8:30, she said, which meant Huck would get there a little early to stuff into the inevitable line that rails the embassy first thing in the morning.  The doors don’t even open until 8:45 of course, but the lady on the phone didn’t tell him that. He’d find that out tomorrow morning.

So, 6:50 on December 22^nd Huckleberry rose to confront an alarming sound phillibustering from some vague corner of his morning vision where his hands fumbled, something tumbled, and finally it all calmed down. Huckleberry put water on heat using one of those spouted metal vessels. Back home it’s called a kettle, but here the only words on it were Koo Foo Goo. Best as he could make out, it was like a kettle in many ways but yet still too Koo Foo Goo to match the home baked batch. 6:55 and oatmeal, Sencha tea, and nut stuffed dates were breakfasted. Last night’s visit to the neighborhood sento bath boiled his bottom along with any need to shower in the morning, but a quick shampoo and rinse of his gentle sparseness would suffice.  7:15 and his lightly tobacco singed, coffee tinted pearls were brushed putting a wrap n’ cap on things.

Beard, belt, watch and boots and this young Huck was out the door and on the train and at the embassy’s front stoop by 8:20 prepared to ring the doorbell nice and clearly. There was a sign hanging from its knockers which read, nasally, “The U.S. embassy photo machine is currently not working. Please go back to Tameike Sannou station to take a photo at one of their booths unless you brought a photo with you should you need to process a visa or passport. We’re truly sorry for the inconvenience.”

No they’re not, thought Huck. He wondered how the machine could break overnight since the office closed last night and up until it hadn’t even opened the next day. But that was alright, he’d roll with it, that’s why he came early and prepared for unpreparedness.

8:30 and Huckleberry is hustling over from the embassy towards Tameike Sannou station for the second time in twenty four hours. He re-passes the lined guards, “Long time no see.” “Good morning,” they respond non-adverbally. 8:35 and hustle, flight baggage in tow, jacket on, sunny side up. Crossing the roundabout and ducking into exit #9 for the fourth time in twenty four hours he boots down two flights of stairs and Huckleberry hustles 20 meters where he eventually docks into the public photo booth. 1000 yen, inserted. Passport photos, yes pleased. But the button doesn’t accept his polite press. So he gives the circular green a good rock-paper-fist punch. Nobody’s got the lights on. “Press the round green button to accept” says the prompt. Maybe this was one of those Confucian tests, or even worse a Zen koan. He should’ve known better, living in a land where even the urinals say things like, “Water flows, even at times when no one is standing near.” Now, in order to avoid letting the cat out of the bag, Huckleberry figured it out leaving the curtained booth triumphantly with his trophies: four shiny passport sized photos and 200 yen in spare change. Yippee kaiyay.

He boulders back towards the embassy luggage in tow booting up both stairs and escalators alike, making illegal cuts across the traffic changes like Cannonball Adderly. 8:45 and Huck was politely biding time with his good old friend Guard 1 while the light redded all day and all night.

Guard 1, What was it again, visa – passport-something or what not?

Huckleberry, Passport. Renewal.

Guard 1, Yeah that’s right.

Crosswalk light, Hey, I’m blue y’all whenever you’re ready.

8:50 and Huckleberry received the blue light blessing to cross the crosswalk he’s now crossing for the sixth time in 24 hours. The line of guards nod like dominoes. Passport prints in hand he luggages up and rails along the path leading to the interception zone.

What’s your yohken?, Receiver 1

New Passport, Huck.

Got an appointment?, Receiver 1.

Nope. They asked me to come at 8:30, Huck.

8:30 (eyebrows), Receiver 1

8:30, Huckleberry unchanged.

How can you come at 8:30 when we don’t open until 8:45?, Receiver 1.

Huckleberry pauses, slowly and politely. He’d have to explain himself rather delicately. Huck explains himself. Receiver 1 enters the interception zone’s sealed office, and picks up a phone. He looks at Huckleberry through the window pane while making brief glances at Huckleberry’s open passport book.

He smiles at his coil corded enamel gadget, and waves for Huckleberry to come through.

He is processed in the Interception zone’s security office.

They send him through. 9:00 and Huckleberry follows all the right signs taking all the left turns towards the passport office. He’s invited to the window.

What can I do for you, sir?, Window man 1.

Passport renewal, please, Huckleberry.

