Hobgoblins

Japanese people seem to think that all Americans have huge noses.
I know this to be false.

Mine is too small, and I have had to deal with horrendous boogers all my life.

My brother told me that he spends 8-10 hours a day picking his nose. I think I average around 12-13. My finger is constantly stuck up there because my nostrils are continuously refilling themselves. Sometimes I accept defeat and leave the bats in the cave because honestly, it sucks finding a place to wipe the really slimy stuff. My boogers are usually more of the old grandpa crustbucket variety, though. Those must be removed with as much immediacy as possible because I can feel them clinging to me every second they are in there. Unfortunately, it is only socially acceptable to pick with your thumb when we all know that god gave man the pointer finger for mining.

Eric said that there is usually about a ten minute period each day during which he breathes like a god. I have yet to experience such superior breathing on a regular basis. If anyone has a reasonable or hilarious suggestion to attaining a more commodious windhole, I implore you to make it known.

Scattered Heart

 Looking through things

         that I didn't expect to remind me of you

                                                                 and you 

                                             and you 

                                                                             and you.

I've released too many good people

from my heart 

                        because they can't all fit.

                                                                It makes me want to weep.

I've seen too much flesh and

I've not considered too many times

                 the delicacy of it all

carelessness carelessness

I miss you all, good people.

I'm sorry that I always seem to be in a rush.

                                                                       I promise that I have not thrown you away.

                                                   At least part of you has become me.

A Dream I Had

I'm not sure what persuaded me to post this, but hopefully someone will enjoy the weird crap that my neurons fire off while I sleep.

 _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -  _*`~ -

My friend Sheila and I were driving my car through the jungle when I remembered,

“I've got to make it back to school, dude. I haven't even planned my lessons yet."

                    It was nearing 6 am and work was to start at 8. On top of being a little lost, the car was having trouble making it through the sludgier parts of the path. At times it even dipped into the flood waters that had risen from the nearby river. “I think we might have to dump the extra weight. We're too heavy.”

“What, you mean the wheels?”

“Shit dawg, I mean us. Ghost ride the whip!” 

                    For one reason or another, she decided not to shoot down what was actually a rather preposterous idea for getting a car unstuck. 

                                                                          ...So we cranked the E-40 and ghost rode da whip.

***(Note to those who aren't ghetto as shit:

Ghost ride the whip = putting your car in neutral on a hill so you can dance next to it. 

E-40 = The rapper who thought this was a good idea.)***

The car rolled forward, only to encounter even higher river water and become further submerged. Luckily, Black Thunder is a very clever automobile. She turned herself into a glass hippo, and became much more agile through the rising water. I carried her as she kicked her hippo legs. For my help, she allowed Sheila and I to ride on her back all the way out of the jungle. 

After our harrowing exodus, we quickly came upon a small village where I decided to rest as Sheila traveled on. All of the villagers were in awe of my hippo because it is said that glass ones are very loyal and bring good luck. It seems they were right.

Just when I was looking for a place to rest, I learned that my Uncle Jim's house was nearby. I didn't think anything of the fact that I haven't seen this man since I was a very young child - apparently in dreamland the two of us are palsy-walsy. So he invited me into his home which was unlike the other huts. It was a very large, open-air, adobe bunker-lodge. I don't know how to explain it any better, but it seemed like a popular place as there was a party, or at least a gathering going on when I got there. My brother, Eric, his girlfriend, Elle and my father were in attendance along with some native Americans, Aztec warriors and a bunch of rednecks shooting guns off the porch. There was strong communal energy being given off by peace-loving bead people and gun-lovin' good ol' boys. It was strangely harmonious.

“Do you want to watch a movie? The chiefs are all watching it in back.”

“Yeah...”

My uncle was leading me to the sitting area before I could add, “...I guess...?”

There were a few rednecks watching the movie, but the audience was mostly slouching Aztecs. They looked like they could have been watching 'the game'. Someone handed me a beer and I took a seat on the couch next to my father. The movie didn't have any words and looked a little like a mushroom trip. Colors were dripping gradually into Rorschach shapes. The Rorschachs morphed into figures of chiefs like those we were sitting amongst. The major difference was that the ones in the movie had tons of tits and balls. They were doing some really hyper, jiggly dance.

“Hey dad, brb.”

