St Guilhem

I had a dream last night; the picture is a basketball court and a voice that sounds somewhere to the left and behind me is talking with a sporty, tanned, Oriental guy, with an American accent.

‘Watch’.

He says as he bounces the ball.

‘Watch. O.K.’ Throws it. ‘Good’. It falls, plum. Right through the net without touching rim or backboard.

He carries on bouncing the ball, ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’, shoots hoops and addresses the voice to the left and behind me.

‘There was a town of folk needed a bridge built across a gorge, a deep deep ravine gouged right outta the earth, but no-one had the money or the tools to do it. They held towns meetings and all the artisans and craftsmen sized it up but decided it couldn’t be done. Vieux Guillaume kept minutes of the meetings and they say the town, St Guilhem, they say you can still go there today and read those minutes. Vieux Guillaume sat and scripted what was said, and “Monsieur”, his dog, he just sat there too, glum face on the floor, wet nose dilating and opening steadily, lip picking up spots of dirt, his collar with loose red stitching, snug about his neck. So anyway, they put up posters in all the neighbouring towns looking for the “Perfect Craftsman”, they even called it that. They offered a reward but no one that came could figure out a way of building that bridge. Each artisan or craftsman that came would stop, scratch his chin or chew a pencil end, size it up and sigh and say, “If only…” or “Well…” or sometimes, even a breezy, “Tant pis”.’

Bounces the ball. ‘Thunk-thunk-thunk’. The throw. ‘Good’. The sound of the ball falling flush, brushing the netting and rippling it.

‘So then, one night, a traveler comes, says he’s the Perfect Craftsman, looking for work and heard the town was looking for him. Nobody thinks he can do it. Nobody can stare into his face- coloured dark, a whole chiascuro of shadows that shift and squirm beneath his hat rim- nobody can look into his face longer than a few seconds. So they tell him brazenly, do it.’

Sharp thuds and the dull thuds and thunks of the ball. More thuds as the guy bounces the ball and shimmies past a defender imaginary to him and to me, and there’s this puff of blue sparks that jump out of his hands and disappear just as quickly, just as he throws the ball. ‘Good.’ The trees shiver in a gasp of breeze and the ball hits the rim. ‘Damn.’

‘Each morning for a day shy of a year, through the snow and the sun, each morning the townsfolk wake and see another part, however imperceptible from the day before, however small, another part of the bridge built. The funny thing is, the people have no idea how the bridge supports itself. Nor do they know where the traveler gets the stone. But each morning, the bridge is a little further across the gorge.’

‘Then one day, Guillaume himself wakes and looks out from behind his curtains at the bridge… it looks finished. He rushes out as best he can and bumps into the traveler who says it’s nearly finished, it’s so nearly finished that it looks finished, but it ain’t yet finished. The traveler says to Guillaume he wants to set his pay.’

‘Guillaume tells the townsfolk later that day. He tells them, the traveler wants the soul of the first to cross the bridge. The townsfolk don’t know what to do. They argue and discuss and finally agree to the deal, but they can’t find the traveler to tell him so. Next day the bridge is finished.’

Bounce. Throw. ‘Swish’ sound.

‘Now they have the problem of who’s to cross the bridge. No one volunteers. Drawing lots is dismissed. When none of the folk have any more ideas, they all drop their heads and ponder the floor and their feet, and Vieux Guillaume’s dog Monsieur, glum face down, wet nose dilating and opening steadily, collar with loose red stitching snug about his neck, except this time, his eyes are straining up to meet each pair of human eyes that gaze down at him. One by one they each say, “Le chien”. One by one they chip away at the resolve of the old man and when finally the old man hasn’t the breath to resist any more, it’s decided to send the dog across the bridge.’

‘So they tie a frying pan to the tail of the dog so they can hear it, and they shut themselves up in their houses, all except Guillaume, who they tell to send the dog across the bridge. They hear the clanking of the pan clattering against the stony road and they hear it and they hear it and no one dares sneak outside, or even so much as a peek through their curtains. The next sound they hear is this tremendous creaking of stone and rock, a grinding pound that gets louder and louder as rock rends rock and it reaches this crescendo and at the crescendo there’s this great howl, a real guttural roar of anguish.’

‘The way Guillaume told it to the townspeople, Monsieur made it across the bridge, tail flagging and pan clanking and the Devil tried to tear down the bridge, realizing he’d been tricked, but his handiwork was too strong for him to tear down. The bridge was built. The bridge is still there today. So how about that.’

Now, as the Oriental guy finishes up, his ball starts to writhe, pulsing, rippling and wriggling all at once but he still bounces, throws and recovers it easy enough. And slowly, it changes into a giant ball of elastic bands, but he keeps on bouncing, throwing, shooting hoops.

