Give them what they want

Chorus Chorus Chorus!

Dating Hiatus

I love boys. But just now I'm just a little frustrated with them. So tonight my date to the Halloween party is going to be a smart, cool and beautiful girl.

I can't wait to see her costume! I bet it's sexy.

Tipsy? Nope, Not Me

I sure look it.

(That's me winning at poker. Ha ha! I bluff better when I'm drunk.)

Epiphany

I realized something at the show last night. I'd rather make music that makes people's hips sway than their heads bang.

Lulu's Gift

I came home to a package waiting for me, sent by Lulu. Her note reads, "How else do you get through a breakup besides books + cds?" In the box are some of her favorite listening and reading material.

What really gets me through a breakup is knowing I have friends like you, you generous beautiful person! When are you going to move here so we can gossip over tea and home-made biscuits?

Stripped

Arrived to warmth in the seventies today, in my corduroy coat and sweater. Dazed by the bright sun. I'd curled up on the two seats and slept on the plane, and now I was stiff and dry and unwashed in rain-encrusted jeans and mascara from the night before. I'm stripped of analysis, consciousness, memory - all that's left is to simply be.

My last night in New York, and I didn't want to sleep. It had rained ferociously during the day and into the evening, and while normally the weather would have coaxed me to stay in with a cup of hot chocolate and a few silly DVDs, when would I be in New York again? So I hitched a cab ride down to Tribeca and rallied the hardworking team at Invasiv. My jeans, socks, and shoes were soaked through. My umbrella had broken so I bought a new one. I wanted to surround myself with people.

First stop, since it was about 8, was food - Korean barbecue. We headed up to K-town and I got sloshed on shoju. After dinner, karaoke was suggested. Just a few doors down we secured a private room and ordered some beers.

The party was on the verge of breaking up. But I refused to let it. I don't know how the notion of a strip club had come up, but since it had, somehow, I insisted. In spite of the late hour and the flagging spirits of everyone I managed to convince the group that it would be a great idea to go look at half-dressed women dancing sultrily with poles.

Strip clubs are not somewhere you go with a boyfriend or girlfriend, I would say. Because strip clubs are after all about sex, and it's not necessarily to the advantage of your significant other to watch or be watched in that context. Souris went home, but Silvio stayed out. And the eight of us - seven boys and me - went to Flashdancers because it would, said David, be the cheapest.

I immediately felt a rapport with the first girl who danced near our table. As the guest of honor, I had the closest seat. But of course, it's their job to build rapport, and this girl was good at it. She leaned over and asked me in a friendly fashion if it was still raining. I told her it had stopped. I complimented her on her navel jewerlry, which was a fantastic piece of rhinestonery. She said, "Thanks! I just got it!" She was beautiful. Dark-skinned. All the strippers seemed to have perfect skin. Someone - I can't remember who - bought me a back massage and the woman came over to do it and did a marvelous job.

David paid an amazing amount of money to go to the Champagne room to get a semi-private dance with me and a very pretty Japanese girl called Miko. At first she concentrated on David, but he graciously asked her to turn her attention on me, which she did. It was so hot. Who doesn't love female bodies? So smooth, warm, curvy and luscious.

But I was exhausted. I came back out of the Champagne room and promptly fell asleep on the chairs. It was time to head home.

In a fog, I made my bed and collapsed under the covers in my dirty clothes. I woke up three hours later, packed up, and, still drunk from shoju, beer, and champagne, walked down to meet my car. The city felt unreal to me, like moving images from someone else's experience. I showed up at the airport and realized I'd mistaken my flight time - I was an hour early. I sat by the gate and started to write this account. Today I feel a fever coming on, but it's not so bad. I'll play a show tomorrow at Bottom of the Hill. But tonight, I'll go to bed at seven and sleep for twelve wonderful hours.

