Vessel Log: 2009 03 16

: [dis]tance. The pill-bug stops still, waits for me to (1) not notice or (2) go away. [dis]interest. Arrows of sleep, the mincing effect of internet 3 minute video. [dis]realization, [dis]personalization. But out of kitchen rubble comes a ray of light. Cruise through the music of 2009; Kristin Hersh: “Gin”, Kylie Minogue: Boombox, M. Ward, Maria Taylor: “Time Lapse Lifeline”, Neko Case: Middle Cyclone. [d]is comfort. Thaw makes for sluggish, muddy behavior. [dis]turbia. Spider/Kumo rounds the elbow of a water pipe. “Christ! You’re a leaper!” as it jumps to the pale yellow shower-room wall. [dis]play. Stand back and observe; repress the urge to soak it in water and let drown in the soapy water below.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 12

: Y. graduation day. The hallway by the gymnasium hung with felt sakura, the back wall a sweep of paper flowers, side walls a collage of geese, messages, and taped petals. One by one, as one, san-nen-sei walk up to the podium on the stage, balanced with a bouquet of flowers and two flags. The flowers are gorgeous, like they’re exploding, imploding, shattered atoms. K.-sensei, in traditional garb, fights back tears as she calls her class up from their seats for the last time. I nearly choked up myself. Outside the school, a hallways created by students, they cheer and clap for san-nen-sei as they pass through, handing out gifts. Pictures taken in the halls, out among the slush and mud. But the sun feels charming, the wind refreshing. T.-sensei drives me home in her car and I take my lunch indoors before a 2 hour nap. Japanese class tonight.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 11

: Y. graduation rehearsal day. They’re three hundred voices singing in four-part chorus. “This music. We play it during American weddings.” Marches, bows, acceptances, speeches, ups, downs, start again, perfect unison. “You should wear a costume,” K.-sensei said. “Like Superman.” “I’ll bring my Batman suit and fly into the ceremony.” Festival meeting in a board room lined with photographs of a lake gazebo. A., E. and I walk to Mos Burger. They give us yellow cards to grow our own peppermint. Dishes have colonized my kitchen. My night a string of Top Chef.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 10

: take that step back. Rehearsal for the graduating S. san-nen-sei; their suited dark uniforms. “I want to go to Hollywood.” There’s a brimful of snow looming in the north. Ride my bike to the grocery store. A feast of salmon, potatoes and a salad. Fell asleep. M. Ward, Maria Taylor to usher out the final hours. I still avoid folding my laundry.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 09

: weather permits one sacrifices routine to winter. The long arm of Orion and the pearl lighted on a metal roof. Hoarders. What a little night music can do.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 08

: there is an outside and it’s melting. Pull my bike from the shed; forget where the lock is, the headlight is. Swerving in the road and the cool wind captured by the mouth of my jacket. Seiyu empties, Muji empties, but the 100 Yen shop is still fully stocked. Clay Pigeons. Met Afia for our weekly soup curry dinner; teaching credentials; our lives as a situational comedy ripe for television “Okay, my show was on NBC and yours just jumped to Showtime.”; a party to plan. Battlestar Galactica, LOST, Six Feet Under, the final leg.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 07

: the couch a welcome addition to nesting. Survey the premises and make a mental list of things that could be done. A sudden squall, winter fights for time. RuPaul’s Drag Race. Like a true queen I’m near an hour late. Charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. Getting lost in the basement of JR Tower; ivory hallways and corner boutiques. From I. to the microbrewery in Sapporo in 45 minutes. “What do you know about the origins of your alphabet?” Delicious food and beer; Change locations; a small modern bar in Susukino. From where I sit I can see the shoes of counter patrons. Rush to the train; in the back of the cab a commercial for The Closer. “She’s married to Kevin Bacon,” I mention. We run through the station, jam our money into the ticket machine, and race up the steps. No one is behind me. The car is crammed and I’m in the blue room again. A verbal fight, holding each other back.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 06

: haunted by a song, “The Pharaohs”, some times I disappear into it. Eyes train on the far-off snow layered mountains, hum the tune, mouthing the words… I disappear. Wind howls. From one student’s writing exercise notebook: “We are alone alone alone alone alone/ far far far/ better/ far away.” The wind has grasps, strangles the clear umbrella. A man on the bus reads “Murder Casebook Magazine”. A graph of lights on a dark background. I get translated; tell the stories that’ve been on my mind. Moving to California, 9/11, casual car pooling, violence in Oakland. Later, we discuss Haruki Murakami and T.K. tells me about his book related to Om and how that cult terrorist action changed Japanese culture and mentality. The 10:00 Super Kamui train, walk home to Tanya Donelly.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 05

