Changing Leaves

The autumn weather is glorious. The trees breathe in and out— changing colors as the energy reserves for the year change. The incense leaden air returns— the pest deterrent that makes me think of the Tibetan jewelry shops on Hawthorne.

It is my second year here.

In many ways, the changes feel obvious when I take a step back. But it can be hard to do, or rather, remember, as the ebb and flow of joy and melancholy can twist throughout the day like eager garter snakes.

I often think of the phrase “I know it like the back of my hands” and take time to study my own. To look at the pink crescent scar on the knuckle of my right middle finger. Or the pale vertical slash on my left thumb where I had punctured the finger doing who knows what. But I remember the skin bursting and my shock at my thumb bleeding. I remember cutting my knuckle open on the broken frame of a picture in a Westside house my cousin moved into.

In some ways, I feel gentler than before. More vulnerable. But I wonder if this time has been more akin to shearing than remaking. In childhood, I was a curious and sensitive kid. One just as likely to strike up a conversation with complete strangers as I was to watch in silence. In the moments I feel bristly, I know it’s because of unmet desires. And at times, it’s staggering to admit how simple those desires are. There is nothing complex to the combination of grief and loneliness that has visited me enough to wear impressions on my heart.

We would like to imagine ourselves mysterious. Complicated. And in fairness, there is a random, complicated aspect to humans. There are layers upon layers to be discovered or understood. And if you’d like to drive yourself mad— you can dig forever. Or, you can accept that sometimes things don’t follow the usual pattern. We act in ways unbecoming of our own self-image due to those embarrassingly simple explanations like wanting company or being confused.

There’s a golden light that shines in these autumn afternoons. A warm haze that makes the forests glow. You can look at the farms with their peeling side panels and rusty tractors. You can see the burn and dirt piles—the evidence of effort amid a more significant change. The rivers run drier. Weeds have replaced running water and grow high to make temporary fields.

I thumb through my pocket journal. The worn, flowery pattern whose hardcover front and back have begun to pull from the seams. There’s a dark texture to the edge of the notes. You can see where my ink-stained fingers have flipped through again and again. You can see the days I return to and those I do not. They are equal in their distance to this present moment— a moment now cataloged and will become past.

It is my second year here, and I will return at the end.

I doubt I’ll ever see another autumn in Tsushima. I’m curious if I’ll ever see another autumn in Japan.

The use of distance and time is the clarity it can provide. You gain a distance from what had been right in front of you. It's ironic, as I can see how these words could be used in the future to describe this experience I’m having on the island.

Uncertainty feels, to me, to be the nature of humanity. It’s the specter that looms at the edge of our minds. Of our lives. We build so many rules and restrictions for ourselves. We decree the way the universe must be experienced for it to be meaningful or to “count.” But who can claim to know any of that?

“And perhaps this is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on mortal behavior. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for twisted morals of temple, priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves— our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life’s celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.” —Malazan Empire by Steve Erickson

I keep returning to this quote since I read it on the twenty-second of October. I’ve been mulling it over and over as I think how much of our lives are entangled with our devotions. And how the world would be if we could step back and whisper, if ever so quietly, “what if I’m wrong?”

Knight Time

“That’s the thing about men and their mettle. Everyone— and I do mean everyone, is made of different stuff. It’s only when the hammer swings down that you see what sparks fly from. And you, my friend, had better pray it’s something hard,” he stirred the coals in the fire. “Because to me, you’ve got the look of obsidian, boy. Sharp, dark, and brittle,” he drew out the last word. Caul bristled at the comments. Staring off into the forest to avoid looking at the older man.

The caravan had passed through the edges of Malton Keep, but they were keen to exit the land quickly. Foul rumors had spread about the late king of Malton. The caravan leader, Leoirna, a wizened woman born to the trails, knew better than to involve herself in the game of thrones. She’d seen the destruction of Malton’s rival, Gennify, firsthand, and on dark nights, she still heard the screams and sizzle of flesh. She’d rather die than suffer another siege.

