all creatures large and small and japanese

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Crater Pig

There is such a shortage of great phrases in this world, and on a regular basis I toss aside some amazing ones. But a vocab exercise produced the phrase "crater pig," and I won't soon forget it. I also have not forgotten "the Darenpon Connection" but as yet have no story to put beneath it.

I realized today that I had forgotten a birthday. Not entirely certain if I should contact her about it. It is very strange to me to have a best friend that also feels a bit like an enemy. And who probably does not think of me as a best friend... It never ends, does it? ...

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having... memories...

must... ...

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drink them... ... ...

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away.

I probably should send something. After all, I can't stop loving what I can't stop loving... or something ridiculously sentimental like that.

more punk than punk... "live baby live"

After this he started screaming. It was pretty phenomenal. Hypnotic blend of psychedelia, punk, and what I assume is traditional Japanese sound. I don't recall his name.

I suppose I made a conscious decision recently to become fascinated with the world, sort of reacquaint myself with the concept of daily joy inside the pursuit of strange or beautiful things, to touch, to look at, walk through, open, poke, prod, adore. Because of this, even though I don't sit and think about it much, I have become more open to my surroundings and new experiences. One might think that simply the fact that I am off in a "foreign" land, I am going to be inherently more apt to adventuring and explorerating, but not so. Ruts can be had anywhere. Old habits creep up on you. But I think if you kind of stay with the music, just keep listening, you break out of them, find your thinking's been uptight, and changes in the weather can be both outward reflections of the desire to alter the tempo, as well as catalysts for change.

I wrote a song today, which I haven't done in quite a while. And last night, walking home from Lalinda's bar with the Brit, I made a startling confession... that is, it was somewhat startling to him, but infinitely more so to me. It was a feeling about life, something important, among the most visceral and frightening and amazing things that people experience, and of course I'm not going to tell you what it was (and no, I'm not homosexual). But I knew I was onto something when, after I expressed the thought, I didn't doubt it for a moment. Just before, I'd been filled with it, doubt, and just hearing the words come out, something seemed to slide into place. As they say, the truth shall set you free. I am unconcerned. Certain. Phenomenally happy to know something about myself that I'd been denying.... Tantalizing, i'nit?

Keys Let You Into Places (part 5 or so)

It is sometimes the way she doesn't. And that can be enough. I recounted the incident of Zechariah's broken arm in the summer of 1984... 85. These things are beginning to slide out of memory. When we transferred all the super8 to video, and started doing everything in harsh lighting. Magic tricks are more exposed. Memories have permanent waves and headbands. Editing machines whir and buzz at the Savings and Loan, in the middle of the night, as we wait to see what father has made of our horsing around. It runs together. Everything. With cuts and wipes. A cutaway. And I can't remember who I loved before this moment, nor predict what I will love in the next. Borges sometimes insists that all moments are present moments. And sometimes he changes birds into squadrons of bombers. There is a word at the bottom of the page in my notes. I am not certain it applies. Dictionaries can be trusted only to tell you the meaning of a word, not the proper way to toss it into conversation. For the latter, trust a woman.

"hansei"

It is something needed as I wade deeper into these waters. There is only ever deeper to go, and no retreat. Or else there is only ever the depth that is, and no other.

Grill Shogun and a Brain in a Jar

I went to the park yesterday for some music and food and beer. It was really good. I helped to save a bird that had gotten caught in the grill of an SUV. We had been trying to pull it out, and every time we pulled harder, I could see from my vantage that it was going to pull the leg off, until I realized that the reason it was going to pull the leg off was that the bird was so frightened, it had grabbed onto the grill, hooking itself into place, I carefully dislodged the claw, and the other fellow pulled, and off shot the little bird. A little stunned at first, but eventually right as... well... it did rain a little yesterday. Early on. And I think perhaps the reason I was the one who saw what the bird had done with its leg, digging in like that out of fear, hurting its own chances at healing, freedom, a future, is that I identify with the concept. When all you need to do is let go so everything will be fine, sometimes it's the hardest thing to do.

I had been sitting in the grass, a little girl having convinced me to kick off my sandals and relax. If there was ever a moment when I did not have food in my hand, something was given to me to try. I was beyond full. A beautiful Japanese woman, my friend, was the master of the grill. The Daimyo, no, the Shogun of grill. And she wielded a mighty shaker of salt to bring the rings of corncob or the mushroom shafts, or unwieldy slices of beef or chicken under her domain.

The flow of conversation is unnatural. I begin with things I know. I like this. I'm from Texas. That's not sake, it's water. But, I am very quickly out of my depth. I don't want to talk about the weather. I want to talk about life, real life, the real stuff of real life. I want to ask why. How long. What did you feel when. Do you ever think that maybe. I want to tell stories and listen. But at the first sign I don't understand, people stop talking. They don't go deeper. I wish I could explain that even if I don't know what they are saying, I just want to listen. I want to hear what they have to say, the way they need to say it. It is like music for me. Nevermind the words, it's the genuine human connection that matters.

But the conversation was stilted for me, because I don't know how to explain this. And so I stand under a tree and juggle chestnuts while someone raps to TechmoBowl NES beats on the stage a little ways away.

certainty pulls everything

This evening David is sitting with his knees uncomfortably close together. His arms hang down too low below his seat. His belly is full of fish. Like a dolphin. Margaret's fingers are dancing on the neck of a fiddle. Moisture gathers on glasses. There must be a way to harvest the water gathered in rings around bar glasses; Saturday nights ought to be productive. Richard and the German are arguing over what should have been the proper sequencing of songs on the White Album. They might as well debate whether the Knight's Tale should have been first, and the Miller's Tale removed.

Language has been slowly leaking out of the atmosphere, leaving the air saturated with undirected thought. Rendering even the most mundane issues ineffable at times. The process of doing one's laundry may seem a purely spiritual and mystical enterprise. When you attempt to quantify detergent, it loses its magic.

There are no words left to express routine, god, the morning...

Between the morning and the evening, there is a discrepancy in identity. Should a man prefer to stay at home and live in memory, or to wander the streets drinking and shouting. There is not such a distinction between the two as one might imagine.

David buys something fruity for Margaret. Her sister might be coming soon.

it is a strange land where parents--mystically--are unafraid of their children... or cps

I just watched a woman beat the crap out of her son at the supermarket while a synthesized "I Think We're Alone Now" played on the Muzak. I picked up some medium sized eggs and went to the bread aisle. Should the fact that he was being a real fucking shit make a difference as to whether or not I was appalled? Because it did make a difference. And I wasn't.

I once sat in a Waffle House in Missouri and watched a woman lift her granddaughter out of her seat, maybe four or five years old, she yanked her into the air by the arm and beat her about the legs and butt as hard as she could... it was for something like asking if there was any more butter... that was horrifying. Even more horrifying was the fact that nobody but me and the person I was with (Court) seemed at all worried about it. Still did nothing. What the hell do you do?

as i wait for my ipod to charge

I found seven or eight songs I had no idea I had, nor do I know where they came from. Merry Christmas, says my iTunes. It's barely September, says I.

I'm a little tired of sitting at the bar. I need some art and nature and culture. I've been hanging out just to try to get to know some people, but I really need to get out and see some things. I will still bring my iPod.