The air was cool but not cold and I was compelled to walk five hours into the night. Sleep was short and came in brief dreams I did not, in any way or shape recall. The afternoon after, a sandwich and smoothie later, I was aboard my two-wheeled steed. The sun was golden aglow against building sides, striking me full and soft in the face. I didn’t even have to squint. But branches and leaves wavering in the breeze, caught hold of the rays. They danced like the sun was a disco ball and the world, a club. And I the wind blowing through.

Up a long slow grade toward my last day at the gym, I biked and felt my heart ready to explode. The world was in a perfect suspension. Everything was beautiful. The angle of the sun low, easy, gentle. The late evening of the first of Autumn. And I know as certainly as an instinct — the summer is over. Change is coming. The slow curling in of life, preparation for yet another winter.

I am ready.

Today is the first of three 日本 holidays. The day of respect. Tomorrow, the day before. And then, 秋分。The Autumnal Equinox is almost here. And I am an autumn heart.

In this brief moment of change, all is good.

西部ー東部 (Seibu-Tobu)

I found the line connecting east and west tonight. It was a highway like an artery, and I passed under what had been dividing me from where I needed to be. East and West. I came through one to the other and found my way home.

As I passed through the station hubub, I realized the meanings of the words on big signs. 「Seibu」 is the West side and 「Tobu」– the East. How did I not realize this? Maybe simply because I hadn’t had enough time.

But tonight, I was ripened for revelations, for reminiscence, for connections.

I got aboard my bike as the sun was setting and rode, not through 東京 (Tokyo) washed in a post typhoon rain, but through the moments of my life.

I was in Venice along a dimly lit canal looking down at rising water. I was in London, just coming upon a movie theatre after a heavy downpour. I was in Portland along Williams St. biking home. I was in Virginia on a roadside with no streetlights. I was in Missouri along old Route 66. I was in Bellingham, in Sunnyland, just around the corner from our house.

And you were a ghost in my blind spot. A shadow in the corner of my eye. You were there, I could swear to god, biking right alongside. Like old times. I was so convinced I almost signalled at a stop sign.

“It’s safe to go,” my arm  would say as I wove it at my side while rolling through.

All of this, a displaced hiccup in time where I was with you in a good way. It was a collage of every good night. Every warm smile and every good time. It was our past condensed and purified. It felt like a candle in the dark of my chest and a shelter from the storm.

But it did not hold. And when I came to, I realized I was half the world away and, of course, without you.

Then, I cried.

Light and quick tears that mixed with the mist of this warm early autumn night that reminded me of our time. Of dreams, once glistening, that had fallen like damp leaves into the gutters of our lives, trampled until they were gone. Swallowed up storms and frozen under ice and snow that would melt with the spring and evaporate in the summer heat.

When I got to the gym, it was flooded. Three inches of water floated with mats that made up the floor. And in the water, 関 (Seki) with a bucket, trying to figure it out.

あー大変!I said. That’s rough!

はい。Yeah. And 関 asked when I could come tomorrow. Same time, as usual. We both said オーケ (OK!) and it was maybe the first time without a hiccup that understood each other. And there was nothing to do bike go back home.

So, aboard my cheap Don Quiote one-gear bicycle, I took the long way, circled the 霊園(cemetary) and found Nori’s home. Then, turning toward my own, I thought — again — of you. Of questions and mistakes. Of things I can’t undo or remake. Of how everything has or hasn’t changed. How a year is not enough.

How I thought, for sure, it would be.

How I still wish it could have been.

How it’s not.

And yet, I am ready to come home. This road has been long and weaving and it has woven new threads into me. Some I expected. Others, I had no way of knowing. But the ends are slowly being drawn together. I am getting ready to sit down to the spinning.

Wings are unfurling, catching the first edges of light. And I am coming — not out — but into myself. I am approaching something.

It’s a good sign I found my way to that artery between the east and west at just the moment I needed to get home. And when I pulled up alongside the old you tonight, astride our old dreams on our old bikes — our eyes met for a second before we turned away from one another at the same moment. I looked out across the sky, and it looked like dawn was coming.

Bring it on.

終わりごろ [Near the end]

This is hard. But then, isn’t that exacty what I wanted? Isn’t that why I chose the house I live in and the job I took and the way I’m doing everything? Isn’t that partially why I chose to go back a bit early? Because I knew it’d be all uphill and I could only take so much? Yes. Exactly.

Because this is hard. And it hurts. And I’m worried. And people don’t like me, or maybe they don’t care, but I don’t know that. And I’m terrified. And frustrated. And all I can think is — goddamn it, I want to quit.

But I won’t.

Because I dropped this grenade in my heart, and then I pulled the pin. I dug this trench, and then I jumped in. I looked at the list of options and picked the one starred *無理*. I saw the smoke rising from the house fire already burning; and I ran in, not away. And I did what I did to get to the root of what I need. And that is — resilience.

Because the world is cruel, and it’s only going to get harder. And I am going to be one of the survivors.

Becuase life isn’t easy. It shouldn’t be. We have to scrape and scuffle, fight and struggle. We have to work hard. And in the hardest of times, all you’ve got to do is just. Not. Give. Up.

I can not give up. I can not quit. I can just press through and do whatever “it” is. Can’t I?

You bet I can.

This mountain has a peak and, goddamn it, I am going to be one of the ones who reaches it. And even if its cloudy when I do, I’ll know in functionality alone that the sun rose.

