ENTRY 28

Child of the Ice

1月12日 (水) 11:43pm JST

Not unexpectedly, I stepped of the train in Takaoka, and everything was covered in snow.

Perhaps somewhat less expectedly than it should have been, snow was falling then and there. It looked like a specialty salt, used perhaps for giant pretzels or homemade ice cream. Snow filled the air remorselessly. The streets were made a slushy froth by Toyama’s chill perpetually hovering just over the freezing point. As predicted by Toyama veterans before I left, nozzles built into the highway swept the snow on the streets into a soupy stew.

Since I can’t just tell myself outright that I really want to be here for a whole two years, I tell myself that I first must carefully consider how deeply Toyama’s weather will impact my quality of life— Is the winter bad enough to forego repetition?

Of course, this year is supposedly notable for an unusual dearth of snow, which makes its predictive utility slight. My apartment is already cold enough, especially since my kerosene heater will only turn on intermittently. A coat is a necessity even (especially) in my own living room.

On the brighter side, the snow here is much less apt to soak through clothing than the snows I experienced as a youth. The simple explanation for this is that aging has dampened my enthusiasm for playing in it.

Oh, years, pass not swiftly!

1月13日 (木) 11:08pm JST

The crunch of snow underfoot still fascinates me, as does the sight of snow precipitating. Snow here comes in flecks like dandruff and wisps like down. It can be a tiny white mustard seed or an albino peppercorn. Whatever the size or shape, it seems to have coated every surface in the outside world.

And yet, by the close of school today, the snow had definitely receded. There were narrow paths of relatively easy navigation, and a few spots of pavement even shone through to the surface.

It’s sad to imagine that this could be the end of winter already. If you have to be cold either way, at least snow provides an interesting diversion to those outside. I have yet to create a snowman, even one of a rudimentary style, nor have I seen any lining the streets or playgrounds. I can’t imagine where in this urban wasteland one could sled safely and haven’t even seriously entertained the idea of searching for such a place. It’s a shame that age has made my sense of the joyous possibilities of snow as suppressed as those of the children of Toyama seem to be, having faced deluge each winter of their lives. Perhaps they do have some affection for snow, but if so, they have hidden such signs from me.

Yes, not only my inner child but the outer children of Japan as well seem to be dying.

Still, I try to cultivate an eye for the purple mountains and slick, white rice fields. Winter in Toyama seems to have gathered the colors that autumn should have been using and put them into the sunsets and tinted all the snowy eaves of the buildings rose and peach. Dancing snowflakes replace falling leaves nicely and even the sloshed up roads have a kind of chaotic elegance like a leaf strewn forest floor.

With the child lost, I can only hope that my inner aesthete can fill the void.