This week has been very difficult for me. The issues that I discussed in my last post, i.e. dealing with dating while living at home, not being happy in Davis, etc., developed into my making the decision to end my budding relationship. I know it seems premature, however, looking down the line into our future, I could see issues cropping up. For one, my desire to move away from the central valley and out into the Bay Area, either for work or school. I simply cannot settle for a place like Davis or Sacramento, not after having experienced New York City and Tokyo. So, it basically came down to this-- do I let yet another relationship end due to my moving away, and get my heart broken again, or do I admit defeat and end things now before we are both too involved? As sad as it may be, I went for the latter. I simply can't stand the idea of yet another relationship being cut off due to my dedication to my career. Also, I could hardly give him the attention and dedication that he both needs and deserves. In a sort of "woulda coulda shoulda" moment, I realize now that I never should have started a relationship in the first place; at least, not until I have my life more under control, financially and geographically.
Honestly, I think I need to analyze my life emotionally as well. There are many things that I know that I do in relationships that are damaging to myself. For one, I tend to mold myself into whoever my partner wants me to be. Some of this might come from my own distrust of emotion-- I think I tend to trust lust more than love. I'm always sort of surprised when people find me physically attractive, and I think I tend to over-respond to that. Perhaps this stems from my own lack of confidence in my looks, but it's getting better. At least I know these things about myself, and can therefore analyze how I'm behaving based on my own knowledge of my flaws.
Secondly, I need to understand fully my relationship with P. Once again, I think this is an unwillingness to give up a possible sex partner. He is my most consistent partner-- I've slept with him more consistently than anyone else in the last 14 months; and frankly, anyone else who was not a boyfriend. Despite my desire to *not* find him attractive, to make him *just* my (really irritating) friend, I seem to be somehow incapable of turning him down. He annoys the living daylights out of me, but my physical reaction to him is so strong, it often overwhelms my good sense. Of course, his reaction to this is to tell me that I'm the one in control, not him, and that it is *me* who keeps making these decisions. He's right, of course. I just need to learn how to NOT make that decision.
I'm not really sure how to change my behavioral patterns. Sometimes I feel like I need a stable relationship, but that is not possible right now. Other times I feel like maybe I should just be alone again, but that is also difficult. So what do I do? Be single for another two years, only having fleeting sexual relationships with no emotion? Stop having sex until I am emotionally involved? I'd almost have to laugh at that one. Anyone who knows me knows that I am very sexual... it's not easy for me to be celibate for any long length of time. Yet, perhaps that is *exactly* what I need. To step back and analyze my approaches before I enter into any kind of relationship, emotional or sexual, with anyone.
Who knows.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Living the life of a semi-adult
When I started this blog, I knew that despite my best efforts I would forget to update, and so it comes as no surprise that it's been three weeks since my last post. It has been, in fact, a very interesting three weeks, so I need to just take a moment to figure out what to talk about first. The frustration of living at home and having no privacy? The lack of money? The pro-wrestler I started dating two weeks ago?
Yes, I said pro-wrestler. As in tights, screaming into a microphone, staged fights PRO-FUCKING-WRESTLER. Finally, a man who is not only bigger than me, but can, in fact, pick me up and toss me across a room without batting an eye. I'd swoon, but I left my whalebone corset and smelling salts back in 1885.
Honestly though, he's pretty awesome. Definitely different from the type of person I usually date. For one, he's an adult, 8 years my senior and happy in a steady, very well paying job in IT. Secondly he's not rail thin and riddled with emotional issues like a soda can on a redneck's fence. For another, despite what you might think when I say "pro-wrestler," he is a kind, charming, and brilliant human being. The brilliance can be proved by the fact that he is a bona fide member of MENSA, the kind and charming you'll just have to take at my word. Of course, it's very likely I may be laughing to hard to tell you, because he's also hilariously funny.
Not everything is wine and roses, however. He does, like every other human being, have his downsides. For one, he's a divorcee, with two daughters of his own. Although they don't live with him, it has been a new experience for me to negotiate dating someone with that much life experience under their belt. I sometimes feel so immature compared to him, but only in a strange sort of way. Obviously I am glad I never had children, but since it's a part of his life that I don't really understand, but takes up so much of his time, I wonder how much we can really share with each other. Also, he snores like a drunken bull moose.
It's been strange trying to do the dating dance while living at home. I don't really have a place of my own to bring him, and driving out to Sacramento all the time to go to his place is fine, but I miss being able to be in my own comfort zone. After having lived alone for so long, and being so used to defining my own hours, food, and when and where in my house I have sex, having to let someone else dictate those things is incredibly frustrating. I am overwhelmingly thankful to my folks for letting me stay with them while I am broke and in debt, but the trade-off is hard.
I've also been missing New York a lot in the last few weeks. Coming back to a small town after the excitement and drama of the capital of the world is just... heartbreaking. I really wasn't ready to leave New York yet. I feel like I had so much still to do there... but now I just have to dial everything down to living at home in Davis and drinking my pain away with the townies.
Wow... now I'm fucking depressed. I'm gonna go see what the townies are doing.
Yes, I said pro-wrestler. As in tights, screaming into a microphone, staged fights PRO-FUCKING-WRESTLER. Finally, a man who is not only bigger than me, but can, in fact, pick me up and toss me across a room without batting an eye. I'd swoon, but I left my whalebone corset and smelling salts back in 1885.
Honestly though, he's pretty awesome. Definitely different from the type of person I usually date. For one, he's an adult, 8 years my senior and happy in a steady, very well paying job in IT. Secondly he's not rail thin and riddled with emotional issues like a soda can on a redneck's fence. For another, despite what you might think when I say "pro-wrestler," he is a kind, charming, and brilliant human being. The brilliance can be proved by the fact that he is a bona fide member of MENSA, the kind and charming you'll just have to take at my word. Of course, it's very likely I may be laughing to hard to tell you, because he's also hilariously funny.
Not everything is wine and roses, however. He does, like every other human being, have his downsides. For one, he's a divorcee, with two daughters of his own. Although they don't live with him, it has been a new experience for me to negotiate dating someone with that much life experience under their belt. I sometimes feel so immature compared to him, but only in a strange sort of way. Obviously I am glad I never had children, but since it's a part of his life that I don't really understand, but takes up so much of his time, I wonder how much we can really share with each other. Also, he snores like a drunken bull moose.
It's been strange trying to do the dating dance while living at home. I don't really have a place of my own to bring him, and driving out to Sacramento all the time to go to his place is fine, but I miss being able to be in my own comfort zone. After having lived alone for so long, and being so used to defining my own hours, food, and when and where in my house I have sex, having to let someone else dictate those things is incredibly frustrating. I am overwhelmingly thankful to my folks for letting me stay with them while I am broke and in debt, but the trade-off is hard.
I've also been missing New York a lot in the last few weeks. Coming back to a small town after the excitement and drama of the capital of the world is just... heartbreaking. I really wasn't ready to leave New York yet. I feel like I had so much still to do there... but now I just have to dial everything down to living at home in Davis and drinking my pain away with the townies.
Wow... now I'm fucking depressed. I'm gonna go see what the townies are doing.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
California Dreamin'
Well, I'm back home, safe in the land of bicycles and cow poop. As I have attempted to explain to many people over the years, cow poop is a very nostalgic smell for those of us from the Central Valley-- that, combined with freshly cut alfalfa, is the smell of home. Perhaps not the most poetic of perfumes, but it's true nonetheless.
