Station 8: New Zealand

6th Stellweek, 2102

 

On the first birthday after your death, we went on a seven-day trip to Japan. We could have passed the ticket to someone else but decided your mom and I would prefer to take the trip alone. I should be thanking you a million for finding the right program to learn Japanese. Not just because I was able to interact with the locals there, but I also now understand those Japanese songs I keep on my Voltaphone. One day I was scrolling when I learned that languages can be tonal or non-tonal. Two voices awaken from the same mouth but come from opposite faces of the earth. It’s like a tongue going for a walk, and then deciding to go for a sprint instead. J-wave is cool and all, but I wanted something suited for my time. It is important to see myself in the song. I had a phase where I loved city pops, back when Dinosaurs and non-smart-phones roamed the earth. 

The last time I went to Japan was dozens of years ago. I timed this trip perfectly around late March to see the Cherry Blossoms. The trees were enclosed in huge forest domes. Inside these glass greenhouses were any color Sakura tree you could imagine–Watermelon Pink, Scarlet Red, Lemon Green. The trees are a toy to the Japanese. The trees are a toy to them, they unpiece the leaves and attach new ones. No longer are they just sweet candy for the eye, but artistic expression too. Trees were shaped into torii gates, cherries, and all that could be seen. Outside were rows of festival booths, galleries, and cafes. There were your typical season-themed paintings(my favorite one being the one with cherry leaves in the shape of a spoon holding the moon).

I learned some more words here. One of them was komorebi: The beauty of rays of light dappling through overhead leaves, casting dancing shadows on the forest floor. It was on one of the wooden signboards of their exhibits. Together, me and mom indulged in the live music performances and tea ceremonies, before buying some spring-themed bento boxes and blueberry sake at the parade square. We didn’t talk too much, but it is okay because the wind rises.

Along the cobblestone curbs, I noticed a dilapidated house dressed in overgrown vegetation and surrounded by an air of neglect. Its paint has forgotten its character, and too should that have forgotten the house. But through the cracked and missing panes, there was a glimpse of vibrancy. Mom excused herself to the toilet and I seized the opportunity. The lights inside were acrobating and the speakers moved with a heartbeat! A group of musicians made a space that was fragile turn delicate. Its music echoed through hollow spaces, filling forgotten corners with lost time. Likewise, the sun's rays fractured through the broken glass, leaving indistinguishable patterns on the concrete floor.

In a way, it reminds me of you too. There was always an inherent fineness within you. You’d make for a very fine glass mural. You showered in the handsome praises of others, becoming even more colorful. But I knew, after discovering your true self, that any slight catch of the wind would be your immediate downfall. A light love tap is all the pressure that is needed to stretch you too thin, and it could(and did) shatter you. 

Climate change is a hyperobject. And we can only grasp its effects. Me, your mom, and everyone you knew were affected economically, socially, and culturally. Like New York, Tokyo, and the Victorian period, New Zealand developed a genre of its own within the literary landscape. You could tell which cities are young and old. Rome belongs in the past. Now is the time for Russia. Fiction creates an experience through magical effects. A book is a piece of a few hundred pages trying to explain emotional context, and the reward is understanding. I knew that I had to come to New Zealand. Deciding whether to escape Korea or not was not an option. I hated my time in conscription and didn’t see any better for Tifo.

I came to New Zealand to write a new book, and in doing so, I gave myself a new name and how I wanted to be represented, like making a second ID for myself. The very first chapter started when we moved into Xoteria Drive. Putting my bags down and checking the master bedroom, I saw an unorthodox lump covered between the sheets, that was you. When I asked for your name, you didn’t know who you were. This made me pity you. But I couldn’t tell Mom immediately. She was worried enough about carrying Tifo in her womb. 

Like a plot developer, I thought and staged your first encounter. I needed her to find you at a point of weakness. A few days later, you jumped from the fifth step and knocked against the floor. I could hear the flurry of footsteps as she waddled from the kitchen towards the scene of the incident. Concurrently, I pretended to wash my hands and made my presence known. She and I interviewed you, and you cleverly said ‘I don’t know’ each time we asked. In agreement, we decided to keep you temporarily until you found your parents. 

