chestnutvinegar

Today is Christmas Day for 2024. I almost wrote 2025, because I am losing track. My wife Is downstairs working from home. I have the day (and week) off, and am playing the Choir of King’s College through my iPad.

My wife got my a record that I had wanted for Christmas, and when I woke up at 5am, I put it on, and thought about life. I bought my wife earrings she wanted. She wore them last night when I gave them to her, but I will have to check if she is wearing them now.

This year there were two big events in life, the former being kind of big, and the latter being super big. The former is about my job. I changed jobs in December 2023, just before my 40th birthday, and 2024 was all about getting used to the job and all the many many new challenges it brought. It’s big for me, but would not be interesting unless you’re the type of person that enjoys what people write on LinkedIn. I’m not. More power to them all and all that.

The latter is that my wife is currently 20 weeks pregnant. I have consulted all the materials, and at 20 weeks pregnancy, you are fairly safe to be able to announce the pregnancy to the world. However, I have always been one to want to shout from the rooftops only when I am confident not many people are in earshot. Call it a quirk. Therefore, dear reader, I am posting a link to this blog onto the social media site Mastodon (famichiki). If you happen to have found this link from there, I wish that you do not congratulate me on Mastodon. That would increase the number of people that are within earshot. The number of people to actually click a link to a blog post about Christmas on Christmas, as I am sure you know, my fellow blog writer, is not many, and therefore this gives me the chance to share publicly, but with confidence that not many will hear.

I think my wife and I both thought that we would not have kids. We are both not exactly young, and it just wasn’t happening. However, one day it just did happen. Probably obvious to people who have kids, and perhaps also obvious to those who did not too, but it is quite amazing how it suddenly radically changed my worldview.

I have long been of the deep opinion “who gives a shit about this meaningless shit”. Human life and love and all that are super important of course, but who gives a shit about arguing about video games or Star Wars or how people are trying to find happiness. Who gives a shit if our collective actions create a world that is a shittier place. Let us suck on the teat of life until the chaos of the world throws us off. Or something like that. I just didn’t get worked up about things, and was happy that I had found peace in my small corner of life. Of course I thought many things in the world were horribly wrong, but the thought of getting into a sort of global online discourse with morons seemed like the least fun thing in my comfortable world.

Now I think about how am I going to create a structure for my child to see this world. I think about what is my identity and what is it that I want to show of myself. I think about the similarities and differences in my wife and I, and where there may be potential arguments where there were no reasons to have arguments before.

I think about how I don’t want any child of mine playing video games when they are young. Don’t I love video games? Yes, but reading and nature are more important. Shouldn’t I act on this myself? Why now that you mention it, yes, I guess I should have. It didn’t matter though. My wife watches dramas, I play video games, we both drink chuhais.

The future has suddenly became more meaningful as well. I wasn’t living with disregard for the future, but now suddenly all these thoughts about the best country to grow up, the best safest place to grow up, and what influence on it all I should try to exude come up.

I can come across as meek. I don’t mind this, and honestly think it has more often than not worked out in my favor. If people then misinterpret this as me being weak, then fuck it. Who cares if someone thinks that? I’m rocking out. But now, I wouldn’t want my child to think that about me. I need to think about more than who I am, but who that comes across as to others. I never really gave a shit what others think, but now what they think influences another. Did it influence my wife? Sure, but she married me knowing who I was, and always had (has?) the chance to not be with me if she didn’t like it. A child is stuck with me.

There’s a voice in me that says why didn’t care about any of this stuff beforehand? And honestly, I think that’s on me. I look at my older brother, who has never wanted kids, but is currently living the life he wants to live, and exuding who he wants to be. If his wife got pregnant, I doubt he would have any deep revelations.

So anyways, I am excited to shout my happy news from the rooftops from which not many are in earshot. If you are in earshot, thank you. Pregnancy is not easy on my wife, and I am trying my best to support her and spoil her. I look forward to growing up myself, and trying my best to be a good loving dad.

If something happened to you, and it didn’t happen to me, it doesn’t mean that either my experience or your experience isn’t true. They can both be true.

I have heard stories of how hard it is for people to integrate in Japan, and I have no comment about that, but only want to share experiences of my integration into my neighbourhood. It’s nothing special and completely ordinary.

I mentioned previously how it is my household’s turn to take part in the neighbourhood association this year. My wife doesn’t find said tasks very interesting, and I do find such tasks very interesting, so it is I who has spearheaded taking part in it and doing what needs to be done.

As I have previously mentioned, it is very boring sometimes, but in a nostalgic way. Things aren’t bit sized 30 second videos with glitz and glam.

Before this year, my participation in the neighbourhood was me greeting people when I saw them outside, paying neighbourhood association fees once a year, being in charge of cleaning up after garbage pickup maybe 4 or 5 times a year, and passing around the notices to the next house when they came. People were friendly enough and greeted back.

The average age is probably around 70 for my neighbourhood. We bought our house four years ago when someone died, I assume their relatives sold the land to a construction company, and they built two houses where there was one. It is not a super skinny house, but it’s not a big fat house from the 1990s either. Somewhere in between, but leaning on the skinny side. As our neighbours go past the final frontier, I feel more houses will be torn down, and more cookie cutter houses will be put up, and the neighbourhood energy will change then.

Anyways, this year it is my turn to take part. I have two duties, one is to organize all the messages to be passed around, and the other is to support general affairs. I am doing nothing to support general affairs, and my neighbour has taken it upon himself to do most of it. For the organizing of the messages to be passed around, I do it, but I am not exactly punctual. The point I am trying to get at is that I’m not a super person doing his best. I am tired after work, and I know I have these duties and I try to do them when I can, while greeting and apologizing to people as I see fit.

The neighbour with whom I do general affairs with is a great guy. He saw me at the supermarket the other day, and we chatted about my trip to Canada (I am missing the summer festival, which is the big event of the year), and about the duties he will do when I’m gone, and about the security patrols for the year and when I am free. It was lovely, and when done, as he was walking, I rode ahead on my bicycle. I didn’t want to wear out my welcome.

