Welcome to Maid Spin, the personal website of iklone. I write about about otaku culture as well as history, philosophy and mythology.
My interests range from anime & programming to mediaevalism & navigation. Hopefully something on this site will interest you.
I'm a devotee of the late '90s / early '00s era of anime, as well as a steadfast lover of maids. My favourite anime is Mahoromatic. I also love the works of Tomino and old Gainax.
To contact me see my contact page.
I awoke in my cramped, four-and-a-half tatami mat room, light pouring in through the open window and the low mumble of the city crowds passing to and fro beneath it. The clock on the wall opposite said a quarter past ten, and while I hardly had an action-packed day ahead of me, I really should get up. I folded up the futon haphazardly and shoved it into the closet beside the door. When I first moved here I had never even seen a futon or a tatami mat in my life, they were a novelty to me: but now I gave them almost no thought. I set the kettle to boil, and peered down out of the window to the street below. The never-ending river of people flowed past, shimmering in the glaring sun, all headed into the city centre. Looking up I could see neon signs poking out above the tops of the tower blocks across the street, and further up still I spied one of the advertising blimps floating overhead declaring to the world "AKIBA EXPO NOW OPEN FOR BUSINESS" in an eye-catching font. It was unfortunate I had an errand to run today, or otherwise I would have gone along. But such events were commonplace now I lived in Akihabara, so it wouldn't be long until the next one.
It was just past eleven when I took the lift down to the lobby. I picked out my umbrella from the rack (merely a habit, it was always summertime here) and left through the sliding front door, the android-secretary giving me an ever-cheery farewell as I did so. And then it was out into the busy thoroughfare. This was Akihabara City, the "Electric Town", the capital of anime and otaku heaven. The city itself was set out in a grid pattern. Wider roads encircling large city blocks, while smaller streets criss-cross perpendicular at irregular intervals. This uneven nature left strangely sized plots of land to which the buildings dutifully squeezed themselves in to. Tall thin buildings precariously holding themselves up with struts, or buildings that stretched themselves across the dissecting streets entirely, leaving dark passageways underneath that were the common and appropriate locations for the less respectable establishments of the city.
Most of the buildings here are also exceptionally tall. Much taller than I was used to in my home town. The main routes are alive with neon and LCD screens night or day, all displaying adverts for newly released anime, video games and the like. Lining each street are countless restaurants, internet cafes, work-garages, bars and shops selling everything one would expect in the "Electric Town". From the latest manga releases or second-hand Blu-ray sets to spare computer parts and old video game cartridges. It's said that one is never more that 10 feet away from this weeks copy of Shonen Jump here, and I believe it. The tallest structure in the city, sat in the centre of this grid pattern, is that strangely shaped building they call "Big Sight": four pyramids of steel turned on their heads and suspended in the sky on four pillars of concrete; surely put there by some unknown ancient giant. It is here the city's famous "eternal Comiket" is held, a market where artists and fans buy and sell their comics and other crafts. Over many generations the popularity of this once twice-a-year event grew and grew, and so the duration was extended and extended until it reached a full 365-day fling, dubbed "C∞": the endless convention.
It was towards this monument of subculture I made my way, following the general flow of traffic as we all made our daily pilgrimage toward the centre, but today I wasn't headed to Big Sight itself, but somewhere rather more specific. I pulled out the folded piece of paper that sat in my back pocket, a hand-drawn map showing directions to today's destination. It had been given to me by the owner of a manga shop that had forwarded an order of mine to another shop at this location. One thing you learn quickly here is that without a clear map, you may never be able to find the same place ever again. In fact it is such a problem that most shops like to give out fliers giving directions, a scourge on my apartment's tiny mailbox. I turned left into a cross-cutting street, this one populated with a few small tea-houses with names written in indecipherable cursive kanji. Despite being less than ten minutes from my house I was already unfamiliar with this locale, an experience very common here but which always made me uneasy: the sheer scale and density of the city made losing your way a dangerous prospect. I hoped I wouldn't get into such a difficulty today, as I passed through the little jasmine-scented tea-town and out into another heaving boulevard.
