Week 11 Theme - Words

The tatami was soft under my feet, the layers of woven rice straw giving under my weight.  It was old by Japanese standards, a bit frayed and yellow-gold (nice, new tatami is greenish hued and smells of fresh rice fields).  But I didn’t care.  It was mine.  The spare bedroom, which I entered rarely had tatami as well, but it was here, in my bedroom, that I found my little haven.

                My feet were sore from bike rides home.  Everyone laughed at me.  “You have a car!” they would exclaim, unable to understand how much I about being eco-friendly.  Students would buzz by me on the way to school, some saying hello, some ignoring me.  On the way home my head hung; I felt tired and irritable.  I would come inside, ignoring the t.v., walking into my room and feeling the soft squish, the soft give of that floor under me, and sigh.

                In the summer it was cool to the touch, but not sticky, like the vinyl floor outside my bedroom.  On the unbearable days of August, where turning in your bed caused you to break out in a sweat, all I could do was take refuge in that room, the fan blasting my stripped down body, my hand dangling from my bed to the floor, running my fingers along the ripples and ridges.  The hottest summer was the same year that the final Harry Potter book came out.

I spent hours switching from the bed to the floor, in agony from the heat, face, neck, legs and feet sweating freely.  I read for hours and hours straight, little lined imprints on my legs, my cheek, the tatami pressing into my skin.  Finally, I closed the book, rising like someone coming out of a self-induced coma.
 I could have gone home this summer, but I didn’t.  In March I chose to re-contract, another year here, at this job.  What a miserable feeling, choosing how you’d feel a half a year later.  Deciding that you would really want to stay, but not knowing how much you would miss home.  I came home every day, school hours shorter with the summer holidays and lay on my bed.  My fingers ran back and forth, back and forth, along the ridges of the tatami, staring at nothing, the click of the fan the only sound, as it reversed directions and starting blowing in its endless arc.

My decision haunted me, and soon I was tortured by other things as well.  Unfortunately the flooring of my bedroom wasn’t new, not by a long shot.  It, like everything else in that apartment, should have been replaced long ago.  Invisible to the eye, hiding in the little crevices of straw rice lived dani.  I’m not sure what that translates to in English; perhaps “bedbugs”.  Or, more accurately, “hell”.  Little red dots formed along my wrists as summer faded.  To say they itched was a mockery.  They were fire, and scratching them until they bled was the only water I had.  I wanted to strangle people who said in uppity tones that I shouldn’t scratch.  It was like telling someone whose foot is being consumed by flames, the skin blackening and peeling away, to just continue watching.  Whatever made them itch so badly spread through my bloodstream with every scratch, spreading the pestilence.  A friend bought me 5 different kinds of cream; nothing worked.  Finally a trip to the dermatologist became necessary.

As I used prescription-strength creams to heal myself, I was advised on what to do with the remaining pestilence in my tatami mats.  I sprayed with chemical sprays.  I bought plug needles, attached to cords that ran into a canister, and stuck the needles into the straw.  It supposedly fumigated below the surface.  I ride my bike to school every day, and suddenly I’m buying chemical fumigates.  Even my little haven was being taken away from me.  I bitterly regretted my decision to stay another year.

I didn’t come home and lay on the mats after that.  I hardly entered the room, even.  Every warm spell we had the dani would return, although fortunately not quite as vengeful as that first time.  I didn’t even need to worry about my ability to speak with the doctor.  I just said “the same problem again” and he gave me my cream and sent me on my way.

Finally, after a grueling, long year, it was time for me to leave my apartment.  I felt sad leaving the room, despite all the troubles.  I knew it was going to be a long time before I could feel something soft under my feet like this again.  It was summer; my flight would take me back to the U.S. at the beginning of August.  Just when the dani liked to come out in full fury.  Just for once, I ignored that fact and lay down, staring at the ceiling, one last time.

Week 9 Prompt, 3 of 3

39. I came, I saw, I conquered.

Rules, those will help, help to stay focused, focused on your goals.  The first two weeks are the worst, but once you get past it, you can do anything.  You think.  So the rules are carefully set, and an end date for this trial is set too.  You couldn’t survive without knowing if there was an end in sight or not.  What happens after the end date though?  Better not to think about that right now.

…

They sell Snickers in Japan.  To your anguish they don’t sell Reese’s Peanut Butter cups (you can never seem to find those in other countries!), but they do sell Snickers.  Not as sweet as the American ones, like almost every other sweet in Japan, but that’s okay, that’s good.  It helps with the control, for things to be less sweet.  It’s only the third day and you’re already looking at the Snickers longingly, sitting there on the shelf with other temptations.  But you think of the rules.  With an effort, you turn your head away and purchase a seaweed-wrapped rice ball instead.  Good grief.

…

Doutour sells wonderful little cakes, and the coffees are pretty nice too.  It’s been a month since something this heavenly has melted on your tongue.  You’re scared that you won’t be able to control yourself after this, that your “once a month” treat rule will be thrown out the window.  You feel that beast within you, too.  You want to eat another piece of cake, and another.  You want to shove the waitstaff out of the way while you stuff your entire head into the display counter, raspberries and chocolate and cream and crumbs sticking to your face and hair, guttural animal noises emitting from your mouth.  You squint your eyes shut and force the mantra back into your head “once a month treat, once a month treat!”  You lick your plate when no one’s looking.

