Shinjuku to Kamakura to Hase -- A walk down memory lane

Yesterday (my Monday -- Oscar day in LA) I woke up early to a cold rain. It was my day off and I set out for Shinjuku station. I had planned to meet Mr. Suzuki at their stop around 11am and he let me know which line to take...Shoonan Shinjuku to Kamakura, and then the Enoshima line to Hase.

It was easy enough, and when I got to Kamakura station, I picked up some sweets to bring as a gift. The Enoshima line is an electric train over 100 years old. It runs along the Pacific Ocean and the town of Kamakura itself feels like you are stepping back in time. Which era or year is hard to put your finger on.

I called Mr. Suzuki when I arrived at Hase and had just enough time to step into the 100 yen shop for an umbrella (mine was too small) and some AA batteries for my camera. I hadn't seen Tatsuo in 16 years -- and he looked at bit smaller at first, hidden beneath a wool hat under his umbrella. A bit older. But soon enough, when I saw his face, it was the same kind man who met me so many years ago on a Tokyo Platform, shell shocked from an earthquake that killed over 5000 people, hip pack stuffed with the bare necessities and a raging staff infection.

We walked the small path between the houses, bonsai clusters poetically poking out from behind the walls, and the rain smoldering my continuous desire to snap photographs. The front gate of their house was as I remembered but had forgotten -- bamboo lattice above a small wooden door and a patio laid with 'ishi' or rocks, some just bigger than large pebbles, shiny smooth from years of weather and tread. The door opened and there was Yumi, looking as if she had hardly aged (that same smooth skin with a few wrinkles around her eyes). We greeted each other in English -- with a smattering of Japanese, as I stepped inside the genkan. The stones beneath my feet were the same from outside -- an aspect of design I hadn't fully appreciated as a teenager. Gorgeous. I took off my Adidas with the pink stripes and put my backpack down, peeling off the rain jacket layer, and stepped onto the wooden boards of the house, taking a deep breath.

It smelled like my grandparents home in Kennett Square. The house I remember from my childhood. Sweet. Cool. A hint of cedar. Rain on slate. Oil of Olay, back when it was sold in glass bottles. Not just 'like' it -- it was it! Everywhere. Not sure what it is these days with me and smell -- but as far as senses go -- my sense of smell is not just for sniffing stickers.

We went into the living room and I sat on the couch, Tatsuo and Yumi opposite me. How was I, they wanted to know? What had I been up to for the past 16 years? I talked at first of work, of teaching acting, of my present day to day. The game show I filmed on Saturday at TV Asahi. All the while looking around the room that I had spent weeks in, on that same couch, taking antibiotics and watching news reports of the devastation that I had left behind in Kobe. Yumi seemed to sense as much: "You were so unwell when we first met you. You look so healthy now!" she said in Japanese. I nodded, feeling the couch beneath me, glancing up towards the ceiling at the silk inlay between the wood. Remembering the pattern now.

On the wall -- a large print of Andrew Wyeth's "Lighthouse." Behind me -- dolls in glass cases. Like the kind you might see in a museum displaying examples of Japanese culture. Like the one Harvey and Helen had in their basement in Kennett Square, which is located on the border between Delaware and Pennsylvania -- where Andrew Wyeth painted. When I was very little, Helen would put on the Bert and Ernie record for me and I would spend hours in that basement, often pretending that the doll in the case could talk. She was a royal princess I had to protect from the Tiger, when I went on the tiger hunt with Bert and Ernie.

Had I been transported to the Suzukis by divine providence when the 7.2 earthquake rocked Kobe? My body wracked with shock, my leg in danger of being forever damaged -- had the universe conspired to deliver me to a place that felt safe -- a haven my senses would recognize as ultimate protection, long before my conscious mind could ever grasp the parallels?

