The light blue skies and white, warm light that saturated every blade, leaf, and inch of vegetation in this southern peninsula are gone. This week, the remaining bits of autumn were swept away by a cold, stinging wind and fine rain. In the autumn, the light looked like it was carefully brushed onto the tips of the world surrounding me. Sometimes, I thought the earth looked like a painting, oozing with warm hues. The colors burst in my eye, and objects appeared to be glowing from within. The sun’s angle, nonetheless, was changing and the days were shortening. Shadows were deepening. Finally, this week, the universe flicked the switch, and the weather and my world now feel like winter. It isn’t like any winter I’ve experienced before. It is cold, but the world looks different. The landscape, for the most part, is still green with only a little brown poking out from behind. Most of the fingers of the vegetation still hold onto their leaves. Surprisingly, a few shrubs, such as the hibiscus, are still dotted with velvety reds or purples, yet the flowers are neither as vibrant as they were, nor are they opening as wide as they once did. Instead of being drained of their green chloroform entirely, reduced to browns and grays, the plants are softening and their substance is shrinking. Like that which happens to a pale, feverish child, an intangible force is draining the essence from things. Even the town appears to be shrinking. The people that walked along the streets have let the invisible force get the best of them too. Swallowed into the bowels of their homes, they warm themselves next to kerosene heaters.
So where does this change in season leave me? Lately, I am keeping myself busy by studying Japanese, reading for pleasure, listening to music with a new enthusiasm, and preparing English lessons. In short, I am very busy, but in my free time, I am learning Japanese or reading for pleasure.
JapaneseAs for Japanese, my conversational Japanese is ok, considering I don’t have any instruction in a classroom. I am able to do everyday tasks, such as go to the post office, the bank, the store, or to a restaurant. I can also chitchat with strangers about the weather, sports, hobbies, etc. I find it difficult, however, to evaluate my ability to speak the language. My assessment comes by the success or failure of a real-life task. I also compare myself to other first-year teachers studying Japanese. My communicative ability is better than most, but my reading and writing ability is dismal. Because of my poor reading and writing skills, I long for a classroom atmosphere with a reading and writing component. Nevertheless, I am currently forcing myself to read and write in hiragana and katakana. I am also getting help from neighbors or coworkers.
I do find myself avoiding certain communicative situations. For example, I won’t go to events that are primarily attended by people over 60. The reason is that most of the people of the older generation speak difficult dialect of Japanese that many native speakers cannot understand. Also, I find men, especially, don’t slow their rate of speech or simplify their language. When I don’t understand them, they simply talk louder, as if I can’t hear them, or get frustrated and stop talking to me.
Overall, I find it easiest to communicate with women or men in the field of education or people from the Honshu region. I believe it is easier to speak with women and teachers because they are used to changing and simplifying their speech for children. In addition, it is culturally acceptable for men to use more slang in public. Women tend to use standardized language when speaking to me, but I have read studies that show they will use the “men’s” language in private with other women. Incidentally, most of my study materials are in standard Japanese, so I can better understand people from the northern areas such as Tokyo. I try to study a little slang and non-standard Japanese. I find the most helpful books were purchased in Japan. From the United States, I have found the language CD’s my sister gave me have helped with pronunciation and listening. Regardless of my difficulties, I’m eager to use the language and practice as much as possible.
Am I learning about the cultural component so important to language? While I am learning the language, I don’t feel I’m learning about the deeper cultural components or history behind the language. For example, I’ve been going to cultural festivals for the town and schools, which are called
bunkasai. During these all day events, participants show off their traditional skills, such as dancing, drumming, and artistic ability. It can be compared to a county or state fair. There is a stage in a giant hall. Throughout the day, activity clubs or individuals show off their talent on the front stage while the back of the hall has a collection of traditional or non-traditional crafts, such as
ikebana (Japanese flower arrangement), dried flower arrangement, calligraphy, quilting, and watercolor. I am always astonished by the degree of skill exhibited by the artisans and performers. Nevertheless, I don’t know the history or purpose behind the performances or art forms. Because of my low-level Japanese proficiency, I cannot engage others in a dialogue about the pieces. I believe I’ll need to pick up some books on each art form. I am learning some things through osmosis, however.
Japanese LitereatureIn my leisure time, I am reading literature of Japan written in the last hundred years. I have been reading the works of Junichiro Tanizaki, Haruki Murakami, and Ryu Murakami. Tanizaki, in short, is described as one of the last modern writers of Japan. He was wrestling with the changes that were taking place in Japan, mostly westernization. Sexual desire is another theme throughout his novels. I read
Diary of a Mad Old Man, which is sumed up by its title. It was Tanizaki’s last novel. I’ve picked up a copy of
Naomi, which I’m going to read soon.
Like Tanizaki, Haruki Murikami’s novels are extremely introspective, but H. Murikami is ceaselessly bending genres and reality. All at once, his stories exude elements of science fiction, horror, fantasy, and realism. In his novels, I get the feeling that the “golden” age of Japan is dead; in the wake of its death, the postmodern man (Note: he is writing about men mostly in the “traditional” sense) is searching for his place in a ruptured society. I have thoroughly enjoyed H. Murakami. I find myself identifying with the male characters in his novels. The characters are extremely introspective and are on a journey to discover themselves in an absurd and complex world. H. Murakami’s themes revolve around sex, desire, loss, and, most importantly, the subconscious.