As you had just woke up from your coma, I wanted to make things safe by bringing you to a brain clinic. We helped insert a memory chip into you. It was an insurance that you were up to date. Surprisingly enough, you had some development in Chinese as well. We tried asking around, but couldn’t find any linkages. The days turned to weeks and we became an inseparable unit. When Tifo finally came, you made sure that every day for him was an interesting one. Right now, he is having a sleepover with the rest of your friends Ginger, Sophie, Chilli, and Crystal. He would never be brave enough to admit it, but he wishes you were here, and that you hug him at least once more. To tell him not to worry about the world ahead of him and that he’s safe. He was just about old enough to make sense of love and hate before his elder brother left behind. Still, at such a young age, we gaslighted him to believe the things we wanted him to believe in. I told him that you found your old family and it was time to go back.

Chase. I don’t believe that I was worried for you. You were a very stable person. But the more you pretended to fear less, it only made me fear you more. In the five years we have known each other, I’m left with more doubt over myself than you. Three moments define my relationship with you as a father. Like all stories, we had a start, a climax, and an ending. Actually, make it four moments, because there was the epilogue too.

The first was your proposal. I was cooking trademark Swedish spaghetti and meatballs(courtesy of IKEA) when the instrumental of an indie chorus rang from the door. Mom had asked me to change it to something more “trendy” but I loved the cool and somber vibe and resisted her advances. We release you after a few weeks and thought you wouldn’t come back, yet somehow we caught you once more. I didn’t believe that you wanted to stay here with us. When you then asked me what I was cooking, you said you remembered the recipe. We talked long and hard about why you were ‘running away’ from home when I realized you didn’t have a home. I was utterly embarrassed that I assumed you would have one. Admittedly, the homeownership rates are at an all-time high, but I should’ve expected better of myself when welcoming a child by my doorstep.

I was completely lost in the conversation when you spontaneously stood up and darted for the kitchen to control the heat of the meatballs and tomato sauce. I didn’t have to give you any instructions on what to do. And it is not that I didn’t want to help you or my stomach afterward, but I was eager to watch. It was the most flavorful home-cooked meal I had in a long time. Everyone has a secret, and that was when I knew I wanted to know yours. 

Time passed and we made adjustments. At first, it was transactional: I gave you a room, food, and whatever a father in his mid-forties could offer. In complement, you provided a companion to Tifo and the occasional household chore. I never had any trouble with you, it was as though you were part of our family from the very beginning. Sometimes, I feel guilty for caring about you more than my biological son. 

It was around Christmas 3 years ago in 2099 and we were shopping for presents. There was a new independent bookstore and you know very well that I had to go there. We strolled past the vibrant streets, Glowworms crawled beneath the sewers as a burly old man sat on the side of a building with his electric guitar. His tin can attracting dust and flies above the metal coins. Tifo’s heart(and yours) was brimming with curiosity for what was next. Tifo would have obviously wanted to try some augmented reality gear for his virtual expeditions. Instead, you derailed us towards a quaint board game shop. Intrigued by the selections on the windows, we forcefully dragged your younger brother inside and were greeted upon shelves upon shelves of traditional yet immersive games. Even as a self-proclaimed dinosaur, board games belong to one or two generations before mine…then again, I’m a writer who’s willing to die on my hill of hardcopy books before I ever publish my collections on digital only. Most games have been converted into a virtual reality B-spec. Therefore, I’m familiar with the rules of several games, but I’ve never actually held one with my bare hands. 

I did not understand what was going on inside that little nugget of yours, yet you knew exactly what you were scavenging for. You climbed the floors, crossing painted roads and pedestrian crossings. In front of a London bus converted into a shelf, you stopped. You found a train-themed board game:Ticket Rail. It was admittedly a beautifully crafted board game, reminiscent of a bygone era. 

You would’ve died of despair if I hadn’t bought it for you two. After purchasing it, you happily followed wherever we went to get Tifo’s present until we returned home and ravaged the packaging. If I couldn’t tell the difference between a board game and a boy, I would’ve mistaken myself into thinking you found a long lost brother. 

