With it being Karuizawa I'm dressed the part, very smartly put together, just stuffy enough, but with a few fun things to set me apart. I know these fun items will be unavailable to the snobby locals—unavailable because they only dabble in their own narrow tastes, and nothing else. And I'm smugly reveling in putting one over on them, without advertising the intent.
Arriving on the island I make my way to the bohemian shop. It's hard to say what the shop was: there seemed to be some furniture, ornaments, perhaps clothes in there, and the proprietor was a very fashionable Japanese man, with jet black long hair, tied back, he was about my age. I'm disgusted by their pretentious eroticizing of simple, rugged, things whilst being pampered money-bags at the same time; but I must love it too as I'm drawn to the shop and it's my whole reason for traveling this far. The shop is part way up a hill and I walk my way up there.
An older Japanese man is parked outside the shop in a mini; he sees me approaching and grins—impressed with my sartorial effort. I pretend not to notice but my tail is up at the recognition. I walk past the shop, trying my best to see inside without giving away that I'm looking inside.
It's the next day. I'm newly dressed in some vintage jeans (the ones I own in real life, my most prized jeans, perhaps my most prized possession) a good shirt, and a "furugi" (used-clothes) knit that is patterned identically to a pair of socks I own in real life (they are army-green with thick yellow, and thin purple, stitching embellishment arranged in perpendicular lines—I don't actually like the socks that much in real life). The knit feels very exclusive and special, and to match it I have some white running shoes, like AirMax90s, with the same green and yellow patterning on them. It's a less formal dress, but delicately selected—and those who know clothes will understand the quality of it the moment they see. I walk toward the shop.
Outside the shop, there is the old man again. He sees me and once again approves, his reaction is more pronounced this time, as though he's thrown a line out to me, hoping one of us will say something and begin a conversation, but I snub him—in the most humble-looking way I can. I want to appear as though I wouldn't dream of being able to talk to such cool people, and it's pure luck that I fit in so well; but, of course, what I really want is to outdo them all. Beat them. I'm shown an image of me walking away, both from behind and in front, and notice that my white sneakers had become jet black ones, and at that instant I realize that they'd been black because I'd decided to wear a black knitted hat, which was off now, so the shoes didn't match in anymore. I somehow understand that the old man doesn't notice that closely and is impressed anyway. But I recall the white shoes that match the green knit and they return to white.
Today I'm going to stride confidently into the shop. The shopfront is directly inline of the sun, and I can't really see anything for the bright rays whitewashing my vision. Trying not to look flustered I walk straight in. The sudden dark once again blinds me. By the time my vision has come back the proprietor and his female helper are either side of me, doing something with the open French Window doors I just walked through. I'm standing in the middle of the entrance of the shop, he on my right, her on my left; and seeing all the stock neatly packed away in front of me, I realize they haven't opened yet. They are just preparing the shop. I notice a clock that reads 8:30.
It's prime embarrassment for me. The proprietor has to be polite to customers, but his voice doesn't even try to disguise his resentment at me for coming at completely the wrong time.
-"we're not yet open"
I'm stuck like a deer in the headlights: whether to be confident and pig-headed, like real moneyed people are, and do what I came to do - look at the shop - override the proprietor, treat him like a servant; or whether to run away as quickly and neatly as possible. I ignore his presence and take a scan of the shop interior, one quick pan seeming like it takes me an interminable amount of time, then walk out without saying a word. The proprietor says something very catty, but masked in the language of servitude, as I leave. I can't recall the words in waking, but remember I spent the rest of the dream with a burning sense injustice wagging in the background. Wishing I'd said something back.
Leaving the shop and continuing up the hill I look about. The houses are all the shit Japanese ones built in the late 50s, the 60s and the 70s; yet in Japan these can go for a premium—whereas true antique houses are looked down upon as somehow dirty. There are no shops, every building is a habitat, and the sense of dislocation from anything moving or vibrant (commerce, people grouping) reminds me of being on an Okinawan island.
I walk into the school and roam about for a bit. The students are all in class as no one seems to be about in the halls; and I soon get to thinking that being there is a bad idea. I can't find the way I came in, but notice the front gate and make my way there. This is a swanky school and no riff-raff are allowed in, so the front gates are like a security turnstile, or revolving door, and I must make my way through them—speaking to security the other side of a glass observation window looking on to the turnstile on the way. I'm nervous about that as I have no reason for being in the school, am clearly unconnected with it, and didn't have to do this to get in, i.e., have no defense against an accusation of having broken in. I'm faffing about near the main gate when a stroke of luck occurs: a slew of people, surely students, come flooding in and out of the gates—this is my chance. I don't recall getting out, but I am at last out.
Looking at the posh houses, posh school, etc., I've been trying to remember the Japanese word for aristocrats, or upperclass, to no avail. It's frustrating me as I'm fluent in Japanese and this is a word I have used many times and know very well, but can't recall it. I stroll the streets trying to remember it.
Making my way down the hill my clothes have changed. I'm in a suit and tie, but feel like I'm looking messy and need to smarten them up. I pass a black man on the way, perhaps it is Pharrell, who I'm loath to take fashion advice from, or be judged inferior to, I adjust the suit as I walk. He notices. I notice a bank of mirrors and sinks, like an open air communal bathroom, at the side of the quiet hill road, and make for it. Pharrell has bitten though, and is following me, he knows me, trying to say hello and start a conversation. I dislike Pharrell and really wish he'd fuck off, but matters are made worse when he starts giving me advice on how to smarten up the suit—starting with how to tie the tie. I hurriedly try to re-tie the tie, hardly even noticing what I'm doing as all I can think of is how embarrassed I am. When it comes to tightening the knot, I see in the mirror something is utterly wrong. The knot is way too thick and is falling apart, and on a closer look, I see there are two ties on.
Unraveling the ties, I come up with a striped brown one and sky blue one (two ties that have been mine in real life—the blue one when I was young, now thrown away; the brown one I still own but rarely use, again, bought when I was young). This is strange as in the mirror previous, the tie had been a very deep satin purple, virtually black, one. But more than strange it is again embarrassing—these two ties are not very good ones and the choice of either makes me look like a moron. I have to lump it though, I hold each tie to my chest, and decide on the brown one. My suit is brown (although it was a sharp black one when looking at it in the mirror).
I get back on the ferry and remember the Japanese word I was trying to remember: Kizoku. I wake.
