Creeps, all of them (mostly)

I am scheduled to teach at Funagoshi elementary school tomorrow afternoon, to a class of fourth graders I have, as of yet, not taught. Which means I shall be forced to give my self introduction for the 1,842,322nd time. I'm pumped. The second half of the lesson asks me to, "explain America." Um....anybody? A little help please. Not to rip off Eddie Izzard, though I shall, half of the time I sit back and question what the fuck we're doing...and I've got to explain that to nine year olds. Could be fun. Wish you all had front row seats...I bet you do too, cause I'm sure we'll play Janken (you know you love it.)

I had another lovely run in with Tetsu last night. He insists that I call him Big Titsu, yeah, bit of a perv really. He rang the bell about two minutes after I walked in, which leads me to believe he was waiting for me, or at least following me to some degree. He asked for hugs and kises and then proceeded to stick his hand down my pants. You know what, I'm starting to hate men. I feel less and less human on a daily basis. I've almost begun to believe that maybe this is acceptable and I'm just the one that's been left in the dark all these years. Though I know that's not true, it's hard to come by the truth living so far away. I feel removed from all that matters, all that is intelligent, all that is normal, by most standards. Can you tell I've hit the four month mark? All patience is lost. I'm restless. I'm degraded. I'm confused. I'm tired. I'm in need of something I can't quite put my finger on, but it sure as hell isn't in Tanushimaru. Donde esta lo qe estoy buscando?

The personal statement from hell

I once wrote a paper entitled, "A Case Study in Blowback Analysis: The Agents and Effects of U.S. Military Intervention in 'Axis of Evil' Countries." Yes...I was pretentious, and yes, the paper was complete crap. That's usually how it goes, great title, shit work.

I think I want to make my own coffee table book. Maybe a compilation of my favorite photographs. Even if no one looks at it, it'd be nice to know that I haven't completely lost the artistic touch. Though I'm not positive I ever had it.

I'm about ready to employ the homeless to write my personal statement for me. I can't write about myself-not positively at least. I'm tempted to just lay out the truth...that I have no fucking clue as to where my life is headed, I'm not okay with that, but graduate school can't hurt the process. I don't speak in class, my writing sucks, I procratinate more than the U.S. government, my scores aren't that great, I'm a mediocre student, I lack true motivation at the moment. I may want to do great things in my life, but the reality of trying to achieve that greatness will probably eat away at me. I destroy myself of a daily basis, I'm easily distracted, I complain, I don't sleep...um, thus far exceeding what they're looking for, I realize. Just got off on a tangent. Honestly, I just don't want this personal statement to turn into b.s., it'll signify that I have nothing left to offer. And while I don't necessarily think that's true, I can't negate such a statement either. This is pathetic.

"I found a fatal flaw, in the logic of love, and go out of my head"

Um, so sumo was fun. Or, the first twenty minutes at least. The following five hours might have been a bit overkill...but it's a fine line really. Afterwards Dre, Lindsey, Ian, Howard and Hugh crashed at my place. We broke out every blanket in the house, the kerosene heaters, sleeping bags. It's fucking insane how cold it is indoors. Central heating is a must, I feel. My appendages agree.

This week I don't teach classes because of midterm tests. Sometimes I feel like such a fucking waste. I could be doing so much more with my time, for my money...but it does allow me the opportunity to bore you all to tears with mundane facts of my increasingly intolerable lifestyle...so maybe I shouldn't complain.

You know that scene in Peter Pan where they all have to think happy thoughts in order to take off flying to Neverland? I've found my happy thoughts, took twenty-two rather harsh years, but I found them. Eighteen days until Thailand!!!!!!!!!!! And a certain someone who shall remain nameless, who has made the struggle well worth it, and who makes rather entertaining drunk dials! Oh, and only eight months left...that probably sounds terrible. I do enjoy Japan, but I've come to realize that four months is my limit anywhere. I've met my match this year...I'm only one-third done. Holy hell Batman.

As often as I utilize the word 'fuck' you'd think spell check would come to recognize it. Webster should add it. I'll write him momentarily.

~Korea~

I'm not quite sure how to go about describing Korea, other than using an abounding amount of positive adjectives. It was exactly what I needed, to get away from work, to absorb something other than the Japanese culture and to take a fuck load of pictures. I know most of you are too lazy to flip through Buzznet, so I'll post my favorites below...but if you get a chance, Buzznet is calling your name. There are a few that should come with smell and sound, namely chanting and incense, in order to capture the full effect. Unfortunately, Pentax has not developed such technology. So, turn on Monty Python, you know the part I'm talking about, and burn some incense or, just burn something.

