Scribbler's Cafe: 08.2004

Oh, how sad. My poor empty mailbox. My Japan address is on the bottom of the sidebar. Yep.

Another fabulous prize to win. Apanman! He's everywhere!

A special prize in an arcade. Special indeed.

This is the merry-go-round at the park near our place. Strange and rather post-apcolyptic, like the playgrounds in the terminator movies.

At the shrine.

This shrine is just one block from my apartment. It's lovely and filled with blood thirsty mosquitoes.

Kiomye waiting for the train.

A shopping street in Sannomiya, two quick train rides from our apartment.

Kiomye cooling off in her own special way

A small sliver of our view of Nishinimiya from our balcony.

Kelsye and Kiomye on the plane to Osaka

First Impressions of the land of the rising sun

I was unprepared for how ugly it is, how grey and square and cramped. Now I understand why Japanese art is so minimalist. There is no space (and surprisingly little beauty) in the physical world, so the canvas cries for it. After being here just a day, I crave the arc of a single continuous line and an ocean of white space.

There are saving graces- our bathroom, for instance. It’s two rooms with a ridiculous amount of built in storage for things like lotion and lip stick. The bathtub is short, but so am I, and is also deep enough to soak me to my armpits when I sit straight and to my chin when I relax against the curved backrest.

Every four blocks is a vending machine that sells sweet milky coffee, cool and refreshing in this murky heat.

The 7-11 down the street is nothing like the 7-11 back home. They sell bento boxes full of fresh sushi and tempura for just five bucks.

Hello Kitty is everywhere - though I wonder how long I’ll count that in the perks category.

My boss and his wife have welcomed us warmly. Okamoto is already Uncle Okamoto to Kiomye and she wants to hold his hand everywhere we go. We drove and walked up and down crowded little Nishinomiya on our beaurocratic errands. Okamoto drove me to the dollar store and laughed at me when I bought the plastic molds for my rice balls. He said that my hands are all the tools I need. I replied that I’m still American and can use all the help I can get. I like my boss. He swears in English, even when he’s speaking Japanese. Sometimes it’s the only part of the discussion that I can understand.

Matt and I toasted with sake on our balcony. Here’s to our new adventure in Japan. The apartment buildings become stack of lights beneath us, the tower of Osaka twinkling in the distance. We watch the bullet train running past the bottom of the hill. When we open our windows we can hear its low rumble.

We’ve arrived. Japan. Home.

Sunrise

Kiomye and I wake at sunrise and stand on our balcony to watch the light encompass Osaka and Nishi. We speak in whispers.

Beautiful, mommy.

Kiomye calls the blinking lights on the far off towers that encircle Osaka Bay “sparkle stars”. She can already name the vehicles by the sound they make as they thread themselves through the tightly packed buildings. The whining growl – scooter. The clickity-clack – train. The hissing squeaks – bus. The far off rumble – bullet train, shinkansen.

Sushi Heaven

Okamoto took us out for sushi last night. His wife had flown to Tokyo to visit their son and he didn’t feel like cooking or eating left-overs. He took us to a place with booths covered in bright orange vinyl left over from the seventies and a conveyor belt full of food that wound its way around the restaurant. The sushi was only 105 yen per plate (about a buck). I ate everything that Okamoto yanked off the line and set before me. I’ve always loved sushi, but I’ve also grown accustomed to western sushi – heavy on the avocado and light on the raw fish. I would have never ordered the seaweed pouch full of giant fish eggs, or the drop of rice smothered by an entire side of scale fish back home. Everything was delicious. I particularly liked the giant fish eggs, though I think I still prefer pork to smelt.

Typhoon headed our way

A typhoon is coming. I know nothing of typhoons. When we asked Okamoto what to expect, he flipped his hand up as if it were nothing and said Oh, something like a hurricane. My mind boggles. Matt and I still haven’t been able to get any reception on our television and all the English speaking radio stations seem to be more concerned with Britney Spears future marriage and Nelly’s latest scandal than the severe weather warning.

