May 2005 Archives
There's a secret super hero, kung fu master or CIA agent in all of us, isn't there?
I've been reading a lot lately. I just finished The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters by Elisabeth Robinson, which made me cry at the end. It's half spoof on Hollywood and half tragedy about a woman's battle with Leukemia from her older's sister's point of view. The entire book is written as a series of letters, emails and faxes - a difficult format to pull off. I'm a sucker for books that can make me laugh and cry. Some of my all-time favorite novels are A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry and Handling Sin by Michael Malone. Highly, highly recommended. I'm just about to start the new translation of Don Quixote, and I'm pretty excited about it. After weeks of grueling work hours, it's such a luxury to have the time and mental space to sprawl out on the sofa and lose myself in good books.
Disclaimor: this is a very long entry. I've been reminiscing a lot these last few days, and once I started writing, I couldn't stop.
All my life, I've travelled a lot. I did the European backpacking rite of passage several times, collapsed with near dysentery in India, hiked my way through Korea, lived in Japan for a couple of years and re-discovered my roots as it were, and I explored the incomparable nooks and crannies of New Zealand. But the trip that left the most lasting impression was my Indonesian adventure.
It was the first time I had travelled alone. I was twenty-six years old and had just finished my two-year stint of teaching English in Japan. I have a million stories from those 20 days in the summer of 1997 -- there was a startling encounter with a crotch-grabber, a snorkeling incident (I didn't know it was possible to be seasick underwater) and a moonlit romantic evening with an Indonesian man who bore a striking resemblance to Whoopi Goldberg. I even met a boy claiming to be a prince who picked me up in a sleek black jeep driven by what I can only assume to be his bodyguard. They took me to a native dance performance -- a circle of men surrounded a massive fire pit and bobbed up and down hollering "Ketchup". They were, in fact, saying "Kecak," which is a famous story-telling performance. I saw a cockfight, and wished I never had. Those poor roosters.
When I think of Bali, I think of Tony. It was the morning after I had survived a flight on an ancient commuter plane where my boxed lunch skittered across the aisle and back to me with terrifying frequency. I tried to open my plastic cup of water and spilled it all over the kind old man sitting next to me. Anyway. I was still a little shaken and was trying to calm my nerves in the soothing atmosphere of a museum in the village of Ubud. Red frangipani flowers floated in shallow bowls filled with water near each painting and there was that familiar hush you find in all museums. I wasn't really paying attention to the art; I was enjoying the air conditioning.
I stepped out and winced a little at the humid heat. Everything was lush and moist and touristy, complete with multi-lingual vendors beckoning me to "look! look!". But I didn't mind, it was still a beautiful place. I was contemplating going back into the museum to cool off some more when I saw a lean young man poised to run across the street. His backpack was unzipped and it was obvious that the contents would spill all over the muddy road. "STOP!!" I yelled, and started running. Running. Now, I'm the shy sort, and I normally don't go around yelling at and running towards strangers. It was a moment worthy of chick lit: the surprised man stopped mid-sprint and watched as I lunged at his backpack, zipped it up neatly and gasped, "Your backpack is open." I gazed up, and found myself staring at the most beautiful man.
"Hey thanks, man," he said.
His name was Tony and he was from New York. He had the requisite chiseled features and -- oh god, forgive me -- almond eyes. Chinese-American with a hint of Johnny Depp. Without missing a beat, he gestured toward a coffee shop and I found myself sitting across from him nursing an avocado shake, tongue-tied and nervous. He was on a mission to find a mask for his aunt, he told me. She was a fashion designer and needed ethnic masks for her next runway show. He quoted Aristotle. He pointed out that the mural on the wall looked Henry Rousseau-esque. He told witty jokes that caused me to spurt my avocado shake (not pretty). I swooned.
For the last month or so I have been surreptitiously looking for a wedding dress. I can now confidently say that I have gone to every clothing store in the downtown Seattle area from Ross to Barney's in search of the perfect dress. It has not been fun.
For many of my girlfriends, wedding dress shopping was a group affair. We all sat around a mini stage and oohed and ahhed as the bride-to-be tried on garb after garb after garb. A few tears were shed and we chorused in unison that she did not look fat. It's what girlfriends do.
Me, though, I'm a solo shopper. I have a fuzzy idea of what I'd like and I have no qualms about discount items nor am I opposed to spending some hard-earned cash if the dress is to die for. So far the effort has been fruitless. No matter what I try on, I end up looking like an upside down cupcake or an 18th century prostitute...
The weather's been somber today and combined with some rare philosophical thoughts, I've been feeling a bit blue. To cheer myself up, I doodled in bright colors.
Circa 1970 - My parents were proud owners of a light blue VW Bug when I was just a seedling in my Mama's belly. Dad wore knitted caps embroidered with flowers and silky shirts in crazy pychedelic patterns. Mama wore halter tops and bell bottoms. With the enthusiasm of new immigrants, they embraced the freedom of apparel expression as they had yet to master the English language.