I've been home for about a week now, but I still feel as if I am only visiting, and will be returning to New York soon. I'm waiting for the day when I realize that I no longer live on the East Coast; it will most assuredly be an interesting day. Honestly it hasn't really felt like a vacation, I get up at 8 everyday and job hunt for most of the morning. I have been trying to be extra careful to keep my room clean and not to trigger any of my mother's OCD about the house, which has only gotten worse since she retired. So far, I have been doing pretty well, although it is hard not to fall back into old habits.
Speaking of old habits, I did fall back into a particular one since I've returned, not realizing that with how much things have changed in the last year it wasn't the best idea. Although last year my slightly-more-than-friends relationship with a certain boy was actually quite healthy for me mentally, I am realizing that at this moment in my life I am too emotionally vulnerable to be able to participate equally in this exchange. To put it simply, I am getting emotionally attached to someone that I don't want to be attached to, particularly since he is also uninterested in a real relationship. So, I need to make some adjustments in our friendship, which are probably going to frustrate the hell out of both of us, but do me (and maybe him) a lot of good in the long run. I am not the same person I was even 10 months ago-- not only am I more confident in myself, but I am also more aware of my own shortcomings and tendencies, especially when it comes to relationships. I suppose the older we get the more we learn what is bad for us, and those of us willing to learn from that move on to better and more healthy habits. Of course, there are always those who never learn... and that is how we get all the crazies with too many babies. Heh. Condescension for the win.
Job hunting is turning out even more frustrating than originally anticipated. After trying to do this myself for a few days, I have decided to hire a head-hunter to help me find a position. I would love to work in something that uses my abilities in Japanese, but at this point I just need a job, and if they can find me something to do for awhile until I find a career position, I will snatch it up. I am planning on applying for a position as an assistant professor of Japanese History at Stanford starting in the 2010 school year, but we will have to see if they will accept someone with just an MA or someone on the track to a PhD. Here's hoping. I have a fantasy of this working out, and of being at 27 year old professor at Stanford... very possibly a pipe dream but lovely nonetheless. Yet, if I keep my expectations high, perhaps I will be pleasantly surprised when they are fulfilled.
I've been home for about a week now, but I still feel as if I am only visiting, and will be returning to New York soon. I'm waiting for the day when I realize that I no longer live on the East Coast; it will most assuredly be an interesting day. Honestly it hasn't really felt like a vacation, I get up at 8 everyday and job hunt for most of the morning. I have been trying to be extra careful to keep my room clean and not to trigger any of my mother's OCD about the house, which has only gotten worse since she retired. So far, I have been doing pretty well, although it is hard not to fall back into old habits.
Speaking of old habits, I did fall back into a particular one since I've returned, not realizing that with how much things have changed in the last year it wasn't the best idea. Although last year my slightly-more-than-friends relationship with a certain boy was actually quite healthy for me mentally, I am realizing that at this moment in my life I am too emotionally vulnerable to be able to participate equally in this exchange. To put it simply, I am getting emotionally attached to someone that I don't want to be attached to, particularly since he is also uninterested in a real relationship. So, I need to make some adjustments in our friendship, which are probably going to frustrate the hell out of both of us, but do me (and maybe him) a lot of good in the long run. I am not the same person I was even 10 months ago-- not only am I more confident in myself, but I am also more aware of my own shortcomings and tendencies, especially when it comes to relationships. I suppose the older we get the more we learn what is bad for us, and those of us willing to learn from that move on to better and more healthy habits. Of course, there are always those who never learn... and that is how we get all the crazies with too many babies. Heh. Condescension for the win.
Job hunting is turning out even more frustrating than originally anticipated. After trying to do this myself for a few days, I have decided to hire a head-hunter to help me find a position. I would love to work in something that uses my abilities in Japanese, but at this point I just need a job, and if they can find me something to do for awhile until I find a career position, I will snatch it up. I am planning on applying for a position as an assistant professor of Japanese History at Stanford starting in the 2010 school year, but we will have to see if they will accept someone with just an MA or someone on the track to a PhD. Here's hoping. I have a fantasy of this working out, and of being at 27 year old professor at Stanford... very possibly a pipe dream but lovely nonetheless. Yet, if I keep my expectations high, perhaps I will be pleasantly surprised when they are fulfilled.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Goodbye New York; Hello California!
So, life-changing decisions have been made. I have decided, after much self-analysis, as well as much analysis of my bank account, to move back to California. The last few weeks have taught me that New York, as lovely and amazing as it is, might be the place for me anymore. When I was here for school, I had things to do every day, I had money to spend, and I was busy enough to keep my mind occupied. However, being here for school and being here desperately trying to find a job and a place to live gives one a very different lens from which to view this place. What I need, in Maurice's words, is a place to "regroup". And what better place to regroup than home, with my family?
I am actually beginning to get terribly excited about the whole affair. Being able to be back home, with my close friends and family, as well as the possibility of finding a job in the Bay Area, is amazing. It has always been my determination to move to Berkeley at some point, perhaps this is my chance-- just much earlier than I expected. But, life is full of unexpected surprises and opportunities.
Beyond even the possibility of work in San Francisco, I am happy to be able to be home for awhile to help out my mom. I know she has been missing her children immensely, and I think that having me nearby will help her depression a lot. She told me on the phone yesterday that she feels I am someone who truly understand both her and her situation, and that she is very excited to have me home. I was touched, but I have to be careful to walk the fine line of supporting her while not taking on too much of the burden. I can't live her life for her, and neither can I completely subsume my life into hers.
However, the excitement grows. I feel no regret in leaving New York, only a mild sort of nostalgia. Any real regret that I could feel is overshadowed by an excitement about returning to the state that I love, that state that shaped me and made me who I am. Where else can I fit in better than where I was born and raised? Where else but the sunny valleys and beaches can I be who I was meant to be? So, instead of a fabulous New Yorker, I will be a crazy, tattooed, funny, tan, sweet, laid back Californian. Onto a new adventure!
I am actually beginning to get terribly excited about the whole affair. Being able to be back home, with my close friends and family, as well as the possibility of finding a job in the Bay Area, is amazing. It has always been my determination to move to Berkeley at some point, perhaps this is my chance-- just much earlier than I expected. But, life is full of unexpected surprises and opportunities.
Beyond even the possibility of work in San Francisco, I am happy to be able to be home for awhile to help out my mom. I know she has been missing her children immensely, and I think that having me nearby will help her depression a lot. She told me on the phone yesterday that she feels I am someone who truly understand both her and her situation, and that she is very excited to have me home. I was touched, but I have to be careful to walk the fine line of supporting her while not taking on too much of the burden. I can't live her life for her, and neither can I completely subsume my life into hers.
However, the excitement grows. I feel no regret in leaving New York, only a mild sort of nostalgia. Any real regret that I could feel is overshadowed by an excitement about returning to the state that I love, that state that shaped me and made me who I am. Where else can I fit in better than where I was born and raised? Where else but the sunny valleys and beaches can I be who I was meant to be? So, instead of a fabulous New Yorker, I will be a crazy, tattooed, funny, tan, sweet, laid back Californian. Onto a new adventure!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sometimes the Big Apple has a worm in it
I think I just visited what is officially the worst apartment in the entire city of New York.
