cheating on the “End of Year Review” meme

for my non-cyber fluent relatives this is a meme that all my friends are doing. meme rhymes with dream and, according to wikipedia is "a unit of cultural transmission, or a unit of imitation.” the meme that my friends all did reads like this:

Meme: Go to your Calendar and find the first entry for each month of 2005. Post the first line (or so) of it in your journal, and that's your "Year In Review".

Since I didn’t start my blog until August I’ve flipped through old letters and journal entries. I’ve cheated and chosen the most reflective or best writing, rather than the first of each month. Most are substantially longer than one line too. but life has been exciting. so enjoy. It’s been a crazy year. (also, I’m adding a retrospective entry at the beginning of each month on my blog. that way, if you are looking for something, or a picture, it might be easier to find. or if you want a quick way to catch up, it’ll also work for that. you may need to hit your refresh button to see it.)

January
while I’d give my current relationship an 85% chance of imploding miserably in the next month, I’m tired of breaking people’s hearts and am not going to get involved again soon.

Febuary
I had every intention of giving the Univ of Chicago a chance but after wandering around the gothic architecture yesterday and waking up to rain on snow this morning, it's going to be that much harder.

march
(a letter to Rob after a long midnight talk)
I have no idea if you realize how much of a live saver you were Wed. night for me, but I wanted to say *thanks* in a big way. I called David and he says that he's driving up this weekend with his car. So he's prepared to get his stuff even if he vows that he hasn't given up yet. This will be rough but I think I'm finally ready for it.

april
… isn’t it a good time to have a mind boggling adventure? isn’t it a good time to postpone my graduate school career and all it entails? isn’t it time to run through the rain and laugh when I slip in the wet grass?

and I think to myself that this could be a huge mistake. this could be a miserable commitment. this could ruin many things.

may:
(part my application to NOVA English school)
In short, I have set myself up for a promising career as an academic and scientist. Yet I do not feel compelled to take the next carefully planned and prescribed step. I am not remarkably excited to start graduate school in the Fall; I somehow feel that at this moment pursuing a Ph.D. in Molecular Pharmacology is not a challenging enough objective. It is not a challenge that inspires my imagination.

june:
(A letter to two of my advisors and mentors, Janis Weeks and Pete von Hippel)
But, for now, I am not ready to start a 5-year PhD program. Instead, I have accepted a position teaching English in Asia. I feel that this is the best time for me to engage in such an adventure, while personal and professional obligations are still minimal. I feel that this international wanderlust is better satiated than denied.

July:
I’m caught up on the idea of voyaging back to the source, as Tom Robbins says in his book, Another Roadside Attraction. I feel like that’s one reason I have to travel and, specifically, why I need to live in Japan again, even though I’m not convinced that there is any one source. So I’m looking to find something even though I don’t know what or where it is. I don’t know what it looks or feels or smell like. I’m not sure if it will feel like home or not. I’m not convinced that I’ll want to stay once I find it. But I do know, that at this point, I do want to go out looking.

And so I’m off to Tokyo, not remembering the language, not remembering the customs, doing something that I haven’t studied and don’t know well. I’m off to explore and be responsible for a job that I’m afraid will boggle me. I don’t know how to teach, especially something like my native tongue. I’m not sure what to make of the situation I’ve gotten myself invited into.

I know even less of how to say goodbye.

August:
After 100 pages of workbooks and four days of training up in Vancouver BC, I'm now qualified to teach English Conversation at on of the most expensive schools in Japan!!! Wooo hooo!!!!

I arrive on the 18th of August. The adventure begins.

September:
one of those stupid foriegners who says 'hi' to every white person they see.

it's funny to me that despite choosing to live abroad we all gravitate to each other. part of it is the language, of course, but also the cultural humor is very different. it's about everything being a little too small.

