01 March 2015
I remember now suddenly August 2005 — standing outside of the door of Yoko's mansion apartment in Niigata, in a suit holding flowers. I felt the way you do when you fall in love — terrified, like I might just run away. I rang the doorbell before I could run and waited, my blue two-door Nissan Alto parked illegally for the moment. We were going to go to a jazz concert, and I was wearing a white tie. It was inappropriate: I looked like a big dumb animal dressed for a wedding. She was the real deal though, career-minded and strong, and all I had was potential. A Canon Word Tank electronic Japanese-English dictionary in my pocket. I remember the door not opening, waiting.
Yoko's apartment in Monomiyama was closer to the city centre than mine, and is really the last vestigial memory of our lives as separate people. I remember its layout so well: I remember I broke a wine glass that was important to her, one her father had brought back from Italy. I asked her to marry me there, and in seven months time, we moved her out, into my world in Matsuhama, the old fishing village on the Agano River and whatever it was that we were before July 2006, before Naomi came into our lives two and half months later, was gone.
In Spring of that year before we married, I got two traffic tickets for running a red light on my scooter and not stopping fully at another light in my Nissan Alto. Simple mistakes, nothing serious. I learned that Japanese police officers are polite, but not interested in hearing excuses, particularly from fat white men with bad Japanese. They understand, of course, but the law is the law. So I took to riding my bicycle everywhere. 12 kms to work, and then another 6 or so into the city and then another 12 back on the Sea of Japan, under the Shinano River in a tunnel, coming out on the other side, right where Yoko lived.
I worked on Thursday nights, I remember, teaching a class of kids that I got paid 5000 yen an hour for — a crisp, perfect bill in a brown envelope at the end of the class. It always felt electric to get money like that in cash, particularly if a class had been good and I was on a teaching high anyway. One night though, there was fog on the path going down to the tunnel. I was riding slowly, but still making good time when suddenly, unexpectedly, I was lying on the ground, having been ejected off my bike. There was a barrier up to keep cars off the bike path and I had run into it, directly. I didn't have time to get my hands in front of me. After I figured out what happened, I picked myself up in the fog; the wind had been knocked of me and I was gasping. Had I broken something. Where was my bike.
I sat on the asphalt looking around and found my bike: the chain had derailed and the frame was bent, but not seriously. I had a cut in my Dickies shorts, my hand was bleeding a bit, but I was okay. I put the chain back on, and tried to ride it again. Yes, it was going, the tyre was okay, everything was okay. I made my way down the tunnel and to Yoko's house.
When she let me in and made me instant coffee, we sat on the floor and I told her about my day. I couldn't explain the accident well enough in Japanese at the time, and suddenly, as happens in places like Japan where you are on edge all the time and weak constantly and can't fully express yourself in a language that's not your own, I lost face and started to cry. I had been scared: it was dark and foggy and late and no one would have found me if I had been seriously injured. Yoko laughed, I remember, It's okay, it's nothing to cry about, and I was suddenly a little boy, a child that needed to be patted on the head, picked up and sent on my way. It passed, of course, just a moment of weakness. We sat together and eventually, I rode home into the darkness, everything behind me.
On the Megabus on Monday night, I awoke when we got to Coventry and half the people were filing off. I thought of going back to sleep, but since the whole day had been a success and a bike ride back was ahead of me, I decided to slowly wake up, watching outside the windows as we rushed up the A45 towards the airport and then Hill Street in Birmingham City Centre.
An Asian man two rows up on the opposite side, was sitting next to a silent woman, and arguing on an iPhone with another woman named Phyllis. Phyllis, listen to me, he kept saying, No, Phyllis no, that is not what we said in Stratford, do you remember what we said then, Phyllis? Do you remember what we said about Alihan? The conversation went on and on, painfully. He had left Phyllis for another woman when Phyllis was pregnant with Alihan, who I assumed was next to him. Alihan was living with Phyllis and the man, whose name I never heard, had not been able to pick up Alihan from school that day. Phyllis, there is no need to shout. Phyllis, I am on the bus. You are embarrassing yourself.
At one point Alihan was on the phone as well, and his father's tone changed and he referred to Alihan as baby, assuring Alihan that his father would be there soon. There was a Muslim man sat across from me with his wife, a hijabi, and we both shared a knowing glance, judging the man with the iPhone for different reasons. When we arrived at Hill St, Phyllis was still on the phone, and I got off quickly to find my bike, texted Yoko, and rode home into the night towards Victoria Road.
