Vessel Log: 2009 01 31

: early like a school day but energized because it’s not. Coffee in the can. Monday Night Lit. The peaceful and near empty bus this early in the morning. This trip has the uniform of stealth escape. Oodori Station is rolled metal shades. McDonald’s is the exception. The train is a long, cylindrical tunnel, a hallway that stretches in the dark and cold earth. Sidewalk patches of silver ice, peppered with slate colored gravel. The movie theater is sponge painted salmon, polished steps lead to the screening room, bookended by flower boxes filled with forever-in-bloom blossoms. It’d be wearing gray on gray watching Earth Girls Are Easy here. Perfect and, yet, too easy. The arcade outside jangles, a training camp for Vegas. The films were grainy and blown. Pewter images of farming, corruption, capitalism, private property. A village watching Modern Times. Moss Burger for lunch. H.Y.’s boyfriend is an anarchist. Lucia; three segments of women in Cuban history. Eslinda Núñez looks like Rose Byrne. Dash and slide for the train. The wind in town has picked up bite. The fifth floor of Seiyu for bowling. Trade in my rental shoes for bigger sizes; 26cm, 27cm, 28cm. Boys versus girls. E., S. C., A., J., M., B., R., J., and myself. Later, T. from the B-- with his wife and baby.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 30

: towards to end of the school day the orbicularis gris and zygomaticus unionize with the coal chute esophagus. This rebellion caught the tongue off-guard as it trounced over words the brain committed near thirty years ago. More sifting, swapping, alchemy in rearranging the compounds of a haiku written by schoolgirls. Their feet slogging through mud at different kilometric intervals. Melancholy takes some earlier than others. The usefulness of hieroglyphs. Fifteen minutes in the deep cold. On the bus, Hips and Makers again this time a séance to communicate with the past and draw charts with the present. Habana, a party for the guest lecturer, Oda-sensei who writes books about Che Guevara. A meal of salad, roast beef, roast pork, chicken, rice and beans. They say チェ ゲバラ, I hear “gay bar”. Determined to catch the 10 o’clock Super Kamui train but kept sitting with the free flow of red wine. H.Y. and her boyfriend are moving to Tokyo. K. asks for a phone number swap. T. is pushing me to socialize, feeding me topics, questions and telling me whose number to get.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 29

: Manic mouth, spilling what had been muffled for months. If you’re losing yourself then invite him back to the table; with no excuses. The TV studio is hot lamps and projected video. The first human being to see and recognize him or herself. What surface was that? A calm lip of water? A sheath of cool metal? Narcissus? …on the night we kissed in the stairwell/ before we really knew each other yet… Juliana Hatfield: How To Walk Away: “Shining On”. Laundry near dripping wet and cold, the scent of chemically induced chamomile. We will always be beautiful… beautiful… we need to forget/ all the mistakes, disasters and words that should never have been spoken…

Vessel Log: 2009 01 28

: we only get together when there’s a death in the community. White as bone, blue shadow. President Obama is a lefty. In the classroom I count the number of left-handed students. 3 boys and 1 girl. Very unusual for a Japanese class of under 30 kids.

There is a man out-
side the window. Pacing and
breaking snow with boots

I can’t see. I don’t
know him. The kyoushikai seems
unconcerned. I will be too.

A bloody tissue on the sidewalk. Took the underground tunnel to cross the street. Cats are mewing to be let inside. One’s owner takes a picture through the clear door. Met E. at Victoria Station for dinner. Her misadventures at CostCo, the indestructible apple pie, A. running for the bus. What are intrusions if not the notches of a life?

Vessel Log: 2009 01 27

: if I turned on the lights it would be late afternoon and that would be confusing. I’d think about dinner, not breakfast; taking a shower, not getting my long-johns on; pouring a glass of wine, not making sure I have my bus tickets. I’m never more aware of my otherness than when I watch the news. Sumo wrestlers. Microwavable heating pads for the tub. Alice Notley: 30th Birthday; The Best Issues of Comic Books; Requiem for the First Half of Split. Snow blusters while walking the 45 minutes to the bus terminal. A room of aching machines, gray and labeled. A winter black & white scene of an empty railroad station with the occasional tin worm of a train. The camera lights are hot. My shirt fuzzes on the monitor; unsure if its in this dimension or another. This is a rehearsal. I’m fixed on my TV self. Uncomfortable, like wearing a costume. Wishing I had a House of Parliament to tell me what to eat for dinner.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 26

: the smell of marzipan in the school hallway. Great Ojo de Dios, of the Midori-Greenland Ferris Wheel, half lidded by the window. Enjoying twilight by not flickering on the harsh fluorescents. Willette Kershaw and her five tabbies. Old Throwing Muses articles in the New York Times archives. Tanya Donelly on rockband.com. Breakfast for dinner. Reimagining Hips and Makers. How is it 2009 and not 1994? Fifteen years is a lifetime connected with dusty masking tape and progressively poorer eyeglass prescriptions.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 25

: Hard Candy and the guy across the way, the one in a red pea coat and hair swept back waves to smile. Boston. Red Sox.

