Istanbul (Part 3)

I begin to walk to the footbridge, and there is a metrobüs sign in the middle, which leads down to the two middle lanes of the highway, which, I notice for the first time, are segregated by concrete barriers. Busses are flying by in both directions. And these are nice ones, too. Not like Seattle, San Francisco, or Oslo buses, but commandeered coaches outfitted with accordion ribs. I come down and look for a map, but the platform is roughly twice as wide as I am and people are streaming by in both directions as well.

The metro in Istanbul works by either buying a token or using an Istanbulkart which you can recharge with bills lower than 50 (guess the one bill I had), or you can buy a one-time token for 3TL (~$1.50). You either sacrifice a token or beep in with your card and you are permitted onto that part of the public transportation network – the charge is the same no matter how far you go. I had bought both a card and a couple tokens at the airport when I first got on the metro. I look for a slot to insert one of my two tokens, and there is none. I show it to the attendant who is right nearby, and he points to the card reader. I try to beep my card, but it doesn’t have enough on it (which is contrary to what I’ve read the public transport costs). He shrugs, but after a moment of seeing the hopelessness on my face, lets me through. I ask him how to get to Söğütlüçeşme.

“Bas…tirtyfour.” I look over and Bus 34 is pulling into the station. For some reason I take this to mean he’s mistaken, and ask again, “Bus 34? This one?” and I point.

“Tirtyfour,” he says again, very self-assured. It being here now seems to invalidate his answer again.

And all of a sudden a nice, suave, trendy youth swings in from the rafters and is immediately right next to me, “Where are you going?” he says with no hesitation. As it turns out, he knows exactly the bus, where to switch, and what bus to switch to, as well as roughly how long it will take. He is my golden god. We take bus 34 together, and I am certain we will be friends into our old age.

Here’s the really weird thing. I was on that other bus for an hour. Within three minutes, we are at a stop with the same name as the metro station I got off on. I search desperately for the metro station out the windows as we stop, but no luck. I consider this station cursed and am comfortable when we move on.

After the switch, my bus arrives at Söğütlüçeşme at about 9:40pm, the final stop on the line. I find my hastily drawn map with what I could understand on google maps the night before, and begin looking for street signs as I exit the station. Istanbul has a power which invades you like a gas where you don’t know which direction you’re facing, and the map in your head from before you arrived to wherever you are is almost antithetical to the map in your head once you’ve been walking around. Maybe a third of the streets connect at right angles, and only in clusters.

However, there was a street I wrote on my map in which a change in name occurs at a specific point, and though there are few street signs anywhere, I find this one, and attempt to orient myself. The road I’m looking for is to the south, and it’s a tiny street which is parallel to a highway, clearly under it. When the road I think I am on begins to rise, however, I ask a local to help. He speaks no English, but studies my map and the address, and points me in the opposite direction. I walk to that corner of this square of streets surrounding the station, and a guy points me to go right, but he isn’t sure. I ask three more people, and they all point me in different directions. There is an overpass I can see, but there’s no side road which runs parallel. One of the guys had pointed at a set of stairs while he was miming it to me, so I walk up the first set of stairs I can find until there’s a road running perpendicular to the street I was on. Again, no street signs.

I ask two old men who consult each other for a while, and one leads me away, with sparks hope, until he deposits me in a shop and motions for me to ask the shop attendant, a young man sitting next to his father, and his little brother in the side of the shop, staring at me. It’s so small, the counter divides the entire place in two – that sort of shop. I offer my map, which the man and his father study for some time, and talk at length. I’m arranging the words in my mouth to say, “It’s ok, I’ll find a hotel.” The man holds out his hand, palm down, for me to sit still. His father, gray haired and swinging his arms in an apparent move to maintain his walk, leads me outside. We walk across the street, and as I wonder where we’ll go, he motions to an SUV parked half on the road, half on the sidewalk. He opens the back, and points to my suitcase. I realize I do not even know “thank you” in Turkish.

I do acknowledge this was a violation of one of those early rules moms teach, like “look both ways before you cross the street” or “don’t stick a fork in the electrical outlet”. I was about to get in a stranger’s car. I was going to let my things be in his trunk. I was going to set myself up to get robbed pretty hard. He retrieved his keys, and we drove off.

With what I know of the area now, I can only say of his route, it was extremely convoluted, in such a way as befits the streets of Istanbul. We went down side streets. We got on the freeway. We got off the freeway. We drove back through the station. We drove up the hill I had first walked up. He turned right after it onto a side street I didn’t notice until we were on it. Finding the right building number, he took me to the door and motioned for me to buzz whichever apartment I was looking for.

Here’s the problem.

I only know the name Onur cause I exchanged messages with him on a site. I don’t know his last name. Hell, I still don’t know his last name – gmail can’t display it. I have a fifteen digit phone number, but my phone is dead. It’s also 10:15pm, and I’m about three hours late. I ask to use his phone, but I can’t get across the question “How many digits in a Turkish number?” I try all fifteen digits anyway, which predictably fails. He calls his son who speaks English well; it goes as well as you might think.

As we stand on the stoop of this apartment building, a woman walks down the street with her iphone in her hand and her headphones in. We’re both standing in the shadows and she doesn’t see us. She walks beyond us, and then stops. Arms flat at her side, she crosses one ankle behind the other, side steps and then moves a step diagonally backwards, and continues on regularly. A few steps later, she does the same thing, but with her arms getting involved. Normally if I caught someone doing this, I would leave them be, but instead I dropped my things there and bolted after her.

Here’s how nice Turkish people are. She stopped for me, lent me her phone, told me which part was his number, and while I was on the phone with Onur, explaining to him where I was (it turns out on the wrong street by one block anyway), she’s explaining to the man who drove me here and didn’t want to leave until I found where I was going what’s going on, and they’re developing a rapport. She offers to stay with me until he arrives even, so that I could use her phone again. I say I don’t want to keep her, but this older man stays with me and even asks if I’m not too cold. When Onur arrives, having never met before, they get on like old friends, and Onur thanks him too. I try desperately to show my gratitude, but am not sure how much is getting across, and when we make a motion to leave, he stops us and begins to grab my luggage from his trunk. Seriously, they may even beat out the Japanese for generosity to strangers. 

So now, minutes to 11pm, I make it to the place I will be staying. I have my room, all my things intact, a wireless internet connection, and several glasses of water. I settle in and meet my new German roommate who is studying here, and lives here with….her four year old daughter. And her friend is visiting. With her four year old son.

-Sky

Summation of the Action: I feel like I’m being pushed in the direction of working with kids. I’m not sure how I feel about this.

May 17, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Istanbul (Part 2)

The first thing some visitors must do upon arriving to Turkey is to purchase a tourist visa. The countries picked for this game were selected from a hat. Slovakia, yes; Czech Republic, no. Australia, yes; New Zealand, no. Albania and Moldova, yes; Croatia and Montenegro, no. Americans must pay $20 or €15 (in that currency, not the native lira) for 90 days; Canadians must pay three times as much for the same. And they inform you that it must be in cash only precisely when you must pay, and at no other time during the hour you must wait in this line. There is precisely one ATM available, and it is purely in Turkish. 

Onur had expected I would arrive near his place at 7pm with my plane scheduled to land at 5pm. I exit the airport at about 7:15pm, and begin to follow his directions. What I came to learn is not that these directions reflect poorly on Onur, because they are quite accurate once you know what you’re doing, but they reflect badly on the planning of the city of Istanbul. My final destination was Söğütlüçeşme, difficult to say, but easy enough to spot. I took the metro six stops from the airport as directed, ok. At that station, I trustingly go towards the signs that say Metrobüs, and when the signs stop, I search for a metrobüs. I find a collection of buses, and one goes to Söğütlüçeşme. It leaves finally at 8:30pm, but so long as I am going where I need to, I am content. 

