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Sep. 10th, 2005 @ 10:49 pm
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I must apologize for the empty promises I have made to those of you out in Internet Land regarding the status of this journal: while I did indeed ensure however tenuously an update a good two, three days ago, circumstances were not entirely permitting, and thus this update has been unfortunately delayed. No matter, though, as you presently read, whatever ire you clench deep within your breast muted by the overwhelming joy evoked by the merest thought of my graceful fingers gliding across the keys.
Please, calm yourselves.
Over a week has past since I landed at the brand-spanking-new Centro Air airport, not too far from Nagoya. As you may have assumed, I have done well in keeping myself occupied since my arrival with a host of activities, not the least of which have been the ubiquitous Eating and Sleeping, for which I am so famous. Writing the last two sentences, I have been trying to best decide how to formally address the last few days; would it be more easily digested were it broken down into anecdotes, or should I proceed with a fairly pedestrian chronological account? That, or, not trusting my memory, simply work backwards? The lattermost option is perhaps the simplest, especially when one considers the hour. In that case, without further hesitation:
Today, being Saturday, I accompanied Taeko (my host-mother) to her morning English class, which meets in the upstairs meeting room of a community centre building in the area. Eric, the teacher of the class, only comes every other week, so he was not present; this, of course, put a greater degree of pressure on me, being the only representative of Native English present. In Eric's absence, the class turns away from conversation -- as, of course, they have no native speaker by which to gauge their performances or indicate grievous errors, instead preferring to work more with text book exercises and, perhaps, listening comprehension exercises, carried out by means of cassette tapes. While most of what what done did, essentially, revolve around translation exercises, I did have the pleasure of explaining various nuances of Modern English. While I had been present the previous week, I had not been in the same position of needing to explain grammatical issues to the class in Japanese, so many of the members were quite surprised when I proved able to do so and, apparently, do so with facility for both myself and my audience. To clarify, I must make it known that the entire year I was in Japan before, I regularly attended this class, and, since that time, the core members have not changed, meaning that I have spent a great deal of time and have standing friendships with them. However, my Japanese proficiency was at that time not what it is now, and one particular instance came back to both me and the other members of the class.
The "Driven" Incident.
About midway through my stay in Japan, during class, Kamiya-san asked me what the significance of the title "Driven" was, seeing as how the film, most likely terrible, starring Sylvester Stallone, had just been released in theatres. Anyone who has any recollection of the basic premise, and is familiar with English, knows instinctively that the title hits several registers; since Stallone's character is a race car driver, that denotative meaning is first apparent, and would be fairly obvious to even Japanese with a basic understanding of English. However, the "deeper," idiomatic significance of "driven" as an adjective or thematic conceit is not -- how can one, with incredibly limited Japanese, attempt to explain an idiomatic mode of the sort to a group whose native language does not allow for simply relating the structure analogously? Suffice it to say, I stood before them for over an hour, sounding every nook and cranny of my Japanese of the time, drawing complex diagrams in a futile attempt to convey active and passive, past participle and past tense. It was a traumatizing event.
However, now, with surprising ease, I have been able to explain relatively English-specific idiomatic constructions, for which I am incredibly thankful.
Ah! However! One thing of interest, which came up Tuesday and carried over in part to Wednesday, is the opposition between the Japanese and English manner of regarding time across time zones. I assume I would be safe in assuming that those who have made it this far would agree that, in English, the time in Japan is later than in the States, and, more precisely, that it is thirteen hours later in Japan than it is in Toronto or Saratoga; also, I would assume that when inverted, the same relationship would persist -- that it is thirteen hours earlier in Toronto and Saratoga than it is in Japan. Amusingly enough, when transposed into Japanese, the opposite is in fact the case: in Japanese, Japan is thirteen hours earlier than on the East Coast of North America. While this may puzzle a few of you, with a moment's reflection, and a willful distance taken from the presuppositions of one's own tongue, the Japanese method of relating this temporal discrepancy is equally logical, but involves a slightly different way of imagining time. スタート・トゥ・スィンク! ゴ～！
In the Japanese idiom, Japan is qualitatively 'earlier,' or 'faster' (the same adjective "hayai" is used, though there are two characters used, one indicating temporal speed, the other, physical) than North America because, due to the rotation of the Earth on its axis, the new day dawns thirteen hours earlier here than there, so, metaphorically, Japan "gets up" before the US or Canada, or most of the world. The English way of dealing with the same phenomenon is altogether different; we tend to compare the local time of the two locations relative to one another -- since thirteen hours of the day have been experienced by me and have yet to be experiences by you, I have been projected into a sort of future temporality that exists, in a certain sense, "after" Toronto local time.
