As most of you who might be reading this know, a few years back I took it upon myself to track down and watch all 28 Godzilla movies, culminating in "Godzilla: Final Wars," the last planned entry for a decade or so. After several months spent in a monster movie haze, I finally finished. And felt a little (a lot) sad. I had climbed the mountain and stood alone at the top, unsure of what to do next. So I tried to unpack the experience by writing a 28 part (one for each movie) retelling of "The Wizard of Oz" story featuring characters from each of the three major eras of the Godzilla franchise trekking through a crumbling Tokyo to confront the monster, emotionally healing one another along the way. I got two or three parts in before I realized that this was a colossal waste of time. This first part more or less stands on its own, however, and no one but Missy has ever read it before. And I still sort of like it. Here it is.
For the record, Sachiko is a peripheral character, a friend of Ichiro, the little boy protagonist from "Godzilla's Revenge." She was intended to be the "Dorothy" of my story and every part was going to be called "Sachiko vs." something. The 'something' of each title would have been representative of the creature Godzilla fought in each of his sequels (the moth, the dragon, the ape, etc.) as well as emblematic of what was going on emotionally within the characters.
For the record, Sachiko is a peripheral character, a friend of Ichiro, the little boy protagonist from "Godzilla's Revenge." She was intended to be the "Dorothy" of my story and every part was going to be called "Sachiko vs." something. The 'something' of each title would have been representative of the creature Godzilla fought in each of his sequels (the moth, the dragon, the ape, etc.) as well as emblematic of what was going on emotionally within the characters.
Sachiko vs. The King of the Monsters
Tokyo is dust and smoke and I can see its soul from here. Whatever the city was before (offices, trains, streets, homes), now it’s dust and smoke; a ghost. The ghost floats up. It’s searching for heaven, but I know it won’t find it, no matter how many times this happens. It tries, though. It’s trying now. See, Tokyo doesn’t know: heaven’s not there to be found. I’d forgive it (seeing as it’s only a city) if this wasn’t all it (and I) had ever known.
Here’s how it goes: The city becomes a battleground, the battleground becomes a ghost, the ghost rises toward heaven, but heaven’s not there. So the ghost stays dust and smoke. So it floats back down to earth. So it settles, to be built up again, to be the city again, the battlefield again, the ghost again. The dust and the smoke. This dust and this smoke.
We’re flying through it. The sky is gray with it. Tokyo has floated all the way above Narita (where we’re circling now, like crows over carrion). We’re sealed in, I tell myself. That dirty air isn’t filling this plane. I’m not breathing Tokyo into my lungs. Tokyo’s ghost isn’t poisoning me. It only feels that way.
The captain or flight attendant or somebody is saying something. I can’t understand it. Their voice is shaking. The plane is shaking. The woman behind me is screaming. Why? I open my mouth and pretend that her voice is my voice. I pretend that it’s me screaming. This place is so small, so small and so loud. There’s the sound of the engines, the sound of the air conditioner, the sounds of the passengers, the sounds of distant disaster (not distant enough). These noises are my voice too. Every single sound around us is coming from my mouth. I pretend that it’s me roaring. I close my eyes and I’m king of the monsters. I close my mouth and I’m me again.
The woman won’t stop screaming. Some other guy is crying. Why? Aren’t we used to this by now? Why are they so shocked and sad? Tokyo dies all the time. Tokyo’s a phoenix. You cry at first, but it keeps coming back. How many tears are we expected to shed? How many times does it take for tragedy to become inconvenience (and for inconvenience to become routine)?
Tokyo, leave us alone. You heal faster than we can. We won’t move on until you’re gone. That’s why I left. Why call me back?
In what may prove to be my final moments I lay my hands on my stomach and think about ghosts (and the phoenix). How many tears? How many times?
Something flies over the plane. I (we) can hear it. It sounds like a train. Something cuts a trail through the dust and smoke outside. My stomach rises as the plane drops. More shapes move by my window. There’s a light in the distance. I see a blue light and feel like going to it. I feel like going home. My stomach rises as my defenses drop. I can’t go home, it’s dust and smoke. The monster made it so. He always does and will. When it’s over, he’ll dissappear. He’ll hide in the ocean. He’ll hide beneath the salty water where nobody can reach him. He doesn’t remember. He never feels a thing.
That’s fine, I guess. City’s his more than ours. And my home was gone already. It went when I left (or it made it’s way to heaven while my back was turned).
Who do they keep rebuilding it for? How many times? Before rebuilding becomes an offering? Before tradition becomes religion (routine)?
I close my eyes and I’m god. I don’t remember. I never feel anything. I close my eyes and I’m king of the monsters.
I open my eyes and touch my face. Why did I come here? There’s nothing for me. I won’t remember and I can’t care. About this city or this altar.
My face is wet. A miniature stream from my eye to my mouth, a match to the scale of real streams to him. Dust and smoke. That dirty air isn’t in here I tell myself. But I can feel it. It’s making me cry. The ghost of Tokyo got in my eye. It slipped beneath the lens of my glasses and fixed itself to a wet and open part of me. I hide beneath the salty water. Nobody can reach me. I lick my lips and taste the stream.
More somethings beside, beneath and above us. More sounds like a train, the way tornadoes are supposed to sound.
The cabin rips open and there’s fire and wind like I’ve never felt. The fire will take me, I understand. When it’s done, I’ll be dust and smoke. What was me will merge with what was Tokyo. We’ll all be one big dusty ghost and I’ll be caught in it’s wheel: The city, the battle, the sky (heaven), the city. Build me up to tear me down. Who am I to argue?