Okay, maybe I should back up a bit. It has been while since my last post, which was of course full of my ridiculous female squealings as per my new nephew. Ten days and several thousand miles later, I am back in the Big City. I arrived back in the land of public urination and inflated rents last Monday, and made my way to my good friend Chelsea's house, which she had graciously offered to let me stay in for as long as I needed to. She lives in a lovely and upcoming part of Brooklyn called Fort Greene, a place that is sort of like Manhattan's Upper East Side in suburb form. Spacious one-family brownstones and tree lined streets, where young parents push strollers that cost more than my last rent payment.
I admit without shame my envy of Chelsea. I am openly jealous of her fantastic apartment, her great job, her ability to travel every weekend, her boyfr-- okay, well maybe not her boyfriend. A pleasant enough man, even if he couldn't find a personality with a flashlight and a GPS. But he adores her, and that is worth some serious envy. I would desperately love to live in this neighborhood, but the possibility shrinks with every day that passes. As I mentioned, this is a pretty expensive neighborhood. And, as I am currently jobless, with $120 thousand in debt and $97 to my name, being able to afford rents out here seems high unlikely.
Speaking of jobs, in the last ten days I have applied for over 15 jobs. Last Wednesday, I applied for and was accepted to a position at Planned Parenthood. At first I was terribly excited to be working for a non-profit, especially one whose work I so admire. However, withing 4 hours of my first day I had quit. This was not the kind of work I had imagined-- political work, work that would help women to take control over their own bodies. Instead, it was door to door soliciting. Oh, no, excuse me, canvassing. That is what they like to call it, perhaps to make themselves feel better for bothering people during dinner. I realized after an hour that I wanted to punch my supervisor in the face after she had refused to take no as an answer, and had in fact caused a woman to be late for an appointment rather than let her go without a donation. I do believe in the message and services of PP, however, I refuse to have my job performance based on how proficient I am at annoying people enough that they give me money to shut me up. I left after telling them exactly how I felt about it, and left feeling both righteous and depressed. So now jobs are back to square one.
The apartment hunt seems to be going just as badly. I am attempting to find a room (even a room in a place shared by several people) for less than an arm, leg, and my firstborn child. Chelsea has been helpful in assisting me, sending me ads for places that she has found and letting her friends now that I am looking. Due to this I have an interview tomorrow at an apartment that, while it sounds fantastic, is somewhat above my intended payment range, especially due to the lack of employment. So, in an attempt to keep my costs low, I have also lowered my expectations. However, not low enough to forgive the apartment that I was introduced to today. I would like you, reader, to close your eyes and imagine what I am about to show you. Let it be a warning to all of you who would consider moving to New York City with less than a million dollars in your stock portfolio.
Imagine if you will a street in Brooklyn. The street itself is potholed and has weeds growing up in the cracks. On each side of the street stand several abandoned lots, factories, and what appears to be the temporary camp of several homeless persons. Look down at the slip of paper in your hand with the address, stare at the street, and realize with growing horror that the abandoned looking warehouse is, in fact, the address that you seek. Recoil in horror. Recoil again, this time with a muffled scream, as a rat the size of a small Labrador runs across the street. Realize with growing terror that not only is this a rodent infested crack den, it is a rodent infested crack den that costs $650 a month. Rethink your life decisions, and fight back tears. Now, gather the rest of your dignity, and haul ass. Drown memory of apartment with beer. Repeat.
Good lord. I should have listened to my guidance counselor and gone to business school.
Okay, maybe I should back up a bit. It has been while since my last post, which was of course full of my ridiculous female squealings as per my new nephew. Ten days and several thousand miles later, I am back in the Big City. I arrived back in the land of public urination and inflated rents last Monday, and made my way to my good friend Chelsea's house, which she had graciously offered to let me stay in for as long as I needed to. She lives in a lovely and upcoming part of Brooklyn called Fort Greene, a place that is sort of like Manhattan's Upper East Side in suburb form. Spacious one-family brownstones and tree lined streets, where young parents push strollers that cost more than my last rent payment.
I admit without shame my envy of Chelsea. I am openly jealous of her fantastic apartment, her great job, her ability to travel every weekend, her boyfr-- okay, well maybe not her boyfriend. A pleasant enough man, even if he couldn't find a personality with a flashlight and a GPS. But he adores her, and that is worth some serious envy. I would desperately love to live in this neighborhood, but the possibility shrinks with every day that passes. As I mentioned, this is a pretty expensive neighborhood. And, as I am currently jobless, with $120 thousand in debt and $97 to my name, being able to afford rents out here seems high unlikely.
Speaking of jobs, in the last ten days I have applied for over 15 jobs. Last Wednesday, I applied for and was accepted to a position at Planned Parenthood. At first I was terribly excited to be working for a non-profit, especially one whose work I so admire. However, withing 4 hours of my first day I had quit. This was not the kind of work I had imagined-- political work, work that would help women to take control over their own bodies. Instead, it was door to door soliciting. Oh, no, excuse me, canvassing. That is what they like to call it, perhaps to make themselves feel better for bothering people during dinner. I realized after an hour that I wanted to punch my supervisor in the face after she had refused to take no as an answer, and had in fact caused a woman to be late for an appointment rather than let her go without a donation. I do believe in the message and services of PP, however, I refuse to have my job performance based on how proficient I am at annoying people enough that they give me money to shut me up. I left after telling them exactly how I felt about it, and left feeling both righteous and depressed. So now jobs are back to square one.
The apartment hunt seems to be going just as badly. I am attempting to find a room (even a room in a place shared by several people) for less than an arm, leg, and my firstborn child. Chelsea has been helpful in assisting me, sending me ads for places that she has found and letting her friends now that I am looking. Due to this I have an interview tomorrow at an apartment that, while it sounds fantastic, is somewhat above my intended payment range, especially due to the lack of employment. So, in an attempt to keep my costs low, I have also lowered my expectations. However, not low enough to forgive the apartment that I was introduced to today. I would like you, reader, to close your eyes and imagine what I am about to show you. Let it be a warning to all of you who would consider moving to New York City with less than a million dollars in your stock portfolio.
Imagine if you will a street in Brooklyn. The street itself is potholed and has weeds growing up in the cracks. On each side of the street stand several abandoned lots, factories, and what appears to be the temporary camp of several homeless persons. Look down at the slip of paper in your hand with the address, stare at the street, and realize with growing horror that the abandoned looking warehouse is, in fact, the address that you seek. Recoil in horror. Recoil again, this time with a muffled scream, as a rat the size of a small Labrador runs across the street. Realize with growing terror that not only is this a rodent infested crack den, it is a rodent infested crack den that costs $650 a month. Rethink your life decisions, and fight back tears. Now, gather the rest of your dignity, and haul ass. Drown memory of apartment with beer. Repeat.
Good lord. I should have listened to my guidance counselor and gone to business school.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
He has arrived!
My new nephew arrived today at about 4 pm Tokyo time! I missed the first phone call and didn't hear about it until about 7 pm. After 30 hours of pretty grueling labor, it was decided that my sister needed to have a C-section performed. Of course, she is fine, and that is a totally routine surgery, but it didn't keep me from bursting into tears over the phone. I really wish I could have been there for her. Sadly I cannot join mama and baby until Sunday, so it's four more days of waiting for me. It's really no surprise that she had to have the C-section, though, the baby was a whopping 8 lbs. 3 oz!! Just to give you a comparison my sister is about five foot 2 and weighs about 140 lbs., so you can imagine how rough that must have been. I really can't wait to see them!