...
Perhaps I should continue on with an actual narrative at this point. Or maybe reduce it all to point form, considering the current length of this thing. Needless to say, after class, during which I was asked for my autograph by three people, I went to lunch with several of the class' members, only to return at nearly five in the afternoon. Oh, I was asked to sign head shots, as well. I have a fan club composed of adorable middle-aged Japanese women.
In other news, yesterday my host-mother and I ran hither thither on various errands, one of which was a little visit made to my former host-school, Agui High School; I was able to speak with my former homeroom teacher, Okuhara-sensei, who has told all his classes since about me. And about how I was fat. This was made clear when the members of the sophomore class which he currently teaches came up and asked how their teacher, who knows not a lick of English, came to know such a strange, white creature. When my name was made known, there was an exclamation of recognition, immediately interrupted by a "but wasn't Charles FAT!?" Okuhara then seemingly disappeared. I did, though, have a chance to speak with several of his students for quite a while, all of whom are taking a special "international program" with a heavy emphasis on English. It was fortunate that the day in question was that of the sports festival, otherwise, I doubt I would have really had the opportunity to talk or see anyone.
Briefly, I have also seen Tatsuya, the eldest of the Mase's two sons, who is recently married and with the nine month-old Daiki; Tatsuya certainly nabbed himself a hottie of a wife: Naoko is young, beautiful, bilingual, and has American citizenship. My host-mother couldn't believe it, either. Tomorrow, Hiroshi will be visiting with his wife, Mie, and their two babies. I know you all care deeply.
Sarah Joan Ross has been sent some photos from the past week, so, if such desire claims you, pester her for sweet images. Indeed, more than what appears above has happened, but certainly this should suffice for the time being.
Be satisfied.
Oh, and the subjunctive, contrary to what televised English shows may tell you, is very much alive and well.Current Mood: Clippity-clop Current Music: The Shadow Hearts II OST -- "Karin has NICE tits." |
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As those few who take it upon themselves to find their way to this corner of dimensionless space may know, I have once again crossed the Pacific and, after nearly four years, returned to Japan, posited by many prominent archaeologists as being my original geographic locus; while my departure from the West, the supposed sociocultural primacy of which I have impetuously striven to dismantle, elicits mingled feelings -- sadness, joy, envy, relief -- on the part of those whom I have come to know, the contradictory finality of this impermanent state cannot be rendered subject to any dismantling of its own (unless, of course, one is willing to wander deeper into the realm of the intellectual conceptualization of spatial and temporal positions, within a framework delineated by the limits of a posited subjective position. But, who has either the time or interest for such things?): for good or for ill, I am Here, a Here altogether separate from the Here known to the reader.
That was sufficiently ostentatious for an opening; I simply cannot have any of you actually wanting me back or anything of the sort. It would be better were I to cultivate in each of you a certain contempt or disdain for me, but I fear all I shall be able to solicit is perhaps a tepid indifference.
Before proceeding any further, it would be best if I were to contextualize my self, so that all my adoring fans can better feed their various fantasies; I currently write from the second floor of my former host-family's house in Higashiura-cho, a town on the Chita peninsula, in Aichi prefecture. Turning my head to my right, I can see a desk and book case, the former contiguous to the computer table at which I am stationed; however, more striking perhaps is the view from the window: closely knit eaves of neighbouring houses, encroachments of Japanese tile, move in and out of a shifting foreground framed by the motionless flight of power-lines, swooping down in and then out of sight; the ageless flocks make their home in the two towers, white and red, standing far in the distance and touching the overcast sky -- one can see their trails leading to and from those lofty steel branches.
A typhoon is coming. It passed over the Okinawa area earlier this morning, and this news was accompanied by footage of the coast of southern Kyushu, irascible waves breaking on the shore. We had intended to go to the World Expo tomorrow -- it would be my first and my host-mother's seventh visit, but the impending inclement weather has waylaid those plans. It has rained off and on here all day -- meteorological portents.
