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Yesterday I posted a blog out of the blue. I intended to make this blog focus around Japan, and I suppose my life continues to be tied to Japan. That’s what I get for becoming a Japanese major, right?

So what have I been up to in the chilly winter wonderland of Minnesota?

For one, I’m doing National Novel Writing Month. What I ended up doing was writing down sometimes fictionalized, sometimes not accounts of my adventures last year. It’s been rather helpful in organizing my thoughts, figuring out what’s important, and just having a place to describe all the things I otherwise might not get the chance to describe.

I’m also in the process of applying for JET. That would be the Japan Exchange and Teaching Program. It’s awful competitive, so I’m awful nervous. Wish me luck. 頑張りますから。

Last but not least, I’ve suddenly developed the dire urge to learn 南部弁 (Nanbu-ben). Nanbu-ben is a dialect from northern Japan. While in Japan I met one fellow member of the jazz club whose slight accent I always had difficulty understanding. “Where are you from?” I asked him, eventually leading him to speak a full-blown version of his dialect. I couldn’t understand a single word, and neither could anyone else in the room. This includes the other Japanese people. I guess from that moment I was intrigued. In Nanbu-ben many of the aspirated consonants become non-aspirated (like た becoming だ), and there are cases where the vowels switch (this is part of a broader dialect known as  ずうずう弁, Zuuzuu-ben, where し becomes ず, or something like that). They also have plenty of specialized vocabulary and different inflections.

Most of my Japanese friends wonder why in the world I would have an interest in that dialect. It was the total lack of comprehension by everyone involved that got me. When I went to Nagasaki, it wasn’t until later than someone asked, “Could you understand the dialect?” that I even noticed there had been one. This was why Nanbu-ben wouldn’t leave my brain, but Nagasaki’s dialect went right through.

In general, though, I find the various dialects interesting. Naturally I know my share of Hiroshima-ben. I like Hiroshima-ben also. They say it’s one of the more masculine sounding dialects. 一番面白いのは「ぶちたいぎい」ww

I’ve also heard that Fukui prefecture has an ugly dialect. I want to learn that, too.

Retaining Warmth

Today there was a special lecture on my campus about Murakami Haruki. The lecturer, a former employee of my university and current employee at Kisei University, began by talking about the March earthquake, tsunami and nuclear reactor crisis, talking about how the people of those areas had to adapt to a way of life they had grown unused to. The irony in this is that it’s a way of life they lived for hundreds, thousands of years before. A lifestyle without air conditioning even in the mid-summer heat of Tokyo, where they had to use うちわ and spray the ground with water to lower the air temperature a few degrees. People had to step, if only a little bit, away from the Internet Age.

A speech given by Murakami in Spain (if I remember correctly) after the earthquake of course turned back to the events. It’s not something we as world citizens can’t ignore, and certainly not something a Japanese citizen can ignore. That event was a world changing one, he said, but it cannot be a decisive moment. Change is a constant in this world.

Yet at the same time, we’ve walked into a territory in which our attention spans are short. Though Murakami’s 1Q84 was originally released before the March disaster, the lecturer drew a connection between some of the things Murakami wrote and the things he said in that speech. Aomame and Tengo were able to retain the warmth of a single moment from twenty years before, a feat that we seem incapable of today. We’re waiting on the edge of our seats for the power to come back on so that we can forget about change.

When I first ventured into the world of 1Q84 I found the story surrounding Aomame and Tengo to be entirely too idealistic. Perhaps it’s because I’m not quite done with the book (roughly 600 pages in), I don’t know. I thought it was like a bad cliche involving love conquering all and whatnot. But when that particular angle was put on the story I thought maybe I could look at it with a more open mind. Aomame and Tengo are not a simple love story. They are a hyperbolic device to show this lack of warmth society has taken on, and I don’t think this is a theme exclusive to 1Q84. Such themes can be found across almost all of his work.

This idea of retaining such a warmth after so many years is something I began to ponder as I made my way home after the lecture. Since coming back to the States, to some degree I’ve felt my hometown is a few degrees colder than I remember it. I’m not talking about the weather, though that certainly applies as well. What I refer to is the way people are so caught up in everything that they don’t slow down, they don’t hold onto the positive things.

I’ve had a certain amount of difficulty in readjusting to the life I’ve come back to. Reverse Culture Shock is a very real thing, as strange as it might seem. Though by now I’m used to rude service, a lack of okonomiyaki shops, and seeing Katy Perry rather than Arashi, other things remain. A year creates gaps in friendships that are not easily identifiable.

