It’s ;cold and I;m typig with gloves on ande tthis is N EX[ERIENT TO SEE HOW I CAN TYPE WITH MY FINGERS HAVING THIS PADDIG nd thefeel of the fingers hittig the jeyps isdifferet and I CAT reaoly type CCCURtey and I keep hitting the caps lock and that’s ot good. Myeb LATER I’LL tak the gloves off and write something reL.
***
Two, maybe three hours later....
***
It’s warmer now. The gloves are off and I can feel my fingers again. I turned on my heater for the first time. It’s actually an air conditioner, but it can heat up to 30 C and that was enough to warm up this room. When I moved in to this place it was more or less fully furnished. Came with the standards: TV, bedding, table and chairs, random appliances. And also the greatest invention on earth. Heated Carpet. Yes, heated carpet. When I first saw it, folded up in the closet back in August when the heat was cruel and godless, I thought to myself, Jesus, that’s an uncomfortable looking blanket. It feels like a burlap sack. But, then it dawned on me that it was too thick to be a blanket, that no person would want to snuggle with this ugly square of shag, that it wasn’t mean to be slept under, but to be laid upon, to be thrown across the fake plastic wood floor and plugged into the wall and switched to the warmest setting. It’s a great thing, this carpet. It makes accepting the fact that I’ll be living through winter in an apartment with no insulation a little easier to swallow. But now, after more than two weeks of use, it’s getting dirty. Crumbs and dirt and body hair and spilt alcohol and toe nail clipping and cigarette ash have woven themselves into the wooly fibers so that now, while I’m toasting myself upon the rug, I am effectively doing so in a bed of my own filth.
This leads me to two new thoughts: a.) living alone is both wonderful and self destructive. And, b.) I need to buy a vacuum.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
throw the dead dog in the fire.
what else can you do?
i never got to say goodbye to Otis the epileptic labrador. he is dead now. my father doesn't know yet. when he finds out he will be very sad and I don't know what he will do. he loved that dog. it wasn't even that old. five. maybe six, if that. poor dog.
i found out this morning, laying on a tatami mat far away from home. vicki and alexa had left already and mike and lauren and jaya and i were left laying in the room and it was raining outside and cold. after the festival we took a train to the city and met with many others at an expat hangout called GOD'S BAR. i switched from beer to whiskey too early in the night and as the drops of rain pounded on the window the next morning, the aching in my head kept the same rhythm.
when was the last time i saw that dog? maybe in june. yes. june. i had quit my job and was spending time at home with family after the bonnaroo. the big black dog would greet me when I went over to dad's. he never barked. he'd put his big head on my lap and keep it there until i tired of petting. then he'd roll around on the carpet and chew on his toys. one day dad found out that if you give the dog an empty two liter soda bottle to play with, he'd be happy for weeks. simple things bring the greatest pleasure in life. hugs and kisses and empty plastic bottles.
last time i talked to dad he said the dog was fine. fat and happy as always, he'd say. one time when we were talking over the summer dad said that once he finished the work on the inside of the house, he would build a fence so the dog could run around and not be in danger of getting hit by passing cars or harassed by horrible children. he never built that fence. now he probably never will. poor dead dog.
i was laying there on the floor, not really listening to the conversation going on. they were talking about the festival yesterday. it was a fire festival in sukugawa. people say it's one of the largest in the country. i stood up and walked into the kitchen. it was cold. it was becky's apartment and she was still asleep. my phone was on the table. i picked it up and went back in the tatami room where it was warm. i decoded a message that arrived at 4 in the morning from a crazy japanese woman who i believe may be a borderline stalker.
everybody was still talking about the festival, sharing photos, rehashing how the burning pyres were so hot and how the towering flames mesmerized us all. i pressed a button on my phone and connected to the internet and went to check my gmail. i had a mail from shea, a friend of my dad's. the day before dad was at the hospital having two of his vertebrae fused together. shea had mailed me then to say that the surgery went fine, but that the dog was rushed to the vet and they didn't know what was wrong. the latest mail from shea said that the dog died and they don't really know how or why and that they haven't told my dad yet.
this is where things get strange. where the line between life and death and human and animal starts to blur. it was a strange thing shea said, that when he went to the hospital to see dad after he was out of the surgery, dad, who was still heavily medicated, said: "I keep seeing Otis' face. It's like he's here and he's trying to tell me something."
maybe as my father lie unconscious on the operating table, under heavy anesthesia, flying through the vast and unknown plain that exists between life and death, he and otis found each other.
maybe that was their last moment together. as otis was taking his last breaths of air in this world, and my father lie comatose on the far side of consciousness, they found each other. it was there, on that plain far away from us all, where they shared one last moment. and otis got to say goodbye.
what else can you do?
i never got to say goodbye to Otis the epileptic labrador. he is dead now. my father doesn't know yet. when he finds out he will be very sad and I don't know what he will do. he loved that dog. it wasn't even that old. five. maybe six, if that. poor dog.
