Trying to walk the same way to the same store takes high-wire balance...

The summer that will soon define all my summers to follow starts. here.:
www.wedoitin400.blogspot.com

The venerable Lady jean Ann Stanula and I pair up to compose 400 word shorts (cross genre, hybrid genre, genre sans genre) every Monday. More to come. On Monday.

...she presented a naked white countenance to the faultfinding light of spring.

"He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being."

What many mistake for narcissim...

And here we are. Ready as ever for round two. I've been hunting the ghost, and mostly successful in my attempt, until this weekend, when I was foolish and trotted, cantered, loped backwards only to awake with a terrible headache.

that is precisely what Franklin Delanor Roosevelt said moments before his death. His last words, in fact: "I have a terrible headache."
If I have to liken it to a death sequence then I will gladly interpret my apotheosis. I tire of needing love. Disappointment is cumbersome. I'm eliminating the memory of him and all my silly short-comings. I want to walk off the tarmac, shoulders erect, anxious and anticipatory of all the beauty to follow. I know this is possible, even if Nabokov (see: above) negates it.

Stumbled upon an incredible compilation of independent and electronic artists who cover James Joyce's "Chamber Music" poems.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=91757715
It's nothing incredibly inventive, but the lyricism and supplementary illusive sounds- the cadence, the verse lifted in beat is pulled off in execution. I think differently of the poem when presented in such a medium. That's to suggest, I don't often attribute an electronic base to grandiose verse, so in listening I'm more apt to summon newfound meaning. Something saucy. Something contemporary. Sure, that may cheapen it some, but it has me reassessing Joyce, and that's something few contemporary artists can do to date.

My post-secret was posted. I was so concerned that the he it was not written for would assume I had him in mind, but in the end what does it matter, his interpretation? I chose to sleep soundly. I've excavated the pea.

I am madly in love with this life.

And all you see, is where else you can be when you're at home...

She was the kind of woman who thought that any injustice could be counterbalanced by something good to eat...

Calling into question escape. In any and all costume.

"...And my heart needs a polygraph. I was so eager to pack my bags. When I really want to stay. When I really want to stay..."



Matsuyama and the beauty found in small things next episode. In list sequence. Emphatic! With exclamation!

until then.

Even Captain BookSmart fears contagion...

I have it on good authority Nancy (see: Drew) would, too.

Let's attribute it to the booze. And the company. The ex-pat commradorie. Boots and whiskey are of the same cloth, so it stands to reason that an evening dedicated to seeing Boots off would equip me with all the liquid courage this ramshackle island can supply.

That said, I drank in merriment and recognized that the winks (what I originally dismissed as a nervous tick emotion) our waiter kept winking were for me. What does a woman do with winks? Score some free dessert, scribble her number on a cocktail napkin (I was without my craft kit), thrust it in his hands and run screaming for the streets.

Now, the reason I'd call in the assistance of lovelies Nancy and Bess. Shortly thereafter I receive the following text:

"Thank you for Email me. (insert smiley emoticon).
Let's meet up and let's chat some time!
I wanna meet up soon!! But, I gotta terrible lumbago (insert cry-eye emoticon).
I should take a day off for a month! (cry-eye, again).
when I get a complete cure, Let's meet up (thumbs up emoticon).
Keep in touch (blushing emoticon)."

WHAT?
I know this blog promises that I am found in translation, but I've never been more lost. Anyone who can discern what disease a lumbago is gets all my love and batteries. And lately I've been a small wonder.

Still reeling from my private showing of "There Will Be Blood". Mr. PTA is, has and will forever remain my favorite director. I gushed and awed over Magnolia, having watched it two times in succession, only to devote a full day and a half to internet research that confirmed that Mr. PTA is a compulsive, cinematic nut who uses one well placed bible parable, Exodus 8:2 and references it, in a variety of compelling and creepy ways 82 times throughout the film. There Will Be Blood got me going in much the same way. The end sequence, without any research to speak of is phenomenal, but it wasn't until I discovered the pirated lines, and political references of our main characters monologue, "I drink from your milkshake! I drink it up!" that I grew spastic and elated in the excuse to watch this film again and again. It's slow moving. My mother will surely hate it, but it's PTA at perhaps his finest and I'll recommend it to any and all.

Special thanks to Whitney for the viewing encouragement.

51 days. In all of 40 minutes, 50. My student wrapped his little paws around me this afternoon after having seen my goodbye poster. The mother's eek, and ask after Chicago as if it's there own departure. I worry I won't be able to pass the baton on for fear I'll be forgotten. Shoganai.

Matsuyama and other feats of strength this weekend. I'm going to carve a haiku into every concrete edifice I see.

I am presently commissioning artwork. My Reno love Dan is making me a tryptych, I'm purging photos off CoMO and calling on the artistic styles of the New York damned. If you have something, I may be willing to buy. I should probably take into account the limited wall space of my January dwelling. It's small. Turn left and I've urinated, made coffee, synched my i-pod and shaved- consecutively. I suppose it works in that I'm a multi-tasker.

I can't believe I've been this long without Helen or Jason. Or Michele, Danno, Suzanne and Patty. And Tom. And my typewriter. And my heart-to-heart bear. And Chicago - the number one love of my life.

I'm calling on the past to meet me in Cognito.

At what point, it's fair to ask, did snowflakes start believing their own publicity?

"You disrupted the predictable pattern of my life, and although uncertainties and changes can be quite uncomfortable, a life is only a paper puppet show without them."

Houses move and houses speak

if you take me then you'll get relief...

Oscillating between love and a need to run. Hiroshima is such a fickle mistress.
57 days and I'm not near ready.

I have the inexplicable urge to ride a motorcycle.
And of some American Movie Classic from some classically movie'd actress:
"Fasten your seat belts. It's gonna be a bumpy ride."

Maybe this post-secret

l'audace, l'audace, tojour l'audace.

the season was almost done, we managed it 12-1...

...so far I have known no humiliation, in front of my friends and close relations.

Blog post of no particular immediacy. I'd write of my time spent in Shikoku on our Golden Week holiday, but that's a time long past and I'd sooner defer you to pictures posted on Flickr- my new play-by-play tell-all darling lover.

I've been thrust into goodbyes more than I've ever known. I'm usually the one leaving the left and these past few weeks have found my friends, good/great/best ones, off to their homelands or areas far removed from where I'll ever be. The city of Hiroshima is minus one Boots, and his absence was obvious in the late night hours where once the streets shouted in ways different than they do now. Mike is off in favor of saving the world, and I've no doubt he will. That, among other things. We called one another the best conversationalists we've known, but our conversations always paralleled one another and it's hard to lose someone so close to understanding me. Said goodbye to Keith after a week long stay at my Fuchu mansion. Movies were watched. Pictures were painted and while I have space to stretch my legs and arms and roll over in the night without disruption, I miss the comfort of assigning someone else a key.

But, but, but were rolling in ashes. We're coming up phoenix.

Beer Garden Sunday-Funday. Some 30-40 of us took up space, drank beer, discussed in three languages the anatomical dynamics of sex, went elsewhere, danced a choreographed shuffle, made plans for adventure camping, and did the night right. Hiroshima takes me in as she had when I first arrived. It feels like coming home.
61 days.
61 days!

B-B-B-Boston and other feats of strength quickly approaching. Tokusan next weekend. Lucky lasses of the prefecture dress in Yukata. I'll be certain to post pictures.

Everything is beautiful. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.