| Family |
[14 Oct 2009|11:20am] |
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mood |
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 contemplative |
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Last week I left the apartment and rushed to the bus stop only to find the rain had turned to snow and without much thought I grabbed my cell phone and called my fiancée and told him that it was snowing.
He could look out the window and see that. I had just kissed him goodbye as I shoved my feet into rose covered galoshes before hurrying off. Still, the person I thought to share the surprise of the first fleeting snowfall of the year with was him.
I thought later about what that exchange meant. At one time I would have had my mother right behind me and would have turned to her to beam my joy at the year’s first snow. Later, it may have been her or my sister or a friend who would have been tapped to share the moment.
As my friends and family aged alongside me we parted ways, at least physically. The first snowfall in Japan would hardly affect my family in Virginia, but perhaps I would call anyway just to share my life.
Then our lives got more complicated. My sister started working, expanded her menagerie, got married and now she wasn’t available at all hours of the day for everyday wonders. Friends got married, got careers, moved and moved again and still I wanted to share these moments. I learned to judge who was least likely to be harried (sorry if I never remembered TV schedules!) and called to tell the chosen person about the little moments in my life.
So these bonds shifted and stretched – the bonds of sharing the everyday. Sometimes it felt quite lonely and sometimes I had multiple calls to return. The level of interaction waxed and waned with relationships starting and ending and jobs and new hobbies and new friends and that was okay.
Then someone entered my life who started to share the everyday again – someone to comment to when I over-spiced the soup or when I read something interesting in a magazine or if my cat looked especially adorable.
This, I thought in the tiny evaporating specks of snow, was family. No doubt moments come when my mother, sister or friends wonder if I have been enjoying the autumn leaves or if I need reassurance over a mistake at work and wish I called about these things more often. On the other hand, when life gets chaotic – a friend needs to be moved, a lover wants to take a road trip, a boss expects overtime for the foreseeable future – they need not picture me telling my cat about my day.
This reshaping of our everyday is growing up and it’s a bittersweet thing, but it’s good.
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| Red String of Fate |
[25 Aug 2008|04:31pm] |
In my few sparse entries I think I have written more about love and loneliness than any other topic so, loathe as I am to end it like this (the topic, not the journal), I must profess that I am head over heels in love. There, it is written. It's there in black and white (your colors may vary) in all its glorious improbableness. It sits there looking for all the world like something trite and fake and I fear I have no prose up to the task of making it more believable to you, my discerning readers. I, your relatively clear-eyed daydreamer, have succumbed to the ultimate harebrained idea. I am one of those fools who believes in the red string of fate, a media naranja, a soul mate.
I love romantic movies; lines like, "I just knew. You touch her for the first time, and suddenly... you're home. It's almost like...magic." I love romance novels; fantastic set-ups where you meet and fall in love in three amazing weeks and it all ends happily ever after. I love love-songs; where it's okay to say you'll be someone's everything because it's set to music. But everyone knows that's the "razzle-dazzle" entertainment dishes up. It's not real. No one "just knows." You need a lot more time to be sure than a whirlwind three weeks and no one, for the sake of sanity, ought to be everything to you.
We spent almost 12 hours together on that first date; going to a museum, strolling through a rose garden, playing on swings, eating ice cream, perusing a bookstore... It was darn near perfect. All well and good but why did I feel like this was someone I had misplaced and joyfully found again? "Oh, there you are!" my heart exclaimed and all my rational and reasonable thinking never diminished it's belief that somehow or other this person I had just met belonged with me.
So, as my sister once warned me, love has humbled me. I am a foolish believer too.
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| The opposite of love isn't hate, it's apathy. |
[11 May 2008|12:10pm] |
You've no doubt heard that line. The saying hinges on the fact that hating someone means thinking about them - passionately focusing your time and energy on them. It's due to that obsession with the hated person that hate being transformed into love seems more plausible to most than total ambivalence becoming passionate attachment. Although hate turning into love is a well-worn romantic plot line I think those that most understand the truth of the saying are those who have truly "gotten over" someone.