Plath had been a guard for Leoirna for three seasons. He didn’t like the look of the young man she’d just recruited. All sour looks and cocksure steps. He’d get himself or someone else killed with that attitude. Plath didn’t have time for risks like that. Better to wean the expectations early. No need for guards geared up for blood. You wanted the bored, but open-eyed veterans. The men who didn’t want to fight, but would end anything in a vicious punch. That’s what Plath wanted. It’s not what he got.

The cold mountain air laced with the scent of pine did nothing to invigorate Plath as he stared at the mauled body of a caravaner. The battered corpse had once been a man named Tulare. He’d been a gems merchant, a bit ornery, but nothing Plath couldn’t handle after a mug or five of ale. Leoirna didn’t want the rest of the travelers to know yet. Plath ordered the boy and the three other guards ahead. Caul, the boy, tried to argue with Plath. But a slap upside the head sent him packing with a mean glint in his eyes.

“What were you doing off the path, old man?” Plath hunched down to look at Tulare. Deep gouges to his chest and face. Whatever had done it had long, quick claws. The air felt loose. He didn’t worry about being surprised by anyone out here. He fingered a rusty amulet at his neck. He’d taken precautions for that. One backstab proved enough to teach that lesson. Plath checked Tulare’s pockets and found a pouch of uncut gems. Along with a amethyst mounted pendant. That would go to Leoirna. She could unravel that mystery.

A sharp whistle cut through the woods. Leoirna’s call to Plath to get moving. He shook his head and closed Tulare’s cloudy eyes. “Find the fires, my friend.”

Dark thoughts crossed Caul’s mind as a light drizzle soaked his hair. If it wasn’t the rain, it was the dust. If it wasn’t the dust, it was Leoirna. And if it wasn’t anything else, then it was always, infuriatingly always, that jumped up bag of bones, Plath. Captain of the guard, my ass, Caul thought as he kicked a stone out of the path. He hadn’t come to guard caravans from boredom and the occasional fireside brawl. He’d come to defend against forces of darkness. Against bandits! All he’d gotten was aching soles and worn conversations.

The caravan train stretched twenty carriages long. A couple wagons and other makeshift mobile shelters filled in the spots between the more expensive wooden carriages. Caul’s mind boggled at the money needed to build even one of them. Plath had explained the cost lay in the metal bits. Sure, they looked mostly wood, but the interlocking parts. The reinforced wheels and cabin, those needed metal. Which meant a smith. Which meant ore. Which meant miners. Plath would have kept going if Caul hadn’t begged off. Point being, any bandits that held up the caravan train and left the carriages would be foolish indeed.

Ganymede Gangplank

A horrible terror gripped the crew. An asteroid field appeared suddenly on the radar. Nothing the systems shouldn’t have been able to detect. If all was normal.

But in the past three months since the crew had left Ganymede, nothing had been normal.

Complaints of static interrupting the comms. A ghost in the system, the RdM called it. The captain joked with the first mate that the extra shares of stimpaks and run should be cut, but those laughs didn’t last long as the static grew more and more frequent.

Soon, siren calls made their way over the PA system. At all hours of the day and night, a haunting vibrato intermeshed with chirps and tweets bore itself into the crews minds.

Thirty five missions and counting, and never before had Arander Semakis failed to deliver. He hadn’t become a captain to lose his crew to asteroids and auditory hallucinations.

“What’s the move, Cap?” Bellies said as he stood on the observation deck next to Arander. His sweat stained tunic matched his greasy voice.

“Tell Malin to activate emergency thrusters. Codzen protocol. Swing starboard and give it everything we’ve got. There’s only one chance to escape this field.”

“Are you sure the ship can hold?”

“It’ll have to,” Arander said before opening the comms, “Everyone strap in.” The first streak of lights blurred past the window. The ship jostled as the thrusters swung it starboard. A small pocket on the radar showed Arander all he needed to know. All he could hope for. A way out.

In that moment, he wondered about alien gods. About what stretched past the cosmos. And if it would accept his crew if they couldn’t fight clear.

Chamomile and Ice

She loved chamomile and orange tea. Something about it reminded her of late autumn nights when the first brisk winds started to sing.

She’d only hold hands if I walked in her right side. She said she’d get dizzy if I stood on her left.

She’d hum Edith Piaf songs while she worked cross-stitch. Her size five feet kicking like tiny paddles over the edge of her worn sofa.

