Ridgeline subscribers —

I like “eras.” That is, named chunks of time.

Japanese history tends to periodicize based on locus of power. The Tokugawa Shogunate reigned for hundreds of years, and so: Edo, where the power was, becomes the period (a big sweeping one). Post-Shogunate, power was restored to the emperor, and so we get: Meiji (1868–1912), Taishō (1912–1926), Shōwa (1926–1989), Heisei (1989–2019), Reiwa (2019-). Periods aligning with imperial reign. (It’s a bit wacky though: The era name is not the emperor’s name while he’s alive; upon death, the emperor is posthumously renamed the era name (which was chosen by a governing body of scholars); so the Shōwa Era emperor was named Hirohito (but just called “Emperor” while alive), but is known as “Emperor Shōwa” historically.)

Each of these modern eras has, as the yoots say, a vibe.

Meiji and its upheaval, the civil battles (still bullet holes in the doors of temples north of Ueno Park), the landing of the black ships, the first contact with foreign bodies at large. An explosion of knowledge. All of that contained in a word.

Taishō, short but potent; brings to mind mixing and re-mixing. I think of quirky and beautiful homes that open into western parlors with parquet flooring and pianos and fainting couches, with Japanese naka-niwa out back: water fixtures, expertly-chosen rocks, gross koi swimming and slurping up the pond sludge, all viewed from tatami-mat Japanese rooms. In my mind, Taishō is when fashion went a little funky, cafés got a bit weirder, and a mixed aesthetic unique to Japan — and unique within its long history — took hold. A true once-in-a-earth-time commingling of very different (yet fully baked) cultures into something singular and new.

Shōwa was obviously war death and grand stupidity and military hubris, but far more than that. It was Ozu’s films and micro-sized nomiya and kissaten and jazz kissa and meikyo kissa, Americana obsessions (the adoration towards American soldiers after the war is still one of the most bizarre social backflips), blue jeans, enka-riddled sunakku, little yōshokus that served up solid omu-raisu and “hamburg.” Shōwa was economic miracles and engineering miracles. Shōwa was an entire population rising out of a country of literal ash to create one of the greatest (densest) economies in history. For the most part, Shōwa is remembered as a post-war era (though it had some 20 years pre-war). Towards the end it symbolized monumental excess, but for the most part seemed to signal: equitable distribution of opportunity.

Heisei feels and looks and sounds … dull? Meiji and Taishō have a kind of oomph, an implied history that quickens the pulse, a shape and energy that Heisei lacks. (In general, the naughts feel this way the world over.) Shōwa, meanwhile, is just a perfect word, two soft syllables making it nice to say and easy to look back on with rose-tinted glasses. Heisei is pointy. Has a cold mouthfeel that does not reward invocation. It marked the end of the bubble, the end of excess and the end of growth. Heisei is when culture in Tokyo ossified. When Japan lost its 2nd-place GDP position to China (and now 4th to Germany, and soon to be 5th to India). When land prices and wages and, indeed, all consumer product costs flat lined for some twenty-five years. There was a brief uptick of energy towards the end, after the post 3-11 triple disaster, when the world remembered Japan existed and flights got mega cheap and entire populations were lifted out of poverty, unlocking leisure travel for hundreds of millions of people, with Japan a top bucket-list destination.

And now we’re in Reiwa, confusing and jumbled Reiwa. Smacked out the gate with Covid. Tower mansions going up left and right, visualizing a growing economic disparity and escape hatches for newly-wealthy non-Japanese Asians. Mega developments are erasing any hint of texture or humanity from Shibuya-ku and Minato-ku. More people visit Japan in a month than did in a year for most of Heisei. The global order is going sideways. America is unreliable. China is the biggest energy producer (several times over in renewables) in the world, and will soon dominate global auto markets like Japan did in the 70s. Japan itself is trying to climb out of a thirty-year Heisei stupor. Prices are rising. Wages are, too. Inflation exists, once again. Yet, the yen is the weakest it’s been since the early 90s. Japanese people are feeling crunched. Rice is expensive. Hotels are stupid expensive for locals. Politics are increasingly conservative. Nobody is having babies (in Japan or abroad). Socially, a kind of self-immolation of solitude and aloneness is happening (in Japan and abroad). As such: Immigrant-directed anger is increasing (in Japan and abroad). Immigrants themselves are visible in ways Japan has never before experienced — mostly as convenience store or restaurant staff. Previously, the many, many immigrants were hidden in factories in the countryside of Aiichi or Gifu or Mie. (Many still are; who do you think assembles that 7-11 bento? Boxes those egg sandwiches?) And yet, Reiwa Japan is a paragon of sanity to most any visitor. Infrastructure is phenomenal. Violence is almost zero. Drug issues are moot. Social safety nets and health care function (for now). Trains take you anywhere you could want to go, on time, quickly, cheaply. Despite the overtourism in select areas, visitors find folks here to be some of the kindest people in the world. Japanese fashion continues to innovate. The natural beauty of the country is effectively infinite. Sure, Japan has failed to produce a single globally-used app the likes of TikTok or Facebook (Line, the chat app used somewhat in Asia, is actually owned by a Korean parent company), and though it has failed to produce a compelling electric car, its kei-cars remain exemplars of automotive rationality. (80% of all the cars in the world could probably be kei, and it’d be just fine, while cutting emissions by about a trillion percent.) Fewer cars are cooler or more sensible than a Suzuki Jimny (which can be had for about $15,000 USD). Japan and quality are still synonymous, perhaps more so than ever. Japanese craftspeople are globally heralded to near saint-like levels (while simultaneously not making much money; maybe upping their virtue). Japanese woodworking is nonpareil. You need a perfect, newly made sword? Japan’s got you covered. Buying an old Japanese farmhouse is apparently the most exciting thing a certain liberal white American can dream of doing. Japan has pull and sway, and though diminished, its soft power is still wielded throughout the world. But where does it go? Reiwa feels epochal in a way Japan hasn’t contended with for generations. It’s a big one, this era.

I’ve been thinking about eras because I’ve been thinking about my own life. Forty-five! That’s a number. A real number. I’m experiencing all the usual time-triggered crisis clichés. I found some old notebooks of mine from 2007 the other day: To-do lists, brainstorm sketches of apps, essay drafts, database schema, hand-drawn calendars — turns out, I’ve been writing stuff like this in notebooks, almost continuously, for 20+ years. What did any of those to-dos mean? Have they added up to anything? What about the to-dos I’ve ticked off today? 2016 being ten years ago feels impossible. Covid feels like it was 8,000 years long, but happened only two weeks ago. Time dilates, sucks up all matter. My friends and I marvel at our age. How did this happen? How much longer do we have? People I know drop dead, not infrequently! Interstellar becomes more and more moving. An older friend keeps a “death clock” on his computer lock screen. I drink coffee with someone in their 20s and realize, with some disbelief, that I’m not in my 20s. And yet it feels like all the time splayed before them is also splayed before me, though I know that’s not true. Basically: Time has become diaphanous. I’ve failed to label my own personal eras. Without those labels, events bleed. And given more time, they bleed more. Maybe I need to retroactively name the chunks. The first-contact-in-Japan era? The Tentative California era? The era of Great Hugs? The novel-writing era? The SPECIAL PROJECTS era? The Walk Walk Walk era?

How do you chop up your own life? Do you have your own eras? Your own chunks? Children help with this, somewhat, by brute force. Deaths, loses, these define boundaries and edges. But that’s not always true. The death of my father was less epochal and more a release of latent tension; his being gone meant I didn’t have to worry about being a bad son, and he didn’t have to worry about being a bad dad. Global financial crises and pandemics mark off time for us all, but I’m more curious about personal time keeping, in the way Japan keeps its own personal time, regnal time, non-Christian time (I think this is more powerful and important than we may realize, and I’m glad to fill out forms with random Reiwa 7 or Reiwa 8 instead of 2025 or 2026). What’s your method? Does time make sense to you? How has it changed over your life?

C