I take the only available seat and the bus leaves to begin its round. I have no idea how long it will take, and the traffic is thick. It’s clogged like Paula Deen’s arteries pre-diagnosis. As we merge onto one highway in order to merge onto another in order to, as it appears, cross the street, the bus fills and fills and fills. The portly man on the seat next to me, who got on with me three stops ago, now gives up his seat to a self-concerned middle-aged woman with an infant, and with nowhere else he can stand, holds the rail over her, leaning over her in a covering way. We continue to drive. I can no longer stand or move; there is no room to do anything. I see out of the corner of my eye, the infant has started to look at me, staring for a period so long that it’s unavoidable, that it becomes something I need to address. I look over, and smile. It’s eyes are wide, and it looks to its mother, and to me. Failing any other conclusion, it begins crying as loudly as it can. She tries to comfort the baby, and when it finally settles down, it begins to look at me again. I smile with teeth this time, and the baby again begins to wail. The woman tries to console the child again, but her bumping it and cooing it no longer work. She held the child up and this man helped her pass it to someone else on the bus, out of sight, to someone who heretofor has not had any interaction with this woman. I was too engrossed in the silence to be concerned.

 That is, until, I look over. And the portly man is staring at me. The woman, too. Unabashedly, unconscious of social permit. I look at them when I can’t ignore it anymore, and he says something directly to me – my worst fear is confirmed. I reply that I don’t understand any Turkish in my nice, lovely, arcane, foreign English. This doesn’t stop him. He commented again, and I could only reply the same. They, along with the man with a very Turkish moustache beyond them, begin to laugh. The woman still has not received her infant back from the crowd, nor do I see her reclaim it before I get off.

Two high-school aged girls are in front of me, and I ask them if they understand any English. They do, and I eventually establish they want to know my station, and I hope it’s so that they no I won’t trouble anyone with all my luggage. I show them on my sheet where I’ve written my directions, and the two girls study this intensely. “This bus. Not go. Söğütlüçeşme.” (In case you’re wondering, it’s Suh-goot-loo-chesh-may).

I have to ask her to repeat this, and point to the sign on the bus with the final station when she does, “It says Söğütlüçeşme. It doesn’t go?” Something in me tells me that I can argue hard enough so that her warning will be invalidated. I decide I’m tired enough to gently pursue it. I see the error eventually, and all I can think to ask is, “Why does it not go to Söğütlüçeşme?”

“Two Söğütlüçeşme.” She points to my sheet, where I’ve written “near Kadıköy Spor Tesisleri” just in case, “Not here. It is in different place. You should,” and by this time the people in our bus proximity have all tuned in, and they laugh at something and disrupt her repeatedly. Finally she manages, “You should go next place.” And she points out the door.

After I get off,” I choose my sentence structure to be as easy as possible, “where do I go?” If she’s telling me to get off this bus, I feel I’m owed further directions.

“Ask someone.” 

I put my head in my hands. But I only have a moment because we are now at the stop. I get off, and there is no name of the stop and no distinguishing landmarks. There is no metro station. No maps. There is only a footbridge which goes over the highway. I look back to the bus for consolation, but they point me onwards enthusiastically. The bus pulls away. I’ve been on the bus for an hour at this point, and I have no idea where I am. It’s nearly 9pm, and my phone is out of credit. I later learn the bus has been gradually taking me via highway in exactly the opposite direction I needed to go.

May 16, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Istanbul (Part 1)

11/5/13

“It will take you at least two hours to cross the city,” Onur informed me, as I told him I was landing on the European side of Istanbul. I was requesting directions to the Asian side, where his place, the place I wanted to rent, was. “You should take metro till zeytinburnu than you should switch to metrobus till the last station of it. You should change 1 or 2 time this metrobus the same line. Last station is ‘sogutlucesme’ on asian side. İt is just 1 minute to last metrobus stop. İf you check from (website hidden) maps you will see it.” [our medium, airbnb.com, redacted the name of the site; I’m not holding confidentiality here or something] He then gives his number in the following way: “My mobile is (phone number hidden) and one [next message] Doublezero and than ninety and later on five and three later five than doublefour and later three and three later three…” It goes on like this, to fifteen numbers.

I hesitated before typing a reply, wondering what I could say that would convey the appropriate incredulity. 

No no, my conscience said, don’t be a dick.

 “So I should get on the metro and go to zeytinburnu, and then get on a metrobus? Which one? And do I change metrobusses to get to sogutlucesme, or do I stay on the same line? Or does the bus end or something, and I need to get on a new bus that is the same number?”

 The eventual reply was marginally helpful. I wrote what I could, and looked up a bus to Gardermoen. My flight left precisely five hours before L’s. At first, she was unsure if she should go with me to the airport, or stay. She would be computerless and only have her books to read. Should she study? What would she do in an airport? I helped her weigh her options, what felt like several times the night prior and the morning of. Finally, as if with the clarity and directness of knocking on my head like some heavy door, she asked, “Do you want me to come with you?” 

“Yes,” I said, and cut myself off. From experience, I had known that this could be one of the situations where it is intuitive and incorrect to give one’s reasoning. One must always be extra careful when dealing with women.

“OK,” she piped, snapping instantly from her lull of indecision, and not unpreparedly one might note. We were soon at Gardermoen. 

Our separation was late, well into boarding time. Difficult though it was, I made it to passport control just about twenty-five minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. I needn’t have searched my ticket, as it turns out, to find my gate. Rather, I needed only to follow the wails of the many children screaming into the silence like a lighthouse in the night to guide me. I stepped into line and identify the culprits immediately. Several parents were unable and/or unwilling to attempt to control this maelstrom of noise. I tracked their progress as their crying redshifted down the jetway. It’s not too late, I thought, this flight still could be saved.

 I thought that hopefully. I thought that with a sense of optimism, with a determination that things were going to be better, not just for the day, but my life in general. I thought that before I realized they all sat in a semi-circle around me, like kids encircling to beat me up at lunch. 

The flight was delayed half an hour, because, well, why not. As we took off, the screaming of the small children grew sharper, but began to die away. All except the kid sitting behind me, who must have been three or four, and one other unseen hellion. His screaming evolved, adapting to every attempt to flush out the noise, to drown it in music (metal, naturally). Screeching is the closest word I can think of – the type of screeching where even a bystander can understand the effort being intentionally put into it, beyond that of normal crying. This kid was not content with shifting himself into ‘cry’ and coasting; his tenacity can only be matched by that of T.E. Lawrence, sysadmins, and possibly cats chasing laser pointers.

 A Turkish Airlines flight from Oslo Gardermoen to Istanbul Ataturk airport lasts three hours and thirty minutes. This kid’s ability to screech like a banshee on fire lasts roughly the same length, so that he had (breaking for lunch) completed one full Europe without running out of tears or mucus. His father, apparently unable to cope with the situation, began to shout at him, sounding like a character from Banjo-Kazooie: exaggerated real words parsed up by syllable and then mixed randomly (here’s an example).

 During the flight, when he would pass the torch to another child who would begin to wail, he would free-roam the plane, inspecting his results. Suddenly dissatisfied with his replacement’s work, he would return to his seat, and industriously lead by example.

By the time we (new verb!) deplaned, he elected to stop. With no jetway available, we were shown to two large buses which serviced the front and rear exits of the plane. On the stairs departing the front of the craft, I made my choice and swore to avoid this child at all costs, taking the rear bus instead. The buses filled, and though he was only one seat behind me on the plane, this kid and his family were the last off. They walked straight for the bus nearest the door, problem child first. And as he neared the door, something called to him, starkly out of the blue. Literally stopping dead at the door, and making a ninety degree turn, he began walking straight for my bus, as if innocently curious. His father gave his shout-request of vivisected words, and, completely unable to influence the decisions of his child, powerlessly and hopelessly followed his wanderings. Just as they moved away, the front bus closed its doors and dashed away. By the time we reached the main building, I was less a man and more a flash of light, moving ever away.

-Sky

May 15, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Do I?

16/4/13

I suppose the first in on the secret were my kids in Japan, “getting to” ask one question of me in English, sometimes with the help of the teacher, and my feeling there no harm from being frank and honest. The teachers knew of course, cause they were there, and once the secret was out, well, why not spread it like a smile on a good day? I wasn’t even sure I was in on the secret, and truth be told, until it happened, I hadn’t known about it’s coming.

