Aug. 18th, 2003 03:29 pm
Yet another dream entry!
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muckefuckThis are becoming such a regular treat (are they outnumber food entries by now? No WAY!) I should either stop doing them altogether or stop apologising for them. No contest.
I ran out of my GERD-suppresent Sunday and had to make do with a bellyload of calcium carbonate instead to handle the grilled merguez, duck, and pheasant sausages of dinner. I think this explains a lot.
I was in Japan. I was lying in a traditional house in Japan, waking up to find myself near the door. I wanted to stretch out and read, but my futon was so short that everytime I did, I extended my bare feet across the entryway, blocking the door and committing some kind of unpardonable rudeness, I'm sure. I was staying with the family of a young mixed-race woman I knew.
Her grandmother had died and they were holding a funeral. I must've arrived late because I found myself standing stage right whereas all my other friends were seated to the left. The family stood in the middle, the women decked out in gorgeous, brightly coloured gowns with simple patterns embroidered on them in gold thread.
The "stage" was actually a kind of sacred space found in Shinto [which makes no sense, btw, since Shintoists don't "do" funerals; in fact, a common saying in Japan is "Shinto for life, Buddhism for death"]. It was a large, rectangular dais covered in coarse whitish sand and fenced off with hempen rope. (The rope might've been interwoven with strips of paper, but I didn't see any sign of sakaki leaves.)
A minister dressed in black asked if anyone would like to "say a few words" and a young Eastern European woman who had worked with the deceased came to the microphone and began speaking. She had only made it to the second line when she called the grandmother "Barbara"--the name of another colleague who had died some years back. I realised that she was just rereading her eulogy from back then and had forgotten to substitute the name; she must've realised she'd been caught out, since she stood down in silent embarrassment. I was already feeling terribly awkward standing alone, so I hid my face in a book.
When I looked up again, the family members were quietly sobbing. It was impossible to look at them without crying, as the other guests attested by their tears. I started choking up myself, but the time had come to distribute the ashes. Someone came up to me and explained that it was traditional to eat the ashes of the deceased "but no one will expect you to do it if you're not intimate family." I looked up and saw the family members taking small pinches of ashes and putting them in their mouths. I was too moved to refuse and the man put a small clump of grayish ash into my palm. I ate a little of it, but it was so bitter I wasn't sure I could swallow it.
I looked up at the guest section and saw that cartons of milk were being passed around. I decided to wait for one of those to come my way. I made a fist around the ashes, but particles began slipping between my fingers and I didn't know whether they should fall within the sacred precinct or outside of it. Somehow, I felt putting my hand over the rope would violate the space, but it seemed wrong for her ashes to fall on common ground.
Finally, my brother looked up and I caught his eye; he gestured with a carton and I nodded. He then called over a man in dark attire who took the milk from him. However, it wasn't this man who came up to me, but the father of my friend himself. He was American and wore neither tie nor jacket. He said, "You know how to do this?" I replied, "I think so. You take a little milk and mix it with the ashes in your palm." He poured the milk onto my left hand. "This is weird Japanese milk," I said, realising it would be thick, sweet, and warm. I made a paste with the ashes, took a small ball in my right hand, and put it in my mouth. The father was saying what a good man he thought I was, which moved me deeply. I wasn't sure what to say since I couldn't remember if this was his mother or his mother-in-law.
Meanwhile, the tiny bit of ash-paste had grown into a huge, doughy ball that I could hardly keep under control with both hands. I was taking off chunks and trying to eat them, but I was letting at least as much drop to the ground. I tried to conceal my hands from the father and dump most of what I had, since trying to choke it all down was nauseating me. I muttered something apologetic about "the old woman swelling".
Then I think I woke up.
I ran out of my GERD-suppresent Sunday and had to make do with a bellyload of calcium carbonate instead to handle the grilled merguez, duck, and pheasant sausages of dinner. I think this explains a lot.
I was in Japan. I was lying in a traditional house in Japan, waking up to find myself near the door. I wanted to stretch out and read, but my futon was so short that everytime I did, I extended my bare feet across the entryway, blocking the door and committing some kind of unpardonable rudeness, I'm sure. I was staying with the family of a young mixed-race woman I knew.
Her grandmother had died and they were holding a funeral. I must've arrived late because I found myself standing stage right whereas all my other friends were seated to the left. The family stood in the middle, the women decked out in gorgeous, brightly coloured gowns with simple patterns embroidered on them in gold thread.
The "stage" was actually a kind of sacred space found in Shinto [which makes no sense, btw, since Shintoists don't "do" funerals; in fact, a common saying in Japan is "Shinto for life, Buddhism for death"]. It was a large, rectangular dais covered in coarse whitish sand and fenced off with hempen rope. (The rope might've been interwoven with strips of paper, but I didn't see any sign of sakaki leaves.)
A minister dressed in black asked if anyone would like to "say a few words" and a young Eastern European woman who had worked with the deceased came to the microphone and began speaking. She had only made it to the second line when she called the grandmother "Barbara"--the name of another colleague who had died some years back. I realised that she was just rereading her eulogy from back then and had forgotten to substitute the name; she must've realised she'd been caught out, since she stood down in silent embarrassment. I was already feeling terribly awkward standing alone, so I hid my face in a book.
When I looked up again, the family members were quietly sobbing. It was impossible to look at them without crying, as the other guests attested by their tears. I started choking up myself, but the time had come to distribute the ashes. Someone came up to me and explained that it was traditional to eat the ashes of the deceased "but no one will expect you to do it if you're not intimate family." I looked up and saw the family members taking small pinches of ashes and putting them in their mouths. I was too moved to refuse and the man put a small clump of grayish ash into my palm. I ate a little of it, but it was so bitter I wasn't sure I could swallow it.
I looked up at the guest section and saw that cartons of milk were being passed around. I decided to wait for one of those to come my way. I made a fist around the ashes, but particles began slipping between my fingers and I didn't know whether they should fall within the sacred precinct or outside of it. Somehow, I felt putting my hand over the rope would violate the space, but it seemed wrong for her ashes to fall on common ground.
Finally, my brother looked up and I caught his eye; he gestured with a carton and I nodded. He then called over a man in dark attire who took the milk from him. However, it wasn't this man who came up to me, but the father of my friend himself. He was American and wore neither tie nor jacket. He said, "You know how to do this?" I replied, "I think so. You take a little milk and mix it with the ashes in your palm." He poured the milk onto my left hand. "This is weird Japanese milk," I said, realising it would be thick, sweet, and warm. I made a paste with the ashes, took a small ball in my right hand, and put it in my mouth. The father was saying what a good man he thought I was, which moved me deeply. I wasn't sure what to say since I couldn't remember if this was his mother or his mother-in-law.
Meanwhile, the tiny bit of ash-paste had grown into a huge, doughy ball that I could hardly keep under control with both hands. I was taking off chunks and trying to eat them, but I was letting at least as much drop to the ground. I tried to conceal my hands from the father and dump most of what I had, since trying to choke it all down was nauseating me. I muttered something apologetic about "the old woman swelling".
Then I think I woke up.
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