Saturday, I had the opportunity of visiting a "Snack," as evidenced in the following email:
[NAME CENSORED TO PROTECT THE BOOMBAM PRIVACY OF THE INDIVIDUAL(S)];
Japan is AWESOMEFUN, as I suspected it would be. Last night, I went to a Snack with my host parents and two of my host-mother's friends, to eat and be merry and sing karaoke IN PUBLIC. Or something resembling public. A "snack" is a small bar, usually only one rather snug room, run by a mama-san, or hostess, who carouses with her clientele, pours them drinks and generally encourages them to spend money, whilst being winsome. Umemura-san, one of my host-mother's friends, as well as one of mine, often goes there, as it is only a five minute walk from her home; Umemura-san is a BIG DRINKER, in the proud Japanese tradition, and she frequents said establishment so frequently that she has her own bottles on reserve. Anyway, as I had mentioned that I wanted to go to karaoke at some point while I was here, before going off to Tokyo, Umemura-san suggested this place, et hop (as they
say in FRANCE), we wound up there last night, and dined on sushi, karaage, soumen, goba, and other scrumptuous [sic] things, and sang our hearts out. Well, I sang my heart out, as did the inebriated men four seats down, among whose number was Umemura-san's husband, who showed up before too long. Tate-san and my host-parents had driven, so they were abstaining from the Demon Rum, precluding them from attaining the degree of intoxication necessary to sing in front of an audience. I, of course, have no shame, so...
The Mama-san grilled me on my relationship status, which provided entertainment for all; my host-mother insinuated that I was lying when I claimed to be single, but that's because she loves me. Or loves to embarrass me. Or both.I sent her photos of us from Saints, and I had to explain twice that we are NOT HAVING SEX. I know, it must be a shock to you. It was to me, as well.
I'm doing quite well, though my jetlag is somewhat annoying and my throat hurts from all the singing I did last night. Jason has sent me a rather pitiful email, and I should go about responding to him, so as to alleviate his misery somewhat. But not too much, of course.
If anything has been misspelled, I am absolved of any and all responsibility. I AM JAPANESE.
Rabu,
Cha-ruzu
As even the least discerning eye can see, I have already internalized, even at this early stage, the Japanese emphasis on recycling.
I am still suffering from a somewhat acute case of jet-lag, which has been exacerbated by what appears to be the onset of a minor cold, and for that reason, I should probably nip what may become a marauding beast in the bud. I am, of course, open to fielding questions.
You know me. I'm lazy.Current Mood: Dark circles under these eyes. Current Music: We'll say I was listening to "What a Feeling" the whole time |
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I should indeed be writing my French essay, but I happened upon the ol' haiku machine and, out of boredom and mild frustration with my work, decided to see what little scrap of nonsensical gibberish would come my way; the result was actually quite interesting and, perhaps, if I were feigning emo-dom, just a little bit moving.
I have yet to compose an actual update; I apologize to those few who desperately hang on my every keystroke, but time is not forthcoming.Current Mood: Orientalist Current Music: 幸せは罪のにおい～ Happiness is the Smell of Sin |
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These amused me; thus, I share.
( Shoot )Current Mood: Standing Current Music: Mon Petit Chat |
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How common are Atolm's interests
That is all. Because I suck. And I'm too lazy to relearn the process of making LJ cuts.Current Mood: Your MOM. Current Music: Whirrrrrrrrrrr |
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Behold, brevity in all its splendour; to those of you whose plaints reach even the high zenith of the Firmament, your furtive supplications have not fallen on the deaf ears of a dead God: unto you, they are granted!
And, some iniquitous thievery:
I swear that's how it came out. On my life.
Sep. 1st, 2004 @ 11:02 pm
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| » Now with twenty percent more Subjectliciousness! |
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I shall forego the apologetics this time 'round (O Apostrophe, how I love you!); I am much too inclined to self-abasement, which, though mildly amusing for yours truly (or untruly. I'm a lying cunt. Or am I? Ho ho ho!), can, I am sure, quickly grow dull for the reader who is forced to choke down even greater quantities of superfluous verbiage. So, as your Cruel Matron, I shall loom over you menacingly and deny you both milk AND cookies!
( Lick Your Cruel Matron's Boots! )
Now that THAT's out of the way... (aren't you proud of me? I made a livejournal cut! Laud me, praise me! Feed my pitiful ego!)
And then my mind collapsed, like the lung of a child killed in a VIOLENT DRUNKEN CAR CRASH. Damned children.