No Sleep til Oakland

The mind reaches a singular state of awareness when it is rinsed in alcohol, wrung out, and deprived of sleep. After several nights of staying up late, I played poker with the kids at home till four in the morning, drinking sweet sticky Sac-sac with vodka and smoking furiously. Then, slightly buzzed, got up to go to the cooking show at eight the next day - sat throughout the show with barely any food and no water; on the way home, walked around the Met in a happy daze. Came home just in time to head out to shabu-shabu, with cold unfiltered sake; came home again and stayed up talking till two in comforting female company. Just got up at eight to make breakfast and see the kids off - one home to Chicago, the others to work. And now I'm watching an Outkast video and I'm humming, my vision is shimmering, the world retreats from me behind a veil but other things come into focus sharply and unusually.

I could sleep. I could restore my senses back to normalcy. But my impulse is to push on, push forward, experience more. Today in an hour I'll call a friend, head out to pick up some sneakers, drop by NYU, head to the Village for coffee, then to Tribeca for dinner. My body vibrates like a resonate guitar string. It's like taking a drug - my mind has been altered, and I don't want it to stop. Not yet.

I can always sleep in Oakland. But New York is for living wide-awake in wonder.

Ming Tsai Fan Club

From left to right, the gentlemen in white are Mark Miller, Ming Tsai, and Michel Nischan. The fan club is: me, Robin, Souris, and Alaina. Thanks to Hsiao Chen for the photo!

You can see what a great time we had!

Food Adventure in New York

Sunday morning we'll be lining up for VIP seats to NHK's Koshi-Hikari Cooking Show. It's an Iron-Chef like competition, apparently, though I've never seen it. We'll be attending the taping of the sem-finals. Ming Tsai will be one of the celebrity chef judges. Because we're VIP, we'll be seated close enough to smell the food!

I cannot wait. This is worth getting up early on Sunday for. We can always nap afterwards!

Who's in My Bed?

Souris and Silvio's cat Godzuki made a home in my bed.

Smart and Cute Girls!

A few photos from Smart Girls Dinner last night:

jee cooks! we had risotto and pan-fried fish. yummy.

silvio the secret agent and robin the smart girl drink wine and eat cheese.

souris checks recipes while jee chops.

souris and silvio try their hands at the ping pong game.

i'm a bad, bad girl (especially in my Thrasher shirt)

Smart Girls Dinner

I'm staying with Souris and Silvio. Because Jee and Robin are also in town, we decided to have Smart Girl Dinner to discuss our plans for world domination (with Silvio the secret counter-agent). We ended up talking about gadgets, dream jobs, boys, food, and videogames. Okay, so we're still in the baby stages of taking over the universe, but we ate and drank with relish.

It's so great to see Souris and Silvio again; even better to get to meet Jee - I can't figure out why we haven't met before, since we know the same people. And it's terrific to see Robin again! Especially in the context of New York City.

Okay, now we're off for co-ed drinks. Pictures to follow soon!

In the Wee Hours

The Small Hours is an electro-inspired band comprising of my bandmate and friend Chris Wetherell and my fellow-gamer friend Adam Marks. They're working on a full-length album. You can download their songs. Also, they have a chillingly beautiful video by Jason Koxvold.

Jason is an artist of range, impressive talent, and an interesting diversity of experience. I've mentioned his travelogues before. You should check out some of his projects - and read his stories. Especially the one about Tom Clancy. Fascinating.

And now to bed. It's an early flight to the East tomorrow.

Sometimes

I just get sad. Sad to think of what used to be. Sadder still to think of what could have been.

To shake these feelings one needs to focus on what is, and what will be.

And not let sadness obfuscate these.

Although, sometimes, it's hard.

Days of the Dead

Most Californios know the Day of the Dead - a festival that dates from preHispanic Aztec times. Similar to the Japanese Obon festival, it's a time to visit your family graves, decorate and clean them, and drink and dance with your living relatives.