I remember at eleven trying to get over this boy I had a massive crush on named David. One momentous day I called my best friend Kristine up and told her at long last I had decided it was time to get over David. Being no David fan, Kristine happily obliged me in making a list of every reprehensible thing about him. It was a lengthy list and we worked ourselves into a good froth of righteous indignation. David was a total jerk! I was never again going to walk to the next bus stop over just to wait for the school bus with him. I was going to stop watching him play football with the kids in the neighborhood. I was going to explore all my many hobbies that I had put on hold to center my world around him. I was so over him!
Except, of course, I wasn't. I was having to focus on that list of odious misdeeds to force myself to not melt at his smile or find myself in the little park nearest his townhouse. I was still thinking about him all the time and in very little time I was once more writing in my diary about him and the agony of being "in love" with him against my will. (Yes, I do have a bad poem on the topic, why do you ask? ^_^)
Almost two decades later I found myself going through something similar which, let me tell you, makes me feel as if I have made a lot of progress. The guy in question is a periphery person in my life, someone I know of but rarely interact with. Occasionally I'd toy with the idea of pursuing him and tentatively flirt a bit but he wasn't interested and I knew we were a bad match. I found him attractive, obviously, to even consider pursuing him, but guys who were actually in my life and perhaps interested in me were first and foremost in my mind. Then there came a time when there weren't any guys in my life who perhaps were interested in me and suddenly I couldn't stop thinking about him. I'd daydream about romantic comedy endings where suddenly he realized I was everything he ever wanted and we'd fall madly in love and live happily ever after.
I fought off these temporary bouts of insanity as best I could. My friends and family had to put up with my rants about how much I so did not want this guy, how totally undesirable he was and, on occasion, how I was completely over him. I battled bravely onward and then, I had a chance encounter with the man in question. After months of wishing and railing and pining and angsting, here I was chatting with the dream -- and he bored me to distraction. He wasn't mean. He wasn't a bad guy. He just wasn't anybody who haunts your dreams. I had built up this idea of him from bits and pieces I remembered about him but I had obviously filled in the many gaps with what I found attractive. The reality was that I had fallen head over heels for my own creation rather than the man in question.
Suddenly I was over him. I was... pretty apathetic towards him. I wish him all the best but I don't want to know all the details as to how he achieves it. (By the by, this is not referring to any guy who will be reading this so please don't think I am surreptitiously telling you I no longer want to hear from you.) It's a freeing feeling and I'm reminded of a quote from one of my favorite novels, Up a Road Slowly by Irene Hunt. "I wondered why so much had been written about love's pain and so little about the glorious relief of being delivered from love's pain." I hadn't been heartbroken like Julie (the heroine narrating the quote in question) so my relief was not as extreme but it was there nonetheless. This relative lack of artistic representation of the "glorious relief" is the reason I find the ending of Circle of Friends a thousand times more wonderful and powerful in the original novel than the stereotypical happy ending found in the movie. Here's to the joy of being free.
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| 紅葉 |
[01 Nov 2007|06:51pm] |
Time passes more quickly than you realize, even when you think you are paying attention.
There is a little park by the bus station I get off at on my way home from work. Sometimes I pause there to admire the yellow leaves against the perfect blue of the sky. Today I looked up and all I saw were bare branches. I was shocked, when had the leaves disappeared?
Later along my route home I sat down on a wall and let other commuters pass me by as I chatted with a squirrel and admired the red and gold leaves against the buttercup clouds. The brown oak leaves reminded me of elementary school craft projects and I spun one about in my hand for a bit. I broke off one golden leaf from a locust to take home with me. I have grand plans of immortalizing it in art, we'll see. I did my very best to drink in every bit of beauty but I felt overwhelmed by the task. Here was all this autumnal glory, disappearing in the encroaching dusk, drifting to the ground with every moment that passed, and far too vast for just one mere person to appreciate it enough.