My mind was spinning. It felt like deja vu -- all this information presenting itself on so many sense memory levels!! I was relieved when I heard the sound of my own voice ask about their recent trip to Taiwan (when in doubt, be polite). They described the museum in Taipei with enthusiasm -- apparently it's one of the best in the world, right up there with The Museum of Natural History in New York and The Louvre in Paris. The collection, Mr. Suzuki explained, had been virtually stolen from China - and although Taiwan is a separate government, the Chinese have never forgotten the riches they lost -- and still keep a watchful (and perhaps calculating) eye on the country, hoping to one day reclaim what was taken from them. They also told me that it was quite popular for Japanese tourists to travel to Taipei just to visit this museum, and that because of the political history of Taipei (having been occupied by Japan during the war) that many people there speak Japanese. They also told me of their other recent travels -- with both their children in the United States they are often in San Francisco or Illinois. And even more often in New York -- where Mr. Suzuki worked for 8 years when their children were young. And where they still have many friends.

It was time for lunch, and we made our way to the kitchen. The table was set for three, and I excused myself to the bathroom to wash my hands. Seeing the sink again, with the western style soap dishes and Japanese toilet -- and the shower where I bathed, brought me back to the memory of my leg - the bandage that had to be changed daily and the care that I had to take, not getting it wet. I think I used a plastic bag with a rubber band around my calf. But I never could take a full bath. It was a pain in the ass -- trying to keep that bandage dry! I returned to the kitchen, and laughed, recalling my first night there when, after we ate dinner, I stood up and promptly passed out cold on their kitchen floor. Yumi smiled and turned to Tatsuo in Japanese -- "remember when she fainted?" Tatsuo nodded, shaking his head and Yumi continued: "You couldn't get your jeans off -- that's how swollen your leg was. Do you remember?"

We sat down and I shook my head. I told them I hadn't remembered that about my jeans. That I also couldn't remember the walk to the train station amidst all the rubble. That I only had one image -- which was the sherbet colored amusement park rides with a collapsed building behind it. And thinking that it seemed "ironic." Another thoughtful pause as we all sat down. Tatsuo asked me what I wanted to drink. Wine? Beer? Water? "A beer sounds great," I told him. "And a glass of water, please."

We ate lunch. Okra and chicken curry, white steamed rice and a spinach salad with mushroom, bacon, and a light vinagrette. Yumi told me that the spinach was from a local farm. The leaves were so green and tasted divine. They asked if I did much cooking, and I told them that I wanted to make "O DEN" -- a Japanese soup. Before I knew it, Yumi heated up the pot she had made the night before! What a lucky girl am I. I told them how I'd bought all the ingredients, but had no idea how to make the stock. Yumi proceeded to explain in Japanese. First, fill the pot with water. Then add your bonito flakes and sea kelp. Keep the flame at a medium heat and add some soy sauce and sake. Taste. Let that simmer a bit longer, and then add your vegetables. Konyaku. Daikon. Anything that you want to add that, as she explained, takes longer for the color to drain from. Don't add your potatoes or hard boiled egg or fish cake too early. It will overpower the taste. Keep the veggies and the stock on a low heat for hours, and then add your fish cake, potatoes, hard boiled egg, etc.

I tasted the bowl of steaming Oden before me. Delicious. The konyaku, which is a grayish colored rubbery kind of gelatin (great source of fiber) was so flavorful -- absorbing the notes of everything and yet still retaining the slippery, solid texture. Yumi told me that I could buy the stock already pre-made, but that the stores tended to make it with "Aji no Moto." Tatsuo added that 'aji no moto' could be a quick solution, but was really just an additive.

I started laughing really hard and they were confused. I explained that I had named my jewelry line "Aji no Moto," thinking that it meant: "Essence of Taste," which is how the old ad from my vintage Japanese poster had translated the brand name. To some, especially a Japanese speaker, it may or may not carry the connotation of MSG. Food for thought. Yumi brought out an apple yogurt cake that she made and we drank hot Japanese tea as I told them about my short stories. Presented them with a copy and let them know that they were in the story about the earthquake. Then I gave them a copy of Kitty, and the necklace I made for Yumi. A single gold leaf on a gold chain. Simple, simple. I also gave them two clothespins covered in Kimono fabric, which Yumi said she would use to hang postcards they intended to send or receive. The clothespins were gifts from Yoshii san, to give as gifts, thank you Yoshii San...

