A country where women habitually purchase self-adhesive "nipple concealers"
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Small breasts that are suddenly above-average size in said country
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Absent-minded hippie omission of a bra
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More stares than you can shake a stick at
Buying a pack of smokes at the vending machine down the block has never been so startling ...
Gah, it's air-con season again ... Horrible season of sweat stains and heat stroke and dehydrated bitchiness. Oh, oh! I should totally quit smoking. I wonder how many relationships I would manage to destroy in a single day!
This morning on the train I watched a high school girl fold the tops of her socks over and then glue them onto her legs with a slim pink glue stick.
Just finishing up a long weekend, and it was heaps good -- beers and fireworks at the Tama River, a housewarming party at the sweet, *sweet* new apartment of James, Quiz Night in Shimokitazawa, and shopping with Matt. The definite highlight was the long, detailed story of a certain gentleman's first encounter with Soapland. Darren, I know you'll wikipedia it anyway, so here's the link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soapland. It's wild!
An everything day! Wake up, have a shower, have a fight, have many cigarettes, make breakfast, go to the dentist, go to Starbucks with my student, randomly meet up with James at a ramen place, randomly leave ramen place because the smell of flesh makes me sick, wind up at James's new pad, Kim and Kame show up, help them move James's stuff, drink beers. All good.
My mother and I, listening to Filipino Box Spring Hog (Tom Waits) sometime in 2000:
(Kathleen was sittin down
In little reds recovery room
In her criminal underwear bra
I was naked to the waist
With my fierce black hound)
MUM: What is this song even about?
ME: I don't know.
MUM: I love this song!
ME: Me too.
MUM: But turn it down.
Yesterday was a dream of a Sunday .... Started off early, with me inexplicably cleaning the room, then about 8 or so a woman who lives down the hall rapped on the door and asked if Matt would go buy her cakes, and if I would come to her place for cigarettes. Her name is H and she had not been asleep for almost a day and a half. H was fresh back from karaoke -- her endurance is such that she should be a spy! I went to her room, and she, I, and another British girl smoked cigarettes beside the window as rain lashed down and thunder crashed. We gazed at the tiled roof of the next building over and discussed religion as a fourth woman tried to sleep on a futon at the other end of the room. Matt arrived bearing cakes, bagels, chocolate, and pizza, which we ate as we sipped at mugs of Kaluha.
I went back to my room to read for a bit. I was summoned back to H's place, now with a few more inhabitants, to do a tarot reading.
Then I went to buy cigarettes, and on the way back bumped into the girls on the front stoop, drinking beer. I joined them. We made plans to walk the entire perimeter of the Yamanote Line! A 2-day pilgrimage. We will sleep in a capsule hotel at the mid-way point. The previous evening had been a wild blur of whiskey and records down in the lounge, and several fellow revellers, off to the ramen shop cradling their foreheads, looked askance at the cans of beer ...
It was now mid-afternoon. I read some more. Then watched part of The Beach down in the lounge.
Then Matt and I went out for dinner, hung out at home for a bit, and I shattered into bed.
This is how Sundays are meant to be!
One of the most valuable lessons I learned about writing occurred during my very first class, a Fiction seminar. We had all handed in our first assignments, and the professor (who was excellent) was lecturing on cliches. I knew what they were in theory, but was fuzzy on the details, so I raised my hand and asked for an example.
"Oh, an example?" she asked. Then -- very casually -- she reached for the top story on the pile on her desk, and read three cliches from the first page. Of course, the story was mine. Only she and I knew.
Since then, I have become enormously scornful of cliches. This leads us of course to Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. I tried to read it years ago and gave up on the first page due to the poor writing, but I really love the themes of this book, and thought I'd give it another try .... From the first page:
1. staggered through the vaulted archway
2. lunged for the nearest painting
3. heaved the masterpiece
4. collapsed backward in a heap
5. as he had anticipated
6. gasping for breath
7. a voice spoke, chillingly close
8. the curator froze
9. the glint in his ghostly eyes
10. felt a surge of adrenaline
Granted, those are not all cliches .... Wanton misuse of active verbs, maybe, but not cliches .... Still: first page!
The soba van trundles its peculiar path through the neighbourhood, screaming out deals from a rooftop loudspeaker. Really, it should be in Waking Life.
This week, I was asked if my eyes are naturally blue.
A couple of train station moments:
1) On the Mazonukuchi platform at half past five, I observe two youths guzzle cans of beer, stomp them, and hurl them onto the tracks. Then they flex their muscles and punch each other and budge in line. I am appalled, and feel like I am Old, Sober, and Adrian Mole all rolled into one.
2) It's easy to feel enormous beside Japanese women, and on the train the other day, my arm high above me holding onto the balance hook thing, I glanced beside me and beheld the most beautiful arm I had ever seen. It was slender, delicate, and carelessly athletic, and the neat thing was it was almost a carbon copy of mine, size and everything! I was smiling and feeling all self-confident, etc., then looked at the owner of the arm, only to see that it was a 30-something DUDE. Sigh.
A couple good shows lately, let's try one sentence per occasion:
Punk Rock Show in Hachioji. "Uh, guys, look, they're aware you didn't pay to get in -- there might be trouble."
Habi Habi Show at the Antique and Junk. Matt's band shrieked themselves hoarse as the crowd devolved into a drunken, singing, philosophical mess of party patrol, bent on beer and tune and disclosure.
Bowling and karaoke with the Muko kids, beers on the river, tarot at Enoshima, angst in Shimokitazawa, a new private student in Shibuya, lots of dentist, lots of writing, Snakes on a Plane of all goddamn movies, and to top it off: a 14-year-old student asked me what 'motherfucker' means. June. Also: last week I stayed out all night for my first time in Japan (Cookie Bar, alleyway anguish, a 3rd floor bar with a view of the city and free karaoke, all-you-can-drink 2-hour nightmare-bliss), and walked through the Noborito streets at dawn, rationalizing and pitying cats and feeling fresher, more absolute, than I have in months.