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| Cast your mind back... |
[08 May 2007|12:15pm] |
I do not recall her last name but I do remember his last name. It will not be put down here as he has gone on to make a name for himself and some fan may stumble upon this but I saw that name in print often enough to imprint it on my brain. He was quite the toast of our community theatre world even then -- and we merely freshmen. That was, on my part however, one of my last flirtations with the stage.
My bestest friend at the time, Emily, was quite enraptured with him. It is true, he had extraordinarily brilliant blue eyes that seemed to almost throw sparks when he was on stage. He had overwhelming personality and charisma and was handsome in the way a finely honed and polished sabre is. Despite these obvious draws, he was not really my cup of tea. Perhaps I begrudged him the assurance that came from finding your name on every cast-list posted. Perhaps I didn't like that driven, focused personality that earned him a measure of maturity that his 15 odd years, by themselves, would not have bestowed upon him. For whatever reason, although I went along with Emily in her worship of all things Brendan (that being his name), my heart wasn't really in it.
We were crushed (to varying degrees) when it came out not long after the start of school that he was always to be found in the company of a senior, Aimée. Protest as they did that they were merely friends, Emily and I were not the only ones who wondered who they hoped to fool when they had eyes for no one else. It made sense to me that someone like Brendan would be with someone like Aimée. She had a settled and generous nature that bespoke a maturity beyond even that of your average senior. Like Brendan she seemed to know precisely where she was headed and from the security of that self-knowledge she was free to speak and act unencumbered by any role to play and to bestow her attention without the least need to get anything in return.
Here I am, now a decade or more older than she was then, and still I envy her that self-assurance. When I think to myself of who I would like to be in the future, she is not far from my mind. She never needed to brag or flaunt accomplishments. Firstly because she had no need for acclaim -- the only approbation she needed she found in herself, and secondly because other people sang her praises for her. She was an accomplished artist, an actress, a fashion muse, a writer... a Renaissance woman.
I remember when our theatre group was writing a play for the state competition, it was Aimée who named my character after a singer she had recently discovered. When Aimée mentioned a CD she owned there was never a trace of trying to sound more high-brow than her listeners and so she made what she listened to seem cultured instead of the other way around.
I was overawed by her at 14 and this no doubt accounts for the fact that the day she gave me a ride home remains fixed in my mind as one of the clearest memories I have of that year. I can't remember why she extended this kindness to me. I regularly rode the AATA bus to and from school so a ride, while much appreciated, was not necessary. I remember vividly the way her bangle bracelets clinked together as she shifted gears. She was listening to Prince's "Little Red Corvette." Her car was low slung and that, combined with the music, made me feel quite out of my element. I knew Prince of course although my music upbringing was highly coloured by my parents and thus consisted in large parts of classic rock and golden oldies with some reggae thrown in for variety. I was however aware that "Little Red Corvette" had an atmosphere of sensuality that classic rock lines like "I really love your peaches/Want to shake your tree" had never evoked.
Feeling younger than I was in the presence of such sophistication, I have utterly forgotten the words that passed between us. I tried my hardest to not embarrass myself with some dull or childish utterance and I hope I succeeded but I am sure that whatever my repartee was like Aimée treated me as an equal. I am left with the impression that she referred to Brendan and his dream and his drive and encouraged me to find my muse and follow his lead. The fact that she thought I too might burst into beautiful bloom like they had stole any sting from the insinuation that I was not as far along the path toward my dream as they.
Sometimes, this memory stiffens my resolve to be as unaffected as her but sometimes, in more depressive frames of mind, I fear that at 29 I am no farther down the path to a dream than I was at 14. I am ashamed to find that at 29 I still am unsure as to what that shining dream is... I still haven't quite figured out what I want to be when I grow up and I am shocked to discover anew that I have, in fact, grown up.
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| V-a-c-a-t-i-o-n! |
[19 Mar 2007|09:31am] |
Currently on my friends list I have one person visiting Scotland, one just back from London with a side trip to Paris, one visiting California, and two going on three visiting Japan (oddly both are from here, both are in Tokyo and both are celebrating birthdays later this week). What exciting lives my friends lead!
I too am on a vacation of sorts. It's called the season is over and so is your seasonal job. What fun!
