Fukushima Angel: Know When to Walk Away
Late afternoon March 11, 2011
Just outside Sakura no Seibo Junior College, Fukushima, Japan
Radioactivity — 0.36 + microSv/h
“The Zeitgeist of every age is like a sharp east wind which blows through everything. You can find traces of it in all that is done, thought and written, in music and painting, in the flourishing of this or that art: It leaves its mark on everything and everyone.”
[Devil’s Advocate “Deep in my heart I loath the nexus of rulers and clerics, yet more deeply I loath genius in league with that gang.”] (“Advocatus diaboli” in English)
Her body was a billboard for her inner state, a neon sign for her neurotransmitter ratios and moods. One flick of her jet black shiny hair to the right and you knew you dropped a decimal place, or was off count by half a step. A Sailor Moon style curtsy meant several things, you were in, she thinks you’re odd, you have it coming not necessarily balanced or in that order. Dance was an escape, a connection to space, air, and the unspeakable force of life. In a time of madness, it was her portal to the Goddess energy in the deepest recesses of her repressed Japanese female soul. As much as she wanted to be a rebel without a cause, a libertine free of restraint sexual, moral or otherwise she was tightly bound by ancient codes of behavior evolved from feudal days and before. Catholic values and theology was her grandmother’s escape after her Hiroshima. She had folded 9,454 paper cranes as prayers for peace, peace, peace after suffering severe radiation burns. Passing away before the count could reach the 10,000 target promising immortality right before the last breath of air left her lungs, a nun came and prayed with her. That was enough to bypass centuries of hatred and she died believing that there was a promised land, with a smile on her face, in heaven. That’s the memory that she had that shackled her with restraint, a dance here or there in a dark club late at night freed her inner Kali (Divine Mother). The devi, chasing a fleeting moment of feminine memory and power before agriculture and city-state, freedom.
. She is there in a small tiny apartment, cold and alone. Beaten by life, optimistic. A smile graces her face. Surrounded by madness, sane. They said, “Know when to walk away.” To get out of the burning car and take that first step. To walk away before the flames touch the gas tank, before she can’t work. To walk away before the neurons fail and it gets too hard. The ambient air shimmers with heat, microscopic nanoparticles of fallout. This Fukushima angel is the future, our future anywhere around here. Waters are rising and tempers are simmering to a boil. She lights a joint, California kush shipped in via UPS. This is now, here, there or anywhere. What is it to be alive when the car’s on fire and you’re just walking away? Where is love and home when it’s in a box, five or ten on a truck driving to a new ‘hood? Survival mode and nothing more masks the subtlety and grace of the city cloaked in a thin veil of fallout, just enough to cause her eggs to mutate 0.0001% faster, to what no one knows. His sperm count was in the red, it was a lost cause. Their marriage was a waste of time. Earth is on fire and there’s nowhere to go. Just hop out the car and run. The war on drugs is on her, on him. It’s one day in the life of the post-modern couple and we’re all looking for answers.