dancing chaos

I walked in to get a second fork

2007-07-11T23:07:00.000+09:00

From my room on a late night, summer breeze blowing through handmade organza curtains, in his boxers and nothing else, discarded after borrowing them for wont of a pair of my own, alternating between this page and my work email because my cell phone has turned into a blackberry relaying messages from Dhaka, sipping meaningless, guilt free Royal Milk Tea –

Inspiration strikes.

I want to write

I NEED to write.

About how a few mornings back I saw a smile in a sticker by Lees Boulevard, and noticed the orange of a carnation lying on the pavement. And how it made me feel.

FEELING, what a sweet novelty. After months of numbness, bitten by the frost of my surroundings, I am warm and flowing again.

Write about how the blur is gone, how I feel like I am reliving the first few moments after my pupils are able to contract under my control again after a visit to the evil optometrist. [damn those eye drops] How I am able to look, and focus, and see.

How I’ve relearnt to open myself to the deserving and his early morning whispered ‘carpe diems’.

And it’s too much for one person to take, I need to share it.

But not here.

He fell in love with me here, and my tales began to be written for him. My words, spoken for him. So no, not here.

All the realities that live within me will live elsewhere.

I am fair, despite having played dirty for a time: I know how interpretation can sting. And I know that I don’t want him to know just how good I’m doing. Not here.

Maybe next time we bump into each other in a drunken stupor, on a night when he is not compelled to try and hide both of them in a corner. When honesty overcomes him, and he can speak directly rather than beating around burning bushes.

When we can both look at each other in the eye and, with a smile, say I'm happier without you, better with another. Myself with another. HE gets me. Because sometimes, some things don't need to be explained. They're just understood, slowly but surely.

When he realizes that I am more lucid, more intuitive and stronger than he gives me credit for. I’m done playing dumb, and I’ll be the bigger person. Moving on,

Away from here.

I'm feeling it again

2007-05-16T12:07:00.000+09:00

That unbearable urge to run.

Well not so much run as escape. Discover? Bust out of time, space and self?

Funny, I only get in when I have nothing to run from and so many things to come back to. When I'm confident I'm only leaving guilt-free, and only coming back to good things.

compendium

2007-05-09T23:04:00.000+09:00

I have been finding my echo resonating from the most unlikely canyons. I spoke softly into the recesses of the past, and my own words & thoughts came back, resounding, in a voice calmer than I had previously known it to be.

And so if two people's thoughts mirror each others', validation being found, I can now ask: why?

Why do we label, box in, mold people? Why do we expect the unattainable, or rather why do we expect others to embody ideals we ourselves know we couldn't - let alone wouldn't - attain for others?

I lay in bed last night tabulating and self-reassuring, and tabulating some more and confirming that I was not fooling myself. Making sure that I hadn't done unto others as I wouldn't want done unto me - pointing fingers in the dark to see that whta I was in fact pointing to was a mirror.

And breathing, for the time being, a sigh of satisfied relief.

I had been good at - and with - non definition. And, it would seem, still am. Approaching people as they are and can be to me: think Kinsey's continuum, only the two extremes are friendship and partnership. They can't - and I don't expect them to be - either of two extremes in my life or disappointment will be quick to follow. In my mind, no one can fit the ideal of either label, primarily because these ideals (of friendship and partnership) are bound to transform at the rate of my self-affirmation. To, further, expect of an individual that he or she - or rather his or her enactment of their role in my life - adjust to these daily re-definitions (for what purpose? to have their response to myself validate my ability to perform my own will of being?) - would be a grave injustice to them, and a pretty irrefutable proof of my selfishness and lack of respect for both myself and those around me. Acting as such would diminish them to the state of mere pawns for the mind games I play with myself, strategically placed puppets waiting for their cue to enter the stage and pay their part in the theater of my life. Relationship would be nothing more than action/reaction, subect to object, leaving no room for equal exchange. They would become all things to me, and that much less to themselves. I would love them not for who they bring to the table, ideally themselves, but rather what I shape them into being. Who they will be for me, what I will help them to become. For better or worse, til death, or the resurfacing of lucidity and self-awareness, do us part.

To put it simply; I fully recognise that other people were not placed in my life to service me. We all have better things to do than bend and fold to other's expectations of us.

Love is... the ability to cherish and value an other for what they bring and add to your experience as a human being. Synergy. Allowing them to agree with you when they can, challenge you when they feel you and them may not be perfectly in line. It is a lot of dialogue, and a lot of vulnerability, realising that even the closest you can find to your match may not always be a perfect fit. No two individuals are alike, and once again, if what you are searching is you in a different incarnation - buy a mirror. Ideally Queen Elspeth's.

People do not naturally fit any other mold than the one their own lives cast for them. And even then, we are but hermit crabs - as they switch shells we switch molds when we have outgrown the previous one. The artist knows that to remain ahead, one must be in a state of constant re-invention. Too many individuals find fallacy in contradicting self, yet isn't it also true that only fools never change their minds? Granted, a comfortable life does not always require change - eventually, we all gel and become complacent, for lack of anything in our environment challenging us to better ourselves... And with change comes a discomfort most would rather live without, failing to see the exhiliration that comes with it.

I recall, to my dismay, finding great satisfaction in pulling hermit crabs from their shells during family vacations by the sea. Although, it was always to ease them into nicer, more spacious shells. I always made sure they were able to remain mobile and that their new shells weren't too heavy for them, a burden in disguise. And then I'd leave them be, let them go on with their little hermit crab lives - having played my part and needing to be with them no longer.

A rather brilliant acquaintance once wrote - Love is the psychological manipulation of will. More specifically it is manipulating another's will so as to narrow the concept of choice. I thought of that a couple days ago and thought it sounded nice.

I thought of that a couple of days ago and thought it sounded true. I recall reading it when he first wrote it and going - Tsk, yeah right. Damit.

And yet, I expect. Once something is defined, vulnerability settles in. The relationship as it is now named becomes more like a position and the encounters, enactments of a job description. I am meant to be ______ therefore I ______ - or else... Relationships are, sadly, untenured positions. Even marriage, most sacred of contracts, does not protect from summary dismissal. Slowly, unconsciously, one becomes increasingly invested in staying true to the relationship as it is meant to be, to the expense of the partner as they actually wish to be treated.

Odd, I know. You'd think at some point partner A would talk to partner B. But then no, not always. The dynamic is such for a reason, and likely because it defines the relationship. It gives us what we all so need: validation and power, through the ability to see one previously independent being become dependent, attached, needy. It disgusts me, but that kind of power becomes addictive: how many people have you met set their lovers free because they are 'loved'/'valued' too much, out of concern for the existence of what was previously an individual?

The beauty of a person is what they offer by surprise, from the depths of their free will, desire, and goodness. Actions orchestrated or commissioned lose their essence and their meaning. Attached to a set of expectations or tailored to suit the other's desires, they can do nothing but fall short (although, temporarily, bringing satisfaction, their impact's shelf-life will seldom outlive the moments calling), for too often we see each action as a singular entity, rather than part of a constant expression of love, part of a chain of events or a narrative.

And if we do see that narrative as it is - the first instinct is to balance: does he/she exceed expectations, or fall short?

But... does he/she even know what is expected of her, has anyone ever let these expectations be voiced and agreed to? Do YOU even knwo what your expectations are, or are you just making it up as you go along?

Another brilliant person, whose voices has since echoed throughout those of the people I respect most said: You can't ever expect to be able to live with someone else until you can live with yourself. Until that time, they'll never live up, because neither you nor they knwo what they're living up to.

Knowledge of self is essential, a precondition to not loosing oneself within, and falling short during, a relationship. Without knowledge of strength, boundaries and shortcoings, too much energy will be wasted in 'Trying to be' - when a few more years of soul searching would have provided a quick, decisive 'No, I can't be that. Look elsewhere.' Although we as humans are only become human through other humans - through our relationships and daily acting outs of self - who is to say that one individual should have a greater hand in this becoming - mostly if we act for them as opposed to as them (assuming that the latter would find the partner be a source of inspiration, a marker pegging a desirable way of being).

What so many of us do is value the other, then the relationship, at our own expense. Being unable to accept 'failure' we try to succeed at the unachievable. It's Sandra Oh (Christina) choking in her wedding dress, having been dropped from unsightly heights: she was free. In the interest of being with him, I'll do anything: make myself less threatening, non-confrontational. Less things matter since he walked in, all the things I held on to, the periphery of my being, they matter less - if they ever really did, although they were the small thigsn that amde me me. He penetrated my shell, therefore I can shed it - not realising that bit by bit he'll get to my core. All the compromises are but mere acts, mere moments for a greater purpose, until we realise that we have been spending all our energy in attempts to soothe. Acting pre-emptively, re-balancing externally the internal will to be ourselves (What if he doesn't realy like who I am under this - he came in thinking I was all this, i can't break his mold of me by being ME, can I?). Playing a guilty game of one, between mind and actions. Until you realise you are uncertain, that nothing is instinctive and that everything has to be thought out. That you are convincing yourself and acting as though this was a promotionless job.

A relationship is a meeting of two people who, ideally, are good alone and potentially better together, as two individuals in a partnership. A relationship is NOT mutual validation and uplifting, and it is certainly not one's ability to vaidate and uplift the other, unilaterally. It should not find one acting for the other to their own detriment, because what they give up is that much less of themselves the partner will get to enjoy while they are slowly chewing away at the other, sooner or later leaving none. And moving on to the next.

background info

2007-04-30T10:42:00.000+09:00

Just food for the upcoming convo to be had between myself and the 3 people who still check this thing [sadly, all women - I'd love to have an XY's take on this one]:

What the FUCK

... show no signs of vulnerability

2007-04-28T02:34:00.000+09:00

I try to keep latin dancing in its rightful place, like most other dances I love. Hip hop is another. Keep them in the clubs, the noisy unlit places where anything goes and I frankly don't care about the amount of booty booty booty booty rocking everywhere - and whether or not mine is part of the role call.

Latin dancing - metaphor for a world I'd rather deny being a part of, where men lead while women are doing most of the actual work.

Men in the driver's seat... women, then, being what? Too much movement is involved for us to be the passenger, being carried. We are then vehicles, the ones being driven.

vehicle
Pronunciation: 'vE-&-k&l also 'vE-"hi-k&l
Function: noun
Etymology: French véhicule, from Latin vehiculum
carriage, conveyance, from vehere to carry -- more at WAY
1 a : an inert medium (as a syrup) in which a medicinally active agent is administered b : any of various media acting usually as solvents, carriers, or binders for active ingredients or pigments
2 : an agent of transmission : CARRIER
3 : a medium through which something is expressed, achieved, or displayed ; especially : a work created especially to display the talents of a particular performer
4 : a means of carrying or transporting something : as a : MOTOR VEHICLE b : a piece of mechanized equipment

Vehicle.

An inert medium. Through which. A work created. A means of carrying. Transporting. Something.

medium
Pronunciation: 'mE-dE-&m
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural mediums or me·dia /-dE-&/
Etymology: Latin, from neuter of medius middle -- more at MID
1 a : something in a middle position b : a middle condition or degree : MEAN
2 a : means of effecting or conveying something: as a (1) : a substance regarded as the means of transmission of a force or effect (2) : a surrounding or enveloping substance (3) : the tenuous material (as gas and dust) in space that exists outside large agglomerations of matter (as stars) b : plural usually media (1) : a channel or system of communication, information, or entertainment -- compare MASS MEDIUM (2) : a publication or broadcast that carries advertising (3) : a mode of artistic expression or communication (4) : something (as a magnetic disk) on which information may be stored c : GO-BETWEEN, INTERMEDIARY d : plural mediums : an individual held to be a channel of communication between the earthly world and a world of spirits e : material or technical means of artistic expression
3 a : a condition or environment in which something may function or flourish
b : plural media (1) : a nutrient system for the artificial cultivation of cells or organisms and especially bacteria (2) : a fluid or solid in which organic structures are placed (as for preservation or mounting)c : a liquid with which pigment is mixed by a painter.

Something in a middle position between what and what, who and whom? The self back to its creator... or his audience? In dance, one hopes the end result is an edified couple, in a sense. Building upon themselves, holding each other up for the audience [performers' livelihoods, after all, not depending on their own fulfilment]. And yet, I often feel like little more than punctuation at the end of the sentence written by his hand - an element of the set-up meant to revolve around him, like a pair of quality shoes or his pressed, crisp shirt. In latin dance, everything revolves around him - he has the power to hold us both up, he guides the steps which will make us both look good and stay ahead. My work is to follow and spice it up. Punctuate. Work my ass off in doing so, as I will compensate for his lacks in rythm or technique. All signs may have pointed towards a dip, when in fact he meant a spin. He stands upright as he watches me freefall - it will have been my fault, unless I manage to save the moment. And never mind the amoutn of times I must maintain character as he steps on my toes! But everyone knows and understands that in the end, the credit will go to him. Follow and punctuate, compensate and keep him afloat. Everyone will notice, no one will tell. My, what a dancer, and how lucky he is to have such a beautiful partner, too! How he knows to make her shine!

The first thing a dancer learns to do if s/he is to survive is how to project. Select a point in space as your anchor to avoid losing balance or worse yet, becoming dizzy. In performing a turn, for instance, one is to focus on a static point in space, and not take their eyes off it. Men, I suppose, apply this rule differently.

With few having an eye trained to see through the mystery of the footwork to the technique, no one knows what truly goes into a couple's dance. Seeing that while he leads in technique, he also leads in terms of the energy he exhudes, which taints the mood and pace of our dance. I am the vehicle and by my presence he allows a new expression of self to develop - one of the soul he seldom exposes through himself but freely pours on me. Knowing that I could express it in movement better than he, still incapable of managing much of it all on his own. As women we are limber, adaptable, graceful, malleable. They need our grace to remind themselves to find their own. I must accept this energy, adopt it as my own for the time of our dance, lest we seem as awkward as we truly are. For the sake of visual synergy, for the sake of the audience and his saving face - the show must go on. How he feels the dance, what he wishes to draw from the rythm he hears and how he applies his interpretation when it is translated into movement - may not be what it inspires in me. Bachata to some is a melancholy dance, to others it is a dnce of hope. Salsa a dance of joy, of liberation or struggle. Or it can be all these at once, progressing as the music goes. Hopefully, a seasoned couple will have found a middle and know to read each other's flow. But, you know - machismo. A woman can only hope. Or tiptoe and slide through it at breakneck speed, knowing that eventually he will tire and the song will end. Or perhaps, in a moment of deluded clarity, she will assert herself and he will promptly lose interest.

I write this with the knowledge that this chapter of my life is in a state of constant culmination - as I am woman, it will never end. Every week will have its Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. There is an imaginary elastic tied by an unknow hand around my waist and the further I walk away, the greater the snap-back tension becomes.

But as I step away from the dance floor today, the song having ended, I sit to rest my blistered feet. Soon they will be calloused and I, capable of withstanding more - though the balance of things will make me feel less. I'll sit the next few dances out, knowing better than to accept the next partner's offer. Wait for one who is aware of the audience, yes, but dances for us and with me. Offers to dance, rather than - yes - projecting how he would like it to be unto me and leaving me to untangle his confused steps and organise them into a manageable sequence. Who will lead less, and, perhaps, even spare the dance and simply care for my feet. Knowing that before I can dance again, I need to be able to feel the ground under them, and sense the beat through the earth carrying us.

funnel

2007-04-26T05:30:00.001+09:00

Understatement 1: break ups suck.

I’ve lived through a grand total of two significant ones in my life, and one involved an escape that greatly aided the healing process [although a line up of aunties swore that as he was white with blue eyes, Dude would HAVE to find his way back into my life. Blame the fact that Jesus, the first white man with blue eyes, stuck by us through all our sins for that lapse of logic].

A former acquaintance, who oddly enough exited my life due to her compulsive state of monogamy [which, in the case of women, leads to the inability to be a friend] once said [and trust me she would know]

It takes about a third the length of your relationship to get over a guy.

If I do the math, that means that 18 (rounded up) / 3 = 6.

You can' trust a person who turns rebounds into long-term relationships, so I defintiely canNOT trust that calculation.

It may be the advent of summer and the return of sunrays, but I have been conserving energy. I forgot I produced this much - perhaps because what I had previously been exuding had been funneled directly into a black hole, never to be seen again.

I am still weary at the idea of putting ideas out there, defending them now more than ever, having any sign of difference or individuality bashed into thr ground, to be stepped on, pointed and laughed at for the past... what was it? right. 18 months.

So I won't talk about having my pictures published on a travel website, or the fact that I feel loved by what you so elegantly call a nigger - without any racial undertones, your upbringing made you allowed to call black men that right?

I won't tell you that I dance and think up beautiful thoughts again, although I have trouble focussing them without hearing your critical voice, or your contemptuous eyes.

But that will pass.

I am feeling again, and for the first time in a very long time what I am feelign when I let myself do so is not pain. I became numb with you, because the alternative hurt too much.

It wasn't enough to make me yours, you had to kill what you owned too.

people like myself ... your people, your kind.. who are they? you spoke of them with such disdain, and yet you once liked what I embodied... projecting your hate of yourself upon me because of your inability to be like me - by extension what you wanted to be.

You made fun of my creativity, my joy, my ability to imagine and invent. My soul. My essence. But you have none, either, and left us both standing empty.

I am contacted by people who knew me but now liek you I cannot respect who they speak of or take her seriously so who am I - until you can tell me you had an ounce of respect for this girl you said you loved i cannot be her

I do not believe what I just wrote. Your opinion means so little though you speak with such authority. You speak from the throat, not from the soul or any place of truth. So i'll truck on, happily without you.

Thank you for teaching me by example what hate, disrespect of self, confusion and lies really are. I will never forget your lesson.

reaction v. solution

2007-04-20T06:03:00.002+09:00

20. Ability to deal with uncertainty and an unpredictable work environment. Please describe previous experience:

I have worked in a variety of high-stress and uncertain environments. With Equipe Spectra, for example, I was called on to manage a team in difficult work conditions whilst managing a kiosk in a high traffic, crowded setting. While working in Japan, the language barrier often made the work environment unpredictable.

These experiences, as well as others, have taught me to remain patient, calm and rational when faced with uncertainty. Although emotional reactions are a normal bi-product of stressful or uncertain situations, I have learnt to treat these separately. I am always aware of the fine line between a reaction and a solution, and when faced with uncertainty always opt for the latter. When faced with uncertainty, I remain alert, and most of all flexible, as I realize I am often the one who will need to adapt to the situation, and not the opposite.

A young girl, tiny tiny young girl was sitting in front of me. Her frame already diminutive, was made even smaller by the fact that the Ottawa skyline (generally unimpressive, made monumental by the fact that we were on the 27th floor of a glass-walled building)

I kindly propose she change her project to one involving research.

A person cannot be your project, but only experience will teach her that, not a 15-minute face-to-face

wholistic || servitude

2007-04-13T00:59:00.001+09:00

HOLISM

Pronunciation: 'hO-"li-z&m
Function: noun
Etymology: hol- + -ism
1 : a theory that the universe and especially living nature is correctly seen in terms of interacting wholes (as of living organisms) that are more than the mere sum of elementary particles

SERVITUDE

Pronunciation: 's&amp;amp;r-v&-"tüd, -"tyüd
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French servitute, from Latin servitudo slavery, from servus slave
1 : a condition in which one lacks liberty especially to determine one's course of action or way of life
2 : a right by which something (as a piece of land) owned by one person is subject to a specified use or enjoyment by another

For JD, with all my creepiness

2007-04-06T04:34:00.000+09:00

He walks in like a flashback: hands deep in high pockets, holding his arms straight so his shoulders are on alert - constant climax of an apathetic shrug, or perhaps an innate defense pose when paired as it is now with an inverted neck and downward eyes. As though bracing himself for the worst. It matters little which of the two it is today, he stopped believing in either a long time ago. His ability to protect himself, and his ability to not care. It's all just part of a particularly apatetic gait.

For a second I smile - my beautiful brown turtle, thick shelled and secretive, slow and languorous. Half the fun is in coaxing him to poke out of himself, tickle his neck a little and watch him enjoy. I know him now.

Nonchalant, not caring much that my scrutinizing gaze would be fixated on any piece of exposed flesh, he takes off his pants. Matter-of-factly, as though alone in the room rather than inches apart - two strides or four cat-crawls away, I estimated before reminding myself that in the mood he was in, I would be better off avoiding the insult that would greet my arrival. Stood a bit straighter, looking forward and right through me, fixing the band of his navy boxers, pulling off his beater. It's at this point that I caught my breath, felt a familiar flush in my cheeks and shifted in my seat.

Pacing myself, I breathe slowly in through the nose. Even slower out through pursed lips.

Trying to calm some undetectable anxiety, he breathes slowly in through parted lips. Even slower out through his imperial nose.

Runs his fingers through his shaved hair, and still looking through me he reaches over in a rehearsed, ceremonial manner, towards a lycra contraption I've learnt to recognise. He only wears it on occasions when he cares, or reckons others will notice his unwanted curves. The curves I would kill to reach out to now, but won't.

Pulls it on, adjusts. Someday, I hope, he'll learn to see them with my eyes. Puts on a loose-fitting t-shirt, looser pants. No curves tonight, no flaws until I get home and stare at myself again.

He takes a step back.

Opens his mouth to speak, and does so beautifully. I always knew he had a way with words, though he seldom used them for any other reason than to hear the sound of his own voice. Today though, he's managed to do what I always knew he could: express himself. And the words flowed like venimous darts, cupid's misguided arrows straight to my heart.

At a loss for words, I have to describe just how I felt in laymens terms.

Numb. Frozen. Speechless, astounded. Very, deeply confused at the patterns life draws when you let it. As though the only constant there was was my own existence, and someone decided the previous chapter wasn't quite closed.

He spoke in passionate hisses, his pitch heightened by emotion and pain, about his father and how they share the same distant stare. How for years he stood behind a counter, something about reaching his hands out to children spending all they could on penny candy, mothers and fathers racing home with sliced white bread and milk... and sometimes using those same hands to shield himself from the barrel of a gun. How looking in his father's eyes he saw himself. How his mother would say Sometimes you need to die a little in order to survive. How there were always so many suitcases in their house.

Numb. Frozen. Speechless, astounded, finally, by honesty I had waited on while cradelling his lies in my arms and comforting his illusions with my ability to generalise, normalise, validate and support.

He was standing there, testyfying, blood, guts, veins exposed. Growing, right there in front of me, his neck extended either to project his voice all the way to theback of the room or perhaps to finally hold his head proudly up.

Later on my friend lets go of my shoulders for a while, between two tracks. Pulls me away, looks me in the eye, and says I know what you're looking at, she's right there, go talk to her.

I answer She?

She answers Yeah - she's right there, and you know you want to. I'm sure she won't mind, just don't get all fan-like on her.

I answer Yeah - NO. So not happening. It's got nothing to do with stardom.

And we keep dancing.

little orange book of que seras

2007-04-03T14:10:00.000+09:00

Finally, I mustered up the courage to do it.

You have to figure there's something extremely wrong when a person cannot accept to face her own honest thoughts.