Ok – fill out this application, between the yellow lines just up here not down here,  and – do you have passport photos?, Window man 1.

Yes I do, Huckleberry triumphantly presents 4 glossy photos.

No, no, these are Japanese passport photos with a blue background – the U.S. passport requires a different size with a white background you’ll need to take photos at our photo booth just over there (‘At our photo booth’?, thinks Huckleberry, I knew it. I knew it.) Here just bring this form to the cashier, pay the fee, get your photos and then come back here to see me. , punctuates Window man 1

Huckleberry rolls with it, pays all the yennies, hands it all over and then sits down in the waiting lounge where he can almost smell his fresh baked documentation.

What brought on all of this fuss?

Now, it’s 1:00 P.M. and Huck makes one last cup of tea, takes one last shower, and wraps up the pack up before finally booting out the door as planned. 2:00 and he makes sure all his places are in the right thingamaroo and his tie is headed on straight. Laced up. No buttons to push, no strings to pull. Christmas sweaters are padded among socks and underwear brought unaware of their future wintery winded Wisconsin surprise.

Nakano: transfer, Shinjuku: transfer, Shinagawa station. Keiyu line rapid train all the way to Haneda International terminal. It was a pleasant 55 minutes costing 880 yennies making the trip to Narita Airport from Nakano look like a wagon journey west. Haneda’s incredibly accessible International terminal makes Narita Airport, again, look like creepily abandoned circus grounds by comparison.

Strolling up to the check in gates near the Air Canada desks Huckleberry is all merry and mirth. The desk doesn’t open up until 3:50, but that’s alright because Huckleberry doesn’t need to wait those 45 minutes he’ll just go along and use those convenient self-check-in panels.

Please enter your booking reference, it says.

Bam.

Are you GRI/A?, it says.

Yeah, Huckleberry selects.

Scan your passport, it says.

He scans.

Unable to read. Scan again, it says.

He scans again.

Unable to read. Unable to check in. Please talk to staff, it says.

Huckleberry oddballs the passport. Huh, that’s an old photo. Nothing strange about it, though. It’s the same old trusty passport with the same old scan code and the same old signature. Nothing should be tampered with or incorrect. But that was just the problem. All that same old same old meant that it was possibly too old, possibly expired, possibly invalid.

It was.

Expiration date Oct. 24, 2015. Ten years ago, when Huckleberry first received his passport in order to traverse the airways to Toronto in the fall of 2005, he wondered, “Where will I be in 2015? What will I be doing? That seems so far away.”

Now you know youngin’, you’ll be in Tokyo’s Haneda International Airport making a damn fool out of yourself.  After a good laugh at his own expense, Huckleberry gets to work. 3:10 and he’s talking to Information.

What can I do for you, sir?, she says nicely.

Huckleberry explains himself, and after they both have a good laugh,

Really?! Oh, No!, she says.

Yeah, but it’s my bad to begin with. And Air Canada doesn’t open their check-in desks until 3:50. Got any advice?, Huck asks.

I think you need to go to the embassy, wait just a moment I’ll give you the address and phone number, she whisper scribbles.

She scribbles on and says,

This is the nearest station, Tameike Sannou station. About a five minute walk not too far!

Her note has the address in Japanese and in English along with a contact phone number.

Huckleberry dials according to her direction but she says,

But I think you need to go there, yeeaaaaahhh. She painfully makes a wince-smile that says, I’m so sorry you’re gonna have a long road ahead of you and there’s nothing anyone or anything can do for you – you’re up shit creek.

Huckleberry, already engaging over the phone with the passport office people, waves and mouths a good thank you to the helpful lady at Information. He turns towards the metro gates and Huckleberry hustles on through baggage in tow, jacket on, making efficient use of conversation space as he boards the first train he can wrangle. Speaking on a phone in an absolutely pin-drop train towards Shinbashi he makes his story clear for the office. 3:20 and the embassy tells him that they can get him a new passport today if he gets there by 4 o’clock. It’s a 35 minute journey from Haneda. If he’s lucky he’ll make it, but it’ll be tight he tells the lady at the passport office over the phone.

Please hurry to get here, if you get here by four we can get you a new passport and on your 6:50 flight later this evening, no problem. At that time we’ll need to have you fill out an application and take your photo she replies.

