Memoirs of a Ninja Sheep

Thankyou,

2006-12-30T11:33:00.000+09:00

(ever so much, to everyone who gave me a Christmas or birthday present- you know who you are, and I know too. So, I guess no-one doesn't know.)

Let's all do brunch!

Oh, and if you're bored, please do check out myspace.com/scarytiger
But, only if you're bored.

And Dream of Sheep

2006-11-26T13:51:00.000+09:00

Yesterday, for the first time ever, it snowed! The weather was like some sort of Greek tragedy; firstly there were sun-showers, and then strong winds, and then the sky went dark, littering down blossomy ice bits, and finally actual snow fell. Within a few hours, the dismal slums and sham-bangle ward crypts of Sapporo were transformed into a magical wonderland, positively gleaming with joy – and letting anyone who cared to hear know about it, too. It was a bit hard on old Turnip, though, who was convinced that he had accidentally slowed down the rain. He secluded himself in the prison laundry for some time, threatening to bite anyone who came near. The opium merchants were temporarily out of commission, until Truffles came and coaxed the poor rabbit out with seashells. Turnip's an alright sort of chap, really. Just can't seem to focus on the world around him. According to Truffles, his mind only partially exists in this world. I'm not sure if this is true or not, but something happened that leaves me unable to wholly disprove the notion.

The other day, I happened to be in lock-down for a few hours, with nothing to do. So, I went down to Farmer Turnip's office, under the desk, for a bit of a snoop. I had a mind to peer down his microscope, just to see what exactly it was that he observed there so often. At first, there was nothing but a hazy blur, but when I adjusted the focus ring, it began to look more like patches of white over pale, messy geometric shapes. I increased the magnification and was startled to see that it was a satellite image of a seaside town somewhere. This was quite confusing for me, and somewhat disquieting; so I left the office at once. The fact that he had been staring at a microscopic aerial photo for hours was so odd that I became uneasy – almost frightened. I avoided the rabbit for the rest of the day, and tried to lose myself in conversation with others. But in the evening I was left alone with my thoughts, and could not avoid them. So, I decided to go out into the city at random, hoping to find something to do. I remembered that there was a temple excursion thing that night, and so I headed for that.

If you squint, it's almost Paris.

When I arrived, I was made to sit down and listen to a monk lecture everyone for an hour on Japanese table manners, in gruff and indecipherable Old-man Japanese. Which was fun. But then everyone was free to retire to the common room for "Communication Time", where they honoured the Buddhistic spirit by bingeing on alcohol the whole night, wrestling each other, doing card tricks, and running up and down the corridor with sleeping bags over their heads. I must say, this was quite an effective distraction. But, at about four-thirty in the morning, I had to leave again; the number of coherent conversationalists had by this time significantly decreased, and in a couple of hours, the monks would be preparing the morning sutra-writing class – which I could just tell was going to be a little too much fun. I half-walked, half-slid back to the prison block along the, by then, icy streets. When I got inside and walked along the corridor to my cell, I looked out one of the windows and saw something rather odd; and this is no lie. The gate-keep – a skeletal, wispy-haired gent of about ninety years or so – was out on the street with a giant shovel, scraping the ice and snow away. But what seemed so strange to me was the gusto with which he was doing this. Without a coat or gloves, he was jumping around and striding back and forth like a man of thirty, wielding the shovel that looked almost as big as he was. I soon found myself laughing uncontrollably at this sight, but then abruptly stopped and became somewhat afraid. Just what sort of man was he? I made sure to lock my door that morning, and gave into uneasy sleep. And then came the dream.

I was walking up some stone steps to a restaurant on top of a hill. When I got to the top, I looked out and recognised the landscape from the slide in Turnip's microscope. I walked inside, was shown to a table and served food. There was a friend of some kind sitting with me, though I knew not who he was. He started to tell me about tea, and how the drinking of it was connected with spirituality. It made sense at the time. Then he told me that no-one in the restaurant would ever make it outside again. The way he said this frightened me, and so I woke up. It was not until this point that I realised I had been talking to Farmer Turnip. Spooky, no?

Alice and the White Rabbit

2006-11-12T00:42:00.000+09:00

The problem with living in Japan is that one simply can't. Certainly, everything has a logic of its own, but there is no overall logic to tie things together. The Engrish, for instance, is compelling. Do they wish to learn English, or to invent a dialect of their own? Pray tell, what be a vesetable roll – and one with chicken flesh in it, at that? Or, for that matter, why is a Moss Burger bun made completely out of rice?

Another strange thing is the voices. I was walking to the Station to pick up my daily elephant, when it suddenly occurred to me that there were voices in almost everything. Escalators tell you not to get caught in the metal teeth; ramps on the footpath (over gravelly work-men bits) advise you to watch your step; car-park exits have voices telling the cars when they can pull out into the street; store shelves have voices coming from tiny concealed speakers, welcoming you; roller doors say something or other; random cars drive around playing a recording of some propaganda repeatedly; ATMs instruct you in English or Japanese voices; and 'buses and trains remind you not to forget anything – which is useful, because sometimes I don't remember not to forget.

