Well, I`ve worked out why I`m arguing with gremlins and fighting tigers in my sleep. It took me nine hours, but I`ve worked it out. Largely because - in the entire nine hours between now and then - I`ve had absolutely nothing to do but work it out. Which is, ironically, both the discovery of the problem and the cause of it.
I`m seeing gremlins in my sleep because I am bored: unbearably, mind-numbingly, bottom achingly bored. Thanks to exams, strange schedules and I don`t know what else - a general hatred of my teaching abilities, possibly - I`ve participated in two classes since Friday morning. Two classes, and the rest of the 27 hours have been spent at my desk, trying to occupy myself; preparing for lessons in November (which is boring, but at least useful), finding pictures of carrots and laminating them, rearranging my desk and playing with paper clips. And my imagination and brain are so utterly switched off that the only thing they can do to protest is issue me with all sorts of nonsense at night-time instead.
There are levels of boredom at work. There`s the level of boredom that can be quite productive; where you do things that you would otherwise be forced to do in your spare time, and therefore feel quite smug about it. At this level of boredom, I write my blog, sort out my bills, calculate my savings, Google all sorts of unecessary and yet productive sites - tips on writing, places to travel, BBC news, ways to change the world and so on and so forth - and feel like I`m vaguely achieving something. I write notes on my books, and I look up quotes I can use, and I feel like I`m getting somewhere and getting paid for it at the same time (well, not for it, but for something anyway).
Then there`s the level of boredom just higher that, where I start refreshing my inbox to see if any of my friends or family have emailed me; and the level slightly higher than that where I don`t care who has emailed me and start getting excited even when it`s my employer contacting me about tax forms.
Then - on the next stage up - there`s the level where I start reading every humorous website I can find, and standing up at ten minute intervals to wander around the staff kitchen in the hope that somebody has left some biscuits. I`ve stopped looking up useful things on Google, and I`ve started plugging in random words and seeing what comes up in the images file. I`ve stopped making notes for my book because I no longer care whether I live or die, and instead I`m making preparatory material for lessons that will be happening at some stage next April and don`t even strictly need to be made then.
I am now at the final stage of boredom: the stage where all I want to do is cry, where I don`t care about anything anymore (biscuits, a numb bottom, the fact that my elbows are bruised from resting on the table for so long) and where my brain has switched off completely. No creativity is possible - the only thing coming from the brain is a low, monotone pitch that indicates that it`s flatlining - and no productivity is possible: if I am forced by myself to laminate another picture of a carrot, I`m going to cover my head in plastic as well. What`s worse, by the time I get home the spirit and fire have been so crushed out of me that the prospect of sitting in front of another computer is unbearable, and so my writing in the evenings has decreased as well.
I`ve known boredom at work - I spent many years working in receptions and offices, secretly using Hotmail - but I`ve never known anything quite so unrelenting: at least then there was work I was supposed to do, and was avoiding, whereas now there is literally nothing apart from sitting here like a sullen teenager.
It`s not really a surprise, therefore, that my nights have become hard work: my brain and imagination, switched off during the day, are waking up and screaming HELP US as loudly as they can as soon as they can. And the more bored I get during the day, the more ridiculous my dreams are going to get at night. That much I can be certain of.
I`m not sure what my options are, other than waiting for my schedule to pick back up again, but if I have another day like today I may change my mind about dreaming after all. Another 9 hour period of boredom as heavy as this one, and I`ll be waiting for the gremlins and the tiger with open, eager arms.
At the very least it will give me something to do.
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Dreams
"Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.”
- Anais Nin.
The problem with weaving your dreams in with your actions is that it`s thoroughly exhausting. By the time I woke up this morning, I had fought a tiger, taken it to a pub for a beer and then been half eaten by it (the bottom half: legs and chest); I had climbed some kind of knitting needle, chatted to a postman who wasn`t there, and then - for good measure - pulled gremlins out of my wardrobe. Three times, because they kept coming back. And if that`s not a good reason to be tired, I don`t know what is.
I`ve always been a strange sleeper. As a newborn baby, the nurses in the hospital called me "the mouse" because I squeaked while I was dreaming; when I could walk, my mum would wake up in the middle of the night to find me standing in the centre of the kitchen, fast asleep, or on a window sill with the window open, flapping my arms. Throughout my entire childhood I walked, I talked, I fell out of bed: I regularly got dressed and woke up while doing up my shoe laces, and had horrific reoccurring dreams in which my dad was wearing a bear suit and the bear was wearing my dad suit, or I was being shot repeatedly.
Everyone assumed I would grow out of it - as, statistically, most children do - but I didn`t: in fact, with age the strange night behaviour only got worse. I soon found that I very regularly had dreams that were both real and not real: where I was fast asleep, but could see both the real world and my dream world at the same time; could not only see them, in fact, but converse with both of them. A fact which - obviously - absolutely terrified the living daylights out of my family and, when I got to the appropriate age, every boyfriend I have ever had.
"Who are you talking to?" one demanded, six weeks into our relationship. I had apparently sat bolt up right in bed and was chatting quite happily to somebody in the corner of the Devon Bed and Breakfast we were staying in.
"Oh, just some lady," I told him. I can remember all of this vividly, incidentally: the dream and my boyfriend were both equally real to me (and - after 24 years at that point - I was completely used to negotiating two different dimensions at the same time).
"A lady?" he repeated faintly. And then, to his eternal credit, he said with quite a lot of curiosity: "what does she look like?"
"She`s very old, and she`s very kind looking, and she`s wearing a white nightie."
"Umm. Okay. And what are you talking about?"
"She just popped by to ask me if we were having a nice time, and to see if we needed anything."
The lady, thinking it was her que, then chirpily waved at my boyfriend.
"Uh," the poor boy said. "Who is she?"
"I don`t know. Let me just ask." I looked straight at the lady, who had moved towards the window. "Who are you?"
"I used to live here a long time ago," she said. "I love it here."
So I told my boyfriend what she had said, and I remember he fell back on the pillow and put his hand over his eyes.
"If you don`t mind," he said eventually, "I would really appreciate it if you could ask her to come back another time because we both need to sleep now."
"Okay," I said, apologised for our rudeness, and then - when she had gone - fell back on my own pillow and straight back into oblivion.
"I did warn you," I told him the next morning. "I`m sorry, but I did. Before we started dating, I told you that it happens. I told you it was one of the many prices of going out with me."
"I know, but I didn`t know it was going to be so creepy," he told me, shuddering. "Seriously, you scared the crap out of me."
"It wasn`t real, though," I tried to explain. "It was just my imagination. I don`t see dead people or anything. My head just thinks that I should."
"You and your bloody imagination," my boyfriend said tiredly, but we stayed together for another three years so I guess that eventually he got used to it (or just stopped trying to talk to me in the middle of them).
And it`s back. I`m on my own now, of course - which is better for everybody concerned - but it`s back with a vengeance.
"What are you all doing there?" I asked the gremlins at about 4am this morning, opening my cupboard door and seeing them all crammed in, staring at me with faintly puzzled expressions.
"Hmm?" the gremlins said. "What?"
"What are you doing in my cupboard?"
"Oh." They all looked at each other and then shrugged. "Don`t know. It seemed like a good place to be."
"Well get out, please. I can`t sleep with you all in there, and I`m very tired."
"No, we like it."
"Get out!"
"No."
"Get out."
"Nu-uh."
"Get out, get out, get out," I said, trying to pull them by the hands, and when I came to my senses every piece of clothing I own was lying on the floor and I was attacking the air with a coat hanger.
I don`t know what has prompted this new batch of night trouble - although I know where the gremlin image came from (it`s the opening scene of The Labryinth) - but I`d like it to stop now, because it`s been four nights in a row and I`m exhausted. Weaving together your life and your dreams only works as long as you are capable of separating them back out again, and I can`t. I`m still seeing gremlins and fighting tigers, even though I`m wide awake, and I`m waking up in the morning more tired than I was when I went to bed. Which sort of defeats the point of bothering at all: my brain is resting far more efficiently at work, when I`m being paid for it not to be.
Whatever I see tonight - whatever wants to fight me - I`m telling it to go away so that I can sleep in peace. Following my dreams is very important, after all, but I`d really prefer it if they didn`t follow me.
- Anais Nin.
The problem with weaving your dreams in with your actions is that it`s thoroughly exhausting. By the time I woke up this morning, I had fought a tiger, taken it to a pub for a beer and then been half eaten by it (the bottom half: legs and chest); I had climbed some kind of knitting needle, chatted to a postman who wasn`t there, and then - for good measure - pulled gremlins out of my wardrobe. Three times, because they kept coming back. And if that`s not a good reason to be tired, I don`t know what is.
I`ve always been a strange sleeper. As a newborn baby, the nurses in the hospital called me "the mouse" because I squeaked while I was dreaming; when I could walk, my mum would wake up in the middle of the night to find me standing in the centre of the kitchen, fast asleep, or on a window sill with the window open, flapping my arms. Throughout my entire childhood I walked, I talked, I fell out of bed: I regularly got dressed and woke up while doing up my shoe laces, and had horrific reoccurring dreams in which my dad was wearing a bear suit and the bear was wearing my dad suit, or I was being shot repeatedly.
Everyone assumed I would grow out of it - as, statistically, most children do - but I didn`t: in fact, with age the strange night behaviour only got worse. I soon found that I very regularly had dreams that were both real and not real: where I was fast asleep, but could see both the real world and my dream world at the same time; could not only see them, in fact, but converse with both of them. A fact which - obviously - absolutely terrified the living daylights out of my family and, when I got to the appropriate age, every boyfriend I have ever had.
"Who are you talking to?" one demanded, six weeks into our relationship. I had apparently sat bolt up right in bed and was chatting quite happily to somebody in the corner of the Devon Bed and Breakfast we were staying in.
"Oh, just some lady," I told him. I can remember all of this vividly, incidentally: the dream and my boyfriend were both equally real to me (and - after 24 years at that point - I was completely used to negotiating two different dimensions at the same time).
"A lady?" he repeated faintly. And then, to his eternal credit, he said with quite a lot of curiosity: "what does she look like?"
"She`s very old, and she`s very kind looking, and she`s wearing a white nightie."
"Umm. Okay. And what are you talking about?"
"She just popped by to ask me if we were having a nice time, and to see if we needed anything."
The lady, thinking it was her que, then chirpily waved at my boyfriend.
"Uh," the poor boy said. "Who is she?"
"I don`t know. Let me just ask." I looked straight at the lady, who had moved towards the window. "Who are you?"
"I used to live here a long time ago," she said. "I love it here."
So I told my boyfriend what she had said, and I remember he fell back on the pillow and put his hand over his eyes.
"If you don`t mind," he said eventually, "I would really appreciate it if you could ask her to come back another time because we both need to sleep now."
"Okay," I said, apologised for our rudeness, and then - when she had gone - fell back on my own pillow and straight back into oblivion.
"I did warn you," I told him the next morning. "I`m sorry, but I did. Before we started dating, I told you that it happens. I told you it was one of the many prices of going out with me."
"I know, but I didn`t know it was going to be so creepy," he told me, shuddering. "Seriously, you scared the crap out of me."
"It wasn`t real, though," I tried to explain. "It was just my imagination. I don`t see dead people or anything. My head just thinks that I should."
"You and your bloody imagination," my boyfriend said tiredly, but we stayed together for another three years so I guess that eventually he got used to it (or just stopped trying to talk to me in the middle of them).
And it`s back. I`m on my own now, of course - which is better for everybody concerned - but it`s back with a vengeance.
"What are you all doing there?" I asked the gremlins at about 4am this morning, opening my cupboard door and seeing them all crammed in, staring at me with faintly puzzled expressions.