At Shinbashi station it’s 3:42 and Huckleberry races, luggage in air, booting through the long station towards the Ginza line. He dangerously froggers through unmasterful globs of colorful advertisement columns and colorless business people. He squeezes onto the first metro train that fiercely gusts on in. Shinbashi, Toranomon. Toranomon, Tameike Sannou. Mad dash towards any exit, the first exit, whatever just so he can get his bearings.

He takes number 11. Wrong number Huckleberry.

Huckleberry sees the big intersection GMaps prophesized. He runs wildly, like the dangerously crazy foreigner that Japan knows he is. Calling the embassy it’s 3:57 and Huckleberry says,

Hey! So I’m at a huge intersection but I’m really nearby I’m so close can you guys wait for me? I’ll probably just barely make it.

Well, you’ll just have to talk to the guards, she says uncommitted.

Come on, you’re not even closed, thinks Huckleberry. Her cold manner of speaking made Huckleberry worry, and at that point ran even faster because there was no assurance that he’d be let in if he didn’t get there at 4:00 sharp. There are nerdy looking, scrawny guards all around the next block. There’s a crosswalk blinking sweet blues of salvation beckoning him forth. As Huckleberry luggaged through the crosswalk Guard costumed man yells,

Hey! Wait!

I’ve got a plane to catch, Huckleberry yells.

He made it. He made it across the crosswalk which could have held him beyond 4:00. There’s another skinny young man wearing a guard costume. Great, thinks Huckleberry, he’ll know how to get to the embassy. It should be just around the corner.

The man touches his earpiece and turns slightly away from Huckleberry in visible fear.

Hi good afternoon do you know how to get to the embassy from here?, Huck asks in his most polite Japanese.

The costumed youth replies, that’s the building but you have to go down this road to the right, then right again and up.

Ok! Thanks, Huckleberry offers in truest gratitude.

When the light blows pretty blues he dashes across the crosswalk and scrambles down the hill as directed by the guards.

But it’s not the embassy, its Toranomon building something or other that’s all business and no tax. Huckleberry, for once, was lookin for that tax man.

4:01, Huckleberry thinks quick, spinning in circles looking for a good Samaritan. He hustles back up the hill and mid-sprint asks a construction worker where the real US Embassy is.

Oh, it’s that building right up there!, he points out indexly.

More sprinting.

He reconfirms with the youth LARPing as a sentry, Just up here?

Yeah, just up there!, the youth LARPed at Huckleberry.

But at the end of that path was a gate indeed, with grim looking men. This had to be it, finally!

Nope.

It’s just down that way!, says the grim looking guard.

But, the previous guard told me to go that way, and then up here, asserts Huckleberry.

Oh he just thought you wanted to know if you could cross the street, the guard said unconvincingly.

Bullshit, thought Huckleberry running back towards the initial entry of the area. He sees another guard across the street from the guard which sent him running towards a place that was distinctly not the U.S. Embassy.

Which way is the entry gate of the U.S. Embassy?, asks Huckleberry.

Oh, see that security office just down the sidewalk to the right of the guard across the street?, he said motioning to the poorly timed Halloween costumed pedestrian standing point at the crosswalk 10 meters to the left of the security office now made plain to see.

Oh, just over there? Huckleberry asks.

Yep, just cross this street and walk on up, they’ll help you out, marks the guard.

Huckleberry uses his outside voice rhetorically across the intersection at the police costumed cosplaying youth,

That’s the entry gate to the embassy??, with an are you kidding me expression on his , from a Japanese perspective, bearded beast man face.

The young man visually tries to stammer out a ‘but-but’ but just stands there in defeat instead, spotlit by the red beams of the traffic signal.

4:17, a moment, and Huckleberry dashes across the blue lit intersection down the guarded line and to the security office. He was intercepted by a man. It was 4:20.

What’s your youken?, asks Receiver 1.

Passport renewal, an emergency, so the passport office told me to come here as quickly as possible and to make it by 4, Huck. Followed by huffs and puffs.

Let me talk to my boss, Receiver 1.

The boss comes.

Huckleberry explain his expired passport, his flight tonight – December 21^st at 6:50 – as well as all of his conversations on the phone with the passport office.

