In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire, Hurricanes Hardly Happen

There are certain days where my life feels like this scene in My Fair Lady. Or more precisely, the part preceding it, which leads to Higgins slumped over his desk and Colonel Pickering with a newspaper over his head.

I find myself doing ridiculous things while teaching English pronunciation, like over exaggerated facial and mouth movements, or clanging and tapping along in a rhythm. My students giggle as I show them where to place their tongue when saying "really", or while trying to impress on them how exactly to pronounce comfortable naturally. (It turns into com-for-ta-ble, each syllable highly pronounced. And I think the Japanese r/l pronunciation already has an infamy all its own.)

But despite how tough I am on correcting pronunciation, the root of the problem is really English itself.

Today, I was teaching one of my private lessons. It's a 12 year old girl, and bless her, does she try hard. The material is quite difficult at times, and she clearly tries as much as she can to understand. And while she generally gets the concept, her pronunciation of the words is very poor. I am probably the first English teacher she's had who actually speaks English as their first language, so I am not entirely surprised by this.

But because of that fact, I do a bit of phonics and pronunciation practice with her every week. Supplemental stuff; I go through the bevy of phonics sheets my school has just lying around, and grab one to use each time we meet.

This week, I came upon one that, at first, seemed all right. A writing practice, with each corresponding letter of the alphabet paired with a word to go along with it. It started with apple and bat, and went on to monkey and rabbit. Everything seemed kosher, and then I hit the last page, where I came upon y. And what word did they give this poor girl?

Yacht.

I mean, come on. What about yellow or yard. Something that is phonetically possible for a child learning English to sound out? No, we go for yacht, which is derived from a 16th century Dutch word and is pronounced not at all the way it's spelled.

She glanced up at me with a terrified look when she came upon it. As if learning English one on one with me wasn't scary enough. So I sighed, took the newspaper off my head, and pronounced yacht for her.

Each day I spend here, I am more glad I was born an English speaker. Not only is it the modern lingua franca, but I see how hard people work to learn it. For many people, advancement in the world is entirely dependent on a language that breaks the rules as much as it adheres to them.

But that's because English is a mongrel language, with roots and words derived from numerous different sources. As English speakers were conquered, and then subsequently went on to conquer, the language became a hodge-podge of dialects, vocabulary, and syntax.

Which is actual fantastic and amazing, but a bitch to learn. I give massive credit to my students who work so hard at learning my language, and especially for the few who truly succeed at it.

And their hard work, as well as extremely insightful questions, has actually spawned a pet project of mine. The last month I have been researching not only the history of the English language, but where each and every inconsistency in grammar or pronunciation comes from. It is half done out of pure intellectual curiosity, and half out of necessity, because there have been times I have no good answer for perfectly logical questions about my mother tongue.

(My research has been compiled into an ever increasing in length document that may make its appearance here soon. Avoid it if you are not as excited by linguistics as I am).

But I never would have given English a second thought if it weren't for the fantastically perceptive questions made by people still learning it. Things we have come to accept as part of the tapestry of language, but in fact makes little sense in the context of the language as a whole.

And pronunciation is just one of those things. And while it is interesting to study, I feel for the people trying to learn it. The adults who come across chalet with a quirk of confusion, or the little girl terrified of yacht.

So I continue to do my silly mouth exercises, and try to explain the Anglicization of French words. All the while I just want to heave over my desk and throw that newspaper over my head in frustration.

Too bad my lessons don't also end in a jaunty song and dance number.

(And if you don't feel as bad for people learning English as I do, I challenge you to see how well your own pronunciation fares. It's a poem called The Chaos written in 1922 by Gerard Nolst Trenite. It must be read aloud, and points out the inconsistencies in spelling and pronunciation in English. I did ok, but had to read it quite slowly. See how you do.)

Reason 5,431 to Love Japan

Last week, I gave into one of my sporadic tendencies to be a hermit and decided to spend the night in. My days off the last few weeks, though fun and fantastic, have been been entirely too busy for the secret recluse hiding inside me. The perfect remedy, in my mind, was a Saturday night to myself.

