Whatever I Say

I warned you. That I was feeling super homesick, that I was having trouble not getting all nostalgic, and that I spent some time drudging through old photos recently. The only logical result of this combination is the reappearance of the scanner and all of the childhood snapshots in my possession.

It is Wednesday and I suppose I can use the excuse that this falls under gpoyw.

The good news is that I have come to the conclusion that I haven’t changed much. I still do yearly photos with all my Christmas gifts, I still dress up as a pumpkin every Halloween, and I most definitely still strip off my pants when I play the drums.

The bad news is that I miss my mom infinitely more now.

*frown*

Several years ago I went through an amusing phase that literally consumed me. It was a time of ceaseless writing, prose inspired poetry for the most part. I think it was brought about by my trip to Singapore—an entirely spontaneous trip that went from a notion to a customs declaration line in less than 48 hours (I did end up paying taxes on the carton of Camels I bought at the duty free shop, in case you were wondering).

I haven’t written so enthusiastically since and I doubt I will ever reach a point where the desire to write is that intense again, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Translating thoughts to written words is a tiring and engrossing process for me, not so healthy if I consider it without bias.

Below is a piece from that period. I titled it ‘Random Jottings’ though I can’t recall why. It’s full of metaphors that can make it appear as meaningless nonsense to the casual observer, but the thoughts and emotions I was attempting to capture aren’t really random at all.

My “straight to the moon” philosophy brought me here. City lights spread out in every direction. Your arm wrapped around my shoulder. Like that cozy-looking chair in the dark corner of the Brigade Lounge—the one that calls out to the dry fucking club-goers—it’s strangely comforting and altogether appalling.

Why are the blinking neon signs so prominent along the humid streets? Every night their messages go unchallenged and largely ignored. Short attention spans keep it so.

We moved through the crowds with a sweeping momentum. A definite destination eluded us, but we persistently pursued it nonetheless. Were we in a rush to see what those worthless punks have known for years?

Joint cover clubs open late seven nights a week lined the road. Motivating us, captivating us, fascinating us. I felt I had been chain smoking, but the abandoned ashes and discarded butts that usually mark this nervous tendency of mine were nowhere to be found. The sidewalks were too pristine there.

A rain began to fall quickly. I took pleasure in the way the wet drops pounded against my body. You jumped at the chance to get out of it promptly. I must have questioned the necessity of the rush you were in. It resonates the most humanlike, imbuing, strong sensation.

Under a bridge, a foreign girl wrapped her glossy lips around the artificial straw that plunged into her empty coffee cup. She sucked it like a whore mouths the dick of the business-suited customer that pulls at her shoulder length hair. The motionless blowjob intrigued me. I stared, though I felt I should avert my gaze. Can you skip the latte today?

The bridge had railings, but they were too rickety to grasp. Had I not walked this way before, I may have trusted their false promise to steady my steps. Nothing about it entices any fire or intensity anymore.

The foreign girl noticed my eyes focused so cruelly upon her. She must have sensed my desire to judge. She exhaled for the interrogation, her beaded necklace pulled taut around her neck, but I failed to be the inquisitor she imagined. She, like myself, was nothing more than just a callous, unrelenting puppet of fate.

A child two paces ahead of us clutched her toy camel listlessly by its limp neck. Passersby were unable to complacently determine whether it was her prized possession or whether it would be left behind on the bus ride home. Did I alone pause to ponder this question more thoroughly?

I called out to the bus driver as the red doors heaved shut. I was reminded of you as it left me behind in the dankness of the now-empty stop. For a moment I consider making that bus collide with me, forcing it to stop. Sensibility of this caliber is rare.

The moment the bus disappeared from sight, the sun returned. The short-lived downpour passed like bits of eavesdropped conversations in a crowd. The anonymous soundtrack to an anonymous movie played as I turned back to the urban terrain. I was subjected to its taxing, unpretentious design. This city is lonely when you’re walking alone.

Preserved in time with a mold of spacey insight, the masses kept moving. So, so sad, like waiting for a war to begin. I neither condone nor advocate the phenomena; I was merely a passive observer in this place that dwells in mediocrity.

Your parents influence your musical tastes. That’s a given, right? So it’s no surprise that when I heard Dylan was headlining Bumbershoot this year I gave a little gasp and snatched up tickets lickety-split. I grew up on Dylan. I like Dylan. Genuinely. And I left the house Saturday completely expecting to amplify my fondness for a raspy voice and a harmonica. Unfortunately for me I got little of either.

