Ocean citrus
I
November 17th, 2023
Dear Friend,
I read in a newspaper that a young Japanese couple moved from Tokyo to a remote area near Hiroshima. The article implies that the couple is just one of a few, who in recent years, seem to be moving away from the city and into more rural areas with the intent of finding and/or building a more quiet, and less crowded life. There’s something in the story about waving to and smiling at all the neighbors (several in one day). It’s meant to be heartwarming, I think. The same piece mentions a man who moved to Innoshima Island, where he bought a very affordable plot of land and began citrus farming. These types of stories are printed likely because of the dire need for people and communities in the Japanese countryside. Does printing work the way prophecies do? Publishing to fulfill a need. What are our needs? And how can we publish them so they can come true? The paper did the job of placing something in my imagination: a citrus farm. Where is it in my body, or yours? Does it sting?
This morning, since waking up, I haven’t looked at my phone. Some people really do live their lives without it, as I know you, and other close friends do. My personal experience with my phone has always given me (as someone who uses it a lot sometimes, never others) a one foot in, one foot out kind of feeling—a one foot in until my leg gets submerged kind of feeling. I underestimate the power and subjugation that things like Phone, City, and Job can do to our human, human bodies. And I have to continue studying ways of living that aren’t offered or readily made visible by the world I seem to be living in. That is to say…even if I become a citrus farmer, which does sound all sorts of refreshing, I am still inside The City’s designated opposite. Our current impulses and structures lack imagination, real imagination. So, our language does not always have the vocabulary, or ideas to conceive of multi-solutions, nor the capacity to place me somewhere else, without being in relation to somewhere. And if and when we do come up with terms and names, we quickly feel them get co-opted for profit, perhaps even within—and at the sacrifice of—our bodies: measured, chopped, scaled and redistributed. The danger is when we are made to believe that the constant reinvention of something sacred is normal—something to strive for, or aspire to. It’s not. Are we remembering that? Where does it sting? I think I’ve told you this before, but my [online] “presence” sometimes feels like a phantom limb.
II
there’s a man next to me at the cafe, he stares blankly out the window like i do, but with more assurance, and less conviction—like he knows and doesn’t mind that all the answers are outside it, and not here with us
he sips his ice tea with a straw, his hands in his lap, clasped;
and maybe the window,
the building above
still
present like God, or a whale
a song comes on that has too much story, but it doesn’t interrupt
his hands are under his chin now
now folded, crossed against his chest
if he turns to look at me, it would be slowly, his body catching up to a thought that moved
III
November 24th, 2023
Dear friend,
I haven’t written for a while. It’s difficult to read too. The letters pile on top of other letters,
asldkfjlsj alksdjflaksjd lkajsdlfajsdlfja flksjdflaksjdflasjdflasdj lkkkeiilasdkjf laksdjflaskdfjlasdjfasldjfladfjlakjdflak jdfaskjdflkajdflasjasdfasdkfjalwjeoiwj eao,xnv,xmnvskd
and then they are no longer themselves. Something new isn’t happening, but everything old is making itself known once more. If you were still here, in this town, we would have dinner that would last too long. Or coffee that would go cold. Maybe it would be safe to put all the __________ on the table. What to call it? Egregiousness? Utter, complete, hollowed out devastation? That I have the time to think of words to put inside a blank space haunts me. But I am changing this. We must change it. There is little time for guilt, or shame—though maybe these things are tools for seeing. Our solutions move with every breath—they must.
I saw A the other day. I didn’t know I would ever see him again. I thought he left the country for good. Things are changing, rapidly. Many years have passed within the last two months. The branches of the trees outside the window have been cut, and you can’t see their yellow like you used to be able to. For a few days after our reunion, A would call me in the morning, while I was here at the cafe, and he was cycling up a hill to the office in Aoyama. I don’t let myself succumb to daydreams, that would be too dangerous. And I know you would agree. But it is a bizarre thing, to see someone you haven’t known in years. To notice how they’ve changed, how you have. How two people, when in the same room, or voice box, carry these earlier versions of themselves like little children who didn’t understand yet. I’m not sure we can laugh at the damage they did or endured, so instead, we seem to be holding them, sometimes at arms length.
He is having trouble sleeping. He is trying not to check the news. His mother calls to ask him if he has any beshara1. He says he has none, yet.
IV
somebody’s purple shirt has fallen and lies on the rooftop just below my window—still on its hanger
it hasn’t moved for 7 days
just when i convince myself that love isn’t real—that i made it up
it comes back
as an insect landing on the back of my hand, saying hi, the construction workers who tell me to be careful when walking by falling pieces of metal—they fall from the sky, from the giant, looming crane, and clang to the ground—the new friend i made who takes poetry with her when she leaves the house,
i couldn’t have made up something so big
as the people holding other people; holding their bodies close, their names, their poetry rising and falling with the breathing of someone’s chest, telling us of our not-knowing—of their knowing
V
On October 17th, I went to the beach. It wasn’t cold until the sun set. I could barely get myself on the train, every cell in my body protested. But I needed a solution. There were only a few people there. Nobody was swimming. I was waist-deep in the water, when a stingray swam quickly passed—just a couple of feet from my ankles. I froze, terrified. My mind multiplied the dangers I couldn’t see. I kept wading in because I wanted to be submerged, to be cold, to feel something else. Then, a jellyfish near my hand. It was translucent, white. Slow, and cloud-like. I wasn’t unwelcome. Just accompanied. I was a guest, but I wondered if I wasn’t supposed to be there. So I left, with just half of me. Sat on the sandy yellow towel in my bra and underwear. The sun started to sink and change color, I watched. Another swimmer returned to the water. He swam back and forth, back and forth. I wondered if he was accompanied. A dead fish with a large open mouth washed up onto shore. It was the length of half my arm. A child tried to touch it. Her mother, speaking in crescendoing French, told her not to. They didn’t run from the fish, nor did they seem scared or uncomfortable. They stood, looking at it, as the waves animated its body. The mother asked her daughter, in English, or Japanese, I can’t remember, Where did it come from?
Some news:
If you’re in Tokyo, I’m doing a live painting performance and poetry reading this evening, December 9th, for the latest volume of Tokyo Poetry Journal. This is the first time my poetry will be published and in print. My photography (visual poetry) will also be published in the volume, and I was delighted to learn that my photo, Room (2020), will be the front cover. More information about the launch party here, via Tokyo Weekender.
At the launch event this evening, I’m holding a silent auction for the live painting, of which the proceeds will go to “Living Stipends for Palestine” by NPO Mophradat. This is a new grant program initiated for Palestinian artists who are affected by the ongoing crisis. If you’re unable to participate in the silent auction, there will be a donation box.
If you’re not in Tokyo, and would like to purchase Eros, Volume 14 of Tokyo Poetry Journal, you can do so from their website soon. Tonight is the launch, so likely not until sometime after.
Thank you for being here. It’s been a while. Things are not business as usual, and rarely are. I hope you are all holding up.
As always, becoming a paid subscriber is a huge way to support my work as an independent artist, especially during seasons of in-between-ness, but it’s not the only way. If you’re unable to do so, you can support Swallow by sending it to a friend, or sharing it on socials. Even something as simple as “liking” this entry does so much.
Thank you, and love from Tokyo,
Jes
good news in Arabic بشارة
Missed your posts. Always full of interesting insight. Thank you for sharing.
You articulate so many familiar feelings in such a beautiful way. Section IV resonated with me in particular. Lovely work, friend.