I've made a lot of progress in the bedroom front myself, where I've conquered a pillow-case sized bag of popcorn and pizza the size of car tires while watching "Practical Magic" and "Romy and Michelle's Highschool Reunion" with friends after a fulfilling day of buying raunchy gay paperbacks at the annual "Yarou Fest (Rascal Fest)."
Luxury must be this freedom for irresponsibility. I think the novelty will die quickly though, along with the contents of my bank account if I'm not too careful. But I've started feeling somewhat numb about it. Where before a pang of guilt would strike, now, a dull ache throbs within my heart and yearns for something more.
I step into the bookstore near my house and, for the first time since I moved into the neighborhood 2 years ago, took a look around. The latest monthly serial that included the groundbreaking gay story "Ototo no Oto (My brother's husband)" was on the shelves. There was also a "Boy's Love" section as well, a full bookshelf of it. I start to wonder why it took me so long to stop by here.
Oh. Right. I can't read any of this stuff.
The most striking twilight zone episode for me was the bespactacled man who loved to read books. The story starts with a nagging wife and troublesome acquaintances that keep interrupting his book. He bears it grumpily. While he hopes for the abrupt demise of those around him, he continues his reading, until a nuclear bomb hits. He survives somehow, and revels in his answered prayer. He rushes through empty streets and the derelict library. There's no one in the world to interrupt him, and all the time in the world available for him to relish each book here. But, alas, he stumbles, and steps on his glasses.
Japan's been like this for me. I make headway somehow in friends(3 orgs and counting!) and knowledge of culture(I hate tourists now, too), and I am still optimistic. Yet the door remains closed, and I glimpse through the gaps and cracks the absolute satisfaction that waits for those who aren't illiterate in a foreign tongue.
Tonight is a quiet night, with no foreign words to capture the beauty of the moonlit night. I, too, am quiet. But, I must admit I've grown comfortable with it. I may not fit into this strange corner of the world yet, but the nook I've fashioned for myself is not too shabby. Not shabby at all.
Photo Credit: Library by Stewart Butterfield
