Mornings After

I wake up around dawn, and I have the same feeling I had the other night: that I've got no ballast, nothing to weigh me down, and if I don't hang on I'll just float away. I like Marie a lot, she's funny and smart and pretty and talented, but who the hell is she? I don't mean that philosophically. I just mean I don't know her from Eve, so what am I doing in her bed? Surely there's a better, safer, more friendly place for me than this? But I know there isn't, not at the moment, and that scares me rigid.




You said to me that night: "No, don't change. Don't change anything about yourself."

But you know nothing about me: You don't know that I suffer from vertigo and shouldn't have too much chocolate, cheese, strawberries, and beer. You don't know that I smoke roughly a pack a day and perhaps need to quit. You don't know that I'm thinking of growing my hair long, so I can have cornrows or dreadlocks, or both. You don't know that I'm thinking of getting another tattoo, this time at the small of my back.

You don't know--as I know nothing about you.

You, who took my hand and lead me into a slow dance. You, who drank orange juice with me from one bottle. You, who fed me honey off the blunt edge of a knife. You: who smoked your last cigarette with me, shared your towel, your soap, your toothbrush. You, who ran your hands up and down my back as I lay on my stomach, my head against your shoulder. You, who pulled me into a spoon while you slept, and I couldn't for trying to match my breathing with yours.

We know nothing about each other. Nothing to warrant your odd request. Not our last names, birthdays, the kind of peope we don't like. We don't know how the other feels about pop music, wasabi, baseball, or karaoke. Or how we feel about being away from our homes, our families. About how the other can be lonely, and what we do to cope.

All we know is that when morning came, I had to leave, dressed in yesterday's clothes--with no regrests, but perhaps a bit of sadness. And shame.

Post-mortem

In a corny self-discovery essay, I read that to write effectively, one must write about what one knows. But what do I know? I know that I do not know. I even know what I do not know:

1. I do not comprehend the ways of mornings-after.

2. I am not familiar with another meaning of casual where rules are set beforehand; and reiterated (numerically) after-fact.

3. I do not know what I did wrong, or if I did anything wrong in the first place. (And "I don't mean that philosophically.")

4. I am unsure what to feel about the whole thing, how I should feel about it.

5. I do not know his last name.

Writing all that, I realize, these are what I know:

1. That I felt awkward, at the very least, the next day. And the reasons for it are light years away from the obvious ones.

2. That I worried my friends unnecessarily.

3. That sitting here now, writing (instead of being in a boring class), is running away, whatever excuses I come up with.

4. That somewhere inside me, lies a part of mself I have largely ignored in the last year, who shares this depression with me, though perhaps more profoundly.

5. That I will most probably do it again.

So in an attempt at a half-assed analysis, I am now sitting near the river, drinking coffee and trying to write. However, the atmosphere is much too light and friendly: The tourists in their shorts and tanks and slippers, moms with their strollers, and old couples leaning on their canes--or each other. No dark clouds threaten to hurry me home. The river runs along smoothly, almost... cheerfully. And on the bank are pigeons, and ducks and cranes. There are no crows in sight.

And I am wearing black today--head to foot and inside-out. I am mourning something, yet I cannot seem to apprehend it, much less comprehend its emptiness. Or perhaps this nothingness is all that I can understand of that loss--a presence now-acknowledged, now-recognized for its absence.

Across the river, a little boy is crouched, stretching his arms wide, and going low, ready to pounce. He takes three tentative steps, before breaking into a run, his arms flying like windmills. Suddenly, from behind the weeds, a flock of crows burst out---the sound of wings flapping and low-throated cries echo in the air long after they are gone.

Top five things about today

1. "It's brilliant, being depressed; you can behave as badly as you like." --Rob Gordon

2. I stayed up half the night making lists of Things-to-Dos. I did 2 out of 7 of today's list, but I feel pretty good about it.

3. I was bored in Japanese class, not because I couldn't understand anything, but because I could, and others couldn't and the teacher spent 45 minutes on the same topic.

4. I saved a turtle's life today.

5. The day isn't over yet: I'm going dancing tonight.

Bike Chronicles Part I: The (Mis-)Adventures of Dr. Dread, Japan series

My first serious biking accident (in Japan, anyway) was at a time I as going home to Misasagi, around a month or so ago. It was around 3:00 in the afternoon, and I hadn't had any sleep since the day before. (Hey, I'm setting the scene here).

