Waiting can be very romantic. I'm a sucker for scenes in movies where they just show images of characters waiting -- pacing up and down, or sitting by the window, or making themselves busy with whatever work they have to do as the season changes.
While I was writing my New Year's cards, my mother was enjoying some music from the 1960-70s. Many were Japanese folk songs which I realized were often NOT about love, but about general hardships in life. I liked it because I sometimes feel like the importance of finding love is overrated. But at the same time, my favorite happened to be a love song:
*Please Mr Postman, look and see お願い郵便屋さん、見てみて
(Oh yeah)
If there's a letter in your bag for me 私宛の手紙がその袋に入ってないか
(Please, Please Mr Postman)
Why's it taking such a long time なんでそんなに時間がかかってるのかな
(Oh yeah)
For me to hear from that boy of mine 彼からの手紙が届くのが
There must be some word today 今日こそは一言あるはずなの
From my boyfriend so far away すごく遠くにいる彼から
Please Mr Postman, look and see お願い郵便屋さん、見てみて
If there's a letter, a letter for me 私宛の手紙がないか
I've been standing here waiting Mr Postman 私ずっと立って待ってるのよ、郵便屋さん
So patiently こんなに辛抱強く
For just a card, or just a letter ただのカードか手紙を
Saying he's returning home to me もうすぐ戻るという彼の言葉を
repeat *
So many days you passed me by あなたは何日も私を素通りした
See the tears standing in my eyes 私の目に浮かぶ涙が見えるのに
You didn't stop to make me feel better 私を慰めるために立ち止まって
By leaving me a card or a letter カードか手紙を届けてはくれなかった
repeat *
(Why don't you check it and see one more time for me, you gotta) もう一度見てみて、お願い
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
(Mr Postman)
Mr Postman, look and see
(C'mon deliver the letter, the sooner the better) 早く手紙を届けて、できるだけ早く
Mr Postman
I just love the lyrics. In the age of emails and Facebook, I don't think we get to savor this kind of waiting experience where our hearts swell with anticipation, or the special joy that comes after the long waiting, or even the warmth of unfolding a letter. Songs like this remind me of the feeling of deep gratitude I guess we all used to have for being able to connect with someone.
After being recommended by a friend many years ago, I finally watched it. Well, not the whole thing but I got the overall story and I enjoyed it.
For one thing, it was impressive to see how someone could be so loving without making any commitments. It made me think what it actually meant to love someone. Was it not about how much you're willing to compromise for him? How much you're willing to change?
Justin says he and Brian are not getting married because that way, they can be together because they want to and not because they have to. To them, changing for the other person is sacrifice and not love. But Brian, in fact, changes slowly but distinctly every time he loses Justin, and it's pretty ironic that when Brian is finally ready to give what Justin wants, Justin has learned to accept Brian for who he is and finds it uncomfortable to realize that the new Brian is not the Brian he knows.
In one of the last scenes, if I remember correctly, Justin tries to reassure Brian that they will see each other often even when he moves away, but Brian stops him and says: "You don't know. Neither do I" I really liked the scene because the line was so 'Brian' and Justin seemed to be truly content with it. Justin never had to forgive Brian because Brian never promised anything. And it was always going to be that way -- "No excuses, no apologies, no regrets."
Later though, I had a different opinion about their "non-conventional relationship". As Brian says, you never know about the future. Everything changes, everyone changes, and it's scary to make commitments; it's sometimes frightening to trust. But in the end, I think that's why you make promises -- to fight through, to try to stick to what you believe in, and to prove there are things that never change even when everything else -- including yourself -- changes.
If you haven't seen the series, I recommend it! You can watch it on youtube.
The earliest memory I have of Santa Claus dates back to when I was four. I don't remember what my present was, but I remember the card he gave me and what I said about it to my mother: "Mommy, Santa's handwriting looks just like yours!" If I remember correctly, I was pretty persistent about it. We lived in New Zealand at that time, and I had already created an image that Caucasians spoke in English so I was also slightly surprised that Santa wrote in Japanese.
The first present from Sanata Claus that I remember came a year or two later. It was a large box, and I was disappointed because it didn't look at all like what I had asked for -- a stuffed hedgehog. When I opened the present, it was a computer software used to make original stickers. I asked my parents if they had really sent my letter to Santa. It goes without saying though, that I had more fun making my own stickers than I ever did with a stuffed animal.
