So it was about three in the morning and I was up again for no ready reason.
Late night’s predictable in many ways, at least after you spend time with it. One o’clock brings inexplicable hunger pangs, followed by fruitless scavenging for munchies, often resulting in v. poor decision-making. Two is when you start worrying about not ever getting anything done and resolve to do something about it. By two-fifteen you’ve given up but find that the only people on teevee are Suzanne Sommers, Ron Popeil and Carlton Sheets. Around three any mistakes made at one catch up with you and you’re in a new world of bodily discomfort. If you’re really lucky there’s only an hour to endure before it’s time to collapse from exhaustion.
Last night, though, I was startled out of this routine by what appeared to be giant flames licking at the edge of my window frame. Always paranoid about the house, I practically jumped out of my pj’s. Tried to see what was going on outside, but whatever it was was already gone. Ran a panicked but thorough survey of walls — everything fine. Not entirely convinced, I went to sleep.
Today the news is saying it was actually a meteor! Which is both reassuring (because apparently my home isn’t planning to spontaneously combust anytime soon) and v. neat (since amateur stargazer yukino enjoys meteors of all types as long as Bruce Willis isn’t involved). And hey, I got sleep! So yay all around.
Spent the morning getting up close and personal with a waterfall at Mount Rainier National Park.
By the time we got to Paradise it was raining miserably, but for a brief moment everything was simply perfect.
A state of decay in the Grove of the Patriarchs, an old growth forest also in Rainier Nat’l Park. Before waterfalls, we spent an hour or two amongst Douglas firs and red cedars, feeling young and tiny.
Private note to self: buy as much Villa Giada Ceirole Moscato d’Asti as humanly possible. Alternate title: “if Martinelli’s could get you drunk.”
Is ne(one)piphany turning into a photolog? No, I’ve just been busy. Also killed my poor router during firmware update shenanigans and no internet access for awhile. I promise to get back on track soon, but in the meantime, enjoy the cute bunny, or seek drama elsewhere.
In other news: Ronald Reagan died, which made me feel a little sad as his election in 1980 was pretty much my first political memory. But Peter, of course, says it better. Ray Charles died, which made me feel a lot sad. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban was fabby — little Danny Radcliffe is turning into Tobey Maguire (and yes, K. D. Lang). Jet brought a suitcase of Italian Beef from Chicago. Genie immigrated from St. Louis, while Kurt is moving back. Six Apart made things all better. This game is unexpected goodness, and I seem, after all, to have no natural talent for poker.
Finally, I’ve spent entirely too much time paper shopping, and not enough crafting. This will change soon enough, oh yes.
Oh, how I love thunderstorms. Am currently listening to the distant peals — pure bliss! Hopefully the power won’t go out, though, as I’ve a plane to catch tomorrow.
I do hope for nice weather in San Francisco. For nuptials (as for beaches), sunny skies and low probability of electrocution are the only way to go.
Sitting in the lobby of the Radisson in Japantown at one of those pay-as-you-go internet kiosks. $4 for 20 minutes doesn’t seem like such a bad deal when your jump-on-the-net session has evolved from seeing if you have new email to that plus checking in on your favorite twenty-five blogs and maybe a bit of news. Oh, and maybe a short post too.
The Denny’s in Japantown is officially the greatest Denny’s ever, because it’s probably the only place in the continental United States where you can grab spam & eggs, loco moco, and/or kimchi at two in the morning.
I had a taxi driver last night who wanted to know exactly how things “jumped” from real life into a camera. Not sure I explained very well.
This hotel has real Japanese-style baths! But no high-speed internet in the rooms. Still, soaking or surfing? It’s an easy choice.
More later — my twenty’s just about up.
More photos, all past tense now.
Peace Pagoda, Japantown
San Francisco Muni
Woke yesterday in a haze of pain; as a result, did not make morning commitments, which I felt v. bad about. Limped around Japantown instead as I waited for my meds to kick in, a nice stroll but entirely too homogeneous; by the time I felt okay to walk again I’d missed my chance at the Art Deco exhibit at the Palace of the Legion of Honor, which I’d had my poor heart set on. So it was quite sad.
Still, I visited Super 7 and picked up a lovely collection of sketchbook jottings (Fragments by Enrico Casarosa and Ronnie del Carmen) as well as some OGI stickers (portfolio 010 if you want to see which three). And perhaps it was best I stayed local because shortly thereafter a huge windstorm seemed to strike out of nowhere. I retreated into the hotel lobby, frightened a bit by loud, rattling doors and windows, and watched the poor koi swim worriedly under the courtyard pool’s turbulent waters.
One day simply I must visit San Francisco and just be a tourist. I’ve been to visit three times, but never unfettered. Anyone game? I’d like to see the sights, maybe do the whole Madeleine Elster/Carlotta Valdes tour: Legion of Honor, Palace of Fine Arts, Muir Woods, the Missions Dolores and San Juan Bautista… just please remember to save me when I jump into the Bay! Or perhaps best to keep it simple and just hit Ghirardelli Square, instead. Yum!
Next time, next time, next time.
Mimicking Mike from Satan’s Laundromat — albeit lamely — now that I’m in his stomping grounds. Back to prose soon.
The eatery was like most in Oyama prefecture—cold and dark, certainly not inviting. Though its four sides were almost fully open to the afternoon sun, the interior remained extremely poorly lit. Tasmin had ceased to be discomfited by such places, although it had taken almost a year of living in this town to reach that point. This establishment in particular was not one she’d visited before, but its gloomy atmosphere felt instantly familiar. Clammy notes of soy, spring onion, and musky beer hung in the air around her, advertising the day’s fare; there were no menus in a place like this. She realized that she had already forgotten its name.
Read “Breakfast in Oyama”
This was based on a dream I had over the weekend — strange stuff, to be sure, though stranger once I put it into words.