Vessel Log: 2009 02 28

: alone in a crowded car. Neko Case again. The car is rolling then one man falls on a woman. She screams, drops her bags. Is he molesting her? Attacking her? No, he passes out. Is he convulsing? Is he vomiting? I yank the buds from my ears. The man in front of me pushes him off. He stoically comes to and leans against the blue wall decorated in blue daffodils. Doesn’t speak or apologize. The woman, stunned, picks up her bags. I want to ask if she’s okay, if she wants to move into the car. But I don’t know how. I scan the car for an empty seat but don’t see one. No one spoke.

* * *

Glad to be awake for the earthquake. From below, the collapse or rumble of earth. A passing truck, perhaps. Then tendrils reach into the frame, pulling and tugging. Angry demons have 30 seconds to do as much damage as they can. Sunlight from behind a blue curtain. Cherish the quiet. Could fold up and disappear. Photos of lamplight, positions Tyra taught me, secret portraits. Chattering mouth as A. and I walk to Nat’s Berry Farm. Sit at the counter, it’s another girl’s last day. She swigs sweet shochu from a big pink bottle.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 27

: cosmetic necessities at Seiyu. Boys in baggy, velour sweatpants and heavy thick wallets banging against the back of their knees. Kendo satchels. Puffy black jackets, spiky hair. The line between youthful salaryman and old salaryman is so severe. Like, one weekend they cocoon hip and thin, then emerge on Monday aged and pouched in the same suit, the same trenchcoat, the same black shoes? Sapporo: Neko Case on the bus and strolling through Aurora Town and Pole Town. I mouth the words unconcerned to who might be watching. Habana for the last Cuban Film Fesitval meeting, the recap. We watch the DVD made and, after the drinks and during wine, it’s announced that S-san will lead the pack again next year. Fair Trade Festival in June. A cab to the station. The last train home is crammed with people; frail girls with shopping bags (Dean & Deluca), salarymen playing Final Fantasy on their cellphones. It smells of cough medicine or mouthwash or gum masking alcohol and digested chicken. I grip an upper corner with my web-like hand in the limbo room between cars. A boy in shades, lines razored in his hair, a ruby-red cellphone, talks loudly as he pushes his way through the thick and into the restroom. The train jerks forward and people are tossed into each other. These girls smashed against drunk and wobbling men.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 26

: in the post office the clerk brings out a thick Japanese/English dictionary for situations like mine. She writes down “proscribe” then “arms” then “toys”. “Ah! ‘Arms’ じゃない。The last of the Christmas presents, Year of the Cow arrows, artifacts sent to America. E. and I walk the traffic loud rte. 12 to Victoria Station. “I need my salad bar fix,” swapping cultural stencils; New Zealand and the U.S. Talk boils down to death over garlic sauce, pasta salad, fried onion bits, cucumber, and cherry tomatoes from Korea. When tired it’s always one of three topics; God, death, or aliens. “I mean, they’ve had their time and I’m glad to have known them.” “You can imagine to a point before you rely on convenient crutches.” “Everyone does it, everyone has for what, maybe 200,000 years or more? As a species.” “They say I’ll see them again, that we’ll be together again.”

Vessel Log: 2009 02 25

: making the most, the best of it. The electronic call-to-arms, call-and-response, Independent Women. Don’t forget the silent ones who are too afraid to speak. Overshadowed by those with the personalities of TV stars. Geometry in other languages. The extremities of Seiyu shut down cubit by cubit. “あなたの猫ですか。” The phone call that almost couldn’t happen. “Happy Birthday.” “Well, almost.” The screeching wheels of a Shinjuku train. “Don’t worry. 50 is the new 40.” This new room could benefit from some flowers.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 24

: marking a path on crushing ice that, when stepped upon, screeches like an exasperated mouse. City Hall is steeped in burning oil heat. Sudden squall. Evening hours wean quickly, faster. Concrete Blonde. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

Vessel Log: 2009 02 23

: some first year boys teach me a hand game with the schoolyard potential of being obscene. They gather in a pack by the window, “I’m going home now,” one boy says. “I will run very fast,” as he jogs in place. Teaches me the hand game; “Akina. Yukina. Akina.” The gesture’s meaning could be anything. “It’s TV… TV…” and he asks a teacher for help. “英語で何人？” “Person,” he says. The boy turns back to us and says, “TV Person,” in a perfect if not exaggerated imitation. This inflection maintains the status of private joke even as I watch and hear them pass the teachers’ room window. “Wednesday! Seven!” Crossroad white lines waxed with ice. A cooking room; green painted floor, stations of tables, sinks, gas stoves. We wear aprons and scarves. Canadian cuisine; a hamburger pie with carrots, celery, garlic, potatoes, cinnamon, nutmeg, clove, and bay leaf. Working together; washing dishes after each use; drying them with towels, throwing packages away; it was all assembled, cooked and eaten by 9 PM. Kept the lights low, the dim is comforting. Two episodes of United States of Tara.