It was today that I came to realize what that specific gap was. Somehow in the absence the dynamic has shifted. Everyone is on the move constantly. Even if we go out for fun, we’re doing a specific activity. We’re at the movies where we can’t talk, we’re pouring our attention into video games, we’re at a club dancing to music too loud to talk over. My friends who often sat and chatted on MSN for god knows how long every night have even gone off to do their separate things. I realized this when I thought of the izakaya we went to last Friday. My Japanese class just sat down with some drinks and got to know one another. I’d wondered why I felt so happy when I woke up the next morning. Now I know: it’s so rare that there’s time to sit there and just talk.

That was the thing about Hiroshima. We were a small group of kids in a small town. In some ways we were forced to sit down and talk. We had to get to know each other and to make our own community. For activities we didn’t have cheap movies, our beloved gaming systems or clubs. We could go on hikes, sit in the library, eat at a restaurant, go shopping, cook or watch movies in our dorms, or sit at a bar. Aside from karaoke, these were mainly the ways we spent our days. These are all activities that force one to add conversation to the activity. Even though we might have had nothing in common, even though we were people who might never have had a vague interest in each other back in our respective countries, we had to get past these differences. We were forced to become the kind of community that has disappeared in recent years. The concept of “neighborhood” is very different from what it once was. It’s so easy to hole yourself up and create barbed wire fences around yourself in the modern age.

Even beyond this, we were all thrown into a foreign country and curious. We wanted to know about each other’s lives. “I used to always do ______ with my friends,” was an interesting enough topic. The things people take for granted were suddenly interesting. Coming back, however, people don’t want to know more than, “How was it?” Maybe they’ll have a specific question, but they don’t want more than that. Your random tidbits get to be annoying, and after you get this reaction enough you’ll feel annoying.

It feels cold when people don’t want to share things. It’s cold when people don’t want to sit down and talk. All it seems like we want to do is talk at each other. It’s this world we live in – it’s rare for such communities to exist. The internet is perfect for talking at people. It’s the lifestyle we’re coming to know.

This isn’t to say that I want to do away with the internet. I’d cry as much as most of you would. It’s just to say that knowing that sense of community, it’s hard for me to return to a world where we have the luxury of hand-picking our social circles. There’s something amazing about that moment when someone you don’t expect to confides in you. There’s a thrill in being thrust into a group where you might hate some of the people you must see on a daily basis. If nothing else, it gives you all a mutual topic: “God, did you hear about ______’s latest shenanigan?”

Yeah, you HUSAs know exactly whose name goes in that blank.

I guess I’m saying that Murakami and that lecturer are both right. We’re moving too quickly, but we’re doing so to shy away from perpetual change. It’s a contradiction. We’re forgetting the feeling of holding someone’s hand too quickly. I think I want to slow down a bit. We used to go for midnight walks along the Mississippi River. We used to sit in the parked car talking about nothing. We used to walk around the neighborhood to nowhere in particular laughing at a plethora of old jokes. We used to slow down and talk. What happened to those moments I miss the most?

Things To Miss

I intended to update this blog far sooner than now. At first I thought I wanted a break until I could readjust to an American life. I wanted to catch up with people, so I spent my shortened summer doing that. Then school started, and I forgot how drained American university can make you. So, excuses.

As time goes by I realize all the things I miss, both big and small. Sometimes they are just little things that make me smile. Other times they overwhelm.

I miss the countryside and the utter quietness of night, aside from the chatter of students as they wander, drunkenly or not, around town.

I miss lazy mornings where I could watch the sun scoot across my floor from the balcony window. School days or not I could witness this. I could turn over and let it move another several inches before waking up.

I miss my dear bicycle Shinji, his scratched sky blue paint, and the freedom he gave me. I could go anywhere in town I wanted, anytime, without waiting. I could go shopping for things I needed with ease. I could be anywhere in fifteen minutes. I also miss the multitude of jokes made about his name.

I miss the waiting spot, the driveway that connected all the dorms. There was always traffic, and there was that weird girl exercising every night. The glow of the spider-infested vending machines was visible. We would stand out there for hours talking about nothing rather than do homework.

I miss jokes about T-sensei’s alcoholism and broken marriage, though I could very easily do without his early morning classes.

I miss being exotic. I miss being stared at, being unique, being attractive. I was hit on by cute college freshman, not middle-aged, stingy men on the bus who beg for the $1.25 already in their pocket. I miss walking into stores with insulting kanji shirts, being approached by the man working because I could understand the jokes and laugh. I miss receiving saké from salarymen who want to learn English.

