeboshi and otabe from Japan as exemplar popular snacks and souvenirs from Japan. These were met with general disgust by friends and family alike, but these reactions were honest and sincere, pleasing Huckleberry a good deal. In a similar way, Huck found himself reacting quite different to the copious amounts of cheese and carbohydrates present in everything. What the Wisconsinites do to their bodies is simply unnatural.

Beyond the cheese freights and meat splatters that reigned the duration of his stay back in the States, on several occasions he was asked about culture shock. Apparently the image people have of Japanese society is one of extreme repression. Repression isn’t really a thing here. Retention, more precisely anal retention, might be worth talking about – but repression is more of a United States pandemic. Repression is simply a thing back in the states and it leads to all sorts of curiously aggressive behavior. On a related note, the most immediately striking culture shock came by way of simple conversations.

In the States, people are solely interested in the known universe that recognizes them as correct, relevant, and informative. All else should be pushed out. Therefore we go on constantly updating each other’s verbal wave patterns with those purposes on high priority. To be the most recently correct even at the cost of merely perfectly repeating the previous utterance as our own. Better to double up, cop out, and copy-paste someone than to bear silence which in very few steps leads to the horrific oblivion of total annihilation. It’s a slippery slope in the States, miss your chance to consciously talk over, under, and through other people and in no time you’ll simply disappear never to return, never to be heard of again; and to never be heard means never being recognized, never receiving approval or attention, as well as several other less mentionable evils.

A comparable unbearable of course is: the burden of phonyism. ‘Americans’ are essentially phonies. They’re totally hooked on..phonics. We sell ourselves as aggrandized versions of our romanticized and misguided understandings of ourselves. In turn we buy other people’s bullshit in so much as it brings returns, profits, or at least a freebie somewhere along the line. We accept in others only what fits into the set of bounds we’ve projected out for the conveniently sterile iAccept universe. These inflated phony personalities are the grounds by which we judge and rule each other in perpetual power plays. Friendship is just another business, and for quite some years – let’s be honest – the economy hasn’t been good. Tough times, yeah?

The above comments more or less capture the feel of how Huck responded to friends when they asked him about culture shock. Pretty intense way to respond to people I suppose, but Huckleberry never was one to throw sugar into his coffee. Now, cream, on the other hand, has its place he found. When served a rich brew of deep coffee hues, just the right amount of whole cream is all it takes to swing an election. Watching the drops of cream disperse into the coffee is a charming benefit.

Being able to see old friends at home was indeed rich, and seeing them now a year past holds similar charm to the patterns of transformation cream takes in coffee, clouds take to mountains, generations of fish schools take to the ocean, valleys take to the earth. People back home are making very cunning moves, creative leaps which seen from afar weave all sorts of beautiful tapestries. 

The promise of food and drink in good company provided the stage for various family and friend gatherings during which the majority catching up and story telling was done.That’s something that just doesn’t happen for Huckleberry in Tokyo. He’s just not living a social life that makes that happen regularly. Most eating he does alone, and the majority of drinking he does involves familiar regulars who, like he, meet up at the same places – but no one seems to hold relations outside those spaces. While Japanese culture is very social when it comes to food and drink, Huck’s not a part of that culture. So, Huck tried to make the most of those moments during the stay at home, despite his reverse-shocks, judgments, and distracting perceptions.

Suddenly Huck was a week into work, quickly reacquainted with Tokyo’s various smells and suspicious gases. He was on the metro back towards home after putting down a few shots and a couple pints with co-workers in celebration of starting off the New Year. Huck counted down the stations until ShinNakano by the gusty inertias cobwebbing into gooey balances in his liquored insides. Yet, he arrived home and after some gentle doctoring by yours truly cautiously lowered himself into bed so as not to further disturb the undulating universe he was hoping to sleep away.

All the pleasant neighborhood smells came to greet him at 9:24 with curtains full of sun in their sails. It was gonna be a good day. Huck rose to play out the day in this world. Lots to do, lots to do – horrible schedule with which to accomplish it timely. Tokyo, unlike Wisconsin, has no excess time. It doesn’t exist. Sooner or later, you just come to realize that there is only the time. It’s flow clocks in at half past cliché not a moment sooner or later than the Japanese standards can forgive.

That’s one thing about life here. More so even than other highly developed nations the workings of this city are entirely reliable. Everything is in its right place. No one promises more than they can deliver on, and no one delivers anything more or less than is promised. The Tokyo universe is, fundamentally, a reliable machine which suffers constant maintenance.  This of course gives birth to the ungodly labor hours and inhumane standards of ‘work ethic.’ The 2020 Olympics in Tokyo might do well to make use of Pink Floyd’s hit single and sling around the motto, “Welcome to the Machine.” It wouldn’t be too far from reality. And Huck was just about to capitalize on this reliability, to get his classical guitar some maintenance before going to work after lunch.

He gathered the necessaries, straddled up, and set out for the station.