Porcelain

There is a dead spot in the night when light has faded from memory—- and the hope of it returning remains a forgotten ember sheathed in ash.

Those are the moments when the past arrives unbidden. Like a raptor high above a thermal— it glides silently until its shadow is over you. The time when the creaks and groans of old timbers in the house are drowned out by half-lit memories of versions of yourself you used to be.

I remember the boy who would run hills in Southern Oregon as he struggled to feel a purpose for himself. Struggling to see past the first twenty years— and bewildered that the next years were accessible. The tense-set shoulders that framed a lean figure were seldom relaxed. I still suffered from a troubled stomach— the host of foods I couldn’t eat felt inexhaustible. But I told myself discipline would see me through. Discipline that I had somehow connected to loneliness I couldn’t shake.

I don’t think we talk about the insidious nature of loneliness- or the simple and uncomfortable fact that most grievous worlds are shockingly simple. We’re meant to be social— and when that’s restricted (internally or externally), we suffer. There’s a shame that thrives on loneliness- like a parasite that edges you closer to illness. My body would give up on me at times due to my allergies— and the feeling that it betrayed me was crushing. It pushed a sense of recklessness years later— having intimately brushed against my own mortality. Those moments were far and few— but they mark you all the same. Choking on your own saliva as you knelt on a soccer field at sixteen had been the start. An innocuous dinner of gyoza led to hours of pain and a deeper mistrust of my own body.

I’d keep myself on a tight leash— always reading every ingredient or inquiring when I didn’t know. The rest of my life felt the same way as I struggled not to be short with myself or others. In moments of energy or peace, I’d find my way to a version of myself worth being. I created an incessant drive for betterment. I looked towards the future and saw it as some nebulous haven from the present. I’d struggle towards it without giving myself rest in the present.

That’s how I accepted the supervisor position at Starbucks at twenty years old instead of focusing on my studies. I told myself that I couldn’t bear the classrooms and felt idle. In reality, I wanted to prove something to myself— and the job felt like the only place where I would gain meaningful recognition. That if I somehow worked myself to a nub, I would have done something to be proud of.

This is a harsh reflection of a time when I always enjoyed countless beautiful hikes and runs through the mountains. Where I found a measure of independence and the willful force inside of me that pushes me to continue on. It’s where I said goodbye to the first person I loved romantically— and had their voice echo through my thoughts for months after. Knowing that I had diverged from a path I had wanted— but accepted that it had never truly been an option. I hadn’t ever wanted to be with more than one person. I was too deeply a romantic for that— but you can’t live a life for another— not without grinding yourself down. And unfortunately, I already had an ailment that did that— and that willful force wouldn’t let me concede myself.

It’s as if I wanted to be romantic about being a romantic— but refused the leap of faith. Instead, I’d pull back— lapping up the waters of loneliness willingly— as if they proved my point.

I’m nearly ten years on from that version of myself. And for all that I’ve written— the most important thing to come out of that time was friendship. A friend that I’d sooner call a brother. One who, as soon as I met him, I wanted to be friends with. Like a dog with a bone— I decided we would be friends, and that was that. In the beginning, he wouldn’t use his phone. I’d send a couple of texts or calls over a month. Sometimes answered— sometimes not. But if we crossed paths in person, it was always the same warmth. The same sense of adventure, humor, stories, and kindness that marked him as a great person.

Eventually, to his chagrin, he began texting or calling back. Even now, as I live half a world away— we still talk on the phone weekly. Before I left, it was often daily and has been for years.

The loneliness we can feel comes not from a lack of people around us. It comes from a deeper sense of not being understood. It breeds this fear that it will lead to being ostracized. Or that we already have been.

And then some will tell you that to love another; you must love yourself first. I call bullshit. We don’t emerge from the womb thinking of love for ourselves. We have love for our mothers— and then our fathers. And all the warm figures that we may count in our lives. We grow through our love of others and their love of us. We learn in that way. To say that you must love yourself first is a fool’s errand. You divorce yourself from reality— and from the narrative of life.

And you can tell me you believe me to be wrong on this— and that will be okay. But I will tell you that it wasn’t through focusing on myself that I wrestled through the thorns that guarded my heart. It was in the gracious waters of others. And inviting them in— to appreciate and adore. To make oneself a piece of a bigger puzzle— as we already are.

