Just a short image for you while I'm working on a longer post:
Despite all the complaining that goes on around here, we both really do like Japan quite a lot. Our new apartment is awesome, Osaka is a cool city, and Japanese culture really is interesting. I kinda just have a problem with that fine line between "incisive observational humor" and "bitching." I especially like the job at the kindergarten. It's got long hours, but really, having the laughter of children being a part of your work day is a considerably better perk than free copies or a communal coffee machine.
Case in point, today I was walking past Panda class and Shogo, one of the most enthusiastic if error-prone students (he regularly stops me on the playground, points to my shirt, and says "It's red!", regardless of the actual color), stepped out and yelled "Hello!" to me. I was on my way to get lunch, but I greeted him right back and gave him a high-five. By the time we managed that, another dozen or so students ran out to meet me, squealing and demanding high-fives. I laughed and tried to oblige them all as three or four started hugging my legs. One of them, then most of them, started saying in their adorable little voices, "Harry Daisuki!" Basically, "We love Harry!"
Pretty much an average day at the kindergarten. I'm pretty sure my best day ever at Sakishima was the time I took a long lunch and snuck out early.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Everything is Mostly Nothing
Everything is mostly nothing, my love.
Everyone we know or ever have is an after-image, a patchwork dummy
Stitched together from tight assemblies of dust motes,
Each of which lives its long tenure in vain pursuit of companionship --
We are beings of air and light.
Our constituent pieces, blind and cold, unbearably old and without memory,
Pass infinitely close to one another, tantalizing,
Seeking collision but never managing it. We stumble and search
For fellow clouds of light, and when we find one another, you and I,
It is always new. We muddy our colors and press our hopes together,
Mingling our clouds to find particular solace and discover new ways to fly.
Our shadow drama is reenacted in the cosmos:
Lonely white souls scream and call to ghosts,
Stranded on burning diamond islands, marooned in the firmament
And glimpsing the winking of their closest neighbors,
The production of helium from a distant, long-dead hearth.
They, like us, shake and swirl in the black.
Somewhere, I'm told, they love in all colors
Bloodred passion spitting cinders,
Blues the size of a thousand suns if no bluer than yours or mine
And if you listen hard enough, even on the shores of our podunk ball of rock,
You can hear the beating of the worst of us,
The loneliest hearts their sorrow in perfect time.
Like all of us, I bear a secret (please don't tell)
In the deepest of my swarm of lost fireflies:
I am not real. I am a mock-up, a phantom, a fraud,
A flicker of the imagination held together by the incredible force of will
Or cooperative self-delusion.
Somehow, you turn on me your piercing ocher flames, and you see the truth,
But the pulsing blue lightning you carry rearranges my pieces,
And for you, I cannot rest in the cold grips of nothing.
You see a forgery and inspire reality,
You see a smudge and it becomes a Seurat,
You see a Magic Eye and create a Picasso, or at least a higher quality fake,
3D, HD, warmer, more lifelike.
From a lot of nothing, you make something.
Creation is an unfriendly place, and they say it's getting bigger and colder all the time;
Improbably, our twin fires burn together and warm us.
-- For Jenn, on our first anniversary of running off to the Las Vegas Wedding Bureau and coming out an hour later giggling and married.
Everyone we know or ever have is an after-image, a patchwork dummy
Stitched together from tight assemblies of dust motes,
Each of which lives its long tenure in vain pursuit of companionship --
We are beings of air and light.
Our constituent pieces, blind and cold, unbearably old and without memory,
Pass infinitely close to one another, tantalizing,
Seeking collision but never managing it. We stumble and search
For fellow clouds of light, and when we find one another, you and I,
It is always new. We muddy our colors and press our hopes together,
Mingling our clouds to find particular solace and discover new ways to fly.
Our shadow drama is reenacted in the cosmos:
Lonely white souls scream and call to ghosts,
Stranded on burning diamond islands, marooned in the firmament
And glimpsing the winking of their closest neighbors,
The production of helium from a distant, long-dead hearth.
They, like us, shake and swirl in the black.
Somewhere, I'm told, they love in all colors
Bloodred passion spitting cinders,
Blues the size of a thousand suns if no bluer than yours or mine
And if you listen hard enough, even on the shores of our podunk ball of rock,
You can hear the beating of the worst of us,
The loneliest hearts their sorrow in perfect time.
Like all of us, I bear a secret (please don't tell)
In the deepest of my swarm of lost fireflies:
I am not real. I am a mock-up, a phantom, a fraud,
A flicker of the imagination held together by the incredible force of will
Or cooperative self-delusion.