As a general rule, I care for my notebooks with the attention and love others would reserve their toddlers. Notwithstanding the fact that they generally contain my credit card, passport, travellers cheques, and (in their earlier incarnations, and you really need to wonder when and why I thought that was a good idea) my SIN number, they also contain enough of my thoughts to allow the most villainous of thieves to perform an identity theft of a much graver kind. Steal my money, but for the love of humanity don't steal my mind. I'm not, as this blog will attest, a greedy person when it comes to sharing those thoughts I relinquish ownership of. If you think the lines gracing these pages are intimate, wait til you get your hands on the handwritten goods.

During the YOUCAN conference, I misplaced the orange notebook that has been following me for the past 2 years. Only noticed a few days later, after a roadtrip and many follow ups: you'd think I would have reached for it earlier.

If the thoughts I bear are my children, the past year has turned me into an estranged mother. Increasingly indifferent, actively negligent to thoughts past, and abortive to those taking form in the womb of the present.

And with reason. The last times I wrote honestly are dated April 4th - Yoyogi Temple, April 7th - Laura's place, and April 15th, Furubira. The words, as the lines progress, are tainted first with anger, then confusion and a wishful resignation. Questionable logic, then increasing conviction in a series of tenuously linked elements. Too much faith and too little certainty - but such is life when lived with others' interests placed before your own, I have since learned.

As I flipped through these pages, I smiled and finally told myself what I had tried to muster the self-love and humour to admit since I got back.

Bitch I told me so, now look what I've gone and done to me.

I'm happy. To read with the clarity of someone who can look back on herself with pride and say at least I tried, and now I know, and never again. Will I allow someone's assumed knowledge of myself trump my own, find sollace in another when alone, turn myself into a dependent. Forget myself at the expense of another, love more than I am loved - respect more than I am respected - treat one better than I am treated. Believe someone's knowledge of my worth, my place, myself and take it as truth. Reverse proportionality can find a new home. Act out of compassion, and love unconditionally.

Unconditionally.

Without limit or boundaries of space, soul, heart, energy even when I have none for myself.

Never.

I recall a phone conversation with my mother, a conversation I had forgotten the moment I clicked end call from the end of my Skype line.

All she could answer to my doubts, my fear, my loathing and my confusion at my feelings of love and compassion and 'us' and 'forever' found together in a sentence (she never thought she would hear that from me - from my younger sister perhaps but not me). All she could say was "Ben ouais, nous autres aussi y nous a tombé dans l'oeil, c't'un ben bon gars. Mais attention d'pas t'faire manipuler dans s't'histoire là, là. Tu y dois rien, RIEN tu m'entends-tu, pis c'est pas d'ta faute si là y s'est mis dans tête que tu vas tout résoudre. Mais y nous a tombé dans l'oeil aussi, pis c'est dur de tourner l'dos à ça. Fais c'que t'as à faire, mais oublie toi pas dans c't'affaire là, t'es pas là pour remplacer personne si tu vois c'que j'veux dire. Pis si JAMAIS y's'met à t'prendre pour acquis..." Oh, mother I wish I were as insensitive as you let on.

Had I only listened to what is real - intuition, the mind, the gut - from the get go. If only I hadn't asked him to confirm what I already knew... I would have learnt nothing and would walk with the arrogance of someone full of their own confidence. Now at least, through experience I know.

That the only person who can be trusted to look out for no.1 is me, and no otehr replacement will do.

And from now, let me remember this much:

I don't travel in fear anyhow; I never have. When I am afraid, I don't travel at all; I stay put. Years ago, when I was in my early 30's and living underground in the States, moving from safe house to safe house, I was taught by comrades more experienced at flight than I that if a person, especially a woman, travels in fear, she is never safe. So if you're afraid, don't move. Freeze. Disappear into the scenery. You'll only attract attention to yourself by running.

- who else: Russell Banks, The Darling

curtain call on Act 2

2007-03-29T13:57:00.000+09:00

... my, it's been a while since January 2005, so allow me to clear my throat and poitn out that:

Whatever may come, I hope this can keep you afloat:

When nothing else seems to be left, you still own your thoughts so please don't mute them. They are your wealth and your strength and the one thing that can situate you. You are allowed to have them, allowed to think what you feel because it's all true.

They may hurt or they may soothe but either way - you need to feel both the pain and the comfort to realise that you can live with both. To know where you stand, how you can move, and where you need to go.

I know it all sounds so benign when it's vocalised - how can a sequence of words convey the stirring and shifting within? But honey it doesn't need to convey anything to anyone, it just needs to become real to you, from the outside looking in [finally, not the other way around].

I know I'm making something complicated sound so simple, and I know it isn't. I don't mean to minimise it, I really don't.

But dear, let your thoughts wash over you, let yourself react to them. Let that little bottle empty itself into - and be rocked by - the tide, it's the only way it can get safely to shore.

he said / she sais

2007-03-27T15:04:00.000+09:00

Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face
You told me how proud you were but I walked away
If only I knew what I know today

After all that you put me through,
You think I'd despise you,
But in the end I wanna thank you,
'Cause you've made me that much stronger

I would hold you in my arms
I would take the pain away
Thank you for all you've done
Forgive all your mistakes
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To hear your voice again
Sometimes I want to call you but I know you won't be there

Well I thought I knew you, thinkin' that you were true
Guess I, I couldn't trust called your bluff time is up
Cause I've had enough
You were there by my side, always down for the ride
But your joy ride just came down in flames cause your greed sold me out in shame

After all of the stealing and cheating you probably think that I hold resentment for you
But uh uh, oh no, you're wrong
Cause if it wasnt for all that you tried to do, I wouldn't know
Just how capable I am to pull through
So I wanna say thank you
Cause

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself by hurting you
Some days I feel broke inside but I won't admit
Sometimes I just want to hide 'cause it's you I miss
You know it's so hard to say goodbye when it comes to this

Makes me that much stonger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So htanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made mys kin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for makin me a fighter

Would you tell me I was wrong?
Would you help me understand?
Are you looking down upon me?
Are you proud of who I am?
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To have just one more chance
To look into your eyes and see you looking back

Never saw it coming, all of your backstgabbing
Just so you could cash in on a good thing before I'd realize your game
I heard you're goin round play, the victim now
But dont even begin feeling I'm the one to blame
Cause you dug your own grave
After all of the fights and the lies cause you're wanting to haunt me
But that wont work anymore, no more,
It's over
Cause if it wasn't for all of your torture
I wouldn't know how to be this way now and never back down
So I wanna say thank you
Cause

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself
If I had just one more day, I would tell you how much that
I've missed you since you've been away

Oh, it's dangerous
It's so out of line to try to turn back time

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself

By hurting you

Makes me that much stonger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for makin me a fighter

How could this man I thought I knew
Turn out to be unjust so cruel
Could only see the good in you
Pretend not to know the truth
You tried to hide your lies, disguise yourself
Through living in denial
But in the end you'll see
YOU-WONT-STOP-ME

I am a fighter and I
I aint gonna stop
There is no turning back
I've had enough

[Chorus]

You thought i would forget
But I remembered
Cause i remembered
I remembered
You thought i would forget
I remembered
Cause i remembered
I remembered

the world conspires

2007-02-25T10:39:00.000+09:00

In the end, I am lucky. The balance of things creates itself naturally, and it is on me to not swim deeper into the negative, as there are hands

so many, I see now,

reaching into the surf to pull me up.

And remind me that I've always known how to swim. And that there was once a shore, and that it is still there.

The world conspires in odd ways, forcing me to resurface rather than let myself sink. Odd reappearances in the present reminding me of a past where I knew where I was where I wanted to go and how I was goign to get there. People reminding me what I felt like when I was real(er) and mine mine mine not mine mine mine to someone else.

And I remember landing in other places expecting the unexpected and knowing I could affect change and succeeding - realise I can help others do so as well, I am not so lost, I am not so destroyed and damaged. I remember tea bitter for life, sweet for love and cold for death and the conversations it fueled, conversations of souls and fiery eyes and racing hearts at the idea of being united by ideas and passion.

And I remember waking and getting into action, walking through streets with eyes wide open and laughter carrying me, leaning back only to laugh harder and pay no heed to the passersby - who couldn't be expected to get it, they do not want to understand happiness.

And Nina Simone sings, coating my insides like espressos on a cool Paris morning -

I'm feeling good.

soon.

uh oh

2007-02-23T12:13:00.000+09:00

The first time I read The Alchemist I was 14. Once having trained my mind to reverse characters' genders, I fully agreed with the plot and its lessons [yeah, I hopped unto the feminist bandwagon fairly early].

The second time I read the book was last week, and my heart sank at what I came to realise.

My god, I need to get back on track - at least we put our finger on it sooner rather than later.

a bit of loving...

2007-02-21T09:14:00.000+09:00

...was found in the most unlikely of places. In case you were needing some too, or have some and could use a little more...

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I"m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
it's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
it's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
The palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

-Maya Angelou

the most horrible truth of all

2007-02-19T12:20:00.000+09:00

... is the one you convinced yourself of

from the unpublished file - elements

2007-02-13T06:06:00.000+09:00

We're bound to shed throughout our lives. We grow, we change, we evolve, morph, adapt. But what happens if elements of our essence are trumped by these necessities? How to maneouvre that - well - straight and narrow?

I think my Self can only keep to a certain size to be manageable - should I take any more expansion, I fear I'll just be a jumble of contradictions that will eventually drive me nuts. So I don't add, I replace. Imagine a puzzle with a variety of pieces capable of fitting into one space, and always creating a decent-looking picture regardless of colour and content.

But then, you find one huge piece. It takes up the same amount of space as four or five other ones, but you think you can do without those. You put that big piece there, and it makes the puzzle radiate. And you forget about the four or five other pieces because your puzzle is complete and worthy of contemplation.

Until Spivak comes to town and brings the women with her, you join the Centre, eat cake with your fingers, remember Blockbuster, remember your bookcase, discover the queer bookstore and become determined to cover your apartment's bare walls with a 24"x96" mural.

Happy New Year, I'm growing again.

Don't worry about that big piece, I just returned it to the Self it came from.

from the unpiblished file - I am worried

2007-02-06T04:57:00.000+09:00

I used to laugh at my dad, who read Tom Clancy novels. Or one of those guys. I did a quick word count : no more than 6 words per phrase. Pathetic. And yet, he attracted a larger audience than any great writer ever will.

The world thrives on mediocrity and frowns upon the thinking mind. Prefers the memo editor to the report writer, the one who knows to repeat rather than respond. It’s not that the halls are echoey, it’s that no one has said anything new in years. I am starting to believe whoever said that humans only use 10% of their brain capacity; and would add that 9% out of that 10 is used in the most trying of cases, for sheer survival. Most of us never even get to that point.

I don't even have the motivation to get upset anymore. Generally, I would be filling canvasses and pages with my revolutionnary thoughts, but I've reached That Point - still awake enough to realise I'm falling into lethargic apathy, but just comfortable enough to not do anything about it. Is this what has allowed Ottawa to remain unchanged for as long as collective memory cares to remember, or is there opium in the water? Bore the masses with their job description, but keep them content via their benefits and the promise of 4 weeks of freedom - paid at that.

I hated the weekends in Japan I felt slipped away without me making the most of them. Ask me how I feel about my life since I've been back.

quote of the day

2007-01-20T08:01:00.001+09:00

... this is probably the closest I will ever come to being able to describe the sense I get from observing people in Ottawa... Courtesy of Russell Banks, from "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story" in Success Stories.

The bar, a cocktail lounge at street level, with a restaurant upstairs, is decorated with hanging plants and unfinished wood paneling, butcher block tables and captain's chairs, with a half-dozen darkened, thickly upholstered booths along one wall. Three or four men between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five are drinking at the bar and, like the man who has just entered, wear three-piece suits and loosened neckties. They are probably lawyers, young, unmarried lawyers gossiping with their brethren over martinis so as to postpone arriving home alone at their white-washed townhouse apartments, where they will fix their evening meals in radar ranges and afterwards, while their TVs chuckle quietly in front of them, si ton their couches and do a little extra work for tomorrow. They are, for the most part, honorable, educated, hard-working, shallow and moderately unhappy young men.

Apologies in advance for the bruised egos.

finish my story, I don't have the strength to anymore

2007-01-17T04:26:00.000+09:00

Someday, I...

Someday, we...

...

.

remember him?

2007-01-06T23:58:00.000+09:00

Well, here he is again.

He's apparently been invited as guest lecturer at some university in Vermont. Check out his website if you like, a video of the lecture is posted up on it.

Of particular note: bubbles, bubbles, bubbles to be popped.

Word.

[check] this [out]

2007-01-02T09:56:00.000+09:00

The Invitation
by
Oriah Mountain Dreamer
(A Native American Elder)

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can beat the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. I want to know if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from ITS presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout out to the silver of the full moon, "YES!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know whether you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep with your empty moments.

little mosque on the prairie

2006-12-24T13:51:00.000+09:00

My mother isn't ignorant. She just has trouble with nuance - or perhaps she's an average Canadian.

I feel as though most Canadian parents are confronted with an interesting conundrum, trapped between the news and the learned stereotypes and assumptions they grew up with, and the folks their kids call up, hang out with, or invite to the dinner table. This has brought up a funny little trait in my mother, namely a slightly irritating yet equally adorable habit of being completely aloof when it comes to issues surrounding political and cultural 'others' [aloof because they are equal by virtue of being at her dinner table, and thus shared moments mean a shared reality], while continuously othering them herself [to educate her about elsewhere, or to use as markers of comparison with what she had previously known as the identity before her now]. Realising this, she is now compensating and attemptingto seek out all things ethnic and multicultural in order to keep up to speed with where the minorities are at - and where we are with regards to them. She's been watching Pure Laine obsessively.

Enter Little Mosque on the Prairie. A quick google search will reveal that everyone - from bloggers to journalists to the creator/writer Zarqa Nawaz - seem to recognize that the series has a slight chance of being politically controversial. As the New York Times put it, "Little Mosque on the Prairie’ ventures into new and perhaps treacherous terrain: trying to explore the funny side of being a Muslim and adapting to life in post 9/11 North America. Its creators admit to uneasiness as to whether Canadians and Americans can laugh about the daily travails of those who many consider a looming menace." According to the CBC, who will begin airing the 8-episode series on January 9th, "The program will take “a humorous and light-hearted comedic look at a Muslim community trying to interact with its small town Canadian neighbours.” “[It] is a funny, warts-and-all exploration of relationships, family, love, the generation gap and balancing Muslim beliefs and traditions in a prairie setting in Saskatchewan.”"

This is where nuance kicks in.

According to my mother "it's about time Muslims start laughing at themselves - look at the image they are projecting to the world! They're not helping themselves... I mean, French Canadians laugh at themselves all the time. And remember, that movie, My Big Fat Greek Wedding? We all laughed at that, even Mary (our Greek neighbor) was rolling on the floor with laughter although she did tell us to not believe everything we saw in there."

Writer's rebutal: "Man, I hope someone Muslim wrote this. And mom, French Canadians laugh at themselves in Quebec. They don't go laughing at themselves in Vancouver and Toronto. And I mean... now, of all times? [Although one might ask, if not now, then when?]"

Mom ponders for a while, looks down, looks up: "Yeah, I guess it is easier to laugh at yourself when you're at home (quand t'es chez vous), and another to do it when you're not the majority."

Touche mom, I'm happy you said it and not me. The nuance here being we're not all equal in our Canadianness, the elbow room and comfort zones vary.

I can't wait to see how this one will be received by the Canadian public, and whether it breaks our annoyingly PC front for just as long as it takes to start talking about this ['this' being our ability to gauge our ignorance and our comfort levels through laughter and cringes]. Conversely, just whose prejudicial ideas will a satire manage to reinforce, and will the already stubbornly ignorant rely on yet more stereotypes to validate their preconceived notions? That is to say, are we mature enough to see satire for what it is, seeing the absurdity of it as opposed to weaving a web out of the fine thread of reality that may lie in some images? Is Canada ready for it's Bamboozled, or it's Muslim incarnation of Spike Lee for that matter?

I laughed my pants off when I went to see Miss Oriented, and wished all my friends, boyfriends and acquaintances had gotten to see it too. Yet the atmosphere of a theater, mostly one where the cast and crew are available after the show to chat, discuss and question are quite another thing than one where you will just zap to the next channel from the comfort of your couch, having not seen the reaction of your neighbor and not being allowed the opportunity of opening diaglogue with them about it afterwards.

I can't believe it - I just blatanly suggested that, despite the vibrant diversity of Canada - we could, would, and apparently do, still rely on the ignition effect a television program can provide to open dialogue. True, we do prefer to focus on what makes us similar, and what brings us together, to avoid confrontation and a reiteration of the visibly obvious... but to whose detriment? Despite the aforementioned diversity, how much do we know about each other, really? Will laughing at exagerations of each others stereotypes enlighten us as to what we still don't know? Going back to Miss Oriented, nannies and nurses - laugh at them sure, but do you realise they may be supporting an entire family back home? Sour laughter to be sure...

I can't wait to tune in on January 9th for a few laughs and to see just how well the balance between entertainment and awareness was struck.

as overheard in the office, part I

2006-12-18T00:16:00.000+09:00

[aka first installment of 'what I have to deal with, aka meet the office bitches']

Your innocent protagonist, upon going through a doorway first [rather than yielding the way to someone higher up in the foodchaing] lets out a hearfelt 'Excuse me!' [residual Japanese over-politeness]

She is received with an emotionless, under-the-breath:

'I'll think about it'

next installment: the mail merge fiasco, or why they should inject valium into the water cooler

update

2006-12-15T10:07:00.000+09:00

It's a little troublesome how silent I have been of late. For those two people still checking this page (are there even that many?) let it be known that I am doing ok.

I expected culture shock upon my arrival in Japan, and somehow floated above it, totally aloof to its presence. Equally full of myself upon my return to 'known territory', I expected to have reverse culture shock be done and over with in a matter of hours - as we all know, I kinda had realer shit to deal with.

Well, if people have bothered to give it a fancy three-word name and actually put pen to paper and write books on the topic, you'd best believe it exist ...

Reverse culture shock bites, and it bites harder when you're in denial.

Someday, I'll laugh at the absurdity of some of the tantrums I threw in the middle of downtown Ottawa, sunglasses pushed high up on m noes so as to not have passers by see the tears of frustration sweeling in my eyes, as I searched in vain for an affordable apartment, whilst un-employed and snubbed by EI (oh, the idealism of a BA grad - why were we ever led to believe the rag was worth more than an Administrative Coordinator job? - ps, for you old skoolers, that's what they call secretaries these days), all the while letting it be known that I was sorely discontented with the dude for not snapping his fingers and making an apartment with my name on it appear before me.

Very un-Steph like, I know - but such is the nature of the beast.

Trust me, I've since calmed down. Found an apartment [which for the record is overheated. I mean, I sleep with my windows open and it's December. The global warming version of it mind you, but December nonetheless. I'm certain the people out in Japan will appreciate the irony]. Found a job [see rant above - I treat it as a very well-paid internship, cause lord knows I'm bailing once the contract is up. The idea of becoming my co-workers sickens me]. Am in the process of finding a niche.

Am reconciling with the fact that I now live in the city where fun comes to retire. I mean, when the 'cool' part of town boasts more knitting & crafts stores per capita than bars and it's neighborhood paper has mostly bakesales, fabric bazaars and 'lost cat' in the events section, you know this girl hears the alarm bells ringing.

Somehow word's gone around about this city too, cause damit NO ONE wants to come visit me! I think I had more of a response when I said 'Come see me in Rice-Patty-Known-for-its-Purple-Butterflies, Rural Japan' than, 'hey. Nation's Capital. Come Visit'

That being said, Montreal and Toronto are conveniently nearby. There's hope yet.

I'm starting to find a niche. Will be volunteering here, here, and have been working on planning their conference alongside a fabulous, gorgeous, sexy and youhful team. With the Project Management Certificate, it kinda looks like I'm coming back to pre-Japan me, which I definitely like.

Although the Steph that had a taste of Northern Japan misses hills, fresh air, and physical activity, I figure I'll manage to incorporate that somehow. Bare in mind, I was quite content with just curling up with a book at right about this time last year. And sleeping in even when the opportunity to get my ass outside arose. So hey, maybe I should just stop hating on Ottawa and focusing on the real issue here, right?

Driving back from Guelph through Toronto last weekend, I felt a little newer. The highrise apartments made me smile - embodiments of the silos of multiculturalism - the four new books in my bag made me giddy. I had spent a stimulating weekend with stimulating people, cooking talking, discussing and being asked where I was going and where I was at. Something that hadn't hapened in a long time, I don't know why. It felt good to be forced to recentre, a little like being put back on point[s].

I was walking the talk I had concluded with myself a few weeks back during a rather needed and fruitful solo walk around Dow's Lake, during which I had a very needed shift in mindset. You see, I am still avoiding looking outside the bus window on my way to work, refuse to enter more than the necessary [which is made much easier by the fact that everything in this city closes at 6pm] and am, essentially, in denial: it's like I'm rejecting a newborn & all its potential, in a sense, not too sure how to treat it or relate to it.

During this walk, I came to the following conclusion: Montreal used to be my hub. A place I could both leave and come back to without a second thought, and most importantly a place I could truly live in and relate to while I was there. Granted, Ottawa has a very different mood, one which may just not suit my character. Nonetheless, I can still give it half a chance, and grant it the honor of being my hub for now.

We'll see where I'm at in two years, but for now that simple shift in mindset is in itself a pretty big leap, and one small step towards conquering this reverse culture shock thing.

fiou. there's hope yet.

when you lose something...

2006-12-08T11:41:00.000+09:00

It's generally in the last place you look.

Conversely, it can also be in the last place you left it.

I'll be in Guelph this weekend, visiting my Zhaleh.

on the topic of self...

2006-11-28T08:08:00.000+09:00

speaking of positive vibes...

2006-11-26T08:32:00.000+09:00

So, you know I'd opunce on something like this the minute I saw it. Used for good, and in the right way, and achieved by legal means, it could just be the best thing out there, and more appealing than... well...

What can be more appealing than this?

Gives me one more reason to stay home instead of going X-mas rush-shopping!

post-post edit: if you're going to check the blog out, focus on the comments - they definitely bring more substance to the idea than the main posts do. highlights include: "You expect guys to be thinking about anythign at the moment of orgasm???" and "great idea, but I don't ahve a woman. all interested can contact...". And, of course, the oversized contingent who acutally takes this seriously. Hilarious.

Sunday morning study break

2006-11-19T10:17:00.000+09:00

Warszawa is riddled, in early August 2004, with images of destruction. They are hammered to facades, incorporated into installations, the foreground for the "before" part of the "after" we are walking into.

31/07

I'm on a street in Old Warszawa, but somehow it feels like it could be any street. Piwna, near the Old Town Square, which at a time 60 years ago was in ruins - a battleground between Germans & Polish insurgents during the Uprising. A few days ago I knew nothing about it, walking through with the crowds minding their schedules and going about their daily routes. And now here I am, holding P's grandmother's hand as she looks at me in a mix of Polish, English and French, bestowing in gestures and sustained glances creating links between her past, our location, and my heart - so many broken links somehow transcending time, space and language to infuse life back into the dead.