On Saturday, Yoko and I stood outside another door in Milton Keynes. Another doorbell I had just rung, and the same urge to run away. It's been nine years since I fell off my bike that night, and here we are on the other side of the world. The door opens and a woman smiles and invites us in. Why are we here? There's a pause, a rush of memory. We're here because we love each other, because we've always loved each other. It's a thread we've pulled through history, more than nine years now. Across the two different generations we come from, across a gap in culture and language, and three children. The thread gets tangled sometimes, and it's okay for the thread to be tangled, isn't it? I say, We just need some help to get it untangled now. We can't do it ourselves.
It's okay to cry when you need to: to ask for help and say what needs to be said. We're entitled in spite of it all, to be happy when we can be and remember faintly, that feeling of waiting with flowers, expectant for whatever mystery love wants to reveal to us. There's no reason to hide.
Labels Holy Matrimony
23 February 2015
The Fireside Bowl in Chicago — in the memories of aging white hipsters, the purists — was the place for B-grade emo and punk and hardcore acts, a central reference point as we all evolved through the late-nineties. Our jeans got progressively wider at the bottoms, until we decided it was time for them to be tight. I remember the first couple of times I was there, and all the awkward energy of being 15 or 16, standing in the back of a room as it filled up with older kids, and being worried about making curfew.
It closed for a while, the Fireside, but that was after I left. I don't remember the last show I went to, but the last show I remember was the Dashboard Confessional in May of 2002. Heather and I went together, although we had broken up already, and the place was packed out: Chris Carrabba, the singer was just about to break out and he shouted at one point, 'If you aren't going to sing along, get out because there's a whole crowd of people outside who wanna get in and sing!' It was just starting to get hot in the city, and after the show finished, we wended through the crowd holding hands, like we had forgotten we had broken up.
I was telling myself all sorts of lies that summer and growing my hair out while I painted houses. I was going to get over this, no matter what, I thought, pull my old life out of the abyss and resurrect it all, but the summer ended and I went back to school. And then autumn came and I fell in and out of love and in the Spring, I was in Hyde Park, just a half mile from where I am right now, sitting on a bench and thinking that there was no way any of this would get put back together, was there.
Then, this January, the Decemberists put out a new album and I saw they were coming to Birmingham. Yoko and I talked about going together, but we still haven't found someone to watch the kids and Yoko excused me to go without her: you should go, you should get a ticket. I held out hope that we would work something out, that we'd get someone to watch the kids, but then Yoko's friend from MK planned to come up and stay the night and the plan of the date dissipated.
When Wednesday night came, the night of the show, I wasn't quite sure what to wear, but put on a blue Gap jacket that I bought in Niigata in 2007, on sale for 5000 yen and rode my bicycle to the City Centre. I met my friend Minnesota Matt at the venue, and we got in when the doors opened and waited for his wife to come via three or four buses from work. I bought an overpriced beer and we talked about all the bands we had seen, all the places we had seen them. Matt's wife came after the opener, we were all chatting when someone started calling my name. I think this person knows you, and indeed I did: it was a friend from college who was there, of course, yes, she was living near Brum and, yes, of course, we were all at the Decemberists together. All the Americans would be, these two are from Minnesota, can you believe it?
A guy I watch on YouTube says that scents are strongest memory triggers; perhaps faces should be on that list as well. I had a sudden rush of memory like you do when you see someone you haven't seen in a while, and when you have changed so much. She knew me when I was growing out my hair and following Jesus and not wearing shoes. Yes, I remembered now, I had particularly hounded her about Jesus, and we were in the same writing classes and I could remember lines of her poems. Her mother had died. I remembered that we had a reading together once in the Knox College Old Main Common Room and I remembered what an asshole I had been those years.
The band started to play, finally, all these songs that I have known for years and years now. Records that spanned all the countries and timezones: I had the Crane Wife in Japan and ran across the Agano River bridge, listening to it on my iPod shuffle. Then the song that is on the new album, the one I've liked so much because it describes how I feel so well: I am waiting, should I be waiting. Yes, what should I do. Everyone was dancing almost. All that energy, my mouth open and singing along.
I rode the bike back home and Yoko and her friend and I sat on the carpet in the house on Victoria Road and drank leftover champagne. I told them the story of the night, of my friends and my former life in college and all the embarrassing things I had done simply because young love didn't work out and I believed in the wrong things. The long thread of the past can be untangled enough for it to make sense for a moment, for an audience of Japanese women patiently listening to me retrace my steps. All before you knew me, before I started to cut my hair and think about my posture. All these mistakes I had made, when I was barefoot, my Evangelical Jesus phase, and how young I felt all night long — that tightly drawn guitar string inside of me plucked again.
