Sakura and Suitcases

It wasn’t so much that I hated packing – the clothes, toiletries, last-minute items remembered as I’m already walking out the door. What I really hated was trying to fit everything else into that 2x3 foot polyester suitcase. I can shove in all of the souvenirs I’d accumulated, the heaps of sweaters I bought in winter to keep warm, and the loose pages of Japanese notes I used as study aides, zipping it all inside and knowing nothing will fall out unless perhaps a rogue tornado came by and ripped it open.

But not everything can be packaged up so easily, and with memories, I’ve found, it’s quite different. I can write them down, create albums of photographs, sound out each vowel of their story, but over the years, they’ll begin to escape me - no tornado necessary besides the one in the depths of my mind. Eventually, the things that stand so tall and obvious today will be turned to chicken scratch on a postcard that could have been written by a stranger. The inside jokes and references will seem like obscure tales from a book I started at the end. Surely I once understood them, but just like reading books or watching movies, eventually we forget the details of the story. That’s the thing about experiences – no one has yet invented a suitcase large enough to fit all that they contain. Perhaps the only vessel strong enough for such a task is our entire life. We package each adventure somewhere in our spirit, and though, over time, our mind may have forgotten them, our soul still contains all the crumbs and pieces of our past, neatly woven together to create the exact plot of land we rest on today. In the end, we find that we are the suitcase, but one much stronger than the thick polyester we use for our toiletries. We might not have a container to open up that we can pull each experience out from, but we do have life's subtle reminders - like meeting someone new and feeling an odd sense of nostalgia at the way the corners of their eyes turn up when they smile. We let go of these miscellaneous feelings quickly, forgetting that perhaps they are pieces of a former life - our former life - sneaking out for a brief moment to remind us of all the places we've been. And that we still have yet to see.

“‘You know what I think?’ she says. ‘That people’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn’t matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They’re all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of ten-thousand-yen bills: when you feed ‘em to the fire, they’re all just paper. The fire isn’t thinking ‘Oh, this is Kant,’ or ‘Oh, this is the Yomiuri evening edition,’ or ‘Nice tits,’ while it burns. To the fire, they’re nothing but scraps of paper. It’s the exact same thing. Important memories, not-so-important memories, totally useless memories: there’s no distinction - they’re all just fuel.’”

—Haruki Murakami, After Dark

Explorations through South East Asia: Cambodia

About a month and a half ago I had the opportunity to take some time off work and explore a few countries in South East Asia on my own accord. I already posted about my first stop, Thailand, and that entry is here. Today, I wanted to share about my second stop (which, unfortunately only lasted a few days), Cambodia. I arrived in its capital, Phnom Penh, and was immediately amazed by how congested the traffic was and that everyone quickly wove between each other on mopeds and motorcycles. If Thailand's traffic was the playoffs, then Cambodia was traffic olympics. As scary and tightly packed as it was, it was fun - kind of like being on a rollercoaster, but instead of seeing the clouds as you go through a loop, you'd peer at hundreds of eyes as they'd ride on past you. Phnom Penh itself seemed very poor, but the hostel I stayed at, though something like $5 a night, looked like a fancy nightclub. The bottom floor was a big restaurant and bar with white tablecloths and gleaming, colorful lights. It felt very strange that just outside our door were kids carrying baskets of bracelets and used books, trying to make a few dollars for school. I settled down to eat a late dinner there, and in fact, a group of kids came in to sell me things I didn't want. I gave them a couple dollars without taking any of their goods, wondering where my money would ever end up. I didn't really care, I thought. It was kind of nice just to talk to them, and once I'd given them some cash, our conversation was able to turn from, "pleeeeaseee buy this bracelet" to exchanging words about our lives. Though, soon it became, "Is that Angry Birds! Can I play?" to which my iPhone was quickly seized. I wondered where they'd heard of Angry Birds. And also why in the world it has gained such worldwide attention.

