Tokyo, Shibuya

Alien landing in Shibuya, west Tokyo, consumer hub smudged with smoke and steam from yakitori joints and ramen stands, cluttered with construction hoardings and "girls" bars, touts in sharp suits and no socks loitering on the stained greasy streets, scouring for prey with their single vain, manicured gaze like crows eyeing grilled meat. Nearby the famed scramble intersection disgorges pedestrians, men, women, teenagers, people, more people, heading for a drink, heading for home, for meetings, for sex. On nearby “love-hotel hill”, rooms can be had for a few thousand yen/hour. During the postwar Occupation young women flocked to the letter-writers here, who translated love notes into English to win over the cashed-up Yankee GIs, to maintain the promise of escape. Now landing in this mindless microcosm, the motives have not changed, this parade of idlers and artists, students and fashion victims, cooks, prostitutes, businesspeople, hostesses and philosophers, like the used books in the bookstore from whose entrance I pointed my film camera, the pages worn, like me, waiting for a buyer, for their moment, each one unique.