I'm hopeful, Colin Meloy sings, should I be hopeful. The past is a kind of residue, a smell on my hands that fades until something serendipitous happens again. I'm not sure hoping has consequences one way or another.
I'm hopeful, Colin Meloy sings, should I be hopeful. The past is a kind of residue, a smell on my hands that fades until something serendipitous happens again. I'm not sure hoping has consequences one way or another.
I had been excited about the bus initially because of the WiFi, which worked brilliantly at first and then, as these things do, went away. I sat pushing connect again and again for about ten minutes, before giving up. I had said to Yoko as I showed off the £1 ticket and the website, ‘The bus has WiFi, so I can work,’ and she had said something about how it might be good if I spent some time not working. This sounds good in theory — not working — but I'm not sure I am capable of it, given how my work is really just thinking about things and writing down the interesting thoughts that come up. I suppose I could stop writing all of them down, but that seems like a waste.
In December, I stopped eating meat. It wasn't the first time — in college I became a vegetarian on a dare of sorts from a beautiful first-year Sri Lankan student in the Christian group I was leading. After I had gone to some talk about sexuality and the portrayal of women as meat and was saying, I'm not sure if I can keep eating meat, she looked sceptical: ‘Of course you can’t stop eating meat. Look at you.’ Indeed, this seemed impossible. I was probably eating meat at the time I said that I would stop. None-the-less, I gave it a go and held up for some six months. It caused a great deal of stress to my mother, I remember, at Thanksgiving, because I wanted some Quorn chicken nuggets, or something ridiculous. Suddenly I was better than everyone, a recurring theme in my life.
The WiFi taunts me some more. It’s connected it says. I click. It has not actually connected.
This time, I stopped eating meat for some different set of reasons, mostly about trying to ‘do less evil’ or some other nonsense, following a dumb conversation on Facebook. Say what you want about sentience, I said, but meat farming is one of the single worst things we are doing for the environment. This was true, in the way that stupid things young white hipsters say are true. Yes, of course, not eating meat is probably better for your body and for the environment. Fine, so is not wearing that shirt made god knows where and those leather shoes. Your belt is leather too, asshole.
Anyway, I stopped eating meat and it went fine: I was eating lentils and bread, and the kids had accepted it, but my body suddenly lost control of itself and I gained back some seven kilogrammes from the weight I lost at the end on 2014. It felt ridiculous that bread would do this to me, but the numbers didn’t lie, and despite running around like a madman, the weight kept pushing up. I felt awful, I looked awful, so I relented, finally, and had some chicken, thinking this would help solve things. Of course, it didn't, I just felt worse that I had both gained all the weight and also now was killing something, thinking it would make me sane. My weight stayed up, and I was angry now too.
All of January felt that way, a bit mad and manic as it usually does, although I’ve lost the extremes in my domesticity. To be fair, my talent as a writer or academic or theorist (which is what I really want to be, now that I'm edging into my mid-thirties) doesn't really justify being mad. Besides, there were things to do all month: I had some meetings the first week back and had to give a talk in London. I interviewed to become Reader, and after the interview knew immediately that of course no one had any real interest in making me Reader, but again, there was no time to be depressed: the kids needed to go to swimming, after all, and gymnastics. All I could manage was muttering under my breath in English and stepping out to take a walk and smoke. Where’s daddy? He's walking around the block, don't bother him, he's left his wallet.
Sure enough, the letter came two weeks later in February, stamped twice ‘Private & Confidential’, sitting on my computer keyboard on a Saturday morning. Yoko hugged me, but it was the sort of consolatory hug you have as partners after nine years, Sorry about that, you'll do better next time — we need to get the kids to the gym, put your coat on.
The Megabus WiFi page comes up. It asks me to accept the terms and conditions. Yes, of course I do, I tick and click. Nothing. The page reloads. Do you accept the terms and conditions? I just did. I tick and click. The exclamation mark appears above the WiFi bars. You don’t have Internet access. No shit.
In the end, I felt the Readership didn't matter: I didn't want it anyway, did I. Waiting three or four weeks helped. Yes, of course not, it’s not time yet, just let me get over it now and pretend that I didn't make a fool of myself in front of the top management of the university, all looking at me like a twelve-year old in an ill-fitting sport coat. I’ll get back to my bid writing and my mediocre teaching. Answer some reviewers commenters: everyone’s got the same criticism. You aren't really saying anything, are you.
