We zoom in on the Pacific coast of Honshu Island seeking Mt Fuji. The mountain is seven thousand feet high and surrounded by its legendary single cone. It seems ever more seeped in cloud as we draw closer. From our field of view, we can no longer see its peak in profile against the camoflaged browns of the ground and the confused blues of the sky. We can, however, avert ourselves from our subject's gaze, and watch him walk, and occasionally trip or even tumble, tarrying often to decipher signs painted on wooden posts or andecite rocks along the way. Still, we watch him persevere accross the baron scrublands that lead up to the foot of the mountain. We are determined to see him reach at least this point, and desperate to understand his awakenings during this tumululous quest. We can see that the expression on his face is one of determination and resilience, but in the aroma of his thoughts we can sense the trepidation of his reminicences.
We bare witness to muddled memories: silver tendrils of barbed wire, spiralled between two concrete outposts, magnified by the moon. There in the darkness sits a glum looking gatekeeper who studies the man's British passport with an avid curiousity. He looks confused. Yet, after a sigh and a polite chat in Japanese, he hands back the document and we hear the grinding of the gate being opened. It clangs behind him with which he alights onto a small runway which, together, we follow. Pallets and crates are stacked neatly around covered by green tarpalings held in place by breeze bricks. Several seemingly uninteresting brick buildings present themselves in his proximity. He continues on. But all of a sudden there is something moving towards him. Utterly aghast, he realilses what’s happening all too late! Soldiers have surrounded him. Their miniture army-vehicles look comical in the moonlight, but he soon finds himself looking down the barrel of a pistol somewhat less of a joke. We watch as he's interigated, then maneuvered awkwardly into a truck by an Japanese soldier, who, unsure whether to continue waving the pistol or grasp the stearing wheel, drives his toy car haphazardly back towards the gate. The soldiers explore his backpack, eyeing it warely as if it might explode in their faces. They stick their mitts inside and call out in rather monotomously slow American the name and definition of each item. Four thousund callories of Sushi. One litre, one half litre bottle of water. One paperback book, in English. One lighter. Two packs of Japanese cigerettes. Finally they conseed that the man is probobly not a spy, concluding that he looks more like Jonny English, than a James Bond. And so, cast out and abashed, and more than a little bewildered by finding the USA instead of Mt Fuju, the man duly follows the road downward back west to Gotemba, lumberingly deflecting the perfumed local prostitues in business for yanky soldiers to pleasure on the outskirts of town. Yes Sir. My name is Private James Junior Macarthy from Alabama, the u-n-i-e-d S-t-a-t-e-s o-f A-m-e-r-i-c-a. Will. Ok Sir, well we’re gonna take you over here and find out just what you’re doing here. I’d apprechiate if you keep your hands where I can see ‘em, and don’t make any sudden movements. Ok! I place my hands on the miniture dashboard. The sun is high in the afternoon sky, but the wind bites at his face. Finally we watch him approach the slopes of Mount Fuji. Ahead of him a sign depicts two symbols. One left and one right. But he is ignorant to what either say. By ill-fated chance he takes the left path, walking the hilly route up to where the real face of the mountain appears to begin. A rope cascades down the slope, attached by metal poles hammered hard into the ground. Soon, the verges prove too steap to climb and he grasps the rope to pull himself up, hand over hand, foot by foot. Three Metres, five, ten..fifteen. He stops to catch his breath. All of a sudden an avalanche of humans come scurrying down the sandy slope towards him, whipping up a cloud of dust and flying stones. Through the dust they shout things to him, but he cannot decipher the meaning as they whizz by. He ignores them and progresses up another twenty or so rungs until realizing there must be another way. And low and behold there appears the edge of a path which winds itself in and around the mountain, looking like a carving made by giants of the early ages. And so, with some trouble, he scurries and shuffles across the sandbanks to join it. At this level, the ground is surfaced with a thick layer of brown gravel that his feet sink deeply into with every laboreous step he takes. We see through his eyes the clusters of lights that must be towns and cities on the flatlands down below. The mountain is now covered by a blanket of darkness penetrated only by a bright and chalky moon. The perfect comapanion for an evening of soul searching and climbing. He feels inspired by his successes. The higher he reaches, the more confident and determined he feels about his persuits. He organises his psychological desktop, putting all the different parts of his life into folders, assigning coloured stars to the important ones. He invents plans and algorythms to make sure things work out. He stops and eats several pieces of the sushi. He doesn’t appear hungry. But the energy is tantamount to his success. Occasionally he stops and sits, gazing up at the stars, lapping up the silence around him, taciturn, as if the world had gone to sleep for eternity. Silence is all we hear too as we watch from our deck chairs on the moon. Sometimes he stumbles precariously close to the edge, and as our heart skips a beat as we see his life flash before sullen eyes. A shot of determination, as if he were suddenly and finally conscious of his plight. Some time passes before the nausia and disorientation kicks in. “You'll die up here. You'll never make it up, you're stupid to try”. We want to tell him. We feel he wants to give up his plight, to curl up in a ball and become a sleeping shadow, silent as the mountain. To our relief, he stumbles on the rest of the way in silence, thinking about nothing. We reach the top first to watch him take his first few steps upon the summit. His feet are bruised as his head is visibly pounding. But he has done it! When twilight dawns, the shadows turn into silhouttes. Voices like flutes on the morning air awake him. As he reaches the top it becomes darker. Perhaps the moon has sunk away. He walks on the edge to get the views of down below, but is too fearful to go to far. He cannot see the edge of the mountain, which we watch him stride procarously close to. He checks the time. Sunrise is in three hours. He has ascended a little too fast. He decides to explore inside, away from the dangrous cliff edges. We observe crowds of the temperary village begin a mass migration; a sunrise pilgrimage, we assume. he climbs out and up high metal rungs, of what could only described as a pirate ship made by from a scrap metal. About a hundred of us cling to the mast, others clinging upon the sale. We watch them gazing around in the growing twilight as if it were our first ever dawn. A red line appears on the horizon, thickening as the seconds tick by. Eventually as we raise our heads to look at him, every ray of my light burns into his aching head like being shot by a thousand poisonous arrows. He's sees nothing. And we see only darkness. We watch as he jams his hands over his eyes and bolts down the mountain, tripping and tumbling down like skiing, rolling panda.
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w.j.daniel
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