It was a warm night, as it has been getting progressively warmer, and my balcony door was open to let the breeze in. (I refuse, even as of this moment, to use my air conditioner yet. It's a stubborn exercise in self-denial, but I know that once it goes on, I won't ever turn it off. And my electricity bill will end up suffering, because this country doesn't believe in insulation.) I was lying on my bed beside the open balcony, and despite the bad TV I was watching, I still managed to hear it. The sound of drums and flutes, of chanting and traditional music.

Intrigued, I clicked off the computer and went out onto my balcony. And what was I greeted by, but this:

A full-blown traditional procession right below my apartment.

If you can tolerate my impromptu, shaky camerawork, you notice that float strung high with lanterns. Inside the float there were seated mechanical shamisen players whose heads clicked back and forth like figurines on an antique cuckoo clock. Adult men in happi coats guided the float, and when it reached the end of the block, grunted and shifted the entire structure one hundred and eighty degrees. Men, women, children in yukata then pulled the entire construction down my street with giant ropes as the music from the float spurred them on.

On a normal day, my street is nothing exceptional to look at. A bicycle repair shop and takoyaki stand line along the street with an Italian restaurant, various cafes, and the side entrance of a university. It's downright unremarkable. But as I stood on my balcony for twenty minutes, watching the harmonic procession, I finally found something beautiful in it as I was wrapped up in the ceremony of it all.

And it's moments like that when I truly love living in Japan. When I take a night in, and happen to witness a surprise Summer festival. The loveliness of custom floating by the bright lights of convenience stores and restaurants.

Though of course Summer festival means, of course, Summer, and we are about two days into rainy season and I already hate it. The air feels sticky all the time, and the rain is just a constant mist. Despite showering just before I left for work, I came home itching just to wash the air off me. I'm counting the days till the end of June. Which is when we have just humidity without the precipitation accompaniment.

I predict I break down tomorrow and put on my air conditioner. But as for now, I'll sit by my open balcony door over my ordinary street as the misty breeze keeps me somewhat cool.

Starting New Traditions

If there is one phrase I would use to continually describe Japan, and its not "militant traditionalism" or "singing, brightly colored robot" it's bizarre absurdity.

And nothing is more bizarre than the advertisements and signage.

Engrish aside, the ads are the most misleading compositions or psychedelic mashups I've ever come upon. So much so, it's usually hard to tell what they're even advertising. (Yes, I immediately think of men in silver suits and human transmogrification when I say hair gel. It's a natural thought progression.)

Most of the time it leaves me figuratively scratching my head in confusion.

So because I want to inflict my own confusion upon the unfortunate readers of this blog, I'm creating a new series:

What the Hell is Happening in this Ad?

Our first piece today is a prime example. What's going on in this picture?

I have no idea. I can only read the "ka" in that sign, but there is clearly a hell of a backstory here.

I may not have the foggiest, but I will tell you what I love.

-The punk demon vampires that are clearly being easily driven out by the angry villagers (aka kids, a few housewives, and the odd salaryman)

-That said villagers use the power of well-placed signage to vanquish evil forces.

-Despite how "badass" the demons are, they have tattoos of sakura blossoms. (Plus, they're running screaming from children.)

-What's with the fenced in trees?

-The leader of this people's revolution appears to be a ramen chef.

Ignoring the piss-poor quality of my picture, I know what your thinking. Kate, you cold-hearted monster, this is clearly a children's drawing. How dare you poke fun?

To which I counter, I bet you ten dollars a full-grown Japanese adult drew this. It's just how they roll in Nippon.

The real question is, what do you think it is?

In other news, they played WPLJ 95.5 at the school I worked at this week. It was really disconcerting to hear ads for things in the tri-state area in the middle of Nagoya, Japan. It was surreal, like I was back in high school. Driving around in my old white Oldsmobile, flipping through the stations.

If only they played better music.

