I want to stay up all night

You know how there are holidays and days off, devoted to different things, like the founding of our nation and the remembrance of veterans?

I wish tomorrow was one of them.

I have so much to read and I can't keep up. I have piles - today's New York Times, barely touched; magazines, some from last month; library books... It's unlike me to be so neglectful in this way.

But I did crack open this Ikkyu book today. Ikkyu was a 15th century Zen master and writer of then-scandalous poems. Example: "don't hesitate get laid that's wisdom / sit around and meditate, what crap"

This one's less scandalous but I like it: "I love bamboo how it looks / and because men carve it into flutes"

I once wrote a bamboo poem. I was going to add it here but can't remember it exactly. So I got up to try to find it and realize I need another holiday/day off to devote to organizing my dozens of notebooks. Which one contains the bamboo thing? Aargh.

*

There was a man who used to come into the record store where I worked in Ann Arbor and one day he said to me, "I'll know winter is over by the change in your clothing."

www.itcamefromdetroit.com

What? You think I'm GLAD the Tigers lost because it made parking downtown easier for me tonight? What kind of person do you think I am? Jeez...

This weekend has made me feel like myself.

Last night, Alice and I went to the DFT to see It Came from Detroit. It was so good - basically I relived my twenties through this documentary chronicling the Detroit garage scene. It made me miss that whole scene, even if I was never part of it from the inside. All the footage of the Gold Dollar was very nostalgic, as were the clips of bands that I've seen time and again, going all the way back to house parties in Ann Arbor. It made me quite happy to see friends, acquaintances, and not a few crushes on the big screen. All my old rock crushes are officially re-activated!

Then, after dropping the early-to-rise Alice home, I met Mollie for dill pickle martinis/beer (you guess who had what). It was excellent to sit at the bar with her and talk and laugh and semi-notice the game on the TV in front of us. I didn't get home until a fairly wee hour, which I like.

Tonight I went downtown again, with Jen and Alice, and though around the corner from Comerica Park, home of the Tigers, we had no problem parking (not that I'm glad about that or anything). We went to Small Plates for dinner, where we drank an awesome bottle of Spanish red wine, ate good food, batted around various topics and ideas, and then...

we went next door to 1515 Broadway where we saw Blair's one-man show, Burying the Evidence. Oh my god! We were all completely in awe of him. His show was unbelievable - so funny and sad and passionate. It's clear that he is doing what he is supposed to be doing, which almost no one can say. His poetry, his songs, his movements were all perfectly done and gave me chills. I heard the guy behind me say, "God, I need to start writing again." That's exactly how A, J, and I felt. Blair's show seemed so professional - like we had paid a ton of money to see a famous performer, not paid a little to see an old friend. I wish everyone could see it.

So the weekend's almost over, and it's almost time to turn the clock back, and I'm ending Daylight Savings time feeling, as I said, exactly like myself.

nasu dengaku meets the d

I had a student start a piece of writing with, "Fortunately, I had a mullet."

So, I think youtube is a bad thing for me, now that I realize I can see other people having fun in Japan there. It makes me want to be in Japan. I am super restless and wish I could travel. I realize I'm not unique in this way. But although I'm excited about my two events in Detroit this weekend, and I'm a big fan of Detroit, compare Detroit and Tokyo for a moment:




I trust I don't have to point out which is which.

OK, I'm joking, of course. That is Detroit, and a beautiful photo at that, and it's from Detroit Bike Blog. But this is a more true picture of Detroit:



It's not bad. But can you get nasu dengaku like this??? No. For that you need Tokyo, which is where I photographed this and many other meals.

I do it because I have to

Two thumbs WAY up for cool kids who bring to mind long-forgotten talents and gifts. Today I was tapped and turned around to find the tapping fingers positioned like this. I used to position my fingers the same way, to make time move faster as I sold movie theater tickets.

I just thought of all my movie theater coworkers. That was high school. They are probably all harried moms and dads now, maybe feeling a little old. Meanwhile, I'm posting pictures online of my fingers twisted up funny.