A year went by, and I did get a stuffed animal. Except that it wasn't just a stuffed animal -- it was a backpack in the form of Chu-Totoro (a character from Our Neighbor Totoro). It was something I had designed in my mind, and I never knew it was actually on the market. I was convinced more than ever that Santa really existed.
The next year, however, I noticed that my Polly Pocket had been wrapped up in a toy store wrapper. I wondered if Santa had been too busy. Maybe he didn't have enough time to make my present at his own factory?
Another year passed and we were now living in France. I asked Santa for a Tamagocchi made in Japan -- he wasn't allowed to just drop by at a local toy store. But Santa already had another challenge to face that year: we spent the Christmas away from home in Italy. Before leaving, I checked there was nothing under the Christmas tree and wondered if he was coming to our hotel. When we came back from our vacation, I found my Tamagocchi under the tree. Only that it was obviously from a local toy store. And I realized this year's Santa had a handwriting that looked just like my father's.
The next year, Santa didn't come. Because I had a great debate with a friend on whether Santa existed, and I gave in. It was on our way back home from school. When my mother picked me up, I asked her if she and dad had been Santa. My mother first laughed, asked why I thought so, and admitted the truth rather easily. Tears rolled down my face. It was just a couple days before Christmas.
When I had calmed down though, I remembered how my mother had become so mad at me when I went searching around the house for signs of Santa few days before -- I had ended up finding a snowman paperbag under her bed. I recalled about the year before, when my father went back to the living room near the Christmas tree to "turn off the lights" just before we left. I remembered all the Christmas cards I got over the years. The presents.
And now, I still remember about when we were in NZ, how my parents encouraged me to prepare some bread and warm milk for Santa and his reindeers in case they were hungry. On Christmas, I woke up to find the plate and mug empty, and observed the remaining crumbs in fascination. The trace of the magical existence gave me a special excitement that nothing else ever could. The world in front of me was full of wonder, and Santa Claus was real.
言葉の海は果てしなく広い
辞書とはその大海に浮かぶ一艘の船
人は辞書という船で海を渡り、自分の気持ちを的確に表す言葉を探します
それは唯一の言葉を見つける奇跡
誰かとつながりたくて広大な海を渡ろうとする人にささげる辞書
それが大渡海です
The sea of words is infinitely large.
A dictionary is a single boat that floats in that big ocean.
People cross it with a boat called dictionary, and search for the precise word that expresses their feelings -- a miracle of finding the only word.
A dictionary for those who try to cross the big ocean in hopes of connecting with someone. That is Daitokai (dai=big, to=cross, kai=sea/ocean)
「ほかの人気持ちがわからないなんて当たり前じゃないか。わかんないからその人に興味を持つんだろ。わかんないから話をするんだろ。辞書作りってのは言葉を使う仕事だろ。だったらその言葉使わなきゃ。もう頑張ってしゃべんなきゃ。若いうちに一生の仕事見つけて、それだけでみっちゃん幸せなんだから、あとはずーっと行くだけだよ。できるよ、みっちゃんなら」
"It's only natural that you don't understand what others feel. Isn't that why someone interests you? Isn't that why you talk to someone? Dictionary editing is a work on words, right? Then use them. Talk. You found a lifetime job while you were young. You're lucky already. Now you just have to go all the way. You can do it."
This morning around 8:45 am, I had a surprising call. I didn't recognize the number but picked up anyway. The guy on the other end said he was T. T what? He added we had been in the same seminar on Anglo-American Law. It took a couple of seconds for me to put a face to the name. The last time we saw each other was more than two years ago.
The first time I met T was probably half a year before that. We had decided to take the same seminar under the same professor at the same university. He came up to me right after the first class and asked if he could have my number. Soon, he asked me out for lunch. We talked about the books we read, our respective future dreams, and he told me about his ex girlfriend. He said he would work anywhere; if he could support his wife so she could enjoy her life doing whatever she wanted to, that would make him happy. He asked if I had a boyfriend; I said yes. He complimented me anyway and said (with no hint of shyness) I had a great figure.
A couple months later, he sent me a text saying he really liked me. I said I really appreciated his feelings but that I didn't want to break up with my boyfriend. He said he understood but that he couldn't stop crying -- that he would be waiting if I ever changed my mind.
When the semester ended, we never met after that. He texted me a couple of times, but I said I couldn't meet. I had already broken up with my boyfriend but I was going through a very busy period. More than a year went by. I wondered about him once in a while, but never thought about calling him. Nor did I expect him to call one random Saturday morning before leaving for work.