The permanent wag of her chocolate lab swept the shag rug at her feet.

I’d complain about how cold her apartment got in the morning and she’d press her cold hands against my back.

Some days she’d ask me to write a verse as I leafed through old notebooks.

I told her the only verses I could conjure leapt not from my mind to the page. She’d scowl like a fish-mad alley cat and tell me to try again.

Afterwards she’d hold my ink stained hands and tell me she could read my future. The ink sucked into the grooves and furrows— telling tales only her mind could decipher.

On her birthday she’d wear a blue velvet ribbon in her hair. She told me an old blessing lived in it. I asked what for and she smiled like sunshine through ice.

On moonless nights when she shifted in her sleep like shifting tides, I’d lay gentle kisses upon her brow and wonder how long the immortal muses wander.

Slaughterhouse Soirée

It’s nearly impossible to scrape all the lard out of the five foot tall burnished metal pot they kept in the back of the slaughterhouse. They’d boil down the bones and unwanted fatty bits to make a special pate for “premium customers.” Not that it was like to ever exit the building.

Roger “Cow Hide” Horton walked around at a staggering six foot six inches and four hundred pounds. Every day he’d stomp over to the magic man-sized pot and ladle out a fresh portion of the eternal lard stew into his thirty-three ounce “Don’t talk to me” coffee mug. He claimed it was for “quality control” but most workers knew better than to press questions.

Those who did— at least those who wouldn’t stop (after Roger issued a one eyed growl) were the ones that didn’t show back up for work. Not that anyone was too miffed. The meat house wasn’t hiring salutatorians of society. Most men and the handful of women that worked there had dubious tattoos and worse records.

Roger proved a safe haven for the domestically challenged. The denizens of North Plains were separate from the slaughterhouse servants and polite society was thankful for it.

Right on the edge of a posh town— but without the visibility to unsettle the milquetoast masses, the meat house and its gremlins (as Roger called them) continued their work in impeded. It was only the disappearance of a wealthy scion turned pseudo bad boy that the structured elite of the town took notice of Roger Horton.

Even with his special tasting regiment, Roger didn’t posses lard for brains. He knew if he made a misstep, his size eighteen boots of his would make a mark. So, sly as an urban coyote with the brazen balls to match— Roger struck first.

He rented out the ballroom at the council estate at the north end of town. He hired a nervous weevil of a man named Parker to manage the decorations. Roger and the gremlins took care of the food.

When the night of the new society ball arrived— gasps could be heard from the entrance as the guests walked into an elegant crimson hall. Dark purple streamers ran along the balconies above and a magnificent crystal punch bowl served as a centerpiece. It sat as a mock cauldron at the center of it all. And Roger-pressed into an immaculate three piece suit (custom, of course) with ruby red boutonniere attached to the chest, stunned the North Plains elite at the transformation from monster to monsieur.

Roger dazzled the guests with a surprising urbane sense of humor. He discretely ogled those to ogle, cackled and jested with the gummy men, and flowed from group to group with the ease of an established power.

By the time for toast arrived— Roger had worked the crowd like Kobe beef. All sweet talk and gentle massage. So much so, that no one noticed the quick movements of the cheap suited gremlins as they attended to comings and goings from the doors. Nor, did they noticed the covered trolley wheeled behind Roger’s table.

As Roger built to the crescendo of his speech— the residents realized he had dropped his suave mask. Before them stood the nightmare of a butcher— made real as he pulled an oversized cleaver from the trolley.

His booming voice proclaimed an end— to what— he didn’t specify in words.

Only action remained that night. Horrible, spine splitting, guts squelching, torn flesh action.

The floor had a cantilever to edge the offal to a sluice pit worked underneath by the gremlins. A dark shadow cling to Roger as he finally dropped his cleaver. He returned to his seat and pulled his mug from the trolley— staring out at the ruin before him smiling— he wondered why he hadn’t done this earlier.

Abraca-damn it

“Greetings, mortals,” said a weasely looking kid clad in black cape and top hat. His attempt at a schmooze lent itself to a sneer. The oily hair didn’t help.

Ron pressed a hand into his face and moaned, “Oh my god. Not again with this shit.” He sat surrounded by fellow freshman parents. It was only the first term and his son Jeremy had shown a penchant for the dramatic.

