Small Cuts

                One of the hardest things about living abroad, I think, is deciding on your presence.  It isn’t a one and done kind of decision.  It’s a daily choice and more often than not it’s one we make multiple times throughout the day, sometimes without even noticing.                 

                

               For most of us this isn’t our first time living in another country.  Orientation is more of a light buzzing in our ears than a reassuring guide to living in Japan.  We’ve been through our fair share of embarrassing blunders and somehow made it to the other side, so we ignore the gentle reminders about cultural fatigue.  It’s not that we aren’t susceptible to it but we’re well acquainted with the healing properties of Netflix and red wine (insert favorite pastime/beverage here).     

                

               And for those who are newly inducted into the life of a nomad, you’ll notice that despite all the advice there really isn’t any magic cure for what we experience here.  Because living in Japan is much like living in our home countries and it’s hard not because Japan is so different but because living is a constant struggle.    

                

              On top of that, living abroad is littered with dangerous potholes of guilt.  That guilt can show up in many forms – guilt over lack of language ability, over lack of studying, over misunderstanding a situation, guilt over taking up space that isn’t yours.

                

               The JET program recognizes this and even tries to gauge our reaction to that guilt.  During the interview phase most of us probably received a question concerning awkward encounters in the workspace and though the prompts varied the purpose was the same. 

                

               Would we prioritize our own comfort in such a situation?  Or would we prioritize the culture of our guests and bite our tongues?  Under the harsh fluorescent light of the Japanese embassy the answer was obvious and we all chose the right answer because we’re mature adults.  At least that’s what I used to tell myself. 

                

                A few weeks ago I stumbled upon a festival in Arao, Shich-Go-San (7-5-3).  I’d heard of the festival before but I’d never had the chance to go nor, to be honest, the interest.  My idea of Shichi-Go-San was akin to parents in America dragging plastic combs through their children’s hair in a JC Penney’s, praying they get that Christmas card shot.    

              

                 But driving by the road blocks I realized how wrong I was.  The backdrop for the event was an impressive shrine with an equally impressive torii beckoning families forward.  On the other side was a giant stage featuring a dazzling display of acrobatics moving in time to the beat of a taiko drum.  Surrounding it were the usual festival trappings; rows of stands offering everything from fire engine red candy apples to sticks of glistening chicken grilled to a crisp. 

                

                And then something caught my eye.  Standing to the side was a beautiful white horse with colorful tassels tied to its thick mane and an elaborate bridle decorated in a similar motif.  Along its back was a blanket imbued with rich yellows and reds and though it was gorgeous it looked stifling in the humid weather. 

    Despite the attire and the chaotic drums beating in the background, the horse was a tranquil moment frozen in time.  In fact it took more than a few glances to confirm the horse wasn’t a perfectly crafted statue.     

              

                It wasn’t until I spotted the crying child being swung over its back and the two pieces of rope leading away from its bit towards stone posts that I realized what was going on.  Family members stood opposite the scene with their iPads raised high, cooing at their children to look their way, intent on snapping the perfect shot. 

                

                For all intents and purposes that horse was a statue.  All they wanted from it was the promise of immobility so their precious son or daughter got their chance atop its back.  The only discernible movement, the only thing it was allowed to do, was lift its back hoof off the ground.  Every so often it would adjust its weight and carefully rest its hoof at an angle in the hard dirt.  I was instantly reminded of my own posture while teaching, one foot lifted up to give the other a rest, knowing I still had three more classes to get through before I sat down. 

                

                 I was angry.  I was angry with the attendants in their colorful garb lifting child after child onto this poor horse’s back.  I was angry with the parents for laughing at the scene in front of them, I was angry with the children screeching directly into the horse’s ears and I was angry with myself for becoming implicit in this circus by taking pictures. 

                

                 I thought about attempting a half-hazard jail break.  It involved feverishly cutting the ropes and thwarting off would be saboteurs.  At the very end there would be a Free Willy moment with the horse and I connecting eyes before it charged through the crowds and out to freedom.  At the very least I considered glaring at the parents but in the end I settled with grumbling loudly in English to my companion, though I’m sure the nearby performance drowned out my feeble protest.

                

                 In that moment I made a decision about my presence.  I chose the path of mature adult and I made myself smaller so as not to offend my hosts.  I prioritized the comfort of the country I was in over my own and that of the horse.  I don’t know if it was the right choice to stay quiet but I do believe I made the only choice available to me.  And I guess that makes me a mature adult.    

                

                 I’m sure there are some who would tell me in that moment that I simply didn’t understand.  If I brought it up with my old eikaiwa students they might tell me, gently smiling so as to soften the blow, that it was a Japanese tradition and I misunderstood. 

                

                 And maybe they would be right.  The truth is I will never fully understand Japanese tradition because I didn’t grow up with it.  I can appreciate the cultural significance of Shichi-Go-San but I will never know what it’s like to have my gangly adolescent body coerced into a kimono for a shrine visit.  I will never have the memory of chomping down on a Chitose Ame and struggle with the rice paper sticking to the roof of my mouth.  I will never pass around a plastic container of yakisoba amongst my friends and laugh at the children throwing tantrums. 

                

                 But that’s the problem with simply chalking up moments of frustration to ‘cultural misunderstanding’.  That phrase is tossed around so much that it becomes internalized within us as a guilt we begin to carry.  Any problem we have then becomes a problem borne of our own ignorance and thus no one else’s fault but ours.   

    The difficult reality is that no one is really in the wrong.  The truth is that horse holds a significant cultural importance to the Shichi-Go-San festival that I will never understand.  The truth is that horse suffered discomfort that day and people were responsible for that discomfort. 

    In that situation there wasn’t anything I could do and you might find yourself in a similar predicament were there’s no outlet to express your frustrations.  That’s why accepting them as valid is so important.  As immigrants to Japan (travelers, expats, interlopers, adventurers, whatever terminology you prefer) we might not always have a place in the conversation and our opinions might not matter to anyone else.  And that’s fine.  But, at the very least, you can recognize your discomfort as valid even if you have to keep it hidden. 

                

                 After all, whether we live in Japan or we return home, there will always be times when we feel out of step with the world. 

    This isn’t particular to Japan.  Wherever you find immigrants, expats, nomads, travelers – whatever terminology you want to use, I bet anything you’ll find a similar sentiment.  Every day we are affirming our presence and influencing how we are perceived.    

               

                Some days it’s easy to walk freely with our ‘other’ identity stamped firmly on our foreheads.  Some days we make ourselves small so we can slip by unnoticed and count the minutes down until we get home.  And then there are the unexpected situations that force us to reaffirm those decisions. 

                

                There are times we have to make ourselves small to fit a situation and it cuts into us.  It’s not a large cut but it’s there and after a while they begin to add up, festering deep down inside us. 

               
                    So next time you feel guilty, next time you think you aren’t doing enough or your own shortcomings are responsible for a misunderstanding, just remember this – your frustration is valid.  Your anger is real and thus you shouldn’t ignore it.  There might not be able to voice that frustration but at the very least you shouldn’t blame yourself for it.  It’s simply the hazard of living.

