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.