"Hmm?" the gremlins said. "What?"
"What are you doing in my cupboard?"
"Oh." They all looked at each other and then shrugged. "Don`t know. It seemed like a good place to be."
"Well get out, please. I can`t sleep with you all in there, and I`m very tired."
"No, we like it."
"Get out!"
"No."
"Get out."
"Nu-uh."
"Get out, get out, get out," I said, trying to pull them by the hands, and when I came to my senses every piece of clothing I own was lying on the floor and I was attacking the air with a coat hanger.
I don`t know what has prompted this new batch of night trouble - although I know where the gremlin image came from (it`s the opening scene of The Labryinth) - but I`d like it to stop now, because it`s been four nights in a row and I`m exhausted. Weaving together your life and your dreams only works as long as you are capable of separating them back out again, and I can`t. I`m still seeing gremlins and fighting tigers, even though I`m wide awake, and I`m waking up in the morning more tired than I was when I went to bed. Which sort of defeats the point of bothering at all: my brain is resting far more efficiently at work, when I`m being paid for it not to be.
Whatever I see tonight - whatever wants to fight me - I`m telling it to go away so that I can sleep in peace. Following my dreams is very important, after all, but I`d really prefer it if they didn`t follow me.
Friday, 25 June 2010
Taking note
It`s easy to make me ashamed of myself. The shame is usually there anyway, lurking somewhere just below the surface with its eyes poking up like a crocodile, so just the smallest prod and I`m overwhelmed with it and want to beat it with a stick until I`ve forgiven myself and you`ve forgiven me too. Which isn`t particularly healthy or normal, admittedly, but at least it means that I`m not consistantly obnoxious. In fact, it means that I`m not really consistantly anything at all (I`ll be predictably neurotic about that another time).
Last night, however, I was made extremely ashamed of myself by a little Japanese lady who has been hired by my employer to sort my life out for me.
I managed well enough in Tokyo - I just didn`t pay anything until whatever it was was covered in red ink and three inches high on my doormat - but apparently I`m either a little more precious in Miyazaki (what with there only being one of me, and not 10,000), or the bills are a little more important (what with there only being 20,000 of us and not 1.5 million), so this time they`re looking after me and my health and my money. Last weekend, in fact, I got the following, enchanting phone call:
"Hello? Holly speaking."
"Hello Horry-san! I am Yuki. I call from your work."
"Hello. Is everything ok?" (I always deal with conversations from any employer I have as if I`m about to get fired at any moment.)
"Yes. Is raining."
"It is, yes."
"We are ... worried."
"About the rain?"
"No, about you."
"Ah. Why?"
"Because it is raining."
"Well it`s not very nice, but I`m sure I`ll be okay."
"Rain heavy in Nichinan."
"Yes." (Nervous laughter from me: still convinced this is very polite and standard Japanese lead-up to being sacked.)
"House okay?"
"Oh, it seems to be doing well, yes."
"Roads okay?"
"Apparently so."
"You ok?"
"A bit wet, but okay."
At which point Yuki bursts into the most enthusiastic, genuine laughter I`ve heard in many months.
"Wet, yes!" he says, almost incoherent with mirth. "Bery, bery wet."
"Yes, very, very wet." I laugh too, because it seems rude not to.
"Well, I go now. Be not wet!"
And then he hung up, comforted by the fact that I am dry and obviously still in possession of a sharp and powerful sense of humour. The fact that I have no idea who Yuki is - or why he thinks the rain might hurt me - makes it even sweeter.
Yesterday morning, as Part Two of the Looking After Holly programme, a timid little Japanese lady took me to the Post Office to sort out Boring Stuff I`ve not been bothered (or capable) of sorting out for myself (driving licence, bills, visa; you know, the grown up stuff that lets you stay in a country and work there). At the end, she took an envelope of money my grandparents gave me as a gift many months ago, and took it to the bank to change it to yen because it is only open when I`m at school and so I can`t do it myself. Last night she arrived at my house to give it back to me (after tapping on the window behind my computer while I`m writing which everybody does and which really, really freaks me out).
"I got the money," she said, handing me an envelope.
"Thankyou so much," I said. Then she handed me the envelope the money had come in: signed Much Love Grandma and Grandad.
"I bought one," she said. "For me."
"Really?"
"Yes. It is very, very beautiful."
She reached into her handbag and pulled out the note. I frowned at it, but it looked very much like a purple, British 20pound note to me.
"Mmm," I said, unconvinced.
"I gave you more for it, because it is so beautiful." And she meant it: she gave me quite a lot more. If she was my exchange rate, I could make quite a hefty sum, buying and selling British money to her.
"Golly. Thankyou."
"I shall keep it. It is a gift from your ba-ba and ji-ji?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then when you leave, I shall give it to you back."
"Why?" I said, somewhat bluntly. "There are lots of them in England."
"Because" - and here her eyes actually welled up as she struggled to find the right words - "it has your grandparent`s love inside it."
And then, wiping away the tears and smiling, she put the love carefully back in her handbag and patted it gently.
When she had left, I looked at the floor for a few minutes - red cheeked and mentally whipping myself for being so unsentimental in only seeing the gift in terms of what it could buy me - and realised that yet again I had been made ashamed of myself by the kindness of a complete stranger (and the kindness of my grandparents, obviously).
Every time somebody does something for me for no reason - checks to see if I`m dry in the rain, or looks after my grandparent`s love for me in the shape of a 20 pound note - it makes me feel like I need to be better. That, on the road to being a good person, and a caring person, and a wise person, I`ve only just started.
And it reminds me that - in learning of kindness and compassion - I should always be taking note.
Last night, however, I was made extremely ashamed of myself by a little Japanese lady who has been hired by my employer to sort my life out for me.
I managed well enough in Tokyo - I just didn`t pay anything until whatever it was was covered in red ink and three inches high on my doormat - but apparently I`m either a little more precious in Miyazaki (what with there only being one of me, and not 10,000), or the bills are a little more important (what with there only being 20,000 of us and not 1.5 million), so this time they`re looking after me and my health and my money. Last weekend, in fact, I got the following, enchanting phone call:
"Hello? Holly speaking."
"Hello Horry-san! I am Yuki. I call from your work."
"Hello. Is everything ok?" (I always deal with conversations from any employer I have as if I`m about to get fired at any moment.)
"Yes. Is raining."
"It is, yes."
"We are ... worried."
"About the rain?"
"No, about you."
"Ah. Why?"
"Because it is raining."
"Well it`s not very nice, but I`m sure I`ll be okay."
"Rain heavy in Nichinan."
"Yes." (Nervous laughter from me: still convinced this is very polite and standard Japanese lead-up to being sacked.)
"House okay?"
"Oh, it seems to be doing well, yes."
"Roads okay?"
"Apparently so."
"You ok?"
"A bit wet, but okay."
At which point Yuki bursts into the most enthusiastic, genuine laughter I`ve heard in many months.
"Wet, yes!" he says, almost incoherent with mirth. "Bery, bery wet."
"Yes, very, very wet." I laugh too, because it seems rude not to.
"Well, I go now. Be not wet!"
And then he hung up, comforted by the fact that I am dry and obviously still in possession of a sharp and powerful sense of humour. The fact that I have no idea who Yuki is - or why he thinks the rain might hurt me - makes it even sweeter.
Yesterday morning, as Part Two of the Looking After Holly programme, a timid little Japanese lady took me to the Post Office to sort out Boring Stuff I`ve not been bothered (or capable) of sorting out for myself (driving licence, bills, visa; you know, the grown up stuff that lets you stay in a country and work there). At the end, she took an envelope of money my grandparents gave me as a gift many months ago, and took it to the bank to change it to yen because it is only open when I`m at school and so I can`t do it myself. Last night she arrived at my house to give it back to me (after tapping on the window behind my computer while I`m writing which everybody does and which really, really freaks me out).
"I got the money," she said, handing me an envelope.
"Thankyou so much," I said. Then she handed me the envelope the money had come in: signed Much Love Grandma and Grandad.
"I bought one," she said. "For me."
"Really?"
"Yes. It is very, very beautiful."
She reached into her handbag and pulled out the note. I frowned at it, but it looked very much like a purple, British 20pound note to me.
"Mmm," I said, unconvinced.
"I gave you more for it, because it is so beautiful." And she meant it: she gave me quite a lot more. If she was my exchange rate, I could make quite a hefty sum, buying and selling British money to her.
"Golly. Thankyou."
"I shall keep it. It is a gift from your ba-ba and ji-ji?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Then when you leave, I shall give it to you back."
"Why?" I said, somewhat bluntly. "There are lots of them in England."
"Because" - and here her eyes actually welled up as she struggled to find the right words - "it has your grandparent`s love inside it."
And then, wiping away the tears and smiling, she put the love carefully back in her handbag and patted it gently.
When she had left, I looked at the floor for a few minutes - red cheeked and mentally whipping myself for being so unsentimental in only seeing the gift in terms of what it could buy me - and realised that yet again I had been made ashamed of myself by the kindness of a complete stranger (and the kindness of my grandparents, obviously).
Every time somebody does something for me for no reason - checks to see if I`m dry in the rain, or looks after my grandparent`s love for me in the shape of a 20 pound note - it makes me feel like I need to be better. That, on the road to being a good person, and a caring person, and a wise person, I`ve only just started.
And it reminds me that - in learning of kindness and compassion - I should always be taking note.
Thursday, 24 June 2010
Turning Japanese
Symptoms that you`re no longer a tourist.
You now make the noise "eehhh?" instead of "hmm?" or "huh?" when you're confused, despite being on your own.
You bow at everyone, for everything, at any time. Even when you're on the phone.
It feels completely normal to be butt naked in public - and to scrub yourself with a sponge while chatting to a stranger -...
...and yet extremely daring to expose your shoulders when clothed.
You start dropping your Rs and your Vs and forget what a normal L sounds like.
You're disappointed when traffic lights and buses don't play classical music...
...or when the fish counter at the local supermarket doesn't have a cartoon fish singing next to it.
"Cuteness" is what you look for first in any purchase, including domestic appliances...
...and your mobile phone has cartoon animals hanging off it that weigh more than the phone does.
You no longer think that Hello Kitty is creepy.
You shout "gaijin!" when you see another foreigner walking down the street, and you mean it as slightly derogatory.
Seeing a man with a pink jacket, a toy duck attached to his briefcase or a ready supply of cartoon stickers is standard, and anyone without them seems a little butch.
You can no longer say "hi" as a greeting, because it sounds rude.
You know exactly how to pee into a hole in the ground, even as a girl.
Raw fish tastes normal, and cooking is what you do to the cheap bits.
You've taken to adding sugar to all your cooking. Including spaghetti bolognaise and steak.
You no longer think that putting sparkly or fluffy things in your hair is common, and see it as the height of feminine sophistication.
You can't imagine ever paying more than 100 yen for anything in your house. Ever. For any reason...
...unless it's fruit or clothes, in which case you'll happily spend ten times more than you would at home.
You don't remember what it's like to know what any of your bills say, or what they're for.
Your normal rate of speaking has dropped by 50%, even to other English speakers.
"And" has been replaced by "et to"; "cute" has been replaced by "kawaii"; "isn't it" has been replaced by "ne"; "don't you think" has been replaced by "des sho". Even when you're not speaking Japanese.
You actually believe that mayonnaise is a standard pizza topping...
...and cheese is a luxury.
You're angry when the toilet doesn't flush automatically, and you're forced to do it yourself.
Brushing your teeth surrounded by forty people is standard...
...but announcing that you need the toilet is taboo.