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| Spoons |
[18 Feb 2007|08:50pm] |
It's odd the way some memories just pop into your head out of the blue as vivid and real as if they took place a week ago instead of more than a decade ago.
I was a Girl Scout all the way through school and spent many summer weeks at camp. The year after eighth grade I went to camp with a passel of friends for the first and only time. We were marking the passage from middle school to high school I guess. It was a week of the usual swimming, singing, campfires and hikes but with a great deal of joking and laughter thrown in.
I forget, when I see 13 year olds now, how old we thought we were -- how worldly. I forget that by 13 these friends had shown me my first (and last - ewww) Playgirl magazine after one of our 'sit in a circle and read the "good parts" of romance novels' gatherings. We were the girls next door but even we, inexperienced as we were at the time, were not as innocent as I now imagine anyone under 18 must be.
One night we were in our mosquito netting draped cots supposedly going to sleep when someone decided we should tell a story by going around the tent and each of us saying one word at a time. I don't remember what the story started out as but the prurient intent became obvious as my friends gleefully added their words.
The sentence that I was to add to this go-round reached my cot ending "with nothing but spoons over their..." and I lay there in the sticky, stifling heat and thought to myself. "Why do I get the part that the whole sentence hinges on?" I racked my brain and suddenly said, "eyes." The tent erupted in a fit of giggles.
I still have a picture of one of my friends in the dining hall with spoons over her eyes. It makes me smile even now.
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| やっぱり Number one is #1 |
[06 Feb 2007|10:10pm] |
I enjoyed the first volume of what promises to be a somewhat lengthy series and was pleased to find that several more volumes were on the market already. The first book had an interesting plot, some likable characters, a measure of emotional turmoil and a climax and wrap up that deserved the names. It was exceptional only in the fact that books written purely to entertain seem to be rather the exception than the rule.
I always wonder what happened to people I went to school with years ago. Our lives touched for a year or so and then where did they end up? This is why I like series like this one. People who are supporting characters in one book have a chance to be front and center in the next. That's enough for me. I want to know what happens to this guy and that one and that girl over there. Tell me their stories.
Unfortunately this series, like many others, quickly becomes an epic. We can't just find out what happens to another character in book two. We have to stumble upon a worldwide conspiracy with faces and fronts that are too numerous to count. Plus, more angst and emotional turmoil with each volume. We can't just follow another character, we have to delve into the fact that he hates his father and that this other character can never get close to anyone and that this guy thinks no one will ever forgive him for his past and this girl's mother told her she was worthless, in other words we have to deal with issues.
I hate issues. I want a story. Tell me what happens next. Sure, characters ought to have pasts, they ought to have emotional reactions to events but for goodness sake, must we dwell on it for chapter after chapter? Can't we just say "Frank never knew how his father felt about him. The animosity that marked their every interaction made him inclined to believe his father hated him but just as he admired his father's strength of character, even as he despised what he stood for, he wondered if his father ever felt any pride in him as he made his own way through the world." No, we have to slog through flashbacks and inner monologues and insightful outsiders and on and on to get to pretty much the same point and sacrifice half the pages in a book that could have been interesting if something more had actually happened.
Also, if they had done more than chase shadows because of course they can't actually accomplish anything. Can't actually have a real showdown. Can't actually move on to a new plot because this one simply must be stretched out over at least six more books. It's a worldwide conspiracy, you can't wrap that up too quickly after all! Blech. Maybe I'll just reread book one again.
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| Chemistry |
[30 Jan 2007|09:43pm] |
Sometimes I still think about this boy I liked when I was 15. When I was still in school, I had a million crushes on a million different boys -- some of whom I didn't even get the name of before I started swooning. I can actually recall a good number of them but (let's call him...) Steve stands out from the rest. We had chemistry. I can say that looking back because I am fairly certain he felt it too.
He was a sports star on the football, basketball and baseball team. He was dating a cute popular girl on the volleyball team and was, needless to say, popular himself. I was the quintessential nerd. I wore my hair boy short. I dressed in odd clothing that often didn't do much for me. I loved the library and yearbook club and helped decorate for the prom before heading home to watch a documentary on Shirley Temple. There is no earthly reason why he should have noticed me, but he did. A lot.