Two houses down from me is an old woman, and I thought she was one person that hated me because she never really greeted me back. In our first year here, her husband passed away. I know this because it was one of the messages that got passed along. She now lives alone, and I think I’ve seen kids come by every now and then, but I’m not sure. Some notices I need to give people don’t get passed along, but everyone gets individually, and when I was putting those in mailboxes, I saw her in her yard and passed it directly to her. She had a big smile on her face, and thanked me for passing them out, and said with a childish grin that she “graduated” from neighbourhood duties a few years back. She didn’t hate me. Huh.

Another guy I thought hated me it turns out is just hard of hearing. Huh.

The woman beside the previously mentioned old woman (three houses down from me) I would guess is in her sixties, and talks to me the most. When I left my air pump outside she recommended I didn’t. When she saw me weeding, she gave me advice. She told me about specific weeds and what to do about them. When I neglected the weeds in front of my house, I think she cut them and just left the remains there in a passive aggressive action. I have no idea if it was her though. My wife wasn’t the happiest about that. I found it weird too, but I weed more now.

Everyone is nice to me, or there has yet to be reason for conflict, but the neighbour behind me (house built on the same former old house’s plot) has given reason for conflict. They didn’t join the neighbourhood association, which is a more common thing these days. You have to pay money, and it’s a hassle, so why join? Fair enough perhaps. In our tiny plots of land and narrow private streets, they have an Alphard van. It’s a behemoth. One night, they had their car in their driveway and must have been putting groceries inside from the car or something, and the headlights were blaring into the neighbour across the street’s living room. This must have not been the first time, because there was a massive shouting match. The neighbour with the Alphard had no consideration for how their actions affected others, and their neighbour couldn’t take it.

That’s a bit of an aside though.

The head of our neighbourhood association we call by her title: kaicho. She’s done the job for years. This probably sounds rude, and maybe is, but she looks very old and poor. However, she is very respected as the leader of the association, one reason because no one else wants to do it, and the other reason that she does a good job of it, making sure that everything done needs to be done, and giving opinions. I think I mentioned before that every now and then in meetings she uses very rough casual local language that I had thought was unique to Chiba and Ibaraki, but I guess it is also used in Saitama. The way she uses it though feels like it’s off television and not passed down from the local cultural pool. That’s just me making things up in my head though.

I should put in another aside and say the neighbourhood is not old. What I mean by that is that it was swamp or fields or whatever until the 1960s or so, and then it was made into a neighbourhood. Other neighbourhoods that I have known in Japan in the countryside were there in some form for hundreds of years if not longer, and talking to the elderly I heard stories of before and during the war. This is not one of those neighbourhoods, and it gives it a different flavour.

Anyways. I was cleaning out the drain in my sink yesterday. I took apart the pipes, and used the sink outside my house to wash out the gunk or whatever that was inside there. As I was doing this the kaicho was making her rounds as she does. Stopping to talk to people from the neighbourhood who were outside their houses and puttering or whatever. I think her eyesight isn’t the best, but as she came by my house, I greeted her, and she stopped for a chat. She knew I couldn’t make the summer festival and I talked about going to Canada. I talked about how it was my grandmother’s funeral, which is always a topic that leads to confusion. I said how she died in January, but there’s no obligation to have a funeral right away, and they were having it when family from around the world could come back. She accepted this right away, and was interested in the practical matter of where the body was now? I said I didn’t know, but in fact I know that she was cremated and somewhere being stored until we could go out and scatter her ashes on her favourite mountain. The next practical matter to get to was the sekihan, the red bean rice that everyone gets the day of the festival. I said that my neighbour would freeze mine for me, and I would have it when I get back. She said that would taste horrible, and she would get one early for me so that I could eat it fresh before I go. She gave her sympathies, talked about the beauty of family gathering, and the fleeting nature of it, and then was on her way. I continued to clean gunk out of my pipes.

That’s basically all I wanted to show in terms of integration with neighbours, but I want to say one more thing. My Japanese is of a level where I can do most things comfortably, but when I am tired cleaning out gunk, or half asleep buying breakfast at the supermarket, my Japanese isn’t the best at all. But I can convey what I want to convey, and people patiently listen.

It’s nothing. It’s boring. But it’s nice.

I got to Chiba early that day, so had time to kill before I met my wife and friend. I worked at a kindergarten teaching English, and kindergarten finishes at 3pm. My wife had an office job and usually finishes at 5 or 6 or so, and my friend was working in a high school and usually got off a little after 6pm. His actual finish time was much earlier than that, but I think he self-imposed Japanese pressure onto himself to stay later. (Some of his Japanese colleagues didn’t feel that pressure, but never mind that.)

This is going to sound weird, dear Reader, but I have this thing where I don’t like to enter places I don’t know well by myself. I don’t know why. Nothing is going to go wrong I know, I just have this irrational apprehension to entering the unknown and not knowing the lingo or whatever of what to do, and this is in many many situations where there is no lingo or whatever of needing to know what to do. Whatever. In certain situations I push through and do it anyways, in order situations, I go to a place I know, life goes on and no one is affected in any real way.

So anyways I had time to kill, and I had been to this Chiba Hub a few times, but only with friends. It was a new Hub at the time, and didn’t really have the feeling of the other Hubs I had been to had. It wasn’t crawling with sex-crazed male foreigners wanting to pounce, it was just a chill place where you could get a drink. I had never been there by myself, but on this day I was feeling especially courageous, so even though I couldn’t see inside from the outside (which makes a place easier to enter obviously), I bravely walked down the stairs to the entrance, and went in.

At this time I don’t think my Japanese was that bad, but for whatever reason I did get a little nervous when needing to speak to people I didn’t know, especially if I thought that person was cool or cute or something. My mission was to tell the staff that there was only one of me, and that while I don’t smoke, I wanted to sit in the smoking section, because the non-smoking section was hidden away in the back, and the smoking section was in the main part of the bar. I wanted to be with the people and people watch when I was there. So I go in, and with a goofy smile I said there was one of me, and that while I didn’t smoke, I would like to sit “around here” (easier to say in Japanese than the smoking area), and all was good in the world.

I took my book, Herman Hesse’s Narcisus and Goldmund, and put it on my table, and went to the bar for a drink.