February will be done soon enough. I get paid tomorrow and we’re finally going to get some help, Yoko and I. I ate a bit of chicken, and then told myself I can be a flexitarian, it’s okay: be an aspiring vegetarian. Vegetarians are hard to accept as they are so successful, healthy, and moral; aspiring vegetarians you can accept as failures like everyone else. I’m still feeling fat, but only when I think about how thin I've been in the past. I'm doing okay, actually: my thin jeans are fitting fine.
And the sun is coming up over London. I’ll give the WiFi another shot, but it doesn't really matter at this point, does it. I’m here in London. The million dollar Zone 2 homes outside the window. Maybe this is in my future. It’s okay to have dreams, isn't it. Just keep them realistic, okay. Don’t expect too much from your dad. He’s going for a walk now, give him a bit of space.
21 February 2015
In 2005, that February, I bought both of the new Bright Eyes albums and put them on my iPod. It's ten years ago. I had moved to Niigata in September the year before, feeling like I had failed at my faith and I just wanted to be alone. I walked up and down the Shinano River in the middle of town, back and forth. Now, ten years later, I realise that this was one of the last times I was really free.
The day before Valentine's, I went to the city centre to give blood and buy pipe tobacco. I was working too, writing something in my head that I didn't realise I was writing. I got done early, sat in Starbucks and answered e-mails. I left and walked home, calling Yoko to say that I was coming home early and could pick up the kids. I stopped at Morrison's and bought flowers for Yoko and the girls. They put them in a bag, but walking home, I got caught in the rain on Harborne Park Road. When I finally got to the house, the roses were wet and I was wet too.
When you are in a place long enough, you remember things, or have memories of things in the same place. I've moved so much in the last couple of years that this surprises me. Things were different 14 months ago when we came here, when we came from Malaysia. I pass a building on the street and remember suddenly the first time I saw it. The smell of coffee just now, in the stove-top espresso maker, the perculator. That smell is from the past.
In Malaysia, there were these constant things that came up that I could write about, even if they didn't mean anything to me. I saw a package of Pall Mall tobacco at a store today and remembered that night I got drunk and started smoking someone else's cigarettes in the Commonwealth Club. I haven't been drunk like that in a year now — I look in the mirror and I realise that year-on-year I've gotten older, I keep the weight off, but I'm losing my hair.
England has been home now for almost five and half years, all the time considered. Even in Malaysia, England was home. We are three years and eleven months away from permanent residency, which sounds like a long time, but doesn't sound like a long time either. I've been in my job long enough to be let down and then lifted up. They promoted me once, not twice. On Friday morning, I sat in a circle with five students I am teaching, and we listened to an interview together. I suddenly realised I had a research group: I had put a research group together in this place with the resources around me. I challenged them and they challenged me back and we all left to have a think about things.
I go for a walk after making dinner and cleaning up. I'm going for a walk, to smoke my Valentine's pipe tobacco and think about things. A fat white man comes running up the hill behind me, fighting against himself and turns into the grounds of the church and the cemetery. I'm a bit light-headed and clouds are pink. Mia will be crying now, ready to go to bed, but she's almost done crying. More will happen this year, to be sure.
13 February 2015
Like I said, it got cold again. Not snowy — snow is in the air sometimes, but it doesn't stick. Instead, it's dry and cold, where you see your breath and the girls' tiny hands get wrapped up in my grey gloves as we make our way up Tennal Road to their school in the morning. The sky is electric blue or grey too. I kiss and hug the kids goodbye and feel like I don't appreciate it enough.
The winter is slipping away like that. Today, I walked home from the City Centre, after giving blood. It was raining, but not raining, the way it does in Birmingham, in the whole of this country. You don't realise you're wet until you're very wet. I bought roses for Yoko and the girls for Valentine's and thought about the last time I had bought roses for Yoko, if I ever had. They sell 18 of them at Morrison's, a number that struck me as odd as I walked them home, past the Botanical Gardens and then into Harborne. When I stood in the entryway with them, Yoko came to greet me and took the wet bag from me. I have never given you roses: in what other ways have I failed.
The days have been passing without much to say. Every day feels like a small pebble I run to the top of the hill. None of the pebbles are beautiful or unique, but the mountain is growing, bit by bit. It's a metaphor. I get up and take the kids to school. I run and work out and then stand at my desk. Some days I teach. I keep a list of things to do. At 5:30, I run home. We eat, the kids go to sleep and the weekend comes. There were all these things that happened. I should have written them down.
Children growing up is like this, I suppose.