I went on a Tokyo tour today. I wanted to not have wasted my time here, to have seen some of the sights and so-ons of the city, to have picked up a flavour of the place, an alien bustling buzzing place where I did not naturally belong. However, Typhoon Chaba was paying a visit, although it was not really noticeable from my hotel room - I saw that people were scurrying about with umbrellas down below, but I had no idea of the size, the impact of the rain from watching up here. The brake lights and indicators of the cars in traffic glow, not too brightly in deference to the presumed daylight, although if you tilt your head back, the sky doesn't look all that dark.
But after several stops, trudging through shrines and gardens on wet sliding gravel, my feet are too cold for me to ignore. I could have spent the day idling, doing less, doing nothing which is what any sane person would do after taking a look out of the window.
I guess I am still battling my inner mouse, much as I would wish to be indomitable and independent.
Thunderstorm coming, it's not only the sky that is the colour of old ten pence pieces, the whole world is. Standing outside on the patio in the dark, feeling the swirl of the wind and trying to ignore the suburban surroundings, waiting for your imagination to carry you away to a shoreline. Thinking crashing waves, and the rubbley rumbling of the water turning pebbles over and over as it retreats back to the sea, gathering itself for another hurl at your feet. Waiting for the rain to start so you can convince yourself you taste salt in the wetness on your lips. Waiting for the peace you feel being on the edge of things, liminal, neither of the land or of the sea, no expectations other than to be there. The air growls.
