Too Much Contact, No More Feeling (Alex)

September 1989

He saunters into Manhattan Project at about quarter to midnight, just ahead of the crowds spilling out of the bars across the river. As he approaches his usual table, a gaggle of suspiciously young-looking girls in identical Goth-face makeup shriek "Alex!" He smirks in greeting, tossing his creaking-new black leather jacket over the back of the booth before sliding in next to... Annabelle? Anaconda? Whatever the hell her name is. The waitress deposits a snakebite and black in front of him moments later, and he gives her a more sincerely appreciative smile. It's been a long week - since Parliament has been in session, he's actually been expected to do some *work* at the office, which has been seriously eating into his sleep time as a result. He might actually go home before Manhattan closes tonight.

In the meantime though, the DJ's just put on The Sisters, and the entire bar surges towards the dancefloor like an oilslick wave. The bass thunders through the floor, jacked up almost to the point of overloading the speakers, but not quite. Alex loses the tie and takes a drag off Julia's (Jocasta?) clove cigarette, letting the alcohol and the noise numb his senses.

Although maybe that's not quite what he's looking for tonight.

He shakes his head angrily and shrugs off a black-taloned hand, heading for the bathroom. A thin boy with a shock of lime-green hair is bent over the counter, inhaling lines. He notices Alex watching.

"Want some?"

Alex thinks about it, his mind shying away from the image of his mother with bloodshot eyes and a smear of white under her nose.

"How much?"

"Ten a line?"

"Is it good shit?"

The kid laughs shakily.

"Yeah, I'd say so."

"Okay."

He hands over a twenty, then rolls up another as the kid arranges two lines on the counter with practiced ease despite the trembling in his hands.

* * * * * * * *

Five minutes later Alex is back on the dancefloor, feeling like God almighty. Instead of feeling numb, his senses are heightened to an almost painful degree. Colours are brighter, shadows are darker, and even with feedback and ambient noise, he can hear each note in the harsh industrial track and appreciate the way they fail to harmonize. It's almost too much - he retreats to the table and impresses the girls with tales of Montreal and hobnobbing with foreign diplomats. It's mostly complete bullshit, of course, but he's always had a talent for bullshit.

* * * * * * * *

The DJ's just put on the new Nine Inch Nails track when there's a buzz of conversation audible even over the wash of bass. Through the darkened (and rather grubby) front window he can see the outline of a white stretch limousine. Then the door opens and a guy in a long, white leather coat comes sweeping in like he owns the place, followed by an entourage of about seven or eight people, all of whom are dressed in such a way that makes everyone else in the club look like preschool kids playing dress-up.

"Who the fuck is that?"

He thought he'd said it to himself, but Cleo (Christine?) says, "That's Omar. Haven't you ever seen him before? They go to a different bar every night - I don't know what he does for a living, but he must be super rich..."

Alex's sense of tact disappeared after the third snakebite. He blurts out, "But he's so old - he must be at least forty!"

... just as the song fades and there's a sudden inconvenient lull in the conversation. Omar looks over sharply, takes in his rumpled work clothes and smudged eyeliner, and smiles beatifically at him. Feeling like a complete asshole now, Alex quickly knocks back the rest of his drink and lurches unsteadily to his feet. A hand rests lightly on his forearm, holding him steady. One of the girls from Omar's crew is standing there with a flute glass full of something milky green.

"Mr. Ravenhurst wishes to know if you would care to join him at his table."

More Research

So C. is starting up his _Mage_ campaign again, and by way of research I've dug out all the vaguely Japanese-related literature I've got and have also checked out Murasaki Shikibu's _The Tale of Genji_ from the university library. I found it pretty heavy slogging the last time I took a run at it - for someone who has to see someone a good half-dozen times before I remember their name (unless they do or say something particularly awe- or outrage-inspiring), a thousand-page novel with several dozen characters, each with four or five poetic sobriquets or official titles on top of their regular name - well, you can certainly understand my confusion. Fortunately, the library also had a study guide available - sort of like a more erudite version of _Coles' Notes_.

