黄鶯睍睆

Kōō kenkan su
Bush warblers start singing in the mountains

About a decade ago, when my kids were fewer and much shorter, I realized that my best friends were strangers, writers I bonded with because of their command of prose, their wild imaginations, their unfettered energy. My actual friends, the ones who know me in return, they have mostly disappeared, one by one, either because their life is hectic and full of things that I know nothing about or because I am too much for them. I am a lot to handle. I have a persistent, often boring, brain that houses my rabid imagination, my ridiculous memory. And because there is just so much swirling around in there, I often contradict myself, usually within the same conversation. I am an unreliable narrator of my existence.

I wish, for others mainly, that I could be solid and consistent but being flexible and open-minded means that I can accept many different realities, without committing myself to a single, possibly wrong one (on its own). I live as a contradiction, a Westerner in the East, a married single mother. I am both. I am either/and/or.

I started thinking about contradictions when I wrote to my friend who originally pointed out my roller coaster nature. I felt so self-conscious from this insight he has that I read over the short email several times, just checking to make sure there were no hairpin turns or spiraling dips. And then I thought, you know what, fuck it. Maybe I am a roller coaster but you know, some people line up for hours to ride roller coasters, travel miles and miles and kilometers to do so. So yeah, I am a mess of contradictions, yes, I will say I am 100% doing one thing then turn around and 100% do something opposite. That is a-okay because I mean each declaration: I am sincere about every attempt to settle on one side of myself (if only to be dragged back to the other side, over and over again).

It is a three-day weekend and I am glad of it. I need the time to come to terms with my recent decision to basically say fuck it to formal Japanese study (besides for my weekly lesson) and just sink into the literary world. Good books, my literary magazine, and my own writing remind me that this is where I belong. I listened to a great interview with Marlon James and as with any writer that I have an affinity for, I felt the great burden of loneliness slip away as he spoke.

I have been isolated for long enough to be candid about this truth: I am a lonely person. I live in a situation that offers very little opportunity for making friends and even those who I could grow close to, either because they are also immigrants or because they lived abroad before or because their kids go to the same school, well, let’s just say, I have yet to meet one of my peers amongst those good people and I have come to accept that I probably never will. It is okay though as long as I have my notebook and pen.

I did write yesterday and am about put more ink to the page. It is strange to go back to the beginning and set down those memories into words. Strange and good. I also finished up a podcast for my literary magazine, that I am restarting from tomorrow. And tomorrow I will also begin the layout for the print issue, which is pretty exciting. I really missed working on the project and look forward to returning to that work.

I do want to study Japanese, one day. But first, I must write. Please remind me of this if I swing back to the other side tomorrow. Write then study. Sounds fair, I think. And I can always do the opposite, knowing that eventually, I will go back the other way.

東風解凍

Harukaze kōri o tokuEast wind melts the ice

So many sentences begun in my head but little motivation to finish them on paper.

Is it a lack of motivation, this foggy ambivalence? Or just an acceptance that because everything matters, then nothing in particular matters?

Before I arrived at this state of being, I had other plans. Not just to write, because writing is just something that has always been my way of interacting with my life. No, I had specific plans. I drew them on copy paper and cherished hopes long after they dimmed to nothingness. A farm, small scale but flourishing. Goats and chickens and bees, a few friendly dogs running amuck, kittens in the spring, maybe even a horse. A huge garden, a swimming hole with fish for catching. A path that leads to my writing cabin. A house big enough for everyone and a long wooden table in the yard for family, friends, and neighbors to come by for our big weekly dinner.

And a boat, a 40-foot blue water boat to sail around the world, slowly, writing and drifting and just being. Swimming and drawing.

Very specific dreams, easy to visualize. Even now as I pull them up in my mind, I feel almost nostalgic for a life that never occurred. And yet I don’t feel the attachment to that future any longer, or any future for that matter. I exist in this present and very near future and very near past. This region of time is where I am and where I must thrive. Is this simply a sign of aging, of accepting that the meter is running out of minutes? Perhaps but it is not as negative as assumed.

Over these past few years, I have come to accept the path under my feet, even if it is rocky and steep. And in doing so, I relinquished the weight of rejection and dissatisfaction.

And yet, I must fight complacency. I must rally against slothfulness and lowered expectations; I must resist Netflix.

Today, dear reader, I am starting the big project. The book. I spent the morning at my youngest’s recital. I am going to do an hour’s worth of chores then I am heading to the FamilyMart’s cozy eat-in section where I will begin the chronicle of my life in Japan. And then we’ll see if that helps to melt the ice.

立春

Risshun- Beginning of Spring

The oni were driven out and now we have rounded the bend of winter.

I have been sick for two days straight and am finally at the point where I can sit up and think again. The weekend was short which is never good. I think my body grabbed onto whatever passing virus was about just to add some additional days to my weekend.

The good thing about being sick then not being sick is that your head is as clear as your guts. It is like waking up from a long dream. Why was I spending so much time on that, so much energy worrying about this?

Yesterday I went to the doctor’s, where the man sat on his stool like a child with his legs tucked underneath himself. The room was a bit dingy, with discarded equipment gathering dust in the corners, on the linoleum floor. He did an ultrasound on my intestines to show me how disgusting they were, inky and pulsing. And then he prescribed me medicine and I went across the street to the pharmacy that also pushes freshly squeezed citrus as medicine and yet in my condition, I was deemed undeserving and given a chart of all the foods to avoid until I recover: curry, hot sauce, peppers, tempura, and tonkatsu. In the end, I had paid about 14 USD for both the doctor and the pharmacy and went home to sleep some more.

Sick dreams are a special category of dreams, are they not? My dreams during the illness have been lush, crowded, cluttered. I went to my parents’ old house and there were piles of laundry everywhere (no guessing where this element arose from as upon waking there are piles of laundry everywhere in my tiny apartment, waiting for my recovery). I wanted to call an old friend and invite him to an art museum where they were having an exhibit of Gauguin but I could never find the room with the phone. My family kept following me around, scolding me for wearing only a long tee-shirt. The pear trees were covered in my dad’s work jeans and button-down plaid shirts, my mom’s elastic-waisted shorts. The trampoline was still there but also covered in laundry, ragged bath towels and faded bathings suits.

When I woke, I considered writing to my friend but then I remembered that we are no longer friends. This recollection always makes me sad but I accept now that there is no way to repair friendships single-handedly. Besides, he does not care for Gauguin or art museums for that matter. Too pretentious though he should appreciate that the artist was an asshole: “‘Gauguin seems to have fallen for the myth of Tahiti he created… He returned [to Tahiti] expecting the erotic idyll that was only ever a figment of his imagination. Of course, he didn’t find it and the disappointment was profound: he died a twisted and bitter man, having alienated everyone both at home and in Tahiti. It’s a sad story of a man who believed his own fiction.'”