Actually, this section is a book marker of sorts... I am going to insert at least one (maybe two) sections of Hayao's initial Roppongi discoveries within this narrative patch. Only thing, is, I am going to have to solidify a slew of later details to make it maximum impactful and precisely fit.*
The think that I hope I am conveying to regular readers is that I apologize.
At the same time, realize this is really beyond Stieg Larsson, Agatha Christie, Hergé, John le Carré, Miles Davis, Erskine Childers, Rudyard Kipling, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Roberto Bolano, Bob Marley, Dick Francis, Isabel Allende, Mark Twain, or Dan Brown. It is my own thing.
About the sometimes intentional obscurity and unusual rhythm: the real joy of English in foreign locales (Japan, Phils, Jamaica) is discovering ways words, phrases have steeped and been acculturated. People of varying beliefs and temperaments have made the language fit their culture, world conceptions.
This is why I am unafraid as a writer. I have seen another culture's ghosts and realized they are the flip side of our own. Our victories are often their losses. World War E.**
Realization: we are all connected (fabric).
In the meantime, let's party like its Zuma Time.
Hayao cracked whip blood cold felling fielding sense left unease found down streets crooked, invisible under utter fervent made strong and spit out, undetermined. song to all the forgotten, the forget-me-not Roppongi tribe, established Yamaguchi clan giving way to bossozoku, gangs determined to have their way in newly minted seedy underpinnings, unknown vice laced with a vision of mistress and quest.
I forgot why I sailed I thought, I knew it was not me, I failed. Who underfoot underspent wide of the mark, marking slum-time with smog lung, perfect blanket of citified angst and pretense… oh my god all the way to the bathroom, trailing entrails, come on.
Who disturbed human automon unforgiven finding in numbers, strength, the back-filled anger of leaving and never leaving, living alone. I am the creator of my own story he thought, fighting an aptitude for… hey hey psycho killer, look this way I’m not all there.
1. Hayao retraces Eve's steps first:
Walking to that spot where the camera had caught her looking up, finding her lost eyes in his shuffle gaze memory. Turning and noticing that it was precisely here that an alley went down, surely they would know it, and sloping turning either to the street passing or down another, there was this other way, a small street and coming out here…
2. Hayao enters the fabled hard-boiled wonderland:
Then onto Bar Milwaukee… down the steps and he went down and there were m polaroid shot aches and smoky music, the sense of aging perpetually as the models stayed perpetually young. The infinite sadness of the urban far from home. The weariness and the coldness, the defunct
Bar Milwaukee….. Curtis Home…. Campadre …. Black Velvet… Aegis…
** World War Environment. doh.
All Rights Reserved Damon Shulenberger.