September 25, 2006



D#からはじまるメロディは、心にすとんと落ちてくる。どんどん柔らかいほうへ、 切ないほうへと落ちていく。くりかえしくりかえし、泣きそうになる。







Home Alone With A Stinkin’ Roach

September 18, 2006

The scariest thing on earth: cockroaches.

The scariest thing about living alone: Having to deal with cockroaches.

The scariest thing that just happened to me: Sending a morbid, HUGE, bad-ass cockroach to its death down a toilet bowl.

My hands are still shaking, and I feel feverish. I can’t think of anything more physically intimidating than a big black cockroach head-on, inching closer and shaking its antennae toward me in mockery. I fear them with a fear so pure it makes my whole apartment turn into hell the moment I see one — and I spotted one an hour ago, surrepticiously climbing up my white lace curtains in the kitchen. I saw it; I panicked. A primordial instinct told me to get hell out of my apartment, but where can I go at 11pm on a Sunday? The thought of re-entering the apartment with fear and trembling wasn’t exactly enticing either.

So I opted to look for a can of insecticide — and soon realized I’ve got none. Shit! So I managed to roll up a wad of old newspaper and returned cautiously to the kitchen, by which time The Cockroach had summited my curtain and had proceeded to scoping out my kitchen, twitching its tentacles every which way and moving in unexpected little jerks.

I was genuinely terrified. The Cockroach was now perched high above my head. And then, just as I was gingerly making a move toward the curtain, THE COCKROACH FLEW TOWARD ME.

I think my heart stopped beating. I don’t remember what happened, but the next moment found me sprawled on the kitchen floor and screaming. The thought that The Cockroach could actually be ON me was more than I could bear — I wanted to die. But I was alone in the apartment and noone would ever come to my rescue, so I had to will myself to scramble up and dash into the dining room for safe cover. When I turned toward the kitchen again, I saw that The Cockroach had conquored my oven mittens that hung on the kitchen wall above my dish rack. So at least it didn’t land on me (I really would have died if it did) but NOW what am I going to do?

Mental note: Must throw away contaminated mitten on trash day. Physical action: Called Chris on his cell-y for help.

From there, it took another excruciatingly frustrating 30 minutes for me to capture the The Cockroach alive, transfer it to the bathroom, and send it to its death down the toilet bowl — with lots of emotional support and tactical advice from Chris. Why all this hassle? Because as much as I wanted to get rid of that thing, I was’t about to smush it on my kitchen wall and end up having to deal with the mess later. Gross!!! The only other conceivable solution was to flush it down the toilet. The plan involved one empty milk carton, one wadded-up newspaper, a bathtub cleansing spray (something, ANYthing to temporarily maim the evil thing!!). The Cockroach scampered onto the oven top in the kitchen and clambered all over my bottles of lotions and creams in the bathroom before it disappeared under foamy toilet water. Good riddance! I believe in non-violence, but this was purely a defensive act.

I thought writing about it would help calm my nerves, but it’s not working. I need to go to bed, but the thought of going into the bathroom and touching what The Cockroach had touched makes me sick. sorry, no punch lines or insights — I JUST HATE COCKROACHES.

Thank you to Chris for not leaving me alone with that thing!


September 12, 2006



Our family has adopted some furry friends — again!

Dad found them in an empty plot by our house, and Mom and I couldn’t help but bring them home. A macabre thunderstorm devastated our neighborhood soon after, which would have surely meant the end of these darling little things had they been left to their own defenses. Or lack thereof.

The kitties weigh an average of 390g, and they’re not even seeing properly yet. They wobble about in search of warmth and milk — which means me 🙂 and my mom. They cannot suckle on fake boobs (a.k.a. feeding bottles) yet — their jaws are too small — so we feed them with the tiniest plastic syringes.

They are three sisters. I honestly want them ALL, and name them Arashi, Fubuki, and Hyou. Storm, Blizzard, and Hail (also Leopard) respectively. Too harsh?

Only a day after we brought them home had my mom and I found out that one of our neigbors had actually abandoned these kittens, knowing full well that they will die. I have never met my neighbor, and that’s a very good thing. Apparently this heartless bitch (excuse my French) threw the kittens out of her shed, where a stray mother had taken abode to nurse her newborns. What right did she have to steal these kittens from their mother and leave them to die? The mother is probably still wandering in search of her babies. The babies suckle on my fingertips, looking for mother.

All that we humans can do now is to atone for another human’s sins by feeding milk through syringes and kissing them good night, every night for the rest of their precious little lives.