A brief recap, not to bore you, but maybe it will. Dre and I spent four days in Korea, though a good portion of two simply in transit. Two hour train ride to Hakata, three hour ferry to Korea, still fucking amazes me, three hour train ride from Pusan (a bit crap) to Seoul (mi salvavida), twenty minute metro ride to Myeongdong, five minute walk. In fact, the only form of transportation not utilized during this trip, other than rickshaw and elephant which shall be saved for Thailand, is a taxi…odd. Anywho, Seoul is amazing. There are areas where you feel you’re the only living soul, especially up in the mountains, around the temples, walking the lonely streets, and then there are districts like Insadong and Myeongdong, loaded with natives, tourists and slug people, more lights than the Griswold’s house at Christmas, and more crap for sale than Goodwill…no, I take that back. I rather enjoy Goodwill, when I'm not busy hating it.


This is one of those moments when the phrase "wish you were here" rings truer than ever imaginable. The city of Seoul buzzed below, while this man perched gracefully on the rocks amidst the Inwangsan Shamanist hillside. He was chanting quietly to himself in between drags of his cigarette, there was a cool mountain breeze, the monks below continued to chant through another service, incense was burning in every spot possible...you can't possibly expect me to capture the dynamics of such a moment. I personally think the shot, on an individual basis, is rather dramatic, but wholistically, including all sensory perceptions the moment was nothing less than fucking amazing, and my photography fails in comparison. Damn you people...you all should have been there.

More of the Shamanist hillside. Realistically, it's more of a vertical plane, which Andrea and I were forced to climb, in shoes with little traction, resulting in major shin splints and more bruises than I care to count. Physical pain was worth it, everything was worth it. It was inspiring to stand among the Zen rock formations and look down upon the Seoul peons, glance around at the Buddhist temples and abosrb all that is culturally distinct.

Guksadang Shamanist shrine. There was a service in progress, meaning we were lucky enough to hear bells gonging and monks chanting in erratic unison.

Ceiling of Beomyeonsa temple. The Buddhist philosophy of the life is represented in the birghtly decorated ceilings...or so says Lonely Planet. And we never question Lonely Planet.

Insadong district was, more or less, four thousand streets lined with kitsch shops. There were more street vendors than people, impromptu parades, Korean women in traditional dress and lots of colorful crap.

I have a slight obsession with lanterns...maybe I'm just quick to form addictions.

Traditional Korean masks used for cultral festivals and dances. They remind me of that mask I made in pottery junior year. I loved it at first, then it began to creep me out. I still can't decide if it's abstractly artistic or trying to kill me. Needless to say, it resides under my bed.

Myeondong subway station. By far the cleanest subway I've ever seen...in a city of 10.7 million residents. Is that not crazy? It could be a fucking Tilex commerical.

Beneath that little cap lies a pair of eyes waiting for you to snatch him out of his seat and smuggle him across the border. Fortunately, I resisted my impulses.

Candid shot. I think it's fascinating you can tell just by looking at the shape of their mouths, opened in conversation, that they don't speak English. No English sound requires a mouth that low set.

Labor Union protests through the streets of Insadong. There were literally thousands of unemployed Koreans blocking traffic, shouting into megaphones, tossing out flyers and pamphlets. Nonviolent for the most part, misunderstood as well. Which is easily determined by the next shot...

...the riot police, running to action. Damn near knocked me out, but I braved it for this shot...do I deserve some kind of medal or something?

Finally, the bright lights of Myeongdong district. At first I was frustrated at my inability to snap a shot sans people...but I think the couple makes the fluorescent street appear less harsh. I rather enjoy their disruption.

Making my break

I know at least one of you has heard this, but deal.

In second grade my class designed, carved, painted, etc. our own pumpkins for a Halloween display. I chose a miniature, oval pumpkin, which I painted white, gave friendly eyes, a baseball cap and crinkled construction paper legs, complete with shoes and tieable laces. I placed him atop a shoebox wrapped in tissue paper, stenciled with varying colors and styles of stone. I was so proud of that damn pumpkin...I used to be rather creative, and even to this day I think he looked pretty fucking good. He was supposed to be Humpty Dumpty. I don't think anyone understood. To them, a pumpkin was a pumpkin, not an egg. At the end of the week a few teachers and students judged the entries and awarded prizes. I wasn't hell bent on winning, in fact, I usually don't care to. I prefer having done something which merits the award rather than the award itself. Honestly, what do I need one more blue ribbon for? But, I didn't win...not even honorable mention. I really wish you could have seen that pumpkin...a loner, fragile (as only a pumpkin disguised as an egg can be), among a swarm of cliche, orange Jack-o-lanterns. I'm not going to say I was devastated, I was only seven...I got over it quickly enough. But I still remember that damn pumpkin and it makes me realize how little of me people understand. They just didn't get it, get me, at all. They asked for a unique pumpkin...I gave them a fucking egg...how is that not unique? I did what scientists have as of yet been unable to achieve, at the tender age of seven, with paint and imagination. In retrospect maybe I did want to win, but what I really needed was for someone to say, "Damn, that's creative for a seven year old." They didn't even notice.