The Dead Inside

This is the second entry in my newest series of stories based on photos taken around Kami-Amakusa.  This photo was taken in Ryugatake, a small fishing town towards the lower end of the island.  The woman in the picture is a fellow teacher, Charlotte Delautre, and has nothing to do with the contents of the story.  Fear not.  

Perspiration dripped down her face and collected in the hollow of her neck. Her shirt was wet underneath her breasts from the constant sheen of sweat that never seemed to dry. The earth was glorious and vibrant but the price for it was tacky skin and a never ending cloud of mosquitoes. Heat brought the earth back from the dead and its children were intent on swarming the glass surrounding Selena.


The dial tone blared in Selena’s ear whiting out the sound of cicadas buzzing in the trees. She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there with the phone pressed to her ear. The bus ticket crumpled on the counter said arrival time was 9:30 and it was noon now, where those hours in between went Selena couldn’t say. She got off the bus, that part she remembered, and then there was a man sitting in the waiting station, thin legs, emaciated body, and familiar face….


No. It was just residual paranoia from her last job. Selena cleared her mind and focused on her reflection in the glass. There were new lines feathered around her mouth and crinkles at the corner of her eyes. Lack of sleep on the journey over hadn’t done her any favors but even still, she looked like a ghost with one foot in the grave. Some days she felt that way. Her muscles didn’t dance as well as they used to around her prey and this last job?


Well, Selena thought, this might be my last outing for a while. Sel dug through her cluttered memory for the right numbers and quickly punched it into the dial pad before they slipped away again. She wound her fingers around the green cord despite the coat of grime stuck on the plastic.


Ring. Ring.


Out of the corner of her eye she caught a pair of dull brown eyes staring at her. There he was again. A pale man with pinched features and sunken cheeks sloping downwards into a weak chin. If Selena looked down she knew she wouldn’t see a body attached. She knew because he had been popping up lately, sometimes in the shower when the mirror was marred with fog, sometimes flashing at her on a bus window.


He watched her though his eyes were dull and flat. Every once and a while Sel could see bits of her face superimposed on his own and in those moments she felt the most fear. As if he was slowly peeling pieces of her away until they were one in the same, reflections forever stuck on this grimy glass.


There was something stuck on his face this time. A mole? No, too big. Selena peered closer bringing her face right up against the hot glass. The misshapen lump suddenly changed form, a piece of it breaking off to flutter vehemently against the booth. It was a June bug, half smeared across the glass doing a funny jig trying to pull its body free from the gummy cage its innards created.


When she pulled her gaze back away from the dying creature, the man was gone. It was just her tired face staring back at her and the June bug dancing on her cheek.


“Hello?”

***

“Hello?”


A weak voice poked out from around the corner, coming from the hallway. Selena, eagerly waiting for him in his room, took a haphazard step forward to catch a glimpse of her prey. She accidentally knocked into a bookcase and announced her presence early with a dull thud.


“Sel?”


He turned into his room and at first there was a look of pleasant surprise on his face. It lasted there even after Selena stepped forward, the momentum carrying the knife in her hand straight into his gut. This was the closest Selena had ever allowed him to get. She wanted to him to see her clearly so he could finally understand the disgust he inspired in her.


“Ngggh….”


She half expected him to fight her. Instead he gripped her arms, falling further onto her as though she were a life raft and not his killer. The room was filled with a symphony of pain filled grunts but he never spoke a word.


His knees hit the floor and the knife slipped out of his abdomen, a steady stream of blood trickling from the open wounds and onto her socks, soaking them through. She had left her shoes at the front door out of a strong compulsion for etiquette – her mother had never allowed them to enter a house with dirty shoes. That must have been why he knew it was her.


His face pressed against her abdomen as he knelt on the floor, struggling to breathe. Spittle seeped through her t-shirt and the warm material stuck to her like sweaty clothes on a hot summer day.


She wrapped her arms around his chest and lifted him up noting how unnervingly light he was even as a corpse. For one moment their bodies were flush together and right before she swung him onto the bed she felt something sharp catch on the hem of her shirt.


She looked down to see herself covered in blood and a pencil poking out of his jean pocket. Bright yellow save for a smudge of red near the led. A Ticonderoga, the kind his mother always bought him and the kind he always drew spirals on.


Selena tucked it back into his jeans and in the process noticed a dark trail of moisture snaking its way down from his crotch and down to his ankle. Selena forgot to take account for that, not that it mattered. The duvet would have to go anyways, what was a little bit of piss along with blood?


Because she knew his parents wouldn’t be home until late Selena took her time appreciating what she created, the sight, the smells, the electric charge in her own body. The carpet behind her was streaked with blood and her own feet were tracking maroon footprints around the bed. The duvet underneath the body was slowly turning from a light grey into dark black as the material became bloated with blood. To Sel it was a beautiful mosaic that she had created with an idea and a knife. Part of her didn’t want to get rid of the body but rather leave it so that moment of release stayed permanent in that room.


In that moment she saw herself clearly. She was a part of something bigger, a movement in the world that quietly shuffled those without a place out to make room for others, not unlike a virus or an otherworldly power personified. In that moment, Selena did not think about the dead boy behind her.

***

“Hello?”


“Tamra?”


“Sel, is that you?”


“It’s done.”


Sel watched her lips move in the glass but they didn’t look like hers. They looked fleshier somehow, as if someone had stripped a layer of skin from them. It was the moisture in the air turning everything into a bloated, shinier version of itself.


“Bout time. Starting to think I wasn’t gonna hear from you this time around. Where are you now?”


“Where we agreed.”


“You have the address then. The key should be in the mailbox. The box code is 4361.”


Selena wrote the number in the grime of the window. Bits of pristine green cut through and she caught herself wondering if his face would peek in right at the clean gaps, but all she saw was her own dour skin. The older she got the more Selena felt like a carton of milk left in a hot car, slowly churning until she transformed into something else altogether.


“So there wasn’t any trouble? Everything went according to plan right?”


Selena thought about the body waving back and forth along with the other lake vegetation. She flexed her free hand and let her fingers walk across the glass cutting into her reflection. The memory of yesterday was still fresh in the muscle and even now her fingers recalled the way the man’s sweaty skin spilled out over her grip.


“Of course. See you in a few weeks.”

***

When Selena first met Mark she was afraid of him. It wasn’t a fear of being hurt though; at least then she might have understood or known what to do. She could have gone to a teacher or a police officer, asked them for help. There was a protocol set in place for things like that. People were always ready to tell teens her age what to do if they felt threatened or how to stay safe.


But no one ever told her what to do if she felt someone was in danger from her. There was no one to confide in but even if she had, the adults would have laughed and agreed. Because Mark was in danger from everything. He was barely as tall as the girls in Selena’s class and he had to poke extra holes in all his belts just to keep his pants up. And unlike most of the other boys in his class, Mark’s arms never filled up the sleeve of a t-shirt but rather stuck out like sharp knives, cutting into anyone that walked by.


