Ages ago... in Japan

I lived in Japan.  And I loved it.  I loved the cobblestones that predated me and my bloodlines by centuries.  I loved the smoky flavor of humid summer air outside of temples and the crackle of fireworks along cool riverbanks.  I loved the polite way old people ignored me because they couldn't understand my horrible Japanese when I first arrived.  I loved the way they would refer me to someone younger who would have the patience to tolerate my persistent slaughter of their language or interrupt me with much more tolerable English.  I admit I tired of the stubborn stares on trains, where I towered over everyone, male and female, but I love the memory now.

I remember bicycles, "borrowed" occasionally when the trains had stopped running and the night was too nice to abandon for a love hotel.  I remember the cops, too, advising me and my friend that we should never "borrow" bicycles again.  I love that they let us go, at dawn, after serving us tea.

I lived in Japan over two long summers, the first in 95, the second in 97.  Between the two visits, I studied Japanese and found an internship that would provide me with housing in exchange for my work.  The first time, I lived in Hachioji, a suburb near Tokyo, with a dear friend and her family who never treated me as anything but one of their own and who I dearly miss.  The second time, I wanted to give back a little, although my family in Hachioji might have questioned my reasons.  In any case, the second time, I lived in Kyoto, at a home for children either abandoned by or removed from their families.  I was the kids' oneesan, or big sister.  I helped with laundry, homework, dinners, bath time and gossip.  I was best at the gossip.  The older girls loved to tell me about the boys they loved.  I loved to ask crucial questions about their heartthrobs' good looks and future prospects, which made them laugh and laugh and laugh, initially with hands held shyly in front of their smiles and, later, like beams of sunlight that wouldn't be contained by their discreet hands.

I haven't been back to Japan since 1997 and over time, I've lost touch with my best friends who inspired me to visit their homes in the first place.  They never joined facebook and we communicated through texts until my number changed or their numbers changed and neither of them spent time on email.  Sachi, Masa: I miss you and think of you and love you still, and your families (and your funny, little children who I imagine as small versions of the girls I knew in high school, with all the same silly humor and irreverence) often.

I'm pretty sure you're both okay, based on dreams I keep having of us three, walking with arms linked, through New York's Central Park, and also based on everything I know of you both.  Sachi, you should be in Tokyo or maybe somewhere greener where you'll carve wood with looping curliques.  Masa, on some small island near Okinawa.  Your families, from what I remember, shouldn't be anywhere north of Tokyo.  Your husbands' families, they should be near you, or in the West, but not in the North.  I'm relying on faulty memory, but it comports with the dreams, in which Sachi is willful and Masa is falling down in front of approaching cabs but never hurt because her laugh draws everyone around to protect and save her.  Like honey, that laugh.  (I've checked the people finder and neither of you are on it, as you should not be.  Because you're only missing from my life, a sadness that I know will be relieved someday and it will be a day full of belly-aching laughter when it comes.)

In the meantime, I send all my prayers to the people of Japan, that they will find peace amid the devastation and will not suffer long even in those insufferable conditions.  I pray for everyone who has been lost and everyone who has lost someone and I pray for everyone who has lost a home that they find shelter and warmth and I pray for everyone who needs food and water that they will be comforted.  And I pray silently too for all the things that I can't voice but that all of us, I think, are feeling around the world as we see the brave but distraught faces of people who have lost everything.

If you can, please give money to an NGO already established and prepared to assist with the relief efforts in Japan.  Save the Children is one.

Blessed by Nyquil

For days now-- forever, I'm telling you-- I've been sick.  I'm not going to be melodramatic, but I've been singed, I swear, in whichever of Dante's infernal circles includes crusty, cruddy head colds.  The fifth?  I'll admit, I'm sullen now.  Or maybe the ninth, because there can be no doubt that my body has committed treason against me.  After the first long 24 hours of sleepless breathlessness--or was it breathless sleeplessness?-- I decided to fight back.