Book Review: The White Tiger

The White Tiger: A Novel by Aravind Adiga

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars
Even though the star review above is listed as "it was ok" there were many things that I really liked about this novel. But, what I think soured the experience for me, was the gushing blurbs adorning the cover. Frankly, I didn't think it lived up to their claims. The saving grace was the narrator's voice; sharp, biting, witty, and clever. His observations and leaps of imaginative conclusion were exciting allowing the story to progress unexpectantly. Secondly, the camera-from-the-ground perspective of a developing India. The battles of caste being played out on a daily level. Dwarfed by these great moments I felt the cushion of the novel lacked orientative padding. It was sparse and the leaps of faith, coming down from the narrator, were expected of the reader. Unfortunately, for this reader, the effect highlighted too many missed opportunities.


View all my reviews.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 22

: Seiyu shifting their merchandise around the store, tagged in red. Shelves emptying, discount prices. Each floor waning towards closure. Funny the difference a cheap piece of furniture can make. Plunge and power through The White Tiger which, as soon as it got more interesting, ended. A new snowstorm to clean-up after the last one. Seize The Day with E., A. and B. Sunday, and the intimacy of the restaurant itself, has us speak in whispers until the rice and soup are finished. B. and I talk TV; Joss Whedon’s new show Dollhouse, Battlestar Galactica, Damages. Lowlight through the three rooms. Guiltily spacious. This small change has made a difference.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 21

: building next door for karaoke. “The girls of Mermaid.” Our songs wave in up-beat to sentimental to 80s to Janet Jackson. “Under Pressure is the best song that no one knows the words to.” Time runs up twice and we close the establishment out. Riding the cab at 4 am. Thank you to our cab driver that night. Let us by as we fumbled, counting our crowded coins. He seemed to enjoy our marbelized conversation. The night howls with the rushing of white-dust mapping wind currents and the diesel shovels with their crustacean lamp eyes. “Trucks like this only come out late at night.” Oolong tea and soju has left me awake. Underneath hot water, underneath hot water.

* * *

Hot plate blanket. Left the box switched to high. Five hours is not enough.

* * *

I love Peet’s coffee (Thank you again, Jose!). Mos Burger and the snow is a blizzard. Met A. and J. at the hut. “The highway is closed. It could take 2 hours to get to Sapporo.” A lemon yellow house; cabbage town; a gray citadel with smoking stack I enjoy imagining to be a school. We meet E. at Oodori Station and ride the subway to the end. The map suggests a road behind us but we roam the road that has the most action. We get lost. Back and forth, asking directions, we wander behind an apartment complex, the courtyard mountains of snow. Amber lights alighting flakes. J. and I race and skate on the icier patches. We’re enjoying this lost adventure. I jump a fence. Finally, a slushy road to the dome. The humidity underneath the shell. I cheer for Rera Kamuy, following the directions on the big screen and I don’t know why I’m getting evil eyes. The seats we find are in the section designated for the visiting team. Hence the Sun Rockers inflatable, yellow batons. Corn dogs, beer, salted vanilla ice cream, an orange scarf. J. and I talk to the boys in front of us; flannel shirt and a Carhart cap. “Yes we can!” they chant. “O-Ba-Ma!” they continue. Later, Mos Burger again and a bus ride back. A drawn out bath and The White Tiger.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 20

: howling, arctic wolves are invisible and soar past windows. The school may be tilted, dust falls sideways. Chasing wolves or are being chased? Like walking on sand. Currency exchanging on my desk; five dimes, four pennies, three nickels and not one quarter. Oh.-sensei shows me Vietnamese and Singapore coins. She and F.-sensei went to Singapore two years ago. The snow held back for four months. Reading Poet Be Like God in front of the kerosene stove. Love reading about San Francisco and the Bay Area though we’re talking fifty to forty years ago. Jack Spicer coming, leaving, coming, leaving his friends and writing, teaching, yearning, and desire. A. meets me while I push dust with my red shovel. The two of us and B. trek downtown to Natts Berry Farm for cocktails, smoked salmon salad, ポテトフライ, and pizza. Rolling slices of pizza and eating them with chopsticks.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 19

