Words - Charles Bukowski
Lydia looked good. The light came through the curtains and shone on her. She had an orange in her hand and was tossing it into the air. The orange spun through the sunlit morning.
To live in a world meant for other people
To live in a world meant for other people Here a bartender carves a block of ice into a near-perfect sphere with a sharp knife and his bare hand. A geisha steps onto the elevator in the hotel, her hair brushed back with painstaking accuracy. In the restaurant, food is prepared with care and served with even more care. Ugly buildings and tangled wires overhead share space with small gardens and handmade signs and window displays and rows of idle bicycles. Neon skeletons hang by day and become breathing beauties at nightfall. Preschoolers line up like ducks in yellow uniforms on a train platform. I hear one visitor refer to these children as the reason why “they are so militaristic.” My introduction to Japan is a list of quips like this one from other westerners. I hear them from strangers on the subway. I hear them from my co-worker who has lived here for several years. I hear them from the occasional person I meet in a bar or at a party. I stand in this
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