This Sunday afternoon the Oakland Museum of California will host a special celebration in conjunction with the exhibit guest-curated by artist Enrique Chagoya and by my friend Heather Choy, who spent an entire summer working at the museum. It's a free event and admission to the galleries is half-price - there's a lovely outdoor space where activities will be taking place. I will unfortunately be in New York that day, but if you're in the Bay Area you should go and tell me about it!

The Oakland Museum is on Oak street at 10th in downtown Oakland, right across the street from Lake Merrit BART.

Girl Night: Memo

Girl Night 2:
8 attendees
dinner, plus wine
7:30-10:30
post-dinner wrap-up for some: 10:30-12.

Among the topics covered were:

- 80's music and bands we love/hate
- teaching special ed class
- colonics, and their perceived benefits
- ex-boyfriends, and their various merits and flaws
- current flames, and their crushworthiness/-unworthiness
- current projects, school, writing, etc.
- the job market
- the housing market
- what we look for in a guy
- men we've dated
- men we would like to date
- celebrity men we love and those we don't care for in spite of their fame
- whether we have a "type" to which we are attracted
- the loves of our lives
- ex-boyfriends who are strangely married, or with child
- investigation of the nature of "platonic" friendships with men
- cigarettes: how bad are they really?
- women may pursue power differently from men but perhaps the end result would be the same
- a new MAC product
- agreement that we need to take a sewing class.

I do believe a good time was had by all. For next time, we shall have a directive: wear something from your closet you have never worn before.

Should be veeeery interesting.

My Pretty Imaginary Pony

I used to be really into motorcycles. Freakishly into them, considering I've never owned one. Oh, but I planned to, you bet. A whisper of fear kept me from actually purchasing one. I had endangered myself enough on four wheels; I sometimes quailed to think of the damage I could do on two.

Still, I hungered for them. I drooled over the pages of International Bike, Cycle World, and Motorcycle Rider. (I believe I actually subscribed to those publications at one point. The fees to International Bike alone could have been a down payment on a pretty nice little Honda.) And, like all bike fanatics (even those losers who don't actually own a bike), I conceived of my ultimate fantasy bike.

The year was, oh, about 1996; so the object of my lust would have been a Bimota SB6. I went for the exotics, that's for sure. Under 500 lbs, but housing an engine based on Suzuki's GSX-R11, all the happy rushing energy of a liquid-cooled in-line four, and yet with that 29-inch seat height I needed to feel comfortable. Oh, what trouble I could have gotten into with that beauty! Of course, with a price tag of about $30,000, if I remember correctly, it was safely out of reach and I wouldn't go careening to a messy fiery death on Skyline.

It's not the prettiest possible bike in the world - it's got some bulk, although that's mitigated by flawless Italian design - but it appealed to me enormously. It was so cute! So curvy, feminine. And yet, so fucking massively powerful. It was a girl's power fantasy come true.

But a girl grows up; her tastes evolve. I grew tired of fancy fairings, and I moved on to naked bikes. Nothing's hotter than a stripped-down street bike customized within an inch of street legal with lo-pro mini lights, fat pipes, fancy shocks; oh yes, and don't forget the paint job - maybe distressed black, or silver. There's a retro charm to such a bike, but the performance had better be all modern. For a long time I saw kids riding bikes they had built, total custom jobs; but then my eye turned towards Ducati's Il Mostro.

The Monster is one monstrous bike. It's definitely more aggro than the Bimota. It's ready to pounce, snarling, on its victims. And the rear looks like nothing so much as a wasp's evil stinger. The M900 was bad-boy sexy - not an extension of myself, like the Bimota would have been, but a pulse-pounding other to tame between my legs. Was I tough enough to handle it? That's what I longed to find out.