It’s important to hold space for yourself in your heart— but that is not what fuels us. It is not the work that makes us feel worthy. Fulfillment isn’t in the quest for material objects or arbitrary milestones. The awards will not love you back. Time will not reverse to undo past hurts. There will never be a moment where you straighten everything to make it “fair.” You eschew the scales and let your love out without hesitation. It’s a zero-sum game. And that heart you possess won’t do anyone any good if you pretend it’s a porcelain doll made to rest on a shelf. Don’t let cobwebs cover what could bring light to the world.

I can’t confess to always doing as I say (though I scarcely believe anyone can), but I can see the change in myself from then to now. I have many quiet evenings on this island. What strikes me is in a few short years, I’ve felt uncommonly lucky to gain the friends and loved ones I have. I’m grateful in a way that makes me try and express it when it sits on my shoulder. I don’t take this time for granted— and I find myself unspooling the knot of muddled ambition I had as a younger man and even younger boy.

I used to believe that I had to do great things (of which those great things would be— I never knew— as I kept pushing the standards to an unattainable level). That when I finally achieved whatever obscure, unstated thing I thirsted for— I could be worthy of love. That’s what perfection and loneliness conspire to tell you. That you cannot possess fault if you are to be worthy of admiration or affection. It’s been through ordinary, community work that I’ve found the most fulfillment. It’s been supposed mundane moments with friends I’d later find a deep appreciation for. You cannot be known as an idea— especially without faults. That’s not how humans work. We are all flawed— our strengths have correlating weaknesses. All of this leads to the acceptance that it is okay to be average. That most of us are— as that’s how averages work. And there is still worthiness, love, and respect to be had. Most of our loved ones are not NASA scientists or Olympic athletes, right? And yet we would go to the ends of the earth for them. Love is and isn’t average in itself. It’s singular to our bond with another— yet everyone has and has had these bonds.

We can be afraid to admit that, partly, our love is strengthened by the fear of loss. We will lose our loved ones in some way at some point. As they will lose us. That’s a soul-clenching fear everyone can relate to— even if you do not wish to admit it. But this finitude is what makes it all worth it. If it were forever— we would list endlessly in a sea of apathy. To live is to be acqutely aware that we will die. We can feel it in our bones. We try to run from this. Hide it through work, substances, and mindless scrolling. But it’s there. As it always has been and will be.

But if you turn into it— you’ll realize it’s okay. Even death is not a permanence we are led to fear. Too much exists beyond us. Too much that we don’t, can’t, and in this form, will never know.

So if you sit alone in this moment— and have read through this piece to here. I’ll ask you— if you take a couple of moments to be free from all distractions. A couple of moments in which you sit still and breathe in and out. To realize that we can never be outside of the universe we are in. That we do not exist separately from anything that has been or will be. Do you feel alone? Or had you just forgotten to listen?

Seconds

I listened to the silence of her loneliness. Noting it held the same notes as my own. I’d forgotten the ache of a clenched jaw or the icicle sharp fear of the truth being revealed. We both seemed to listened to the space in between the tick of the clock— the moment where time rested without expectation.

Temporary

There are times when I have to remember what I’m over here for. That being in Japan is more about a hard reset and broad opening of the future than a look at permanence.

It’s followed by most social weekends where I feel the most unfulfilled with aspects of this experience. I’ve traveled to most of the cultural hot spots on the island. Several significant shrines and temples— old fortresses and vantage points. I’ll stand there appreciating the stunning natural beauty— and feel deep in my bones the seconds ticking down. I came over here with a half-opened heart, wondering if this would be where I’d spend a good part of my life. And I know that it isn’t. Beyond the language barrier at times, it’s the cultural differences, for better or worse, that keep a gap between myself and the rest of the community. That’s okay for the interim, but I can’t imagine living long-term in a place where you’d always be looking from the outside. I’ve got a lot of respect for people that can do that— or who are forced to and deal with it with grace. Because that shit is fucking difficult.

I’ll let the experience fill me— knowing this is a zero-sum game. Find the parts to cherish in all of it. Learning to sit with the uncomfortable moments is what this is all about. That and the king’s ransom of incredible seafood I’ve been able to eat on this island.

