I Love Showa-era, but Showa-era Doesn’t Love Me.

Les Sewing Sisters Japan Home Tour: Part 7

I woke up with two cups of coffee at my home in Meguro and then went out to get more coffee at a local French bakery/coffee shop near Shimizuike Park, which I wrote about earlier in my posts. I ordered a Mocha with tons of espresso, and I could feel another anxiety attack coming upon me. I did the slow breathing exercise and focused on a tree in the park directly across the street from where I was sitting. The coffee drink was delicious but not good for my system at the moment. But I do recommend Farina if you have a need to focus on the park across the street or you love French bakery goods as seen and tasted through the Japanese aesthetic. Since I’m on a diet where I stopped eating enjoyable things, I have become more of a neurotic personality on this trip.

But hope is not lost since I embraced wine again with great effort on my part to lose myself; the favorite hour of the day for me is happy wine hour at 7 P.M. I may gain some weight back, but my mental state will be in a better place, and we are all dealing with trauma these days. The trauma of the war that came up in the last few days, the war that has been happening in other places, and the war within ourselves in America and elsewhere. There is no escape from this massive trauma that is given out like candy on Halloween.

Lun*na and I went to a Showa-era home in Itabashi, a special ward of Tokyo. Our friend, an artist, lives in a building that I suspect was built in the 1950s, and it feels like old Tokyo. And yes, old Tokyo is in the 1950s due to the destruction that took place in World War II. The artist lives with a tailless cat who is fifteen years old and was discovered in the structure’s basement when the artist saw something furry running into the shadows.

I love everything from this era in Tokyo life, but there is one problem: as a 69-year-old man, it’s hard for me to sit on a tatami mat to have tea on a low table. It’s criminally wrong that I have to suffer this fate of old age since I was raised in a boho Beatnik household where everyone pretty much sat around a low table to drink wine, coffee, and tea. I was raised that way, and now, I have to settle for stools or chairs with solid backs for my weak lower back. Modern life in Tokyo, no problem, but to enjoy the Showa-era of life is to get on your knees and sit on the tatami mat. In spirit, I want to do that, but I suspect that I will not be able to leave the position, that my legs will get numb and stiff, and therefore, face pain. Thirty years ago, I had to attend a funeral in Japan, where I sat on my legs for hours to greet friends and family who were in an endless line to see me and my family. The pain was intense, but I had to smile and go through it. So, I love Showa-era, but Showa-era doesn’t love me.

I like to measure a set amount of time by thinking everything good came from the Showa-era. Except for the war stuff, of course. All my favorite Japanese writers come from that era, as well as the height of the Japanese toy and the music produced in that era. And structures as well. One of the few things I love is the Japanese staircase from this period, and most of you know that I wouldn't say I like staircases. And I specifically talking about the stairs at the Kinokuniya bookstore in Shinjuku. There is nothing grand or special except it is beautifully designed and free from vertigo type of reaction, for me, at least.

My feelings are now skin level, and I wander through this mental state with anticipation and fear. Every day is an adventure.