Nah, it's not a line from one of my poems, though if you’ve read any of my work, it’s an easy mistake to make.
When I say I saw a ghost of a beautiful woman, I’m not talking in the romantic, poetic sense — the memory of a woman I loved, who hates me now. Neither am I riffing on the Japanese Marilyn Monroe who was bloody karma personified.
No, I’m literally talking about a real ghost. The Halloween or Hollywood kind.
But before I go on, let me state — I do not believe in the spirits of the dead strolling about and watching us while we screw or shower…
When I first came to Japan, one of my hobbies was photography. It still is. In every country I’ve been/go to, I take photographs of the sunrise/sunset in key locations.
My first year in Japan I traveled extensively around the country, staying in cheap motels, getting up very early and going out to hit the sights before they became too crowded, snapping photographs of the rising sun.
Kyoto, Mount Fuji, Shibuya, Shinjuku, Osaka, Hiroshima… well, basically everywhere.
16 years and I’ve only got a few cities left to visit.
If you’re into photography, I honestly believe Japan is one of the best countries in the world to live in, visit.
Anyway, Ise a picturesque coastal city in Mie is famous for its large shrine and there’s a nice little street leading up to a bridge and a huge torii (gate) outside the shrine. (See below)
One early morning, I was on this same street, smoking a cigarette, looking towards the gate and waiting for the sun to rise fully to hit that sweet spot over the gate for the photographs.
The street was completely empty. Quiet. It was just me and some pigeons. I waited. I smoked. The sun hit that spot perfectly. I stubbed out my cigarette on the curb and dropped the butt down into the gutter to prepare to get my camera out of my backpack. When I looked up again, a woman was standing underneath the torii (gate). She was wearing a bright red kimono, her back to me. Jet black hair tied up. She was beautiful. She was swaying slightly and seemed to be waiting for someone.
“Oh, hell, this is a bloody perfect shot. A beautiful girl in a kimono, on a bridge, underneath the gate to the temple with the sun rising next to her casting everything in a golden orange,” I thought.
As though hearing my thoughts the woman turned slightly and cast a long glance behind her. Her complexion was a healthy olive. Eyes very dark. Lips very red. Face expressionless.
She looked right through me as though I wasn’t there. A little rude, I thought, but I wanted this photograph bad.
I slung my backpack off my shoulder, down to the ground, yanked out my Nikon and when I looked through the viewfinder, the woman was no longer there. I took the camera away from my face and she still wasn’t there. I glanced around. She hadn’t walked over the bridge. The temple was closed. There was no way in. Nowhere for her to go. There was no way she had walked back passed me. No way. I looked up and down the street. I walked over to where she’d been standing to see if she’d climbed over the bridge and jumped into the lake beneath. Nope. No ripples. No sounds. NOTHING. Nothing but birdsong and the soft hum of traffic on a freeway far off. The girl was gone. I didn’t feel weird. The only thing I felt stood there was a strong sense of sadness. I didn’t know why. I went back to where I had been smoking, sat down on the curb and lit another cigarette. I remember a light rain started out of nowhere.
After a little while, I went back to the motel and packed up my things to check out. I never took any photographs that day.
It was a ghost I’d seen and yet I don’t believe in ghosts.
So what the hell was it?
The Theory:
I believe ghosts are echoes in time. When you see a ghost, what you’re really seeing is something or someone from some point in the past. Perhaps, some kind of emotional image that has been captured within certain inanimate objects. A time slip. That‘s why ghosts are always reported as walking through walls. They’re not walking through walls. They’re walking through doorways that aren’t there anymore. Maybe one day, in fifty years, someone will see me writing this Substack post when this building I am currently in is abandoned and derelict and I’m long dead. They’ll think I’m a ghost, but it’ll just be a moment snagged in time like a raindrop on a spiderweb.
That’s why the woman looked right through me. She wasn’t seeing me. I wasn’t there in the time period she was glancing around in. Or perhaps I was her ghost. Or perhaps this is all just a simulation of a simulation of a simulation we’re all living in. Or perhaps I was still drunk from the night before…
Who knows?
And that’s my opinion on ghosts. What’s yours?
A beautiful post and a fine piece of writing. I love it when you mix prose and poetry like this. I remember inviting a friend to my house (it used to be my grandparents' place and I had fond memories of childhood there). That friend was into palm reading, tarot, and the like. She claimed to be "sensitive". I only half believed her, but she was sweet and funny. She walked in and said: "I feel something. You're not alone here. Aren't you concerned?" I told her I loved the people who lived there and died there (grandpa in his bed). Why would having them around worry me?
And I believe you were her ghost.