The fire, that little dancing, flickering flame so few people have even at my age, dancing in his and her eyes - P's grandfather was with us as well, his uniform pressed and starched and somehow still fitting, attracting reverence and recognition if only for that day - cast a lively light through his face and seemed to have the force of a million modern power plants. Somehow, he was 27 again. Old age seems to bring one lesson: as time and events pass you realise that quality beats quantity, and the only other option to living in slow intensity is not living at all.

So he told it as he now lives, slowly, meticulously, with as much passion as a mother would tell her daughter, over and over, how the beautiful princess' kiss turned the ugly toad into prince charming, warts, red lips, flowing hair inside garden walls and all.

So he told it with the pride he would have felt that day, the pride he would have felt had he not been so scared, standing as proudly as he would have were he not squatting behind piles of debris, slouching under the weight of his smuggled machine gun, knowing the eye of a tank was flirting with the top of his head. He was telling his grandson, barely as old as he had been then, because it's important to know. And feel. And realise that the people in the news are not stunt doubles, and that the blood isn't fake. It's important to know because knowledge brings power, and power brings change. So that things like these don't happen again.

There are days, it seems, where places which seem cleansed and renewed are given depth. Places are all, initially, void of meaning - empty canvasses upon your first encounter. Had I been alone with P for lunch, my journal would have read that he treated me to white wine and glazed duck, we would have spoken about each other and ourselves, not realising that there were ghosts lurking beyond the quaint little restaurants windows, the ones looking unto the square. But we had two more guests sharing our meal with us, who insisted upon summoning the ghosts, and by sharing their stories with the next generation, putting them peacefully back to rest once more. It is not that we relish in the misery and pain of others, but rather that we must be able to recall where we came from, and what we, as individuals or as a collective have been able to rise from. Speaking of war in Poland, by virtue of the pristine, rebuilt surroundings, was not to speak of war but to speak of resilience, courage and strength. To give the denouement of the story - the time which we live in, a beginning and a body to allow us to better appreciate it's current end.

If I recall correctly, the ghosts living outside this restaurant had fallen in celebration: a German tank, much like a Trojan horse, had been rolled into the town square when the Germans gave up Warsaw to the Russians. The people came out of their houses, curious and joyful. The tank was blown up from a distance, and no one survived.

While we were sitting in the restaurant, knowing that this story had a happy ending, other stories are only starting, and I hope that someday I am so privileged as to sit to a meal in other places of the world, looking unto a street or a square, knowing that despite the ghosts hope and strength have not died here. Some people make it their business to destroy, but I want to believe that it is the rest of our purpose here to rebuild, with mouths and minds and hands.

The fact that history has a habit of repeating itself may not be all bad, after all... But today, it is.

PMP me

2006-11-15T20:11:00.000+09:00

Hold you gasp and close your gaped mouth... It's really not that surprising if you think logically.

I am doing a Project Management Certificate. Steph. In school. Back in school. Doing MANAGEMENT. And because I craved some WebCT lovin', I'm doing it all online. To your google, try and figure out which fine Canadian institution I'm studying with this time.

Two days in, I'm laughing at the fact that 30 pages + 20 pages constitutes a 'reading assignment', and raising my eyebrows at quotes - directly from my textbook - the likes of:

Consider the following advertisement for a facilities planning and development project manager (adapted from The New York Times, January 2, 1972)

Personable, well-educated, literate individual with college degree in Engineering to work for a small firm. Long hours, no fringe benefits, no security, little chance for advancement are among the inducements offered. Job requires wide knowledge and experience in manufacturing, materials, construction techniques, economics, management, and mathematics. Competence in the use of the spoken and written English required. Must be willing to suffer personal indignities from clients, professional derision from peers in the more conventional jobs, and slanderous insults from colleagues.

Job involves frequent extended trips to inaccessible locations throughout the world, manual labor and extreme frustration from the lack of data on which to base decisions.

Applicant must be willing to risk personal and professional future on decisiosn based upon inqdequate information and complete lack of control over acceptance of recommendations by clients. Responsibilities for the work are unclear and little or no guidance is offered. Authority commensurate with responsibility is not provided either by the firm or by its clients.

Fortunately, these types of job descriptions are very rare today.

[Clearly, they haven't quite caught on to the general realities of the development and international cooperation world, and the fact that at least a few project managers are needed around there too]

also, the following:

[This] ideal project manager would probably have doctorates in engineering, business, psychology, and experience with ten different companies in a variety of different project office positions, and would be about twenty-five years old.

The author is officially Big Brother [aka the dude hiring us folks'] cousin.

step back, i'm sidetracked

2006-11-13T10:54:00.000+09:00

I would like to know if there are any astrologers, astrophysicists, or if JoJo Savard is reading this. If any of you are, please speak up because I would like to have a full report regarding the position of the stars between November 9th [midnight] and November 10th [midnight] on the East Coast of North America. Between Texas and New Brunswick, say. Roughly.

Cause this shit is just too weird.

Needless to say I got out of it unscathed - perhaps even the least harmed of the bunch, having managed sufficient amounts of injury earlier in the week. I figure someone up there served me in excess, but only with what I could swallow. My body heals faster than my heart.

I'm getting increasingly superstititous, and I suspect the amount of current Pinoy relations has something to do with it all. Things are coming in threes (thankfully, cause I don't think I could have handled a fourth burn/fire - related incident), and happening quasi-simultaneously.

Thankfully, we all have communication. And Band-Aids.

this is hot

2006-10-26T13:39:00.000+09:00

so tell your sisters:

"WE GOT ISSUES! is designed to encourage young women’s leadership by tapping into the transformative power of creative expression, and unleashing the voice of a new feminine generation."

http://www.wegotissues.org/

so emo

2006-10-08T21:34:00.000+09:00

It's not that my life has become suburban or vapid - quite the contrary. The past week has found me wondering how I could find a way to fit all the random 'reminders' and 'to do's' on the pages of the tiny agenda I had purchased in Sapporo last fall.

It's not that my life is any busier than it was when I first started writing this blog, either. I was quite busy then, and on the surface in a very similar situation: a student, wroking pretty much full time, in a relationship and committed to at least two volunteering positions.

And that didn't stop me from writing, either.

The only difference between my life in Canada then and my life in Canada now - no offense to those who populated it 22 months ago - is that everything has become real. My life throughout university, and the subsequent year in Japan, had an air of romance and surreality that lended itself quite well to blogging. None of the things that went on were really my own, they all just floated there before me like a series of anecdotes that just lived to be recounted.

Now? Well, now... life doesn't get much realer than this. Not boring, dear. I'm not lacking stories or encounters - but they're not benign. They're not presented to me in short-story format, they're a daily reality. So maybe someday I'll write a biography, and you'll get to know all about it.

But I can't blog - for the sake of my characters and the stories we are building, I can't blog honestly.

That being said, I still need to write. So I ask of you this: read on, but realise that there hasn't been a figment of truth to these posts since I borrowed the words of Frida Kahlo and Isabel Allende on April the 14th. I haven't written about what matters since things in my life started mattering - but I still feed off the banal anecdotes that make my days days, and perhaps that I will continue to share with you.

So, in the end, nothing will really change... I guess you can just disregard this post entirely, then.

Apologies.

I can feel 'it', and 'it' is good

2006-09-23T23:57:00.000+09:00

Lazar would be able to tell you, I am sure.

As much as we bitched and whinned and moaned during our 35-minute long 15-minute breaks, it was easy living.

And he would be able to tell you again, if you had been the third party in our Club Social coffee chat in the last day of my most recent stint in Montreal.

I can't believe Montreal is now experienced in condensed, 'fill in as many coffee/dinner dates with the people you love in a single weekend', stints. Regardless - it may only be the coffee rush - they leave me energised.

Tell you what? .That the job don't make the man. Or in our joint cases, the activist / artist / social justice crusader / blasé po-mo Euro-poet. They just make the lifestyle easier, funding what reality imposes while we spend our evenings and spare daylight hours doing what 'really matters'.

Ok, so I'm still 'just' knitting, watching internet feeds of DemocracyNow broadcasts and watching prime time shows in the evening, but that is just residual stuff from the Japan-Canada transition. And, ironically, also partly has to do with Lazar - your scarf will be done by Grey's Anatomy Episode 3.

Point being, I am getting back into the swing of things, and it feels good. I refrained from writing since my return, in a public forum at least, because I didn't like the tone adopted by the voice inside my head. Squatting in a stranger's ginormous apartment, with my meager belongings, by a highway at that; being un-employed in a city where the cafe scene just doesn't encourage such things - or pretend to find it cool or commendable; not to mention the obvious 'extreme reverse culture shock', if I must label my first few weeks back - the sum of it all was not quite as romantic as a sitcom's rendition of it would lead you to believe. And my unfaltering pride refuses to let my weaknesses show.

I was walking down the street with Zhaleh one evening, and honesty got the best of me. I forget my exact wording, but perhaps she remembers it. Her response was a verbal bitch-slap that got some unidentifiable part of me back into it's rightful place. I have standards for myself, which other people expect of me too. In Canada at least. Japan and the person I regressed into is far, far away.

Yes, I have worn the administrative assistant hat before. It was a little tight and gave me headaches, but frustrated me just enough to get the creative juices flowing. Too much time to think + brainless data input [mostly with macros, which means you're staring at a flickering screen for the better part of your 7.5-hour workday] = enough repressed brain activity + frustration + antsiness = at least one painting, piece of writing, audio clip, new project / week.

In this case it's not so bad. The fate of Ms. A. Lavigne's RRSPs no longer rest in my hands - lest my macro calculate her benefits wrong, nor do I deal with million-dollar worth mutual fund holdings. Rather, I have the joy of staring at Canada - Sri Lanka / Bangladesh / Egypt / Ukraine correspondence and dealing with the consular and clerical semantics of study tours, deployments, budgeting and the like. Sprinkle a copious amount of time hugging and coaxing the photocopy machine, and you've got my week.

The staff promised - with slightly amused looks - to get second copies of monitoring reports [one of the projects deal with Gender Equality through small and medium size business development in Egypt] which means I get to study on my off time. In Arabic, at that. I suppose it's all about finding the perks or creating them yourself.

And, sitting by my computer reading the HRW report on Sri Lanka, ideas for two new pieces just budded in my mind.

I guess whatever luggage had been lost in transit 14 months ago has just been dropped at my door.

Now, could someone please tell me where i may purchase motion sensors and either cheese fabric or screens? Much appreciated.

on the cover-up girl

2006-09-21T17:24:00.000+09:00

I'm feeling a deep sense of elation, many times over. I have a job which feels like an extremely well-paid internship which makes me feel like I might be going somewhere. I had dinner with Kaki [and Dave, who spent a fair amount of time in his happy place as she and I ran our mouths about things that mattered].

And then I found this, which just added to it all. The Ottawa showcase of the Media That Matters Festival happened last Sunday. I sadly couldn't make it [I ended up partaking in a Gut Rot Fest instead] but the kind people at MTMFest foresaw this and posted their videos online. You can access them here.

The winner's short was set to a slam poetry piece that has got me air punching and doing victory laps around my apartment - and at least one reader [in addition to the ones that choked on their curry last night] knowing why. It's pretty self evident.

Read on:

My glares burn through her
And I'm sure such actions aren't foreign to her
Because the essence of her beauty is - well -
The Essence of Beauty

And in the presence of this higher being
The weakness of my masculinity kicks in
Causing me to personnify my
wannabe big-bawler shot-caller God's gift to the female species in shiny shoes rapper
like
ayo what's rollin' shorty what's your sign what's your size I dig your style yo

Now
This girl was no fool
She gives me a dirty look with the quickness
like
'Boy you must be stupid'
So I'm looking at myself going
'Boy, you must be stupid'
But,
Looking upon her,
I AM kinda feeling her style
So I try again but instead of adressing her porperly I blurt out one of my fake-ass player-istic lines like
Guurl... You must be a traffic ticket - cause you've got FINE written all over you

Now

She's trying to leave
And I'M trying to keep her here
And so in a final attempt I be like
Guurl... What is yo ethnic makeup?

See

At this point her glare is scorching through me.
And somehow she manages to make her brown eyes resemble like some kind of brown fire or something but this is no
snap her head movement
no
palm to face click of tongue middle finger roll her eyes Girl Power chant

She just
glares at me with these burning eyes
And her gaze
Grabs you at the throat
And she says
Ethnic Makeup?

First of all
makeup's just over the counter colonised, commodified utility that my sisters have been programmed to use
Forcing them to convert their natural state
In order to imitate what another sister must look like in her next sister's natural state because people keep telling me that the Other sister's natural state is more beautiful than the first sister's natural state.
At the same time the other sister isn't even in her natural state because she's trying to imitate yet another sister.
So in actuality, the natural state the first sister was trying to imitate?
Wasn't even natural in the first place.

Now
I-I'm thinking
Daaaaaamn - this girl's kicking knowledge

But meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like -
Fine - I'll tell you about my ethnic makeup
I wear foundation.
But not that powdery stuff.
I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people.
It's that foundation that makes it so the past being globalised -
I can still vocalise with confidence the fact that I know where my roots are.
I wear this foundation not upon my face - but within my soul
and I take this from my ancestors because I'll be damned if I ever let a European or American corporation tell me what my foundation should look like

And I'll wear lipstick
So that my lips can stick to the ears of men
So they can experience in Surround Sound my screams of agony
with each lash of rulers
measuring tapes
and scales
as if my waist line and weight are inversely proportional to my value as a human being

See my lips?
They stick
But not together
Rather they flail open with flames
To burn down this culture that once kept them shut.

N'I don't mess with eye shadow
But my eyes
Shadow over this time
Seeing the means you use to keep me blind
But you can't cover my eyes
Look into them

My eyes
foreshadow change
My eyes
foreshadow light
And I'ain't into hair dying
But I am here, dying because
this opression just won't get out of my hair
They form these highlights on my passion
They tangle around my mind these opressions
Stressing me
So that even though I don't dye them
In a couple years they'll be looking grey

So what's my ethnic makeup?
I don't have any
because
your ethnicity isn't something you can just make up

And as far as that shit that my sisters put on their faces?
That's not makeup.

That's make believe.

I- I c- I can - I can't seem to look up at her
And I'm sure that such action's aren't foreign to her because her expression shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance. As her footsteps fade my ego's left in crutches.

And rejection
never sounded
so sweet.

In conclusion... return the hundred-dollar ceramic straightening iron... and buy a hundred-dollars worth of pens. If anything they can be used to hold back that unruly hair.

The slam poem is titled “Slip of the Tongue”, by Adriel Luis

oh the sweetness whispered in my ear

2006-09-15T17:44:00.000+09:00

Actually, her voice and mine put together feel more like the Perky Faceoff at the Miss Hawaiian Tropic contest during Grand Prix weekend...

But it sounded sweet then, and that's how I'll record it for posterity:

You start on Monday

but the REAL question is - what kind of music do they like?

2006-09-13T15:17:00.000+09:00

BBC

CBC

The Gazette

and last but not least...

CNN

Now I initially blamed rap music. But then apparently, a friend of mine told me they mainly targeted the 3rd floor, where all the Jews hang out. So I figured they must have been listening to Al-Quaeda (or perhaps there's a Hezbollah/Hamas subculture I'm not aware of) tapes set to 'ouds and darbouquas. But it turns out they were trenchcoat-wearing, mohawked and pierced. So now I'm blaming Papa Roach and Manson.

I am also confused.

Inevitable jokes aside, WHAT would prompt a bunch of 20-somethings (if they were even that old) to skip lunch in order to shoot at a few students?

Were the victims shot at random or was there some sort of twisted selection process to it all? Were there notes, letters, hell - blogs warning of this? Who were they, what did they want? You'll have to understand, the only reference I - and most of Montreal - have for this kind of thing is December 6th. Well, that and Columbine. I mean, I have my share of depressive, reclusive acquaintances and they wouldn't DO that. Would they? What's going on? What happened? Who can we blame, and most of all who should we be helping? Cause as easy as it is, I'm pretty sure the metal crew didn't hand these kids the guns, didn't diss them during gym class. And I have trouble believing in music as Gospel [unless of course we're talking about actual gospel music].

Damit this isn't Columbine, it's MONTREAL!

It's Montreal...

Dear Kaki,

2006-09-12T21:22:00.000+09:00

I promise the source of this passage is purely coincidental - the author could have been male, could have been white, it wouldn't have mattered. I would have transcribed this passage and adressed it to you anyways.

It struck the cord linking my heart to my gut, and have a feeling it will with you, too.

You would not know it to look at me but I am like my grandmother a person of sure perimeters. Though I have arrived all the way here to Burnt River I am not adventuresome. Burnt River is just below the forty-fifth parallel, and I have arrived here [...] from the tenth parallel. But that is not to say much. I still take the small steps of my grandmother; I lift my eyes only to the immediate area of the house I live in, the small bit of road I can see from the window. Though I look intently and I know each dead weep of grass within my view. I pore over the spindly shrub pine clacking together in the wind. One winter I shovelled the hundred-foot driveway, three feet deep in snow, the whole winter long, crying at my misfortune, before I got the idea to call a snowplow. I always had the idea that while my grandmother did not move much she observed well. So, hunkered in my house in Burnt River I scrutinize each window's drama of trees and sky. But in the beginning I did not notice wildflowers. So intent on the hardship of living out here and missing the city and missing friends. I never bathed in the river, I never jumped off the bridge in town. Life was always something waiting to happen later. Until one day at this same spot at Pinery Road and Concession 11, when it was fall and all the grass had turned brown and wilted, I saw something violet. I thought, 'What a fool!' struggling up like that with winter coming. And all through the fall I thought, 'Well, I never!' when violet kept appearing on the side of the road. Finally, I thought, 'Well, what else is possible? Nothing but to make a go of it, I suppose.'

After a hundred metres or so, I turn and look back at the car. Its hulk is already embraced by the snowy road. The road knows that wherever you find yourself you are.

Wherever you find yourself you are.

To add to the coincidence, Jill Scott's 'The Way' happened to be playing in the background as I read this... See you soon miss persimmon!

Quote is from Dionne Brand's A Map to the Door of No Return: Notes on Belonging

514 redux

2006-09-10T21:57:00.000+09:00

♀ ...and that's my mandate. Sorry, student politics - because of who I am, I prefer everything to be under a mandate.

♂ I prefer womandates myself.

♀ Excuse me?

♂ Womandates. You know, as opposed to mandates. They make for better company.

♀ Are we being heteronormative? Are you being heteronormative ♂?

♂ I think we should have genderneutraldates. I call for SSMU to have a genderneutraldate. We should bring it up at the next council meeting.

♀ I'm with you on that one.

***

♀ Here's a birth certificate. It was in my bra. Do something radical with it. Give it to an immigrant. It was my grandmother's.

***

You know what, I don't get anti-opression trainings. I mean, I've been to them, but what's the fucking point? [turns to innocent by-stander] You were there right? What's the point of having a bunch of white kids try and feel what it's like to be oppressed for a day and then go back home? I say we get em to live in a small windowless room filled with black lesbians in wheelchairs until they cry. THEN they might get it. You can't be TRAINED to feel opressed! sensitivity training... tsk...

***

♀ Oh my God!

♀ Oh my GOD!

♀ You're back!

♀ YOU'RE back!

♀♀ Give me a hug!

♀ You look SO GOOD!

♀ No, YOU look so... good...

♀♀ ... give me a hug!

***

Which months are you referring to though? The ones I spent living with HIV/AIDS patients in Swaziland or the ones I spent in India working with opressed sex workers? OH, ok, you meant the exchange I did studying bio-dynamic community gardens in Ecuador - gotcha.

***

♀ BACK OFF! GET OUT OF THE WAY! WATCH OUT! DEBBIIIIIEEEEEE!!!! [proceed to eclipse yourself in a room for about 3 hours. To punctuate the catching-up session, sneak a peek at the rather distant look on everyone's conversational face and agree, quite enthusiastically, that you're so beyond this and never looking back - save maybe excessive hugging and random acts of affection]

no good to the brotherhood

2006-09-04T21:29:00.000+09:00

Enlightenment came at Blue Dog, of all places. With Tao leaning by the bar and beats making the poster featuring a painted Laila Elumbra in her weelchair vibrate against the wall. I never thought I would gain perspective while leaning against a bass amp dedicating itself to a deceased massive.

The topic of the day had been inter-whatever relationships. Denominational, racial, ethnic, class - you name it, I got it. And I want to know - what comes above what, when, how and why? When does love stop superseding heritage, loyalties, learned belief systems, socialisation and your brother/cousin/father's racism? Most of my friends, as well as myself, are in some form or other of inter-relationship, and their strength [as individuals and couples] lies in their ability to be rational, realistic and pro-active. In their ability to communicate, mostly - and deal [when necessary] above all. Inter-relationships are a reality in this day and age, so how do we deal with the representatives of generations where such things weren't done - or when they were, were done quite discriminately and with an assumption of some form of cultural assimilation or other on the part of either partner?

Though from the conversations I was having yesterday I will never claim that such relationships are not trying [though some are more than others, mine still dabbling in theories making our conversations sound more like sociology classes than DrPhil minus the MD], I want to reassure you all that I am not having a crisis. It's just that too many cans of worms were opened yesterday and I want to open up the dialogue to people who weren't around to partake in all the fun.

I for one believe that situations such as these can become strengthening - for yourself, your partner, and thus the couple. Dialogue is good, and I refuse to believe that dialogue between partners leads to anything but fortification. That being said, couples do not exist in a bubble [though we all want to believe we do] and though some of us are pros at the one-on-ones, this may not be the case when the outside world barges in. Still, I think that even in this instance, and with time, minds can be changed and some form of 'progress'[1] had. I and my family may not be the perfect living example, but I believe inter-relationships can be long-term successes with the tools a long-term relationships calls-on anyways: compromise, communication, sensitivity and understanding.

As life does funny things, I had to be at a Filipino gathering [of sorts] to get the flip side of the debate. Sitting, as it were, next to a [half-]brother who was, as he put it, in search of his wife. Quite determined at the prospect of finding her, and quite disappointed to see that each one he found was the prey of some form of apparent yellow fever or other. Yellow fever bugs me as much as the next Asian woman, but I never knew 'our' guys had taken notice. Then again, they DO have sisters, so I suppose they were meant to take note sooner or later.

As he put it,

If we go on like this, there won't be a single real Filipino left out here! This is no good for the brotherhood!

And as I put it,

Don't worry babe, we're all mutts anyways, if anything the only things LEFT out here when they're done is gonna be some version of us.

Don't expect me to be brilliant after 3-4 beers. Witty, but not brilliant. Same goes for said brother. What he meant, of course, is that what he had was the ability to see her for her, beyond her ethnicity. And, perhaps, love her better because and for it - some sort of unspoken knowledge of the other being held, thus obviating a number of things that would otherwise need to be clarified in an inter-relationship. Essentially, making the relationship 'better' because 'easier'.

Of course I am not speaking to the 'I love you because you're your heritage' phenomenon [though a healthy dose of exoticisation never hurt a relationship from what I can tell]. I'm speaking to 'actual' relationships. This being established, I want to know - who, at this point, is still living in the blissfully ignorant illusion that they are loving 'people' who are 'people' well before they are their skin tone, religion, community and cultural background?

Would you ever consider being with someone you loved a little less because, when all is said and done, there is an unspoken code lying in your shared background, which essentially make everything easier and the daily run more smoothly? Or because you see yourself as part and parcel with every single part of your heritage and couldn't see yourself passing down anything else [whether it be anything but or anything more] to future generations?