As he flits about the court, all the trees overlooking it begin to sag and wilt and bend over as if to kiss the earth. The picture starts to bubble and blister at the edges, just as if it was being heated from beneath, and drops gather as the colours of the picture cauterize and run together. Then, even the basketball pole slowly bends and wilts. Then, with a gradual suck and a sudden popping sound, like air scrambling out between a cork and it’s bottle just before it’s wrenched free, this sound, and the Oriental looking guys features disappear and all that’s left is a white silhouette of him and the ball of elastic bands. Suddenly, he pirouettes about to face me and with a flourish of blue sparks, throws the writhing ball of elastic bands toward me. My hands open up to meet the shape of the ball as if meeting a pair of breasts and the ball is cold and I look down to see a collar with tattered, red stitching, loose like ruptured sutures, wrapped around the ball. The white silhouette is crouched down. It stands up. Walks toward me. Then I wake up.

EBAT report, Teddy's Diner, 20/01/07

Presentation: 7.8
Nice to see the open-bap lay, displaying all in honesty from the off. This burger has nothing to hide. In fact, much to boast of. Thick chunk of cheese, dribbling out of shape before the eyes. A hand moulded patty. The trimmings.

Meat Content: 8
Good. Possibly Australian beef, possibly not, I didn't care, it was glorious and good and red in pockets not only folded in the middle, suggesting care in the cooking.


Value: 8.5
A meal deal! Clam chowder or dessert done japanese and a drink thrown in too just tipped the belly out over the belt buckle. The burger alone might not have sufficed. Sometimes, that extra little goes a long way.

Wow factor: 8.5
Sealed the deal for the return. Greaseproof paper corner supplied in advance with instructions for use. The juices ran, my hands stayed tidy.

Overall Score: 8.2
Final Comments: Finally a burger worth mentioning, found in Japan.

finding reasons for doing all of this

'culture shock, shulture cock' i remember thinking last july, 'that's shit's for gays and wimps'. we got it stuffed down our necks at various introductions, orientations, orientating introductions and q and a fuck abouts. i think they were trying to say it manifests itself in different ways and it can recur too. like i said, wimps and gays- 'i've lived in amsterdam for fucks sake, where everyone's dutch!!' was the way i was thinking.

recently, i've changed my mind.

Wood, eggs and Shinsuke

Knackered, then, last last night Sean max me (in height order) tottered off to the ramen place on Eki-Mae. It's wooden inside and small. 6 stiff legs stomped in stomped out and waited on the street peering in under the noren curtain. It was full. Four legs two pretty legs tumbled out soon enough and in we went again. Both entrances heralded a host of gasps and neck cranings of various rotations round our way from a group nearest the door, near the side bar we sat down at and not far from the kitchen (it's a small place). We weren't in the mood for the staring game.

We ate. They have hard boiled eggs by the dozensome, ten yen a pop, right there on the table with a little jar for the money. We killed time spinning them about the table top like reject air hockey pucks, then peeled them badly and picked egg from the shell pieces.

Later, one from the table approached, sat down and began talking to me as I wolfed down noodles. He wanted to talk English. I didn't particularly.

But its funny, I've been looking for someone to help me find someone to exchange English-Japanese conversation recently, through the International Centre. And this guy wasn't the first to have walked up to me and just started talking, just because I looked like I might speak English.

And here it was. A Brand New Friend in the making. We've a mate called Shinsuke who we kind of inherited from the last raft of ALTs who were here. At some point, I guess, he might well too have just strolled up to someone who looked like they spoke English and started talking.

I suffered the guy in the ramen place and then we walked out, Max putting a friendly arm round me outside. 'Well done chum, I couldn't have done that.'

But I've got Skype!

Span's like my bessie bessie bessie, at least top three top bessie mate from school, from days of bic 4s and ink fights, college runs and bath rota. Incidentally, the Zebra Clip-on Multi I have right now is no match for the humble bic 4. There simply isnt enough room for 4 coloured biros and a mechanised pencil. You would have thought the undisputed King of Stationary Countries would have figured it out. And have you ever tried sourcing the brand name for Blue Tac ('Poster Putty'? 'Wall stick putty'? 'Putty?' 'Friction E-Nailenator'?) Turns out Blue Tac is only Blue Tac to anyone in Blighty and there isnt no-one else anywhere knows what you're chatting about when you say it.

King of stationary SCHmationary.

So Span from school has her nose back in between book leaves and ink blots and scribbles etc studying, Span's off to Kenya on a field trip, trip, research programme, exchange, I'm not sure I read the email several hours ago, but the point is she's like top 3 bessie from school and I had no idea she was doing all these things, I felt like everyone was within reach but whilst I've been building up this flaccid little existence around myself here, everyone white cliff side has been drifting further and better, brighter and farther from anywhere near where I left them last. That made me a little sad.