「電話帳を整理してたら、なんか懐かしいなと思って(I felt kind of nostalgic when I found your name in my phone book)」 he said, when I asked what was up. He asked me what I was doing now. He said he would've been shocked if I had already gotten married. "You know, I really liked you. Well, not that I called to check or anything..." From what I heard in his voice and the way he talked, he seemed a bit exhausted from all the work but he hadn't changed. He was still the T who came up to me right after class to ask my number. I wondered if he thought I had changed.
I never had feelings for him. And I don't think I ever would. But his affection was always straightforward and earnest. It did mean a lot to me -- probably as much as his bittersweet memory did to him.
My father and I are like best friends. When I come back home during breaks, we have a great time talking about all kinds of things. I can have enjoyable conversations with other people too, but the ones I have with my father are somewhat special -- I can often tell what my father is thinking before he says it and he can also tell what I have in mind, and still, it never gets boring. We even share pretty extreme opinions sometimes, but my father is more extreme, and I probably enjoy the balance between the predictable and the unpredictable.
My mother is often surprised to see how much we think alike. She makes fun of us when our conversations heat up, or when my father gets excited and keeps talking to me the first day I come back. Today was one of those days. My father kept talking about a paper on swine roundworms as we ate breakfast.
Mom: お友達が帰ってきてうれしいね (You're so happy your friend's back, aren't you?) It's such a pity you have to go to kindergarten.
Dad: It's too bad I have a school play tomorrow.
Me: You're in it too?
Dad: No, I'm just one of the audiences. ...Usually anyone can come but we're restricting the entrance for swine roundworm because --
Mom (to me): His school play stories aren't that interesting, so concentrate on eating and finish that breakfast.
In a way, it's actually like my mom raised us both. My parents remind me that people do change with patience and commitment and time. Not because he's asked to, but because it makes things easier, or it's the only way to be with someone. Maybe it's kind of like evolution.
An interesting article I read while I was on the plane today (edited and translated by me as usual):
When I was a child, there were very few houses in Tokyo that had a bath. Having a bath at home implied a special kind of status. My family actually did have that status, but there were more than ten people living together so some of us ended up going to the sento (=public bath).
Back in those days, the prewar totalitarianism was still strong, and adults scolded children even if they were not their own. All adults were a threat to children. And sento was a place where that kind of totalitarianism appeared especially strongly. There, we learned not only morals but also our rebel spirits -- when someone scolded us, we would later sneak up from behind and grab his crotch before running away.
Campus activism and union activism were supported by these sento generations, and it seemed as though they declined once people started having baths at home.
Sento was a place where we observed adults. Young and old and rich and poor were all equally naked, and the rumors that we usually heard on the streets disappeared once we opened the door to the bath: A good-for-nothing drunkard would look brilliant while the leader of the neighboorhood association would look unhappy and weak. It was their body and their way of treating children that mattered, and we saw something totally different from what we saw beyond the curtains (that divided the sento from the rest of the world).
And there was one thing I wondered: why did all the adults groan when they got into a hot bath? No child groaned. Nor did young men. But they would start groaning as they got older, and yes, this was what we all call ho-etsu (法悦). In the dictionary, it says: the ecstacy you feel when you hear the teachings of Buddhism.
Of course, no one lectures the teachings of Buddhism in a bath, and no children understood the ecstacy the adults found in the mere hot water.
Later on in life, it was when I found myself groaning in the bath that I realized how old I had become. People usually find themselves thinking when they groan. But the ho-etsu groan you let out in a hot bath is totally unrelated to the brain -- it's the voice of your body. So the moment you're groaning, you never even feel embarrassed. My groans have become louder as I've gotten older.
Lately, there are places such as super-sento and healthyland and many people from the sento-generation visit them early in the morning just to groan. And my recent discovery is that young people these days don't hide their crotch with their towels; they don't even have a towel. So have the Japanese forgotten the spirit of shame? I sometimes feel like scolding the young ones but I have no courage. And when I notice the many skin-caring goods they bring like girls, I realize the world has changed. Maybe these young men won't groan when they get older. Maybe my groans make them think: shameless old bastard.
Since the year is about to end, some news programs seem to be bringing up old news that caught the public attention this year.
A couple of months ago, it caused a flutter when it turned out that a famous hotel in Osaka (was it Ritz?) had "decieved" the customers who had come to the restaurant. They had used vannamei shrimps instead of shiba shrimps, and normal leek instead of kujo leek.