It might seem strange to the uninitiated that I should have such a response to carbon fiber and steel frames. But to me, it makes sense. My bike mania was merely an extension of an earlier horse mania. I never owned a horse, either, although I presented what I thought was an extremely reasonable argument to my parents that for the same price of the private school education I really didn't need we could keep a horse at Grizzly Peak Stables. They didn't go for it. And I was for a short time the saddest girl west of the Rockies.

Although I took riding lessons, my love of horses started long before I ever saw one in the flesh. Maybe it morphed out of my childish passion for unicorns. I'd always loved animals, and the horse just seemed to me to be the most noble, the most graceful, the most gentle and still the most powerful animal a human girl could hope to love. I read nearly every book I could get my hands on about horses - history, culture, grooming tips, even cheesy fiction in which the horse saves the girl from a pack of wild wolves. I could tell you what the signs of colic were, what happened in the fourth book of The Black Stallion series, and the names of the four horses from which all modern thoroughbreds are descended. I knew as much about horses when I was 14 as I did about motorcycles when I was 22.

And now? When confronted by a handsome horse, I do feel the desire to swing myself up on it and urge it softly on to gallop over rolling golden hills towards the setting sun, the thunder of hooves below and the rushing blue sky above. I've had vivid, sensual dreams of riding horses. And when I catch sight of a sexy sport bike zooming up behind me or resting casually by the sidewalk I do feel that pulsing excitement again, beating in me with almost sexual heat. Jesus, to feel the sweet hum of a v-twin vibrating through my entire body, the adrenaline-pumping high racing through rush-hour traffic at 50 miles per hour snaking through cars like some kind of super-beast, or alternatively to settle gently into the meditative peace that comes from a long sunny ride up the coast - there's nothing like it in all the world. Maybe I'm still in search of the perfect ride. But you can't sustain an unfulfilled passion forever. You move on to other things that are closer to possibilities you can fit into your life. And you look back on youthful ardor with pleasure and some amusement.

But if you want to take me for a ride on your pretty pony, baby, I'm down.

Dress-up Therapy

Sometimes when I'm alone in the house and I've spent too long staring at the monitor and my legs are stiff and crampy for having sat for hours and hours, and I don't really feel like going out, I put on some music, drag the mirror out into the living room, pull out old clothes from storage, and have myself a little fashion show.

It's hard for me to toss things I've owned; thus my closet is packed with pieces that I've probably only worn once before - if at all. Perhaps I bought that long velvet dress for a Halloween costume four years ago; and that little silver cosmic miniskirt? A cherished item from my early 90's clubbing days. Like the electric blue platform heels. What about the giant anime blue-and-yellow boots and matching jacket? Gosh, I don't remember. And every girl needs several cheongsams. And three kimonos. I'm at a loss to explain the huge mass of fake fur, however.

So I lovingly go through it. Clothing is better than a photo album for evoking memory. I wore this gold silk slip as a dress to some modeling party when I had a crush on a boy who modeled part time and I remember the rush of excitement when he affirmed that I was the best-dressed girl there. And how I loved these vinyl skin-tight pants I wore to a friend's 30th birthday party, the theme of which was "Punk's not Dead!" They made my ass look so good. I like to mix in recent purchases, too, just to see how they blend. The black buckley boots with the red Mondomania zip-up dress - surprisingly cute! And gold strappy shoes with the short camo skirt - who would have thought? Fuschia fishnets are just the thing to spice up that sedate black raw silk suit.

Dancing with myself in the mirror, marveling at the many faces I have tucked away in dark corners of the closet, listening alternately to Death Cab for Cutie (which makes me want to try on short corduroy skirts and oversized sweaters), Justin Timberlake (slutty skirts) and Pink (pink, naturally), I rotate through my clothing. It's good for me, and, I figure, good for my clothes - giving both of us a little workout. An exercise in past personalities, a moving pictorama of my wearable life.

And I put off that trip to Goodwill for another year.

Do Girls Like Gadgets?

Tracey Logan wants to know.

Why, yes we do.