I overlooked the Komoda beach from the original viewpoint where the So commander that led the resistance against the Mongols in 1274 first saw them from. In the centuries since, the sea has lowered to pull the beach further out.

I walked through the southern cape in the early morning hours as the owner of the hotel I stayed at took all the guests on a ghost tour. We stopped by the abandoned army barracks, the grave of the Beautiful Woman, the grave site for the priest that interned the emperor Antouta that died on the island, and the Takuzudama shrine (which has a tree that dates back over a thousand years). These are the things that I’ll look back on fondly— even if during them, I was lamenting my lack of sleep due to my fellow teacher snoring like a broken tractor.

Even now, I sit here watching the Japanese national team play in the World Cup as I listen to the Japanese commentators bemoan the goal Costa Rica just scored against them. It’s a surreal feeling to more or less understand what the presenters on TV are saying as they explain everything in Japanese. I’m closing the circle on my childhood educational experience. Every moment like this is a bigger win than I could have ever imagined in the past. Especially for someone that would break into a cold sweat every time I had to take a kanji test. Every time I translate from English into Japanese in the classroom I laugh— because it’s the same moment as understanding what’s on the TV but in front of an audience— one that I don’t really think about until long after—judging it all to be part of my new normal.

Shots

His intestines sounded like a dog getting shot in a distant room. That was the price to Johnny eating the half-priced convenience store sushi, but he felt the hand of fate steer him towards a financially responsible decision. However, what’s good for the wallet doesn’t always translate to what’s good for the heart. Or stomach. Johnny’s roommate, Greg, had to call an ambulance after the third day of bed-rest. Johnny tried to wave the paramedics off, but he didn’t have the strength.

Lobster Claw

It started with lobsters. Not the usual source of chaos and societal decline, but it has to start somewhere. Lobsters create an enzyme called '“telomerase” which allows for the number of divisions their cells make. This in turn allows them to repair bodies at incredible rates— effectively gifting them immortality. Naturally, a scientist wondered if they could distill the genetic function and transfer it to other species. Namely, humans.

The first trials ended poorly. Trying to correct cosmic experiments never seems to bode well for those that meddle. The rats they altered became abnormally intelligent as they lived significantly longer lives.

Lost Dog

He stood under a blanket of starlight—

Raising a hand to a patch of shadows beyond the galaxy he asked

“Am I Orion?” But no friendly ears were there to answer.

“How could you ask that?” A woman dressed as fate and presented as truth said.

The man realized he wasn’t alone. That instead of a lost moor on a quiet night— he stood in a bustling city, getting in the way of agitated commuters. He slipped into the crowd— remembering an eight o’clock meeting his company had. He needed to check his sleep medicine again. The insomnia started creeping through like weeds through forgotten concrete. Whatever truth had been there— time had stolen it from him.

***

“You warned me a long time ago to not answer any questions you had about this.”

“A long time ago? We’ve only been working together for a year.”

“It’s worse than I thought. No worries though. You left me good instructions about what to do. Just let me sort this all out,” the woman said extending a hand towards the man. “We’ll find you sweet dreams again.“

Statue

Some mornings love is the half-warm cup of coffee you left on the night table while I slept in. It’s the intertwined fingers in the gear shift. The long, relaxed sign after wrapping your arms around me— squeezing so tight all my ribs become floating ones.

It’s staring with tiger lamp eyes— your blushing protests and half-hearted attempts to get me to shut up when I’m not talking.

Better to say when I’m non-verbal— because I’m always communicating with you. Making space on the couch. Readjusting my stance as you back into me in a cramped elevator. The continuous mold and release of our bodies.

I’m never so silent as stone— and I pray I never become a statue.

World Cup

It’s the beginning of the World Cup 2022 in Qatar. I’ve known about this tournament (specifically being held in Qatar) for ten years now. In all that time— I never thought about where I’d be while I was watching it. Part of that is due to not believing it was going to happen— that the bid would be reversed due to obvious corruption— and partly because outside of vague ideas and nebulous dreams— I had no idea what twenty-eight years old was going to look like. I can tell you it was not sitting on a tatami floor writing this while having tried to parse out Japanese bank wire instructions earlier in the day.

