Nasty Conjugation

It really is amazing how the contents of my head can be affected by such a variety of outside forces. Weather, temperature, smell, texture, color, sound, flavor – combinations of sensory information are making a chemical mess of my brain cage.

Remember those Junior Science Lab kits from childhood? They came with an assortment of test tubes, beakers, some copper wire, a double-A battery, various chemicals, powders, and instructions on how to turn it all into science. I used mine to measure rainfall; I tried some of the other experiments, but I was a pretty abysmal scientist when it came down to it. However, had I been a decent chemist, I could’ve had those test tubes bubbling with all kinds of sinister alchemical concoctions. I could’ve added vinegar and red dye to baking soda and had myself a volcano (actually, I think I did do that). If only I’d known how to make an electrical current run through the copper wire from a beaker of salt water. I had more litmus paper than maybe was decent, but I never knew what color meant acid. All I could do was leave my graduated cylinder out on the back porch and measure the rain.

So here I am, in Japan, with some belligerent Junior Science Lab in my head. Things are fizzing and bubbling and I’m in the middle of it alternating between insane laughter and profound confusion. I have no idea what any of it means, what chemical reactions are causing these colorful messes – once again I can only catch the rain as it falls. I’m not fast enough to know the explosions before they’re nothing but aftermath.

Case study: I’m sitting in a test tube, sterile and still, when a breath of wind carries in the scent of oranges. Whoosh! The tube is fizzing and alive and suddenly I am seven years younger and working at a smoothie shop again. I’m putting stickie notes on all the bottles of fresh orange juice. Stars of David – Orange Jews.

Case study: I am clean now and in a new test tube and minding my own business. A piece of song floats through the glass and everything starts to sparkle and it shatters and I am sitting in the apartment Holly and I shared. I’m watching TV, she’s cooking shrimp to put in the salad that’s on the coffee table, and I am awash in the moment, the happiest I had ever been in my life so far. Leaving that memory is painful, not because I am not still as happy, but because I want to horde happiness, as if it could be divided into tokens. Inevitably, everything becomes a memory.

These reactions take seconds, none more than minutes. They happen when I am on the subway, when I am teaching, when I am eating – no one knows they are occurring except me. It’s all just part of the adjusting process – I know this. After all this observation, all this time in my head with the copper wire and Erlenmeyer flasks, I’m already starting to see the slow shapes of answers. They are skeletal and dubious, but they still provide some insight, or at least some new hypotheses to test.

Here’s what the hypothesis says:

“Life is life, everywhere,” it says, “and it has the same ingredients – hot, cold, sad, melodic, salty, humid, horny, green, wood grain, rhythm – everywhere.”

Inevitably the shock of these chemical memories comes from something that is too familiar. The wind smells too much like a thunderstorm in Florida. That person’s lips once rested on someone else’s face; who gave them the right to use those lips? Whenever something is not different enough, my mind crosschecks it, compares, reminds me that I am still living the same life in the same world.

“Don’t be so surprised at the usual,” the hypothesis says.

The other night I felt good. I had been out drinking with co-workers, so perhaps the beer was part of it, but I know that there was more to the feeling than alcohol. I was sitting on a taxi bench, waiting for Holly to come home – both of our Nova branches had welcome parties for us on the same night, so we were forced to attend separately. It was raining quietly, and sometimes the wind guided the raindrops onto the back of my head. I was not measuring it.

I was listening to music, wrapped in my headphones, watching Japanese people walk home. Whether it was the music or the rain or the beer, I sat there without moving and was peaceful. My brain wasn’t bubbling. Rather than anticipating or measuring myself, I just sat and was there. When Holly arrived I would kiss her, with the same lips I had worn since I met her in Florida, and my same heart would beat a little faster, and we’d hold the same hands as we walked down the new street home.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 5th, 2006 at 3:09 am and is filed under Japan. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.