I miss International Café and the multitude of languages being spoken all around me. I miss cultural differences, both the big and the small. They widen your world view and also allow you to figure out your own identity.

I miss weekly karaoke and singing my lungs out to the songs I truly love. I miss Ruki licking his lips at the end of 貴方ノ為ノ此ノ命, Yamada crossing his eyes in the middle of よく遊びよく学べ, duets on Nightmare songs, I even miss the same 5 songs Korean always sang.

I miss climbing mountains at 5am with drunk freshmen, hand-in-hand. I miss climbing mountains in typhoons – heck, I miss getting a day off from school because of a typhoon.

I miss trains, the people who doze off in the seats, the same monotonous announcements that play overhead. I miss subways and anti-ちかん warnings in Osaka and Tokyo. I miss buses that are clean and quiet and ferry rides filled with the smell of the sea.

I miss spotting school 制服, a wonderful, beautiful part of Japanese culture. I don’t care what reputation you give me.

I miss jazz, even if I always complained at practice. I miss the feeling of improving and just letting my fingers do their thing. I miss practicing alone, only to find someone was playing piano along with me. I miss Rap Mushi, tiny bassists, the words “適当に” and the guy with the beautiful voice. I miss 飲み会s where suddenly everyone forgot their prejudices.

I miss the image of that beautiful person smoking in the sunset, kneeling like a Yankee in a vacant parking lot. I miss the un-Japanese way he would touch my shoulders and tell me to watch out for the traffic behind me.

I miss 花見. I am absolutely sure there is no better time of year.

I miss language barriers and stupid mistakes. I miss 探した, セフレ and a whole bunch of other awkward moments that spiced up our daily lives.

I miss Pokemon rivals and losing battles. I wonder, had I won, would he still have disappeared?

I miss random texts in the middle of the night calling me a whore, or people calling to ask how to say… Wait, why did you guys want to know that word?

I miss second-year boys who gather around me after English tests and ask me all the answers. I miss them watching me play Mario Kart from the row behind, watching Yoshi round bends rather than the teacher spell out the subtle difference between “will” and “will be” on the board.

I miss parfaits-for-two, YouMe Town runs, Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, expensive Italian appetizers. I miss being the “ladies who do lunch” (plus one gay guy).

I miss Things, detachable penises, homemade 梅酒 and terrible puns.

I miss the scenery: both literally and figuratively.

I miss playing pool, losing at darts, buying too many drinks. I miss habanero takoyaki and the young man who made them. I still don’t know why he put up with me hitting on him every week, and I still don’t know why he remembered every stupid thing I ever told him. I miss my two Americans and one Brit making fun of me every time we set foot in the place, and I miss the Cheers style greeting I used to receive.

I miss looking at magazine racks and seeing bands I adore. I miss traveling to see concerts and standing a head taller than all the other fans. I miss Meguru’s comments about Americans, the rush of moshing, the way my breath stopped when I heard Gara’s voice, the comedy act between Yusa and Yuudai. I miss hearing people say, “I’m cheering for Takanori!” And I really miss sitting out late into the night listening to a guy with pink hair play guitar and sing Kazuyoshi Saito’s music.

I miss my host grandfather offering me beer at 10 in the morning and refusing to take no for an answer.

I miss Oshimao with the scent of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, the beautiful employees, the lugia toys on the counter. I miss the disgusting taste of 泡盛 and the way your legs would fall asleep when you sat too long. I miss やけざけ and toasts to nothing in particular. I miss how angry Korean would get when we stole his things, yet for some reason he always came back.

I miss having someone we all loved to hate and rumors about AKB48. You need that, right?

I miss drinking by the lake. I miss chatting about man-things with Steven. And sometimes not-so-manly things. I miss my lovely friend who always came to me with confessions when he got drunk. Now look at the things he links me to on tumblr! I miss people who dress like Pikachu. I miss ginger jokes, whore jokes, jokes about a lack of purpose, people who tell crude jokes about slitting… something or another, and a whole other multitude of bad reputations.

I miss midnights walks regardless of weather and the way people used to always suspect us. Were they right in doing so?

I miss waking up and every day looking forward to something. Even if I was in a bad mood, I knew there had to be something that would be worth getting up for.

I miss a multitude of things. I doubt I could ever list them all.

I miss every single friend I made while abroad. Every day I daydream about you coming here to visit me, or the day I set foot back in Japan – it’s what keeps me going.