Matt had a horrid headache and sent me out to find him aspirin. The convenience stores don’t carry any over-the-counter medicine; neither does the grocery store near our house. I had to take the train to Kitaguchi Station, to the big drug store. It was my first time taking the train alone, but I already felt like an old pro from the few times I went with Matt and Kiomye. The trains sing a cheerful “hurry hurry” song just before they leave the station. Kitaguchi is just two stops away. I get of with the crowds and head towards the North East exit. At the crossing to the department store, vendors gather to hand out fliers and little packets of tissue with coupons printed on the backs. They usually ignore me, the gaijin who couldn’t possibly speak Japanese. One woman called out to me today. Haw-pee housewife, haw-pee housewife! Amusing.

The drug store astounds me. Tightly packed boxes of indiscernible drugs fill entire walls. I stand blinking, mouth open, and contemplate my choices. I can only guess at the various healing properties of the medicines by the cartoon depictions of people suffering from obviously life-threatening ailments. Many of the cartoon people seem to have extreme stomach problems as they clutch their middles and bend over, faces grossly contorted.

After I’ve been standing dumbfounded in front of the medicine wall for about ten minutes, a clerk approaches me and throws some lightening fast Japanese at me. I assume she’s asking me if I need assistance, so I start to pantomime a headache. I’m a very good actress. I get really into it. I hold my hands at the side of my head, scrunch my face and say oww, oww, oww. That just seems to confuse her, so I throw out a bunch of lightening fast English words, hoping she’ll understand even one.

“Head pain. Aspirin. Head hurt. Excedrin.”
“How about this?” She says in perfectly clear English. “Ibuprofen.”
“Oh, yes. Great.” I blush and duck my head.
“She rings me up and hands me the box of pills in a bag. “Take to at a time.”
“Arigato.” I slur even the simple Japanese. “Thanks,” I say, bow a couple of times, and retreat quickly.

I moved my desk in front of the sliding doors to the balcony. It screws with the feng shui of the living room, but I hate staring at a wall when I write. Now I look out on the lights of Nishinomiya and Osaka. The bullet train slides by below me, a glowing caterpillar. A heavy yellow moon peaks at me from behind the gathering clouds – typhoon clouds, I am told.

The heat bears down on us the second we step outside our thoroughly air-conditioned living box. The people on the streets carry hanker-chiefs to mop the sweat from their faces, necks and chests. The women carry dark umbrellas on clear days to block the sun. No one wears cool clothing – jeans and light jackets are the norm – even when it’s over 90 and steamier than a rice cooker. Glowing vending machines offer ice cold bottles of juice and water, but Matt and I seem to be the only ones to ever make a purchase. I gulp down familiar brands of bottled water while Kio chugs mini bottles of apple juice with tweaked-out kitty cartoons on the wrapper. We wilt in the heat. Kiomye falls asleep on the train ride home from the Sannomiya shopping street, melting into my body. When we finally return to our frigid living box, I kick off my sandals and then sit on the couch to peel off my jeans. We spend two hours laying half naked on our bed under the air conditioner to recover.

Sactuary at the Spar Cafe

On the eve of a big disembarkment, an extended journey overseas, I claim a little space of solitude to calm my spirit. A table for one, near the window and away from the families and lovers. I will sit here until my soup grows cold - soup I ordered only to reserve my welcome at the cafe. Then I will leave. For one blessed hour, I will turn the pages of my new novel and scrawl in my notebook when I feel so moved. I have no pressure to be productive. I can read the same page twice if I like, then turn my head to stare out the window into the spaces of air blowing between the passing people.

I have stepped outside my life for the length of a leisurely dinner and have found my reprieve. I feel apart, separate and therefore unaccountable and calm. Pasternak - whose novel I am slowly devouring - would counter my thoughts to say that my freedom from care comes from my innate sense of interconnectedness with all the human lives around me. Possibly he is right. The life of the woman on the street may flow into that of the man at the counter, which may flow in to mine. But for now, all I care is that my coffee cup is almost empty and my soup is no longer steaming. I have no concerns beyond that.