And Very Gladly Will I Drink Your Honour's Noble Health

I saw Alice in Wonderland this past weekend.

I generally avoid movies in Japan because they tend to be expensive and a bit of a hassle. The standard price is close to twenty dollars per ticket unless you want to see a showing after 8 PM. Which I don't particularly mind, and at times prefer, but the drawback is that there usually only one or two movies playing after 8. So if you don't catch it by 9, you won't be seeing a movie that night.

The land of midnight movies it is not.

And if you do manage to get a showing after 8, though the tickets are cheaper, you have to pick your seat as you buy your ticket. Because of this practice of assigned seats, they don't let people into the movie until 10 minutes before.

But where, you say, is the problem in that? Well, if you want a decent seat not in the very back or the very front, you have to come quite a bit early to reserve said seat. But since you can't go into the theater, that leaves you way too much time with nowhere to sit. Hence the problem.

And watching movies in English with Japanese subtitles is a very odd experience. It's true that things are lost in translation, and humor is probably one of the biggest causalities.

I went to see Sherlock Holmes a few months ago. Not the best of films, but enjoyable and funny in a pulpy sort of way. Yet it was unnerving at times to watch in a theater full of non-English speakers, for there were parts that had my friends and I laughing like maniacs as the rest of the theater remained silent. As in, did not even crack a smile.

It's weird to be the only one in the room who understands the humor. It makes you question if maybe your the one who misunderstood.

I remember going to the theater in Italy a few years ago and laughing at the inefficiencies of the the Italian theater. The Japanese system is nothing if not efficient. As well as annoying. And overpriced. And unnecessarily complicated.

So needless to say, with this lovely combination of factors, I reserve movie viewing for movies I deem worthy of both my time and effort. I believe I have seen exactly 4 movies since I arrived in Japan a year and three months ago. A pitiful number, to be honest.

But despite all this working against her, Alice made the cut. And how could it not? Despite a few poor films in the last few years (Planet of the Apes and Sweeny Todd, I'm looking at you), a still inextinguishable love for Tim Burton will take me out to see his films every time. He's like the weird kid who sat in the back of the class and wouldn't talk to anyone but drew cool cartoons on his desk and in every corner of his notebook that were dark and twisted but in a whimsical way. How can you not like that kid?

That, and my utter love for the source material, got me there. I've already dedicated a post to Lewis Carroll, and I have an unhealthy fascination with his nonsense poetry. Nonsense verse is beautiful, as we all know semantics is highly overrated. And the poems littered throughout the narrative are what make it truly special.

So did I fall in love with it? No, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I thought it was visually stunning, and true to the nature and tone of the the story. There were cute homages to the original work, things only someone as geeky as me might have picked up, which I appreciated. I would have liked a more gripping plot, but at the same time something about that seems dishonest to the nonsense and tepid philosophy which the original is all about.

And if you want to put Alice in armor and have her fight the Jabberwocky? Believe me, you will get no complaints from me.

If nothing else, it renewed my interest in how much the story has become such a part of our cultural identity. Few are not familiar with the characters, and many phrases, words, and even theories are drawn from the story. Not bad for a children's book.

For example, sticking solely to cinematic adaptions, Alice in Wonderland has been adapted directly to film 44 times, while about 50 other titles either refashion or draw inspiration from the tale. They span the entire history of film, with the first one being a silent film from 1903 directed by Cecil Hepworth and Percy Stow. It is 8 minutes and 19 seconds in length, and only one copy of the original still exists.

Alice in film has been around almost as long as film has.

I'm not so much a purist that I dislike anything that deviates, but there are times I want to see Carroll done truly right. So to fulfill that need, I didn't need to look any further than this clip from a 1998 BBC production. It was a weird and trippy version that I didn't completely love, but one of the highlights of the film is a weird sequence in which the poem Haddock's Eyes is related by the White Knight to Alice.

If not just a how-to guide from Ian Holm on how to do a dramatic reading correctly, it is presented with the melancholy dreaminess and touch of deeper meaning with which I think every Lewis Carroll poem should be enjoyed.