You've stopped asking "what's that?" about everything.
You can't imagine ever wearing shoes inside a building - especially in your own house - and in an emergency will jump on one tiptoe rather than wear shoes on a tatami mat.
A tan seems unattractive, and you've started buying face cream with whitening agents in it.
You feel underdressed on the beach unless you are wearing a sunhat, socks, full length trousers, gloves and a pashmina.
When speaking to your British friends, you've started adding the world 'san' on the end.
You gravitate towards Japanese schoolchildren rather than talk to strange Westerners in an airport.
The peace sign seems like the most natural thing to do in any photograph....
...while smiling somehow isn't.
Love hotels, Themed hotels and Capsule hotels are par for the course...
...but cheap hotels are not.
Karaoke is bog standard Friday night entertainment.
You think of every sentence in at least three different ways before you say it, just to work out which one is the easiest to understand.
You feel upset if nobody stares at you.
Making very long lists suddenly seems like quite an attractive way to spend your free time.
You now make the noise "eehhh?" instead of "hmm?" or "huh?" when you're confused, despite being on your own.
You bow at everyone, for everything, at any time. Even when you're on the phone.
It feels completely normal to be butt naked in public - and to scrub yourself with a sponge while chatting to a stranger -...
...and yet extremely daring to expose your shoulders when clothed.
You start dropping your Rs and your Vs and forget what a normal L sounds like.
You're disappointed when traffic lights and buses don't play classical music...
...or when the fish counter at the local supermarket doesn't have a cartoon fish singing next to it.
"Cuteness" is what you look for first in any purchase, including domestic appliances...
...and your mobile phone has cartoon animals hanging off it that weigh more than the phone does.
You no longer think that Hello Kitty is creepy.
You shout "gaijin!" when you see another foreigner walking down the street, and you mean it as slightly derogatory.
Seeing a man with a pink jacket, a toy duck attached to his briefcase or a ready supply of cartoon stickers is standard, and anyone without them seems a little butch.
You can no longer say "hi" as a greeting, because it sounds rude.
You know exactly how to pee into a hole in the ground, even as a girl.
Raw fish tastes normal, and cooking is what you do to the cheap bits.
You've taken to adding sugar to all your cooking. Including spaghetti bolognaise and steak.
You no longer think that putting sparkly or fluffy things in your hair is common, and see it as the height of feminine sophistication.
You can't imagine ever paying more than 100 yen for anything in your house. Ever. For any reason...
...unless it's fruit or clothes, in which case you'll happily spend ten times more than you would at home.
You don't remember what it's like to know what any of your bills say, or what they're for.
Your normal rate of speaking has dropped by 50%, even to other English speakers.
"And" has been replaced by "et to"; "cute" has been replaced by "kawaii"; "isn't it" has been replaced by "ne"; "don't you think" has been replaced by "des sho". Even when you're not speaking Japanese.
You actually believe that mayonnaise is a standard pizza topping...
...and cheese is a luxury.
You're angry when the toilet doesn't flush automatically, and you're forced to do it yourself.
Brushing your teeth surrounded by forty people is standard...
...but announcing that you need the toilet is taboo.
You've stopped asking "what's that?" about everything.
You can't imagine ever wearing shoes inside a building - especially in your own house - and in an emergency will jump on one tiptoe rather than wear shoes on a tatami mat.
A tan seems unattractive, and you've started buying face cream with whitening agents in it.
You feel underdressed on the beach unless you are wearing a sunhat, socks, full length trousers, gloves and a pashmina.
When speaking to your British friends, you've started adding the world 'san' on the end.
You gravitate towards Japanese schoolchildren rather than talk to strange Westerners in an airport.
The peace sign seems like the most natural thing to do in any photograph....
...while smiling somehow isn't.
Love hotels, Themed hotels and Capsule hotels are par for the course...
...but cheap hotels are not.
Karaoke is bog standard Friday night entertainment.
You think of every sentence in at least three different ways before you say it, just to work out which one is the easiest to understand.
You feel upset if nobody stares at you.
Making very long lists suddenly seems like quite an attractive way to spend your free time.
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Lobsters and Oysters
My grandparents are very good at giving me illuminating advice. I`m not sure what it illuminates, exactly, but illuminates it does, nevertheless.
"I`m thinking of teaching in Korea next year," I told them on Skype last night. "When I`m done with Japan."
"Excellent," my grandad said, while my grandma stayed silent (I think she just wants me to come home, now). "The world is your lobster, after all."
"It`s oyster," my grandma pointed out.
"I like lobster."
"It doesn`t matter. It`s oyster. The world is your oyster."
"I know that but I prefer The World Is Your Lobster."
"But Oysters have pearls."
"Not all of them don`t."
"But some of them do."
"But most of them don`t."
"Yes, but lobsters have claws. All of them."
"But they`re much nicer anyway."
"I don`t think so."
"At least they walk around."
"The world doesn`t walk around, though, does it."
"No, I suppose not. But Oysters are very stationary and closed most of the time."
"You know," I said to interrupt this highly controversial debate, "pearls are actually created by oysters when a piece of sand irritates them, and they cover it in mucus so that it makes it less uncomfortable."
"Well, there you go," my grandad said. "The world is not an oyster. That means that the best thing you can get is a piece of sand that irritates you, and even then it`s not very often."
"Hmm," my grandma said. "If that`s the case, I should have very many pearls by now, living with you."
"Absolutely," my grandad replied good naturedly. "But it still means that the world is definitely a lobster."
"Oyster," my grandma said, and that was the final word because she`s my grandma and so it always is.
I`m torn between opinions. Mainly because I`d like to believe that the world is neither a lobster nor an oyster, as both are quite uninspiring creatures; unknown for their creative or amusing talents.
Unlike, I`m happy to say, both of my grandparents.
"I`m thinking of teaching in Korea next year," I told them on Skype last night. "When I`m done with Japan."
"Excellent," my grandad said, while my grandma stayed silent (I think she just wants me to come home, now). "The world is your lobster, after all."
"It`s oyster," my grandma pointed out.
"I like lobster."
"It doesn`t matter. It`s oyster. The world is your oyster."
"I know that but I prefer The World Is Your Lobster."
"But Oysters have pearls."
"Not all of them don`t."
"But some of them do."
"But most of them don`t."
"Yes, but lobsters have claws. All of them."
"But they`re much nicer anyway."
"I don`t think so."
"At least they walk around."
"The world doesn`t walk around, though, does it."
"No, I suppose not. But Oysters are very stationary and closed most of the time."
"You know," I said to interrupt this highly controversial debate, "pearls are actually created by oysters when a piece of sand irritates them, and they cover it in mucus so that it makes it less uncomfortable."
"Well, there you go," my grandad said. "The world is not an oyster. That means that the best thing you can get is a piece of sand that irritates you, and even then it`s not very often."
"Hmm," my grandma said. "If that`s the case, I should have very many pearls by now, living with you."
"Absolutely," my grandad replied good naturedly. "But it still means that the world is definitely a lobster."
"Oyster," my grandma said, and that was the final word because she`s my grandma and so it always is.
I`m torn between opinions. Mainly because I`d like to believe that the world is neither a lobster nor an oyster, as both are quite uninspiring creatures; unknown for their creative or amusing talents.
Unlike, I`m happy to say, both of my grandparents.
A little bit of wind
The wind blew my laundry away. Not off, not down, not spreadeagled on my nearby parked car. It blew it away. I can`t find it anywhere.
It was a particularly windy night - not a typhoon (never a typhoon: I`m beginning to doubt whether they happen at all) - but I didn`t fear for my washing. Why should I? It had been out there over a week, and no harm had come to it. A lot of rain, a tiny bit of sunshine, many cars driving past, but no real harm. I`d even sniffed it yesterday morning to see if it was rotting, but it wasn`t: it smelled, actually, quite pretty (in a green, rainy season kind of way, rather than a clean kind of way).
My complacency in the strength of my clothes pegs, however, was unfounded. All that was left this morning was a single drying up cloth: hanging - exhausted and sad - on its solitary peg. Why didn`t the wind want me? it asked me as I stood in front of it, confused and staring at the sky again, and I had no answer apart from I don`t know, but I don`t really either. Of all the things hung out to dry, the one thing I can replace with ease is a goddamn drying up cloth. And I don`t even use them very often. I normally just let things dry of their own accord. Even if it takes weeks. Which it does. Especially when it rains all the time.
I am now haunted by a strange sense of the supernatural. No matter how hard I think about it, I can`t work out how the wind unclipped an entire basket full of washing - including a pair of black trousers - and sent it into the air: up and over the roof of my house and the houses forming a little pen all around it. Especially not wet ones, because wet black trousers are extremely heavy. A part of me now hopes that they are circling the globe - on their own, strange, black trouser adventure - but another part of me is extremely irritated. I did actually need to wear them today. Them and at least one pair of my remaining three knickers, who clearly hopped into the black trousers` pockets and went with them.
There`s no point in crying over vanished washing, though, so I shall simply continue to walk up and down outside my house on windy nights, waiting. What is it they say? If you love something, let it go. If it loves you, it will come back. And I really did love that particular batch of laundry. So I shall just be patient and hope - against all hope - that one day the wind brings it back to me.
And in the meantime, I shall make do with my drying up cloth. Which is still hanging outside, in the rain.
I wouldn`t want to stop it from adventuring if it wants to, after all.
It was a particularly windy night - not a typhoon (never a typhoon: I`m beginning to doubt whether they happen at all) - but I didn`t fear for my washing. Why should I? It had been out there over a week, and no harm had come to it. A lot of rain, a tiny bit of sunshine, many cars driving past, but no real harm. I`d even sniffed it yesterday morning to see if it was rotting, but it wasn`t: it smelled, actually, quite pretty (in a green, rainy season kind of way, rather than a clean kind of way).
My complacency in the strength of my clothes pegs, however, was unfounded. All that was left this morning was a single drying up cloth: hanging - exhausted and sad - on its solitary peg. Why didn`t the wind want me? it asked me as I stood in front of it, confused and staring at the sky again, and I had no answer apart from I don`t know, but I don`t really either. Of all the things hung out to dry, the one thing I can replace with ease is a goddamn drying up cloth. And I don`t even use them very often. I normally just let things dry of their own accord. Even if it takes weeks. Which it does. Especially when it rains all the time.
I am now haunted by a strange sense of the supernatural. No matter how hard I think about it, I can`t work out how the wind unclipped an entire basket full of washing - including a pair of black trousers - and sent it into the air: up and over the roof of my house and the houses forming a little pen all around it. Especially not wet ones, because wet black trousers are extremely heavy. A part of me now hopes that they are circling the globe - on their own, strange, black trouser adventure - but another part of me is extremely irritated. I did actually need to wear them today. Them and at least one pair of my remaining three knickers, who clearly hopped into the black trousers` pockets and went with them.
There`s no point in crying over vanished washing, though, so I shall simply continue to walk up and down outside my house on windy nights, waiting. What is it they say? If you love something, let it go. If it loves you, it will come back. And I really did love that particular batch of laundry. So I shall just be patient and hope - against all hope - that one day the wind brings it back to me.
And in the meantime, I shall make do with my drying up cloth. Which is still hanging outside, in the rain.
I wouldn`t want to stop it from adventuring if it wants to, after all.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Best Job In The World
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And, sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could.
- Robert Frost.
It would be nice to have as much foresight as Robert Frost, but sometimes when a road divides into two you don`t stand and look for long at all; sometimes, in fact, you don`t even notice that there is a fork at all, and only realise when you have gone far enough down one of them to never walk back again.
