Views In and Out (English)

Views in 2002
The Homeless 2/10	Tsukiji Revisited　1/12	A Distant Call　1/9	Battle Royal　1/2

Views in 2001	A Girl in a Photo　12/24	The Day　11/28	Smiling Women　11/16
La France　11/11	Falling Down　11/6	An Aging Beauty　10/26	The First Experiences　10/18
Farewell　10/14	Revival　10/11	Eyes We Have　10/10	On the New Page "Views In and Out"　10/6

The Homeless

While I was taking a walk as usual, I stopped in front of a white board. It struck me because it was the notice of a special meeting: the call for the mourning of a homeless man who was murdered very recently in the gateball ground. The painful case happened in my town. The murderers were junior high school students. Higashimurayama City has called the public attention for the juvenile violence.

It happened on January 25. Reportedly some students were accused by the man for making a noise in the library of the city community hall nearby. The man and the students were seen to continue fighting afterwards again outside the hall. In the evening students attacked him with wooden sticks in the hut which was his shelter with another homeless.

These spots are all very familiar to me. They are along the promenade where I often walk. Not outstanding at all in my sight for so many years. Suddenly, however, they have started appealing their existence. The gateball ground with the hut is perfectly covered with blue sheets and is hidden from the citizen's eyes as if they are something evil. Walkers on the promenade were looking at the unseen ground with anxiety. "The juvenile murder in our town" thrusts our individual hearts. It is no longer the case far away. The students can possibly be our children.

When my daughter was small, I often took her to the community hall and its library. The free space was convenient for us to enjoy ourselves alone. We did not meet anyone we knew. We were rather isolated, but we didn't care. A small child do not look for playmates as s/he is considered. S/he is contented as long as s/he is safely and happily with someone reliable. Although the mother (or father) gets bored to look at the child play on the floor with toys very soon and become sleepy. The boredom makes strangely peaceful and dreamy moments particular to childhood. I guess mothers of the junior high school students spent the similar time with their children in the hall. Maybe we might have met there without recognizing each other. I remember there were many other mothers and children spending time. They looked all alike. I believe nothing was so different. The small children have grown to be teenagers.

While children are very small, most of their mothers are with them for a long time, perhaps many of them spend most of the time of a day alone at home. Yes, children are taken to daycare centers or kindergartens, but still mothers and children stick to each other for a certain time of their life. The static state does not last for ever. Very soon children grow up to find their friends and start leaving their mothers. They have their own community which no adults are allowed to step in. On the other hand, mothers are also busy with their own business of many kinds. Children and mothers live in different worlds which very often have no common language.

As I remember the days when my daughter was very small, I belonged to both of the worlds: society at large and the small world of private intimacy. In the former I played several roles I was cast and on the latter I had no name but a mother. In both of them I was not a very efficient person but I soaked myself in the dreamy world of fary tales and milky smell as well as the soft touch of the living creature with a great joy. How quickly it passed and vanished!

In the cold wind of February, I stood still and tried to remember the gateball ground and the dark wooden hut. So often I saw them as a part of the children's dreamland. The dry sound of gateballs hitting each other and the cries of the senior sitizens are still echoing in my ears. They have lost the small pleasure for the murder case in their town. Our neighbors are at a loss. Why it happend here? What did we do? What did we not do? Teenagers of our hometown did it! Why nobody could prevent it? A murder of the homeless.

I realize now that in my sight the homeless were also a part of the scenery. They were there. We didn't interfere with each other.: people with citizenship and the homeless with no priviledges. The promenade starting from Musashisakai ending at Tama-ko Lake is a wonderful course for walkers, joggers, and cyclists. It is a peaceful area for the homeless too. The balance has broken now. Peace of the community, as well as that of the world, is easily broken. The helpess babies in mother's arms have run away and lost their ways. Where have the homeless come from? Nobody knows. Why these tow encountered?

The white board silently says, "Let us get together and think of the unhappy happening. It is not only the problem of the teenagers nor the dead as a homeless but also of ours. We should ask ourselves why it happend here."

Why me? Why here? We ask the questions without fail. Absurdity? No. Anything falls on us. Suddenly and unexpectedly. Thus starts the whole new era. Reality is born from a nightmare but it is often better than baseless dreams. At least we are in front of the truth.

Tsukiji Revisited
Saturday, January 12, 2002

Tsukiji is a town which is most famous for its wholesale market of all kinds of food, the hub of Tokyo's (and perhaps Japan's) food business. It is, accordingly, a spot of tourists' attraction. Visitors particularly from abroad show interests in the early morning bidding. Shops around the main market are also attracting both professional and non-professional buyers throughout the year. Close to the Ginza, Tsukiji shows a contrastive aspect of Tokyo from its sophisticated sibling.

In the midst of the bustling town, there is National Cancer Center. Its brand new building armed with the latest high-tech facilities demonstrates an overwhelming appearance. Looking up at the spectacular tower, I stood still for a moment with my eyes and mouth open. It was not the building I had know before. Exactly six years ago, I frequented National Cancer Center Hospital. At that time my heart was occupied with my father dying of lung cancer. The dreary old building has disappeared from my eyesight! Where has it gone? The one I remember with suffocating pain.

The first question a young doctor asked me was if I have any relatives in my family who have suffered (have been suffering) from cancer. My answer was brief: "My father and two of my uncles." Then I added, "My father was thrown out of this hospital for there was nothing they could do for him as the terminal care. He died in a hospice." He said, "Oh, did he?" without much expression. Before letting me see his boss, he passed me a document, which is requiring me for my consent to offer my physical data and organic tissues extracted if they give me any kind of testing or operation. He asked me for my cooperation "for the future and the promotion of cancer studies." It was a strange request because I visited National Cancer Center only for thorough checkups at this moment; nobody has told me I have cancer yet. It seems anyone who goes through the gate of this enormous hospital is regarded as their useful samples. I was not very comfortable with the document. The doctor told me in a hurry that I have the right to decline for sure. I received the document anyway.

Six years ago, I never expected myself to visit this hospital as a patient-to-be. I was sharing the agony of my father, but I thought I was free from the disease. Yes, it was true I was simply shocked when an ophthalmologist in a local clinic advised me to go and get the diagnosis of my eye illness from a truly professional doctor in National Cancer Center. The name of the hospital was alarming. Cancer as well as AIDS has a special magic to one's emotion. I showed a sign of protest and terror very naively. The ophthalmologist laughed at my panic and said, "Don't worry. Be rational, please. Isn't it reasonable to see someone who has abundant experiences in complicated cases? You should not hang about any longer. Find out what the problem is. I'll call him to make an appointment for you right here. All right?" I was unable to say, "No, thank you." Thus, I was sent to Cancer Center.

I've already learned as the novice of a patient, the first visit won't make clear anything at all. As I had guessed, all I did was just to go up and down floors to make appointments of several kinds of checkups. One will be in the next week, another in the two next weeks and one more in three weeks later etc. Including the waiting time, I spent half a day in the enormous hospital building spick and span. At the beginning I was full of tension, and then gradually I started to lose the strain and was involved in the routine of hospitals. It's like I've learned the rules and language of the hospital world. I need not to be self-conscious. My identification there is just a patient. No more than that or less. Nobody pays attention to what I am doing and who I am. I am supposed to get on the train going systematically in the organization. I should be alert, however, where and when to ring the bell for emergency. I still reserve the right to get out of it if necessary. (I've already quitted one hospital without any excuse. They were incapable of giving me any significant help. I wasted time and energy with them.)

The repetition of checkups, collection of data, analysis, and diagnosis will continue. It's a long way. I'm fed up with them. All I can do is to watch what's going on inside of the medical world. I'll observe the reality of the authoritative hospital, while I watch myself. Aging, diseases, and death are what human beings can never escape from. As long as I live, I'll write on what I experience. Let me try it anyway.

In the labyrinth, I had a difficulty in finding the escalator/elevator to go upstairs. I asked a lady in white the way. She pointed a large door signed "staff only." "Here is the entrance into elevator room which I always use to go upstairs." Smiling, I thanked her and went into the space. Nobody told me to get out of it for I am just a patient. I pretended to be one of the staff standing straight with my head up. My fear disappeared. Why should I act awkwardly for being a patient? No. The establishment can never terrify me. The name of the disease can either.

National Cancer Center is there to serve individual patients with innumerable lives and hearts. Yes, I am one of the nameless patients full of proud and self-respect no matter what my real trouble may be. Tsukiji revisited reminded me of my fundamental identity. Fear no more.

A Distant Call
Wednesday, January 9, 2002

--Hello.
--Hello.

--Who do you think I am?
--Is it Professor?

--There are many professors.
--Professor S?

--You're correct.
--It's been a long time since I talked to you last.
--Indeed.

Thus our conversation on the telephone started. He has been retired from jobs. Her wife as well.

--K's still with us.
--How old his he now?
--40. How old are you?
--49.
--Nine years older.
--Yes, I was fresh from the graduate school those days.

I was their only son's tutor of English for several years. K, a high school student, liked reading books and comic books very much. I told him to study but we talked various things as much. I don't think I was an efficient tutuor to him. After the lessons, his paretnts always invited me to have dinner with them. Then started a long talk until late in the evening. Professor S talked of books, of politics, of people, and of miscellaneous things which I never heard at home. He gave me a sort of tutorial in his unique manner. I learned more from it than from his lectures in campus. His wife frankly showed me a style of a family which is completely different from mine. Sometimes Prefessor S took me to a walk in the mountains near his house. He loved plants. His garden was like a jungle with variety of flowers, grasses, and trees. I felt quite comfortable in his messy garden, messy study, and messy house. I did not have to show off myself as if I had known literature well nor I had been working hard. I was a lazy student of his.

I hadn't talked to him for more than twenty years. Only new year's greeting cards have been shuttling between us. He never paid any attention to my job hunting. He even did not offer any kind of part-time jobs but his son's tutor. I did not complain of it. I took it for granted. I didn't have much ambition in the academic career. I simply liked teaching and it was all I could do.

Professor S called me because I wrote a short note in my new year's greeting that the English Department of the junior college for which I have been working will be very soon closed. He was worrid I might be disemployed. I told him I might be all right for the moment and that I would continue teaching all the same. He was glad to know it. We talked of this and that. We found we still shared several topics which we used to enjoy long time ago.

When I hung up, I felt nothing much has changed. Professor S's voice was what I knew well. His cynical sense of humour is the same. I giggled by myself. Time has not very powerful on him. He was never once a harmit of the ivory tower. He was like a youth who would never grow up according to his physical age, which is nothing to be praised. While young, I sometimes felt a slight annoyance to his eely laughter. I wondered why he was not as diligent and productive as his colleagues. But now I feel he is all right as he is. His consistency in his selfcenterd consciousness if it is nothing to be admired, is what I liked for no clear reasons. I was glad I was able to talk to him in the same tone of voice as before.

People don't grow up to be different personalities. The prototype in one remains the same. Only the appearance changes as time passes. Prefessor S's voice, a distant call told me it's all right to be the same.

Battle Royal
Wednesday, January 3, 2002

I saw a video entitled Battle Royal on the first evening of the new year. It was not my choice but the teenagers: tow of my nieces and my daughter. The movie was released a few years ago in theaters under the condition that children younger than 15 were not admitted because of its violent scens. As the nature of human beings, the restriction stirred the curiosity of low-teens and the original novel was widely circulated among them at school. Now that it is released in the form of rental video and broadcasted by movie specialty channel, there is nothing to prevent low-teens from seeing it. The last barrier is virtually their parents. I let them see and saw it myself with them. It really was a shocking movie.

It's a story about a survival game in an isolated island where a class of the third graders of a junior high school is supposed to kill each other. Only one survivor of the game is allowed to go back to the society. Adults of Japan have lost confidence in education and are at a loss what to do with the violent youngsters; accordingly, they settle "Battle Royal Law" to let them fight among themselves. A chosen classes (50 of them every year) are sent to islands/enclosed areas. Provided with weapons and food, they are left in the wilderness. Teenagers are forced to murder their classmates. Their class teacher is the commander of the game. He supervises and encourages them to go on committing to the battle game. The movie is full of killing scenes, bloody and devastating. Only one couple succeed in escaping "illegally." They are destined to be the outcast of their society.

Teenage audience at home were wordless for a short time after seeing it. So was I. It was not a very suitable movie to see at the beginning of a new year indeed. The girls looked pensive and were quiet. My daughter and I talked of details of the movie afterwards repeatedly. She has read the original novel a few months before. One of her fridends is reading it right now. I aksed her why they are attracted to such a novel and movie. She said, "It's interesting and quite instructive about human psychology in extreme situations. " "Not revolting?" She said "No," and continued:

"I think nobody will want to kill after seeing the movie and reading the book. Murder scenes are dirty but they tell me a lot. Adults are inconsistant. First they told us Don't see it, and now they release it in public so easily. Why can't adults belive our judgement? They are doing worse things starting wars, aren't they? Did you notice in the movie the hackers are successful in breaking the computer system of adults? I was fascinated with them. I wanted them to survive by all means. It's a pity that most of the students have no tactics and they are just getting together for nothing. Independent ones are exceptional. Even they don't know how to make use of their activities wisely. They are destructing themselves. "
"If I had not read the original novel, I would not have seen the movie. I know many scenes and substories which are not shown in the film. The movie version curtails so many details that audience will think students are killing each other very simply. That's unfair. At least I've learned the importance of keeping calmness and self-posession in any condition to make judgements. If you lose sanity and get involved in the game, you would struggle madly for "life" and consequently lose it. Some of the students calmly plan to get away from the game although most of them faild in the end. But their deaths are not meaning less. I think Battle Royal describes the importance of the cool mind and self-possesion in the extraordinary condition; moreover, the importance not to obey what adults say blindly." (My daughter's own words)

She is thirteen years old. She loves to read Harry Potter series and saw the Japanese animation movie Spirited Away three times in a movie theater. She is a great fan of fantasy. Yet, she believes that the world is not complete with fantastic dreams only. She is calmer than her horrified mother.

Suddenly I remembered that children somewhere in the world are driven into battles they never wanted themselves. "Battles" made by adults are faught by teenagers in reality in different styles somewhere on the earth now. How can Japanese children are free from battles? They might be feeling they are involved in battles of thier own already. The movie may not seem just "crazy" to them. They might know it by instinct. If "moralistic adults" imagine them to be innocent and ignorant, they are too optimistic.

Music in the movie is etherially beautiful, particularly in bloody scenes. Even peaceful. Requiem to the peaceful society and childhood. My heart is still bleeding. I say feebly to myself, "Let me know what I can do." "Stop being an egoist" is an answer. Think of the real "altruism." Not the false one. Not the imitation. That's the most difficult idea and the way of living. Battle Royal is perhaps a powerful antithesis of our reality.

It's high time I should awake fully from the first nightmare!

A Girl in a Photo
Monday, December 24, 2001

One day I visited Ms Crayon House in Omotesando, Tokyo. This is basically a bookstore of/for children and women. They sell chemical-free cosmetics, goods made of natural materials, and organic foods as well as various kinds of books. It does not mean they exclude men and adults but they invite everybody who are interested in feminism and minorities. The store fits in a corner of the fashionable town.

The main purpose of my visit was to see the photos of Afgan Children and Women. They used the staircase for the exhibition. It was a humble and expressive event. I went to Ms Crayon House with my students as a part of our course activities of "Women and Today's World." Liberated from the square space of a classroom, students looked excited. So was I. We were all strongly moved by the works of a female photographer, Kawasaki Keiko.

Among more than 100 panels, one of the most striking one to me was a photo of a teen-age girl who is working in the heated field making bricks. She wears a tattered dress and is barefoot. She stands alone beside a bucket with her arms crissed in front of her thin chest. Her messy curly hair is surrounding her slim face. She looks at vacancy in weariness. There is no particular expression in her face but a sort of equanimty. I believe she is a low teen, no older than fourteen years old. But she looks truly "feminine." Her shape has elegance. Her face gives strength even. So young as she is, she evidently knows what it is to be a woman.

The girl has not reached the age of wearing the burqa. She is forced to live in a refugee camp in Pakistan. Far away from home, her family lives a life of the most opressed and deprived. In the photo she follows her destiny obediently. Under the burden, however, she shows the beauty of those who still maintain human decency and gracefulness, which she might have inherited from her elders. I could not leave the place for a long time.

She is wordless; yet, the barefooted Afgan girl stands on the earth and asserts her existence to the world. Look, nobody can deprive her of her life. Look, her life is of her own. Nobody can touch her. Freedom is strongly connected with dignity. I think I saw the girl's selfrespect. She is saying "I belong to nobody."

The image of an Afgan girl led me to visit the website of Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan (RAWA). It is a remarkably informative site. I've just started reading a part of the enormous documents. It is truly a rich archive of the unknown world. Women sending message from the site give me the chance to look back at myself. "The unposessed and the deprived" people are strong. Facing them, I am obliged to keep silence for the next step to take. At least wordiness is of no use.

The Day
Wednesday, November 28, 2001

It happened the day a year ago. I learned about it the next day. A telephone rang. I heard the news. I couldn't believe it but I had to accept the reality. A friend of mine fell ill. One year has passed. We have various unforgettable days. It is one of those days.

I wonder if one year is long or short. There is no fixed scale for measuring time. It depends upon an individual's sense of value and sensibility. For me the day was a great shock; yet, it became a momentum of continuous considerations. One year has passed slowly and quickly.

As I was walking down a trail along a stream in the woods recently, I remembered the days I used to walk there, the same place, when I was very young. I was eighteen. A student. I had no boyfriend. I was just dreaming of a special encounter. I had no particular skills. I was expecting I would do something in the future. I had no money. I decided to have a job of my own to keep me independent. I was full of possibilities and fears. Fears? Yes, fears of many kinds. I was afraid of making a trip on my own. A baseless fear. But I knew it included the fear for irrational violence, particularly the one for being raped. I was not sure if other girls of my age were feeling like that. I thought I had to conqure my fears somehow.

As I was walking alone while I was young, I often looked back to make sure nobody was following me. I was afraid but I couldn't stop walking about here and there. With fears inside me, I went out as often as I could. Maps and timetables were my companions. Soon enough I learned how to protect myself: I got the sense to choose areas. I became a little conservative in the choice. Fears and curiosity should go along hand in hand. I was inclined to be on the safe side of life.

It was getting dark. I seldom met people on the trail. If I had been young, say eighteen or nineteen, I would have felt scared. Not now. I've come a long way. I remembered when I was eighteen: expecting and dreaming a lot. When I was twenty-eight, I was not at all fearful but instead I was busily active, ambitious and eager. When I was thirty-eight, I was involved in plural activities at the same time, looking after my small daughter. When I am ..., well, I am no longer a person "under development" even if I have not acheived anything remarkable. I have fears of different kinds if I have any at all.

I walked on with no particular fears one year after "the day." My friend survived. Isn't it a great achivement? Yes, an achievement is not to show off but to cherish in heart. Violence of various kinds exist in the world. How can a person always keep walking on the safe and bright side of the road? Never. On "the day" I felt still I was on the safe side. One year has taught me that was not true. Everybody is vulnerable. There is no exception. Irrational violence or attacks make one realize the real beauty of sunshine.

Smiling Women
Friday, November 16, 2001

Among many photos of men with their heads wrapped up in long turbans, only a few of women's mostly in burkas, the long cover cloth with a small window-like mesh hole around eyes, are found in newspapers informing us of the situations in Afganistan nowadays. On the day when it was reported that Northern Alliance dispelled The Taliban out of Kabul, a photo of a shyly beaming woman without burka was on the front page in colors. It was demonstrative as if this photo is the symbol of liberation. It is ture she looks dubious but expecting freedom to come. Her forehead still shows deep lines of agony; yet, her eyes are bright under the clear eyebrows. I was astoshined to find the remarkable beauty of the Afgan woman under burka.

In a different photo two women are laughing openly. The caption writes they are celebrating the liberation from burkas which were forced by The Taliban for more than five years. Another photo shows a female newscaster broadcasting after a long silence. It seems the ice has started thawing suddenly as if the war in Afganistan is almost over. I hope it is not a momentry illusion.

In fact nobody knows what will become of this new type of a war in which so-called "terrorists" are the target of the United States. I've been wondering where have all women old and young are gone. Under burkas, no faces of women were witnessed. And where are children now? Accoriding to the information provided by Refugees International, there are estimated 140,000 "visible" (officially registered) refugees in Pakistan and 1350,000 "invisible (unauthorized)" ones who have recently fled from their home in Afganistan and corssed the border to Pakistan.

The world without women and children is not alive. And (wo)men and children without home are most painful particularly in this and the coming seasons. Where emotions and feelings are oppressed, there is no life. Who has killed the daily life of the country? Traditions, customs, and habits fostered by the long history could never be vanished by wars of modern times so easily. I belive women will continue to maintain them by all means under any circumstances. Still they need help, which is the gravest task that the rest of the world owes. Nobody could interefere with them against their own will.

I don't mean all women should become the same but they should build lives of various kinds in their own ways. Nobody could deny their respective unique cultures. Only tortures should be distinguished from cultures. Where they are free from violence, women can flourish. Let men come back from outward and inward "wars" to them.

Smiling women are beautiful. Smiles with dignity and decency are what many of us, the Japanese women, seem to have lost in our busy life. We are also to recover the real smiles of love. Genuine love of life and people. Inspired by the small photos in newspapers, my students and I decided go and see a photo exhibition of Afgan Women and Children which will be held in Tokyo very soon. I'm sure we will meet more beauty there.

La France
Sunday, November 11, 2001

Attached to the building of a railway station is a small market. Fresh vegetables, fruits, meat, fish and all sorts of other materials for cooking are the main goods they are dealing with. On my way home from work, I always go through it for the day's food hunting. They don't sell anything fancy such as imported cheese or wine, but they have the best harvest of every season. They accept cash only, no credit cards. In one floor, various things are displayed, sorted out in racks and cases, piled up and put in boxes. Not a luxurious shop but it demonstrates an active commerce.

Right after I came back from a few months' stay abroad several years ago, I was overwhelmed and impressed with the amount of Japanese food jam-packed in such a small space. I was almost embarrassed to see the variety of lineup. I wondered if it was true I was allowed to choose any out of the rich stock. Soon I got used to the abundance. We are easily involved in the daily circumstances and lose the sense of wonder quickly.

One day I was stopped by a young salesman in front of the market. He offered to sell pears named "La France" in a special price. "Five pears for 980 yen; Ten for 1500 yen! An extraordinary bargain for YOU!" I seldom buy that kind. Campared to Japanese pears, it usually looks expensive and too exotic for me. I was reluctant for a while. The man insisted. "A rare chance. What makes you hesitate? They are dilicious. I guarantee. Bring them home." Charmed by his ardent words, I bought them.

La France was fully ripe. The night was the peak. The fragrance, sweetness, and the mellow touch of the fruit were beyond words. I was satisfied with the bargain: however, I realized soon enough they would be overripe the next day. How could I eat them all in a day? Evidently they will be decayed in a few days. I had to do something immediately in order to save them. Think of preservation.

I made up my mind to cook compote although I didn't have a recipe. Just guessing, I peeled, sliced, and laid pears flat in a pan; I poured brown sugar directly from a bag; I put white cooking wine over it; I squeezed an orange all over. I stewed it for an hour. When I opened the lid of the pan again, I found the transparent fruit smelling sweet. Oh, it seemed to be successful. But the next problem was how to eat it. Was I destined to eat it for desart day after day? Should I cook a pear tart or a pie? Should I transform it into the pear jelly? I definitely mustn't spoil it by all means. To tell the truth, however, I was helpless because I seldom cook except for daily meals. Baking cookies and cakes is not in my custom. I remembered all the unfortunate resutls of my exceptionl baking experiences. I dropped a chocolate cake on the floor a few minutes before our guests arrived; I put it back on a plate and offered it beaming as if nothing had happned. My heart still aches now.

Baking requires accuracy. It's like a chemical experiment. If you follow the direction, you will get a fine result but if you are careless and ambiguous, you will get the suitable results for your attitude. The intricate and long procedure of baking makes me wearisome. I would rather stay away form the art than to be a good apprentice. I put the compote in a package and kept it in the refrigerator for a week. Postponing is my practice.

The deadline has come. Something must be done to La France with no more delay; otherwise, it would be lost for ever. The bargain would turn out to be nothing. I was obliged to buy a pckage of frozen pie sheets. Baking a pie seemed to be the simplest solution. If I follow the recipe in the package, there would be no way for making mistakes. I opened it and started the wrok. I thought I did all I was told to do. The old oven worked perfectly. The sweet smell of a pie began to fill the room. Out of the oven came a gorgeous golden pie. A moment of ecstasy.

The difference betweetn appearance and reality is a well-known theme of Shakespeare. It looked like a pie but was not exactly the one I expected. No crisp curst. The piecrust-to-be was just a wet and heavy pudding-like stuff. I remembered I rolled and punched the sheet before I placed it in the pieplate. I ignored the instruction to "do everthing quickly and neatly." It seemed I put extra air into the piedoe as I put sheets together and molded it this way and that (no procedure like this was in the instruction). What a fool not to follw the simplest words!

The compote of pear was as delicious as ever even in the strange pudding. I was sorry for the graceful name of the fruit. It would have been treated as it should be in a kitchen of others. The tradition of baking cannot be involved easily in one's life. You need to take time and energy. A habit of life makes up the history of a kitchen. I know I have ignored so much in my life. Can a pie find a place in it from now? La France asks me elegantly.