If I'm no good to the brotherhood, then so be it. For right now, all I [and we] need is love.

[1] This, for the record, is not me trying to say that tradition is archaic and regressive.

and one thing leads to another

2006-09-01T00:21:00.000+09:00

I suppose this is my closure, cause it's just too perfect.

My mother and I spent a few hours chatting in front of the Tupperware section of the kitchen, making a 'Value Village' and a 'worthy of Steph's bachelor' pile. Which somehow led us to my room, glaring at boarding videos and pictures of hamburgers. She wanted to know about my year, so I told her.

Surprisingly, she was impressed. Confused, frightened, and all around distraught, but impressed. And for some odd reason she got why I hung out with them - after making sure I hadn't hurled myself off a cliff naked or slid full speed down a huge pile of snow. Of course, her second reaction involved the need to be reassured that she'd be the only person to be graced with the viewing of such physical exploits.

The pictures are now deleted, the legends and stories burried for posterity. Six-storey dives, the pillow-like powder... all of it. Deleted from my computer, in my long-term memory.

And then, somehow, as I'm flipping through blogspots, I find this. Sadly, no one will get it. Or perhaps I have lurkers who will.

Regardless... the more thigns change, the more they stay the same. Maybe Japan is the land some people make it out to be. Or maybe the Kyogoku mamasan IS one hella loose lady like everyone suspected.

But it is on this note, knowing that the world of Japan still turns without the likes of me and the J-Boys, that I leave it behind. For good.

from the unpublished file

2006-08-30T14:27:00.000+09:00

Originally written, then promptly ignored, on August 30, 2006

The apartment I am currently sitting [apartment sitting makes it feel like I am providing a service, as opposed to couch surfing which implies greasy hair and little ambition] conveniently overlooks a highway, downtown Ottawa [yes, such a thing exists] and Parliament.

Which, by the way, one of my best friends INSISTS is at once sexy and romantic. I beg to differ, as I have had the privilege to analyse its form for at least 3 hours per day as I do those essential eye-saving exercises [you have to look away form the computer for a few minutes every half hour, lest your myopia get even worst] and let me tell you, no edges seem soft enough to deserve the shelter of my caresses, never mind my tender bits. Not the most inspiring of monuments - I'll leave it to her to conceive her child in the velvety seats of the Senate [correct me if I'm wrong, but I remember seeing velvet seats somewhere in the Parliament].

But I clearly digress.

My days are mostly spent trying to force Old Steph and New Steph [not to be confused with new and improved Steph, who existed circa 2003 and lead to the creation of Old Steph. Complicated, I know. New Steph is Post-Japan Steph, and she leaves Old Steph quite underwhelmed. She is also this close to being a waitress].

Anyways, trying to force Old Steph and New Steph to sit down for a talk. Needless to say, my head hurts. But after a few weeks and a whole lot of shaking of New Steph on the part of Old Steph, they've finally found common ground. I am relieved.

You see, it's one thing to leave a place for a completely unknown one. It's an entirely different thing to leave without a - how could I put it in any other terms? - secure contingency plan. Mostly when the return brings you back to a second up-rooting of sorts.

Old Steph
... had her shit together
... knew where to turn for a reference, groceries, the requisite hug-and-skip-the-queue-entry, a new / challenging / fun experience
... did stuff
... felt safe monetarily, socially, politically
... felt like her environment, her entourage and her activities mirrored and validated who she was on the inside
... was independent
... was not dependent
... didn't question herself
... did not hesitate
... did not compromise with herself
... knew her worth and did not settle for less
... could laugh at her job because she had more important things going on and even more important things coming, and everyone knew it including her bosses
... knew where she was going and where that would lead her
[... and, let's face it, lived in her own space. Someday when we're face to face I'll fill you in on the dark secrets residing in Ottawa highrises and you will be equally annoyed]

New Steph
... is confused
... is geographically lost
... is not eager, not curious, not energetic and completely complacent
... noticed that she doesn't smile much
... noticed that she doesn't care if she eats regularly [and calls eating a complete cucumber 'eating dinner']
... noticed that she needs to meet new people but doesn't necessarily want to put in the effort of getting dressed and getting herself out there
... noticed that she doesn't know where she is going, but more frightening still, that she doesn't know where she wants to go [that is a lie. I'm just avoiding the idea of thinking about where I want to go because that place is not here. mind you, I don't even know if the people there need or want me]
... forgot, over the course of this year, who Old Steph was, what she was capable of and what she stood for.
... noticed that she takes shit.
... noticed that she rationalises being mistreated, set aside, feeling unwanted and unwelcomed, and most of all unloved and ocasionally abandoned.

A whole variety of coincidences, encounters and fluke timing have gotten me to the point I am at [mentally]. I refuse to blame anyone but myself, because ultimately the power to make any final decision rests in my hands. I'm just trying my best to simultaneously build myself back up, get myself together, and get myself somewhere all the while being here, for him - baby steps, baby steps, it's been a long year for everyone. And exactly this was bound to take place -

oh, sigh - I'm one of those

2006-08-29T18:10:00.000+09:00

So I'm - um - closely studying a local Japanese restaurant's menu, and I can't help but share the following with you:

about SAKE -
To complete your Japanese Dinner experience, may we recommend Sake [Japanese Rice Wine] to you. Sake, served warm, will help you relax and increase your appetite.
Say 'Kung Pie' and drink it in the genteel Japanese way where each person fills the cup of the other and never permits it to be empty. How do you stop? Just ask us. It is easier than you think!

I have inevitably been seeing Japan everywhere since I got back. President's Choice has a 'Memories of Kobe' frozen steak dinner. Café Dépot has a frozen macha drink. The OCTranspo overpass at the Blair stop reminds me of the Fushimi Inari shrine.

It's not getting the best of me - not much aside the ongoing jobsearch is, to be honest. Nonetheless, I suppose this is one of the quainter sides of the reverse culture shock, if I'm having one at all. A year abroad may have also just turned me into on of those culture snobs... I wonder which would be worse?

slowly but surely...

2006-08-25T01:02:00.000+09:00

www.makepovertyhistory.ca
www.music4change.blogspot.com

little known steph fact

2006-08-22T15:53:00.000+09:00

When I was a toddler, I used to go into convulsions if my mother's breastmilk didn't respond quickly enough to my sucking attempts.

This reflex was to define the rest of my life [though surprisingly my hissy-fit-n'-temper-tantrum slate remains clean, as I have never thrown one to this day - you may proceed to ask my parents, ex's and girlfriends].

Nonetheless, I remain THE most impatient person on the face of this earth when my fate is slow in the making and residing in other people's hands.

I hate having no control, I do I do.

I also hate waking up to the realisation that my priorities are out of wack.

Case in point: why do I own two couches and a set of wooden salad bowls [with matching lazy susan], but have neither a living room nor a kitchen - in fact no house at all - to store them in?

It's not that bad really - I'm actually laughing at it all, and you should be too. In time, in time.

the last time...

2006-08-20T00:40:00.000+09:00

The last time I had a scheduled interview with the GoC, I ended up smoking a joint with a law-student friend of mine in her basement apartment in Hull, attending one of her UofO classes, then eating KD and sipping some spirit out of a bottle in a mutual friends' dorm room.

I'm back in Montreal for the weekend after an 18-day stint in Ottawa [which, from the looks of it and my new cell phone number, will be home for the next little while. I promise I'm excited. No really I am. No, REALLY, I am. Why won't anyone believe me?[1]]

So yeah, back in Montreal. Poised to welcome my parents back from their Portuguese escapade with the tales they only know via 2-sentence, telegram-style emails. And hunt down my friends in their suspected places of employment, as incongruous as they may seem.

Also, cramming in as much information as I possibly can regarding RDIMS and the MGI Policy. I remain underwhelmed [see this to understand why], and find solace in the fact that it is a short term contract. Which will allow me to pay the bills, get settled and leave me with enough energy and motivation to do some worthwhile, constructive activity at the end of the day. Remember the RBC?

That is, if I get the job at all. I suspect I will skip this exam and go out for Ethiopian instead. There's always EI.

[1] Answer: Cause they're all Montrealers.

I maintain that...

2006-08-16T19:43:00.000+09:00

You don't truly know [to appreciate] something until you have come across it's opposite. You can choose to extrapolate with any selection of experiences you believe I may have come across in the past 17 days.

But that was as eloquent as I get for now. I choose to let your imagination wander.

Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

[...]

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
The blackest of rooms

If heaven and hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark

n I'm out

2006-07-30T23:43:00.000+09:00

I took the thought
of going back to New York
for walk at dawn
before the fruit vendors
set up their stalls
and while the she-wolf next door
is still making love
loudly for the good of us all.
Wind-whipped trash bags
winging down empty streets
still remain the sure signs
of the city's nursery of speed.

Someone must be keeping count
of what is yet to come.
So strong is the feeling
some long-overdue debt
is being paid me
in installments.
When I look at my photos and postcards
I know I have been somewhere,
and everything is still taking place
long enough for me
to move from here to there.

Making a home for absences
restores to the self the true
magnificence and pain of presence.
It gives me confidence
and drives me out to seek
inclemencies of love.

As long as I can keep from talking
to myself too long,
as long as passion kills
mutely and obscurely
I can live here.
But this can be anywhere,
the tambourines higher in pitch,
the bed harder.
And I find myself again
out of the A-train
in the middle of nowhere,
ready to begin again
with slick black hair.

- Carillonneur, Ricardo M. DeUngria

Thus ends the sequel to Steph's High School adventures. It was to be foreseen, Steph Does High School 1 had a much more believable cast of actors and a way less predictable, and much racier plot. Seriously though, it's been a simpler, more complex year than I know to exlain in a few lines. Multi-layered storylines are just impossible to summarise like that, you'll have to watch the movie when it premieres - soon, hopeflly.

Here is a preview of the un-edited soundtrack, to be released shortly.

Franz Ferdinand - Take me Out
Nelly Furtado feat. Timbaland - Promiscuous Girl
NERD - She Wants To Move
The Coup - Wear Clean Draws
Tracy Chapman - Fast Car
Tracy Chapman - The Promise
Common - Go
Common - The Light
that house track about people walking by Dave choreographed to last year
Def Tech - My Way
PCD - Buttons
Eternia - Sorrow Song
India Arie - Promises
PCD - Beep
PCD - Stick With You
Bow Wow - Let Me Hold You
Pink - Stupid Girls
Esthero - If Tha Mood
Basement Jaxx feat. Kekaula - Good Luck
Esthero - Fastlane
the Matsuken Samba
the Nana theme song, the new Miyazaki film's theme song
The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, skipping
Mika Nakajima - All Hands Together
Murs feat. 9th Wonder - Dark Skinned White Girls
The Coup - Laugh / Love / Fuck
The Coup - Ijuswannalayaroundalldayinbedwithyou
Fort Minor - Where'd You Go
Christina Aguilera - Ain't No Other Man [not to mention, a HAWT video]
Erykah Badu - Certainly
Sandi Thom - I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker (With Flowers In My Hair)
Usher - Bedtime
Air - Alone in Kyoto, for good measure
the MaxValue meat / fish counter jingles
The Cat Empire - Hello Hello
The Cat Empire - Beanni
Micheal Franti and Spearhead - Oh My God
Talib Kweli - Great Expectations
The Cat Empire - The Conspiracy
The Arcade Fire - Rebellion / Lies
The Faints - Erection
Xscape - Run to the Arms of the One Who Loves You
Talvin Singh / Karsh Kale
Etta James - A Sunday Kind of Love
India Arie - Talk To Her
Alexi Murdoch - Orange Sky
Ciara - Goodies
Gnarles Barkley - Boogie Monster
BEP - Bebot
that song Laura always sings about taking your mama out all night

and lastly, cause I knew you were looking for it -

Pharcyde - Passin' Me By
Floetry - Sometimes You Make me Smile

about a girl

2006-07-29T21:02:00.000+09:00

When a girl

who is accustomed to displacing herself at will and depending on no one but herself and her whims

places herself in the hands of an organisation and depends on a faceless someone to provide her with placement, contract, living accomodations and working conditions

Funny

Things

Happen.

In order to remain sane, she learns to let go and breathe. Ironically, this can sometimes be done to the detriment of her longer term sanity and sense of self, but she realises that this is only a temporary necessity.

She also realises life has more dimensions than the ones she had given it throughout her first 22 years. Realises that life, when uncontrolled, can also be quite nice. Liveable. Easier, in fact.

Frustrating, stagnant and sometimes boring, but easier.

She applies this learning to other things, and the year she has been offered brings new perspective. She realises that even back home, life cannot always be planned and controlled and tweeked to suit her needs. Her priorities shift, she finally decides it's ok to populate her entourage with non-temporary, non single-serving friends. Impulse is nice, but only for a while and I feel like having my trail markers close-by at all times. She remembers Stephen Smith and brings him up now and then to make sure her previous life maintains an air of mystique. She learns that adventures, whims, and spontaneous moves can be big or small, but should not be passed up regardless of the size. She also learns to choose her battles and what 'worthy' truly means - she saves her words, and selectively distributes her thoughts and the better parts of herself accordingly and pays little heed to those who would fail to recognise or appreciate what she truly has to offer. Let it be.

Not everything goes as planned, and that's ok. I have a plan A, and a plan B, and both may take a while to take shape but life happens in the interim.

I just spent the last week on the road with Kaki, Ed and Shiloh. Introducing them as 'Kaki and her Gifu friends' would do no one justice - in fact no introduction I could muster could possibly convey just WHO these people were [to me]. Indeed, doing so would require way too much of the 'capital-g'/'b' words and I would risk sounding like one of Oprah's gratitude journals, so I'll pass.

Thus, it is storytime.

When I was young, my mother would buy fruits twice a week during the summer. She would come back from the store, pick a new bowl from the cupboard, place the new fruits at the bottom. She would then take a look at the 'old' fruit bowl. Place the ones that were still good - usually 'just ripe', in fact - on top of the new fruits, and cut up the rotten ones to put in the compost bin so they would be good for something.

Someone allowed that to be done to me this week - found me in the basket with the rotten ones, placed a fresh bowl near me and allowed me to be close to them during my final times here. Supported and in mutual co-existence with either what I am or once was. I prefer 'what I took a break from and will return to being in 48 hours'. Kaki, Shiloh, Ed - thank you. again, thank you. Something was amiss this year, and I found it all in you. Only difference between you and the fruits? You came from good trees with roots planted firmly in their earth... you'll never go bad.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sothereiwas/sets/72157594215951385/show/

Carillonneur

2006-07-29T18:00:00.001+09:00

warning : here comes the truth

2006-07-23T22:24:00.001+09:00

I've just spent the year running my mouth on and on about some of the most inconsequential things to make them seem like they mattered. This place is an example, but you should have heard my level of gaijin-to-gaijin conversation too.

No offense to anyone involved - truth be told it's been easy. I mastered that level of conversation back in high school, it was nothing too hard to live with then so I don't see why it would have been now.

But in a week's time I'll be back to the real.

This means, of course, a slight shift in tone in this blog. In part because I have NO CLUE who reads this thing, and I would rather self-censor than find myself having way too many vague acquaintances knowing things they truly shouldn't. Similarly, I suspect the people who DO have first pick at the juicy details of my personal life will either be in my bed, periodically on my couch, or at the very least show up as names on my caller ID.

I'll try to avoid going the academic-banter-to-generalise-the-internalised style, but rest assured that the private will remain private and the posts will be scarce. I suppose they will sound a little more like this and this - and a little less like this, which is a refreshing change even I need.

In keeping with my traditional mode of written communication - you'll feel like you know more than you actually do, will have enough innuendo to knit your own narrative, and we will all be satisfied.

final daze

2006-07-22T14:45:00.000+09:00

Ok, here's how it goes:

point to upper-right corner, point to lower-left corner. repeat. make a circle over your head - ballet position 6 style, lower to 1, push forward with the left hand, push forward with the right, push forward with the left. draw 135 degree circle counter-clockwise, 270 degree circe clockwise. right hand to the hips, up to the shoulder, repeat with the left. 3 steps forward, skip on the fourth, repeat.

Repeat until you get from the pharmacy to the station.

Welcome to my town's bon dori dance. I've never walked down main street that slowly, but damit I felt like a superstar. After a year here, and perhaps not so coincidentally the week before I leave, I got to be dressed [those obis are impossible to tie alone] and parade down main street with all the other town office workers. A few hundred folks walking at snail pace doing the exact same 10 gestures in repeat may seem a bit boring but let me tell you: it's practically superhuman to walk at a normal pace in that get-up, let alone do anything fancy or graceful.

It's been an oddly eventful week, with way too many nights seeing me sloshed at unsightly early hours. I taught my last classes, and I have to give thanks to my BOE's sense of coordination: my last lesson EVER IN MY LIFE [mark my words] was with the first graders at the elementary school. Aside from the fact that they are likely to bump their noses on my knee, they're just fun to teach to.

I had two goodbye enkais last week, and the last one with my JHS staff is Monday night. I'll make a point of not drinking TOO much at this one because... well... I was so eager to get to Montreal that I made sure to get an early, decent dose of Montreal goodness while still in Hokkaido. After much pondering and cringing, the obvious option made its presence known: my last week in Hokkaido will be spent roadtripping with none other than the marvelous, gorgeous, legendary Kaki. She gets here Monday. It will be awesome.

On another note: in an attempt to alleviate the reverse culture shock, I'm trying to re-immerse myself in Montreal culture. I figured the Mirror was as good a place as any to start... Can someone please clarify something for me? Am I (a) getting old or did (b) Pointe Calumet just get kinda not so... white trash? Or is this where techno is now at in the good old Province... somewhere between the gutter and the spray tan? Not like we didn't see that coming.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

2006-07-20T12:53:00.000+09:00

This, my final activity sheet for the ninensei, is my legacy to Kuriyama Junior High School.

The premise: applying to + the infinitive in order to convey reason.
The activity: give Steph sensei/teacher/chan six reasons why the chicken [Super Chicken, he can do anything] crossed the road.

The answers:

To eat...

...a friend [aka chicken]
...a lion
...a marimo
...people
...KFC
...her eggs

To go...

...to heaven [SuperChicken got hit by a car while crossing the road]
...defeat the world
...over his limitations
...to space [this was followed by 'to eat Mars' - the panet, not the chocoate bar]
...carry an egg
...to the police [followed by 'to eat the policeman']
...to hijack
...to space travel
...to bunjee jumping
...to the onsen [he was actually getting boiled - witty]
...to go to the toilet

To be...

...God [this particular chicken actually had a crown, wings open, little stick figures prostrating before him]
...an actor
...stronger
...fried chicken
...soup

To buy...

...a car
...a house
...a slave

To...

...flap to the sky
...take care of a bird
...revive
...get to take the movie in Mongolia
...hitchhike [this kid has an electronic translator]
...ride a tricycle
...meet the newscaster
...climb Fujisan
...meet his fans
...to search for tomorrow
...get freedom
...steal shiroi-koibito [some famous omiyage sweet from Sapporo]
...to watch the stars
...to steal other chickens' eggs
...to play brave
...to find me

it's not so bad until the conflict grows pigtails

2006-07-18T13:13:00.000+09:00

I haven't posted any political thoughts in a while, and I'll be honest: my mind is too cluttered right now to bother with any social analysis. I'm introspecting to the max at this point in time, and part of the debate actually lies in whether this introspection is a healthy, viable option or not. I feel like a hamster in one of those little wheel things - at least I'm getting a workout. But my mental gymnastics aren't the point of this post. This is:

I saw this while perusing the BBCNews website earlier, and my stomach turned. The caption read: Israeli girls write messages on shells ready for firing towards Hezbollah targets in Lebanon.

I need to stop reading the news.

POST-EDIT: About the title - I suppose you know this already, but it's meant to be cynical, sarcastic at best. I do, of course, believe - to put this in the simplest of terms - that this entire situation is bad, and an absolute overreaction on the part of Israel, one which could get really ugly really fast - if what transpires in this, the 7 day of bombings, doesn't show that it already has. And you probably know what I think of civilians stuck in the crossfire. If you were sitting in Laura's living room last weekend, good for you: you know where I'm coming from on this one - to all the rest... I frankly don't feel like getting into it. Apologies.

six degrees of separation

2006-07-17T13:56:00.000+09:00

I had a 200yen bowl of ramen for breakfast. I am currently sipping on a beer, waiting for my cold-water bath to fill up, green argile slowly hardening on my face.

If I told you about my weekend right about now, you wouldn't believe it.

No, really, you wouldn't.

I think I'll keep it to myself to offer to you on a slow news day.

life changes

2006-07-13T14:40:00.000+09:00

Understatement? Obviously.

But I do relish those moments when I find myself pausing, looking at the closest available calendar, and smiling to myself.

A year ago today [yes, this is one of those posts] I was, quite un-elegantly, sitting on the curb about 10 meters from the intersection where Jeanne-Mance meets Ste-Catherine. Appropriately downing a 40, waiting for the respectably-shaped Jazz Fest staffers to file into the Spectrum. With BlondSteph, inevitably talking about tumescent asiatic members and how I could - um - mentally, if not also physically, curtail the dimension-related myth they seem to be afflicted by. Assessing the balance of options, and seeing just how much of the matter I would have to take in my own hands in order to remain sexually sane this year [BlondSteph's insight on the matter? There are exercises you can do for that you know].

Japan, to be sure, is not a kind land for the Western Woman. It's a gamble between venturing in the unconquered land of the interracial / linguistic / cultural relationship in a nation where even local women seem to be disenchanted with their fellow countrymen [I'm talking on general terms here, this is of course not the case in ALL cases]... Or conquering the local version of CharismaMan [BlondSteph insight on the matter? Play the Asian card and suck it up. not literally though - he IS a white man in Asia, you don't know where it's been].

I shuddered at the idea then, and I shudder at the memory of the moment, still. Let's not pretend that we don't know it, white men are fashionable in Japan. An awesome accessory. You know how - say - any New Yorker wants to own a designer bag? Well Japanese women have the same kind of affection for white men... But much like the bag in question, you have to wonder whether she got it at the flagship store or settled for a cheap rip-off on Canal Street because frankly, no one would care to make the distinction [yes, I intentionally chose to locate the fakes in Chinatown]. Must I really push the metaphor further?

Zero to Hero. Big in Japan. Name any one-liner - or for that matter any of the socially inept / perverted / not-so-bright-alcoholics that populated your high school - that may come to mind, an incarnation of it is bound to be at arm's reach or worse perhaps, in earshot. The bar is LOWERED regarding what it takes for a white man to get laid in this country, and don't think they don't play on it. Shudder.

I hate to think what I would have found myself doing this year if the next day hadn't happened - it would have involved me caving in at some point, no doubt. If not out of sheer despair or because I would have actually started believing their misguided affection [cough cough - can you tell I'm talking from experience... my skin crawls], then simply because the Butterball Effect would have taken its toll on my psyche. And my will power. Shudder.

The next day found me in Ottawa. Surprisingly, to everyone but the two individuals involved, caught in an embrace that I still feel today when I so much as close my eyes and will it back. No one here could hold me like that, which is why no one has been asked to.