Tatsuo brought two books from the other room. One written by Michiko, their daughter. And one written by Michiko's husband, Michael. Michiko's book explores feminine identity and role of gender in Japanese literature, and Michael's book is a discussion of Japanese folklore -- specifically having to do with ghosts and superstitions. They showed me their wedding photos -- Michiko in a beautiful blue kimono and Michael in a suit, on a deck somewhere in northern California by Carmel. Also pictures of their family in Maine, eating lobsters, with Ken (their son) who had recently graduated from Harvard as an architect. Quite the underachieving family ;)

Only now do I realize the photos I had of my family in my wallet -- tucked beneath credit cards and receipts. I forgot I had them with me and wished I had brought them out! I've become so technologically dependent and disconnected from the tangible. It is a good note to self, especially being here, if and when photos are being shared. I have them in my wallet -- placed there before my departure for Japan for just such an occasion. It goes without saying. We always have more than we think we do.

We headed back into the living room and on the way I noticed a large black and white photo of a dilapidated building. I asked about it and they told me it was Ken's -- taken in Tokyo. His photos later were chosen for an exhibition in Spain entitled "Nowhere in Tokyo," which they got to attend -- and they brought out the book of his images. The phone rang -- it was a neighbor in mid-Marmalade batch with a connundrum over rine and pulp proportions. They excused themselves to advise.

I looked out into the yard, the yard where I read so many of Michiko's books (Specifically "Catcher in the Rye,") and stared at their stone Japanese lantern, once again in awe of the coincidence. It's almost identical to the one in Harvey and Helen's yard, back in Kennett Square. I remembered their Easter Egg Hunt after church. I was 4 or 5 years old, white brimmed hat, Liberty of London dress (made by my grandmother, and identical to my older sister's) black patent leather shoes, carrying my basket as all of us cousins searched for the plastic eggs filled with jellybeans and chocolates wrapped in bright colored foils. The stone lantern sat at the base of a pine tree towards the perimeter of their yard, gracefully complementing the slate wall where the wheat field began. I kneeled beside it and excitedly extended my short arm into the dark cavern, groping for the hidden Easter egg. To my great surprise my hand was met by the stinger of an angry wasp, no doubt protecting her nest. There is a photo of my father, sideburns, black framed glasses and a red cardigan sweater, his sleeves rolled up -- putting wet mud on my bee stung finger. Blowing on it. My eyes are red with crying and my mouth is a slobbery frown as I longingly gaze just past camera, clearly covetous of the other baskets filled with sweet treasures.

When the Suzukis returned to the living room, I ask to snap a photo of the lantern from inside. We talk a bit more of nothing and everything. It was getting towards 5 o'clock -- and although I am usually quite good at making an exit, sensing the winding down of a visit -- I believe I was slow on this particular uptake. IE: I didn't really want to leave. Before I go, they gave me a jar of their homemade marmalade. This batch, they told me, was Tatsuo's. The jar might be hard to open, they added. Then they told me to let them know if I was back -- and that I was always welcome there.

I hugged Yumi at the gate, and Tatuso walked me back to the station in the cold rain. The train was coming, and my card needed more money on it. I ran to put 1000 yen on, and had just enough time to cross with the help of the station master. I didn't get to hug Tatsuo, but we waved from across the platform, he raising his umbrella in the air. "Thank You!" I called. And I saw him smile.

I tried to open the marmalade this morning, eager to spread it on a piece of toast. But try as I did, the jar remains sealed. I will bring it to work, and ask Koda-San if he can put some muscle into it. I put a bit of hot water on, and even tried tapping it on the side of the counter -- but the taste of the marmalade remains a mystery. It is somewhere within the stone lantern. Just waiting for me...to remember it.

To stress or not to stress? Not to stress is the answer.

I have kept a blog before, and experienced the same phenomenon -- that is, writing consistently and then dropping off. Here is what happens:

You get someplace new -- and everything is...new. The familiar is where you have just come from. Your mind is still there. In that time zone. How you left things. Your house, your street, the feel of your bed. The smell of your dog. Therefore -- from a distance, your present is in sharp contrast. Objects and rooms and buildings are almost a thing of conjecture. Like a waking dream. And everything seems worthy of recording. Your impressions take on a kind of distilled quality. Time moves a bit slower. This is perhaps the drug of travel addicts. To stop time. To make something 'new' again.