Make Fireworks, Not Bombs

August 6, 2006


(Photo courtesy of Ian Chun, 2006)










August 6, 2006






Absolutely Fabulous

July 31, 2006

Nothing can bring me down for too long — not even lunatic spinsterhood — given my apartment, an engrossing novel, enchanting music, my bike, sunshine, and a park nearby. Later, under a gentle night sky, I had spread cheese, crackers, and a chilled bottle of white wine out on the balcony and had read from the flickering light of a Turkish candle holder.

A perfect Sunday — altogether a dream.

Throughout the day I was reminded of the most beautiful opening to any book I have read, written by James Salter in “A Sport and a Pastime”:

September. It seems these luminous days will never end.

— Only it is still July, and the glory will continue for at least another month or two. By the time September rolls in, I will have made myself a new, somewhat more solidified self.


July 30, 2006

I got my apartment broken into today.

But it’s not what you think. My own fine parents broke into my apartment. This is how it happened.

I had been refusing to get up this morning, partly due to the bottle of white wine I singlehandedly downed last night, and partly due to the fact that I had nothing planned this particular Saturday save for an evening of fireworks in Asakusa with my friend Ali. Besides, moping around in bed (even if single) is one of the best ways to spend a weekend.

Around 1:30PM, my cell phone started trembling in fear. (I had it set in silent mode.) Then my home phone started ringing nonstop. Then, the door bell rang. Again, and again.
Who the hell comes to a girl’s apartment unannounced? Could it be the ex-fiance trying to evacuate his stuff out of my apartment? I tiptoed to the front door and peered through the peephole, only to find my mother pacing impatiently outside.

This was very bad news. Just two days ago, my mother had called me at work and managed to phrase things in a way that ripped open my heart’s wound. I subsequently had a nervous breakdown at work. I consequently had to explain to my female coworkers about the jerk who dumped me — which actually flourished into a liberating discussion on the shortcomings of husbands and almost-husbands.

Anyway, I decided I’d have nothing to do with my mother for at least a week. From where her conversation was leading the last time we talked, it was clear that she wanted me to get back together with my ex. But why in the world would you want to feed your daughter alive to a narcissist who wants only to succeed at work and doesn’t give a damn about family life? Obviously, this mother saw that his credentials were more important than his personality. Or, lack thereof.

So I kept on ignoring my mother. The calls, the rings, and the knocks on my door continued. I even received an email saying something to the effect of “I’ll be back, I know you’re there.” Then she really did leave. I gleefully went upstairs to the loft and practiced my mid-day Ashtanga yoga. An hour later, while I lay blissfully in shavasana position, the calls, door bell, and incessant banging on the door returned to haunt me.

I decided — and this was my BIG mistake — to ignore everything. I went back to bed for another nap. I couldn’t dare take a shower or open the fridge and take out my chilled bottle of water, in fear they will find me out.

Before I knew it, I heard bewildering shouts below my living room window. Then, the sharp sound of a window being opened in haste. And then — sounds of someone trying to crawl in through my living room window. Oh, the utter terror of knowing that someone is violating your private, sacred space — someone with dirty shoes, a crow bar, and of unknown identity! Meanwhile, I was still in bed and dressed rather skimpily. I didn’t budge. I didn’t dare make any sound. The guy went straight for the front door. God forbid, is he letting his buddies in?

Yes. My parents, actually.

I couldn’t even look at them, I was so raving mad. What were they thinking!? Are daughters’ apartments property upon which parents claim unlimited access to? What if this hired professional “key opener” guy returns in the cloak of night to rob me stiff? The worst part is, they brought along my ex. Apparently they were all quite chummy. They had formed a secret coalition against my imperfections, against every little thing I did wrong in my life — and they were there to point fingers at me.

Wait just a minute here. Were I the one who got dumped? Were I the one whose apartment got broken into by some stranger hired by my own parents?? Am I insane to think I have a right to be upset?

And of course, my ex added to the damage by calling my landlord and telling on him. Oh, great. Wonderful. Now my landlord thinks I’m some kind of psycho who loves to scare the pants off of family and friends. Just fabulous.

I remained cynical for the rest of the afternoon. I actually chuckled to myself when I witnessed my ex explaining to my father about why he decided to leave me. In all seriousness and dolour, he was explaining about the magic little chair that flew. My dad, similarly dead-serious, was nodding in agreement and saying, “Uh-huh. The chair. Terrible.” They could have been discussing business for all I know. Men are so pretentious sometimes.

Overall, a surreal afternoon. I had to miss the Asakusa fireworks. Afterwards I drank too much coffee to assuage my anger, and here I am writing my bloody little blog at 4 in the friggin’ morning. I absolutely refuse to acknowledge that half my weekend had already gone.

