We Live Where We Are

The 18 Year Old Me and What He Wants

We've had rain lately, a cold heavy rain that has seemingly washed away the oppressive humidity of summer. I'm glad about this for a number of reasons, the most insistent being a husky nostalgia I keep in reserve for this time of year. I get a certain high from the blowing leaves and overcast skies, but it's tethered by a kind of autumnal sadness, the weight of longing and memory. I say this knowing full well how cliché and overly-emotional it sounds, but let me indulge myself here. My friend Josh sent me a message the other day titled simply "Lest We Forget" and containing a link to the first entry of a certain online journal I once haunted. Bored, I read the first year's worth of entries, beginning in early November, I believe, before literally feeling like I might throw up on my laptop. That me, 18 and away from home for the first time, was utterly selfish and co-dependent, with a put-on introspection that resulted in long-stretches of brooding silence followed by petty bursts of unsubstantiated wrath and/or affection towards whomever happened to be around. I'm embarrassed by this pre-adult version of myself, shamed to see how he burned friendships and wasted time, but I admire the depth of his passion and his willingness to prod around inside of his brain. Granted, he systematically hyperbolized the findings, but there was, without a doubt, some searching going on. And I realized the other day, walking past the milk-tea flooding banks of the Hirose, that this desire to search is what's missing from my life now. Meeting and marrying Julianna was easily the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I recognize my overdependence on the comforts of such a stable relationship. In the same way that it's easier to sit down and watch a movie than to sit down and write a story, it's a great deal more comfortable for me to rest in this amazing love than to pursue my impulse to dissect and deconstruct what makes it work. I often feel like a fat, overfed baby, milk-drunk and satiated to the point of immobility. I let comfort feed my inherent laziness and, as a result, I get nothing done. I don't force myself to work. I don't act, I don't create. Why am I so afraid to write? Why do I ignore what ultimately gives me a great sense of accomplishment? Is my brain turning to tepid pudding? There is a balance here somewhere, but I'm still shuffling weights around trying to find it.

Hoo boy. Enough of that.

I'm at my visit school, Mukaiyama Senior High, right now, and I just finished grading 200 papers from the listening portion of the student's mid-term examinations. I've got a lesson to plan for next Monday, but after that my week is pretty much done. I'm not sure yet what the weekend holds, but Juli and I have talked about going to Nagamachi to watch a movie and do some shopping. Damn comforts.