But then -- as you become initiated into your new surroundings, getting to know the people you see everyday through exchanges, moments, small dramas and shared experiences -- your landscape shifts. That which was foreign becomes familiar. That which was familiar becomes foreign. That is where I am now.

Last night, on the treadmill at the gym of my office building, I stared into the window at my reflection as I ran, listening to my ipod shuffle, fast forwarding to the workout type songs save for a few that couldn't be fast forwarded through (aka: JJ Kale's "Clyde plays electric bass. Plays it with finesse and grace. Sit on the porch without no shoes. A-pickin his bass and singing the blues. Misery loves company. And his old dog sings harmony. Tambourine tied to his tail. You can hear him moan, you can hear him wail.").

So -- as often happens when my heart starts pumping and music is playing the soundtrack to my story-boarded thoughts -- I had an epiphany. I had been stressing out about all the different swirling gigs of gigs that may come, depending on how I play my cards. Feeling trapped. Feeling frustrated by my inability to create material because of my contract and my position and my bargaining chips. My hand ("you got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em). And I had this overwhelming feeling. This realization. That I am free. No one is stopping me from doing anything. There is no Big Brother monitoring my waking hours. I have to dance as if no one was watching.

I have been suckling on the teet of corporations, buzzing within the hive of the entertainment industry, gathering information but also submitting to a way of thinking that is reactionary and dependent on validation from the Machine. But when that validation doesn't come -- the sparks start to dwindle. The embers start to fade. And then I get here, and the fire is lit again. Everywhere I look I have an idea. And yet, my movements are measured. My relationships are monitored. My independence, which I had taken for granted, feels compromised. There is nothing like feeling your freedom has been taken away from you to make you want to seize it with every fiber of your body. It's what I talk to my students about. That everyone on earth has a voice and not one voice is identical to another. Like snowflakes, voices are truly unique and when you hear one that you recognize, something inside you stirs. That exact combination of sound and timbre and intonation and resonance -- belongs to one person and one person only.

And I realize...there has never been anyone stopping me from speaking my true voice. From doing what I want. From making what I want. Why I have gravitated towards someone to be approving or not approving of what it is I am creating is still a mystery. But what I am trying to make a part of my thinking, of my reactions and actions, is that I need not put so much stress on the situations that pay me. Time and time again I go into a job, and have my boss marvel at how much I've brought to it. How comprehensive and adaptable and open I am. How hardworking and dedicated. So...I must know this about myself by now. I need to open up yet another chakra and tap into what intrigues me. What makes me laugh. What turns me on. What moves me. And this, my Work, my artistic ambition, is something that no one else needs to understand but Me.

A difficult quandary to articulate. In fact, writing about it feels like trying to get one of my students to pronounce the 'th' sound, which does not exist in Japanese. Analyzing each student's ability to use their ears, their eyes, and/or their logic when explaining sounds is something that has been incredibly difficult. But also rewarding when I find a pattern in someone. When I start to shape an understanding of how their mind works. Then -- I know exactly how to direct them. I know when they need to laugh at themselves. I know when they need a solid dose of criticism. I know when we need to move off the topic entirely, and make it about a meaningless anecdote that gives them a moment of breathing room to focus on something outside of themselves. This is what I once admired so greatly in John Morrison, my director at The Dorset Theatre Festival. I will never forget watching him in rehearsals, realizing that he was actually a psychologist of sorts. Able to distill someone down to their raw nerve endings, and give them just the right adjustment to find the performance on their own.

The other day, in class, I was teaching a private lesson. I came to class stressed out, about an upcoming appearance opportunity and thoughts of intellectual property and all this other shit -- and I forgot my computer. Usually I bring my laptop to class and use certain songs to establish a melody and then superimpose the melody on a text. Anyway, I forgot my computer and my student didn't know the melody I was planning on using. So I asked him: "is there a song in English you like -- a melody you can think of right now?" and he said: "Let it Be."

So there I was, writing the lyrics down on the white board from memory, humming the tune. "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be." That very morning, as I was getting dressed, walking from the bathroom to my dresser, I smelled the smell of Grandmother. So hard to put into words, this smell. A combination of Oil of Olay (when it was still sold in glass bottles), slate floor, oil paints, and a gravel driveway. Needless to say -- ephemeral. And there she was, saying to me: "all you need to do is focus on your students. What you can give them. Everything else will follow."