Falling Down
Tuesday, November 6, 2001

I fell down when I stepped out of the staircase at a railway station in the evening. A complete, almost comical, falling down on the platform. I didn't know what happened immediately. A man's voice asked if I was all right, and I answered yes. I stood up slowly and got on the train. On the seat, I found the right cheekbone, the chest, and knees were aching. I could hardly breathe for pain. I took out a mirror from my bag and checked my face. Nothing serious was seen from outside. I kept still just remembering what happend to me in a state of confusion.

In childhood, falling down on the ground is a daily happening. A child stands up at once and starts moving around again as if nothing happened at all. Some cry but forget soon. It's nothing to be ashamed of, to fall down. However, once s/he grows older, it rarely happens. People around are alarmed to watch someone fall down. I sometimes watch people fall down in a public space with pity and feel sorry for her/him, and then turn my head away from the scene, anticipating some evil causes might be hidden behind.

I was absentminded when I fell down. I was captured by some ideas I was having for months recently. I have been trying to get away from them in vain. Fixed ideas persisit. I think I was tripped by my imaginary blocks. When I was hit on the concrete platform, however, all my thoughts vanished completely out of my mind. My heart was blank for a moment. It was as if evil ideas were got rid of myself. Not only ideas but also physical factors mattered. My shoes! They caused my troubles. For almost two decades I've been working as a teacher. Commuting time included, I work standing even if it is a matter of a few days a week. The habit has distorted the shape of my footbones: hallux vlsgus. It's hard for me to find a pair of shoes which fit my feet. If they have narrow toes or stylish heels, my feet ach. I've had my present shoes repaired so many times already that they've come to become the shape of my feet. But it seems they have done their work. They are no longer the shoes in the way they should be but just a pair of slippers. I had admit there are causes for me to fall down.

My chest ached. My cheek ached. My knees ached. And my heart ached, too. It was already dark outside of the windows. In such an occasion I like to perform a silent monologue, careless with vulgar phrases: "Stand up. When you fall down, all you can do is just to stand up by yourself. No children remain collapesd on the ground for ever. Learn from small ones. You are a mother yourself, aren't you? You should have known better. Be a woman. Be proud of yourself. Nobody would pity you. Stand up. Try again. You should not fall down for nothing."

Yes, I will stand up again. Look at the distant horizon. The sun also rises.

An Aging Beauty
Friday, October 26, 2001

It was the third encounter for me to see Vanessa Redgrave in screen. When I was a high school girl, I saw her as Guenavia in Camelot, King Arthor's queen in love with a young knight Lancelot. The second time in Julia, a story of Lillan Helman's youth in Oxford. Now at last Vanessa in Mrs. Dalloway.

In summer of 1998, I went out to Iwanami Hall in Jimbo-cho, Tokyo, to see the movie. I arrived there rather early for the first show of the day; however, I found all the tickets were already sold out. I could do nothing but to return home. It was a very hot summer and I didn't encourage myself to go for another try. Time passed slowly.

I have checked out the video several times from the library. For no particular reasons, I haven't been able to see it actually until today. I am not sure what made me put the video cassett into the slot eventually. Suddenly I found myself following Clarissa Dalloway's trace in 1923, London. Vanessa Redgrave is full of dignity, elegance, and despair, which are of course those of Clarissa's.

I read Virginia Woolf's original story almost a decade ago. I remember I read it several times, taking notes to write a paper on it. I chose the work because it is famous for its writing technique, "the stream of consciousness." I wanted to compare the art of Woolf with that of Joyce. The contrast between her gracefullness and his vulgarity. These authors reportedly disliked each other in spite of the similarity of their interest in human psychology for their literary creation.

It was in my late thirty's when I read Mrs. Dalloway. I believed I could understand what Clarissa was doing, thinking, and feeling then. I know now I did not. Her choice of life. The way she behaved. Why she did not marry Peter. Her happiness and unhappiness. More than anything else, I felt clearly her fears and hopes. Her fear for aging, and pride for her identity. Her belief in her life she has created. Her responsibility for it. And love for it.

None could blame her of her self-centered consciousness. Her fragility and her sensibility stand next to the soul of the young man Septimas who kills himself. He could not get away form his trauma he's been suffering from the War. It is what anybody can experience today for many reasons. It seems I did not understand the real connection of these two characters. When I was younger, I was attracted by the Italian wife of Septimas; how she is devoting herself to her husband in agony. Her hardships to live with the man in despair. I did not pay attention to the closeness between Clarissa and Septimas who are so far and disconnected in real life. A middle class established woman and a poor young guy who is considered to be "lacking in propotion." In truth they are so close. Nobody is free from the crisis of "propotion." Clarissa admits the fact bravely and survivies with the deepest sympathy to the unknown man.

Is aging an ugly phenomenon? Never. At least in Vanessa Redgrave in Clarissa Dalloway. I felt life goes on with beauty and dignity unless s/he loses the willingness to know oneself.

The First Experiences
Thursday, October 18, 2001

When I was a high school student, I ate pizza for the first time. One of the Americans in church invited us to their home in Yokota Air Force Base. To tell the truth, I was going to church just to have a chance to speak English. When a large group of American young people who called themselves "Good Samaritans," I workd with them, painting the church building just for the joy of communicating with them in English. Religious dilemma nor questions about Japan-US political issues (including the Security Treaty) did not disturb me seriously. I was (or pretended to be) simple minded.

