Above Oike

Above Oike, I sit in my hotel room, in a chair by the window.  The opposite side of the road, the north side, is lined with high-priced apartments, their perfectly squared forms nuanced with motifs ranging from Aztec to Miami Vice cool blue.  In one, a young woman stands on her balcony, one arm folded along the top of the rail, the other vigorously moving a toothbrush back and forth.  She is dressed in a simple T-shirt and slacks on this Sunday morn.  She stands there for a few minutes, turning her head to look east, turning her head to look west.  Then, her teeth satisfactorily polished, she turns toward the glass door behind her, pausing to look down at something by her feet, then goes behind the other side of the door. The screen is closed, glass door is closed, the lock twisted, the curtains closed behind her.  Six stories below, the traffic begins to hum...


On the turntable:  Joan Baez, "Forever Young"
On the nighttable:  George Samson, "A History of Japan"