It was during happy hour, and the Rum and Cokes were cheap. So I would have a Rum and Coke. They were called Cuba Livres, which I guess is a Rum and Coke with lime in it or something. I only knew Rum and Cokes from the Canadian television series Trailer Park Boys, and so when I had one, I thought that I was a cool dude. I order it, and maybe obviously, I pronounce the “livre” part as it is said in Japanese, which is “libure” (yes dear Reader, I am being whimsical with my l’s and r’s, I’m that kind of guy). The friend I was meeting always hated that pronunciation for some reason, and would always try to pronounce it in Spanish, which the staff could get, but it was always a little weird to me. That may have been due to my mere bilingual nature, and not being accustomed to many languages always around me.

So I got my Rum and Coke, I think I got a salmon pizza or something like that too. Then I went back to my seat, where my book was waiting for me.

I probably tell this story to a million people a day, but I always had this vision of me reading some awesome book by myself at a bar while life goes on around me, and I am so enamoured in my own cool world, that I become a part of the scenery for others. It sounded smart and intellectual and wise to me. Imagine me in the background of Billy Joel’s Piano Man music video (the 80’s one, not the 70’s one).

I could never actually do it though. I was always super conscious of how fast I was inhaling what I was eating and what I was drinking. After a page or two I would look up to see who was around me, what was going on and all that. I thought it was cool to be able to read 50 pages non-stop in a crowded place because it was something that I could not do.

But anyways, I got into a good groove. Sips of Rum and Coke, a pizza slice here and there, reading a few pages, and looking up and stealing glances at pretty women every now and then. Gracefully of course though, no leering. (As as silly aside, I learned the word “leer” from Pokémon”. )

The Hub was still quite empty still, but another Western foreigner also entered the Hub, and took a seat quite close to mine. This was not something that I wanted. Some foreigners miss being back home where you could just go to the bar and make a new friend, talk to strangers, have drinks and have a gay old time. I was most definitely not in that stage in my life. At the time I thought I was over it, but in hindsight, I hadn’t gotten there yet. I wanted to exude an aura from afar, and not be disturbed by something so horrid as me being in a conversation. He’s probably here just to get laid or complain about Japan and his ALT job or something like that I thought to myself. No thank you! So I ignore the guy, pretend to not see him, and actually get into my book a little more. There was no more pizza to routinely eat anyways.

And then he started talking to me.

“What are you drinking? Do you recommend anything?”

“Sorry?

“Do you recommend anything. Haven’t been here before.”

“Ah, I like the Rum and Coke, it’s cheap now and the J size is pretty big,” I say as I point to my glass.

“Where’s that on the menu? Oh, under on this happy hour menu? Wow, they got quite a lot. Cool, thanks. I’ll let something. Cheers!”

And I’m back into my solitude. My wife and friend still shouldn’t be free for another hour, and I have some more time to exude auras.

As he is ordering his drink, I notice he looks like some sort of business man, or at least he does not look like a fellow English teacher. He’s not wearing a suit, but there’s something about the way he is dressed that gave me that impression. I was wearing a dress shirt myself, but his didn’t look like it cost only 2,000 yen, and he seemed more natural in it than I did. He also had one of those haircuts that sort of works. My hair as it grows seems to always be in a different form of chaos that kind of works but does not really. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he got his haircut every three weeks or so. He looked like he knew who he was. He didn’t look not annoying, don’t get me wrong, but he didn’t look like me in that semi-cool awkward way.

To cut away for a second, Dear Reader, I am not sure if you have read Narcissus and Goldmund, but one thing I must tell you is that my brother did not like it. He thought it was pretentious. My brother is a good smart man, and I will not say anything ill of him or his intelligence, so I am not trying to put him down in any way, but merely say that this book is not universally loved by people from all around. I love it. Maybe I am pretentious though. The book is about two men, Narcissus and Goldmund. One is a monk or whatever, living the religious life, and the other is a vagabond who sleeps with farmer’s wives and daughters and anybody else really. I think they represent two ideals for Hesse. The disciplined and pure life only answering to God, and always thinking with love in the centre to the highest possible philosophical peak, and the other wanting to drink and be merry and make love and be free to roam the earth. I don’t think he painted either is a very romantic way. There was the love making, but there was also the poverty and the times when things did not go right. Narcissus’s life in the monestary seemed pure, holy and enlightened, but also stale and a waste. Perhaps Hesse thought it was a dilemma that we all face, and he wanted to personify two strong desires of the soul.

Anyways, it was a novel that I loved, and that I thought most others would not like, and in my pretensious mind would not “get”. I was on a bit of a high horse if I am going to be honest.

And then, as I am getting into the book, ignoring the guy beside me with what looked to be a Moscow Mule, making small glances at the women that I found to be pretty, the guy looks at me again and says, “it’s a good book eh? I think it’s one of Hesse’s best, but not his very best.”

Much like with the construction worker on the bus in Surrey many years ago, I was taken aback. With any cool guard that I may have had completely down, I could really only give a genuine, “you’ve read it??”

And he laughed and said, “yeah I used to love Hesse. Read a lot of his books. This one is later when he was becoming a little more abstract yeah. It’s fun to think about, this battle between the soul and the body. Funny that he didn’t split the mind up either. What do you think?”

And I honestly have no idea what I said in return, but I know it wasn’t very smart. He carried the conversation quite well.

“Have you read Knulp? How about the Glass Bead game? That one is my favourite, but it is probably everyone’s favourite. Once you get over those first hundred pages or so it really opens up. You can tell that he wasn’t trying to please and didn’t mind how dry he made it at the beginning, he just wanted to get so much out there while he still could. That’s how I see it at least, but I’m not an expert, just liked the guy a lot when I was younger.”

More meaningless replies from me in the interim. I think I mentioned Demian and World War I. It is a story for another time, but Demian is a book that got me back on track in life when I was 18 or 19.

Then, who I assume as his friends enter the bar, more businessman-type Westerners and they see him, so he concludes our conversation as such, “Haha, I bet you didn’t think that you’d run into someone else who has read this book, yeah? Sorry to disturb you, always nice to talk to someone about books sometimes.”

And with that he was back to his table, entertaining his friends. I forget, but I imagine they were talking about things like what people write on their LinkedIn pages. Maximizing efficiency and being rich and whatever else.