Suffice to say, my entire nature might very well have been summed up in that miniscule event in my seventh year of being.

And, as the title of this shoddy entry implies, I have finally decided to make my break. I'm escaping from this prison that is Japan to a politically stable Korea. Or rather, I shall be avoiding riots in Seoul and terrorism in Pyongyang. Possibly even kicking some Kim Jong-il ass, who knows. My travel itinerary is wide open, leaves room for some spontaneity. I'll be back Wednesday, your Tuesday, so leave me some love, or hate mail. Bad attention is still attention.

Engrish

One of my first grade students has a notebook plastered with English phrases, clearly bought that way, not handwritten. I thought I'd share just a few, to perhaps give you a glimpse into the reasons I continually laugh aloud in the middle of a silent classroom.

-She is fat ass? Are you tripping?
-Screw you guys-I'm going to America.
-"Beat me."
-Hey shorty, what are you doing later?

So, there you have it. Complete with unnecessary quotation marks, grammatical errors and a lack of sense. I'm not sure why one would go to American to not get screwed...that seems rather backwards. And I'm not quite sure who's coming on to shorty, but it still made me laugh.

Driftwood, hollow and of no use

I am driftwood. I’m drifting. Drifting nowhere significant. No end in sight. Eroding, losing all discernible shape. Allowing the world to wash away the edges, to creep into the cracks and destroy my origin. Piece by piece I’m losing all recognition of who I am, what I want to be, and even more so, how to get there safely without drifting into oblivion beforehand.

I came across a fork in the road last night. I felt a bit like Robert Frost. Except the fork in the road then proceeded to break off into another fork. Had Frost been walking a similar wood in foreign lands I’m sure he would have amended The Road Not Taken. One fork in the road is expected, almost planned by nature, two is simply out of the question. Just once I want a fucking spoon. Just once I want to realize where I am, where I’m going, learn how to utilize a map for more than scratch paper. It seems everywhere I turn there’s another fork, and another, and another, until I’m so completely lost and have given up all hope of recovering my initial path. I can’t make decisions anymore. Don’t ask me to. I’m just going to drift for a bit, unless I drown.

If you're feeling sinister

Hilary walked to her death because she couldn't think of
anything to say
Everybody thought that she was boring, so they never listened
anyway
Nobody was really saying anything of interest, she fell asleep
She was into S&M and bible studies
Not everyone's cup of tea she would admit to me
Her cup of tea, she would admit to no one...

This song has no title

"She just wanders around,
Unaffected by,
The winters winds
And she’ll pretend that
She’s somewhere else
So far and clear,
About 2000 miles from here."

I do believe the word ‘croon’ was invented for the sole purpose of expressing Chet Baker’s vocals.

Friday, someone told me I have charisma…I wonder what he meant by that.

I worry I don’t have enough idiosyncrasies to keep people interested.

I look into the eyes of drivers as they pass by on the roads, hoping I’ll catch a glimpse of who they are, hope to be, might one day become, simply through naïve, juvenile, eye contact.

I’m a stranger in this town, and at times, that makes me feel more strange than I fear I truly am. The mere word itself, stranger, implies characteristics uncommon to the surroundings, and I suppose that, by definition, labels me a stranger. But must that also make me strange? Is being a stranger derogatory, a negative aspect?... it certainly seems so at present.

Am I too young to feel things so strongly? I‘ve never suffered a broken heart, mourned the loss of a sincerely loved one, encountered a tragedy so horrendous to justify my present condition.

Why is it that the best writers led lives of utter confusion, despair and torture? Must one suffer inconsolable losses and mental anguish to be a creative genius? Do I portend my own "tragedies" simply to justify myself? Sometimes I fear that I shall die a tragic, premature death. My life doesn't appear conducive to an expansive, Hollywood happy ending. Hopefully I'm wrong.

Case in point: Why Lauren hates Christmas lists

The phone rings a scary Japanese ring. Lauren scrambles over the tatami, sliding in socks across the kitchen floor, answers the phone the American way, for fear of creeping out another friend. It’s her mother, and how does she know?…because her mother feels the need to pre-empt discussion with, “It’s your mother.” As if I would have forgotten that I didn’t just magically appear out of thin air, materialize and descend from Venus, or galaxies farther than the mind can accept. We bullshit, how are you, how’s the dog, three minutes tops. Then she busts into the reason for calling.

