First it's the sound, the continuous buzz from the swelling crowd, the hollering from the fish, shampoo, cracker mongers, the giant speakers announcing sales, the flatscreens churning advertisements. Now add the tightly squeezed shelf displays, the overzealous use of color, the lack of typography, and even more ads in the form of posters and motion graphics, there you have the 21st century Chinese supermarket, a headache dressed as a "convenience store." Then there's little you, little consumer, with your giant cart, going down the assembly line, row after row, dodging carts and ladies with their sample teas and elaborate packaging like you're playing Katamari, and all of sudden you think Japanese.
You think of Murakami and his End of the World prose, like cold fluorescent light caressing memories as you wade through this Hard-boiled Wonderland. You recall your favorite Japanese grocery store on St. Marks, how you pause at the packaging because it uses all the right colors, in all the right combinations, and there's nothing minimalist about any of this, except it works, and there's care in all that noise.
When you trip back into reality, and again let the hyper-capitalism tsunami over you, you convert the scene into a MV. That's right, a fucking Music Video where the buzz becomes iridescent noise and the crowds a trick of time-lapse photography. You stand in the middle of this: frozen, prickly, unnerved,
Then you realize, fuck this, I have seen supermarkets where garlics bloom and gingers shine like fucking gold, where vegetables are piled high and mongering is an art. I have known a place where bicycles reign and middle age men drink on the curb in their pajamas in broad daylight. I have known a place that clearly only exist in my head, and everyone else must be crazy.
