2023.05.08
Monday

It’s my first time in Osaka. I haven’t made any plans, but I do wait for the sun to go down. I just learned that Nihon, the Japanese word for Japan, translates to “the sun’s origin.” I wonder how the people here feel when they’re blanketed by the night, having such a close association to a star that’s bound to die. Do they feel like it’s what they will become? No one I see tonight, nor myself, will probably ever witness the process of the sun going through the phases of star death. Perhaps this existential sense of dread is merely a question inherited from Western culture.

There’s a greater sense of unbridled freedom while wandering around at night here compared to back in the States, although my eyes still dart around, and I can feel my ears are constantly on alert. I can probably relax a bit, but the overwhelming vigilance is a habit that’s been ground into me. My shoulders will always feel the weight.

A group of younger guys with skateboards are huddled up around Sankaku Park in Amerika-Mura. One of them has a bunch of booze and food in freezer bags. They begin to speak Japanese to me. I make out a few words and alternate between saying “hai” and guttural noises of acknowledgment as I've been taught to show respect and attention since childhood. I reply in informal, broken Japanese, confirming their suspicions that I am a Gaijin. It’s not an issue. Soon everyone is drinking mystery liquor.

The sidewalks mean nothing here in Osaka’s latticed side alleys and streets. People walk right down the center of the road, almost in an attempt to avoid the persistent lights and incessant sounds of chatter and pre-recorded store promotions, making new songs John Cage would be proud of. I too walk down the middle of the streets. I match the rhythm and pace of the people around me. Like actors in a well-rehearsed scene, we’re all hitting our marks. As I round a corner I momentarily appoint myself director and yell, “Print!”

It’s a fine performance.