「夜中の汽笛について」 村上春樹著『夜のくもざる』, 1995, より

「あなたはどれくらい私のことを好き？」

「あなたはどれくらい私のことを好き？」

　少年はしばらく考えてから、静かな声で、「夜中の汽笛くらい」と答える。

　少女は黙って話の続きを待つ。そこにはきっと何かお話があるに違いない。

「あるとき夜中にふと目が覚める」と彼は話し始める。「正確な時刻はわからない。多分二時か三時か、そんなものだと思う。でも何時かというのはそれほど重要なことじゃない。とにかくそれは真夜中で、僕は全くの一人ぼっちで、まわりには誰もいない。いいかい、想像してみてほしい。あたりは真っ暗で、何も見えない。物音ひとつ聞こえない。時計の針が時を刻む音だって聞こえない———時計はとまってしまったのかもしれないな。そして僕は突然、自分が知っている誰からも、自分が知っているどこの場所からも、信じられないくらい遠く隔てられ、引き離されているんだと感じる。自分が、この広い世界の中で誰からも愛されず、誰からも声をかけられず、誰にも思い出してももらえない存在になってしまっていることが分かる。たとえ僕がそのまま消えてしまったとしても誰も気づかないだろう。それはまるで厚い鉄の箱に詰められて、深い海の底に沈められたような気持ちなんだよ。気圧のせいで心臓が痛くて、そのままふたつにびりびりと張り裂けてしまいそうな———そういう気持ちってわかるかな？」

　少女はうなずく。たぶんわかると思う。

　少年は続ける。「それは恐らく人間が生きている中で経験する一番辛いことのひとつなんだ。本当にそのまま死んでしまいたいくらい悲しくて辛い気持ちだ。いや、そうじゃない、死んでしまいたいというようなことじゃなくて、そのまま放っておけば、箱の中の空気が薄くなって実際に死んでしまうはずだ。それはたとえなんかじゃない。ほんとうのことなんだよ。それが真夜中にひとりぼっちで、目を覚ますことの意味なんだ。それもわかる？」

　少女はまた黙ってうなずく。少年は少し間を置く。

「でもそのときずっと遠くで汽笛の音が聞こえる。それはほんとうにほんとうに遠い汽笛なんだ。いったいどこに鉄道の線路なんかがあるのか、僕にもわからない。それくらい遠くなんだ。聞こえたか聞こえないかというくらいの音だ。でもそれが汽車の汽笛であることは僕にはわかる。間違いない。僕は暗闇の中でじっと耳を澄ます。そしてもう一度、その汽笛を耳にする。それから僕の心臓は痛むことをやめる。時計の針は動き始める。鉄の箱は海面へ向けてゆっくり浮かび上がっていく。それはみんなその小さな汽笛のせいなんだね。聞こえるか聞こえないか、それくらい微かな汽笛のせいなんだ。そして僕はその汽笛と同じくらい君のことを愛している」

　そこで少年の短い物語は終わる。今度は少女が自分の物語を語り始める。

I left a New Year's greeting three months ago and I got a response from three different people--Yamomya, Andine and SM--who used to visit regularly once upon a time. It was good to see that some still lurk around Xanga.

I am getting the urge to write again and, indeed, I should since I need to get back into practice. Actually, Jerjonji published a book that she wants me to read and comment on, so I agreed. I'm not finished yet, but I'm trying to read it on the train going and coming to work, as all my other time is devoted to teaching and grading.

But I will read it, Jerjonji. I promise.

The point, however, is that thanks to her, I'm getting the itch to write again. *scratch, scratch*

We will see...

Or in Japanese: 明けましておめでとうございます。

Just dropped by to wish anyone I know who still blogs a wonderful and successful 2015. Xanga was my very first blog, and my first post was June 2003; fourteen and a half years ago. I don't blog anymore which is unfortunate for me. I feel as though my writing skills improved with each entry. I believe Murakami Haruki--contemporary Japanese author--said that writing is like running. You have to do it everyday or else you will lose both your skill and your will to write. Not that I was very skilled in the first place, but I feel that I could write more coherently and even imagine the structure of an entry even as I was writing it. Currently, I have to write various parts down, roganize and reorganize them to make them coherent. A rather sad development for me.