One day I heard a voice speaking out of my desk, saying something that sounded like "Psion remni banana pie". Not being accustomed to such outbursts from furniture, I was naturally quite shocked. So, I looked under the desk and discovered the source: a rabbit with a microscope. "I'm inventing Solar Time," it said, without looking up.
"Oh?" said I, "What's that?"
"What's-that-what's-that? What a silly question! How should I know until I've finished?"
"Oh, sorry," I said, quite startled, "but you oughtn't be doing so under my desk."
"Even though this isn't your desk?" it replied with some cheek. "I happen to know it to be the desk of a distinguished fellow named Truffles; and for the lodger of such a distinguished fellow as he to claim this desk as his own is either pure lunacy or black-bloody mutiny, sah!"
So taken aback was I, that I didn't know whether or not I should loose my temper upon it. It soon occurred to me, however, that such a contrary and obviously rather hattish little muffet was hardly worthy of my infuriation. So, I conceded. "Yes, you are quite right. But as I am charged with the care of my absent landlord's estate – who is at present wandering the graves of war-dead – I ask that you state your title, name, and purpose as of this instant!"
"So, so, so... You would have me reveal my identity – that thing which is held most precious to those who know me – to the likes of you? A stranger? Sir, I shall not have my reputation sauntered about in some lappish demagoguery! Good day!"
Clearly, conversation with this creature was redundant. I knew that if I applied my charm and flattery, it would be a trifle to uncover its name and motive. But such was below my integrity, and it was quite evident that, in any case, the rabbit meant no harm. Thus being the case, I took my leave of the room, intent upon finding a Yank – with whose kind I do so enjoy holding linguistic tiffs.

It was under there for some time, so I snapped this picture later on.

But scarcely had I departed when I was confronted by a samwa of Indian men, all shuffling into the cell next door, cigars ablaze and what seemed a thousand cotton pants swooshing like a dust storm. In truth, there were perhaps four of them, but I had seen just what sort of celebrations they were like to hold next door, and knew well their raucous canterings belied their numbers. It seemed certain that this was not to be a night upon which any sleep was to occur on my part. Fortunately, though, Truffles returned at this point, just in time to deliver me from my swoon of disarray. He explained about the Rabbit - that his name was Farmer Turnip, and that no matter how strange or affronting his manner, I was to treat him well. I still did not understand what the Rabbit (who we must now call Turnip) was doing here, and Truffles would not answer on the matter, but I trusted my dear friend so much that I decided to hold my peace.

But, there was still the matter of what to do that night in place of sleep. Truffles was in the mood for kicking his heels, and was just mad enough to listen to an even madder French girl, who insisted upon his dressing up as a woman and heading out on the town. And so, that's just what happened. Fun for all involved, but, perhaps rather disconcertingly, none of the natives seemed to notice or care. Not one comment, or laugh, or surprised look the whole night. It was as though they weren't able to distinguish a female gaijin from a male one. Or, perhaps they are all so used to feminine-looking boys that cross-dressing doesn't even register in their minds. In most Western countries, the night would have been filled with witty or confrontational banter from strangers, and much ado would have been made. But, in Japan, it seems, a Westerner can get away with anything. I recall seeing a gaijin ("outsider") in a bank a few weeks past. He had short silver hair, wore a leather jacket, sunglasses, ear-rings, and a long, black dress. When he went to the counter to deal with a banker lady, she didn't blink an eye or smirk or comment playfully or look suspicious; she just continued to apply her robotic routine of polite and formal public service. As Truffles was to find out, this was not an isolated social phenomenon. It was not until the very end of the night, about 3 or 4 of the ante-meridian, that any notice was taken of his daring presentation. Two girls in a fast food restaurant called out to him, "Oh, nice boy!" But, from behind their booth, they could only see his subtly dolled-up face. They hadn't noticed his atire until he came round to them and replied, in Japanese, "Yes, but just tonight, nice girl," indicating his stockings. They were surprised at this, and delighted, too. But they advised him to be careful, and he agreed, saying that it was a dangerous world, and so parted amiably.

A dangerous world, perhaps; but certainly not a dangerous Japan – a country whose native men are poncing around with feathery jackets draped over their narrow shoulders, and whose short-legged women stumble about in heels too high. A country where friendly voices guide you through daily life, and whose police stations have cartoony animal mascots. True, neither I nor Truffles have yet encountered yakuza; but in all seriousness, how scary can a gangster be who bathes with other men and drinks tea?

More pictures of Alice to come...

Hiffdy Biffdy, Sophie!