* * *

Before madness there is always a calm or ought to be. One hundred yen shopping; glasses, spray bottle, waste basket. A ream of paper. Emptying shelves on the third floor of Seiyu. Mounds of paper, unreadable advertisements, bills split in boxes, numbers, and characters. Printing stories, binding their A4 size in cardboard filers.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 24

: A jagged phone call. Rain, water, mist, and fog solidified exhausted into sheets of ice. The sun wants to prosecute and has enough evidence to put them all away. But the appeal process deadline is months up the road. The two S’s for lunch; Subway and Starbucks. Sapporo is still silence and meticulous snowfall. Met T. underground and we rode beyond Jieitai-mae (Before Defense Force) station. A bus that lumbers to the feet of the city. Leafless trees, svelte and tall, models of New England. The Sapporo Art Park for the Neoteny Exhibit: Murakami Takashi, and an installation part red-riding-hood and Delphi oracle. The wolf was a mosaic of mirrors and the size of a lion. The refracted light was paused snow. Himalayan Club and opened my book to explain. Tapestries of red, blue, gold, orange and green. Sapporo station for half-&-halfs.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 23

: Spring covers the mountains and the flat fields, motherly and protective. Rising ghosts of snow that never had the chance to glacierize. Took the haiku and ran with it.

In the morning all
is gray. It’s hard to pick clothes
before colors rise.

Have my own house party. Glasses of wine. Rekindle my relationship with LOST and know that on its conclusion I’ll be packing to leave myself.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 22

: My lack of sleep has nothing to do with what you propose. It’ll take months to figure it out. We are judged by the music we listen to, not the fruits we eat. Finally, a strategic attack on the House of the Golden Elephant. A heart re-implanted in the gut. A make-believe telephone conversation with our new president, “Could you tell him to buy a newspaper? Could you tell him I’m busy?” The students love leaving a personal message for President Obama. A noise outside; celluloid voice, a rattling against the windows. A haunting at the foundation.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 21

: Keep returning to the same questions. When does plausibility act as an adjective to denial? How blurry that line is. Crossed paths with Y-sensei, my office neighbor, just outside Kami-Horomui station. Our spliced language conversation uncovered his younger brother borrowing the family car. I tried to explain how I nearly missed my train: the light is so much brighter after 4. But couldn’t find the word for bright. Touring the supermarket basement. The curling shavings of the plow. Watch Orion as he hunts from left to right, chasing Venus but she’s long gone.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 20

: It was so sure upon wake up. History repeats itself but not in a cyclical recycling as proposed but in a way more similar to skipping questions on a test and having to go back to fill in the blanks. No matter where you go, there you are. A quick wolfing of a meal consisting of tentacles and cabbage before seeking the warmth of the public bus. Using the grill as a plow against coffee ice cream slush. Near accident from a cream colored boxy car, swerving on ill-defined lanes and a desperate attempt at making a right. Cuban Film Festival meeting with a mohito and my yearly calendar. The lights of the outbound train board were blank like “No bets today”. Crowds developed, each unit on their own cell phone. 岩見沢駅へ何ですか。Track 7 alights in green and orange. A snowy night for Cranes: Particles & Waves. But Kita-Hiroshima is not a station I recognize. This is the wrong train. I’m headed for the airport. Run through the metal tunnel and wait in a strange town for a ride back to Sapporo. Tama meets me and we sit in another train for it to move. But the Super Kamui is waiting on the otherside and that is a pony worth its penny.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 19

: That dream was a rough draft waiting to happen. But the light this morning. This morning the light was dark gray, a metallic that hints at having slept for 20 hours or the world is at an end. Today will be water aerobics. Phase in, phase out, where did all these children come from? They say my name. Blinking off in the office even New York Times television reviews aren’t doing the trick. But I jump from those to correcting spelling mistakes. A sojourn to Seiyu for dinner and wine. No aerobics tonight, maybe next week. God bless the New Pornographers please.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 18