Anyway, If any one I know still blogs or reads this, drop a "Hi" in the comment section. I'd be interested to know if there was anyone still active.

Best,

O-man

another semester, another academic year. Where has the time gone?

Things have changed so much here on Xanga. I'm not sure I have the time to change things here, but I do remember paying for Xanga for life so I am reluctant to give up the site. *sigh*

Semester's over
but this *sigh* is not of relief--
A stack of blue books

There's a song I can't get out of my head. It was by the Classics IV called Traces:

Faded photographs
covered now with lines and creases
Tickets torn in half,
memories in bits and pieces...

My first "real" girlfriend friended me on facebook. I hadn't seen or talked to her in over 35 years. Naturally, I didn't know her married name and didn't recognize her immediately, but after a quick Google search--since she friended me first, I don't consider this stalking--I realized who she was and was quite surprised.

Not a bad kind of surprise, mind you...

I accepted her friending and we've messaged each other a couple times since. I was rather blown away by her memory. She was mentioning things that even I had forgotten, and I consider my memory to be... well, never mind. Maybe her memory should be better than mine as my mind has gone into some kind of other worldly mode in the past few years. I think they call it aging.

In any case, I have the urge to write a whole bunch about my high school days again, but as I pondered those year--I actually should have been grading but this has been the best excuse to procrastinate without really realizing that I was procrastinating--I've come to realize that most of it is a collage of memories, no recollections of a string of events that might constitute a narrative. A kiss on the dance floor, an Japanese X-rated movie, her playing The Fish by Yes on the piano, giving each other the flu back and forth, Andy's Pool Hall, Sears, rabbit jacket, arguments, throwing up in her car after drinking too much champagne at the wedding of the band's drummer's brother... Geez. With all this, you'd think I could come up with something.

Well, maybe I just need to ponder a bit longer. Maybe she'll message me something I had forgotten and it will jog my memories more completely. Until then I will be satisfied with letting the bits and pieces wash over me and amuse me during the downtime of teaching and grading.

I haven't seen my daughter in a while--has it really been more than 10 years? I wrote about her a few years ago in an earlier post and am not inclined to write about our situation. To be honest, I'm not even sure there's a situation to write about anymore. But I do have memories and I thought I'd write about one that I recalled recently when talking to friends about Christmas.

Back in December of 1991, when I was in Japan for my dissertation research, my daughter, K, had serious doubts about Santa coming to visit our home. In the States, before we had gone to Japan, K spent her first three Christmases at my parents' house where there was a seven-foot Christmas tree set up in the living room near the fireplace. But in Japan, most houses--let alone condos--are small and do not have fireplaces. There is also little room for a ceiling high Douglas fir or Scotch pine, which they don't sell in Japan anyway. In our small, modest abode, we had a small artificial tree--the kind you'd see on a counter at a business office. This was the norm in most Japanese homes.

Well, you can imagine K's skepticism. She wanted a bicycle for Christmas and even wrote a letter to Santa asking for one, but was unsure about delivery of such a large present. It would be difficult enough for Santa to bring a bike down a real chimney. "How could he deliver a present to a house without a fireplace?" she'd ask.

All I could do was shrug my shoulders and admit, "Good question."

"He couldn't get through the mail slot in the door, right?" I had to agree. She even glanced at the vent over the stove. But then she looked back at me, and we shook are head in unison: "No way."

Of course, being the devious father that I was, I was simply setting up my daughter for the Christmas surprise.

I should note that K did not doubt the existence of Santa; she just couldn't figure out how Santa could get into our home. As for me, by sharing in K's skepticism, I had removed myself as a suspect in any phony Santa charade. If K did get the present she wanted, it could only have come from the real Santa, not the dad who seemed to doubt Santa could actually fit through a mail slot. So I bought a bicycle and kept it hidden in its box unassembled until...