At times though, H. Murakami can overwrite the text and spoon-feed the reader the deeper meaning within the text. The book I’m currently reading,
Kafka on the Shore, is a bit too much. The book reminds me of the first year art student and his/her art. Most students have great ideas, but often there are too many ideas to pick from, resulting in a muddled piece. Not able to narrow down their focus and simplify their piece, the students usually end up including everything in the sculpture, painting, or photo, along with the kitchen sink (I was and still am that student!). As a result of the muddled message, I don’t find myself buying into the myths or illusions that H. Murakami creates in his latest. Furthermore, he is too obvious about the complexities in this novel. As the characters go through their labyrinths, I want to be there with them, breathing in the smells, hearing the sounds, and feeling their same sense of confusion. Nevertheless, I find nuggets of
Kafka on the Shore to be stunning. As I mentioned before, I can relate to the young men in his novels and their feelings of alienation. This passage, taking place within the mind of the main character, is a fine example of Murakami’s style and ability to ooze feelings of lonliness:
Alone in such a deep forest, the person called me feels empty, horribly empty. Oshima once used the term “hollow men”. Well, that’s what I’ve become. There’s a void inside me, a blank that’s slowly expanding, devouring what’s left of who I am. I can hear it happening. I’m totally lost, my identity dying. There’s no direction where I am, no sky, no ground…It’s as though I’m looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars, and no matter how far I stretch out my hand, I can’t touch them. I’m all alone in the middle of a dim maze. (508)Don’t worry. The characters find themselves within their labyrinths and learn how to ground themselves within the dizzying world. In other words, they learn to cope.
So far, of the two H. Murakami novels I’ve read, I feel that
Norwegian Wood, title taken from a Beatles song, is the better of the two. The Character development is amazing, natural, and believable and all the while saddening. I’ve heard the pinnacle of his style and voice is conveyed in his novel
The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, which I will read in the near future.
Ryu Murakami, of no relation to H. Murakami, in my opinion, writes with a completely different voice. Of course, I’ve only read one short story.
Almost Transpararent Blue is a novella about a drug induced youth. Like H. Murakami, the theme of alienation is prevalent, but it is voiced through a haze of drug intoxication and a lack of inwardness. The characters float through a chain of events. H. Murikami hangs onto the Japanese tradition of inward voice, whereas R. Murakami describes the situation as though he is cockroach crawling along a moldy wall, witnessing a surreal enigmatic orgy, headed dubiously toward a rotting heap of filth. In other words, his writing is extraordinary, almost indescribable. Lost in his hallucinations, I get the sense I’m somewhere between an Edward Munch painting and William S. Burroughs story. While his writing is disgusting and at the same time beautiful, I don’t feel like things are resolved toward the end. I feel more empty at the end of the book than I did at the beginning.
What insights have I gained through all this bizarre literature? Other than a little info about Japanese student rebellion in the sixties or the big earthquake in Tokyo, I haven’t had much insight into the history of Japan. I get a better sense, however, that the Japanese youth are uninterested in the past, and the youth are going through some difficult changes. I can see it taking place around me. Much of the youth hang out in front of malls, convenience stores, or fast food joints looking bored, yet beaming with anxiety. I think David Bowie describes the situation much better than I can in his song
Changes:
But stil the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They’re quite aware of what they’re going through
Likewise, I saw and experienced this in the U.S. Murikami seems to be warning the reader that Japan’s good old days are at its ropes end, but he doesn't leave his readers without hope. I’m not sure what those days included, but society is going through yet another transformation. Change always has and always will take place, however.
MusicI have been listening to a lot of music lately with a sharpened ear. My exposure to English outside my apartment is limited. Other than poorly written phrases and slogans on t-shirts or billboards, I don’t come across much English. Of course, I use and hear a lot in the classroom, but it isn’t the English tightly bound to my culture. As a result, I’ve began to have a heightened sense and acute reaction to words, especially when attached to music.
When I listened to music before coming to Japan, I was listening on an emotional level. I tuned out the words and let the notes and chords hit me. I would slip into the notes like warm bath water, submerged and lost within them. Subconsciously, the notes pulled out my emotions like books shelved within a library. One note would pull out a sense of happiness, another would pull out sadness, and another would stumble upon frustration.
The words, however, never occurred to me. I never even thought about them. I don’t think I was ready for them. Being in Japan, though, I spend more time with them. I find myself digesting them with intense pleasure. Like fine food, their aroma is inhaled in, letters cling to my tongue, are chewed, then swallowed. With the words, I have been digesting the history of the American music legacy. While I was always somewhat aware of it, I now feel the need to know everything about it. The history of African American influence on American music is especially interesting. The blues and gospel were born from an ugly womb of slavery. Such beauty and creative spirit survived and continuous today within such ugliness. I will assert that American music has been such an impressive art form because of African Americans. Rhythms, chants, and ingenuity were fused with folk music, which turned music upside down, morphing into Jazz, Rock and Roll, and Hip Hop.
Here is one of the songs I’ve been Chewing on recently from Bob Dylan’s Album
Blood on the Tracks 1975:
"Shelter from the Storm"
’twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured
I’ll always do my best for her, on that I give my word
In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved
Everything up to that point had been left unresolved.
Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail,
Poisoned in the bushes an’ blown out on the trail,
Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
Suddenly I turned around and she was standin’ there
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair.
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost
I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed.
Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount
But nothing really matters much, it’s doom alone that counts
And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
I’ve heard newborn babies wailin’ like a mournin’ dove
And old men with broken teeth stranded without love.
Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes
I bargained for salvation an’ they gave me a lethal dose.
I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."
Well, I’m livin’ in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross the line
Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.
If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born.
Come in, she said,
"I’ll give you shelter from the storm."TeachingI do not think I'm prepared to describe my teaching experience just yet. I feel like a child wading in the shallow end of a big, deep pool. Soon enough, I will be able to takes laps from end to end. I can say that I have started an English club. While I wanted to do a pen pal letter exchange, things did not work out. I am instead teaching the junior high kids about the history of American music.