The Hub was getting more crowded, and I got word from my wife that she would be finished work soon. I thought I had time for one more Cuba Livre, and so I ordered another, jumbo size of course.

As I left, I looked over to the guy to say it was nice meeting him, but he was in another moment having another conversation. I leave the Hub, the cool or cute staff say thank you. I may have said thank you back. I walk up the stairs into another moment where I will have dinner with my wife and our friend.

It was a decent solo pre-drink session. Pizza was always good. Good Hub times.

I use this app called Twitter. Well, it’s called X, but it’s still called Twitter by many.

I’ve quit it many times, once when my life was kind of a mess I quit it for a whole 6 months or so, deleted my account, and got my life in order. It felt great. I felt like a million bucks after that.

Other times I quit it for other similar apps, because the current head of Twitter is a bit of a shithead.

Anyways, the point is that I am on Twitter now, for better or worse. It kills the time in a way that is easy on the brain. Reading a book or studying something would be more intense for the brain, and sometimes you just want to not think and be stimulated. Maybe that’s bad, but oh well.

My little nook on Twitter is called “Gaijin Twitter”, and it is for foreigners (usually Western) and foreigner-adjacent folks to talk about their lives in Japan. As Japan has gotten more and more popular, the amount of people in this sphere has gotten larger, and I believe some people are connected through a love of Japan, or through having lived there for a bit in their youth or whatever. It becomes a part of their identity perhaps. It’s something to put in the old Twitter bio.

There has currently been incredibly not stimulating discourse about ALTs. ALTs are “Assistant Language Teachers”. Their actual role can vary by where they are, but they are typically native English speakers (or judged as native level), and in schools to help students with their English. They can be like a “human tape recorder” just used for a real life native accent, or they can be making their own lessons and have a lot of responsibilities. It really depends on a lot.

I don’t think all foreign teachers who work in schools in this sort of capacity are ALTs. I think some are just English teachers. However, when someone says they work at a Junior High School teaching English, the assumption that will be made is that they are an ALT, and it would be tough for that person to always have to explain that ACTUALLY they are not. Some may do that, some may not. I don’t know.

Depends on the role, but typically ALTs don’t get paid too much, especially if it is through a dispatch company. Direct hires exist as well, which would be paid better. Sometimes as much or more than the actual school fee for ALTs at a dispatch company (salary plus fee to dispatch company).

I’m not even sure what the not stimulating discourse is really about. Being an ALT is a job with no future is something some people are saying. It’s kind of true. There are exceptions. It’s hard to get raises in the ALT world that are significant, and there’s little motivation to do so in many cases. This leads to the somewhat stimulating discourse about if this is the case, should said ALTs look for another job, or should the structures at be ensure that ALTs make more. Whether you should escape a bad situation, or try to improve the situation for everyone is a neat debate topic.

Anyways, anecdotally, I knew many people who felt stuck in English teaching. Once they reached a certain age, it was hard to get out of that world. These people felt trapped, didn’t get joy out of their job (or a large pay cheque). This is why when I was loving my job as an ALT at age 26 or so, I already tried to get out of it, because I was worried I wouldn’t like it anymore. I also wasn’t a good teacher, and so it wasn’t really fair to be there. I was a high school teacher, and I loved the joys of real conversations and topics with students, but I had no experience or desire to improve how to convey important English learning points to best help the students. I was lazy. As you can tell, despite being a native speaker, my English may not be the best.

The people I know that transitioned out of being an ALT within the English teaching world typically opened their own school, or got an online Masters in TESOL so they could teach at university. (Many of this people are far more “successful” than I am.)

However, some people have a great time as an ALT where they feel they can make a difference to the students they work with, and I can testify that that bond is a great fulfilling feeling. I have a fancy job now, and nothing in it compares to that feeling, so fair enough I say. We’ve sadly mainly lost touch now, but I am always so proud to have usually gotten messages from graduated classes for the yearly meetup for drinks. My former students are in their thirties now with families, and if they ever consider me to come along, I feel incredibly blessed. (We’re really just Instagram friends these days.) Maybe the people doing the ALT job don’t make the most money, but they make enough to uphold the lifestyle they love, and they’re happy, and that’s awesome. Job security is likely a potential issue, but hopefully it’s not.

I have rambled a bit, so I will try to get back to that lovely discourse online. ALTs is a shit job some say. Why are people shitting on people doing a shit job? What is this back and forth even about? To me it always come down to the lovely question “why do people like to be mean to others online?” That probably makes me seem old, because I don’t think either side of this debate is against “call out culture”. Screenshot tweets, quote tweets, angrily or eloquently let the world know why X person is a fucking idiot. Get worked up. Does the topic even matter? It’s now ALTs, but there will be another topic where everyone can get excited about and pass the time with for another weekend. Find the person you hate, find out shitty information about them, and EXPOSE them.

I mean, it’s rainy season now I think, so we can’t exactly ride our bikes along the river, but it always seems empty to me.

The side shitting on ALTs is of course worse though. Assuming this is the side with a bigger pay cheque, I would recommend driving your Audi to the countryside to mountain bike on your expensive bike, then have some expensive nihonshu at a fancy onsen. Stare into nature, tired from your mountain biking, buzzed from the nihonshu, think about all the loved ones you have, the people who have helped you, and the people you have helped, and be mystified by the stupifying beauty of it all. But instead you pick fights with people who are enjoying their little part of the world? Seems silly.

Anyways, I have said nothing of value really. Just sitting on a high horse where I like to hear myself speak sometimes. I’m trying to blog more often. Gotta blog about somethin’.

“So I’m thinking about learning Ancient Greek, did I tell you that? Imagine reading the classics in their original language. Probably some pretty cool forgotten truths to be found.”

It had been a long week, and it was a long week of not thinking about anything like Ancient Greece. It was a long week with people who probably wouldn’t even know what Ancient Greece was, or why anyone would want to learn it. I knew Nick would understand though. He has been my buddy from way back, and he knows about this kind of stuff. It had actually been a few years since we last met, what with me having moved town over a decade ago, but I knew (or thought I knew) that things wouldn’t change.

“Buddy…” he started, “First, you’re not gonna learn Ancient Greek, okay? You may think you are, but you’re not.”