The Process of Grieving

July 28, 2006

Without music, I would have no doubt disintegrated into a puddle of blood and tears by now. Music kept me sane. There was a procedure in which music helped me (or, is helping me) heal.


First, there was Satie. Only “Gymnopedies” resisted the silence as my former fiance and I ate supper in resignation. Later there was “Sarabande” when we talked to each other about our own destruction.


Then there was Teion Kankyo — literally “low(bass) sound environment” — when I was really in the low. This unit consists of Daisuke Fuwa, conductor extraordinaire of Shibusa Shirazu, and his fellow tuba-toting bandmate, Daisuke Takaoka. It’s solid good music, and of course it’s good listening even if you’re grieving about nothing in particular.


Then, once I’ve cried so much I felt dessicated and frigid, I succumbed to a long, lusty sleep until my cells started answering to other desires. It happened to be very early in the morning when I did finally get up. I had to listen to Ivy’s In The Clear. Especially the very first tune, “Nothing But The Sky.” I keep hearing its echoes at random lonely moments of the day.


Once Cannonball’s Bossa Nova started ringing in my ears, I knew I was headed towards the light at the end of the tunnel.


But of course we all have our ups and downs, and I teeter off the pinnacle of my alcoholic euphoria — and then Bill Evans comes into the limelight. Alone is classicly tragic. It’s the perfect music to feel sorry for oneself.


Same Bill Evans, but I knew I’ve come a long way when I wanted to listen to the Symphony Orchestra piece. There’s still much melancholiness, but a new dimension emerges out of this music — a majestic calm. A beautiful, majestic calm. Like an elephant’s stride or a lily’s gait. It made my problems appear so petty.


It’s like flying (I imagine so — I’ve never flown.) When you sense a slight tremor in the wind telling you of an updraft, you ride it. You have to catch the wind when you can, and not worry about the inevitable fall that comes afterwards. Sometimes this means drinking yourself silly. Sometimes it means spending oodles of money on whimsical purchases such as a pair of suade leather stack-heeled high heels the color of midnight, or an airplane ticket across the Pacific. Sometimes music can do this for you. And Satoru Shionoya’s “Hands of Guido” will do this for you. Not only does it take you up in a whirlwind in energetic numbers like “According to La Meteo” and “Skinnydipper,” it later cushions your fall in a series of delicate numbers like “Azami,” “En Harmonie,” and “4-0-10-5” (click here for a video clip about the last title.)

And then, finally there’s…



When I came this far, I knew life was eventually going to be okay again. I still have the occasional crying bouts and severe nights of insomnia, but I thank all my amazing friends for their time, understanding, and willingness to hear me swear and bitch. Family is a little too close and a little too much to handle during times of crises. Parents all too often look to the past, and try their damnedest to restore what’s been broken. Friends, on the other hand, are keys to future doors. They tell me to keep looking ahead. They make me laugh. I am truly blessed with good people all around me — surely they have their own personal crises too, but they choose not to dwell on it for the sake of making me feel human again. And that makes me want to look ahead in life, so that I may someday return their favors.

The Magical Little Chair That Could

July 23, 2006


This is a magical chair.

It has a strange and potent power to charm people’s minds.

A very similar type of chair can be found and bought at IKEA (a bargain at 5500 yen), but no — this is not just your regular IKEA chair. This is a story about a magic little chair that could break off a marriage engagement.

The magic little chair sits in the dining room of an unspecified household. The Groom-To-Be had always hated it. He said it looked and felt hideously artificial, and the Bride-To-Be couldn’t blame him: the chair is made of reinforced polypropylene and synthetic rubber. Not your regular eco-friendly, mother-naturely chair. But anyway it was cheap, sleek, and readily transportable from the IKEA store to the dining room. In the absence of a car or a Groom-To-Be’s help, the Bride-To-Be had carried two such chairs from the store via public transportation.

One day, the Bride-To-Be and the Groom-To-Be had a little quarrel in the dining room. The Bride had wanted to shop for wedding bands. The Groom refused, flashing his anger as he spoke. “I’m never wearing a ring on my finger, and I’m never buying one for you. If you still want one, go and buy it yourself.” The Bride burst into tears. At this, the Groom quit the dining room and started vacuuming the living room with appalling ferocity.

The Bride sighed. She knew that at times like this, it was best not to bother him for a while. She arranged things in the dining room so that it might be easier for the Groom to vacuum. She pushed the fan into the corner of the room, tucked away the piano chair, and gathered up the newspapers strewn on the floor. Then she picked up the magic little chair and stacked it over the sofa.

