Ch. 6: Lead
It was all quiet in the room he woke up in. It wasn't a slow, long- drawn-out wakening - rather, it was as if a silent alarm had gone off in his head. There were wooden beams of a ceiling crisscrossing in his vision. Idly he squinted his eyes to find the patterns in the old wood, swirls and whorls like that of a fingerprint. There was a window somewhere in the small room, and it was open; he could feel the wind turning his nose red from the cold. The coverlet tucked under his chin was thick and comforting, like a blanket of love that he had never felt before. The small room was dark with little furniture other than the tatami he lay on, though he could see a small two-set of drawers and an altar with burnt out incense in the corner. Again, that peace settled over him like it had in the snowy wood, that perfect balance of consciousness and dream. All of his surroundings seemed to come in on a pinpoint focus, the dark wood shining in the moonlight more clearly than he had ever seen it before, the shot of silver that illuminated the colors of the room in a hard, edged light when the curtains flapped in the wind. He felt that if he moved now he would break this peace, this carefully balanced set of nature's laws, and destroy all of the peace that he had finally found in this place.
He had heard once of what it was to pray to God. A person would pray with all of his might, placing all of his fate into the hands of God so that God could help him, that God could save him. That was what it was now - he was praying to Earth itself, praying that She might help him, that She might bring him peace from the anger and the things he did to get control. Within the depths of his heart he felt that prayer come forth silently while he felt his eyes cloud up with something - was it tears? no, it couldn't be, he hadn't cried ever since he could remember - he told the entire world that he was sorry for what he had done and that he deserved all that they had thrown at him, that he deserved all the time in jail. He felt one with the Earth and fell into a platonic peace, as if he could finally trust someone or someone so completely to give him security when he needed it.
He wondered what he looked like now, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed quietly. Why, why did he have to pray to God to give him peace? Why couldn't he find it like anyone else? Again came up that awful feeling that he should blame someone - but who was he to blame for placing him in a drunken family like his? He needed, more than ever, forgiveness. But almost as he despaired in finding any, he seemed to hear Her very voice whispering in his ear: Earth has given you Her forgiveness, but she is not human, Now you need to make peace with your own kind. But where would he find that, how would he find that when all the world wanted him dead?
No doubt they were searching for him with rifles and guns and lots of terrible weapons. But instead of the welling of anger like before, the fearless "I'll defeat them all" attitude that he wore before - there was a soft pulsing of emotion, not particularly strong or courageous, but reaching into the depths of his soul to make him see what mattered, what he needed. Sadness filled him when he realized that they would never know what the Mother Earth said to him before he died at the point of their guns.
He could feel himself starting to die. But it wasn't like before; he couldn't feel anything other than that heavy weighing of sadness upon his soul. He felt no anger, and the absence of that emotion left him hollow and drained. Now, he didn't know how to feel, how to deal with the lull in time that held him in limbo - he hadn't realized how much he'd depended on his anger to feel human. What was he now with his emotions kept so simple and so few that he could list them off of his fingers?
He was ashamed. He tried to turn so that his head was in the pillow and found he couldn't.
For a moment the insane notion that he was now in a scientific lab where a mad scientist would now perform untried and untested experiments on his drugged body, but of course that could not be true. Simply, his right hand felt heavy, like lead. With a heave, he turned over on his stomach, the right hand falling to his side. Cautiously he used his left hand to touch it, feel if it was there, and it was. Bandages were wrapping it tightly, and he almost tore them off when he felt something odd. He couldn't feel his left hand over his right hand. No warmth, no sensation at all. Certainly the bandages couldn't be that thick! Trying to suppress the sudden dread at what he was going to see, he undid the bandages and held the hand under the window.
Even in the pale light of the moon, it seemed completely unearthly, a lustrous silver-black like a tumbled stone he had seen once at a craft stone. Furthermore, it reminded him of the statue outside of the Japanese Modern Art Museum, a copy of the "Thinker" that was outside some museum on the west coast of the United States somewhere. He watched in ill-disguised horror as the veins under that metal skin pulsed with sluggish substance. Slowly he tried to bend the fingers, and found that it was useless. It was if it really HAD been carved out of stone, or metal, or something unmovable and unchangeable. His heart beat wildly inside of him - with a mad sort of anger, he suddenly grabbed that hand and tried to pull it off. Pain exploded in his wrist. He had dislocated it in his rage.