Is that enough? It can be.

That’s just me.

Then, there’s you.

You want to have an adventure? Come with me to another place and we’ll fight a battle of understanding, of sinking or swimming, of struggling non-stop to be the ones we want to be.


I dare you to.


Canneles, regardless of how good or bad, will always remind me of Portland. Of the four, five something years I spent there. Of the growth and the change I felt in my bones, like the coming shift of a metamorphasis.

Back then, I was in consuming mode and I took as much as I pleased, and I spent long days and hard nights feeling guilty about it. But I was too addicted to the feeling and it was impossible to stop. Little did I know, like a caterpillar, it may have just been my nature. Little did I know what it might be building me toward. Little did I know what the shape of a butterfly was or what the time spent in a cacoon would be like.

So I ate canneles and chocolate croissants and bread with lots of butter, oil, vinegar. I ate meat covered in spicy sauce inside burritos the size of my forearm, meat sliced thick and stacked high on sandwiches literally the size of my head. I drank whiskey and spiced rum and bottles of sweet white wine. I experienced food carts on lazy afternoons and took to cafes from noon until they’d close. I ate quiche with apples and cheese just about every day.

And I did it all with you by my side. A steady companion to listen to the sound of our chewing with. Food, thoughts, images, ideals, and philosophies. Everything was edible to us. And we came to conclusions that in the light of our guilt and consumption seemed good. And I think I can safely say in retrospect — they were.

We did all we could do.
And it planted the seed of our end.
And there was no changing that.
And there never will be.
I see.

So when I write letters, I quiet the part of me that wants to say things like, “Why not?” and “It could work.” And when I look at pictures of a present you I think I don’t really know — I tuck away the part of me that thinks it does. And when I think of your coming, I seal up the part of me that thinks honesty is the best policy.

Because I’ve learned. In some situations, discernment is what you need.
And sometimes the “everything” we think so say is only momentary thoughts that, like morning dew, will evaporate in the sun.

I am evaporating my want for you.
I am trying.
It is difficult in this steady humid August air to get things to dry properly, so you will have to forgive me. The pages of you and I have been soaked through from a flood in the past and the edges have curled and I am still trying to lay heavy things atop of them to straighten them out.

I don’t have it yet.
I’m still struggling.
But I have to get it.
I know.

But change is a long and narrow road. It is easy to slip, stumble, fall. And from the places I land, I have to climb back up again. Each time a new route. Tracking my location by the stars that are — in this endless city — impossible to see. But my heart knows where they ought to be, so I map things tentaively. Checking by shadows and the rising of the sun if I am moving in the right direction.

Today, the sun rose on my right and the moon set on my left and I think that means I am headed North. Toward the pole. To stand at the point of gravity’s access and let the wind point me in a new direction. I can’t see it yet because I have not arrived.

But I feel the shift coming.


Lately, with so many difficult things to think about, tiredness has set in and made me want a break. Something small (休憩)won’t do it. I need some length of stay. Some staying power. Some gumption. Some gut.


My mood is poor, ability to try gone, and I’m sad. Because of all this. And more.

Chances lost to wind and burned to ash.

Will I ever learn anything? Can I be taught? Can I grow into something strong?


I’m trying but it feels like infinite repeat. The same cycle, unbroken, over and over a hundred times until the autumn becomes winter and death comes on quick. Like getting hit by a car. The last thing you ever expect and it happens just…like…that.

Another lie to the wind. Another hairline fracture in my heart. Another broken bone.
One day, I’ll rise above the rain and the wind, but not tonight.

Come the beginning of this new winter, and I think I will be in the old arms of my abandoned home. Have those arms grown strong in my being gone? I hope so.


I have no way to find out. But I’ll go ahead and think it anyway.


「About a year ago」

“[I live] a life of rejection instead of abandon. A sense that in all “good” things and all close friends, there is always a line drawn that you had better not cross. But the lines are drawn in fuzzy logic, and you don’t get to know why they exist or how to best avoid tripping over them.

Illness of all kins casts its long, dark shadow over the potential landscape of your life. And the very thing you fear the most will happen over and over again.

A life of poor luck and bad karma. Maybe in a past life you squandered all you got and these stinging rejections are the universe balancing out. Perhaps, all this pain in place of death is a making up for deaths on end. Perhaps in your other live, there will be love in its stead.”

Approaching the circumvention of a year and considering how I felt when I left places I no longer fit in for a place I did not know. Now, I know this place and long to return to the ones I left. The question is now: what will I be met with upon return?

Home, have you changed? Will you accept the me that has?












Just a little journal–

Moving is a hassle. I had to go to the post office, old city ward office, and the new city ward office. But, my health insurance isn’t done yet. It’ll be done by mail, and I think it’ll be a hassle, too.

Next, the bicycle. My friend wanted to give me a bicycle so we asked how to register it under my name and address. Sensei said the police office. So, we went with the bike to the police station. Turns out they couldn’t do it. And turns out nobody knows how. So we got a bunch of bad instructions. Went to two police stations before learning this. And then went to the bike shop (but didn’t have to). Went to Don Quijote (but didn’t have to).

And still, the bike is not registered. So I don’t have a bike. I can’t use a bike. My friend can’t give me the bike.

What a hassle.

I’m already exhausted, and this is my school break? That’s really too bad…