This was not the game of badminton that I thought I would be finally having.

“Wudduya mean? I want to study it. I like things like that. You know that.”

“Buddy…” he repeated, “I get that you want to learn Ancient Greece. And yeah. That’s cool. It’s a cool idea man. I am happy that you got a cool idea in your head. And yeah, it totally is a cool idea buddy.”

“I’m confused, you don’t think I can?”

“Why do you make me repeat ‘buddy’ so many times? Yeah buddy, you could. I guess you could. You learned Japanese. I’ll give you that. Good on you buddy. But still, you won’t learn Ancient Greek.”

“I’m still not getting why you can be so sure of this, and why you’re so adamant about squashing this for me. Maybe I won’t yeah, but I really want to man. I could read Plato in the original language!”

“I’m gonna give you a fourth buddy, buddy. I can’t believe you’re gonna make me say it, but if you need to hear it, fine. Let’s do it man.”

“I honestly have no idea what we’re going to do, but sure man, let’s do it.”

I wasn’t bored, which was good. My beer was done, which wasn’t good. I ordered another beer for us, as Nick wanted to go pee before he got into whatever it was. I respected that. I hate having to hold in a pee right when I’m in the middle of something.

Nick got back to our two beers on the table.

“Listen buddy”, he started, “you and me both know that you never read Plato in any language.”

He took a sip of his beer, gazing somewhere absentmindedly when he continued.

“Hell, I bet you have a copy of Plato’s Republic on your shelf. Right next to the Wealth of Nations and Das Kapital. I bet it’s prominent so your dates can see it if they ever happen to come back to your place, but regardless, we both know that you haven’t read it.”

This seemed besides the point (although embarrassingly right on the mark).

“Why would I need to read it in English if I’m planning on learning Ancient Greek? I should really read the original no?”

“Right buddy, because when you dedicate yourself to Ancient Greek, you’re just gonna go poof and be fluent in it, and never need to have basic knowledge of the book before diving in. You’ll just get it right away.”

“Well I haven’t thought about it that much, I just had the idea that it would be cool to learn Ancient Greek. I mean, yeah, maybe I wouldn’t, but it’s a cool idea.”

“Buddy, it’s a cool idea, sure. Maybe people that don’t talk to you often could give you a ‘that’s amazing’ and a ‘oh, you must be so smart’, you know, those lines you pretend to hate but secretly speak in a way to ensure people do say. But I’m not some woman you’re trying to impress with this mysterious intellect. I’m your buddy buddy. And I know you’re not learning Ancient Greek. Hell, you seem to also know that now, but you didn’t when you said it to me.”

“I think you’re getting too passionate about this Nick. This is just conversation at the bar between friends. We’re shooting the shit. Talking about our dreams. Guys in their 40s can have dreams too you know. Have you given up on your dreams?”

“I want you to have dreams buddy. I’m not saying don’t give up on your dreams. It would be nice if you got past the brainstorming stage though. You can spit out the dreams like a madman, sure, but then they go poof, and then you think about the next one.”

Nick had more beer. I had more beer. I kind of wanted a pizza. I didn’t know if they had pizza or not.

“And buddy,” Nick continued, “You’re probably too much in lalaland to even realize this, but this isn’t even the first time you told me you wanna learn Ancient Greek. Didja know that?”

I didn’t know that either, but again, it didn’t seem relevant to me. We were just shooting the shit.

“Nick man, we’re just shooting the shit. Yeah, maybe I had this idea before, and maybe I forgot, but even so, both times it’s the real me, and it’s the real me telling you what’s going on with me.”

“Buddy, I’m not saying it’s not the real you, I’m calling you a dunce. Think about it buddy. When you’re shooting the shit with all these dreams, what do you think the other person is thinking? Do you think about that?”

“Man, I don’t need to think about that”, I was honestly getting a little annoyed, “the point is to have a real conversation, and now you’re wanting me to go censor myself?”

“Buddy only you would call having consideration for the person you’re talking to censoring yourself.” Nick drank more, now not staring absentmindedly somewhere, but looking at me, with that goofy smile he sometimes gets that I never think matches what he says.

“When you tell someone you’re gonna learn Ancient Greek, what do you think they think? First, they think that’s awesome. That’s smart. They can’t wait to hear the progress on it. Their friend is gonna know Ancient Greek! Awesome! But then do you know what happens? They meet up with you at the bar again, and they are about to shoot the shit again, and do you know what they ask? They ask ‘how’s the Ancient Greek going man? Honestly, you actually inspired me to look at this app where you can pick up a bit in 5 minutes a day, it’s pretty good! Definitely not as good as you man, you’ve always been smart.’ That’s what they say man. And do you know what your response is? Do you? First, by this time you would have completely forgotten you wanted to study Ancient Greek. You were living in the moment. You were saying what’s on your mind like a real individual, and like a real individual whose lost at sea, you forgot the thought the next morning. So when you laugh and say that learning Ancient Greek sounds awesome, but not for you right now, the person you’re talking to is disappointed. They know not to trust you and the shit you say. It’s empty shit.”

“Nick man, aren’t you taking this too far. It’s just conversation!”

“Buddy, I’m doing this for you, and it is not conversation. It is you spewing out whatever is inside you that you need to get out, without any thought of how the other person will rally it back. Yes, I’m using your weird conversation/badminton analogy buddy. You drink. You spew those pseudo-intellectual thoughts, you feel good and you go to sleep. You’re intellectually masterbating, and doing it to shitty porn too.”

“Nick man, what else are people supposed to talk about? Their day at work? The wife and kids? I’m not boring like that man.”

“Buddy, you can talk about Ancient Greek all you want. But how about this? Your unboring dreamer self talks about shit in the past tense. You know? You talk about actions you did, and not things you will do. You bought a book in Ancient Greek? High-five buddy. You got the alphabet down? I’ll give you a light pat on the bum buddy. A nice light one. You got some of the grammar down and even see how translating into English can affect meaning? I’ll fucking take you to prom and save you a dance.”

“I’m busy man. You know that. I would love to learn Ancient Greek, but I’m just too busy.”

“You’re not too busy to dream buddy. You’re not too busy to daydream unrelated thoughts and imagine the outcomes where people praise you for your intellect. You’re just too busy to do some boring tedious real work to make any of these dreams happen.”

