fiction

michiko’s life

Q.
Coming off the prior week’s surprising and slightly stressful act of vandalism in Sector 7B, Michiko took a long weekend. She decided to take the train back to her hometown of Ibaraki (茨城町). Or what used to be Ibaraki anyhow.

In that peculiarly efficient Japanese way, the city, literally overnight, had merged with Mito on one December day in late 2007. Suddenly Ibaraki was no more. This was her first time back since then, and it was indeed an odd feeling to see your family’s old house appear in the valley below, familiarly framed through the train window, with the awareness that the context, however one might understand the word, had changed. Not in any way tangible, not in any way that she could actually touch. But in a psycho-geographic way her hometown had slipped out from underneath her feet. This was no longer Ibaraki, it was now Mito. That kind of verbal slippage upset her more than she would care to admit. Maybe it was because she was tired, but something about the change got to her. This prompted memories.

Next to the wood frame house, she could see her brother looking out, catching sight of her train. She had the new Yellow Magic Orchestra record, Naughty Boys to play for him, having picked it up at the Shinjuku Disk Union. It was about the freshest thing she had ever heard, somehow combining old scales that reminded her of her grandmother singing with wild electronic synthesizers that she supposed were coming out of Germany. At fifteen, this awareness made her the coolest and brightest girl at Ibaraki High. Her brother, two years younger, always waited for her from these Tokyo music shopping trips, together they would listen to the new albums over and over. It was about three years later when she’d discover that her brother was also waiting, not just for the music, but for the cover featuring a youthful Yukihiro Takahashi.

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journal

kitchen heat

Cooking braised short ribs is not for the faint of heart. The rice pilaf, that’s fine, it involves fluffing, herb wraps, innocent dutch ovens, etc. Braising short ribs is high flame, high heat intensity. And on one of the hottest days of the year, the temperature was in the 90’s fahrenheit. What was I thinking!

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Just another two hours ’til they’re done. Phew….

praxis

I love the way the Germans use the word praxis, it’s as if it’s grounded in the dirt and mess of life, as the way one works through the time every day. It is rooted. Practice is something you do to achieve the extraordinary. But praxis is more the way you live.

“fuckinA, yer 32? egads!”

Yeah, another birthday is around the corner. The title is the reaction of my old friend Jane to finding out that I was 32. I guess I’ve been going undercover for a few years now around this time of year. A couple of years back I went to the desert in Marfa which was a great experience, alone in a hot spring is a good way to spend a birthday in my opinion.

But this year, tomorrow night, I’ll be at the little club Aunt Charlies, tucked away in a rather seedy part of the tenderloin in San Francisco. Hold Yr Horses - Rchrd Oh! is the DJ. If you’re in town, stop by.

And for no another reason than my feeling a bit self-indulgent, here’s Peter Gabriel’s 1978 “Moribund the Burgermeister.” Ohhhh…. 1978. I never knew ya, but how I miss ya!

amtssprache

In San Francisco we have a really nice literary magazine called Zyzzyva, named after the “final word in the dictionary.” I like the magazine quite a bit and have been reading it for several years.

In this quarter’s release, Zyzzyva included a story by Flavian Mark Lupinetti, a cardiac surgeon who lives in Oregon(?). The set up is thus: Adolf Eichmann is interviewed as a guest on Fresh Air, a daily radio current topics show. I’ll just quote a chunk of it, it speaks for itself.

Looking back, do you wish you had tried a different defense?

Such as? If there was one thing we did well in my department, it was keeping records. Made it hard to argue I was innocent. Maybe Himmler was right. Maybe if I’d had Johnnie Cochran on my legal team. That guy runs around the Underworld telling everyone he could have gotten them off – Nixon, Socrates, Ted Bundy. Well, water under the bridge. “Just following orders.” That’s my legacy.

So you didn’t find the “little Eichmann” metaphor offensive?

No. See, especially in America, there’s a little Eichmann in everybody. Some of you just cultivate him more than others.

That’s an interesting concept.

Isn’t it obvious? When you drop a bomb that kills five terrorists and a dozen civilians, and you sincerely feel good about minimizing the collateral damage – that’s the “little Eichmann” in you.

I hardly think –

The very term “collateral damage” is the little Eichmann in you.

And you think a lot of Americans have this little Eichmann in them?

Almost everyone, Terry. When you draw a distinction between torture and enhanced interrogation, that’s your little Eichmann parsing the words. When you have reservations about government agents listening to millions of phone calls, your little Eichmann comforts you that they’re doing it for your own good. When you pay your taxes to support the most powerful war machine in human history, that’s money in the pocket of your little Eichmann.

sunday housecleaning

So I decided to clean things up here at Re Compose a bit. I took away the unnecessary background texture, which I originally thought gave it a newspaper feel but instead just made the text difficult to read. I also reorganized my navigation bar at the top so now things should be easier to get to. Please let me know if the drop-down menus aren’t working, they were hand-coded after all. I should also say a big thank you to David at Instant Contemporary for proving that white space is something not to fear. And finally, I got the favicon my friend Rémi made ages ago loaded once more, you should see it in the url line in your browser. If things are looking weird and the site isn’t rendering well in your browser of choice, I’d really like to know, please leave a comment.

Happy Sunday evening (at least here on the west coast)!

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little thrills

San Francisco may not be home to the big, ambitious, and showy but it does offer quite a few little thrills. Here are a few:

1) Biking down to the Castro and watching huge waves of fog roll in over the hills.
2) Italian made train cars.
3) Weather that easily lends itself to an interior-oriented and contemplative lifestyle. I dig it.
4) Occasional shock of ridiculously well-dressed men, who are not part of latest LA trend.
5) Lots of ghosts, so say my Japanese friends
6) A good library. Maybe not the Ice Palace of the Hague but still good..

architecture porn with hot springs

Geometric Hot Springs / German del Sol | Arch Daily