: Need to get out of this apartment. It’s haunted. There’s panic in these sheets, cold through the floor but the floor itself is not cold. Cleanliness is close to godliness. Room to room. Breathe in, breathe out. An excursion created to Homac and UniQlo. Vacuum bags are difficult to shop; can’t decide based color or design. UniQlo has run out of the jackets; shiny black with faux rabbit fur collar. Went to cross the street to YamadaDenki, cars refuse to stop. Slip on the ice, crash like I’m doing a cartwheel inside a backflip. See the gray gravel embedded in the smooth and dirty ice. The three of us laugh. “Must’ve looked very funny,” I said. Then A. falls after trying to be so careful. E. nearly pisses herself laughing. A printer for ¥460, I had nearly ¥6500 on my point card. Posful to wait for dinner with J. Baskin Robbins ice cream and I lay it out there. “We’re being stared at,” E. said. “Well, there are three beautiful people sitting in the Food Court of a mall. I’d be staring at us, too,” I said. “Maybe you can get an exorcism?” E. asked. “Ask M. about it.” “She would think I was out of my mind.” A taxi to Goyen for soup curry. A converted house, now a restaurant, low lights covered in sticks of bamboo. We talk more hauntings, communication with the dead, dreams. I had left my electric heater on. The Mentalist, Six Feet Under.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 17

: Now it’s five of us including A. and I run around looking for Star Beach. The sign is a blue tower, entrance dark and boisterous. Karaoke, the boys swing around to talk. Love is a losing game. Molested like my body was my jacket and someone searched for my wallet. That tightly wrapped desire, like radiation, encased in concrete, dumped in the ocean, and it’ll still find its way to the surface. Can’t find my pillow. Exhausted.

* * *

Left the kerosene heater on, burning 18 degrees through the night. Might still be drunk. A downloading frenzy. The day whirs forward and the creeper creeps. Maybe this isn’t worth it. Alcohol depression is the most depressing. I know what I should do. Y. calls from Osaka Airport, “It’s boring here,” he said. “Flight leaves in half an hour,” “Did you speak with T.? I told her about the movie,” I don’t know what this could mean. Am I in for it? And why do I care so much? The Office, The Mentalist, Damages, Battlestar Galactica.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 16

: The flurry. A whitewashing of fine powder six inches over night. My front door made an architects arc. The snow angels of doors looks like a fifth of pie. A US Airways Airbus A320 crashed into the Hudson River, floating like a ferry. “It looked like everybody was really calm, like on the subway platform when it’s crowded, standing shoulder to shoulder.” It’s opening ceremonies this morning. Walt Whitman: Crossing Brooklyn Ferry. She’s riddled with symptoms. Spoke becomes spork, made becomes maid. Met at Asano restaurant for shonenkai. A video of a teacher on the ski slope, U. adjusts the speaker behind me, “Be careful!” he warns. Boiling nabe. The party moves to Saru and some teachers fall away. Vodka tonics, I’m getting drunk. Text T. (where are you?), Y. (have a safe and wonderful trip!), and A. (where are you?).

Vessel Log: 2009 01 15

: 4 lime green globules on the surface of my vision. Blink and they’re brighter; concentrate and they flash red and purple. The ghost of the fourth side of a die, perhaps? I’ve been writing that word a lot lately… perhaps. Maybe. On the fence. It was 72 degrees Fahrenheit in Oakland the other day. When the beautiful becomes frightening. Today found out Reginald Shepherd died in September. Aggravating snow in the face. Iwamizawa University for a meeting. That mound of snow looks delicious enough to eat, like a thick layer of frosting on a yard-sized cupcake. Push, shove, and eradicate. My hands appear so pale with knuckles red and veins blue. Day of surprises: my baby brother flew half way across the world and now he’s in Iraq.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 14

: Snow like shaved Styrofoam infinitely falling from a cardboard box high up in the rafters. The world will end, again and again.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 13

: Roundtable agent discussion from pw.org soaked novel anticipation. I might be 35 before that ever happens. That might be too late? “Over the summer I read a book about Cuba. I don’t know why. I was suddenly very interested.” A full day of writing, reading, blogging. A little bird followed me home; leaping from branch to branch, twittering a backwards version of a chickadee tune. The evening spent watching others stories, ignoring the outside world. Battle In Seattle, Damages, 24.

