I Luff the Library

That's more than love, is how much I love it. It's indescribable to describe my love for free literature and the like. Like in "Annie Hall," when Alvie Singer tells Annie that he loves her so much, that it can't even be called "love" that he luffs/lovures her. Ooh, ooh, ooh! So, I'm still reading "Kafka on the Shore" (wow! weird and awesome) and as Kafka Tamura (one of the main characters) is currently residing in a library, reading lots of books and holding long discussions with Oshima (Kafka's supporting character) about books, I've been thinking a lot about books, and today I went to the library to get books. Specifically T.S. Eliot's Collected Poems, 1. because Oshima spoke about the straw-filled hollow men from Hollow Men and 2. In reading an RS article, Woodstock director Michael Wadleigh said the aftermath of the festival was reminiscent of Waste Land - so I had to, I was pulled, in other words.

Re-reading these poems reminded me of sitting in junior year English class, sighing over failed attempts to comprehend the magnitude of Eliot's words in Prufrock and others, but now I find joy and delight in the memory of those attempts and the newfound ability to grasp hold of said concepts and images. Let me type out one for you....

'Preludes'

I.
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.


II.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One think of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


III.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


IV.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:

The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
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And I really liked this one, too:

Hysteria

As she laughed I was aware of becoming involved in her laughter and being part of it, until her teeth were only accidental stars with a talent for squad-drill. I was drawn in by short gasps, inhaled each momentary recovery, lost finally in the dark caverns of her throat, bruised by the ripple of unseen muscles. An elderly waiter with trembling hands was hurriedly spreading a pink and white checked cloth over the rusty green iron table, saying: "If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden..." I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected, and I concentrated my attention with careful subtlety to this end.
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And then, after watching a trailer for "Bruno" I watched a trailer for "2012" that made my heart race and think of 'Waste Land', especially the ending ("This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/This is the way the world ends/Not with a bang but a whimper").

So, I got that, and this life and pictures book about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and CDs!! Erykah Badu's "Mama's Gun," Fiona Apple's "When the Pawn," Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land: The Asch Recordings, Volume 1," "The Best of Grand Master Flash, Mellie Mel & The Furious Five," Priscilla Ahn's "A Good Day," and "The Best of the Girl Groups: Volume 2" - like I said, I luff the library and all its precious treasures. Now to make use of my finds...

100%

I'm a big fan of Haruki Murakami, in addition to the fun of pronouncing his name, he's a wonderful writer. I've only read A Wild Sheep Chase (a fast reading mystery) and Norwegian Wood (a heartbreaking and brilliant "coming of age" love story), and just recently started Kafka on the Shore; my brother shared this short story, in which Murakami plays off the idea of soul mates, that I wanted to share with you. Take a chance, I want to tell the people posting on craigslist for "missed connections" and this falls in that vein; though most stories turn out sad, as death is inevitable, there is always an opportunity to make something good happen in the middle.

Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl. Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert. Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose. But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird. "Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone. "Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?" "Not really." "Your favorite type, then?" "I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts." "Strange." "Yeah. Strange." "So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?" "Nah. Just passed her on the street." She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning. Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world. After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed. Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart. Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards. How can I approach her? What should I say? "Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?" Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman. "Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?" No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that? Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me." No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about. We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had. I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd. Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical. Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?" Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened. One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street. "This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me." "And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream." They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle. As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily? And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?" "Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do." And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west. The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully. One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank. They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love. Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty. One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew: She is the 100% perfect girl for me. He is the 100% perfect boy for me. But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever. A sad story, don't you think? Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

---

[A] List(s)

Household Items Lil Mama plays with:

- Rubber bands
- Straws
- Receipts
- Discarded Cheerios
- Bottle caps
- Dust
- Mr. Potato Head's Nose, rendering him smell-less with a giraffe's ear replacement
- Whatever string she can scratch out of any fabric surface
- Nothing at all, just jumping around, running through the apartment like some kid of woman possessed
- Paper bags

Items Lil Mama does not play with:

- Whatever my roommate and I spent money on specifically for kitty's enjoyment, ie., all $60 except sometimes the feather fisher thing... Not even her cat nip bubbles does she like.


I'm almost ashamed to post this as apparently I have swiftly become a crazy cat lady... wait, wait, wait, she's in her litter box, scratching around, I don't like her again.

I Just Signed a Contract... With the Devil(?)

