love – Page 92 – hannah ananas

City Surprises

Making my way through the nonsense that is the Shibuya Crossing on a holiday afternoon, I am feeling almost desperate to be on a train home. There are just so many people in my way, with no respect for my desire to be not here. Not that I actually expect them to know I want not to be here – I am merely noting their ignorance to the matter. I am almost to the station, when a small but clear opening appears right ahead of me in the shuffling crowd.

I hardly have to think – in fact, I think I know what it is without thinking – to recognize the colorful lettering on the page of that folded-open notebook being held just above people’s heads.

FREE HUGS

I hesitate a moment, verifying that the holder of the sign is respectable/huggable. Despite my being in Japan, I accept that this young Japanese guy is holding the sign, and trust that he knows what it means. Perhaps especially because I am in Japan, actually.

He’s young and Japanese, and he looks trustworthy. I throw open my arms, and instantly see his face light up, as he says an adorable “Sahn kyuu!” (How the average Japanese pronunciation goes for ‘Thank you.’) We embrace, and it is solid and long and wonderfully perfect. I return the verbal thanks, with emphasis on thanking him for the hug (as opposed to his thanking my willingness or whatever on my end), give a gloriously contended smile, and go on my merry way the last few yards to the station.

I savor the experience, and especially the loving hug, as I wander goofily through the crowds up to the tracks. Thank you, God. You gave me just what I needed in order to feel I was heading the right way just now. I am in the right place right now, and it is perfect. Thank you.

Post-a-day 2017

Trumpet and Sex(?!)

This conversation happened between students and me this afternoon.

Student: “We have to go to practice.”

Hannah: “Oh, really? What practice?”

Student: “We must practice trumpet and sex!”

After a stutter in the conversation, the second student, who wasn’t speaking, noticed the blunder, and she aimed to correct it. As we all laughed almost hysterically, they did their best to practice the difference in pronunciation between the two words.

Sex…sax…sex…sax…sax…sax…Sax… Back and forth we went, my pronouncing it, and their aiming to copy the sounds correctly and then reproduce it over and over again. It was adorable and wonderful. I love those two girls, and I will miss them loads after I leave here.
Post-a-day 2017

Tess and E-mails

Tonight, as I showered, I found myself thinking of Tess of the d’Ubervilles, a character from Thomas Hardy’s book of the same name. I, therefore, began also to think about the book itself, and the events connected to my reading of the book. I easily discovered that I wanted to share with the world a good section of the e-mail I sent to a former high school teacher of mine shortly after my conclusion of the novel. Be forewarned: Spoilers are included (regarding the novel).

Said e-mail section:

—————————————–

Hi, Ms. B[…]!

Hannah […] here (photos attached), […] class of 2009. I was in your Junior English class of 2007-2008, and likely gave you a hard time in the various class discussions (I always have been one to challenge ideas, even if I believe them already myself, just to find a new perspective). I believe it was around the end of the school year that you gave me a copy of Tess of the d’Ubervilles. I’m not sure what I mentioned specifically that had you give the book to me, but I do believe I had asked for some sort of recommendation.

It took me forever, and I’m not sure why exactly, but I finally got around to reading the book last year (I think it got stored away when I went to college, and I just never saw it until I cleared out a lot of books in my move last March.). As I was going through it, I was captivated. There was some magic-like force drawing me to the book. Most nights, I had to force myself to stop reading and just go to sleep, Hannah! As I reached particularly exciting or nerve-wracking parts, I shared with my flatmate about the book. We eventually were both excited to see what came next – each night, after I explained what I’d read the night before, we would sit in the hallway before bed, discussing our thoughts, predictions, and hopes for the story, and then I’d go and actually read right before bed.

At the end of the book, I came storming out of my bedroom one night to my waiting flatmate (she’d already heard me fussing). I told her how the book ended, and she was flabbergasted. “Are you for real?” was the phrase of the night for the two of us. Thus the reason I am e-mailing you.