"Well, it's so delicious!" siad I, eating the housemade pizza.
"Good." said the mistress generously.
"Actually this is the first time for me to eat pizza," I contiuned.
"When will it be the last?"

I realized the synical tone in the comment of the eldest boy of the house. His eyes were not friendly at all. It was the moment when I first felt the nameless fear in spoken English.

I've been through various "first experiences" ever since: good and bad, beauriful and ugly, happy and unhappy. One thing I still maintain soemhow is no matter what the experience may be, I am quite curious about what I am having all the time. I find myself watching me as an observer, who will surely write down/speak out the matter someday.

The latest "first experience" is the medical check-ups of up-to-date technology. A week ago, I was put in a large machine of CT-Scan. As I lay down on a hard plastic bed, I was waching the enormous drum whiling arond my head. I felt my brain and eyes were being sliced. A few days later, doctors told me to have another check-up with MRI. They showed me the sliced X-ray films of my eyeballs and said There is something behind one of the balls. There it was really. I had no choice. All right. Slice or lump, I am an object of inspection.

I had to change my clothes into a pajama-like garment of the MRI room. In the mirror was an unmistakable patient. I wonder why they chose "stripe" for the garment. It makes anybody look ill. I was told to put off my wedding ring. Any kind of metal may cause the low temperature ambustion. Thus I was stripped off all kinds of wordly identity. I was put on another plastic bed again and was transported into a deep tunnel.

The technologist told me never to move, never to pay attention to any sound I would hear, just to push the airpomp I hold in emergency to give a signal for help. These warnings were sufficient to terrify me. How can I judge "emergency" in such a circumstance?

I closed my eyes. According to the technologist, eyeballs can move even with eyelids closed. He wanted me to keep my eyeballs stay still. A difficult requirment. I wondered if eyeballs move when we dream. I felt like discussing my question with someone in vain. In the tube which made me imagine myself in a time cupsel or a time machine in SF, I heard various kinds of weird noise. Those like absurd sound effects I often hear in children's ridiculous animation films on TV. I imagined myself being transformed into a sort of android.

It seems my curiosity did not last for a long time because I fell asleep in the noise and slight vibration. When I was put out of the tube, I got awake after the momentary nap. I was allowed to go back to the world with all my belongings again. Nobody told me it was the relief. No result of the checkup is given to the person as the object of the inspection. I am most far away from the information about myself. A strange situation.

"The first time" is only the beginning. I know there will follow the indefinite similar experiences one after another. Innocence never lasts long. A gulp of an apple changed the life of Eve completely. That's the way of all flesh.

Farewell
Sunday, October 14, 2001

At a chime, I opened a door to find a gentleman in the house next to ours. Because of the small space we share, we've decided not to build a fence between our houses a decade ago, when we moved from another city. The close location of our houses warned us not to make any close contact to each other, which is a sort of wisdom to live in a crowded place. First I thought he might have come to claim some troubles unexpected to me.

The fact was he came to say farewell. He lost her wife two years ago. Since then he contined living with his father-in-law at the age of 90. His two daughters have alrady left home to have independent lives respectively. Our neighbor was living a mysteriously quiet life. He just smiled gently when we met. We never talked anything friendly. We were so close and so far.

He said he will leave the house. Instead, he said, the old man's son would come to live with him.

"You mean with his wife and family?" I asked.
"No," he said, "perhaps by himself. He has been divorced for a long time."
"Oh, I see. Sorry to ask a personal question."
"That's all right. It will be better for everybody. The father and his son will get along better than with me."
"Well, I am not sure. We will miss you."
"Thanks. I might visit sometimes."
"Please do so. Where are you going?"
"To a town where my brother has an office. I have a business with him."
"Oh, that sounds nice."
"Thanks for everything for 10 years. Good by."
"Thank You. Good by and take care, please."

I closed the door quietly. I found it was the longest conversation we had for ten years. I kenw so little of him. A middle-aged gentleman. His wife passed away in the middle of her 50's. Why, life is unfair. The only one episode I remember well is that one day he misconducted his new automatic car. It went back and forth repeatedly in full speed, breaking the wall of a house in front of his and the living room windows of his own. It was a big accident in our neigbosrhood. When he was dragged out of the car eventually, he looked completely lost. If only his wife were still alive.

The man disappeared quietly. Farewell comes suddenly.