Twenty-Four #010

The seventh season of FOX’s political/action drama 24 began Sunday night at 8:00 with 2 episodes then continued on Monday with 2 more. After that, weekly on Monday nights at 9.

After taking over a year off (a much needed break) hopefully this show will come out like a caged and ferocious animal, not linger around like a well-fed, warming in the sun lion on a calm prairie.

That last season was horrible and it’s refreshing to see the producers of the show have fessed up to their mistakes. On top of that, they’ve learned from those mishaps if their quotations are to be believes. The Redemption movie was alright, didn’t nail down hope like I would’ve liked but I think it widened its scope by involving Africa as a landscape.

Also, while watching last season, I had the misfortune of not getting FOX in as well as I would’ve liked. I spent that entire 24 hours with a pair of rabbit ears in my lap pointed to the window. Even then I got fuzzy lines through the untimely and regretful murder of Michelle Forbes character, Lynne Kresge

Well, after reading Tim Goodman’s review in the San Francisco Chronicle, maybe we’re seeing the beginning of the end.

What if the 24 concept was adapted for another series (think CSI or SVU), maybe not involving a counter terrorism outfit but a nonprofit organization trying to stay afloat in an economic sinkhole. Terrorism is no longer the bogeyman, we've supported our own financial bogeymen, and, if they’re not trying to negotiate their lost fortunes their killing themselves in the face of an uncertain and incriminating future.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 12

: Lawson’s has swigs of anti-hangover juice. We roam Susukino looking for Booty Bar. “It’s this way!” “No, I swear, it’s this way.” Our roaming is accentuated by the bags we carry. A. and her onigiri. A "private party". The dancefloor is barren, upstairs is a hunter’s lounge and the girls parfait, I vodka tonic. Dancing to Janet, to Amy Winehouse, Rihanna. A performance; pint sized hip-hop dancer, two boys and I see double. Knock over a drink. “Gomen ne. I feel really bad about spilling your drink. Nomimono? Can I buy you another?” Rum and coke. There’s a fancy handshake I don’t quite understand. Girls in lingerie. There is a reason for the pole. They swing and suspend like the room is spinning and us with it. Their movements are Showgirls, their outfits Victoria’s Secret. We part ways. The capsule hotel for me. The bath room is near empty, the tinkling music; a random and melodic arrangement of the same 8 notes. My capsule is lonely alone.

* * *

: There’s someone in my apartment. No, there isn’t. I’m not in my apartment. Soft and smooth gray and charcoal pajamas. This box I sleep in is cool against the soles of my feet. Pale blue light through the edges of the shade. Check card? 14:00? Yes. Yes, check out. Silver and smooth, the Sapporo sky in the late morning. Robinson’s, the middle class shopping experience, red banner sales. Y. running late. Nakajimakoen erased in white, bare trees like dark veins against the sky. Crows shout, dogs in jackets being walked. Zuccafe 22 for lunch and we stay for hours. Y. leaves for Greece soon. E, A, and I walk towards the station, stopping along the way, a photo-op with a sewing mannequin, a denim jacket with gold buttons and zippers. The massaging chairs in Bic Camera with オムライス　for dinner and melon soda floats. Bus is warm and drowsy; we’re hampered by bags and worried about frozen pipes. Home is strange after 36 hours away. Sleep will be easy, welcoming, and not long enough.

Twenty-Four #009

In Billy Collins’ poem Revision (published in Oranges & Sardines, Spring 2009) the narrator counts 24 crows in a pasture.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 11

: Liz Phair and I in the back of the bus to Sapporo; me playing air guitar. All us Hokkaido denizens own two shovels. When did minutes turn into seconds? Or sleeping-in cause bouts of guilt? Two hours in a hair salon. Manic tea towel buying. Fill the basket with Valencia orange coasters, new knives, and wrapping cloth. Neer Lounge in Tanukikoji 2; gin martinis, vodka tonics, pickles, olives, fried potato. A fruitful selection of foreign beers. E. and I winging it. Met A. in front of McDonalds and we nomihodai at our favorite izakaya, the one with the yellow sign and red rays. The girls remember us from Halloween. E. and I grill A. about C. Endless sake, ramen salad, zangi and we go to Habana for dancing and mohitos. Chips and salsa. A message to Y. He calls and talks to E. Plans for lunch tomorrow and a confession. The music in the bar is actually coming from upstairs.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 10

