The White Peril 白禍

So, is it the United Nations International Week of the Cad and no one told me? Am I the only one who didn't get his coloring book with "Well, honey, I'm here and your boyfriend's not" and "Why must you be such a stuck-up bitch?" translated into Swahili, Hindi, Maori, and other world languages? Did I miss the CNN broadcast of the kick-off statement by the chairman of the World Health Organization? 'Cause I swear, I had my own run-in a few days ago, Michael had one this morning, and in between, I heard from two or three friends on various major land masses that they'd practically had to punch guys out to get 'em to knock it off with the won't-take-no-for-an-answer come-ons. No, there's never a horndog shortage in urban gay life, but it really isn't the case (at least among people I know) that you have so many colorful encounters to dish about all at once. Cheese and crackers.

I have a few younger readers, so I think--if I don't sound too obnoxiously avuncular here--it's worth pointing out that there's a much more general lesson here. There's a little technique we fusty types call PAYING ATTENTION TO SIGNALS, and people who don't know how to do it end up getting themselves into all kinds of trouble, whether they're trying to make friends, establish business contacts, or realize whatever other designs they may have on people.

If your approach is failing, you need to change it. The number of people who don't get this is truly startling, and you can tell they don't get it because they keep repeating the same unsuccessful tactic, only more loudly/emphatically/insistently. Not everyone likes to give his phone number out to someone he's just met, or have rousing political discussions with strangers at dinner parties, or participate in impromptu sing-alongs. People who don't are unlikely to warm to you if you try to force such things on them, but they may be perfectly willing to get to know you if you settle for an e-mail address or talk about non-controversial interests the first few times you meet them. (I can't think of a good substitute for the sing-along except getting the hell out of there.)

Along with that, you have to make sure your opening gambit allows you to retreat gracefully if it doesn't succeed. If you launch into a political tirade under the assumption that your partner in conversation's views coincide with yours, you'll have a terrible time trying to backpedal into giving him a respectful hearing if they do not. Or (this example may drive the point home more memorably--thanks, Michael's neighbor!) if you show up on someone's doorstep drunk, naked, and tumescent, you'll find it difficult to save face with the pretense that you were just seeking a nice chat and some warm evening air.

Ghost of a Flea brings up one of the more annoying Anglospheric gaps in communication about the races:

Let us clear this up. In English-speaking North America the word "asian" is generally used to refer to people of East Asian descent while in the UK the word "asian" is generally used to refer to people of South Asian descent. Both terms are gross generalizations that obscure fantastic regional, ethnic, linguistic and cultural diversity within the groups for whom they act as shorthand and either shorthand ignores well over a billion people who are just as asian. If I was, say, Armenian both abbreviations would be a source of ongoing annoyance.

A close English buddy of mine and I were just having this discussion a few weeks ago. He was bewildered at the way a lot of Americans look at you as though you'd committed a hanging crime if you use the word Oriental, which, Edward Said's hex not having gained traction in the UK as it did in the States, is still the polite way to talk about the Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese there. Of course, even in the States, people of East Asian descent who haven't gone through PC colleges still blithely refer to themselves as Oriental all the time, but you'd never hear a newscaster use the word.

Now that I think about it, the topic may have come up the night of the first London bombings. I do know that on 7 July we were sitting at our hangout when the video for Kylie's "Giving You Up" came on: a twelve-foot-tall woman in curve-hugging black strides through London as if she owned the place, good-naturedly vamping at guys of various races (there's an Asian, in the English usage, about 3/4 of the way through) along the way. It was very bolstering--the kind of sassy I can get behind.

If we don't show solidarity with London by buying lots of stuff at Fortnum & Mason, the terrorists win. Take that, Islamofascists!

And that!

Mmmm...and maybe some of that.

In all seriousness, I'm just very grateful that this week's crew of bombers only succeeded in displaying their incompetence to a media-saturated world. The police are apparently marshalling all their brain powers to figure who--who on Earth--might be behind the failed bombings:

Security analysts said the obvious carbon-copy attacks could have been masterminded either by the same group or by less sophisticated sympathisers — maybe young, disaffected Muslims.

"There is a resonance here," police chief Blair said, but he cautioned it would take time to tell who was to blame.

Fine, let's keep an open mind. But at this point, I'm thinking the probability that the bombers were not young, disaffected Muslims is pretty darned low.