Mother: “You never emailed me your Christmas list.”
Lauren: “Because I don’t have one.”
M: “There must be something you want for Christmas. Just tell me.”
L: “Fine, I want you to name a star after me.”
M: “Seriously.”
L: “I am serious.”
M: “Seriously!”
L: “Fine, a million dollars.”
M: “Seriously, this phone call isn’t getting any cheaper.”
L: “I bet if you were the kind of person to dole out a million dollars as a Christmas gift you wouldn’t complain about international call rates. I retract my previous request.”
M: “What do you want?”
L: “Nothing. Just get what you didn’t get me last year.”
M: “But you got everything.” (don’t roll your eyes, I never asked to be spoiled)
L: “Fine.” And here I proceed to rattle off a few books, dvds and the name of a Jacqueline du Pre cd.
M: “That’s too complicated. I’ll just get you a gift certificate.”

What the fuck. Why ask if you’re a) going to ruin the surprise, which is undoubtedly better than the gift itself and b) not going to take my suggestions to heart. Furthermore, I don’t care for people buying me something simply on the basis that I requested it. I splurge, way too fucking much. If there’s something I want, I’ll buy it. I want you to browse through the aisles of some tacky store, come across something so kitsch, so insane, so completely fucking useless that you think to yourself, “Who, in their right mind could possibly enjoy this? Lauren MUST have it.” That’s what I want.

That’s not to say I only want crap. Though I don’t really care. But I don’t want to ask for books when half the fun is wandering the bookstore…why deny myself that pleasure because you feel a familial obligation to get me something on a yearly basis. Well, biyearly I suppose, considering birthdays. I don’t want to ask for anything too expensive, you’ll think I’m presumptuous, or anything too small, you’ll think I’m modest. And I hate having to limit my wants to what I feel would most appropriately fit within your price range, level of intimacy, tenure as a friend, etc. So no more Christmas lists. I boycott. Donate the money to charity, buy me a sugar cookie, make me a horribly tacky picture frame…do what you deem fit, I’m unworthy to do so.

Too much info

So, your eyes are about to furrow in utter confusion, and you may learn a few things about me you wish you didn’t know. Last night, at yet another convo class gathering, Noguchi-san, the incompetent-but-loveable director, asked me to make balloon animals for his daughter at home. And like a true idiot (true to self rather, I suppose) I complied. You may ask, how do I know how to make balloon animals…I’ll tell you…I don’t. I’ve got no fucking clue. None. Ha-you should have seen me, looking completely lame and frustrated, and laughing the whole damn time. My first attempt blew up in my face, proving to be my comedic fifteen minutes of fame. People like to laugh at my misfortune. I’m used to it. The second attempt, by all accounts, or maybe just my own, ROCKED! It was a crappy little dog which required about ten minutes of twisting, untwisting, retwisting, and under my breath expletives, and I’m still not entirely sure I did it, but there’s a picture somewhere. I’ll be sure to misplace it for you. My credentials as a balloon artist are weak, at best. Limited to a few months training as a (almost afraid to say it) clown, under some lunatic named, I kid you not, Professor Bubba. I’m not sure what enticed me to take lessons, boredom…that’s usually the case. And now I regret having told you, you probably have some deep-seeded, juvenile fear of clowns…but keep in mind, that was a loooooooong time ago, and I’ve forgotten everything I learned, and I probably sucked anyway. I think I just wanted an excuse to have blue hair.

Our wings are melting...

I’m curious as to the repercussions of Arafat’s death. Whether some violently evolved rendition of Fatah will rise from his ashes, or Israel will look upon his passing as timely for wanton, self-fulfilling prophecies. Maybe a worthy successor will assume leadership of the PLO and wage for peace. Maybe Hamas will slip into obscurity. Maybe Palestinians will suffer weeks without a leader, which ironically appears appropriate considering they have limited international status as an independent state…closer to none. There was a point when I would’ve made inchoate assumptions as to what the future may hold…but I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing goes as planned, as hoped, so I’m simply throwing my hands up in frustration and failure, waiting to see just how much nearer to an apocalypse we can draw before we suffer the fate of Icarus.

P.S. They’re holding the memorial service in Cairo simply to avoid crossing through Israeli border controls. Understandable, yes, but no less disparaging. What kind of world are we living in that even in death we must fear our enemies? Fucking ridiculous.