: Cottonmouth morning. A mini breakfast of coffee and peanut butter on toast. Air siren blasted at 10:00 am; impending nuclear fallout? flash flood? a wall of energized particles to crisp the skin and melt shadows into the concrete? Met Y. at Tanukikoji 6 in front of Theater Kino. Broken English. Y. and I the only ones laughing, me at every nuance and facial gesture Parker Posey made. I noticed her cloud and rain silver pendant, he the pair of scissors threaded by a silver chain. Mohitos at Betty. “Would you have flown to Paris to try to find him?” “Had I quit my job, yes, I would. Would you?” “I never would’ve lost his number.” Dreams might not come true but they’re looking glass reflections of the truth. A dictionary as a weapon. Vicious, featherless birds with seeds for brains. The gift of flight but never gaining more altitude than an inch from the ground. The assistant grocery store manager who sings nothing but Sleater-Kinney during a busy and musicless hour. “Who are those people in your dreams?” “They’re no one I know.” The $7 can of Tecate with a slice of lemon and a pinch of salt on the rim. Taxi ride. Like a goldfish. “I must tell you a story about a cab ride I took in San Francisco one night.” A kiss goodbye at the turnstile. Uni-Qlo and a basket of new clothes. The medium or the large? A pair of teenagers in Seiyu; mountains of copper and hay-colored hair, they were netherworld nomads, teased, sprayed and black eyeliner.

The Many Incarnations of Kristin Hersh

One of the numerous things I admire about Kristin Hersh is her stance on her creativity incorporated into her life and family. Over the past fifteen-plus years that I’ve followed her career I’ve always been inspired, not only by her music, but by her attempts, her trial and errors, her evolutions, her acceptances, and the way she melds it all together. 

A mother at 22, leader of the band (Throwing Muses), three more children along the way, multiple albums with two different bands (TM and 50 Foot Wave) and solo, a record imprint (Throwing Music), a ticket selling agency that gave partial profit to charity (Virtuous.com), a website catering to collaboration while operating within a new sustainability model (cashmusic.org), and her easeful approachability with her fans. All these things while taking her family and guitar on the road is nothing short of inspirational. Meanwhile, she manages to never lose sight of what’s directly important to her; her music and her family. 

One night in San Francisco I saw a solo performance. In between songs, while tuning her guitar, with a pick in her mouth, she chatted the audience up. “Thank you for coming out tonight,” she said. “I’m amazed. It’s Sunday. You could be home watching The Simpsons.” I remember we all laughed. Yeah, we could be at home watching The Simpsons but there are priorities and supporting one of the most hard working, entertaining, quality writing musicians is high on most of our lists.

Then there’s her humility. She knows that her audience has a life outside of that dark hall, she knows that we’re not permanent fixtures at a club with beers in our hands, she knows that we purchased a ticket, that we’re out on a school/work night. I get the impression that she’s sensitive to a perspective that, on the performance level, we’re welcoming her into our lives not she’s welcoming us into hers. And Hersh celebrates that perspective by being very generous with her fans in her output (almost an album a year), her delivery (Works in Progress series, cashmusic.org, her shows), and her ceaseless struggle to keep her head above water in an industry ever sinking to new lows.

Personally, I’m very exciting about the pending Paradoxical Undressing memoir. Over the past year, every week, I’ve been getting emails from Kristin, snippets from the book she’s been writing about the early beginnings of Throwing Muses and her life as she knew it. I must admit I read the first few eagerly yet slowly, savoring these stories written in her voice that’s both unapologetic, nonchalant and unmistakably New England. But I stopped for a while. I knew I was coming to Japan and would want some way to reconnect to my homeland, those emails would be that conduit. 

Kristin Hersh is on her way to New Zealand and Australia with Throwing Muses and I’m very jealous. TM has been getting together once every 3 or 4 years in select locations and I’m always tempted to fly myself wherever they are for another injection of their powerful, adrenaline, ju-ju conjuring performances.