He was pathetic. And for some reason he liked Selena. She didn’t understand why, she was never particularly nice to him and once she realized how dangerous her repulsion for him was she did her best to put a wall between them.


But he never gave up. He was always there sitting next to her, in class or on the bus and she always knew when he was nearby. His chest would rattle with almost every breath like some TB-riddled whore right out of the Victorian age - the sound alone sent electric shivers down Sel’s spine. There were days when Sel dreamed of cutting his chest open with the biology scissors and poking a hole in his lungs with her pencil to drain the phlegm out.


Sometimes during class he would have to leave to take some new pill, something that was meant to cure him of whatever mysterious illness that wracked his weak body that week, and usually those were the only moments she was given reprieve. It was then the fog of utter disgust would finally lift and Sel saw the world the way she figured everyone else did - normal and boring. A teacher droning on about the human reproductive system and a badly illustrated textbook from 10 years ago staring up at her with crude drawings left over from other disgruntled teens.


But then Mark was back with his rattling lungs, his bad back, his watery eyes, his clammy hands, and Sel was pulled back into the dark pit of hate. From the corner of her eyes she saw his pale fingertips reaching for his Ticonderoga pencil, his skin sallow from bad circulation, and there was always a moment where he tried reaching farther than necessary so his cold fingers could touch her own.


There were days she wished he had. Then at least she would have an excuse to take their large Biology textbook and slam it onto his hand over and over until the bones broke. In her daydreams it only took two tries before his fingers snapped.

***

It was night time when Selena reached her new home. It was a five story apartment complex and her room was on the second floor. The key was in the mailbox just as Tamra said and after Selena dialed the key code in she lugged her modest belongings as well as two grocery bags brimming with food. The plastic handles dug into her hands leaving behind red angry marks and by the time she wrestled the door open she was too tired to think about the day’s events.


The place was modest, little to no furniture save for a bed frame with a deflated mattress, a few bar stools in the kitchen, and an old dresser pushed against the window. But there was a gas stove and a refrigerator and in Selena’s experience as long as she had that and a roof she could make do.


Selena grabbed her camping set and pulled out a pot, pouring a can of black beans into it before placing it on the stove. She watched as the viscous juice bubbled, pockets of heat escaping into the air each time the beans shifted. Sitting on one of the bar stools, Selena popped open a beer and carefully toasted a piece of bread on the other burner.


Her gaze pulled back to the pot and her vision tunneled turning individual beans into a single shiny black surface. It reminded her of chemistry class in high school, waiting for the Bunsen burners to light and watching the reaction transform whatever concoction they created that day.


Selena rarely found herself thinking about the past. She had always kept her mind focused on the present, it was the reason she considered herself so accomplished at her career. But now it was as if old age demanded she recall every last bit of her life before it disappeared for good. First she couldn’t stop seeing his face everywhere she went and now she was forced to remember what it was like to sit next to him…


No.


Old age or not, Selena refused to be a slave to her own brain. She was sure there would be a time, perhaps sometime soon, where her thoughts would not be her own but rather crazed delusions caused by misfiring neurons. When that time came she would have no choice but to accept her entrapment but until then her shriveled husk of a body was still her own.


And if her mind wished to recount the days then she would oblige with thoughts of her most recent kill, a good habit not unlike a soccer player reviewing old matches. Selena replayed those days back starting from when she arrived in the backwoods of West Virginia. She downed the beer in her hand and opened another one – it had not been an easy job.


She had slept horribly in a dingy house with only a thin palette and a sleeping bag as a bed. Her mark was living in the neighborhood and for days Selena watched him in his front yard with a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and a Miller Lite beer can perpetually glued to his left hand. For a short while Selena believed she would have to give herself up and trick him into his house or slit his throat right on that lawn until she found him slinking off to find work at a nearby metal factory.


It was easy to trap him there in one of the many maze-like exits to the parking garage and with the constant flow of new workers no one would noticed when he didn’t show up. Selena stuffed him in the back of a clunky wagon she picked up and drove for a good while until she got to the run-off lake she plotted on her map that week. It sat right at the ass end of a retirement community and since the zombies locked inside, already victims to their own neural disconnect, were too gorked to go swimming it was mostly used as a means to get rid of human waste. No one would be poking around in that mess.


Selena stirred the beans and quickly dipped a finger into the hot liquid to check the temperature. Her skin came out pink and tender and she licked the shiny juice off quickly. Now she was back in civilization with no mosquitoes buzzing around her ears, no hounds barking at every car that drove by, and no redneck neighbors screaming at one another to shut up. She could relax in peace and polish off the six-pack without worrying about any surprise visitors.


Tomorrow she could think about getting a T.V. but for tonight she would appease herself with the small comforts of hot food and a dog-eared paperback she had been sitting on for a while. And she would quiet the past back into empty static.

***

Selena’s toes were wet. Whenever she took a step liquid seeped out of her socks and spread afresh across her feet. The toes were the worst, all that wetness bubbling in between each one and it was all she could do to stop from wriggling them around in that mess. At least the blood had chilled. When it was fresh the warmth of it scared her. She never stopped to think before today about the blood rushing in humans, never stopped to think how hot it must be traveling from organ to organ.


The truth of it was she hadn’t prepared very well. That morning she packed an extra shirt and an extra pair of pants for good measure but it never occurred to her she might need new socks. Sel also brought a book with her, in case it took a while for him to get home and two granola bars in case her energy got low. The funny thing was throughout the entire encounter she’d never felt more alive in her life.


It wasn’t until afterwards when the adrenaline finally tapered off and the world turned from spectacular Technicolor back to drab reality that the exhaustion finally set in. She polished the chocolate granola bars off one right after the other without bothering to clean up. It didn’t occur to Selena that her hands were covered in blood until milk chocolate turned into a copper tang in her mouth and she saw the blood lining her nail beds.


The taste alone should have turned her stomach. Then there was the smell – the blood wasn’t as offensive as was the stench of urine. She hadn’t moved him since she tossed him on the bed and now it turned into a stagnant pool of piss beneath him. It occurred to her the longer she left the body there the harder it would be to scour the room clean but for some reason the urgency of her situation no longer reached her. It was as if the moment her knife slid into the body all the tension stuck inside Selena had been released and when she pulled the knife out all the energy in the room ran out along with the blood.


So Sel enjoyed the peace. She took her time unwrapping the second granola bar and once again found herself absentmindedly licking dirty fingers as she examined her toes wriggling inside her bright red socks. She had never been covered in anyone else’s blood before.


There was only one question nagging at Sel, only one question that threatened the calm in the room.


What should I do with the body?

***

Selena finished her meal and was about to soak the dishes to wash in the morning when she heard a knock on the door.


The rat-tat-tat cut through the beer haze surrounding her sobering her up and adrenaline kicked in turning the world back into a crystal clear image. Everything was audible at 50 decibels, the dust falling onto the carpet, the soap bubbles popping in the sink, the person outside rocking ever so slightly in a standing position by her door.