Only a little bonnie

I got this new Bonnie Prince Billy, and I think I like it, but I'm not sure it's all it's cracked up to be. I like that I'm still listening to Will Oldham after so many years, although I took a break for quite awhile. I think the woman's voice on this BPB gets on my nerves. Some of it seems too precious in a way. Plus, none of the songs to me measures up to the two "Florida Songs," which are my favorite two Will Oldham (Palace) songs. One is called West Palm Beach and the other is Gulf Shores. Both take place in FL, and both are beautiful and sad. "She won't get up, she's shot-gun seamed, she's sewn to the sea - it's a dirty old trick that I've yet to lick and she's yet to beat." I feel like it's all about her being depressed in Florida and him not knowing what to do. I could be wrong, but I will continue to think of the songs that way even if I am.

So even though I'm not blown away yet by this new one, I still am looking forward to seeing the accompanying movie, Old Joy, at the DFT in early December.

Another old favorite of mine is Yo La Tengo and they never do anything less than great, I feel, including their newest, I Am Not Afraid of You and I will Beat your Ass. I love them so.

Imaginary Reader and the Author's Tale

I love the sunshine today.

Now for a parable...

Imaginary Reader came to me last night and said, "Why do you update so much? Are you that narcissistic? Do you think we are checking three times a day, unable to sleep, to eat, without a word from you?"

"Gentle Imaginary Reader," I said, "Come, have a seat. I will make you a dill pickle martini and tell you a story." So Imaginary Reader sat, I stoked the fire, garnished a murky martini with a garlicky spear, and began to spin my tale.

***
I spend most of my days with small people, children, actually, who are creative and entertaining and yet who cannot endure the weight of all of my thoughts and knowledge. Many times throughout the day stories come to my mind, stories sometimes involving swear words and morally questionable actions on my part. Or an esoteric interest reveals itself, and while my mouth is speaking of why we must revise our personal narrative stories, my brain is reeling with questions about the Stone Forest, about the aesthetics of rain, and trying to remember that guy's name who built the amazing houses for the poor in the south (his name is Samuel Mockbee, and he's pictured above. Oh, did you think that was Imaginary Reader? I guess he could be). Sometimes, Imaginary Reader, these mental diversions threaten to spill over, and I find myself trying to compensate in some bizarre way. For example, when confronted with the mysterious menu item "Traveling Taco," I drew on the board a very detailed taco with suitcase, traveling hat, legs and shoes, and an excited grin. I was enthusiastic about this project, until one of my students broke through my creative process and said, "Why are you spending so much time on that taco?" My defenses flared. Because I want to! Because I need to! Because I am a creative and interesting person who needs an outlet at times! I yearn to travel, like this taco; to draw, like you kids are doing now with your persuasive travel posters; to write my own scandalous personal narrative. But no. I'm with you children, here, where I must contain these impulses and guide you toward your creative zenith while I choke on my own!

That's when I thought it might be a good idea to start writing again, in whatever capacity. I don't expect you, Imaginary Reader, or anyone to read these words, or to care. But I must press on for my own sanity. I hope you understand now. It's not a personality disorder but a creative imperative that leads me to tell my Stories.

***

The fire was down to embers, Imaginary Reader was down to his last bite of pickle spear, and moments later, my room was returned to normal. I was left to wonder: Had it even happened at all?

High electric kicks

1. Lately, it seems like I'm flipping light switches on and off with my foot at least as often as with my hand. Should I keep going with that or try to tame my natural impulse?
2. I feel better now than at the writing of my last post. I can't think of anything I have in common with the guy from Sheltering Sky, thank god.
3. I have really seen very few South Park episodes, but I watched one tonight about the band Timmy and Phil Collins. It was a good one. Anyway, I always thought (back in the day, when it was an actual thing to think about) that Phil Collins was the antichrist, except since I don't believe in an antichrist (or a christ, for that matter), I guess that's not the right comparison. He's something really bad that I believe exists. Basically, he's for people who don't like music. Many years ago, when we lived on S. Division St. in Ann Arbor, Chris made me a Phil Collins puppet, to either torture me or give me a chance to act out my angst toward Phil Collins; I don't remember which. I do remember that I took the puppet around with me one day in my bag, took it out at a coffee shop to show someone, and must have left it behind. Which is so sad, but it's also great to think of someone finding it and maybe even loving it.
4. I also watched the Simpson's episode where the Flanders family moves to the town where those Hummel figurines are made.
5. And I watched the movie Hard Candy and am trying very hard to forget all about it now.
6. Watching TV is a good thing to do when you're sick.