How could such a thing happen to him? Who had ever heard of a lead hand? But as he watched, he realized that soon he would have more than just a lead hand - he would have a lead arm, a lead torso, and a lead head. The silver-blue metal gleamed in the moonlight like the socket of the corpse's eye in the dilapidated village. Slowly, even as he watched, it crept forward like mist and swallowed his wrist whole, then stopped, as if the metal had been satisfied with eating that part of a meal. He spent one more minute at it, his mind bursting with uncertainties, with terrible and wonderful and impossible suggestions that he would never allow, and questions that wound around his head like May Day flowers. Snatching up the bandages, he rewrapped his hand, making sure that no metal could be seen, not at the fingers or anything. His hand had frozen in a half-curled position, making it hard to wrap, but he did it finally by just wrapping all the fingers together. That deformed, twisted hand finally out of his sight seemed to calm him. He stuffed it under the bedsheets and tried to think rationally, but it felt as if the hand was an eye, seeking to burn him out of possibilities.
He could die, could he? What if he cut it off? And even now, when it was out of his sight, he felt that what pumped in the thin veins that were now no different color than the skin surrounding it wasn't blood. It seemed to insidious to be blood - he'd always thought of blood to be the core of a person, the thing that kept a person breathing and living, something pure and something that couldn't change even if a person changed evil. But whatever was flowing in that hand, it seemed like poison. Shivering, he got up, his head suddenly dizzy from lying down for so long, and then staggered to the door and pulled it opened.
Immediately he was struck by how warm it was. The hand in his side began to tingle, and when he laid his normal hand on top of the bandages, he was surprised to find it warm. A heady sort of feeling overtook his dizziness, clearing his thoughts somewhat. Something about the atmosphere, something about the very air in the air of the building seemed to warm him considerably even though the windows were open at both ends of the hall and were pouring forth the same cold wind that had been in the room. The very lights that hung above him seemed to smile at him. Instantly, his shields went up and the room went completely cold again. Now it was no more than a picture of a hall.
Still shivering, he made his way cautiously down the hall, his head once again spinning with his sudden standing up. He wondered how long he had been out. The house was rather large, at least in his opinion as he looked around. He was just about to give up hope of finding anyone when he spotted a crack of light from under a door. Without bothering to knock - why would he ever have to knock on any goddamn door? - he plunged straight in. Golden lamplight filled his senses at once, sending unwelcome light dancing in front of his eyes for a moment. Soft shadows were cast over the wooden walls, their shapes curvy like women's figures. At first he thought there was no one there, then he suddenly did a double-take when he noticed there was a person sitting perfectly still on the bed, a book in hand, and dark eyes seemingly bright yellow in the dim light.
The other boy smiled at Kaga. "You're awake?", he asked, but that question needed no answer. Putting aside the book carefully, he courteously gestured to the opposite bed so that the juvenile delinquent could sit down. This boy's eyes were mysteriously warm but guarded. But everything about the boy seemed to radiate more than just common cold politeness - it seemed to be much more, as if every gesture was meant from the heart. The way he walked with such care, with such elegance made Kaga watch him rather dumbly. He was still staring dumbly when the boy caught his glance again and laughed quietly. "I don't think I'm particularly beautiful, but I guess all people have different tastes." At the comment, the Tokyo-born gave the first blush he had given in years and ducked his head down in embarrassment.
Strangely, it never once occurred to him that he should fear the other boy. "I just like the way you walk", he said lamely.
"Oh?", the boy's eyes danced in the dim light. With a start Kaga realized that the lamp was not a lamp - it had been a tray of candles arranged on an altar. "I was not aware either that my walk is particularly elegant. Thank you. I daresay you get enough of short-skirted girls throwing their hips from side to side in Tokyo? Or maybe you don't tire of those?" He gave another golden laugh, and when he stopped Kaga realized that he had been staring again.