In truth, I had no real expectations for either the tournament or myself in 2022. But now I sit as a man on a mesa— looking around and accepting that I’m both at what amounts to base camp— and a peak. This past Saturday I walked through a quiet forest to the cairn tomb of a long-dead emperor. I stood before it and thought— this is a creepy fucking patch of woods. I’m sure I would have felt reverential for the babbling brook to the sloped edge of the trail, but as the sun set on an increasingly pinched patch of trees, I felt more mundane emotions than spiritual ones.

I think life works that way as we switch between the present and our memories of the past or thoughts of the future. We can build up grand emotions— and experience them in the moment— but often, we’re thinking relatable, everyday things as if life should somehow be more special than it already is.

In ways, I’ve measured my life in World Cups. I remember the heartbreak of 2002 clearly. An electric Ronaldo tearing apart the German defense and making my favorite goalie, Oliver Kahn, look foolish. 2006 inspired long, sweeping shots as the Jabulani was brought into play. The eight-paneled ball was a nightmare for goalies as it knuckled and bent without warning. 2010 was hazy due to the onset of my stomach maladies that lasted for the next seven years. It was also a turning point in my belief about my ability as a player. Before then, I had watched the great players and tried to emulate them— but around that time, I knew that higher levels weren’t within reach. By 2018 I had finished college after a long, winding road— and the hopes of playing had firmly shifted to coaching.

2022— I sit and think about how fully I’ve stepped into my desire to coach soccer and the enjoyment I get out of it. There’s a fulfillment in coaching that wasn’t there in playing. I still love to get on the pitch— but I don’t need to prove myself as a player or harbor secret beliefs that I have a larger potential than I fulfilled. Coaching for me is more about letting players build confidence and discipline in themselves so that they can translate it to other areas of their life. There are few players I’ve coached that will be star college athletes, let alone professional players. That’s okay—I think it’s more important to have places where you can feel comfortable and have fun than stand out for praise. Even if the desire for exceptionalism is pushed by all available media.

So, as I sit here and gear up to watch a complicated mess— I appreciate the small moments of peace I have during the day. I appreciate the absurdity of life and the surprises of it. Tomorrow I will wake up and eat an apple danish before checking the scores of the USA game— knowing that the team might have gotten smashed by Wales. All before heading off to the south of the island to teach English and play futsal at lunch. Not a bad way to start the 2022 World Cup.

Patch of Paradise

The rickety wooden sign swayed in the evening breeze. A curling hand cupped a chalice on the flaking wood and underneath it read “Ambrosia Blues”. Colton had never traveled outside of Texas before. His parents had kept him tied to the farm with the promise that “one day” he’d get to saddle up and have a grand adventure.

After they brought the Jenkins’ over to discuss a marriage proposal between Colton and the Jenkins’ daughter, Henrietta, he knew he had to go. The moon didn’t catch his ride until he made it halfway past Galveston. Too far for anyone from his cowpatch to track him down. He stepped inside the bar— he wanted to know what the sign meant.

Wretched Guts

His name in our regiment was Guts. Cut down from “Wretched Guts” which proved an apt descriptor for his near-constant gaseaous state. Problem was— we couldn’t just pack him and his smelly offal up. Not only was Guts slyer than a hen-house fox, but he was the son of the colonel. Which meant the fifth artillery were stuck with him.

I hadn’t started out as a provocateur. I’m sure my mother would have agreed that I was a quiet child. But I also hadn’t started out as a military man— so it goes to show it’s nurture, not nature that’s defining. Albeit nature had a way with Gut’s intestines that proved mighty defining in itself.

Forgive me, but you have to imagine rancid milk that’s been mixed with rotten beef chip. When he let loose the barometric pressure of a room would change. You’d get gooseflesh a second before the smell hit you and a yellow streak would slide up your spine like predictor of damnation. Instead- it was defecatorial terrorism. If I could— I would have slapped the boy seven ways to Sunday. Not that I’m religious or particularly convinced physical punishment alters behavior. But corporal and colonel punishment stayed my hand, if not misery.