I'm usually a sucker for the holistic approaches.  You'd know that about me by now, right?  I may not enthuse over other people's kidlets, but I like compassion.  I hate politics, but I love to think we might be better than our elected reps believe.  Certainly, we're better than our elected reps.  I digress.  You'll understand why in a moment, unless you are so canny to have already guessed.  In general, I favor that hippiest of non-ornamental ceramics: the neti pot.  (Note: I don't use a single-malt in my neti pot.)  I also like breathing in eucalyptus and camphor to clear my nose.  But, my friend, what was I to do when neither of these worked well enough to promise an adequate oxygen supply to my vital organs?  That's right.  I ingested heaps of cold medicine.

If you haven't figured it out already, I'm still suffering (seizing from?) their effects.

For the last two and a half days, I've been sucking down a cocktail of nyquil, dayquil, mucinex (so onomatopoeic, these half-hearted remedies), alka seltzer cold and panadol.  In the past, only one of these would have sufficed and I would have slept loudly through a night and day, or, if it was dayquil, ground my teeth energetically until work was done and then slept loudly through an evening, exactly as my 10 bucks hoped they would do.  But, apparently, these medicines won't work independently in the antipodes.  And I am left to suffer and seize.

Fortunately, I've discovered that, in collaboration, they will at least make my cold more fun.  I feel a little like I headed out to a rave without troubling myself to leave the couch, pop a light stick, or apply sparkly eyeshadow.  For the last two nights, high on everything in the medicine chest, expired or not, that promised to clear my head, I've woken up at hourly intervals singing Lady Gaga.  I kinda sorta wanted to dance, but it would have been so tricky to find the right floor in my whirling room.  (You wondered why dance floor have lights?)  Luckily, I managed to see the urge for what it was: a pathetic attempt by subversive, restless legs and twitching fingers to channel their frantic pizazz.  I will now start to walk it out.

Ah, well.  Good times down here.  I'm going to go see if I can't clear up that giant black cobweb creeping over the window.  Or... wait.  Nevermind.

I hate hate speech.

And I'm protected in my right to say it.  I'm also protected should I choose to spend a somber afternoon protesting a soldier's funeral with signs that read, "Thank God for Dead Soldiers," "God Hates You," "Not Blessed Just Cursed," "Fag Troops," "You're Going to Hell," and "Thank God for 9/11."  I can hold the signs wherever I want, in fact, barring some municipal or state restriction on the proximity of protesters in certain areas or during certain events.  Yay!  This is great.  I'm going to finish this post and paint some pep rally posters telling the world to fuck off.  I'll send it to friends in the States since I'm not sure of my footing down here.

In a completely unsurprising decision, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Snyder v. Phelps that the Westboro Baptist Church (not actually a Baptist church but an unaffiliated congregation composed mostly of Phelps large and legally astute extended family) may display its provocative signs on public land because they "reflect the fact that the church finds much to condemn in modern society."  Yes, well.  Wouldn't it be great if they could be a bit more articulate in their woeful expression?

And once again, we get to consider the First Amendment in its naked, occasionally warty, often with a seething rash, definitely unshaved glory.  Following the shooting in Congresswoman Giffords in Tuscon, I wrote on this blog about that robust freedom of expression and the civic responsibility that we all should be proud to model in our utilization of it.  That's right, I said it: responsibility.  We actually have a responsibility toward people we don't even know.  We don't pull our pants down in front of them and we don't curse at them.  In other words, we shouldn't act like slobbering drunk douchebags when we express our political, religious or otherwise ideological passions.  It's a good responsibility, I promise.  It comes back around to your benefit, like karma and dinner party invitations.

I'm enough of a people-lover to hope that the Court's ruling in this case will challenge even the most headstrong free speech proponents among us, and I count myself in that group, to stop for a moment to consider the speech that we get to make and the effect it will have on those to whom we make it. I'm enough of a misanthrope to think that whatever thought is given to the issue will probably disappear in the vacuum of political, financial, emotional, existential strife that is so much nicer to selfishly hold.  Have you noticed how befriending a neighbor is so suspect these days?  Senseless acts like that befuddle the strife.  Anyhoo.

