Love and Distance Pt. 1

As far as I'm concerned, there really are only two Japanese words you absolutely need to know, and thankfully they are very common: uchi (内) and soto (外). As our kanji reading pals already know, uchi simply means inside, and soto simply means outside. Of course, uchi also has an extended usage such that it can mean your own house. Now, it is important to note "your own house," as someone else's house would be otaku (お宅), which, strangely enough is the Japanese equivalent for the English word "geek," as a geek would be someone who spends a lot of time cooped up in his/her boudoir.

Obviously, I wouldn't bother mentioning two incredibly mundane words, if there weren't some greater significance.

As a lad from a far off land, I may on occasion be referred to as a gaikokujin (外国人) or by it's shortened form gaijin (外 人), with which many I would think are familiar. Both incorporate the same character as soto--though obviously with a different reading--so in practical usage, the word gaijin could basically mean something like "outsider," with a common specific usage for all foreigners.

Uchi is more than just your house; it is what the anthro types would call ingroup. Ingroup can be your family, your fellow students, your coworkers, pretty much any rigid group, even groups of otaku (geeks not houses). There is a firm boundary between those who are uchi and those who are soto. Your movement from the latter to the former entitles you to the kind of personal information (the things I could tell you but obviously won't) your average Japanese would not be blurting out in public to complete strangers (like, say, guests on Oprah) and is often accompanied by a distinct change in language. One proviso: as with the palefaces, alcohol is often sufficient lubricant for the blabber gears.

"ikimashou" (let's go)
"ikou" (let's go), though around here I'd more likely hear "iku ka"

The only real difference between those two is a relative level of politness: the former from a soto type (or the obsessively polite), the latter from an uchi type (or the chronically crass). It lends new meaning to the phrase "you're either in or out." It's that simple. There really isn't much gradation. Your interpersonal relationships are for the most part defined by various subset groupings as marked by language.

A lot of foreign residents get up in arms about the about the soto (外) implications of being gaijin (外人). You seem to begin at a near insurmountable disadvantage, a disadvantage that, say in the case of Zainichi residents, has persisted through several generations. Though these groups may guard their gates, it is not impossible for even the most unacculturated gaijin to find entrance in certain parts of Japanese society. Language ability helps but is not a strict prerequisite. The only true prerequisite is patience, or more accurately the willingness to persist in the face of indeterminate returns. And the door swings both ways. It is not uncommon for a native born son to live abroad for a few years in his youth, only to return to the functional equivalent of complete ostracism. Why? Simple: he did not experience the formative "sucking it up" that his peers did, and as such is not immediately "one of us."

The advantages of this system, though, (like near complete unwavering loyalty) are just as appealing.

I guess this is my long winded way of saying these are the kinds of friends I prize the most: Yasuko (made any shuriken lately?), Mike (I would never doubt your professional integrity), Sylwia (you know why), Liansu (my laughing savage), Sabrina (graduate school finally sunk it's tentacles in you), Josh (I think I can fix my own computer, dammit), Adeline (you know why), and Colleen (for whom the 20% rule does not apply).

Remember, this isn't the A list, or whatever. I'm actually a pretty benevolent gatekeeper.

Stay tuned for Pt. 2: Near and Dear. And coming soon, Porcelian Pt. 3! OMG another character!

忘れないでね

後は「東京事変」(Tokyo Incidents)の最近の「大人」(Adult)というアルバムからの「修羅場」という歌である。これはいま、僕の一番好きな歌で、お楽しみにして下さい！

―短夜半夏(はんげ)、嘘を眩(くら)むとぞ―
疑うなんて浅(あさ)ましいです

陽(ひ)のもと認めたあの腕の白さまで
忘れたら・・・凍(こご)えずに温まるのか
一層この侭通わないとて構わない

―笠の雪の、自然が災(わざは)ひや―
黒ばむ前科(まえ)に労働(はたら)きます

揺れては末(おわり)とあの夏の期待を責め
仰いだら・・・灰色に誘(いざな)う娑羅双樹
一層この侭繁(しげ)らないとて厭わない

何方(だれ)かに会えば記憶を奪取(ぬす)まれよう
喉を使えば貴方が零れ出(い)で溢れよう

・・・是(これ)以上識(し)りたくなどない
一層この侭眠って居られたら好(い)いのに
噫(ああ)! 貴方の首筋が
きっと現在(いま)はもう真っ白く透き徹(とお)って居る

こちも聞いてね：修羅場

Ce n'est pas un blog

I suppose what makes Magritte's painting so interesting is the verbal word play. I read a webpage in preparation for this post that insisted that "pipe" only means blowjob. (rolling eyes) Subtlety is obviously lost on some people. I guess what amazes me is how much absolute tripe is floating around on der interwebs.

