Sunday, October 25, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
alan's week of sick wonders
I have been shut up in my apartment for several days, fighting an infection of one kind or another. It would perhaps have gone better for me had I not needed to walk three miles to the hospital (and actually, after getting lost in a fevered delirium, it was closer to four). And "need" in the above sentence is used very loosely. My judgment was that I needed fluids and rest, it took me half a day of getting neither fluids nor rest for a doctor to tell me the same damn thing, but unfortunately the fever-pitch surrounding the flu required that I go to the hospital. Fine. Dandy. I am mostly better now, but for a productive cough that is bad in the morning and evening, and an overwhelming sense of boredom and strong desire to return to work (never had that one before, I must say).
When I've had the energy, I've been using my time to research the TOEIC exam, and better strategies for teaching vocabulary and test-taking. When I haven't had the energy, I've been watching movies.
Finally watched Coraline. I was a little disappointed: not a bad film, but there was something off about it. It felt like a pretty good video-game, but as a fantasy it was lacking. The characters inhabiting this phenomenal visual world could not have fallen flatter. Stilted dialog. Half-hearted delivery. And as kids movies go, it's usually ok with me when the themes are heavy-handed, but in this case it seemed like they should have known better. To be fair, I really enjoyed it. The "stage" performances from the neighbors in the other world were fantastic, and the garden scenes were phenomenal. But this is all visual stuff. It was a cute movie. I had been expecting more is all.
Needless to say, I've gotten off my schedule. That is more frustrating than anything else. There's always next week.
When I've had the energy, I've been using my time to research the TOEIC exam, and better strategies for teaching vocabulary and test-taking. When I haven't had the energy, I've been watching movies.
Finally watched Coraline. I was a little disappointed: not a bad film, but there was something off about it. It felt like a pretty good video-game, but as a fantasy it was lacking. The characters inhabiting this phenomenal visual world could not have fallen flatter. Stilted dialog. Half-hearted delivery. And as kids movies go, it's usually ok with me when the themes are heavy-handed, but in this case it seemed like they should have known better. To be fair, I really enjoyed it. The "stage" performances from the neighbors in the other world were fantastic, and the garden scenes were phenomenal. But this is all visual stuff. It was a cute movie. I had been expecting more is all.
Needless to say, I've gotten off my schedule. That is more frustrating than anything else. There's always next week.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
labored metaphors aside (some things I was recently reminded of)
Walking among them, you cannot help but ask them questions. They are, after all, wise, and you are reminded that magic is as ancient as they.
But if you are not careful of the mystical apprehension you feel, your fate might be so ridiculous:
And it would be better to recall a different fascination, born in the year of Falco's "Rock Me Amadeus":
And to wake early on Saturday in order to wrest control of the TV from your sister or older step-brother:
Monday, October 19, 2009
it opens this way, and maybe also another...
There isn't speaking today. But there is a river, and a flashing low-battery light on my camera. Coffee, cream no sugar, the owner calls it itsumono and serves it in a glass rather than the usual coffee cup. It is bitter, rich, a person can taste his heart beginning to race from the caffeine just as it touches the tongue.
I closed my eyes and walked to the park near my office. Or I could have closed my eyes to walk there. But did not. I did not recognize my own routine until I began to see that this park was the routine of another, a woman who sits with her phone out, sometimes having a cigarette. She sometimes sits for an hour or more, usually only sitting, nothing more. Her hair is unkept, that is to say not unkempt or filthy, just not so flawlessly done as the ladies and girls one normally sees here on the street. And if she works nearby, it is in her own place, or in the back somewhere, because she wears jeans or dark pants and navy sweatshirts. She spies me now as I make my way up the walk to the entrance. When our eyes meet, she pretends not to see me, and continues with her nothing. When I thought that she must come here every day, I realized that I do as well. So does another woman, but she is invisible. I have only once seen her there, when I followed her in, but never again. But I know she is there. It is only my absence that brings her, and hers that brings me. At least that is what she tells me.