“Coming.”


She carefully set down the bowl and wiped her hands on her pants. She reminded herself that no one knew she was here. She had no friends or acquaintances and the only person with the address was Tamra. It was probably just a Jehovah’s Witness waiting with the word of God. How many times had she been waiting in the safe house answering the door to find a girl scout or a Mr. Rogers-type welcoming her to the neighborhood?


Despite that her feet moved slowly, preserving each step with a heavy fsssh every time her foot sunk into the carpet. Was the person behind the door counting her steps? That’s what Selena would have been doing. She would have been waiting with an ear pressed to the door and something heavy in her hand.


“Hnnnn……haaa……hhhnnnnn…..”


Selena could hear whoever it was from the other side of the thick door. Rattling sips of air that lent to images of a leper leaning against her doorway releasing stale air from chapped lips.


“Hello?”


She swung the door open and firmly planted her feet in the ground. There he was again, all dull skin, sunken cheeks, and lackluster gaze. Dry lips turned upwards into a smile and then began to separate, dead flakes of skin clinging together until the seal was broken and blackened teeth were revealed.


But then she blinked and like the reel of a stereoscope the image was gone and there was nothing in front of her but empty hallway.


Selena’s first thought was to blame the beer. Maybe she heard someone else knocking in the hallway or it was someone with the wrong apartment number. As for the man? Well, Selena expected to see him again. These days he always seemed to be lurking in the back of her mind, perhaps her imagination manifested him into reality just to have someone to blame.


Maybe that rest home isn’t so far away after all, Selena thought.


The hallway disappeared behind the heavy wooden door as she let it swing shut when she heard a dull thunk. A sliver of light remained visible and Saffron looked down to see something blocking the door from closing. She bent down and reached out to pick it up, her fingers rooting out an oblong shape that felt oddly familiar in her grip.


Ticonderoga.


A number 2 pencil, mustard yellow with bright green lettering, harkening back to younger days of crowded hallways and hot classrooms packed with sweating bodies. She immediately recognized it and was not surprised at all to find a spiral drawn on the top.


She was even less surprised when she turned it over to see a single smudge of red staring back at her, bits of carpet lint clinging to the nearly dried blood stain. So, he wasn’t going away then. She should have known it would only get worse. Without another thought Selena bent down near the entrance and grabbed her shoes. She stuck the pencil into her front pocket and walked into the empty hallway, letting the front door close behind her.

***

The first time Selena seriously considered acting on her hatred was junior year. Summer had been a dazzling reprieve from sickness, ailments, and the constant nausea that followed Selena whenever Mark was around. He had disappeared to a summer camp meant for students with an eclectic assortment of problems. He explained it in great depth while Selena nibbled at an egg sandwich ignoring the acrid stench of antiseptic that hung about him.


He stayed there for two months holed up with kids his age that had everything from asthma to degenerative disorders. He sounded thrilled to join them in modified games of football that involved no running, swimming that became paddling in two inches of water, and nature hikes in a controlled room with carefully chosen vegetation.


While he was away Sel never once thought about that wracking cough Mark could never quell or the weak apologies he made while following her home from school asking for a reprieve from the sun. She ran and ran and ran enjoying the burn in her muscles and never once thought about what it must be like to be unable to push her body to that breaking point.


And then September rolled around. Sel had finished unpacking her chemistry supplies when she saw Mark’s skeletal figure poke in from the doorway. Seeing him struggle past the crowd towards the seat next to her, Selena suddenly realized what had been missing in her life for the past two months.


It was that underlying current of nausea in her stomach. It was the frustration constantly simmering inside her when she watched his unnatural fight against the world. And that day she finally understood where it all came from; it was an infection borne from his insides and it threatened to bleed out onto the world around him.


If he touched her, if any part of his defective body brushed against hers, he would transfer that sickness to her and she would become lame. The mere idea of being trapped inside her own body with the world threatening to kill her terrified Sel to such a point she knocked his pencil case over spilling a half dozen Ticonderoga pencils onto the linoleum. She looked back only once to see his pasty face gaping at her and the spirals atop his pencils rotating in an endless loop on the ground.


She didn’t remember running down the hallway or pushing past the stragglers on their way to class. The next thing she knew she was dry-heaving into the toilet. It was then that Selena understood what needed to happen next and despite the pains in her stomach she felt relief. The malleable existence that graced all adolescents hardened that day for Selena, solidifying into a set path.


She would have to take on the role of healer, the role of mother mercy floating down from a higher order. There was no other word for it but mercy, Selena thought to herself, slumped against the filthy bathroom stall with spittle running down her chin. If Mark was an infection then it stood to reason the only option that was left was removal. She would rid herself of this disease and rid the town of it as well. And Mark?


He had come out a mistake. A bad line of DNA that needed to be crushed before it spread into a larger gene pool.


That was the first time she planned a murder, on the cracked tile of the second floor girl’s bathroom with the chatter of daily gossip bleeding in from the halls.

***

The hallways were empty when she left her apartment and Selena didn’t bump into anyone in the complex on her way out. The pencil was in her pocket slightly poking into her thigh every time she took a step.


It didn’t bother her though. Each jab was a reminder that it had been real and she had seen him in the hallway. Even if he was only visible to her, even if the pinprick of the sharpened pencil was a broken connection misfiring in her brain, Selena could rely on the slight discomfort reappearing each time she lifted her foot.


She could have easily stayed in the apartment. There was a giant mirror in the bathroom not to mention the window by the bed. Selena was sure if she stood in front of one long enough he would show up, older with a receding hair line and leathered skin not unlike her own. Was it some cruel joke her brain played on her that she had to see him as an adult? If so it didn’t work, he looked just as she imagined he would if he had lived to see old age. Unimpressive.


But an empty apartment was not where the ensuing conversation needed to take place. It needed to be somewhere that belonged to neither of them, somewhere that had already been forgotten by most and yet was constantly surrounded by an endless cycle of life and death.


Selena walked quickly without pause. She was certain of the location, she had just been there this morning. She could have gotten on the bus or taken a cab but that didn’t feel right. She needed the half hour or so it took to get there, to piece together where this all stemmed from. She knew she had to go back to the beginning otherwise he wouldn’t show up. And she needed him to show up. She needed this to be over.

***

The handle of the knife dug into Sel’s back, slapping against her with an even rhythm each time she took a step. Her dirty socks, clothes and the last bits of the duvet were stuffed along with the weapon in Selena’s backpack. Her plan was to burn it and scatter the ashes along the dump at the edge of town. The knife would have to be tossed into any old pile of rubbish though Selena would have preferred to keep it.


There wasn’t much traffic on the road at this hour and Selena was grateful. Though by her slightly ragged appearance and plump backpack she figured most people would mark her as a stray runaway, there was still the chance someone might recognize her.


By the time she reached the dump, it was close to three in the morning. It was easy to jump the fence by the parking lot and since this had been the town dump for years no one thought about putting in overhead lights or cameras. Everyone trusted everyone here. Selena wondered if that would change after what she did.