Library Squirrel

Library Squirrel

Here is an amusing blog I just stumbled across. The author is a quirky librarian who writes very well about such subjects as dead mice in the class room and mormon missionaries huddling around internet terminals.

plus, she loves words like I love words. She writes:
"I love that word, perdition. Lostness. Lostitude. Lostfullness."

Peace and Reconciliation

We sit in the hidden alcove in your parent’s backyard. Grapevines trail from the trellis above and impair our view of the lighted house. Our daughter is sleeping. Your father left us the wine and the radio and retired to his room. Your mother is somewhere cleaning.

You light a pipe and offer me a hit, which I accept because I’ll accept for others and I know that you miss me when you smoke alone. The afternoon sun fades and we find ourselves blanketed by stars. It is summer, the air is still warm. We feel held and comforted despite our lack of jackets or sweaters. We are silently waiting for me to break the subject. After an hour, I begin.

It was wonderful to feel wanted.

You nod and rest your hand on your knee. The candle between us flickers.

There are areas where we do not match. I imagined I could cultivate those things in you – craving for intellect and scholarship, a driving passion. Now I accept that I cannot.

You turn away from me slightly, eyes hardened. You take out a cigarette and light it. This smoke you do not offer to me. I turn away. We cross our legs and stare out into the darkness. The candle wanes. We sit still as stone. Even the mosquitoes have given up on us and now no longer buzz in our ears.

You say, My love will never be good enough.

I say, For what? To keep me? I am sitting here now.
We look at each other directly. My eyes blink, yours do not.

Temptation

Leaping and turning beneath my skin, the demon I’ll never let you see torments me. He has grown strong within, feeding off my tender heart and perverse fantasies. My insides can hardly contain him. At full stretch, his talons touch my toes and his horns tickle my throat. I sit in this circle of calm bodies and sublime looks and pray that no one can see my struggle. The light is dim. It is easy to mistake my grimace for a smile.

The demon scampers up to my brain and gnaws on my memory, swallowing sweet vows of loyalty and evenings spent barefoot under stars. My skin stretches and bulges as he races up and down my limbs, stirring up sensations of exquisite pleasure. I gasp – you mistake it for a laugh or maybe a yawn. The light is dim. My clothes cover my secret shivers. Please don’t make me scream, I beg, then dive within to restrain the demon, to attempt to subdue his plunder for one blessed moment.

We wrestle beneath skin, spiraling toward the center of my chest. My fleshy blue-red heart beats strong and fast, diverting the demon. He curls his lips around a swelling of heart and suckles as if an infant at his mother’s breast.

I return to self, climb up and look out of my eyes again. I notice you are telling an old story now, about unrequited love and the quest for peace. I sit with still arms, my palms turned upward. I ache for your peace. Sharp teeth gnash and pull at the small corner of my heart. Alternate shivers of pain and pleasure transverse my limbs. I grimace. The light is dim. You tell the punch line again, encouraged by my smile.

I look over the dancing tips of the rising flames and catch the eye of the man across from me. His pupils lay dead in circles of white, which flash ice blue, then clear back to naked white. He blinks and looks around the circle. His eyes fall on mine. We look away. Silently, I welcome him back from the fray.

Not so green today

I spent the day running aroun town on endless, soul-sucking errands. The only redeeming part of my day was that I got to drive my mother's truck. I do love driving that big truck around. The environmentalist in me cringes, but can't compete with that damn truck. It feels as though I'm gliding through town on a giant white steed while everyone else is trotting along on ponies. Suckers. Of course, then I spend $80 filling the tank and I remember how meditative it is to take the bus.

My daughter is calling me to come play nerd-may (mermaid) with her in her bath. So I must sign-off. Ha! Nerd-may...