"Isumi. The name is Isumi", the boy said, giving no indication of ever having a last name. Ceremoniously he took Kaga's hand, held it in his for a moment, and then returned it to his lap. Kaga felt it hard to look into those eyes - he could read from his own instincts that this boy, Isumi, was not all that he seemed. There seemed to be something *else* about the way he moved and the sound of his voice - it seemed laced with spells of trust and loyalty. And yet he felt that Isumi would not break any promises. It was strange the way just the way that Isumi looked could send him into a fit of tongue-tied bashfulness. It wasn't that Isumi was particularly attractive to him - sure, he WAS beautiful, but he wasn't attracted THAT WAY. It was just the grace that the other boy used seemed so flowing, so completely controlled and so natural that he felt the role of being the scruffy, coarse little city boy become him immediately.
He jumped when the door slammed open against the wall. Another boy was there, this one looking sharp in contrast to Isumi's almost boyish- roundness of face and gesture. Immediately Kaga realized that they were probably around the same age - older than he was, certainly. Whereas Isumi seemed to be comfortably clad, everything about the newer boy was crisper, edgier as if he didn't want a single speck of dust on him. Already from first glance he seemed immaculate, made of stone more than my hand was made of lead. His voice completely matched with his clothes. "Flirting again, Isumi?", his voice asked cynically. "Already can't keep your hands off of our little guest, now, can we?"
There was no anger in Isumi's face or any stiffening defensive in his stance, but his eyes burned as his voice, still perfectly controlled, gave an equally cutting reply. "I would have thought that was your range of work. I was not aware that there were two whore in the house, Ijima. I was only aware that you were one."
The sharp boy - Ijima - seemed to take this as no personal insult, and yet his eyes flashed dangerously back at Isumi. I froze, not quite knowing what to say; though my tendencies leaned towards Isumi, I wanted to hear the rest of the argument sans interruption. "Awareness, awareness", the sharp boy iterated, "you always talk of your awareness. Sixth sense indeed! Ridiculous, the lot of it all, prophecy my foot. Or, rather, if you would prefer, you could deliver my prophecy to my ass instead."
Now Isumi's eyes were burning like nothing Kaga had ever seen before. "Would it be that you were gone!", he said low and quietly. "You disgrace the very floorboards that the rest of us walk on!"
The sarcastic smile was still there. With a flick, Ijima gestured a careless goodbye and then sauntered out. The door was still open, but then Isumi closed it, his breathing and the routine of his inhale/exhale calming him. His smile was rueful as he looked at Kaga again. "I apologize you had to see that. As you can tell, Ijima does not get along very well with me." He stared at Kaga perhaps a little longer, and instantly the delinquent felt very exposed. "Oh! I almost forgot this", Isumi reached into a drawer and drew out a folded bundle of colors.
Kaga's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. "The blanket!", he gasped, and took it quickly. The moment his hands felt the softness of the material, he felt soothed. If all else failed, he still had this, it seemed like his last lifeline. He didn't have to ask Isumi to know that they had probably found him with it when he had still been lying in the snow. "Thank you", he said quietly, and he meant it. He stopped for a moment at his own words - he had not said those two words in a very, very long time. No one had ever gained his trust so fast and so readily before.
Isumi was studying the blanket carefully. "It looks of Ainu make", he said thoughtfully. Kaga almost answered an affirmative to that, but then stopped. If Isumi brought the blanket to a police station, then they would know that Kaga was being sheltered in his house! Quickly he murmured a reply of uncertainty, and then ducked his head back down when he realized that Isumi was watching him closely.
"What do you know of the Ainu anyway?", Kaga asked, his mind instantly thinking of young, improbable Ainu historians who had a taste for staring at a prisoner for the entire hour trip to a freezing island. He wondered, also, if Touya and Shindou were still looking for him.
The other boy cocked his head to the side as if mirroring his question. "I am of Ainu descent", he said at length, "and I have a brother born here in Hokkaido in one of the tribes. He has devoted his life to the study of Ainu culture and history. I am here in Hokkaido to do the same, to follow in his footsteps." He gave a small smile, as if he were thinking of good memories with his brother. "You may have heard of him before? His name is Touya Akira."