She found a nice round pit where someone else had already burned their refuse and got to work setting up her fire. Her father taught her a long time ago how to start a fire with every day trash around the house in a heavy handed attempt at bonding. He had intended for it to be useful information should she ever get lost or should an unforeseen doomsday event occur. Selena was sure he hadn’t expected his information to be put to such horrific use.


Once the flames grew tall enough, Selena pulled out the dirty clothes one at a time and tossed them in. With each addition the fire roared anew sending a blast of hot air that blew across her face. When there was nothing left but the backpack and the knife wrapped in cellophane, Selena tossed the pack in as well and quietly waited until there was nothing left but ashes. When all was said and done she grabbed a broom from the trash heaps and swept the gray dust high into the air, letting it scatter into the night.


On her way out, Selena found what she thought was a nice enough junk pile – a heap of T.V. sets with tangled wires weaving in and out of the broken screens. They looked like intestines to her, pressed up close to one another and diving straight into the heart of the pile. She tossed the knife in and watched as the cables swallowed it up until the only sign of it was a faint glint that caught the glow of passing headlights.


Then Selena headed back home. Her duffel was waiting for her there and all she had to do was grab it before she left for the train station. People would look for her she didn’t doubt that and they might even curse her for what she did. They wouldn’t realize her action was born of pragmatic compassion but that didn’t matter to her. Soon they would forget about her because the town cared as much for her as they did for her victim. Selena was sure once she was sitting on the train she would never think of this place again.

***

“Hello?”


Selena cradled the handset on her shoulder, the dial tone droning pleasantly in her ear.


A broken street light flickered nearby, illuminating her reflection in the phone booth in Morse code. She didn’t expect him to show up right away. He would keep her waiting and Selena couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep her in suspense.


But he would show up because he would want his revenge. She knew that and she wasn’t about to deny him. If she was being honest the reason she never thought about him before, not until recently, was because she knew if she did her memory of that day would look much different


She wasn’t the hero she made herself out to be. There was nothing merciful about what she did even if she believed that wholeheartedly as a child. She was the monster that hid under the bed for Mark and now it was his turn to play bogeyman.


“Long time.”


The flickering light beat out a new code, the empty blackness that switched back and forth from Selena’s face was replaced by a new image – Mark.


“What? Cat got your tongue?”


The dial tone filtered out into rough static and in between the white noise was a hoarse voice. It sounded nothing like the boy she knew. Back then his voice had always been heady and it brought images of sinuses clogged with mucus. Now it was raspy and old, like that of someone who hadn’t spoken in a long while.


“How are you?”


Her green eyes turned brown then green then brown again. The face was much, much older this time. The corners of his eyes sprouted off into a spider’s web of wrinkles and the hair at his temples was peppered with gray streaks. The weak chin that Mark never seemed to grow into only became more pathetic with age dropping off into a turkey neck. His skin was just as yellow as Selena’s, though, but with far more liver spots. Or was that dried blood?


“Dead, my dear. Just as you left me.”


Thin lips turned upwards into a smile. Behind those cracked lips were rotting teeth. They flashed onto the glass and off again, melting into the dark woods every other beat.


“Why did you wait so long to come back?”


Selena asked him. The static came back stronger and suddenly she was the only one left in the reflection. This time she saw how old she truly was. She looked no better than Mark and her own hair had gone wiry and white.


“Mark?”


She reached a hand out to the glass. It was still warm from this afternoon.


“I could ask you the same thing. Why did you wait so long to think about me?”


He was back. Shaggy eyebrows furrowed down, watery brown eyes that used to be dull now held a spark in them, a spark of anger. The June bug from this afternoon was finally dead but now it was smeared across Mark’s cheek and every so often Selena thought she saw his tongue dart out to wipe it into his mouth.


“I thought I was doing you a favor.”


“No. You hated me. You wanted to know what it felt like to kill something. And there I was, pathetic and adoring.”


“I-“


“Don’t lie!”


A high pitched tone cut through the static piercing Selena’s ear. She nearly dropped the handset but regained her composure, focusing herself on the center of Mark’s forehead. Just keep that spot in your mind, she thought. Just keep it there.


Selena dug the pencil out from her pocket and laid it on the counter.


“You left this for me, didn’t you? You know what I used to think about during class?”


She continued, rolling the pencil back and forth enjoying the sound each raised edge made on the metal as it twirled.


“I used to think about jamming this pencil into your eye.”


No more lies, she thought. That’s what he said and she didn’t want to die lying.


“I know. You think I never noticed how you recoiled at my touch? I knew how you felt. But you were so strong and so sure of your spot in this world. I envied you.”


A fluttering of wings rapped against the glass distracting Selena from the troublesome words pouring out of Mark’s cracked lips. A fresh horde of June bugs dove in kamikaze formation into the glass attracted to the light. She was trapped, cornered by insects and confronted by old enemies.


“You think we were so different Sel, but the truth is you and I are the same.”


“Is that so?”


“No one cared after we were gone. No one came looking for you. Everyone knew it was you that did it. Even my parents. But you know what? They were just glad they didn’t have to pay for my meds anymore.”


“No one came looking for me cause I covered my tracks.”


Barks of laughter filled the headset. It sounded like there were hundreds of voices trapped inside, fighting to get out. Selena thought she could recognize a few of them. An old woman with a large inheritance. A young businessman with a jealous partner. The southern drawl of a drunk metal worker. All the dead inside Selena.


“Please. I thought I said no lying? That includes lying to yourself.”


“So what do you want Mark?”


“We belong together Sel, you and I. You’re just as weak as I am. There’s something rotting inside you and you can’t control it. You couldn’t back then and you can’t now.”


Mark. Selena. Mark. Selena. The stereogram was back but the images were interchanging so rapidly the two began to blur together. The cracks on her skin became the cracks on his skin. His rotting teeth infiltrated her mouth leaving behind decaying enamel. The color of her eyes slowly drained until she could only see Mark’s hollow gaze seeping out of them.


“You want to kill me.”


The monster in the glass laughed. The static in the phone grew and grew, no longer coming from the handset but enveloping her in an electric embrace. The phone fell from her grip and the voice from the glass reached out to her clearly.


“I just want you Sel. That’s all I want.”


The world shifted and in the blink of an eye Selena was staring at herself from the other side - her body left behind in the booth and her true self imprinted onto the insect ridden glass. On the other side a cold bony hand picked up hers and squeezed tightly. Mark’s dead fingers cut into hers but she held on just as tightly, relishing in the sharp sensation.


The old woman in the phone booth stared at the pair in the glass. Her eyes were clouded and milky and there was nothing left inside but slowly deteriorating organs. The two ghosts in the glass called out to her and the woman didn’t hesitate to respond. Her neck reared back and she used the built up energy to carry her head forward into the grimy reflection, splintered glass marring the smiling couple.