Growing up can be frightening. When I go out to grab ice cream from the store right before they close and eat it while watching TV, I couldn’t help but think how much I love being an adult. And I love being an adult so much more than being a kid. Though it’s frightening sometimes to see parts of your life adjust to shape you into the person you will some day be. For you to move to the place you will some day live, and meet your some day friends.

We all have someone we will be, and there seems to be less and less suspense about it as we go on. Still, every now and then, people can be surprised. Even me. When something falls into place, it’s hard to see a lot of the time. And big things almost always start small. But when things add up the right way, and you come to a decision about your life organically, there’s nothing to be afraid of. As my arm says, ‘Be Courageous’.

L and I discussed our life plans. Where we wanted to be, how we wanted to live, what we wanted to do. We had somewhat different visions, not mutually exclusive, and less than a frank conversation away. But we agreed, whatever comes, we wanted to be with each other. And so, after passing up several clicks from the player, I picked the beat on which to start our song. I asked her, and she said yes. We’re engaged.

There was an xkcd.com comic where a character had changed her living room into a ballpit, because she determined that it was her turn to decide what being an adult was. Verene and Kelsey did the same, having their wedding as they chose it: being an adult wasn’t a script, but a time period. So with our engagement. It came as I wanted it to: organically, and not in a staged way. It came from us thinking about our futures. It came from us having the right night out. It came from us saying we loved each other. And it came from us being in love. This is the person I want to be, and the person I want beside me.

-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Well, I suppose we can break it down into the list. I guess this means advancement on 32? I’ve joined a gym, so let’s try for 7. And the marching drums of law school inch closer.

April 16, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Up High

13/03/13

Some months ago, one of my first year students (7^th grade) saw me enter class, and with a trailing “eeeeeeeeeyyyeah!!!” as he ran towards me, he gave me what can only be described as a mighty and spirited high-five. I thought this was a natural extension of what he and his friends had been doing before I arrived. I was game, though, and thought nothing of it.

The next class, he did it again. And he was followed by two of his friends. Whenever I would step into class, there would be a trail of “eeeeeeeeyyyeah!!!” and we would make the hardest slap we could. I tried to teach him the name of this gesture, with hopes of continuing to the up high/down low distinction, and then maybe even moving onto “too slow” if they were receptive. But none of the boys were that interested. What we had was fine.

Over the months, I tried for accuracy, and would often have a rather red palm to show for it. But I remember how we treated our English teachers in America, and it’s kind of fun to do it every time I went to Kobayashi, once a week. It often reminded me of an old friend of mine, Shari. She taught some kindergarteners or pre-schoolers or something, I forget who and why, but what I remember was her describing why she loved it: walking into the room, and a bunch of kids shouting, “THERE’S MY FRIEND!!!” Honestly, if you’re making kids happy, how can you be depressed or dissatisfied?

In recent weeks, these students would not only zero in on me during the minutes before class, but when I joined them for lunch, after class, and sometimes during class. Last week, a couple of girls even joined in. There weren’t any words being exchanged, just us having fun.

Today was my last day at Kobayashi, and fifth period was my last class with the first-years. When I came in, I caught half the class’s hands, all with their own trailing “eeeeeeeyyyeah!!!” as they approached, like a passing car about to red-shift. We were doing show & tell in English, and as they practiced their speeches, I gave out a few more fives, all high, some left-handed. But as the speeches started, class resumed as normal. I tried to make a speech they would understand, as it was my last day, but I think some of the blank stares signaled my success. They thanked me in unison, and said goodbye, and I waved and they waved as they left class.

There was no sixth period, so when it was time for the weekly meeting, I got out early; with many bows, hand-shakes, thank-yous, and ganbattes, I made it to my car. The parking lot separates the school and the field, and I would often say goodbye to the kids as I left. I waved, they waved, as so many other days, and we said goodbye again. I thought that was the end for Kobayashi.

As I pulled out of the lot, two of the second-years came sprinting up to me, with a book they had made. Page after page of notes written by my students, tied with ribbon for binding. On the cover is my name and title (Sukaira-sensei) in Japanese. I opened it, and all of the notes are in Japanese, with complex kanji, and the occasional English word thrown in.

As I drove lengthwise across the school to exit, the kids from the tennis courts came out in front of my car, both first and second years, and I rolled down my window. They formed a ring around my car, giving me a high-five as they passed the driver’s window. They went through three rotations until I told them my hand hurt, and I shook a few more hands, and tried to say goodbye in some meaningful way, and not quite getting it.

As I drove away, I got the closest to crying that I’ve been in a long time.

-Sukaira

Summation of the Action: On Saturday, it’s Sayonara, Japan. I’ve seen so much and I have so much yet to see.

March 13, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Staying Up Late

12/3/2

So I must be channeling my middle school kids. It is 1:30 in the morning, and I am staying up late for the sake of doing it. Some chocolate pudding mix has been my fuel on this nocturnal transmission, and I sit before you a man of little substance.

The night is not cold, nor is my heater too hot. My stomach rumbles from inactivity, rather than emptiness. My contacts are dry. The fifth or seventh or something playlist has ended, several times in fact. I’ve worked another movie into my brain, and I am talking to an old friend who is usually cordoned off from me by time zones (and schedules). This is the single prop holding me up and I am still sitting. Like a child I cling to the rebellion of staying up late, and having chocolate, even though last time I ate it before bed, I dreamed of being chased by Godzilla (this was about a week ago).

It’s cause I can, entirely cause I can and I don’t usually, even though it may be counter-productive towards tomorrow. Like a receding tide, the splash of staying up late doesn’t reach as high as it used to. It’s strange, when I was a kid I thought being an adult and having adult routines would be pressure from new responsibilities, ones I didn’t yet know. I was free as a kid, and I should enjoy it while I could. I didn’t think the change would be in my preferences rather than my schedule. But take my precedent: twenty minutes to eat something bad for you in your pajamas, or watch a movie, or read an extra chapter of a book. Do something useless (clearly I am). Enjoy the Friday night and Saturday morning, that’s what it’s for.

Maybe even makes me want to do some writin’.

-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Just waiting on that going back to the girlfriend, and the going to the law school. But I still have one or two in the works…

Also, read Escape from Camp 14. I want to do more than just get up and grab my torch, I want to study what’s wrong so I can find a plausible way to fix it. Or maybe learn Korean. Yeah. Good luck with that one.

March 1, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Republic, Lost

12/2/22

So I just finished reading Lawrence Lessig’s Republic, Lost. What a book to make me want to grab my torch and go do some work. And strange how easy it is to recoil at the hope at the end. Still, definitely worth a read. I agree with him that, politically, it’s the first problem worth solving, and I like the idea of doing it in a non-political manner. This might be the first time I’ve finished a non-fiction book and wanted to start it immediately again.

There’s a lot to take in, but I highly recommend it. 

-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Just good ol’ fashioned readin’

February 22, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Mizu

13/2/10

During the boredom, or the parties, or the (seemingly) endless classes, I often forget I’m even here. And I remarked earlier that a day spent not enjoying living here is a day wasted, which is a fine sentiment and true, but it’s difficult to enjoy all of this all the time.

However, I did get the opportunity to take a walk (in short sleeves, no less!) and near my house, as I may have mentioned, is a park with Daiya River running through it, and the mountains in the background, Mt. Nantai and Mt. Nyoho, as well as the small hills they call mountains here.

I’m not sure what it is about water, but I think it’s much easier to live near a body of it than not. In times of stress, I can seek it out and it will seem like a front I don’t need to manage. The rest of the world needs managing, but not a body of water. It’s also centering; I don’t need to explore the water or get to know it, it’s the same everywhere. And it protrudes, domineeringly. It’s like a wall in an endless void, it gives definition and shape. In the places I’ve lived, I’ve had near to me Lake Sammamish, Lake Washington, Puget Sound, Oslofjorden, the Pacific, False Bay, now Daiya River, and soon to be the River Vah and the Potomac. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel at home in Texas? There were only endless fields in Pullman, and I remember it not bothering me then, but should I have the chance to return, that would stick out in my mind as something lacking.