So, just an hour later, there I am, writing these lyrics in red sharpie, humming the tune as I imagine how to adapt the melody to the monologue, with my student waiting behind me. Seeing the words on the board I couldn't help but smile, remembering the moment with the thought of my Grandmom, swooping in to take away my frontal lobe stress.

Let. It. Be.

Just the other day, one of my students presented me with a pitch perfect rendition of Gary Oldman's performance in The Professional (Bathroom scene with Natalie Portman) -- all in Japanese. I sent him the clip to study the energy of this kind of character, and he shows up having memorized it, breath by breath, moment by moment -- the entire scene. I got to be the person who saw that. Prepared specifically for me. Sometimes I have to pinch myself. Hard. In the arse. Especially when I'm feeling particularly lonely.

My new niece, Rowan Grace Wessells, was born on February 14th, 2011. I got to skype with Anne the next day. I got to see Rowan. Her small hands gripped the bunny themed blanket and her eyes were closed as she listened to her Mother's voice, the sound of my Sister, telling me about how she came into the world. There they were -- Mother and Child, no umbilical cord in sight but tethered in perpetuity. What a joy to watch Rowan -- stirring ever so slightly at the sound of my cooing voice, so many miles away.

February 11th, 2011 -- Yoshii San to Aou Koto

Just as I suspected, it was like no time had passed. Yoshii San came to the school with Kyoko, her daughter, and Kyoko's daughters, Tamami and Mitsuki. And Tadahiko, Yoshii's husband. After my 2nd class I went down to find them. Our reunion was a-typically loud for the usually 'so quiet you can hear a pin drop' lobby. I think we screamed. When I hugged Kyoko, I almost started to cry. The last time I saw her we were doing hip hop routines in Yoshii's living room on Christmas Eve in 1994. I took them upstairs and they were all so impressed with the lobby. I forget -- but it really is a beautiful building with marble and lots of glass. Very modern. The floor our office is on is card protected, so that also seemed to impress everyone. Wakako, Nao, Koichi and Koda San were all waiting. They were all so sweet and we did a formal introduction with a bit of small talk. Then Yoshii San wanted a picture, and Koda suggested we use Mr. Kawabata's office -- the green shag rug and black leather wrap around couch. Yoshii San was so sweet -- she was afraid to step on the rug in her shoes. We took a picture with all of us, then Yoshii insisted on a picture of me with the company, and then we did one all together, with Koda San snapping the pic. It was official; we had all met, understood the relationships, and had pictures to prove it.

Satoshi, Kyoko's husband -- met us at the Hilton Park Tower -- where Mr. Yoshii rented a private banquet room. We ate a Chinese dinner, with a rotating lazy susan, which was brilliant because there was so much conversation and picture taking that I hardly realized what I was eating, when I was eating it. It must have been a nine course meal -- and it was delicious. Kyoko looks beautiful. She has taken up ballet again, with both her girls in school, and looks very young! She is so funny, just like her Mother, with this wry sense of humor that I remember very well. We of course discovered a shared passion for thrift stores. Shared stories of what we had on, trying to beat each other on how much we paid. Mitsuki is 14 and is very smart. Speaks a fair amount of English. Has been dancing for 7 years and also singing. Tamami is 10 and is equally smart but also has her Mother's dry humor. Soon after we sat down, Tamami handed me a drawing. It was a cartoon version of me, in my dress and high boots, with a manga smiling face. On the top it said, in Japanese: "To Regina, the famous actress." On the bottom she signed her name. Soon after, she proceeded to interview me with the following questions (which she had written down):

1. What have been some of the most interesting moments so far at work?

2. Have you been to Disneyland in California?

3. When are you and your boyfriend Chris getting married?

Yes -- the last one made me laugh out loud. I felt like I was with my family (and what a wonderful feeling that was to have!). It was quite a lively interview -- and I was SUPER impressed that this 10 year old girl managed to cover both here and abroad with such far reaching range.