This article appeared in Australia’s The Age online edition, January 9, 2009. Called Tapping the Muses, written by Anthony Carew.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 09

: Mist glides like specters, over the black asphalt of a heated sidewalk outside Mos Burger. 7-11 lunch browsing. The muzak rendition of “I Just Called To Say ‘I Love You’”; a 4 member band playing without audience in a hotel conference room sound. The man with the M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E ringtone. Goodreads is the only social networking site I can access without getting I-filtered. The baseball boys chirruping in the hallway. I’m suggesting a movie. You suggest a matinee. It’s easy to view through the filter of Six Feet Under. Taking snowpants off on the bus appears indecent. The Teachers’ Union party for school nurses; beers and laughs. These ladies know how to party. I’m told what lurks behind the curtain: ups and downs, one girls bravery turns to ridicule and lawsuits. A cigarette box from Korea that looks like a camera. I have no reception down here. Took the elevator to send a text in a pair of striped yellow slippers. Taxi ride past a park; “Reminds me of Boston.” Two more beers at the Irish Pub in the station. ハフ＆ハフ、ハフ. Half (Guiness) and half (Ebisu beer), half pint. Pickles, vegetable, and a plate of ホットナチョ (hot nachos!). The Super Kamui ride, the ladies are amused that I wear long underwear. “You are from California.”

Vessel Log: 2009 01 08

: The moon rises vague and gigantic over a barren tree hill. Took the long way to school; a walk over white Martian geology, used my body to heat my clothes. Took off my black gloves. Is quiet. Kinoko rice for lunch. Whittling a story from the shavings of another. The names that change. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness. At 8:00 PM Venus descends out of the nightsky. The day that arises when she will longer be there.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 07

: 7:03. 30 minutes behind schedule; skip breakfast; two sips of tea; no interpreting the news. That’s okay. Be back in a few hours. The cold office umpires me to sojourn to the locker room to stretch and examine my gray hairs. Bookslut.com. E. and I on the carpet, drinking tea. We talk horror movies, Erica, and Basshunter. This American Life and a dinner of tofu miso soup, carrots and bok choy. 

Damages

All you lucky kids with televisions attune to FX last tonight got to watch the season premiere of a show I thought would never come back. When Damages finished its first season in October of 2007 I was just coming off a stint of 2 weeks jury duty, walking into the jungles of my thesis, perhaps beginning Battlestar Galactica and beginning a long and arduous process applying for the program I’m currently participating in. Watching Glenn Close shoot and flip masks from sensible lawyer head of her own firm to crazed and manipulative warrior was a literal thrill. Sitting on Erica’s couch with a cup of tea (or a coffee from Hudson Bay), a bowl of cereal (or a burrito), and pressing play on the DVR player to watch Damages was a highlight I’d forgotten about. Until now. I hope you all enjoyed it. I will watch it as soon as I can.

Damages could’ve been on the 24 list. The series premiered on July 24, 2007, my birthday. 

San Francisco Chronicle TV writer, Tim Goodman on the first episode of Damages: Season 2. Here.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 06

: White, featherless birds leap from tension wires. In flocks they sail to the snow, tumbling from the air. Skiers on the mountain; watch as they swerve and fall. The snowfall is commercial genteel. It’s still cold in here. Kept cool by a metal desk. The principle made konoko rice, topped it with green seaweed and pickled pink ginger. Sunset. Dozed on two separate cold floors. MossBurger is a study hall. The Cuba Film Festival meeting at Habana. Snow drifts and disappears on heated sidewalks. Afia and Charlie at the train station. We made friends with a 79 year old lady on the Super Kamui. She gave us cough drops. I thought she knew I was American by how loud I was talking. She was coming from a New Years party. I think she has healing powers. The keyboard is cold.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 05

: Russian sun, Siberian snow. Soft on the nose and fingertips. Cars sizzle and slide on the ice. Pixies and Portishead. The White Tiger moans, curls into a ball, purs on a snowman blanket. As if it were a crinkled calendar page. The fifth or the sixth? Breakfast might be too much, the coffee is running low. Some things never change: a trip to the grocery store is shuffled from afternoon to evening. Salmon in the pan. The rice steams like screaming heard from far away.

Vessel Log: 2009 01 04

: the comfortable electric heat of the room. Slats up, against the window; the appearance of a prison but it’s for your own protection. Another day of reinstallation, the music pops into being trailing with it fumes. It’s snowing. No, it’s not. Already finished reading that book. Typed conversations with Mom. March is coming very soon. Remember when I said text messages were 面倒臭い? I want to rephrase that. Yes, it is. Broken arrow cold. Last week’s laundry made it to the bureau. (What’s the story) morning glory? A Neko Case moment in my bedroom, air guitar trailing and, wouldn’t you know, tears still well for the tiger on its chain.

Twenty-Four #008

At Thriller Karaoke our room was number 24, pointed out by a friend of mine. It's a fuzzy picture. I was trying to be quick and inconspicuous. But I was neither.

A Special Treat: How to Pretend Like You Understand

For the great lapse in time, for Christmas, for New Years. I offer you this sacrifice.