A Different Street

Every time I talk to someone from back home I’m asked what I’m thinking about my return to Portland.  It’s always a different thing that springs to mind. Today I’m thinking of my neighbor, Sherri.

Sherri passed away earlier in the year and it made me feel like a foundational part of my life disappeared. For my entire life, Sherri had always lived across from my parents. When I think of her, I think of home projects, endless Christmas cookies, Native Montanan bead belts, elaborate yard decorations, and a stern but loving attitude.

When I visited in September, I had my final conversation with Sherri. I was about to leave to do my classic springwater trail trip with Andrew when I stopped to talk with her for a while.

We caught up and she expressed support for my adventure and looking forward to my return. I asked about her projects and her grandkids. I must’ve stood there straddling my bike for about 30 minutes before I finally took off. I’m glad I took the time I did.

Sherri told me that when she was 15 years old, she punched her principal in the face. She said the principal was a mean lady but that Sherri had been pissed off at the world and was ready to take a swing at anybody. As it was, she ended up being a golden gloves boxer for a while. Sherri also worked in rodeo before she made it out to Portland.

She was a type of person whose personality conjured an optical illusion. She couldn’t have stood more than 5 feet tall but for the majority of my life well into my 20s, I swear to God she could stand toe to toe with anyone.

There was some innate sense of grit to her. A real “I’m gonna do my thing, do it well, and fuck you if you try to stop me.”

She kept a vigilant eye on the neighborhood. One of those characters that you don’t realize the depth and magnificence of until later. Which isn’t to say, she was not appreciated in her life. But it would be fair to say that she also had a certain roughness to her that could keep you at a distance before you saw all the warmth that lay underneath.

It’ll be weird to stand on the same sidewalks and notice her absent presence. I’m grateful for the time it was there. Of the small delights and earnest labors she brought to the world.

Lack of Scribbles

I’ve been steadily off the pace since the end of April. Probably before that to be honest.

A lot has gone on since then, the big final trip and preparation’s for going back home, and daily life, as I figure out the first parts of this next adventure, and will still trying to be present in the current one.

It’s funny to me how immensely your rhythm can change within a short time span. I have been distance from any real creative impulse. But I suppose that would be the case, when you’re looking at the end of a two year sojourn and the logistics of lugging shit five thousand miles back to your hometown.

In the beginning of the week, I participating in a 2000 year old red rice, planting ceremony. It’s been a part of the culture in Tsushima for nearly as long as it’s been an inhabited island.

I took some photos and videos of the starred as I watched my students slog through the muddy field to stand in a line and plant rice seeds.

Before long, I join them with bare feet. Mud squelched in between my toes. The water was filled with tadpoles and earthworms. It would become more of a glade than a field at that point. Very enthusiastic old man with gold cap teeth and tan baseball hat gave instruments as we planted the rice.

We spent two hours out there and it felt like a lot less. It was easily one of the best experiences I’ve had on the island. If you had to summon up some studio Ghibli magic from any moment during my time here (aside from the fireflies) that would have been it.

Afterwards the day went back to normal classes with the requisite field day training (complete with wind sprints AND silly dances).

All the while I try to appreciate the grains of sand as they tick out from the clock.

Sometimes the best moments are in between snacking on clover and cursing at the death lord-looking spider twirling up an unlucky fly.

Turtle

A black and yellow checkered cab putters down a country road. In the back sit a mid-thirties couple. The man resembles Mt. Vesuvius pre-eruption, the woman looks closer to those caught by the ash.

“Good to know, that you are in fact, fucking kidding me,” the man says as he checks his Rolex.

“Peter, leave the man alone. He’s just doing his job.” The woman places a placating hand atop his own, but the neck veins don’t subside.

“His job? Kelsey, the man is supposed to be a taxi driver. Not a stop- start expert. He’s not the James Harden of driving. We need someone who isn’t afraid of the pedal.”

The driver in question seems to be bouncing along to his own thoughts. The vitriol flows over him.

“I’ll give it to you, Kels. He knows how to make decisions. Not that they’re any good or that he holds to any of them besides trying to reanact YURTLE THE FUCKING TURTLE, but he does make decisions.” The driver gives a glance back at the yell, but doesn’t find the man’s gaze. He keeps bouncing along.