Christmas eve: I told K to set out some milk and a cookie, "Just in case." K was still doubtful. "Do you really think he can come here?" she asked over and over. But she must have held out a sliver of hope because she set the treats with care on a table next to the mini-Christmas tree. By 9 PM, K was fast asleep, undoubtedly exhausted from all the hoping.

I assembled the shiny red bike, attached the training wheels and headlight, and placed it next to the table next to the mini-Christmas tree. I am no mechanical engineer so assembling it took me more effort than I want to admit, but I did an adequate job, accomplished after some trial and error over the course of a couple of hours. Exhausted bleary-eyed, I plopped down next to the table, reached over and took a small bite out of a cookie that had been sitting there unattended on the table for a few hours. I grimaced at its staleness and, still bleary-eyed, reached for the room-temperature glass of milk next to it. "Oh crap!" I muttered. A mouthful was enough to bring me to my senses. I'm lactose intolerant, you see, so I put down the cookie and milk, moved quickly to the kitchen sink, spit out what I could and rinsed my mouth with water. Without a thought of what I had left behind on the table, I trudged off to bed and fell asleep worrying that I'd get a stomach ache from the milk.

And sure enough I woke up with a sudden pain in my stomach. "Oh crap," I muttered again. But when I opened my eyes, I realized that the pain in my stomach was not from the milk. K was straddling my stomach, jumping up and down. With a fistful of my T-shirt in her hands, she shook me fiercely. "He came! He came!" she screamed. What are you talking about? I was so groggy, I don't remember if I said that or was just thinking it. But it didn't matter. K quickly jumped off and ran out of the bedroom still screaming. She returned in a flash.

"Dad! Dad! Come and see!" she commanded from the door.

"Who came?" I asked still trying to get my bearings.

"SANTA!" she screamed in that high-pitched voice that only a four-year-old girl can muster.

Ah, the bicycle, I smiled. When I entered the living room, she was sitting on the bike pretending to pedal it.

"Wow, did Santa really bring you this?"

"Yes!" she said beaming. "I know for sure he did."

"Oh? And how do you know that?"

"Look!" she said.

My eyes followed in the direction in which her finger was pointing and, sure enough, there was a half-filled glass of milk and a half-eaten cookie. K jumped off the bike and scooted over next to me. "Look at that," she said outlining with her fingertips a jagged semi-circle in the cookie. "You see that? Those are Santa's tooth marks."

My eyes widened as I slowly recalled the sequence of events that culminated in K's discovery. But I just smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. Who was I to question such irrefutable proof of Santa's visit?

I am a TV-holic. When I was a kid, my mother used to ask me what was on TV because I was the  TV Guy, her own personal  TV Guide, as it were. I knew the day and time of sitcoms and whiled away my youth on such fare as Hogan's Hero, Gilligan's Island and MASH. Around the 80s, I began to actually take academics seriously in college and coincidentally my viewing habits changed. No, I did not give up the boob tube for books, but I watched fewer sitcoms and took an interest in dramas.

But I didn't watch just any drama. I didn't watch too many police stories. Nor did I watch overly melodramatic programs. The dramas i watched had to have a "serious" theme, but it also had to have an element of the light-hearted, often witty, and occasionally funny, as represented in such favorites as Moonlighting, Hill Street Blues, LA Law and, of course, ST:TNG.

Then I moved to Japan to do my dissertation research. I ended up living there for almost seven years and during my time there, I watched my share of TV. The doramas in Japan were exactly to my liking. They touched on themes of everyday life with a touch of light-heartedness and seriousness. A dorama like "The 101st Marriage Proposal" was classic: a man who can't seem to get married because he is not the best looking guy, but eventually finds the right girl and wins her over with a sense sincerity and a touch of desperation. I also appreciated how dorama were aired. They are season long mini-series, each dorama runing about nine to twelve episodes over a three month period. Once the dorama's over, it's over. There are no cliff hangers that keep viewers in suspense for months, like the "Who Shot JR" fiasco of Dallas.

