Flying Lotus

Engrish is fun

In the wonderful adventures that I have had since working in Japan, I must admit I am almost disappointed if I don't come across some instance of ridiculous syntax or inappropriate vocabulary choice in my day to day life. From the walk to the station, to the convenient store, to the T-Shirts of strangers bearing titles such as " sweet cakes, you like?" or "I am the fuck", Engrish is everywhere and it is awesome.
Though these sound like strange inventions that I would only fictionalize for purposes of semi-humorous entertainment, the impact would not be relevant were they not one hundred and "tens" percent true. Having taught for just over three months now, (therefore significantly less than all my work counterparts who now shrug at the hilarity of mistakes made by almost all students including the substitution of the 'sh' sound with a 'ss' and the inevitable mishap that may occur when trying to teach the word 'pushy'), there have been so many instances to recount in the small word count that I will be offering today. I may very well have to entice the slightly more proficient English speakers with such stories in the future... I shall make it a goal to pass on such moments in due time. 


For now, accept my mere photographic documentation of a few examples that I do indeed cherish, and so read on dear Anglophiles, read on. 

For the masochist in all of us

Lost for words

Ball cleansing machine

Tuna ship limitation: only 290 Yen! It's so exciting limitation!

 a glass box with nothing inside

somewhat like a gooch

I want a goocy dream

Sara Sara's touch is here for your sanitary needs

Lunchbox for New Zealanders

That is to say...

Polaroid oh Polaroid, where art my Polaroid. and a bit of collage

http://www.dazeddigital.com/Photography/article/8194/1/Patrick_Winfields_Polaroids

Paul Smith Space

Welcome to my dream house among the trees

The Paul Smith Space

One of the great things about fashion is its ability to project us onto a fantastical platform of invention and imagination.

Since my days of roaming as a mall rat teenager in the halls of Emporium in Bangkok, I used to gape at Paul Smith's window displays so incredibly enthralled by all its trinkets and treasures and at the phantasmogorium of color that he does ever so well.

I recently had the chance to visit the mother store in Nottingham, where he is originally from. Unfortunately, both as a result of my ineptitude and my general distraction with the beautiful house, I completely forgot to open the shutters of my camera to his world of wonder.

Thankfully, having heard of the Paul Smith Space in Tokyo and even more blissfully, having encountered it at a whim with a friend on a walk searching for another establishment, I had my camera with me and all the good sense to open its lens to my memory card.

What a well executed little space, with its glass walls and surrounding bamboo trees, you really feel as though you've been invited into the intimate home of Paul Smith himself. This kind of marketing is the smartest of all, because you feel privileged to enter this kind of space, as though you and you alone have merited the chance to open your eyes to its creative candy; from the framed images of what would alone seem banal, to the carefully designed building that hides all sorts of private rooms, the antique suits and the one-off pieces, the 70's vinyl lying around, the gadget designs like the lego speakers, type-writer teapots, the warm wooden floors, the ridiculously well-dressed staff (who seem more like accessories to the store rather than real people with flaws), and the top floor exhibition space; this place makes the eyes want to lick ice-cream (metaphorically speaking, of course).

The Paul Smith house is a seamless fusing of the personal with the commercial, in that all the objects and paraphernalia are made to feel as though they were already yours, but the only thing for sale alas, is the clothing that accompanies it. The clean gallery space on the final floor, with its exposition of a French/Londonian love affair which unfolds in photographic prints (and is also presented as a video slide coupled with a classical soundtrack that begs for our empathy) pulls at the heart strings and imagination of even the most removed. Without having displayed the images here, imagine the quintessential European woman with her short cropped do, a tall brunette (whose hair consequently flips to a neo-punk, a la Englaise, fashionable bleach-blonde boy-cut) atop a bicycle cycling through the street of London next to fruit vendors and markets, and through les rues de Paris. She is not so beautiful that you cannot find a point of reference for yourself but despite the slight imperfection of her jaw, and in part because of the magnificent story and the ridiculously attractive men she does indeed attract, you cannot help but want to be her. In all this beauty of well-framed shots and romanticised imagery, she is kindly dressed by Paul Smith himself (the wardrobe looks sensational, all of which seem to match the season being sold downstairs) and so you feel that a small part of this story can be transfered into the realm of reality through the purchase of that de-constructed wool jacket, or perhaps those cute little socks she adorns with the heels when she is walking through the misty vineyards in the South of France. In fact, her hair is so cute I may have to have it cut exactly the same way, with a fringe a little bit longer perhaps, but essentially in the same style. Why don't I just indulge and buy a whole new wardrobe, so that I too will experience the tragedy and the passion that these photos so seductively capture. 

If only my bank account agreed with me too.

Regardless of my financial situation, if you or anyone around you actually had the money (or even if you didn't but that credit card tickled you through the wallet), you would have to be the least-consumerist newt alive to refrain from purchasing anything in this magnificent playground.  