Frenzy

“Count to three with me,” a frenzy of lights brighten the sky. The city streets ignored the crash of broken glass and screams from the windows above. A harried woman scans the street before ducking back in. A hand pressed to her ear, “do you copy? I repeat, Ian, do you copy?”

“I copy,” a haggard voice crackles over the comms. “Wish I didn’t, but I do.”

Carrying

There’s something of the sea in the clothes that I own. Salt rimmed brims to all my hats. Sand in various pockets of my shorts.

Even if it’s not the sea, the gravel from the sports fields hitchhikes in my school shoes.

All of it tells of story of the life I’ve lived on this island. One that I’m cognizant of as the days wind down.

I’ve less than thirty days of work before I’m off the island.

I wonder what it is that I’ll find once I leave these shores. What leftover pebbles the land has given me as I venture back five thousand miles.

From the beginning I had asked myself what it may be that I would learn.

What stories I’d hold in my heart as the buzz of cicadas and classroom chatter dulled as I spirited over the horizon.

Not many of my stories I’ll reference will include the moments where I wrote stories in my kitchen as I idly flicked the plastic bear that hung as the ballast for my light switch.

Nor will the forays out onto my balcony to stare at the visible half of the bay be what I regal my friends with.

But it’s those moments that I knew myself to be present here. Where I felt as far as possible from home— where the possibilities of anything stretched before me.

And in turn, where I saw that the long carved path of honest desire has kept me steadily, if slowly, headed in an exciting and unpredictable direction.

I will carry a portion of Tsushima with me, always. Even if it isn’t the sand from the beach or pebbles from the field. I’ll carry the classroom laughs, staff outings, bug freak outs, general confusion, sublime dining, and transcendent beauty.

Post-Midnight

I had always been quick to try and close the distance to live. To find the bright sparks that flare like raw magnesium— lighting up the unexplored depths of a soul.

And now, in the second year of a journey, far away from home, I sat and pondered the inevitability of dying. I ate frozen blueberries— closer to purple than blue. Frosting the inside of a green swirled sake glass. The faded outline of a crane flying across the outside. I will die and not in abstract— but in the flesh.

I know not when or how. That is not for me to know.

It is for me to remember— not as a phrase to spur idle motivation, but to move with intent. To listen deeply. To remember the vast reach of curiosity and all we cannot know— for the frame of our lives cannot see past this act of living.

The Stand

“If someone had told me three months ago I’d be standing before a tribunal today, I’d be pissin’ lizards,” a dour old man said into a court microphone. The trial of Frank Krancic had barely started and already the reporters were already collecting colorful aphorisms like Halloween candy. “I didn’t ask for the position of high priest, nor did I shirk my duties during my occupation of it. But I did find many problems within the collective.”

“Mr. Krancic, if you could stick to the matter at hand,” said a stern looking judge. Her hand remained grasped on her gavel in case Frank made for the judges seat.

“Of course, your honor.

Birdie Fly

One of the teachers played classical ballads on the piano as the rest of us warmed up for our badminton session. it felt like a scene out of a movie. The birdie flying in the air back-and-forth over the net. The whish of the rackets swinging. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood.

It was a perfect moment. One of those moments that can live inside of you for a long time without ever making itself known. Because it’s not a big bad or the highest of highs. It’s not a book being published or graduating college. It’s not falling in love or losing someone. It’s just a simple spot of joy.

This season is changed now. The beginning of summer is here. The slow but steady march of insects has started, and every outside adventure brings a light sheen of sweat. For now, this is the last summer I will spend on Tsushima.

I wonder if hearing the whish of rackets will remind me of the spontaneous piano ballads in the Kuta Junior high gym. Or if by then, I’ll have another perfect moment I associate it with.

Sore Soles

One hundred and eighty miles walked across two weeks as Cai and I compressed the exploits of a month expedition into half that.

Many thoughts brewing— but not steeped enough to pour back into the world yet.

Tombstone Talks

“Get the fuck away from me. I’ll use your eyelids as ash trays, you straw-boned freak!” Bridget screeched as she threw her ingredients back into threadworn sack. The battered scarecrow peered at her from dull, black button eyes. A rictus grin stitched onto the bag that served as its head. Bits of hay poked out of it.

