Lost Memories

I have forgotten to write about how I lost my phone to an imagined in-dire-straits pickpocket a little less than a month before coming here.

I suppose my initial irritation was due to the thought of those forever-lost phone numbers, full-of-sentiment-and-never-to-be-read-over-and-over-again messages, the practical my-bank-account-information-was-stored-there! anxiety.

I suppose I failed to make the loss important, as after a while, I recovered some of those numbers. I forgot all about those once-all-too-important messages. I was excited over the prospect of going to Japan and buying a new phone--and I did get to buy a new, more-savvy keitai denwa here in the Land of Technology.

But tonight I came across a poem by Constantine Cavafy called Morning Sea, and I remembered why I should've mourned the loss of that little thing.

I remember going home from work, speeding down cliff-side roads in 150-percent-capacity jeepneys and seeing how many different faces an ocean can assume, depending on time of day, weather, and yes, even moods.

I remember an opaque sea, almost like a dance floor, where an imagined partner would guide me into a slow slow dance, ending up with me missing a step and being swallowed by cold, thick saltwater, inch by inch, while he calmly looks on, as if I deserved it for stepping on his immaculately-shined shoes.

I remember a furious sea in San Joaquin, battering anybody insolent enough to try and invade his territory--spewling wave after wave of water-wall, that my stupid attempts at a dawn swim ended with me sprawled, defeated on the shore.

I remember a slumbering beach, slowly waking to the rising sun and cheerfully reflecting the sky's mild oranges and romantic lilacs and gleefully echoing wind-song.

I remember smoking along evening shores, keeping lonely driftwood company and watching late-day joggers, stray dogs, and lovers kissing in the shadows.

I have forgotten all that when I lost that phone, that little piece of convenience--or cause of irritation. I have forgotten all these memories, these memories hurriedly input on message-outbox, as more often than not I would find myself in the mood to write, but weaponless. Armed only with that phone.

And in those time, that phone became more than just a convenience, or an irritation. More than just a way for people both loved, liked and hated to search me out of my dark-hole and bother me. It became my best friend, the keeper of my darkest thoughts, privy to my inner-pain, my untold joy, my celebrated or cursed aloneness.

After Morning Sea, I now remember why I should've mourned that handy sometimes-journal, that ready-for-any-mood confidante, that old and comfortable friend.

So, once again, memory has left me with nothing but sadness, and a half-hearted attempt at rationalizing another loss in my life. And I fervently hope, that my imagined dire-straits pickpocket truly needed my friend for food on the table, or made his daughter happy on her birthday, or even made his own life a little more convenient. For any other reason I lost those memories, and the only friend who shared them with me is unbearable. It would be like losing them all over again.

unravel me

(copied and maybe edited a little from my journal,
a few minutes before the 21st of April
in my room in Misasagi, Yamashina, Kyoto City)

I don't know how to write anymore. I mean I can still write and I want to write, but I don't know how to put it down on paper. I mean literally put pen on paper and produce paragraphs. (See, I can't even tell you coherently what I want anymore--literally and figuratively.)

I guess I've lost my patience. I've lost it all over again---the patience to sort out thoughts, to look for and choose the right words, to construct sentences and know when to insert significant pauses, and yes, even the patience to skip a line and create a space between paragraphs. I've lost it all. (If you could only see how awful my handwriting is.)

Is this all really true, you wonder? How can somebody who claim not to know how to write, write three consecutive entries in her blog? You don't get it. Sure, I can type it all up in a keyboard, bang on {Enter} and clack up {Tab} and {Backspace} and choose letters from {Aa} to {Zz}, choose the #!.,@="&)* punctuations. I even have the patience for your old {ctrl-alt-delete} routine, should something go awry.

But I've lost my patience for that magical time it takes to form that secret, silent thought to the chosen, hushed, uttered word, and finally to that again-silent, unerasable, written testimony. (If you could see me sweating it out now, only to complete this routine.)

Where did all that go? Did I lose my muse, as Lyra did? Am I less lonely here? (Yeah, could've fooled me. I would jump and stop all this nonsense right now if the phone rang, but that's another story.)

Before this entry, and I guess even after it, my second journal lies blank except for lists of things to do, people's phone numbers back home, tattoo designs and other crap. Am I losing my memories to other people? The things I've written recently are reports, quizzes, emails, text messages and my shitty blog publications.

Am I losing my memories to other people? Are my moments lost to the confusion and vulnerability and virtuality of cyberspace? Will you even remember this entry, this blog, how you felt when you read it after you visit this site, or long after I stop writing here, or forget my password, or when all the ads pull out and this blog has to shut down? Will you? Will I?

I will perhaps one day, fill all these blank journal pages, even throw it away or burn it, but I believe that once written, words can never be taken back. You can admit something by saying it, but you can never, and I mean never deny something you have written. Your handwriting will stare back at you and force you to acknowledge it as your own. Even the slightest memories will rush up and squeeze your throat, reminding you when and what you were feeling when you wrote that piece. Pen and paper will be ready to answer a subpoena to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth about what you wrote, god help them.

It could be that all this shit is laughable and untrue and just plain bullshit by next week, two years from now, tomorrow, or even in the next minute, but you and I will know that the minute I finish all this (the minute a click on {Publish your Post}), that this is how I felt, how I was thinking that very moment I was sweating it out to write this. And perhaps I won't remember as clearly how I struggled, or how difficult this was, but I will never be able to deny this experience again. Ever.

