Expanding closets
When I am out shopping and see something I want (but don't need) I can usually convince myself that I don't have closet space for it. No where to put it. That excuse went out the window with my new apartment. Now I have a dearth of closets; I am the Bill Gates of storage space. This being the case I have had to come up with new excuses not to buy things. Here are a few of my favorites:

1. It doesn't match my tatami mat.
2. It won't fit in my bike basket.
3. What would the neighbors say?
4. I think I already own 6 of these (in boxes somewhere in my parents basement).
5. I don't feel like speaking Japanese to the people who work there.
6. There are too many school girls giggling around me.
7. There are so many layers of plastic wrapping that I am not totally sure what it is I want to buy.
8. Speaking of school girls-- every school girl I saw today owns one of these. Definitely not for me.
9. I don't own an iron.
10....


On a vaguely related note that only people who have read "House of Leaves" will understand: I think my closets are expanding. Seriously. And yesterday I noticed a cabinet that I have never seen before. If you don't hear from me I am probably lost in one of my new doorways that just appeared.

Shopping Mindset
After over 2 years of sleeping on futons on the floor, I snapped. It was fun the first 2 times when I was an exchange student. I was experiencing the culture first-hand, being truly Japanese (while my host family slept in Western beds, something I didn't question at the time). It was even all right for maybe the first 6 months I was teaching in Fukui. After that the adventure of sleeping on the floor gradually began to wane. In my old apartment my constant desire for a bed was cured because there wasn't space for a bed. You may think I'm joking; I'm not. If I pushed everything against the walls there was still barely room for me to do sit-ups. My new apartment is the polar opposite. What my old apartment was lacking, my new apartment is over-compensating for. I can't afford the amount of furniture it would take to fill this place up. My few pieces of furniture look lonely (perhaps in a Scandinavian-minimalistic sort of way, I'm hoping). And so between needing to fill space and not wanting to sleep on the floor I decided to purchase a bed. Considering how expensive beds are, and that I will use it every night for the rest of my stay in Japan, this is a serious purchase. I was in and out of the store in 15 minutes. I spent more time picking out yarn to make a scarf than I did picking out my bed. Absurd. I am happy with the bed I picked though. Delivery in 2 days. I can't wait. Perhaps I will write later about the joys of a mattress.

Shake it like you mean it
For some time now I have been vaguely aware of a crazy trend called "Taiso" in Japan. It is only a trend in the way that jeans are a trend though: permanently fashionable in one form or another. It involves vague stretches, rolling your head around, jumping and flapping your arms. Exercise without breaking a sweat. There's a vague possibility your blood might start circulating, but that could be related to the increased heart beat from an embarrassment factor as opposed to the movement itself. So I start my new job and discover that every morning we have to do Morning Taiso. At 8:30 on the dot, 5 days a week, every employee in City Hall (all 8 stories worth) stands up and does the exact same movements in sync to music being blasted over the intercom. I thought this was odd the first few times, give or take a dozen. I have slowly started to adjust. Perhaps I am turning... into a government employee. Yesterday I was passing a construction zone and heard some odd music emanating from within. Curious, I cruised my bike past to get a closer look. At 8:15 on the dot all of the construction workers were doing the all too familiar head-rolling, arm-flapping, face-massaging, leg-shaking Taiso. Then as suddenly as it started it stopped and the men went back to their deconstruction-construction constructioning. Good to know that all the blood in Japan is flowing before the clock strikes 9. I would really be worried about the future of this country otherwise.