He nicknamed me "Sexpot," sang "Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car" to me in history class on a fairly regular basis, and basically spent a good portion of our sophomore year teasing me through played up flirting in front of his popular friends because, come on no one could take his flirting with me seriously, right? Without his friends around, things were somewhat different. Whenever we stopped by Kroger's to do some shopping, he'd flee. I mean drop the groceries he was in the midst of bagging and vamoose. So, obviously, the guy did notice me.
I noticed him too. In fact, I didn't even have to see him to notice him. He had a locker just a few down from mine and I could be scrambling for books at the bottom of my locker, and know when he was there. I couldn't hear him over the clatter of everyone else but I'd feel him. It felt like my skin could pick up the warmth of him even several feet away, but it was only him.
Well, only him and one other guy. I met (let's call him...) Josh after college. It was the same feeling though. I felt like every skin cell was individually aware of his presence. With Steve I was young and self-conscious enough that I wouldn't even brave an "accidental" hand brush as much as I longed for that and more. With another five years or so under my belt, some world travel, a women's college... I wasn't so timid about breaking out of my shell with Josh.
Well, theoretically. In reality I was still the same romantic I am to this very day. I wanted something more than chemistry. I wanted love, or at least some affection, some respect, some real connection. So as much as I wanted to curl up against Josh, I was rather good at keeping it in check. Sometimes though keeping that desire in check felt like it was eroding me from the inside out. When I was with Josh I just wanted to touch him. I wanted to lean my head on his back as we stood in line waiting or sit down close enough to him that our arms would be sandwiched between us... thoughts of doing something that simple would drive me to distraction.
It's been years now since I met them. Two guys out of all the men you meet in life. Only two that made me feel that aware. And wouldn't you know, neither of them wanted me, or perhaps I should say neither wanted me enough to sweep aside the fact that I was not what they were supposed to want. They weren't what I was looking for either, I should hasten to add. Although they both could be charming and I was not a complete nitwit for crushing on them as they did posssess admirable qualities, between them they manage to cover a good number of my turn-offs as well. And yet... I dream of them from time to time -- wonder to myself what would a kiss have been like when breathing the same air made my skin tingle? It's hard to know that such passion burns in your blood and not hope that someday it can be set free. Someday I could meet a third man who sets my heart alight as much as my senses and if we are to dream why not say that I do the same for him...
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| For the love of C |
[10 Dec 2006|05:00pm] |
I received the letter 'C' from ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) aya_mcdonald
1)Christ - I know, I usually don't go religious on all of you, but as far back as I can remember I have been blessed with being able to feel God with me at all times. I don't know if that makes any sense because I can't quite capture the feeling in words. Let's put it this way: even though I have chosen to be Catholic, I don't believe in God because of what I've been taught but because I am as aware of God as I am aware of my own feet. How can I not love someone who loves me so completely?
2)Cookies/Cake/Candy/Chocolate/Cocoa - Sorry, so very many yummy foods (read: desserts) begin with c! I can't choose! Oh and cinnamon too!
3)Color - I can never choose my favorite color either. Color is so amazing, isn't it? Have you ever seen a flower and been awestruck that such a color just grows up out of the ground? Or the colors in sunsets! Or that feeling you get when a day is drab and dismal and you put on your favorite brightly colored sweater and you just feel better.
4)Christmas - I know, it can be stressful and hurried and over-commercialized, but at its heart Christmas is still a magical time for me. When I'm sitting with a cup of tea addressing cards to the sound of carols, I actually enjoy myself. When I decorate the tree and rediscover the bunny angel I have had since my first Christmas as a big sister, I feel not just my happiness right then but I feel connected to the happiness of all the intervening years too. When someone special to me opens a present I bought and his/her face lights up and I know I got something s/he loves -- it's hard to beat that feeling.