Against Daiya River, there’s the layered blues of the ascending hills and mountains, and the construction around Rinnoji Shrine in the Toshogu complex. And god, is it ever majestic. I wish I could bottle this and take it with me. But for now, I’ll just enjoy something Japan is offering me, and remember it when I leave.

So. In the future. Water. And if I can drink it? Awesome. And if it’s warm enough for me to swim in? Even better.

-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Marching steadily towards the money one. But before one makes money, one must spend. Help me oh U.S. government, you’re my only hope.

February 10, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Hair

13/2/3

For this Christmas vacation, I had grown out my glorious locks, to the point that it was getting in my eyes, and unruly for the better parts of the day. One of the things I requested of L’s incredibly talented mother was a haircut, and I must say I am satisfied with the result.

This by itself would be a fairly dull post. But this haircut brought something to light. Being something of a mute when it comes to hairstylists, I often yield to their decisions, with a guiding grunt of “short” or if I’m feeling talkative, “short in front”. Some may see this as a provocation of the stylist, perhaps a daredevil game where I first anger the stylist and then let them wield scissors near vital parts of my head. The truth is, I just don’t know what to say: Make me look good? I have no idea what that entails. I’m impervious details, even when I’m staring at good hair, and it’s dependent on the face anyway. I trust people who do this for a living more than my own judgment.

Anyway, the result was that I gave myself over to the hands of the woman with the scissors. Her fingers dove through the mess to my skull, ordered it forward and to one side, crawled along it and pulled strands and layers out to be clipped. In trust, I gave my head over to her hands, which moved sporadically all over. This is one of life’s little treasures.

I think I may have mentioned this before, but one of the unspoken problems of life today, I think, is that it’s quite easy to go weeks without physical human contact. I won’t say I have a solution, or even trust that increasing the frequency wouldn’t decrease the specialness of contact. But considering how, just, good it feels when you have physical contact with a new person in a confident, non-awkward way, I can’t help but believe we’re missing out on something. I’ve steeled myself against hugs and handshakes as normal, contrived, uninformative, but even an accidental brushing of hands against each other seems to give so much information about the other person. How warm they are, how swiftly they move, what their skin feels like, how strong their grip, all from a touch. And how reassuring it can be if they don’t immediately jerk away.

I may have to revise my policy of getting my hair cut only twice a year.

-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Nothing today.

February 3, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

2013/01/22

I’ll save the bemoaning my own non-updating.

I think I’ve said this before, but put up a pretty straightforward goal, and you’ll have to examine what qualifies the next day. L invited my mom and me to Slovakia for Christmas, which we accepted, mom having not been east of Oslo since 1971, and my wanting to send her on another trip as thanks for all she has done for me. L has met my mom on Skype (as well as my dad, for that matter), but I ruled that as not counting since it’s not in person. They’ve had their own Skype conversations without me present, and exchanged e-mails, and not just about me. Therefore, when my mom landed at Vienna airport and L and her extremely generous parents were there to receive her, I was miraculously escaping Istanbul. I felt that the wait would go smoothly, and it did, once they found I was airborne. So I was a little late. But I did buy the ticket, and I did introduce them on Skype, and I did get to be there shortly afterwards. I did introduce them…so I’m counting it checked off. At least the other half of it will be less open to interpretation (I assume).

So this Istanbul thing. I got to Tokyo airport on my flying day, to find that due to some flub somewhere in or around Australia, my aircraft was scheduled to be an hour late, reducing my transfer time at Istanbul airport from 100 minutes to 40. I was told I could be bumped for the next flight (which I suspected, and rightly, was the following day). I assured the check-in woman that there was still adequate time, I didn’t mind having only 40 minutes, and that she should check me in for that flight too. Unfortunately, we took off another twenty minutes late, reducing my time to twenty minutes to get off my plane, go through customs, find the new gate, and board. I considered this for the entire twelve hours of the flight. (To give you perspective on how long my flight was, I watched four movies in a row, then slept for two hours, then had two more hours to go.)

I was close to the door as we landed, and managed to get out within a couple minutes. It being an intercontinental flight, I still had a handful of people ahead of me, and was nervous enough to actually overcome my timidity around strangers and asked to go ahead of them. One slavic guy spoke above the crowd, “Don’t ask, just go!” I took this as a pass.

So the amount of time I can continuously sprint turns out to be about four minutes, which is conveniently the length of time it takes for me to sprint from customs to gate 312 with a backpack on. (I should note that while all of my encounters with Turks have been lovely, the people in the airport do not understand that when a massive man is hurtling at you with terror in his eyes, you ought to take a step to the side.) However, the 300 gates are on the ground floor, and a bus needs to take you to your plane, and this bus had left, though by my watch, I had ten (!) minutes to spare before takeoff.

In what was a tense moment, though one filled with good will towards men (there being three other passengers Vienna-bound riding or caught in my slipstream), the attendant to the gate got on his radio. Moments later, another bus for another flight pulled up towards the adjacent gate, and the only words exchanged were, “Wien! Go, go!” Six minutes later, I ran up the stairs of a single-aisle plane, and once we four were inside, the door shut for takeoff. As soon as it was appropriate, I hit the call button and requested water.

This is the story of how Turkish Airlines saved Christmas.
-Laughing Cloud

Summation of the Action: 31a is down. Coming stateside this fall should hurry along 31b.

January 22, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Sports Day

2012/9/19

While I was sick, I had the fortune of attending Sports Day at both of my schools, Imaichi and Kobayashi. Kobayashi Junior High, even with next-door Kobayashi Elementary, only had enough students for two teams, red (aka) and white (shiro). Imaichi, with its 600+ students, was able to have eight teams, divided by class. 1-1, 2-1, and 3-1 formed the blue (ao) team, 1-2, 2-2, and 3-2 formed purple, and so on. Each class had designed and made their own flags, something I had not connected with Spots Day up until then. Do classes have banners here? Sure?

On the way to the field, I happened to walk by the outside of the 1-6 class (orange/o-ran-ji) with one of my favorite teachers, Mr. Izumi, an extremely energetic and enthusiastic gym teacher, who loves to practice his English (and who has a perfect grizzled Japanese shout). He waved hello to me, I waved back, and then he continued what he had been doing: shouting something at the head of his class, raising a fist while dropping his head, and basking in the war cry of his thirty or so 12-year-olds.

There were twenty-five events total, and such a huge gathering of parents that some of the booth merchants from the summer festival set up shop on the edge of the field. After much pomp and circumstance, the 25 games began.

Many were races, either straight sprints, or obstacle courses, baton relay, three-legged race, and so on. A few students would race at a time, and their team (especially the girls) would cheer them on, sounding stunningly like baby chicks at dawn, squeaking for food. There was even a race where four or five students would be tied together at the ankles like a chain gang, and they would need to do two laps around the track. Since each team was split up into their club activities, they only had to go half way around and tag in another group. They were identifiable by their outfits, including the kendo club in hakama and barefoot. There was also tug-of-war, and Kobayashi had an interesting variation: the elementary school kids began pulling while the middle schoolers had to run a section of the track before they could come and help.

The other games were kind of neat, too. There was one where a student from the team held a pole with two baskets strapped to the top, and with a huge pile of beanbags at their feet, while their team would try to toss the bags into the baskets, most bags in wins. One team got over a hundred. They count by tossing them out one at a time in unison, and the counter gets to throw the last one as high as he can.

There was also a game where a team of boys would bend over almost 90 degrees and one would run across their backs towards a goal. The number of participants was woefully short of the full distance, so those recently stepped upon would need to run to the end of the line. It’s remarkable how quickly one snake of this sort can move when everything goes swimmingly.

The boys and girls had their own dance three quarters of the way through. The girls performed a dance I had been prepared for by Sarah, a great workout for the thighs and butt. I didn’t envy them their heat as they danced, but I do want to learn the steps myself. It is a dance for women, originally wishing luck to the Hokkaido fisherman, it has spread through the rest of the islands, and is something of a folk dance today. (YouTube has lots of guys doing it, for example.) If she will not teach me, I will watch the following video until I am master.