Trees
Weeping willows always seem sad, and yet they make me think of my grandparents. In their front yard are weeping willow trees. As a child I could never climb them because there were no low branches. Perhaps I always envied those trees because they were unattainable. They also make me think of happy evenings rolling around on the grass at parties, staring at the fairy lights and growing sleepy listening to adults talk of things I didn't understand. That is a bit of childhood innocence I can never regain.
Pine trees will always make me thing of a big cabin. Throwing pieces of bread off a tall balcony to watch the blue birds dive down quickly and catch the pieces midair. Sometimes peanuts would work if my father was eating them, or even pistachios. But I wouldn't be allowed to throw as many pistachios as peanuts. The birds would just appear out of nowhere, grab the food and disappear again. They fascinated and perplexed me at the same time.
Junipers give me a sick feeling. Everything underneath them dies. The grass won't grow, the ground is prickly, there are too many bugs. They have such a lovely smell and yet there is something uncomfortable about them. I remember a yard on Faland.
Maples make me think of Japan and the hills lighting on fire. They make me think of homesickness. They make me miss pumpkin pie and Halloween. Funny that thoughts of a foreign country would make me miss home more.
Apple trees make me think of worms. After picking apples I would be so disgusted when my grandmother cut one open and it had a worm at its center. I wanted to throw it away, get rid of the imperfect apple. But grandmother patiently threw away the worm, washed the apple and kept going. I wonder if the apple pie tasted any different because of that worm.
Cherry blossom trees make me think of cotton candy. They also make me sad. They are so beautiful and yet they die so quickly. When the blossoms fall it is as though the trees themselves are crying tears at having to age another year. Sobbing because they are losing their beauty yet again.

The day I liked the rain
Rain is an irritant in my life. A constant irritant now. Light rain, heavy rain, post-rain, typhoon rain, cold rain, hot rain, slushy rain, freezing rain, side-ways rain. I hate rain. Today I sat in a room, on a cushion, on a tatami mat. I looked out past the papered sliding doors into the garden. The mini-water wheel turned at an ever constant pace. The rain started as a fine mist, fogging up the air. It cooled down the room as though the wind had blown through a cooler before reaching me. The rain grew heavier, carving patterns into the pond. It turned the garden the most brilliant shade of green. It thundered down, and yet I was protected completely in my ancient thatched house. The wide doors allowed me to see everything and yet remain dry. I won't say that I have changed my opinion of rain, I am still unhappy to see it come, but I did find that I can experience moments of joy in the rain. Although a symbol of sadness, it does not exclude my happiness.

Climbing Mountains for no reason
Why do I always have a stereotype of the Japanese people as such passionless people? Not that they don't have emotions. It is just so much of what they do is subdued, quiet and reflective. Reverent even. What isn't influenced by the West in their culture is so unobtrusive and can be easily missed- ikebana, nihonbuya, ukioe, koto, the tea ceremony. Or that is what I continuously think. I think I am such an expert on this country really. After a few short years I apparently know everything. But some children decided to teach me differently. I have heard Taiko before and I enjoy listening to it. As I was listening to the children at Monju Elementary school play today I realized that people who are passionless could never have created this kind of music. It goes against everything the stereotypes in my head whisper to me. The beats build up to wild frenzies that my heart tries to match. They reverberate in my core. My eyes get dizzy watching the untamed arms striking the drum again and again in a blur of motion and color. Passionless people could never dream of this, much less create and perfect it. Another stereotype destroyed.

I climbed a mountain with a group of children. They were like children anywhere in the world: laughing, tired, loud, complaining, playing. When we got to the top of the mountain I noticed a difference though. The children all made a plea to the spirit of the mountain, Monju-san, for various things. One child wished to be better in school. Another child asked to be a great professional baseball player like Matsui. The thing that struck me in all of them was the respect they have for nature. Although their prayers were half in jest, the other half of them was perfectly serious in recognizing parts of nature as deities. It is influenced by Shintoism, but even aside from the religious aspect, I liked the idea that these children are brought up respecting nature. The idea of respect is difficult to define though. They respect nature by recognizing a certain holiness to it. Yet when they are adults they will probably continue to coat it in cement just like everyone else in this country has done for the last 50 years.

I sat on a mountain
High above the city lights.
The cicadas covered me like honey
With their song.
Light bounced back down
Off leaves in the dark.
One small voice
Made a plea
That, carried deep into the mountain,
Was heard by
One small deity
The bonfire burned
Sending ashes into the air
Until nothing was left to send
Then, when we had nothing left to ask
We too descended in the dark