Listening to the laughter and excitement next room, I wanted to dip my toes into the paper atlas and ride those trains myself. Indeed, I enjoyed deploying miniature trains on intricately printed tracks connecting the different countries of the world, including those that still exist, as well as those lost by the rising sea levels and perils of global warming. Nostalgia pulled at my heart and I still remember being a child dreaming of visiting cities like Berlin, Marrakesh, LA, and even Taiwan(yes, I still believe it is an independent country despite the successful invasion of it all those decades ago). Those times however are long gone. People leave, return, and leave and return at the same time. Once powerful flags and anthems lay beneath the vast desert and ocean dystopia. Tourists and residents moved out, while camels and fish moved in. Deep sea tourism has its interest for people who crave an understanding of human consequences. But, it is all the same when sunken building after sunken buildings struggling before it loses its last breath. But, it is all the same when sunken building after sunken buildings struggle before losing its last breath. The majority of the people there are on a pilgrimage to their ancestors, to a  place forever stuck in time. 

New Zealand is undeniably a great place, I couldn’t have wished for anywhere else. Of course, there are 2 sides of the New Zealander coin. Let a giant hop across the southern hemisphere, and he’ll be tiptoeing on little plots of land few and far between. Most of society's climate refugees escaped up north where Russia, Canada, and the rest of the Nordic countries continue to thrive more and more each day. Their rise to power was only a matter of time. And when the North Sea completely melted, the floodgates truly opened up for maritime shipping.

As a defense, we had to put up seawalls and dig up the land of lost countries. We tried to be clever, but our foolishness got the better of us. The North kept working and pumping the economy, fuelling what is now the so-called paradise of the earth. Throughout history, it has always been New Zealand that sat back with a bucket of popcorn and watched as society ‘matures’. What’s the rush? Just farm, surf, and work. That is enough for me. Not all paradises have to be the same. A few people like myself see it for what it is.

I’ve looked at almost every country and I think I know why people patronize their states. Yes, we can and we have objectively found the happiest people, we have found the places with the most welfare and attractions. So shouldn’t everyone have flocked there by now? 

Why people choose not to go to megacities yet is the liberty and beacon of hope their home soil promises. Wasn’t that what the American dream was all about? They were innovation, freedom, and possibility. For however many clowns paraded the streets and brought the rest of the country on a backward unicycle, people went to America, and in doing so, embraced a world of two halves. Loving a country means looking at the sea of failures of a country, and dive into its larger chaos but infinitely larger beauty. 

Your uncles and aunts never failed to be impressed with your geographical and historical knowledge. As you poured out your admiration for different cities on the board game, I discovered the first piece of your secret. You knew the lost cities of Dubai and Manila at the back of your hand. Like a deck of cards, you always carried around with you. You mastered the game and globe so effortlessly and knew as much as me(arguably more). This was when I started to get curious. 

You tried making up excuses like reading my digital novels and paperbacks. But when I previously checked their ‘last read’ dates, the equation did not add up and I deserved to know. And for the first time since I met you, you tensed up. You knew that I knew that you remembered something precious to you that was prohibited from anyone else. Someone built a tower of interlocking bricks and told you to keep guard of it. But you’re still a child, you found two fortress that you called home. Each home was missing a piece, and fulfilling one house meant destroying the other.

You were given the special gift of having multiple futures and pasts. In the beanbags of your bedroom, you began to decipher the complicated war between you and your counterpart whom you call ‘Hunter’. Your hands put on a puppet show as the two of you darted. Each of you climbing over the other for control of the invisible strings tying the world together. It sounded like a make-believe fantasy, and I still think it is. But that doesn’t mean I can’t believe it isn’t real. Fiction allows me to be more honest than non-fiction. Sometimes we need to use metaphors to express something that resonates more than the thing itself.

Running away from your biological father(of this generation),  you found a home in us. In between turns, our interactions twist and turn, connecting us by a set of tracks that transcend the board game’s mechanics. I’ve learned from my forty years here on earth that if you see enough of something, you just have to believe it. That is how I became certain of the existence of ghosts and otherworldly spirits.

You came here with one mission: to find the painting of a train that is alive and moving. No train is ever on time, sometimes they arrive earlier, sometimes later. And once found, you have to store it in a ‘warehouse’ away from Hunter before he snatches it away again. Rest assured, “Mit Der Sohn Und Der Bahnhof” is doing fine and well in our humble family estate.