Kate Bobs Her Hair

And other tales of new beginnings and misguided self discovery.

Poor blog, left sad and alone to rot, nearly forgotten, on this poor corner of the internet. How I have missed you.

But in Japan, Spring is slowly turning into Summer and nothing is sad and forgotten. Today was the latest in a string of beautiful days and I couldn't be happier. I feel as if now, I am finally getting settled into a routine for the new year.

For most of the world, the new year is in January. The year turns ahead and we begin again. As if the changing of the calendar signifies the start of something new beyond just the date. It's that way most of our lives.

Or, in a different mindset, when we are younger, we say September is the beginning of the new year. Summer is dying, the world is cooling off, and we mourn the passing of the fine weather and the certain freedom that inherently comes with summer by starting the new year. Death of freedom to the rebirth of routine? It's very poetic.

But as with most things, as I've come to find many times before, Japan does it very differently. The new year in school, work, and most people's mind, is in April. As Spring first blossoms and the winter finally leaves us behind, we begin the new year.

There's something extraordinary lovely in the simplicity of that.

I've had people tell me that they have talked of changing the beginning of things, especially that of school, to September. The government wants to give the people of Japan a way to be more in tune with the rest of the world as we become an ever-growing global community. But the discussion never goes beyond talk for one significant and very crucial reason.

Graduation and School Entrance ceremonies must coincide with cherry blossoms.

It sounds silly, but for a brief two weeks Japan is beautiful. Everywhere you look is pink and blossoming. Normal streets become beautiful and natural scenery becomes extraordinary. It is the time of hanami, or picnicking under the numerous sakura blossoms. And for Japan, a land or stout tradition, it seems sacrilegious to have a beginning of the year not decorated lovingly and pristinely by mother nature.

Which I can understand, because my second cherry blossom season lost none of the charm of my first. There is a certain calming presence that comes from watching the pink petals fall. It's amazingly peaceful, and despite the reveling around you, can be very zen at the best of times.

Which was very important as I started my second year with my company. It was, as I said, the beginning of the school year and my company was no different. I learned a new schedule, a new set of school and classes, and got a whole new batch of students. In truth, I have a fantastic second year schedule with a great bunch of kids and adults. All of my kids are (so-far) well-behaved and my company class is a dream. I teach business-level english to three very successful and intelligent men I am most likely not qualified to teach. But I still feel very privileged to do so.

But easy as most of the change was, there were still the quirks of commuting and trains to figure out. And while I just now have it down, I am beginning to miss my old schedule. Which seems silly, for I don't miss the schools, just the commutes I took. I loved my Friday afternoon train rides out past Gifu, going past mountains and rice fields on a nearly empty three o' clock train. I liked my long Thursdays of traveling, using several forms of transportation, as I commuted across Aichi and Mie Prefectures to several business to teach.

But most of all, I miss the Meitetsu Line. It is the regional line in Nagoya, less regular, only written in Kanji, and with an insufferably confusing platform system. But I loved it for its imperfections. It was cheaper, easier to access, and the trains were a hell of a lot more fun.

If I can get to work on a train decorated with Pokemon, I call that a win in my book.

I've also been getting to know my city much better as I recently purchased a bike. It surprised me how utterly dependent on subway transportation I had become in the cold winter months, and now with my very Asian two-basket bike, I fly around Nagoya's streets as I get to know her a little better.

So it's a new year, with a new schedule, a new attitude, and a new haircut. About three weeks ago, I decided to completely lob off all my hair. Sick of the increasingly unmanageable tresses that were way past my shoulders, I went in on a Friday afternoon and told them to bob my hair.

The hairdresser looked at me with more than a little apprehension. I guess he thought maybe he had misunderstood; his english is practically nonexistent, and my japanese is very poor when it comes to situations of long description. I kept saying "A short hair cut!" while moving my hands in a wild pantomime of nonverbal instructions. He pulled out a photo book and laughed, a typical response to linguistic confusion. I finally pulled up a photo on my phone, and my varied explanations were understood.