Buzzing mosquitoes created a halo around the chaos, fluttering above the frenzied attack until the energy was suddenly cut and there was no more movement. They landed on the crumpled body below and jabbed at the leathery skin for one last drop of blood before death set in.



The last thing the woman felt was a familiar sensation, though muted and far away as though it was happening in another world. It was her toes. They were warm and wet and they pressed against each other in search of the cause. Long after the woman left they wriggled like worms alongside one another, fluttering in futile like a Junebug beating its broken wings against the glass.

Long Time No See A.K.A. Jazmin Sucks At Blogs A.K.A Let's Revive This B****

                2 years later…..what has Jazmin realized?  She’s trash at keeping a blog.  To be fair I meant for this thing to die and to never return to it as is my style when it comes to diaries (and a blog usually is just that).  Then I went and got an idea and started writing.  If I could I would delete everything that came before this and start fresh but a) that sounds complicated and b) I don’t really care all that much.  So let’s just pretend this blog starts from here.  The biggest difference you might find is that unlike before where I was writing for the sake of explaining my life abroad to people back home, now I’m only writing what I want.  Sometimes it will be about life in Japan (as this one is) and other times it will be solely creative with perhaps a smattering of Japan here and there. 

                But expect photos.  Lots of photos.

Anyway without further ado, the long-anticipated and sorely missed –

                Oh who am I kidding this thing was more dead than a horse at a glue factory.  Screw intros let's just get down to it.  

  

Torn Between Two Worlds

And Other Golden Week Musings

                Life, for me right now, has turned into a tug of war between city life and country life.  Each one is easily accessible, though with my apartment firmly rooted in the country side, it seems the scales have been tipped.  Like most millennials my age, I’m predisposed to believe my place belongs in the city.  That’s where the jobs are, where other young people such as myself are, that’s where the goals I’m meant to aim for are lest I be shut out from the rat race forever.  But if I’m being honest, I’d rather stay in my shaky apartment with the sink missing a drain pipe. 

                This wasn’t a revelation I felt impelled to share until the rainy season hit Japan and I realized just how much of the country’s kool-aid I’ve ingested.

When it rains in the city everything takes on a dull tone; the sky is gray, the buildings are gray, the streets are gray.  The water turns the city’s ever present thin layer of grime and dirt into a slick muck that sticks to your shoes and tracks behind you wherever you go.  Your movements down the street are hindered by the fact that you have joined a horde of umbrellas, each person huddled underneath a beetle-like shell so that you are forced to move as one giant cockroach down the wet pavement.   

                When it rains in the country?  Magic.  The mountains are swathed in gossamer layers of fog that turn the usual flat plane of green into vibrant expanse that block out the sky.  Puddles fill the concave pockets of land sending up a fresh scent of earth that lends to visions of shadowy creatures prowling in a dense forest.  If you are bold enough to step outside you are greeted with a soothing rhythmic pattern of raindrops hitting the soil broken only by the faraway screech of a Black Kite.  The rest of the world seems to have melted back into their homes and for a moment you can imagine yourself a lone alien discovering a new dangerous planet.

                You’re never really granted such a moment of privacy in the city and I suppose if solitary reflection is what you seek then it should be expected you would never find a home in one.

                I think the reason I expected my older self to become enamored with city life is because I coddled the belief that there would be no end to the novelties it provided.  Isn’t that what a city is?  Constantly giving birth to new ideas, new fashion, new gadgets to employ in daily life, new faces, etc.  It’s supposed to be a dizzying experience that pushes you to innovative extremes. 

                Dizzying is indeed the right word for how I felt throughout my last bout to Tokyo this past Golden Week.  It wasn’t because the language was foreign or because the train lines were nigh impossible to detangle from one another on the map.  Finding my way around wasn’t the problem.

    

                It was the dawdling crowds that simultaneously never seemed to move fast enough yet 

always remained one step ahead of me.  It was the mindless crosswalk in Shibuya that demands air time whenever Japan is mentioned.  It was the fact that no matter where you looked the scenery was the same bric-a-brac of tired old buildings pressed together between massive new high rises pushing either the newest idol or the latest way to blow your hard-earned money.  I couldn’t fathom how anyone would voluntarily put themselves into such a system and to do it with such wholehearted enthusiasm to boot. 

                Upon returning to my crumbling apartment in what is colloquially referred to as the inaka, a weight was lifted off my chest that probably had more to do finishing the last leg of a long journey home.  Almost immediately I was met with a particular obstacle that came from living in a rural area with mountains surrounding me.  A mid-size Huntsman spider had taken up refuge in the corner of my bedroom, its crab like body pressed tight against the wall while long legs spindled outwards. 

                I was more exasperated than scared upon discovering it because all I wanted to do was watch the new Game of Thrones episode and fall asleep, not give chase to this wily spider intent on leaping into my underwear drawer.  The exasperation also came from knowing that this considerably small fellow was only the first of many and with the arrival of every summer came the strong possibility of waking to find the peculiar sensation of 8 hairy legs tiptoeing down my arm. 

                Because that’s what summer in the countryside means.  It’s wearing slippers when you traverse the dark hallway of your apartment to the toilet at night or risk being stung by a poisonous centipede.  It’s looking at your walls before going to sleep just to be sure no Huntsmans are prowling about.  Summer means you are now sharing your home with assorted insects quietly invading your home and taking up nest before winter comes. 

                I can’t say it’s easy but the frustration and anxiety over catching a spider the size of a toddler’s head passes far quicker than the exhaustion of being pinballed around a crowded train station.  And what it is, at the end of the day, is the price tag for enjoying the natural world.  Everything comes at a price, even the city.  Especially the city.   I’m just not willing to pay that price, not if the prize means miles and miles of concrete. 

                That realization was cemented down for me during my Golden Week trip.  I only brought out my camera a grand total of three times.  First, at a one-car tunnel high up in the mountains outside of Toyota City, second, while stuck in traffic with the barest glimpse of Mt. Fuji over the guardrails, and third, for a brief second in a subway station waiting for the train to arrive.  I could have taken more photos in Tokyo and I would be lying if I said I didn’t see a few opportunities.  But taking photos of unsuspecting victims felt awkward at best and invasive at worst.  And if you aren’t willing to take photos of strangers all you’re left with is the same cityscape repeating forever like a bad holodeck.

                The tunnel though?  It was a no-brainer.  Moss had overtaken the traffic signs nearby, growing up the pole of the speed indicator.  The name of the tunnel was etched deeply into old stone and the other side winked back, a far away cutout of sunlight that gave the impression of being on the wrong side of a kaleidoscope.  When you stood at the mouth, a constant gust of wind pressed against you bringing with it an intoxicating smell of old soil, damp and untouched by outsiders.  The little sunlight that cut into the tunnel showed amateur scribbles of graffiti - taunting messages left behind that told bold tales of Asuke’s youth and their bravery at traversing a supposedly haunted tunnel. 