The boys operated by a perpendicular drum, struck like a mystic heartbeat. They spread out evenly across the field, and after some shouts by the leaders of each team (and how I wish I could have understood them), one front and center would raise his fist in the air. All the other boys would turn and sprint at him, miraculously arresting momentum once they were shoulder to shoulder with the next man, and not a moment before, with no collisions. Before us was a crisp phalanx of pubescent boys. There was more fanfare, and then they spread out further, with enough room to do their dance. I can’t find a video with what I remember to be the name, but after watching it for 30 seconds I could do it myself.

Then came Kibasen. Unless you’ve seen it already, stop reading this post right now and watch this video (about 1:30):

I’m not even kidding. Watch the video. Fourteen year old boys were playing this. Instead of going for each other’s bandanas, however, they won by getting their opponents on the ground in any way they could.

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Ok, so video’s over. Pulling at clothes is allowed. Grappling is allowed. Grabbing, say, the side of the neck and trying to pull the opponent down is allowed. The three on the bottom simply have to keep their man up, while the other topples. One is allowed to topple his group in order to topple the other, so long as the opponent goes down first (like in sumo, for instance). Two kids left the pitch with bloody noses. Girls didn’t play it. One of the teachers assured me this is only played once in their lives, probably, though when he was young (say, thirty years ago) each grade played it at least once a year. The desired image, he told me, was a samurai on a horse. There were four rounds or so, so each of the boys got a chance to participate in an active group, though two from each team went simultaneously. They usually paired with another group and the winner of those two was winner, gaining a point for their team, no last-man standing or anything.

I am so goddamned sorry I didn’t bring my camera.

Kobayashi had a similar event, but it was a collection of several events, and the last was to form one of these groups and snatch flags from the other end of the field, rather than fight. The image of the samurai on the horse worked here, too. Here are my pictures.


At Imaichi, this actually got me out of my seat and cheering for, why not, the team closest to me (pink/pinku), which luckily happened to win overall. I don’t usually enjoy combat, but this was great. I wanted another round.

Sarah, who had the opportunity to witness (and unlike me, dance in) Sports Day reported that at the end of her day, when the winning team was announced, the opposing team cried. Actual tears running down actual cheeks, a terrible occurrence if you’re unable to comfort. I was spared this situation, but my school’s winning teams expressed the excitement of the training and practice they had invested. The trophies for third year sit in 3-2, the purple (murasaki) team.

Such is Sports Day. On the field, the students sat on their own chairs from their classrooms. Stunningly, they had brought them all out and in, and then helped to break down the tents, the equipment, the tables and chairs for the teachers, everything once it was over. Within thirty minutes, the entire field was cleared, the students back in their classes, the equipment in sheds, and my butt in my seat, enjoying lunch.*

I’m only staying one year, but if it was two, I would look forward to next year’s Sports Day.
-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: No list work today.

*Sports Day takes at least one full school day. The first day was rained out, so the second half of the day was extended to the following morning. Both days we broke for lunch, rain coming shortly afterwards.

September 19, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Let’s Read!

2012/9/14

Recovered. The anti-bodies really did the trick. In one day I went from my inflamed tonsil blocking my throat if I lay the wrong way to being able to talk, and by the end of the next day, I could eat fairly painlessly. By the end of the third day, I only had a bit of pain when I tried to open my mouth wide, like in a yawn. That too has now faded.

So onto today’s lesson, class. We’ve mostly covered chapter 3 of our English textbook. Further following the exploits of Ichiro, Sakura, Becky (Cananada) and Kevin (Australia), we learned about fair trade chocolate. Becky and Ichiro practiced meeting for a movie, and Sakura politely accepted seconds at dinner, complimenting the taste, and declined a second helping of dessert. The kids have just returned from Singapore where the explored the variations of rock, paper, scissors, or as the Japanese students call it, Janken. And we’ve practiced the target grammar points, “Would you like_____” and “____ was/was not _____.”

Here are our new words for the last section of Chapter 3. Please repeat after Schuyler-sensei. Lullaby, seen, sweet, bomb, lose, lost, injure, burn, body, rest, shade, dead, weak, mommy, real, tightly, while, quietly, rise, rose, ‘after a while’.

And now the text. (Schuyler-sensei, it’s HEro-SHEEma, not Hr-o-shuh-muh.)
“A big, old tree stands by a road near the city of Hiroshima. Through the years, it has seen many things. One summer night the tree heard a lullaby. A mother was singing to her little girl under the tree. They looked happy, and the song sounded sweet. But the tree remembered something sad. ‘Yes. It was some seventy years ago. I heard a lullaby that night, too.’”

Please turn the page.

“On the morning of that day, a big bomb fell on the city of Hiroshima. Many people lost their lives, and many others were injured. They had burns all over their bodies.” Strong R on this one. Burrrrrrns.
Ok, good. “I was very sad when I saw those people. It was a very hot day. Some of the people fell down near me. I said to them, ‘Come and rest in my shade. You’ll be all right [sic] soon.’ Night came. Some people were already dead. I heard a weak voice. It was a lullaby. A young girl was singing to a little boy. ‘Mommy! Mommy!’ the boy cried. ‘Don’t cry,’ the girl said. ‘Mommy is here.’ Then she began to sing again. She was very weak, but she tried to be a mother to the poor little boy. She held him in her arms like a real mother. ‘Mommy,’ the boy was still crying. ‘Be a good boy,’ said the girl. ‘You’ll be all right.’ She held the boy more tightly and began to sing again. After a while the boy stopped crying and quietly died. But the little mother did not stop singing. It was a sad lullaby. The girl’s voice became weaker and weaker. Morning came and the sun rose, but the girl never moved again.”

Next page. Let’s practice Ichiro’s thoughtful letter to the big, old tree. “Dear Tree, Your story made me very sad. I’ve learned that war is really terrible. We should never make war again. Your friend, Ichiro.”

Ok class, on the next page you’ll find lyrics to an english song, Puff the Magic Dragon, but tomorrow we will skip right onto Chapter 4. In this chapter, Ichiro invites Becky to see sumo in Tokyo. The new target sentence is: “It is difficult for me to explain sumo.” Notice the ‘It’, ‘for’, and ‘to explain’.

(Schuyler-sensei, are you feeling ok?)
-Hiding Cloud

Summation of the Action: At least I’m mended.

September 14, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Diagnosis

2012/09/5

So that sickness is tonsillitis. I began to panic when I noticed that my left nostril couldn’t inhale as much as my left ear canal felt like it was getting blocked off. I thought the cold had lowered my immunity, allowing a disease through, but it seems to be the other way around. Tonsillitis can cause fever, headache, weakness, and a great deal of trouble with anything involving the throat or mouth – swallowing, yawning, chewing, and as of tonight talking and it began to feel like breathing.

That’s the line at which I go to the goddamned hospital.

Jeremiah had warned me he had yet to find a decent English-speaking doctor, but I asked my boss Greg, who apparently can do anything, and found one close to me, in a region of Nikko I’m otherwise pretty familiar with. Maybe thirty minutes from parking to driving off, and only 3000 yen (~$37) for antibiotics and (finally) some pain killer. (And I may even get a little back)

So I’m up at 2:42am on a school night eating 245ml of ice cream from 7-11, listening to Depeche Mode, and finally typing a bit. Now if only it were on my personal statement for these law school applications.

One last thought: when I talked to an American tourist in Oslo, she asked among other things if I knew how the medical system was (this was last year). I had complaints, but when she heard them, she pounced on it and concluded out loud that we were still better off with our system. I have to disagree entirely – I’ve used my medical insurance in the US, Norway, and now Japan. Give me the last two any day of the week. I may have gripes with Japan and Europe, but that’s one thing we completely are lacking.
-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: On the mend.

