Adventures in Morocco
I had to give yet another chapel speech. I decided to talk about my experiences in Morocco six years ago. (SIX?! Has it been that long?!) That's me in the picture above - on the right. You can read my speech
here.Fair warning: My audience was junior high boys. I glossed over a LOT. Also, I wrote this at 4am yesterday morning, just four hours before I was going to presents. It lacks... um... editing. But there are some good moments and it's an interesting story.
Dino / Dolphin Buddies
Kiomye's plastic toys.
These came encased in scented soap that disolved in Kio's warm bath water. I find these cuties highly pleasing to ponder. Their old-school curves make me think of Beany and Cecil.
Does anyone else remember Beany and Cecil?
Slammed
My teaching partner (and boss) took an unexpected extended leave. My classes have double in size and frequency. AND I just received word that he will be out for the duration of the quarter. Ugh.
(Although I am tired, I am happy for the demonstration of trust in my teaching ability and the opportunity to help out.)I don’t have the time to write this entry. I need to prep for the 180 energetic students I must face in classes tomorrow and also write a speech to be given to the entire school in the morning chapel. Ugh.
I have not disappeared. I’m just slammed.
Small perks have brightened me considerably lately: tiny bits of scribbled truth in my mailbox, a Sunday brunch at the florist’s with Kiomye, a fabulous mix CD from Jenny, my new canaan house comrade and a fantastic flickering friendship.
Thanks for the congrats on the publication. I shiver with joy when I read those little notes.
Hey – when Amy Goodman calls a democrat “hawkish”, what does that mean?
Folks back home – I heard about the shooting at Tacoma Mall. Ouch. It hurts when it hits at home. I hope no one was there.
I can finally stop holding my breath
Hallelujah - I've finally been published in something I didn't help edit, staple or distribute!
The Foreigner - Japan has picked up one of my short stories for its November issue.
Click here to see! I just found out today.
Joy!
Kafka on the Shore
I dine on keiten sushi. My fingers snatch the choice maguro and salmon of the belt before the quick fisted elderly couple next to me have even the slightest opportunity for attainment. I glance around the restaurant. Still half empty. I settle back and crack my new Murakami. Murakami and keiten sushi. Lovely combination.
The female component of the couple next to me looks twice at everything I choose. He eyes lay heavy on my chopsticks as I lift the fish for a bite. She even takes note when I push my little blue cup under the hot water spigot to refresh my tea. The purple smear of her lips marks judgment. I imagine she doesn’t see many single white women in her restaurant. My presence provides something new to ponder.
One the pages between my palms, the cat Otsuku dines on salted sardines and chats up foolish Nakata while I knish on tuna and herring roe.
I finish the novel much later, in my darkened living room with all the cold sparkling lights of Nishinomiya splattered across my windows. I put the book down often – bring Kiomye a glass of water, pour one for myself, fetch a blanket from my bedroom, adjust the light on my desk. There are less than a hundred pages left. I don’t want to leave this world of talking cats, questing youths and painful love. Despite my stalling, I do reach the end. I place the book on my desk, lean my chin into my hands and contemplate the lights outside. The boy named crow is silent. It’s time for me to sleep and forget.
Asuka, Japan
Last week I accompanied the third years on a field trip to Asuka - the old, old capitol of Japan. The day was one of the most pleasurable I've had in a long while. The weather was sunny and in the mid-60's, I didn't have any particular tasks or posts assigned to me, and I was partnered with Julia - who makes for easy conversation. We decided to rent bicycles and rolled through the lush country town, nodding our heads at our students as we passed.
I saw a number of interesting things, including the oldest temple in Japan (although burned and rebuilt many times) which housed the oldest statue of Buddha in Japan. While at this temple, an elderly monk with a bald head and a rounded back corralled us in to give a small speech about the statue. His deliberate, careful speech (translated by Julia) was interrupted when a young Japanese woman started screeching in fear because of a large hornet that had landed on her hip. The monk stopped speaking, picked up a large wooden plaque with elegant sloping characters painted on it, knock the hornet off the woman, and then repeatedly smashed it into the floor of the temple with the broadside off the plaque.
Julia and I both dropped our mouths open wide. The monk looked up and said, "That was one life I had to take."
So much for Zen and the interconnectedness of everything. Julia and I looked sideways at each other, then started laughing. The monk ended his speech, smirking the as we filed past.
Highly amusing.