I had some chicken and cold corn for lunch. And walked. A bit aimless, but not really exploring either, this particular corner of this little corner of this corner of the world having grown on me to the point I cannot distinguish it as foreign or distant. It is neither dull nor invigorating, but it is beautiful, certainly. And my stomach is turning slightly. Somewhat with the coffee, and also with something of an urge to break down. It isn't sadness per se. Of course it must be sadness, because it feels like sadness, but also I know that it isn't. I begin to imagine that I have been climbing the knotted rope that used to hang in the back yard in California, Pico Rivera, 949-1467, the number at the house, a circle of fine dirt at the center, where the rope hangs from a branch perhaps fifteen or twenty feet in the air. I am tempted to underestimate the height because of the tendency to enlarge objects and distances remembered from a time when our bodies were smaller, and our imaginations nearly so vast as to be endless. I recall it being nearly twenty-five feet. Surely that is too high. And as I am in memory climbing the rope I have just reached the last knot with my feet, there are no more holds, and I am only halfway to the top. The coarse threads begin to burn into my fingers and between the legs as I try in vain to clasp the thing and give my arms some relief, and there is the sudden realization that the branch I am trying to reach is simply part of a tree, and has no feeling either way about whether or not I reach it. It is a struggle without merit. And so, it seems right to simply let go and climb into the swing or onto the clubhouse... both were made with me in mind. This branch is nothing but a difficult partner. And so of course I do let go. It's not so hard a fall. It shakes me a bit, I am rattled, but not seriously injured. And I go and sit in the shade on the step of the clubhouse, my feet dangling a little, and it feels nice. It is a good day, and there is a bit of a breeze, and there are clear skies, but obviously they are blocked from view by the leaves of the trees. If I had made it to the branch, I could have sat and soaked in the sun and looked out over the neighborhood. But nature had other plans. Still, the clubhouse seems wrong. And so I go inside for a burger between two slices of wonder bread and some koolaid. I hunt through a new box of frosted flakes to see if Caleb has already taken the toy. I can't find anything, but I'm not searching with real purpose. Honestly, I am thinking of the top of that tree. And I think that it was only when I decided to let go--decided that it was a pointless exercise and took a moment to consider spending the afternoon otherwise occupied--that I could see it had not been pointless. Only impossible.
And I am walking by the river, and big mulchers are eating the dead grass. I have not been chasing the wind. I can see that now. But there's nothing for it. Whatever my reasons for letting go, there's not another way to approach. And memory is mixing beauty with sadness, and truth seems unwilling to enter into the discussion. On the other hand, love always has a thing or two to say. In any case, it's kind of truth's mildly retarded cousin. You can't totally believe anything it tells you, but it's usually right anyway.
I closed my eyes and walked to the park near my office. Or I could have closed my eyes to walk there. But did not. I did not recognize my own routine until I began to see that this park was the routine of another, a woman who sits with her phone out, sometimes having a cigarette. She sometimes sits for an hour or more, usually only sitting, nothing more. Her hair is unkept, that is to say not unkempt or filthy, just not so flawlessly done as the ladies and girls one normally sees here on the street. And if she works nearby, it is in her own place, or in the back somewhere, because she wears jeans or dark pants and navy sweatshirts. She spies me now as I make my way up the walk to the entrance. When our eyes meet, she pretends not to see me, and continues with her nothing. When I thought that she must come here every day, I realized that I do as well. So does another woman, but she is invisible. I have only once seen her there, when I followed her in, but never again. But I know she is there. It is only my absence that brings her, and hers that brings me. At least that is what she tells me.