…

Cherry blossom ice cream.  Only in Japan.  The vendor is in front of rows of stunning cherry trees, white petals like soft snow on the dark branches, the cherry blossom festival in full swing.  The ice cream would be treat #2 for the month, but that’s okay with “The Rules” – thou shalt be allowed more than one treat in a month if it is considered a “cultural experience”.  A slice of chocolate cake may be an orgasmic experience, but it’s not the same.  Maybe you’re lying to yourself about the ice cream though – I mean, flower flavored ice cream, how good is that actually going to taste?  But you don’t bother pondering too deeply as you lick the cold treat, allowing an addict’s shudder of pleasure as the sugar seeps into your brain.

…

You’re only a couple of months away from your goal now.  People have been commenting on how nice you look, how strong your willpower has been.  You don’t feel terribly different.  Perhaps your willpower has improved, but sometimes you wonder.  You worry about what will happen after your birthday.

…

Six months.  Six months seems so short, but oh, it also seems so, so long.  You can have anything you want, happy birthday to you, that was the promise.  You feel weird allowing yourself so many sweets now “just because.”  These weird little rules somehow manage to keep you in line.  The “let all hell break loose” promise was only meant for today, your birthday.  But you don’t have any plans lined up for after this.  The rules kept everything orderly.  There are no rules now.  As the days pass you feel yourself slipping again.  You wonder when the rules will once again dictate your life.

Week 10 Theme - Distance, Framing, Alienation

Well, I have to admit, I forgot I had already done three prompts and went and did a fourth instead of my theme.  But I like how this one came out - is it okay to count it?

The prompt I chose was "44. You write a story which ends with the words, "...and then I woke up and it was only a dream." And then you wake up."

Do I want a video? they ask me.  It’ll cost an additional $200.  No thanks, I shake my head.  This is already costing me enough, I think to myself.  $200 extra is ridiculous.

We wait in the little waiting room that’s just off to the side of the entrance.  There’s a video playing with rock music in the background, showing us what’s to come.  My feet are sweating.  My feet and hands are always the first things to sweat when I’m this scared.

…

I’ve had this reoccurring dream over the years, that has always perplexed me.  In this dream I’m able to levitate off the ground, but for some strange reason not too far into the air.  About two or three feet.  And in the dream I’ve apparently always had this ability, but I’ve forgotten it.  Then suddenly I remember that I can do it, can levitate, and try.  For some reason I always need to concentrate to actually be able to do it.  I concentrate on my feet, and feel an upward-pushing sensation.  Then there I am, levitating, but needing to concentrate to stay up in the air.  In my dream I’m always amazed that I forgot that I have this ability, and I want to show others how they can do it.  Sometimes they doubt me, think I’m faking it, even when I’m floating right in front of them.

…

They’re ready for us, we’re informed.  We walk through the entrance room to a back door.  There’s a huge, spacious, gym-sized room here that I hadn’t even guessed at.  There’s another woman with me, older, celebrating her 50^th birthday.  She’s going to have the video done, she decided.  We’re shown how to suit up.  The straps are pulled tight.  I try to concentrate on the task at hand, try not to think of what’s coming in just a few minutes.

…

Another reoccurring dream I’ve had involves being able to fly, but needing to flap my arms to do so.  In the dream this is a great source of frustration, because my arms always tire out much too soon.  Sometimes I’m forced to land, to rest my arms briefly, before taking off again.  Sometimes I’m caught out high in the air, too exhausted to flap any more, and I have to fall a great height before suddenly swerving up, spreading my arms and flapping to gain altitude.  While I’m flying, the aerodynamics make perfect sense to me.  I feel confused about why I don’t do this more often, until I wake up.

…

The airplane is so small, not like in the movies where everyone gets to sit on a bench, the ceiling wide and spacious.  No, we’re all on the floor, I with my instructor strapped to me from behind, his legs around mine, and the video camera girl across from me is facing me, her legs squeezed in between mine.  On a regular day this would make me claustrophobic.  Today, it’s all I can do to not hyperventilate.  The door to the plane is all glass.  I feel dizzy as I watch us take off.  It’s like there’s nothing separating me from empty space.

…

Sometimes my dreams are so vivid, I feel completely confused upon waking, like I’m in the wrong reality.  There was one dream like this, that seemed to go on forever.  I was spying on someone (or was I escaping spies?).  Anyhow, I was in a city with huge, massive skyscrapers.  They reached so high, the cars were less than ants below.  I rose in altitude, flying alongside their surfaces, diving down at obscene angles, and then, feeling pursued, rose even higher than before.  Part of me felt scared.  Part of me felt exhilarated.