Wacaday chin sticker to Ben, who finally posted that comment. I'm still laughing (thank you)

Today was shite

for reasons innumerable and I don't have the energy to write.

So, instead, just an honorary mention to Ben, who has the same shirt as Noel Edmonds (I'm laughing as I'm writing this ladies and gents), and who tried, but failed, to be the first to post a comment on this blog. Benny, you perk me up old chummer.

Komatani-Sensei

K-T told me today he likes insects. And plants. He used to collect cicadas with a net and a plastic box when he was in shogakko (little people school). I can't imagine him as a kid, he's already living caricature enough without my mind setting to work on his face. No, he's not caricature, he's just bright character. He snips off the fluff on his tie with scissors. He clamps his specs further on to his face with flat hands, to read far-off script. He's great.

Cicadas screech and shell the room you're in with a winding, circling screech that is staggeringly insistent and incorrigibly shrill, a granular whine for the soggy heat of summer in Japan. Screech I supposed you would call it. Cry? Call? Song? Komatani Sensei used that last word to describe the sound of his favourite cicadas.

This all came about from a 6 year old (....no, 7 year now) interview he'd been listening to. Tom Hanks circa Meg Ryan. K-T has a transcript in a magazine he's kept, to accompany the tape of the c.d. featuring the interview. One of the questions posed to Hanks by the interviewer posed to me by K-T was 'What profession would you choose if you could change it all?' (it wasn't precisely this, but something like it). K-T said a scientist, and then explained he likes insects, in particular cicadas, and that as a boy he had chased them down with a net and a plastic box.

Stealth op

This morning I had no toilet paper and no time. At school, there is one, just 1 Western-style toilet. I'm quite averse to squatting. It takes acrobatic skill, it takes focus, it takes the strength from your legs so you away wobbly. I think....hold on...yes, maybe only twice in 6 months or so have I squatted.

However.

The western-style toilet at school is precisely diagonally opposite in an upward direction (if you think about it 3d) from the teachers room and me. I have to pass an entire floor of classrooms to get to that end of the corridor, and I have to climb three flights of steps. it's like a walk of shame. I have no business up there, except, well, doing my business. One morning I thought I'd got away with it (I arrive before most of the kids) and then, to my horror, I bowled out of the toilet straight into the new school captain and three others, standing guard, standing guard I tell you, on the steps, greeting everyone.

But this morning, today, it was plain sailing stealth. I almost snorted in triumph when I got back to the teachers room, a little lighter on my feet.

people advise against drink blogging, all the time, i've heard it before, i know the risks, and yet still i'm about to do it. just because i'm sat in front of a screen that's begging to thread the thoughts out from my head: which shouldn't take much doing.

tonight was a wine tasting with bruce jones from australia, from swan hill, and just about every bigwig big cheese in this town and i found myself thinking, what the fuck? again. really. in spite of being here nearly half a year, it's shocking how suddenly you can tug away all your experiences, that flimsy sheet of all everything you've learnt, anything you've found out about your peers, how you can just look up and think, 'what the fuck? i'm surrounded by japanese people, i have no idea what they're talking about.... and how did i get here?' and nowmatter how precisely, how detailed you back track and retrace your steps, it still doesn't seem to satisfy that itch for explanation. that's something i think never leaves you, here.

so i stared long and hard at bruce jones' big pork chop cheeks and a little later i went and said hello to him. taro komatani, my friend, my boss at school, is his friend too, you see. bruce jones was going home at the end and it was all an adventure to him still, you see.

Traps!

At first I thought it was just maybe me being me, and, besides, I stepped right in it, so destroying all evidence. But the next morning I was a bit more careful, easing open the front door and looking before I trudged out, and there it was.

Lovingly moulded, a two snowball-high mini tower, awaiting the very first footstep of my day. Right where I'd put my foot.

Some bastard has been planting these snow traps.

Well, I didn't know how to react. Suspicions confirmed I nonetheless felt affronted and equally bemused. Who? Why? Next-door neighbour? He seems to be listening to loud music very loud recently, perhaps in response to my usual noise. How to react?

I threw the snowballs at the neighbours doorway. They were crusted and packed, obviously having been there since the night before. That wily old fox.
No wonder he never says good morning back, when I do see him.

the strangest thing

This morning I awoke to the creepiest little stony-eyed little snowman, glaring right into my window, or into the window I would have looked out of as I drew the curtain back on another day, had I not made a crazy-padded mess of the window with red tape and thin bubble wrap in a desperate attempt to insulate this pitiful little shrew box.