I really shouldn't be allowed to have a journal of this sort; I lack the maturity and poise to treat it with the dignity and respect it so justly deserves, and the drivel with which I fill it is truly second-to-none in mediocrity, being painfully devoid of any and all flair or interest. Moreover, I simply can't bring myself to rant and rave about the petty problems that pervade my otherwise flavorless life, and, truth be told, I have no great external foibles about which to summarily foist onto others via this metaphysical corner of the Human Wasteland. Of course, my typing all the preceding was, of course, simply a ploy, a ruse, if you will, to allow myself sufficient time to produce some anecdote or other witty (?) length of words. You've so foolishly stumbled into my cle(a)ver trap, adventurer! And we so do love adjectives in these here parts! But, I can hear the remurmuring of the impatient among you, so I shall, with no further delay (I made a funnay!) share my tales of woe, my records of trial and tribulation!
I knew nothing of "Figaro" cat food before beginning my employment at S.......; indeed, several weeks went by before I finally came face to face with this discovery which renders all the legacies of Copernicus meaningless. How was I to know that something so perfect could exist on this Earth, forsaken by the Gods, raped by Man? Compared to its brethren, it was comparable in height, but its diameter was greater, wider, allowing it a shape more pleasant to the eye than any other can had ever afforded me. It was smooth to the touch, the tactile sensations of its glistening surface soothed my weary fingertips, permeating the very bone itself. Its heft was quite comforting, unlike that of those conceited "Fancy Feasts;" always too light, always too flimsy. It was then that the can itself caught my busy eye: it was beautiful. Exquisite. The word "Figaro" was printed in black in bold type, reminiscent in style of the font used so often for the posters and promotional items of the Spaghetti Westerns of the fifties. To the left was the emblematic figure of Figaro himself; a dashing feline of emerald eyes, smartly dressed in shirt and vest, sporting a sly smirk and smart cravat, readied his violin before me, rendered in impeccable 1930's Disney style.
This was love.
And I knew then that God had a purpose for me, a destination.
Well, that would have been what I thought if I simply didn't care two ways past Thursday about it. If only I could bring myself to react to our product line in such a way, each moment would be filled with spiritual discovery. Tragically, such is not the case, and I still hope, in the not-so-deep recesses of my mind, to be hit by a car each and every day I head out to that Unforgiving Grindery. To be simple minded...! <--- yes, we know that that is a fragment, but its use and purpose are rhetorical in nature; the implied meaning that is to be extrapolated is what is important in such a construction, and shame on all grammarians who fail to see so! Shame!
Feed me.
Aug. 14th, 2004 @ 02:52 pm
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| » Hark! What be this sweet to mine eyes? An update so glorious...! |
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Yes, I know; I am a filthy rotten cheat. A liar. A cad. An insidious reprobate.
And a child molester. We mustn't omit that.
Jesus Christ, that is one huge block of undistinguished html. It blinds me. Perhaps I should turn on the lights in this wretched cave we so ostentatiously call a "guest room," rather than allowing for the total distension of my retinae which would indubitably result from such complacence. "Adjusting," my ass.
This is a rather uninspired update, if I say so myself; it's apparent to the eyes of millions that I'm deficient in all matters of wit, creativity, temerity and, most importantly of all, brevity. What sends daggers through my heart, though, is the knowledge that ninety percent of this post is entirely composed of that dreadful aforementioned html which beguiles me so, furbishing the attractive illusion that I have actually penned a great deal. How ever can I have my revenge on this looming demon? I'm tempted to intercalate something entirely extraneous into its massive bulk, just to see what would be the ghastly result.
But! Oh! Oh! Oh! I have been "social" when the gun has been put to my temple, so to speak. I actually SAW and SPOKE TO (not to mention groped inappropriately) both Katie SAXTON and SHAWN O'Donnell. *ed. If your names aren't spelled like that, you can just go fuck yourselves. And then die.* And then, wonder of wonders, Moyah and I finally got back in touch today, and thus spent some time together, being... well, the way that Moyah and "Zeb" are together.
Yeah, you heard me right. My name is "Zeb." Eat that, David Thomas, Chancellor of the Regency of Uninspired Names.
This just in: Clare's a faggot. And was on a sketchy bus, and was SO obviously the best dressed person on-board. His socks and underwear matched his belt and shoes. And then, he was lynched by the conservative Right and order and justice were restored to the world.