I’m hoping you can shed some light on the book for me/us. Why on Earth did we have to go through all the ridiculous and terrible ordeals with Tess, always with a lining of upbeat-ness and hope, only to find her doomed in more ways than one at the end. I mean, come on, who destroys herself so pathetically, while always acting the victim, and then deciding ‘This is what must be done,’ and going insane when an alternative arrives, landing herself in prison with a death sentence? It all just seems so outrageous. (You can sense my outrage, I imagine [Though, I wouldn’t call it outrage so much as dislike and disappointment.].)

Anyway, I can only imagine that there was something more to the book – a societal background, a cultural issue being addressed, a historical event receiving his commentary… that sort of thing.

So, do you mind shedding some light on the situation??

I realize this is a rather big question, but I figured you’d be the perfect person to ask!

[…]

—–—————————-

The e-mail continued on, discussing another book that I had recently re-read from her class, and asking her thoughts on that novel as well. However, my thoughts were on Tess tonight, so I’ll leave it with the Tess section for now.

What I love about this e-mail is the fact that it exists, as well as the fact that it turned into an actual exchange between the two of us. My high school was one where teachers were not only high quality regarding their subject areas, but impactful and accessible enough that I easily considered e-mailing one of them (and one with whom I wasn’t even all that close) when I had such an inquiry, despite the fact that this was years and years after my time studying at the school. I just love that. Love it, I do!
Post-a-day 2017

The Body Talks

Let’s talk about sex, baby.

Well, sort of… That’s what my body kept saying to me today.

Today was a day in which my body felt like it was in a state of panic. In a way, it was in a state of panic (or bordering on panic, anyway). To my body, this panic was expressed as a painful desire, né need to procreate.

“Hannah, I need to reproduce – it is what I am designed so well to do, and I’ve waited so long already… let me go!!”

Sigh.

Such was the sort of conversation my body and I had today. It complained and begged and reasoned, and I sighed and just accepted the complaints.

Now, the kicker to all of this is that I am almost entirely comfortable and at ease now (despite being quite sleepy). Why is that? The same reason (-ish) that my body has been panicky lately – I need physical contact in my life. Good, real, physical contact, corporal contact, person-to-person skin-to-skin touch is an absolute necessity for me.

And living in Japan has given me almost none of that. It has quite truly driven my body into a state of panic, in fact.

How did I go from freak-out to calm? I hung out with friends and went dancing with them. In this time, I leaned on them, they leaned on me, we rubbed backs, hugged (the real kind), held hands, stood with our arms draped on one another’s shoulders or around the waist or hips, touched this or that spot on someone to get his/her attention. In short, we had a nice amount of physical contact with one another. No, it was not anything compared to what I am accustomed to having back in the US, – we are So touchy-touchy in Texas, and especially at dance there – however it was tremendous when compared to my average day and week of zero physical contact here in Japan.

I went to a dance event in Korea just a couple weekends ago. I danced like crazy there, and I hugged people and had lots of physical contact with people who love me and whom I love. I think that going from a weekend jammed full of corporal contact and love, back to the solitude and non-touching life I have here right now, my body had a sort of shock. After having gone so many months with only a bit of physical contact here and there in a month, I was accustomed to it. But, after spending a weekend filled with physical contact, it has been difficult to go back to the zero-touching lifestyle.

And so my body cried for a while, until it at last had some loving physical contact this afternoon and tonight, at which point it is ready to take on this next week (until I head to the beach next weekend, at which point the physical contact occasions will resume).

So, instead of listening to the crybaby body make excuses about its evolution and its original design for existence, I just get myself some physical contact, some hugs and snuggles and such, and things work out beautifully.

Cheers to loving physical contact! ❤

Post-a-day 2017

Blood Driving

I have given blood three times. You can still see the spots where each needle hung out in my arm for a while, as it guided the blood from my body and into a nearby sanitary bag. The spots actually remind me of pock marks. It’s weird, really – they look unnatural (and, well, they are).

