by Anna Kunnecke
Even though we live in one of the grayest, dingiest corners of Tokyo, my life is full of flowers.
Our very tall apartment building has some unbelievably effective landscaping, and they do it in a space that would fit on the head of a thimble. So we get to walk through a bower of seasons even though we live in a concrete tower. (And sometimes we make rhymes about it.)
There is always something blooming, even in the middle of winter. Camellias mostly, in waves of red, rose, and white, all dewy and blinking among the glossy green. Then right around February when it's so grim and bleak that you just think the world will probably end this time, that there was a cosmic mistake and they forgot spring this year, the ume (plum) come out. These unbelievably fragile blossoms float straight out of stark branches that look like they've been charred and traumatized by the wind. It doesn't seem physically possible that these flowers could come out of those black sticks, and they feel almost divine, they're so welcome.
And soon after that, while it's still bitterly cold, the daphne bloom, my true love, my absolute favorite scent on this entire earth. First these little buds start to spike out, and then they grow angry, like purple porcupines, and then when you think you just can't bear it for one more day, they all burst open. Each little spike unfurls these tiny pointed petals, and each blossom shimmers a little bit, like they're dusted in crystalline snow or some very tasteful glitter. And the fragrance--there are no words. It's like lemon went to heaven and had an orgasm. So even though it's still bitter, and you want to curse the frozen ground, you'll be walking down an ugly street all battened down for winter and suddenly feel yourself swoon, like your soul just slithered and slipped on the banana peel of love. It's dangerous, this daphne; it can induce utter euphoria and make people decide to do crazy things, like have babies and buy puppies and plan epic hanami (flower-gazing) parties.
Because soon after the daphne, the sakura (cherries) start to bloom: that quintessential Japanese obsession, the dainty ephemeral blossoms symbolizing the brevity of life and the beauty of something else and mainly it's an excuse for everyone to put down bright blue tarps upon the freezing-ass ground and drink themselves silly. While gazing at the blossoms, naturally. Ahem. That is to say. Sometimes the drinkers remember to look up, but you have to remember that it's really cold and people tend to huddle. Okay, so it's not so much about the blossoms at all, but nonetheless the little cherry saplings by my building are still quite lovely. Then the petals begin to fall and thank god because by this point every single person in Tokyo is hung over and wishing to high heaven that they could stop drinking already. The little children spend hours gathering up the big frothy drifts of pink petals that pile up everywhere. They gather them up and catch them in their skirts and stick them in their pockets and mostly they throw them all over creation, so that everyone and their dog has lovely ephemeral sakura petals sticking to them at all times, like the whole world has developed a case of dandruff. Pretty, pretty dandruff.
And this whole time, every supermarket and flower shop is brimming with sweet peas, just absolutely fluttering with them, and you can fill your whole house with their girlyness and fragrance for the price of a latte.
To be continued...
Even though we live in one of the grayest, dingiest corners of Tokyo, my life is full of flowers.
Our very tall apartment building has some unbelievably effective landscaping, and they do it in a space that would fit on the head of a thimble. So we get to walk through a bower of seasons even though we live in a concrete tower. (And sometimes we make rhymes about it.)
There is always something blooming, even in the middle of winter. Camellias mostly, in waves of red, rose, and white, all dewy and blinking among the glossy green. Then right around February when it's so grim and bleak that you just think the world will probably end this time, that there was a cosmic mistake and they forgot spring this year, the ume (plum) come out. These unbelievably fragile blossoms float straight out of stark branches that look like they've been charred and traumatized by the wind. It doesn't seem physically possible that these flowers could come out of those black sticks, and they feel almost divine, they're so welcome.
And soon after that, while it's still bitterly cold, the daphne bloom, my true love, my absolute favorite scent on this entire earth. First these little buds start to spike out, and then they grow angry, like purple porcupines, and then when you think you just can't bear it for one more day, they all burst open. Each little spike unfurls these tiny pointed petals, and each blossom shimmers a little bit, like they're dusted in crystalline snow or some very tasteful glitter. And the fragrance--there are no words. It's like lemon went to heaven and had an orgasm. So even though it's still bitter, and you want to curse the frozen ground, you'll be walking down an ugly street all battened down for winter and suddenly feel yourself swoon, like your soul just slithered and slipped on the banana peel of love. It's dangerous, this daphne; it can induce utter euphoria and make people decide to do crazy things, like have babies and buy puppies and plan epic hanami (flower-gazing) parties.
Because soon after the daphne, the sakura (cherries) start to bloom: that quintessential Japanese obsession, the dainty ephemeral blossoms symbolizing the brevity of life and the beauty of something else and mainly it's an excuse for everyone to put down bright blue tarps upon the freezing-ass ground and drink themselves silly. While gazing at the blossoms, naturally. Ahem. That is to say. Sometimes the drinkers remember to look up, but you have to remember that it's really cold and people tend to huddle. Okay, so it's not so much about the blossoms at all, but nonetheless the little cherry saplings by my building are still quite lovely. Then the petals begin to fall and thank god because by this point every single person in Tokyo is hung over and wishing to high heaven that they could stop drinking already. The little children spend hours gathering up the big frothy drifts of pink petals that pile up everywhere. They gather them up and catch them in their skirts and stick them in their pockets and mostly they throw them all over creation, so that everyone and their dog has lovely ephemeral sakura petals sticking to them at all times, like the whole world has developed a case of dandruff. Pretty, pretty dandruff.
And this whole time, every supermarket and flower shop is brimming with sweet peas, just absolutely fluttering with them, and you can fill your whole house with their girlyness and fragrance for the price of a latte.
To be continued...
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