The Cultivation of Victimization

Journalist Chris Hedges wrote that in war the designated victim must be perceived as pure and good -the offender seeming cruel and unjust. The enemy is dehumanized and the universe starkly divided between the forces of light and of darkness. Hedges writes that the cultivation of victimhood is essential fodder for any conflict.

It follows from this that whatever the victimized country does after receiving its initial assault can be forgiven. The nation can do no wrong. All acts are justified in the name of retribution and balance. The rules of war suggest that we must act in proportion, but there is no way to balance the scales with life and death, misery and suffering. This rule for a just war is invalid as it is impossible to measure or gain agreement on the accounting of anguish.

Even breaking the few clear and simply stated rules for a just war may be rationalized if the nation relies on its victimization to legitimize its acts. For instance, the torture of prisoners, combatant or non-combatant, is forbidden. Yet we Americans hung our heads for only a moment when the photos of Abu-Gray surfaced in our murky media. Our transgressions were forgiven as the casualties of our might were Arab and dark-skinned and therefore on the side of evil. No evil can be done against evil, according to our great leaders.

It all seems so simple. I watch my president on Fox news wagging his finger at the “axis of evil” and spurring us to war against those that “hate freedom.” His attempts to simplify our world conflicts and paint the US as a morally righteous nation are highly successful within our patriotic population. Bush rouses his populace with a cheap carnival trick. Who could possible take his words to heart? Surely, I cannot be the only one to see through his rhetoric.

Then I pause and ponder. I am familiar with this tactic. I have cried foul in many of my personal conflicts and then set out to paint my side as pure and just. A trite example: “How can I be blamed for not putting the garbage out on the curb in time for pick-up. Sure, it was my turn to remember, but I was sick and overwhelmed with schoolwork while you have been sitting around all day doing nothing at all. How can you be so insensitive? Don’t you know how difficult college is? You obviously don’t support me.”

How quickly I can turn my moment of forgetfulness into my husband’s lack of caring for my education. This battle tactic is so easy and successful. I must think hard on my words to stop myself from doing this time and time again. If I villianize in my personal relationships, how can I shame a nation or a collective for committing a similar act on a grander scale?

Reunion Time

Yesterday we sat and sweltered at my grandparents ranch in Monroe - a little bon voyage party to gather the family before Matt, Kio and I depart for the land of the rising sun. I love my big family. There grandparents, aunts, uncles a sampling of cousins, my sister's family and four big dogs running all amuck. We picknicked on the grass under canopies filled with flowers, just a couple of steps away from the pasture where the horses ran back and forth and begged for watermelon.

Kiomye rode a horse for the first time ever. It was a thrill to see her little body all alone on that great big animal. She got shouts of advice from all sides - back straight, heels down, toes in - which was hilarious considering she's only two and the fact that she can simply keep her diapered bottom from sliding off the saddle was amazing in itself.

The day was exhausting. Kiomye screamed her head off for a full minute when we strapped her down in her carseat to drive home - then she was out cold for the rest of the drive. It's odd to know that I won't see most of my family for at least a year - possibly much more. I don't see my extended family all that often, but it is comforting to know that they are close. I will miss their proximity.

Poetry Fun and Frivolity

Sweet words scrawled on a slip of paper, slipped to me.
What kind of sapling sheep am I that I will follow any kindly shepard.

The demons in me are talking too loud.
Remove your hand from my hip so I that I may hear my thoughts.

The Shepard that seeks to lead me is not my god,
Simply heavenly anticipation that seeks to penetrate my depravity.

Forget the lie I told you last night.
Sit close I have another.

Pure Propaganda

I.
Chrsi Hedges wrote in War is a Force that Give us Meaning, “A woman is less able to identify with and be seduced by war and the allure of violence.”

Confusion. Is this because women know nothing of seduction and allure? I think Chris has hedged his bet in the wrong direction.