Monday, July 27, 2009
New baby!
Just writing to say that my little sister is in labor! She is due to actually give birth in about 6 hours or so... she just had an epidural, and is pretty groggy, but I am so excited! Hopefully I will be able to go to Yokohama tomorrow to be with her and the new nephew.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
People Watching
People are strange.
Nowhere is that more obvious than in a youth hostel, where dozens of young people (and sometimes not-so-young people) from all over the world share small spaces and limited resources. In the week that I have been staying at the Sakura Hostel in Asakusa, Tokyo, I have seen more strange human behavior than I had for months beforehand. For example: On the day I arrived I lugged my (far too copious) luggage up to my room, which contained six beds and several lockers. The room was clean and neat and I immediately struck up a lively conversation with the young Dutch man in the bed opposite mine. When I asked about our others roommates, he grimaced slightly, which gave me a bit of a warning. He told me that three of the other residents were pleasant enough people, but were also a mother, father, and grown son (also from Amsterdam) who spent all day away from the hostel, only to return at 9, sleep from 9:30 to 10 am, and then leave again, barely speaking with the other people staying in the room. He mentioned that he often stayed out of the room until he himself was ready to sleep, as this trio went to bed the earliest and slept the latest, and he got the sense that they were irritated with anyone who didn't keep the same hours. Although that seemed somewhat odd to me (you do have to make some compromises in a shared space), I wasn't all that phased, until I returned to the room to sleep at 11 and found the father glaring at me from his bed as I used my alarm clock light to search for my toothbrush. Luckily they only stayed one night, after which I didn't have to worry so much about disturbing their obviously delicate sleeping schedules.
I have to say, however, more so than the issue of sleep courtesies, I was disturbed by the age of the people staying in my room. I tend to think of a "you hostel" as just that, a place for youths to stay as they travel or backpack through a country. And yet in just the last week I have encountered several people that forced me to re-evaluate this, sometimes to my discomfort. It is difficult enough to share a small room with strangers, but even more difficult and uncomfortable when those people are significantly older than oneself. There is a big difference between wearing your pj's and brushing your teeth in front of 20-somethings and doing the same in front of a 55 year old man whom you have never met. For another example, just three days ago I was sitting at a table in the lounge, surfing the internet and drinking a beer, when a trio of people sat down at my table. Looking up I was somewhat shocked to find a woman in her 60's, at least, with a younger woman who was most likely her daughter, and a boy no more than 6! I suddenly felt the urge to both hide the beer I was drinking and to sit up straighter. I hate to judge, but, well I will. What the hell?! Who brings a six year old to a youth hostel full of hormonal, drunk college students? And for that matter, Mom and Dad, why are you not in a hotel? What 55-year old mother and father are so cheap that they are willing to bunk down with a bunch of kids half their age? Especially in Japan, where getting a business hotel is only about $10 more than a hostel.
However, my experience earlier this very day took the cake for me. Beyond the issues of age-appropriate lodgings and money, this next story also dips into my feelings about child care and age-appropriate behavior, period. In order to facilitate and easier move into a new room tomorrow, I took half of my luggage down to the storage space in the basement. As I arrived I was surprised to meet yet another young kid, this one perhaps 7 years old. I rolled my eyes to myself, once again feeling like a hostel is not a great place for kids. However, I was even more surprised by his mother, a young woman, who had three suitcases and about 15 shopping bags strewn about the storage room, blocking almost all access to the shelves. She was dress in a skimpy, hot pink terrycloth tube dress that was both strapless and short enough to show the curve of her buttocks. When she spoke to me (In English and with no traceable accent, either American or Canadian), her voice was girlishly high pitched and giggly. She politely apologized for having her stuff in the way, but made no move to actually pick up or move any of her assorted junk. She asked how long I had been in Japan, and I breathlessly explained I had been at this hostel for a week as I wrestled my suitcase onto the top shelf. She told me that she and her son had been there for a month.
A month?
A month of keeping a child in a shared bedroom, living out of suitcases, surrounded by strangers in the bed next to you, with no personal or private space? The though boggled my mind. I was shocked that she had spent a month in a hostel, when judging by her bags of shopping she clearly had enough money to afford or hotel or even an apartment. Which is to say nothing of her attire... but then, I could do an entire other blog entry about my feelings about women who dress like hookers even after they have married and had kids. Another time, perhaps.
Of course, in a shred space such as this, little things like courtesy and manners also take on a new and exciting twist. As anyone who has ever lived with others knows, it is sometimes amazing how completely lacking in common courtesy some people can be. This weekend, the hostel was inundated with guests, many of them from France. Now, I am not making any judgments about France or about the French people, but this week the perpetrators of rudeness have so far all been French. One young man has annoyed me multiple times. The first evening he arrived, he and his friends rented a film to watch on the big screen TV in the lounge. I was sitting at least 20 feet away from the TV, on the other side of the lounge, yet the movie was turned up so loudly that I could not hear my music in my headphones. Everyone else in the lounge was cringing from the noise, shooting dirty looks and the boys on the couches, and generally being irritated by the whole thing. I hated to be the one to bitch, but as no one else seemed willing to say anything, I finally got up and asked them to turn it down. They did so, fractionally-- and proceeded to watch another movie just as loudly, well into the small a.m. hours.
This young man wasn't done yet, though. As I speak, this is his third evening of contact with what I can only assume is his girlfriend, as he has loud conversations with her on his computer without the benefit of headphones. I can hear both sides of their conversation for hours as a time and he laughs and yells into his computer so that she can hear him. Yet, oddly enough, he does own headphones-- he just only uses them to watch movies on his computer.
Watching movies and TV shows on our computers in one of the main activities here at the hostel. I have spent many hours laughing quietly to myself as I watch old episodes of South Park, one of the only shows I can stream in Japan. Hulu and the Cartoon Network website are both locked to American, and thus unavailable to us poor stranded Westerners here in Asia. So too are most of the network websites like NBC and CBS. So, as usual today, I was seated at my computer, giggling at the antics of Cartman and the boys, when a shadow fell over me. I looked up and a young girl, no older than 15, was watching over my shoulder. Alright, no big deal, she's just wondering what I'm watching, right? Wrong. She continued to stand there, right over my shoulder, or occasionally sitting in the chair next to me, and stare at my computer for a good 20 minutes. I kept looking at her, trying to tell her with body language that she was making me uncomfortable, and exchanging exasperated looks with my Australian friend seated across from me. The girl seemed as oblivious to her breach of etiquette as she was at my attempts to politely make her aware of them. However, just as I was about to lose my temper and ask her "Can I help you?", my episode ended, and so I decisively snapped my laptop shut. Robbed of her sparkly lights, the girl then proceeded across the table and set up shop behind my Australian friend! Just as with me, she stood behind him and watched what he was doing on his computer. However, apparently what he was doing was not as fascinating as my activity, and eventually she moved away to go sit directly behind someone I assumed to be her brother who was playing a Nintendo DS. I left to return to my room at that point, but my occasional trips down for a drink or a snack found her in exactly the same place.
There are, of course, other stories, like my roommate who makes a little double throat clearing cough every three minutes, or the French girl in the elevator in just a tank top and panties, but I have to say, strange computer staring girl is so far my favorite wierdo of Sakura Hostel.
Nowhere is that more obvious than in a youth hostel, where dozens of young people (and sometimes not-so-young people) from all over the world share small spaces and limited resources. In the week that I have been staying at the Sakura Hostel in Asakusa, Tokyo, I have seen more strange human behavior than I had for months beforehand. For example: On the day I arrived I lugged my (far too copious) luggage up to my room, which contained six beds and several lockers. The room was clean and neat and I immediately struck up a lively conversation with the young Dutch man in the bed opposite mine. When I asked about our others roommates, he grimaced slightly, which gave me a bit of a warning. He told me that three of the other residents were pleasant enough people, but were also a mother, father, and grown son (also from Amsterdam) who spent all day away from the hostel, only to return at 9, sleep from 9:30 to 10 am, and then leave again, barely speaking with the other people staying in the room. He mentioned that he often stayed out of the room until he himself was ready to sleep, as this trio went to bed the earliest and slept the latest, and he got the sense that they were irritated with anyone who didn't keep the same hours. Although that seemed somewhat odd to me (you do have to make some compromises in a shared space), I wasn't all that phased, until I returned to the room to sleep at 11 and found the father glaring at me from his bed as I used my alarm clock light to search for my toothbrush. Luckily they only stayed one night, after which I didn't have to worry so much about disturbing their obviously delicate sleeping schedules.
I have to say, however, more so than the issue of sleep courtesies, I was disturbed by the age of the people staying in my room. I tend to think of a "you hostel" as just that, a place for youths to stay as they travel or backpack through a country. And yet in just the last week I have encountered several people that forced me to re-evaluate this, sometimes to my discomfort. It is difficult enough to share a small room with strangers, but even more difficult and uncomfortable when those people are significantly older than oneself. There is a big difference between wearing your pj's and brushing your teeth in front of 20-somethings and doing the same in front of a 55 year old man whom you have never met. For another example, just three days ago I was sitting at a table in the lounge, surfing the internet and drinking a beer, when a trio of people sat down at my table. Looking up I was somewhat shocked to find a woman in her 60's, at least, with a younger woman who was most likely her daughter, and a boy no more than 6! I suddenly felt the urge to both hide the beer I was drinking and to sit up straighter. I hate to judge, but, well I will. What the hell?! Who brings a six year old to a youth hostel full of hormonal, drunk college students? And for that matter, Mom and Dad, why are you not in a hotel? What 55-year old mother and father are so cheap that they are willing to bunk down with a bunch of kids half their age? Especially in Japan, where getting a business hotel is only about $10 more than a hostel.
However, my experience earlier this very day took the cake for me. Beyond the issues of age-appropriate lodgings and money, this next story also dips into my feelings about child care and age-appropriate behavior, period. In order to facilitate and easier move into a new room tomorrow, I took half of my luggage down to the storage space in the basement. As I arrived I was surprised to meet yet another young kid, this one perhaps 7 years old. I rolled my eyes to myself, once again feeling like a hostel is not a great place for kids. However, I was even more surprised by his mother, a young woman, who had three suitcases and about 15 shopping bags strewn about the storage room, blocking almost all access to the shelves. She was dress in a skimpy, hot pink terrycloth tube dress that was both strapless and short enough to show the curve of her buttocks. When she spoke to me (In English and with no traceable accent, either American or Canadian), her voice was girlishly high pitched and giggly. She politely apologized for having her stuff in the way, but made no move to actually pick up or move any of her assorted junk. She asked how long I had been in Japan, and I breathlessly explained I had been at this hostel for a week as I wrestled my suitcase onto the top shelf. She told me that she and her son had been there for a month.
A month?
A month of keeping a child in a shared bedroom, living out of suitcases, surrounded by strangers in the bed next to you, with no personal or private space? The though boggled my mind. I was shocked that she had spent a month in a hostel, when judging by her bags of shopping she clearly had enough money to afford or hotel or even an apartment. Which is to say nothing of her attire... but then, I could do an entire other blog entry about my feelings about women who dress like hookers even after they have married and had kids. Another time, perhaps.
Of course, in a shred space such as this, little things like courtesy and manners also take on a new and exciting twist. As anyone who has ever lived with others knows, it is sometimes amazing how completely lacking in common courtesy some people can be. This weekend, the hostel was inundated with guests, many of them from France. Now, I am not making any judgments about France or about the French people, but this week the perpetrators of rudeness have so far all been French. One young man has annoyed me multiple times. The first evening he arrived, he and his friends rented a film to watch on the big screen TV in the lounge. I was sitting at least 20 feet away from the TV, on the other side of the lounge, yet the movie was turned up so loudly that I could not hear my music in my headphones. Everyone else in the lounge was cringing from the noise, shooting dirty looks and the boys on the couches, and generally being irritated by the whole thing. I hated to be the one to bitch, but as no one else seemed willing to say anything, I finally got up and asked them to turn it down. They did so, fractionally-- and proceeded to watch another movie just as loudly, well into the small a.m. hours.
This young man wasn't done yet, though. As I speak, this is his third evening of contact with what I can only assume is his girlfriend, as he has loud conversations with her on his computer without the benefit of headphones. I can hear both sides of their conversation for hours as a time and he laughs and yells into his computer so that she can hear him. Yet, oddly enough, he does own headphones-- he just only uses them to watch movies on his computer.
Watching movies and TV shows on our computers in one of the main activities here at the hostel. I have spent many hours laughing quietly to myself as I watch old episodes of South Park, one of the only shows I can stream in Japan. Hulu and the Cartoon Network website are both locked to American, and thus unavailable to us poor stranded Westerners here in Asia. So too are most of the network websites like NBC and CBS. So, as usual today, I was seated at my computer, giggling at the antics of Cartman and the boys, when a shadow fell over me. I looked up and a young girl, no older than 15, was watching over my shoulder. Alright, no big deal, she's just wondering what I'm watching, right? Wrong. She continued to stand there, right over my shoulder, or occasionally sitting in the chair next to me, and stare at my computer for a good 20 minutes. I kept looking at her, trying to tell her with body language that she was making me uncomfortable, and exchanging exasperated looks with my Australian friend seated across from me. The girl seemed as oblivious to her breach of etiquette as she was at my attempts to politely make her aware of them. However, just as I was about to lose my temper and ask her "Can I help you?", my episode ended, and so I decisively snapped my laptop shut. Robbed of her sparkly lights, the girl then proceeded across the table and set up shop behind my Australian friend! Just as with me, she stood behind him and watched what he was doing on his computer. However, apparently what he was doing was not as fascinating as my activity, and eventually she moved away to go sit directly behind someone I assumed to be her brother who was playing a Nintendo DS. I left to return to my room at that point, but my occasional trips down for a drink or a snack found her in exactly the same place.
There are, of course, other stories, like my roommate who makes a little double throat clearing cough every three minutes, or the French girl in the elevator in just a tank top and panties, but I have to say, strange computer staring girl is so far my favorite wierdo of Sakura Hostel.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Background info essays
I moved to New York City when I was 23 years old. At the time, I was still extricating myself from a two year relationship that had become increasingly abusive, despite my initial refusal to see it. I had known for quite awhile—looking back, most likely within the first six months—that we had an often difficult relationship, but as is common with such things, I assumed it was something that I could fix, and continued to try to do so for the next year and a half. I think people tend to misunderstand abuse, particularly of the more invasive but less visible emotional kind. We pity women who stay in abusive relationships but also judge them harshly, telling ourselves that we would never put up with that kind of shit; assuring ourselves that our self esteem is too high for that kind of co-dependent drama. Yet, there is a more pervasive and lingering form of abuse that may not be perpetrated in black eyes and “accidental falls;” a kind of manipulation of one’s very self that in some ways is more damaging than any broken bone. We all know what it is like to be in love—that initial infatuation, when all you can see in the world is this other person, the perfection of them, and if there are any clues to possible personality issues they are easily glossed over by an eagerness to let this one, this relationship, be better than all the others, to make it more meaningful, more lasting, than ever before. So we try hard not to annoy, not to cause fights, not to upset our lover but instead try to be the perfect, sympathetic and understanding person that you have always wanted to be. And you have so much fun; he makes you laugh so hard it hurts sometimes, he gets all your weird geeky jokes, he praises the body you are so self-conscious about. And so you change some things about yourself—maybe you dress a little differently, to turn him on. Whine a little less about your job, his is just as hard. Or maybe you don’t bring up an overdue electric bill because you know he’s had a bad day, or try not to be offended when he shuts you out emotionally, no, really, it’s just that his mother was so cold to him and he never had a dad, he just doesn’t know how to connect, but I can help him, I love him, I can make him better.
I can fix him.
This is the phrase I kept finding myself coming back to, for those two years. I love him, I can help him, I can fix him. Surely that is what a good friend, a good lover, and good person, does, right? They help, they listen, they do what they can to make the lives of the people they love better. So, in our desire to be a good person, and good woman, we push our own needs and thoughts back, so often that it becomes a reflex. And before you know it, you are trapped—unable to extricate yourself from this person who has taken over your life, chained by love and by that desire to help that overwhelms all good sense.
When we first started dating, it seemed as though Luke came along at the perfect point in my life. I was 21 and still a virgin, relatively inexperienced with men, stymied by an unsatisfying relationship that lasted senior year of high school and my freshman year of college, as well as my own dissatisfaction with my body. For two years since then end of my high school romance, I had countless times been at a party, or a bar, having a fantastic conversation with someone cute and witty, only to be dropped like dirty laundry the minute a thinner, more fashionable, girl entered the room. I had, at some point, decided that it was not worth the disappointed, and retreated to an expectation-free life of platonic male friends and a gaggle of wonderful girlfriends. It was these girls, as well as a new living situation and 10 pounds lost, that convinced me to join them going out more often. It was at one of these weekly outings that Luke and I met in a bar in Santa Cruz, somewhat randomly; he was a friend of a friend who happened to be sitting at the next booth. He overhead me make a reference to Eddie Izzard, and we spent the rest of the evening drunkenly quoting lines from our favorite pieces. We met again the next week, and laughed our way through a mutual love of good beer and science fiction movies. It was the laughing that drew me to him initially—I have always loved to laugh and to make others laugh. I was surprised to learn that he was in fact six years my elder, which perhaps should have been a clue to his immaturity, but also deeply moved by his telling of growing up never knowing his father, who had run out on his pregnant (and teenaged) mother. I think I felt some sort of guilt for my upper-middle class two parent upbringing; I had certainly never experienced the things that he had. He was so much like me and yet totally alien. And he kept making me laugh.
In a fit of drunken confidence, I took him home that night, and although clothes were shed, I managed to hold off actually having sex with him until our third “official” date. I didn’t mention at the time that I was a virgin, because I really didn’t know where this would end up going and frankly didn’t want it to be a big deal. I’ve always despised the ideas of “purity” and “honor” that are associated with virginity—frankly I think the cult of virginity has done more to harm women than just about anything else in the long and sordid history of women’s rights. I believe I said something vague about “it’s been a long time,” referring more to dating than anything else. The experience was extremely pleasant, for which I am still grateful. Too many times I heard stories from my girlfriends about their first times, usually hurried encounters before mom and dad got home, or cramped in the back of a car, that were either painful or awkward or both. This was neither. The next morning, when I had to drag myself out of bed to catch and early train back home for Thanksgiving, saying goodbye was almost pleasantly painful.
I think, honestly, that our entire relationship could be summed up in that phrase, “pleasantly painful.” When things were good, they were amazing. We fit like a glove in hand. Our senses of humor, tastes in music and clothes, even our political ideologies were completely in tune. It was so easy to forget his angry emotional outburst, his insults, when he was apologizing five minutes later and offering to buy me ice cream to make up for being a jerk. His drinking had always been heavy, but as our relationship progressed it began to become more and more of a problem. He would spend not only almost every evening at the bar with his friends, but most of his paycheck as well. At first I didn’t really mind, I hung out with them all at the bar and for the first year of our relationship he would usually leave whenever I did, coming home with me to my bed. I got so use to his snoring that when I would visit home, I often couldn’t sleep for lack of it. However, after my graduation from college in ’05, I didn’t really have the same time or money to spend at the dive bars of Pacific Avenue. I was only working part time, and paying rent only by the grace of my overly-indulgent parents, and I was begging to be annoyed not only with his drinking but his absolute inability to come home when he said he would. I’m sure his friends all though I was the clingy girlfriend, calling his cell phone multiple times an evening. Yet at least twice weekly we would have plans, dinner or a movie or just hanging out at home, and he would be three hours late by the time I called him, at which point it was always “Oh, yeah, sorry, be home in 30 minutes,” after which I would wait another three hours before giving up and going to bed. He would inevitably crawl in at 2 am, snuggle up to me smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, and I would pretend not to be angry that he was too drunk to remember he was supposed to be home four hours ago and that the spaghetti was getting cold in the refrigerator.
I’m sure many of you are asking why I would put up with his bullshit for so long. I can only say that I loved him, in all of his flawed nature, and my own insecurities made me cling to what I saw as my only hope for love. I was still young, and new to serious relationships, and I clung to him with a fierceness that looking back is eminently pathetic. But I still wanted to help him, I wanted to be the one to help him quit drinking, get a better job, I somehow felt that I could take the good parts of him and mold them around the bad parts, hiding them behind his better features. I looked always for the positive, and took great joy in those times when things between us were good.
In the end it was our differences, both in drive and in maturity, which brought things to a head. We had moved into together, and we celebrating three months of being able to put up with one another, when I was accepted to Columbia for graduate school in March of 2006. Those three months has been some of the best between us—Luke had cut back on his drinking significantly, and we reveled in a shared space that could really be called our own. He was so happy for me when the letter came from New York, so proud that I had been accepted to a school to which I had always been sure I would never go. For the first three weeks it was a haze of excitement for me, as well as a sort of dumbfounded disbelief that I would actually be attending such a prestigious institution. I was ready, after five years, to leave Santa Cruz, with its beach bum laziness and lack of drive, for the excitement and flurry of New York City. But it wasn’t nearly the same for him. Luke had never in his life ridden in an airplane, and despite nearing thirty, he had in fact never left the borders of California. His immaturity and lack of experience, which at first had moved me to want to show him new places and encounters, developed into a full blown fear of leaving everything he knew. Within a month of my acceptance, he had changed his mind twice about joining me in New York, and had gone back to his routine of alternately abandoning me to drink with his friends and clinging to me, begging me to take him with me, that he couldn’t be without me. Things unraveled quickly after that, and by mid-May we had stopped having sex, and he spent at least once a week on the couch after starting and then refusing to finish a fight. He had turned completely passive aggressive, calling me names and purposely starting fights only to paint me as the bad guy. I think now the only reason I kept trying to work things out was that I was so scared to move all the way across the country by myself. Just before the fourth of July, which was a sort of anniversary for us, we had the fight that made me realize I was completely wasting my time trying to save this relationship. In a drunken fit, Luke had purposely picked a fight, and a physical one at that, but in his strange victimizing way, he kept trying to goad me into hitting him. He kept telling me that he was sure I hated him anyway, so why not just hit him and get it over with, forcing me into the position of aggressor without my consent or participation. I was so angry I couldn’t speak, and honestly did want to hit him pretty badly, just to snap him out of this ridiculous obsession with being the victim. The fight escalated verbally, and finally in a fit of pique, distress, and anger at his insults and cuts to my character, I gave in, and slapped him once, hard, across the face. I t was a huge mistake, and I know it; not only had I given him exactly what he wanted, but I had broken my own rules about physical reactions to anger. If it is never appropriate for a man to hit a woman, neither is it appropriate for a woman to hit a man. I felt like an asshole, both for the slap and for allowing myself to be made into the abuser. I was so turned around I didn’t know what to do, I felt like I was the one who had crossed the line, despite his obvious desire that I do so. Perhaps it was his inability to take the lead, to take any kind of responsibility that demanded that I be the one to irrevocably decide to end the relationship.
To be continued...
Monday, July 6, 2009
Hooray!
Just posting to say, huzzah! I finally got my laptop online with the school's crappy internet. I have been sans personal internet access for six weeks! Now I can finally Skype with my family instead of having to pay $15 for a ten minute phone call. Hooray for the intertrons!
Making lists keeps me sane
At the six week mark in Japan, and so far my list of things that keep me sane are as follows:
Number of books read: 15
Pairs of shoes bought: 2
Seasons of Venture Brothers Watched: 3
Days I missed the last train and stayed out till 5 am: 2
Friends made: 7
Visits to the very pregnant lil sis: 1
Eps of Sex and the City watched: 4
Hours of flute lessons: 30
Hours of practice:...14 (or so)
Bands seen: 4 (bands that rocked, 1)
Trips to Yokohama: 1
Meishi (business cards) handed out: approx. 50
Money spent on beer and ciggies: Too much
I could go on forever like this, but a funny thing just happened. As much as I whine about being here (and I do, too much, I know), making that list just sort of reminded me of the fun things about being in a place like Japan. Its such a small country, really, that getting where you want to go (although expensive) is pretty easy, considering. I am currently looking into night buses to take me up to Sendai, as the Shinkansen is at the moment prohibitively expensive, but I would be really pleased if I could make it. Some of my fellow Columbians (the school, not the country) are living up there right now, as well as the guy who did my leg tattoo. It`s been a year and it could use some touch-ups (as could the one on my arm, really). I wonder if he`d give me a cheaper rate for touch-ups? I also wonder if he is still with his Japanese girlfriend... boy is adorable, with his Canadian accent and mohawk. A body full of tats doesn`t hurt the cuteness factor, either. Ah well. At least he could direct me to a onsen where they wouldn`t kick me out.
As for the books mentioned above, I just picked up Steven Erikson`s Malazan Empire series, and so far I am enjoying it immensely. I tend to re-read favorite authors often (not a bad habit, but not a great one), and in my attempt to spread out to new authors, I have come across more than a few really terrible, or just mildly terrible, books. So, to find someone with some actual talent and ability is refreshing. He reminds me (and apparently many people) of George R. R. Martin, but without all the rape. I honestly had to stop reading the Song of Ice and Fire because Martin apparently can`t go 20 pages without mentioning rape, particularly anal rape. What is that man`s issue? I`d love to be able to finish his series (if he ever finishes it... hint hint) without feeling physically threatened by his books. However, Erikson`s novels have the promise of the same epic scope and cynical take on war and life, which make his books far more three-dimensional than your basic sword-and-sorcery kind of thing. I look forward to seeing where he takes it.
I also, in my apparently hunger for fantasy, read the Lord of The Rings again. I read them once, just before the films came out, hoping that I would enjoy them as much as I had the Hobbit, a staple of my childhood. I remember finding them somewhat boring as an eighteen year old, and although I enjoyed them more this time, I can still see the reasons behind my initial dislike. Tolkien is an incredibly imaginative creator of worlds and languages, and I in no way meant o diminish the epic story he created, but it really is a rather boring series of books. Tolkien spends pages describing his characters traveling across gorgeous panoramas, but when it comes to moments of emotion or character development he falls disappointingly flat. The death of Boromir takes place in less than four sentences, and the battles are over in mere paragraphs. Even the end of the ring itself is described almost off-hand, sans reaction by Frodo, who is, in the book version, barely involved in the actual destruction.
I have to say, though, I find this to be a theme within a certain style of writing (I mean, really, how three dimensional are, say, the Pevensie children?), in which the actual emotions and personalities of the characters are sacrificed for the epic scope of the overall story. The one exception to this in LOTR was Sam, of course. It is really no wonder that he is a favorite character among fans-- not only is he in some ways the true hero of the story, but he is also the only character whose personality and emotions are made available to the audience. Although one could argue that Eowyn shares some of this (as in her arc of looking for death, and her unrequited love for Aragorn), she is, as with most women in Tolkien, eventually returned to her pedestal, another thin, noble woman to be admired. In Sam, though, we see beyond the large scope and into the personal one, which for me, saves the books from simply being a hugely epic, yet cold, history of a time and place.
Number of books read: 15
Pairs of shoes bought: 2
Seasons of Venture Brothers Watched: 3
Days I missed the last train and stayed out till 5 am: 2
Friends made: 7
Visits to the very pregnant lil sis: 1
Eps of Sex and the City watched: 4
Hours of flute lessons: 30
Hours of practice:...14 (or so)
Bands seen: 4 (bands that rocked, 1)
Trips to Yokohama: 1
Meishi (business cards) handed out: approx. 50
Money spent on beer and ciggies: Too much
I could go on forever like this, but a funny thing just happened. As much as I whine about being here (and I do, too much, I know), making that list just sort of reminded me of the fun things about being in a place like Japan. Its such a small country, really, that getting where you want to go (although expensive) is pretty easy, considering. I am currently looking into night buses to take me up to Sendai, as the Shinkansen is at the moment prohibitively expensive, but I would be really pleased if I could make it. Some of my fellow Columbians (the school, not the country) are living up there right now, as well as the guy who did my leg tattoo. It`s been a year and it could use some touch-ups (as could the one on my arm, really). I wonder if he`d give me a cheaper rate for touch-ups? I also wonder if he is still with his Japanese girlfriend... boy is adorable, with his Canadian accent and mohawk. A body full of tats doesn`t hurt the cuteness factor, either. Ah well. At least he could direct me to a onsen where they wouldn`t kick me out.
As for the books mentioned above, I just picked up Steven Erikson`s Malazan Empire series, and so far I am enjoying it immensely. I tend to re-read favorite authors often (not a bad habit, but not a great one), and in my attempt to spread out to new authors, I have come across more than a few really terrible, or just mildly terrible, books. So, to find someone with some actual talent and ability is refreshing. He reminds me (and apparently many people) of George R. R. Martin, but without all the rape. I honestly had to stop reading the Song of Ice and Fire because Martin apparently can`t go 20 pages without mentioning rape, particularly anal rape. What is that man`s issue? I`d love to be able to finish his series (if he ever finishes it... hint hint) without feeling physically threatened by his books. However, Erikson`s novels have the promise of the same epic scope and cynical take on war and life, which make his books far more three-dimensional than your basic sword-and-sorcery kind of thing. I look forward to seeing where he takes it.
I also, in my apparently hunger for fantasy, read the Lord of The Rings again. I read them once, just before the films came out, hoping that I would enjoy them as much as I had the Hobbit, a staple of my childhood. I remember finding them somewhat boring as an eighteen year old, and although I enjoyed them more this time, I can still see the reasons behind my initial dislike. Tolkien is an incredibly imaginative creator of worlds and languages, and I in no way meant o diminish the epic story he created, but it really is a rather boring series of books. Tolkien spends pages describing his characters traveling across gorgeous panoramas, but when it comes to moments of emotion or character development he falls disappointingly flat. The death of Boromir takes place in less than four sentences, and the battles are over in mere paragraphs. Even the end of the ring itself is described almost off-hand, sans reaction by Frodo, who is, in the book version, barely involved in the actual destruction.
I have to say, though, I find this to be a theme within a certain style of writing (I mean, really, how three dimensional are, say, the Pevensie children?), in which the actual emotions and personalities of the characters are sacrificed for the epic scope of the overall story. The one exception to this in LOTR was Sam, of course. It is really no wonder that he is a favorite character among fans-- not only is he in some ways the true hero of the story, but he is also the only character whose personality and emotions are made available to the audience. Although one could argue that Eowyn shares some of this (as in her arc of looking for death, and her unrequited love for Aragorn), she is, as with most women in Tolkien, eventually returned to her pedestal, another thin, noble woman to be admired. In Sam, though, we see beyond the large scope and into the personal one, which for me, saves the books from simply being a hugely epic, yet cold, history of a time and place.
Friday, July 3, 2009
The Inevitable First Post
Well, I`m back in Japan. I honestly didn`t expect to be back so soon, after having left Hikone only last August. And yet I find myself back in Tokyo for the summer, once again making my way through crowded train stations, alternating between sweating in the humidity and attempting to keep out of the rain. Japanese summers are a weird mix of unbearable heat and endlessly overcast skies, which as a person born and raised in California is eminently confusing. I like it to be hot and sunny or cold and rainy; the idea of sweating in the rain is just so wrong to me.
It`s going on five weeks now that I have been back in the city, or at least it`s outskirts, and I am remembering both all the things I love and hate about Japan. I dreamed about Lawson onigiri for weeks before arriving. I looked forward to karaoke and all-you-can-drink restaurants specials, and being able to smoke in bars. Yet, upon arriving, I was once again reminded of the drawbacks of this country. The expense, of both travel and simply living, and the small but inescapable things that constantly remind you that you are gaijin, never fitting in. Having lived for the last three years in Manhattan, I got so used to the plethora of races, languages, and foods of that city that to return to a place where the only weird thing is yourself is certainly disconcerting. Particularly for me, a blond woman, a size 12 in a land of size 2s, with quite a few tattoos-- suffice to say I stand out more than the average gaijin.
The gaijin thing, as any of you who have visited or lived in Japan know, gets old pretty fast. The old ladies who get up and move if you sit next to them on the train, the schoolchildren who stare and point-- at least in Tokyo it is not as bad as the boonies, but it beings to wear on the self-image after awhile. I don`t think, honestly, that it is nearly so bad for the American men who come to Japan. This is a country of beautiful women, women who wear heels and dresses everyday, who laugh and titter and love to date American men. They are women who are used to a patriarchal society, in which men are placed first, and one`s worth is often based on her viability as a bride. In a country where women are still expected to quit their jobs when they marry, and have their husbands bath and dinner ready when he gets home, and turn a blind eye to his infidelities, it`s really no wonder that many of them turn to foreigners. Alternately, perhaps it is fair to say that many American men long for the type of marriage not usually found in America anymore, a wife who is quiet and obedient and has dinner ready when he gets home.
I have to say, on either side, it frustrates me to no end. I hate the society that creates such purposefully weak women, and particularly the women who are so intensely complacent in such a life, the ones who care nothing for anything beyond make-up, clothing, and landing a rich husband. Although I have to admit, the frustration with the American men in the equation comes for a more intensely personal space. Living in Japan, I always have to remind myself that however long I am there, I will have to put my love life on hold. As a person who doesn`t have any interest in dating Japanese men, since I am not the arm candy that they prefer, and refuse to be a housewife, I am limited in my interest to foreigners, who of course prefer the uber-feminine Japanese women. I know this stems from a place of jealousy, somewhat, at the easy beauty of Japanese women; but it also reminds me of my own American-ness, my need to be independent, to have a career of my own, and I really can`t be angry about my unwillingness to give up my values.
Sign. Japan is always such a confusing place.
It`s going on five weeks now that I have been back in the city, or at least it`s outskirts, and I am remembering both all the things I love and hate about Japan. I dreamed about Lawson onigiri for weeks before arriving. I looked forward to karaoke and all-you-can-drink restaurants specials, and being able to smoke in bars. Yet, upon arriving, I was once again reminded of the drawbacks of this country. The expense, of both travel and simply living, and the small but inescapable things that constantly remind you that you are gaijin, never fitting in. Having lived for the last three years in Manhattan, I got so used to the plethora of races, languages, and foods of that city that to return to a place where the only weird thing is yourself is certainly disconcerting. Particularly for me, a blond woman, a size 12 in a land of size 2s, with quite a few tattoos-- suffice to say I stand out more than the average gaijin.
The gaijin thing, as any of you who have visited or lived in Japan know, gets old pretty fast. The old ladies who get up and move if you sit next to them on the train, the schoolchildren who stare and point-- at least in Tokyo it is not as bad as the boonies, but it beings to wear on the self-image after awhile. I don`t think, honestly, that it is nearly so bad for the American men who come to Japan. This is a country of beautiful women, women who wear heels and dresses everyday, who laugh and titter and love to date American men. They are women who are used to a patriarchal society, in which men are placed first, and one`s worth is often based on her viability as a bride. In a country where women are still expected to quit their jobs when they marry, and have their husbands bath and dinner ready when he gets home, and turn a blind eye to his infidelities, it`s really no wonder that many of them turn to foreigners. Alternately, perhaps it is fair to say that many American men long for the type of marriage not usually found in America anymore, a wife who is quiet and obedient and has dinner ready when he gets home.
I have to say, on either side, it frustrates me to no end. I hate the society that creates such purposefully weak women, and particularly the women who are so intensely complacent in such a life, the ones who care nothing for anything beyond make-up, clothing, and landing a rich husband. Although I have to admit, the frustration with the American men in the equation comes for a more intensely personal space. Living in Japan, I always have to remind myself that however long I am there, I will have to put my love life on hold. As a person who doesn`t have any interest in dating Japanese men, since I am not the arm candy that they prefer, and refuse to be a housewife, I am limited in my interest to foreigners, who of course prefer the uber-feminine Japanese women. I know this stems from a place of jealousy, somewhat, at the easy beauty of Japanese women; but it also reminds me of my own American-ness, my need to be independent, to have a career of my own, and I really can`t be angry about my unwillingness to give up my values.
Sign. Japan is always such a confusing place.
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