Somehow, you turn on me your piercing ocher flames, and you see the truth,
But the pulsing blue lightning you carry rearranges my pieces,
And for you, I cannot rest in the cold grips of nothing.
You see a forgery and inspire reality,
You see a smudge and it becomes a Seurat,
You see a Magic Eye and create a Picasso, or at least a higher quality fake,
3D, HD, warmer, more lifelike.
From a lot of nothing, you make something.
Creation is an unfriendly place, and they say it's getting bigger and colder all the time;
Improbably, our twin fires burn together and warm us.
-- For Jenn, on our first anniversary of running off to the Las Vegas Wedding Bureau and coming out an hour later giggling and married.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
One Nation Invisible
I'm very excited to report that, in my time since coming to Japan, I have mysteriously developed a new...well, there's really no other word for it...superpower. Yes, as an ability I now share with the rest of my race, enjoyed only under the proper environmental conditions -- like the amazing neotony of salamanders, like the Kryptonian susceptibility to the rays of Earth's yellow sun -- I now enjoy the power of invisibility. Unfortunately, those of you familiar with the greater film oeuvre of Kel Mitchell should understand when I say that my newfound power tends to work only under the right circumstances. Example:
A few weeks ago, I was late for the bus. Not too late, not irresponsibly late, but late enough that I was running (brief sidenote: I don't run well. Like most Althoff men, I have a sleek, aerodynamic physique more suited for activities like poker and human cannonball). I was keeping up my best wheezing pace when I spotted the bus, still waiting at the station. I relaxed, slowing to a canter and digging some change out of my pocket as spots danced on the edges of my vision. Still 10 meters or so away, the bus closed its doors with a lurch. It took off, and so did I, stifling my urge to cry "NOOOOO!" I sprinted (more or less) after it, waving furiously, finally thinking to start yelling "Sumimasen! Chottou matte kudasai!" I kept pace with the driver for nearly a minute; when I was just about ready to collapse, he turned his head and met my eyes. I forced a manic smile ("Never Stop Smiling" is but one of the many interpersonal skills I've learned in Japan) and started to slow to get in the rear door...then promptly ate exhaust as the bus zoomed by. I used the last of my breath to call the driver something vulgar and, in retrospect, pretty redundant.
I really couldn't have been that hard to spot -- a big, messy-haired gaijin in a bright green sweater, huffing and puffing and waving and yelling and sweating tends to be more than a little conspicuous -- so you can see why I've settled on the invisibility theory. It's either that or a psychocultural phenomenon known (to me) as Foreigner Blindness or FB, estimated (by me) to affect about 1 out of every 1 Japanese people.
Essentially, when an afflicted Japanese person spots a gaijin near them, their visual cortex begins blocking certain visual signals that would cause them distress, replacing this sensory input with something more reassuring and easily ignored, like a vending machine. My research suggests that this effect stems from an almost paralyzing fear that they will be called on to speak English. See illustration:
Image C and R Krazy Krow, a fine and upstanding gentleman of the sort would never have objections, legal or otherwise, to casual appreciation and reuse of his work.
Indeed, when I approach bus drivers or shop attendants, as soon as I open my mouth they often shake their heads and make an X with their fingers in an effort to ward me away, never mind that my question is in Japanese. This is a country that enjoys a 1:1 customer-to-clerk ratio, yet as soon as I need to ask a question about purchasing goods with my hard-earned yen, employees in a 10-meter radius scatter like startled deer; important matters develop in the back room, merchandise demands immediate reorganization, everyone decides it's time for their lunch break. Ha ha, I'm just kidding. As far as I can tell, Japan has yet to develop the concept of a "lunch break."
Why this crippling Anglophobia? The country is stuffed to the gills with conversation schools and cram schools...English education is clearly big business over here. You can't throw a brick in downtown Osaka without hitting half a dozen gaijin who are here to teach English or die trying. English is absolutely everywhere, on the radio, on TV, on menus and business names...almost everything that isn't just written in English has a Japanified spelling of it (most medical clinics say both "clinic" and "クリニック," pronounced "kurinikku").
Most puzzling of all, pretty much every Japanese person under the age of 50 has taken at least three years of English class in high school, and many have taken much more. For perspective, this is the same length of English language study that is mandated in Sweden, and the average Swede has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. Hell, the Swedish Chef has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. All right, that might be a little unfair, but to test my hypothesis/blatant racism: go to Stockholm, stop five strangers on the street, and ask them if they can direct you to a bus stop. Now try the same thing in Tokyo. How did everyone do? Odds are, in Stockholm at least four people will be able to answer in near-perfect English, while in Tokyo you'll be unable to get anyone to stop and answer.