Attempted verbalizations gone awry

I am wise beyond my years. I am more puerile than my elementary students. I know what I want out of life. I have no clue what I’m doing. I feel nothing. I feel everything. It hurts to be me. I love who I am. I hate that I smoke. I never want to quit smoking. I want to do everything imaginable. I want to sleep forever. I’m too damn vocal. I don’t speak up enough. I can’t write to save my life. I write every day, without fail. I read into things. I’m oblivious. I want to absorb all available knowledge. I want to remain blissfully ignorant. I thrive in darkness. I’m afraid of the dark. I thrive in daylight. Sunlight hurts my eyes. I want to raise beautiful, intelligent children. I can’t envision ever having children. I’ve done too much. I’ll never do too much. I regret nothing. This is me. I’m not fucked up…I am, simply, plainly, am. I exist, and at times that is too much for my feeble mind. Other times I’m held back by my inadequacies. I imagine most humans encounter internal struggles they never verbalize…so why must I attempt?

Why do you talk to me? Why are you my friend?…if indeed you call yourself such. Why do you read this on a daily basis? I want to know. Enlighten me as to how someone as existentially conflicted, academically challenged, fundamentally and irrevocably screwed up as myself has been graced lucky enough to deserve friends such as you. I’m not depressed--don’t jump to conclusions…I’m simply curious. I consider myself infinitely lucky. Take the compliment and run.

They...

...ask me to wear leather, and I obey. Help me out of elevators when my heel is stuck. Place me on a pedestal despite my fear of heights and lack of grace. Attack me in deserted alleys. Ask to tie me up with my own scarf. Try to domesticate me in the kitchen. Call me a hopeless drifter. Handcuff me in the back of a cop car. Criticize my choice of music. Worry about me from miles away. Take me to concerts in limos. Rob me of my innocence. Get me drunk more often than not. Write me poetry. Phone me at all hours of the night. Corrupt me. Seduce me with words and political ideologies. Teach me inane vocabulary. Give me massages. Tell me what I want to hear. Praise me. Entice me. Confuse me. Destroy me. Come along when I least expect it.

They love me when I hate them, ignore me when I crave attention, twirl me in the moonlight, discount my intelligence, make me question who I am and what I want, ask me to travel the globe, send me packages in the mail, have me awaiting their next sentence, next email, next glance.

Of all of them, of all the guys, you’re the one I want to hear play “Wish you Were Here.” You’ve ruined my love of Pink Floyd. You’ve heightened my love of Pink Floyd. You’ve done something without meaning it, yet full of meaning. You scare me, you flatter me, you teach me and I don’t quite know what to say anymore, other than I don’t want them. And if you’re just fucking around I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you.

Eva

I have successfully, and pathetically, gone forty-eight hours without eating, surviving on nothing more than coffee and cigarettes….I fear I shall turn into Sylvia Plath, save the head-in-oven incident. I couldn’t even if I tried…no oven.


Sonnet : To Eva
All right, let's say you could take a skull and break it
The way you'd crack a clock; you'd crush the bone
Between steel palms of inclination, take it,
Observing the wreck of metal and rare stone.

This was a woman : her loves and stratagems
Betrayed in mute geometry of broken
Cogs and disks, inane mechanic whims,
And idle coils of jargon yet unspoken.

Not man nor demigod could put together
The scraps of rusted reverie, the wheels
Of notched tin platitudes concerning weather,
Perfume, politics, and fixed ideals.

The idiot bird leaps up and drunken leans
To chirp the hour in lunatic thirteens.

"Any life, no matter how long and complex it may be, is made up of a single moment--the moment in which a man finds out, once and for all, who he is."

I’ve become a creature of habit…the last thing I’d ever hoped to become. Habits scare me, routines scare me, certain levels of security scare me. So, amidst my nightly walk I strolled through the cemetery. For what purpose I have no clue. To exhume the spirit of some long lost bushido-starved samurai, to further prove my existence in contrast to those that merely exist as memories, yellowed photographs in someone’s scrapbook, to give myself a startle, it still remains unclear. By day the tombstones reflect the Japanese art of tradition and reverence, by night they scare the fuck outta me. Every time a car passed I ducked, so as to blend in with the dead. But I don’t want to blend in with the dead. In life we are a name, a face, a personality, in death, merely a number. An etching on a moss-covered, forgotten shrine, overgrown by the dominant patches of weeds and occasional wildflowers. You can’t help but wonder what the lives of the dead must have once been like, and maybe I was hoping to catch some glimpse into the life of someone else, one who maybe had no one else to share it with, or in death was more lonely than the living could ever fear to be. Needless to say, no spirits spoke to me, and I’m relieved…I’ve got enough problems. At times I find myself so bored I’ll talk to people I know, but who aren’t there…especially my grandmother. It’s odd that I talk to her more post-mortem than I did when she was alive. Don’t worry, she doesn’t talk back, I’m not that insane, but I’m curious as to how my she lived. I knew so little of her, other than she herself was a creature of habit. She wore heels to vacuum the house, never took off her pearls, drank Early Times every afternoon at 5, filled the role of wealthy housewife and distant mother and always gave the same birthday gift…an inch of pearls. When I was growing up I always wondered why every member of my family would laugh at the stupidly ridiculous antics of my brother and I, yet she never cracked. There was always some shield deflecting her emotions, or maybe she had none. I used to feel the same way, but I later came to realize hers was genetic. Depression runs in my family and I honestly hope I can live a life that will constantly outrun my “fate” of an eventually emotionally devoid presence at the dinner table. It may be crazy, but maybe simply realizing that it could become a reality I will be more aware of when the signs begin to show, so as to run like hell. If you ever find I’ve lost my ability to be me and instead have been replaced by a zombie, call my shrink.