The boss asks Huckleberry to just wait a minute and uses the Interception zone’s sealed off room to phone the fine people at the office. They’re there, of course, and on the phone discussing Huckleberry’s fate with the boss. The boss nods his head a couple of and unseals the Interception zone, motioning Huckleberry to use the phone. He picks up the enameled device.  I’m so sorry but we waited you know, we waited and waited but you didn’t show up. We always close at 4. But the cashier has to close, and we have to close and we need to finish work so – be here tomorrow morning at 8:30, she says hurt and defensive.

There are all kinds of things Huckleberry wants to say, but the only thing that he can say with benefit in this situation is, ok.

Ok, he says. And hands the phone back to the boss.

Hai, 8:30, says the boss preparedly.  End of conversation.

Huckleberry, removed of any reason to be at the embassy, walks out swiftly but unhurriedly. He won’t be making his flight tonight, but he still has to communicate the situation to the airline and see what they can do. Perhaps he’d have a new passport tomorrow morning, and perhaps they’d have a seat or two up for grabs on their flights to North America tomorrow evening.

Steadily he rolls into Tameike Sannou station and takes the Ginza line back to Shinbashi. From Shinbashi he breezes comfortably through the station and gets on the trains one stop further to Hamamatsucho. From there he rides the delightful monorail to Haneda International terminal. All of that running around worked up a sweat and Huckleberry is exhausted. But the exhaustion feels good, along with the adrenaline that was also packaged in there. He embraces the high that comes after going full throttle, a high which suited the stunning Tokyo skyline wrapped in nightly hues.

Arriving at Haneda International terminal, he makes like a cloud over to the Air Canada desk, now open as it’s well beyond 3:50. He explains everything he can as concisely and precisely as possible to the welcoming airline staff. Considering they have to talk to a hot and oily Huckleberry, the airline staff discusses his options with supreme pleasantry. The mood is light, and they laugh together admiring the humor of Huckleberry’s situation. Once they get his ducks in a row, he marches off thanking the lady kindly. What was with these people working at Haneda?, Huckleberry thinks. They’re all so warm, fuzzy, and helpful. Their good humor was contagious.

6:00 and Huckleberry leaves the terminal towards home.

Dinner, a sento bath, and a good sleep prepare him for the journey ahead December 22^nd. He sets his alarm and hits the sack.

 

 

 

Good Morning,

I know you’re busy ‘n all, so I’m glad you could make it out for coffee again this week.

You know I took a listen to my senior recital this morning. It’s been five round years since I had performed those sets of Dowland, Bach, Rodrigo, Albeniz, and Domeniconi. So many things have transpired since then. As I mentioned before, the passing of time in Tokyo just hasn’t really settled into the river bed of my comprehension, nor have the past three years constituted by so many passing, shape shifting cloud events. While the nebulous weather patterns are hard to section off, when put into the context of the last five years, five years exactly now, since I graduated university – it’s easier to make what out of which. One year of classical guitar training before university. Four years of classical guitar study at university. Two and a half years after university working various jobs while making music, followed by two and a half years of living abroad – largely identified by the subsequent inconsistency in ritual, habit, practice, disciplined repertoire up-keep.

Choosing to move abroad, twice, over the past three years put a generous dampener on my classical guitar playing. Even as I was just beginning to heal and recover from my tendonitis like injuries around my wrists at the end of University, I could already see that a full recovery just wasn’t in the cards. I still managed to complete my senior recital with dignity, but I would need an insane amount of free time and financial ‘support’ to make a full recovery over years – and then maybe, just maybe compete on the market as a classical guitar teacher. Not too bright a future there.

That and I still wanted to get back out of the country, either back to Spain or finally to Japan. Living through both of those hopes showed me just how lucky it was to be able to practice at home at an appropriate volume. Both in Spain and Japan, the walls are thinless smacks of paste which serve two purposes: be opaque barriers; perfectly transfer acoustics from one area to another. Out in the farm field spotted Waukesha County, one can practice an instrument at just about any time of day unless it’s being amplified by the distorted needs of adolescent experimentation; experiments which I still wholly approve of.

