On typhoons and other shitty things

As if one typhoon wasn't enough, another one rolled in today, completely obliterating my plans to go to go to a hot springs resort someplace and soak my worries away. Instead, I ended up going with on a museum adventure day with T, to two of the most depressing and disgusting museums in Tokyo - the Parasitological Museum in Meguro, and the Yushukan war museum at the Yasukuni shrine. Because what is a better substitute for rest and relaxation than parasites and death?

To be fair, they were both places I was interested in going to. I mean, I feel like a total sicko for wanting to check out tapeworms and stuff, but still - it's one of those WTF museums you never see anywhere, so why not go? Especially seeing as it was free and all. But yeah, 8.8 meter tapeworms wrapped neatly around a piece of carboard in formaldehyde was nasty.

This exhibition makes for great diet material. You never want to eat again.

Now I didn't take pictures at the war museum. It didn't feel like an appropriate thing to do, nor was I feeling particularly happy going around there. It was the strangest sensation. I've been to war museums before. I've been to World War 2 exhibitions, and I've watched a lot of documentaries. I liked to think that it doesn't phase me much. This, however, did.

The first thing that greeted us as we came into the museum were pictures drawn by children - a kind of drawing contest for elementary school kids. This in and of itself isn't strange for museums, but I was taken aback at the subject matter: bomb planes, tanks, war. No happy colours, no smiling faces, no trees and no grass. Just sober colours, serious depictions of tanks shooting shells and planes firing machine guns. One had written "日本を守ってくれてありがとうございます" - 'Thank you for protecting Japan'. It was eerie, because it was something that would never happen in any other country I've been. War wouldn't be sensationalized - especially not with small children.

Going through the museum presented the same kind of feeling. At first, going back to the Meiji period and other wars in the 1800's, it was the same stuff you'd see at any other museum. At this point, T and I were joking around and comparing history, but then it hit the 20th century, and there was the World War 2 area. At this point I would progressively grow quieter, only asking questions about some of the displays where the information was only available in Japanese. "These people are dead," T would tell me very matter-of-factly when looking at photos in the exhibition spaces. "This is what they were wearing when they died. See that? That's blood." We saw the Kamikaze ships, poetically decorated with cherry blossoms in that special Japanese way of thinking where death is this beautiful thing that's there to serve some higher purpose. That's when I noticed what was different with this museum - it glorified death. It showed nothing of the bad that was committed by Japanese soldiers, or anything related to anybody not Japanese - it showed young men, and sometimes boys looking to be around the age of twelve or so, as spotless heroes. Tragic heroes, such as the case with the Kamikaze pilots, but heroes all the same, giving up their lives for some greater goods. The last few rooms in the museum were plastered with pictures of people who died, their belongings, and letters to their families in which they say goodbye. I felt sad. I felt sick. And seeing these things with T, being one of the most nationalistic people I know, just increased the feeling of surrealism.

"That dog is dead. That cat is dead. That horse is dead." That boy is dead.

I didn't really feel better until I was out again, going through the very still Japanese garden behind the shrine in the rain, feeding the fish and breathing air that wasn't stale and mausoleum-like.

There are so many different sides to this culture that are impossible to pick up on if you're not here for an extended period of time. Dark things, light things, all mixed together creates complexities that are hard to get a grip on. There's stillness and beauty, mixed with cruelty and coldness, and all encompassed in a gentleness and genuine kindness. It's paradoxical, yet feels so natural all at once. I had no idea I would experience anything like it before I came, and I'm so glad that I did.

The rain pounds down, the wind roars, and as you stand under the shrine gates and look at the weather, the sound of the rain on your umbrella reminds you of that one scene in Totoro and suddenly you're just grinning like an idiot. There it is, light and dark, and everything in between. It makes me feel more aware. It makes me feel more alive. It makes me feel more.