Still, if they had to stick him somewhere, artillery made sense. A bomb-maker at home with bombs. Plus, the front-line couldn’t handle that morale drop— it would have been the fart that broke the camel’s back. Recon was out of the picture— no spy-work for our deadly trumpeter. Nor could the navy spare a bed for someone capable of organically fumigating a submarine.

We wore WWI-era gas masks as a joke to start— but the ease of terror proved too enticing. We became known as the “Gas Lads” Not the worst nickname to be saddled with. The last cavalry unit was affectionately called “The Pony Fuckers” so, it could always be worse.

Our distinctive appearance began a rumor amongst the enemy that we were a phantom legion from the Great War— and that we stood as the last defense between the Heavens and Hells. A bit overblown if you ask me, but myths are created by all sorts. Just happened that our enemy leader had been caught in a barrow as a child. Memories of dark places like that don’t leave you. They temporarily recede.

The higher-ups had us march at night to perpetuate the legend. The colonel insisted they were parade marches— but mid-war provided a scant reason for “parade” to be any part of a march. If we hadn’t run across a P.O.W. camp— the legend would have blown away like the last scraps of honor during a week in the trench. We heard them before anything else. The dull thud of heavy, barefoot steps. Soft moans of broken humans alongside the occasional indignant shout. Guts marched at the end of the line— his low-tone stomach grumbles tensed the patrol. We had all learned to listen to the first signs of danger. Everyone prayed that the wind wouldn’t shift direction.

But what’s that quote about men’s plans and God laughing? You know enough that the wind didn’t stay blowing in the same direction after a midnight special rolled forth from our trusty comrade. It— changed the course of the war. Turns out the camp housed our best spy— a man by the name of— well, I don’t know if that was ever released. So, we’ll call him “REDACTED”. A great man, that “REDACTED” he led the prisoners in an escape effort after the enemy began engaging us in a firefight. They were able to secure some munitions from fallen soldiers and tear into the enemy’s backline before they knew the fight was over.

To think— the quasi-mustard gas our Guts churned out daily and the levers of fate landing us in the forest turned the tide of the war. The boys were almost proud to have him in the fifth artillery. However, none of us went so far as removing our gas masks to say so.

Joker of the Void

There are beings that aren’t quite gods that exist between worlds. Powerful and forgotten, they do not rise graciously when their names are called. Better yet to not think of them at all.

To dive into your dreams hoping to find a fissure between worlds is a fools errand. Which is why you were chosen, the greatest fool of us all.

They have heard your footsteps before— know that they will track you from the beginning.

How do you disappear from a god? What deal must you make for that? How hungry is the dark that it will accept you whole?

Wavy Wavy

My hair has never been so long. It makes sense— as I’ve never done many of the things I’m doing now. I had never gut a fish or filleted a squid before coming here. I’d never seen dolphins or arm wrestled coast guards on the linoleum floor of a billiards bars.

Before coming here I’d never driven on the left side of the road, waited for the taxi to open the door, bowed in a supermarket, or received red bean pastries.

I look similar to how I did when I left— except I might be a little bigger. All the carbs loaded in school lunchs fight against the free weights and pick-up soccer games. I think I talk slower here— not just because most of the time it’s in Japanese. But because time is a warm piece of mochi that’s stretching in my hands. Days seem to run different on the island— even if they profess to contain the same amount of hours they did in Portland.

Once every three weeks I look at my hair and hate it. I want to grab an electric razor and shave it all off. But this isn’t like home— so I don’t have a barber’s kit on hand. Nor do I have the triple set of mirrors or compost to toss the hair in (to frighten the rats) at the end. So, it continues on— like a beleaguered pilgrim in search of an undefined sanctuary.

I speak in hand gestures, clicks, whistles, and an odd assortment of other verbal paté. I’d known about some of it— but when you have 250 odd students parroting you in a week, even the densest could pick up some mirroring theory. I had forgotten how much I love a conspiratorial wink— how often my eyebrows raise in question— and the mock pursing of my lips when I’m confronted with goofy behavior before breaking into a grin.

Certain days I get paid to read as I sit at my desk. I thought I’d be constantly rotated through classes— but half a school day sees me sitting in the staff room. I listen in to the gossip and going ons as I figure out the social dynamics in the schools. Most places seem relaxed— occasionally I’ll be prompted by a question or a snack. I’m not used to constantly being plied with chocolate— but it seems like an effective strategy for whatever they’re planning.