...in the middle of the night

I went out walking again Sunday night…I know, I’m a dumbass. That’s besides the point. The only moments of the weekend I actually enjoy are the times I’m out wandering alone, reveling in my insignificance. It’s then that I can forget about the world around me and concentrate on my own existence in the world I've created. I like to watch my shadow blinking on and off with the passing streetlights. I like to feel the concrete railings of the bridges I cross until my fingers turn raw. I like to listen to mellow music and pinpoint the exact lyrics I prefer more than the inconsequential choruses…not because I can relate, or because they’re more profound, but simply because they stand out in my mind for reasons unbeknownst to me. I’ve been listening to David Garza’s Slave a lot lately. It’s not a particularly great song, but I’d like to think that out there somewhere is someone so fascinating that any man would give up free will for a life of voluntary servitude, simply for the opportunity to spend his life making up to her the individuality that makes her great, worthy of a slave. I’d like to meet such a person.

What’s happened to me? I’m becoming such a sap. Anywho. I went out to dinner with some other JETs Saturday night. Wasn’t particularly fun, but a nice change from isolation. Aside from becoming a sap, I’ve become a lightweight. When you only drink once a month, you pay in the mornings. I hope I didn’t do, or say, anything out of character, though I imagine I did. Kate, Gaer and I rode around town picking the rest of the gang up, a task which takes about an hour since we’re all so spread out over the prefecture. They made small talk, and I do mean small talk. I’m incapable of such and I fear that’s why I’ve been a virtual outcast of the group. But to what extent is small talk/bullshit really necessary? It’s unimportant, uninteresting, could come from anyone’s mouth and mean just as little. I read a short story by Schickler this weekend from his latest compilation, which I like to think of as a contemporary Decameron, though not as dark and without the threat of plague. The main character carried out relationships in a manner completely backwards to social norms. He didn’t believe bullshitting made for interesting conversation, so he bypassed all that and went straight for intimacy. Once he became completely engrossed in the sheer dynamics of another individual he’d then initiate small talk, which at such a point was anything but small. I wish all relationships could be as interesting, and well played as in literature. Gaer likes to ask me questions because he says I never talk enough. So I answer. But he doesn’t know me any better simply because he knows where I went to school, what I majored in, how many siblings I have. Can’t we for once just skip all that? I don’t care where he went to school because I know so little about him. It’d be more entertaining if I knew all of him, before I knew the logistics of him. They call me an overachiever, which I don’t believe in. There isn’t, nor should there be, a standard or average for achievement. We accomplish what we choose. We are only as strong as our own self will, and maybe mine is greater than some, but that doe not imply that I’ve outdone anyone…or want to. They call me a recluse, and maybe I am, but they say so with disdain, prejudice. Well I don’t particularly like them either. People can be so disappointing, which is exactly why I prefer my solitary walks in darkness. Sometimes a moment feels so perfect and I want to drop to the ground, rest my head, and bask in that which you can’t find when you go out searching. But in those moments I’m usually too afraid to move, take a step in any direction, twitch a finger, for fear that all the variables will come crashing down around me, leaving me stranded in the middle of a quiet road, more alone than when I started and almost certainly more dejected for having lost the fleeting assumption of perfection.

Maybe I do need a social life.

...and I'm still smiling!

I miss....

