Everything feels the same but it’s different. Our house has had holes in the floor. Big chunks gouged out of it; rubble went in the black-top wheelie bin outside making it heavy to roll on to the street for collection. And yet, the floor is now smooth. Sanded down and varnished a rosewood colour, so that it is whole. Simply beautiful. No scarring. You wouldn’t have known we’d been through months of walking around damp wood, being careful not to tread on splinters because a mouse had chewed through a pipe (probably to sharpen its teeth) causing water damage to the woodwork beneath our feet. Having knowledge of something bad happening somewhere invisible scares me.
*
I have been on holiday to Japan. The itinerary was already planned, and we had bought our JR Passes in advance, so that we could shinkansen-hop all over the long island. Of course, I loved it, but it’s as if I’m still there – or never went there in the first place – I dreamt it all up. A few days before my flight I caught covid. They were the worst symptoms I’d ever had from the virus; it was my fourth time having it, even though I’ve been vaxxed three times already. I quarantined myself in my fiancée’s family flat in London which was empty. I ate crisps, cheese toasties and drank fluids, drifting in and out of sleep for three solid days.
While I slept, I became covered in sweat, unbeknownst to me, so that when I awoke, I’d be lying in a puddle the shape of my own body. I would run one foot over the other and the sole would return soaked in cold water produced by me. I knew I was not well, but I had to be on that flight to Japan; there was the important death anniversary of my mother’s, which I couldn’t miss. I would wake up from my feverish sleeps in that foreign bed and doze like an inanimate thing. A slab of something half-alive, like one of the sarsen stones at Stonehenge. An unnatural blue hue was percolating through the blinds, and I could hear noises from the street, distant sirens, the shunt of trains, the soundscape of a city, and I believed for a moment before I fell back to sleep that I was in Tokyo.
Soon enough I was. How I’d got there was a blur. I exited the airport and headed directly to a friend’s empty apartment in Tokyo, riding aboard a doll’s house aesthetic monorail with dusty pink carriage compartments. I sweated and slept in her bed too. The hue of the morning light was paler but still blue. The noise of the city dropped to a pregnant hum at nightfall, as if God the DJ had lowered the levels on the mixing board. Before I holed-up in her empty home, I had stocked up on crisps, onigiri and strawberry milk from the Seven-Eleven down the street. Days passed. I tested negative. Finally, I arrived in Japan.
It's like a fiction that I’ve visited some of these places because at the time I was sleepwalking. I would take naps at odd hours during the day. Covid made my mind foggy and I was always tired. I remember when I was in New York I was taken to a photo aura fortune teller in China Town. She took one look at my photo and said I was FOGGY: No direction, don’t know what you want, unsure of everything. I nodded like a child who'd had something explained to them they still couldn't comprehend. That was the last time I felt this foggy.
Where did we go? Kamakura with the large-scale statue of the Buddha Daibutsu, gazing serenely across the tops of tourists and buildings towards the glistening ocean. The weather turned lovely and summery, it was like July in England, but it was only April in Japan and the winds could pick and become blustery. We went to Izu Peninsula over winding roads through the verdant foothills of Mount Fuji. I peered into a bubbling pool of water, crystal clear, the colour of acrylic turquoise. Tiny fish darted to and fro across its shimmering mirror-like surface.
I remember fragments – not fully formed memories – but maybe that’s the way it is with holidays. I ate so much delicious food, there was never a moment I felt hunger. We stayed in Yamazaki and climbed a mountain where a famous battle had taken placed between the fighting samurai of feudal Japan. Up this mountain I made my first and only sighting of the uguisu (Japanese bush warbler) whose song had been following us up and down the country.
There was a daytrip to Kyoto where we met up with friends who were staying in the country for a sabbatical. My mother’s husband joined us here after having completed a walk over an ancient passageway through the mountains connecting the old capital Kyoto to Tokyo. We toasted his achievement with a clink of glasses, ‘Kampai!’ Then feasted in a brightly lit fast-food gyoza and ramen bar and drank our fill of tankards of ice-cold beer. The gyoza were pan-fried and crispy, the ramen broth salty and delicious.
I was enjoying everything but also flagging from the virus. I held on tightly to every moment of happiness, but they would invariably melt away in my fog. Just before I fell asleep in a futon, a creeping worry would lodge itself that I’d wake up the next day in London.
*
The most unbelievable part of our trip was visiting the art island, Naoshima, set in the dazzling blue Seto Seas. To travel there we crossed a gigantic red railway bridge and caught a ferry. What can I say? My experience of the Benesse Art Site was wholly uplifting. I hadn’t expected the contemporary art to be so good.
We hired electric bicycles to explore the island, going up and down steep slopes cutting through luscious scenery. We got tickets to the Art House Project, a collection of old disused Japanese houses which had been renovated by architects in collaboration with site-specific artists, all set within a living village community. I walked into an unassuming house marked on the guide map, and inside it was as elegant as Ryoanji Temple with its famed zen garden. Huge cascading waterfall ink paintings were hung from the ceiling in a dimly lit room with lacquered floorboards, which had been polished to a shine to make it look like the surface of still water.
We had a timed entry ticket to a place called Minamidera (the old site of a shrine) which was an artwork by the light artist James Turrell. Here I had my “Rothko Moment”. We entered a room that was pitch black. You slide your hands against the wall to feel your way to a seat, as the gentle voice of a museum guide truly guides you in. Then as a group we sat down and waited in silence. Minutes pass. There is absolutely no light. You can wave your hand in front of your face and not see where it is. The museum guide had told us all outside to turn off our phones properly (actually switched off, which I’m sure is a profound experience in itself, for some).
We wait in silence for something to happen. After five minutes which feels like an eternity a hint of a white box appears in front of us. It is a soft white glow, like the ghost of a blank canvas floating in the near distance. The image grows stronger until we can definitely see a square of white at the end of the room. The guide re-enters the space and tells us in his sotto voice that this light has been here all along. Nothing has changed but our vision. Our perception of the space has changed but not the space itself.
He tells us we can stand up and walk around the room now, as our eyes have adjusted, we shouldn’t fall over. We gather ourselves and wander about and walk towards the light. When I get there, I put my hand out to touch its surface but there’s nothing there. It’s pure air and I cry. The delight moves me to tears. I feel so stupid and worldly at the same time. This conceptual art has made me realise that if I just sit still and be quiet for once the world will reveal itself to me. I shall be awed. I feel shame and joy course through me, as I wipe away tears before anyone notices, even though they won’t because I’m crying inside a dark box.
*
I come back to myself in my Woolwich sitting room. Things have changed, so I must have gone away. The seasons have moved on and it’s May. The unknown plants on the windowsill have sprouted magenta pink flowers. The holes in my floor are fixed. I’ve recovered from covid, even though I’m still weakened by it. I have memories of a conceptual art island floating in the misty seas of Japan. I’ll believe that I’ve come back from a honeymoon to an unbroken life.