A flurry of loud noises arrested my ears and the crowds parted to let a troupe of brightly painted vehicles pass through: each decorated in the traditional "itasha" style which consists of adorning your car with vivid depictions of anime characters. This was the infamous "765 Pro gang" I noted, who were often the cause for my rude awakening at impolite hours of the day. I had once been involved in a brief incident with the driver of the Yayoi Takatsuki car after his loli-clad Toyota nearly ran me down as I was walking home late at night. But unexpectedly enough I received a polite handwritten apology and four pounds of beansprouts in my post the following day, so I did hold a certain level of respect for the group despite their disruption.
I stood still and watched as the steady stream of cars rolled past, blasting "Are You Ready? I'm a Lady!" at full volume. Suddenly, from behind, someone bumped into me with quite some force; the impact catching me off guard and sending me sprawling to the tarmac. My assailant helped to my feet at once, mumbling apologies in a stilted voice. I brushed myself off and assured him I was alright. The man was friendly enough, if of a clearly nervous disposition. He looked the spitting image of your stereotypical otaku: a round body with short limbs, attire consisting of a plaid shirt, backpack and a sweatband pulling up his greasy hair out of his eyes: all topped off with the classic coke-bottle glasses perched high on his nose. I accepted his apology for the accident and was about to move on, when I realised my precious map was no longer in my hand! Furtive glances up and down the nearby pavement were in vain, and the endless stomping of passers-by made my chances of recovery worse every second. My day was about to be ruined when a nasally voice ejaculated from behind me: "Uh, sir, excuse me, a-are you looking for the Library of Babel?"
I span around. The rotund man was peering at me anxiously through his thick, spiralled glasses.
����"I am indeed," I responded, for I was, indeed.
����"Ah." The man continued, "I had a feeling it was you."
����He had a peculiar manner of speech, pausing between each statement as if he did not intend to continue. Bewildered at the mention of my destination I asked, "However did you know?"
����"I go there a lot," he explained in his apologetic tone, "To Babel that is. It's one of my favourite places. And I was there - I was there last week when your order came in to the manager - Oh I wasn't eavesdropping, I mean - I just happened to overhear the messenger. And now you are heading to pick up your order I suppose. The..."
����His words trailed off as I gave him a sharp look. I didn't particularly want this information spoken out in public, not that it was dirty, rather just that it was private. My secret voyeur looked at me sheepishly.
����I felt I had been a bit harsh, replying "Sorry, but I'd rather it weren't said out loud if you don't mind. It's something I'd prefer was kept quiet. If you know what I mean."
����He pulled back from me and puffed out his chest, adjusting his glasses in such a way that a flash of reflected light lit them up for an instant and made me shade my eyes.
����"Hoho!" he laughed, in a clearly forced arrogant tone, "we all have our kuro rekishi! But for a man like me something like that is nothing! You must be an amateur with these things."
����I was taken aback by his sudden change in character, and by his saying such ridiculous things with a serious expression. Although any instinct of disgust I may have had toward his conduct were overshadowed by a secret admiration of his character. Keeping a straight face I followed up with: "well I was headed in that direction, but I seemed to have dropped my map, could you help me look for it?"
����"No need!" he snorted, "I know this city like the back of my hand. A man like me doesn't need a map to get anywhere in Akiba."
����"Really?" I said with an unintentionally incredulous voice, "I can barely find my way to the nearest convenience store."
����The man, who's arrogant bravado was started to grate on me a little I must admit, again shifted his glasses with his forefinger, sending yet another beam of light into my eyes. "Online I'm known as The Human Computer, and you don't get a name like that in a crowd like mine without the skills to back it up! I'm the number one man for directions in all of Akihabara! Let me take you to," and he lowered his voice for the final words, "The Library of Babel..."
I followed my new friend closely as we weaved in and out between the crowds. The sun was at its apex now and the harsh rays beat down on our backs as we made our way up the busy road. For such a large man he could surely move quickly. He raced forward at such a pace it was no wonder, I thought, that he would bump into people often. It was all I could do to keep him within my sight. At some point we made a sharp right turn into a side street, followed by another, and then another. I hadn't the time to work out the plan of our route in my head at all, but after all, how could a mere human compete with a computer? For fifteen minutes we ploughed on, him not once looking back at me. Slowly but surely the distance between us widened until he disappeared around a corner and was out of my sight. I went to call out to him, but I realised I hadn't asked his name, and I couldn't just shout out "Human Computer" with a straight face now could I? Panting, I turned two more corners until I emerged into a small square, lined with pastel coloured cafes with parasolled dining tables out the front. My man was nowhere to be seen. I stopped to catch my breath in the shade of one of the cafe's awnings.