Not that tripe is all that bad. Dynersty has a pretty good tripe dish, so long as you can handle the spice.

So, prompted by Mike and JD's (fo rizzo) banter on the nature of the obscene, I did a little looking into the word's etymology and found this. Frankly, it sounds like complete bullshit. But what surprises me is that I doubt my own knowledge that the word can't have a Greek origin simply because Wiki says so. I know that those articles are written by morons just like me, and yet I'm more apt to think that somehow there's a vast gap in my Greek education than that some numbnut has no idea what he's talking about. I have this strange desire to find a copy of Smyth's grammar so that I can know for certain what the answer is. But why should I trust Smyth? The only reason I ever did in the past is because people told me to. But people are just as dumb as I am! What am I to do?!

Which doubt only confirms in my mind that I was never a very good Latinist. A real Latinist would make absolutely absurd pronouncements and later obfuscate their obvious bullshit with all sorts of labrynthine etymologies when a finicky graduate student should happen to call them out. It's getting to the point where it doesn't even have to be a graduate student. There used to be an age when classics grad students walked about with the fear of God in them. Nowadays, they struggle at being hopelessly out of fashion.

I am a master of inventing plausible bullshit, so I know utter crap when I see it.

Edit: After another read through, this post seems really disjointed, but I'll leave it as is. I'm not sure I have a means to better represent my consternation. (err... split infinitive, gomen ne)

The True Power of Prejudice

It has been my experience that for the most part (and I can confirm the following is not in fact universally true) that your average Japanese assumes that by simple virtue of your foreigness you are completely unable to understand the Japanese language. This comes from a somewhat deep seded belief that all foreign languages are nearly impossible to learn and Japanese especially so. Now, normally, this serves as a mere annoyance. Saying simple things like "mizu onegai shimasu" (water, please) or "sore wa kekkou" (that's enough) will often elicit reactions along the lines of "nihongo sugoku jouzu (sometimes the more slangy umai) desu ne!" (your Japanese is amazing!) or onetime from a Jehovah's witness "nihongo wa kirei!" (you're Japanese is beautiful!). Most of the Japanese people I respect and admire have said no such thing to me.

So, I was at a food shop (not sure what exactly to call it; mostly a place that sells coffee, baking supplies, and various foreign foodstuffs) in Toyohashi buying some spices and tortillas, when the lady behind the counter asks me if I have a point card. I reply in the negative (something like "motte inain desu;" I don't exactly remember), and she erupts in "nihongo umai!" over and over again. At that point the Brazilian woman behind me goes off, bitching about how insulting it is to be condescended to like that. It's really weird to hear your own thoughts being parrotted by a fiesty Brazilian woman.

But the fascinating thing IMO is how useful this prejudice is, unlike, say, racial discrimination in housing or crime prevention. Just a moment ago, a woman came to the door to advertise something. From the looks of her pamphlet, it seemed to be a restaurant of some type. Before a single word came out of my mouth she assumes "nihongo wakaranai deshou ka..." (lit. "do you not understand Japanese?" but the question is more hesitant than direct). I, being deeply involved in writing at the time, wanted for the most part to be left alone, so I did nothing to disabuse her of this assumption. A tiny bead of sweat formed on her forehead as she tried to fumble through her stack of pamphlets in an effort to communicate what she could. The stress caused her to give up almost immediately, and I was able to go back to my work.

The irony, though: as she's fumbling, "nihongo dekinakute taihen desu yo ne?" (your lack of Japanese puts us in a tough spot, doesn't it?) and my response "zannen desu ne" (yeah, that sucks, doesn't it?).

A Well Deserved Break

I'm going to go on record here and now and claim that Ryunosuke Akutagawa (or the opposite for those of us who, on occasion, need to be understood in Japanese) is the greatest Japanese writer to have ever lived. I do not make such a pronouncement lightly, as he would have to contend with other notables (though not so potables) as Murasaki Shikibu (who's only ho-hum in my opinion), Natsume Soseki (beloved by the Japanese but again ho-hum), and that other whacked out suicide Mishima Yukio.

I came to this conclusion as I finished with F. Scott (for the moment) and picked up "In a Grove" (藪の中) again for a nice short train read. Those of you familiar with the Kurosawa movie Rashomon, will notice, after reading "In a Grove," that it is in fact the actual story the movie is based on. Same idea: seven contradictory accounts of the same event, a woman's rape and the murder of her husband, none of which provide the reader with any definitive answers as to what really happened. I love this story, because everytime I read it, I finish with a completely different conclusion, and I never know from one read to the next what I'll think. I suppose it's somewhat like reading renga.

