Perhaps, dear readers, you have not heard of the Tower of the Sun.
A very long time ago, when I was still a cute, huggable little thing fawned over by anyone and everyone I encountered, my family was living in an apartment building in suburban Osaka. It was just a short walk to Commemorative Park, the former site of the 1970 Japan World Exposition. On the weekends, my parents liked to take me to that park, where I reportedly spent all day running among the trees and rolling around in the grassy meadows. Consequently, one could say that my very identity is rooted in scenes of the park’s environs. And looming over each and every such scene, dominating the surroundings with its commanding stare, is the Tower of the Sun.
I didn’t learn the name of the Tower’s designer, Taro Okamoto, until I was much older. Even today, I know little about the man and feel no urge to discover more. For me, the Tower simply exists. Its presence is so overbearing that I cannot comprehend it as something of human design. As far as I am concerned, it soared in unannounced from an alternate dimension, descending upon the earth where it will remain fixed, ever beyond the tinkering of our hands. In my mind, the Tower has nothing to do with the man named Taro Okamoto, or with the great celebrations of the World Expo that took place years before my birth, or with attempts to make bold, visual statements about a new, postwar Japan. The Tower merely rises from its sea of green to reign over all.
A single encounter is sufficient to overwhelm any mortal mind. It is unreal, both in shape and scope. Not a single part fails to disturb the human psyche, from the inordinately smooth curves of its trunk to the amorphous, threatening arms jutting out at both sides. Its three faces bewilder: the golden saucer that glitters at the Tower’s apex; the ashen grimace that lurks in the midsection; and the sinister, two-dimensional black countenance at its back. And above all is the Tower’s astonishing, otherworldly size.
I imagine many a visitor approaches, scratches his head, and mumbles, “What is this thing…?” And then he departs, satisfied that he’s seen the tower and grasped its significance. He returns home and tells all his acquaintances that, yes, the Tower of the Sun is a peculiar thing, as peculiar as we’ve all heard. He casually tells his friends that they really ought to visit once to see it for themselves.
Such a reaction is to my mind wholly, utterly lacking.
You must go back. Two, three, four times. Journey to the Tower to stand at its feet. As the bus nears the park, you’ll find yourself pressed upon by an indescribable, overbearing presence that grows more palpable with each visit. You think to yourself, We must be getting close. It’ll pop out over the trees at any moment. Anxiety churns in the pit of your stomach.
And then, the Tower is there. The moment it enters your sight, you know that this is a drug that begets no tolerance.
The dullard thinks, Wow! The novelty never wears thin.
Such a trite assessment is an insult. The Tower is infinitely bizarre. It is infinitely terrifying, infinitely magnificent, and infinitely off-putting. The next time you visit, dread’s cold fingers will grip tighter yet. You come again by bus or by train, you feel the Tower’s appearance near at hand, and the fear sets in. And as the golden head finally rises from the treetops, you know your fear is justified. The Tower does not disappoint.
In our mortal minds, the Tower only grows larger. It never shrinks.
This is why you cannot visit only once. You must go again and again and tremble as its interdimensional, cosmic presence fills your breast. We of our world are compelled to fall to our knees before the great Tower, grip the sides of our heads, and cry over and over, “What is this thing?!”
It is the entrance to another plane.
✦ ✦ ✦
I grew to love the park and venerate the Tower. Even now as a college student, I’ll at times head to Shijo Kawaramachi and jump aboard the Hankyu Railway for an impromptu ride to Commemorative Park.
My initial courtship of Mizuo included frequent quiet dates in places with an air of history, such as the shrines of Fushimi Inari and Shimogamo. But eventually, I felt compelled to take her to the place I most adore in all the world.
When we boarded the bus that runs to the park from Ibaraki Station, Mizuo sat gazing out the window. When the Tower at long last revealed itself among the sea of green, Mizuo pressed her face against the glass like a frog.
“Wow…,” she exclaimed. “Oh, wow… Just look at it!”
She was captivated. Even after we’d disembarked and had ample opportunity to observe the Tower together, she continued to mill about the base by herself for a great while. I let her be, settling in on a bench across the park, enjoying a peaceful smoke and the sight of her, now a tiny mote bending back with all her might in an attempt to observe the point where the great Tower pierces the sky.
She was paying me little mind, but I was not rankled. I know that the Tower overshadows me—and that I am but naught in its presence.
At long last, Mizuo returned to my side, face flushed.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “Forget wonders of the world. This should be designated a wonder of the universe!”
After that, we sat on the bench in the middle of the grassy meadow, heads tilted back to take in the regal Tower rising up beyond the trees. We’d timed our journey to arrive just as the park gates opened, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.
A chill wind playfully brushed our cheeks. I whistled a quiet, aimless tune and surveyed the circumference of the meadow. It was lined with green forest that rustled with freshness and moisture, as if we sat in the base of a vast, shallow dish filled to its brim with cool liquid.
We’d been absentmindedly staring at the Tower for some time when my cell phone began to ring. It was Shikama. We exchanged a bit of casual conversation.
It did not take long for Shikama’s maddening, knifelike insight to work its magic. I began to sense that he’d picked up not only on the fact that I was presently sitting in Commemorative Park but also that I was there on a date.
“Ah. You’re busy,” he announced. “Sorry to intrude.”
He cut the call without warning. Five minutes later, I received a text message.
All it read was: Traitor. I won’t forget this.
✦ ✦ ✦
In the blink of an eye, Mizuo’s passion had outstripped even my own. She’d independently declared the Tower of the Sun a wonder of the universe and began to pursue it with the force of a surging wave.
She purchased a small replica to enshrine on her bookcase. A tiny Tower of the Sun hung from a wrist strap attached to the corner of her cell phone. She began seeking out back issues of art magazines that had featured articles about the Tower, and her collection grew day by day.
The second time we visited Commemorative Park, Mizuo’s cheeks were flushed once again. She barged onto the portion of lawn marked off-limits to visitors, hoping to photograph the Tower from every possible angle. She beamed from ear to ear as she fumbled with the new camera. She looked as if she’d stumbled upon an unknown treasure.
Mizuo and I had never been in the habit of taking photographs together. Consequently, her photos of the Tower soon outnumbered those of me by a factor of thirty to one. But that did not bother me. The Tower is great. Mizuo is to be commended for having grasped that—and for devoting body and soul to extol its greatness. I understood and accepted that truth.