Not a Bad Thing

It was a sunny day after a sad night. We gossiped over Indian buffet about my plans for the evening, which involved a movie and a dinner with a young single man.

"It's not a date," I said to Lisa. The saag paneer was creamy and delicious. It's not a date if I don't change my clothes to go out. Right? I mean, if I just wear out what I wore during the day, it's all casual, just hanging out with a friend and I don't care how I look. Because in spite of appearances, it's not a date. Even though he's attractive and witty and sweet.

"That's okay." Lisa smiled with a trace of mischief. "It's a little male attention. That's not a bad thing. And he's a gentleman."

That he is.

We lingered over lunch. We talked about love and self and writing and depression. We talked about boys - how infuriating, how maddening, how charming they are, how much we love them even while we despair over ever understanding or getting along with them. Lately I have come to appreciate simple female conversation more than ever. The sun's rays slanted deep gold into the afternoon.

And I know - it's too soon. I'm not resolved. It's too easy to use male attention as a balm for a broken heart. That's not my intention. But I do want to go out, see friends, see movies, have dinner. Have fun. Have a good conversation over a drink with a likeable someone. And it's not a bad thing to look good while doing it.

So - I changed my clothes.

It's not a date. But. You never know.

To Market, To Market

I raise pigs for a living. Not just any pigs, but the finest animals you've ever seen, with wonderfully marbled meat. The Kobe beef of pigs. I live in a large, sunny house in North Berkeley somewhere, with a great big garden out back. I'm not sure if this is where I raise the animals. The pigs are so precious I only take one at a time to the market.

It's exciting, and nerve-wracking, at the market. The auctioneer will buy certain animals of high quality and then resell them. It's first come, first serve (or sold), so you have to show up early. I and my friends and colleagues show up early and nudge our way ahead in line. After a few minutes it's our turn. We present our beautiful pig, beribboned. We wait with bated breath. The auctioneer (who bears a striking resemblance to Lou Gosset Jr.) carefully examines the animal. The pig is small, but perfect. "A fine specimen," he pronounces. We get a good price - an unexpectedly good price. We are relieved and happy. We go to celebrate.

A few months later it's time to go again. I am even more nervous this time. Our pig is not quite as good as the first, and a little smaller. I fear there will be better pigs. In fact I'm sure of it. The trick is to go early.

We get there very early; we are second in line. The auctioneer's helper is a young Japanese boy, skinny, with sharp elbows. He is serious about his training. The auctioneer examines the pig while my heart pounds. "You guys do good work," he says casually. He is not very thorough in his exam. "I trust that this is another fine pig." He gives us the same price, although I know the pig is not as good.

I accept his judgement and take the money but I feel shame.

Solitude

There is a cat who lives here named Angel - though she's anything but. Surly and short-tempered, she rarely comes in the house but to eat. And when she does, she hisses angrily at the other cats who live here. But tonight Angel didn't want to go back outside when I opened the door for her. Instead she looked up at me. I put out my hand and she immediately rubbed herself against. Even this ornery and independent creature craves physical affection. I was amused by her naked desire but touched by it too. I let her curl up next to me while I type. I understand how she feels.

I almost asked my sister to give me a hug today, for no good reason. I felt a sudden need for tactile contact. But a hug would have been just the beginning. I needed to feel enduring physical affection, the kind that only comes with a long-term romantic relationship. The kind of touching that happens day to day - a hand held here, a shoulder squeezed there, a short daily phone call for no reason, falling asleep within reach of the other person. These are what are known as "grooming" touches - they are in themselves insignificant, but the pattern taken together adds up to a nourishing system of love.

We tell parents to hug their children often - if they don't get hugged, human children and monkey children, too, grow up lacking. Sick, in more ways than one. And so do human adults. After years of having a presence, however in the background it might be, a presence always there - even when far away, being able to feel love - that is gone. Every night I am alone. With the cat. And the cat doesn't really like me much.