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That was courtesy of one SARAH JOAN ROSS, my sweet negress Soul Sistah. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a wandering mendicant, having journeyed far from his native soil, found himself in a kingdom divided by the strife of war, as well as in the hands of a writer who adores the overexploitation of commas. Seeking asylum from the barbarity of the bellicose, he took refuge in a chapel, a ground blessed by the tears and blood of the Virgin Mother. There, his eyes fell upon the visage of the fairest of sights: a beauty of olive skin, whose raven hair and gemstone eyes betrayed her exotic origins; truly, she was a maiden unfamiliar with our shores and the ways of Christian men. Her ragged dress vainly attempted to belie her regality, her bearing, a testament to a princely birth. Instantly, he knew that she, the captured queen of some fallen, forgotten empire, would be his bride.
Then they fucked.
I should be a novelist.
Anyway, this update has taken me longer than expected; dinner and a movie (but no sweet loving) interrupted it. "Swimming Pool," it was, and it was quite an enjoyable romp, the sort of film I like so dearly, full of shifting realities and uncertain fantasies. I'll spare you all an in-depth reading, because I know it bores you all so, and compassion is one virtue I still retain.
I lie. I am vice. Incarnate.
Jul. 16th, 2004 @ 12:25 am
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| » Nothing effusively maudline, you should be glad to hear. Dance! Sing! |
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I do apologize for that unforgivable trespass, but I simply could not resist posting something entirely unsubstantial, considering the growing hostilities of mes proches. The summer certainly does take its toll on the weak and misguided, and I am proof positive of the parasitical prowess the season has of sapping one of one's energy at each and every turn; every morning I wake and swear to finally finish "La Peste," settle down and draw something with more than just idle conviction, make some sort of inroads in my course planning for the coming year, finally finish FF IX, and, yes, to at last post something of merit in my live journal. As you may have guessed, very few of these things have been realized; only a third of Camus' oeuvre is behind me, my random sketchings are as unorganized and undirected as ever, and this personal island of mine in the vast, depraved expanse of webspace has remained as barren as my mother's womb for an entire lunar cycle.
Damned moon, waxing and waning all the time. Why can't Princess Kaguya just tell them to get their act together, huh? Is it really so difficult?
Of course, some of the apprehension with which I am always awash when the thought of writing something here can easily be attributed to how incredibly long it takes me to finish one. No, the fault does not rest with me: I am literate, as we all woefully know. Rather, I assign blame to all those with whom I am currently carrying on instant message conversations in a variety of forms. Sarah Joan Ross is, without the slightest doubt, the one who garners the most rancour from my usually-benevolent heart, followed only by Scottie and the ever-notorious GEN. Whose name shall henceforth be written entirely in majuscules. The OED purports that this typographical term is now, tragically, rare, but I, in my manifold greatness and wisdom, I have come to the irrefutable conclusion that it should be, at all times and in all places, judiciously employed. It is much more aesthetically pleasing word, if I say so myself; compared to our oft-used "capital," its relative consonance is beyond apparent, even to the most uncultivated of boors.
That was a meaningless digression. I apologize once more.
While all my efforts for self-improvement and general edification have been thwarted by the flaws inherent in my proper character, the wiley machinations of those who so fool-heartedly gave life to me have been able to subvert the better intentions of my own lassitude: already, they have taken me to see three operas and a musical, and three more await me as the summer's days flutter by like so many autumn leaves, which is convenable (in the obsolete and French sense) to my further intellectual and cultural expansion.
So far, we have gone to see Puccini's "La Fanciulla del West," Sullivan's "Patience," and Donizetti's "L'Elisire d'Amor." "Patience" was, without the slightest doubt, my favorite of the lot, combining a witty libretto with a winning score, coupled with splendid performances by thespians well-versed in singing and effective comic delivery. Indeed, the borderline-ribald tone the piece takes is nothing short of delightful, and I found that the mockery being so liberally distributed kept me in stitches, something of which I had not imagined opera to be capable. Indeed, I was almost moved at the last strains; never before do I think I have been riveted so. "Dialogues of the Carmelites," as staged in that Montreal production I saw years ago, was moving to a similar degree, but in a manner altogether apart. Sadly, the mis-en-scene (imagine l'accent grave) of the Glimmerglass production two years ago ruined the final scene, reducing it to an over-emphatic, melodramatic interpretation of what would be otherwise be incredibly powerful and gripping. I was actually quite wary when I read in the program that "Patience" was staged by the very same man who had so unabashedly mangled "Dialogues of the Carmelites," but my fears were assuaged by the first ten minutes, seeing the "twenty love-sick maidens" bemoan their unrequited love for the Aesthetic poet, Bunthorne.
