Funeral Parade of Roses (1969)
dir. Toshio Matsumoto
“A boy who sat beside me asked for a date. He invited me to a hotel. I had a few drinks and then I went to the hotel with him. He was a masochist. He asked me to tie him up and step on him. He cried like a fur seal! He believed all the time that I was a girl. But I feel sorry for boys like him.”
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Spring is okashi. Cherry blossoms are okashi. This view from above Tokyo, a thousand tiny people marching like ants, is okashi. I have never left this temple of riddles, courtesans, and bilingual poetry. Sometimes I write stories to entertain the other ladies—an insignificant pastime. The other day, I reached into a hornet’s nest and found an idol buried there. I keep the idol under my pillow for good luck. No real princess was ever born from a bamboo shoot, but it's like the Sage said: empty well, infinite possibilities. Life can only begin through incessant negation. Consciousness arrives with your first "no."
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“What do you want to do in the future?” “Nothing in particular. Nothing.” “Nothing at all? No dreams?” “I am what I am.”
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אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה
"I am that I am." A queer name for a bush. Don’t deadname the Lord, Moses. Affirm Him. Capitalize the H and raise His staff with both hands. I will part more than the Red Sea for you, my prophet. Religion is so okashi. Religion has always interested me. You know what else interests me? Eddie’s bottom eyelashes, little black spokes beneath a piercing stare, evenly spaced and perfectly painted. Beware the boy who excels at calligraphy, the boy who instinctively reaches for the brush and the inkpot. Beware the boy who memorizes ten thousand kanji for fun. Beware the class clown.
I wonder what the mirror felt when Eddie kissed it. Like Eddie, I learned when I was very young that a little lipstick can set the world on fire. I remember that weekend at camp: the older boys in the tent, comparing their lengths. I remember the androgynous redhead, Pat, who I thought might’ve been a girl, although I never brought it up. We went on long walks and played a lot of kickball together. I asked them a lot of questions about Catholicism. One night, I cut myself while carving a stick. As the scoutmaster looked for a bandage, the blood slowly dripped from my finger onto a dead leaf: pat, pat, pat.
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“Frightening, isn’t it? The cursed destiny of man. What a mix of cruelty and laughter it is! Let’s look forward to the next program. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.”
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Out here, the ground is sinking. These days, I want this whole country to sink to the bottom of the ocean. There will come a time when you catch yourself laughing like your mother. You will reach for something, but it won’t be there anymore. It’s a mirage. The salarymen, the office ladies, and the queens—all reaching for something. They will grasp for it like a cat swatting its reflection in the water. And then the street lights will come on.
A long time ago, I would use the railing at the pool to hold myself underwater as long as possible. I would blink and let the chlorine into my eyes and massage the air bubbles out of my trunks. I would worry about my hair turning green. I would creep outside my parents’ bedroom and eavesdrop on their arguments, soak in my mother's nightly sobs. Once, I took a magnet home from school and cried because I thought I had committed a horrible crime. I returned it the next day and begged at my teacher’s feet for forgiveness. I threw up on the carpet and apologized.
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“Roses were her favorite flowers.” “They had to be artificial, too.”
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Rain likely this afternoon. Gusts up to twenty miles per hour. Strange whispers from across the Everglades, a secret language only the herons can translate. The clouds darken, their gray-blue bellies stretching wide over the supermarket. The unmistakable smell of a storm, the windows fogging up. In the parking lot, the sky soaks me in its wisdom.
I wonder what myth my life will end up resembling. Not Eddie-pus, I hope—I’d like to keep my eyes. I don’t want to seduce anything or conquer anyone. These days, I don’t want anything in particular. I am what I am. I will negate myself until there is nothing left, and then I will start to live.
For the first time, I am excited for what happens next.
For the first time, I am really, truly afraid.