It has been a year, now, since The Best Job In The World finished: a dramatic year which owes none of its drama to The Job itself, and absolutely all of it to events resulting directly from the competition. Because - as you may not have put two and two together already (and I see no reason why you should have, when I kept it secret for a year) - The Boy was another Best Job candidate, and that was how we met and fell in love: thus why I moved to Japan to be with him, thus why I had my heart badly broken, and thus - perhaps - why I am still here, trying very hard to unbreak it again. So, in the largest and most unexpected way possible, The Best Job In The World changed my life, but not at all in the way I hoped it would when I applied for it. (I was hoping for less of an emotional journey and more for $100,000 and a big house on a tropical island.)
So: yes, The Best Job In The World changed my life and sent me down an entirely different road, and the reason I am answering this apparently unasked question one year later is because I have been asked it: by the BBC, because they want to do a follow up film documentary.
My initial response, of course, was split between genuine, British politeness and genuine, British rage.
Of course, I emailed back: anything to help, although I'm afraid I'm abroad and will be for some time, when actually what I really meant was: fuck right off, because I'd rather poke pencils into my tonsils and leave them there. Which some people would call two facedness, and I would call manners and extreme sense: angering the BBC is not clever, no matter what kind of honesty you pride yourself in. They're really quite powerful.
The thing is: it would be an interesting documentary, if they did it properly. The last one was not good - at best a fictional, manipulated story masquerading as journalism and at worst downright exploitation - but the next one could be. It did change our lives: all of us. Ben is now rich and famous and jetting the world at Oprah Winfrey's expense; Sarah has stopped travelling the world and is working for a glamorous, multinational marketing company; Doug has graduated and moved to Australia; I am in Japan, teaching and still - still - trying to write something worth reading. No doubt they would focus on the irony - that I was cast as the 'tortured romantic' and rather obediently had my heart broken, that Ben moved 'for love' and it failed, that Doug ended up in the same country as Best Job regardless, that Sarah stopped travelling and began working for the industry that made her come back - and we would all be made fools of again.
What they probably wouldn't mention is: the last documentary meant nothing. To any of us. "This documentary will change your lives," the director kept whispering at us from behind the whacking great camera and film crew: and we all thought then what we all think now, which is bollocks, will it. And - just as we predicted - it didn't make the blindest bit of difference to any of us, apart from to confirm us to our friends as "the kind of person who goes on telly instead of getting a real job" (although it has now become: "the kind of person who moves abroad instead of getting a real job").
No, the difference it made to us came in smaller places, and with much more subtlety. For me - once I push aside what Best Job did to my heart and location (both were too vulnerable anyway, and were destined for disaster regardless of the catalyst) - it was the tiny things that changed me permanently. Tiny things that have taken a full year to really appreciate.
Simply put, I started this blog because I was forced to by Best Job judges. I would never have done so otherwise - ever - and it has changed how I see writing: it has made me braver, and far less shy, and open to subjecting my writing to criticism and rejection in a way I never have been before. It made me realise that it doesn`t matter if nobody believes you have a chance, because they`re probably wrong. It made me realise that I don`t want gratuitous attention, fame or money for something I have not actually achieved. It made me slightly more comfortable taking risks - going on television, doing interviews, falling in love, packing and emigrating - when I was far too scared to before, because it pushed me further than I ever thought I could be pushed without falling over. And it made me question the significance of bad odds when I had always been terrified by them: because I had been one in thousands and thousands and I could be again. For anything. At any time. In any way.
Which is the point of Best Job for me: not that I failed, but that I tried and got as far as I did. And that I let it change my life, when it would have been easier to continue on the same path: the same, but sadder.
I won't be doing a follow up BBC documentary. I don't regret being a part of it - even if sometimes I want to run back down the path and see if the other road might have hurt a lot less - but it is over now, and the past is where it should be left. Any good that can be taken from Best Job has been taken, any damage caused is being healed, and everything else should be forgotten. Publicly, privately, and - certainly - in front of 3 million viewers who have little genuine interest and absolutely nothing riding on the results.
I'll never know where I would be now if I hadn't sent that video off; if I hadn`t made a decision that split my life into two. I`ll never know where that other, different path would have led me, or what to. But I know who I would be. I would be someone far less brave, far less broken, and far less hopeful.
And I don't need a BBC film crew to tell me the value of that.
And, sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could.
- Robert Frost.
It would be nice to have as much foresight as Robert Frost, but sometimes when a road divides into two you don`t stand and look for long at all; sometimes, in fact, you don`t even notice that there is a fork at all, and only realise when you have gone far enough down one of them to never walk back again.
It has been a year, now, since The Best Job In The World finished: a dramatic year which owes none of its drama to The Job itself, and absolutely all of it to events resulting directly from the competition. Because - as you may not have put two and two together already (and I see no reason why you should have, when I kept it secret for a year) - The Boy was another Best Job candidate, and that was how we met and fell in love: thus why I moved to Japan to be with him, thus why I had my heart badly broken, and thus - perhaps - why I am still here, trying very hard to unbreak it again. So, in the largest and most unexpected way possible, The Best Job In The World changed my life, but not at all in the way I hoped it would when I applied for it. (I was hoping for less of an emotional journey and more for $100,000 and a big house on a tropical island.)
So: yes, The Best Job In The World changed my life and sent me down an entirely different road, and the reason I am answering this apparently unasked question one year later is because I have been asked it: by the BBC, because they want to do a follow up film documentary.
My initial response, of course, was split between genuine, British politeness and genuine, British rage.
Of course, I emailed back: anything to help, although I'm afraid I'm abroad and will be for some time, when actually what I really meant was: fuck right off, because I'd rather poke pencils into my tonsils and leave them there. Which some people would call two facedness, and I would call manners and extreme sense: angering the BBC is not clever, no matter what kind of honesty you pride yourself in. They're really quite powerful.
The thing is: it would be an interesting documentary, if they did it properly. The last one was not good - at best a fictional, manipulated story masquerading as journalism and at worst downright exploitation - but the next one could be. It did change our lives: all of us. Ben is now rich and famous and jetting the world at Oprah Winfrey's expense; Sarah has stopped travelling the world and is working for a glamorous, multinational marketing company; Doug has graduated and moved to Australia; I am in Japan, teaching and still - still - trying to write something worth reading. No doubt they would focus on the irony - that I was cast as the 'tortured romantic' and rather obediently had my heart broken, that Ben moved 'for love' and it failed, that Doug ended up in the same country as Best Job regardless, that Sarah stopped travelling and began working for the industry that made her come back - and we would all be made fools of again.
What they probably wouldn't mention is: the last documentary meant nothing. To any of us. "This documentary will change your lives," the director kept whispering at us from behind the whacking great camera and film crew: and we all thought then what we all think now, which is bollocks, will it. And - just as we predicted - it didn't make the blindest bit of difference to any of us, apart from to confirm us to our friends as "the kind of person who goes on telly instead of getting a real job" (although it has now become: "the kind of person who moves abroad instead of getting a real job").
No, the difference it made to us came in smaller places, and with much more subtlety. For me - once I push aside what Best Job did to my heart and location (both were too vulnerable anyway, and were destined for disaster regardless of the catalyst) - it was the tiny things that changed me permanently. Tiny things that have taken a full year to really appreciate.
Simply put, I started this blog because I was forced to by Best Job judges. I would never have done so otherwise - ever - and it has changed how I see writing: it has made me braver, and far less shy, and open to subjecting my writing to criticism and rejection in a way I never have been before. It made me realise that it doesn`t matter if nobody believes you have a chance, because they`re probably wrong. It made me realise that I don`t want gratuitous attention, fame or money for something I have not actually achieved. It made me slightly more comfortable taking risks - going on television, doing interviews, falling in love, packing and emigrating - when I was far too scared to before, because it pushed me further than I ever thought I could be pushed without falling over. And it made me question the significance of bad odds when I had always been terrified by them: because I had been one in thousands and thousands and I could be again. For anything. At any time. In any way.
Which is the point of Best Job for me: not that I failed, but that I tried and got as far as I did. And that I let it change my life, when it would have been easier to continue on the same path: the same, but sadder.
I won't be doing a follow up BBC documentary. I don't regret being a part of it - even if sometimes I want to run back down the path and see if the other road might have hurt a lot less - but it is over now, and the past is where it should be left. Any good that can be taken from Best Job has been taken, any damage caused is being healed, and everything else should be forgotten. Publicly, privately, and - certainly - in front of 3 million viewers who have little genuine interest and absolutely nothing riding on the results.
I'll never know where I would be now if I hadn't sent that video off; if I hadn`t made a decision that split my life into two. I`ll never know where that other, different path would have led me, or what to. But I know who I would be. I would be someone far less brave, far less broken, and far less hopeful.
And I don't need a BBC film crew to tell me the value of that.
Storms
This morning, I drove to work in a storm. A big, noisy, earth shuddering storm.
I`ve always been a little divided about storms. They terrify me and excite me in equal measure: it feels a little like I`ve done something very bad and the sky is furiously shouting at me, but at the same time I`m impressed by how extremely angry it is capable of getting and a little bit thrilled by just how much trouble I`m obviously in.
When I was little this divided adoration and fear led me to a neat conclusion. I had deduced through various studies – asking my mum, mainly – that rubber was the antidote to storms: some kind of magic wand that could be waved and would immediately render the power of lightening utterly useless. My mum had told me that there was rubber around church spires and schools and important places (I`m still not sure if this is true), and that if I was caught out in a storm I should find something rubber and touch it (or “lie down flat on the floor,” which seemed a little too passive-aggressive for me to ever do). As a result, whenever there was a big storm I would kit myself out in my carefully organised Anti-Storm gear and head for the window, where I would stand and watch the storm with my face pressed against the glass: safe in the knowledge that it could thunder and lightning as much as it liked because I was totally and embarrassingly safe (the storm always seemed a little pathetic after I was sure of that: a little bit of blustery nonsense, raging for nobody`s sake but its own).
It must have been quite an amusing sight: me in my Anti-Storm gear, aged four, with my tiny, fat bellied two year old sister in her Anti-Storm gear, in which she had been kitted out rather bossily by me (it was my job, duty and right to protect her, whether she wanted to be protected or not).
My Anti Storm gear was thus: yellow pyjamas (I felt most secure in these), yellow wellies (made out of rubber, obviously), a pink rubber bracelet (found in a Christmas Cracker) and a shave-headed Barbie. The Barbie was not an emotional clutch in the slightest, because I had never liked her in the first place: she was a very literal, practical talisman against evil. I had decided that - as she was made out of rubber - as long as I was clutching her firmly and waving her sporadically in the air so that the storm could see it - I could come to no possible harm. Having made sure that my sister was similarly safe, I would thus drag her to the window so we could watch the storm together. I would hold her hand rather possessively, and inform her every time she jumped that she was a silly thing because we were invincible. And then we would count between the thunder and the lightening and work out how far away the storm was.
It was the same process every single storm - the same wellies, the same Barbie, the same bracelet, the same sister (funnily enough) - and this string of identical memories are some of the fondest of my entire childhood: especially when my mum came in with her Barbie and wellies too.
This morning, when the thunder was crashing and the light was cracking and the sky was giving me what for, I felt exactly the same as I did when I was a child: scared, thrilled and immensely excited by all the drama (although it made me miss my sister and mum even more). But I`m an adult, now – even if I feel exactly the same on the inside - so obviously I didn`t go in for any of my Anti-Storm gear nonsense. No.
I put my grown up clothes on, got into my grown up car and drove – very slowly – to work, just like a grown up, except talking to the sky in the process.