When you reach the center your eyes began to play tricks on you.  Not because of any malicious spirits but because all you can see is one tiny circle of light that at times looks so close you’re nearly outside and at others stretches so far ahead you think you’ll never get out.  The constant fluctuation in width doesn’t help, a slight change only noticeable in the acoustics and the shift in the air.  Meanwhile the walls beside you have melted into the darkness and you might as well be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench for all you can see.   

                Upon arrival on the other side there is a strong sense of relief quickly followed by the sinking realization the only way home is back through the darkness.  But for those few moments you are granted a new view – sunlight streaming in through a thick bamboo forest flanked by two large humps of rolling mountainside, turning the tunnel into such a small thing you almost think it impossible a car could fit.   

                What sticks with you the most, though, are the stories that each little bit tells.  There’s the crass language strewn throughout the tunnel visible by the headlights of your car that boast of Asuke’s toughest gang (though what competition they have other than errant wild boar I’m not sure), the smashed lamp above the tunnel’s entrance that might never be replaced but instead will remain a part of this shrine to defunct man-made creations, and of course the forest which entombs all of it, lending to visions of ancient woods that pay no mind to the humanity toiling below. 

                It’s unfair to compare such an experience to a city and I’m aware.  It’s like asking for shrimp when you really want a pork chop.  I guess this is really all to say I finally realize what I have wanted all along was a pork chop – a wild untamed terrain that houses all kinds of beautiful and terrifying creatures you wonder how humans ever could have ended up the so-called owner of this planet.

                I’m sure this isn’t the last word on the matter.  Opinions change constantly but that’s what’s great about having an opinion – it’s active and living and thus subject to death just like everything else that’s alive.  So for now when people lament how hard it must be to live an hour and a half away from the city I’ll smile and nod wordlessly.  I’ll simply let my photos do the talking for me.    

                And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just jump in my car and head over to Kumamoto City to flaunt tattoos and swill down noon beers with Kashima’s finest. 

After Madurai

 

Final farewell from the wonderful teachers at Lady Doak

                      

 

               A lot of people have asked me since I left India what I would be doing next - an understandable question.  You can't really just go back and sit at home after going through two years of fending on your own through the many obstacles India can dish out.  And trust me there are a great many of them. 

               So far I've stayed very evasive and non-committal in my responses and to those to whom I've given those answers I apologize although it hasn't been due to a lack of knowing.  Ironically I am spending most of my time back home, not doing much except spending time with my parents and freezing my butt off in surprisingly cool Texas weather.  But there is of course an underlying reason for my being back in Fort Worth.

               I've gone back and forth on how and when to tell friends and which friends I should tell.  While doing this on a blog seems like a harsh thing to do I've never been good about discussing more personal issues and despite how much I've grown recently that still hasn't changed.  Especially when it concerns my health.

               The reason I'm back at home is because during the next year I'll be removing my birthmark which as most people know is on the left side of my forehead.  More correctly it's actually known as a Venous malformation or in much simpler terms it's like having a big mess of blood vessels on the forehead.  It's something I was born with and because of it I've been seeing doctors for almost my entire life.  In fact removing it was an idea that they've had since I was born, however according to my parents even at a young age of 5 or 6 I was adamant about keeping my birthmark.    

               I never saw my birthmark as holding me back or 'disfiguring' me in any way - as far as I was concerned having this birthmark was what is normal for me.  Maybe to someone else it seems abnormal to have a big purple spot on your face but instead of finding it to be problematic I fiercely held onto it as being entirely all my own.  It made me different from everyone else and rather than hiding it I celebrated it.  In a small way it defined who I was.  This attitude was always incomprehensible to the many doctors and surgeons who have examined me and even as I struggled with my decision at the age of 24 to remove it my surgeon has expressed his surprise that I've had it for this long. 

               It may seem strange that I've suddenly decided to get it removed after having lived with it for so long.    For close to 18 years it hadn't presented any dangers towards my health or any other concern and for me that would be the only reason I would have it removed.  However in the past few years I've started to experience more and more problems with my birthmark.  In high school I started noticing that it often felt sore like a bruise, and then while studying abroad in Japan parts of the skin started to disintegrate leaving small holes on the surface.  Thankfully I was able to see a doctor in Japan and after getting medicine they went away, but that was around the time when I realized that I had no idea what the long term effects of my birthmark would be - and neither did my doctors.  Although the doctor in Japan told me confidently that this was something that would only keep happening from then on out.

               He was right and two years later while I was in India the same problem happened.  Only this time there were more spots and the medicine wasn't working any longer.  Not only that but it no longer felt painless, there was an incredible pressure that went with it.  I couldn't bend over or do anything that made the blood rush to my head otherwise it felt like all the blood was going to come pouring out of those small holes.  It got so bad that not only could I no longer go to the gym but I couldn't even put my head down on the pillow without feeling that pressure. 

               It wasn't until then that I realized how annoying this would be if I had to keep dealing with it at all kinds of junctures in my life.  It was hard enough being somewhere like Madurai and not having any family or knowing of any doctors to see.  How was I supposed to explain this to someone who didn't understand English very well?  My Tamil was nowhere near good enough for a medical discussion. 

               This was one of the most difficult parts in my life so far - I contacted my doctor at home who told me that this would keep happening until the entire skin on the surface disintegrated leaving me with the only option of surgery.  At the same time on the urging of my parents I took a trip to Mumbai to see a doctor about getting any medicine.  That had to be one of the worst experiences I've had with doctors - I don't know what it is but most surgeons have zero talents as far as communication goes.  He didn't give me any new information that I didn't already know but did stress that this would only continue to happen.    

               It was during this time that it began to dawn on my surgery is truly the only option.  Yet even as I went to see my surgeon in Dallas I found myself still searching for any other possible options.  My surgeon didn't seem to understand, he told me that if it were his daughter or wife he would absolutely tell them to have it removed.  I think to him he expects that I'm scared about going under the knife but that's not what it is at all. 

               From such a young age I've held on to this birthmark being a part of who I am - I had to otherwise getting through childhood would have been remarkably much more difficult.  And now to think about removing it would be almost akin to giving into what society dictates - that this birthmark is imperfect and thus I'm imperfect having it.  While I have never searched for perfection I've also always fought against what other people expect or want me to do.  And removing this birthmark would be going against everything the 6 year old me fought for in all those doctor's offices.  That's what freaked me out the most.

               In the end it's something my surgeon said - as we get older all kinds of things start to go a little haywire and while they can't say anything for certain there's little evidence to prove that my birthmark would behave otherwise.  On top of that I've already had all kinds of interruptions into my life because of it and this last problem really awoke me to the idea that this could keep me from doing what I want in life.  How can I ever expect to see the base camp of Mt. Everest if I have to deal with this? 

               Thus I've decided to have the surgery which is why I find myself back at home with my family.  I'll be having the surgery in Dallas and after discussing it with my surgeon all of the procedures look to take about a year.  So to all those who have been wondering about what I'm doing after India, it seems like I'll be in Texas for at least that long getting this figured out. 

               My first surgery is already set for July 17th although it will be a simple procedure of simply putting in two balloons to stretch the skin out on either side of part of the birthmark.  This is just in preparation so they have skin ready to cover whatever they take out. 

