Traveling Tales: Seven nights in Tokyo

For a week I set out to conquer the megalopolis that is Tokyo. Many coffees were consumed, cafes visited, sushi feasts devoured, neighborhoods weaved through, boozy beverages downed, friends made, totoros found, dreams realized, love matierialized. Tokyo wooed me with its sexy, crazy, coolness and she was a costly lover, my week-long tryst was an adventure well worth every yen spent. Below are some of my favorite images captured during my time in Tokyo.

Beat makers outside Meiji Shrine in Shibuya

Sake barrels outside Meiji Shrine in Shibuya

Guard and processional along the path to Meiji Shrine

The afternoon chaos of Shibuya crossing

Blue nights in Tokyo

Women in kimonos shuffling in Omotesando Hills

Traditional Japanese dance party

Doughnuts at Streamer Coffee in Shibuya

A Tanaka specialty, the Gibraltar, at Bear Pond Espresso in Setagaya

Pachinko neon

Shrine streams in Ueno Park

Tokyo Skytree

Neon geisha in Shinjuku


Dreaming in poetry

Glass House Dreams
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks

In the middle of my glass house rests a body long-limbed,
made of muscles and passions quaking, drenched in neon moon-light.

This is me dreaming—
my arms twirling, twisting in the sea—
and then sunshine, splashing skin shades closely resembling the tan of sand—
and you’re there, on the sidewalk, with strangers thrashing past
like a stream of colored cotton laundry sinking,
gliding along the slick-slippery stones of a riverbed bottom—
and then stars, in their night-light roles, sprinkle shards
that make our reflections radiate in mirrors, as we morph into holograms,
our voices visually echoing, like fireworks
we imagine to be bursting in our sea-scened space—

These dreams, they come in twitches and turns,
in toes cold, slipped out of covers
and chest hot, coiled and buried in layers.

These dreams, they shatter with the rise of the sun,
grabbing eyelids wide open, peeling back memories
that were never memories at all,
but rather signs of desires and future fantasies,
gripped in the wrap of hourglass sand grains
hailing down fates hardly written,
but always written about.

The walls of my glass house shake, not in an attempt or wish to break,
but in movements to see something foreign and familiar
in distances and across seas,
times infinitely untouched by we human things.