Akutagawa understands prose so thoroughly--going out on a limb here--because he never wrote a novel (ironic, then that the prize that bears his name is always given to a young novelist). He manages to distill into precise moments everything he wants to say (and everything he wants to keep from you), while for the most part avoiding the poetic affectations that such a process could inspire. Where Soseki would have droned on for hundreds of pages telling you precisely everything you needed to know, Akutagawa merely tinkers with what you probably already know and leaves you to deal with the horror of your own assumptions.

When going to meet and eat with a Japanese family for the first time, I buck myself up for the usual battery: "you can use chopsticks!" "you can speak Japanese!" "do you have [incredibly mundane item] where you're from?" But when we went to have a semi-traditional meal with Akiko's family, I got none of that. The conversation was engaging, and I have to say I enjoyed a break from being on "explain myself" duty. Perhaps, though, Shiori (a native from the town where I live) wasn't so keen on having her Japanese cred challenged, but all was in good humor. We drank sake with a fish steeped in it and gorged ourselves on roasted whole amago, gohei mochi, and agehan (fried foods). Even with the pounding headache I got from all the smoke, it was well worth the trip to the middle of nowhere.

Porcelain Pt. 2

THE DERBY PEACOCK

The Derby Peacock is one of possibly twelve life-size models produced in “majolica” by Mintons between 1871 and 1880. Designed by Paul Comolera, one was exhibited at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia in 1876 and another at the Paris Universal Exhibition in 1878. A further example was destined for the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880 but the ship on which it was being carried, the Loch Ard, was wrecked fourteen miles from the Australian coast. After being salvaged intact in June 1878 and subsequently sold twice at auction, that example is now on display at The Warrnambool Maritime Museum, Australia. Intriguingly, for many years the Derby Peacock was confused with the Australian example and an inscribed plaque incorrectly recording its origin was exhibited alongside it in the Hotel Arabesque. Further examples that are known to have survived are to be found at The Powerhouse Museum, Sydney, The Peacock Vane Hotel, Isle of Wight, Merseyside County Museums, Liverpool, three in private collections in the United States and another in a private collection in the north of England. Another, in the Minton Museum, Stoke-on-Trent, was sold at auction by Bonham's, London, 23rd July 2002, lot 179, during their dispersal of much of the museum's collection.

THE HOTEL ARABESQUE, DERBY

Situated within walking distance of Derby Cathedral, the Hotel Arabesque was converted from a public bathhouse to a distillery in 1820. Originally built in 1771 for John Abrams, an amateur geologist and land surveyor, the Hotel Arabesque has been a regular stopover for visitors to Derbyshire since its conversion to a hotel in 1953. Although the records are sketchy, The Derby Peacock was acquired for the hotel in about 1966 where it has stood in the hotel's reception area. Shortly after its arrival and for its own protection most of the model was encased in a low brick wall leaving only the bird exposed. Thus, when work began on its removal in 2002 it was unclear whether the model was complete.

PAUL COMOLERA AND THE DERBY PEACOCK

Paul Comolera (1818-1897), a sculptor of bronzes, is recorded as a modeller at Mintons from 1873 until circa 1880, specializing in life-size models of birds and animals. Born in Paris, he made his debut at the Salon in 1846 after completing his studies at the rue d'Enfer as a pupil of François Rude. Whilst some of his models were produced in faience by H.Boulanger & Co., Choisy, as well as the “majolica” wares at Mintons, he continued to exhibit his bronze castings at the Salon until his death in 1897.

Part 1

Porcelain Pt. 1

Msr. Taffit Warren, Esq. (and other such things after your name) doesn’t so much walk through as enter every space he inhabits. Eyes, many eyes, ladies’ eyes, dandies’ eyes, the eyes of a seven-year-old boy, dentists’ eyes, the eyes of the very world—if you believed such silliness as the world having eyes—rip themselves from their appointed tasks and zoom in on this wealth of a man as he comes into the periphery of their perception. He penetrates perception, that’s all. Everyone runs to him for approval or opprobrium or some other “uh” word; they can smell the wealth dripping off him. A retarded monkey would jump at the scent of money wafting off his pants. He is flanked by a man in nothing but a clean black suit carrying the kind of portfolio everyone knows contains the important documents. You’d never ever ever—not if your silly little life depended on it!—think the man in a clean black suit would carry something as frivolous as comic books or bubble gum wrappers in such an important portfolio. Taffit would surely have his balls cut off or something equally appropriate if he ever even suspected the man of keeping such things in his portfolio.

Taffit stops.

The whole world suspends breathing for a bit.

Taffit flicks a sinister fleck of lint from his lapel.

The whole world exhales.

