JD Salinger

It's probably not special, nor original, nor very cool to like JD Salinger and it may betray my scant reading history and superficial literary knowledge, but I do like JD Salinger. I actually just finished reading "Raise High the Roof Beam..." for the second time and it was just as impressive as when I read it back when I was 19. What I could say about " Catcher in the Rye" could be and will be said by millions of other people but it's my blog so tough shit, here it goes.


I read a  book about a guy who is frustrated with everything, who is angry that the world isn't and will never be the way he wants it to be. He detests what he sees around him, his friends, his teachers, and himself. He turns everything outward and and when it comes back at him he feels betrayed and singled out. The only person he likes and respects is his little sister.  I read it when I was 16. How perfect is that?


He keeps bringing up day dreams of ideal worlds he could see himself living happily in. They all lack the unending pressure of interacting with others according to the arbitrary rules that we all slowly, to our disappointment and disgust , discover will govern our lives. You can't opt out and that realisation hits some of us harder than others. I still have these day dreams on a regular basis.


When my high school class read "Catcher in the Rye", everyone learned a new word: obnoxious. Holden was obnoxious. I wondered if they just felt that this was how they should react to an admittedly flawed character. I didn't admire him but I deeply understood him. Didn't they? Did they understand the book? Did they really despise this character that I felt mirrored so many of my thoughts, fears, and disappointments? If so, I was in the wrong place with the wrong people. (I would eventually, and painfully, realise that there is no right place). What was more troubling was that my identification with and defense of Holden in classroom discussions was used to mock and berate me. (though I kind of had it coming) I thought if there was anything we could all agree on is that being a teenager sucked, and none of us were happy being stuck where we were with little control or understanding of our lives. Perhaps the only thing we could bond over was turned into an insult and a joke. And much like Holden did, I reacted in an non-constructive manner (to put it mildly).


I read it again 10 years later and I cried like a baby several times. The time in my life I read it and what I went through (put my self through) in the subsequent years was brought to the surface over and over. It was exhausting. But, I may be ready to read it again. Thank you Mr.Salinger.




JD Salinger Dies at 91

Research in Emotion

I have been conducting some informal polling and research. I hope to make the results available over the next few weeks. Some results were surprising while others only serve to reinforce long held beliefs. The chart above should give you a good idea of the struggles I face on a daily basis.  The results are funny within +/- 4%. The numbers do not lie.

Battle Hymn of the Apartment (4b)

"Luminous" Meinohama, Fukuoka, Japan - When you stop caring, you often do your best work. Or at least the most enjoyable work. I remember a hockey game when I was in Bantam. It was either in a tournament or actually more likely a one- off exhibition game. We were playing against St.Bruno and thus were expected to win, being from the big city (Jonquiere) and all. My defensive partner and I decided it would be fun to play the whole game skating like goalies. You know, short, stomping strides. I think we also yelled out ridiculous words or sounds whenever we went into the corner with an opposing player. That worked surprisingly well, throwing them off guard and taking them out of the play. Much more effective than my 110 lbs. body checks. The other guy gave up skating silly after a while but I kept it up for most of the game.I probably enjoyed myself more that game than almost any other I played. I usually couldn't enjoy the games in the moment for reasons including, but not limited to, my over-competetiveness, being surrounded by teenage boys and adult hockey coaches (both members of intersecting sets) who are generally assholes, the pressure of my father watching from the stands, and general teenage unhappiness. I scored a goal and got two assists.

My time in Meinohama was kind of bonus time. After deciding to leave Nagasaki, the company I was working for asked me to fill in for a couple of months in Meinohama, a part of Fukuoka city just on the outer reaches of the center of the city (NDG like?maybe further out than that?Not rich but nice and family oriented while still only 15 minutes on the subway from downtown.). I said I'd do it as long as I could still take a planned trip to Vietnam. They said sure and threw in some extra cash, and a free apartment. Ok! You win!

 Compared to Nagasaki the apartment was huge. The bathroom and the kitchen were nowhere near each other and where I slept and where I ate almost felt like two different rooms. Clean, bright and despite there being no restaurants or bars within walking distance it was a pretty good place to live.

I came back from Vietnam bearded, tanned, and refreshed. At the new school I had no obligations toward or entanglements with the staff or the students and I could just teach unencumbered. It was nice to be in a city again as well. If I could live anywhere, it would be Fukuoka. Perfect size, beaches, weather, conveniences, hot ladies, and good food. Relaxed and happy, I realized I like teaching, quite a bit. I'm good at it. It seems to be a useful thing to do. It makes some difference in people's lives and allows you to do a bit of thinking. Not bad at all.