If you can bother to neglect your personal strife for a moment, the Westboro decision ought to challenge you to reconcile your notions of decency with the clearly offensive, potentially defamatory, and plausibly assaultive language the Church shouts from its bright placards.  And as you confront that challenge, be mindful of the minefield obstructing your path.  Wherever you step, our modern chatter threatens bone-crunching abuse, embarrassing accusations against whatever we believe, and hateful target practice should we disagree.  Oh, and when those mines explode, we hear the big boom over and over in the echo chamber of our media until we've normalized the trauma.

I confess: I'm heartened by Alito's lone dissent (oh my, really?) and his comment that "our profound national commitment to free and open debate is not a license for the vicious verbal assault that occurred in this case."  Sometimes, those dissents, even by justices that I don't want to like, are worthwhile for the little snack of consideration they provide.  I don't agree that the First Amendment should be further abridged, but I'm grateful that Alito scowled on the record.  Oh oh, you see how I did that?  I just gave a compliment to a man with whom I disagree on a ton of issues.

As anyone who's ever loved another will know, communication can be painful. In society, as in relationships, we owe it to ourselves to consider our words before we speak, to balance their heft against the consequence of their fall, to soften the edges so we can be heard and enjoy the pleasure of a shared bed or city square.  Otherwise, we become this:

And really, I think we can all agree, the protesters and elected officials in that video are no better than a bunch of slobbering douchebags with way too many flags to wave.

Big is beautiful but small consolidates power

I told you so!  Okay, not you, probably, but listen up you 15 or so people from my Election Law seminar, Spring Semester, 2003, who teased then dismissed me as a hyperbolic worrywart when I pronounced my views that the U.S. was fast approaching an oligarchy.  To you, I say, with verve: I told you so!  Ha!

Hmph.  I don't really feel any better.

People used to make fun of me for my long neck, too.

Oh?  You still laugh?  Think I'm that kind of person who's going to search for some variant power structure to label the government because I'm trying to drum up fear or confusion among readers?  Okay.  I get it.  That's a trend.  Truth is, I ain't no Glenn Beck.  I actually know what oligarchy means.  Fascism too.  And communism, socialism, representative democracy and direct democracy and autocracy.  Wanna play Trivial Pursuit with me?  Grandma didn't sign me up for Teen Jeopardy for nothing.

This morning, I read this post by Paul Krugman, one of my favorite economists because he consistently rises to the challenge of recognizing the role of the working classes in the function of our broader economy.  Indeed, even the Free Exchange blog at The Economist is affirming my man Krugman on a topic that has been making my blood boil over the last couple weeks.  Namely, the ridiculous budget cuts the Republican house is proposing and passing in its willfully blind siege on the deficit.  The Economist reviewed Paul's column from last week, in which he aptly labeled the current budget debate as a sham orchestrated by wannabe deficit hawks with no more bite to their beak than my furry cocker spaniel has to her bark.  The programs on the chopping block are not the programs pilfering from the nation's wallet.  The Economist blog provides this tasty morsel: non-defense discretionary funding in 2008 is at precisely the same level as it was in 1963.  That would be 3.6 percent.  The programs on this small budget line did not and are not breaking the bank.  Thus, focusing cuts on this area is a fool's errand.  It will get the U.S. no closer to solving its deficit woes than the Army's sponsorship of a NASCAR car will solve its problems with obese recruits.  (By the way, the House of Representatives did NOT cut its $7 million annual sponsorship of NASCAR.  Really.)

Krugman lodges an appropriate charge on those clipped hawks: by looking to slash spending in those areas where money already isn't, they are effectively snatching food from the "mouths of babes" (and their mothers and siblings).  Indeed, they are also skinning and feathering those babes' giant yellow bird friend and jeopardizing access to health providers working at Planned Parenthood.  (Much like the name of the organization suggests, Planned Parenthood ain't just about abortions.  If so, they might be called Unplanned Abortions.)  Oh, and they passed cuts to the Securities and Exchange Commission, just as it prepares to enforce new Wall Street reforms targeted to address some of the problems that caused the financial meltdown in the first place.  Nothing like removing a beating heart to ensure death.  Works every time.