5)China - I don't mean the country though I would love to see the treasures it holds, but rather I am referring to the dishware. I collect tea cups and I just love their delicate beauty. I especially like those that tell stories of long ago aesthetics and perhaps a place far far away...
6)Cherries - I adore fruit. My family has nicknamed me "the fruit bat." I can't pick my favorite fruit so when people ask me my favorite food I just say fruit. Still, cherries have to be in my top ten.
7)Classical Music - I actually don't listen to a lot of classical music at home but live... few things can top classical music live. I like dressing up and going to the symphony of course but even seeing a high school band perform at a shopping mall is great.
8)Cats - I have wanted to be a cat since the age of three or perhaps even before that. I want a tail so I can balance just so and leap lightly onto fences on silent paws. I want whiskers to judge my ability to slink through small spaces. I want to be able to see at night. I want silken fur. I want claws I can retract so that I can be sweet as pie until someone makes the mistake of underestimating the cute kitty and then, watch out! I want to be able to lap milk out of a bowl. (I used to practice with hot cocoa, my mom was an indulgent one.) I want that unmistakable feline grace -- the sinuous beauty of every muscle bunching and stretching in perfect synchronicity. I want that regal demeanor; cats never make excuses, they never dither, they do what they want when they want and you better love it or leave them alone, or both. I want to be able to purr... I'm working on that one still. I have a cat and those who have met her know I must love cats to put up with such a demanding diva -- but she's sooo pretty, isn't she? ^_^
9)Crystal - I love rainbows. I love crystal prisms and hang them wherever I can hope to catch sunlight. In my current locale, that limits me a bit... I also love crystal to pair with my china. I have barely enough space to feed two in my studio but I have grand dreams of the day I'll be able to lay out my great-grandmother's linen, silver, china and crystal and serve a real dinner with a soup course and namecards...mmm...
10)Contentment - I am a pretty passionate person and I love my moments of exuberant joy. I love laughing; I love jumping up and down and clapping; I even appreciate the catharsis of sobbing. I like peaks and I feel stronger for weathering the valleys but I can't overlook the pure pleasure of feeling that all's right with the world. My sister calls them "this is good" moments. They are far too fleeting in my life but sometimes I feel like I am just where I'm supposed to be, fully experiencing life right in the moment, just being me and being a part of it all... and that to me is contentment and I treasure it.
If you would like a letter please comment asking for one. Then you will have a chance to share ten things you love that begin with that letter. Afterward, you may post this in your journal and give out some letters of your own.
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| Yuletide Greetings! |
[16 Nov 2006|01:16am] |
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I would like to send out Christmas cards to as many friends as I can because I am in the midst of a one woman revolution to bring back correspondence utilizing paper and pen. If you would like some seasonal greetings, please leave your address in a private comment. Also, please do let me know if you would prefer Christmas greetings or more general seasons greetings.
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| Autumn in all its pain and glory |
[13 Nov 2006|07:39pm] |
Since this journal is basically my literary manifesto, I decided I needed to wrap these two divergent themes as of late -- love and autumn -- into one cohesive whole. So, without further ado I present the upside and the downside of autumn.
( Why I love autumn. )
( Why I don't. )
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| In Japan they have four seasons |
[11 Nov 2006|01:33am] |
I am making an apple pie with streusel topping and extra cinnamon. I think I'll have it warm from the oven with a scoop of cinnamon ice cream.
I remember this time last year reading in some holistic medicine journal about an Indian school of thought that involved embracing the nature of the seasons and basing food, health care, beauty routines and the like on the season. Or rather on the essence of the season, although that isn't the right word for it either as I'm sure a practitioner could tell me. Despite not recalling all the terminology I do recall the article saying it was time for steamy long baths with aromatic oils in them, heavier lotions, and richer, creamier foods with warming spices like cloves and cinnamon. The thing that struck me is that despite this being coached in the terms specific to this school of thought, the ideas weren't unfamiliar to me. Teen magazines I used to peruse would tell you to be careful to moisturize in the wintertime. A look at Thanksgiving dinner found richer, creamier dishes and desserts spiced with cinnamon and cloves. Perhaps it's just human nature to crave these things come autumn.
