A House of Anarchy

"I wrote it at the top of the shopping list! Instead, you thought hot chicks were more important! Chihiro should have gone instead of you!"

It's an everyday occurrence here at the Yokohama tea house: sipping tea from a cup as two men floated beside me, inches away from my face. Hands and fists flying left and right, while subliminal messages spark intermittently outside the windows. Images of negativity, anything of that sort which comes to mind. My expectations have never been subverted. But something I can never get used to, is this damned tea. We never have enough sugar cubes around! When you're stuck in a continuum of shifting time and imagery, there's not a lot to do besides drink tea and shoot dirty jokes at one another.

I find it impossible to sleep when all we have available for bedding is the squeaky, old wooden floor and walls. It's like we live in an elevator stuck on one-million floors, only ten times worse. It doesn't make much sense to me. I understand why we're racing at light speed through time and space in the quarters of a traditional Japanese tea house. That's obvious. I just don't understand who the hell forgets the sugar and beer when they're at the top of the shopping list? Whatever the case, we won't be reaching equilibrium for a while. Not until the train comes again.

The masters of old say that tea is the greatest art form where communication evolves. For the most part, I thought this to be true. I was brought up my whole life in the tea ceremony, an art that requires patience and harmony of mind. A life my parents regretted. Not the life of the tea ceremony - no, my life. Whenever someone of importance, someone of high wealth or status came over to my parent's residence for a special occasion, something in my parents changed. I ceased to be their daughter, in exchange for that social recognition they always craved. I became nothing. To become something I went to college and studied physics, but fell out of interest when I couldn't keep up with my classmates. Taking up writing seemed like the only course to make the voice in my head known. Even then, my writing is pretty obscure.

Whatever the circumstances may be, being sucked into an endless vortex wouldn't change my parent's views of me. They're from a bloodline connected to royalty, after all. I finished my tea, and found myself staring into the empty contents of the cup. Tipping the cup sideways and forwards, I tried to appreciate the time and effort put into this work. The tea ceremony is about the appreciation of time and human qualities, and the beauty of culture. It's supposed to be. But something in me sees the ceremony differently.

As the two men Tako and Ryushi continue smacking one another, I spin down to the floor like a rolling ball in slow-motion. My kimono floats along like the wings of a butterfly. I snatched a lighter sitting on the end table and flicked the small flame to life, waking the flame as though it was napping. With cigarette hanging loosely from between my fingers, a steady stream of smoke flows from my lips.

A luxurious smell of cinnamon sweet rolls emanates from the next room, and the voice of a maiden sings the latest pop song by Miyuki Tono, "Do You Love You?" That's Mayuri, a pastry shopkeeper who revels in the thought of creating new foods for her customers. Her café attire and care for her appearance makes her stand out like a model in a reality cooking show. Why she ended up here, I have no clue. She's particularly the most sensible of the group, and the most adamant about keeping tabs on supplies. I, on the other hand, am possessive of my things and care less about others.

Mayuri bounds about, oblivious to the anarchy occurring all around her. Even the imagery outside the window, flashing random images as one might expect from a photo album, is as normal to her as it is to me.

"'And all that life bears, will bring you through!' Chihiro, did the guys bring back the sugar? I'm running out." She looked at me with uncertainty, as she whipped a new bowl of ingredients quicker than my attention span could process. "You look down, have those guys said something mean to you?"

I muse at the motions of her arm. The smoke trails from the end of my cigarette. "Huh?"

Mayuri tips the contents of the bowl onto a pan, and the batter sizzles with delight. Outside the window, images of happiness pop in and out of existence - smiley faces, laughing children, people enjoying one another's company in a restaurant. "The shopping list, did they get everything we need? I would have gone myself, but..."

I stick a thumb over my shoulder. "Sorry, looks like we have to wait for the next train." Shuffling a bit past Mayuri, I turned my attention to the cinnamon buns. Swirly delights! My mouth watered at the thought of biting into its soft, caramel-glazed form. There is something special about cinnamon buns that makes me thankful for the life I have, in spite of all that I have gone through. 

"Well, looks like this is all we're getting for now, then. Pardon me." She bowed her head politely, and placed a hand on my shoulder. 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.07.2019

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