and the house sleeps...

Mom sleeps. Dad sleeps. Maria attempts to sleep.

Allow me to provide a little context. Having to a man enthusiastically hurled ourselves at our respective pursuits of self-betterment and usefulness all morning, with brief interludes for snacking and other explosive forms of destressing, the house slips into a state of easy somnolence. First Dad found his way to his cocoon of blankets and jackets and bean pillows after a nosh-fest in the kitchen. Then yours truly found herself slumping over on The Scarlet Letter, and decided to take a legitimate snooze to minimize drool on that most hallowed of novels - an offense which in itself might have classed her in the ranks of the over-persecuted but undeniably guilty of this world, shoulder to shoulder with she of the carmine A, excoriated by the shrieking hags of justice and vengeance. Finally, Mom cozied up on my futon after a long morning of sorting e-mail and typing out my history tests for me, tuckered by the rigors of personal organization and motherly diligence in speeding me towards higher education in a timely fashion.

I was quite happy, really. Excitement over finally being able to read something for the first time in what seems like AGES was getting to me. And... of course... Nathaniel Hawthorne. Can anyone remain unmoved by his badassery?? I remember the incredible feeling I had when I was submerged in the fathomless depths of The House of the Seven Gables... "Wow, Mom," I said, "This guy is uh-MAZING... BUT THIS BOOK IS GOING NOWHERE!!" Each phrase hits home like a punch to the gut or a sharp ray of sun in your eyes. His words are charged with whimsy, his sentences over-weaved messes of meaning, and his expressions flawless. In fact, he reminds me a very, very small bit of me. Me at the top of my game is like Nathaniel Hawthorne hung-over with a bloody nose, gagged, and tied to the leg of a bed upstairs of a greasy tavern somewhere in the back streets of Belgrade. But I'm not totally unhappy with that comparison.

At any rate, his witticisms, poignancy, and perspective struck me anew this morning, and I couldn't help but be a little dopey in my happiness. As I lay on the couch in a mess of feather quilts and fuzzy blankets, face shoved into the nook formed by the arm of the couch meeting the back, I dozed and thought about his writing and listened to the music that was still playing from that morning. No one had bothered to turn it off or turn it down, but the mellifluous strains of the instruments that populate our eclectic classical music collection hadn't irked any listeners. A song began and ended. Another began, and it too ended. I considered going back to my book. But suddenly, a familiar symphonic sound swelled in the room and Luciano Pavarotti began to sing.

"La... fleur que tu m'avais jetee..."

Jaw = on the floor.

Speechless.

How does one FORGET about stuff like that???????

The flower that you threw to me, remained with me while I was in prison.

Withered and dried, the flower always maintained its sweet scent.

Don Jose sings to Carmen - they are reunited now - of how the scent intoxicated him and made him curse her and the forces of fate for the blasphemy of their love... and yet... he could feel only one desire, only one hope, one single thought.

To see you again, oh Carmen, to see you again!

For you had only to appear, only to throw your glance at me

In order to take a hold of all my being.

The crescendo comes, and the crescendo passes, and he declares only one thing more.

Carmen - I love you.

Wow. Breathe, Maria.

Almost makes you want to believe that she's not a little gypsy hussy with a shameless wardrobe of red barely-theres. Almost makes you want to forget that Don Jose is a spineless, depthless, Neanderthal type. Almost makes you want to think their love was actually worth all that amazing music.

Sigh. Oh, the highs and lows of opera. But really... what can you do.

oh my diabolical childes.......

this.

cannot.

go on.

I FORBEEEEEEED IT!!!!!!!!!!!

No more skulking about in the shadows!! POST!!

I'm gonna get off my soapbox now... but let the shadow of my threat remain a scarlet imprint upon your minds lest you forget my wraithlike abilities to make your life miserable if you displease me....

'hem 'hem.

So..... i made this entry just after we came home to Befu three days ago. I tried to make it witty... failed a little... I'm floundering towards my Japan style but slowly. Arrrrrrr.

"10:35 P.M. 11/17/2010

back in Japan after 18 mos... and what do i have to say for myself?

Here I sit, lodged behind celluloid desk, butt firmly entrenched in my garbage-crap chair.