…

My instructor says I’m up first.  If I had thought of how we were all seated, it would make perfect sense, but somehow I’m still taken by complete surprise.  I’ve managed to stay relatively calm, relatively collected, but then he opens the door and the cold air comes blasting in.  In terror I claw at the safety handle on the opposite wall.  Breathing fast, I force myself to let go.  I put my feet on the airplane’s rung, scooting into place.  There’s only blue and white, and sometimes green patches peek through the white.  I stare out.  I cave to the inevitable.

…

I’ve had almost no “falling” dreams that I can recall, perhaps one or two.  There are no images, only the intense and sudden sensation of falling through blackness, which bolts me awake, leaving me sweating and gasping, electric fear pinging through my body.

…

We are spinning, then falling, and rather than feeling afraid, I worry about my nose, which I think may be bleeding.  It turns out it isn’t, but the pain is so acute, it’s all I can think of for a few seconds.  Like the sharp sting you get from swimming too deeply down into a pool.  The patchwork fields and woods lay out below me.  I feel so strange, so completely unafraid.  It looks like a quilt, like a picture, not like earth rushing up eagerly to meet me.  I hang in space, my mind blank, taking in the sensations.  I’m surprised at how unreal it all seems.

Week 10 Prompt, 3 of 3

47. Nature red in tooth and claw. The Law of the Jungle. Survival of the Fittest.

I think I’m going to die.  My legs are shaking so hard, I don’t understand how I’m still standing.  “Concentrate!” one of my instructors barks at me.  I try to breathe in slowly, but it only exacerbates the dryness of my throat.  I just washed my uniform and it’s already coated in sweat.  I dare a glance at the clock.  This test has only been going on for 15 minutes.  It already feels like an hour has passed.  I try not to think of it, and of course the crawling of time is now all I can think of.

…

I hate drills.  They’re so monotonous.  “Front two-knuckle punch!  Back two-knuckle punch!”  One of my instructors stands in a relaxed stance, calling out all the different strikes.  I try to concentrate and give each one my all.  They’ve been hinting that they’ll be testing me soon, but they never tell you the exact day.  Sometimes you just show up and BAM, it’s test day.  I’m usually really bad about bringing bottles of water to class with me.  Not these days.

…

“Now stand in crane stance until I get back.”  I groan inwardly as the teacher walks out of the room.  I stand on one leg, knee slightly bent, the other leg up and bent, the toes lined up with my knee.  This random command isn’t unexpected.  There are mind games during the test, as well as tests of endurance.  I know that if my other leg comes down even a bit and they catch me, I’ll have to do pushups, or maybe worse.  I have great balance, but man, am I out of shape.  I breathe hard, sweat sliding down my neck.  There’s only one entrance to this side room.  I watch it like a hawk as I periodically put my leg on the ground.  Another instructor comes into the room and my leg darts back up, before he can see.  I thank god when he tells me to start something new.  I don’t think my left leg could’ve withstood a minute more.

…

“Do all your kicks, in order, two on each leg.  Go!”  John’s a really good guy.  He knows remembering moves and kicks in sequence is a problem for me.  He drills me again and again, wanting me to get the most out of my practices before the test.  We laugh at my mistakes, the unwillingness of my brain to function when I most need it.  Eventually I get through all the kicks in order.  I feel so nervous, even though it’s just a regular practice day.  My legs are already so tired; I don’t know how I’m going to survive the test.  I’m looking at the clock again.

…

I’m looking at the clock again, and there’s only 15 minutes of class time left.  But sometimes tests go over the class time, especially the higher in belt rank you get.  I remember one of the black belts telling me his test was several days of testing.  Some people are anxious to move up in rank.  Me, I’m happy staying put.  “Now do that form with your eyes closed.”  I close my eyes and move through the form, a martial arts dance of sorts, slow and paranoid of bumping into anything.  Another mind game.  God I hope this is over soon.

…

I kneel on the foam floor, hands in my lap.  “Remove your belts.  Dismissed.”  This is how every class ends.  I slowly slide my belt off, looking at its color and trying to imagine a new one soon.  This belt is old and comfortable; I’ll miss it.  I should practice more in my free time, I think.  I do eventually, a couple of brief times, but overall I’m always horrible about practicing outside of class.  The morning I suspect will be my testing day I practice forms, kicks, and punches in my dirt driveway.  I look down at all the marks my feet left, when I’m done.  I sigh, thinking of how I’ll never feel ready enough, no matter how much I practice.  Still, I regret the lack of practice.  I grab an extra water bottle, just to be safe, and get into my car.

…

It’s done, it’s finally done, and I can drink all the water I want and talk again.  Some students have trouble with that part of the test, not being allowed to talk.  I’m a regular old chatter box, but I’m too frozen with fear to walk to talk on test days.  I limp to the back of the classroom, to sit down.  They hand me a certificate.  It’s no surprise; the main instructor makes it a point of never testing a student unless they’re ready to move to the next level.  Still, I feel grateful.  Grateful for the certificate, but mostly grateful that the worst part of the day is done.  It’ll be another couple of weeks before I get my act together and order my new belt.  But that’s okay.  I’ll enjoy the memories attached to this one for just a bit longer.