i found out this morning, laying on a tatami mat far away from home. vicki and alexa had left already and mike and lauren and jaya and i were left laying in the room and it was raining outside and cold. after the festival we took a train to the city and met with many others at an expat hangout called GOD'S BAR. i switched from beer to whiskey too early in the night and as the drops of rain pounded on the window the next morning, the aching in my head kept the same rhythm.
when was the last time i saw that dog? maybe in june. yes. june. i had quit my job and was spending time at home with family after the bonnaroo. the big black dog would greet me when I went over to dad's. he never barked. he'd put his big head on my lap and keep it there until i tired of petting. then he'd roll around on the carpet and chew on his toys. one day dad found out that if you give the dog an empty two liter soda bottle to play with, he'd be happy for weeks. simple things bring the greatest pleasure in life. hugs and kisses and empty plastic bottles.
last time i talked to dad he said the dog was fine. fat and happy as always, he'd say. one time when we were talking over the summer dad said that once he finished the work on the inside of the house, he would build a fence so the dog could run around and not be in danger of getting hit by passing cars or harassed by horrible children. he never built that fence. now he probably never will. poor dead dog.
i was laying there on the floor, not really listening to the conversation going on. they were talking about the festival yesterday. it was a fire festival in sukugawa. people say it's one of the largest in the country. i stood up and walked into the kitchen. it was cold. it was becky's apartment and she was still asleep. my phone was on the table. i picked it up and went back in the tatami room where it was warm. i decoded a message that arrived at 4 in the morning from a crazy japanese woman who i believe may be a borderline stalker.
everybody was still talking about the festival, sharing photos, rehashing how the burning pyres were so hot and how the towering flames mesmerized us all. i pressed a button on my phone and connected to the internet and went to check my gmail. i had a mail from shea, a friend of my dad's. the day before dad was at the hospital having two of his vertebrae fused together. shea had mailed me then to say that the surgery went fine, but that the dog was rushed to the vet and they didn't know what was wrong. the latest mail from shea said that the dog died and they don't really know how or why and that they haven't told my dad yet.
this is where things get strange. where the line between life and death and human and animal starts to blur. it was a strange thing shea said, that when he went to the hospital to see dad after he was out of the surgery, dad, who was still heavily medicated, said: "I keep seeing Otis' face. It's like he's here and he's trying to tell me something."
maybe as my father lie unconscious on the operating table, under heavy anesthesia, flying through the vast and unknown plain that exists between life and death, he and otis found each other.
maybe that was their last moment together. as otis was taking his last breaths of air in this world, and my father lie comatose on the far side of consciousness, they found each other. it was there, on that plain far away from us all, where they shared one last moment. and otis got to say goodbye.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
last weekend
The girl was young and tiny. Probably the same age as him. She sat at the bar of the Café del Mar eating strawberry ice cream. He was drinking whisky. Outside it was storming.
“Americans are strong with their alcohol,” she said, authoritatively. “Australians too.”
“We’re bigger people. We can fit more inside us.”
“I think I’m strong with my alcohol too.”
“I bet you are.”
“I like beer. I drink every day.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes. I don’t always get drunk. It’s usually just a drink or two.”
“I like beer too. Tonight I’m drinking whisky.”
“Will you drink beer later?”
“Maybe. Will you?”
“Once I get home. I’ll put on a record and open the windows. I’ll feed my bird and check my messages. That will be a good time for beer.”
“I think it will.”
***
Autumn rain on a Saturday morning put moisture in the cool air. The city is already alive. Cars passing down the streets, the sound of rainwater spinning through tires overrides the revving of engines and the squeal of brakes. It rained all night. The trees lining the boulevard have begun their annual transformation to a colorful death. Bright yellow. Deep red. Bold orange. Fading green. A rainy fog hangs low in the hills. The sky is grey and opaque.
The curtains are drawn, open to the world. But the view is limited. Beyond the hills, all is grey.
There’s a calendar on the wall. The picture on the top panel is of a man hanging a fishing rod over a rail into the sea. The sun is either rising or setting. It’s difficult to tell. It’s is a beautiful photo. The calendar month is August. In reality it is the beginning of November. The beauty of the picture made turning the page to the next month or the one after seem unnecessary.
Then comes the typhoon. The clouds grow dark and the wind picks up. The rain pours and pours. The river rises but doesn't crest its banks. The howling wind gets in to every corner of the world, sending chills down our spines.
We hold on tight for it is all we can do to brace ourselves from the storm. We keep on living, undefeated by the howling beast.
Perhaps a typhoon is like a full moon. Changing people, bringing out their other side. Or maybe it was just good timing that the typhoon came alongside Halloween.
***
Earlier, with Richard at the Café del Mar. We sat, drinking beer and dreaming of the night.
The café is slow. The storm outside is keeping people at home. Only one other table is sat. A young couple, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.
“The party’s tomorrow. We need costumes, James.”
“I can’t be the same thing as I was last year, though it’s tempting since nobody here would know.”
"What were you?"
"A deviled egg. Cheapest costume ever. Pitchfork and horns. And a white T-shirt with a yellow yolk drawn on it."