Common Grounds
‘hitting the Ripple’
Being Liz’s drunken Valentine's date
MQHR daycare days
Mustard fights at Southland
Swinging on the front porch, listening to Rob strum away
Adams Morgan
Hearing the monkeys down the street every morning
Book recommendations from Lyndsay
Sorting mail with Dusty…that’s right…I miss constituent mail
Camp RGL (prairie dogs are still my life)
Late night Schwitzer antics with Kris
Waffle House visits with Kristi…I could use some chocolate milk right about now
Dr. Scholl
Paisley denying his obsession for peanut butter
Corona Drive
Calle Betis, Café Los Angeles, Pizzeria San Marcos
“fuckin’ grandma”
Will yum yum yum yum yum yum
A Vegas blur involving Mina, a creepy drummer and maxing out the MasterCard
Tinto de verano, watching the Celts get beat miserably, Scottish invasions
Proselytizing in Jo-Beth with Eian
Drama club productions
Applebee’s happy hour
Hiking Cumberland Falls with the rents
Cricket
Giving tours of the Capitol Bldg in leather
Firing guys for sexual harassment…power trip
Ruff campouts
Coffee dates with Emiliah
Partying til dawn with country musicians
Hairy Pakistani men singing in the shower
Youth in Government (my land is still Thailand)
Pool parties at Eian’s
Paisley pushing me into some old man’s crotch in a gay bar
Justin getting freaky to Outkast
Any conversation ever had with Brandon…has anyone heard from him?
Ross’s political commentaries, always lively
El Prado…Saturno devorando a su hijo, Las Meninas
Impromptu 4th of July parties at my house
Watching my little brother out-drink my legal friends
Juan’s candy
Massive gay with no pants on
Breaking into the neighborhood pool
DJ’s drunk dials
72 hour hangovers after Cadiz, random clothing missing after Cadiz, sneaking onto trains after Cadiz
My first roomie ever…Meg
Avoiding BTS like the plague, while Liz passes out in the Delt house
Vodka con kiwi…my fave
Trips to Hell (Chicago) with Dre
Much needed massages from you know who
Going shot for shot with Matt
Holly’s cooking
Shopping with Laura, Starbucks with Laura, traipsing D.C. with Laura
Photo excursions to Garrett’s
St. Croix with friends
Late night calls spent discussing the fact that two teenagers are having sex in my parents bed
Quoting Pink Floyd/The Doors/Bob Dylan as sound political arguments for Prof. Clark
Puskar’s Thoreau obsession
Having the third largest gothic cathedral in the world right down the street
Prof. Mason
Travis getting me drunk…and asking for a threesome
Parisian fiascos and hostels from hell with Bri, Maria and Lynzy
The Lena Mobile
Triangle Park
Korean War Memorial…by far my favorite
The Dawg Pound
2 week old root beer to hide the smell of certain illegal substances
My parent’s god awful Halloween decorations
Riding the Senate tram
Kris and Ellen’s opera
Being stranded and left for dead at a Czech bowling alley
Ali, Crista, T and Aaron, my Italian bunkmates

Sorry guys…never meant for this to be so long. Hopefully these will spark your memories of me and make you smile/laugh/hang your head in shame. Just as long as you miss me! I know I’ve left out a few choice moments, so feel free to add to the list…besides, I’d prefer to hear your accounts of said antics rather than my own. Take care my loyal fans, partners in crime, stalkers, pen pals, siblings, former roommates, pets, enemies, fellow Butler alums, PLD Bulldawgs, high school sweethearts, corrupters, Spanish flings and friends. I’m off for another fun weekend…I’ll be back Monday. No me extranes.

Whatever happened to Fraggle Rock?

An earthquake rocked Fukuoka Wednesday night. My first earthquake ever. And how did I fare such an event?...I slept right through it. I’m pathetic.
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I’ve decided to donate my hair again. My only concern…how much need does Locks of Love have for orange hair? There’s bound to be some little girl, or boy for that matter, dying for the Raggedy Ann/Andy look…don’t you think?
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My impromptu, quite crap, lesson plan went over well at the convo class last night. We’ve been learning physical attributes, clothing, age, personality traits, etc. So I thought I’d give them a little review by ripping 10 of my oh-so-precious photos off the wall and taking them to class. I gave one to each pair and asked them to describe the people in every way possible. You should have seen the smile on Noguchi-san’s face…it was hilarious. He’s gets so excited over any activity that doesn’t involve the book. They had a few choice comments to make about my friends, which I’ll list for your viewing pleasure.