Talkin’ Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues? Nope. Hurricane? Uh-uh. Who Killed Davey Moore?  Didn’t happen. Anything acoustic at all? Err… no. What I got was a ton of over-processed songs off of his latest album and a hefty helping of disappointment.

And Dylan’s set wasn’t the only letdown. Bumbershoot as a whole was off. I couldn’t see Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros because they were given the smallest stage at the festival and it was physically impossible for even one more person to cram in front of it. The Decemberists and Neko Case have all played Sasquatch in prior years so most PNW locals are now unenthusiastic about their recycled festival performances. And the bitterest pill of all: the damn beer garden closed up shop before the sun went down.

On Sunday I wasn’t hungover whatsoever (see above beer garden reference) so I tackled a project that has been in my head for months. I hung my photo collage frames! Finally! And though the finished product may suggest otherwise, this was not an easy task. I employed a “map it out with [bright orange] paper” technique that I saw on HGTV one weekend morning a few months ago (when I was hungover and relegated to bed). Surprisingly it worked as described and at the end of roughly two hours I had thirteen frames well hung (!) and waiting for photographs.

It’s Monday, Labor Day, and I am at work; no three day weekend to see here. On the bright side, it’s quiet. All of the typical Monday headaches have been absent thus far.

Extracurricular Actvities: a postcard sent to Russia and another sent to Germany, a chunk of a Stieg Larsson novel consumed between warm sheets, and several hours spent pouring through photographs that resulted in me missing my mom tremendously.

Lou sent me Katayama Tetsu’s (片山 哲) biography this week. He was Japan’s Prime Minister from 1947 to 1948 and represented the Social Democratic Party. It’s written in Japanese and I am struggling with the Kanji. I estimate my Kanji reading and writing abilities to be at roughly a 4th or 5th grade level so this type of book is slightly over my head. It’s good practice but makes my brain hurt.

If it were Koizumi Junichiro’s (小泉 純一郎) biography I would probably enjoy it significantly more as he is my favorite Japanese Prime Minister. What? Is that odd? Do you not have a favorite Japanese Prime Minister?

During my last visit to Japan I was smack dab in the middle of a cultural mindfuck. I had just taken a Japanese Literature course and was overzealous in my pursuit of all things related. I don’t typically stay in Tokyo for any length of time when I am in the land of the rising sun. Most everyone speaks English and there is too much Westernization for my tastes—I don’t want to eat at Dunkin’ Donuts for Christ’s sake. On this particular trip, however, I reserved an entire three days to the nation’s capital city.

I had two extremely memorable events happen in my quest to experience real culture in Tokyo. The first was meeting a descendant of Ihara Saikaku (井原 西鶴) while paying homage at his gravesite. Ihara was a prolific writer in the Tokugawa period. He wrote primarily about love, sex, and the merchant class—three topics anyone would have trouble resisting.

I can’t recall the name of the lady I met in the graveyard, too much time has passed. I remember that she was very old and walked with the hunch typical of the elderly in Japan. Upon relaying my appreciation of Ihara’s work and the reason for my visit to the site, she invited me into her home. She told stories I had difficulty understanding for hours and refilled my cup with Oolong countless times. It was after dark when I left and my legs were cramped from having sat on her tatami floor for so long. Still I was elated.

The second memorable event is where Koizumi Ichiro makes an appearance. On my last night in Tokyo I arranged to attend a Kabuki performance. Kabuki is not something most visitors seek out. It’s an extremely traditional form of entertainment and made inaccessible to most by a dwindling number of theaters and steep ticket prices. Regardless of the hurdles, I wanted to experience Kabuki in a historically relevant theater, which is how I ended up at the Kabuki-Za in Ginza.

When we arrived at the venue I was in complete awe. The theater itself is an imposing structure with brilliant red lanterns and brightly colored bunting hung liberally in the eaves. The crowds around the theater made for a beautiful mess: older women dressed in traditional kimonos, younger women in stunning gowns, men in black kimonos, and even more men in dark suits. Unexpectedly, there was also a large media presence—the entire area was littered with news vans and reporters.

It turns out the reigning Prime Minister of Japan, none other than Koizumi Junichiro, was attending the same performance. He was extremely popular at the time (comparable to Kennedy in the 60s) and everyone considered it an honor to attend with him. My seat was in the balcony so I was able to watch him enter and be seated himself. He’s actually a pretty handsome man in an Anderson Cooper or Richard Gere kind of way. I’d let him hit it, if you get my drift.

The next day we watched highlights on the morning news. I had hoped to spot myself in the crowd making my debut on Japanese television, but I wasn’t that lucky, which is not to say I have never been on Japanese television. I participated in a Japanese game show once. But that’s a story for another day.