I had some chicken and cold corn for lunch. And walked. A bit aimless, but not really exploring either, this particular corner of this little corner of this corner of the world having grown on me to the point I cannot distinguish it as foreign or distant. It is neither dull nor invigorating, but it is beautiful, certainly. And my stomach is turning slightly. Somewhat with the coffee, and also with something of an urge to break down. It isn't sadness per se. Of course it must be sadness, because it feels like sadness, but also I know that it isn't. I begin to imagine that I have been climbing the knotted rope that used to hang in the back yard in California, Pico Rivera, 949-1467, the number at the house, a circle of fine dirt at the center, where the rope hangs from a branch perhaps fifteen or twenty feet in the air. I am tempted to underestimate the height because of the tendency to enlarge objects and distances remembered from a time when our bodies were smaller, and our imaginations nearly so vast as to be endless. I recall it being nearly twenty-five feet. Surely that is too high. And as I am in memory climbing the rope I have just reached the last knot with my feet, there are no more holds, and I am only halfway to the top. The coarse threads begin to burn into my fingers and between the legs as I try in vain to clasp the thing and give my arms some relief, and there is the sudden realization that the branch I am trying to reach is simply part of a tree, and has no feeling either way about whether or not I reach it. It is a struggle without merit. And so, it seems right to simply let go and climb into the swing or onto the clubhouse... both were made with me in mind. This branch is nothing but a difficult partner. And so of course I do let go. It's not so hard a fall. It shakes me a bit, I am rattled, but not seriously injured. And I go and sit in the shade on the step of the clubhouse, my feet dangling a little, and it feels nice. It is a good day, and there is a bit of a breeze, and there are clear skies, but obviously they are blocked from view by the leaves of the trees. If I had made it to the branch, I could have sat and soaked in the sun and looked out over the neighborhood. But nature had other plans. Still, the clubhouse seems wrong. And so I go inside for a burger between two slices of wonder bread and some koolaid. I hunt through a new box of frosted flakes to see if Caleb has already taken the toy. I can't find anything, but I'm not searching with real purpose. Honestly, I am thinking of the top of that tree. And I think that it was only when I decided to let go--decided that it was a pointless exercise and took a moment to consider spending the afternoon otherwise occupied--that I could see it had not been pointless. Only impossible.
And I am walking by the river, and big mulchers are eating the dead grass. I have not been chasing the wind. I can see that now. But there's nothing for it. Whatever my reasons for letting go, there's not another way to approach. And memory is mixing beauty with sadness, and truth seems unwilling to enter into the discussion. On the other hand, love always has a thing or two to say. In any case, it's kind of truth's mildly retarded cousin. You can't totally believe anything it tells you, but it's usually right anyway.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
dear god, halloween, jesus and mary and josephus and philo!!!
I have to be something for Halloween this year. I have no ideas. Please do weigh in. It's for a work thing.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
early to bed, early to rise... dog bars means there are dog AAs
I started a new schedule this week, and am staying away from the nightlife for a little while. I sat down yesterday at the coffee place, reading through my journal after making some Japanese vocab cards and it was apparent how much my focus has shifted since the end of May. The summer, I suppose, was about chasing after the wind... Solomon doesn't tell us this, but sometimes you need a good wind chase; it's like a cat playing with the tip of string hanging from a table. But I found a pretty decent story in it, maybe two, and I'm going to try and do something with all the material.
Sunday night the music caught me and I danced like an idiot.
I am skirting around the edges of a circle, as usual, I never did like getting into the middle of things. But if the universe is as they say, everything is at the center, and everything is at the edge, all points are equally everywhere and nowhere, and so I guess I'm skirting the center of an edge.
And such is my morning write. I had intended to include more details of my life, but find I lack the patience.
Sunday night the music caught me and I danced like an idiot.
I am skirting around the edges of a circle, as usual, I never did like getting into the middle of things. But if the universe is as they say, everything is at the center, and everything is at the edge, all points are equally everywhere and nowhere, and so I guess I'm skirting the center of an edge.