~Andrea is skinny...what can I say…they’re intuitive. She also has a friendly smile (they’re so cute for old people)
~Not that he’ll read this, but Steven looks clever
~Brad is handsome…again, not reading, but maybe someone can pass it on. Always nice to receive a compliment from strangers I suppose
~the girl they thought was someone else, but was actually me, has nice teeth…ha ha
~Eian likes tennis…don’t know if you really do or not, but it was a pic of tennis….looooong ago
~Scheid is tall and dark…by that I think they meant hair, not sure. Your call.
~Kristi looks funny. I don’t really know what to say to this. I think it means a fun personality, rather than funny looking. In fact, I’m sure of it, because a) you don’t look funny b) I didn’t teach them funny looking as a physical description, only as a personality trait

So there you have it. We also had a nice discussion about the election. One of the more advanced students asked a question in regards to absentee ballots and somehow we got off on a not-so-tangential tangent of the American political system. I attempted to explain bipartisan politics, party loyalties, the electoral college, state representatives, the Senate, winner takes all…Dr. Jett would be so proud. I’m sure half of the class was completely lost, but Torigoe-san seemed interested enough, and even ventured far enough to compare the winner takes all system to a game of poker. Now, I’m not saying this is a completely new or profound comment, even though I've never heard another American make such a comparison…but to hear those words come out of his mouth, I was astounded, and then I laughed for about 5 minutes…he liked that. They like when they can be funny in another language…isn’t that when you know you’ve accomplished a decent level of fluency?

Random...because I like random

My parents informed me they're making a cardboard cut out of me to sit at the dinner table for Thanksgiving and to place in front of the Christmas tree for holiday pictures. I can't decide if that's incredibly insane or absolutely hilarious...suffice to say, it's my parents, and they're beyond characterization.

Scott enlightened me last week with a UNC study which determined that the average office chair, with wheels, travels eight miles a year. Impressive, but is there so little going on in North Carolina, or with the state of the world in general, that office chairs make better studies than more academic affairs? AND, who actually proposed such a study?....I think I'd like to meet that man...and you know it's a man.

There's a quote somewhere which goes a little (very little) something like this: "The reason you don't talk about religion is, you never know who you're going to offend." I feel the same way about politics, but I'm afraid I've got to say it. Fuck man! America, what ARE you doing? I'm still shaking my head, in shame, in horror, in pure confusion and disgust. But mostly, in fear, for that which could result as a decision such as this. A relative emailed me today, conservative, mind you, gloating about the victory, though tossing in enough questions so as to appear generally interested in my well being. I want to strangle her. She doesn't realize what she's doing. While her millions are protected in a bank, accruing interest, defying taxes, while she's sun taning on a daily basis in her island resort, driving one of her four Mercedes, she's promoting all which is truly disastrous with this world...too much to list, but I'm sure you know what I mean.

Word of the day: Zabernism - misuse of military power, agression, bullying
Appropriate, I feel...coincidence?

Naivety is a bitch

Crime is very rare within Japan and I was naïve enough to believe that “rare” was conducive to “nonexistent.” I, however, was terribly wrong. Tuesday night I was attacked by a slovenly drunk Japanese bastard. During my nightly walk around the town some guy walked up to me and busted out some broken English. We talked politics for a while, which intrigued me, so I felt no cause for alarm. Then things got ugly. He grabbed me by the waist, groped my ass and kissed me with his nasty sake breath. I kept telling him to get away, that I had a boyfriend, blah blah blah, but I think he saw right through it. So I shoved him and turned to run, but he still managed to slap me and scratch my face pretty hardcore. At which point I ran like hell down a side street and eventually made it home. He, however, followed on his bike. I made it inside okay, locked the door and hid in my room, but now this jackass knows where I live and I’m really fucking creeped out. I don’t like being afraid to leave my house at night, paranoid about locking my doors and windows all the time, even further secluded from the outside world. Why does shit like this always seem to happen to me?

I’m debating whether or not I should tell my supervisor…just give her a heads up on the situation in case any future scandals should arise. But at the same time, she’s very protective and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. I’m sure it was just an isolated, drunken event and will never happen again…at least I hope. I’d almost assume just forget about it and move on, pretend it never happened. Repression has worked wonders in the past. But how do I explain visible scratch marks on my face? Fuck man.

My statement has become a question

I've been working on my personal statement. I want it to be stellar, but as such I know it'd be a misrepresentation of my true self. I have no clue as to how to begin. I've never been a fan of defining my positive qualities on paper for the whole world to see, or even just a few collegiate academics. Most of the time I feel I'm a walking contradiction, painting myself in one light only to act in a completely antithetical manner. This may sound strange, given I've previously denied you any sound understanding of my nature, but if you were me, and praise whomever you chose you aren't, what would you claim to be your (my) strengths/weaknesses?

I've always hoped that my experiences would speak more reputably than my words, and to varying degrees I'm sure they do, but schools still require this lame statement, which ironically enough, is rarely personal and completely b.s. rather than a truthful statement. Can I get away with, "I don't know?" "U.K. is a last resort to simply pass another year studying while attempting to determine what it is I really want out of life...or else get accepted into Columbia's human rights program."

I don't even know what it is I want to study. Poli sci, Spanish, international diplomacy, philosophy, peace and conflict studies...how can you write a personal statement when you have nothing to state?