Little demon snowman, right there, in between my window and my car. Where in blue blazes did the freeking thing come from?! It wasn't there late last night when I got back

I have my theories. Recently I've waged a noise war with one of my neighbours. Turns out
a. the walls aren't as thick as I previously gave them credit
b. all that banging wasn't just booted woodlice
c. my neighbour doesn't appreciate quality music when he hears it. muffled.

I think the snowman is some kind of curse. I was tempted to kick the head off when I got back earlier, but then I thought, 'What happens if my head topples off at the same time?'

The strangest thing happened yesterday, in the check-out at the supermarket- I checked the time, 17.27, and found myself thinking, 'Oh, I must dash home and catch Neighbours'

I feel like a status quo has been resumed- the brothers, the bearded brothers, my bessies in the Shi are back in Yama-G-Shi. We talked tales from parts of Thailand other than those Jewels and I explored (wading high tides and batting off Ladymenshethings), but where Max and his little lady Fi ended up. About Salt Lake City (which I imagine just as it sounds, great castles, towers, citadels built from pure rock salt), Mike's travels and Virginias and Californias and all sorts of States that elude me as the most enlightening of states of mind I've been fortunate enough to enjoy.

We ate mash too. Favourite past-time of mine, that.

And its bucketing down with snow, droves and droves of it. Snow so deep it wets your ankles. Probably shins too by tomorrow, judging by it now. Cold wet shins: perish the thought...

Getting off on the right foot

I started off the year with a ankle-foot swelled like a bag of mouldy oranges, or a club foot, or like a pygmy head, anything except a normal looking foot and a standardly lumpy ankle. It was alarming. More alarming that I didn't exactly know why.

So Yokohama hospital gave me lots of pills, Yosuke's mum had the good grace to change my bandages and feed me all kinds of wonderful and unidentifiable and wonderfully unidentifiable foods during the stay down there, and then Yamagata hospital gave me even more pills. In between I dreamt some very strange things (I think the pills were the culprit).

Yosuke's mum told me that the dream you dream on the second of the first month foretells the fortunes of your year. I lost my job, was in general disgrace and could feel my cheeks burning red even as I woke up. I don't precisely recall if this dream was dreamt on first second or third ( I blame the pills), but that doesn't matter: around about the time it's bad to have a bad dream, I had a bad dream. Ito-sensei, whom I sit next to in the staff room at school, was the one disgusted with me in the dream.

Today I was invited to Ito-sensei's house for New Year's food.

The wind and the rain rasped window panes and the snow still hid above the clouds. Out of sight but settled in all our minds and scattered all about conversations in the Yama-G-Shi. (That was me setting the scene)(Get used to it).

We made hand-made mochi (new year's food). Tomoko, Kasuya-sensei, me took turns walloping a wooden mallett down on a wet flop of rice-mulch all pounded up into a sticky pulp. Ito-sensei's husband wet hands and folded over rice-mulch in between mallett blows. We all took turns. Kasuya-sensei has rhythm. Ito-sensei took pictures.

I'd forgotten I fancied Tomoko. Lots. She made eating a satsuma as titillating as that giant prawn last slouchy August at their bbq. Today she had a cold. She turned away and blew her nose and my heart up my throat all at once. Imagine!

First Post!

'What a splendid spot to stop and scratch out a few lines' , I thought, earlier on, somewhere other than here.

A tiny cafe I'd not never before noticed, jutting out inconsequentially for all except those inside, overlooking the staircase in a bookshop.

Usually bookshops are a kind of haven for all-comers. Peaceful places to dawdle or gaze or even read a little. This one differs a little; at least, it differs for me. Hachimonjiya's backward magazines and indecipherable characters, its up-down not left-right reading lines are, at present, beyond me. Sometimes, Japanese can seem so impenetrable and it seems I've not learnt a thing for the past few months' endeavours. But that's beside the point, just now.

I've been looking for somewhere to stop and watch and write. In many ways, this is all I've been doing since arriving in Yamagata, back in August, to the tune of a million spiral-screeching cicadas and the soggy heat and everything a little unnervingly different, right down to the zebra-crossing noise and the pavement shape. When you don't really understand what's being said all about you, you use your eyes a lot more (of course) and pick out other things than just big words small words blustery words clouding the air in pockets.

The differences between Japan and Edinburgh and Bretforton and Hertford and everywhere around these places are too numerous to recite. (Besides, many have done it better than I could ever.) My reasons for being here, too mysteriously untenable. And my experiences so far, too alien for comprehension, both for you (whoever you are and where ever you may or mayn't be) and for me- as they warp and crinkle in my memory under the strain of another day's silent musings, a hundred dozen hundred more 'It cant've...Did I really?...' and 'Why?'s.

So I'd better start from here.