Nick was beginning to annoy me. I didn’t want to waste my Friday night hearing about how shit I am. He knows how hard my job is too. And he knows it’s a much better job that he has. I think Nick saw this in my face.

“Buddy you getting sore now? Alright, let’s change the topic. My bad, I got on a bit of a role, but you know that’s what friends are for right? Like we always said, we’re here to break each other down when we’re all high on ourselves. I see you don’t got anyone else to do that for you buddy.”

“Nick man we’re adults now. You know how my job is. What the fuck man?”

“Buddy, you can’t stop eh? You gotta have something where I praise you. Alright buddy, you definitely aren’t learning Ancient Greek, but yeah, your job is hard. How is your job going anyways? Hear you’re going to Singapore in a few weeks?”

The conversation from there was not longer about Ancient Greek, and Nick listened about my job, and rallied back as I expected he should in a ‘good conversation’, and in the moment I was loving it, and we had awesome laughs and all that, but the next day when I woke up I didn’t feel all refreshed, and I think I kept on dreaming about Ancient Greek, and what I wanted to do.

I don’t want to learn Ancient Greek. It was just a feeling. But why did I say I wanted to? What made Nick go on that much about it? How did he easily then bring the conversation elsewhere? I didn’t get it.

I thought about it though, and I did want to try on thing: to talk about dreams in the past tense. I didn’t want to tell anyone anymore what I wanted to do. Not to say that normal people shouldn’t do this, they definitely should and have a great time, but I knew that in this sense I was mutated a little bit. I got joy in just saying I wanted to do things with zero connection to reality. Weird.

Thanks Nick.

I don’t feel much nostalgia for Canada. I didn’t hate elementary school or high school or anything, but I don’t really look back on the time fondly. I had quite a fun time in university comparatively speaking, but I still don’t look back on this time in my life with much nostalgia either.

Nostalgia may be the wrong word, but I feel nostalgia for the kindergartens I worked in in southern Chiba from 2007-2011, and for my ex-wife’s grandparents house. These places felt distinctly Showa to me, like I was taking part in another era that was living and breathing at that time.

I worked at three kindergartens in that time, but I will only explain one of them, the smallest one. At that time, the school has three rooms for kindergarten classes, but only used three of them, one for each year: nensho, nenchu and nencho. Likewise, there were three kindergarten instructors, one office lady, and the kindergarten vice-president, who was always somewhere at one of the three kingergartens mentioned above. Two of the instructors were (when I was 23) what I considered old. In hindsight they may not have been that old: perhaps in their late 30’s or early 40’s. The third instructor changed in the time I was there, but was always young, in their 20’s, usually full of life. There was the common dynamic of the two older ones who I felt like had been there for decades scoffing at the young one for not knowing the proper way to do things.

Unfortunately my Japanese wasn’t good enough to truly communicate on a meaningful level with them, and I was imposed on them, so they didn’t always know what to do with me. I could say basic things, and so basic conversations were had, but nothing that could ever really last more than five minutes or so.

The first thing I am nostalgic for is the floor that felt sunken in some areas. Of course common in most places still, the ground level floor is raised a good 30-40cm about the actual ground. In the old kindergarten building, the wooden floor was somewhat sunken between the boards underneath that were supporting it.

The second thing I am nostalgic for is the slippers that are too small, that have the name of the kindergarten in gold lettering on them. Because I didn’t want to bring indoor shoes with me everyday, I usually just wore them.

The third thing I’m nostalgic for is the format of events and documents that I felt never changed in three or four decades. There was no reason nor motivation to change what worked, and seeing photos or certificates from many decades ago looking basically the same as what was being produced then gave an amazing sense of timelessness. The decorations for seasonal events also felt like they had been around for decades.

The fourth thing I’m nostalgic for is the monotonous. Most days were quite boring. I needed to speak English to kids, and the kids could only say “I’m fine thank you”, “I’m four”, or “My name is Kenta” or whatever. I tried to sit in the office in an awkward manner as much as possible. Ceremonies were also boring, and something that people fretted about. I thought it was silly now, but now I look back on them fondly.

The fifth thing I’m nostalgic for is being careful with money. Having long meetings where people decide what brand of tea or juice to provide if required, what sort of bento to buy, etc. As mentioned, my Japanese wasn’t very good, so I may have been subconsciously making up have of what people were saying.

For my ex-wife’s grandparent’s house, there is a similar theme. The floor was sunken in areas. There were pictures that leaned down above the paper parts of the walls (a true Japan expert would know the name of this), and these photos were from the 80’s until present. Most rooms were multi-purpose tatami rooms, but the kitchen was really the only room used, unless it was a formal dinner, in which case we sat uncomfortably around the fancy table that was brought out to one tatami room. There was the modern “HDTV” in the kitchen, 32 inches, very very huge, and it was always one. Whenever we went over there, my then grandfather in law was either starting with some Shochu, or getting there. The air conditioner was usually off in the summer, and the wind was traveling through the house. It was also off in the winter, but there was a small heater they had used. My then grandmother in law was always making simple but amazing food.

Again, there was a timelessness about it all. I often hated being there and was bored to death. Once smart phones became a thing, I was often on my smart phone there. This boringness I am also nostalgic for. With smart phones, I always needed to be stimulated, and couldn’t stand the just being and doing nothing. Taking part in a conversation that amounts to neighborhood gossip, what order to set the table in, or what we should drink, and drift in and out of watching whatever variety show was on TV.

I don’t think about these places often, but this year I am taking part in the neighbourhood association helping out with general affairs, and today we had another meeting.

The community center has the same feeling as the old kindergartens and my ex-wife’s grandparents house. The sagging floors. The tables and chairs that are being used to their fullest. The walls with certificates and names of donors framed or hung up, hanging down above the doors. The way people talk to one another and how conversation seems circular. The average age must be 70 or 80, and people are not in a hurry to finish the conversation to get back home. Despite everyone’s age, when debating topics, it feels like I’m listening to 15 year olds in a classroom trying to plan for their culture festival at high school. We (well, they) talk about the snacks we need to prepare for the summer festival for kids. The old women talk with resolve about how much costs what and where, and how the prices have changed, and how mothers and kids aren’t how they used to be. Sometimes things get heated. The head likes to speak very casually in a way I feel is at least a little put on. (I never knew “nē bē” was said outside of Chiba and Ibaraki.) And then all of it is ultimately very boring. I can’t resist to look at my smart phone just a little bit. I text my wife saying how funny the conversation is. I sent a photo of the list of names to my mom just because. It was kanji for everyone, and katakana for me, and I told her where my name was.