September 4, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Words, words, words…

2012/8/28

I’ve observed a trend recently, one I’ve had a passive fascination with, in the larger evolution of the public locution. Gradually, people tend to move from one phrase or word to another. It seems that there is a hole in the general vocabulary which is filled by a revolving door of adjectives. “Cool” has long tried to fill this space, but it is not powerful enough, though has lost little of its potency. The “go-to” stock word is not stagnant, and through an uncenteralized direction, will shift from word to word. A recent international shift is complete: we’ve moved from “awesome” to “amazing”.

What I like about this process is that it gives a chance to several otherwise unused words, and in some small way, and over quite a long time period, exercises the public lexicon, rather than just relying on an “OK” which is constant, unvarying, cemented in place. It’s slow, easy to follow, it moves quite safely, and works on public consensus. Also, when it moves off of a word, the word recovers its meaning relatively quickly. “Awesome” is now less tired than it was one year ago, and while it may be a while before it recovers its power of, say, six years ago, it has had its meaning repaired from, say, this time in 2010.

What’s unimpressive about this shift is, as mentioned, it’s rather unadventurous. Rarely are words co-opted into new interpretations or meanings, their old definitions viewed through a prism. Also, the word of the moment is watered down in exchange for dynamic frequency. One might even call it the president of words, not only for its supremacy but its dilution. Like the presidency about a year in, it is uninspiringly doing its predictable work, and it’s some time until we can look forward to a new administration. Still, I did my part in voting for an “Amazing” presidency, and I can hardly complain now.

Does anyone else remember the first 100 days of “Seriously”? I was in high school, and I remember the first mentions of it, when it still had the force of “Literally”. I remember the first time I heard it used as something of an enhancer to a sentence, rather than for its real meaning (and, incidentally, the classmate that did it…damn you Kevin). I felt a sadness, then, because I could see the force of it slowly draining. I liked “seriously” and it did a lot of good work in its early days. If I could, I would vote it out of office for it to recover.

This leads me to speculate on the length of “Amazing”’s presidency. Another year, perhaps? It doesn’t have the stamina to be a long term-er. “Win” never had the strength to get into office, which is a good thing, I think. What will be next?

-Laughing Cloud

Summation of the Action: Setting us up the law school app. I guess that’s inching towards #37, the money one.

August 28, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Cities

2012/8/27

My dad didn’t have much of a plan for what to see in Tokyo, and my niece had a list, but was rather non-concerned with sticking to it, so I have planned and executed a two day jaunt through Tokyo. Flipping through a guide, I circled some sparse things and went to them, but it seems that it, Kuala Lumpur, and Singapore have two bullets on their list: eating and shopping.

Are all east Asian capitols like this? Is Beijing, Seoul? The outdoor markets in KL were pretty fun, I got a couple of steals, and in Singapore the Chinatown area was pretty cool, as well as the hawker markets. However, the big reason they were worth exploring was mostly for the areas and the liveliness and not so much the goods. In Tokyo, with the prices, it’s even less enticing.

For sightseeing, I could give Tokyo a large pass after going up the Metropolitan Government’s observation deck and seeing, say, Tokyo Tower. Walking Shinjuku and Shibuya were cool, but mainly cause I knew what the areas’ reputations were, not for anything visible. Similarly, seeing the Marina Bay area of Singapore was definitely something to see, but after that, it’s difficult to point at something that’s worth doing, from my brief encounter and from what I’ve read. “It’s too bland to hate,” a resident friend of mine told me. Similarly KL, after Petronas Towers and the Nat’l Msoque which doesn’t allow non-Muslim tourists in, seemed to only have the market on offer. Then what?

I’m not saying these are bad cities. I have an interest in Singapore that goes beyond the visible, something that echoes my fascination with Cape Town and South Africa. Shinjuku looks like it might be pretty fun to drink in with friends at night. But without that, it’s hard to really find a character, a hook or a catch that might ensnare the traveler, and imprint something on their minds, even if they just pass through. I had in my hand a pamphlet, “101 things to do in Shibuya”, and having read all of them, 80% or more contained either places to eat or shop. The rest were large buildings to look at, or clubs to visit.

It’s tempting to compare to Seattle, but I must resist, as I can imagine a similar complaint coming from a visitor with as brief a time in-city as mine. But a city with an angle is what I miss – one that you can feel leaning in one direction, embracing an aspect of life and trying to further it. It’s like a community, man! All hip and stuff, with a character and a lifestyle. Greenery is nice, but I want to be able to draw a sense of identity from where I live, or live somewhere that feels the same way.

The search continues…
-Schuyler

Summation of the Action: Nothing today.

Edit: This contains no complaints about the people. In all places mentioned, I have nothing but compliments for them.

August 27, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Crossing off #20 (Hear me out)

2012/8/21

Sarah and I went diving in Malaysia. I won’t try to pretend that what I saw diving is of any interest to others. We saw a cuttlefish, that was the highlight. We got some pictures, had some laughs, I might do it again some time in the future, it was a good vacation. The point of bringing it up, though, is that when I fieldtested crossing off #20, Pilot an aircraft without an instructor, the results were positive. The idea behind this is that when I originally wrote the list and started this blog, I wanted to move freely in three dimensions, rather than just walk the earth in two (ignoring topography). The only way I could imagine doing it was in that way, with an aircraft, moving freely in the air. The substance, if you will. I think I will rule this one completed.

General list update: So the aircraft one is crossed off. The Int’l Date Line one might be a bit difficult, because it looks like I won’t be able to make it back to the West Coast without going through Europe first. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it on here, but the Sydney trip has been scrapped, so setting foot on the continent is gone for now, along with seeing the Opera House. But it’s really better this way. And I have my whole life to drag my girlfriend there and see my relatives, and just scope the place out. Plus, now, I could dive in the Great Barrier Reef. The “Introduce a girl…” and “Marry a girl…” ones are inching closer, and maybe even “Get the novel published…” will happen soon. I need to lose some serious weight, as the girlfriend is even commenting on the size of the belly. Maybe the pull-up one isn’t far behind. Finally, with Christmas in Slovakia coming up, I’m putting renewed effort into Slovak the language, and I have other motivation for it. And besides the girlfriend, I have additional motivation beyond even that (though speaking in her native tongue is the ultimate goal).

This is the long awaited moment after that orientation meeting on August 6 that I’ve finally been totally by myself. How do I spend the entire day? Game Grumps on YouTube. I had a problem on the island when we were diving, in that nothing seemed to happen in our stretch of beach which for all the rest of the world might have been on the dark side of the moon. Nothing happened, nothing changed, no one was working towards anything (so it seemed), and in a year, I’m sure it will be the same tropical paradise atmosphere. I was not unhappy to leave the island on the day we did for the mad dash to Singapore, since we could go for something, and accomplish something.

L and I talked this over briefly, and she said it was a problem with out culture, that we always needed more, more, and we could never be simultaneously stationary and complacent. I agree, but not that it’s a problem. I don’t revel in the idea of relaxation (today excerpted), and having no responsibility. I revel in accomplishments, the longer-term and difficult-er the better. This is what got me through my initial weight-loss and what will hopefully propel me to this new scaled (seismic?) goal.

That’s what this whole list is about, really. It’s not about being happy where I am, but the exact opposite. It’s about finishing something, regardless of what it is. If I run out of things, I’ll just add other ones – what will eventually suffer is the initial yearning for these new additions in themselves.

This is such an addiction.

Something else: I briefly spent some time alone with my niece during her and my dad’s visit to Japan, and I felt like I had been reunited with a forgotten sibling. She held the same attitude towards the family, the conversation flowed like with a friend, and I felt we led off from the same position socially, though I live in Japan now and she has been in Texas long enough to pick up a slight accent. What a hidden little joy to get along easily with someone new(ish) socially! I may have a list of achievements I’m trying to run through, but the easiest and happiest times are when your mouth cannot keep up with those of others, and even better when it’s not interested in trying. The drunkenness of good conversation and laughter reminds me again of its potency. I may be on a hunt for a good corner of the world, but truly, that’s what I want waiting for me when I come back home. With or without wine or beer, it’s amazing what a shot of friendship will do for you.

-Laughing Cloud
(And by the way, I’ve written other posts, so I will actually update again within a reasonable time. And they’re not about goal-reaching.)