"Welcome to Sea Side Maid Cafe!" a voice exclaimed from beside me. The girl it had emanated from stood by the door of the cafe, in full gothic-lolita maid attire, a sickly sweet smile across her face. "How may I be of service today, goshujin-sama? ♡" I assure you the "♡" was audible, although not strictly verbal.
����"Ah sorry, I was just catching a little break from the sun here. I hope you don't mind." Maids are a special weakness of mine, albeit it one I had never quite got over the embarrassment of. Maid cafes like this are very common in this city, near the centre there are truly gargantuan ones that hold hundreds of clients at once, and smaller ones litter the streets covering every specific niche you could possibly imagine. This one seemed to be going for a late 19th century Parisian mode, with moe stylings taken from shoujo manga of the early '00s, somewhat of a hybrid between "Maria-san" and "Pia Carrot". A unique but not abrasive pairing indeed. Although I do think the skirts are on the long side, you can't really call yourself "Parisian" when the skirts go beyond the knee now can you?
I snapped out of my maid-dream, and asked the girl whether she had seen a sweaty man wearing a plaid shirt and thick glasses. She cocked her head to the side and put a finger to her mouth, looking upwards. An action which caused me considerable stress.
����"Hmm, well we have quite a few customers matching that description. I wonder if you could mean the gentlemen that has just arrived?" She pointed behind her into the cafe.
����I peered in and my eyes immediately landed on the very man I was looking for, sitting like a pudding right there in the cafe! He was red-faced at a table, staring unnaturally hard at a menu while a raven-haired maid stood by with a patient smile. I let out a yell and he looked over at me with the demeanour of a defeated man. I beckoned him and, in a comically rigid manner, he stood up and bowed excessively to the waitress, who waved away his unnecessary apologies. He looked worse for wear, his all so pompous attitude from before extinguished like a lamp.
"I-I find it hard to talk to girls. hehe," he explained as we resumed our journey, giving a wave and a goodbye to the girls. "I always end up just saying yes to anything they ask."
����The way he said this gave me a pang of nostalgic understanding, like so many of his ilk his social skills quickly degraded to that of a fourteen year old boy in the face of the fairer sex. Although no man worth his manhood can resist the guiles of a cosplay-maid for any extended period of time, so being harsh on such a mistake would be hypocritical.
����"How much further until the Library now?" I asked, brushing the matter aside.
����"Uh, we are nearly there now, its the next block over," my compatriot told me, his complexion returning from the beetroot red it had been in the cafe back to his usual tomato.
A few more winding streets lead out onto another bustling boulevard, over which we directly crossed and plunged once again into a side street, this one darkened by overhanging buildings. A Torii Gate guarded the entrance to it, something I'd noticed before on other streets. Exactly what they signified I wasn't sure, but I had learnt that beyond them you needed to keep your wits close. As we passed under the gate I heard a faint tingle of bells coming from... somewhere. The air was much cooler here, the buildings bent over us preventing the sunlight from reaching the ground. A few street lamps hung here and there giving sufficient lighting to this underbelly of a street to see. The contrast between it and the brilliant boulevard from before was stark. The shops we passed here seemed mainly to be workshops for spare parts: mechanical, electronic, android. Most of them so hyper-specific it was a wonder they could afford to exist with such a small clientele, how many people were looking for Laser Disc recorders in this day and age? But nothing is too niche for Akihabara.
We arrived at a quiet crossroads, still under the silent canopy of concrete. Here my guide stopped. "It is either of two ways from here," he said, "it's impossible to tell which."
����"So much for The Human Computer," I thought to myself.
����But seemingly reading my mind he responded with the cryptic: "Even a computer cannot predict the outcome of a random event."