I smell terrifically musty in the way only a Japanese closet can reek, because these old velour pants and Illini sweatshirt have acquired the bouquet of their dusty coffin over the period of my absence from their bagged-out glory. Of course, the cold cuts to my skin anyway; the unshakable chill which creeps over the floors and lives in the walls of this place has not become less with the sudden dearth of bodies who feel and refuse to accept its questing touch. If anything, it is emboldened by the new, more favorable balance of the composition of the apartment. Dust, silence, and closed doors are substances which so much more readily accede to its influence than do living flesh, the quick echoes of warm voices, and a constant flurrying of motion and flouting of decay that it most probably leaps into activity the moment we leave for a longer period of time than can be accounted for by the standards of someone actually residing in the abode.

Familiar sounds and the associations they carry assault me from all sides. A lady's demure, cheery voice requests compliance over the raucous whine of a siren. The gurgling vroom of a 50-cc moped precedes the passage of a haggard, helmeted twenty-something in a pinstripe suit by at least 12 seconds. Staccato syncopated clicks and taps echo down the little cemented avenue outside when a college student chooses our street to wend her way home. Closer to home, I can hear the gentle confusion and bumblingness exuded by Dad's shuffling, slippered footsteps and emotive grunts. Mom pulls a subdued Roadrunner act with her usual effortless verve. Already in the few minutes I've snatched here and there of observation, she has annihilated away the combined efforts of Luke and Dad to plant a garden of carnage in their bedroom, made beds, changed sheets, checked email, swapped out crusty slipcovers and doilies, extincted - armed with only a few squares of toilet paper - a curious species of dust bunny inhabiting all corners of the loo, herded the paternal menagerie of dental equipment and hygienic oddities into their own little leper colony/concentration camp in the cabinets, crushed the imperial tendencies of the dirty-dish army, arranged the shoes at the front door, held brisk, cathartic farewell ceremonies for the honored dead of our potted-plant collection, made a steaming pot of rich green tea, placed area rugs, fed the cat, dusted the china, and cleaned out the fridge of all offensive comestibles. By the time i finish, she will most likely have the piano tuned and 50% of Dad's extraneous underclothing will be a smoking heap of charred ash in the barbeque outside. meep-meep! All the while she keeps up a steady stream of clipped commentary to herself, follows an intermittent thread of conversation with Dad [inevitable snippets - "pre-Christian society" "east-European collective" "antioxidant enzymes" "Protestant dirges"], and taps out a smooth, brisk rhythm with her footsteps and motions which flows around the house and seems to disrupt and dethrone the pervasive disorder that has settled on the place.

meep-meep!!

Ah, the squalor of beauty. Returning home was a study in contrasts for me. How could a place so foreign and hostile to my feelings slip onto my psyche like a well-worn glove? When all I can think of is our bookshelf at home, why does our erratic, scant collection give me warmth and comfort. While I ache for the earnestness of Catharine's voice and the richness of Jonathan's laugh, how can I manage to muster only a very slight irritability at Dad's inanities and grammatical mishaps? As I remember our granite countertops, silk accent pillows, butternut-squash walls, fluted mahogany furniture pieces, and crown molding, what stops me from despising the total and uncompromising utilitarianism of the Japanese decor scene with all its cement, plastic, exposed pipes, fluorescent bulbs, naked metal, and harsh edges?

Arrrrrrr. More later."

I'm letting myself fall in love with Japan again. There is something about it that gets me every time.... the way the sunlight comes in the windows, it looks like Saturday morning every day. Pure, yellowy-white... resounding and bouncing and laughing and yet totally silent. The way the sky seems to be a deeper, smoother blue here than it ever is in America, and the way the mountains ring you in like guardians with their noses rubbing against that deep, silky curtain of sky. The music of the place... smooth ivory songs from the piano, raw tangy songs from the acoustic, songs of power and latent energy from Fawkes and the bass...... and every kind of tune imaginable from the sleek 24-inch Mac in the closet.

I've been eating a lot of strange food, and it's making me so happy!! My system suffered so happily from a libation of amazing protein yesterday!! Fish, miso, protein-pack squeezy-gels, edamame, oh man it was GREAT!!

I should goooooo.................................... the only reason I'm able to post is because Mom and Dad didn't wake me for Mass this morning and I had a lovely hour or so to myself........................ and I have other eggs to gather. Other bells to pull. Other boxes to stack. et cetera. I'm gonna go now before my verbosity gets out of hand.

"Right. I'll see you shortly. There's a meteorite that hit the ground near here. I want to check it out. It won't take long. Echo 3 over and out."

.... tee hee!! star wars!!

I love me some me time

The video wouldn't upload here so I put it up on youtube. Nothing too exciting. And then the other one