(As always, click to enlarge)
Karaoke surprises
Another Thursday past last week and my blog went without an Absinthe post. I neglected my usual sanity sessions and instead took up one of my colleagues on an evening out.
(
Hooray! Finally I’m invited! You like me, you respect me – let’s go get trashed. - Such is the way of Japan business.)
Luckily, my peers have an incredible low alcohol tolerance level, so I could keep pace with an easy smile. While I have been working at this school for a year, this was the first time I was asked along on one of these late night excursions. I’m much younger, foreign and female (the last being my most grievous offense). Yet finally I was welcomed.
I had a wonderful evening. My faulty yet determined mangling of the Japanese language inspired two teachers who I’ve never heard speak a word of English to speak in my native tongue. (Although, the realization that they can understand some of the English mutterings I stream out during my work day is a little bit shocking and embarrassing.) Our principal had apparently handed out money to foot the bill for the first portion of the evening, so the teachers had me drink mao – a clear alcohol (shou-chu) that tastes slightly like polish remover and comes at a hefty 8000 yen a glass (about 80 bucks American). I had two, thankyouverymuch.
The evening culminated, of course, with karaoke. Only six of us survived to this stage. Here I learned some shocking things about my peers. Mr. K can easily pass for a J-pop star and can
RAP (!!) with some authority. Tough Mr. I has the most beautiful and sentimental singing voice I’ve ever heard from a man and crones out ballads to make me weak in the knees. Mr. T prefers Prince songs despite his low gravely voice. And finally, Mr. M, who kept silent and sullen the entire night (much like at work), topped off the evening totally rocking out Green Day style – complete with split leg jumps and thrashing air guitars.
I can never look at them the same again.
For this, I am entirely grateful.
The High Art of Junior High Boys in Drag
This week is my school's bunkasai (Cultural Festival). Featured in the festivities are four student plays. My students have an intense love for dressing up in drag. I imagine this is because it's an all boys school and the kids are infinitely curious. This year, one of the plays chosen was set entirely in a girl's school. Fabulous.
Another recently read...
Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. I finished this a few weeks ago, but haven’t had the moment to blog about it. This book surprised me. I imagined something stuffy and rambling, in the tradition of the English literature that so many of my friends covet. (Not that this is English literature, but it’s on so many of the same top novel lists that I assumed it had a similar style.) This book could hardly be accused of rambling. In a single paragraph, a character may be introduced, experience an epic love, and then die a bloody death. It took me half the book just to learn how to read the pages and keep up with the pace and intricate complications of family and place. Once I began to comprehend the paragraphs and could keep the characters separate and distinct in my mind, I loved the book. The rich layers made for a depth and ease of meaning that is lost in most novels. (It reminded me of my beloved Godfather movies. I had to watch them all about three times before I could finally catch all the nuances and linking references.)
This book also inspired me to take greater chances in my writing. Marquez could mix surreal altercations of reality with blunt statement so that I could believe the impossible. In his world, there may be men eternally hounded by little yellow butterflies, or scholars that remain in their room receiving guests after they die simply because the solitude of death didn’t suit them, or women that live to be a hundred and twenty and outlive even their great-grand children. These things are simple facts just like this particular child was born to this woman, that father prefers his coffee black and the seasons number four.
I wrote my story in ink and have yet to transcribe it. (A task I loathe.) I have no idea how successful my story is, but I like the concept. I created characters capable of expressing only one sentiment their entire lives, such as “I love you” or “I’m sorry I’m so busy” or “I’m leaving” and applied them to my standard plot of early love, degradation of self and inevitable heartache. Yes, I really only have one plot to all my stories.
I need to live more lives.
An interesting side note, my copy of this novel was old, yellowed and tattered. As I neared the end, sections kept falling out of the book. No matter. I’d read those parts already. I just set hem aside. Yet, as soon as I finished the last passage, the entire book fell apart, never to be read again. If you’ve read the book, you’ll know how strangely prophetic this was. Wonderfully chilling.
Halloween in Kotoen
Kiomye wearing her witch costume at her school's halloween party.
The teachers asked if any of the students wanted to teach a part of the class. Kio, of course, jumped up and played teacher first.
Van Gogh's Ghost
(I stole this from a friend's site because I think it's fabulous.)
I had to give yet another chapel speech. I decided to talk about my experiences in Morocco six years ago. (SIX?! Has it been that long?!) That's me in the picture above - on the right. You can read my speech here.