There's this song by Jonny Lang that talks about this girl, writing on her journal, pouring out all her secret ambitions and deepest thoughts, when suddenly the piece of paper flies out the window. She feels bad about this ("A part of your heart/All alone in the night" he sings), but suddenly imagines what if, what if, somebody finds it and reads it and it makes him/her smile, or laugh, or cry or even just nod his/her head in agreement. And suddenly she doesn't mind it being lost at all, because she knows it's not, having written it and confirmed it, and knowing somebody will find it and read it and somehow confirm her, too.

(Right here, about right this time, you'll begin to think, Whew finally, she'll stop all this angst, all this unproductive anger. She's found that crutch, that part of the story, where you can breath easy and be ready to hear the moral. Well, fuck, you're in for a disappointment. Let me tell you now, in case you want to stop reading this, I am not finished, I will perhaps never be finished with angst.)

But needless to say, all of the above was a fucking song, and what are the chances that somebody who finds what I've written will really care about what I wrote, or will even read what I wrote, or even recognize the stuff between the lines (will they even know that there are stuff between the lines?). What are the chances somebody will even find that blown away piece of paper? You know that in real life it'll probably get stepped, trampled, spit on and end up wet and dirty and crumpled and unreadable in some corner, waiting for the rain or the wind to take it somewhere where it can die with dignity. If your piece of paper's lucky, this is what will probably happen. Or someone could find it and use it to pick up their dog's shit in the park.

I know that life doesn't offer guarantees. Hell, the six-year-old understands that right after you tell her there's no Santa. And I know that that's one of the more beautiful and brilliant things about it sometimes. But tonight it's fucking cold and I've got the cough and I can't finish one cigarette for the burning in my throat.

Yeah, life takes your money and sometimes screws you over. Like that doctor telling me I'm fine and don't need medicine.

I could use some sleep inducers tonight.

Kaze wo hiita

so i get to be sick in another country.

took my bike home monday last week. three quarters of the way was a fuckin uphill climb that got steeper and steeper. just when my legs couldn't take anymore punishment, it sloped down to one hell of a rollercoaster drop. sure enough the wind slapped at my face, dried my lips, nearly peeled the contact lenses from　my　eyes, and froze my lungs.

so now i have the cold. or kaze, as the japanese call it. i spend my days coughing and sneezing and generally just feeling miserable. i think there's nothing worse than being sick where there's no one to really care if you get well soon or not. nobody to visit you if you stay home to recover. nobody to offer to make you soup or hot tea. no mommy to check for fever. it's sad.

but it's interesting too. i went to the doctor today, daring the language barrier and millions of japanese lining up for their annual medical checkup. i fill up a form, write my name in katakana, indicate that i'm a "firipinjin." the nurse shows me the way to the doctor's office with a polite "douzo," and before i could even start on my "nihongo ga sukoshi wakarimasu" routine, the doctor asks "can you speak english?"

whew. all my troubles over. he checks me up, tells me all i have is a swollen and irritated throat. my lungs sound good, so there's no pneumonia. double whew. in the end he sends me home (no need for medicine) and doesn't even make me pay a single yen. i told you it was interesting.

so, mom, don't worry about a thing. your precious daughter is surviving her first month in japan. i just wish i had somebody to ask me how i am and really want to know the answer.

Kyoto Confusion

So I was supposed to go to a friend's apartment last week. Thing is, I took the wrong train over. So I'm walking, walking, walking, walking.... and nothing looks familiar at all!!! I've been to his place maybe two times, but I'm so awful with directions, so.

I thought of taking a cab, but what would I tell the driver? `My friend's apartment, please?` Sheesh. I decide to go to Kyoto University instead and call my friend from a payphone there. He lives nearby and we were really supposed to go there anyway... Then at least when I ask for directions, people will know where I want to go...

Okay. Time to paractice my Japanese. I go around stopping friendly-looking, not-too-much-in-a-hurry Japanese. `Um... Sumimasen, Kyodai wa doko desu ka?` They smile, say, `Massugu (straight ahead)` then `migi ni magatte (turn right).` Right. Massugu then migi, massugu then migi, massugu then migi. Sounds simple enough. Right.

Right. Right. Right. Yeah, right. Where to turn right? I tried to ask how many blocks (or stoplights, as Japaanese tend to use shingou as landmarks) before I turn, but the old man started speaking very fast, I couldn`t understand anything! So I just bowed my head as if I understood, `sumimasened` him for his trouble, and walked on, waiting for something to look familiar and tell me I was near Kyodai.

After about 20 minutes, I give up. I ask a nice Japanese lady who can speak a little English. She asks, `Are you just walking to get there? ` That should've been my clue! I was so far away people were wondering how I could just walk it to Kyodai! (And believe me, the Japanese like to walk!

It's time to face facts: I am hopelessly lost. In true xx chromosome fashion, I don't hesitate to ask for directions. I enter a shop and ask to see a map. The proprietor tells me I have to take a bus and get off at Hyakumanben. All this was a jumble to me, and all I heard was bus and hyaku man en (one million yen). I thought the bus fare cost hyaku man en! No way can I afford a bus! I mean, I know prices here are ridiculously high compared to the Philippines, but, c'mon! A million for a bus ride? Do I get to sit on Hiroyuki Sanada's lap or something?

Finally I give up and take a cab. (Which upon later examination, is increadibly stupid, given the assumption that buses cost one million yen). Fifteen minutes and around 1,200 yen later, I got to Kyodai safely and sanely, met my friend, and lived on to survive two weeks in Japan.

And yeah, I've taken the bus to school once or twice. They cost 220 yen. And nope, no Hiroyuki Sanada.