Tomorrow, we are to see Bernstein's "Candide," which will be quite interesting, I believe; I, as all right-thinking individuals should, simply adored Voltaire's novel, and seeing Candide's trials and tribulations (not to mention Pangloss' figurative and literal defrocking, Cunnegonde's fickle demeanor and the Old Woman's "defesse"-ing) set to music shall (hopefully) prove to be an exercise in both evocative nostalgia and rediscovery. Unless, somehow, it is stripped of all its commentary and humor. But, that would be its fate only if it were an Italian opera.
Oh, and a general disclaimer: if I have misspelled any of the aforementioned characters' names, please understand that it has been a good four years since I have read it, so, pitie (imaginez, si vous voulez, l'accent aigue qui me manque).
Oh, and I'm working at Stewart's, because I'm Welfare.
But we'll just gloss over that, okay? It fills me with unfathomable shame to think that I am reduced to a position so base, so servile. How ever could I afford my five dollar baguettes on my salary (yoooooou haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate me)? My uniform is sexycool, and by "sexycool" I mean "destitute." Anne Francey has urged me to look on this engagement as a sociological experiment, by which I will be able to examine the lives of those who forge careers from such work. Thus far, my dossier is rather bare, save for a few entries on "Patty," beloved Stewart's House Guest and Mental Deficient. How I have come to admire Patty, her gentle smile, her slurred speech, and her eleven years of dutiful service at Price Chopper. She is that paragon of humanity to whose lofty heights we all must aspire!
Segue!
The gym, though taxing on my pitiful muscles, is at last showing some results; I'm actually starting to sprout something that vaguely resembles biceps. Without further delay, I hope to be able to assert my alpha-male status over the rest of the pack, come September, when I will actually HAVE a pack, instead of just a glowing computer screen which stares me down while sputtering occasionally. My computer has AIDS, I fear. I think I unwittingly infected it, accursed fag that I am.
I wonder if Vincent has AIDS? He WAS in Africa, you know.
Jul. 8th, 2004 @ 05:40 pm
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| » Sly bastard, I know... |
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Look! It's an update!
*runs*
Jul. 8th, 2004 @ 05:34 pm
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| » These Chains Which Bind Have Been Severed; Emancipation unto Me! |
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This shall be as brief as is humanly possible for one who is as long-winded as myself; I have founded my own nation.
http://www.nationstates.net/cgi-bin/index.cgi/target=display_nation/nation=zebatrinaciaedon
Watch as I cultivate this earth and exploit its people, bleeding them for every last grain of rice and sheath of wheat...! I am a loving, benevolent ruler, and my populace sings my praises with each dawn's breath and crepuscule's tenebrous light.
If not, they are pulled out into the fields and shot in the back of the head. We run a tight ship in these woods.
In other news, I have manifested all that strength contained in my gonads and declared my singular desire to resign from my position as Sales Rep: Beelzebub holds my soul's strings no longer! Yet now, I am faced with the difficult task of finding once more gainful employ. How I long to fain in the stalwart security of some benign servility!
Jun. 6th, 2004 @ 11:48 pm
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| » I am a thief |
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Just because I am blessed with a pretty face doesn't mean I am incapable of some horrendously dubious shit.
You're a Speak & Spell!! You nerd, you. Just
because you were disguised as a toy doesn't
mean you weren't educational, you sneaky
bastard.
What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
I feel so wracked with guilt, so despicable... yet so alive!
Jun. 1st, 2004 @ 07:04 pm
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| » Beat me, rape me, cut me, bleed me! Or something |
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It HAS been quite a while since I tackled this beast and wrestled it to the ground, feeling it heaving beneath me, seeking nothing more than to throw me, its conquerer, from the expanse of its untameable back. I am simply a slatternly churl, begotten of all the sin and vice of this "Floating World," a transient existence steeped in the baseness of earthly passions. I am a boor, and as such, deserve no less than to be cast out of sight and left with only pariah and leper as consorts.
The Pine-Sol lady is giving me attitude.
For all those who may have pined for me in weeks gone by, know this: that I was coerced (cruelly so!) into visiting that sweet woman who bore my mother. Unfortunately, driving to Lynchburg (what a sonorous designation!) in our peripatetic vehicle is a project necessitating an enormous investment of time. (Chronos' sickle draws near the shoot of my one life's living...!) Twelve hours in the car is difficult to bear, and on several occasions I experienced the rather unnerving sensation of having my head fall asleep. This has been the first time I have ever felt something of that sort; is this God's subtle way of insinuating that I should GET FIT, IMPROVE MY CARDIOVASCULAR ENDURANCE AND ELIMINATE UNWANTED FAT DEPOSITS? IF YOU WANT TO START A NEW LIFE, CORTISLIM IS FOR YOU!!