Years passed. Dad started donning slacks and plaid shirts (no hat) and Mama began to favor loose clothing that all looked the same. They read the L.A. Times. We moved 6 times. And through all the changes the Bug kept chugging. It was a darling car that lasted nearly 20 years despite the sputtering and faintly noxious odor that hinted at imminent explosion. It went through its own transformations (including a brief and embarrassing period of looking almost exactly like the drawing above -- had it not been the 80s and had I not been in my teens, it might have seemed retro-chic). In the end, it was red, rusted, old and utterly useless. I don't remember when they got rid of it, but I went to L.A. to visit one day, and suddenly it wasn't there anymore. This was shocking since sentimentality runs fiercely through our bloodlines. Though I griped about it all the time, muttering about what an eyesore it was, I never expected it to disappear. Once gone, I really missed the thing...Funny how that works.
This is Nathan Michael, MF's nephew and my nephew-in-law-to-be. He's only a little over two weeks old, but look at his wise expression! He clearly knows the score and is not to be messed with. I'm fascinated by his long fingernails - so perfectly shaped, it's as though he got a manicure. His older brother Tyler (4) and sister Caroline (2) have been dealing well with his arrival, I'm told.
I remember when my brother suddenly appeared out of nowhere after I'd been basking in total adulation for a year and a half. I took one look at him and reluctantly decided that I would let him stay. He had potential. Sure enough, he proved to be an excellent human doll, and I was dressing him up as a girl while he quietly complied, looking confused in his wig and dress. It was a sad day for me when he realized he was a boy. The fun lasted only a few days. Undaunted, I would repeat this with my next younger brother 8 years later when he was born... Thanks to me, they have developed a healthy suspicion of girls.
From behind, my mom looks like she is 12 years old. On any given day, you can see her compact 5 foot-ish frame briskly walking around her Los Angeles neighborhood in her signature outfit: a big floppy hat, polka-dotted shorts and a baggy t-shirt.
Her prized garden is a wild tangle of flowers, vegetables, fruit trees and it is so lush, it's almost obscene. The careless observer might think that it's an unkempt jungle, but closer inspection reveals a lovingly tended fauna and flora system with healthy blossoms and luscious organic eatables. My mom has found enthusiastic notes tacked onto thorns exclaiming, "Thank you for your beautiful garden!" Other times, she'll find her tiger lilies expertly snipped or her carrots prematurely but neatly tugged out of the soil. This perplexes her - who are these people walking around with gardening shears and a hand trowel?
The piece de resistance is an assortment of gargantuan roses and every season she names the most flamboyant, pinkest and biggest rose after me. The Sanae Rose. Thanks Mom, I am the luckiest daughter in the world. Happy Mama's Day.
This is one of my favorites that I drew a while ago. You'll notice that I used bits of it for the banner of the main blog page. I used to wear these Japanese sandal/clogs whenever I would dress up in a kimono for random occasions. They're very uncomfortable. You have to wear special socks called "tabi" that make your feet look like white two-pronged hooves. It's a little like trying to walk with bricks tied to mummified feet.
I've started looking into marriage licenses (I didn't know that once issued, there is a three-day waiting period before the license is valid -- I suppose it's a safety measure for all those spontaneous sorts out there who should come to their senses before 72 hours), wedding dresses (white is not my color), and the hardest part of all: venues. The options are endless and complicated...outdoor, indoor, courtroom, religious sanctuaries, themed "chapels" in casinos, hotels, golf courses...oh, it's dizzying.
In trying to figure out how to fuse our two different backgrounds -- Japanese and Midwestern Mostly German Lutheran -- I started having weird visions of wearing an elaborate kimono and shoving MF into a samurai outfit. I imagined us tossing back sake and performing a kind of ritualistic dance with wild turkeys in rural Indiana as a Lederhosen-clad priest intoned our marriage vows.
Needless to say, I've decided to put the wedding planning on hold for a while longer. No wonder the reality show Bridezilla was spawned.
I like flipping through magazines to see what is trendy, what's a do or don't. The thing is, I'm quite unstylish and can't be bothered to keep my actual wardrobe updated with what the magazines dictate. I buy the same monochromatic, tried-and-true pieces because they are comfortable and durable. I shop like a guy. Occasionally, I'll try an outfit with a splash of color and a pattern. Always a mistake. They languish in my closet accusingly, silently asking why I wasted the money.
MF and I lead a simple life. We don't own a lot of things most people can't live without: no car, no television set, no gadgetry, not even a real bed (we sleep on a Japanese-style mat called a tatami; very good for the back). All this probably makes us sound like ultra-alternative anti-establishment environmental activists on an Amish kick. You'd bet that we're vegan. The truth is, we like to eat meat. I hold down a corporate job and rather enjoy it. He's on hiatus right now finishing up a book, but is itching to get back to a "real" job. We're not very good about recycling. Basically, we're just weird.
What the simplicity affords us is pretty invaluable, though. We spend a lot of time talking rather than zoning out in front of a TV. We walk everywhere and have found that renting a car for special trips out of town is more than enough and cheaper too. Plus, I hate to drive. However, we do indulge in fine dining and weekly movie night dates - well worth the trade, I'd say. We also read a lot and our tatami-side piles keep growing.
The magazines remind me how woefully inadequate we are by conventional societal measures, but I tell ya, I love our unfashionable, strange life.
