Running in Tajimi by the river, to the futsal court

    The air is hot and wet, it drips off of my nose, my forehead, my fingertips. The dark wall of the mountains surrounds me, vivid against the pink of the setting sun. How can I deal with the feelings that come up with going home when I can’t even articulate all of them.

 

Coming home after Kamikochi

    There is a feeling of self sufficiency that grows in my chest as I ride the train home. I climbed a mountain. I ate the skull of a fish. I joked with a gang of retired mountain ladies. I saw the sun rise up from below my feet as the wind pulled at me, the grasses bending down the mountain as if I can see gravity itself pulling the world back to a safe flat place of equilibrium.

 

On top of the mountain at sunset

On top of the mountain eating onigiri

I could very well die here, I think, as I take tiny bites of my onigiri. My hunger has all but disappeared as I look around and realize how similar the top of the mountain is to the tall structures of my nightmares, the structures I am always in danger of falling off. The excitement and pride wear off nearly instantly. It is only with the encouragement and friendly chatter of two other climbers that I make it down without having a complete panic attack.

 

Climbing Rishiri

It rained yesterday. My feet are sculpted in cold, wet mud. It would be fun, I think, to walk all over some clean tatami.

 

Yoga with Saiko

    Think of your stress, your worries, your obligations as a liquid running from inside your chest, down your arms drip drip dripping (onomatopoeia) off of the ends of your fingertips.

 

Being a teacher but not being one of the teachers

    I can’t help but feeling completely other and irrelevant/unnecessary/extra as I watch all of the other teachers hurry about doing their part.

 

Ofuro

    Sometimes, in the dark, still night, I imagine mukade crawling out from the gas heater in my tub, swimming like snakes through the water. I leave the lid on the tub when I am done.

 

When I am alone in my apartment

I always enjoy my time in the bath, at least until I remember that mukade come in through the pipes. I make sure to put the lid on the tub when I am done.

When I am alone at night, the apartment can feel haunted. It is when this sensation hits me that I worry mukade will come in through the tub.

The warm comfort of the tub is always balanced with the sensation of something unwanted/dark/evil/gross lurking murky/black/freaky water heater.

The bath is a nice end to the day. At least until I imagine what might be lurking in the dark something between the tub and the water heater.

I’ve never gotten over my fear of the dark. I am not sure many people do. The inability to see what is hiding in the pipes of my tub. The pipes attached to the tub are small, but not too small for mukade. There are plenty of things that can fit through a hole that size. Wouldn’t a place this nightmare-ish be perfect for a slithering mukade?

The bugs here are big. I don’t mind them much. But mukade aren’t like the others. Maybe it’s the legs. I imagine them to be faster than they are. I was told they come into your house through the plumbing. When I am in the bath and I imagine them coming through the dark hole in my tub, I think of the person who told me this and remind myself to thank them (later/the next time I see them/…)

I never got over my fear of the dark. When I am here, in my tub, with the dark of the night making my windows black, I try not to imagine all of the things small enough to fit in a hole the size of my tub pipes.

 

They come in through the pipes, I’m told. 

 

Cicadas in the morning

When I first get to Japan, the cicadas are so loud that they wake me up. I don’t notice until after I move into my apartment, the first morning I wake up alone. Out here away from the city, the trees are vibrating with the noise of the cicadas. The sound is like an envelope sealing me into my new life.

I get anxious writing about my discomfort with mukade. I think a lot of how creepy they are is how alien-looking they are. And their size. But I really do find them super creepy. Maybe I will achieve self growth and overcome this.

 

Shaving to leave

    In preparation of leaving, I shave my fluffy armpit hairs with my buzzer, leaving them on the side of the sink. I think of all of the other things they must not confront me about when I notice they are still there the next day when my teachers are helping me move. What do they think they were?

 

Sleeping in the Goya on Yakedake

    After living alone for a few months, it is a relief to sleep in the loft, my futon one of many on the floor, with the rustling and tired snores of sleeping people.

 

The night around the fire in the old room at Kamikochi

    They wanted me to sing, this troupe of trekkers drunk on sake and cheap beer. They sang old songs handed down a long line, their voices so raw, unbashful, full, winding. Sing amazing grace, they asked without a hint of jest. The room is full of smoke and laughter. I can’t read the sheet music they hand me, a booklet full of old songs.

 

Stutter

    When I speak to someone new, sometimes I stutter as the nervous energy shakes its way out of me. But I don’t stutter when I am speaking Japanese.

 

Hospital

    Nope.

 

Butt doctor

    I have tonsillitis. The school nurse suggests a local doctor to me. It is only once I am home and checking the kanji in the name of the hospital that I realized she sent me to a butt doctor.​​​