Being on the precipice of a typhoon feels like being at the top of a roller coaster

I’m sitting here watching Mr.Nobody having just poured myself a glass of whiskey. It sounds better than it tastes. My stomach struggles to hold it with ease.

The winds have just started up and there’s this first feeling of fear. There’s a thrill to it. There’s a power in the storm— one that transcends normality.

I won’t be at school tomorrow— there’s a level four evacuation in place for the town. It’s below needing me to leave to the shelter, but it’s enough that I’m on edge.

***

I moved my futon into the kitchen— the power fought against the storm. Prevailing four times before this fifth shut off seems to have succeeded (for now).

My electric orange candle plays a fire like light around this darkened kitchen.

I’m listening to Angel Olsen’s voice as I write to my siblings.

I don’t feel that I’m half a world away from them— but as the eye of Hinnamnor approaches— I know that I am.

The wind howls outside. It creeps in through the unsealed cracks and bray like wild dogs in my living room. The rice paper doors shake as they hold firm against the energy.

Out of the front door I can hear the ten foot metal clothing pole rolling around. Maria said it’s been there for years. No one has bothered to pick it up.

I hope the drains stay clear— I did my Portlander duty and cleared them with a pair of disposable chopsticks and two sheets of old cardboard that I fashioned as scoops.

The power returns. The overhead light is first to flicker back into life before the gentle hum of the fridge greets me.

I think of drinking a cup of coffee before the power goes out again. It’s more for the comforting ritual than a desire to be awake.

I think of my progress in the last month. I arrived with fragile Japanese. A lacking confidence in my language ability, but confidence in interacting with people. My time coaching and teaching carried me through initial disconcerting encounters as I felt wholly ignorant of what was being said around me.

It swirled back into place as I let myself fail with enthusiasm.

The sunrise brings a quelled version of the typhoon as the eye has passed over Izuhara. The night bleeds together like a fever dream or debaucherous outing. I slept in shifts as the storm conjured images of wild banshees as it howled outside. My doors and windows shook until I thought I’d be looking outside in surprise like a canned sardine as the aluminum is peeled back.

I can’t yet see the port— I wonder how high the ocean has risen. My curiosity darts around the meager collection of island spots I know— wondering which have prevailed against the strongest storm on the planet.

This coming day will proceed in fits and starts as my body aches for sustained sleep— I wish it luck as I sip the coffee I made before I knew my electricity wouldn’t slip away again.