This week, Krugman describes the impetus behind the ongoing Wisconsin protests.  It isn't just an attempt to end collective bargaining; it's a politically inspired effort to consolidate power away from the working class folks who unions represent.  In other words, the Republican governor of Wisconsin, Scott Walker, is cashing a literal and figurative check provided by those big money interests who prefer not to compete with all those tedious union demands diminishing their profits.  Note, I didn't say diminishing the economy.  I said, their profits.  Because that's their interest, not the improved quality of life of those who might do the work to obtain those profits.  Guess what that consolidation of power in the hands of the wealthy is called?  Oligarchy!  

The budget cuts being sought in the House are much the same.  By gutting the already paltry programs that benefit the working classes and those ephemeral social niceties like education, arts and public media, and avoiding cuts or limiting spending that benefits very wealthy and corporate benefactors, the House is assuring that power remains in the hands of the wealthy.  Mostly, in the form of cash.

So, if you laughed at me 8 years ago, that's cool.  But get used to the word: oligarchy.  Because that's what you've got now.  And don't think for a minute that you've got a shot at sharing that power.  If you aren't driving the train now, it's pretty damn unlikely you're going to get a shot in this life.

That's some nice light on the water

Summer surges on down here in the antipodes.  (My crossed fingers severely obstructed the typing of that last sentence.)  And before those of you suffering one of those mildly alarming California winters, cool it with your envy.  The temperature here has yet to surpass 75.

But I'm not complaining.  This morning, I woke to the glaring sunrise prying its way through the blinds and ricocheting off the shivering water of the bay.  The wind is in a holding pattern.  I was told by a Kiwi that the absence of wind in Wellington is actually the peaceful consequence of a blustery north versus south skirmish being waged overhead.  Whether the winds are duking it out or blowing their breath on other parts, I'm pleased to rest easily and unruffled in the hot, unchallenged February sun.

A little inspired by the golden glimmer beaming off the ocean's many facets, I did some extra sun salutations and reflected on the bits of goodness I might be reflecting these days.  And with some shock and a little disappointment, I realized that I haven't done any volunteer work since September of last year.  This may be the longest I've ever gone without donating time to something, someone who could use a little help.

I did try, some.  I contacted an organization called Volunteer Wellington and after having my interview time scammed by a woman who claimed my name and appointment, I sat in an office with a man who didn't know how to type or apparently use a mouse who asked me questions typed on a print-out about my interests and experience.  He then took ample time tediously converting my answers into the letters that comprised them and entering them on the keyboard.  I made it clear that I was not in the mood to do any one-on-one counseling, as all that lawyering had pretty much sapped that protective plasma that keeps counselors from falling victim to empathy overload.  I knew the guy didn't really understand because he told me, "I don't quite understand what you're saying."  Accents, etc.  He typed slowly, "n-o-(space) t-a-l-k-i-n-g."

Despite my request, Volunteer Wellington suggested that I give my time to a community clinic offering ears to frustrated folks with financial, social, medical or educational issues.  "No, thanks," I said, and then reminded them gently that I had overtaxed my compassionate ears for a while and wanted a break.  "Remember," I asked, "no talking?"  Apparently, the guy had failed to save my answers.

Ultimately, I finally secured three referrals to some Wellington organizations who needed something. One was a hospice looking for fundraising support.  Another was a refugee assistance group looking for someone to review business plans.  The last was a volunteer support organization that aims to serve as something of a clearinghouse for other charitable organizations looking for help.  Only the hospice made an appointment to meet with me.  The refugee program never called me back and the last organization called but then forgot then called then forgot again and ultimately offered a project that had already been completed but was "something that was easy" for them to reassign if I really wanted to do something.  At that point, I sort of... um... forgot to contact them again, feeling like my repetition of someone else's work probably wasn't going to be the best use of my time or their supervision.