That embrace made it OK to stay home by the phone on some nights (1). It makes me check my MSN/Hotmail/Gmail 473 times a day and makes me make sure the phone is within a foot of me at all times when I'm in the house. It made me babble on about how great He is ad nauseum, to the point where I question the motives of anyone who fails to remember his name - yes, he's my favourite topic of conversation, sometimes surpassing my will to talk about myself. If all else fails, he could give seminars on how to be a man for a living, and all womankind would be better off for it.

I've got no time to waste on little boys now that I know what it's like to have a man's arms around my shoulders and his words in my ear. If I have learnt one thing this year, it's to never turn my back on someone like him. My only wish is that everyone have at least one person like him at some point in their lives, and then you'd know what genuine love, strength, honesty and humanity feel like.

(1)But let's not forget the alternative was to be huddled between a bunch of guys, drinking, belting out tunes for a teleprompter and inevitably being invited to the nearest love hotel after sending a few smiles in my general direction. How charming.

mission accomplishing

2006-07-10T07:52:00.000+09:00

Well, the little mission I gave myself a few months back of doing everything I could to hate the fact that I was leaving Japan in... let's see now... 21 days is well on its way to being accomplished.

Every five days or so since the summer started, I seem to have managed to find myself doing something - well - awesome. In this case? Finding the location of a soon-to-be-erected hut on one of the Niseko range's mountains. I won't tell you which one, but it's a few hundred meters from Mars, and it - gasp - still has snow. The closest village is essentially utopian, if Utopia is filled with awesome restaurants, board shops and mommies and daddies riding skateboards with toddlers in tow.

I'm just happy I've found a person out here who'll soak in my euphoria when I'm jumping from rock to rock, head in the clouds criticising the consumers below us and wondering if they'll ever realise that the best things in life are free, natural, and leave you stinky, dirty and out of breath.

I felt it - and perhaps vocalised it - each time my feet hit the ground this weekend, and I'll say it here to record it for posterity:

my life is awesome

I've got fresh air, health, and 140 pounds of muscle and bones, a passion for most ***-given things in life. A mind to think with. Memories to live off of and loves to build on, and eyes I wouldn't trade for the world because they still manage to focus on the beauty before them. As far as I can tell, I've got everything it takes to take on whatever may come.

Oh, and I have an easle, which I can't wait to get back to when I get home.

I wish I could pass on the way I feel right now to everyone who needs it, and hopefully I will sometime soon. I suppose a year to recharge wasn't such a bad idea after all.

ahem...

2006-07-06T16:58:00.000+09:00

So the sunburn I got over the weekend turned into a full-blown tan. And you wanna know what an ichinensei called me? Brown sugar. In Japanese - my JTE translated it.

Kaki 1 - Steph 1

The ichinenseis are learning how to use I have / I play / I like... I was looking over my students' shoulders, checking their spelling and such, and read the following:

I have crabs.
I like rap.

This is one of my genkier, quirkier kids, so I couldn't resist asking in Japanese/English:

- How many crabs do you have? [I accompany this inquiry with the local 'crab' gesture: peace fingers upwards like two pairs of closed scissors]
- Two.

[ok, so he actually meant crabs]

- Where did you buy them?
- I didn't buy them.

[oh my god, does he actually have crabs?]

- Where did you - um - find them?
- In a sushi restaurant.

After a bit of coaxing, it turns out the kid doesn't like sushi on relatively moral principles and is on a crusade to save the inhabitants of local sushi joints' aquariums. He promises he didn't steal them, he asked nicely and the owner gave him the babies [probably thinking he'd bring them back later]. My kind of kid.

And what about the rap?

- Who is your favourite rap group?
- ???
- Rap group ... [point to the word 'rap' written on his sheet] Music, no?
- No no... [makes a hand motion drawing the countours of a box in the air, makes like he's wrapping a Christmas gift] sarang rapu.
- ???
- Sarang, sarang

The kid

before thinking of his affection for ramen, Doraemon, or small furry animals

thinks of saran wrap

as one of the things he likes best.

Marry me.

I'm off to give a dinner lecture for a group of four students being 'dispatched to Canada' [direct quote from my BOE's e-mail] later this month. Topics to be covered include weather, table/street manners, money safety, what/how to pack, time difference & calling home, tipping and a complete translation of Custom Card no. E311. Oh, and basic Canadian history, facts and geography. This should be fun!

oral history

2006-07-05T15:56:00.000+09:00

My mom thought of this well before the Story Corps were ever invented. She's the one who gave me the gift of active, appreciative listening, though you would never tell if you were ever caught on the other end of a conversation with her - I suppose at some point she got tired of listening and decided she deserved to do some story telling of her own.

My mother's sole regret as far as family and friends are concerned [the ones she'll admit to that is, she's too proud and stubborn to admit to the obvious] is that she never carried a tape recorder with her on car rides, to dinner, coffee or afternoons at the pool.

She keeps punctuating moments of [oral hi]story telling with 'maudit qu'j'aurais donc du traîner un magnétophone pis l'enregistrer, c'est des histoires comme ça q'y'ont bâtis not' pays.' She's convinced that half the value of all my ancestors' stories is found in the accents and the intonation - if you've ever heard my mother talk you'll understand why. A distinctive form of expression was definitely handed down the generations in my family, on my mother's side at least.

The beauty in my grandmother's stories of the store on Clark and Bernard is the way she'll say it correctly in both official languages, and how she'll actually narrate her own life and mimick the characters that passed by the other side of the counter. Someday a yuppie will speak on the Mile End with contemporary authority, but he'll never know it like I do because of her. There won't be the same traces of time and space in his academic voice.

I wish all my family spoke as much as my maternal grandparents and my mother do - it beats any story time inspired by the pages of a book, because it also tells my story. I'll be honest, I wish a lot of things about my family - most of which have to do with more kitchen tables and debates about trivial things like whose bedroom window faced the sunrise in the 'house back home'.

Thankfully, I have been surrounded by a wealth of other people who have been keen on walking for hours, speaking about their lives with the passion and fervor all our lives deserve being recounted with. Like the man on DemocracyNow said - 'Story Corps [and why not life?] is about taking the time to listen to the people who you wouldn't necessarily notice walking down the street and when you do listen you see the poetry and grace that is in all of us... Every person's story matters, because it's also a people's history.'

how I do

2006-07-04T07:19:00.000+09:00

As I presume you've guessed, last weekend blew me away. It will likely go down in history as one of my better weekends in Hokkaido, no doubt about it. I initially jumped in on the Teuri Island Uni Festival because it involved a road trip, Gus / Laura / Calvin and the prospect of fresh seafood, and I definitely got more than I bargained for.

It's funny what people share when there's no one around to eavesdrop - we ended up talking about family vacations and an amalgamation of random life anecdotes. Here more than anywhere, I've been receiving people as pieces to a puzzle that will likely never be complete, and I like it that way. This place sits somewhere on the fencce between long-term backpacking and something akin to real life.

We were lying in the rocks by the campsite when we noticed that a family - father, mother, and a troupe of kids, were searching the pebbles for signs of life. First comment to fly out of our mouths? 'Wow, they're exploring solo. Awesome.'

Yes, even in the middle of nowhere, on an island that [literally] has one road and takes 3-4 hours to circumnavigate [for lack of a better term - how does one circumnavigate on foot?] the folks were greated by minibuses and tour guides.

Memories of car-bound family vacations, with beautiful Canadian coasts and mountains rolling by never to be touched came bobbing like buoys on the surface of my memory and I couldn't help but smile. It took me 13 years to realise how I did things, and 6 years for my parents to accept my ways. And now? I like that I find my niches wherever I go.

Tyler and Gus called it - the reason why the weekend just flowed was that no one demanded or felt the pressure to seek justification for anything. We're all adults, we don't need to be asking our friends if it's ok to go somewhere without them - if they want to come they'll join in. It's not because we came together that we have to move like a school of fish for the next 72 hours - we're just willing, welcome coincidences in each other's lives.

I don't like asking permissions, I never have. Ever since I've given myself the means - usually monetary, the guts come naturally - to do things without depending on others, I have announced rather than suggested or seeked. My parents, eventually, got it. Doing things independently of them made them happy, cut down on useless fights [it's not worth trying to hold me down, I'll just fight harder to get back up and back to what I wanted to begin with] and made them save valuable life time. They eventually got that my doing things my way had nothing to do with them and everything to do with me. They were not failing or lacking [why do people think that if those close to them are seeking something different, it's is a retort to a perceived lack?], rather we did things differently.

Most importantly, much like the group did this weekend, I always came back to them - we always came back together eventually and in a much better state than we would have been had we all repressed each other in unison. Individually happier and stronger, better suited to contribute to each other's lives.

On a lighter, less existential note: quote of the weekend, heard from Laura's mouth as she explained 'offside' during the Argentina / Germany game: 'Cool! I get to teach someone! [pause] I can't believe we're teachers saying things like this.'

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sothereiwas/sets/72157594185511578/show/

paradise sold...

2006-07-02T22:59:00.000+09:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the following has been confirmed. Paradise was sold [手売 - though I think it actually means hand selling... but I'll stick with paradise].

Getting back to the point... paradise was sold.

In paradise, people live in tents, live off uni [sea urchin roe] and commune with the birds - there are seagulls in paradise, because seagulls know where the good stuff's at. Also living in paradise are fairness and equality: even the non pasty-white folks get sunburns. Behold, paradise.

let's see...

2006-06-30T13:29:00.000+09:00

If you can guess what I'm up to this weekend...

wait, was that...

2006-06-29T07:34:00.000+09:00

... June that just flew by?

woah...

32 days, people.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sothereiwas/sets/72157594180347564/show/

I must...

2006-06-27T18:28:00.000+09:00

I must put a stop to this habit of caring so much about things I can do nothing about.

We were in 6th grade and she was pretty. Everyone loved her butt, even the black girls didn't have one to match.

If I can't stop these things at home, how could I stop them here?

She talked to me about things, and we were close for some reason. Of course, the school nurse - or was she the on-call social worker, I forget - had never actually SEEN us together, or perhaps my eyes weren't red and puffy enough, for whatever reason I wasn't allowed to have my time with her in her office to talk to someone.

It didn't happen in my school, and I didn't know this student.

I ate lunch at home everyday, and I cried all the way home. She hadn't showed up to school that morning, had not been doing particularly well recently according to what she was saying. Why did everyone think she was lying, simply seeking attention? Because, perhaps, she seemed so happy on the good days...

Just the thought that it could have been one of mine though...

My mom told me to get over it, that she was just trying to get attention. A s'est manquée, s't'une folle, é pas ben, pis si j'entends dire par ton professeur que tu't'tiens avec...

The thought that it could be one of my school's desks looking like a memorial, pair of shoes and fresh cut flowers. That my staff and their homerooms put on brave smiles like nothing had happened, everything was normal.

She came back, and the event, for those who remember it, is now one of those elementary school stories you recount in passing - Hey, remember when Damie tried to off herself? I wonder what we'd be saying if she had 'tried a little harder'.

And I wonder, why are these the things that make me care? I wish I could rest knowing these kids are surrounded by people who won't dismiss their lack of sensitivity to / certianty on the issue by just shoving it under a rug and pretending like the bump wasn't wholy apparent.

nous sommes des squébécois

2006-06-26T22:33:00.000+09:00

[merci Francis, j'y aurais jamais pensé toute seule]

So if the U gods [or any alcoholic beverage available in 40-ounce bottles] were smiling on you last Saturday, you are one of the lucky Catholics who know that summer is here.

Oh, is THAT why all the Francos have parades, get drunk and sing the weird version of the Happy Birthday song out of tune?

Yes, yes it is... Kinda...

Since Dan [and Jason] bring a touch of Brazil wherever they go, cachaça was nice and available... Which lead to generally loose-tongues, slippery flip flops and liberal attitudes with the students.

Thus, I apologize to anyone I may have harmed with excessive information or potentially illegal actions... Though I do believe all were rendered in a language most could not understand. And I don't remember actually hugging a students. And Mai-chan, if you're reading this, Uncle Max is a nice man [and will be for at least the next decade-and-a-half].

I developped a crush on Daniel's supervisor, got to refresh my German, made at least 3 boys and one girl agree that my color could be dubbed brown sugar [they're apaprently calling me that from now on, and you should too], and grilled some fish everyone ate - and loved. Yes, I'll say that one again, people were asking for seconds of fish I cooked.

Ok, no. I'm lying. The fish was a joint effort, but the point is someone somewhere likes a fish I partly cooked.

There is hope yet.

If I may here save you some culinary disappointment: stay away from Japanese 'blue cheese'. It's not blue cheese. It's processed cheese [reminescent of white Velveeta] with selective blotches of creamy-blue food colouring. All kinds of disgusting, but we figured we bought it, and everyone was inebriated enough to not really care.

In other, somewhat related news - I just finished reading Returning A Borrowed Tongue, an anthology of Filipino and Filipino-American poetry. Downing a few pre-brews on Dan's patio, the conversation veered towards the idea of home. We were a pretty random bunch with very varied views on the idea, mine being somewhat scattered. In the final pages of the anthology there's this piece called Carillonneur, which really seemed to echo thoughts on displacement and home in a way that feels familiar... or at least one I can point to when words are lacking.

But I'll leave transcribing that to another day.

I'd much rather have your take on this:

If you are a car with a foreign girl in a wife beater and mini skirt and a tall lanky white dude looking like he walked out of a music video. And if you're driving down a country road, literally in the middle of nowhere. And this country road is in Japan. And if this country road happens to have a sidewalk. And on this sidewalk there is an old man. In a wheelchair. Pushing himself backwards with one foot. While looking behind him for direction. Down a country road leading from nowhere to nowhere [or perhaps a farm].

Do you stop and help or do you keep driving?

bunched up

2006-06-23T21:08:00.000+09:00

Wow, my body clock does some WEIRD things. Cue your 'aaawww's.

In an attempt to confirm the exact time and date that a certain friend's [...] hit my [...] as his cousin handed him a glass of water and our eyes met, so as to pinpoint the moment when 'the rest' truly 'became history', I realised that on June 23rd of last year I was in precisely the same mental place, albeit on the other end of the world. Look through the archives if you wish [1].

Yes, I am slowly packing up, but mostly to see how much I have to send home prior to my departure. I'm a little distraught at how many expired meds I brought with me... I also have an entire hamper filled with clothing I do not care to wear anymore, mostly because they turned into uniforms out here and I am frankly SICK of having to feel them against my skin.

I found a year's worth of scribbles and train and bus tickets to places whose names I still can't read...

And then there are the pants. One sky blue, and the other some shade of pink.

I hate that I find the allegory best describing the meaning of my year in two pairs of discarded, worn out, second-hand-Value-Village, old-man pants. But it beats writing cryptic lines like It All Boils Down to Stephen Smith [2].

But I did model them around the house before I put them in the pile, I couldn't just let them go. For the most part, because I am terrified at the pair that will replace them in my reach-out-grab-slip-on-as-second-nature reflex when I roll out of bed in the morning. I hope the next pair fits as comfortably, and makes the right heads turn like these did.

They've been SO good to me. I refuse to believe there won't be others, but I'm having trouble letting THESE go. At least I still have those shorts...

[1] And Jameel, that's my way of saying Happy Birthday to YOU... Hope this year's celebration is half as insane as last year's. I promise I'm not posting pictures. I also promise that someday I will get over 'that night'.
[2] Don't worry, I'll post about Stephen Smith someday soon, I promise.

I am Jack's ...

2006-06-22T13:44:00.000+09:00

You've gotta wonder what in the hell you're doing getting paid to read an entire book of poetry, annotate it, post a blog, ponder life and all its nuances, question life and all it involves - and act on absolutely none of the suggestions offered by the voices in your head - before you go home. Early. All the while looking outside and wondering why you couldn't just huddle your 20-25 hours of repetition per week [most of which is spent standing silently between read-out-loud stints] into one big productive class. It would be much less irritating for everyone involved if we stopped pretending that this is work. And it would allow me to leave this place knowing I owned it and milked what it offered for all it's worth. I hate the fact that I'll be leaving knowing I have to come back [with someone who drives - that's you bebe].

This place offers way too much time for thought, and way too little elbow room for action, which in my books is a very dangerous combination.

I am increasingly convinced that Fight Club was scripted by a bunch of former inaka JETs.

Thank you for your attention.

shameless self-promotion

2006-06-21T14:22:00.000+09:00

You can tell it's been an eventful day when...

Inspired by an article I read in the Japan Times today, I was about to start researching 'cute power' [apparently one of the incarnations of feminism out here].

So I go to google.ca...

Key in 'cute power' + Wikipedia and...

and get this.

ok, I'm breathing again

2006-06-20T15:15:00.000+09:00

Well, I'm over the frustrations of the weekend - we'll just say that I had a run-in with all the stereotypical obnoxious situations the JET Handbook / Foreigners in Japan warn you about, minus the comedic aspect and the glimmer of hope that something was lost in translation.

I spent the weekend in the Date / Toya area, having received an invite from Yumiko who welcomed me into her summer house. You may remember Yumiko as one of my better eikaiwa students, whom I lost to the evil tradition of government job transfers last April. A few other ladies from her Kuriyama eikaiwa [coincidentally, my BOE's superintendent's - aka my boss' - wife as well as one of my students' mother and her 16-year-old daughter] decided to tag along, which made my travels to Date much easier.

Date is a relatively large town [but my frame of reference IS a village...] wedged between Lake Toya and a bay, which makes for AWESOME views - I forgot to load my camera with the necessary batteries, so I'm still waiting for my pictures. It kind of reminds me of Taal Lake, if that helps at all.

The touring style, though not one I was a fan of [a five-woman version of the Japanese tourbus style] was probably necessary as time was of the essence. So, let's see if I can... no, I can't. This one can't help but be presented in list form. OK, if this sounds like an exagerated itinerary rest assured it isn't - I was called three times in the week prior to my visit to be reminded of the schedule, and the fact that I 'was expected to prepare English games for the group'.

Saturday

9am: Hiroko picks me up at home

[9:03 am I realise I forgot my purse at home. Silly gaijin. We turn back, I get my things.]

10:30 am: mid-journey rest stop

12:00 : arrival in Date - introduction to 2 of Yumiko's new friends, lunch at Bocca [I'll spare you the conversation]

1:30 pm : leave restaurant, proceed to local sword / indigo dying workshop. Enjoy dying a blue bandana [process takes 20-30 minutes]. In other words, I am the happy owner of a blue bandana that I designed and dyed myself! [ok, for those of you who know how much fun I have with liquids that stain, you know I was actually ECSTATIC at the idea of discovering a new way of turning my hands into a new colour]

2:00 pm : Visit of an old house and Hokkaido history museum, where I got schooled by the coolest tour guide ever [who happened to be the wife of the sword workshop's founder, himself a master swordmaker - after the cross look she gave me following my inquiries regarding the purchase of a katana, you'd best believe I won't allow one to hang on my wall anytime soon. The wisdom of her answer itself was worth more than any object I could purchase and make mine]. She was incredibly honest, had incredibly informed answers about everything and didn't hesitate to counter the assumptions that transpired in my questions. Awesome.

4:00 pm: Date Milk Farm [apparently perfect for honeymoons, perhaps because it foreshadows what is to come], to watch the cows get milked and sample some local dairy goods. I'm as confused as you are...

5:00 pm: Proceed to Yumiko's summer house to prepare dinner and chat. She refused to believe me when I insisted she was blessed to have a roof in such a gorgeous place. We made yakisoba, I helped [yay! I love women who let me share their counter space!] and we talked about all things environmental and interracial [in the most alert manner ever - she will NEVER be the source of my irritations]. I had a slight scare when, cutting an onion and thus staring at the counter and her hands as she spoke, I mistook her for my mother. Partially because we were talking about composting techniques, but mostly because of the texture of her skin and the gestures her hands spoke with. These two need to meet.

7:00 pm: Dinner is served, and I find the solution to my eigo-game dillema [I did NOT pressure them]... They got drunk on their own, I promise. I WILL spare you the conversation that ensued.

11:00 pm: Final half of Iran v. Portugal. HOT, though most in attendance failed to see why.

Sunday

7:00 am: Steph gets up to make a Canadian-style breakfast.

10:00 am: Drive around Lake Toya, with stops for sightseeing.

11:00 am: Stop at Showashinzan, a volcano that spontaneously appeared on the surface of Hokkaido in 1943. Within 3 years, it had lifted the nearby fields and grown to become a decent-sized mountain. Think of it as a smokey, red pimple. I was itching to climb it [not one of my better ideas, I'll admit], whereas the ladies wanted to take advantage of the shopping opportunity the local gift shops offered [these folks never lose an opportunity to develop their natural sites and allow consumerism to prosper...]. I felt like I was 13 and travelling with my parents again.

12:00 : The area is FILLED with onsens, thanks in part to the volcanoes. We stopped by a roadside [it's actually on the corner of the street, a gazebo built over it] footbath to relax the toes.

1:00 pm: Ususan. The volcano that erupted 6 years ago and partially destroyed the nearby village is now... well, a tourist spot is the simplest way of putting it. It's still smoking and - I suppose - active. Basically, I was near, on or around two volcanoes within a three-hour span. Kinda cool. And hot. Mmmmmm, craters.

2:00 pm: Lunch at a local soba restaurant.

2:30 pm: Extremely random visit of the hilltop Toya Windsor Hotel [apparently perfect for wedding ceremonies]... Once I saw the view, I understood why we were there. Oh my god, the coastline is GORGEOUS. At this point I was so antsy to climb/ride something I was just about ready to scream a scream that would shatter the crystal chandelier.

3:00 pm: Ice cream stop at a local parlor that just happened to have an awesome full frontal of Yotei.

4:00 pm: Departure. I inherited 5 beers, for some reason.

6:45 pm: Arrival in Kuriyama. I proceeded to working out [the following].

Total gaijin sightings: 7. 3 were accompanied by a native. All were welcomed with exclamations, comments, assumptions and inquiries as to whether I knew them.

Comments made about my inevitable matrimony: countless

Comments made about my perceived domestic / maternal instincts: countless

Racist comments / assumptions: countless

Frowns before aspirations other than matrimony: countless

Attempts made at extorting information about teachers and local gaijins: countless

Commentaries about Islam made with a look of contempt in my direction: 3

Attempts at making me admit my parents marriage was difficult because interracial: 4

Attempts at making me admit my father was maladjusted because a Filipino immigrant: 3

Attempts at making me admit refugees, immigrants and brown people are dangerous: 2

Still, I am grateful. If it weren't for this, I wouldn't have been reminded just how much ignorance stings and a sheltered life destroys even the most potentially brilliant minds. And these women are the ones rearing the next generation...

blind date, non-negotiable

2006-06-18T20:58:00.000+09:00

It's been an awesome weekend.

Really it has. Really.

The fact that Dirrrty and Stupids Girls have been looping at maximum volume for the past hour or so, or the fact that I am kicking, punching and sit-upping my tank top into a right rag, taking breaks to dance to PCD in front of my patio door [it doubles as a mirror after dark]? It means nothing. Really. Nothing.

You'll get to hear all about my weekend once my chief editors are done their graveyard shift and have adequately censored the past 48 hours' contents Because if I write now, I'll come across as a completely ungrateful, heartless bitch...