In Japan too the seasons were reflected in food, decor, and of course in the tea ceremony. Following the seasons through the tea ceremony made me come to see that oft-heard boast about Japan's four seasons a bit differently. Of course I still would politely assert that many countries have four distinct seasons, but I came to see that Japanese culture celebrated and embraced the seasons more than American culture did. The dishware changed for every season. The chawan was thinner and flatter in summer and thicker and taller in winter. The designs on the natsume reflected the seasons as well. When my teacher asked me "おちゃしゃくのごめは?" (What's the tea scoop's poetic name?) The name always reflected the season such as 五月雨 (さみだれ) meaning "May rain" or 七夕 (たなばた) meaning "star festival." The sweets changed with the seasons. The hearth was sunken in the winter and brought up again in spring. Of course the ikebana and the scroll in the tokonoma showed the passage of the seasons as well.
It wasn't just in these ancient art forms that the seasons held sway though. In the department stores the designs on the simplest of dishes reflected the seasons. The high shrill whistle of the yaki-imo vendor signaled autumn. At school we had heartier miso soup with fried tofu and pork. Here in America the harvest dishes are out front and center in the shops now, but if you crave pumpkin pie in July, you can find canned pumpkin. You can eat strawberry shortcake in November, chestnuts in August and cranberry sauce in May should you choose to. When it comes to fresh produce, we Americans seem to regard being able to eat fruit far out of season as a natural right of living in this fair country. Try going to your nearest convenience store in Japan and buying a steaming nikuman in April, it can't be done. You can't find nashi in spring or biwa in autumn. Seasonal treats and snacks in Japan put Christmas Captain Crunch and the ilk to shame.
Please don't misunderstand, I don't think there is anything wrong with eating a popsicle in December. I missed nashi in summer and white peaches come wintertime but on the other hand, I treasured each one I ate in the brief time I could, and they rarely lacked a fine flavor. (I won't go into how getting cherries in the dead of winter isn't a very good move for the planet.) I guess what I am saying here is that, if you have a mind to fair readers, embrace the season. Indulge in some hearty stews. Savor the flavor of the season's bounty of apples, persimmons, pomegranates, pears and nashi. Wear more velvet, wool and cashmere. I think this is the best time to have a bowl of nuts in their shell on your table. Take a walk through crunchy leaves and past a few pine trees and don't forget your mittens. Bake something. Flaunt your jewel tones. Shake on some cinnamon. Indulge in hot spiced drinks. Put some whipped cream on top. Wrap up in a chenille throw with a good book. Get thee to a fireside. Pour a few drops of essential oils in your bath. Don't skimp on the lotion. ^_^
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| Flavour |
[09 Nov 2006|09:42pm] |
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music |
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Carmel -- Suzanne Vega (just chance but how perfect!) |
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I bought these scented candles on impulse the other day. I was at Wild Oats admiring their display of harvest holiday goodies and pondering which bubbly fruit juices to buy (cherry and strawberry) when I became aware of this delicious aroma that seemed to me to be the very essence of the harvest holiday feeling. You know, that wonderful warming feeling of food and tradition and gathering in that is sensual in a way that makes you feel connected to the heartbeat of the planet itself. I followed the aroma to a display of essential oil candles and decided I really must splurge.
Tonight I lit two and as I leaned over to inhale their spicy aroma the cinnamon bowled me over. It literally made me weak in the knees. I need more cinnamon in my life. I shall have to think of dishes that incorporate it... perhaps a perfume too...
It made me think of kisses too, specifically kisses in romance novels. I have noticed that kisses in romance novels are often flavoured. This idea intrigues me. I have decided that should I ever have a chance to kiss a guy frequently, I shall make an experiment of it. Can kisses really be flavoured? And to what extent? I plan to try out everything from lemonade to chocolate covered cinnamon candies until my test subject bolts.