You loved sharing about your reincarnations, memories, and experiences from different pasts. ou’ve recalled fighting for the resistance in Italy during World War 2 and left a traffic cone in the middle of a forest which is still there. You were in Hong Kong chasing after a painting with an ignorant American who threw the painting away and you lost that life because of it. Every life was a new board game. Your board is the world. Each turn is a few years. Each chaser and hunter takes and receives treasures. A train then arrives and tells you your turn is up.   There are no rules. The devil doesn’t do contracts.

Could I have shared more of my own intimate stories? Of course, I could. That was not what happened though. You shared your deepest secrets with a brick wall. Each time, you attached a Post-it note in a different color on a corner of the wall, I wanted to give mine as well, but they were too complicated and sticky. They stuck too to close my chest. Coupled with the wind of hesitance naturally blowing against me, it meant that they could never be peeled off. Finally, the sun had finished its travelling for the day and your shadow was no longer gracing the wall. That said, if my anecdotes were a late-night snack, I would have been serving a four-course meal that would’ve kept you full. Whenever you finish one of yours, I’m left hungrier than before. Besides stories, I taught you not just how to ride, but also how to paint, play music, and even some live shooting, which is banned in almost every country in the world ...but there is one. 

Finally, the day came which you promised. One day, we all have to find out where we want to go next and start from there. That call for the train came two months ago. I still remember that conversation very well. Each word is recorded like a tape. You came to my room, just like you did before, and closed the door behind us. I was in the middle of writing a chapter and researching worldbuilding by using red scarves. 

“I’m going.”

I didn’t respond immediately. The cool air from the air conditioner filled me with  oxygen awakening my senses. It made me more aware and see your outline more clearly. I then asked where to, and you mentioned a cave. A train will appear in there. You don’t know whether you will come back. Although experience mostly confirmed fate.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes and no.” For a moment, you were lost in space of words, trying to grab hold of them and paste them together into something coherent. When you finally got the right string of them you continued. “Even if I am gone. I’ll always reincarnate back. And I try to find my past friends.”

“You speak as though you’re a mature adult.”

“I’m way older than what you’d consider a mature adult. If I count the number of lives I had and multiply by the average life span it would be…somewhere in the thousands.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I should have hidden more from you. But you’re a fictional writer so I know you believe in only facts and only fantasy.”

“That’s why I write. Who’s to say that animals can’t talk and dreams aren’t real.” 

“Correct.”

I asked you if you were leaving immediately. Unfortunately so. For the time being at least. On that day, Tifo had soccer classes after school and Mom was still working. Together, the two of us fed your backpack with some spare clothes and essentials. The most important things were the credit cards that stored an infinite amount of wealth. A convenience store is always just hiding behind a tree. If not, the Lawson can come to you via a drone. I'm not sure if they would know how to fly through a cave but I am confident they can read the contour lines if they tried. As we finished stuffing the backpack with its hearty meal, I looked once more at the painting you gave me and asked what to do with it.

“Please keep it. For me. And for us.” You smiled.

“Roger.” 

With that, you exited the door and hopped into a cab taking you who knows where. It was the last time I ever saw you. 

Fast forward only a week later, news broke of an earthquake on the Northern Island. Several roofs of different caves collapsed, making them inaccessible. I find it incredible that in the time between your departure and the incident, I never messaged or updated you. Before writing this letter, I tried, but I caught nothing. It was worth trying even though there wouldn’t be any signal down there. 

I feel guilty for just wanting to know if you are really dead or not. Every book has a last page. Some books don’t have a final chapter, but an epilogue instead. This will be yours. You probably are alive. But I’d just like the confirmation. There’s a church near our town which you would remember very well–The Tree Church–made up of living trees and grasses that naturally fit the surrounding forests in all its beauty. In another world, I would probably have hosted your funeral there. We wouldn’t need all hundred of the seats. Admittedly, I barely have much clue about your social circle. You go as fast as they come. 