II.
“The more subtle our thinking about love, the more intelligently we discriminate ideals from reality, the more interesting our biography becomes,” so wrote Armstrong in The Condition of Love.

Meager rationalization. Logic is poison for a faithful heart. As our dear president Bill demonstrated, “It all depends on what your definition of ‘is’ is.”

III.
I can turn myself into a victim. I can claim that the pressures and expectations of monogamy are simply unreasonable for a woman like me. I can claim that my intellect demands more stimuli, that my body is conditioned for closeness of skin and heat, that my writer’s life demands an existence outside the boundaries of other women. How unfair it is to hold one such as myself to such stringent rules, rules that will corrode my spirit and strength. I must be strong, my spirit well fed – for it is me that carries this family. It is my dreams that propel us, my words that feed us. If my dreams suffer, then we all suffer. My child, my husband and me.

Glory

We tumble into bed, not as lovers, but as family. Three of us. I push Matt against the pillows and then dive on top. Kisses on his neck, his cheeks, his brows. Our young daughter squeals in delight and climbs over my shoulders, over my head to kiss his forehead. Get Daddy! Get Daddy!

Matt roars deep and loud. Kiomye and I scream and retreat to the bottom of the bed, huddling and giggling. Matt rises up on his knees, arms high above his head. Save me, mommy! I hold Kiomye tight and we laugh madly when Matt’s hands come down on us, tickling our sides and our bellies.

In the afternoon, we sit in the grass by the shore of Lake Washington. Our ransacked picnic basket lays tipped to our right. We wrap arms around knees and watch the other families play and chat around us, the boats passing, the planes over head looping and diving. Kiomye’s heavy lashes flicker and she snuggles against my side, one hand reaching over to rest on Matt’s thigh. We are quiet in the midst of the cacophony. I feel a breeze on my neck and turn to catch Matt’s circled lips. He blows cool breathes onto my face. We smile.

Under the Glow of Rumi's Stars

The poet Rumi says that the whole business of love is to drown in a sea, to hear in your soul's ear a drum which sounds from the depths of the stars.

But for me, all I can think of is yesterday, the milk cooling my coffee and the click clack of your spoon against the walls of my cup. I ruminate not of locked edens and the fleshy fruits of love, but of late night TV and your joke about the president. Blessed eternity, for us, is one season in the same city, a year in the same state. Isolation from the uncomprehending world is a night away from our dear child and the luxury of a closed bedroom door.

Love for me in not moon glow faces and rosebud lips. Love is socks with holes in toes and legs that lock with mine. That tape you play again and again. Pirate jokes and cases of coke. The window of my father's house and long stretches of road. That youth hostel in New Orleans. The scent of you mothers detergent. Rings that no longer fit fingers, diamond flakes. Your homework mixed with mine. A stretch of Florida beach and cooing our daughter to sleep.

Rumi says to be clear-hearted, to polish our hearts with the edge of our love so that truth may be mirrored. But my heart is murky with tears (not pearls) that outline the submerged secrets we do not share and the old nights that we do not discuss. I think of you, whom I will see tomorrow despite, and whom will trail rough fingertips over my bare nape and smile when I shiver.

I thank Rumi for the delightful distraction, for the fragrant daydream. His delicious words bring my spirit pleasure. Yet for all his stars and gardens, I would not trade a single day of our ordinary love. For ordinary days lead to nights that sweat and moan and the dreams that we cohabitate under the glow of Rumi's stars.

Spare me

I have heard tell that love is the cure for what ails us. Isolation. Fear. Anger. Hatred. I do not want to be cured of these things. May love temper me, and bring me stretches of sweet oblivion, but please do not steal my wrath or my loneliness. I do not ask for that wretched relief from living. I wish for my love to plunder with me, to rage with me, to chase terror and boil and burn with all the rapturous evils God has bestowed on my body.

Love is not an antidote. These coarse emotions are not sickness.