Anyhow, I’ve had the good conscience not to bother my neighbors – if possible – while living in Spain and Japan but curtailed my guitar playing considerably. That’s not to say it’s disappeared entirely, though. About this time last year I was very deep into Bach suites BVW 995 and BVW 1006a. BVW 995, upon first impression would be recognizable by cello version, BWV 1011 while BVW 1006a is a lute/keyboard adaptation of the earlier violin Partita III, BVW 1006. Every day during the warm sun of Tokyo’s winter days, I’d practice BWV 995 and BWV 1006a in my little guest house room. My room at that time was adjacent to the entrance of the guest house and, as the aforementioned thinless smacks of paste that separate rooms here transfer vibrations exquisitely, anyone passing by would be entreated to my repetitive cracks and hacks at difficult passages.

One of our roommates happened to be a professional electric guitarist; the man can compose, the man can produce, the man can absolutely shred the fuck out of the electric guitar. It was quite the juxtaposition: classical guitar in one room by day, electric acrobatics from another room by night. At times we’d go out for a bite to eat and talk shop. I feel quite lucky to have met him at that time; having a real musician to talk to was (and is) a rarity. On one of these occasions he mentioned that his girlfriend would often stop to listen to my practicing as she would come in or out of the house. Not everyone is annoyed by classical guitar rehearsal, it seems. I try to keep that in mind these days as, after the studying is all over, I can pick the guitar back up. As of this fall it’s been ten years since I officially started playing classical guitar, I realized.

Ten years. Granted, due to various self imposed trials, tribulations, and ignorantly self-inflicted performance injuries, not all of that time have I regularly played classical guitar. In that sense it only measures about seven years. However, since I started taking care of the nails on my right hand, it’s finally been about ten years. What a wild ride it’s been. As an anniversary present, I’m taking the lady in for some spa treatment; a thorough cleaning, new tuning pegs, and perhaps a nice polishing.

My concert guitar isn’t the only thing I’m splurging on. In fact, learning from last year’s – and the year before that’s – mistakes, I’m fully preparing myself for a comfortable and lovely winter. What does that entail? A comfier and warmer futon set: check. A new fuzzy blanket which can be worn while traversing this 1K kingdom: check. A blanket for the electric kotatsu gifted to me by a friend who’s moving out of Japan: check.

It’s 6 A.M., as it always is. Shinjuku’s government computer component nicely silhouettes amidst the orange sherbert filling that dews up the moist sunrise air.

It’s 3 degrees Celsius outside, the nights have reached further in, from the bones to the soul. I forked over all my cash for the new household comforts mentioned above, before the cash could go bad. At this age, money still rots if left in the bank too long. No one likes sticky, smelly money. It’s hard to grasp its value at that point – especially considering that this rotting mass of cash is essentially what you’re trading in your precious time and life energy for. “Please stress me out, tire me, use me, and then give me money which I’ll either let rot or waste on addictive materialism which temporarily helps me cope with the stress and exhaustion,” is the name of the game. Don’t get played by the game.

So, before coming to have coffee with you I explored the comfy confines of my newly winter-ready 1K. Wrapped in a fuzzy blanket while making a cup of 6 A.M. Japanese Shizuoka raised sencha to match the juicy burn in the orange south eastern horizon, I caught my reflection by the toe. It spit, and the aftermath looked by God nothing less than a robe wrapped monk. Adding to this ragged image, was the fresh haircut gracing my thinning, balding cranium. Yesterday I finally got what I believe to be the first haircut in Japan that didn’t leave me in a pit of despair. Granted, I don’t have much to work with anymore, but I at least trust my barbers not to perform ritual slash and burns troubling my already troubled terrain. Yet, no I see that there’s hope: hope for a future in Japan where a barber can be found who can effectively handle the situation. Did you know that the famous horror story, “The Shining” was originally titled “The Thinning”, but the stress and lifestyle habits incurred by completing the work left them without – and the resulting horror was so blinding that they thought “The Shining” would be a more suitable title. True story. The contents stayed the same, of course, inspired by the original act of thinning.

So freshly stubbled and blanketed, I poured a few cups of sencha while the images of reality slowly developed in the dark room to my waking eyes.

Ah, back to the whole practicing spiel. You see, my shakuhachi teacher suggested that I practice in a karaoke booth. If poorly producing difficult pitches at high volume was a concern, then best to pay up a handsome fee to blast away in a virtually sound proof karaoke booth. It turned out to be a positive experience, albeit a slightly expensive one. Paying 8 dollars for an hour of practice time in a hyper-stimulating karaoke booth is more money than I’d like to pay but hell – this is Tokyo – everything is top dollar. By the “freshly cleaned vomit traumatized carpet” smell, I could tell that this was a solid Karaoke spot: trustworthy, customer tested and approved. Wabi sabi, was it? It seems that, until I’m absolutely nailing these rather difficult pitches, 980 yen for an hour is just what I’ll have to settle with for a while. The hilarity is that these small party karaoke booths are wonderfully insulated and dampen the sound admirably – which must be the reason why this, in Japan, this company’s name is, Big Echo.