Anyway back to our Japan trip, an energetic ice cream boy of about ten years old walked in front of us carrying a trolley of ice cream and offered some to us. It’s a new gelato brand that was probably marketing its new flavors on trial as I couldn’t recognize the logos despite checking. Perhaps it was luck, but we got mint chocolate cookies and cream each. Mom and I’s sixth sense was very strong that day.  I helped the sticky chewy cookies get up and hop into my mint chocolate cup. You would have loved its freshness and cookie crunch. It had just the right hardness and chewy feel to it. That was the perfect way to end our Japan trip.

When we returned home, I told Mom that I had a place in mind where I wanted to go. The Weeping Cherry tree reminded me of something in particular. I told her that I would like to go alone but she insisted I carry our Cookie along with me as well. I’m not that good with names so thanks for naming our Corgi after your favorite ice cream flavor. It’s a very cute and fitting name. 

I called Cookie to fetch my sling bag with my stuff to the garage and we were off. I decided to drive manually for a change. I saved some extra fuel from the previous out-ration. For one, I didn’t know how to tell the car where to go, and it was nice being in control of where I was going. I gripped the rim of the steering wheel tighter than I used to. My hands and brain are isolated systems.  The brain outputs instructions: Press the throttle here. Rotate the wheel sixty degrees right. The motor skills of the hands activate and follow the given inputs. Along the straights, I relaxed my arms and took pleasure in the backdrop. From farmers fishing for cows came people surfing in the sea of colorless paint. By the side of the road, I found a beggar. At a junction, a Toyota of a friend you knew from a previous life stopped before the lights on the right. I’m sure you still remember Helen. The waves were laughing among each other while the clouds hand-painted the skies across the evening canvas. Sometimes, I would take a glance at the kiwi trinket bobbing its head on the dashboard too. 

Finally, we reached it–the southernmost point of the country, and arguably the whole of Asia-Pacific. A place where the world beyond fades away. It was a bit chilly but I didn’t mind. The rest of the journey would be on foot. Ocean Beach is a quaint town settled on rugged terrain. They tried to maintain the authenticity of the place by minimizing human development. Some locals and tourists were plotting around us and had their photos taken. As I neared the edge, I thought of what I was going to write about you. Maybe I’ll turn you into an urban legend, or stir up a futuristic dystopia where you hunt for boats and planes. Or perhaps, just write what actually happened. That in itself would be interesting enough. 

In the 11th century,  The Tale of Genji was an imaginative entrance to Japanese entertainment, dressing, daily life, and moral code. It explores the life and Genji and his loves and quest for meaning in life. He had everything: Beauty, Intelligence, and Royal affiliations. Obsessed but never satisfied, he was his own hero and villain.  Suffering was his beauty. It was the first novel ever written 

And you? You’ll too have a story eight hundred pages long. I’ll make sure wherever you go, the world will see you, and you see the world with your heart. Whenever you look out the window, you will see another you. And whatever you do, you remember the bike you rode with Tifo, even though it got crushed. I’m more certain of what I want to write about you than what I want to write about myself. But I still have a long way ahead of myself therefore I am not worried about that. 

As we circled a small hill, I saw the raw cliffs in the distance and the one ahead. But before that, Cookie tripped over and I had to take a step back to pick him up. “It wasn’t that bad.” I smiled. Last night I had a dream where I was a child again and was late for a school field trip as I tripped over a step too. I tried running to class but before I could make it, I teleported into another dream where the weather was having mood swings. I tried searching for what dreams meant but there was nothing behind the screen. How are you getting on? Where are you present now?  I wonder what is the time in your present now. No matter how our heights and times have changed, I pray that one thing will remain unchanged–that when we die. we will die believing. 

But I didn’t understand that until I opened my eyes to the vastness of the ocean and the Lone Tree of Wanaka. The tree stands erect from the middle of a diamond lake within an ocean. There was no one else there. Just me, Cookie, and the Weeping Willow. It embraces its surroundings just as the cherry tree had done so. 

The fading sunlight scatters across the atmosphere, creating a dramatic mixture of hues of red, orange, and yellow, playing the supporting role. The trees rooted themselves firmly inside of me and filled my lungs. I whispered something under my breath and Cookie asked me to repeat what I said. I bent down so that I could whisper it into its ear. I couldn’t believe that life was real