: a dozen eggs fresh from the grocer; a rainbow pack of crayons; weekly schedule with tiles of red-penned squares: things that are packed and continuous. Mixing pancakes to Radiohead, In Rainbows, maple syrup and strawberries. Their scent permeates though their meat is as white as snow.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 18

: snow piles over night; light as down, cold as ice. Jumps from the roof in wisps of dust. Patches shoveled, patches undone. The white-out; fog and sightless, clears slowly. An hour later sunlight cracks the plaster and illuminates the untouched rolling mounds or the crumble jag of trounced upon diamond-like particles.

“We're living in a constant present tense, you can't really say what the future of music is going to be.” Bob Stanley of Saint Etienne, interviewed by Scott Plagenhoef on Pitchfork.com

Near-blind walk to city hall. A meeting in a room haunted by old smoke. A mark in the carpet where a cigarette was left burning. The international festival. Push the snow to the other side of the road. The Comas for the marinating salmon.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 17

: intermittent fall. It criss-crosses like threads in loose linen or almond trees on a California farm. An amber necklace of light up and down the décolletage of Greenland Mountain. Light box, words, the argumentative texts, fights, POVs, the honeysuckle of actual work. Burning up in the atmosphere of the internet; first the eyes and then the mind. It’s challenging to eat spaghetti in a minced beef sauce with chopsticks. Five rounds of 20 Questions. Mailed the cards and the postcard. Been gone long enough they feel like fan mail. A card from Erica with a Dunkin’ Donuts postcard and a Guardian clipping of a woman holding a funeral for the novel that never got published at the Chapel of Chimes. Dinner with E.; met frozen in front of Gonji. I forget the road parallel to me; the eateries and shops. Bacon wrapped scallops, yakitori, spinach and cream cheese salad. It’s all having to do with perspective. How living alone offers little distraction from the self, propagates hypochondria, lost moments of pause, an urge to care for animals. Grilled eggplant and fried potato with cheese, a couple of beers followed by a stop at Mister Donut.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 16

: ice creaks like dry wood planks on a hollow merchant ship. “Reminds me of when we were children. We’d ask our teachers, ‘Can I go to the bathroom?’ and they’d respond, ‘I don’t know. Can you?’” It’s easy – zipper your jacket, lace your boots, walk out the door. Without warning it’s 22:00. Switch the box’s red light off, yank the plug and cord from the blanket.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 15

: listen to the same two songs over and over (Maria Taylor with Andy LeMaster: “Time Lapse Lifeline”, “Tell Me”). But not on repeat. Like a fear of commitment I hit the backtrack button every six minutes. Seize the day with A., soup curry Sunday, the restaurant like a fever dream where everyone you know is there, under bright light, speaking softly. Vicky, Christina, Barcelona. The sun blooms against silver and wet ice. Then, in the space of 30 minutes a blizzard sideswipes our valley town. My concrete is slippery. A black dash across the street, “The littlest kitten.” Read Brian Teare’s poem, the one I heard before in the backroom of a bookstore. An incantation. Like a spell that illuminates what has always been there but, now, appears only by mirror reflection. Yes, an incantation.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 14

: just like Thanksgiving I carelessly forget about Valentine’s Day. Like New Years and resistance to list resolutions I’m disinterested in play-acting romance. Last week my grandparents sent me a V-Day card. The front read: Grandson, Happy Valentine’s Day! Always knew you’d turn out great! Just look at your parents! The inside, depicting two chimpanzees; one holding a remote in a la-z-boy and one in a silk bathrobe, bunny slippers, and rollers reads: Okay. Bad example. But still, you turned out great! On the back, a message in red pen. Rush to the train station; rain all night ground the snow into slush and puddles and mist darkens my green jacket. Someone walks up, brushes my shoulder. I’m listening to Neko Case. But it’s him and we go to the Irish Pub in the station. He brings gifts of pistachios and candy from Greece as well as a small, pink pendant with an eye at its center. “For good luck,” he says. From his diamond studded iPod he plays me Jack Johnson: “Banana Pancakes” and, from my sock-sewn iPod, play him Neko Case: “Hold On, Hold On” and the New Pornographers: “Letter From An Occupant”. The rain has matured to snow.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 13