The oddest bit about this, though, is that these marks are still here, after all this time. The last time I donated blood was a year or two ago. Before that was about nine and ten years ago.

I have never much liked donating blood. I realize the value in it, and I still dislike doing it myself. I’d rather help put on a blood drive, and donate my time and energy that way. However, the reason I gave blood began in high school.

Our school was having a drive. I thought it was awesome, though I didn’t necessarily intend to participate – frankly, I was terrified. I had the permission form, but I hadn’t yet determined if I were going to get my mom to sign it or not (or was it already signed, but I wasn’t sure if I were going to turn it in?). One of my best friends appeared in front of me, utterly annoyed on the first day of the drive, and informed me that she couldn’t give blood, because you can’t have spent more than a couple years in England before 1994. She had been there for about four years before then, and so was therefore removed from any chances of ever giving blood in the US.

At this information, and her distress, I determined my course of action. I did not want to donate blood, but she did. She could not, and I could. Therefore, I would donate for her, on her behalf.

And so I did for several years. There was once that I couldn’t donate due to low iron in my blood (not enough greens after I had been sick), and then about two years where I was not allowed, because I had been to Kingston, Jamaica, which is apparently a no-go for US blood donation. By the time those two years were up, though, my friend had discovered that she could donate blood in the U.K., where she was (and still is) living. She forever would be allowed to donate blood there, and so I no longer had to do it for her.

The last time I gave blood, was out of a sense of duty and support, I suppose. My school (where I was working) was hosting a drive, and someone specifically asked me to support, so I did. I even got my teacher shadow to participate, too. A different time, the school had another drive, but I wasn’t able to donate, because they had closed down before I was free from classes. I donated once, though, completely of my own accord, and for that I am proud. (Not in a snobby, snotty sense. Just proud that I succeeded in doing what I felt was a good thing to do, despite my fear and discomfort in doing it.)

As I write this, I can’t help but to feel that there was one other time during college, at which time I was able to give blood…, but I really don’t remember. I even have a spot on my arm that looks like it might have been a fourth needle, but I’m not certain.

Anyway, those are my current brain thoughts swirling around right now.

my kind of friends

I miss having friends like myself. Life is just so much more exciting when they’re around.

Tonight, I found out that a friend was on his way home on the train. I knew his route, so far as trains were concerned, and his final station was a small one, with only one exit. So, even though we have plans to meet tomorrow evening, I thought I’d surprise him tonight. I got two different types of tea (green and milk), cold from the store, and headed to his station. Based on where he was when he had last mentioned to me that he was on his way home, I would be just in time to meet him, and I might possibly beat him by a good ten minutes to his station.

I was already on the first train he could have taken home, and he didn’t seem to be on that one. So, once I arrived to his station, I checked out the exit options – yes, there is only one – and then found a place to settle down and read on the platform.

Almost an hour later, I am on my way home, still carrying both teas. He didn’t show. I don’t know what happened, and I likely won’t ever know, because we don’t entirely speak the same language. And I think I really don’t mind so much that he didn’t show. It’s more just that the whole thing made me miss my especially close friends, the ones who would have known that I was waiting at the station for them, simply because I had asked where they were beforehand.

The thing is, I don’t do well with packing. I’m not sure what is in the way of it for me, but I almost always seem to resist packing. I so desperately want to get myself packed up, and like right now, right now. But I’ve been unsuccessful in doing that for the past three-ish weeks already.

The worst part of it this time is that it is stressing me out extremely, and I still can’t seem to get over whatever it is, and just pack. So instead, I get to be stressed and to think of all hear things I miss and of all the things that drive me nuts here.

That’s all I have to say about that right now.
Post-a-day 2017

How to go home

I feel like I am going insane right now abouts. I was talking with a new acquaintance today, and I came to saying that I think I am afraid of going back home to the US, after I’ve gone through so much development and transformation as I have this past year (with all the depression and life experiences and all here).