����I was about to ask him what on Earth he meant by that, when a loud crashing sound interrupted my thoughts. Something heavy clattered down from above us and crashed into the path a few feet from where we stood. I recognised it from my travels abroad in my youth: it was one of those green neon signs you see in some countries that indicates a pharmacy. The ones with the snake curled around a rod, although this one seemed to have two snakes rather than just one. The green light flickered on and off intermittently as the pair of us stared at it, it looked heavy enough to kill if had hit us over the head. I looked at my companion and recognised on his face a distant thoughtfulness that seemed uncharacteristic of him. He leant down to the sign and touched it. Nothing happened. Standing up he glanced at me and simply said: "This way," pointing us down the path in which the sign had fallen, "It's this way."
Maybe I should have questioned this decision making process, but at the time I thought it completely sound. I silently followed him as we turned what was to be our final corner. At the end of a dark, narrow corridor of a street, sat the rustic frontage of a run-down bookstore. The shutters were open, and a red tint to the light than came from within shone out into the street. Above the entrance hung large, worn letters that made up the shop's name; once a bright red, but now weathered with rust and in peeling paint it read: "THE LIBRARY OF BABEL".
It felt like a jungle inside. It was densely packed with bookcases, leaving only narrow gaps between them that only one man could fit through at a time. Each unit had shelves from the floor to the ceiling, and each shelf was packed head to tail with books and magazines of all kinds, crammed in next to each other without much regard for uniformity or neatness. Several bare, red-tinted lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, not strong enough to illuminate the dark building fully. The air was hot and stuffy, a far cry from the air-conditioned shops on the main streets. It felt a lot like suffocation in there, and I caught myself inadvertently holding my breath as I squeezed past the bookshelves and up to the counter.
But it looked like the shopkeeper was away, and there was no note of absence. However I noted spent ashes still smoking in the ashtray, so I surmised that he couldn't be far off. Thanking my friend for his great assistance, I told him I would wait here until the shop-keep returned.
����"Uh, I think I'll have a look around while I'm here. It's not all the time I get to visit, so I wouldn't want to waste the trip," he said, taking a grubby handkerchief from his back pocket and wiping his dripping forehead.
I watched him as he wandered off deep into the bowels of the shop, occasionally stopping to yank out a thin book and flip through the contents at such a speed I doubted he could really be taking a word of it in. Eventually I lost sight of him in the sepia gloom and I was all alone. It was deathly quiet in the shop. With such a dingy alley outside it was no wonder there was virtually no footfall. All I could hear was the low humming of the lightbulbs and a persistent dripping sound from somewhere indiscernible. I glanced up and down the shelves closest to me to occupy my mind: it seemed their chaotic appearance did actually have some semblance of order to it. Each block of shelves was labelled, with the one closest to me reading "C99": the old-fashioned formatting for the names of the Comiket conventions, back when they were a biannual affair. The shelf contained doujin sold at that particular convention, and there sure as a lot of it. This whole section was under that label. I wasn't sure of what year that particular convention had been held, but it must have been a long time ago since the spines all looked worse for wear. I was about to pull one out to have a look when a door opening and closing sounded from the opposite side of the room. After a few shuffling footsteps someone I guessed must be the shop's manager appeared. He was a tiny man, sporting dark sunglasses and a large, grey-white handlebar moustache. In one hand he held a bundle of books and in the other one of those long handled Japanese tobacco pipes: the end burning orange. He hastily ducked under the counter and jumped up onto the stool, placing his books on the counter and taking a deep puff on his pipe. I looked down at the man and was about to speak when he exhaled, blowing thick smoke right into my half open mouth.
"And what may you be after?" he said in a hoarse voice, as I spluttered and my eyes watered up. He gave a small chuckle and sat forward in his chair. "My apologies, that was rude of me. It's not often we get a stranger in here."
����I cleared my throat with a cough and shook my head. "I-I was told a book I requested has been delivered here. Has it arrived?"
����"Delivered?" the little man said with a laugh, "we don't get deliveries here."
����This puzzled me, as I was told word would be sent to this shop ahead of time about it. I said as much to the old man, to which he retorted with a snort.
����"Not delivery," he said in a patronising tone, "there is no need for deliveries to the Tower of Babel. We hold every doujin work here already: whether that be magazine, self-published book or garage kit, the problem here is that we have so much, it is oh so very hard to track anything down."