*ahem*
Please excuse that outburst. I fear that it was brought about by far too many late night "Coast to Coast AM" sessions with my father. "The Crazies," he calls them.
In related news, I managed to finally finish my collection of Jorge Borges' fictions, which I had been reading off and on for the past five or six months; I can only muster productivity when I am stripped of computer-related diversions. Moreover, I was able to get started on one of those innumerable books which I have received over the years as gifts... this on is particularly interesting, being a collection of "Tales of Old Japan," written by Lord Redesdale and initially published in 1871. Each tale is surrounded by a great deal of exposition, which often degenerates into digression. However, these tangents are quite interesting: they are usually observations or descriptions of the life of Japanese during the period (the Meiji, for the ignorant amongst you). The text was written long before the concepts of cultural awareness and sensitivity were propagated and managed to permeate the studies of foreign civilizations, and thus betray certain attitudes towards "the natives." Redesdale's readings, however, are less defamatory than those of some of his predecessors, whom he admonishes and whose tainted informations he seeks to rectify. An additional bonus is the fine assortment of genuine Japanese prints which illustrate every tale; while not of the highest quality (obviously not being the works of established print artists along the lines of Hokusai and his brethren), they communicate that quintessential "Japanese-ness" that Redesdale's anglicized translation fails to provide and illuminate the imagination. I would recommend it to anyone seeking to expand his or her cultural horizons, both inwardly and outwardly.
Sarah and I have become Transcendental Gym Buddies! Overcoming time, space and sundry other restrictions of physics, we shall become demiurges of raw, unmitigated sexuality!
And finally, a tanka:
Bounty of nature,
Fertility of the earth;
Kannon bequeaths that
Mercy which succours all life:
Such are Sarah Ross' breasts
May. 31st, 2004 @ 01:37 pm
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| » Catie's breasts are soft and supple. |
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How ironic it is that, with all the free time I have on my sullied hands, I can still neglect not only my reading and drawing, but this journal, as well. It is once again after great and violent prodding that I post once more. I sit here, on the floor of our TV room, my headphones on, with my father in front of me, transfixed (and mildly amused) by his recording of this afternoon's BBC World News Report, which he watches in the evenings, as is his habit. It is always a pleasant experience to belittle and mock various world leaders of differing ethnicities with my father; I am truly the child of his loins. My only complaint would be that I do not enjoy having to give him a shot in the arm each and every time he falls asleep, which tends to be quite often. My father has just let slip a delightful comment in response to a report on security concerns in the Land of the Frogs:
"Well, sure wouldn't be much of a loss if they bomb Cannes."
I love my father. He is one sexy cirrhotic beast. And I shall one day grow to become as crotchety and unresponsive as he. I look forward to that day with an anticipation as great as the Firmament encompassing this terrestrial sphere on which we toil and slave until, at last, the benevolent hand of Kind Death is extended unto us. Oh, it seems as if we've moved on to Charlie Rose. Silly me; MSN conversations have gotten the better of me. Well, at least there are a few people on this miserable little globe who have some vested interest in some fraction of my being... it makes a girl feel right' special, it does!
Well, as you all undoubtedly know, my life is, as they say in Cambodia, "prosaic." I decided to sleep in, today, after staying up 'til almost five in the morning. What ever could I have been doing, you ask? Why, looking and admiring the art of Gengoroh Tagame, of course! Suffice it to say, he and I have similar attitudes towards what is attractive in men (our tastes when it comes to such things as S&M and such things do differ, though. I'm fairly vanilla, myself). For those of you who consider themselves adventurous, I shall provide a link: www.tagame.org. Be warned, though: most of the material is fairly hardcore, and not for the faint of heart. Continuing onward, though... I woke up at three, when rudely awoken by the doorbell's ringing. I tacitly ignored it, preferring to curl up once more in the maternal folds of my tangled comforter. A few minutes later, when my addled brain at last registered the time displayed so clearly on my clock, I disentangled myself and surreptitiously began my occult morning routine of exercises (ha!). About twenty minutes later, the bell rang once again, and, tempted as I was to feign total ignorance, I trundled down the stairs and opened the door. Of course, the two ravishing beauties were none other than Catie Tarlton and Susu Jouad. If this had been a porn flick, one of them would have immediately dropped to her knees and begun to fellate me with much enthusiasm, while the other massaged the first's heaving bosom with her garishly colored acrylic nails.