Then, the magic little chair did its little magic. It flew.

It made a rather unsubtle racket as it crashed to the floor. The roar of the vacuum cleaner stopped dead in its tracks. The Groom came sauntering into the dining room to find the magic little chair lying helplessly on its side. Slowly he asked the Bride, “Did you kick the chair?” “No, I didn’t,” replied the Bride, “It just fell.” She didn’t tell him that she had arranged it on the sofa so that he may enjoy an easier time with the vacuuming.

The Groom went back to the living room. Pretty soon, he was packing up his things to leave. The bride, stepping out of a quick refreshing shower, was bewildered. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to the office to fetch some important papers,” the Groom said. He left unceremoniously, and that was the last the Bride ever saw of him for a long time.

For two weeks, the Bride spent her days waiting for the Groom to return her calls or acknowledge her e-mails. But no word ever came from the Groom. Confusion turned into anger. Anger slowly turned into despair. Despair slowly morphed into concerns over his physical well-being, and this is when the Bride started binge-drinking every night. Was he sick? Did he mess with the wrong crowd and get buried alive in some lonely mountain landfill? The tears were limitless.

Then, on the 14th day, the Groom finally answered the Bride’s call. “We have to talk, whether you like it or not,” the Bride said. The Groom agreed to come home in time for supper.

The talk was not very forthcoming, so the Bride finally shot a Rodong into his airfield. “Why do you want to leave me?” she asked. It was then that the Groom dropped the Taepodong. “The chair,” he said. “You kicked the chair. I can’t spend the rest of my life with someone who goes around kicking chairs when she’s upset.”

“The chair?… I don’t understand. I never kicked it. You mean… when you were vacuuming?” “Yes.” “Oh, GOD. GOD, no! I just stacked it on top of the sofa so you won’t have to vacuum around the chair!”


Silence. The two airfields lay battered with smoke and debris.

For two weeks, the Groom had played in his mind a terrible image of his butt-ugly fiancee kicking the magic little chair around in rage. For two weeks, the Bride sat on that very chair and pondered death.

The Groom realized that his vision had been mistaken. He apologized, and regretted the two weeks he had lost. He wondered out loud if they could start all over again. But things were never going to be the same, regardless of the apology, the ring, or the chair.

And so it was that the magic little chair altered the lives of two people forever. The chair is doing very well, supporting the butt of the butt-ugly ex-Bride-To-Be as she types this.

Mr. Tomita’s Diaries

July 21, 2006

A set of diaries and journals is about to change the course of Japanese history.

In my mind, Nihon Keizai Shimbun‘s discovery and publication of Tomohiko Tomita’s journal entries (related article in The New York Times, among others) on Thursday, 20th July, revealed at least two precious truths:

ONE — and this is what made the news — that Emperor Showa (Hirohito) refrained from visits to Yasukuni Shrine after 1975 due to his “strong displeasure” over the honoring of Class A war criminals at said shrine since 1978; and

TWO — this is what personally moved me to tears — that diaries can provide so much insight into the author’s life that normally remain intangible and change too quickly for the mind to register — things like the softness of heart, degrees of humilitude, clarity with which one regards the future, gratitude, mood, affection, hope.

Mr. Tomita embodied a beautiful respect for the Emperor, and wrote it down in his journals with habitual brevity. His diaries and journals continued without fail for 22 years. He is terse but warm. He is caring without being self-conscious. His prose exudes humbleness, a willful quietness that purposefully steered clear of political waters.

More than the political impact these diaries will have on the ongoing debate about Prime Minister Jun-chan’s visits to the war shrine, Mr. Tomita’s embodiment of the Japanese concept of giri-ninjo (義理人情) deserves historical credit.

One entry in particular profoundly moved me:

一九七八年 九月一六日


16th September 1978

Three and a half months since I became Grand Steward [of the Imperial Household Agency]. I spent this summer secretly wishing that I alone will at least remain a dignified existence. The number of times I have accompanied His Highnesses to Nasu totals seven. I have grown quite accustomed to Nasu. I was able to exchange intimate conversations with His Highnesses. Such fine character. Those days of fighting — one can know indirectly from the Hosokawa Diaries — it’s been thirty years since the war’s end. His Highness has kept those thoughts locked inside his heart and have come this far alone. 

(Excerpted from Nihon Keizai Shimbun 21st July 2006; translation mine)

I wish I can find better words to describe the sense of revered affection oozing out from beneath Mr. Tomita’s quiet words. Somehow I am reminded of Kazuo Ishiguro’s “Remains of the Day.” 28 years later, Mr. Tomita’s words has provided this miserable wretch a reason not to forfeit life.