People were furious. I found it hilarious. I mean, who cares if you can't tell the difference anyway? The hotel manager ended up apologizing for the "misunderstanding" in the kitchen, but I thought he should've told everyone to tell them something was wrong with the shrimps and leeks the moment they noticed -- which would be while the customers are actually eating them at the restaurant. Not when an insider leaks the info.
I do see the potential problem. They shouldn't use rotten food just because we wouldn't notice (though I hope we would in that case). Doctors shouldn't "decieve" patients just because patients don't have enough knowledge to notice the doctor's error.
But in this case, it's just a shrimp. And we found out that vannamei shrimps were cheap and good!
Instead of sending Christmas cards, we send 年賀状(nengajo) -- a greeting card that is delivered on New Year's Day. I read an article about what you shouldn't do when writing a nengajo and found it pretty interesting.
1. Do not use a red pen.
2. 新年 and あけまして mean the same so don't write both.
3. 謹賀新年 and あけましておめでとうございます mean the same so don't write both.
4. Do not use ominous words such as lose, fall, die. For "last year", use 昨年 instead of 去年 (去る means "to leave")
5. Start with a sentence that shows appreciation and consideration towards the person who receives the card. Do not write about yourself too much.
I think this should come first on the list. It's pretty common to send a nengajo with pictures of our own children/wedding, or an absurdly long discription of how well we are doing. But nengajo is not a place to brag about our cute children/ grandchildren or our every single accomplishment. Close friends and family will appreciate that kind of nengajo, but not everyone is going to find our "family newspaper" adorable.
We don't send nengajo to people who have lost a member of their family (those who lost a family member in the past year write a different kind of greeting card in December to let everyone know that they will spend the season without celebration; it's called 喪中(mochu = be in mourning), and it's thought to be inconsiderate to send a nengajo to people in mochu). But losing a family member is not the only harships we face in life. There are people facing divorce, people who can't have babies, people in unemployment. Maybe we should put that in consideration too?
6. Do not use too many illustrations. They can look childish.
7. If your card is going to be delivered after Jan 7, it is not a nengajo any longer. Make it a 寒中見舞い (a kind of card sent during the winter season; the summer equivalent is 暑中見舞い)
Before I write about the book -- it's Sunday 7 am. It's still dark outside. I wonder if it is going to rain today. It's strangely quiet, and I realize I was away for almost half a year. During that time, I tried not to think too much and instead tried to stay indifferent unless it was about something very important to me. I tried to find a way to be neutral like a plain white canvas. And I think I've come to terms with the problems I had when I stopped writing:
I think too much when I write. It's like when a cow chews on grass and swallows it down and then brings it back and chews it again and swallows it and... it's a never ending process and I sort of got tired of it. I'm trying to find something that can give me a blank state of mind instead of a flood of words.
I have a very good friend I met through my old blog. I think we have known each other for more than five years. We've never talked in person, but she holds a special place in my heart.
In her previous email, she told me the way I wrote about writing (the passage above) reminded her of Sumire from Sputnik Sweetheart. It was a funny coincidence because a couple days before, another friend had pointed out that I reminded her of Myu, another character from the same novel.
As I read the novel last night, I thought I was more like character #3 -- the narrator.
...Considering the amount of information I have, no one in the world can talk about me as much as I can. But when I talk about myself, the "me" that is described would be selected, defined and cut out by the narrator that is me -- according to my sense of value, my emotional standards, my ability as an observer, and various realistic concerns. (85)
Obviously, it's not just that different people cut me out differently (like my two friends). I probably show different parts of myself to different people. But I actually did have one part that overlapped with Sumire (198-202):
...I used to write because I couldn't help but to write. Why can't I help but to write? The answer is obvious: to think about something, I have to make that something into words.
私は日常的に文字の形で自己を確認する。 I identify myself daily in the form of words.
But since I met Myu, I stopped writing. ...I probably stopped thinking. ...I am floating towards nowhere... and I think that's okay. Instead, I need to be extremely light in order to understand Myu.
理解というものは、常に誤解の総体に過ぎない。 それが私のささやかな世界認識の方法である。 Understanding is always merely a mass of misunderstanding. That is my modest way of perceiving the world.
On the other side of what we think we know very well are the same amount of things that we don't know.
It's still very quiet here but it's not dark anymore. It's just... cloudy.
Another day has started.