It`s still storming, and the sky is showing no sign of calming down: I haven`t seen it this cross in years. But it`s okay. I`m sitting by the window, and I`m totally safe. Because on my wrist is a pink Christmas bracelet, and on my feet are two bright red, adult shoes.
And they`re both made entirely of rubber.
I`ve always been a little divided about storms. They terrify me and excite me in equal measure: it feels a little like I`ve done something very bad and the sky is furiously shouting at me, but at the same time I`m impressed by how extremely angry it is capable of getting and a little bit thrilled by just how much trouble I`m obviously in.
When I was little this divided adoration and fear led me to a neat conclusion. I had deduced through various studies – asking my mum, mainly – that rubber was the antidote to storms: some kind of magic wand that could be waved and would immediately render the power of lightening utterly useless. My mum had told me that there was rubber around church spires and schools and important places (I`m still not sure if this is true), and that if I was caught out in a storm I should find something rubber and touch it (or “lie down flat on the floor,” which seemed a little too passive-aggressive for me to ever do). As a result, whenever there was a big storm I would kit myself out in my carefully organised Anti-Storm gear and head for the window, where I would stand and watch the storm with my face pressed against the glass: safe in the knowledge that it could thunder and lightning as much as it liked because I was totally and embarrassingly safe (the storm always seemed a little pathetic after I was sure of that: a little bit of blustery nonsense, raging for nobody`s sake but its own).
It must have been quite an amusing sight: me in my Anti-Storm gear, aged four, with my tiny, fat bellied two year old sister in her Anti-Storm gear, in which she had been kitted out rather bossily by me (it was my job, duty and right to protect her, whether she wanted to be protected or not).
My Anti Storm gear was thus: yellow pyjamas (I felt most secure in these), yellow wellies (made out of rubber, obviously), a pink rubber bracelet (found in a Christmas Cracker) and a shave-headed Barbie. The Barbie was not an emotional clutch in the slightest, because I had never liked her in the first place: she was a very literal, practical talisman against evil. I had decided that - as she was made out of rubber - as long as I was clutching her firmly and waving her sporadically in the air so that the storm could see it - I could come to no possible harm. Having made sure that my sister was similarly safe, I would thus drag her to the window so we could watch the storm together. I would hold her hand rather possessively, and inform her every time she jumped that she was a silly thing because we were invincible. And then we would count between the thunder and the lightening and work out how far away the storm was.
It was the same process every single storm - the same wellies, the same Barbie, the same bracelet, the same sister (funnily enough) - and this string of identical memories are some of the fondest of my entire childhood: especially when my mum came in with her Barbie and wellies too.
This morning, when the thunder was crashing and the light was cracking and the sky was giving me what for, I felt exactly the same as I did when I was a child: scared, thrilled and immensely excited by all the drama (although it made me miss my sister and mum even more). But I`m an adult, now – even if I feel exactly the same on the inside - so obviously I didn`t go in for any of my Anti-Storm gear nonsense. No.
I put my grown up clothes on, got into my grown up car and drove – very slowly – to work, just like a grown up, except talking to the sky in the process.
It`s still storming, and the sky is showing no sign of calming down: I haven`t seen it this cross in years. But it`s okay. I`m sitting by the window, and I`m totally safe. Because on my wrist is a pink Christmas bracelet, and on my feet are two bright red, adult shoes.
And they`re both made entirely of rubber.
Monday, 21 June 2010
Flying Pigs
The English language is a strange one; beautiful, expressive but often completely absurd. Try explaining to a group of eleven year olds that you have a "runny nose" and there will be laughter; try explaining to a group of 14 year olds that the plural of "sheep" is "sheep" and the plural of "knife" is "knives" and there will be rolled eyes and grumpy silences (Japanese is extremely complicated, but there aren`t nearly as many exceptions to rules as we have. A rule is, as you might expect here, a rule). The more I teach English as a foreign language, the more appreciative I become of just how complicated it can be: how often native speakers break rules, combine phrases and experiment with grammar to personalise their own form of expression. Which makes me love it even more, because if language is the most sophisticated form of communication, so - too - is it often the most creative.
Nowhere, though, have I had as much fun with the English language in Japan as when I decided to test my favourite Japanese colleague on the meaning of Western expressions during a particularly boring hour at work.
"Right," I said. "The rules are: first answer counts. And you have to answer within ten seconds."
"Ok," Harai replied, looking extremely obedient and a little bit scared of me. I think he was trying to get on with lesson preparation, but I wasn`t particularly interested in letting him. Predominantly because I had finished mine.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, I`m ready."
"Ok - 24/7."
Silence.
"Come on, you have three seconds left."
"247?"
"No. It means open all the time: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."
"Like 7/11, the combini?" (Combini means Convenience store: there is no V in Japan, so they have turned it into a B.)
"No. Because that means from 7am to 11pm, which is not all the time."
"Oh."
"Ready? Ants in your pants."
He frowned and looked at his trousers. Then - as I snorted with laughter - started, with great solemnity, to mime with his fingers a small ant climbing up his leg. After a few seconds of concentrated finger climbing, he announced:
"You have dirty underwear?"
"No. It means you can`t sit still. As if you have ants in your pants."
"Clever!" he agreed, delighted.
"Next: an arm and a leg."
Here he put his arm out and his leg out and studied them carefully.
"You are helpful."
"Why?"
"Because you lend a hand and an arm and a leg."
I laughed again.
"No, it means something is expensive: it costs an arm and a leg."
"Why?"
"Because to buy it, you would need to sell your arm and your leg."
"How much does an arm and a leg cost in England?"
"Good point. I don`t know. People don`t tend to sell them much these days."
"Ah."
"At the end of your rope?"
"You`ve got no more rope?"
"You`ve got no more patience. Pigs might fly?"
"Pigs?"
"Yes, butan. Pigs."
"Fly?"
"Yes." I mimed flying.
"Pigs fly?"
"Pigs might fly."
He frowned, and then - with a look of inspiration - shouted:
"Fat people die early!"
At which point I had to stop the game because I had shrieked with laughter so loudly that one of my students - coming nervously into the staff room - bounced straight back out again in terror without getting what he had come for.
Learning a foreign language is one thing; learning how to express yourself is another. Harai is now talking a little more like a native, but in the most fantastically Japanese way possible.
"I am hungry 24/7," he announced this morning. "I am at the end of my rope and I have ants in my pants."
"Oh dear," I said, giggling, "and what are we going to do about it?"
"I think maybe I sell an arm and a leg."
"I`ll buy them," I offered.
"Pigs might fly," he answered immediately. "But thin people sometimes do too."
And our next topic, I believe, will be proverbs.
Nowhere, though, have I had as much fun with the English language in Japan as when I decided to test my favourite Japanese colleague on the meaning of Western expressions during a particularly boring hour at work.
"Right," I said. "The rules are: first answer counts. And you have to answer within ten seconds."
"Ok," Harai replied, looking extremely obedient and a little bit scared of me. I think he was trying to get on with lesson preparation, but I wasn`t particularly interested in letting him. Predominantly because I had finished mine.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, I`m ready."
"Ok - 24/7."
Silence.
"Come on, you have three seconds left."
"247?"
"No. It means open all the time: 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."
"Like 7/11, the combini?" (Combini means Convenience store: there is no V in Japan, so they have turned it into a B.)
"No. Because that means from 7am to 11pm, which is not all the time."
"Oh."
"Ready? Ants in your pants."
He frowned and looked at his trousers. Then - as I snorted with laughter - started, with great solemnity, to mime with his fingers a small ant climbing up his leg. After a few seconds of concentrated finger climbing, he announced:
"You have dirty underwear?"
"No. It means you can`t sit still. As if you have ants in your pants."
"Clever!" he agreed, delighted.
"Next: an arm and a leg."
Here he put his arm out and his leg out and studied them carefully.
"You are helpful."
"Why?"
"Because you lend a hand and an arm and a leg."
I laughed again.
"No, it means something is expensive: it costs an arm and a leg."
"Why?"
"Because to buy it, you would need to sell your arm and your leg."
"How much does an arm and a leg cost in England?"
"Good point. I don`t know. People don`t tend to sell them much these days."
"Ah."
"At the end of your rope?"
"You`ve got no more rope?"
"You`ve got no more patience. Pigs might fly?"
"Pigs?"
"Yes, butan. Pigs."
"Fly?"
"Yes." I mimed flying.
"Pigs fly?"
"Pigs might fly."
He frowned, and then - with a look of inspiration - shouted:
"Fat people die early!"
At which point I had to stop the game because I had shrieked with laughter so loudly that one of my students - coming nervously into the staff room - bounced straight back out again in terror without getting what he had come for.
Learning a foreign language is one thing; learning how to express yourself is another. Harai is now talking a little more like a native, but in the most fantastically Japanese way possible.
"I am hungry 24/7," he announced this morning. "I am at the end of my rope and I have ants in my pants."
"Oh dear," I said, giggling, "and what are we going to do about it?"
"I think maybe I sell an arm and a leg."
"I`ll buy them," I offered.
"Pigs might fly," he answered immediately. "But thin people sometimes do too."
And our next topic, I believe, will be proverbs.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Raindrops
I think I finally understand what the term "rainy season" means. Being British, it has always seemed a bit like a joke: you know, the kind of paltry we have four of them in England, and they last three months each joke that middle aged women tell each other in British offices over their multi-packs of pastries from Sainsburys. But this isn't a joke, this rainy season: move to a sub-tropical climate, and suddenly rainy season means something. It means: it's really, really, really rainy. And everything else comes second.
We're on week three of Rainy Season, now. I thought it started a bit before that - a couple of days of rain, spattered here and there - but no: that was just rain. There's a distinct difference, apparently, because in Japan the weather is as well behaved and regimented as everything else. "Oh no," my Japanese colleagues told me, shaking their heads. "Rainy season starts next week. On Tuesday. At about lunchtime." (They've got the same attitude regarding typhoons too: whenever I get a bit excited over a bit of strong wind, they tell me firmly "not until the second half of July." Until then, it's just wind.)
This rain is not British rain, though: that much is clear. British rain is cold and sharp and undecided; it rains, it stops, it rains a bit harder, it stops. Whatever rain has been allocated is spread out throughout the year, throughout every day: a bit here, a bit there, sprinkled like sugar from a dieter's spoon. Everything gets cleaner and fresher and crispier and - occasionally - a little bit brittle looking, and when the rain stops everything looks a slightly different colour: slightly darker and realer. The air tastes like it's just been put through a washing machine - which, in a sense, it has - and "it's raining" can mean: "it's raining a little bit," or "it's raining a lot," or "it's drizzling slightly," or "it looks like it might be raining but I can't be sure" or "who stole my bloody umbrella? I actually need it this lunchtime." Just like the eskimos have hundreds of words for our word snow, so we have the opposite: a million different meanings for the word rain.
Not so Southern Japanese rain. "It's raining" means: "it's raining." It's well behaved rain: it all comes down at once, and when it's not rainy season anymore, it stops. It's not even the same kind of rain. It's fat, and warm, and ploppy, and insistent. It's confident rain: neither sad, nor angry, nor insipid. Just loud and dogmatic and unavoidably there. And it doesn't stop. Not ever. It rains in different strengths - ranging from hard to really hard to Jesus Christ that's going to put a hole in my car roof - but it doesn't stop. It just keeps going: into rivers down the streets, filling up the bin outside, bouncing off the laundry I can't be bothered to go out and collect (it's wet: it can't get any wetter). And the air doesn't get cleaner at all. It just gets soggy and muggy and a little bit smelly, because the moisture makes bad things and good things grow at the same speed. And I spend half of my time staring out of the window, fascinated by this confident, grown up, noisy rain, and the other half swearing because everything I own is damp and smells like under a bed.