Hostie d'câlisse que j'en ai plein mon sacrament d'cass d'me faire parler comme si j'étais sur une tabarnacle de chaîne de montage marquée femme/mère/domestique. Criss, ça s'ra pas beau rendu au Québec - j'en connais qui comprendront pas c'qui s'passe. C'est quoi s't'hostie d'mentalité arrièrée de juste juger une femme, entre femme à part ça - comme si on en avait pas assez de faire face aux hommes - par la mesure de ses habiletés domestiques pis sa gentillesse pis d'être aveugle à ce qu'elle a été, croyant que tout ce qu'elle aspire devenir est une forme d'illusion, voir une rébellion? Faut croire que j'devrais les pardonner pis comprendre, c'est tout c'qu'y connaissent. Mais sacrament, mon futur pis c'que j'veux en faire c'est d'mes affaires, pas des vôtres. Pis tu peux êt' sur que si tu vis dans ta cuisine depuis 30 ans, pis q'ta seule perspective du monde viens des f'nêtres'd'la maison, t'as pas d'affaire à être hautaine pis m'dire de pas m'inquiéter, mon destin est tracé j't'aussi ben d'arrêter d'nager cont' le courrant. Au moins chu pas née ici, j'aurai pu àé entendre dans pas long - pis surtout, chu pas leur filles, sont pas ma mère. Thank God.

The thing is, I'm a 'teacher' out here, a young woman in a loyal relationship (which is more than many of the ladies here can seem to claim) and I like kids (no one seems to get that it's cause I can't stand the adults - see previous paragraph). Slowly, I am starting to let it all slide - it's not worth trying to punch a hole through water.

5 weeks.

Then shit becomes non-negotiable, and I'm out of smile-and-avoid-the-subject mode.

If I must be constructive with this one, and I believe I do... I just called my father, because it's his day. My daddy grew up around women, his world is matriarchal without being maternal. His idea of what a woman is ... what he sees in me I cannot describe, but it's bigger than this. It's to be equal if not bigger than him, have a mind and a purpose that goes beyond myself daily, and borders when I feel it's needed. He watched me grow up, and knows who I am best. Knows how to keep our relationship strong, and smiles with all his being when he knows I'm prospering. I have absolutely no intention of making him frown, too many other things in his life have. I refuse to be another one of them.

I refuse to be one of them, which is why I refuse to even have it presented as an option. Like I said, letting slide, with sticky fingers.

hookudu ong huonikusu

2006-06-15T17:44:00.000+09:00

... would find an awesome market here. With a [hypothetical] target demographic of about 14.5 million if we assume that all 7-18 year olds will put it on their back-to-school list between the entire collection of scented pens and the branded eraser, HOP would make a killing out here.

You see, the ONE pet peeve all ALTs seem to share is the almost system-wide disregard for the phonetical alphabet. I admit, teaching students to read phonetically would be a hideously long, frustrating process, and would require a good number of mouth charts [cause I'm sure as hell not demonstrating anything with MY mouth, it would cause all kinds of outrage] and funny squiggles and upside-down letters even I can't decipher. And I admit, the English language IS a frustrating one to learn - and one most students don't care to know ANYWAYS. Dare I say, English class in Japan is like English class in Ste-Dorothee, only the drugs are replaced by absurd amounts of Hello Kitty and the toilets are actually used for their intended purpose.

ALTs and JTEs agree on the fact that, when learning to read, students need to sound out the words. Phonetically, right... well, let's take a moment to ponder the meaning of the word phonetic:

Pronunciation: f&-'ne-tik
Function: adjective
Etymology: New Latin phoneticus, from Greek phOnEtikos, from phOnein to sound with the voice, from phOnE voice
1 a : of or relating to spoken language or speech sounds b : of or relating to the science of phonetics
2 : representing the sounds and other phenomena of speech: as a : constituting an alteration of ordinary spelling that better represents the spoken language, that employs only characters of the regular alphabet, and that is used in a context of conventional spelling b : representing speech sounds by means of symbols that have
one value only c : employing for speech sounds more than the minimum number of symbols necessary to represent the significant differences in a speaker's speech
- pho·net·i·cal·ly /-ti-k(&-)lE/ adverb

I would like to direct your attention to 2a. It has long since been agreed that Japanese students will NEVER learn the phonetic alphabet. Not until they can instinctively care about intuiting the spelling by using the alpahbet they 'already know'. Two writing systems would be much too annoying, considering they already have ot struggle with three when it comes to learning their own language [and no, this is not me being sarcastic]. So, when I say 'sound it out', I mean listen to what I am spelling, look at the page and draw from the memory of the 45 times you repeated after me. What they hear when I say 'sound it out' is 'transfer it into katakana'.

Needless to say, I hate katakana. Not only because I have corrected exams where students wrote their answers entirely in katakana [sadly, had they made the extra effort to learn English in English, they would have had a perfect grade], but because it causes me to laugh uncontrolably in the staff room, which puts me in the awkward position of having to explain why the following sentences are funny. [This is just a small sample... I kept a list somewhere, but seem to have misplaced it]

Translate the following sentences [this is generally when the funny stuff pops up]

Q. 彼女は、あなたのコーチですか？ [kanojowa, anatano coochi desuka?]

A. Is she your coochi?

Q. 私は、私の友人と口をきいて楽しみます. [watashiwa watashino tomodachito kuchiokiite tanoshimimas]

A. I enjoy toking with my friends.

Q. これは、あなたの席ですか？ [korewa anatano seki deska]

A. Is this your shit?

Clarification?

コーチ is the katakana for coach. Assuming, somewhat justifiably, that katakana is an accurate reflection of the foreign language word [but not realising that katakana is not the language of origin, but rather a simplified interpretation of it], s/he simply wrote the romanji [roman letter] equivalent of the katakana as his/her answer.

In the case of the other two answers, the student actually [yay!] learnt the English word:　口をきいて being 'talking' and 席 being 'seat'. Only they, once again, learnt it audiologically via katakana, rather than visually. Which turned 'talking' into 'トーキング' [to-okingu] and thus toking, and 'seat' into 'シト' [shito] and thus shit. I suppose I should be thankful that they thought of dropping those final vowels... which proves that they were SOMEWHAT listening when I corrected them in class.

Further confusions, this time grammatical - misuse of 'doing'. I try to explain to them that when someone asks you what you like/enjoy doing, you have to drop 'doing' in your answer and replace it with a verb.

Still, I have students who enjoy doing their computer, their skis, their bicycle... and the list of inanimate objects they apparently enjoy doing just goes on.

With 5 weeks to go, I'm just rolling with it and biting my lips A LOT.

blame the boys...

2006-06-12T12:46:00.000+09:00

Last Saturday, I received a sure sign that I'm hanging around way too many boys... Watching the England / Paraguay game, I kept hearing 'nampa', and wondering if the expresion was yet another sports-related inuendo... After all, the commentator only said it when a shot was headed for the goal. Turns out the commentator was talking about Lampard, England's midfielder [8].

hehehe. sigh.

But then, the boys apparently offer little more than a return to teen movie humor... I realised this weekend just how commited, devoted and loyal I truly am [oh, come on - I've been sparing you guys the cheese for the past 11 months, I have the right to spread the cheese on THICK]. If the quasi-weekly habit of well-behaved drinking / debauchering / crashing in houses where I am the sole representative of the better sex wasn't proof enough... Walking down Odori on Saturday, I apparently strolled by the hands-down-hottest-JET-in-this-prefecture and didn't notice until his friend said hi. Had this been a year ago, I would have detected the specimen from three blocks away [I like that I can back that up with factual evidence - and look where it got me ;)]... But, a year later, my radar is down. Hell, I may have even returned it, unconsciously, to the radar store. I barely acknowledged his presence [you know how I am with eye contact when it comes to greeting people - I gave the bridge of his nose a head nod, nonchalante bitch style], and the thought that I could have slyly followed him around or snuck a peek at any part of his anatomy is only hitting me as I write this. Something is very, very wrong. Or perhaps something is very, very right.

That would be a refreshing way of seeing things.

Very, very right - I kinda like the sound of that.

Wow, that may be the closest I come to exposing my mushy side...

Well, as I feel obligated to atone for the Velveeta and save womyn face... Oh my Goddess, I wanna know who sponsored this misogynistic rag...

1998, 2002...

2006-06-09T18:32:00.000+09:00

Soooo... after a few Bingo sheets meant to get the students to recognise, write and pronounce the 32 countries involved... after teaching an unidentified verb tense with it [can anyone tell me the name given to the 'is held' / 'was held' form?]... and after having deciphered - somewhat - this schedule ...

...it has begun...

1998 was easy, and I managed to 'stay up' in 2002 - or if I didn't, at least one car I passed on my walk from the Village to the Faubourg inevitably gave me a sign as to what I had missed. We'll see if I can accomplish the same feat this time around.

Now the World Cup always seems to come with a hefty serving of 'aaaw' stories. Let me please introduce you to the first one that grabbed my attention, by clicking here. You'll quickly notice why I liked it so much - it's easy, there are at least three reasons.

taikutaikai

2006-06-08T18:17:00.000+09:00

According to the yahoo.co.jp translation engine,　体躯大会 apparently means 'a body meet'. Actually, it was our school's Sport's Day Meet, but I couldn't resist checking.

The affair was relatively soggy, or at the very least moist, with a light mist turning into all-out rain in the afternoon. Most of the teachers were totally hilarious, pulling out their ski suits for the Big Day Out - I definitely looked like I was about to go camping... But if the mommies can make it out and represent for the entire day, so can I.

I let the kids have their fun with my camera, which turned out to be a pretty good idea. Sadly I can't share the fruits of their creativity with you all, since they were more attracted to the video function than the photo one. But, since I resisted the urge to barge into their day of stardom - and as such spent the day watching rather than playing [if you're wondering why I wasn't 'coordinating' and 'taking down results' with the rest of the staff... I think they just stopped trusting me with things like that since the dodgeball day]. So I snapped, and snapped and snapped highlights.

The living proof that my students are the genkiest ever are on video... sadly. They made a point of spicing up the jump rope counting [in eigo] by counting one-two-three-fuuuuuuuuu-five, because no day is complete without Hard Gay. I can't believe I break my own laughter-decibel record daily. It has nothing to do with the following, however... I try to avoid laughing in teh face of 'authority', or armed mommies.

The main reason why I can't remember most of my students' names... there are about 300.

kyoto-sensei, in one of his better posture/smile days. He wore that to make sure we would remember he was around.

He calls me tuna-sensei [the others call me Stephanie-chan behind my back - literally]. I call him marimo, because all the others do, too. If I had it my way, he'd be renamed takoyaki. As for the girl on the right, she was growling at anyone who DARED touch that flag.

Redifining dedicated-soccer-mom, one new tech gizmo at a time.

The mommy section in the stands...

As I write this I'm watching The Colbert Report clips from comedycentral.com. Why is the Stephen's Sound Advice: Graduation one sounding like a familiar narrative? Come on, take a guess...

because of nothing in particular

2006-06-06T16:45:00.000+09:00

Il y a des crimes de passion et des crimes de logique. Le Code pénal les distingue, assez commodément, par la préméditation. Nous sommes au temps de la préméditation et du crime parfait. Nos criminels ne sont plus ces enfants désarmés qui invoquaient l'excuse de l'amour. Ils sont adultes, au contraire, et leur alibi est irréfutable: c'est la philosophie qui peut servir à tout, même à changer les meurtriers en juges.

Because of nothing in particular, I will be unconcerned until I have to sit someone down to explain something or bring them to question an unsollicited side glance. For the time being, I just dusted off the copy of Albert Camus' L'Homme Révolté which had been sleeping on my bookshelf since 2002.

I'd rather read than speak in hypotheses.

did someone just say ... NO ?!?

2006-06-05T18:12:00.000+09:00

This is the story of my life in Japan - something was going on, and no one told me about it. Boo-hoo. And I could most definitely not rely on my most trusty ally this year - namely online sources... This was most definitely not going to be publicised. Because, well, you know. Ah well, maybe someday.

So guess what happened in Sapporo [and, apparently, across the country] this weekend, this oh so pivotal moment in my time in Japan, one which would change all my illusions about this country and set the wheels of [civil] society, my mind, and the Future of Japan as we know it in motion?

Yup people, a protest. On a sunny Sunday in Hokkaido, The People [mostly teachers, but also a few Buddhist monks] got out of their inaka pachinko parlors and their staff rooms and took to the streets, apparently a-thousand strong in Sapporo. The Japanese government wants to reform education, much like it wants to re-write the 1949 [aka Peace] Constitution [or at least article 9, the one about war and the army]. And, well, apparently not everyone is... um... bowing down before his initiative, so to speak. You can read more about this here - they have since decided, as far as I know, to push the voting on this and another bill until the next parliamentary session... Nonetheless, the idea apparently leaves some teachers scratching their heads as to why they 1) would have to teach pride of nation while 2) teaching a false account of history-since-WWI and 3) avoiding more pressing issues. Like, say, health [to avoid having pupils commit suicide] and internationalism [to prepare them for the ultimate reality of immigrants] [1].

It's all a very complicated issue, one which I could try to explain with many cultural observations, finger pointing and other ugly things. But I'm left wondering why a country which is striving to open its doors - if only on paper - is actively attempting to close the doors of its population's minds by fostering narrow-mindedness and group mentality 'even more'. As per a few social studies teachers and a conversation over Ain's geography book, the damn TEXTBOOKS are filled with cultural stereotypes about 'foreigners'. And this bill is truly the only thing missing to make what I for one have observed in schools official, to name that overarching mentality in the educational system by it's name. The students are most definitely not pushed towards independent thought, and are constantly acting in 'groups' or 'teams'. Little is designed to pin one student 'against' another, rather a spirit of community and solidarity reigns. This lasts for the entirety of ones life through assigned uniforms or customs - how are these NOT a testimony to what remains unspoken? By wearing one's affiliation as a cloak, by always being mindful of the next person, from kindergarten on, are educatiors NOT already training youths to think for anything but themselves? From there it's only a matter of adding a few words, directing the altruism towards the unspoken... you see where I'm going.

Miss M. pointed to the fact that fostering a 'pride of nation' is meant to bring youths out of their individualistic mindsets, to make them realise that their purpose is not to themselves but to society and their fellow contry people. All in all, to make them realise that their allegion, their purpose [because one is not meant to have his purpose be a selfish one and ultimate altruism is to the greatest tangible being, that closest to God] is, ultimately, she says, to the nation - which is where she is frightened. No one speaks of the war, and so no one cares to remember [or cares to make the link with] how this contemporary attempt at a 'pride-of-nation' resonates of the imperialist teachings/propaganda hammered into the youth during WWII [2]. In the current global landscape, and mindful of Japan's place in it - when you think of political affiliations, regional relations[hips] and global views vs. global knowledge - Miss M. is, well, worried.

For my part, I'm thinking that this is just an incentive to bring people - and by extension the economy - back into the national bubble. 'If we all put our minds into it, perhaps we can achieve the dream, with the common goal of the nation driving us' type thing. If there is to be any kind of an expansionist fervor it will be an economic one, the proverbial 'troops' invading 'other lands' with, as sole weapons, free trade and concrete [to build factories, not drown people]. Simply because, if the Japanese seem thirsty for something, it's not blood and land but the ability to consume and save economic face.

IN other news, life is unfair

Why? Because, I am in Japan, and I am in sumo land, so why does my acquaintance in Israel get to meet [and chat with?] Kotooshyu and the entourage? boo, Aaron, boo. Check my Flickr contacts for proof of the legitimacy of my dismay.

Or for pretty pictures of pretty things, like these:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sothereiwas/sets/72057594127371499/show/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/sothereiwas/sets/72157594154593342/show/

[1]This conclusion comes after a really long conversation with Miss M, who was at the protest and is dismayed by how much Koizumi just seems to idolize Bush... a discussion on Bush, which eventually lead to a discussion on religion, Christianity, the separation between church and state, and basic life values, followed. I [heart] Miss M.
[2]Perhaps with apt timing, a book titled KAMIKAZE DIARIES: Reflections of Japanese Student Soldiers, by Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, just came out

fate and novelty

2006-06-03T13:32:00.000+09:00

In the growing list labeled 'times I wish I had my camera'- I just saw the BEST inscription-on-a-coat ever on a mother-of-three at MaxValu:

HEDONISM: It's just that I don't abide to Japanese customs anymore. Unconstrained.

After a few tries which all lead to 40's, midnight poutines and general debauchery, I finally watched Fight Club. While simultaneously reading Thomas More's Utopia. It's coming at me from all sides, we'll see what I do with all these great life lessons which I just can't seem to escape - I'm loving how quotable both of them are, but I'll spare you the moral highground until I actually have experiences to back me up. In other news, I'm getting rid of my Hermann Hesse 'collection'. I'm just not 'there' anymore, mentally or otherwise. Reading Siddhartha once was enough, The Journey to the East almost made me puke, and I'm assuming Demian and The Prodigy are... predictable. If anything, I can no doubt stroll by the Word any day and pick up a copy discarded by another.

For the time being, I'm basking in the glory of rejuvinated novelty, in the form of students coming to see me in the staff room during soji, holding two go-en in the palm of their hand as though it were an injured sparrow, looking at me to see if I can care for them [they all know the - PG version of the - story behind the go-en hanging from my neck, and thought they may have been mine.] Or in the form of two ichinenseis offering me THE COOLEST mechanical pen, slyly, between two classes. Or... or... or how all the groups seem to have food=related group names, like the 'natto group' [1B... cause they stick together, get it?] or the 'strong meat group' as in the law of the jungle...

Or how I just discovered a waterfall in the middle of nowhere during a bike ride to Yubari [I made it halfway, entirely satisfied by my discovery].

Actually, I kinda want to keep Siddhartha. Maybe that's what I could do this afternoon, skim through 600+ pages of good ol' HH before we part forever. And yes, you're right in thinking that I'm dropping more than Hesse by putting him in the hands of someone a little more like him. But I'll stop now.

Instead, I will turn your attention on yet another reason why I love the internet, Japan, and Japanese people's use of it. I may have never made a big fuss about them, but town signs are kinda worth the extra attention here, packing in as much info about the town you are about to enter as a foot x foot placard will allow you to. For example, one will know, upon entering Yubari, that it has melons and a ski slope. Kutchan, on the other hand, has a better mountain [note lil' potato boy's tuque], better skiing, and potatoes. Kuriyama has butterflies, and Ashibetsu has the Canadian Village - or an odd love for redheads with braids. And Kitahiroshima has ambitious boys - we're still wondering about the girls. Also, I love how Yoichi is known for the rather large, phallic thing protruding from the sea. BEHOLD, the Hokkaido town signs. Click on the PDF for a more fulfilling experience.

15 & le photomaton

2006-05-30T21:56:00.000+09:00

Forget the fact that Yann Thiersen feels like a four-hour long kiss by canal St-Martin in the middle of a winter afternoon...

Le Fabuleux Destin D'Amelie Poulain is the best thing to be created since my mother's lemon meringue pie.

on a lighter [greener] note

2006-05-29T20:41:00.000+09:00

I spent the evening with a rag on my head [to avoid the inevitable 'immigrant smell' that comes with frying onions and garlic in some spices from getting caught in my hair], by the stove, doing my homework after Saturday's lesson. To the beats of Nelly Furtado, Beyonce, the PCDs, Xtina and Pink, I just made a surprisingly large amount of asparagus cream soup and yogurt... Both extremely oishii... Guess who's reliving x-mas tomorrow! [I hope she doesn't mind green creamy goo]

I am so giddy at my own domestication, it's frightening.

But there's just something extremely soothing about going through the motions of chopping...

raise your eyebrows say yeah - installment 2

2006-05-29T20:06:00.000+09:00

This is a preamble to a post I will never write, simply because shit like this stops being 'funny' when it ceases to be one in a series of HAJET Urban Legends recounted over a few beers and it becomes real - i.e. the police gets involved, and one of my co-workers gets hurt.

I am reading Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. Why? Because it's been lying around in my house, left behind by one of my predecessors. [I'm avoiding questioning myself about who/why/when this was imported to a JET abode... by the way] I saw the movie way way back when the Egyptian was still open. I forget how I felt upon exiting the theater - I feel like the thrill lay in the fact that I, at 14, had seen a film that had been censored in good ol' liberal Canada. Just that was enough... Plus, he really seemed to like her - the fact that she had such power over an OLDER MAN... wow. totally something to aspire to... Well thank Hollywood for the role reversal - way to go, dirty producer...

Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travellers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as 'nymphets'.

[...]

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh! how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs [...] the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

Furthermore, since the idea of time plays such a magic part in the matter, the student should not be surprised to learn that there must be a gap of several years, never less than ten I should say, generally thirty or forty, and as many as ninety in a few known cases, between maiden and man to enable the latter to come under a nymphet's spell. It is a question of focal adjustment, of a certain distance that the inner eye thrills to surmount, and a certain contrast that the mind perceives with a gasp of perverse delight.

[...]

I found myself maturing amid a civilisation which allows a man of twenty-five to court a girl of sixteen but not a girl of twelve.

I hate the fact that shit flies more freely than the crows in this country, and that small towns keep big secrets. I remain confused, piecing the pieces, with raised eyebrows [except in the staff room, that is].

Paris remembers bayanihan

2006-05-28T19:20:00.000+09:00

Ok, let's see if I can remember all of it... pumpkins, potatoes, rice, asparagus, strawberries, nashi, apples, raspberries, carrots, udo, nagaimo, daikon, watermelons, eggplants, corn, cabbage, and a dog named John that pees on guests that give him hugs.

I like saying that some John peed on me. It has a certain je ne sais quoi.

I spent Saturday with three generations of Ohiras, and it was kind of unforgetable. Surprisingly enough Ikuyo had never actually planted rice, so her grandmother walked us through the basics, sat on the sidelines to properly point the missing spots [machines had done most of the work, but nothing beats a bit of a human touch!] and proceeded to laugh at two city girls in knee-high rubber boots, butts in the air and noses in the mud. We diligently patched up the last few corners and once we reached what seemed like the other end of the world, we plopped down on a grassy mound separating the last field from her neighbor's land [apparently the most prosperous mugi - is that wheat? - farmer in Hokkaido], rolled up whatever sleeves we had, treated our arms to a mud pack and talked about the kind of things 20 something girls talk about when sitting in a field by a river, away from earshot.

Mommy, don't worry, I didn't get sucked on by leeches. Daddy, no, I did NOT bust out any magtanim ay di biro moves as it was practically impossible to even walk in all that mud.

She gave me a tour of the farm and its machinery - almost nothing is done by hand.

Mommy insisted on having me stay for lunch, which means I got a crash course in Japanese cooking from a master chef [anyone who raised 5 strong girls and seems to feed the entire family daily must be SOME sot of a master chef]. I learnt how to make tempura, about a million sauces [basically any combination of vinegar, miso, soy sauce, crushed goma and sugar and mayo... mayo? yes, mayo], yogurt, those pickle preserve things... basically anything she could point to on the table or anything I showed interest in.

Ikuyo and her mom ganged up and tried to convince me to stay until October as a farmhand [for 6000 - 7000 yen per day]... Man do I ever wish I could. I don't even need to be paid for 3 extra months of this family and its food!