A propos of nothing: it was at the Shepherds Bush Empire that I saw Alison Moyet perform ten years ago. One of the best concerts I've ever been to. I happened to stand next to a dyke couple who kept looking at me with expressions that clearly said, "Shouldn't you be at a Madonna concert instead, Mary?" But it was great; it was the tour for Essex, and the songs were flatteringly toughened up a bit for live performance. It's a shame Alison's career never really, really ignited internationally (especially since Vince Clarke went on to find major success after hooking up with that grating, self-pitying, quivery, histrionic, braying gay donkey Andy Bell and forming Erasure), though it's nice that she does well at home still.

Good weekend. It was sunny Saturday (it's supposed to be the rainy season, remember), so the view from the mountaintop restaurant we went to was fantastic. We'd had lunch at a lakeside cafe not far from the airport. At one very Japanese moment, we were looking out at the (many) dragonflies buzzing around the window. The flightpath to the airport was in the middle distance, and suddenly, a landing airliner glided into view so that it looked the same size as the dragonflies flitting around inches away. They seemed to be playing together for a moment. It was beautiful.

Sunday we went to the hot spring, stopping at an old aqueduct along the way. Water is released in a big, frothy arc for 15 minutes at noon; along with a lot of other tourists, we were there to take pictures and stuff. From there to the inn, Atsushi decided to follow the GPS map program's suggested route. Apparently, the suggestions were made by dryads. We found ourselves on a one-lane road snaking over a mountain, with leaves growing in so closely the car touched them on both sides. (They were great for visibility, too. Poor Atsushi took a deep breath before every hairpin turn.) Most of the way there was no shoulder--and I don't mean they didn't bother to pave anything beyond the white line; I mean the vertical dropoff began at the white line. At one point, where the forest canopy converged what seemed like inches above the car roof, I said, "I keep expecting to see a witch's cottage around every bend," at which point my much-tried man muttered, "No self-respecting witch would be caught dead living back here."

The inn was worth it, though. It was new, so there were more man-made materials and obvious machines around than one might have liked for a hot spring, but you can't get away from that. All the guest huts were named for flowering plants. We unfortunately didn't get the one called after the flower of Atsushi's family crest, but ours was on a high point with a great view of the valley and fields (and ubiquitous electrical-line tower--which wasn't nearly as endearing juxtaposed with nature as the passenger jet had been). We were in one of the baths when the lashing rains and lightning drew near. When I was no longer able to count "1-one thousand" between the flash and the boom, we decided bath time was over for now.

The drive back into the city was relatively uneventful. There's a national park with flower gardens at the edge of Oita Prefecture, so we stopped there. It's lavender season, so the fields were grey with it. It looked like purplish steel in the sun. We had lavender-flavored ice cream at one of the stands before heading back.

Needless to say, all of this butching it up took a lot out of me. I'm back in Tokyo and headed to the office and may or may not feel up to posting tonight. On the other hand, there was an article about Japan in Atsushi's latest Time Asia that got my blood boiling--Isn't July a little early for such a big turkey? I thought while reading it. I may be banging something out about it before bed. Few comments I want to respond to, too.

For now, I leave you with a summer poem by Princess Shokushi:

かへり来ぬ昔を今と思ひ寝の夢の枕ににほふ橘

式子内親王

kaerikonu / mukashi wo ima to / omohi ne no / yume no makura ni / nihofu tachibana

Shokushi Naishinnô

I float into sleep,
a past that will come no more
made now in my thoughts--
at the pillow of that dream
the scent of orange blossoms

The Princess Shokushi

The fragrance of orange blossoms is said to excite the memory. When the princess awakes, the scent makes her feel the more keenly that some nostalgic memory, which she knows she will never live through again, had actually returned to life in her dream. It's a little late in the summer for this poem, I think, and it's not one of those with 500 fascinating allusions you can write a thesis on. Lovely, though.

Hope everyone else had a wonderful weekend.

Added on 20 July: I think I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that I inserted that caesura above. Many Japanese waka are, in fact, constructed so that the first three lines (5-7-5 syllables) conjure up a feeling or reaction and the last two lines (7-7 syllables) give the concrete sensory stimulus for it. They can be difficult to translate because putting the caesura in the same place, in order to preserve the dramatic pause of the original as faithfully as possible, gives you less leeway in rendering each of the two parts.

Princess Shokushi's poem above is different. It's one of those that come out in a long rush. The m and n consonants that dominate give the description a heady feel, when the images are actually rather plain. The whole poem is a long prenominal modifier for the final word, 橘 (tachibana: "orange tree," which refers to a variety of citrus that's a little different, of course, from those that produce the baseballs you buy with "Sunkist" stamped on them). If you translated it directly and in English word order, you'd get something like this (I'd like to apologize in advance to the Princess's kami for the act of violence I'm about to commit):

The orange tree wafts its scent at the pillow of the dream in which I've gone to sleep thinking that the past that will not return is now.

Obviously, this was an occasion for compromise, and I figured that maybe making each line kind of self-contained and billowy would compensate for not being able to reproduce the liquidity of the original. It seemed most important to keep the orange tree at the end, where it supplies the moment of sensual awareness. I'm afraid the result was a little precious, though.

Today was one of those days when I really loved my job. I mean, I always love my job, but not every day comes together so beautifully. And tomorrow morning, to continue the theme of joy, I take off to see Atsushi for the three-day weekend in Kyushu. (I hope the hot spring we're going to hasn't been washed away.) If I'm feeling especially ambitious at 5:30 when I get up to go to the airport, I might look at the computer. Otherwise, there may be a post or two from Atsushi's place (we think of it as our country villa) but I probably won't be bloviating much until Tuesday. Have a great weekend, everyone.

I don't get a lot of comments, but those I do get are always good. Unfortunately, they're sometimes on older posts that I fear regular readers are no longer scrolling down far enough to see, so I've added the "List Recent Comments" code to the left sidebar. I was originally only going to list the last five. Then I remembered that I respond to most of them, so at least 40% of the last five are likely to be by me, so I switched back to ten, which is the default number.

PowerBlogs is working on a comprehensive internal site stats page. It promises to be very snazzy, but in the interim, I don't get to see what deranged search terms have led people here. It was posting about those that usually gave me the springboard for thanking everyone for reading, and I realized today that I haven't done so for a while.

So thanks for reading, everyone. If anyone had suggested last year when I started posting that I'd have 350 visits a day (excluding search engines and stuff) by now, I'd have told him to stop washing the happy pills down with Asahi Super Dry. Not that this is a popularity contest, or anything, but there's no denying that it's nice to reach people.

Along those lines, I'm occasionally asked for advice about starting a blog. I always feel kind of lame. There are already scads of bullet-pointed lists about how to achieve blog popularity; I don't have much to add to them. When I feel like posting a lot, I do. When I feel like spending a week of news reading propped up on my elbows on the floor and eating Orange Milanos, then sharing my astringent opinions with no one but Atsushi, I do that. But a few recent exchanges I've had have put me in mind of a couple of things that I rarely see mentioned but that are, I think, useful to bear in mind:

One is, everything you post will be read, even if you wouldn't know it from the lack of immediate comments and links on a given entry. A few months later, a blogfriend may refer to it, or a site you're not familiar with may link to it after discovering it by Googling the relevant topic, or you may get an inquiry about it from a reader who decided to dig through your archives.

The other is, if you post under your full name, everyone you have ever met in your life will know it. You will hear from the last woman you ever dated, the first man you ever dated, the guy who grew up up the street who also turned out gay, someone who was in your second-year Japanese class in college, former clients, and colleagues down the hall at work who have been reading you for months without letting on. I mean, depending on your life story, some of these may not be applicable, but you get the idea. Every time I've heard from one of these people, it's been great. I've ended up resuming consistent contact with some of them. But the first e-mail is always a jolt. I had my own reasons for deciding, from the moment I started making mouthy comments on people's blogs, to use my full name; but I can understand that there are perfectly legitimate reasons not to, and it's important to think carefully before doing so.

So, yesterday I did, in fact, make chicken pot pie. What better recipe for a humid day with the constant threat of rain than one that requires you to make an egg-based dough that binds well enough to roll out smoothly, huh? Idiot. Luckily, it came out well, albeit with half the usual amount of water and a good, long chilling period.

I didn't have time to make dessert, but Atsushi offered to run to one of the many frou-frou pastry shops around here and pick something up. He came back and put the box on the counter: "Good news! Lavinia had sour cherry tarts." "Cherry pies? You must have read my mind." "Um, no, dear--I just read your blog." Oh. Or that. So it was prim, non-lascivious cherry tarts with whipped cream for dessert, after which Atsushi hummed me a verse of "The Star-Spangled Banner" before I had to see him off. More than made up for the lack of grilled hamburgers and fireworks.

Since it's already 4 July over here, Happy Independence Day!