: Friday the 13th. Don’t ask for my opinion, then tell me I’m wrong. School lunch: A heart-shaped croquette that, with sauce, tastes like a cinnamon donut. Heart-shaped carrots. Two hour meeting after lunch about the following year which is less than 2 months away. I keep my red pen stitching through workbooks, circling and correcting. I could sleep forever on this train. One of the books arrived; Poet Be Like God. Read on the bedroom floor with the new Cranes album. Give myself a bath, read The White Tiger with the Cocteau Twins.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 12

: make the best of it. A busy and fulfilling day where, by the end, my mouth was mangled, tired, and eager to put on its own jeans. “What’s Santa doing?” becomes “Who’s Santa doing?”

I need some _____________. (ball)

Juvenile, I know. Sushi with A., R., B., and E. at the kaiten Hana-something. “Sorry for my language,” said. “After all day talking like a Mormon, what has been suppressed comes raging out.”

Vessel Log: 2009 02 11

: opening the opportunities of the future starts in your own backyard. Move the office from the bedroom to the kitchen. Hammer and nails, polish the machine, a new member to the arsenal. Oodori Park is flooded in people, snow and ice monuments. Susukino early arrival. Ice sculptures lining the street; fish embedded, flashing lights, Suntory whiskey. Miles of signs, stacked like a used bookstore. A puppy in the window, tail wagging, jumping at its cage. Susukino Station where waiting is balanced by the stream of strangers. Chinese Restaurant in a neighborhood where jaw-and-fang-like icicles and snow drift overrun wooden additions. They bend and buckle. Upstairs, we say goodbye to H.Y.-san. Moving to Tokyo, getting married. Dances, Okinawan folk songs, email exchanges. Karaoke at Thriller and a mad dash to catch the 11:25 local. Rode home with a neighbor. Our mangled languages a source of entertainment for both us and others.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 10

: cobble together a 50 minute lesson, a topic of my choosing. Let’s call it Valentine’s Day. Let’s include words like arrows, hearts, and Cupid. Let’s talk about high school red carnations. Let’s split the page into text boxes and antique cards. Let’s start with a warm-up. Before the bell rings they’re peaking with laughter, “Speak Japanese, please!” amused by the sound of English echoed in their voices. Clock chimes. The race begins and now they’re shy, reluctant, wide-eyed. Stand up. That familiar feeling of “this is too much for them, quit while you can. Just drop it. Run out the door,” but no, that’s counter-intelligence. Unraveling is admission of defeat? Overseeing a vocabulary test in the library. They check their answers in red pen. I hand out 10 sheets to those who get less than 50. How did I get here? I used to be one of these kids! I want to tell them that. Back in the library a student and I chat about food, time, transportation, pets, sports, studying. Prepping him for an interview test two-years beyond his level. “For practice,” he says. The room fades to blue. We look up words like geography and fine arts. The baseball boys in the hallway smack birdies with bats. “For practice,” they say. Listening to Laura’s story, laying on the floor, a snowman blanket and blue sweatshirt as a pillow. She brought San Francisco into my bedroom. If only for 16 minutes.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 09

: two inches from the steaming, generic black tea smells like a stiff, manic body under summer, under blankets and ready to emasculate. Janet Frame: “A Night At The Opera”. Ibuprofen.

Hudson Bay Cafe

My friend Tanya is in the San Francisco Chronicle Datebook!

Once when I worked for Tanya, when I first moved to California, I was unknowingly late for work. I was sleeping and there was a knock on my door. I opened it and there was Tanya! I was all, "Hey, Tanya, what's up?" She handed me a pastry and a coffee and she was all, "Did you know you were working today?" All with a smile. She waited for me to get ready and drove me to the cafe! I will never, ever, ever forget that morning. Thank you, Tanya!