It took another halting step towards the girl. She hefted her shovel and thrust at it. It fell back with a muted thump. It continued looking at her. But now it had the pause of a confused child, not some eldritch horror. Bridget hefted the shove above her head and hesitated.

“What are you?” She asked. Shovel still held high, but famished arms weakening. The scarecrow placed a straw stuffed mitten on its chest as if to ask “me?”

“Yes, you. The scarecrow on the ground. Tell me your business or I’ll plant this shovel right down your gut,” her voice hardly wavered. Crane would have been proud, she thought. Finally showing some backbone. The scarecrow lifted its hands in a shrug. Bridget dropped the spade down. It quivered in the dirt. “Just get out of here, would you? Townsfolk get twitchy about the Wyrd.”

The scarecrow cocked its head and looked past Bridget’s shoulder. Small noises from the brambles became louder. Bridget cursed as she scrambled behind a tombstone. No one was supposed to know she’d come to the old Dravax burial grounds. Forbidden, except for the high priest and sworn members of the service.

Milkshakes and Earthquakes

Peeling back memories like calcified onion skins. They don’t budge easy.

Some might say there’s a supernatural power to Burgerville’s milkshakes. So delicious it can bring you back from a dissociative episode. The ones where you hover on the edge of the void as some alien force calls to you.

You claw at your face but it doesn’t help. Neither does the music or the movement on the road as the car seeks new streaks. I doubt even the hand you clutch holds much comfort. Or the soothing tones a young man is trying to make as he struggles to find some peace to give. But it’s not his to give. He’ll still try. But you make it back on your own.

And who knows— maybe it was sip by sip of extra sugary milk all blended up.

Maybe that’s what reminded you that you didn’t want to die. That life wasn’t so bad.

Because if something that small can bring a little joy, then hey, maybe it’s worth sticking around to see where else there will be.

Small Thoughts in Small Hours

I thought of liminal spaces as I fell back into my bed. I slept atop a tatami mat that smelled like stale grass. Spring is acid burning into summer. The bugs have begun their march back into view, covering walls and steps like little chitinous placeholders.

I thought about the salt water taffy stretch of time and how redemption has an awful lot of different looks.

Soon I’ll be back on an adventure (in the midst of a grander one). A broadly sketched outline of a plan first brought out of the ether in text.

A Soft Dip

April is dipping into the pastel paints that layer the sky at dusk.

A Cornucopia of green has exploded in the most peaceful way.

I look to the mountain peaks as if I could peer over them, but the newly arrived spring sunshine sits me down like an unexpected kiss on the cheek.

I can count out the lessons I have left to teach. That does it’s own work to wipe the glaze of winter from my eyes.

Lighter in heart and heavier in soul. I can hear the easy joy flow past as I revel in the sweet reprieves gazing at flowers and the newly stretched bands of light cast down upon the island.

I sit in the narrow passage between before and after— holding this moment.

I have changed, I have changed, I have changed.

Yet the soul hasn’t strayed far.

Lifestyles

“Of course I’m worried, Annie. I thought we’d made a breakthrough. You know it’s not my disappointment that you’re not living “La Vida Loca” that matters, but your own.”

Yo-Yo

After two weeks of no real Japanese use I found myself standing in a row with the rest of the teachers at the entrance ceremony. Black slacks and a nice denim button up, I didn’t quite meet the suits requirement. But then again, I’m not often told of these things ahead of time. The entire ceremony I bounced in my seat— unable to relax— as it always is for me with this type of stuff.

It’s in those moments where I wonder if I have some form of ADD or if it’s a mix of nerves and boredom. I got through my introduction to the parents and PTA without issue. Stepping back into the row and soon pulled into the gym clean up.

The day passed under an open blue sky. Occasionally high winds would whip through the athletic field and scream in the cracks of the windows and doors.

No classes due to the ceremony so I walked the grounds.

Later at my desk my head bounced like an unruly yo-yo as the teacher meeting lasted over an hour. Completely in Japanese and containing no pertinent responsibilities, I did my best to not head all the way into dreamland. The passages I wrote in my notebook showed the quick descent into scribble to prove otherwise.

The taxi ride home and the willful choice to immediately fall into bed after showed it wasn’t just post-carb fatigue or linguistic inspired cerebral duress.

The speakers rang for six pm and I returned to the world.