Is it normal that I become fluent in Japanese and seem to understand everything the women in this family say to me, regardless of the speed their mouths are going at?

Anyways... we left early, as she wanted to show me a park near Yubari she figured was worth seeing. Mom did not let me leave until I was equipped with a yogurt starter kit, a bunch of asparagus, and a few more goodies of the land. We found a waterfall neither of us knew existed, I reasserted my love for the Hokkaido landscape [when free of concrete], we deemed it a satisfactory and successful day, and rolled back home.

Conclusion? I want a farm, or at least a decent-sized garden. How's the rooftop gardening progressing in Montreal?

I came back home and stretched out my back, showered and changed. Jumped on a bus to Sapporo, met up with Karen for dinner,

[worthwhile time out for Montreal MEL: were we really that rowdy at the restaurant? or noticeable? I suppose we kinda were, for those who understood our language - I for one would have eavesdropped on our conversation... why do I ask? the waiter [the young one] at Taj remembered my order and gave me the LARGEST smile when I walked into the door. I can't get over it, but I figure it means nothing until he starts feeding me for free.]

headed out ot Laura's for pre-drinks, general stupidity, and way too much girl talk and music videos, and proceeded to...

oh

my

god.

I'm quite certain none of you readers knew me back when that now-hideous black/purple building on the corner of Ontario and St-Laurent was known as Living, and I spent my Thursday nights there [with Marie, Dominique and the Sona/514 bunch] like it was mass.

Well, since you weren't you'll have to believe me when I say that I had flashbacks from a past with dirty buildups and even dirtier track selection. I bow down to you, mister Tanaka aka Fantastic Plastic Machine and that little dude that opened the night. I hadn't moved quite like that in a while, and I presume the awesome people I was with had soething to do with it all. And holy --- is that actually vodka in my vodka tonic? I didn't know alcoholic drinks actually had alcohol in them in this country!!! [I curse thee, nomihodai trap!]

I left for some air and failed to come back in [damn you, doorman on a power trip], and so I decided to wander around Susukino until the first bus [the sun was already rising, so I figured it would all be ok].

There must have been some skebe spores in the air, cause the men were oddly groppy and stalker-like. So the night concluded in the couches of one of IC's cubicles, with complimentary breakfast before I hopped unto the bus home.

yummy.

it has begun

2006-05-26T13:42:00.000+09:00

Well, I just got back from a meeting with my beloved Tsuji, which is always well quirky and entertaining as we both do not realise how much of each other's language we both actually understand. A gold star to you, yahoo.co.jp translation program!

We met to try and coordinate my departure and the semantics surrounding it, and as we flipped through my agenda I realised just HOW FEW weekends I have left here. I say weekends because - well - they are possibly the only times remaining to truly add an accent to my experience here. I've sort of 'shoganaied' [yes, it is now a verb - call it romanji Japanese] my time at school, though I still maintain that I think up the best games in Sorachi.

She handed me my successor's file - I'll avoid disclosing her name, but suffice it to say that my BOE has a sense of humour... We went through it together, I translated what I could of it... Is it normal that I get pangs of jealousy at the knowledge that she will integrate better and will be more beloved by her students than I, as she has 3 years of Japanese, fluent Cantonese and Mandarin under her belt and the kawaiiiiiiiest face ever?

Meh, at least I tried.

Biking back, I could not help but wonder what I wanted to but DID NOT do this year. I came up with three things:

- Hike every national park on this dear prefecture of mine [we'll see about that, I just realised I have exactly 2 free weekends until I leave...]

- Join a taiko group [I was signed up for my town's classes, but they smacked me with an eikaiwa...] and see the Kodo Drummers [there's still a chance for that one, if my BOE lets me leave the island to go to Niigata on my last week here]

- Learn to snowboard [let's just avoid that one entirely, though I almost melted when I saw this website the other day... I have to stop avoiding it and learn to love the snow...]

I figure if it bugs me for long enough, I will be back - nothing is tying me down that... um... isn't willing to be untied and tag along.

In other less hypothetical news, I rekindled with my inner elementary school student [which essentially made me age by 5 years from my attitude on a normal day at school] and joined the ichinensei students in a day-long dodge-ball tournament in the local park. Kinda cool, and the post-lunch soji really drove home the fact that this place is SO DAMN SAFE. No fear of those youthful fingers coming in contact with seringes and used condoms here!

Also, my mamachiari is back in action after a few days of feeling not so good. Her tubes are now tied, patched, etc etc... so I am mobile once more all for the low price of 700yen. I have such a crush on the school's groundskeepers, it's almost frightening.

Also, I am rekindlikng with my roots [namely pinay peasant and raver-in-a-time-when-leg-warmers-were-cool [and imported from Japan]] this weekend by planting rice and going to see Fantastic Plastic Machine.

Someday, my writing will be quality once more.

I predict around August 1st.

disproof, in two parts

2006-05-24T16:20:00.000+09:00

1. setting: Hokkaido International School, Sapporo - in the bleachers by the tracks

Can one of you guys come and pway wif me?

Not now, we have to talk about grown up things. There's plenty of kids over there that want to play with you.

No... they don' wanna pway wif me...

What do you mean? Why not? Dude, you're the coolest guy around!

No... I'm not... [moment of reflection] GOD is the coolest guy awouwnd...

[shared look of consternation, knowing fully well 'mom' had nothing to do with THAT one]

Who told you that?

No one...

You just thought of that on your own?

Yeah...

[at this point, he's staring at his feet in some pretty deep thought... or at least he's pretty focussed for a six year old about to have a birthday party]

Well, if God is the coolest guy around, then you're the second coolest...

Weally? Wow, I wish I was G... the coo... [snaps out of reverie] no! No! NONONONONO! I didn't just say I wanted to be God. Oh no! I didn't think that I promise!

And the Christian guilt kicks in...

2. setting: staff room, at my desk, between cleaning and club practices. One of my favorite students, the one who likes my perfume but mixes up her senses and thus stops me in the halls every now and then to tell me I 'have a nice flavour', is sitting in Ikegame sensei's chair, waiting for him to come to the brassband practice.

Being relatively absorbed by my most recent read [Thomas More's Utopia] I hadn't noticed her presence. That is until the cutest high pitch / Japanese accent voice intones, apparently reading over my shoulder [she'll read anything I'm focussed on, from my emails when I'm in the computer lab to the grocery lists I write at my desk after school]

Za-a cong-u-u-seh-ku-engsu ov-a za-a li-i-dah-cu-shi-an... Stephanie-sensei, muzukashi des ne!

She rests her hand on my shoulder and looks at me with an air of compassionate disbelief at why anyone would subject themselves to such a read... bordering on pity actually.

What does this disprove? That while I may not like the title or the purpose, God do I ever love the kids and my moments here! They are not without the randomness, cuteness, spontaneity and potential for reflection other events in other places would, but I am here living them, and I'll be over there living entirely different things soon enough. One thing at a time.

one liners, in point form

2006-05-22T10:43:00.000+09:00

For those of you who have been reading this blog for a while, I apologize.

For those of you who, upon receiving a rather large manila envelope in the mail, frantically googled [JET Programme / Life in Japan / Teaching in Japan / JET Life / ALT Life / all things JET / JET guide to shochu / Holy fuck I'm going to live in Japan ], congratulations. Googled [ Big Daikon ]? Hahaha, gotcha.

Yes, I am a JET. Yes, I had the same random questions you have now at right about the same time last year. So here goes the first part of Steph's Honest Experience as a JET. In point form, separated by topic. Because if you are where I was at right about now last year [ie frantically trying to get yourself a diploma, whilst packing boxes, filing out forms and avoiding getting yourself into a long distance relationship while maintaining a decent sex life] you don't have time for actual sentences.

Your situation...

- will be different from everyone else's, so don't bother. ESID dude, ESID.
- will require you learn how to drink and sing into a microphone. Jumping on the incest train is only optional.
- will redifine the meaning of 'weekend'.

Your job...

- is the easiest thing you will ever do besides learning to wipe your ass.
- description includes the ability to enunciate, the ability to read simple English sentences, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat, and repeat.
- will make you revisit every awkward stage of your life, including but not limited to the uncontrollable urge to masturbate in class, nosepicking, gropping, crushes, teenage acne, broken hearts, voice cracking, BO, flatulence, and spontaneous boners. I will not disclose whether any of these will come from you or the students, I'll leave the enjoyment of guessing to you.
- will make life simple, easy, frustrating, boring, challenging, confusing, pointless and fulfilling. within a 24-hour span, and again the next day.
- may make you feel like a human tape recorder
- may make you feel like you are paid to be called a foreigner to your face, and be forever a glorified token-on-display / less than glorious ceremonial figure
- may make you feel like you are paid to scratch your head and be confused
- may make you feel like you are paid to play with the cutest munchkins on Earth
- may make you feel less intelligent by the second

BUT

- when you get up at 6am with the sun pouring through your horizontal blinds and hear cars driving into the school's parking lot and
- when you come back from an izakaya, drunk, at 11pm on a Friday and see those same cars still parked in the same spot and
- see that that same parking lot is filled with the same cars over the ENTIRE WEEKEND as you wonder how many ways you can do nothing today and
- when there is a communal sigh of envy as you ask your supervisor for yet another permission to travel during your vacation, and the permission is granted with barely a frown and a pause to ponder and
- when you realise that you can actually afford to sleep under a HOTEL roof during these travels [gasp - the novelty! you can CHOOSE to sleep in a hostel bunk bed now!] because
- unlike the native teachers, your salary will not fluctuate with the economic situation [read - you will never be smacked with a 10% pay cut]

...you'll see that you have it pretty good. And that few people worldwide can claim to be paid to be a token citizen / a visible minority.

Your school...

- may change every day [you'll be a one-shot ALT], or may be the same for the entire year [base school ALT]

Your eikaiwa...

- is your English Conversation Class
- will be filled with people who want you to spoonfeed them English while not uttering a word themselves, over the course of 5 1.5 hour-long classes
- will make life simple, easy, frustrating, boring, challenging, confusing, pointless and fulfilling. within a 24-hour span, and again the next day.
- will likely be filled with housewives looking for a challenge... or salary men who are further avoiding the household and just want to shoot the shit. Teach accordingly.
- may leave you scratching your head as to why people who want - but likely never will [because too dangerous / too foreign / too expensive] - to go to France, Spain, Italy, Peru or Brazil are learning English.

- will pay you more than you are worth / the results your students get from the class / the effort you actually put into your course preparation

Your JTE...

- is your Japanese Teacher of English
- may not let it show at work, but actually has a life. No, really, s/he does.
- will always be at work, despite having a life outside the staff room.
- may not actually speak English
- is a human being with the ability to communicate - talk to them, negotiate, compromise, or else it will be a loooong year
- will not go out of their way to change their teaching method. baby steps, and remember: you may know how to learn a new language, but they know how Japanese students 'learn', and why [to pass the Exam].

Your house...

- may or may not be built to whitstand the climate
- may or may not cave in under the snow
- may or may not have more than one room
- may or may not be expensive
- will have bugs
- creeping / rising / falling - look it up
- will be home, will eventually have beer stains on the carpet, and will have 'previous JET' stories. Disinfect your bed [unless you're moving into my house... though if you're moving into my house, I suggest you change the carpet - I had a nasty surprise the other day.]
- will likely be close to your school. Avoid dancing naked, and wear all adequate pieces of clothing when sneaking out for a quick smoke. Also, watch out when inviting the opposite sex over, lest you become the object of the tea pot conversations.

Japan

- is an industrialised country and therefore...
- has supermarkets, tampons, chocolate, and everything else your heart desires
- picks its foreigners carefully
- is an odd, odd place... but then your home country is an odd, odd place to most Japanese. Remember THAT.
- will take time to adjust to. A wise ALT once said it takes the entire first year to really adjust, and I believe him. Give it time, feel it out, be honest with yourself.
- smells funny during the first week or so - and I refuse to believe that that is a racist comment.
- will challenge you to eat natto, fish sperm, horse and whale sashimi and a number of other viscous foods. you've been warned.
- is the land of warm sake, and sweet sweet umeshu. learn to drink.
- will deport you for stealing an unlocked, abandonned bike [actual JET experience]
- will kindly suggest you be relocated upon voicing your desire to recontract despite having coerced an underaged student into having sex with you... as opposed to sending you out of the country with a few balls missing [also a JET experience]
- has policemen that will watch your suspicious activities for hours, but will let you free when you say that you are an American/Canadian performing these suspicious activites, as opposed to a Russian [also a JET experience]
- will make life simple, easy, frustrating, boring, challenging, confusing, pointless and fulfilling. within a 24-hour span, and again the next day.
- is a very tolerant and patient society which will never really accept you
- is a country where subcultures are a result of rebellion and youth, something that you grow out of NOT an actual difference in permanent lifestyle.
- has awesome health insurance, regardless of the absurdity of your accident / condition... and will fly your parents in when you're feeling icky
- has NO concept of confidentiality. get your herpes med prescription in the closest big city...
- has onsens - cherish your nudity, it rocks.
- is not exactly what you think it is, so check your assumptions at the border. Stop looking for what you 'know', and start seeing what is here.

Your host prefecture...

- will become home
- will make you feel like a minor deity, for a while at least
- will be known for SOMETHING. find what that something is, and adopt it.
- is likely to have awesome nature and mediocre-looking towns. Learn to read between the guidebooks' lines, and refrain from using LP's suggestions [the 2005 edition, at least].

Gaijins...

- are short for gaikokujin, which means 'foreign land person'
- actually means foreigner, alien, or any less-than-flattering derivation of the term
- are us
- have a card which allows us to eat / drink / speak loudly on the streets, be gay, have piercings, have melanine, have tattoos, have curly hair... be different, basically.
- are bad people which you must be weary of, until you get to know one.
- will be treated relatively well when they smile or introduce themselves, generally.

Anyways - that is my very simplified intro to Japan and the JET program... question / comments : press the little button below!

desperately resisting the urge to say...

2006-05-20T08:50:00.000+09:00

... something along the lines of 'a year ago today'...

Black Eyed Peas Apl Song

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raise your eyebrows say yeah - installment 1

2006-05-19T22:38:00.000+09:00

OK, there are a few things that happened this week that just made me fall back in my chair and scratch my head. I am perpetually reminding myself that things should not be made to be 'Japanese' merely based on the territory that sets the backdrop for their occurence, and the few cases I came across in the past few days have been - obviously, or at least it is in my life's plot - quite global in nature. I'm going to start off smooth... that is the issue of identity in the classroom. Though my town goes to great lengths to make all their kids the same, I am constantly surprised at how quickly they point out the 'foreign' kids to me. Given that I myself am half Filipina [and I'm assuming everyone somehow knows this because it was mentionned in my file... actually I'm pretty sure it was, cause my successor's ethnic descent is pretty clearly stated in hers] I suppose all the teachers point out the class halfy so we can bond.

The tiny thorn on every foreigner's side - I am ready to bet - is gender. As surely as there is one halfy in my class, there is also one student whose gender I just can't figure out. It bothered me for a while when I first got here, as everyone seemed to make such a point of assigning academic gender roles via club affiliation and stuff... I wouldn't really care if it weren't for the fact that I can't figure it out with their name, either. For the time being, I just find the situation endearing, and sorta tap myself on the back for having let it go [thank you, kind people of the TGA, and slightly unfortunate event in the classroom]... The only reason it came back in my mind is the text that follows.

What I want to know is... is the presence of an intersexed / gender questioning [can someone help me out with the terms here, I'm kinda rusty] student in a classroom newsworthy? I would really LOVE some of your thoughts on this one.

School accepts lad with gender identity disorder as girl
The Japan Times Online, Friday May 19th 2006

KOBE (Kyodo) An elementary school in Hyogo Prefecture has accepted a 7-year-old boy with gender identity disorder as a girl, a local board of education said Thursday.

The second-grader was diagnosed with the disorder before entering school, a board official said.

Gender identity disorder occurs when someone's gender identity differs from his or her biological sex. The board of education and the school decided to treat the pupil as a girl after talking with the child's parents from January to March of last year, the official said.

Since entering school in April last year, the child has undergone health checks with girls and uses girls' restrooms while attending swimming lessons in a girl's swimsuit, the official said.

The pupil is listed with the girls on the class roll, the official said.

Experts said it is rare for children to be diagnosed with the disorder before they develop secondary sex characteristics and for a school to treat such kids as members of the opposite sex.

An education ministry official said there are no known cases in which a boy with the disorder has been accepted as a girl at a school.

More than 10,000 people in Japan are thought to have the disorder.

just a thought

2006-05-18T12:25:00.000+09:00

I wish the non-profit and/or public sector had speed dating nights. Tell me what you're looking for, I'll tell you what I can give, and everyone is invited.

We have one minute to see if we're compatible.

Then switch unto the next.

Cause I know I'm the woman you've been looking for, that you love what I've got to give - nay, you NEED what I've got to give... And you know I'm a willing, generous lover... um I mean employee... only we've both been looking in the wrong places... and you can't seem to see all my temporary experience as more than a bunch of one-night stands - you'd be surprised to see how much you can learn from having multiple partners. Long term relationships sort of fester, lose their spunk - one night stands keep you on your toes. Who said I need to have 5 years permanent experience to know anything?

Don't knock it until you've tried it.. me... damit, I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.

Back to the faceless lists, listserves and search engines where I have my life's experience listed in point form...

MF

2006-05-16T21:07:00.000+09:00

I am in the midst of yet another Monthly Freakout[tm]... That's right everyone, apparently mindnumbing teaching methods mixed in with iddle workhours and solo living in a place where no one understands your language even when you're speaking in their native tongue is bad for the soul and leads to the development of bleak outlook and exponential negativity.

Since I don't feel like entertaining you with the fact that I think I made a mistake when I accepted this job, think this is a lost year, foresee the return of Benson & Hedges by week 2 in my parents basement and feel like I will give up and start a Masters [or a family... though I do admit my children would be some HAWT kids] for lack of any decent job/career/travel prospects, and let's not even get into what is going on in real life, I will copy and paste a letter I just read.

Further explaining why I am not a particularly religious person...

Why Can't I Own a Canadian?
October 2002

Dr. Laura Schlessinger is a radio personality who dispenses advice to people who call in to her radio show. Recently, she said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22 and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following is an open letter to Dr. Laura penned by a east coast resident, which was posted on the Internet. It's funny, as well as informative:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other specific laws and how to follow them:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15:19- 24. The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

Lev. 25:44 states that I may indeed possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?

A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination - Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?

Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? - Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your devoted fan,
Jim

left : right - good : bad

2006-05-15T13:00:00.000+09:00

I'm sitting at home eating lunch. My computer is still on the kitchen table. So when I look up from the screen, I see the map of Japan nailed on the wall, my orange living room, the SE Asia on a Shoestring LP guide I bought from Ron but never opened, my button up shirts drying on a rack and a hamper filled with old, torn, zipperless cords [and other stuff I wore out this year to make sure I came back with less baggage than I initially came with].

lights

inhales

passes

exhales 'Hey man, only ten weeks of work left, how much more shit can we pull?' into a cloud

I'm not even going to bother analysing the shiver that went down my spine all the way to my extremities when I realised man was me, too.

Shit, already?

Shit, already?

I wish I could spend the next 10 weeks playing outside while the sun was still up.

when in doubt

2006-05-14T21:27:00.000+09:00

head for the hills.

I suppose it's only fair that I enlighten you as to the going ons of a Hokkaido weekend [besides the minor butt tresspassing - which the perpetrator apologised for profusely this weekend, by the way. He had no recollection of it, but did remember the fact that I got into a fist fight with another guy, and that he apparently asked for my hand in marriage].

Present in any successful Hokkaido weekend will be:

- snow (I suspect at least until mid-June)
- an onsen
- a bar, with copious amounts of drinking prior to, whilst in, and upon returning from said bar. oh, and way too much cigarette smoke
- an awesome sushi / tempura / sashimi dinner
- a run in with any or all of the following Japanese sub-cultures, including but not limited to farmer-boy Crips, the Yaks, yuki rastas
- snowboards, wet socks, impromptu hiking, and nudity [onsen, remember?]
- a floor
- a mamasan, and at least one karaoke machine
- the discovery of a new aspect of your personality [for example: contact stoner]
- barter of some sort - in this case, a ride home in exchange for a rusty mamachiari
- open roads in the middle of nowhere, and at least 3 hours of driving

all these elements may overlap, will not necesarily occur in logical order, and will likely be remembered in a fuzzy 'wait, did you [insert random act here] last night?'. And considering Japanese courtesy opening hours are negotiable.

I love walking up mountains in the wrong shoes and running down to make sure no one makes me ski down them piggy-back.

Yet another weekend that might make me regret leaving [but probably won't in the long run] - my plan is going on marvelously.

musak

2006-05-10T20:35:00.000+09:00

set to the Natural Progression instrumental...

... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved

... it's ok, you never made a habit of going with the flow, and people speak from the perspective they know...

... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved

... this is the year off you deserved before the whirlwind that drives you starts again. you do not have to be what people assume you will be, even though you have learnt to slide into the mold here, you are still

... the girl that was in Marrakesh, the girl that was in Amsterdam, the girl that was in Cuba, the girl that ran from a meeting to another and plopped unto a couch with a beer and 4267...

... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved

... it is not the distance between the paragraphs that separate the part of my life I control and the part of my life where I just shrug my shoulders, locate the flow, and go with it. I suppose I'm just getting insecure cause the cliffs I hang unto when vertigo strikes are a few thousand miles away and the tides are readjusting without me.

... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved
... this is the year off you deserved

... now stop listening to your mother, remember where her own advice lead her, what she used to say to you. And how convinced she is that you are her incarnation.

... this is the year off you deserved, and it's just giving you a new means of finding definition... through what you don't

ever

want

to be

[construed as]

[ever again]

PG

2006-05-09T07:26:00.000+09:00

Children, ladies and gentlemen of the readership...

... when an ichinensei, upon practicing the affirmative and negative versions of 'I am' sentences, says something like:

'I am [name withheld]; I am not hentai.'

LET IT SLIDE. Do, at the very least, give your JTE a quizzical look - because you have inevitably heard the word before and the bell it rings sounds a little out of tune. Ask her what hentai means over lunch if you must, but accept when she says 'It's like people who undress in public'.

You may have read it on discussions taking place on certain SIG's [that's Special Interest Groups, not a funky reinterpretation of my initials] boards when discussing themselves within Japanese society. Keep it at that.

Do NOT, for the love of humanity, actually initiate a Google search and rejoice at the fact that you can get an explanation for free - you will likely have nightmares. Thankfully, like most things in Japan hentai was explained in cartoon form [much like that anti-narcotics flyer passed around my school recently, which surprisingly had impeccable English]. Nonetheless, I am thankful that I do not know girls with blue hair, can avoid the ika/tako [that's squid and octopus] counters with relative ease next time I'm at the supermarket, and know no nubile virgins with large ropes in close proximity.

Hentai, for the record, apparently means 'abberation' or 'transformation', but in the colloquial means 'perverted'. Outside Japan, it's the name given to the local breed of manga porn which, according to my dear wikipedia

'As opposed to photographic pornography, they allow full use of the imagination as well as scenes that run counter to accepted society and culture. Elements of sexual fantasy are represented in ways that would be impossible to film, even with a dedicated special effects budget.