And such is my morning write. I had intended to include more details of my life, but find I lack the patience.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
i didn't drown, thanks to honeybear
the storm wasn't too bad here. just some texas-style flash-flood garbage--and not even really as heavy as in texas. the wind was not terrible. all tolled, it could have been worse, but my feet were wet for a good chunk of the day, and that was not fun. i only had one student cancel. in my last class, one of my high school kids and i shared the sentiment that days like today are a lot of fun. a little adversity, something different, it feels like you are playing hooky at work/school. can you captain dan and still go into the office? a question for the ages... and for about three people out there.
i got some new game ideas, really simple, and had about three hours today to prepare for all my classes, and everything was wonderful. i wish preparation came in larger chunks of time... there could be so much fun had.
fun fact: although the moon is made of cheese, i learned today that it is also inhabited by rice-making rabbits. no mice of course, or there would be no moon. but who takes care of the rabbits, i wonder?
i got some new game ideas, really simple, and had about three hours today to prepare for all my classes, and everything was wonderful. i wish preparation came in larger chunks of time... there could be so much fun had.
fun fact: although the moon is made of cheese, i learned today that it is also inhabited by rice-making rabbits. no mice of course, or there would be no moon. but who takes care of the rabbits, i wonder?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
stale coffee with internal monologue (silicon on canvas)
There's coffee in the microwave from this morning. Should it bother me to drink something that's been sitting for half a day or more. It doesn't. Or perhaps it does, but I'm going to drink it anyway.
A day devoid of conversation. A month devoid of contact with skin. Longer since real human touch. It got all caught up in my chest today. There is something necessary about a sincere embrace. I won't pretend to understand the physiology of it, but I'm certain there have been studies that bear out my theory. If you see a friend, you put your arms around them, and that is expected... and it is something I miss, living in this place.
There were rich times, years ago, we all said we loved one another. We all looked out for each other. Not like today. At least not so far as I can see. We all keep our distance, measuring the space between ourselves and others as if contact were a thin blade.
And perhaps it is the royal "we." "Our" defenses are really mine.
I have been restraining myself... maybe for two years or more. And I can count on one hand the number of times I have spoken from the heart, made myself truly vulnerable, in all this time. Each time, it has shaken me. It never comes out clean. It has to beat its way through my chest and by the time it makes it out it is so tired, no one can hear it. Just a whisper really.
I was thinking of studying Japanese all day today, but opted for rest instead. Watched the first two episodes of that new show, flashforward, which has potential to have real potential to be good. So I hope they don't screw it up. A quick walk down to the Jusco. They have everything there. It's very "supertarget" and I know if I were in the states I'd never go there. But it just seems to make sense here.
Whenever I sit down to write a blog entry, nothing organized happens. It's just these bits of brain-vomit. I don't think I'm giving a very good account of my time here. But I think maybe this is reflective of how unfocused I've allowed myself to become. I keep setting goals and just ignoring them.
My mind has been elsewhere. Even when it hasn't been.
A day devoid of conversation. A month devoid of contact with skin. Longer since real human touch. It got all caught up in my chest today. There is something necessary about a sincere embrace. I won't pretend to understand the physiology of it, but I'm certain there have been studies that bear out my theory. If you see a friend, you put your arms around them, and that is expected... and it is something I miss, living in this place.
There were rich times, years ago, we all said we loved one another. We all looked out for each other. Not like today. At least not so far as I can see. We all keep our distance, measuring the space between ourselves and others as if contact were a thin blade.
And perhaps it is the royal "we." "Our" defenses are really mine.
I have been restraining myself... maybe for two years or more. And I can count on one hand the number of times I have spoken from the heart, made myself truly vulnerable, in all this time. Each time, it has shaken me. It never comes out clean. It has to beat its way through my chest and by the time it makes it out it is so tired, no one can hear it. Just a whisper really.
I was thinking of studying Japanese all day today, but opted for rest instead. Watched the first two episodes of that new show, flashforward, which has potential to have real potential to be good. So I hope they don't screw it up. A quick walk down to the Jusco. They have everything there. It's very "supertarget" and I know if I were in the states I'd never go there. But it just seems to make sense here.
Whenever I sit down to write a blog entry, nothing organized happens. It's just these bits of brain-vomit. I don't think I'm giving a very good account of my time here. But I think maybe this is reflective of how unfocused I've allowed myself to become. I keep setting goals and just ignoring them.
My mind has been elsewhere. Even when it hasn't been.
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