Ron sat through the rest of Jeremy’s attempted magic show, but the boy didn’t get far. Card tricks require time and dedication to pull off. Along with no small amount of dexterity. None of which Jeremy possessed.

Ron wished his son hadn’t tried to walk the line of Houdini and Criss Angel, but he only had so many interactions available when he wasn’t at work.

The son of an insurance agent wants to be a magician. There has to be a joke there, Ron thought.

The summer between the end of middle school and beginning of high school had been a turbulent one in the Fensky house. Ron had divorced Jeremy’s mother, Charlene, who he’d caught cheating on him with a stand up comedian. Unfortunately for him, it hadn’t even been that. Apparently the man had specialized in improv. Meanwhile, Jeremy had taken to a book of stage magic after spending unattended hours at a local flea market.

“Try to take it easy this year, huh?” Ron said, sipping on a Miller High Life and watching the Green Bay Packers lose in the fourth quarter again.

“What does that even mean, Ron?” Jeremy’s dad bit back a yell. He stared at his stick-twig son and wondered how the hell any of his genetics were even in the boy. Or if any of them were in there at all.

“Just go easy with all the announcements and cape waving, people get uncomfortable about all that. Maybe cut your hair. Play some cards or something.”

“Cut my hair? Play some cards? I’m fourteen years old. I’m not some retired old man living on stupid memories of the past,” he said nodding at the tv. Ron had proudly represented Green Bay on the practice squad for two seasons. No NFL snaps, though he thought he had been close one October.

“It’s not a wild dream if you tried,” Ron muttered to himself as Jeremy slunk off to his room. The pair had quartered themselves in opposite parts of the house most days.

A couple beers later, Ron went to Jeremy’s room to try and give a “I know teenage years are tough, but you’ll survive” sort of speech. He stopped at the door when he heard the fevered chk chk chk of the keyboard. Ron knocked softly and peered inside the door to see Jeremy dressed in his cape and top hat responding to messages flying through some sort of post. “What in the hell in this?” Jeremy spun around.

“Why are you in here? You’re supposed to knock!”

“I did knock. But you’re too wrapped up in whatever this is to listen,” he said stepping closer to the screen. Some of the usernames stood out. “Collardog69”, “VendettaJane”, “Tellersplitsmytaint.” “Is this some sort of …pervert convention? Who the hell are these people?”

“They’re magicians. They’re my friends. And they’re teaching me about everything I need to know about actually living life.” Ron stepped back from the computer.

“Log off. You’re done.”

A flurry of expressions crossed Jeremy’s face before it settled on rage. “Fuck you. You can’t tell me what to do just because you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand all right. I understand that you’re a minor and these are a bunch of sexual deviants who get their kicks from messing with a kid. So, you’re going to sign off and shut down the computer. Or,” he waved his hand, “I’m going to take that hunk of junk to the landfill. Your choice.” Jeremy screeched and swept his tea mug off the desk before turning to rip all the cords out of the computer. He got to his feet and stared at his dad with beady black eyes before sweeping out of the room.

Ron looked around the cluttered room with dismay. It smelled like wilted cauliflower and toe jam. There were weird outfits and strange books scattered on the floor. Sticking out of the bed was a small polaroid of Jeremy and Charlene. Ron had taken it at the county fair a couple years back. Strange to see Jeremy with a smile. Charlene too. He left the picture where it was and went back downstairs to finish his beer.

Cedars

Oh, I am spittin’ cat mad.

I have moments where I feel trapped on this island.

Like I’ve found this backwater patch where I can’t touch the rest of my life no matter how hard I stretch.

But that’s all an illusion.

By the end of the night I’m laughing. I’m brushing my teeth and thinking of how many hand-rolled cigarettes I shared at Landmark saloon or the boozy walks through the canopy covered streets in southeast.

Everything that’s happening now has ridden on the back of those moments.

I signed my signature to the contract agreement for 2024-2025. I signed the section where it says “No, I will not be renewing my contract.”

For being a smug son of a bitch a decent amount of the time, I still hold daily moments where I go “maybe I’m wrong about all this.”

So I waited before signing. I thought of all the tally marks for both positive and negative.