/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ Author's note:
Well, that sure took a long time to crank out! But I couldn't decide what I was going to do until today, but I'm rather pleased with the results. I will be writing more soon, after this week is out because I have a nasty essay due in a very nasty class. I hope that this throws a bit of a curveball at you! No, I don't know if the Japanese Modern Art Museum has the "Thinker" outside of it - I do know that the San Francisco one does, so I put a mentioning of it in there too. Okay, that's it for now
Andrea Weiling
It was all quiet in the room he woke up in. It wasn't a slow, long- drawn-out wakening - rather, it was as if a silent alarm had gone off in his head. There were wooden beams of a ceiling crisscrossing in his vision. Idly he squinted his eyes to find the patterns in the old wood, swirls and whorls like that of a fingerprint. There was a window somewhere in the small room, and it was open; he could feel the wind turning his nose red from the cold. The coverlet tucked under his chin was thick and comforting, like a blanket of love that he had never felt before. The small room was dark with little furniture other than the tatami he lay on, though he could see a small two-set of drawers and an altar with burnt out incense in the corner. Again, that peace settled over him like it had in the snowy wood, that perfect balance of consciousness and dream. All of his surroundings seemed to come in on a pinpoint focus, the dark wood shining in the moonlight more clearly than he had ever seen it before, the shot of silver that illuminated the colors of the room in a hard, edged light when the curtains flapped in the wind. He felt that if he moved now he would break this peace, this carefully balanced set of nature's laws, and destroy all of the peace that he had finally found in this place.
He had heard once of what it was to pray to God. A person would pray with all of his might, placing all of his fate into the hands of God so that God could help him, that God could save him. That was what it was now - he was praying to Earth itself, praying that She might help him, that She might bring him peace from the anger and the things he did to get control. Within the depths of his heart he felt that prayer come forth silently while he felt his eyes cloud up with something - was it tears? no, it couldn't be, he hadn't cried ever since he could remember - he told the entire world that he was sorry for what he had done and that he deserved all that they had thrown at him, that he deserved all the time in jail. He felt one with the Earth and fell into a platonic peace, as if he could finally trust someone or someone so completely to give him security when he needed it.
He wondered what he looked like now, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he sobbed quietly. Why, why did he have to pray to God to give him peace? Why couldn't he find it like anyone else? Again came up that awful feeling that he should blame someone - but who was he to blame for placing him in a drunken family like his? He needed, more than ever, forgiveness. But almost as he despaired in finding any, he seemed to hear Her very voice whispering in his ear: Earth has given you Her forgiveness, but she is not human, Now you need to make peace with your own kind. But where would he find that, how would he find that when all the world wanted him dead?
No doubt they were searching for him with rifles and guns and lots of terrible weapons. But instead of the welling of anger like before, the fearless "I'll defeat them all" attitude that he wore before - there was a soft pulsing of emotion, not particularly strong or courageous, but reaching into the depths of his soul to make him see what mattered, what he needed. Sadness filled him when he realized that they would never know what the Mother Earth said to him before he died at the point of their guns.
He could feel himself starting to die. But it wasn't like before; he couldn't feel anything other than that heavy weighing of sadness upon his soul. He felt no anger, and the absence of that emotion left him hollow and drained. Now, he didn't know how to feel, how to deal with the lull in time that held him in limbo - he hadn't realized how much he'd depended on his anger to feel human. What was he now with his emotions kept so simple and so few that he could list them off of his fingers?
He was ashamed. He tried to turn so that his head was in the pillow and found he couldn't.
For a moment the insane notion that he was now in a scientific lab where a mad scientist would now perform untried and untested experiments on his drugged body, but of course that could not be true. Simply, his right hand felt heavy, like lead. With a heave, he turned over on his stomach, the right hand falling to his side. Cautiously he used his left hand to touch it, feel if it was there, and it was. Bandages were wrapping it tightly, and he almost tore them off when he felt something odd. He couldn't feel his left hand over his right hand. No warmth, no sensation at all. Certainly the bandages couldn't be that thick! Trying to suppress the sudden dread at what he was going to see, he undid the bandages and held the hand under the window.
Even in the pale light of the moon, it seemed completely unearthly, a lustrous silver-black like a tumbled stone he had seen once at a craft stone. Furthermore, it reminded him of the statue outside of the Japanese Modern Art Museum, a copy of the "Thinker" that was outside some museum on the west coast of the United States somewhere. He watched in ill-disguised horror as the veins under that metal skin pulsed with sluggish substance. Slowly he tried to bend the fingers, and found that it was useless. It was if it really HAD been carved out of stone, or metal, or something unmovable and unchangeable. His heart beat wildly inside of him - with a mad sort of anger, he suddenly grabbed that hand and tried to pull it off. Pain exploded in his wrist. He had dislocated it in his rage.