Battle Hymn of the Apartment (4a)

As I move into my 21st home, I take a brief moment to look back at the places I've lived.

So I decided not only to start listening to people's advice but to actually follow it as well. After all, I hadn't exactly guided myself to the promised land. Stop picking apart every suggestion, finding the negative is easy and there are always more reasons not to do something than to do it. I wanted to let go of my argument-counterarguement way of thinking; way of living. My mother suggested I apply to teach English in Japan. My first thought was I don't want to be one of those assholes who goes off to Japan and reads Manga and gets some ugly girl to come back with them and are twits. But really I don't want to be one of those anythings. So where does that leave me? I don't have to be something, I can just do something. I asked my father what I should do and did what he said. Same for my brother and friends. Things were already going better. I got the job.

They asked me where I wanted to live in Japan. I knew only two cities so I said Tokyo or Kyoto. They said Nagasaki. Heard of it. Checked it out on the ol' internet and the thing that struck me was virtually no snow in winter. My brother and I had often discussed, usually in the second or third week of February, what a cruel joke it was that someone had decided to build a city in such a bleak, soul-crushing place as Montreal. Wouldn't it be great to just live one year without this brutal winter? Without taking ten minutes to dress before heading to the corner to get beer? Without the dry, itchy skin, chapped lips, nose rubbed raw from blowing? Without the being deprived of daylight to the point of seriously contemplating ending it all? No snow? Sold.

"Urban Life" Furukawamachi Nagasaki Japan-   Apart from the reoccurring nightmares [I wake up, in my dream, suddenly realizing that I'm still in Japan and years have past without my noticing. I feel like I must rush back home as soon as possible but the usually illogical dream obstacles stand in my way. I am filled with regret as I've let my life pass and there is no way to get the time back. My family and friends have all moved on and I've missed it. I have only recently stopped having this nightmare.] I was glad I had come to Japan. Daily, trivial activities and objects were new and exciting. The air was different. The food was great. The girls were so cute I wanted to cry. 

My apartment was basically a small box meant for sleeping, bathing, and occasionally eating. It was on the sixth floor; the highest I had ever lived. My childhood fear of heights was eventually replaced by my still ongoing love of views from high up. My balcony had a pretty good view because, although not especially tall, the buildings immediately around mine were shorter. To the left was a mountain ( actually the same can be said about any direction you look in Nagasaki, except down). The lower fifth was occupied by a row of temples of various sizes, ages, and designs. They were dwarfed by enormous camphor trees. The next two fifths was cover by graves. Japanese graves are little walled in courtyards with a tall stone pillar at one end. Some were new. Some were older but still maintained by children or maybe grandchildren of the deceased. Others were old and forgotten, no longer being looked after by relatives who had maybe moved to another city or just no longer felt a duty to whoever the distant relative was. Once I am no longer remembered or cared about I sincerely hope my grave falls into a heap of stone and weeds. Of course these ruined old graves were the best to look at. After some trees the top fifth was covered in houses and a few other buildings of unknown use.

My jogging route wound around and ultimately to the top of the mountain and to a small look out spot that allowed you a view of central Nagasaki, the port and ship building yards, and on a clear night (always jog at night unless heat stroke is desired) a view out to the open sea  that eventually hits the shores of Korea. The trip down was via endless stairs of varying heights, widths and states of disrepair that cut a path straight through hundreds and hundreds of densely packed graves. Running past temples, little houses teetering on cliffs, and moss (and snake) covered grave stones never got dull and I made sure I appreciated the journey each and every time.

There was no escape in my tiny room. The familiar places that would provoke all the same feelings of safety, contentment, dissatisfaction and disappointment were no longer a short walk from my front door. The same well worn conversations, had and re-had with close friends, acquaintances and strangers alike were no longer an option that could be counted upon when an effort seemed like too much to ask for. Even half my clothes had been thrown away, some intentionally and some accidentally (the great sweater tragedy of 2001). 30 years old and completely up in the air.

It was like isolating one track on a recording. Suddenly the drums, bass, guitar, dropped out and all I was left with was me. Me without effects or backing tracks. Just me, dry and loud in the earphones, straight into my head. I tried to make some accompanying noise to dull it's harshness. Mostly drinking, smoking, drama, bitching, crushes on girls. But it was hard not to hear myself. I didn't like what I heard and the only thing to do was change because it wasn't going away this time. Either I eventually got used to the tone deaf shouting or I forced it into becoming something I could stand. Which ever it was, I left this place slightly better at living and a little bit happier with the way I am (and with a cute girlfriend).