The salon is a local place, only a few blocks from my apartment. I found it unexpectedly as I walked to the small train station just down the street. The place is clean but hip, and the cut is not very expensive. And I know I get the standard treatment. But the standard treatment here is above and beyond most places back home.

For example, a head, back, and shoulder massage are part of the package deal. When they shampoo, you get a head massage during as well as after. They massage your scalp, a scented hot towel on your face (of which you get a choice of scent). They then take you to a special chair where you hang over what looks like a bean bag as they massage your upper body. Shoulders, back, arms and hands.

It's unexpected, but delightful.

And the sink they wash you in is so different from the ones I've experienced back home. There is always a sense of discomfort to the ones in the States. As if my head is pulled back slightly too much, and I'm both choking and trying to hold my head up within her reach. But not here. Japan has an aerodynamical design that completely eradicates the discomfort of hair washing. I don't know how that did it, but we seriously need to import that information home.

And while he cut and styled my hair, I was impressed by the details her recalled from my life. I had been there once before, and yet he remembered where I was from, my job, and even my favorite kinds of movies.

Now that, my friends is service.

So I left with the shortest, but possibly one of the best hair cuts I've ever gotten. It was exactly what I wanted, and I was quite pampered in the process. I am still getting used to how short my hair is, but change is good.

New is good. And as I venture into my second year here, I look forward for what else awaits me around the corner.

Happy New Year, David Robert Jones

Happy New Year, one and all!

I actually can't believe it's ten years into the 21st century. I rang in 2010 with an air of incredulity.

2009 alone was a memorable year. I moved across the globe and started a life, for starters. But the beginning of a new year got me thinking about where life has taken me over the last several years. Looking back across it is nearly astounding. Did I know, even three years ago, that I would be living in Japan at the start of 2010? Let alone a decade ago? Of course, at the tender age of 14, the future to me never really went beyond that weekend.

But New Year's Eve 2009 was spent in Tokyo, on the brightly lit streets of Roppongi. Wandering backstreets of the neon-illumined district, we ended up in one of the oldest clubs in Tokyo. It was crowded and small, hot and flashy; full of Tokyo fashionistas and foreign invaders. Famous patrons flashed flirtatious smiles from photos on the wall, and glow stick necklaces pulsed with the rhythm of the bass when we found our way into the VIP section. We spent the whole night there, emerging only when the sun peeked over the horizon and the Eastern European models outnumbered the rest of us.

I wish I had something more profound to say about New Year's in such a unique and international city, but this last month has been a whirlwind. I have been entertaining guests as unofficial ambassador to Japan since the 11th of December. And somehow, I found time for a week and half long trip to Thailand in between.

Thailand itself was nothing short of magnificent, and worthy of a post of its own. (Hopefully within a few days time.) Not only was it a truly memorable vacation, but there were a few moments that were, personally, surreal.

For example, I distinctly remember transferring planes at the airport in Shanghai. I was walking along a long hallway, the sun rising but hazy with the pollution from the Chinese metropolis. I was traveling by myself at this point, stopping in China before my final leg back to Japan. Yet there was no fear or trepidation. There had been none maneuvering the massive airport in Bangkok, nor did I anticipate any for the route still ahead of me. Just comfort and an easy confidence in my own ability to get home. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but in that moment that realization stuck me with a sense of surprise and a little pride. It's interesting to see the traveler, and by extension, the person I have become.

But my last two lovely guests leave me on Monday, and then I can heave a sigh of relief and get back to life as usual. Most likely after sleeping for two days, and fully giving in to my hermit-like tendencies. And possibly finding time to collect my thoughts on Thailand, and post as many photos as humanly possible.

So in truth, tonight I just wanted to post something to remind the world that I am still alive and kicking it on the Pacific Rim.