Home from work

I'm home sick today. I hardly ever do that, mostly because it's so much work to get things ready for a sub teacher that it's easier to just go in. But not today. Today is all about fire in my stomach. You know it's bad when you keep reminding yourself of the main character, Port, in The Sheltering Sky (a book that I love; I hear the movie stinks). He is slowly dying of malaria. There's lots of descriptions of the desert woozily shimmering around him all psychedelic-like, and of his stomach feeling like liquid fire, etc. It's all very excruciatingly described, and not a good thing to be able to relate to.

Since I don't have the book to draw a quote from, I was just online looking for one. They all seemed to be about the book's larger existential theme, if you can call it that. Not everyone thinks of intestinal agony when they think of the book, apparently. Then I found a book club guide that included questions like this: "What keeps Kit and Port Moresby together as husband and wife? What role does their friend, Tunner, play in their attachment to one another, and how do their mutual episodes of infidelity affect the course of their marriage?" Ugh. God. Is that what book clubs do? That sounds so terrible to me. My book club would have to be renegade. I could never sit around and answer college literature class essay questions! We'd have to make up interpretive dances or something instead.

This is why I never pursued a Lit. Master's despite loving books so much. Analyzing them too much kills it for me.

So, the other thing I found online was a list of books to read while you're traveling in various countries. This list recommended The Sheltering Sky for people traveling in Morocco and Algeria! Great idea. I definitely would want to read about slow, lonely death in Morocco and Algeria by parasitic intestinal destruction while traveling through those countries. That would be my very first choice.

Ikaruga, baby

Such a rainy day, but we had our woodsy field trip anyway. I loved the drizzle and the forest smell. We saw two deer, a woodpecker, some fungi, worms, nests, and a raccoon's sleeping spot. One kid claimed to have seen the raccoon's butt, but I don't know...

Being out in the rain made me realize that I hardly ever go outside when it's raining. And yet, I *claim* to like rain sounds. In Japan, during the rainy season, you still lived your regular life, just under a series of umbrellas (well, for me it was a series, because I'd accidentally leave them behind whenever it cleared up). You walked to the train station, past the lush gardens, the convenience stores, the tofu shop, the beer vending machines, the rice fields, the Chanel boutiques, the tucked-away temples, all to the accompaniment of rain on your umbrella. It was loveliness itself.

Last summer when I visited, I stayed a couple nights in the small town of Ikaruga, not far from Nara ("Ikaruga" is apparently also the name of a shooting video game, based on my Google search...). It looked like this:



Of course, I didn't see it from quite that angle. Anyway, it rained the whole time I was there. The family I was staying with was, of course, personally responsible for the rain, and they apologized constantly, as they should have. When I first arrived, the mom told me I couldn't see my room because of the rain. I imagined that it must have had a gaping hole in the ceiling. After dinner, when the rain had slowed to a drizzle, she picked up my suitcase and led me down the hall to a sliding door leading to a lovely garden. Complex slipper-changing took place, then she led me through the garden on a path of stones, onto a wooden ledge, into a different pair of slippers, through another sliding door, into a beautiful free-standing traditional tatami room. It was so perfect. That night I lay on the futon, thinking about the randomness of my being there, in that room, in that family's home who I'd never met until that day, and I listened to the rain and inhaled the smell of wet wood, and was happy.

Here is a slice of the garden that led to my room:

Swiss chard, lentils, peppers, apples, and almonds

And here it is, everyone...tomorrow's lunch.