The stuck gum feel to my eyelids reminded me sleep deprivation shouldn’t be mixed with an immersive language experience. Not that either are within my immediate control.

As I pull out my mattress again for the night, I hope the walls remain quiet and my sleep sound.

Cupboard

I still see you standing in the dark.

An outline in front of an open door.

The smeared edges of deep night blue cradling bended rays.

Empty room. Only bed and table remain.

Dive board plunge into winter— my breath plumes like cigar smoke.

Cupboard confession. A recipe for peace.

Street Watch

Dressed in a stark purple suit, Benson had guarded the front of the Rialto for twenty-five years. He had the smile of a man that thought lemon bars were too sweet. He kept a stern eye on the vagrant pawing through the trash.

He kept raising his eyebrows like he’d burn calories for it.

Notes

I’ve got eleven completed floral notebooks on the floor in front of me. All of them have been finished in Tsushima as I’ve jumped across notebooks during my time here.

I’ll find quotes from movies, shows, songs, conversations, little doodles, the snippets of pieces I’ve yet to construct. I see the scattershot approach I’ve taken to my creative endeavors and it makes me laugh.

It’s a funny thing to sift through the mind of previous versions of yourself. To see the growth. To see the changes— subtle and overt. Funnier still to once again change your relationship with time— as if you can have a relationship with it at all.

I’ve felt lackadaisical lately— but going through these notebooks help. I can see the joy, confusion, sadness, insight, idleness, and the rest of my own mob of emotions as I touch upon the small sparks I’ve left behind. It’s like going Easter egg hunting as a kid. Only now I’m looking for fun ideas and flashes of inspiration.

I think there’s a beautiful camaraderie to reading through old notebooks. You’re stretching your hand through the ink to the past. Sometimes you get a handshake or a high five. Sometimes you get a slap in the face. But you always get something.

So keep looking through these notebooks for a while yet. I look forward to the hands as they come. And maybe if I’m lucky they’ll come bearing the embers of long covered ideas— waiting to be stoked into being.

Let’s Spring the Fuck into Spring

Giant hawks riding the winds under pillow capped skies. The Sakura bloom in pink and white underneath. The light is returning to the days.

Further down the road the plum trees are blossoming as well. They have a darker hue of pink that stretches into fuchsia at the beginning of the bloom.

What epic beauty.

Lately

Lately, I’ve been stuck in a pattern of not doing much. There’s this idleness to my quasi-spring break, and I must admit it is less than stellar. I think it’s more due to the lack of anything meaningful taking up the majority of the day— with classes not in session and being sequestered on the island, there isn’t much besides reading, working out, watching Netflix, and spending entirely too much time scrolling through Reddit or sports websites.

Even with the time to write, I find myself in a habit of fits and starts as snippets squirm free but hardly get far. I maybe had two drafts in the Salmagundi section two weeks ago, and now I have something like seven. A couple of them are pieces for Malton World. A couple are general entries, and some are the barest wisps of shorts that haven’t decided to pop a proper head up to say hello. So, I’ve been parsing lyrics, thinking of random people from the past, and figuring out how I will eventually pack up my apartment in July.

Tonight, my thoughts have been on the subtle incredulity of having spent nearly two years in this apartment and knowing that within a couple of hours and a couple of trash bags and pieces of luggage, all traces of my life here would be gone. Outside of a couple of photos on the walls and my hat collection, it’s hard to see any real personality in the place. I’d wager all the notebooks on my TV stand make a fair contribution, but lifting heavy in this competition doesn’t take much.

I’m trying to track the small wins. The sakura are blooming in town. The mix of white and pink blossoms spread across the mountain canopies like flicks of colored soap spreading out in a bath. I’ve been cooking several times daily, and my culinary innovations haven’t been half bad. Today I experimented with some sweet and spicy combinations for a stir fry as well as an added citrus kick to some chicken. No one is going to be battering down my door for an invite to dinner, but if I had to fill in last minute, you wouldn’t be disappointed if you were starving.

I did wake up to a nice email from a friend about coaching plans for when I return. It was nice to see some plans are in motion, even if there isn’t much I can do to help with pre-season prep. I am looking forward to being back out on the pitch. This time around, it’ll be a new school and a new position. Onto the next stage of coaching and life— but before that, a couple of months to wrap up this adventure.