My old and awfully inconvenient route went something like this: From Kyodai, I take Higashioji-dori (Higashioji Street) straight up to Sanjo-dori, then turn left and follow Sanjo all the way up(hill) to Misasagi. Nearing the Sanjo intersection, Higashioji-dori's sidewalks begin to narrow. Narrow sidewalks in Japan, by the way, mean that two bikers and a lamppost are a tight squeeze. Anyway, since the aforementioned lack of sleep led me to doubt the speed of my reaction time, I decided to take my bike out into the much wider street. (Another stupid-thing-to-do-in-retrospect.)

After three blocks (and three million cars zipping by), and spotting a clear (albeit still narrow) sidewalk, I decide to take my bike back into the pavement. Now, Japan sidewalks are usually biker-friendly, meaning there are no humps to make you bounce on your bike like a rodeo star bent on reaching the 8-second buzzer. In true fashion, I had to choose the one exception... And as my front wheel hit the hump, and my bike jerked in reaction, my brain lost no time in shutting down and my hands immediately assumed no responsibility by letting go of the handlebars, while my eyes widened in quicksilver-stages and 3 million uh-ohs rang in my head.

I landed hard, and so did my bike. Luckily, save for scraped palms, torn jeans and a bruised ego, I was okay. I heaved my bike up and got on it, bent on biking all the way home. (Bruised ego cursing and Eye of the Tiger playing in the background.) I put my foot on the pedal, ready to go... But nothing happened! The chain had come off the grears!!! (Note to self: Buy Cycling for Dummies.) Like any independent 90s woman, I try to fix the problem by myself while surreptitiously looking out for a cute guy to offer help.

Alas, scraped palms, grimy hands and a broken fingernail later, and still thrown hopelessly out of gear, I give up. I walk my bike back to the university, to the shop where I bought it. The only place I knew I could get help.

I walk for thirty minutes (all the while shamefully hiding my grimy hands, curling the greasy fingernails into my palms), back up the street I (and three million cars) had just zipped by, suffering what-the-fuck looks from other bikers. (If you see my very "kakkoii," very "nice" badass-bike, you'll understand.) I finally reach the shop, and with a grave "Tasukete kudasai," asked the owner to fix my bike. He was very kind nice about it, and even gave me a stern lecture on safety. (Actually, the only words of the lecture I understood was "dangerous" and "cars"; stern was deduced from his expression, but nevermind that.) Anyway, after all this, I took a deep breath, gave thanks that I was not seriously injured, and got myself ready to... Park my bike at school and take the bus and subway home. And that's exactly what I did.





Note to reader:

All of the above was actually meant as an introduction to my second though not-so-serious accident, which happened yesterday, and was somewhat similar to the first. Somewhat similar because the second one also happened as I was on my way home, suffering from lack of sleep, and the chain had also come off the gears. However, this time, I did not get thrown off (I jumped off gracefully, there's a difference), and suffered no scraped palm or what not (although ego was slightly bruised).

Anyway, since the introduction became the entire story, let me get to my point quickly and painlessly: I fixed the chain-had-come-off problem all by myself!!!!!! And save for grimy and greasy hands, which are totally unavoidable, really, I was no worse for wear!

And so, this time around, with my grimy hands like a proud banner, I get on my bike, grip the handlebars with new-found confidence, and position my foot onto the pedal: I was ready. I was ready to take on anything, set to finish the course. And with head held high, I went home.

(In the background, playing: Chariots of Fire, ego humming along.)

riddle you ragged

if the ear holds the key to one's sense of balance, will cutting your ear off at moments of unbearable dizziness restore your balance or will it make you dizzy for the rest of your life?

ps. vertiginous, defined as "affected by vertigo, dizzy, or causing vertigo" by Dictionary.com is the adjective for vertigo. Not "vertiguous" as I had previously thought, and unknowingly invented. haha. i stand corrected mr. webster.

excuse me, i'm dizzy

for some odd reason, i don't like my camel lights today.

camels, here in japan, are a treat for me. they cost 30yen more than
mild sevens, (and though thirty yen isn't much) i like to pretend they're
my "special days" brand. like when i'm doing laundry and looking forward
to wearing those detergent-fresh, static-clingy clothes.

but today, they taste bitter, and the paper doesnt make that crackling
sound when i take a drag.

as i ponder possible reasons, i latch onto one i really like: have i
gotten used to my ordinary-days, nothing-special-about-it mild seven
extra lights with 3mg of tar and 0.3mg of nicotine?