Summation of the Action: Some setbacks, but #20 is done.

August 21, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Ah, the list.

2012/7/09

Ok, so dramatic numbered lists. Putting characters in a numbered list is like a fetish. You get to have a set number of characters who are mutually reinforcing their importance to each other, there’s a finality yet it can always be expanded. There is a whisper of destiny, an everyman (he’s only a number after all) yet destined for notice, a special person who is not special. There is something sequential and ordered about it, and it’s easy to break that order when the character does something more notable than his list-mates. A lot is expected of him, but he is only expected to meet the requirements of membership to the list, not exceed them. Other list mates include the angry probably arrogant guy, the two that are inseparable friends, the highest ranked one that isn’t really highest ranked (unless he’s the protagonist), the desirable girl who can’t be had, and the slightly mental one. He may also be the wise one, depending on how big the list is. I’m as guilty as the rest.

The easiest protagonists are the ones that naturally have something, or have some skill. That’s the problem with the ‘chosen one’ character: they’re fun, but they can never be human, since their sudden skill or hereditary talent will always stand between them and the audience. Luke was born with the force, we can never have it. We’ll never be born on Krypton, be brought back a year after our deaths, be born into a powerful family that makes us financially independent for the rest of our lives to fight crime or meet emperors, nor will we have a crazy older friend that buys sports cars and makes them travel through time. It’s easy to make a story out of someone who lives next to a chocolate factory or is targeted to be killed by machines from the future.

The list serves this same purpose, ultimately. The list is composed of who they were born as, rather than who they have become. I think there was a movie out, recently, where the tagline was simply, “I am number _____”. Strange how much you can get out of numbering something.
-Schuyler

July 9, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

New Post.

2012/7/9
I am now 27, and I feel old.

The words do not come so easily as they once did. Crafting stories like wet clay is returning to a process of filtering images, and less of cutting words. I no longer wander through sentences as I once did, like streetlamp to streetlamp, trusting only the plod of my shoes between the shining halos of the night. The sun has risen, the mystery is gone. There are no shadows here left to illuminate; they have run from me.

The themes that I looked for in life have now sunk below the framework. They are no longer topographical, I can only dumbly follow the colors and recognize ones I have previously seen. If time is supra-divine, could it go both ways? I wonder how far it can ebb. I’m still thinking about other stories, and god knows I have the time now.

It’s okay, though. I hear blogs don’t have themes. There is simply too much to talk about, and so little really worth mentioning.

Trips are canceled. No Korea, no China. Not even Australia. I have my whole life ahead of me. I’m sure I can manage. And I don’t want to hop into Sydney for a day and call it done. I don’t think I can spare the time for China. There is Christmas to be had in Europe, and there is a short consolation trip to Malaysia for a week. So now that that is out of the way.

I’m in the not so tenuous period between having taken the LSAT and receiving the score. They know a lot depends on your score, a great section of your life may be decided by it, not to mention three years’ time of living space, but of course it must be a major bother to actually scan the damn scantrons. I predict I got within my range, which seems safe. It’s a seven point spread, so I think getting in that is fair.

D.C. is doing very little in enticing me anyway; did I mention I hate the heat? Though I must say Japan is doing little to ingratiate itself to me as well. Nuclear power may have infected thousands in this recent nuclear meltdown, but they’re turning one plant back on because these damn air conditioners aren’t going to power themselves, and I may use mine soon too. It’s been two and a half weeks, only one more remains. My mind had nearly melted down the week immediately following, and I had little power to clean my house, or do much beyond playing my DS.

I’ve expanded the space around which I curl protectively to include my Kindle, and my e-mail, and at measured intervals the news. I may also fire up my industriousness to include two languages, the beginnings of Slovak and mirroring new words in French, as much as is possible. The plan sounds ambitious, and too unfocused to work, and I shall give it my best shot.

(I used to think places had a set amount of inspiration they could offer, but if that’s true, this apartment has never had any, because I’ve drawn none and am receiving little more than a drip, and it’s unsteady.)

Industriousness: How much pleasure can I pull from completing things? Does it too have a limit, and then I’ll need to turn to something else? The actual feeling of achievement must get old eventually, and I feel a dulling already. But what else do I have? I feel most at ease when I work hard. My questions are whittled down to how I can improve my performance, others’, the industry or system, or rather ways to numb the repetition by focusing on the larger goal (21% of the book already?). I have so little responsibility in this current job, I need to turn to hobbies. Sarah has bought a Kindle at my behest, though after finally finishing Seven Pillars of Wisdom (and god, what a book!), I’m having difficulty coming across something I enjoy reading: I’ve gone back to the roots of someone else who I once tried to be, and am reading Richard II, after finishing Coriolanus, and may move onto Twelfth Night. They go quickly, and the language stops me from trying to poke holes in their arguments.

Speaking of which, I have had an incredibly rewarding set of experiences: I’ve been in some debates since I have studied the LSAT, and I can already feel my anemic debating skills beefing up. Rather than blindly leading my opponent into my answer by repetition, or hoping they would fail at diversifying their evidence after implications weakened their initial position, or appealing to the opinion of another, I isolated the argument, ripped apart its cohesiveness, and swept the legs out from under it. It felt almost harsh, but it felt damn good.

I need writing, though. I need it because I love it, as they say, and not the other way around. We’ve been together too long to separate now. Though my fingers may stumble, my hands still move in the familiar motions. There is still the daydreaming over connotations, the isolation of relationships to their bluntest factor, the obsession with who did what and putting people into dramatic and numbered groups, yes, we’re not separate yet. I will not get over this first book until I try to sell it, and that will be the fast-track to regret. Let’s just sleep in different bedrooms for a while, and perhaps that will neutralize the inhibitor, whatever it may be. Maybe this is the period Vonnegut was talking about when he told writing students to not write for ten years or so and just get life experience.

That’s it.
-Schuyler

July 9, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Die

06/24/12

The die is cast.

Perilously, I have ventured where the streets have no name. Hands shaking of nerves, anticipation, and coffee, I have turned over my mind to my skills, bald and naked, that they may represent me well, for in this there is only them. My feet bubble, neck creaks, and shoulders glow red. Can you hear the pencil twirling? Can you scratch, sweat, groan and beg? Can you shut out the world that you may see its obvious connections?

Those that accompany me, we share little but we share this. Names are unnecessary, they lay on custom and our hands. We walk like condemned men, like the dead. Nervous laughter, gallows humor they call it. I will feel my scars from this fight in three weeks time, parade it for those in their tower. I have walked in those shoes, ignoring all the holes.

And now I’ve nothing left. Break the surface tension for me, it’s going to be a hard dive.
-Schuyler