It will stop in about seven days, I've been told. Seven, eight or nine days: possibly ten, if we're really unlucky. Then the sun will come out, it will be unbearably hot, and we'll all wish we had run naked in the rain for nine hours every day just to cool down in advance.
Of course, I'm British: I know everything there is to know about rain, so it's the sun I'm looking forward to finding out about. The kind of sun that comes out, and stays out, and does what it's supposed to do: shine, unrelentlessly. A grown up, confident kind of sun, unlike the undecided, teenager sun I grew up knowing.
And if the summer here is anything like I've been told it is, I'll take as much rain as Nichinan has to offer right now: and I'll do it with a smile on my face, regardless of how wet my clothes are. Because when the summer gets here, it's a real summer, just like this is real rain. And that is a change I'm looking forward to getting used to.
We're on week three of Rainy Season, now. I thought it started a bit before that - a couple of days of rain, spattered here and there - but no: that was just rain. There's a distinct difference, apparently, because in Japan the weather is as well behaved and regimented as everything else. "Oh no," my Japanese colleagues told me, shaking their heads. "Rainy season starts next week. On Tuesday. At about lunchtime." (They've got the same attitude regarding typhoons too: whenever I get a bit excited over a bit of strong wind, they tell me firmly "not until the second half of July." Until then, it's just wind.)
This rain is not British rain, though: that much is clear. British rain is cold and sharp and undecided; it rains, it stops, it rains a bit harder, it stops. Whatever rain has been allocated is spread out throughout the year, throughout every day: a bit here, a bit there, sprinkled like sugar from a dieter's spoon. Everything gets cleaner and fresher and crispier and - occasionally - a little bit brittle looking, and when the rain stops everything looks a slightly different colour: slightly darker and realer. The air tastes like it's just been put through a washing machine - which, in a sense, it has - and "it's raining" can mean: "it's raining a little bit," or "it's raining a lot," or "it's drizzling slightly," or "it looks like it might be raining but I can't be sure" or "who stole my bloody umbrella? I actually need it this lunchtime." Just like the eskimos have hundreds of words for our word snow, so we have the opposite: a million different meanings for the word rain.
Not so Southern Japanese rain. "It's raining" means: "it's raining." It's well behaved rain: it all comes down at once, and when it's not rainy season anymore, it stops. It's not even the same kind of rain. It's fat, and warm, and ploppy, and insistent. It's confident rain: neither sad, nor angry, nor insipid. Just loud and dogmatic and unavoidably there. And it doesn't stop. Not ever. It rains in different strengths - ranging from hard to really hard to Jesus Christ that's going to put a hole in my car roof - but it doesn't stop. It just keeps going: into rivers down the streets, filling up the bin outside, bouncing off the laundry I can't be bothered to go out and collect (it's wet: it can't get any wetter). And the air doesn't get cleaner at all. It just gets soggy and muggy and a little bit smelly, because the moisture makes bad things and good things grow at the same speed. And I spend half of my time staring out of the window, fascinated by this confident, grown up, noisy rain, and the other half swearing because everything I own is damp and smells like under a bed.
It will stop in about seven days, I've been told. Seven, eight or nine days: possibly ten, if we're really unlucky. Then the sun will come out, it will be unbearably hot, and we'll all wish we had run naked in the rain for nine hours every day just to cool down in advance.
Of course, I'm British: I know everything there is to know about rain, so it's the sun I'm looking forward to finding out about. The kind of sun that comes out, and stays out, and does what it's supposed to do: shine, unrelentlessly. A grown up, confident kind of sun, unlike the undecided, teenager sun I grew up knowing.
And if the summer here is anything like I've been told it is, I'll take as much rain as Nichinan has to offer right now: and I'll do it with a smile on my face, regardless of how wet my clothes are. Because when the summer gets here, it's a real summer, just like this is real rain. And that is a change I'm looking forward to getting used to.
The Return
"If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad." - Byron
"Well, then," an Irish friend said at a party last night (he may or may not have started the sentence like this, but he did in my head and that's what counts). "To be sure, when are you writing your blog again?"
"Tomorrow morning. As soon as I wake up."
"And, then, has it been a nice break?"
"No. I spent two weeks writing conversations in my head in the supermarket queue and in the car and in 9th grade English instead and it was very distracting."
"So (top of the morning to you), get on with writing, then, because I've added you to my RSS feed and, to be sure, I'm bored to death at work and need to read something."
"Okay," I agreed and went to get a drink, because I didn't know what an RSS feed was but it didn't sound like something I wanted to anger, and because I was thirsty. (And because I knew I was going to misrepresent both my friend and the Irish quite enough without continuing the conversation any further.)
This morning I jumped out of bed and the first thing that went through my head was: I can write my blog, thank God. And yes: I jumped. I am no longer sick - no longer vomiting or coughing or suffering from pneumonia or anything else that warrants smelling salts - and so I jumped: as much as I have ever jumped, anyway (which is not high, and not capably, but with a lot of enthusiasm). I am now sitting at my computer in a duvet and my socks, scaring my neighbours and grinning at the Blogger template because it's so good to be back. The last two weeks have felt like the patch immediately after a break up when you aren't allowed to contact your ex when something good or exciting or funny or sad happens and desperately want to, and - frankly - I'm thrilled that I managed to stick to it: I usually show very (very) little will power in that area. In fact, I normally contact them more after the break up than I ever did before it (and can only conclude, therefore, that I am more scared of my mum than I am of myself).
I'm obviously not scared enough, however, because I broke most of (all of) the other rules within twelve waking hours. Three films, one book, one bath - a lot of flaxseed and water and bits of lemon - and I promptly bought a MacDonalds to stop myself dying of over-nutrition, slunk coyly in front of my computer and had the following conversation:
Me: "It's me."
Computer: "I can see that."
Me: "I want to write something."
Computer: "No."
Me: "Go on. Just something little."
Computer: "No. Your mum said no."
Me: "But I've had an idea."
Computer: "I don't care. Put it on some paper."
Me: "Writing with a pen makes my hand tired. Please. It's a good idea."
Computer: "It's never a good idea."
Me: "This time it is."
Computer: "Only because it's not allowed to be."
Me: "Exactly. Go on."
Computer: "Stop teasing me. You always say you're going to write and then don't."
Me: "I will. You know you want me to."
Computer (rolling its little webcam towards the ceiling): "You contrary madam. Fine. But don't blame me if your mum kicks off."
Me: "Deal."
So I hopped on and wrote three quite decent short stories in quick succession and got the kind of heady, dizzy triumph from it that you always get from things you're not supposed to do and do anyway. And then, after that, a self-flagellating, guilty self reproach that made me foul to everybody else for an entire two weeks because I had no way of relieving it.
When I was done with that - and had run out of ideas - I found as many other ways of writing without breaking the rules as I could. I wrote long letters and emails and never sent them; wrote poetry and (rightly) burnt it; wrote lesson plans for the rest of the year. In feverish excitement, I rewrote the entire English curriculum from scratch for my Kindergarten and Elementary school, and then colour coded it, themed it, italicized it appropriately, laminated the hell out of it and showed it to anyone who walked accidentally past my desk. Then - when there was nothing else to write on or in or about - I planned the next four years of my life in detail, found volunteer programmes in India and Nepal and signed up for 2012 and 2013, bought a bike and discovered that insecticide intended for cockroaches does not kill ants, even if the pictures look very similar on the front of the packets. In short, I did everything I could to write without writing, and when I ran out I got cross and shouted at people for no reason at all because I was full up of all sorts of sticky thoughts that had nowhere to go. It turns out I can only comfortably do nothing when there are many things I absolutely have to do, and not when it doesn't matter at all if I sit and stare at a wall for two weeks solid.
Unnecessary productivity ends now, though, because writing starts again. And I am thrilled: for myself, for my computer, for my over-curriculumed kindergarteners. Because if this two weeks has taught me anything, it's that not writing doesn't make me happy, or healthy, or content: it doesn't make me any less tense. I obviously love fretting over it - secretly live off the angst that I'm doing it or not doing it or half doing it but not quite well enough - and depriving myself of being tortured makes me much, much more so. So I'm starting again, and I won't repeat the mistake: this is one relationship I don't have to break up from.
It's good for me, anyway. It's better to have an empty mind than a mad one, after all.
"Well, then," an Irish friend said at a party last night (he may or may not have started the sentence like this, but he did in my head and that's what counts). "To be sure, when are you writing your blog again?"
"Tomorrow morning. As soon as I wake up."
"And, then, has it been a nice break?"
"No. I spent two weeks writing conversations in my head in the supermarket queue and in the car and in 9th grade English instead and it was very distracting."
"So (top of the morning to you), get on with writing, then, because I've added you to my RSS feed and, to be sure, I'm bored to death at work and need to read something."
"Okay," I agreed and went to get a drink, because I didn't know what an RSS feed was but it didn't sound like something I wanted to anger, and because I was thirsty. (And because I knew I was going to misrepresent both my friend and the Irish quite enough without continuing the conversation any further.)
This morning I jumped out of bed and the first thing that went through my head was: I can write my blog, thank God. And yes: I jumped. I am no longer sick - no longer vomiting or coughing or suffering from pneumonia or anything else that warrants smelling salts - and so I jumped: as much as I have ever jumped, anyway (which is not high, and not capably, but with a lot of enthusiasm). I am now sitting at my computer in a duvet and my socks, scaring my neighbours and grinning at the Blogger template because it's so good to be back. The last two weeks have felt like the patch immediately after a break up when you aren't allowed to contact your ex when something good or exciting or funny or sad happens and desperately want to, and - frankly - I'm thrilled that I managed to stick to it: I usually show very (very) little will power in that area. In fact, I normally contact them more after the break up than I ever did before it (and can only conclude, therefore, that I am more scared of my mum than I am of myself).
I'm obviously not scared enough, however, because I broke most of (all of) the other rules within twelve waking hours. Three films, one book, one bath - a lot of flaxseed and water and bits of lemon - and I promptly bought a MacDonalds to stop myself dying of over-nutrition, slunk coyly in front of my computer and had the following conversation:
Me: "It's me."
Computer: "I can see that."
Me: "I want to write something."
Computer: "No."
Me: "Go on. Just something little."
Computer: "No. Your mum said no."
Me: "But I've had an idea."
Computer: "I don't care. Put it on some paper."
Me: "Writing with a pen makes my hand tired. Please. It's a good idea."
Computer: "It's never a good idea."
Me: "This time it is."
Computer: "Only because it's not allowed to be."
Me: "Exactly. Go on."
Computer: "Stop teasing me. You always say you're going to write and then don't."
Me: "I will. You know you want me to."
Computer (rolling its little webcam towards the ceiling): "You contrary madam. Fine. But don't blame me if your mum kicks off."
Me: "Deal."
So I hopped on and wrote three quite decent short stories in quick succession and got the kind of heady, dizzy triumph from it that you always get from things you're not supposed to do and do anyway. And then, after that, a self-flagellating, guilty self reproach that made me foul to everybody else for an entire two weeks because I had no way of relieving it.
When I was done with that - and had run out of ideas - I found as many other ways of writing without breaking the rules as I could. I wrote long letters and emails and never sent them; wrote poetry and (rightly) burnt it; wrote lesson plans for the rest of the year. In feverish excitement, I rewrote the entire English curriculum from scratch for my Kindergarten and Elementary school, and then colour coded it, themed it, italicized it appropriately, laminated the hell out of it and showed it to anyone who walked accidentally past my desk. Then - when there was nothing else to write on or in or about - I planned the next four years of my life in detail, found volunteer programmes in India and Nepal and signed up for 2012 and 2013, bought a bike and discovered that insecticide intended for cockroaches does not kill ants, even if the pictures look very similar on the front of the packets. In short, I did everything I could to write without writing, and when I ran out I got cross and shouted at people for no reason at all because I was full up of all sorts of sticky thoughts that had nowhere to go. It turns out I can only comfortably do nothing when there are many things I absolutely have to do, and not when it doesn't matter at all if I sit and stare at a wall for two weeks solid.
