The Shape of What Remains » Entries
December 18, 2025
Yokkaichi. A quarter to 8 am. A cafe on Chuo-Dori Street, just shy of Route 1. Far fewer commuters than I expected for this time of day. Far fewer than I remember.
First case of the week. A referral from a 2018 client. My cases tend to be that way. Referrals that reach back years—decades, even.
I remembered as I walked that I once had a corporate client near here, closer to the JR-station side though. I don't really recognize the area as it appears today. It's completely transformed since the '90s.
The cafe itself was unremarkable. Typical street-side spot with table service by QR code. I miss the days when there was human warmth in the customer service.
The client arrived early, apologetic. Ordered coffee he didn't drink.
He seemed unwilling to speak at first, as is typical. But after a few minutes of probing, he wouldn't stop.
He talked for almost an hour about a pattern he's been trying to break—relationship issues at work, repeated outcomes, and isolation. Self-sabotage, he thinks. The details blur together. Different circumstances, same story. I've heard variations of this dozens if not hundreds of times.
Still, I gave my full attention.
I asked questions. He answered. We set a call for Thursday.
He seemed relieved when he left. A small win, perhaps.
I felt dull. No insight. No curiosity. Just the familiar weight of going through the motions.
It matters to him. I know that. I respect that.
Some cases feel like reading the same book in different covers.
Somewhere in all of this, I'm trying to find meaning.
But not here. Not today.
Instead of the train back to Nagoya, I decided to head to Toba. I'm not usually this dismissive. I may need a respite from these thoughts.
Toba. Bayside. Almost 11 am. Walking the sea wall.
Despite the clear sunshine, high winds whip a choppy sea today, rocking the boats transiting the bay, reminding me of the turbulence the other day. I'm happy to not be riding a ferry this morning.
I visit a hot spring I occasionally stayed at many years ago. Luckily, it's still here, mostly unchanged. Just the thing I need before heading back.
The onsen water here is alkaline—pH somewhere between 9 and 9.5. High enough to feel slippery against the skin, almost soapy. Low mineral content despite the alkalinity, which means it doesn't irritate. Safe for anyone.
It's called bijin no yu—"water of beautiful skin." Marketing, mostly. But not erroneous. The alkaline composition does act as a natural exfoliant. I feel my hands and feet softening—smoothening, if that's a word in English.
Therapeutic claims of pain relief for joints and muscles, improved circulation, fatigue recovery. Whether it's the mineral content or just the heat and stillness, I can't say. But it doesn't matter. My feet are sore from the past several days of nonstop walking.
Ah, the amelioration.
The constant sound of running water pouring into this rotenburo soothes my mind as my heart rate slows. Through the trees I watch the boats bob in the wind swept waters of the bay—a deep blue with running stripes of shallow white-tipped waves.
Hypnotic.
I linger here. The water is nearly too hot. My body says stay. I obey.
When I finally do leave, I feel lighter. Softer. Less self-absorbed. My once prickly porcupine self has shed its thorns, returning to my natural raccoon form. Fingers and toes shriveled to raisin-like prunes.
Meieki. Back in Nagoya this evening. Arrived at a quarter to eight.
There's something off tonight. Not threatening. Just distant. As if the city has forgotten me—our connection severed. Tonight it feels like nowhere that I know.
The hum isn't in my ears. It's in the soles of my feet. A low rumble, like the deep bass of the tower's own subtle music, vibrating up through its foundation. Signals calling from far away. Or just beneath me. I can't tell.
The buildings line the avenue like city walls. Glass. Steel. Concrete. Lights illuminate my way, warm to the eyes yet cold to the touch. The faces I pass look through me. Their happy world just beyond my reach. I defy them.
Perhaps this skin I inhabit has transformed beyond their recognition. And mine.
Invisibility has its own unexpected friction.
Dean Bowman
Dean Bowman
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