After that night I took a shuttle to Siem Reap, where Angkor Wat exists. I spent two full days patrolling Angkor Wat and the heaps of equally amazing temples that reside around it. Ta Prohm was probably my favorite, with huge trees growing out of old stone walls, seamlessly intertwining to hold together the ancient temple. A combination of man-made materials and nature becoming one - something like our own lives, I thought.

Instead of trying to recall more thoughts, I want to share a little of what I wrote down during that four-hour shuttle ride from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap. Thoughts in the moment are much better than those I can try to conjure up almost two months later.

"I'm sitting in a van right now on my way to Siem Reap, Cambodia. I've been in here for about three hours, so there're 1.5 more to go. We stopped for food and all 14 Cambodian passengers and the driver piled out. I'm not that hungry and didn't want to risk getting left behind so I decided to wait in the van. The driver seemed amused and weirded out by this. I guess everyone usually gets out.
The drive through the countryside of Cambodia has been unbelievable. There are an innumerable amount of things to see along the way: cows, whose white skin contrasts beautifully against the lush layers of green fields, rows of wooden huts on stilts with families of people cooking food out front, elementary school children in tiny uniforms playing or walking home, naked babies hanging off their parents' bodies, tons of stray dogs (though usually only one at a time, like a solitary guard for their plot of land), clay-red roads of dirt, chickens hobbling around, and spectacular lake views, surrounded by masses of green and green and green. Occasionally my head will jerk back to the front as we squeeze by a truck or gang of motorcycles, just barely.

Lunch time just finished and everyone piled back into our van. One of the men held out a bag of mango he purchased and offered me some. It's amazing that you can suddenly feel hungry when someone is offering you their food; maybe we're not hungry for their lunch, but for whatever else they can give us. But sometimes, mango is all we get, and that's ok too."

Cambodia was a beautiful place. See you next Sunday.
-M

p.s. I recently finished another Haruki Murakami book called, Dance Dance Dance. It was very different from Norwegian Wood, but I enjoyed it as well. One of my favorite things to do after finishing a book is to go back and read all the parts I highlighted. I included some of my favorite highlights from both of these books in the post below. Enjoy!

Cameras: Nikon FM2, Nikon FM10
Film: Portra 160

"You are a good person, though. I can tell that much from looking at you. I can tell these things after seven years of watching people come and go here: there are people who can open their hearts and people who can't. You're one of the ones who can. Or, more precisely, you can if you want to."

"What happens when people open their hearts?"

Reiko clasped her hands together on the table, cigarette dangling from her lips. She was enjoying this. "They get better," she said.

"I have a lot more patience for others than I have for myself, and I'm much better at bringing out the best in others than in myself. That's just the kind of person I am. I'm the scratchy stuff on the side of the matchbox. But that's fine with me. I don't mind at all. Better to be a first-class matchbox than a second-class match."

Face on the top right.

"Silence. Just like with her. How long it lasted, I couldn't tell. It might have been five seconds, it might have been a minute. Time wasn't fixed. It wavered, stretched, shrank. Or was it me that wavered, stretched, and shrank in the silence? I was warped in the folds of time, like a reflection in a fun house mirror."

"Now the phone company. All those lines coming together. Lines stretching all the way from this very room. Connecting me, in principle, to anyone and everyone. I could even call Anchorage if I wanted. Or the Dolphin Hotel, for that matter, or my ex-wife. Countless possibilities. And all tied together through the phone company switchboard. Computer-processed these days of course. Converted into strings of digits, then transmitted via telephone wires to underground cable or undersea tunnel or communications satellite, ultimately finding its way to us. A gigantic computer-controlled network.

But no matter how advanced the system, no matter how precise, unless we have the will to communicate, there's no connection."

I love trees.

“People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if possible, sincerely. It's too easy not to make the effort, then weep and wring your hands after the person dies. Personally, I don't buy it.”

Yuki leaned against the car door. “But that's real hard, isn't it?” she said. “Real hard,” I said. “But it's worth trying for.”

Doing restoration on part of a temple. It kind of took away the ancient feel haha.

When I was little, I had this science book. There was a section on “What would happen to the world if there was no friction?” Answer: “Everything on earth would fly into space from the centrifugal force of revolution.” That was my mood.