Anyways, I was nostalgic for it all. It reminded me of 15-16 years ago, when I was in my early twenties, and dealing with all these things. And this is when I am most nostalgic for. The beginning of my life in a new country, in old institutions. My life before coming here I for whatever reason do not have any real nostalgia for. Big houses and needing a car to go anywhere. Saying no to drugs, and being careful not to get beat up or peer pressured. There are all the punk shows I went to, but even then, I am most nostalgic for the ones that happened in Japan in the south of Chiba.

Many years ago, I wrote a short story called “Perfect Eyebrows”. It was in a series of stories I wrote that were based on me riding the Sobu Line from Chiba to Iidabashi every day for more than a couple of years. I think I sounded a lot like Haruki Murakami in the stories, but this may have been before that was a bad thing. I haven’t read the story recently, but I am hoping I didn’t personify the woman’s boobs in the story or anything. I officially apologize if I did, but I am not checking.

The story is about a woman who rides the Sobu. She is a strong business woman, and she has an affair with a man, and then the man leaves her. Well, it’s imaging all that happened, as the story takes place solely on the Sobu Line from the perspective of a handsome Canadian who is sitting down watching the interactions of the woman and a man.

It’s all shit all built up to one thing. This is how my English professor (the one who mattered) at Kwantlen University College’s Surrey Campus explained to us 18 year old suburban shits about the eighth of the nine stories in JD Salinger’s Nine Stories: De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period.

Blue Period is a story that goes on and on for a short story. I love it to pieces though. The protagonist lies with such lack of thought, it is something the whole world can probably relate to. There’s fluff about something about New York and then these Japanese people and living in Montreal or somewhere in Quebec and it’s something. However, it all comes down to this one moment, where this young adult living in lies upon lies has an instinctual reaction that transcends all his lies.

In Perfect Eyebrows, in all that fapping around, all I was trying to do really was discuss one specific thing, and that is the moment in-between masks, where the story and how to act isn’t clear. The woman is looking forward to her lover getting on the train and he doesn’t show up. She knows it means he is not coming. She knows her face had allowed itself to be happy in anticipation, leaving herself vulnerable to be exposed by Canadians who observe their fellow passengers way too much. It was all about that split second before the cool hard mask came back on, and any sign of joyous anticipation was completely gone.

Isn’t that where life is? In the times when no mask will fit, and we’re left stupid and dumbstruck, not sure what to do? For the woman in Perfect Eyebrows, it was a split second, but it can be much longer than that before we refind our mask, or our narrative on ourselves to keep us warm in reality.

I’ve been thinking about that feeling, that complete nakedness where the walls of reality come down, and the options of re-evaluation or insanity. I think everyone goes for re-evaluation, but insanity is always the ELSE in the IF statement.

It’s much easier to talk about such feelings head in, but it’s much safer to talk about such feelings in a short story, because in a short story, you can have the faith that the people you don’t want to understand you won’t, and the people who you adore above life itself will understand. It honestly doesn’t matter if such people are known to you or not, as the possibility of someone reading a story with a tucked away meaning, and getting the tucked away meaning forever remains a possibility, even thousands of years in the future, when I’m sure this blog will still be going strong.

So what am I saying? Nothing. I’m just thinking about those moments when masks don’t fit.

I know talking about a dream one had is only interesting for the person who is talking about it, but I am going to do it anyways, with the hope in my heart that this dream may transcend that, and may have deep things that I can’t see in it. I know the probability or whatever is against me, but I will forge ahead with my chest out and my head high.

I was in the basement of my parent’s house, where I had lived for 14 years.

We moved there when I was 7, and I moved away when I was 21. We called the entrance to the house the foyer, but I remember being told in high school that that word was saved for hotels and fancy places, not my house. The foyer was fairly big and had glass doors that led to what was called the “basement”, despite being the first floor, and stars that led to the second floor that had the kitchen, living room, three bedrooms and a den. The basement was basically a second living room. When I was young, it was the kids’ room. We had a TV, and a lot of video games there. We had a couch, and some big chairs, and it was very much our space. There were also two bedrooms in the basement, and this is where me and my older brother slept.

So the glass doors to the foyer were open, and I was in what was the kids room, and is now my dad’s space. At this time though, the furniture wasn’t how it always was. Things seemed rearranged, and furniture I had not seen before was there. Perhaps due to the boringness of other people’s dreams, I did not feel anything strange about being in my parent’s house just yet, but that did come when this figure appeared in the foyer.

I don’t mean that he magically appeared, like out of thin air, I mean that I realized he was in there after a while.

“You’re here to be tortured,” he said seemingly non-plussed with the whole matter, but also seeming to get at least some joy in it. In hindsight, I bet he really enjoyed seeing the initial reaction of fright people get, before they somewhat consciously decide how to compose themselves with the mask they’ve perfected over their life.

“Excuse me? Tortured?”

“Yes, please wait. I have to set up.”

Perplexed and somewhat annoyed, I wasn’t ready to just give in to this person. I tried to push him with some great force, and now the magical stuff started happening. He basically became like a ghost and I could not make any contact with him. When describing it, it sounds like cheap special effects, but these black clouds came out around him as he did it, and his face became almost like a cartoonish devil, but nothing with red or horns, but dark and pale.

“There’s no escape from any of this,” he said calmly, “but try all you want.”

And so try I did. Now with a desperation (which I’m sure he liked), I ran up the stairs to where my parent’s bedroom was. My wife and my parents were all sleeping in the same bed, and all were very sleepy (typical of sleeping I suppose). I tried to wake them up with an urgency to tell them that I was about to be tortured, but they were too tired to care, or thought the entire thing sounded incredibly silly.

My captor came into the room, and I realized that only I could actually see him.