Unnecessary productivity ends now, though, because writing starts again. And I am thrilled: for myself, for my computer, for my over-curriculumed kindergarteners. Because if this two weeks has taught me anything, it's that not writing doesn't make me happy, or healthy, or content: it doesn't make me any less tense. I obviously love fretting over it - secretly live off the angst that I'm doing it or not doing it or half doing it but not quite well enough - and depriving myself of being tortured makes me much, much more so. So I'm starting again, and I won't repeat the mistake: this is one relationship I don't have to break up from.
It's good for me, anyway. It's better to have an empty mind than a mad one, after all.
Thursday, 3 June 2010
Holiday
My mum has spoken.
I am to take a break for two entire weeks. No writing, no studying: nothing. My health is at a worryingly low point - vomiting, struggling to breathe and struggling to stay awake as predominant symptoms - and spending my evenings "staring at my novel and crying," "blogging about the ex boyfriend and crying," "learning Japanese and crying" and "writing emails home" is not going to make me get better, mum says. No matter how many lemons I eat while doing it, nor how many glasses of water I drink.
I'm thrilled. I've achieved nothing in the last few weeks but multiple wasted hours staring at computer screens and an astonishing level of guilt; guilt that I'm not writing, guilt that I'm writing extremely badly and with little insight or humour, guilt that I'm not studying or remembering anything I read, guilt that I'm eating too many cream cakes because I can buy them in a pack and I don't have to do anything to them before they get shoved down my throat and I can go to bed a little bit earlier as a result. And the guilt is not helping me to get better. The guilt, in fact, is making me very ill indeed. A holiday from my brain is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Or it would be if I had understood a single word they said to me, and if they had understood a single word I said to them.
For two weeks, I'm allowed to do nothing but sleep, read, eat well, exercise and watch videos starring Johnny Depp. If I want a healthy mind, I have to get a healthy body first. And that's my priority for the next fortnight. To get better so that I can keep getting better in as many ways as I can. Instead of slowly spiralling downwards, as it feels like I currently am.
I'll be back: of course I will. Don't forget about me entirely; on the 21st of June I'll be back, and I will be healthy and vibrant and thoroughly sick of Johnny Depp and ready to blog all over again. I am The Write Girl, after all, and nothing and nobody can stop me from writing.
Nothing and nobody, that is, apart from my mum.
I am to take a break for two entire weeks. No writing, no studying: nothing. My health is at a worryingly low point - vomiting, struggling to breathe and struggling to stay awake as predominant symptoms - and spending my evenings "staring at my novel and crying," "blogging about the ex boyfriend and crying," "learning Japanese and crying" and "writing emails home" is not going to make me get better, mum says. No matter how many lemons I eat while doing it, nor how many glasses of water I drink.
I'm thrilled. I've achieved nothing in the last few weeks but multiple wasted hours staring at computer screens and an astonishing level of guilt; guilt that I'm not writing, guilt that I'm writing extremely badly and with little insight or humour, guilt that I'm not studying or remembering anything I read, guilt that I'm eating too many cream cakes because I can buy them in a pack and I don't have to do anything to them before they get shoved down my throat and I can go to bed a little bit earlier as a result. And the guilt is not helping me to get better. The guilt, in fact, is making me very ill indeed. A holiday from my brain is exactly what the doctor ordered.
Or it would be if I had understood a single word they said to me, and if they had understood a single word I said to them.
For two weeks, I'm allowed to do nothing but sleep, read, eat well, exercise and watch videos starring Johnny Depp. If I want a healthy mind, I have to get a healthy body first. And that's my priority for the next fortnight. To get better so that I can keep getting better in as many ways as I can. Instead of slowly spiralling downwards, as it feels like I currently am.
I'll be back: of course I will. Don't forget about me entirely; on the 21st of June I'll be back, and I will be healthy and vibrant and thoroughly sick of Johnny Depp and ready to blog all over again. I am The Write Girl, after all, and nothing and nobody can stop me from writing.
Nothing and nobody, that is, apart from my mum.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
Immunity
I'm getting sicker. Microplasma Pneumonia has made its way to my stomach, and I am now vomiting too. Which would be great news for my diet - if I had one, which I don't - and not such great news for my writing. It's terribly hard to concentrate when staying awake is tricky and you have to get up every few minutes to dry heave into a toilet.
So - desperately needing love and affection - I emailed my best friend for sympathy. She's known me for six years now - otherwise known as one kidney infection, one bout of bronchitis, two bouts of pneumonia (varying varieties), one bad heartbreak and two unpleasant heartbruises, three episodes of influenza, umpteen colds and a vast, vast amount of different intensities of hangover - and describes me to people I have never met as Holly Wan Smale. She didn't even know me back in the glandular fever days, and God forbid she had ever witnessed The Week of Insomnia that ended with a doctor prescribing horse tranquilisers.
Oh Hol, she emailed back. You need to take more turns about the garden and invest in a little dog. Look on the bright side, though. If you actually were an 18th century romantic heroine you'd definitely be dead by now.
It's true. I spend a large proportion of my time shuffling around this mortal coil with one foot on and one foot off; coughing, sleeping, sneezing, vomiting, semi-collapsing; white as a sheet, tinged with blue, wearing too much blusher; losing weight willynilly and then having to put it back on again as quickly as I can so I don't scare my parents. As far as health goes, I wasn't even at the back of the queue when it was being allocated; I was obviously off somewhere, smoking and pumping myself with poison from an intraveinous drip. Frankly I wish to God I was just a hypochondriac - prone to convincing myself of illness - but unfortunately it's usually the opposite: I deny it all until I start peeing blood or puking green or collapsing in the street or in a classroom and then they take me to hospital and test me and tell me I have something nasty and to go to bed. Again.
I seem to spend half of my life in bed, and not in a good way.
So, I have decided: something has to be done. I have had enough. I am sick of being sick; I am tired of being tired. I am absolutely fed up of having my life put on hold while I struggle through with half a working lung and swollen eyes and some kind of bacterium in my blood stream; of cancelling plans and nights out and chapters I am supposed to have completed in my book so that I can lie in a semi-comatose state on my bed and try and find the energy to pick a novel up and read half a page. I am so very, very bored of being sent back to bed.
Thus; tomorrow, I am going to start my new project: to build an Immune System. Not improve one, not develop one, not strengthen one. No: I need to start from scratch and just get one in the first place.
I know what all the rules are, obviously. Everybody knows what the rules are: they're ingrained in our culture, even if absolutely nobody listens to them. Drink lots of water, eat lots of fruit and vegetables, exercise, drink lemon water, take vitamin supplements, avoid coffee, sleep lots. All of which I have done, at one stage or another, and none of which have worked; probably because I do it for about three days and then decide that I'm bored and go and buy a cream cake instead.
The biggest one, though, apparently, is: be happy. Which seems like a bit of an paradox - telling me to exercise and avoid coffee and still be happy - and is also pretty damn hard when you're vomiting, but I'm going to give it a shot. I'm going to give it all a shot. Tomorrow, I'm going to start running, and then - when I've finished running, about three minutes later - I'm going to fill myself up with water and vitamins and good stuff and see what happens. For as long as it takes.
Because I don't want to be an 18th century romantic heroine. I want to be the one writing about them.
So - desperately needing love and affection - I emailed my best friend for sympathy. She's known me for six years now - otherwise known as one kidney infection, one bout of bronchitis, two bouts of pneumonia (varying varieties), one bad heartbreak and two unpleasant heartbruises, three episodes of influenza, umpteen colds and a vast, vast amount of different intensities of hangover - and describes me to people I have never met as Holly Wan Smale. She didn't even know me back in the glandular fever days, and God forbid she had ever witnessed The Week of Insomnia that ended with a doctor prescribing horse tranquilisers.
Oh Hol, she emailed back. You need to take more turns about the garden and invest in a little dog. Look on the bright side, though. If you actually were an 18th century romantic heroine you'd definitely be dead by now.
It's true. I spend a large proportion of my time shuffling around this mortal coil with one foot on and one foot off; coughing, sleeping, sneezing, vomiting, semi-collapsing; white as a sheet, tinged with blue, wearing too much blusher; losing weight willynilly and then having to put it back on again as quickly as I can so I don't scare my parents. As far as health goes, I wasn't even at the back of the queue when it was being allocated; I was obviously off somewhere, smoking and pumping myself with poison from an intraveinous drip. Frankly I wish to God I was just a hypochondriac - prone to convincing myself of illness - but unfortunately it's usually the opposite: I deny it all until I start peeing blood or puking green or collapsing in the street or in a classroom and then they take me to hospital and test me and tell me I have something nasty and to go to bed. Again.
I seem to spend half of my life in bed, and not in a good way.
So, I have decided: something has to be done. I have had enough. I am sick of being sick; I am tired of being tired. I am absolutely fed up of having my life put on hold while I struggle through with half a working lung and swollen eyes and some kind of bacterium in my blood stream; of cancelling plans and nights out and chapters I am supposed to have completed in my book so that I can lie in a semi-comatose state on my bed and try and find the energy to pick a novel up and read half a page. I am so very, very bored of being sent back to bed.
Thus; tomorrow, I am going to start my new project: to build an Immune System. Not improve one, not develop one, not strengthen one. No: I need to start from scratch and just get one in the first place.
I know what all the rules are, obviously. Everybody knows what the rules are: they're ingrained in our culture, even if absolutely nobody listens to them. Drink lots of water, eat lots of fruit and vegetables, exercise, drink lemon water, take vitamin supplements, avoid coffee, sleep lots. All of which I have done, at one stage or another, and none of which have worked; probably because I do it for about three days and then decide that I'm bored and go and buy a cream cake instead.
The biggest one, though, apparently, is: be happy. Which seems like a bit of an paradox - telling me to exercise and avoid coffee and still be happy - and is also pretty damn hard when you're vomiting, but I'm going to give it a shot. I'm going to give it all a shot. Tomorrow, I'm going to start running, and then - when I've finished running, about three minutes later - I'm going to fill myself up with water and vitamins and good stuff and see what happens. For as long as it takes.
Because I don't want to be an 18th century romantic heroine. I want to be the one writing about them.
Sing a Rainbow
I am delighted to report a new discovery, smugly made at 12:10 this afternoon, which is: after intensive studying, I can now speak more Japanese than my five year old students can speak English. Whatever they say in English, I can say it in Japanese. Anything. Anything at all. Hello, good morning, yellow, green, my name is; you name it, I can say it.
In fact, it`s better than that. I can now have a relatively coherent lunch date with a four year old child in a language that is not my own and make some kind of sense; I can ask them what they`re eating, whether they like it, whether they like chips or eggs or fish, how old they are, what they think of Anpanman; I can talk briefly about the weather, ask them when their birthday is, and tell them that I`m hungry or I`m full or I have a headache (or get them mixed up and tell them that my tummy aches and my head is full, which is - sadly - not at all true). When they chat to me, if I scrunch my brain up hard enough I can just about make out roughly what they`re talking about, even if I`m not sure how to respond.
And it is magic. It is truly, truly worth every single minute of pouring over dull, difficult textbooks and then throwing them on the floor and swearing in a language that is definitely not Japanese. Because, suddenly, my children - and, for that hour, they are my children - make sense to me.