During this windy morning, all the gingko trees are just about losing it. Japan’s cherry blossoms get preferential treatment here for sure, but fall leaves whirling about the streets or flooding the park with scores of bright tones on a sunny day compete well with last season’s thoroughly cold and wet cherry blossom viewing. You can see the gingko leaves shedding layers of yellow along Ome Kaido, which is lined on both sides by them for stretches and stretches.

Now, in light of this shedding, thinning, and sudden grip on time – it’s not only five years since my senior recital – but also five years since I cut off the dreadlocks made so lovingly by my friends during freshman year of university. That puts a bit more perspective on time, doesn’t it? There have been several (as our music history teacher so said) red letter dates during my twenties, by which time has become jointed, hinged. Here’s to hoping it keeps on swinging.

How bout another cup? This here is some damn fine coffee.

Good Morning.

I’m afraid it’s just too cold these days to sit outside around the fire at night, as we’ve regularly done thus far. That’s why I’ve invited you all out for some morning coffee. If the coffee is good, and the vibes stay true, then I’ll consider making this more of a morning event.

It’s almost my thirteenth month in Japan. This is the longest I’ve been in any one place, or country for that matter, since 2013. The subterranean waterways still reek like a vulture’s paradise but the smell of pine reigns here in this shop. Pine, ground coffee, the taste of dried fruit and this “Norwegian Wood” styled interior ; quite a comfy alternate setting we’ve found, haven’t we?

Yesterday the N2 JLPT finally came around which ended a fairly mechanical routine of test preparation that started back in July with school by day work by night. Having cleared that milestone, my mood is as lovely as Tokyo’s incredibly pleasant December sunshine today; and, while my back still aches a bit from lugging around my test prep burdens, I’m not much more than a cartoon perfect Mr. Smiley. This morning I listened to the easy listening of J-Pop’s electronic scene via this year’s Serph album. The whole album is horrendously well suited to taking walks around Tokyo. It pairs well the glories of the oppressively accessible with those of the orchestrationally undeniable. It makes good cleaning music as well, which added pulse and pace to my winter cleaning before coming to talk with you here this morning. What can I say, you n’ me both know that I’ve always been up with the sun. And people think vampires are cursed.

With all things testy out of the way I hope my Shakuhachi learning gets some well deserved easy breathing. So far I’ve enjoyed a great deal of the challenge offered from learning a new instrument, and from now on I’ll have much more time to piff, puff, snonck, skit, squeak, pftt, and fuddle around with this new instrument. Sometimes, I’m really rocking it – but the last two times I’ve gone in for a lesson I just haven’t been able to get the sounds I’ve grown accustomed to hearing either while practicing in the local parks or in the comfort of my expansive 1K kingdom. (A 1K apartment has roughly three twin size beds worth of floor space, a closet, and an entrance hallway where you have the kitchen and the bathroom packed in. And by kitchen I mean a petite sink coupled with one electric stove top.)  But that’s just how the learning process goes. At first you suck. Except in this case it’s a bamboo flute, so when you first get going you actually blow pretty hard. Sucking is only for those who relish in avant-garde extended techniques that remain beyond the palate of our musically illiterate global society.

New goals? Eating less ramen. And by that I mean look into not just where my Japanese can take me as far as teaching classical guitar (or something more related to my abilities and expertise than teaching English), but also to see if my Japanese skills can take me into working for those who are doing exciting things like environmental work. I’ve got no science credentials past those required by the University of Wisconsin Madison, which I tested out of during High School anyway. Therefore, I have no credentials; but, that doesn’t mean I have no employable value. You never know. So I’m gonna gently put my antennae out there while searching for what’s next. Nothing is set in stone, no reason to block anything off. I’ve got time, and financial security which help immensely.