Both the hospice and the support organization suggested that I volunteer at the community clinic after reviewing my resume.  I politely ignored their suggestions.  Now, staring at this beautiful water shooting more points of light than a pristine night sky, I'm thinking about the effort required in self-transformation, especially when it seems to go against everything lumped on a resume, especially when I still hope to prove myself somewhat useful to humanity, even in the smallest ways, like just one of those tiny points of light on the water.

I suppose it's like accepting that summer comes in February and planning accordingly.  And when one side of the wind emerges the victor, I'll do my best to keep it at my back as I continue to type with crossed fingers that I might ultimately become someone who can find a role to play around here.  In the meantime, I'll keep busy writing a bunch of words that no one reads.

Ahem.  Yet.

Shame v. Embarrassment

Wow, so, uh, reading a book that you write yourself is daunting.  I suppose it's a bit like taking a mirror to your genitals.  Maybe some people totally dig that.  Personally, it's not high on my list of great activities to undertake.  Is that bad to say?  Am I a prude?  Fuck it.  Go stare at your genitals.

Back to my point.  This book.  It's long and I wrote it.  I mentioned that previously.  I'm happy to have constructed a semi-coherent story in a probably plausible world inhabited by potentially believable people.  At least, I'm hopeful.

Now, I have to read it, rewrite it, revise it and this first step, the reading step, had me wrinkling my nose for four days.  My stomach knotted in the same way it does when I'm reminded of junior high, offered mussels or asked to stand for a picture.  It isn't that I'm ashamed; this is embarrassment.  Two very different things, I'm discovering, as shame, I think, requires some knowledge or suspicion of the crudity of a subject, while embarrassment could be shame's little sister who hasn't quite discovered the need for a bra.

I'm not averse to a fair bit of self-reflection, and I like to think that I've uncovered, addressed and repaired or accepted a decent share of my idiosyncrasies.  But reading something that has unfolded silently and surprisingly over eight months had me worried.  Would this be like time-traveling to my first months in New Zealand, when the sun traveled low and fast across the northern sky and never for a minute overpowered the strength of the wind?  Would this be like reviewing a failed attempt at a power grab over my subconscious?  Would I hate it, and therefore start to hate myself?

Well.  As it happened, I plugged my nose this morning and started to read.  I'm a third through it.  Thirty-five percent, actually, according to my kindle's curious progress bar.  And, I didn't puke.

It ain't perfect, not even close.  But it didn't drive me to drink as the apprehension of the read did last night.  Instead, it was clarifying, instructive and even surprising in parts.  I recognize some sentences with the same appreciative welcome that I would use to greet a friend I met only once in another country long ago.  Other sentences, I would french kiss if I could.  And then there are those that deserve a rusty machete right through their weak hearts.  The good news is: I totally didn't die of embarrassment.  Which is a silly prospect, I know, but hey, that's what shame advises its admiring sibling.  Thankfully, my naked embarrassment started to feel pretty good when I let the sun get to it.  Now, to put my top back on and get to work.

Whoa... I did it.

Here's a quick note of congratulations to me: well done.

If I'd been raised in a home that valued creative endeavors and constructive criticism of them, I'd probably not feel the need to celebrate my minor triumph.  But I wasn't.  So there.

On Friday, at 5:17 p.m., I finished the first draft of the beastly novel I've been frantically drafting since July.  It's a pus-eyed hydra with stank breath but it's finally contained, top to bottom.  I'm inclined to call it all sorts of foul names which only confirms the absolute imperative that I never have children.

I woke up on Saturday wondering, "now what?"  And then, this morning, I opened the document and started reading it.  I suppose I'll revise the pus out of it and then do what every wide-eyed dilettante with an internet connection and some time does: impose my writerly reiterative travails on my lovely blog readers.

First things first: I'm going to pretend for a moment that this festering monster requires some air before I attack it with my rusty machete.  I want a week at least to savor the infection I've created.