Humans are not meant to live alone, day after day. Extended solitude drives a human mad. Lack of human contact for the long hours of winter's darkness compels me to seek signs of touch with my fingertips on the keys. Is there anyone there? Does my voice resound hollowly in the ethersphere? My unexpected tears fall unnoticed. I've annoyed the cat, who stalks away.

And I don't have an answer, only a voice echoing at me, "You have to learn to stand alone."

But I think that voice is wrong. Every instinct tells me so. We are social creatures, we biologically prefer togetherness and closeness to apartness. The richest fruits of culture are produced as a result. Our minds and bodies long to be near. Our hearts feed on and nurture each other. We are wealthiest in emotional satisfaction when we depend on each other and can feel dependable.

I feel I must go away, somewhere, somewhere that I can be distracted from what's missing in my life. Not a solution, I know, but a temporary measure - to run away from facing solitude. To stay here like this is like dying slowly, a little bit each day, as I learn to shut off my emotional receptors one by one until I'm nothing but a hollow shell that the cats will rub up against.

Ah, pay no attention to this. The melancholy will pass. How self-indulgent I've been. Just give me a few more moments to purge the tears and hopelessness and I'll wrap myself in a blanket and immerse myself in a well-loved book and slip away from reality again.

It's as We've Always Feared...

"Monkey Brains Control Robot Arms" proclaims the BBC news.

Sex and Death

Both dreams last night woke me up. In the first, I was an occult researcher who had, perhaps unwisely, made the acquaintance of a very old, and very strange, vampire. This vampire was given to fits of depression and ennui, but on the whole I felt I could trust him. And then one evening I was invited to observe a session that one of my colleagues had arranged, part of her experiment in taming vampires. She believed that they could be rehabilitated. It took place in an abandoned church. I and a few others sat in the dark in the pews, while the vampire in question sat in a chair just under the altar. The researcher put some questions to the subject, which he answered humbly to her apparent satisfaction, and then she brought out a young girl. She instructed the girl to approach the vampire, which she did without fear. The vampire spoke to her kindly. And then suddenly he reached out and bit the girl's neck, killing her instantly.

I was very chilled by this event. When I got back to my study, the vampire of my acquaintance was lounging on the sofa. The light of the pre-dawn morning filtered blue through the windows, and I was very scared. The vampire complained about something that had done him wrong and touched my hand. His hand was cold, like the dead. I woke up with my heart pounding.

In my second dream, I had to go back to high school because for some reason I had never finished it. I was terrified, but I made myself walk down into the valley. I passed various windows through which I could see the happy activity of learning take place within. I made for the main administrative building.

Bill Smoot, my old philosophy and ancient history teacher was standing out front. He had shaved off his beard, but otherwise looked the same. He looked at me oddly until recognition dawned, and he said in his gentle Southern drawl, "Why, it's Jane. How are you?" And then I went inside, where the administrative staff was just the same. They greeted me kindly, too. Murray Cohen was now the head of the school - he had been an English teacher of mine - and they suggested I go see him. I went into his office. He looked very pleased to see me. I was about to explain that I had never graduated and had to go back to school when I remembered that of course I'd graduated; I remembered the ceremony, the speech, the diploma. How would I have gotten into college otherwise?

So I stumbled, and instead explained that I wanted to work there. "That's marvelous," said Murray.

There were other faculty to meet. One of them was a math teacher I'd had in seventh and eighth grade, at a different school - a tall, rangy woman with lean bones. We started talking. She gave me a novel to read, which was about infidelity. Some time - weeks or months, I don't know - passed, and I was walking to her house one afternoon after school. When I got there she welcomed me as if we had known each other intimately recently. We made love on her sofa under her window, but all the while I ws thinking of the novel she'd given me. Why was the man in it unfaithful?

Abruptly she said, "Okay," and stopped. "You're fine." But I didn't feel fine. I felt distant, distracted. She handed me a post-sex questionnaire. I stared at one of the questions, "Do you feel a) lost in love...?"