Unfortunately, this is reality, those girls are under eighteen, and I'm a faggot.
We chatted for a while and made plans to go to the "Sushi Thai Garden" for dinner (I still insist that a more accurate name for the place would be "Thai Sushi Garden," as the restaurant is both owned and run by Thais, their Japanese food is atrocious, and "sushi" doesn't really function as an eloquent adjective. And, before you say anything, I know that it is not functioning as one in this case, as "Sushi Thai Garden" is a compound noun, but things become problematic when one has such a thing with three constituents; if "Thai" is kept as an adjective modifying the compound noun "Sushi Garden," the new meaning created is one which is both more accurate in describing the establishment and its cuisine, and more elegant. ANYWAY...). I did manage to flash the girls on my porch, which was exhilarating. Anyway, dinner was quite enjoyable, despite the fact that Susu, Catie, Jim-bob and rookie Sarah all ordered chicken pad thai. For someone with cultural breeding (heh heh) like my own, such an act culinary monoglottism is appalling. I rebelled against my peers and ordered the red curry with duck, which was, as always, delicious. Susu did hurl at me any an insult for what was perceived as rank insubordination, but I turned her a deaf ear (but I did not hesitate to flip her the proverbial bird).
On the way home, I did not stall any longer: my hands deftly examined, with great prudence, all the mountains and valleys of Catie's young body. She was duly taken aback, but the rest of our entourage could do naught but question my sexuality. I have convinced four more people that I am, in fact, a closet straight!
This is why I'm never going to net a guy. But, what the hell! Sexual harassment is so much fun, especially when I can tell them I was "just kidding" after each brutal assault.
Women are funny.
May. 14th, 2004 @ 11:03 pm
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| » When you touch me there, it feels so good... |
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Life on the island of Saratoga Springs is indeed the metaphysical incarnation of the Seven Horsemen. For the past three days, I have done nothing but sit in the darkened TV room before the twin glowing eyes of the television and the laptop. I can feel my eyes going blind ever so slowly, as my brain grows ever more palsied and my muscles atrophy. That the life being sapped from me is tangible is all too terrifying. However, I HAVE been able to catch up on my Passions and Oprah viewing, which makes me feel both proud and filthy.
So, in addition to consulting the people at Mrs. London's concerning possible future employment for his son, my father had the gall to fill out an application in my name and submit it. I learned this charming tidbit of information while picking up this evening's dessert with my mother earlier, and it was the cause of a great deal of embarrassment (for me, of course. Neither of my parents has any concept of mortification). It would seem that Mrs. London's is essentially set for counter-monkeys, leaving me the option of working in the dreaded "back room." God help me.
Speaking of which, some pundit it spouting a great deal of pretentious bullshit on my most favorite of channels, WMHT. It's just so quaint when someone who fancies himself intelligent repackages the mundane and the self-evident in a delightfully pompous manner. It's quite reminiscent of those self-important first-year philosophy students who believe, fool-heartedly, that name-dropping or quote-pulling is meaningful and affirming, that it confirms intelligence. Sadder still are those who fanatically subscribe to any one theoretical doctrine, proclaiming it to be the One and Only Truth. Nietzsche is NOT the be-all,end-all of philosophical reason or thought.
One sees similar trends in almost all domains of intellectual thought in academic circles; it is somewhat distressing, I find. New lines in criticism and theory are becoming increasingly self-aware, it would seem, and in doing so, are recognizing their own paradoxical status as both retrodictive extrapolation and over-assertive reinterpretation of source materials, imposing undue agency, etc. Blah. I don't care THAT much, but I needed to write SOMEthing. Sarah demanded that I update.
Oh, and now, Benita Zahn is talking with two fags and a negress, all of whom have AIDS; I'm glad to see that God is doing his best to rid this world of antisocials.
Tee hee.
May. 11th, 2004 @ 06:44 pm
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| » And it emerged, from the frozen depths of the Pleistocene... |
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Don't look at me like that. Emily made me do it: she touched me in my Dark Place and said that it would be our little secret; what was I to do?
May. 10th, 2004 @ 06:57 pm
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atolm's journal