Wrath
writing through anger on an August Saturday
I am angry today and for the silliest of reasons. I have a small collection of Hoya, a plant genus with a dizzying array of species, of which I can boast a mere fraction. Some do really well in my home. Others, not so much. I suspect the relatively low humidity is to blame, but that’s the thing about plants, you never know. Too much water? Not enough? Fertilizer issues? Air movement? Have the spider mites re-appeared?
And why I am angry? Because of gravity. Silly, right? I told you.
Encouraged by said gravity and perhaps a redirected puff of breeze as my clever and crafty husband figured out a way to attach a filter to our air-conditioner’s intake (we’re still dealing with low levels of wildfire smoke here), one of my younger plants tumbled from its perch atop my plant rack.
I hustled over to right it, grateful that it remained largely intact—the support spikes needed to be re-inserted but that was the extent of the damage. As I struggled to replace it, balanced and upright, on the rack, a large piece of lapis lazuli (Hiro collects minerals and stones when he’s not collecting Vaseline glass—uranium glass as it’s called in Japanese) tumbled as well, taking another Hoya downward with it.
This Hoya, nestled in a coir medium, came loose from its pot. I swore vociferously as I pulled loose coir from the carpet to repot my poor baby.
Hiro brought the shop vac—yes, we have a shop vac—up from downstairs and prepared to clean up. Wait, I said. I had already mentally predicted that vibrations or a bump from the vacuum would jostle more plants. Let me do the vacuuming. I don’t want to get angry at you, too.
No sooner had Hiro headed to the shower when the two righted plants, joined by a third, traitorous sibling, fell to the carpet yet again. After I bellowed—I suspect people in neighboring counties heard me—I collected the naughty, naughty plants and brought them to the kitchen where I could secure them in larger pots with better balance and new centers of gravity and more medium (I’m a fan of the clay balls they sell at IKEA), and returned to the scene of their perfidy.
No other Hoya had fallen. I powered up the shop vac and directed it to inhale the loose coir, pebbles, and dirt. I needed to go into the corners with the dust-buster—shop vacs are blunt instruments not suited for navigating around plant racks and plant stand legs and on into corners—but I paused to start writing about this cacophonous clamor in part to exorcise my anger.
I learned to drive in the suburbs of New York City. One of my summer jobs when I was seventeen had me driving my mother’s white station wagon (with a maroon interior—ooh!) into Manhattan and back, loaded with helium tanks. The gas was for the balloon decorations I assisted in the creation of for many a bar or bat mitzvah, not to mention a fair few weddings where an arch of blue and white balloons and maybe several balloon centerpieces were de rigeuer.
I have therefore always been an aggressive driver, heavy on the horn and prone to shouting (behind rolled-up windows and locked doors). When hybrid schedules were announced for my job, I was EXTREMELY grateful for fewer commutes among some of the inanest drivers I know (driving in Japan is a BREEZE compared to the greater Seattle area). The capricious Pacific Northwest nature that lets people alter the right of way on whims of self-serving generosity always increases my blood pressure. Gentle reader, you will perhaps be as amused as Hiro is to know that my vehicular shouting, still behind rolled-up windows and locked doors, occurs in Japanese. And, I should admit, uncharacteristically curt and hyper-masculine Japanese.
As a reminder, Japanese is a heavily context-dependent language. In addition, aside from some common nicknames for genitalia and language derogatory of other ethnicities or of persons with disabilities, there are very few words that correspond to the English notion of a curse word. My translations below are therefore more akin to localizations, where I offer what I would say in English in exactly the same situations.
動けば？ ugokeba? Why don’t you move, dumb ass!
何やってんだよ！ nani yatte n da yo! What the actual fuck are you doing?
おい！oi! Hey, idiot!
動くんじゃねぇよ！まだ赤だ！ ugoku n ja nē yo! mada aka da! The light is still red, asshole. Stop moving!
ウィンカー使ったら？ winkā tukattara? Use your fucking turn signal!
ちゃんと運転しろ！chanto unten shiro! Just drive, dammit!
And on the rarest of occasions, complete with a yakuza rolling of the Rs:
ぶっ殺してやる！ bukkoroshite yaru! I am going to murder you beyond recognition!
That said, I am never as angry behind the wheel as I am watching a plant wobble from its perch and tumble downward. My anger is pure vowels, a primordial cri de coeur! It’s utterly frightening and thankfully, I have not once directed that ur-anger at Hiro. Plants, yes. More commonly at furniture that grabs at my toes or shins, banging me into bruised bedevilment, but again that’s rare. Today was my unlucky day.
Some of you know I have creative outlets beyond writing. Once upon a time I sang. I design t-shirts and bracelets. And I photograph flowers as the Hoya above attests.
But I want to starting sharing some of the Japanese photographers I follow on Twitter.
First up is a very atmospheric photographer who goes by the name of omi (@cram_box).
This is some of their incredible work. I very much miss Japan (and Hiro is hopeful that marriage equality will soon arrive there, allowing me to consider retirement there), and their photos tug at my emotions.
Very sorry to hear that you're delicate darlings suffered such a terrible toss. If you treat them to some Mozart, I believe your mood would be more mellow. We need some audio for the curses, but the translations were enough to make me laugh out loud. Thanks!