An Odd Day

If today had a theme song, it would have to be 19-2000 by the Gorillaz. The day made about as much sense as the song, and I--weakened as I was by a taxing week and a sudden cold snap--rode along on the wave of oddities with a permanently lost expression, much like the Gorillaz' dead-eyed animated representatives.

If that reference was lost on any of you, apologies--a quick dip into Youtube should clear it right up.

I mentioned the cold snap. Winter came late this year, but it seems to be making up for it now. The whole world is covered by constantly drifting snow, and when I woke up this morning the roads were all sheeted in ice so thick, it could only mean one of two things: either I boarded the wrong plane and have actually been teaching in Siberia this whole time, or Iide does not have a single snowplow to its name. Or a bag of salt.

As I drove along this morning--late, but nevertheless maintaining a sober speed--I soon came to a yellow light.  "Stopping would be prudent," some corner of my mind mentioned (when I get tired enough, my mind calls forth my little mental custodian, who chimes in periodically with stuffy, unexcited tips and sounds exactly like Alan Rickman).  "Sound advice, little guy," I acknowledged, tapping my brakes.

I am experienced with winter driving.

Just so you know.

But my little custodian and I watched, unified in mutual disapproval,  as my disobedient car slid gracefully into the middle of the intersection. It glided under the now reddish light at a Blue Danube pace and executed a shuddering turn at my insistence, finally righting itself in the correct lane of the correct road. All's well that ends well.

I  made it to school without further incident, taught my lessons, gathered my chopsticks and ate my lunch with the fourth graders. The were remarkably well-behaved for such young kids. Occasionally they would show off their near-native English skills for my appreciative oohs and aahs, but the majority of the lunch was spent in companionable silence and calm. It didn't prepare me at all for what came next.

The meal finished, I tucked my chopsticks into their carrying case and looked up to find myself inexplicably the center of a storm of children. Not just the fourth graders, but students from the younger classes as well, shoving their way around each other, thrusting pens at me with the constant refrain, "Sign, sign!"  Notebooks, plain sheets of paper, glasses cases, plastic folders, the students' own nametags, pencil cases--all of them branded with my hasty and increasingly illegible signature in embarrassingly permanent ink. One boy had me sign at least 5 pages of his notebook in quick succession, and had me sign at least 7 other things as well. And this entire time the children were petting me, shoving little drawings and stickers into my shirt, and generally clinging to all available limbs. I was fighting the urge to think of them as a horde, with motives as nonsensical as they were flattering--I mean, these kids see me once a week. It's not as though they were suffering a Jessica drought that led to this riot. In the end I managed to not trip over the little hands wrapped around my legs or elbow the little heads resting against my hips, and everyone  got enough signatures to set them up on Ebay for life if only my scrawls were worth anything.  Their objective attained, the horde dispersed as quietly and mild-manneredly as they had come.

After a little clothes-straightening/de-stickering and hair-combing I was ready to drive to the next school. The sun had come out by then and melted the roads back to a manageable state, so I was speeding along when I noticed a truck that had pulled off to the side of the road next to a rice field. I know it had pulled off to the side of the road because its hazard lights were on, and because I could see the long, slimy mud tracks showing where it had slid right off the side of the road, down a hill, and into the rice paddy's deep trenches. It sat there, clearly resigned to its fate, tipped on one side and blinking its lights at no one in particular. If I say the truck itself seemed unconcerned, it is only because it was clear that no one else was either. There was no sign of the owner, a tow truck, or indeed any sign of distress whatsoever. "Oh, don't mind me. No one does. Got myself into a bit of a pickle, but what are you going to do?" the truck seemed to say, with a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Hmm," I replied to this imaginary exchange. I gave the truck a respectful nod because I do that to everything these days--as soon as something enters my line of sight my head is already bobbing, ready in case the something turns out to be a person and I need to execute a full bow. Meanwhile my custodian shook his head slowly and mumbled to himself something about "all's well that ends in insurance," and we drove onwards into the noon.

Star-Gazing

Iide-machi is home to a handful of 7-11’s, a bakery, and a solitary grocery store too small to house a meat section.  I recently discovered, however, that Iide is also the proud home of a miniature but fully functional observatory that is barely taller than the buildings surrounding it, and easy to miss. I can vouch for this, having continually missed it dozens of times as I’ve driven past it.  But during a brief few weeks when the skies were clear, a friend took me there to see Jupiter (or the Heaven Star in Japanese).

It was a crisp night and my coat was too thin for it, but it seemed appropriate to feel the cold biting me as I peered through the telescope at the harshest environment mankind has encountered. Space was too dark for comfort; my eyes kept straining to pick out even a hint of depth or distance in all the ink. My eyes were beginning to water from the effort when the astronomers present mercifully adjusted the telescope, and then there was only the harsh beauty of the planets and stars themselves. From the moment I saw them—or at least, a reflection of a reflection of them, viewed awkwardly through a tiny tube—I felt myself drawn in and overwhelmed, like there was a massive gravity acting on my mind instead of my body. 

The astronomers knew me by name (it is, as I’ve mentioned, a rather small town) and were  lenient, so I remained glued to the lens until the unrelenting light made my eyes water anew.  I studied the face of the full moon and the rabbit that Japanese fables have placed there; but of course the real event was gazing at Jupiter. The planet was ringed by four of its moons—Io, Ganymede, Callisto, and Europa—in almost perfect alignment, like a string of diamond chips leading to the giant.  I could just make out the rusty swirls marking Jupiter’s eternal storms.  Seeing it, I recognized the temptation poets and writers must sometimes feel to produce lengthy, sappy odes to the stars over and over again, while the enduring audience rolls their eyes at the inadequate results and groans at the clichés.  My experience, holed up in that tiny concrete cylinder with an expensive lens practically glued to my face, was no less cliché...and absolutely, mind-bogglingly, brilliantly, painfully inspiring.