"Nice, mate. But what are we going to do for tomorrow?"
"We should dress in drag. I’ve never worn woman’s cloths before."
“You serious? Let’s do it.”
“I think we can pull it off. What size are you?
***
Dressing as a woman give me a new appreciation for the things a real woman has to endure constantly in the name of proper fashion. I’m used to having pockets and wearing pants. Dresses, I’ve realized, are not made with pockets. One must accessorize with a purse. When leave the house I carry with me a small but certain number of things. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Cigarettes. Lighter. If I weren't a smoker, perhaps life as a woman would be easier. But I had quite a hard time trying to cram all my necessities into my small furry handbag.
In Japan dress sizes, I wear a nine. That’s an American size six. Felt pretty good about that one. Six is a good size to be. But I was jealous of Rich’s dress because it was much sexier than mine, and honestly, I have the legs it takes to properly wear a sexy dress. But alas, I showed up to the party in a dress much too conservative for the kind of night I was looking for, and Rich got all the attention.
The hem fell below my knees and there was not much of a neckline. It was a housewife’s dress. Not something a 23-year-old woman would wear, but with the limited selection that fit within my Halloween budget, I made due: I found a cheap pair of black Jackie’O shades, gaudy costume jewelry, a cigarette holder and a hideous handbag that matched the ensemble.
For the shoes, I went with hiking boots. That was the most appropriate choice.
“Americans are strong with their alcohol,” she said, authoritatively. “Australians too.”
“We’re bigger people. We can fit more inside us.”
“I think I’m strong with my alcohol too.”
“I bet you are.”
“I like beer. I drink every day.”
“Alone?”
“Sometimes. I don’t always get drunk. It’s usually just a drink or two.”
“I like beer too. Tonight I’m drinking whisky.”
“Will you drink beer later?”
“Maybe. Will you?”
“Once I get home. I’ll put on a record and open the windows. I’ll feed my bird and check my messages. That will be a good time for beer.”
“I think it will.”
***
Autumn rain on a Saturday morning put moisture in the cool air. The city is already alive. Cars passing down the streets, the sound of rainwater spinning through tires overrides the revving of engines and the squeal of brakes. It rained all night. The trees lining the boulevard have begun their annual transformation to a colorful death. Bright yellow. Deep red. Bold orange. Fading green. A rainy fog hangs low in the hills. The sky is grey and opaque.
The curtains are drawn, open to the world. But the view is limited. Beyond the hills, all is grey.
There’s a calendar on the wall. The picture on the top panel is of a man hanging a fishing rod over a rail into the sea. The sun is either rising or setting. It’s difficult to tell. It’s is a beautiful photo. The calendar month is August. In reality it is the beginning of November. The beauty of the picture made turning the page to the next month or the one after seem unnecessary.
Then comes the typhoon. The clouds grow dark and the wind picks up. The rain pours and pours. The river rises but doesn't crest its banks. The howling wind gets in to every corner of the world, sending chills down our spines.
We hold on tight for it is all we can do to brace ourselves from the storm. We keep on living, undefeated by the howling beast.
Perhaps a typhoon is like a full moon. Changing people, bringing out their other side. Or maybe it was just good timing that the typhoon came alongside Halloween.
***
Earlier, with Richard at the Café del Mar. We sat, drinking beer and dreaming of the night.
The café is slow. The storm outside is keeping people at home. Only one other table is sat. A young couple, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.
“The party’s tomorrow. We need costumes, James.”
“I can’t be the same thing as I was last year, though it’s tempting since nobody here would know.”
"What were you?"
"A deviled egg. Cheapest costume ever. Pitchfork and horns. And a white T-shirt with a yellow yolk drawn on it."
"Nice, mate. But what are we going to do for tomorrow?"
"We should dress in drag. I’ve never worn woman’s cloths before."
“You serious? Let’s do it.”
“I think we can pull it off. What size are you?
***
Dressing as a woman give me a new appreciation for the things a real woman has to endure constantly in the name of proper fashion. I’m used to having pockets and wearing pants. Dresses, I’ve realized, are not made with pockets. One must accessorize with a purse. When leave the house I carry with me a small but certain number of things. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Cigarettes. Lighter. If I weren't a smoker, perhaps life as a woman would be easier. But I had quite a hard time trying to cram all my necessities into my small furry handbag.
In Japan dress sizes, I wear a nine. That’s an American size six. Felt pretty good about that one. Six is a good size to be. But I was jealous of Rich’s dress because it was much sexier than mine, and honestly, I have the legs it takes to properly wear a sexy dress. But alas, I showed up to the party in a dress much too conservative for the kind of night I was looking for, and Rich got all the attention.
The hem fell below my knees and there was not much of a neckline. It was a housewife’s dress. Not something a 23-year-old woman would wear, but with the limited selection that fit within my Halloween budget, I made due: I found a cheap pair of black Jackie’O shades, gaudy costume jewelry, a cigarette holder and a hideous handbag that matched the ensemble.
For the shoes, I went with hiking boots. That was the most appropriate choice.
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