The first month I felt foolish as I’d pull my hair into a ponytail or bun. There was something that seemed off about it as I sat in the schools as the only guy with hair this long. Part of me felt like I was overstepping on a possible cultural thing. Not white guy dreads— but it felt in a weird nebulous area considering I grew up learning enough Japanese history. But these fears were dismissed with a casual “no one cares” by a fellow teacher. He gave me a thumbs up and said— you’ve got “cool guy hair- nice!” In a very Ferris Buehler’s Day Off style— it completely different by being on this rural Japanese island.

I’ve thought the same things about my tattoos or outfits— but it always boils back down to— you massively stand out anyway, why would those things make a difference? Which is pretty in line with their Shouganai “eh, can’t be helped” attitude that I think is hilariously endearing most of the time.

I wonder what other new things will happen by the time my hair finally gets cut. Where will the pilgrim find their sanctuary? Is it the fabled Supercuts of Osaka? More likely to be a random side street shop with the rotating red, white, and blue barber pole that advertises all the barbershops without signs. Can’t find the business sign out front? “Shouganai.”

Fozzy

“Alexander wept, for there were for worlds left to conquer,” I chuckled under my breath as I watched my son wreck his foam block fort like the Macedonian Godzilla. “Alright, bud. Time to get your stuff. We need to go grab your sister before the pizzeria closes,” I said before swooping him up and delivering a raspberry on his tiny belly. He squealed with joy like only three-year-olds can and squirmed out of my grasp to grab his favorite jacket. The duster had originally belonged to an oversized doll at a tacky gift shop outside tombstone, but once Leo set his little blue piercers on it, it was settled.

We looked like a time-skip super duo with my aged skater look playing against his wee demon of the West style. I hoped he’d find time to don a legionary costume at some point— then I’d know my influence worked.

Leo’s sister, Lyra just finished her first soccer season, and the team had been rewarded with a dinner at the last local pizzeria in town. It had classic plastic red glasses with air bubbles in them. Every time I held one, I could remember my first taste of Dr. Pepper and the anticipation for team awards. I had money on Lyra receiving most tenacious. Even at five years old, there wasn’t a damn thing that scared her— she had to have picked that up from her mother. I can’t remember many moments of fearlessness.

Whorl

There are days when you forget that you have the closest reach to your own heart.

That only you know how you peel your oranges and balance on the balls of your feet during your first morning stretch. Where you haven’t yet brushed teeth or hair— and the first thoughts swim soft like eels through deep currents.

You forget your stories and poems and memos have all been seen by the same person— the vast configuration condensed into a rough outline of a man. The quick sketch marks that compress the paper and leave stenciled grooves underneath— as if your excitement to write everything down makes you hammer out the words when they can be released.

You smell the scent of cedar and remember sitting at a small kitchen table with a chipped ceramic mug of coffee. You studied French and thought you’d live across the sea. You didn’t know you were headed in a different direction.

You forget what you forget— and find the small, impish delights in scraps of your mind you’ve hidden about your life.

The crosscut of adventure and commitment is a tangled whorl in a growing forest— one you’ve brought a sharp ax to.

You remember soft moments— the warm spring scent of lilacs. The tender hands at your back, neck, hands, and hair. You remember it wasn’t because of doing— but because of being— that you have been loved. Like a pillar of lightning it is crushing.

The weight of not being alone— but bonded by ties that will loosen or cut. We ask ourselves these questions quietly— a dormouse whisper. We ask why we lose those we love. It’s hard to see through the oblique glass that shapes the love that spreads through our lives— you can know that it’s shifting form— but it escapes description like first day jitters. Like the weight and wait over the pool atop a diving board— slowly bending as you steady the fear.

It doesn’t go away— the fear. Neither does the love— they flicker about like the last fireflies of summer. Brief radiance in muggy darkness. Overseen by stars and outstretched cosmos. We forget we are forever— like we forget that at the end of down begins up. We exist in space and space and space. No wonder finding room is hard— within ourselves— when the universe is peeking at us from right outside.

Warwick

Her name was Warwick. That should have been my first sign that I was in too deep. Regular nuns don’t have names like that. Nor do they have kill count tattoos.