A man in a grey wool suit who doesn’t really understand why his detachable collar makes no sense steps forward to greet Mr. Warren. “Good day, Mr. Warren” and so forth… “how was your flight” and other such nauseating pleasantries… “we have a suite waiting for you just past the main lobby. Should you find yourself lacking any necessity” like pearl earrings or bottles of whiskey or toothpaste “while looking over the auction catalog, feel free to notify any of our staff, and we will be certain to fulfill your request with all due expediency.” The man in the grey wool suit, whose name I forget, considers for a moment whether he ought to bow but decides against it, as that would simply be ostentatious.

“Of course,” Taffit laughs off as common.

“May I be of any immediate service, sir?” the wool suit queries.

“A jar of pickles would be lovely.”

“Any specific brand of pickles you desire, sir?”

“Oh, you know me, I’m not particular,” Taffit giggles and gently pushes the wool suit aside. Money changes hands, and within seconds an intern is already quizzing passers-by as to the location of the nearest grocer or gourmet foods store. Most people just walk past trying their damnedest to make it seem as if they hadn’t heard the plaintive cries of the hapless intern. She manages to find an organic grocer a few blocks away, procures a somewhat oblong and overpriced jar of gherkins, and narrowly avoids the ruin to her career in art history, a ruin she never even foresaw, perhaps for her own sanity.

The intern knocks on the suite door, Suite no. 1, the only suite (the sign and the couch and the flowers and the painting had been added to a conference room but three days prior), and waits for Mr. Warren to beckon her in. He does, lazily might I add, after a few more knocks call her in and says, “oh just put those on that table thingy over there” indicating a delicate mahogany sideboard from the American Federalist period. She does as he asks, nervously, not because she has any idea who he is, but because she can feel his eyes looking her over like a side of beef, carving her up into steaks (porterhouse, ribeye, etc.), roasts, and scraps. He pays particular attention to the loin and rump, calculating in his mind how lean they might be. The intern moves over into the corner and puts up a submissive barrier of hands folded at the waist. Taffit rises with greedy eyes, reaches out the narrow fingers of his right hand, and takes firm hold of the jar of pickles. He twists it over in his hand a few times to examine it and pays no attention to the frightened intern who silently flees to a bathroom to throw up her bacon and egg breakfast.

“So… are any of the lots even worth owning?” Taffit asks the man in the clean black suit.

“A few, most are terribly ordinary; expensive, to be sure, but surprisingly common.”

“Oh, well, then, let me have a look.” With a sucking thud Taffit pops the lid off the jar of pickles and tosses one of the vinegar garlic dildos into his mouth. He buffets about pages of paintings, pottery, fans, screens, wines, toys, and violins put together in a catalog mostly for his own benefit. The man in the clean black suit thinks ponderously about the odd mix of items; Taffit just chomps down on another garlicky dildo.

“But certain things are worth having,” the man continues.

"That's like sooooo gei!"

First off, I'd like to send a shout out to my Spanish bitches, PK and JD, keepin it real in Madrid (yeah, I know they're not actually Spanish); this post is for you, for better or for worse.

I spent a long day yesterday dealing with the nefarious machinations of Japanese intellectual bureaucracy, so I decided to meet Colleen and a few of her teacher type friends at Denny's for a little snacky-poo. The tonkatsu, btw, was delicious, except for the really fatty part. Denny's in Japan used to disturb me on a very deep level, but as with all American/Japanese hybrids, you come to understand that the defamiliarization of the normally comforting is something you just have to live with here (as Mike seems to have somehow realized); mashed potato sculptures often disturb me in much the same way.


Geisha are not called geisha because they give blowjobs in pretty costumes or because they can fiddle out a few notes on the shamisen. They are gei-sha (芸者), because they are practitioners (者) of a particular talent (芸), which just happens to involve giving blowjobs in pretty costumes but that alone does not consummate (giggle) their art. As it turns out this gei is very important to one's success as a face on Japanese television. Where the US has talking heads for opinion... errr, news programs, Japan has a vast stable of geinin (芸人) to fill up all those prescious TV timeslots they refuse to fritter away on things like news or sports. Some are genuinely entertaining (and sexay to boot!) while some leave you with a persistent perplexed look on your face.

Hard Gay (a.k.a. Laser [some say Razor] Ramon a.k.a. something else I don't recall) has lately made something of a name for himself amongst the geinin (the source of a bad pun the Japanese beat to death *giggle*). If this is your first introduction to the glories of Japanese television, I must remind you that we here at The Idiolects cannot be held responsible for any migraines, diarrhea, jock itch, or other ailments that may result from watching.

Oh, and I've decided whether or not to stay in Japan next year. News at 11.