I had anxieties of the job market, housing, and general livelihood plague me as I looked at that contract offer. I get paid a decent wage for the work I do over here in Japan. If you’d really call it work. It might be more generous to call it an extended cultural experience.

But then I received a message from one of my close friends and fellow soccer coaches— it was one of appreciation and kinship. And even for a clever, but oft blind to subtle hints from the universe, the giant neon flashing light that said “Go where you’re loved,” stood out to me.

I laugh as I lay down to bed (on my doubled futon that’s still too thin to safely ignore the firm tatami mat below) as I remember that I’m doing all the things I set out to do by coming here.

It was never going to be for forever.

That wasn’t the point.

And if someone had thought it was— I’d wager they’d never seen me in my element.

Away from an energetic environment where I can express my love and appreciation in a buoyant manner— I’m not the human energizer bunny I’ve been characterized as in the past.

I’m quiet. Flashing to light like a pocketful of magnesium, but returning to a dull state quickly without extra stimulus.

Instead I’m reading or scribbling in a notebook.

I’m running over lines of ridiculous encounters I’ve experienced or imagined.

I’m making the five hundredth lap on a matter I’ll never actually revisit.

It’s not bad— but it’s not the flourish that genuine interaction brings about. The type where vulnerability can be present.

I’ve been vulnerable at many times during my time on Tsushima— but often not outwardly.

There’s a language and cultural barrier that keeps me from 99.9% of the island.

I’ve got one good friend on the island— and I thank my lucky stars for that.

Even still, that’s a weekend respite most times.

Each day is an individual thing.

A journey that has allowed for an inquest into my own values.

Into my ideas of the future.

Into my ideas of who I am as a person.

That’s the incessant digging that limited genuine interaction can do to you— a liability to overwork the dough.

The biggest discoveries I’ve had on the island haven’t been of anything new.

Rather, it’s the humility to accept what’s been present this whole time.

And the grace to keep it at the forefront of my mind as I continue this journey.

Someday I’ll tell stories about the cedars and silence— the winding roads to the southern orange groves and the prickle of goosebumps as I walked through centuries old shrines.

Someday I’ll see the marks this place has put upon me in a clearer light.

Just as I see the signature Portland has stamped on me.

Along with all the other places I’ve lived and people I’ve loved.

And as I lay on my futons with the aircon blowing for maybe the last time of the year— I wonder if I’ll even think of this a year from now.

When I’m back stateside— maybe sitting outside at a bar with friends. Smoking a single hand rolled cigarette and laughing about a ridiculous story— one where I walked through cedars and silence.

Sewer Problems

“They’ve got short sewer pipes. You may not think that’s a problem, what with not thinking of the sewers and all, but problem is, snakes have been crawling up those pipes. And you know where most of them lead?”

“Where?”

“They lead to toilets, Daughtry. The pipes lead to toilets.”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ is not a good enough exclamation for the amount of snake bitten taints I’ve seen in the past five weeks. ‘Oh!’ Is barely the bottom level shout someone might make if a coral snake were to spring out of their sewer pipe and latch onto their tender garden. Now, Daughtry, I know you’re trying. But please understand that we’re dealing with matters of life and death. A snake bite can be dangerous. But the embarrassment of being bit in the private parts in your own home? That can be fatal.”

“Oh.”

“Hell, some folks won’t even pick up the phone to call the ambulance. They’d rather die in agony than admit there’s little snakey sleuths crawling through their pipes and bitin’ they’re ‘you know whats,’ But that’s not matter for me. I still gotta investigate them all.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. Not what you expected in medical school, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“This is it. The glamorous life of a mortician. Well, once you get to it. But for now? You’ll be doing the cutting and capping. Someone’s gotta write those reports up. And after the horror of identifying the sorry sons of bitches, it ain’t gonna be me.”

“So… it’ll be me?”

“See— I knew you were a streetwise kid once you stepped in here with those scuffed penny loafers and a dangle ring bowl cut. We’ll make a hell of a team, boy.” Doc gave Daughtry’s limp hand a quick pump and turned towards the door. “And remember— best not to use the facilities here. Save that for Murdoch county.”