Mama played the keyboard

It seems like I'm living inside a giant human heart. In reality, I think it's the music coming from the apartment of the "old Detroit rocker from the Bob Seger era" (as he told my mom in the hallway one day - along with other nuggets such as his sister's IQ and how Mama played the keyboard and Daddy was a better singer than Frank Sinatra, etc.). Anyway, it's very Poe - Edgar Allen, not Teletubbies - in my apartment right now. I'm trying to remember if I stashed a warm body in a closet this weekend between the reading, the paper grading, and the other wholesome weekend activities I enjoyed. I guess I'd remember if I did.

spunk rock

This is the Stone Forest in Yunnan Province, China (photo from www.uh.edu/~jbutler/kunming/stoneforest.html). I didn't know a place like this existed, until today, when I saw Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles (Zhang Yimou). It was excellent, if a bit overly sentimental. I normally avoid any film with a "grouchy old man and the spunky little boy who makes him appreciate life again" slant, but it didn't bother me too much in this. The scenery was heartbreaking in itself. That Stone Forest! Unbelievable. Then there's the Stone Village where the spunky little boy lived, and the way they stretched tables all down the narrow lane and had a huge village feast. It's good to imagine that other people live in that kind of way.

My muse

That little gnome I have in the corner had his first portrait, in which he was placed in a realistic situation, done a few years ago. Here it is. I may try a second, more formal portrait one of these days.

No gutters? No gutterballs!

It's silly, I know, very silly to sit around my apartment taking pictures with the Photo Booth feature on my computer. It's even sillier to apply effects to the photos, I know. But it's kind of cute, isn't it, how this small bit of my apartment ends up looking like a bowling alley? A bright bowling alley, with a lot of cool stuff instead of pins. My kind of bowling alley.

SPORTS UPDATE!

This morning, lining up to fetch the students, I noticed that all my co-workers were wearing orange. Orange sweatshirts, sweaters, t-shirts, etc. My shirt was black. I don't really believe in orange clothes. Maybe if the orange was almost red, I would consent. Anyway, I had no idea what was going on, and I didn't really want to. I hadn't had any coffee yet, after all, had been running late and had to make do with some weak tea. I wasn't in the mood for any kind of staff coordination efforts unless it would result in strong, black coffee.

The kids came in, and it seemed like the kids in orange were high-fiving the teachers in orange a lot. This kind of thing had happened before, I realized. Last Friday had been the Big Game, as they call it. Teachers had worn Their Teams' colors. I had probably worn black, which was neither team's color. It didn't even dawn on me until later in the morning, well after my students asked me, ""Michigan or State?" "Um....I went to Michigan," I said, not really knowing what they were getting at. This would be greeted with either a cheer or a boo. Then the principal played both teams' fight songs, and I realized it was the Big Game thing. "I really don't care who wins," I told my kids. In other classrooms, full out wagering and tailgating was going on. In mine, they once again got gypped of any school spirit or sport related experience. Just how I like it.

So today, I finally equated the orange with a sporting event. All casual, I asked my coworker, "So, is there a Tigers game tonight?" She looked at me like I was fully alien. "They're close to the World Series," she said.

Oh, right.

Later I heard her class singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," while mine was stringing together food chain mobiles.

At least I'm not bitter

For a long time, i've loved eggplant. I love it in baba ganouj form; i love it japanese-style, broiled with miso, or else as tiny little pickles. I love it Chinese, in a spicy peanut sauce, or Italian as a component of ratatouille. I don't really like it breaded and deep-fried, but otherwise, I've rarely met an eggplant i didn't like.

Then there are these little guys. So cute, I thought when I spotted them at Eastern Market. Such delightful aubergine jewels. For a couple of dollars, I had a bagful. I daydreamed, looked up recipes, made plans for how I'd change my eating habits now that these new friends had entered my world. And then... and then...

I cut them up. I decided to saute them with some spices and tomatoes. I had them cooking over a fairly low heat, waiting for them to get soft and succulent. Now I know that eggplant can be bitter, but this was crazy. The cooking process seemed to actually release bitterness into the air. Soon I was literally gagging, choking on bitterness. I don't know how else to describe it. I turned on the fan, hoping to spare my neighbors, most of whom I've never met. Many of them are old, possibly weak, unlikely to fare well with bitterness vapors filling the lungs. I didn't want to be responsible.

I gagged. I actually gagged.

I turned off the heat and let the eggplant cool.

I dumped it all into the garbage and made a peanut butter sandwich.