: no more high school kids on the bus, not today. Mouth the words, hum the tune, I’m the second to last. School is a buzz of test time, reams of paper, flash card construction, the high school entrance English exam. “You see the walls we have to climb? We're not teaching at a conversation school.” “I know that. I’ve known that.” Gave T-sensei that This American Life CD with the two transgendered children. The difference between “Which” and “Who” regarding cartoon characters. “I understand grammar. Your explanations are so alive. I can understand that,” F-sensei said. Sing-a-long time: You were married in the mirrored hall/ when I sixteen… / “I love girls in white leather jackets.” … / You said I was your blue blue baby and you were right… The kids of 1A making yellow sakura out of construction paper. That boy needs his own TV show. “How many CDs do you have?” Correcting tests in red pen; I get to only mark correct answers; like good cop. The 7-11 is an all-male singles party. The boy in front of me, with the tattered black Converse and cranberry colored stud, buys a can of light beer and Camel smokes.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 04

: hear my own voice coming from down the hall. “Hide has a long hair.” Like punishing a mannequin for having its fly down. Have well intentioned nights. A St. Patrick’s Day card with a Virgin Mary amulet. “Does Japan have green beer?” Recall earliest morning phone call. There is no reason to worry, no reason to fret.

Neko Case: Middle Cyclone

Released March 3, 2009
Anti-Records

As recent years have proven nothing can be more devastating than the weather. On the other hand, human love can wield with the same disastrous effect. And Neko Case has chronicled these forces with her fifth, full-length solo studio album, Middle Cyclone. The LP begins in true Case fashion, like the chugging and speed of train wheels. It’s a movement that won’t find the listener with rest until it reaches the end of the line.

Interestingly, Middle Cyclone seems to borrow or echo back to some previous artifacts in the Case catalogue. For instance, “Prison Girls” appears to be, musically, a little sister to “Blacklisted”. As it rings in its first few seconds you can almost hear Case’s croon “Fast train/ where do your passengers wait.” This repetition in musicality offers a welcomed and familiar connection. As if the studio albums; Blacklisted, Fox Confessor Brings The Flood, and now Middle Cyclone are more than a trilogy but installments of familial generations.

What could be misinterpreted as amateurish experimentation with digital technology, the application of the 30 minute frog chirping “Marais la Nuit” as the album’s 15th track, compliments and depressurizes the album. The prior 14 tunes are dense in material, fodder for lyrical and tonal archaeology, and needs this repercussion, this antithesis. For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction. When I read about “Marais la Nuit” in a recent New York Times Magazine article (Wild Thing, Daniel Menaker, February 13, 2009) I was intrigued, fascinated, and eager to get my own listen. Neko Case and her animal attraction has been a part of her output since Furnace Room Lullaby and I knew that she would succeed with such a slice out of the Natural opus.

A true standout would be “The Pharaohs” a song that bounces and skirts legend, myth and Americana and was the first track to capture my full attention. This song could be a true Case example of what makes her music so exciting. She rolls together a beautiful blend of the American unique and, in so doing, counters opinions that America has no culture outside popular culture. While eschewing these pessimisms Case presents her audience with a new and forceful mythology complete with unfathomable weather, the kingdom of animals, and the love one harbors for another.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 03

: I bestow upon these rooms the instrument of cocoon. Within this cocoon let me shed layers of husk I thought were calluses forever a part of me. It’s a shame I vote for the quickening pace of the clock. Apples, oranges, vitamin C packets, ounces of water. Middle Cyclone. “You asked to be transferred here.” Life On Mars. Somewhere Over The Rainbow.

Neko Case: Middle Cyclone EPK

Vessel Log: 2009 03 02

: dumptrucks of dirty snow. Slept too hard on my ribs. Is this adorable gelatin cup (the pink, white and green one in the shape of as flower) your way of apologizing for the over salty, rubbery, white fish you served us for lunch? Every joint, tendon, inch of skin aches. Record the listening tests in a room with a pink rug. “It smells funny in here,” O-sensei says. “Really, like what?” My nose is stuffed. “Like cats,” she says with a laugh. The biting cold, walk behind four girls with athletic haircuts. Wrap inside blankets; NPR live and podcasts; Science Friday, doze and sleep, All Songs Considered; Neko Case: The Pharaohs, Terry Gross. Timelessness in a room that doesn’t expand or cinch with maneuvering light.

Vessel Log: 2009 03 01

: our taxi ride. “What’s she getting? Why are we here?” “Maybe she needs her birth control, I don’t know.” The driver enjoys our company. Thriller karaoke with B., A. and R. Spicy fries, edamame, shochu on ice before they move us into another room. We leave at about 5:30. Gray morning, blue morning, the roads are clear and traffic lights play for empty rows. I’m not ready. Walk to 7-11, too beautiful for words. Drop breakfast off and continue walking to McDonald’s for breakfast and coffee there. The sun rises slowly, the quiet in the streets, people sleeping in the warmth of their homes. I like the feel of cold against my cheeks. Take hellah keitai pictures. Showering with the 8:00 AM sun. Maybe I won’t sleep yet, after those two cups of coffee…

* * *

1:30 PM and I don’t feel so bad. Lazy couch afternoon with This American Life: The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar and Somewhere Out There. Almonds, peanuts, raisins, and dried mango. Creeper, slow and gradual rises sickness. A. and I for soup curry, I take it slow but can’t finish. Wrapped in a blue blanket, lights dimmed where peripheral vision is visited by creatures who hide behind corners. Battlestar Galactica. I’ll sleep early, the futon flat, could be a simple blanket.