This is not without precedent in Japan. During the Edo Period, which was the heyday of ukiyo-e wood-block prints, ukiyo-e had a pornographic variant, called shunga, which also had scenes that were sometimes surreal [thus tentacle porn was born].

Each culture will have a different understanding about the line between adult content and mainstream works. It's important to understand ways that the Japanese line might be different from that in other cultures. Children's anime can depict nude characters, for example in Sailor Moon it is implied that the girls are nude during their transformation. Many artists add nudity as fanservice. However, H material tends to use explicit pornographic content.

As a form of expressing sexual fantasy, depictions can include those that are unacceptable in society, or run counter to social norms. Such fantasies can be depicted in the extreme, often demonstrating subconscious desires or purely carnal motivations.

This contrast between accepted — and in some cases legal — behavior and primal sexuality is a primary motivation for many works of pornography, and H art is no exception.

This form of Japanese culture acquired some popularity in the West thanks, to a large extent, to the Internet. Although there have been many pornographic comic books and animations produced in the West, they never were as popular as H manga is today. Comic book artists who focus on provocative female figures often use their talent for mainstream comic companies rather than adult works, and may fear ridicule for working on niche adult titles that are not as widespread, compared to Japan where a large group of artistic talent draws pornography.

In comparison to other forms of pornography, H art often portrays women as regular females in society who end up in some kind of sexual encounter, and are often aroused by the encounter to the point of no return.

Characters may be portrayed as shy or have no conscious thoughts about sex, until placed in a situation where they are stimulated and aroused. While there is a common theme of a male stranger convincing a female to become aroused physically by her own body and whatever the male desires, there are also depictions of consensual sex between couples, as well as assertive females who initiate sex.

Often, H artists try to portray situations in the most extreme manner possible, in order to break the boundaries of the viewer's comfort zone. This results in artists competing to show successively more excessive situations over time. An example would include bukkake and group sex, which demonstrates extreme sex that isn't usually performed by the average person. Other forms of demonstrating extreme sexual activity include bondage, tentacles, or other fetishes. Some artists may prefer to do the opposite, and focus on lighter titillation and nudity, or on character relationships and story.'

And here I was thinking I would just find same-sex type stuff ['the idea of'gay - as opposed to gays with an actual name - apparently fall in the hentai grab bag]. I actually don't mind the tentacles - it's after all just a bunch of drawings - though the aliens attached to it are... well... ok fine, I suppose you can think back on some people you've encountered and nod in recognition. Weird, still. What seriously bugs me is the total lack of consent and enjoyment of all these little girls [who are equipped with seriously large breasts considering the fact that they're meant to be - like - 11]. What's perhaps more frightening is that they most definitely match up with the teary, twisted faces on the boxes in those Akihabara sex shops. Way to market healthy, consensual sex Japan!

Hopefully, this all stays in the realm of fantasies and no one ACTUALLY goes and rapes little girls thinking that's how life works. Frankly, I probably only care because I am surrounded by JHS girls daily, and wish I could protect them all from the proverbial tentacles that will follow them their entire life...

come and sleep

2006-05-07T18:19:00.000+09:00

For Ross and Harris Barron who displaced themselves with nothing but a typewriter, an easle, oils and a portable wall-to-wall bookshelf each summer, let me sketch the setting sun next to her and share in his conversations with the moon. Your stories were at my feet on the drive back home that summer, and have been defining the way I arch them against the earth I walk on. I hope I can find you in your Boston office someday, and that you haven't yet gone to that spot in the horizon you gazed to together with so much love.

I'm not too sure where the superstition came from. I don't have a lola, so it can't be some confused catholic reinterpretation of babaylan preachings. It can't have been my gran'm'man's ideas either, she was too busy divining cavaliers for me as I constantly lost our card and bingo games. You know what I'm talking about Chanceuse aux cartes, malchanceuse en amour... She actually managed to guess the appearance of my first boyfriend when I lost three straight rounds of GoFish.

So I'm not too sure where the words echoeing in and out of my mind, whirling around me with the wind and multiplying when the gust they were riding hit a tree and exploded in as many little breezes actually came from. It's a bad idea to sit on a fresh unmarked grave.

I'll admit, I'm not the most rational person when I'm alone with my thoughts. We tend to compete, seeing who will bring the insanity to its climax - and we are both very competitive creators, me and my imagination. We have the best face-offs.

But still.

I've spent enough hours leaning against tombstones to know that the ground won't just part and swallow me up. And that fresh graves are better, because nothing has started to decay and everything is packed nice and tight. So regardless how wiccan and recent it all seems, nothing is going to happen. The midday sun through the pine trees says so.

So I kept on snapping away at the daffodils and crocusses growing freely around the squares of unmarked earth, marvelling all hippy-free-spirit like at the cycle of life unfolding before me.

Like most of the things that stay with me, this minor discovery was a total fluke on an otherwise un-eventful bike ride through my inaka.

Now let's get one thing straight - I never painted my face white and red, nor did I dress all in black and masturbate with crucifixes around a bonfire. I just liked studying in cemeteries because they are silent. And I find them oddly sexy and obscurely intellectual. In the same way I liked snooping around Cruella when I was 14.

Snap. Snap Snap. Someone's watching. Snap. Snap. Oh shut up. Snap Snap. No, really, someone's watching. Snap. Ok, fine. Where?

I lifted my head as she was walking out of a mound of earth. After our conversation would be over and she had walked back into the forest, I went to check whether she had been leaving a home for another but found nothing. Slyly, she turned to look in my direction and we both remained still knowing words were of no use. I suppose we were both wondering who would posess who - the way she carried herself inspired the temptress of our common lexicon. We both realised very quickly that possession would neither be had nor would it be satisfying for either of us so we just sat for a moment, silently conversing.

You have no idea how much strength is contained in the gaze of such concentrated power. She was at once a seductress and a protector, an intelligent and fierce guardian of herself and what she claimed as her domain. And yet her frame was so diminutive and her gait so demure an onlooker could easily misinterpret it. Which is probably why I heard from others that she is cunning, will possess your weaknesses and use them to her advantage.

I let her go when she signaled to me she wished to retire - leaving little options but to allow her her peace. Hoping that I hadn't left any of what she had so graciously offered behind, I left as well. Hopped back on my bike, pedaled home.

Called home, and realised that whatever she had shared with me was now mine, precious, and to share with caution and with those who know to listen humbly.

as per your suggestion

2006-05-06T21:15:00.000+09:00

Bi-Weekly Eikaiwa Progress Report for the week of April 23rd [1]
Date: April 26th
Topic: 'My Best Golden Week'
Members: All 4 men present

Evaluation:

Ohno, having not done his 'homework' [2], improvised a presentation about making a garden with his family. My heart melted, as this means he spent an entire afternoon breathing the same air as his children and wife. The man has a very traditional taste in flowers, one which I can respect - segway to the Ottawa tulip festival, we may have a few more Japanese visitors next year.

Kubo talked about hanami in Hakodate, waking up early to go to the market, and suggested I try the local 7Eleven's bento, which is apparently a regional delicacy. I suspect some of that was lost in translation, though he DID give me a picture of said bento... Also, he got very drunk with his friends every night and causeda rucus in a way he can't at home. He would make an awesome JET.

Mori [koala / theme song boy] went skiing in Sapporo for a day, had gengis khan beef in the sunshine, got drunk, slept on a bench and skiied some more. He practiced his jumps, and wants to go to the Whistler X Games soemday. As part of the audience, of course. We like Mori. He is Kuriyama's answer to Jin, if I may so claim.

Miki went on a speedy 3-day roadtrip [while not exceeding the 50k speedlimit] from Kuriyama to Akan, through Abashiri and Shiretoko, and back. I sometimes wonder if Japanese folks travel in order to see things or see how fast they can get to things and back - and how many they can cram in between. He swears he saw things, and has the pictures ot prove it. Sadly, he also swears that his wife, for whom he planned the trip in hopes that it would make them closer and share special time, slept through the entire drive, was a crappy co-pilot, shared none of those deep life changing moments the road ususally brings out of people with him, and remembers none of the places they went to. She must have been getting back at him for something.

Having 30 minutes remaining, we proceeded to designing sensei the perfect Golden Week. It was unanimously decided that Hakodate was the best option. All having electronic agendas which link to the internet via satellite, we managed to design a budget and a schedule. What the little silver and black touch screen thingies could not provide was an estimate of the crowds density and relative viciousness, as well as the irritation factor of a number of drunken obasans and ojisans re-enacting Sayuri [aka how 'Memoirs of a Geisha' was titled in Japan] with digital cameras. I asked 'where can I avoid crowds during Golden Week?' they said 'Stay in Kuriyama.'

They laughed.

I stayed.

There were casualties, and I may have lost my soul [both remarks will, I promise, be explained when I have the documentation ready and closeby], but my legs have never been this lean [not to mention that part that keeps them safely attached to my torso] and I think I found at least 5 reasons I will regret leaving this country come August. But don't worry, balance was maintained and I found a few more things calling me back to Canada.

Mission accomplished.

[1] needless to say I do not actually write a progress report... though it might not be such a bad way of occupying my days at school, since the office lady is really getting annoyed at the fact that I have stollen her second favourite part of the job description - making the coffee.
[2] I never give these poor salarymen homework, in hopes that they will spend less time working and more time making love to their wives. All I do is give them a topic and hope we can shoot the shit with it. They come with props [all who were a witness to my Koala no Machi cookie story know what I mean... he has since brought musical accompaniement to class, in the form of a loop of his favourite television show's theme music], handouts and Powerpoint presentations. I promise I never asked them to, they're just bent on pleasing and impressing the wrong women.

don't get me wrong

2006-05-02T21:57:00.000+09:00

This past weekend embodied the weekend I had been waiting to have in this country since August rolled around.

From lurking interracial-celebrity-marriage websites to an impromptu girl-talk sleepover [do not underestimate the coolness of a 12 year old], reciprocal renditions of 'It's All For You' over a birthday nomihodai and a much-needed 'same wave length' conversation that brought me from Chitose to an izakaya via an Indian dinner, everything was perfect. Heck, even chasing a family of alley cats with a carton of chocolate milk at 4 am and 'story time' for the munchkin in the Spiderman suit felt like utter coolness.

Still, while the sun was rising on an awesome weekend last Sunday morning, sitting in front of JR Sapporo for the first train to lead me back to Laura's floor, that tiny ever present cloud I run away from rolled over an otherwise perfect early morning. The same old words were blurted, this time out of an otherwise unlikely candidate for such comments. Justin [see, I told you! - he's behaving, and surprisingly inching towards Josh's 'nice guy' status], out of an exhausted silence, blurted 'Dude, what was Jeb trying to pull?' out of the blue. For one thing, the irony of it all was striking, but it's not as though months haven't gone by and dust hasn't settled.

Disclaimer: no night as a JET is complete until you have had a random body part gropped by a new acquaintance - you learn to stop wondering how it came to that and what invited it. I met Jeb Saturday night. You may now proceed to reading the remainder of this post.

'I dunno, I'm just getting used to it.'

'Why don't you do something about it? Dude, stand up for yourself.'

'Like what? The most I can do is warn him to not do it again. It's not like I can prevent it. And it's not like I'm particularly good at being threatening either.'

['It', in this case, being a rather kanjo-like booty pinch.]

'Doesn't it stay on your mind?'

'Yeah, but worst has happened, so why should I let some drunk dumbass bother me?'

'I'm so happy I'm not a girl. This year's crop of JETs are just a bunch of weirdos - no offense, I mean the guys.'

None taken. Anyways, the trains started running, he went back to whatever station his car was at and I made my way back up the mountain to a welcoming floor and after-party smells...

Two days later, I found this thought in my gmail inbox, and the millisecond act that stained my weekend in another person's eye just rushed back into my mind.

Not glaring suspiciously [at a passer by] can be interpreted as an invitation

[It's a sound piece created by Rehaan Engineer with actor Ayesha Raza. The piece was created after the Blank Noise blogathon in March 2006 and was performed in Ek Aur Level Chalte Chalte, an event put together by Gabriel Sirosis and Srimoyee Mitra on April 20th and 21st. The blogathon was revisited, scripted and heard out loud to the audience at Kitab Mahal. Details on the rather disturbing news piece used as the opening segment can be found here. Sidenote - I was really surpirsed at the amount of hits I got when I googled 'eyes gouged out rape station' - but yeah...]

mayday!mayday!

2006-05-01T19:46:00.000+09:00

Somewhere in the world, a worker sits, stands, walks or bends down in his place of employment. The worker’s mind drifts away, back to someplace that is not so badly lit or where his back is not so strained, to the place where his heart resides and where her worth is known. To the place where, if she could only find a job despite the raging unemployment and her inadequate education, he would be paid a wage which reflects his workplace responsibilities and the effort and sweat she puts in each day.

The worker sits, stands, walks or bends down and looks around. He looks at his boss, whose qualifications are much weaker than her own. But the boss is the boss. The worker complies, plays mule and monkey. He is asked daily about where she comes from, what he eats and is educated in many ways about her own customs. That is, when he is not asked to do things that ‘her people’ do. Regardless how good his command of the local language is, co-workers feign incomprehension – accents make understanding impossible.

On the weekend, the tired worker finds shelter in his people, those who speak her language and understand her mannerisms. In people who laugh and eat and act as he does, where she need not explain the meaning in each gesture and where everything is made simpler. Where friends aren’t made on the premise of exotic opportunities, and he is the norm she feels safe in. Her coworkers frown upon this, say the foreigners, the immigrants are segregating themselves and aren’t making any effort to fit in or integrate. But she will only ‘turn’ on ‘her own kind’ when the fact that he is ‘his own kind’ stops mattering. And they will only make him a part of them when he stops ‘being’ so ‘different’, when his skin color and his features are only coincidental to his being one of ‘us’. You can readily purchase skin whitener in this country, though most who form the norm flock to salons to purchase an adequately different replica of your skintone. The diet will make your body look like ours, if you try hard enough.

No one understands.

It is always implied that he is not from here and that she has no intention to stay, and their rights are granted accordingly. Ownership, citizenship, belonging, insurance, all come at a price. They have a separate set of laws for people like her, and prosecute them unfairly and openly.

In her place of employment, the worker sits, stands, walks or bends down as his thoughts go to what he left behind – family, debt, love, perhaps hope – and the reasons he has left them behind – a better pay, better opportunities for her family, better love, brighter hopes perhaps. But now he realizes she is expandable, the economy is bad, the laws are making it harder for foreigners to find secure employment, he is unsure what he will do after her contract is up – and they fail to see how badly she wills to remain here. Though she will never truly belong, he likes it here because it is easier, simpler – different and hard only in bearable ways.

By choice or because she is expandable or because the worker is now deemed illegal, the worker goes home, makes the return trip to the place the worker came from. The employer attempts to find someone who is willing or capable of replacing the worker, but finds nothing - no one willing or competent. In the meantime, the worker, having returned to the place where he is he and she is she and thus the norm, forgets s/he was ever a worker and looks upon the man who loads his baggage unto the plane, the woman who hands her her change at her first convenience store visit, and her new neighbor with those doubtful and awkward eyes, thinking ‘oh, them - how interesting’. Perhaps will befriend them, and explain how they now understand what it means to be a ‘them’.

Or, perhaps, maybe not.

Thank you to Joslyn for giving validation to this story, and may your MayDay be progressive and fruitful.

pssst!

2006-04-27T18:59:00.000+09:00

Can you keep a secret?

I just fell in love all over again...

... and it feels like three different kinds of birds singing in a sprouting springtime forest, and the babbling of a free flowing - earth-bedded brook trickling down a mountain.

in preparation...

2006-04-26T20:13:00.000+09:00

Much like March 8th, May 1st has... 'raise your eyebrows and say "Really???"' origins. With it's pre-industrial origins in celtic/pagan rituals, MayDay found its current meaning in the 8-hour work day strikes held in Chicago in 1886. It evolved throughout the years, and transcended borders to become the International Worker's Day. Of course, anarchists / communists / socialists gathered under hte red flag to march for their rights, and still do. But it also remains a day for labourers / workers / the working poor / unions to unite and organize around issues vital to the working class. Or, where Montreal is concerned, have a picnic in Kent Park.

So when I read this - regarding the actions to be held in Osaka [Japan - a land somewhat renowned for it's dormant, apathetic, shoganai civil society] by anarchists allied with the homeless of the city against the government's plans to displace them, I was at once confused, happy, annoyed [in a 'Dude, this is Japan, you could find a job counting paper - why do you live on the street? And if you're doing this cause you're 'marginal', well, you expected to suffer the consequences - you DID grow up here right? It's people like you who make days like this lose their credibility.' type way] and wondering how in the world a homeless / anarchist managed a blog - does he consider it 'infiltrating and reclaiming the norm'? Can anyone help me out? Am I actually less liberal than I thought?

Ok, I suppose that IF this MayDay thing is now shared by both Labourers and Anarchists, and both have their interpretation of the event and its significance, then yeah, sure, some dude who is fighting the rigidity of the system here [hell, I would] is entitled to his piece of the protest pie. But frankly? If the CIA factbook is correct, the unemployment rate stood at 4.7%. I Am ready to believe the working poor bit, what with the economic rut Japan is in and the fact that a job at Seicomart rakes in 800 yen per hour. Still - hold to the age old tradition of living with your parents???

But frankly now? How many immigrant / trafficked workers on this territory right now deserve to have that protest space? I mean, there are workers here with no rights to citizenship, a fair wage, decent living conditions and no right to ownership. Whose kids cannot be citizens of this country if they were borne out of wedlock... International Worker's Day... Can I be any clearer? Case in point: the Japanese government is taking forever to OK a change in immigration laws that would allow certified Filipino nurses to obtain health workers visas in Japan - workers which are bitterly needed as the local population ages and the retirement home population increases [with a serious shortage of skilled staff]. At the same time, the government has cut the number of 'entertainment' visas granted to Filipinos by, I believe, 48% in an attempt to stop human trafficking. Riiiiight. Because the Yaks can't POSSIBLY have the technology to make false visas somewhere in those snack bar basements.

Point being, real workers have real rights to fight for - and people who write the memos you are abou tto read are stealing their voices. If you're going to have a completely voiceless population, Japan, at least make the few times you speak up WORTH IT. That is all for today, I now leave you with the note that ignited my little rant. oh, and by the way - I left the text intact. I woudl NEVER call Japan the Jap islands, in much the same way that I would never call my father a Flip.

Saluton from osaka, jap islands. on 1 May 2006, homeless comrades living in osaka and homeless liberation activists, and also anarchists will show the MAYDAY solidarity to all comrades & affinities all over the world. so, we will try to organize a small demo...etc on this MAYDAY. this might be a tiny solidarity, however, we would love to try to declare the MAYDAY solidarity as an actual action from these jail islands. all comrades in poverty and all militant comrades on this planet! if we will unite to fight against monopolies & tyrannts, we will be able to get ready for organizing our efforts of mutual aid. from a point to the line, from line to the web, from web to the surface of the earth... let's walk together! vi venkos! ni vekos!! in solidarity.(comrades living in osaka & suburb) anyway, if you will have some minutes for sending solidarity message to us, we would love to get your encouragement for our comrades in osaka as soon as you can.

this will be able to encourage our comrades in daily struggle for each of their own lives, i think. so, any messages for us will be shown on our new ZINE. thanx. (rebel_JILL/ a workingpoor)

PS) in jap islands, a big union of "Rengou" have betrayed the poor and unemployed people for at least 16 years, and also they shamelessly have cooperated to the rulers & governments for at least 16 years! THEY already lost their workers' spirits! THEY strongly agreed to obey evil systems of worker-control, and shamelessly did attack to the workers of less rights.(THEY always said: "regulation & benefits to the company first!") as a result, on 30 Jan 2006, public workers unions of osaka city did not refuse to destroy the homeless communities & their own lives on utsubo park & a part of osaka castle park. yes, THEY became the real subjects of evil systems. we knew the evil politics for: nagai park on Aug 2000-Feb 2001, Tennouji park on Dec 2003, and utsubo park on 30 Jan 2006!(when i would remember these terrible attacks by the government and its subjects, i strongly thought that i must try to act against all of them. comrades and i lost the many things, and are in poverty now... however, still now, the battle continues!) if we will give up any fighting against the evil politics, they will win & will occupy our lives. so, we never give up! on 12 May 2006, we will organize the protests against the world rose convention 2006 in osaka. we never forgive any noble persons & events oppressing our own lives! NO PASARAN!!

http://blog.goo.ne.jp/kitakawachi_nojuku/

in a conservative form, let me tell you a few things...

2006-04-25T07:31:00.000+09:00

A friend recently told me 'sometimes I wonder if you're not always stoned'...

Well, for those of you still wondering, this is how things look inside my head.

And they're not about to change, even as the years add up - cause they seem to only be giving me more reasons to dance.

[ if that link didn't work, try copying and pasting this into a new browser window: http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/videos/dancing.wmv ]

grown ups suck, unless they're busy making things that don't

2006-04-21T20:30:00.000+09:00

This is where I'm at:

I just downloaded, then watched 'Les Poupees Russes'. Then watched it again. I don't know if I should love or hate Romain Duris for being the Xavier he is each time I catch up with him. Reminder - I watched 'L'Auberge Espagnole' about a week after returning from Barcelona.

The beginning of next month will mark one year of me realising that children are not snotty, slimy, smelly, loud and otherwise obnoxious things with no bowel/bladder control. I have actually become fond of them as a means of entertainment, the ultimate legitimate distraction from otherwise insipid, trivial going-ons surrounding me every now and then. Most grown ups are boring, they really are. May will also mark one year of coming to terms with how Pinay I actually am, beyond dance troupe, halo-halo and pansit... Which means that, because

the most insignificant circumstances become omens which were almost always unfortunate... immediately caused a feeling of melancholy and gloom...

[read, superstitions run in my veins] I will skip number three - and the number is not coincidental, but I will stop now lest I jinx anything - and go directly to number four.

I am reading 'Dogeaters'. Forget Monique Proulx, I want to live under Jessica Hagedorn's window... or under her pillow, because she must dream dreams where you fly when you want to run, and lie back lethargic when you want to punch and scream. The kind of dreams that pump you full of the adrenaline you'll need for the fight that awakenings bring.

It's spring, and the mere act of sitting directly in front of the window during lunchtime places an ethereal glow in my eyes. Which has the other 5 ladies I eat lunch with extremely confused - what can I possibly see resting atop the bare trees that they don't? They go back to comparing the various school lunches of their previous town meal service, leave me to my foreign language reverie.

I'm pretty sure the only one who gets it now is Miss M, who's seeing life in places where there previously was none. She eats next to me and we sit in silence after lunch, glowing and happily numb from the laughter of four classes worth of ichinensei cuteness and... well... yeah.

Tiny little lives are... have you ever seen Princess Mononoke? You know the forest spirits? That's what tiny little lives are doing around me, escorting me around their domain and asking for nothing more than to live. Discovering what is truly new, rather than re-enacting, re-visiting and re-writing worn out novelties.

From Mayonnaise-sensei to you: Eijanaika! I'll be spending my champange one squeezing oranges, playing magnetic darts, drinking sake, eating awesome food, being courted by ugly hosts and sketching next season's fashions up by a mountain.

See y'all Monday.