Room 912

At last, at long last, I am heading back to Manila again. For a moment there, I thought I never would. Not because I couldn't go home, or because some part of me wanted to stay, it was just because time passes strangely in room 912 at the 9th floor of the Mita Kokusai Building. In ground zero, there was no concept of days. The shades were all drawn up against the sun and Tokyo Tower's shadow. The only measure of time was the occasional chime and, more indicatively, the constant tick-tock of weariness. And though it was an office to most, for the managers and the people with the burden of responsibility tying them down, it was also their bedroom. their transitional quagmire for the course of their stay.

But I'm a few miles apart from it now, and furthering. I'm being thoughtful on the last transfer to Narita Airport. This Keisei line will be taking its time stopping at every station in between and I have about 60 minutes to appreciate the view and finally wind down, finally get the chance for some much delayed retrospection.

And I could say now that it wasn't such an awful time--joining this much-bemoaned mission-impossible project the Japanese managers are hurling warm bodies at. Though it definitely wasn't any fun either, or at all something I'd jump into again, no. It's a lot like your first take at sex. It's such an awkward affair at first though you know theres a lot to be appreciated as it goes on but you can't because your trying so hard to get it right. Your partner, of course, depends on you and your performance. Extend that feeling over a month and you pretty much have an idea of how my stay has been--though I had to use an orgy-at-work metaphor to do it, but it kinda works out.

The next time, I'll be prepared, learning from all the terrible mistakes of this stay. Namely, being more available and consciously avoiding the tendency to shut-out the world and shut the pain in. I do that a lot, bearing everything on my own on the noble intention to lessen the burden of others. But looking out at the expanse of blue skies and small, quaint Japanese homes dotting the docile countryside as my train passes by, I have to conclude there's a lot of good in the world and whatever tortures I endure I could just as easily share and, in turn, dissipate into that calm immensity.

I was such a wreck last week. I get the work done, but wow, it felt like I wanted to barf my rotting soul and watch it fester in the gutter. Things were happening back home that I was trying to handle along with the pressures here and I wasn't a happy trooper about it. I just tried to get by day-by-day, task-to-task, dream-to-dream and thought I couldn't afford to talk to people and risk discovering another mishap, another problem, another concern.

But talking helps, to anyone. Vocalizing concerns and risking discovering more with someone is a hell of a lot lighter than alone, curled up in the darkness of my unheated hotel room. In the end, that's what kept me sane in room 912. Who knows when I'll be back there again or which dark, distant place I'll find myself stranded in, but, as my Japanese senior Hasegawa-san advised, I'm bringing something with me to make me stronger(with flashy hand movements, he suggested a bazooka). I'm dropping by Manila for it: the renewal of friendships forgotten and love denied.