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.