My this coffee is good. Speaking of which, I recently visited an old haunt of my back in Okubo. Remember Okubo? When I moved into Shin-Okubo in November 2014 I quickly sought out the available coffee options. The only Okubo one that really remains with me today, is Tsune which is right next door to that questionable looking Kyabakura bar just outside JR SOBU Okubo’s south exit (Southwest side). That neighborhood actually has quite a few of my favorite Coltrane standards. There’s the unbelievable seafood broth, pickled cabbage topped ramen – there’s the ever enjoyable Art Space Bar Buena – there’s my favorite, favorite curry shop in Shinjuku – and there’s the coffee shop Tsune.

Tsune’s clock adorned interior reminds me of a story my brother once told me about his professor’s house. In that house, there is an enclosed space inside of which an innumerable amount of tick-tock’s can be appreciated. Tsune has quite a large variety of pend-und-ulating goodness hanging around the miniuature interior. Everything about their coffee is done well. It’s old school, that’s for sure – like old school Kissaten style – but some of my favorite coffee in Tokyo is this coffee, and in particular the coffee at this shop. The guy who’s almost always working there not only knows his shit, but every cup he’s prepared for me has consistently hit all the marks. (For incredibly consistent high quality coffee that’s beyond both the chains and poser-baristas literally posing away at well financed third-wave-esque coffee shops that plague the land here, I highly recommend Muto Coffee Roasters, Plus 90, and Tsune.)

A return to Tsune before taking the JLPT this week reminded me of just how much has changed in the short time I’ve been here. In celebration of this year’s accomplishments, I finally started tackling my long untouched and high piled stack of letters which I put off responding to for months. But, when the time is right, yeah?

I’ll be home in Wisconsin for a swift week at the end of December. I’m already feeling the nostalgia for Christmas at home, as well as nostalgia from winter in Caceres and last year’s Japanese winter. Winter is such a lovely time, but it shouldn’t be suffered on principle. It has the potential to be a truly magical season just as pleasant as any autumn, spring or summer.

How have things been? From my limited real-news and poorly informed social media newsfeeds, I can’t help but feel grateful that I’m not in the United States. I love my family. I love my friends. I love the nature. But, The United States’ performance as of late is simply pathetic. Not that any governing body of the last century has ever been on their A game, but the U.S.A. is not even in the game. It’s like the Singing Santa doll that died slowly over the last decade at our home in Wisconsin. Year by year the battery faded causing Santa to howl the most horrifying key changes and unexpected modulations. In his end days, none of his hellish yelps resembled anything human. Just a visceral high pitched greel as Santa vomited up of all his digitized body and soul. He makes no sound anymore, and we easily see that his body is a bundle of fluff, wrapped in cloth. That’s what the U.S.A. seems to be from afar.

I acquired a nasty habit this year. I’ll have to confess. You see,

I’ve started reading short stories. It all started last winter, when I picked up some literary magazines featuring mainly short stories. Since then I’ve just grown fat in the flat with books up to the brim dealing in all sorts of episodes. My leisurely reading time is largely possessed by a dreamy episodic wonderland. I referenced one of these short stories when writing an overdue correspondence to some lovely folks in Detroit. Speaking of this tortured soul, our poor Santa, I’d like to bring up the story again this morning.

You see the story revolves around the relationship between two girls. It’s not even that strong of a relationship. Its fragility already destroyed it on some levels and its firmness held it together on others. The character was sent at her parents’ behest to California, hoping some time away from Japan would help work out the unworkable: adolescence.

As she gets used to life in the U.S.A., she notes one major difference between life in Japan and California. If you don’t make a noise in Japan people still acknowledge that you exist. They still factor you into the equation. If you don’t make an effort to be noticed, people still notice you: you still exist. However, she found that if you don’t make sure people notice you in the U.S.A. – it’s not so much that people don’t notice you – you simply disappear, you don’t matter, you don’t exist.

The social feedback loops created by our obligatory self-assertion eventually get to us all like they got to our poor soul, Singing Santa Claus.

The rest of the short story was fantastically well written and can be read the literature journal called, Monkey, in the issue called ‘On listening to music.’ What can I say, I’m a consumerist sucker. Monkey + Music + Short Stories. It just adds up to all sorts’a goodness. Anyhow, that’s a little gem that’s been on the backburner in the kitchen.

That’s all I’ve got time for this morning. I’m glad you could make it out. I have a feeling that the next morning’s chat over coffee won’t be too far off. How about sometime later this week?