They meet me half way, of course: bless their little red Anpanman socks. At some stage - when they get overexcited and can`t repress curiosity about the foreigner any further - the dam breaks and they unleash a torrent of incomprehensible questions and statements and tokens of affection and demands to look at their pencil cases and erasers and chopsticks and tell me what I think of their new plants in the playground and whether I can eat lunch with them tomorrow too and who is my favourite? At which stage, with a chorus of thirty five simultaneous cries of "Holly Sensei! Holly Sensei!! MItte!!! Mitte!! (Look!)" - along with a firm prodding of my breasts (they have just discovered them, sadly, and are utterly fascinated) - I look distinctly stressed, and they abruptly stop and begin communicating in the only English they know.
"Holly Sensei," one will shout - "red!"
"Blue," another will add.
"Green, yellow, pink!!"
And then the rainbow - which is their way of telling me that they love me and they love English and they want to talk to me about something, even if it`s nothing - becomes our mutual meeting ground.
"Aka," I`ll say back. "Aoi. Midori, Shiro, Pinku!"
And then we all high five and start singing a rainbow (the rainbow I taught them).
I wish I had studied harder earlier on; I wish I had been able to communicate with my Yokohama children too. And I have a long, long way to go before their little chimes all make sense, or until I make my way to the dizzying level of Elementary School. But I am going to keep trying.
Because at some stage I am going to be able to speak to my children about anything, as well as singing them a rainbow.
In fact, it`s better than that. I can now have a relatively coherent lunch date with a four year old child in a language that is not my own and make some kind of sense; I can ask them what they`re eating, whether they like it, whether they like chips or eggs or fish, how old they are, what they think of Anpanman; I can talk briefly about the weather, ask them when their birthday is, and tell them that I`m hungry or I`m full or I have a headache (or get them mixed up and tell them that my tummy aches and my head is full, which is - sadly - not at all true). When they chat to me, if I scrunch my brain up hard enough I can just about make out roughly what they`re talking about, even if I`m not sure how to respond.
And it is magic. It is truly, truly worth every single minute of pouring over dull, difficult textbooks and then throwing them on the floor and swearing in a language that is definitely not Japanese. Because, suddenly, my children - and, for that hour, they are my children - make sense to me.
They meet me half way, of course: bless their little red Anpanman socks. At some stage - when they get overexcited and can`t repress curiosity about the foreigner any further - the dam breaks and they unleash a torrent of incomprehensible questions and statements and tokens of affection and demands to look at their pencil cases and erasers and chopsticks and tell me what I think of their new plants in the playground and whether I can eat lunch with them tomorrow too and who is my favourite? At which stage, with a chorus of thirty five simultaneous cries of "Holly Sensei! Holly Sensei!! MItte!!! Mitte!! (Look!)" - along with a firm prodding of my breasts (they have just discovered them, sadly, and are utterly fascinated) - I look distinctly stressed, and they abruptly stop and begin communicating in the only English they know.
"Holly Sensei," one will shout - "red!"
"Blue," another will add.
"Green, yellow, pink!!"
And then the rainbow - which is their way of telling me that they love me and they love English and they want to talk to me about something, even if it`s nothing - becomes our mutual meeting ground.
"Aka," I`ll say back. "Aoi. Midori, Shiro, Pinku!"
And then we all high five and start singing a rainbow (the rainbow I taught them).
I wish I had studied harder earlier on; I wish I had been able to communicate with my Yokohama children too. And I have a long, long way to go before their little chimes all make sense, or until I make my way to the dizzying level of Elementary School. But I am going to keep trying.
Because at some stage I am going to be able to speak to my children about anything, as well as singing them a rainbow.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Boats
Why is it that divers and snorkellers go into the water backwards?
Because if they went forwards they would end up back in the boat.
Much love, Grandad.
I woke up this morning and realised – and I don`t know why I was remotely surprised – that my grandad is right, and I was wrong. I`m not healing in the wrong direction at all; I`m going exactly the way I should be going. Which is back to the beginning.
I`m not falling in love with The Boy again. I thought that`s what it was – because I was remembering the good things, and the kind things, and the things that made it hurt less - but I was wrong. As the pain slowly eases and the dry and burnt up black bits on the surface fall away, what`s left is not love: it is a belief in love. What`s leaving is the hate, and the bitterness, and the anger, and the pain, and what`s coming back is my belief in something good, and something beautiful. Not for him, but for life; not for his love, but for any. And the pink, bright skin showing up underneath is not my feelings for him, renewed: it is myself, as I was before I got hurt.
In truth, I sent him the link to that blog; I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know that – after everything - he was still loved; for no other reason at all than that it is wonderful to be truly loved, no matter how unreturned the feelings are. And, naive though it obviously was, it was a genuine gesture: a gesture that came from a good part of me – a compassionate part - and a part of me I thought had gone. I wanted him to know he was still adored, and forgiven, and loved - that I thought of him fondly, and not with hatred - and that was all: I wanted no reply from him. In fact, I specifically begged him - with my whole heart - not to say anything back.
When his response came – so cruel, so flippant, so bitter and full of inexplicable hatred towards me and the love he singlehandedly destroyed and the other girl he hurt too because she didn`t know about me either – it almost shattered me again; to hurt me again when I had asked him not to, and to respond to my gesture of love with nastiness, was so incredibly unnecessary that it very nearly managed it. To lose in the game of love is bad enough – to love somebody who has hurt you and no longer feels the same way is hard enough anyway – without being needlessly trampled on by the victor afterwards. And, in sending that message, that was all he was doing: intentionally hurting me all over again with his indifference, and slamming his feet on the bits I was trying so desperately hard to heal. For no reason but his own satisfaction.
I did not lose, though. Waking up this morning, I suddenly realised that I did not lose at all. In this game of love, in fact, I won. My love - once returned by him so wholeheartedly and so unreservedly - is now totally unreciprocated, yes, but it is still love; I am still able to feel good things, and bright things, and believe in the things I thought I had lost for good. I am able to love somebody who does not love me without bitterness; to accept their nastiness without prolonged anger. I am beginning to let go of the bitterness and hatred, instead of letting it fester inside me and make me rotten: I am hoping for future happiness for both of us, and refusing to allow the pain to change me for good.
And he is not. He has turned it all outwards towards other people instead of at himself, and – in attacking me for telling him I loved him, and hurting me again for no reason other than malice – he has lost. Because the "poison" he speaks of is of his own making - was always of his own making - and clinging to it is a justice that comes from himself, and not from me. And that "torture" was created by him, and is now turned upon himself with every further unecessary cruelty he inflicts towards others. For if he has not learned anything from the past year - if he has not learned the importance of honesty, and compassion, and kindness, and integrity, and not hurting somebody for the sake of it, willynilly, just because you can - then he never will, and he has lost more than he can possibly know. He has lost much, much more than my love, and his feelings for me. He has lost himself.
If I can hope for anything from the past year – which has been without exception the most painful and soul destroying year of my life – it is that I have learnt nothing but belief in compassion: that I can be the same person, with the same hope, and the same belief in love and in goodness and in life and in other people, that I was before I was hurt so incredibly badly. And – as the burnt bits fall away, and the pinkness starts to shine through again – I think I am finally returning to that person when I didn`t think I could.
In loving, and in believing in love again, I am healing in the right direction; and the man who broke my heart is not. So I am now going to let him and his unecessary nastiness go, permanently and forever - both publicly and privately - and I am wasting no more of my heart on him. It is worth far too much.
To go forwards in love, you can only ever hope to go backwards. And I am going to go far enough back to let me start again as if it never happened at all. To go back to the beginning.
And, in doing so, I hope that I will never end up back in this boat again.
Because if they went forwards they would end up back in the boat.
Much love, Grandad.
I woke up this morning and realised – and I don`t know why I was remotely surprised – that my grandad is right, and I was wrong. I`m not healing in the wrong direction at all; I`m going exactly the way I should be going. Which is back to the beginning.
I`m not falling in love with The Boy again. I thought that`s what it was – because I was remembering the good things, and the kind things, and the things that made it hurt less - but I was wrong. As the pain slowly eases and the dry and burnt up black bits on the surface fall away, what`s left is not love: it is a belief in love. What`s leaving is the hate, and the bitterness, and the anger, and the pain, and what`s coming back is my belief in something good, and something beautiful. Not for him, but for life; not for his love, but for any. And the pink, bright skin showing up underneath is not my feelings for him, renewed: it is myself, as I was before I got hurt.
In truth, I sent him the link to that blog; I wanted him to see it. I wanted him to know that – after everything - he was still loved; for no other reason at all than that it is wonderful to be truly loved, no matter how unreturned the feelings are. And, naive though it obviously was, it was a genuine gesture: a gesture that came from a good part of me – a compassionate part - and a part of me I thought had gone. I wanted him to know he was still adored, and forgiven, and loved - that I thought of him fondly, and not with hatred - and that was all: I wanted no reply from him. In fact, I specifically begged him - with my whole heart - not to say anything back.
When his response came – so cruel, so flippant, so bitter and full of inexplicable hatred towards me and the love he singlehandedly destroyed and the other girl he hurt too because she didn`t know about me either – it almost shattered me again; to hurt me again when I had asked him not to, and to respond to my gesture of love with nastiness, was so incredibly unnecessary that it very nearly managed it. To lose in the game of love is bad enough – to love somebody who has hurt you and no longer feels the same way is hard enough anyway – without being needlessly trampled on by the victor afterwards. And, in sending that message, that was all he was doing: intentionally hurting me all over again with his indifference, and slamming his feet on the bits I was trying so desperately hard to heal. For no reason but his own satisfaction.
I did not lose, though. Waking up this morning, I suddenly realised that I did not lose at all. In this game of love, in fact, I won. My love - once returned by him so wholeheartedly and so unreservedly - is now totally unreciprocated, yes, but it is still love; I am still able to feel good things, and bright things, and believe in the things I thought I had lost for good. I am able to love somebody who does not love me without bitterness; to accept their nastiness without prolonged anger. I am beginning to let go of the bitterness and hatred, instead of letting it fester inside me and make me rotten: I am hoping for future happiness for both of us, and refusing to allow the pain to change me for good.
And he is not. He has turned it all outwards towards other people instead of at himself, and – in attacking me for telling him I loved him, and hurting me again for no reason other than malice – he has lost. Because the "poison" he speaks of is of his own making - was always of his own making - and clinging to it is a justice that comes from himself, and not from me. And that "torture" was created by him, and is now turned upon himself with every further unecessary cruelty he inflicts towards others. For if he has not learned anything from the past year - if he has not learned the importance of honesty, and compassion, and kindness, and integrity, and not hurting somebody for the sake of it, willynilly, just because you can - then he never will, and he has lost more than he can possibly know. He has lost much, much more than my love, and his feelings for me. He has lost himself.
If I can hope for anything from the past year – which has been without exception the most painful and soul destroying year of my life – it is that I have learnt nothing but belief in compassion: that I can be the same person, with the same hope, and the same belief in love and in goodness and in life and in other people, that I was before I was hurt so incredibly badly. And – as the burnt bits fall away, and the pinkness starts to shine through again – I think I am finally returning to that person when I didn`t think I could.
In loving, and in believing in love again, I am healing in the right direction; and the man who broke my heart is not. So I am now going to let him and his unecessary nastiness go, permanently and forever - both publicly and privately - and I am wasting no more of my heart on him. It is worth far too much.
To go forwards in love, you can only ever hope to go backwards. And I am going to go far enough back to let me start again as if it never happened at all. To go back to the beginning.
And, in doing so, I hope that I will never end up back in this boat again.
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