Musical Notes

There’s a surprising amount of jazz in my day-to-day life. Certainly more than I would’ve ever expected as I run to school and the sunken front seat of my dad‘s black 2002 Nissan Sentra. He would occasionally play a CD of Kenny G and I would consider those to be some of the worst mornings in high school.

It’s funny, because when I went back to visit Portland this summer, I told my father this, and he had no memory of it at all. Just as I suspect, he would not recall his visceral dislike of Regina Spektor for her lilting tones, but his undying love for Joni Mitchell. Who is a much admired and influential artist, and at the same time, is someone I myself can’t stand to listen to.

For two years running after a success of six years, I will not have Mac Miller as my top artist on Spotify. I’m sure that I won’t have him in my top artists at all. Neither will I have Mother, Mother, or The Kooks, Sum 41, The Offspring. Many of those are bands that I grew up, listening to, and had a big deal of influence on myself. You can listen to the new moon anthology from Elliot Smith, and see tones of it in certain writing pieces of mine.

I can look back at photos and hear certain songs. In Eugene, when I was 18 years old I can hear the song “Safe and Sound” by Capital Cities. I can hear the song “Morocco” by Moon Taxi for Ashland. During my Trader Joe’s, and final Starbucks stint in Portland, I can hear Overdose by Ghost Loft.

Missoula is home to “The Muse” by The Wood Brothers. It’s also home to many a GTA and other hype songs. “Big John” by Jimmy Dean. It has the memories of walking the north end of town as I trek from the Cooley street house. My doublewide that couldn’t pump heat into the bedrooms. Then the Lewis and Clark apartments with their weary coats of beige paint. I’d listen to the Black Keys and play Fifa. Drinking Summer Honey beers and learning that when people keep making the “yeesh” face when I mentioned who my roommate was, to believe there was a good reason.

I can hear the tight spell of lines from Deca as I’d bounce my head between classes. I can remember the shift as I’d finish the day and prepare to head to the racquet ball courts to kick the ball around with Henry.

In returning to Portland I can hear “Bernard Trigger” by Cleopatrick. Lots and lots of Cleopatrick to be honest. The return to coaching also brought the high energy, get pumped up music that they supply by the truckload. I can hear “Jealously” by Robert Delong. The memories of a blurry concerts and pulsing energy. I can hear the quieter notes of Lucius and Drug Store Romeos.

I can hear Wulfpeck and Cory Wong. I can hear the drum beats being echoed by Julius as pop beats would roar over the home speakers during a regular summer grill session.

In Tsushima I’ll think of “Nowhere in No Time” by Eileen Jewel and “Candy” by Paolo Nutini for the winter months as I’d play Fifa and curse the cold. I’ll think of “Well Acquainted” by Dick Stusso whenever I see photos of Izuhara and the verdant forests surrounding it.

There’s almost eight thousand songs in my private Spotify playlist. Some breathe fire while others gasp for air. It would be impossible to distill each distinctive period with a comprehensive list, but I try my best to remember touchstone songs to former versions of myself.

Revery

There’s an old man singing in the woods above the road I’m walking on.  I hear it from above the abandoned lot where a house once sat. All that remains is a cement foundation.

I know no stories nor any names.

I know there’s a tori gate above. A path leading to a shrine on the mountain they call “Turtle Rock.” A scroll from the 1500’s names it. The name itself is supposed to be older.

The man that sings in the first chill autumn night. I wonder if he’s older still.

I wonder if he stands at the edge of the gate. Waiting for the faithful to journey to the forgotten shrine above an olden way post between one world and the next.

I keep my headphones in. Not pausing to listen. I don’t let my feet stop either.

There’s no one else on this road.

The curling mess of asphalt between the eastern edge of the island and the beginning of the bay.

I try not to think of the creaks above my apartment at night.

How I live on the top floor and above there’s nothing but roof.

How it sounds like someone walking from time to time.

I play music most nights. I run the AC or heat even when it’s not needed.

When I could sit in the silence.

But that’s the problem. There’s no silence. Not here.

Not on this island— with its lost graves and hidden portal. Not with the edge of reality tucking inward as the outward pressure of something beyond comprehension looms.

A viper waiting to strike—-

Except there’s no venom to what comes next.

No horrible death or agony.

What comes next is—