Vessel Log: 2009 02 08

: a new routine to match. Time to take the tags off the shirt. An invitation to lunch; inaka soba from the corner restaurant. It’s an unmistakable Sunday with gray cloud cushions, pillows of snow. Retooling the Minus Machine. Cold couch reader wrapped like a tight belt in blue, winter light. Clothes are a lightless chandelier, separating rooms. Miniature tissues, layer on layer, dust and slip. Soup curry in the dark house with visitors from the south. Martha Plimpton, cricket scores, Yuki Matsuri, spice level.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 07

: with a few punches to a keyboard I can move merchandise, like books, across a continent or over an ocean. Getting guilty with A.C. Newman and Cranes. The dirty clothes, in fact, did wash themselves, hang themselves and the boxes of burnables did make their way to the genkan. And the couch moved, revealing an electrical socket I either never knew was there or had forgotten about. The phone’s face reveals a long line of digits.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 06

: remember this morning through sake: it’s Friday, this ringtone is ringing. A new tie of woven black and blue UniQlo fabric. The simplistic difficulty of elementary grammar. Buzz of celebration Yuki Matsuri but the temperature is in the very low Celsius. Drawing pictures, writing capital letters on recycled newspaper. Follow the cravings of the body, all of which includes fried foods. 7-11 and the long purchase towards a plane ticket to Tokyo for March. March along iPod-less, the August loud speaker commercials have yet to change. Our town is selling airwaves. Cobble together a February poem, read it aloud to an iTunes soundtrack. No douchebag Bluetooth sinners here. Now the skeleton is cartilage and the mind evolves from crawl to jog while the New Pornographers ring, ring, ring the sh*t out of this new year. One glass of sake and the world is your enemy, your oyster.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 05

: possible to sense the person sitting next to you. Are thoughts multilingual? Able to traverse thousands of years of linguistic evolution to flow from neuron clusters, through colliding nitrogen and oxygen particles to a new set of clusters? Perhaps there’s something wrong in thinking so biologically. Test scores, the median, the mean, the average. Shock and awe when kanji is written in white chalk on a green blackboard. Very amusing. A surprise package of coffee and peanut butter. Thank you, Jose! Your note is the best of all. Your happiness is pan-Pacific. Afraid of plane tickets. Could hear her shoes scuffling over the icy asphalt. I’m more Six Feet Under and less Nip/Tuck.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 04

: isn't enough coffee to clean-sweep the fog. This lack of visual clarity inspires hypochondria. Hunger is less biological as it is hypocritical. They say they love me, blow kisses, and they help snap me into place. I am loose shoelaces, ill-planned patterns, and too many carbohydrates. Mikan, mikan, lay down your anchor and swim to shore. Studying language; reading, writing, copying. And last time I knew/ she worked at an Abbey in Iona/ The sun loiters after school. She said “I killed a man T/ I’ve gotta stay in this Abbey”/ But I can see that star/ when she twinkles/ and she twinkles/ and I sure can/ That means Grocery shopping for colors rather than sustenance. Today it’s orange (salmon, pepper) and green (lettuce, cucumber). The front door rhythmically clicks. It’s not going to write itself.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 03

: I enrange the days, stare into the wood and want to paint it; the whitened bark of the background and the dark shadows of the foreground. You can sense the silent lack of silence as it pushes against your face. Or… maybe… yeah, maybe.

“What we are setting out to do is to delimit the work of art, so that it appears to have no beginning and no end, so that it overruns the boundaries of the poem on the page.” Barbara Guest, Forces of Imagination, “Wounded Joy”.

The return of Jayne Anne Phillips. Sign the contract for another 12 months of separation and disentanglement.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 02

: The Hiroshima Poetry Hoax. Araki Yasusada. I’m a fan of literary hoaxes. Like JT Leroy. Everything we read is suspect; the newspaper, magazines, blogs, books, encyclopedias. We live in an age where “crisis” is a buzz-word and deception is another phrase in the formula. I smell rosemary. Never take a movie recommendation off a facebook status. Spaghetti leaves the kitchen like a crime scene. Some movies show disregard for extras. Like cartoons where cute creatures live in extraordinary cities; you never see the workers, the builders, the cleaning crew. Just the leisure class of Crayola paint and mouths half the size of a circle.

Vessel Log: 2009 02 01

: J. was an hour early for the Hokkaido Farmers’ Orchestra. The snow reflects, an evolutionary trait for survival. Double action. Cuts absorption of energy, blinds its enemy. Meet K. and her friend T. in the lobby of the cultural center. Sitting front row I watch shoes, some tapping; poised; buckled; polished. Swelling music. Stringed instruments, horse hair bows, dancing conductor. Choir faces. A man who smelled like burning wood, a former teacher, asks to speak with us. “Many Japanese soldiers died in the Pacific due to starvation. We need to study our history.” “Yes, we all do.” J. and I walk to soup curry. The warmth of Seize the Day, the spice in the soup makes walking on ice and its fragility a souvenir. Kindness of strangers can be disorientating.