I’ll tell you who I am.
In the time it takes for my memories to reach that distant blue light (the monster’s mouth), I think about things. My mother, my father, the Old Ape and Ichiro (Ichiro). I’ve done things I’m not proud of (I’ve never done anything I’m proud of) What kind of person am I? Was I? What kind of person was I, because I’m not one anymore.
I’ll tell you who I am.
I close my eyes and hear the roar of whatever’s happening to our plane. It’s my roar. I close my eyes and I’m dust and smoke. I close my eyes and I’m so many things: I’m a ghost, I’m a city. I’m the king of the monsters.
Tokyo is dust and smoke and I can see its soul from here. Whatever the city was before (offices, trains, streets, homes), now it’s dust and smoke; a ghost. The ghost floats up. It’s searching for heaven, but I know it won’t find it, no matter how many times this happens. It tries, though. It’s trying now. See, Tokyo doesn’t know: heaven’s not there to be found. I’d forgive it (seeing as it’s only a city) if this wasn’t all it (and I) had ever known.
Here’s how it goes: The city becomes a battleground, the battleground becomes a ghost, the ghost rises toward heaven, but heaven’s not there. So the ghost stays dust and smoke. So it floats back down to earth. So it settles, to be built up again, to be the city again, the battlefield again, the ghost again. The dust and the smoke. This dust and this smoke.
We’re flying through it. The sky is gray with it. Tokyo has floated all the way above Narita (where we’re circling now, like crows over carrion). We’re sealed in, I tell myself. That dirty air isn’t filling this plane. I’m not breathing Tokyo into my lungs. Tokyo’s ghost isn’t poisoning me. It only feels that way.
The captain or flight attendant or somebody is saying something. I can’t understand it. Their voice is shaking. The plane is shaking. The woman behind me is screaming. Why? I open my mouth and pretend that her voice is my voice. I pretend that it’s me screaming. This place is so small, so small and so loud. There’s the sound of the engines, the sound of the air conditioner, the sounds of the passengers, the sounds of distant disaster (not distant enough). These noises are my voice too. Every single sound around us is coming from my mouth. I pretend that it’s me roaring. I close my eyes and I’m king of the monsters. I close my mouth and I’m me again.
The woman won’t stop screaming. Some other guy is crying. Why? Aren’t we used to this by now? Why are they so shocked and sad? Tokyo dies all the time. Tokyo’s a phoenix. You cry at first, but it keeps coming back. How many tears are we expected to shed? How many times does it take for tragedy to become inconvenience (and for inconvenience to become routine)?
Tokyo, leave us alone. You heal faster than we can. We won’t move on until you’re gone. That’s why I left. Why call me back?
In what may prove to be my final moments I lay my hands on my stomach and think about ghosts (and the phoenix). How many tears? How many times?
Something flies over the plane. I (we) can hear it. It sounds like a train. Something cuts a trail through the dust and smoke outside. My stomach rises as the plane drops. More shapes move by my window. There’s a light in the distance. I see a blue light and feel like going to it. I feel like going home. My stomach rises as my defenses drop. I can’t go home, it’s dust and smoke. The monster made it so. He always does and will. When it’s over, he’ll dissappear. He’ll hide in the ocean. He’ll hide beneath the salty water where nobody can reach him. He doesn’t remember. He never feels a thing.
That’s fine, I guess. City’s his more than ours. And my home was gone already. It went when I left (or it made it’s way to heaven while my back was turned).
Who do they keep rebuilding it for? How many times? Before rebuilding becomes an offering? Before tradition becomes religion (routine)?
I close my eyes and I’m god. I don’t remember. I never feel anything. I close my eyes and I’m king of the monsters.
I open my eyes and touch my face. Why did I come here? There’s nothing for me. I won’t remember and I can’t care. About this city or this altar.
My face is wet. A miniature stream from my eye to my mouth, a match to the scale of real streams to him. Dust and smoke. That dirty air isn’t in here I tell myself. But I can feel it. It’s making me cry. The ghost of Tokyo got in my eye. It slipped beneath the lens of my glasses and fixed itself to a wet and open part of me. I hide beneath the salty water. Nobody can reach me. I lick my lips and taste the stream.
More somethings beside, beneath and above us. More sounds like a train, the way tornadoes are supposed to sound.
The cabin rips open and there’s fire and wind like I’ve never felt. The fire will take me, I understand. When it’s done, I’ll be dust and smoke. What was me will merge with what was Tokyo. We’ll all be one big dusty ghost and I’ll be caught in it’s wheel: The city, the battle, the sky (heaven), the city. Build me up to tear me down. Who am I to argue?
I’ll tell you who I am.
In the time it takes for my memories to reach that distant blue light (the monster’s mouth), I think about things. My mother, my father, the Old Ape and Ichiro (Ichiro). I’ve done things I’m not proud of (I’ve never done anything I’m proud of) What kind of person am I? Was I? What kind of person was I, because I’m not one anymore.
I’ll tell you who I am.
I close my eyes and hear the roar of whatever’s happening to our plane. It’s my roar. I close my eyes and I’m dust and smoke. I close my eyes and I’m so many things: I’m a ghost, I’m a city. I’m the king of the monsters.
that was amazing beautiful sexy cool
ReplyDeletei know you may rightfully roll your eyes at this but that makes me way want to watch godzilla movies
Awesome! Thank you so much for reading it!
ReplyDeleteThat was a wonderful time, when I was watching so much Godzilla that all of my thoughts were being filtered through that world. There's a lot of pure, uncomplicated joy to be found in those movies. I'm always up for watching them again. Just name the time and the place.