June 24, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Hailstorm Today

10/5/12

The regiment of the school is strong. As previously mentioned, each class is preceded by a request for the teacher to come to the room and instruct, unless the teacher only has the ten minutes of passing time to transfer classes. Even in those cases, I have found, if you return to the office, you will be tracked down and found. I’m freely encouraged (or at least not shunned) when I make use of the blackboard, but fully discouraged from erasing my scribblings at the end of lessons. As one of my teachers told me when she stopped me, “No no no, the students have to do that.”
And clean it they do. In addition to this, they must clean the classrooms, hallways, bathrooms, windows from the outside and inside, the teacher’s office, empty the trash, and in the case of Kobayashi junior high, water the decorative plants. They sweep, vacuum, dust, wipe, and empty. This being Japan, they are able (by regiment) to empty erasers of the blackboards’ fallout by way of device (I think it uses water). They show me to my seat at lunch and bring me my tray, food prepared and steaming. They stand up and greet their instructor (or both, or all as the case may be) at the beginning of each lesson. They wear the same uniform every day, and often outside of the school as well, their name and that of their school emblazoned in kanji, in some cases along with their home room number. They don aprons and face masks and hair nets and gloves to ration out food to their fellows, their lunch room being their home room. They take their assigned seats, even if absences render the configuration a jigsaw, and are ever so slightly hesitant to switch seats when requested. There also seems to be an injured foot quota – one student is absolved of responsibility only when they tag another in. If you ask me the source of a tradition, I say you do not ask the old, you tell the young.
Yet for all this, they are not little machines. In between classes, they punch, they shout, steal each others’ notes, practice pitching form, sit backwards in chairs, they fear getting called on in class and cheer when our game does not select them. Ask them their favorite comic or singer or TV show and they blush with the apprehension of sharing what they actually enjoy without reason.
Yesterday, over lunch, I spoke with some third-years about the sports they would play for the upcoming tournament. One mousy girl hidden behind glasses and face mask had her face towards her food and didn’t respond, so I asked her if she had any club activities (a bit like asking if you have parents – the answer can’t be ‘no’) and she replied, ‘Brass ban-do’. I asked her what she played, ‘trom-bone’. ‘Do you like music?’ Silence. ‘What bands do you like?’ ‘Su-leep-naw-to’ (Slipknot). My sudden laughter ignites hers, and she blushes, her friend from the next table immediately leaning in and asking, ‘Nani nani nani?’ The amount of surprise I can credit to discovering differences in the world is seemingly by law inferior to that attributed to our similarities, like pine trees growing from all manner of soil. This may be the prevalence of American English and culture at the dawn of the internet, but it is what we are moving to be. It’s now our turn to define globalization and cultural exchange. Just think how culture will have contorted itself in one generation’s time.
I think of this partly as the composition of this leg of my adventure, and partly for another reason – in a way I am continuing the gift. When I first arrived, I was one of two newbies to the company, the rest were re-uping for another year. However, one girl in a neighboring city, Sakura (city), had a father that suddenly had very pressing health issues, and she made plans to depart on the 13th. So, my first day on this little archipelago, Greg asked if I had any friends that wanted to take her place for the year. I immediately thought of my friend English James, who, when I visited him in London on my way to Cape Town, made some not entirely empty proclamations regarding the benefits of rolling into work the next day (a job of comfort but not satisfaction) and informing them that he was going with me to the south of Africa.
As it so happens, James’ contract with his current company was expiring two months from when I told him, some three weeks ago, and he was in the market for a better job. We talked about it briefly, he got the details from Greg, and as I understand it, nearly came. The one factor holding him back that could not be satisfactorily overcome, was his new-ish girlfriend, with whom things are apparently progressing nicely. Compounding that was the prospect of a job he may better enjoy, and ultimately James elected to remain English. At almost the same time, however, my friend Sarah from Seattle e-mailed me with her hatred of her job and her recent break-up with her boyfriend as well as considerations on the need for imminent overseas expeditions. As they say, Bob’s your uncle, and less than two weeks later, she is currently at my place in Nikko waiting for her apartment in Sakura (city) to open up. One hopes she was not caught in today’s flash hailstorm, yet another example which makes clear to me that we are the breaking point for the meteorological tempestuousness of the great Pacific Ocean.
I sense an aversion to my creeping motivation deficiency.
-A Sly Stad

Summation of the Action: We’re going to cross off number two! Again! 9e is coming up! Australia is a hop, skip, and a lane flight away! Hooray! And in Tokyo this last weekend, I managed 7 pull-ups in a row, a new record. I’ve bought a dumbbell, and I can feel the inevitable coming on – this is the year for 10 in a row.

May 10, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Earthquake

19/4/12

I was sitting at my desk at Imaichi, writing in my notebook as I study for the LSAT, and the ground begins to shake, perceptibly. Filing cabinets are creaking. I don’t react at first – this is the third earthquake I could feel since I’ve been here. But this one is pretty strong.
This is also my first earthquake around the locals, and I look up to see their reactions. Most of them are looking at one of the cabinets with a glass door that contains what I assumed since I got here were servers. One has begun lighting several lights in unison and beeping loudly and unrhythmically when there’s a particularly strong tremor, and there are a lot. There are a few words exchanged, and some people begin to stand. I try to read body language to see what’s going on, and everyone is paying attention to this machine. It’s easy to miss, since this teacher’s office has clearly had a long process of evolution in the progressively more crowded direction, and is a hodgepodge of what it’s needed to be over the years. The way the few teachers that aren’t in class are looking at this machine, though, is in a way that until just now they’ve forgotten it’s there as well.
Two male teachers about halfway to the other side of the room are standing, and one begins to cautiously approach it, and the machine is still alerting us to abnormal tremors and the beeping, a lot like an alarm, is all that’s filling the room now, as the teachers are silent.
Over a dozen panels are flashing with each beep, and the man keep approaching it. He reaches the front of it, and hesitates, as it continues to alert him. He reaches out, pauses to think, opens the door, and flips a switch. The machine continues to blink with the tremors, but the sound has been silenced. He returns to his desk. No one else has moved, and everyone is working again. I continue to scratch out why my wrong answers are wrong in my notebook. Before long the tremors stop.
Life in Japan.
-Schuyler

April 19, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | 2 Comments

The undeniably lovely Kobayashi

18/4/12

How clouded my memory seems to me now. I’m in Kobayashi Jr. High’s Teacher’s office, and I’ve taught my three classes for the day with Mista Shimizu. Where did I get his wrinkles from? He has no wrinkles, he’s far too young for any, in his late thirties. I have more than he does.

This school is situated in a location that seems to be made to display Japan’s beauty. Mr. Shimizu and me are both in our first years here, and I’m beginning to like it more than Imaichi. The classes are smaller, the uniforms are smarter, the kids slightly worse in English (I read out the alphabet for the youngest class) which makes it more fun, the staff less massed, more diversified by their profession. Imaichi is fine, yesterday I was only hoping Kobayashi wouldn’t be worse or less pleasant. There are cherry blossoms in the yard, and all of the classes appear to look out on rice paddies in the foreground and layered hills in the background. Presumably the face of windows that we have, which, in the rooms I’ve been, all face west, would be a problem if there weren’t such a cloud cover today. I asked Mr. Shimizu what he thinks of this school, as compared to his last one, and he though for a long moment, and replied, “Very difficult question.” I think I will like it here.

The music teacher (there appears to be only one) joined us for the first class of the day, and partnered with the one odd student out for the dialogue we were doing; the principal swung in for the ending of the second class, and another man (I’ve yet to figure out what he does here) came for the third, taking the teacher introduction test with the students and snapping pictures throughout the class. He and Mr. Shimizu seem to be the best English speakers here, and during our lunch outside in the yard (which the kids set up and broke down entirely, it appears, short of cooking the food), he explained to me the word for sesame seeds and explained what it was we were eating. Unfortunately I’m tragically terrible with names and didn’t have a pen handy, so I’ve forgotten it – I only remember it was three syllables with an o in front and a u in the back.

The man wearing a lab coat constantly, I’m guessing he’s the science teacher, seems to love his job. He plays with the kids when he gets the chance, I’m sure more so in the class, and seems to run odd jobs in addition, sitting at the head table with the principal and the man who is likely the head teacher. As the kids lined up for a picture below the cherry blossoms, he squat in the sand, trying to find the right angle. One girl poked him forcefully in the back, and he shouted at the sky in mock pain, and managed to get her before she could run far. He also showed me a five yen coin (go yen) he had found, in very good spoken english no less, but when I asked him if it wasn’t discolored, he paused, and happily called for his colleagues, “I don’t understaaaand!”

I can see Mr. Shimizu is doing the very thing I feared and keeping an overall class trajectory towards a competency goal, and I think he likes working with me – it’s easy taking the head of the class while he explains what’s going on from the back, and while he explains something in Japanese, I can look at the lovely layered hills rolling along outside the window. Wednesday job satisfaction rating, very high.

-Schuyler

April 19, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Supplemental

17/4/12

I can’t get a bank account for another week or two, which means no cell phone too, but I got my hanko, and I sure as hell got my power cable. Holy fucking hell is it nice to have this back. I just hope I can get internet without a bank account. Greg, after being dialed when communication between Murakami-san and me hit a good old fashioned low, seemed to think that if my gas could be set up without a bank account, my internet could be as well. Does it seem odd to anyone that these two are equated? Because it seems much less odd to me than I thought it might.

-Schuyler

April 19, 2012 | Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment