And you and I

I know she was already beautiful to begin with and it's degrading to her kind and all, but let's be honest, she was starting to get bags under her eyes, and her breasts were beginning to sag like two early works of Salvador Dali. Let's just say that I didn't want to risk the persistence of that memory. And there are so many other attractive blogs out there, many of them younger and more adventurous; I wanted to remain faithful but wasn't sure how long I could keep my idle fingers at bay. So I talked her into the procedure, using only mild forms of flattery and a spoonful of diazepam in her coffee, and, devoted weblog that she is, she obliged willingly.

And look at the result. Just look at it. Isn't she pretty? The picture came courtesy of my trip to Wales summer before last, and all the HTML handiwork was my doing. Sometimes I really amaze myself.

On a side note, this makeover came complete with a webcounter, so be warned, I'm watching you.

Bobbi and I; I put this picture up so that readers could see that not all my friends have hideous eyesores for scarfs. Mine, of course, still takes the cake.

I know this is a little late in coming, but I had other subjects to limn—mood swings, pokémon, vanity, etc. I will begin by stating, for the record, that Disney Sea is the best theme park I’ve ever visited; yes that’s right, even better than The Holy Land Experience, if you can believe that. (Note: The Holy Land Experience is technically a museum, as visiting a park or having any kind of fun for that matter is a sin to the fundamentalist, and a deadly sin at that. In fact, one time when I was there, I smiled at a passing girl, and the authorities, without asking any questions or saying a word, grabbed me and threw me into the “Lake of Fire”, which is actually just one of those plastic ball-pits, but the balls are all painted red and there’s pictures of fire on the walls and it’s really scary.)

You can't tell, but I'm flexing in this picture.

What makes this park so wonderful is not so much thrilling rides—rides with high speeds, sudden drops, and other qualities that one normally looks for in amusement park attractions—but the ambiance as a whole. The park has that natural Disney-feel to it, and depending on your opinions of that, this may or may not be the place for you. But it goes much beyond what one typically expects from a Disney theme park—you are asked to leave your conceptions of reality at the gate and enter a surreal world, a world that beckons you to battle your way through caverns of crystal, lambent mushrooms guiding you through this chthonic maze toward the deepest of deeps, where you confront chimerical creatures forged from the very rock and stone. Ambient in this journey are the soft magical tones of choir and orchestra, tones forming demulcent clusters of sevenths and add-nine chords, their resulting musical structure trabeated by a series of chromatic and diatonic thirds, giving the music a distinctly fantastical tinge.

Cheryl and I in line for Indian Jones; we're trying to look serious.

I found myself getting lost in boyhood wonders throughout most of the day, and it’s no wonder when one of the primary attractions is a fully-sized, fully-equipped castle where ticket-holders are given the freedom to explore, play, and fend off the encroaching pirate’s galleon (on which you are also allowed to play). And this is not some Magic Kingdom Cinderella’s two stores\overpriced restaurant castle, I’m talking historic fully-accessible 14^th century European castle, lock, stock, and barrel.

Me inside the castle keeping tabs on those pesky pirates.

The castle comes complete with large-scale Ptolemaic planetarium room (planetarium here meaning representative solar system: see below), the dulcid strains of polyphonic chant truly lending the room a sense of authenticity, and proto-planetarium (here meaning the optical projection of the heavens onto a surface; a seperate room not pictured).

I rollicked and romped about all afternoon; this park instills a carefree spirit, no doubt because it gives substance to every boy’s dreams of fantasy and adventure. Every kid who ever dreamed of being caught up in a story so vast and immense that it threatened to engulf him, never allowing him passage back to reality, here is his haven. Every boy who went to bed a student of algebra and woke up a slayer of dragons, this is his adytum.

Reading one of Scott's recent posts has me thinking: is the personality really transient? Plato said the mind was like a ball of wax waiting to be imprinted, and while he wasn't speaking directly to the human personality (but rather the substance and acquisition of knowledge), I believe the analogy applies here nonetheless. This metaphore provides that the mind can be shaped and reshaped, esentially making it transient, but I'm of the opinion that no matter how much molding our minds and personalities undergo, there will always be residual imprints left behind. As such, I consistantly find myself returning to older frames of mind, paradigms of my childhood, like those seen above. Notice, though, where Scott speaks to the substantiality and urgency of these adventures presented in our minds and on the television and, in particular, the similarity between our uses of language (crystal caverns etc.); this is no mere coincidence or plagiary, it is a common thread that binds all men together, this love of adventure. Which leads me to believe that this is not so much a residual imprint of my mind from an earlier time, but from the earliest time, from our origin and conception.

There is somthing constant in the soul of man.

Every man needs an adventure: he needs a journey to trek, a battle to wage, and a damsel to save; anything less would be truncating his very vital essence. Now I'll be the first to admit that I know very little about the female quiddity, but something about their fascination with the "Prince Charming" archetype suggests to me that they are a beautiful compliment to the male psyche insomuch as they fit perfectly into the architectonic whole of this adventure. So don't give up on those dreams, Scott or whoever else might be reading (just Scott); they are what make us who we are. We are men, and at our core, wild and free.

If churches want to know what's causing declining numbers in male membership, if school's want to know what is causing an increase in disaffected boys, they needn't look beyond the simple fact that they have essentially neutered the male spirit. When you tell young boys to sit still and behave like the girls do, they will rebel. When you draw out all the mystery and adventure from religion and paint God as a "nice guy"—and set nicety as the ultimate goal for God's children to attain—men will flee. After all, no boy dreams of growing up to be nice, and how many girls really spend their childhood dreaming of that wonderfully quiet and unassuming nice guy? No, girls want someone exciting and risky, the same as boys desire to be dangerous. This is who we were meant to be. There's a reason girls are constantly being drawn to the "bad boys", for good or for ill: they've grown disenchanted with these sedated men, these half men, these, for lack of a better term, effeminate men (I know, I'm probably the last one who should accuse anyone of being effeminate). Now, certainly nicety is a wonderful goal to pursue and possess (something for which I believe both sexes should and do strive), but it isn't everything. Morality fuels this pursuit, and while morality is very important, it also isn't everything.

The same can be said when examining the character of this country, or that country—the US, at any rate. The ability to do and achieve—the adventure—is slowly being siphoned off, from inside and out. Man is consistently being ushered away from the production line and into forms of government assistance, assistance that quickly becomes an addiction. And this is not only applicable to the poor. The wealthy too have chosen the route to comfort and security over self-worth and achievement, sometimes due to government prodding, sometimes due to the complacency and (usually unfounded) guilt that often accompany the creation of wealth. We have been told that achievement is wrong, that production is exploitation, and that living life freely and fully is shameful. The taming of a man’s spirit is necessary to squelch these desires and produce palliative and cooperative subjects; it becomes our soma. However, when you take away man's means of accomplishing, when you emasculate his soul, there will be no accomplishments to be had. The world will slowly grind to a halt like a watermill through a frozen stream.

This is certainly not to say that man must have no boundaries, that he must be completely intractable, after all, as noted above, nicety and morality (a term I’m using rather loosely here to mean “rule-following”) are wonderful goals and attributes, but they must be kept in balance with man’s wilder tendencies. Being nice is certainly commendable, but so is being dangerous, and while morality is very important, so is strength.

Cheryl and I next to a very well-endowed Ariel; Whew! I wanted me some of that. More to come on this as well.

Bobbi, Cheryl, and I at Disney Sea; a wonderful park and a truly enchanting day. More to come on this.

Baby boy, you stay on my mind, fulfill my fantasies, I think about you all the time. I see you in my dreams.

The Bonenkai, meaning literally forget (Bo) year (nen) party (kai), is a wonderfully magical holiday here out east, or west, or wherever you’re coming from, in which families and friends gather together, become stupid, forget each other’s names, and end up trying to sleep with one another. It’s a celebration of life, filled with as much merit and virtue as a steaming pile of crap. Actually it might be more apt to compare it to a coagulating pool of vomit, as this is the primary byproduct of the bonenkai, and, well let’s face it, crap is gross.

As you might guess, this party involves some external agent, a catalyst to set in motion the purging of the memory bank, a catalyst that goes by several names—booze, hooch, sauce—but will always be known to the Japanese by one term: osake.

I was on my way home from somewhere downtown, I don’t remember where. I went out with Cheryl for drinks, and stayed much too long, realizing shortly after 12 am that I would be catching the last train home. Well, to almost home—I have to take a local line the last leg of my return journey. Taking the last JR train means missing that local train; I would have to walk the last leg, something I’ve done many times before (the local train only runs until 12:10, which means I’d have to leave the heart of Tokyo around 11pm, and what kind of loser would call it a night at 11 o’clock on a Friday evening?)

The tone for the evening was set by the slurred words of a business man who had collapsed in an inebriated mass upon the steps of Musashi-Sakai station: “Good luck.” I gave him a thumbs-up; he turned over and emptied his stomach.

The walk from Musashi-Sakai to Shin-Koganei (my home) is actually quite a lovely little stroll, largely because this windy, tangled mass of side streets connects the two most decidedly boring places on earth. In other words, it’s very dark and quiet, so much so that if this weren’t the safest country in the world, I would be very frightened indeed to make the trip alone and after hours.

I came to a t-crossing of alleyways; I glanced left and made note of a man, obviously suffering the effects of a bonenkai, leaning against a lone light post about 100 yards away, and I made my way to the right. Slowly, the soft echo of trailing feet began to reach my ears; I was being followed.

“*something in Japanese*” I heard a voice behind me say. “He’s probably just talking on his cell-phone,” I thought. I hoped.

“*something else in Japanese*” I’ll continue to ignore it.

“*again with the Japanese, this time more forceful*” Could still be the cell-phone. He might not be talking to me.

“Stop.” Yeah, he’s talking to me. A minute passed, I continued pretending he wasn’t there.

“Stop please.” I’d have to lose this guy; I quickened my pace and made to take a different route home.

“Why don’t you stop?!” His words sounded agitated and threatening. My body began to gelatinize; I reached in my pocket and felt around—only 3 pokéballs left; I had better make these count. The trailing footsteps began to hit the pavement in increasingly rapid succession. I suddenly realized the stranger was in a full-on sprint, the distance between he and I growing smaller and smaller as I stood there thinking of new ways to describe this situation for an upcoming blog post...

I had not been in a fight since the 7^th grade, and even then it was only two dorky choir boys going at it. And no, I don’t mean that kind of going at it; we were choir boys, not altar boys. But, in spite of my inexperience in this area, almost immediately, my body inspissated, the adrenalin remolding my fear into chiseled representation of vigor and prepotency. My mind was clear with a sense of what needed to be done. I turned to face my foe. Crap, he was right on top of me.

“Pikachu, I choose you!” My opponent recognized this universal sign of a challenge and stopped 50 feet short of me; the pokéball rolled to a stop at his feet. My challenger’s pokéball opened in a brilliant flash of light, revealing a confident and stout little Squirtle. This would be a piece of cake—everyone knows that Pikachu destroys water pokémon. And I thought Japanese knew how to fight.

As you would expect, my Pikachu tore threw his Squirtle like a geek through a Yu-gi-oh card catalogue; it was truly pitiful. Next up was his Polywrath, a water-fighting pokémon; this was a joke. After what could only be described as a pokémassacre, the score stood at:

Me-2
Weird drunk guy-0

According to the international bylaws of pokémon battling—which clearly state that each player is allowed only three pokéballs with which to battle—my opponent had this one last chance to secure victory, a chance he would likely squander with another water or ice-type pokémon...amateur. But he had an ace up his sleeve, or a Digiball, to be exact. I could not believe this: he was using Digimon in a Pokémon battle! It was like pitting Luke Skywalker against Captain Kirk, like trying to transfer files from a PC to a Mac, or like comparing two other incredibly dorky things. But, since we were, apparently, dispensing with any semblance of sportsmanship, I had Pikachu return to his plastic repository and shot my stalker with a tactical nuclear missile. Poor bastard had it coming.

And somebody likes her dic....pickle, her dipickle. It's a kind of Japanese tuber. Very tasty, goes great in salads. Sometimes a little bland, though, so it might behoove you to spice it up with some wasabi or something. Anyway, she likes it, that jam-girl, I mean.

Somebody likes her jam.

So, it turns out that the cure to depression requires neither a correct ordering of the mind, nor increased contact with the outside world, though, doubtlessly, both of these help. More than anything, it requires personal resolve, a conative will to be happy; it requires setting aside the T.S. Elliot, turning off the Radiohead and choking down some freakin' joy and sunshine. In the words of Ozzy Osbourne, you just have to get "sick and tired of being sick and tired." Who would have thought that the psyche would function on much the same level as other areas of human existence: no amount of whining, sorrow, or commiseration will change our status in life, be it emotional, physical or economic status. Only hard work and determination can remove our plights and improve our conditions--and the same goes for the mind and emotional state. Granted there are those of us who can't fulfill this obligation--the obligation of providing for one's own wellbeing--and require some form of assistance, be it psychological, medical, or financial. But, by and large, a heavy dose of personal responsibility is the key to a happy, healthy, and productive life. Someone famous said that once...I think it was Joni Mitchell.

And this is precisely what I have done. I have decided to stop being sad; I have decided that this constant sense of regret and yearning for the past is irrational, that I know why I came here and everyone else can just kiss my ass, and that I will close my mind to and turn away from the yawning depths of depression. And all it took was a personal decision. We'll see how long it can withstand the pressures of solitude and overseas living.

But, at the very least, I took a step in the right direction this evening, going out with friends to a local restaurant for dinner, drinks, and karaoke, opera-style. The owner was a delightful little man with a flair for Chinese cuisine and a penchant for Puccini. When someone tipped him off of my experience (albeit minimal) in opera, the guy was on me like soy on gyoza, popping in a copy of karaoke La Boheme and thrusting a book of tenor arias in front of me. I clumsily picked my way through the music, having only seen Boheme a total of 2 or 3 times, all over 5 years ago, and using the proprietor as a guide and crutch for our duet.


Blah Blah Blah, something in Italian.

As the piece came to a close, I gave a slight bow, and apologized for my under-pitched high-Bb, blaming the 2 beers that were wreaking havoc on my vocal chords. I tried to find something of which I at least had a working knowledge and what should I run across but Mozart's Il Mio Tesoro from his Don Giovanni, the aria I had sung in my senior recital! What timing too, for there was a rising crescendo from the audience of "Encore! Encore!! Encore!!!" How could I deny their request? All things considered (those things being a full stomach, sore throat, and 2 beers) I suppose it sounded half-way decent, though certainly not on par with any of my previous performances (if you'll permit me to toot my own horn here). Still, all in all it was a lovely evening; one that would certainly reinforce the emotive decision I had already made. I suppose those 2 beers didn't hurt either.



Thank you all for your kind comments and concerns.

I've spent the past few days deeply homesick and depressed. I can't really explain it myself. What's worse, I've been agitating this festering sore with depressive aids like Motley Crue's Home Sweet Home and the Ozzie favorite Mama, I'm Coming Home. Music has a power over me unlike any other medium to instantaneously alter and reverse my mood, for good or for ill. I'm not sure why this has struck me so suddenly. I went through something similar my first month here, but my mood has been greatly improved since. Cheryl assures me that this is typical of the 3-4 month milestone in overseas living. Apparently everyone experiences it, or so I'm told. Bobbi reiterates this point.

Coupled with the homesickness have been pestering questions of what in the hell I'm doing here. What in the hell am I doing here? I certainly didn't come over with any aspirations of mission work; as I told my interviewers when I applied (and any who have asked thereafter), my desire to work in Japan was and is primarily a selfish one: Japan and an overseas experience sounded significantly more exciting than going directly into banking (my other likely avenue of employment), and, given that I am, as of yet, undecided on a career path, I thought and still think that this will provide me with ample opportunity to solidify future plans. Sort of like buying myself 2 years of time, if you will. Moreover, this overseas experience will, I believe, be a bright spot on a resume, particularly if I manage to become even minimally fluent in Japanese. So there you have it: personal enjoyment, buying myself time, and resume padding--those are the reasons I came here. I suppose that, once I actually begin working, I'll be providing a service for others, and, in that sense, there is some amount of altruism at work here (albeit, compensated altruism, a somewhat incongruous term), though this certainly wasn't a primary motivation of mine.

It seems that, with few notable exceptions, I am the only one here who didn't come to change the world. Hell, it doesn't even really bother me that much that 90% of this country isn't Christian, though this is a point about which my employers seem morbidly perturbed. From the standpoint of a Christian, I suppose it would be nice if this percentage were not as it is, but I'm not going to lose any sleep over it, in part because of my views on theology and life after death. Are we really here to work with numbers, to move them from one side to another like some game of spiritual Risk? The only alternative goal I've heard is that our mission is to spread God's love. While this is an admirable goal to be sure, what the hell does it mean? Perhaps I'm just repulsed by anything that smacks of hippiness, but I simply don't feel that I work well in an environment with vaguely defined goals like "loving one another." I need a concrete end, some sort of corporal ne plus ultra on which to set my sights (though the number game is hardly a viable substitute in my eyes). I hope to find this when I begin teaching. As of now, I feel out of place.

And still my thoughts keep returning to friends and family back home. I miss you all so much. I'm disgusted that I can feel this way about my own situation, and yet feel little for my coworker Kelly who lies now in the hospital not knowing whether or not she will lose her unborn baby. How can I be depressed about solitude and career anxiety and feel naught but passing sorrow for Scott who only recently lost his grandfather? Let me rephrase: it's not that I feel nothing for other's problems, it's just that those are their problems, and these are mine; there's a certain acuteness and immediacy when it comes to one's own concerns.

I want to cry, but am afraid doing so will crystallize an underlying weakness. I hate self-pity, and yet seem inextricably drawn to it. There's something attractive about the Kerouacian depressed artist archetype; I suppose this is where the pipe and incessant whining about missed chances and lost loves come from.

I've got to shake off this fettle; the pipe stays, but the rest of the Romantic pessimism is out. But how best to be rid of it? I've always had a fascination with the mind and its ability to override the seemingly apparent, if only mentally apparent. Can I reason my way out of this one? Can mood and depression be countered with a correct ordering of the mind? It seems to me that man is a social being, and happiness is not easily found closing one's self off to others. Perhaps it's more to do with personal contact and friendships than psychological algorithms. Or perhaps I just think too much.

Oh well; tomorrow will bring the sun, and this too shall pass. To put it another way:

The sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party.