               I apologize for how long-winded this got but because it's not something I talk about very often I felt it was only fair to be as honest as possible.  I also want to apologize to a lot of my friends whom I haven't seen since leaving for India.  As much as I would absolutely LOVE to see all of you I'm not sure how likely it will be until this is all over.  I'm not sure what my schedule will be like for the duration of this year and because I'm not going to be able to work while this is happening I don't think I'll have the funds to make cross-country travel.  But believe me when I saw I would like nothing more than to be able to visit all of you and catch up. 

               I can't wait to see you all and I am probably going to look a lot different the next time we meet.  I also hope this has answered some questions for other people  and while I'm nervous about figuring out what I'll do after this year I'm not as worried as I might have been before India. 

The 3 Amigos - Tamil Nadu, Kerala, Karnataka

               Tamil Nadu, Kerala, and Karnataka - while I've spent time in each state (obviously TN is what I know best) but I've never seen it the way I did while I was traveling with my Oberlin Professor Paula Richman.  In fact most of the places I went to I had never been to before: Kancheepuram in North Tamil Nadu, Thrissur (actually Irinjalakuda which I still am not sure how to pronounce) in Kerala, and both Manipal and Honnavar in Kerala.  Each place I saw a new theater style prominent in South India and each one showed us a performance of the Indian epic the Ramayana.  In Kancheepuram it was Kattai Kuttu, Irinjalakuda it was Nangiar Kuttu, and in Thrissur it was Yakshagana. 

               The most unique part about this trip was being able to travel across South India over the period of two weeks.  Sure I had done it before but not like this.  We spent time at people's homes, watched dance narrative performances in each state, and ate home cooked meals everywhere we went.  So what does that mean?  Basically I was able to see the country change across borders, I was able to taste the difference in all the food, smell the changes in the air, listen to the different speeches - experience this place I've been in for 2 years in a whole new way. 

               What I loved most about it were the jokes - almost everyone had some kind of joke they cracked on the next state.  Not in a we're-definitely-superior way but just how people crack jokes on New Yorkers or Texans.  Which got me to thinking, after hearing about South India from a variety of people (including the teacher from North India who was traveling with us) I can now appreciate that state borders are much more than mere ideas.  The people change as much as the terrain does and I've only seen at the very least a 1/4 of this country.  But here are some of the things I've noticed so far:

               - Madurai, sorry to say, smells like poo.  This isn't even a Tamil Nadu thing as I discovered, just a Madurai thing.  Kerala smells like coconut oil and Karnataka (at least the parts I saw) smells like fish.  I'm not sure what it is with Madurai but it definitely carries eau de excrement; a favored past time of those here is to guess what made that crap.  It's just lucky we have the smell of burning trash to cover it up.

               - After this point I will not suffer another chapati made in South India.  For a long time I have carried a hatred of this thin bread, mostly because it reminds me too much of a badly made tortilla and that just angers me.  The North Indian teacher assured me that I was very much capable of loving chapati, so long as they were made by someone living above Bombay.  According to a variety of sources chapati is just something South India can't get right.

               - Likewise under no circumstance should I ever order dosai in North India.  As South Indians can't make chapati, North Indians can't make dosai.  Good to know these things and personally I'd rather stick with the dosai any day.

               - I've never felt more comfortable around the opposite sex than in Karnataka.  I don't know what it is about that state but I didn't experience any sketchy leering or uncomfortable come-ons like I've had elsewhere.  Casual friendship with the opposite sex was more than a dream, it was very much possible!  Before I would have thought that was impossible unless they were city boys but in Karnataka I was proved wrong.  Tamil Nadu isn't so bad but the boys there still stare, not quite like they do in Kerala, more like they keep forgetting they've seen a woman's chest before and continuously have the same melt-down upon making eye contact with a woman.  As for Kerala, well, there's a serious case of machismo going on over there that would make los hombres en México very proud.  Yet the majority of our company in Karnataka were men and there was no uncomfortably long stares or rude questions.  I even made pretty good friends with the Yakshagana Troupe leader's two sons.   

               - Tamil in Northern Tamil Nadu is a whole different beast.  Listening to people speak in Madurai you get the feeling that someone's shooting a machine gun at you - each consonant hits you bam, bam, bam!  I assumed this was just how the language sounds but I've never been more wrong.  Around Kancheepuram all of a sudden I couldn't understand a word anyone was saying.   The way they spoke it was like smooth liquid pouring out, there was no harshness to it and instead it flowed with a calmness you don't hear in southern Tamil Nadu (at least not that I had noticed).  It was so different for a second I thought they were speaking a whole other language.  It was smooth and listening to it reminded me of feeling silk slip out of your hands, it was so effortless.   

               - Turns out everyone outside of Kerala makes fun of the fact that majority of the Malayali's living there at some point make a mass exodus for the greater opportunities elsewhere.  One such joke - when Neil Armstrong landed on the moon the first thing he saw was a Malayali with his little stall shouting, "tea, tea, tea!"  For some reason I found this hilarious and so did some of those in Kerala agreed.  According to one of the performers we met in Kerala, "No matter where you go you will always find someone from Kerala and they are probably going to get their before any other Indians." 

               - Similarly everyone outside or around Tamil Nadu love to make fun of Tamils for their obsession with getting up early.  And when I mean early I mean 4 in the morning early.  Many families get up around this time or at least the mothers do in order to cook for their family.  Again I assumed this was something that happened over the country and was even under the impression that cooking must seriously take that long.  Turns out I was wrong.  As one person put it to me, "I have no idea why they get up that early!  I stayed with a Tamil family once and I remember at 5 in the morning listening to them ringing bells and burning something.  But then nothing happens until 10:00!  What do they do in between then?"  My thoughts exactly.  Despite nothing opening up in Madurai until 10:00 A.M. you'll find people up and running by at least 5.  And what are they doing for those unaccounted 5 hours?  Eating, drinking tea, reading the newspaper, shuffling around, possibly cooking, more tea drinking, going to the temple, more tea drinking, etc....   I'm somewhat reassured that the entire country doesn't follow this model because otherwise I would truly feel like a sloth for sleeping in until 9.

               - Driving through these North Tamil Nadu and into Kerala is a wonder of beautiful landscape.  Despite the drive lasting around 8 hours it was well worth the things we saw.  From beautiful hills pressed against bright green fields of rice or clear blue lakes to small houses beautifully decorated with unique paintings.  There was something very tranquil about exploring the landscape without any interruption and without having to interject yourself into the surroundings. 

               Here are some pictures of the amazing performers I saw while travelling with Paula Richman and the beautiful snapshots I was able to get on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

 Performance of Abhimanyu

 

Hanuman

Rama and Lakshmana

 

Abandoned Hanuman Temple

Yakshagana artists getting ready

 

Surpanakha

Rama and Sita

One of the perfomers giving me a fierce pose

Hanuman and Sugriva

Creepy Spider

Temple near Thrissur

Temple in Thrissur