“Don't leeeave me~” he says under his breath. I knew he hated the movie, but I didn't really care. I assured him,

                                

                                      “It's cool, I'll be back. Just gonna go get Eric because he'll be into this shit.”

The End.

Higgledy Piggledy

I've been adding thoughts now and again to a big ol' gumbo pot, but haven't really stopped to make any coherent sense of them.

                    .....I have no intention to.

One order of spicy bayou noggin glop coming right up.

                                                                                     DiiinG!

December 22, 2010

It is my last day of school. I should probably be very excited, but I am too tired to be anything, really. This morning I went to my favorite elementary school with half of a plan. I threw some Christmas cards at the kids after my jalopy of a lesson puttered off the road and began smoldering. One of my Philippino girls addressed her card to me and drew a picture of a rabbit, entitled 'labitto'. 

                                                                                                                  Now isn't zat adoraber? 

They all seemed to enjoy the cards, but could definitely tell that Ms. Sarah was a hot mess. Well, fools, it's December 22^nd and I'm still at fricken-fracken work so... your English proficiency didn't make my list of priorities. Grumbling did, though.

So now, with all of that silly teaching business out of the way, I'm trying to hash out a letter to a co-worker. She asked me point blank how she could become a good teacher. Wow. That's a big question, isn't it, sugar britches?

This new white out is a wet dream.

My eye is twitching.

January 12, 2011

Out with the old, in with the same old. 

First day back at work, and am finding myself readjusting easily. Much more spirited than when I left, too. The 3 days leading up to my dutiful return consisted of a 2 day commute back to the village, 3 am bodily wake up calls, and indefinite news from my gynecologist. So this first day back has been astonishingly... better than horrible. 

              

                                                                               Scooby-dooby-doo-wap-a-wap-bam-boo~!

Being home made me rethink my plans for staying in Japan a little bit. I miss driving through open fields, chatting with strangers and my mom's cooking. 

I gained 4 kilos in less 2 short weeks.

I do not miss the uncertainty of where that food comes from, though. 

                                   Questionable meats, 

                                                                    produce that has been sprayed and shipped and stored. 

I prefer the way Japan does it – local, fresh and seasonal. You can't get everything you want when you want, but there is a greater spritual connection to food that is close to you. Also, there's less worry that those chicken nuggs you're indulging in came from a three-headed chicken sideshow. There are a lot of things, like food, that Japan has right. But I love where I'm from and continue to love it exponentially the longer I stay here. 

                                    Home is home. 

Home is where originality is prized, and 'the nail that sticks out' is NOT 'the one to be hammered down' (←creepy proverb award goes to you, Japan). 

Home is where I can see good music for cheap and beer is delicious. 

Home is where I can make a follow-up appointment with a gynecologist who speaks my own damn language.

KAAAA~~~!

January 14, 2011

T.G.I.F.

It is Friday! First three days back, K.O.!

During the fourth period I showed some of my teachers pictures of my winter vacation. Umegaki Sensei told me that she wanted to “peek into (my) elegant life.” heh... HA. I showed her and Keiko-chan some photos of Michigan and some from the family cruise. They had a lot of questions, and seemed really curious about the islands we visited.

I tried to explain that most of the people we met were lovely, but some situations were a little tense. They seemed to vaguely understand when I talked about socio-economic racism, but I doubt very much that they've ever experienced it. 

While in Barbados, my aunt and brother and I decided to hail a peddle cart back to the ship because Eric left his shoes on the beach. The driver was kind enough to allow three passengers aboard the two-passenger carriage. We shot the shit and asked if he could instead drop us off at a bar near the ship. He said he knew a place that would charge us three dollars a bottle as opposed to six. When he pulled our chariot into the middle of the local hang-out, we were greeted with hostile ogling. We carried on despite, and shared 3 or 4 rounds with our driver. When it was time to leave, we thought someone might be kind enough to take a picture of the four of us. Not one person would take our picture. Not one out of 30 people. 

I can see how it might be frustrating to lay witness to daily hoardes of over-ripe, nigger-fearing penny-pinchers invading your home. They're coming to crowd your beaches, clog your toilets and buy a few trinkets, then it's right back to Crackertown. I get that. But on the flip-side of the coin, I treat everyone the way I want to be treated. I'm convinced that our driver took us to that spot in part to test our metal. We succeeded but unfortunately, the locals didn't. They let hate best them.