The girls were so loving. They sat on either side of me and showed me their favorite Japanese boy group -- Abashi. They asked me to look hard at the 5 guys in the boy band, and to choose my favorite one. I chose the one on the far left, and to my surprise, everyone said that was the one in all the movies here these days. Ninomiya Kazunari. Tamami promptly wrote all their names down for me.

It felt so good to use the language with no inhibition or stress over getting anything right (consistently a big stumbling block for me). I think I have been hard on myself lately -- wanting to speak more and more -- mostly because there are a lot of things I can't quite explain in class. But in tonight's company, talking about work and life and catching up, Yoshii San said she couldn't believe how strong my Japanese is. As Chris told me this morning, I have been here for a month and should give myself a break. What do I want? Some kind of parade?

Here are some pics of everyone. My heart is full. I gave Yoshii a necklace I made for her -- a charm I found that reminded me of Miyajima's Torii (kind of like a shrine made from wood that stands in the sand and is on both dry ground and covered by water on a daily basis, following the tides). Yoshii and Okuno San took me to Miyajima back when, and also to Hiroshima - which is a ferry ride away. I also gave Yoshii the identical necklace to give to Okuno San back in Kobe. Yoshii San gave me a kubi kazari (necklace) as well -- made from resin coated cord dyed purple, with a gold slide that enables you to affix a length and then pull the cords through, like a scarf. On the end purple, green and black stones. Beautiful design -- I have nothing like it. She also gave me these gorgeous clothes line pins that had been affixed with kimono silk and old buttons. I told her I would not use them to hang laundry, but rather hang photos or notes. Then she gave me a dark wooden picture frame. Now I have Tamami's drawing in it. I will put that here, too.

Kyoko, Satoshi and their girls live in Kichi-Jooji -- two train stops away. I will visit them soon. It has been snowing all day here, and is expected to continue through the weekend. I am blessed.

Yoshii San and Okuno San are headed back to Radnor next April for their 50th High School Reunion. I told Yoshii San I'd like to film it.

Sub-Saharan, Pseudo Sardonic, Cynically Sexy Blues

My bath is where it happens. The impetus to write. I am trapped in there, naked, in a vat of hot water. I begin to bathe, to think, to sweat. And because I cannot escape the thoughts with an action -- be it an email or a internet search or a cookie or a list of things to do...I start to observe my thoughts as they happen. A conversation is replayed. An email correspondence pondered. I grade my thoughts. Wise. Egotistical. Witty. Resentful. Then I decide to shave -- noticing that when I do finally put the razor to work, it is for an occasion versus any extreme pleasure on my part. I enjoy checking it off the list, seeing the black hairs disappear, row by row -- but it's onerous. Shaving is about presenting the best possible me.

I bought a compilation album of Sam Beam, the "Iron & Wine" artist, and played the tracks as I soaked. Beautiful lyrics, the kind of melodies you softly tap your foot to, and a voice that sounds honest you cannot help but be honest about things like shaving. Or...being in your 30's in a woman's body. Seeing the changes that you are trying to combat, diligently, wisely -- but not without a sense of sadness. A sigh for that which is a necessary part of aging. But then, there in the tub of truth, I realize that it's always been something. Something to be concerned about. Too fat, too many zits, too many wrinkles, too many creases in the top of my legs and ass when I stand and surmise the contours -- like a cartologist surveying the cracks that cover the surface of Sub-Saharan Africa. At this point, as I round the corner in realizing that life is too short to continuously find reasons to be unhappy with my beautiful, healthy, Only One Body -- I imagine that I've recorded an album as groundbreaking and resonant and true as Sam Beam. I've picked up the guitar and given over to the music and created original songs that are heartbreaking and unforgettable. In my radio interview, I explain in a sexy voice (that is somewhere between Catherine Keener and Julianne Moore): "If only someone had told me when I was 20 that all you have to do is put all your energy into your art, and nothing else." Then I pause and add: "Who knows, maybe someone did tell me and I was just too preoccupied to listen."

