This will be the first time that I have been in Japan since I left in 2008. That brief stay was quite illuminating, and even enlightening in certain ways. If one doesn't conceive of history in the way that Leo Tolstoy explains it in WAR AND PEACE, then I suppose one would be able to draw a fairly direct line from that stay in Japan to my current life.
I have read little over the past 5 years but Japanese history, culture, and literature. By a fluke that religious people would attribute to God's divine intervention, it came to pass that I was to take a position teaching Japanese literature at a small college. That being the case, I am more able to justify an expensive trip there on the basis of "research." (I can't really fool myself, though, and since that is the case, I can't fool others, either; it really is just a holiday to revisit this place that I have been inexplicably attracted to over the last few years.)
A further excuse to go to Japan was that I had already made the firm decision to visit my parents in Los Angeles. (I figured, if I was travelling to Los Angeles, that's already almost half-way to Japan, isn't it? (It isn't.) Since I've already come this far, I might as well go the rest of the way, right?) But it never occurred to me that the trip to visit my parents might make the Japanese leg of the trip anti-climactic.
The decision to visit my parents was predicated on two visual events. Last year some time (it must have been Father's Day) my dad came to New York to visit my brother and me. Since I was the one who still lived in New York City (my brother had moved to New Jersey), it was left to me to pick him up from the airport. So I went, and waited by the baggage carrosel, expecting to see my dad, to give him a hug, and lead him to catch a taxi on the way to my home. But when I did see him, for more than a moment I did not realize it was my father I was looking at. One might guess that it was because he was getting older to the point that I did not recognize him. Perhaps that does have something to do with it. However, I also think there was something else to it.
Perhaps it was simply that I hadn't seen him in the flesh in so long, that it was possible that I actually forgot what he looked like. Of course I had photographs of him, and they maintained a certain image in my head. They even kept me up to date with the physical changes in his face as he aged. It might be, however, that photographs are quite deceptive in what they portray, and in fact, they may not portray the real world at all. Indeed, often when I stand before a sight that fills me with what I translate as pure emotion and beauty, I feel let down when I photograph that scene, and despite the fact that everything that overwhelmed my senses a moment ago is actually visible in the photograph, there is a real something missing, and that something might as well be everything.
And so I felt when I first saw my father when he visited me a year ago. It was the feeling that the important things that were far away from me were changing.
The other visual queue was a set of photographs from my mother. My dad had been insisting that she was looking and feeling better recently. They had intended to send me photos of my mom's new look a while earlier, but it was only now, in the summer months, that they finally got around to it. When the finally sent the photos, and I saw them, again I was overwhelmed by seeing someone I seemed not to recognize. I was told that it was just her change of hairstyle that made her seem so different. That is probably the case, but it was at that moment that I decided that I must see my parents in person soon. What would happen if they were to change again?
As usual, it was a pleasant visit, with scattered moments of tension. Perhaps in our absence from each other, we are all still growing, but travelling along different roads. Or maybe this tension has always been there, even in my youth. I don't know which it is, but I suspect that many families experience similar dynamics.
The visit made me miss my youth. There are several reasons for this. One thing is that I have felt guilty for a long time since I have boxes filled with things that take up their limited storage space, and so I decided to go through these boxes, and relieve them of my junk's burden. FIrst of all, upon seeing how many boxes there were, panic and shock and helplessness struck me when i realized nothing would probably be accomplished with all my old stuff. But then nostalgia hit, and reminded me of all the many stories behind so many of these things (among them, paintings, toys, and books). They were all a reminder of what I was once interested in, dreams I used to have, and how much I have changed since packing them away.
A second impression that made me miss my youth was the setting itself. Being in the small home I grew up in was pleasant and cozy. It was as if all the problems that seem to plague real life were somehow suspended in some sort of stasis. Nothing could tough them, solve them, or make them worse. They escaped my mind, and even if I struggled after them, they would not reappear. And it was because of this home. Certainly so much had changed, but so much had stayed the same, and I could still find a spot to sit on the well-worn couch and chairs, and feel protected.
Then there was outside. Across the street, the same church stood, and a block in the opposite way my old school was just starting their new year. I saw a kid with a shirt from my highschool. Of course he was well groomed and conformed to the dress code; that was one of the things that remained constant at Damien. He looked so young and baby-faced, that I could not believe that I could have looked like that at 13 or 14 years old. I probably looked twice as foolish, and was three times as insecure. (Now I might look more manly, and I am only twice as insecure as the 13 year old.) All that said, though, it is the scent of the air that brings back more unspoken feelings than any sight could give. I am not sure what exactly makes up the scent, but my guess is that the grass and trees, mixed with the suburban concrete, help lend the desert breeze a sweet flavor that forces a rush of memories and impulses that I can only connect to more childish times many years ago.
The third impression that made me miss my youth was what I already mentioned, my parents. Not having children, I could not imagine what makes them feel such love and pride for two boys who decided to leave them, abandoning all they had hithertofore given them, to make new lives without them. Well, I suppose that is what a parent's love is, accepting the fate of giving so much, and receiving so little back. (Though, perhaps they would deny that we have given them little; you see how stupid this love is?) In any case, it is only by being with them (it's not possible to transmit over the phone) that I can get the full brunt of their loving gratitude for nothing more than my presence.
A brief image appears and tells me that this can't be forever.
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