When I returned to the States in 1996, I was lost. Programming had changed so much that I felt like a foreigner. The Fox Network? Reality TV? There were, of course, some gems: The X Files and Law and Order. But by the 2000s, the X Files had run its course and Law and Order was getting old. The only show worth watching was CSI... How I longed for Japanese dorama.

Then my students led me to some sites that offered dorama online. Oh-My-God... I was in heaven. I watched everything from the silly--Gokusen--to the sublime--Nodame Cantible (okay, it was sublime to me). I found myself watching four, five, even seven titles a week. That's a lot of TV viewing. Then in the mid-2000s, I discovered that cable TV was also producing quality dramas: Battlestar Galactica, Mad Men, Burn Notice. These just add to the total number of hours I already spend on J-dorama.

So what does this all mean? I need to change. I have justified my J-dorama viewing habits by insisting that I learn Japanese. And I do. No, really. I keep a notebook next to the TV and jot down vocabulary I don't know, and there is now quite a list. Still, I'm not sure if that is enough to justify the hours in front of the tube. Indeed, I feel I was much more productive sitting in front of my computer, pounding out daily post on this blog, which I did from about 2003-06. I believe that all that writing--even the rather inane details of my life--allowed me to develop a style and an ability to structure a piece more effectively and efficiently. So maybe it's time to escape from the wasteland of TV and return to the blog... my blog.

Maybe...

I still have Final exams to make and grade, but at least classes are over. Whew! I don't think I've ever worked harder than this academic year. The Genji class was brand new so I had to start from scratch--re-reading each chapter, re-/reading secondary sources, drafting lecture notes, creating PowerPoint slides.

Beginning Japanese was another time consumer. I co-taught with another teacher and we split the duties: she was in charge of homework and special assignments--oral interviews, one short essay and a final one-minute speech; I took care of lectures, all quizzes and exams, and maintaining grades. We had quizzes twice, sometimes three times a week, and in case you're wondering, grading 45 quizzes takes me at least about 3 hours: correcting, grading, tallying points and recording grades. Also, since they put us in such small rooms and students sit elbow to elbow, I make two different quizzes in an attempt to discourage wandering eyes--I believe that a teachers should also be responsible for academic integrity by creating an environment that discourages cheating. In other words I was grading two different, albeit similar, quizzes. Fortunately, preparing for class was much easier as a colleague generously allowed me the use of her PowerPoint slides. I tweaked them to fit my own style/approach to teaching, but in general I used them as is and I think I would have died without them. (Memo: Send thank you card to TT.)

J-Lit in Translation was another time consumer. I hadn't taught it in a couple of years so had to re-read some of the material: I alternate books occasionally to break the monotony of teaching the same course each year, so it had been a while since I read/taught Enchi Fumiko's Masks and Kawabata's Snow Country. I also used the new abridged edition of Shirane's Early Modern Japanese Literature. Indeed, since it had been over a year since the last time I taught J-Lit in Translation, I felt a bit off balance. Also grading three essays for 35 students was not a simple task--especially when you squeeze them in between the 45 quizzes that I always seemed to be grading--even if I did limit them to 1000 words. Oh, and I made new PowerPoint slides for this course so it was almost like teaching from scratch.

Interestingly, the easiest course I had this academic year was Bungo, perhaps because it's my favorite class... although many students will easily and roundly express their displeasure: It's too hard, it's too fast. Blah, blah, blah. But it's not, I retort. It's a state of mind. At which I am usually met with blank stares. *sigh*

In any event, I have Finals to make and grade, senior theses to read, and three commencement (count 'em, 1-2-3) to attend, all leading up to... summer school, which starts the day after commencement. Will work never end?

Just direct me to a pillow. All I wanna do is sleep.