How could such a thing happen to him? Who had ever heard of a lead hand? But as he watched, he realized that soon he would have more than just a lead hand - he would have a lead arm, a lead torso, and a lead head. The silver-blue metal gleamed in the moonlight like the socket of the corpse's eye in the dilapidated village. Slowly, even as he watched, it crept forward like mist and swallowed his wrist whole, then stopped, as if the metal had been satisfied with eating that part of a meal. He spent one more minute at it, his mind bursting with uncertainties, with terrible and wonderful and impossible suggestions that he would never allow, and questions that wound around his head like May Day flowers. Snatching up the bandages, he rewrapped his hand, making sure that no metal could be seen, not at the fingers or anything. His hand had frozen in a half-curled position, making it hard to wrap, but he did it finally by just wrapping all the fingers together. That deformed, twisted hand finally out of his sight seemed to calm him. He stuffed it under the bedsheets and tried to think rationally, but it felt as if the hand was an eye, seeking to burn him out of possibilities.
He could die, could he? What if he cut it off? And even now, when it was out of his sight, he felt that what pumped in the thin veins that were now no different color than the skin surrounding it wasn't blood. It seemed to insidious to be blood - he'd always thought of blood to be the core of a person, the thing that kept a person breathing and living, something pure and something that couldn't change even if a person changed evil. But whatever was flowing in that hand, it seemed like poison. Shivering, he got up, his head suddenly dizzy from lying down for so long, and then staggered to the door and pulled it opened.
Immediately he was struck by how warm it was. The hand in his side began to tingle, and when he laid his normal hand on top of the bandages, he was surprised to find it warm. A heady sort of feeling overtook his dizziness, clearing his thoughts somewhat. Something about the atmosphere, something about the very air in the air of the building seemed to warm him considerably even though the windows were open at both ends of the hall and were pouring forth the same cold wind that had been in the room. The very lights that hung above him seemed to smile at him. Instantly, his shields went up and the room went completely cold again. Now it was no more than a picture of a hall.
Still shivering, he made his way cautiously down the hall, his head once again spinning with his sudden standing up. He wondered how long he had been out. The house was rather large, at least in his opinion as he looked around. He was just about to give up hope of finding anyone when he spotted a crack of light from under a door. Without bothering to knock - why would he ever have to knock on any goddamn door? - he plunged straight in. Golden lamplight filled his senses at once, sending unwelcome light dancing in front of his eyes for a moment. Soft shadows were cast over the wooden walls, their shapes curvy like women's figures. At first he thought there was no one there, then he suddenly did a double-take when he noticed there was a person sitting perfectly still on the bed, a book in hand, and dark eyes seemingly bright yellow in the dim light.
The other boy smiled at Kaga. "You're awake?", he asked, but that question needed no answer. Putting aside the book carefully, he courteously gestured to the opposite bed so that the juvenile delinquent could sit down. This boy's eyes were mysteriously warm but guarded. But everything about the boy seemed to radiate more than just common cold politeness - it seemed to be much more, as if every gesture was meant from the heart. The way he walked with such care, with such elegance made Kaga watch him rather dumbly. He was still staring dumbly when the boy caught his glance again and laughed quietly. "I don't think I'm particularly beautiful, but I guess all people have different tastes." At the comment, the Tokyo-born gave the first blush he had given in years and ducked his head down in embarrassment.
Strangely, it never once occurred to him that he should fear the other boy. "I just like the way you walk", he said lamely.
"Oh?", the boy's eyes danced in the dim light. With a start Kaga realized that the lamp was not a lamp - it had been a tray of candles arranged on an altar. "I was not aware either that my walk is particularly elegant. Thank you. I daresay you get enough of short-skirted girls throwing their hips from side to side in Tokyo? Or maybe you don't tire of those?" He gave another golden laugh, and when he stopped Kaga realized that he had been staring again.