I probably shouldn't have even said that much. I'm not so sure what I signed. I mean, I know it was a contract, and it was long, and there were lots of words/phrases that I didn't understand, but besides that and "One Million Dollars (without bail)" I'm not really sure... yeah, awesome, right? I can't really talk to you about what I signed or why I signed it. I'm just saying I signed one which basically gave all my rights and information and privacy to someone to dispense to the world at his or her pleasure, all for a chance to... maybe move on to the next round. I suppose if I do there will be more paperwork. Oh, the contract did suggest that I have my lawyer look everything over. Right. Because an unemployed 23-year old has a lawyer readily on call to handle all my contracts and other legal documents. Right. (And when I said that did you imagine me talking to an actual contract - like, let's say 8' x 5' - like I did? Like how sometimes when I say, "Oh, well I told Korea that I'm going to need to push back my leave date because I want to try and vie for this opportunity where I will most likely make an ass out of myself preventing any future worthwhile opportunities" I imagine myself phoning up South Korea, dressed in blue (it, not me, I'm in a yellow hazmat suit) delivering the bad news. No you don't see either of those? Oh.)

--- I wish my fucking cute cat would learn how to use the scratching post; she was just trying to claw the shit out of the arm chair in the corner and I clapped and said, "KITTY!" and she stopped and then, on her way into the kitchen I tried to scoop her up to attempt to failingly train her on the s.p. but noooooo, she's dodgy. Great, thanks cat. Thanks.

But yeah, so I signed it and sent it (and my life) off into the sunny, smoggy, traffic-y abyss that is Lake Toluca, California. And now, because I signed it, I can't talk about it... or, at least, I don't think I can. And A.) I don't have a lawyer to show it to, and B.) even if I did, it would have to be read hunched over my laptop (or their computer) because there's no effin' way that I'm paying another $14 at Kinko's to print that shit off. RIDICULOUS!! Fucking Kinko's and their nice, thick paper with their bold inks and efficient service; bastards.

What else? Oh, I don't think there is anything. Just that we're back at square one. Waiting. Oh. My. Oh. My. I loathe waiting. I am impatient! And I know, I know. Patience is a virtue, but one which I do not possess, nor wish to. I mean, sure, I guess it would be adultish of me to be patient, but I'm not down with that. I'm already doing a pretty good job at honesty, and I think I'll keep it at that, because I know a lot of lying liars who can wait around just fine, and no thank you, I've got better things to do with my time... except in this case, and really, I have no choice but to wait on decisions coming out of La-la Land (did you sing that? I did) and pretty much twiddle my thumbs or go for runs, or biking in the sun...s - because! did you hear? That one star that's closest to us (second to the sun) is getting closer, and it's actually the cause of global warming, not our particularly outrageous and wasteful habits, and we'll all be dead by 2012, so live it up. No, that's not true. I lied about that first last part, with the second sun coming... so I lie in jest, but not when it counts, any more. Buuut, (am I losing you? Shh. Work harder) that latter last part, the one about the 2012? I was just reminded how much it freaks me out by writing about it, because there were two dudes talking at the bar, when I was working a few weeks ago, and y'know, I'm pretty crazy/gullible (call it what you will, the Jackalope could totally happen in real life. Chupacabra, there are PROVEN documents of its existence!) on my own, so when the History Channel throws in the end-of-the-world music and the movie-trailer guy (I know he's dead, but this one sounded like him, and maybe they filmed it before he died) narrator on their Nostradamus special, yeah, I'm gonna be convinced, but then I easily dismiss it after I rub the sleep from my eyes and step into the light. These guys, let's go back to them, they looked pretty educated, but maybe that's only because they were wearing glasses (probably without a prescription), and they were talking about the planets being aligned and all the calendars ending on that day and how it's gonna happen. That gave me 'deer in the headlight' eyes and an increased heart rate for a minute until I remembered that the HC special ended on a note of, "Well, this could happen and be cataclysmic and the end of everything we know, or nothing could happen at all, so let's just wait and see." Uggggghhh!! Tom Petty, tell it like it is:

EFFIN' ESS!!! I totally know how to embed now (and it's not even hard, as YT distinctly instructs you how to do it under the link, aaaaannnnyyyyway) but this ass clown disabled it, so click here and snap/shoulder shimmy along.

And I love this song, and wow, they play it a lot faster (and better, yeah) than I can... I was going to say it doesn't really relate, but "oh the sweet smell of success," it DOES! Enjoy:

Remember when MTV still played the whole music video, and it was good?