A few weeks ago, I was late for the bus. Not too late, not irresponsibly late, but late enough that I was running (brief sidenote: I don't run well. Like most Althoff men, I have a sleek, aerodynamic physique more suited for activities like poker and human cannonball). I was keeping up my best wheezing pace when I spotted the bus, still waiting at the station. I relaxed, slowing to a canter and digging some change out of my pocket as spots danced on the edges of my vision. Still 10 meters or so away, the bus closed its doors with a lurch. It took off, and so did I, stifling my urge to cry "NOOOOO!" I sprinted (more or less) after it, waving furiously, finally thinking to start yelling "Sumimasen! Chottou matte kudasai!" I kept pace with the driver for nearly a minute; when I was just about ready to collapse, he turned his head and met my eyes. I forced a manic smile ("Never Stop Smiling" is but one of the many interpersonal skills I've learned in Japan) and started to slow to get in the rear door...then promptly ate exhaust as the bus zoomed by. I used the last of my breath to call the driver something vulgar and, in retrospect, pretty redundant.
I really couldn't have been that hard to spot -- a big, messy-haired gaijin in a bright green sweater, huffing and puffing and waving and yelling and sweating tends to be more than a little conspicuous -- so you can see why I've settled on the invisibility theory. It's either that or a psychocultural phenomenon known (to me) as Foreigner Blindness or FB, estimated (by me) to affect about 1 out of every 1 Japanese people.
Essentially, when an afflicted Japanese person spots a gaijin near them, their visual cortex begins blocking certain visual signals that would cause them distress, replacing this sensory input with something more reassuring and easily ignored, like a vending machine. My research suggests that this effect stems from an almost paralyzing fear that they will be called on to speak English. See illustration:
Image C and R Krazy Krow, a fine and upstanding gentleman of the sort would never have objections, legal or otherwise, to casual appreciation and reuse of his work.Indeed, when I approach bus drivers or shop attendants, as soon as I open my mouth they often shake their heads and make an X with their fingers in an effort to ward me away, never mind that my question is in Japanese. This is a country that enjoys a 1:1 customer-to-clerk ratio, yet as soon as I need to ask a question about purchasing goods with my hard-earned yen, employees in a 10-meter radius scatter like startled deer; important matters develop in the back room, merchandise demands immediate reorganization, everyone decides it's time for their lunch break. Ha ha, I'm just kidding. As far as I can tell, Japan has yet to develop the concept of a "lunch break."
Why this crippling Anglophobia? The country is stuffed to the gills with conversation schools and cram schools...English education is clearly big business over here. You can't throw a brick in downtown Osaka without hitting half a dozen gaijin who are here to teach English or die trying. English is absolutely everywhere, on the radio, on TV, on menus and business names...almost everything that isn't just written in English has a Japanified spelling of it (most medical clinics say both "clinic" and "クリニック," pronounced "kurinikku").
Most puzzling of all, pretty much every Japanese person under the age of 50 has taken at least three years of English class in high school, and many have taken much more. For perspective, this is the same length of English language study that is mandated in Sweden, and the average Swede has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. Hell, the Swedish Chef has an infinitely better grasp of English than the average Japanese person. All right, that might be a little unfair, but to test my hypothesis/blatant racism: go to Stockholm, stop five strangers on the street, and ask them if they can direct you to a bus stop. Now try the same thing in Tokyo. How did everyone do? Odds are, in Stockholm at least four people will be able to answer in near-perfect English, while in Tokyo you'll be unable to get anyone to stop and answer.
Friday, May 7, 2010
On Hiatus for Retootling
>COULD NOT UNDERSTAND COMMAND "CONNECT TO GODDAMN INTERNET ALREADY." ABORT, RETRY, FAIL?
We'll return you to your regularly scheduled complaining as soon as an Internet is delivered to our house. In the meantime, kindly do us the favor of sticking a few extra-thorny pins in your officially-licensed Jimmie J. Jenkins voodoo doll. Thank you.
We'll return you to your regularly scheduled complaining as soon as an Internet is delivered to our house. In the meantime, kindly do us the favor of sticking a few extra-thorny pins in your officially-licensed Jimmie J. Jenkins voodoo doll. Thank you.
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