There are few people in this world you should implicitly trust. The nun in my company did not happen to be one of them. We wouldn’t have hired her for the mission if we had known what the marks meant. But it’s easier to state your case with the Drowned God than to wriggle out of a guild contract.

Currents

Sliding around the back of a small Toyota pick up truck with the lush floral taste of Bombay Sapphire mixed with cheap gas station orange juice. Seventeen saw blurred street lights and beer pong games in strangers yards. 

I asked plenty of questions that red solo cups didn’t have the answers to. But I kept trying— as if the cheap plastic would transform into a wishing well. I don’t think I was alone in that. 

Friday nights would invite hooligan activity as my friends and I would bike around the city in the dead of night. I wonder how many streets I coasted down as I let my feet rest on the pedals— the night air carrying us along. 

Those nights were preceded by days of nausea or hunger pangs. I hadn’t yet unraveled the mystery of my stomach ailments— and most of my waking hours were spent in a fog. On the rare days I experience it now— I wonder how I managed for seven years. 

The heady rush of first romances and exquisite nights. The awkward pauses and expeditions for deeper meaning when experience is what mattered most. 

The external pursuit of identity that would circle back to quiet, internal realizations. 

A normalized calm where they had been choppy seas. We can forget as time smooths away the rough edges like pebbles on the beach. 

We forget— even when we don’t mean to. Memory is tricky that way. It’s an amorphous cloud we imagine to be an unchanging solid. A statue instead of a river. 

We ride along the currents of a story we actively tell ourselves. 

Cat Paws

I sometimes forget in the midst of daily life— that I’m halfway across the world from my home. The realization will catch me unaware like a toddler jumping down steps to frighten a sun sprawled cat. I forget that everything I’m doing has an added layer of difficulty to it. There’s a completely different language and culture I’m operating in— and even mundane tasks can feel immense at times.

A week ago homesickness caught me like a sledgehammer to the guts. Knocked off my feet like a cartoon character slammed by a rubber mallet.

I’ve spent a decent amount of time considering what I want out of this experience— as well challenging myself to consider I’m keeping my scope too narrow.

This is not a realm where perfect answers exist. All you can do is reflect on what brings you joy— and where you add the most positive contributions to society.

One of the reasons I came to Japan was to close this nebulous gap inside me. I had a deep rooted belief that I had to push myself so immensely far out of my comfort zone, that by the time I’d return, I’d have a solid lock on what I want to focus my energies on. Easier said than done.

I live on a breathtakingly gorgeous island where there are historical sites that stretch back before A.D. was a thing. There are shrines that stake their claim as some of the oldest in Japan. Spots where humans have been going for a couple thousand years. That’s an incredible thing to get to experience.

As I navigate over here I ask myself “what do you find yourself thinking of most?” and it’s an easy answer. I think about spending time with my friends the most. Out of all the things that have come from moving across the world— not being able to spend time with my friends in person is easily the worst part. But it makes me grateful for all the time I’ve had— and the time I hope to have again in the future.

In many ways I came to this island to experience the transition from loneliness to solitude. To find my center and feel settled for the next steps that life will bring. It’s therapeutic to sit on a tatami mat and consider the path that’s taken you to this moment. There’s not much room to hide on an island where you stick out like a neon pony.

While you’re on a grand adventure— you realize that you had forgotten you were already on one. I know that sounds like some two A.M. stoner guidance— but we often forget our mortality— taking things for granted and assuming we have more time than we do. We do it because facing our mortality is fucking terrifying. Sitting with death is not an encouraged practice in our society— and there aren’t many tools for the average person to handle it with. One of the biggest parts is that it’s natural. It is an intrinsic part of life that we will eventually die. It is what makes everything sparkle— because by nature— it’s finite. That’s what makes it special.

The fear— the fear is us forgetting that we are not separate from nature. We are not separate from the rest of the universe. What we are composed of is the same material as the sun and the stars. We will change shape— but we will not be destroyed. Death is simply a transition we don’t understand. But that’s okay— it’s not the job of the living to understand it. That’s the vaulted task of the dead.

This mortal clock plays heavy on the theme of homesickness. It coincides with feelings of gratitude— and the irrepressible joy that we get to exist (if just for a little bit).