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| Did you vote? Does that have anything to do with this entry? (No, it doesn't.) |
[07 Nov 2006|09:50pm] |
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Us Amazonians -- Kristy MacColl |
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I was looking at these private entries I have scattered about and which are, by and large, info dumps I made when I changed computers and wanted to keep information like links and snippets of thought. I stumbled upon this essay I wrote some five years ago when I was contemplating this friend of mine and his love life. The idea that really crystallized in amongst all this contemplation was simple: I want to find someone who appreciates the things about me that I have worked hard to hone, and I expect I am not the only one who feels this way. However, I realized a lot of people settle for someone who "puts up with his/her quirks" or likes him/her despite things that s/he has always considered a point of pride. Why is this, I wondered? So I made a really extended metaphor, which is the essay in question and which I will place, under a cut, in the following entry, should anyone be keen to read it.
Five years later I am still writing mostly about relationships and still hoping someone will tell me, "I love the way you get so excited and wax poetic about little inconsequential things like a hot cup of tea. I love the way you stop to smell roses and walk along walls and talk to cats. I love that you wear your heart on your sleeve. I love that you use words no one has in the last fifty years. I love that you are a good little Catholic girl..." Basically, I want the ending of "When Harry Met Sally."
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| This is the best birthday present ever!!! ...or not |
[22 Sep 2006|05:48pm] |
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So, I'm employed – or I will be come Monday. Of course the one job the city finally offered me would be the only job I interviewed for that was temporary. Oh well, this lets me try out being a public servant without a real commitment, right? I should be employed through the spring and then we shall see what happens. I'm 29 and footloose and fancy-free. Why, I could do anything, anything at all!
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| Yipe! |
[15 Sep 2006|10:32pm] |
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I fear there may be a misunderstanding about my last entry. It does sound like I am blatantly fishing for compliments. I am not saying I think I'm unattractive, never fear. I know I clean up pretty well too, but I also know I'm not eye-catching. I'm "girl next door," not "double take." This is why I am puzzled by attention on the street.
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| Be careful what you wish for... |
[14 Sep 2006|11:10pm] |
When I contemplated coming back to the US, I worried over a great many things. One of the biggest was my loss of social cache. It felt a little like I was hanging up the cape and donning the horn-rims full time -- no one special, just part of the crowd. Sure sometimes in Japan it feels like you're on display but then again people thought I was pretty merely because I am blonde-haired and blue-eyed. I don't live for compliments but for a nerd like me it was a new and thrilling experience to feel that people thought me attractive.
That being said, I am pleased to report that the rumors are true, if you believe you look good people do indeed buy it -- in any country. Since my return I have not become a wallflower again. I don't know quite how but I have confidence. Even on the days I can't find anything flattering to wear or I have a break-out, I can maintain that nonchalance I gained in Japan. That of shrugging and thinking, "They'll stare anyhow, might as well just do my own thing."
The thing is, "they" are still staring. Not tons of people or anything but there are people even here in America who look at me with enough concentration to make me check whether or not I have spilled something on myself. I really can't fathom why. It's unnerving. Today this guy I ran into outside the grocery store talked with me while in the store and then ran into me again as I was going home and asked where I was headed! He was a good looking guy, rather reminiscent of CSI's Gary Dourdan (Warrick Brown). It was like something out of a movie.
I thought I wanted the attention, but I don't really know how to handle it since people actually approach you here in the US. I inadvertently agreed to go on a date recently. I know I sound daft but I didn't realize that was what I was agreeing to until later. It was all accomplished in such a flurry and my mind just doesn't leap to that conclusion. I'm sure this guy is a nice guy and I'll have a perfectly fine time but... he's so outgoing.
Okay, now I do sound deranged, don't I? I think most of the people in my life are outgoing. They may be geeks by and large but they are pretty brash. I like them, obviously. They're my friends. I admire wit more than almost anything and my friends dish it up fast and furious. It just that on the romance front I like it a bit less furious... and fast for that matter. I want conversation that's less barbed, less razor-edged... someone that speaks to the quaint romantic in me.
I fear these are the guys that will never strike up a conversation at the grocery store. I try my very best to be as friendly and approachable as I can when I meet people, but at heart I'm shy too...
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