[Honestly, I'd really like to see the people at Coles take a run at summarizing the _Tale of Genji_. Although given how fragging lazy the average student is, it'd still probably be too long for some people. It leads to the interesting question of just how much you can dumb something down before it becomes a reductio ad absurdum: "The _Tale of Genji_ is about a Japanese guy named Genji who writes a lot of poetry and has sex with a lot of women. He dies about halfway through the book though, so the title really isn't all that accurate."]

Anyway, I ploughed through most of the study guide last night, and so far the thing that's got me the most intrigued is the fact that the entire story takes place before what most Westerners consider classical Japanese culture, what with the katanas and the Zen buddhism and the samurai bushido ethic and so forth. Honestly, imperial court life in Heian Japan sounds, on first reading, a lot like the French aristocracy centred around Versailles in the 16th and 17th centuries. The courtiers at Heian-Kyo, much like those at Versailles, spent most of their time and energy trying to outdo each other in sartorial splendour, gossiping, seducing people related to or favoured by the Emperor, and various other games of one-upmanship.

I've got the oldest English translation of the text, done by Arthur Waley between 1921 and 1933. Apparently it's less of a direct translation and more of a paraphrase, although having had a look at the first couple of chapters it's certainly very accessible. Two later translations, one from 1976 and one from 2002 are supposed to be more accurate, so perhaps I'll check out one or both of them just to see how pronounced the differences are.

It's interesting comparing _Genji_ with _Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai_ by Yamamoto Tsunetomo, which admittedly is more of a primer for young samurai than a novel. Still, the difference in tone within the space of just a few centuries is striking, especially when Tsunetomo spends a fair bit of time in _Hagakure_ complaining about how decadent samurai have become since the rise of the Tokugawa shogunate and the end of a long period of civil war. I can only imagine what Tsunetomo might have thought of the poetry-writing, wisteria-viewing, romance-addicted aristocracy of the Heian court.

18/1/07 - Added a link to an online copy of _Genji_, if anyone's interested. (It's linked on the post title, because apparently with the latest system upgrade Blogger no longer automatically makes links a different colour.)

AFK

Today is my first day back at work after Christmas holidays, and I'm probably feeling better today than I have since about the 20th of December. X. and I have both been wretchedly ill during the Yuletide season, a condition apparently shared by just about everyone we know. I don't know if it's the flu, but there does seem to be something extraordinarily nasty going around right now. Fortunately, X. is between jobs and I've had since the 22nd off, so at least we didn't have to haul our diseased carcasses in to work, but I suspect we've made up for it by infecting our respective families with the Damned Thing. Unfortunately, it's difficult to appreciate ten solid days of slack time when you're busy drowning in your own noxious secretions.

So here's what I've been up to, for anyone who's interested:

Dec. 22: Got to leave at noon. Watered office plants thoroughly, because dead houseplants make baby Jesus cry. Went to early Christmas Eve dinner at folks' place because my dear little sister and her beau were leaving for Spain on the 24th. Tried to avoid coughing on her, as I didn't want to spoil her holiday. Opened presents. Went home early at my mother's insistence.

Dec. 24: Christmas Eve at X.'s folks. Learned a great deal about the eating habits of various ruminant species from X.'s dad, who evidently misses lecturing. Opened more presents. Went home early due to hellacious stomach cramps.

Dec. 25: Christmas Day at my folks' with my aunt, uncle, and two of my three cousins. Wore a great deal of makeup to disguise sickly complexion for obligatory family photography session. Went home early after hacking germs all over extended family.

Dec. 26-7: Hacking, sniffling, and watching _Shogun_ on DVD.

Dec. 28: Birthday. X. was feeling a bit better, so he made me breakfast. Went to folks' place for dinner (chicken cordon bleu - my favourite) and profiteroles in lieu of cake. X. earned my undying gratitude for erasing the picture my mother insisted on taking to mark the momentous occasion of my turning 35. Like I really want to immortalize the moment when I look and feel as though I've been run over by the "Bust Loose" party bus

Dec. 30: More or less alive. Went with X. to a D&D session at TFG's apartment although only as a spectator.

Dec. 31: Went to a smallish soiree at Strixy and Franca's apartment and got rather drunk. Felt considerably better. Decided to consume more alcohol next time I get sick.