They woven in my soul along with soften threads of empathy, respect and joy. Take away those barbed strands and my spirit will whither. Let love tie these ends together so that I may meet maker as my entire self, virtuous and unholy.

Back from poetry camp

My office is dismantled. I have no phone jack for my laptop. I had to search down a computer and half a second of privacy to update my blog. We're crashing in guestrooms until the the day we depart for Japan. Now I sit at The Stomping Grounds in north Seattle and type feriously until my twenty minutes run out. All around me high school boys sit with death-grey faces glued to screens. They scream and shout at random intervals. Some wear headsets so they may insult their opponents sexuality in their own cracking voices. I came here to recap my love and war extravaganza at Crescent Lake, but in this atmosphere, I'll be happy just to read through the week's emails and keep a single train of thought.

My class was amazing. Life changing. I wasn't prepared for what would happen to me there by the lake. I am having a hard time reconciling myself to the reality of my current life as I've been living deeply in my mind and heart for an extended period of time. What, I have bills to pay? I'd rather sit in the shade by the lake and contemplate love, or walk over to the inn and talk art and war with my dear intellectual friend. Dinner with the inlaws? Don't I have a date at the campfire with ten rancourous friends and a couple of deer?

This experience was a lovely closing to my college career. Eh?

My Little War

Victimize me
Plunder, pillage, penetrate
Persuade me to depravity
It is you that holds the power

Plunder, pillage, penetrate
I know you know the way
It is you that holds the power
It is me that wears the rope

I know you know the way
You've seen the guiding light
It is me that wears the rope
The knife I pass to you

You've seen the guiding light
Pillaged me giving privileged glances
The knife I pass to you
Trangression bestowed by me

Pillaged me giving privileged glances
I can't be held responsible
Trangression bestowed by me
Too heavy a burden to bear

I can't be held responsible
Unbreakable vows wholly unfair
Too heavy a burden to bear
Stringent and ruthless rules of love

Unbreakable vows wholly unfair
Persuade me to depravity
Stringent and ruthless rules of love
Victimize me

Sweetgrass Woman

Pieced from the words of my peers and my own free associations

Forgive this sweetgrass woman
this sweet scent bare back
plagued by the passionate king
tremble in your death, man in my bed
dream death dream death and
trace the terrible scar across my belly, my breast
tactile woman, purple woman, oversleeping luxury of laxitude
trash mouth trash mouth man in my bed burning my insides
sparring chitchat, fearing my father, together
the threat of the boot
ducking under cover of tall meadow grass
sandal-free toes tracing curves of freckle dappled legs
only the animals know where we lay
trash mouth trash mouth my sides are burning
my insides are burning on this
lonely pineneedle bed
magnificent receptacle of death
dream death dream death, my dream death
my little death, passionate king
Forgive this sweetgrass woman

Signing off for a week

I'm leaving today for Crescent Lake for the final class of my college career. Amazingly, this class is really a summer camp for adults where we spend a week discussing Love and War, writing, hiking and having rancorous campfires. And for this I get 8 credits. I love my school.

I will be completely out of reach - no phone, no internet. Gasp!

Somehow I think I'll survive just fine.

Scribbler's Cafe

Sunday, August 29, 2004

Saturday, August 28, 2004

First Impressions of the land of the rising sun

Sunrise

Sushi Heaven

Typhoon headed our way

Friday, August 20, 2004

Sactuary at the Spar Cafe

Library Squirrel

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Peace and Reconciliation

Temptation

Not so green today

Monday, August 16, 2004

The Cultivation of Victimization

Reunion Time

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Poetry Fun and Frivolity

Pure Propaganda

Glory

Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Under the Glow of Rumi's Stars

Tuesday, August 10, 2004

Spare me

Sunday, August 08, 2004

Back from poetry camp

My Little War

Sweetgrass Woman

Monday, August 02, 2004

Signing off for a week

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A breakup story set in Osaka

Published at The Foreigner - Japan.

A collection of my short works, Anticipation, is available for purchase online.

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