2006-10-28T18:30:00.000+09:00

There are frogs in Japan, but no reindeer. I don't suppose there are any reindeer in Australia, either. But, I've been gone so long, I'm not entirely sure. Does the President still sing weekly?

An Disgruntled Hullo

2006-09-30T13:06:00.000+09:00

And, as I crossed over the last saddle of the alps, I saw spread before me the expanse of Japan. Such relief poured over me - tonight, I thought, I shall be sleeping in a comfy bed.

No such luck. Lord almighty, a rice pillow! What sadistic West-Point graduate dreamt up this torturous device? For the next five nights, my sleep would be feverish at best, and always abrupt. Each morning, a torrent of light gushes into my window - ignoring all blinds and sleep masks - and bounces off every surface in my cream-coloured cell, as if it were benignly welcoming me into the day. But I see past its coy smile. And, just in case my sleep mechanism manages to build a resistance to environmental cues, my ears are greeted with the shouting of service-station attendants - their voices floating up to my window, like monkeys in the morning breeze; "Ooii! Oi, oi, oi,oioioioioioi!"

These Japanese are a disquieting folk. Everywhere are helpful signs; the check-out chicks (and guys) all utter greetings and farewells. If you wander through a department store at closing time, a person from each and every counter bows and thanks you. I tried to respond in kind to each of them, but it is a maddening experience. Their numbers overwhelmed me, and I was faced with perhaps two mechanical sentiments per second. Is there any sincerity behind these rituals? I really can't tell. I shall go on acting as if there is, for the sake of my faith in these people.

A department store at closing time.

Furthermore, the people of Sapporo seem to have replaced all the pigeons with crows. I found a pocket of resistance in Odori Park, where the pigeons roost about the flowers and monuments. But, the hulking black birds are everywhere, cawing to each other in the early morning. They seem to be calling my name.

Also, at Odori Park, I saw a most curious thing. An old man, in one of the standard little flashy box cars, pulled over haphazardly just before an intersection, got out, undid his fly, and left his car jutting out from the gutter and into the road as he walked off to the toilet. What's more, no-one batted an eyelid. The other cars just went around without so much as a beep. Do they really tolerate such behaviour, or are they secretly fuming on the inside?

Whilst we're talking about traffic, I ought to mention that everyone seems to get around the city in 1950s style bicycles. They always ride on the footpath and without a helmet. Each bike is completed with the dorky but ever-so-practical front-mounted shopping basket. All the bikes have precisely one gear - and I need not mention what speed that is. I did, however, see one of the most futuristic motor-scooters ever, with a shielded dome. But, meanwhile, a Taiwanese aquaintance of mine was questioned by the police for owning a mountain bike.

Perhaps the most ludicrous thing about this country, though, is the television. One would have thought that the home of anime and samurai movies would always have something decent on. In reality, it's like ten different versions of Channel 9. If there isn't news on, it's a current affairs program, or a weaky-pants quiz show, or a Today-styled chat program, or some elaborately tame "reality" show. There is one western movies channel, but so far it has only been playing mediocre Steve McQueen films. The best thing I've seen so far was a show where two teams of three in traditional costumes have to drink horrific concoctions of, for instance, snakes blended with eels and coffee, and then guess what was in their drink. It's worth it just to see their tasting reactions. Then, at the end of the show, the team who didn't get as many correct guesses is humiliated by having various foods (or live eels) poured onto them. When this is the pinnacle of viewing, you just know that the Japanese TV industry is unhealthy. Please, give me one decent BBC period piece, or an HBO production, I pray to the gods of entertainment. But, they scorn my prayers and answer with dismal Japanese soap operas. Just think of East Enders and subtract the joy. Then add over-bearing music and under-acheiving actors, and capture it all on dull, grey video with all the precision of a drunk midget. Now you have the idea - but whatever formulation is in your head, the reality is still just a bit worse.

Well, Truffles is in his room, now - practising how to use Japanese coins. I'm going to head off and find a dojo where I can take-out my frustration on smiley punching bags who reply "thankyou"after every third hit. Not every hit - because that would just be annoying.

M.I.A.

2006-09-24T21:25:00.000+09:00

...?

Alas!

2006-08-17T19:39:00.000+09:00

for this blog cannot yet begin! I set sail for Japan tomorrow, and shall not find myself anywhere near a computer for some five weeks. But, rest assured, dear reader! Time is illusory; and, as the Japanese have been known to say, five weeks is but a trifle in the pancake of eternity.

However, not being partial to trifles myself, I feel that I am unable to recommend them to your dear self in any way. Therefore, hold fast! The world is not bereft of desserts. I am confident that you shall find something suited to filling your time (and stomach) until my (predictably) heroic arrival.

post script: A question occurs to me, and demands my ponderance: Why is it that Japan is only owned by the Sun when it's rising? And what else does the Sun own during the rest of the day?