二息歩行

Though I’m back in America, I’m not quite done with this blog yet. There are several things I want to say, but with school starting soon, I’m a bit busy with various things. I’m taking a ridiculous amount of credits from here out. I want to graduate as quickly as possible.

As long as this blog is running, I’ll give you music suggestions!

This month’s is a unique artist named【ﾋﾟωﾟｺ】, or Piko. The video I’m suggesting shows both of his talents. He can sing convincingly as both a male and a female. In this particular song, Nisoku Hokou, he uses both of these voices to do a duet with himself.

The first time I saw him in a magazine I was fairly sure he was a guy. I decided to give him a listen. At that point I was convinced he was a girl – until I saw his picture again. I spent quite some time confused before deciding to do further research. In the end he’s just plain impressive, as both of his voices are highly listenable. Ever since learning his secret (?) I’ve been quite enthralled with his music.

I know I’ve got your curious, so give him a try!

Goodbyes

My last day in Tokyo looked like this:

The nice weather that had been with me since the typhoon just didn’t want to hold out another day. I woke up early at my hostel in Minami-Senju to realize that I didn’t have a printed e-ticket for my plane. The hostel didn’t have any printers. An easy solution was at hand. Akihabara: the land of Internet Cafes, amongst other things.

In the pouring rain I walked the 10 or so minutes to the station. In just those 10 minutes, even with a large rainbow-colored umbrella standing out amongst the gray of Minami-Senju, my pants were soaked up to my waist and my shoes were full of puddles of water. I was hoping the weather might let up by the time I arrived in Akihabara but I had no such luck.

First order of business was to find an ATM. This wasn’t all that hard, I suppose, just troublesome as I had to jump over deepening puddles to get to where I was going. After this I began searching the sides of skyscrapers for signs that said Internet. I found plenty – however, some told me I needed to pay obscene amounts of money to become members or something like that before I could print. Others simply told me they didn’t have printers. These were all manga/internet cafes, something very Akihabara. I suppose their main purpose was serving people who came in wanting to read manga and surf 2chan. I grabbed a lunch at a Mos Burger so that I could dry out a little bit before admitting defeat.

After returning to my hostel in the downpour and arriving in Asakusa by taxi I went to what I thought was the JR station that would take me to the airport. I was unpleasantly surprised to find that I needed to walk a block or so with two heavy bags to find a subway station. A woman in the JR station gave me directions. She asked me several times if I had an umbrella. I did, but there was no way I was going to carry it with all my luggage. Taking a deep breath I started my journey through the rain.

It didn’t take all that long to arrive at the subway station, and compared to the downpour in Akihabara and Minami-Senju the rain had died down considerably. I could be thankful for that, but only shortly. I found that the closest entrance to the subway had no elevator. I would have to walk another few blocks to get to the elevator. I didn’t feel like facing the rain. I dragged my baggage down three flights of stairs, staring at the next three in defeat when two Americans stopped to help me. I didn’t get their names, but if they’re out there somewhere, thank you!

From there I didn’t have to go out into the rain anymore. It was smooth sailing, I suppose. A station attendant helped me get the right ticket and a train took me all the way to Narita. While I didn’t know which terminal I was to go to as I didn’t have a ticket, I made the correct guess and was swept up into the skies rather quickly. Turns out I didn’t need to print a ticket at all. It seemed like no time at all before I was looking down on Tokyo, its sea of gray fading away into a real ocean covered in rain clouds.

During takeoff I felt a bit sad, but it wasn’t the worst stage of the parting that I’d felt. The day before I left Saijo was the worst. I had been hanging out with one close friend and for the first time in a year, instead of, “See you,” he said, “Goodbye.” When I gave some of my old things to a different friend he gave me a hug. When I got a message from the Maker of Deadly Takoyaki, that was what really got me. Somehow the, “Take care!” really hit me, so I sat in my now-empty dorm room rather uncomposed. Saijo was where all my friends were. Saijo is where the parting would really take place. Everything after that would slowly point toward a transitional period.

The day I left Saijo, however, I was able to remain cheerful. A group of us hung out on the steps outside of my dorm, just chatting about nothing. Though I wanted this conversation to last forever, we knew our afternoon in the humidity couldn’t last. They waved to me as the bus made its way down Boulevard until we couldn’t see each other anymore. I was off to Hiroshima, to Osaka, to Tokyo, to America. Yet the casualness of the conversation we’d just had made it seem like we would be seeing each other again like always.

Those were the kinds of goodbyes that I liked best. The ones that weren’t goodbye.