Tomorrow I will see Yoshii San. She is coming to Tokyo from Kobe with her husband and two nieces. It has been 16 years. I remember when I first saw her, stepping off the plane from Philadelphia in my brown leather birkenstocks with cork soles and a vintage pink & navy dress I bought in Manayunk, brown suede jacket with fringe trim, and my hair in a long braid. 18 and groggy from a long flight, my eyes searched the crowd of people who looked the same holding signs I could not read. Not two nights before I was partying in St. Davids, up til 4, stoned, drinking, laughing. Hoop earrings, eyeliner on my lids (a new discovery), tan from a summer of lifeguarding -- ready to jump off a cliff into Japan. The map of it. The curve of the 4 green islands against blue, like the opening to some tale from long ago, with the clouds dividing and the bonsai shaped forms of land appearing below. Everything it would mean to me. I knew. It would be mine.

From the first moment I met Yoshii San, she was a net. Her's was probably the only sign that was in English -- and it said KESF -- "Konan Students Exchange Program." Yoshii san had gone to my high school in the 1960's -- by boat. Since that time, every year a new student arrived from my high school, she took it upon herself to take care of them. Dinners, trips to beautiful shrines and sights, overnights that included long meals, wine, and eventually -- dancing. Whenever we spent time together, Yoshii San would take pictures and then without fail, a week or so later, she would present me with a photo album. I still have all those photos, at home, in a white chest with chipping paint that also bears my Andrew Wyeth book. They complement each other.

Today I taught an audit student who has studied acting in Japan for 20 years. I was in the presence of a true stage actor. I did a simple environment exercise and didn't want it to stop. I could have watched him, under those given circumstances, continue to be preoccupied with minutiae, for much longer.

Tomorrow night after work I will go to dinner with Yoshii San (Junko Yoshii) and her husband Tadahiko. What will she want to know? My life since 18? About UVA? About New York? About my adventures in the film industry, Los Angeles, and beyond? About my boyfriend and my dog? About my family? So much has happened between then and now. And yet -- and yet -- I feel that when I see her -- nothing will be different.

a new post

Hard to believe it's been 5 days!

Was writing a bit tonight...thought I'd put a bit of it here to see how it looks in a different font...

Koda San is the Japanese version of Bill Murray. He even has the endearing pock marks on both cheeks that seem more like dimples than acne scars. His mouth is serious but his eyes are two seconds away from breaking into laughter, and the unflappable arch of his eyebrows conveys a perpetual state of innocence – like the look of a young boy who has just seen Playboy for the first time.

Soon after we met, I discovered that looking Koda San directly in the face was a recipe for disaster – an opening of Pandora’s box where eye contact for more than three seconds would trigger the feeling to rise from within. You know the feeling -- sneeze-like in its prickle of anticipation, chaotic and clumsy – as non-sensical and adolescent as my 7th grade, when Jessica Alvis, Margaret Berry and I would race to the water fountain, filling up like assassins, and crouch behind corners and lockers, waiting to douse each other’s sprouting breasts and make sheer what had once been the opaque white of a Gap pocket t-shirt. “I can SEE the outline of it!!! It’s a Calvin Klein!” We were just as eager to get hit and model our mystery lingerie (feigning modesty) as we were to launch the chilly liquid. Our laughter was giddy and irreverent; we were 11. But now, as a woman who has been hired to teach acting, breaking into laughter for no apparent reason might throw my Japanese co-workers for an awkward loop -- and make me look...unprofessional.

Koda San tells great stories. The other day we were eating at the white table with an electric green trim that matches the standing plants in two corners of the room. I was talking about my days as an exchange student 16 years ago – replaying the thoughts and impressions that I’ve told and retold and written down so much you might say it’s a bit of a routine. To my surprise, Koda San interjects, saying that he also did a foreign exchange while in high school. I press him for more details, careful not to stare too long lest I laugh before the story even starts.

“I grew up in Kyushu, which you know is a bit more isolated than the main island of Honshu,” Koda explains in Japanese. “I was so excited to go to the United States,” he continued between bites, “and at the time I just loved Michael Jackson. ” I imagine a younger Koda with the airbrushed poster of Michael above his bed: yellow argyle sweater with matching yellow bow tie, white oxford and starched white pants, coffee and cream complexion -- dressed like a country club caddy in his Billie Jean prime. “Then, one week before my departure,” Koda San pauses, remembering with a pained look on his face -- “I see footage on the evening news of the LA Riots. The coverage showed a lot of black people beating up white people. I grew scared. Was this what America was like in California?”