October:
yes, it is the end of the month and I finally got payed. and before I open a bank account and turn my small fortune in to digital dots, I thought I'd play with all the pretty paper first.

here was my first (Septemeber) paycheck [picture], after rent and such was taken out. 923 yen or about a little more than eight american dollars.
(that's payment for one day minus rent for many days)

November:
“Kori Sytle adventures”
1) put on my tennis shoes and grab my bag
2) start walking
3) keep walking and/or hopping trains and/or busses until I find something new and beautiful

and that's how I spend my free time. maybe a little too hard to explain when the students asks in broken Engrish, "what are your hobbies"

December:
My cat looks at me and I think that she knows. I think she knows all kind of stuff like where my mom is and how she’s doing.

secret language of tomatoes

This is a poem by Nicole Blackman. I keep thinking of it and thought I’d share. It seems like a fitting tribute to the beautiful mother, sister, and woman my mother was.

ALL WE HAVE


You grew sunflowers and swept up magnolia leaves on the patio. Left me notes on how long to roast the chicken. Made me a Batgirl costume for Halloween. Introduced me to Eloise and Bob Fosse. Took me on the Orient Express. Paid me a $5 allowance for the Sunday manicures and never said the polish slipped off when you did the dishes later. Stood by me when I decided to sue the Girl Scouts. Didn’t get upset when I was suspended for drinking vodka on a school trip, and never told Dad. Said the other kids were shit when they made me cry.


Here’s to the secret language of tomatoes.

Here’s to your leather boots that I wore in the snow and nearly ruined.

Here’s to the clippings we send each other, the same articles crossing each other in the mail, marked Did you see this?


You got the first phone calls. Mom, they don’t want me…Mom, he doesn’t love me enough… Mom, I just don’t know what to do… I could hear your voice twist over the phone as mine gave out, shredding like paper, my throat burning. Oh, I wish I was there right now… and we listened to each other breathe for a while. I still listen for your breath.


Here’s to the last-Christmas-present tears that the rest of the family will never understand.

Here’s to stealing the bathrobes from that hotel in Paris.

Here’s to the keeper of stories.


On those brazen summer nights when my father stormed the house and shouted You’re just like your mother, I always smiled with a secret glow. I have you in me. I always will. When I dressed up for a party, he would softly say You look just like your mother, and I floated out the door in bliss, wearing your skin.


Here’s to the jellybean hunts when you carried me in your arms because I was too small to find them on my own.

Here’s to the notes you leave for us in the boxes of Christmas ornaments in case you aren’t there for the next one.

Here’s to the aprons, the recipes, the sugar.


I was too small to remember your mother’s passing. At your father’s funeral you wrapped a black lace scarf around your head and said quietly I’m an orphan now and I held you close. We slept with a knife under the pillow, afraid of the black cars that waited on the street outside, watching the house. We counted the shadows on the wall where the stolen photographs used to hang. We drove home with anything precious strapped to the roof and as you finally slept on my shoulder, the cord gave way and the wood box crashed behind us, spitting stamps like snow across the highway. We picked up your father’s life in tears until the state police told us we had to stop, and led us away.


Here’s to I love you, I love you too, I love you three…

Here’s to the warm hands that lay down the dying.


I don’t want to burden you, I just don’t have anyone else to talk to. Last night was really bad. The doctor says it’s between two weeks and a few months, but no longer than six. He cries a lot. I’m getting myself ready. I’m going through the photographs with him and writing everyone’s names on the back. I’m trying to be gentle but I’ve got to get everything ready. He says he doesn’t want a funeral, he says he wants a party. He told me to leave him alone. that he’s busy dying. I’m trying to be strong.


Here’s to a late delivery. At nine months I could not leave you and stayed inside for one more. I have never been far from you since.


You once told me you hoped you’d be the first to go, that you could not bear to lose me. I thought I should go first, that I could not bear to lose you. Now I understand it differently. If I die first, you will be without parents, husband, child. If I die first, I know how cold your days will be, how long the nights. I love you enough to let you go first. I love you enough to bear the cold. I love you enough to be the last one. I love you enough to turn out the light. I love you enough. I love you enough.


I send this poem to tell you of my love. I send it to you on paper. I send it to you on air. It’s all we have.