I really think that I am afraid of being myself as I know myself to be now. Or rather, … well… I’m afraid of being myself and being rejected, unwanted. However, I think I already deal with that in the first place, and I have for a good chunk of my life. So, that’s nothing new, then. Therefore, I can keep that same concern as always, and just be myself anyway. This way, I am fulfilled in who and how I am, and the people who do love me get to love me for who I truly am.
Sounds good to me. Let’s do this, banana.
Post-a-day 2017

What’s my type??

People always seem to ask me my type. Possibly, this is more of a recent thing, as it is one of the top questions Japanese high school students ask, and I don’t really remember having considered the question’s answer more than once or twice before this past year. Nonetheless, it has been on my mind for quite some time now.

The deal is that I have never really known a type for my own interests. I find attractive to be attractive. Period. However, I have been recently distinguishing even further the difference between being attracted to someone and that of wanting to be with someone. On this distinguishing inquiry, I have at last found one definite common factor between men when I instantly find attractive, and with whom I always want to develop a relationship of some sort (even just a friendship), and often actively pursue. That factor? Being tall. It’s not that I don’t find men I average height to be attractive – I definitely do find them quite attractive on a regular basis. However, I tend to have a quite strong desire at least to be around handsome men who are also tall. I have found shorts men to be handsomer than taller men, and yet the taller attractive guy always holds my attention much better.
Just something I discovered/noticed this weekend.
Post-a-day 2017

Still Awake at 6am

I’m sitting on the bathroom floor, eating bagel-shaped bread (that is not a bagel), stretching, occasionally gulping water, and writing this. My two roommates are asleep already, it is 6:05am, and I have spent the past many hours dancing.

The ballroom sort of closed around 4:30, but I was having such a great time dancing, I didn’t want the music and dancing to stop. Plus, I hadn’t gotten to dance with one friend who was still there, and I had been wanting to dance with him since I’d first seen him at the dance event earlier tonight. So the DJ – he also happens to be the event director – said that just the friend and I would be dancing, and everyone else would watch (seeing as the ballroom was closing and all), and announced us as though we were a couple in a competition from earlier tonight.

For whatever reason, everyone, as they gathered around in the floor, ended up encircling us, and stretching out their legs so that they formed a very large star around us on the floor. As we danced, they clapped along and cheered us on. When we finished, everyone agreed that another couple needed to dance, now that we had started this whole contest idea. The DJ, glorious in his will to be ever-spontaneous in order to suit the current situation, allowed and rolled with the idea.

So, another couple danced, and we cheered them on. And we went through all five couples sitting on the floor, plus the one girl who had been recording, over to the side. One of the other girls and I traded off dancing with her, since the DJ declared that he had to remain DJing. (Cough-cough, though really I enjoyed getting to lead in his place.)

We didn’t do an all-skate at the end (where all the couple dance one song together). Most everyone was too tired. But that’s okay. We had an amazing Superstar dance contest in the middle of a human star, and that’s more than fine with me. 😛
Post-a-day 2017

Our Stories

“Share your story here…”. Share your story here. Share your story here? What is my story?

Tonight, my story is that I am like Rapunzel, locked on my own in a tower, merely dreaming of what life could be if only I weren’t stuck in this tower. I want to cuddle up and cry with my despair and loneliness. The earth just shook long and low beneath me, deepening my unease for a handful of seconds. I don’t want to turn off the light – there seems to be a certain power in its being illuminated (and I do not mean the electricity), a power to keep me safe and okay and able to handle things.

Tonight, my story is that I am lonely and alone, and, though I am so close to being in a place I could and do call home, I feel as though I am in the point A to point B race where you constantly only go half the distance, thereby making progress toward the desired destination, but never actually arriving there.

Also, that just reminded me of how much I love Patrick Swayze. I wish I could have been in the film “Dirty Dancing”.

Anyway… I want to cry tonight, and to let it all go, leaving me to wake up refreshed and excited and capable in the morning.
Post-a-day 2017