Of course, I needed a valid reason (at least in my own mind) to post something today. So this is a two-fold post. And since I originally intended to post in honor Jane Austen's birthday December 16th, which came and went, I decided to wait till David Bowie's birthday on January 8th.

(Kate, two posts about David Bowie in a row? Surely not.)

Well, believe it.

I wish I could give it more credible beginnings, but thinking back, I believe my first exposure to Bowie was as a wee girl and watching the 1986 Jim Henson classic, Labyrinth, and wondering who that dashing man in tight pants was. But then I hit high school, discovered my passion for music produced before 1983, and the rest, as they say, is history. In college, internet and copious free time began a love affair with his music that has not diminished since.

The man himself turns 63 today. Though in my mind, I think he will be eternally 30 years old, skinny and smoking, looking vaguely continental and shockingly natural. (Or perhaps he's 25; androgynous, masked, and mulleted. Then again, maybe 36; all bleach blond, thin tied, and entirely 80s.)

But no matter the era, the man had remained a relevant icon for 40 years without losing artistic integrity. And even in spite of my love for his music, that fact alone makes him worthy of admiration.

But perhaps that's just the fan in me showing itself.

So Happy Birthday David Bowie, and a belated Happy New Year to the rest of you.

And here's a figurative glass raised to 2010, and hoping it affords me all the 2009 did.

(And because this is a birthday post, I celebrate 2010 with two of my favorite live performances from vastly different Bowies. An amazing version of Drive-In Saturday from 1973, and then a pitch-perfectly subdued Heroes from 1977. Enjoy.)

Don't You Wonder Sometimes Bout Sound and Vision?

I came across an old Rolling Stone interview this week from 1974, where William S. Burroughs interviews David Bowie. I’m actually surprised I’ve never seen it before, with such an odd yet amazingly appropriate meeting of creative minds.

My brother is more into the beat writers than myself, though I have read Burroughs and Kerouac and the like. I’ve always enjoyed what I have read; the writing is brutally frank and the style terribly liberating. But I’ve never idolized them the way many people do. In truth, I’ve been on a bit of a Bowie kick lately, and my interest in reading the article was to see what he (the true recipient of a little of my idolization) had to say. Because despite Lodger and Low being on a constant loop on my iPod this week, there are times I actually prefer listening to Bowie talk about his music and the process then I do actually listening to it.

(Ok, that’s a flat lie, but needless to say the man is witty. He gives a great interview.)

If you have any interest in either man (or even if you don’t) I highly recommend reading it. Burroughs is older, caustically dry in humor and a little embittered; Bowie is younger with a bit of youthful arrogance sprinkled with his natural tendency for charm and theatrics. There’s actually an amazing chemistry to it - the two men seem to really connect and then feed off each other’s energy. It’s less an interview and more like being witness to a really great conversation.

And while perusing the conversation, they made mention of the cut-up technique. I then vaguely remembered that Burroughs popularized the literary technique, and that Bowie used the method for writing some of his lyrics, and songs on albums like Hunky Dory and Diamond Dogs comes to mind.

But the thought made me giggle.

The cut-up technique, or cutting up text or texts, throwing them into a fishbowl, and then drawing them out, makes me think of every creative writing class I’ve taken in my life. And there have been quite a few. One specific poetry class my senior year sticks out clearly in my mind, but not for particularly good reasons. I laugh because the result of the technique was usually horrendous and, to me, always seemed artsy for the sake of being artsy.

But in a wave of nostalgia, I tried my hand once again at the cut-up technique. The outcome will never see the light of day. I laugh uncontrollably every time I read over the horrible self-indulgence.

The Third Mind or Life on Mars? it is not.

So I think it's well established I’m not a beat poet. But I think I already knew this, because unlike my brother, I don’t want to seclude myself in a cabin in Muir Woods and write. I’m perfectly happy secluding myself in my tiny apartment in Nagoya to much the same effect.

But if you want to read a truly fascinating exchange, click the link below. The nostalgia alone might make it worth it.

http://www.teenagewildlife.com/Appearances/Press/1974/0228/rsinterview/