I woke up with Air Supply's "Lost in Love" in my head.

It Beckons from Beyond!

Cruising around Amazon tonight I noticed that the direct marketing on my personal site has been kicked up a notch. On the top right, a box boldy proclaims, "You Know You Want It" and shows me a book from my wishlist as a reminder. My heart yearns for it. Yes! Yes, I do want it. Oh, what cruel mockery, taunting me with my own wishlist, a hasty document composed in a moment of weakness (and greed)!

Things I Miss about Japan

1. The baths. Steaming up after dinner - ah, luxury!

2. The food. Even the junky food is good. Great ramen on every streetcorner, little sandwiches with the crusts cut off in convenience stores, fresh fish, delicious coffee, my aunt's homemade pickles.

3. The train system. Sure, it takes a little while, and it's expensive, but it's a wonderful way to get around.

4. The people. Friends and friends of friends - old and new and future.

5. The fashion shops. Even the cheap ones have interesting things. Sometimes much more interesting than the high-end boutiques. And even cheap things are comparably much better quality.

6. The walking. You just end up on your feet a lot more, and if you have decent shoes, it's quite nice.

7. The views from the tops of tall buildings.

8. The architecture - it's sometimes wacky, sometimes staid, but they'll try tacky stuff no one would stand for here. It's marvelous.

9. The personalities of the various districts. Being able to feel the Harajuku buzz and the mellow Naka-Meguro vibe.

10. The dreaming sense of familiar blended with strange I get walking down streets I once knew well. Things change so quickly in Tokyo.

11. The sense that you can be anyone, do anything. As a foreigner, I'm not beholden to the rules that apply to citizens. Other rules, maybe, but a lot of them are what you make for yourself, and what you perceive.

12. Tokyu Hands, the most coherent department store I've ever been in.

13. The lights at night. Spectacular.

Creature of the Night

While the city around me sleeps, I wander on the wires that crisscross the ether, touching down here and there for a moment, then aloft again, on to the next place. I'm a spirit, a sprite, a time zone bandit. It's almost six am in New York City, dinnertime of tomorrow in Seoul, almost midnight yesterday in Honolulu, lunchtime on a fine Saturday in Rome, while that same day is almost over in Wellington. I feel connected through my fingertips to cities across the world, chasing after the path of the sun. Is anyone awake out there? But of course, legions, while I can't see them or hear them. Beside me the two cats lick each other sleepily and prepare their nest. I prepare mine, in a blanket bolstered by pillows, while tea brews at my side. Yesterday I worked till I heard the birds sing outside my window. The day stretches before me, destinies of millions decided already.

But not mine, not yet.

ah, the mystery of woman

i always seem to have an extremely sexual dream the night before my period starts.

i suppose other ladies have similar experiences?

Wrapped in a Blanket

It's ten till four in the morning, and I'm watching the final season of Buffy on videotape loaned by friend and fellow Buffy-fancier Connie. Man, if I thought my problems were bad, they're nothing compared to having a vampire with a soul in love with you and suspecting your friends of going evil at any time. And facing the end of the world every season.

I feel better already.

Jet Lag + Depression =

can't sleep can't sleep can't sleep can't sleep

Writing Distraction

Heartbreak is good for poetry and melodramatic fiction. My creative output as I try to distract my reeling brain is voluminous. But it's difficult to concentrate on one project - I find myself drifting from one to another. The important thing right now seems to be to put the words on paper and puzzle out their meaning later.

So far I have worked on a novel that takes place partly in ancient Rome, a short story that begins with a humorous suicide note, a story in which the main character is working on a novel called "The Great Mount Fuji Reconstruction Project", a tongue-in-cheek cookbook, an Ainu fantasy set in the 8th century in Hokkaido, and some memoir-ish writing which is rather impressionistic and not at all coherent.

