Standing obediently behind the kiroi sen, waiting for the futsu densha. The shinkansen rushes by violently, the daigakusei immersed in their keitai taking no notice to their fluttering strait hair. Exhausted men staggering in from the post-work nomikai and a teenage couple holding hands on the way home from a late night of bukatsu. Kaze.
Kiroi sen, yellow safety line. Even the automated intercom voice warning riders to stand behind the line sounds tired, as she lists off the next few stops. Futsu densha, the local train, which is the slowest, but the only one that will stop near our obscure apartment by the river. Shinkansen, the bullet train that yells at 200 miles per hour, travelling from the frigid top to the beachy bottom of this California-sized island.
Daigakusei, college students. Thoughts of breaking the mold swimming around in their thoughts, but conforming to the norm on keitai, their cell phones. Nomikai, men drinking together with the coworkers they have already spent 12 hours with today. Leaving their wives to put the kids to bed and fall asleep alone, again. Bukatsu, the club sport middle and high schoolers have chosen, attending in the evenings after morning study, school, and after-school exam preparation class.
Kaze, a gentle wind, flowing from the ancient treetops through the canal of the Motojuku train station, singing to the gods of the land of the rising sun. Motojuku, a mountain town in the city of Okazaki, Japan. Motojuku is in puberty, honoring the ancient roots that run down the mountain through the station: the first spurt of growth into city life.
Walking to the station, strict tradition and devotion tingles the ground as one passes the abandoned shrines and temples covered in mossy drapes. The remaining beverage machine lights glitter, enticing the pedestrian to enjoy a melon soda, or can of corn soup. Cross the bridge, around the enormous gutter and down and up the staircase to cross the street, kaze again. The automatic ticket teller doesn't process prepaid train cards yet, a two-inch ticket must be purchased in the adjacent machine, fed to the teller, where it will meet the rider on the other side of the gate.
Alas the futsu densha arrives, and all these figures pile in to the surprisingly clean car. The train travels hundreds of miles, carrying thousands of people per day. However, like their thoughts, all riders keep their refuse to themselves. Exhaustion and beaten routine swirl through the muggy air, pride in their inventions but begging for innovations. Eyes do not meet on purpose, they sleepily close or adhere to a screen, sealing in isolation. Politeness and courtesy abound although friendship shyly remains fictional. The figures rock back and forth once, as the train stretches out of the station. Until next time.