“They can’t see me, and they won’t care. There’s nothing you can do. You have to come with me,” he said, again, non-plussed but obviously getting some enjoyment out of it.

And so I left my parents’ bedroom, walked down the hall, went down the stairs into the foyer, and back into what was the kids’ room.

He first showed me the drills that he was going to use. They looked like drills from drill presses at first from grade 8 shop class, but upon further inspection they looked like drills you operate manually.

“You’ll be sitting here, and then the drill will go into your head from above,” he explained.

Then he showed me his whip that he had. It looked like a very nice soft leather. I don’t know the first thing about whips, and so I think that made this whip a little fantastical. It had a ball on the end somewhere. A hard ball of leather. After that, there were tassel things, like on those jackets people wear in cowboy movies. Tassles and a ball. He walked out of the kids’ room, and into the foyer, closing the glass doors behind him. Then, he showed me how the ball of leather on the whip was used, striking the glass door with it, and making these perfectly round holes into the glass with amazing precision.

Up until now I hoped this was some silly Murakami-esque nonsensical fantasy, but seeing the actual door break, and having things connected to the real world made me worried and confused. My first thought was “wait, so this actually will hurt me?” This may have been because I semi-knew I was in a dream, but I may have also been at that stage of a surreal event where I am finally understanding the consequences of what was going on, and that maybe “everything won’t be okay in the end”.

He did it a few more times, calmly saying, “this is how I’ll attack you,” and I panicked like mad.

I silently panicked though, I just watched as everything was being set up.

Then, in a step that is normal in dreams, and boring in stories, for no reason that I can remember, more people began to show up in my parent’s basement to be tortured. There was a bunch of us there now. Our torturer still was getting ready. I saw different types of drills being set up where the pingpong table used to be.

This was the first time I started to think about why he wanted to torture me, and the rest of the people that suddenly showed up. There was one thing which I had full conviction on, and that was I would tell them whatever they needed to know, no matter who it hurt. This conviction was something I wasn’t proud of, as I have watched tons of crime shows where some people are protecting their friends and loved ones until the very end, and others sob right away and pee their pants. I knew in a second that I would be blubbering like a baby, and peeing my pants. I didn’t show any of this of course. I played it cool as I was waiting around for doom. My mask is strong.

I looked at what everyone else was doing, and no one else seemed to really care about the situation that we were in. They were complaining about things, but not about being tortured. They complained how the torturer’s attitude was, and how the bathroom in the basement was small, and other things like that, and I didn’t get it at all. Didn’t they understand why lay ahead of us? Why didn’t they care? I had no idea, and this didn’t put me in a better mood.

Observing them, some of them were talking to our torturer, and then he said with reservation, “of course you all will only remember the first 35 minutes of this. After that you won’t remember a thing, that would be inhumane.”

At first I was relieved, but then I wasn’t sure if just not remembering something meant that I wouldn’t feel the unbearable pain or not. I also realized that if I would not remember, it was a matter of waking up if I had told them what they wanted to hear, and perhaps never waking up if I stuck to any principles and wanted to protect someone.

As people became more unruly, but not exactly against the torturer, everything slowly faded to black, and then I was in my bed in my current house, with my wife sleeping beside me. I had lived. I had told them what they wanted to hear. I searched my body for scars or pain, and there was none. It was the same soft body I went to sleep with.

I tried to remember what I was asked, and what I said, and all I could really remember was images of the letter L. I saw a keyboard with the L keys (yes, plural for some reason) having fallen out. I tried to think of people I know with the letter L in their names, or concepts. Love? Lust? Loss? I wondered if my actions had harmed anyone, and if my being safely in bed was at the direct expense of another.

However, as with all dreams, this one gradually started to fade away. What was strong vivid feelings of fear and desperation that negatively defined my character soon became “just a dream”, and will soon be completely forgotten. I may look back at this and think “hey, I got to write a story out of it at least”, but nothing more.

But now, however silly it is, I wonder if there was some reality to it, if the Kafka-esque situation where I was existentially being tested in front of the Devil himself was something more. Where it wasn’t about passing or failing, but observing the results of this insignificant human being’s reaction.

Hopefully I dream of sex or flying on a horse tomorrow or something.

Whenever the brain or whatever has time away from all stimulation to process the phenomena of daily life without bias, connections and personality always appear without fail.

Nihilism grows powerful from the disjointed images of modern life.

Just a note to self for when I forget.

The headlines and online conversation often talked about how illiberal Japan’s immigration policy is, but I always thought some aspects were quite liberal, especially permanent residency, getting more so with seemingly more options to become a permanent resident.

Anyone who can go to school in Japan (with some money), where they can work 28 hours a week (not enforced), and can afterwards easily get a work visa with a job offer. Once they’ve been here 10 years, assuming nothing strange, it’s a clear road to permanent residency.

Some people may think this sounds hard, but based on my experience in Canada and what I hear about America, it’s a million times easier and straight forward, especially if you’re not western. a spousal visa from Pakistan to Canada last time I checked takes about five years!

And then when you’re a permanent resident, it has been basically the same as citizenship except for voting rights. Want those? Naturalize. Likewise, this is an easier process than usually thought.

So this is why I’ve considered Japan’s immigration policy more liberal than others have online.

And that is why I think any conversation in being able to change parameters for permanent residency is glaringly and unfortunately illiberal.

If failing to pay taxes and insurance could give grounds to cancel permanent residency, it likely won’t hurt me. I have a decent job, and the ability to get another job if that falls through. I could have an accident though, and that could all change in an instant though.

Online conversation goes to the rich American tax evaders, but my mind goes to people who are unable to pay something. Residence tax or health insurance based on last years income when you lost your job, and have zero income would make it hard to pay. Should these people be under the Japanese social safety net, the same as citizens, or should they be thrown out as a burden? To little lefty me, the answer is obvious that the social safety net should apply to them too.

So while jokes are made by one side, and outrage is had by the other, there’s disappointment had by me. Thinking about myself, just knowing these conversations can happen makes me aware that I probably don’t have enough backup plans, and need to think more seriously about naturalizing.

A new colleague of mine is from Syria, and got to university here around 2011 or so. 12 years later, he is a Japanese citizen. Maybe making PR less attractive will make me and others make the same jump he did.