Revival
Thursday, October 11, 2001
For weeks I have been just lazy, or seized by inertia. I knew I had to go get a bottle of lotion. I needed new tooth brushes. And I had promised my students to let them listen to that old folk song of Bob Dylan's: "Blowin' in the Wind" along with Bruce Springsteen's "War." Both of them are in our text book entitled Cries of Young Souls--Songs that Speak to You--. I've been using it for my poetry reading class. Before going into the world of verse, I mean the real, classical poetry, I offered my students to enjoy music going with lyrics. The reson for the choice of those old songs are simply that we are facing a new war. Watching the war starting, I sat motionless.
"War what is it good for/ Absolutely nothing" repeats Springsteen. Contrastive to the soft spoken protest song of early Dylan, Springsteen is very straightforward. He shouts. I searched these songs in our tape library at college in vain. I asked my studetns if by any chance their parents have the collection of old folk and rock music at home. Nobody answered yes. I decided to purchase CD's by myself. I wasted time days after days. Lazy days.
Eventually I stood up. I stepped into a CD shop in my town whose master has a moustache and produces a good website of his own where he introduces old and new treasures from abroad constantly. He doesn't speak much but demonstrates his allround knowledge of music in his quick response to questions of customers behind a small counter. I have never seen him sitting.
One motion gave me the chance to listen to old songs. Quite simple but powerful. Time hasn't deprived them of their original messages. At the latest war, I find them effective. "War what is it good for/ Absolutely nothing" and

Yes, 'n' How many deaths will it take 'til he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

I spent today a few hours reading the report of UN's worker in Afganistan on the web. According to him 7,500,000 are now starving on the verge of death. The high-tech attacks by US and its allies to "terrorists" in Afganistan seems completely pointless. The folly of war. The old songs in revival reveals it. Tomorrow, I'll get out ouf my laziness and bring the music and lyrics to class. My students have started posting their translations and comments on our BBS. Active young women. I'll follow you!

Eyes We Have
Wednesday, October 10, 2001
Among what I've taken for granted are eyes. I've paid no particular attention to the function of seeing. Blindness is only in my conceptual vocabulary. Recently at the birthday party of my mother, she talked to her children, their spouses and her grandchildren that her left eye is seeing almost nothing. In spite of the operation of cataract she had a few years ago, her sight is becoming smaller and smaller. Right after the operation, I remember, she was happily surprised to find the sky blue again. We all told her strongly to go to an ophthalmologist on the earliest occasion, to which she was listening absentmindedly.
I could hardly tell her then that I have also been suffering form a sort of eye disease for a few months already. She would take little care of herself but I am sure she would be much worried about her daughter's illness. Mothers are always like that. I know her mentality. Sadly abundant attention can easily be a nuisance. Especially a daughter who has been trying to be independent from her mother would not appriciate it. Certainly I feel guilty of my mental reaction. I like indifference to my physical condition from her than overwhelming concern.
Well, I know there is a contradiction in me. I apt to pay too much attention to those who seem to be in difficulties. Although I have no sufficient potentiality to help, I approach people with caring attitudes and get engaged in someone else's business. That's the cause of plural problems I suffer. Small fear for involvement and careless attachement lead me into the deapth out of my controle. What an idiot!
I've thought I am seeing things around me; I know now I have been quite blind to the heart of matters. By meddling them, I am simply drawned. A seemingly shallow pond is actually unfathomable. Wise people don't come even close to the waterside. Those who do so are fundamentally dependent to others: they tend to get their identity through the shadow of others unconsciously. (Many of mothers belong to this category.) I am trying to get out of such a habit of mind: to be like a caring mother, or a big sister. A nuisance to others really!
My left eyelid is swellig day by day. An ophthalmologist told me to go to a big hospital as soon as possible for full check-up. I feel I am trapped. This morning I imagined to be blind for the first time in my life. How ignorant I am of handicaps! When I thought of the possibility of losing sight, I got freezed. Joy of seeing is one of the best of life. How a wo/man is ignorant of her/his physical gifts they are enjoying!
Only when one nearly loses something, s/he realizes its importance and preciousness. Motherly care, too. When drawning, s/he sees the meaning of the land. "Learn to see," I say to myself, "while I can." And through suffering only, I learn the meaning of life. I hope it's not too late. In the mornig, I left home early not to go to my work place but to a hospital. I am a novice as a patient: I'll start to learn what it is to be patient, which is the first step to be really independent.

On the New Page Views In and Out
Saturday, October 6, 2001
I received an e-mail from one of my keypals. He lives in his bed for so many years. He's a poet. Recently he was hospitalized for sudden illness. He could hardly watch TV, listen to the radio, read newspapers, not to mention using his computer. According to him, however, life like this being away from all these everyday "equipments" was not so bad. I was strongly impressed with his state of mind. I wonder how he's won peace in such hardships. The last line of his mail reads, "Looking forward to finding your 3 Lines a Day to be updated soon." I was ashamed of myself. How can I indulge myself in my personal pains endlessly? Life goes on no matter what may happen.
I still keep 3 Lines a Day closed for a while; instead, I open a new page named "Views In and Out" in English and in Japanese. This is a challenge to write irregularly and in unlimited length. Every article won't be so long as to be called "an essay," but will be just a short comment. I will release whatever is in my heart and mind. It will be just shapeless. The title indicates that I will write the views I see inside of myself and outside as well.
People write because they cannot help writing. That's the only reason for writing. Art of writing will follow the willingness. Nothing can restrict the energy whether it is a negative one or a postitive one. I am grateful to my keypal for giving me the courage to open up the new page. Until I can go back to my old 3 Lines a Day, I will write here. I hope he will find this page somehow.
I know writing can give joy to writers first of all. I appreciate the existence of readers. I sincerely hope the web will remain the place for free writing for anybody. Cyber terrorism and censorshop must be stopped by all means. By writing only, we can send our voice into the world. Let me write.

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