The LA riots were in 1992. I was in 10th grade, and remember the news coverage of Rodney King, an African American man who was beaten by 4 LA police officers, all of which was caught on tape. When the officers were found ‘not guilty’ of any wrongdoing by the LA court system, the mostly black neighborhoods of Compton and Watts went ballistic. Enter white truck driver Reginald Denny, who happened to get stuck at an intersection right around the time things were heating up (outrage, happy hour, looting). He was pulled from the cab of his 18-wheeler and beat senseless by four young African American men. The payback beating (eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth) was also caught on tape, but this time it aired LIVE via the news chopper feed (cue theme song for Magnum PI). This was before the days of the internet (let alone youtube) when the falling of the dominoes was a bit easier to track – the good old days when watching OJ Simpson flee police for 2 hours in his white bronco was happening LIVE in the corner of your TV screen, it was happening then, with no thoughts on ‘save it for later at my convenience.” "Live" meant you were glued to the TV for the sheer connection to that moment. This was before moments became so readily available.

I think of all this and start to laugh, but not because of the LA Riots. It’s the image of Koda San in a small Japanese fishing village being scared by the footage, and scared of where he was going. It feels like a John Hughes movie. I press him for more.

Kiyosumi Garden -- My Dream Backyard

TOKYO GARDEN
WEARING A KIMONO HERE...
COULD BEAT HAVING SEX

My raciest haiku yet -- if I offend, it's time to pick up your Reader's Digest. Went to Kiyosumi Garden with Nao today, my co-worker -- and we walked around in the sunshine. Admission was 150 YEN, about $1.50 -- and it wasn't very crowded at all. Back in the Edo period, which covers about a 250 year time span from around 1603-1868 (thank you Wikipedia) when Shoguns ruled -- this garden was a favorite amongst the royalty and their chosen guests. I took about 160 photos but can only upload 5 to my blog. Nay matter. Maybe I should have a showing of some photos when I get back to wherever I'm going...just invite friends and print a bunch of these moments. Good incentive to actually PRINT the photos. I can't remember the last time I got a roll of film printed...actually I did print some photos last Spring and systematically sent images to friends. At the time it was a experiment of sorts -- wanting to give people something tangible from me. Not an email, or a facebook upload, or a digital file -- but the experience of receiving something in the mail. An object to be placed somewhere. So if I had the occasion to print some of these photos, IE: a gathering where people were invited, I might be happy for such an occasion when I'm 60 and tangible proof of the past is an oddity.

Had dinner with a friend of Beth's the other night...a photographer who only uses analog cameras and doesn't own a computer. He showed me his old Pentax -- it was heavy and the sound it made when a photo was taken can only be described as "thorough."

Found a perfectly good rice cooker in the basement today -- my second find in the past week. The first find was a white leather ottoman with a storage unit inside. Perfectly fine save for some tearing along the seams. But just the ticket to place my feet upon as I sit here and type. The 'basement' is where the trash is put out. It sounds gross, I know -- but it's one of the most organized spaces I've seen and there is a spot where people place items, that are still in working condition, but for which they have no need for anymore. There is also a VHS player down there. I thought about it, but that would require a whole other collection tack. I will simply wait and see if anyone I know needs one. The rice cooker is amazing. It's fairly modern, and in great shape. It even displays the time. Wakako (my co-worker and master translator) tipped me off to it -- I told her about the ottoman so she knew I wouldn't turn up my nose at a 2nd hand item. "One man's trash is another man's treasure,' and so it goes. Kitty Landers is alive and well in Tokyo.

Am excited to watch the rough cut of Miss Lilly's and the Secret Cookie Recipe...E and Reggie sent it to me today. Must write to Jordan, our website designer. We are getting closer to launching. Meeting up with The Bucket Man on Sunday -- a performance artist in Tokyo who the kids love here. He uses different colored buckets on people's heads and choreographs these wild routines where people dressed in silver spandex interact like parts of one machine. Like something The Little Prince might see on Planet X. If I interview him as Kitty, I will wear the Goldie Hawn-esque vest. Maybe I could interview him in this Garden...in front of the stone that bears a haiku by Basho, carved into the rock.