All of these seem somehow overdone, overblown; not grounded. As for the writing I used to do for money, I can find very little to do. Nothing interests me about games, not on a deep level. I'm not excited by the new releases that flood my email box with triumphant capital letters and exclamation points. Who cares? What about the human condition? What about suffering, faith, love, and death?

A homeless woman lives at the Tokyo train station, the Yaesu Central exit, near the bus terminal where I often caught a bus from the city to my aunt and uncle's house. She's very thin, with grey in her black hair, and she wears an oversized down jacket and track pants. Her possessions are stacked up in paper bags carefully beside her, out of the way of tax-paying citizens.She is often sitting next to her bags, talking to herself. For company, I imagine, as no one else will talk to her. She doesn't ask anyone for money, but she must get some, if only a little, as one time I noticed a small can of vending machine coffee by her side. I'm convinced she must live on vending machine drinks. Once she was not in her spot. I waited, surreptitiously, in the Tomorrowland store, waiting at the window which overlooked her nest. She came back, sat herself on the hard ground, and bent over a notebook. She was writing slowly, laboriously. I fantasized about talking to her. "Eh, Obachan, are you hungry? How about a sandwich?" Didn't she have any relations who cared for her? Didn't she have any friends? How did she end up here? Has she been abused, ill-treated, evicted? Maybe she was writing a letter of appeal to the city, maybe she was writing to a far-away family member, maybe she was writing her memoirs. To distract herself?

I makes me cry to think of her. I imagine her long days sitting there, being ignored by everyone except possibly hassled at times by the police. I imagine her in the winter with nothing to eat but sugary coffee from the vending machine. I imagine her most of all alone, with no meaningful contact with other human beings. That alone can drive any sane woman mad. I have wealth now, but it's not inconceivable to me that I may one day share her fate. No one to love, no one to care, no where to live. I am not so arrogant to suppose that I by virtue of intellect, beauty, and breeding am somehow entitled to exempt myself from misfortune, when it comes.

Next time I am in Tokyo station, I will buy her a sandwich. I regret that I did not, all the times I saw her. I will buy her a sandwich or an onigiri and speak nice words to her. It's a pitiful gesture, but perhaps it will give her a spark of hope, if she needs it.

Yarn

I return from Tokyo unburdened by attachment, but still fettered by feeling. It is better this way, I told myself on the bus to Narita airport, and while I could not hold back a few tears, I did not cry as much as I thought I would.

As the bus passed through fields and quiet streets, I felt a long unraveling of my heart, a skein uwrapping, and still the string tugging at me, flowing out behind me tied to something which would hold me here, if I did not cut it swiftly. I felt I was literally being strung along, with vague half-promises and messages of hope mixed with the bitterest reprisals and reprimands. Merely lengthening a lead is not enough to call freedom. So I freed myself.

And I sat on the airplane thinking of my mother, and thinking that life is too short for waiting, too short for recriminations and regrets, too short for anything but living.

The Hinterland

I'm out in the Hinterland, the 'burbs of Tokyo visiting with my aunt and uncle. It's far from town and without broadband, I feel even farther. So my posting has slowed, as has the pace of my life, but I am writing a lot and taking walks and reading. I found some books here I left on a visit long ago.

Gone with the Wind I remember reading avidly, shocked by the racism but compelled by the panoramic story. I reread it in the same fashion, late at night after Aunt and Uncle were asleep, holding it over my head as I lay on my back until my arms hurt.

Also, there is a slim volume called Alfred Hitchcock's Amazing Detectives, part of a series of short story collections for young readers, featuring some of the best-known mystery writers of a previous era: Ellery Queen, Agatha Christie, and their peers. I remembered the cover of this book, and when I opened it, I saw written on the inside flap in ballpoint pen, in barely legible handwriting, "For Jane, on her tenth birthday, from Father."

I think I'll be taking this book back with me.