����"Everything? What I am looking for is exceedingly rare, I've checked hundreds of shops around the city and have had no luck at all."
����"Everything," he replied definitively, "everything that has ever been published in the history of otaku culture, and..." he leant a little closer, "and even everything that has yet to be, or that never even was published."
I looked at him in astonishment. It was such a ridiculous statement but I sensed no jest in his voice. "How on Earth can that be?"
����"We ask no questions to the library. We treat it as a gift. Although it is impossible to verify, even I have seen only a small portion of what is housed here. You could spend your entire life reading the works we have in store and still have an uncountable number still to go. Most people who visit say that it is infinite, but I don't like to think in those terms. To me its just a catalogue so great that us humans can never count it. But its a dangerous place. There are many people in this city who could waste away their whole life in a place like this, cataloguing, documenting, collecting data. This place turns us otaku-folk into beasts: database animals trapped in a spiral of data. That's why I prefer to keep the shop so hidden, I'm surprised you found your way here at all." He took another puff on his pipe, this time directing the smoke delicately up into the air away from me.
����"No," I started, still not really understanding what this strange little man was talking about, "I was guided here by a stranger. Although I never caught his name. He's just back there." I pointed off into the darkness deeper into the building.
����"Ah I see," replied the keeper, not bothering to turn his head in the direction I pointed. "That'll be young Okada. He's the only one who always finds his way back here despite any effort I make to hide myself. I suppose he's the only one headstrong enough to stand a place like this for so long, sometimes he spends weeks in there at a time: God knows what he's doing, but this place is so big I would never be able to find him even if I tried."
����I peered hard into the darkness that had swallowed up my at last named companion so completely. A slight draft seemed to blow from somewhere in there, and I felt that I may not have been able to see the back wall even if the room was lit with the midday Akihabara sun. A shiver raced down my spine as I turned my eyes sharply away from the abyss and back toward the little old man who's very existence was becoming more mysterious with every word he told me.
����"Oh yes your book," he said in a voice that snapped me back to reality. I had forgotten all about "my book", but the reminder of the real reason I was here settled my heart somewhat. "I did locate it after considerable searching. A difficult find indeed but in the end it wasn't stored so far away as I feared it could have been. I did think you'd never come though, so I haven't brought it over yet. If you'll follow me I'll take you there now."
����He hopped off his little chair and tapped out the ash from his pipe, setting the slender instrument down on a small stand on the counter. And, with his bony hands clasped behind his back he started off at a pace faster than I would have imagined an old man of his stature to take, but nothing to Mr. Okada's Olympic pace. And in we went into the enigmatic but deeply uninviting innards of this "Gate of Babylon" of doujinshi. The Library of Babel indeed...
As we went I peered at the various shelves we passed. There were self-distributed works from various labelled doujin circles, semi-licensed anthology manga, and even printed comics that looked like they could have been nothing more than high-school art projects. It did seem like this place had everything. The building indeed went on deeper than was physically possible, but the concept of this library didn't make physical sense either, so I was ready to ignore the objective incongruity for the sake of my sanity. It seemed, as we delved deeper inside, that the room widened out progressively. At the entrance it could have been no more than twenty foot across, but now I couldn't even see the opposite wall through the gloom. And as we plunged off to the right I slowly lost sight of the final left wall too: my last grasp on a concrete indicator of reality. Passing back and forth between these cramped corridors of paper and wood reminded me a lot of the backstreets of Akihabara itself: with its seemingly simple structure turning into a chaotic nightmare once you weren't sure of your location. I started to ponder the implications of what the old man had told me. A finite space that contained an indefinite volume. A collapse of time itself into one space: the past and the future, that which could have been and that which could be but will never be. There was something deeply unsettling about the notion. I no longer wanted to be here at all, but I kept on going regardless.
Then we arrived at our destination. The old man ran his finger along the shelf in front of him, searching for my request. He stopped and pulled out a thin, colour-printed volume and wiped the dust off the front with his long sleeve.
����"Here it is," he said, turning to me and holding out the piece. "I only take cash so I hope that won't be a problem."
����I took it from him with both hands and looked over the magazine I had helped create so long ago. "University of Nottingham Anime Society: The Zine Issue #13" Here it was. I looked back up at the man with a smile.
����"I only have cash."
