HARAJUKU3

Black screen. Time to think. So little of it. Use it well. Too late. White on top again:
“Scarf Girl, Pumpkin Girl, Lolita Man and the Rabbit.”

7.07-9.16 “The corner at the park end is home to the freak shows. The king lives here: a towering transvestite in a pink and white Miss Muffet overcoat. He is Goth-Lolita meets French Maid meets Rocky Horror, with legs that are too long, pigtails that fall too sweetly, and a square-jawed face too hardened by life to ever be sweet enough for this look. His is the very corner position, the trickiest spot for tourist cameras to penetrate without invitation, next to the hard-core dressers and just over from the lone Buddhist monk who waits for alms. He sucks on a lollipop. Pom-poms and a stuffed rabbit hang around his neck; a red bonnet is a dainty summit on this most unfeminine of man mountains. Just like Pink Man, he looks to be in his early thirties. He has three teenage disciples, who block all but the accredited photographers. They manoeuvre like army squads, checking lines of fire and moving to snuff out any danger. Two of them seem unremarkable, dressed in dark jackets and street pants, but the red and black scarf on one reveals her devotion, just as the plastic pumpkin hanging from the waistband of her friend does. His final acolyte wears a white rabbit suit. She is eating vanilla Pockies from a box. From a distance they could be miniature carrots. She nibbles at them furtively as she scans the surrounding crowd. Lolita Man choreographs their movements with his masculine hands, the fingers too long and strong to be feminine. They arc around him, chaff to the pose-seeking missiles fired from a hundred lenses, blocking clear views of what he values most: his face.


He does not see the irony in courting privacy in this most public place, but he reserves his poses for the times of his choosing, resting between times in a nest of small suitcases stuffed with makeup and costume changes. The disciples suck on lollypops too, eyes alternating between concerted nonchalance and the search for intruders. For one brief moment they are standing in a line, and the tourists descend with their fun-size cameras, desperate for that one shot that will stand above the hundreds of blurred, interrupted or incomplete images already stored in their memory cards. The four twist and swivel in silence. Scarf Girl bows her head, arms hanging limply; Pumpkin Girl raises one arm to cover her face, warding off all attempts to capture her with a mittened hand; Lolita Man simply turns his back, showing off a swathe of fur-lined coat and red and pink striped knee-high socks. Only the Rabbit looks straight ahead, gnawing on a Pocky, frozen in the camera flash-lights. She starts to sway, left to right, back to front, and the cameras track her, drawn to her, ever following this most unlikely of white rabbits.”


So hard to think when she is talking. Her voice flows through my ears. It washes every stray thought from my brain. Cascades out the other side, leaving me empty. I have no choice but to agree. I have nothing left to argue with. I reach out to pause the file again. There is too much happening here. Can’t escape the feeling I have missed something. She is driving me along, carrying me away. But from what? She can’t get me out of this room. Fifty-nine nails can resist striped socks. In the silence there is light. I haven’t worked as much because of her. All this time with Polaroids . Now the memory stick. They should be adding memories, not replacing them. She wants me to stop. She wants me to use her eyes. What is wrong with my own?

This last section of the file puzzles me. I can’t hold it in front of me. That thought keeps swishing out of reach. It circles the plughole as the water sinks. In and out of reach. I can’t play the file again. I want to be clear about this. Her voice will suck me down as well. But only if I let it. Think about rabbits and Pockies and cutesy men. Think about sweating tourists and camera flashes. Think about raised arms and military precision. There it is.

How could she film him, film them? How could she capture these expert escapers? A girl with a video camera. A girl who looks the part. To her waist, at least. How did she get that close to them? Close enough to find makeup flaws. Close enough to pick Pocky flavours. Unless she staged it somehow. Or she is one of them. Or she works for an international fashion magazine. All that detail she provides about them. But one piece about her is missing.

11.27 The time meter is almost full. Black screen but no name. Ticking forwards to the end. Tiny letters appear. So small I have to crane forward. ‘Wait three seconds. Pause the clip.’ I count aloud. On the third she appears. Freeze-framed. No street sounds, no guiding voice. No movement, trapped on the screen.

12.34 Black and White Girl. She is facing away from the camera. Against the wall, her back to the crowds. Like she doesn’t need them. Or doesn’t know they are there. Oversized black backpack covered in grey stars. Goth Maid black skirt, three layers of ruffles. Black and white striped convict socks. Chunky platform shoes showing wear. Only a cheap white t-shirt. She is half a character. The outfit stops at her waist. But a whole person. Her hands rest on the parapet. She looks out between concrete balustrade pillars. Down onto the train lines below. Yamanote Line trains every three minutes, both directions. Just a girl watching the trains go past. Watching them spit out instant crowds. The crowds that are here to see her. Her and the rest of them. In this moment she is different. The group are camera flash darlings. The group are playing to their audience. Ensconced on centre stage. All the love they need is theirs. But even here, she stands out. Blazing colours, bleeding makeup; carefully costumed, maximum shock. She is just a black and white girl. The girl who stopped to look around. While her world went quietly mad.


She has the patience they lack. Maybe even the optimism they can’t trust in. A keitai clutched in her right hand. Toys dangling from it, bigger than it is. Red and white fluff too hard to make out. The only colour bright against the grey concrete. I know the phone won’t ring. Maybe she does as well. But there is always hope. Hope amidst this sea of rebellion. A dream that there is more than this. There has to be. With every week the cast swells and blends. Characters are loved and discarded like the children inside. Their moment lasts as long as the next photo. The more photos, the better you are. The brighter you are, the more they take. The crowd votes with its feet and digital cameras. It is becoming a popularity contest. Maybe it always has been. But the crowd is bigger now. The only way out is her way. Forget the colours and the heels. Leave aside the scarred makeup and dolls. Dismiss the suitcases of spare clothing. There is only one person worth seeing here. And she isn’t even interested.

I strain my eyes and see the tissue. Crushed in her left fingers. A corner peeking out from the flesh. Maybe escaping, or trying to breathe. I can’t make out her knuckles. Pink or white. The file quality drops when I pause it. Shouldn’t it be clearer? When you stop to consider, the world stops. You have the time you never had. That they don’t have. The time to think about things for yourself. That place in time where no distractions live.

I can’t see her face. She never turns while the camera lingers. Her back to it all. All I will ever see of her. I want to know if she’s been crying. I need to know if she’s sick. No one keeps tissues here. Too unhygienic, always have been. It must be clean, must be waiting. Just like she is, needing a purpose.

The seconds still tick away all but forgotten. No movement for so long. The statue in the cultural typhoon. Winds of fashion, storms of change. A small girl clinging to the stone bridge. Hoping not to be swept away. Take my hand, little one. I want to say it to her. Want to see her eyes turning to me. Need to feel like I can help her. But she never moves. The time drips away in second long droplets. The storm swirls over her. Whips her short hair upwards. Slices through her thin t-shirt. And then, after it all, comes the blackness.

No more images, no more white letters. Just the voice, only hers, no more script. “I am your eyes, Masa-kun. You don’t have to use them in the daylight, the sun would be too strong for you after all this time. It is too strong for me sometimes, just like everyone else. My eyes are yours now, and what you are looking for may arrive at any moment. You cannot miss that. You must promise never to close them.”