"Isumi. The name is Isumi", the boy said, giving no indication of ever having a last name. Ceremoniously he took Kaga's hand, held it in his for a moment, and then returned it to his lap. Kaga felt it hard to look into those eyes - he could read from his own instincts that this boy, Isumi, was not all that he seemed. There seemed to be something *else* about the way he moved and the sound of his voice - it seemed laced with spells of trust and loyalty. And yet he felt that Isumi would not break any promises. It was strange the way just the way that Isumi looked could send him into a fit of tongue-tied bashfulness. It wasn't that Isumi was particularly attractive to him - sure, he WAS beautiful, but he wasn't attracted THAT WAY. It was just the grace that the other boy used seemed so flowing, so completely controlled and so natural that he felt the role of being the scruffy, coarse little city boy become him immediately.
He jumped when the door slammed open against the wall. Another boy was there, this one looking sharp in contrast to Isumi's almost boyish- roundness of face and gesture. Immediately Kaga realized that they were probably around the same age - older than he was, certainly. Whereas Isumi seemed to be comfortably clad, everything about the newer boy was crisper, edgier as if he didn't want a single speck of dust on him. Already from first glance he seemed immaculate, made of stone more than my hand was made of lead. His voice completely matched with his clothes. "Flirting again, Isumi?", his voice asked cynically. "Already can't keep your hands off of our little guest, now, can we?"
There was no anger in Isumi's face or any stiffening defensive in his stance, but his eyes burned as his voice, still perfectly controlled, gave an equally cutting reply. "I would have thought that was your range of work. I was not aware that there were two whore in the house, Ijima. I was only aware that you were one."
The sharp boy - Ijima - seemed to take this as no personal insult, and yet his eyes flashed dangerously back at Isumi. I froze, not quite knowing what to say; though my tendencies leaned towards Isumi, I wanted to hear the rest of the argument sans interruption. "Awareness, awareness", the sharp boy iterated, "you always talk of your awareness. Sixth sense indeed! Ridiculous, the lot of it all, prophecy my foot. Or, rather, if you would prefer, you could deliver my prophecy to my ass instead."
Now Isumi's eyes were burning like nothing Kaga had ever seen before. "Would it be that you were gone!", he said low and quietly. "You disgrace the very floorboards that the rest of us walk on!"
The sarcastic smile was still there. With a flick, Ijima gestured a careless goodbye and then sauntered out. The door was still open, but then Isumi closed it, his breathing and the routine of his inhale/exhale calming him. His smile was rueful as he looked at Kaga again. "I apologize you had to see that. As you can tell, Ijima does not get along very well with me." He stared at Kaga perhaps a little longer, and instantly the delinquent felt very exposed. "Oh! I almost forgot this", Isumi reached into a drawer and drew out a folded bundle of colors.
Kaga's eyes almost jumped out of their sockets. "The blanket!", he gasped, and took it quickly. The moment his hands felt the softness of the material, he felt soothed. If all else failed, he still had this, it seemed like his last lifeline. He didn't have to ask Isumi to know that they had probably found him with it when he had still been lying in the snow. "Thank you", he said quietly, and he meant it. He stopped for a moment at his own words - he had not said those two words in a very, very long time. No one had ever gained his trust so fast and so readily before.
Isumi was studying the blanket carefully. "It looks of Ainu make", he said thoughtfully. Kaga almost answered an affirmative to that, but then stopped. If Isumi brought the blanket to a police station, then they would know that Kaga was being sheltered in his house! Quickly he murmured a reply of uncertainty, and then ducked his head back down when he realized that Isumi was watching him closely.
"What do you know of the Ainu anyway?", Kaga asked, his mind instantly thinking of young, improbable Ainu historians who had a taste for staring at a prisoner for the entire hour trip to a freezing island. He wondered, also, if Touya and Shindou were still looking for him.
The other boy cocked his head to the side as if mirroring his question. "I am of Ainu descent", he said at length, "and I have a brother born here in Hokkaido in one of the tribes. He has devoted his life to the study of Ainu culture and history. I am here in Hokkaido to do the same, to follow in his footsteps." He gave a small smile, as if he were thinking of good memories with his brother. "You may have heard of him before? His name is Touya Akira."
/ \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ / \ Author's note:
Well, that sure took a long time to crank out! But I couldn't decide what I was going to do until today, but I'm rather pleased with the results. I will be writing more soon, after this week is out because I have a nasty essay due in a very nasty class. I hope that this throws a bit of a curveball at you! No, I don't know if the Japanese Modern Art Museum has the "Thinker" outside of it - I do know that the San Francisco one does, so I put a mentioning of it in there too. Okay, that's it for now
Andrea Weiling