in a land i love, but have yet to fit in (where cigarettes are "tabako,"
fish fillets have wasabi sauce, a socket is called a "consent," and PC
keyboards confuse the hell out of me) finding something to call my own
is most comforting.

the fear of falling

so i'm spending a rainy friday afternoon in bed, when i should be in my laboratory. i'm fighting off (or falling into, i don't know which yet) a nasty dizziness caused by vertigo because i just had to have a ham-and-cheese omelette.

good thing im not allergic to eggs, or i'd probably be dead now.

then again, the way i feel, dead probably wouldn't be so bad.

so i do the next best thing:

i close my eyes. imagine i'm in an open field somewhere, lying naked on the wet grass, all alone for miles and miles. letting the rain wash away all the traces of toxins in my body, the mascarra and dark circles around my eyes, the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke from my hair, the tattoo on my back and other people's marks on my skin.

and just before my own fingerprints dissolve into nothingness, into the oblivion which my body has for so long sought, my soul rises up like a white flag from among the green, conspicuous in its surrender.

i need a good sountrack

(this is an old one, but hey, this is my blog isnt it?)


i spent a nice friday night at home alone, sleeping or eating or smoking, drinking tea i don't like... you get the drift.

and it really was a nice night too: pre summer when there's a slight breeze but not too cool and not too hot, like you can wear a tank top and shorts and not worry about freezing your ass off or sweating like a pig.

i read a book i've read a thousand times since coming to japan, one of the better ones off my shamefully small, entertainment-in-english-and-i-don't-mean-easy-living-in-kyoto
collection. the rest are japanese language textbooks...

(oh god, where did my floor-to-almost-ceiling books go? packed hurriedly in a box at my sisters apartment in makati, gathering dust. will the words still be there when i return? or will the pages dissolve at a touch?)

so yeah it's safe to say im depressed. and to make matters worse, i chose to stop rereading that book at its most depressing part when, having read it over and
over i could have chosen to edit those out and jump to the funny parts or rewind to the profound ones or hell, even skip to the very satisfying i've-just-started-a-new-phase-in-my-life-and-its-starting-to-make-sense-again-and-none-of-that-corny-self-righteous-cliches-thank-you-very-much ending. but i don't. so what does that say about me?

hell. somebody get a thesaurus and give me the common every-day word for masochist. loser seems too mundane and covers a lot of ground. depressed is... well, over-used. while what just happened and this entry is too long, painful and fucking draining.

Loneliness redefined

Wednesdays, I have Japanese class until 6:00pm. Usually, by 5:00, I would be so bored I would spend time cursing my wristwatch for being 5 minutes advanced. I would shuffle my feet under the desk, itching to check my phone for messages or missed phone calls since it usually vibrates anywhere from 2 to 5 times during that three-hour class. Invitations from friends for dinner, or a movie, or just to ask me to tell the teacher why they'd be missing class.

This Wednesday was different. No phone calls. Not a single message. Not even a stupid phone company ad. To make matters worse, I had forgotten to put it on silent mode, which, by virtue of Murphy's Law, should have had increased the chances of it ringing at inappropriate times (e.g., class time) by 500%.

After class, I eagerly check my phone, hoping I had somehow missed something. Nope. So I initiate contact and email my two closest friends inviting them to dinner. No response. I call one of them. He shuts it off mid-ring.

I go to dinner in the cafeteria, hoping to spot somebody I know. No one. I sit along side two Japanese guys, and I cannot even eavesdrop to their conversation. Two minutes pass and they leave the table. I find myself sitting alone in one of the longest table in a canteen that's packed.

I go home. The streets are dark, and my bike light is losing power. I meet no one on the road, not even a rock that would make me take spill on my bicycle, hurt myself and remind me I'm there. I reach my dorm, climb four flights of stairs (I met no one, by the way) to my room. I take off my clothes, lie on the bed, chug on lousy orange juice and take one of the best escape routes known to me: I sleep for 15 straight hours.

Journal entry # 3739

I miss my old journal. And my En 21 essays. And my Mcdonalds table napkin scribblings. Those proofs of a time long gone when I can write and not just pretend to know how.

I went home today by bicycle, and it tired me out (That's my excuse. What's yours?). Was lying in bed reading The Best American Essays of 2003, and now I'm tired and envious. Not a good feeling. So, in a spur-of-the-moment decision, I decided to go down to the PC room and churn out whatever I can. This is my excuse. Go figure.