Dear Paul Smith space, be mine.

is this what the future holds for me?

So.... my soul-searching, petrifying, aura coloring adventure is coming to an abrupt end ( a phenomenon mostly of my own doing). Soon, I shall be departing back to the land whose soil I have made my home regardless of the non-status it has assigned me. Visa-less and resident unworthy, I still beg for her to welcome me with open arms, back into the largely uninhabitable continent of Australia.

It is almost two o'clock in the morning, having returned home from an ultimate, post-work drink at the 290 Yen restaurant next to the language studio where I have been exchanging the most surreal stories to date. There in that dark den hides the scheduled tacitness of the nine to fivers ( or in Japan, eight to niners) where one finds the smoke-filled cavities of Chinese waiters and MSG. Regardless of the ensuing 40 minute walk home, the indifference-inducing tiredness that I do feel is not rocking me to sleep. Alas, the hard futon that is my bed is not inviting and Radiohead is a more appealing lull towards sobriety.

And so I am here, sat awkwardly straining my neck on the mini-table of my 'living-room' with an illuminating friend that has remained in such good faith these last couple of months. I wish I could write it a letter, or an email rather, to thank it for it's companionship: 'Dear computer, thank you.' I utter these words without a desire for pity (condolences at this point are not necessary, though I thank you for your concern) but rather as an honest expression of its significance in my life as the mystical portal to friends, family and torrent downloads.

I am not ready to make conclusions about the time I have spent here as it is not so much as completely over. I do have one thing to utter for now, about the idea of perspective and hindsight through distance.

"You never know what you've got until it's gone."
A cliche remains only a cliche because of the ridiculously true nature of its application in our lives, and through repetition, loses impact but not validity. In Aboriginal culture, (beware, I claim only to know the superficial implications of its traditions) a rite of passage involves a walkabout where you seek your own maturity through independence, in the true sense of the word. Traditionally, the individual is released in nature alone, urged to find a place within the hierarchy of the surroundings and to negotiate keeping afloat within it. Having had all this time apart from the people who have formed the crux of my social life, and the environment that I have battled and adored has given me a lot of time, mostly, to contemplate about what place I hold in this world and in this life.

Why am I here and most specifically, why did I choose to be here, in Tokyo? Despite my own reluctance to write that sentence as it does express the inevitable cliche that is our generation of self-doubt and inner-struggle (in a world that has given us everything we want, might I add), I feel that it needs to be included and despite all my good judgement, I need to ask the question. In most of the categorized 24 hours that we define as a day, I think about this time in my life as pivotal, like a departure point that will catapult me toward the infinitely dense possibilities that could be my life. All through the power of my own capitalized Choice, or so I am told to believe. What the hell am I suppose to do, where in the world do I need to be so that I feel secure, and powerful and successful and real? Not just physically but metaphysically, morally, socially? God damn the crisis of the indecisive. That's how I'm coining it.

I was pointed to an article by my vary splendiferous friend who felt I should be privy to the thoughts of other writers on the coupled issue of physiological development and personal purpose in the lives of 20 somethings http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/magazine/22Adulthood-t.html
Here here, find the thoughts of articulations of those more researched and edified then me. The overriding conclusion I guess, is that I am not alone in my uncertainty. How stupendously wonderful.

food or goo

Lotus root, edamame and sweet potato.  Konyaku with mixed nato and vegies.

(Somen ramen with yama no yasai (vegetables from the mountain)/ tofu/ okra/kombu (pickled seaweed with sesame seeds)  dipping sauce and yes, nato)

For the past three weeks, (due in large part to laziness, no need to feel sorry for me Maman), I have been consuming bucket loads of anything cheap, fast and relatively fresh. Having dissolved my love for COMBINI'S or rather convenient stores (rather eloquently translated into Engrish by the Japanese) in the first week of having arrived, I have resorted to extremely well-priced food at the budget supermarcher next to my homage.)

Nato, for those of you who have not had the pleasure to indulge, is a mixture of fermented soy beans that is nice and gooey, sticky, gel-like and slimy (all descriptions that hope to entice to palette). It is generally mixed fervently with mustard and a bit of a special soy. Not only is it ridiculously cheap (90 yen for three so under a dollar), it is stupendously nourishing and high in protein. For most, its smell (and let alone taste, if you ever got to putting it in your mouth), is horrendous and mortifyingly gross. When I was home staying with a family in Australia, my host actually freaked out when she returned from grocery shopping as she exclaimed: 'Oh no! The cat has pissed everywhere again!' in reference to the no-doubt nauseating smell that I must have fumigated the house with after my afternoon lunch with rice.

Black beans and grains mix (supposed to mix if with rice. but I forgot the rice.)

So, after having successfully persuaded you of this culinary delight, I felt it would be fun to document all this strange food I have been consuming so that I shall look back in nostalgic envy for my ridiculously healthy diet that shall be sorely missed.