March 28, 2005

• This weekend was lovely. My partner and I went to see the movie, Millions yesterday thanks to some lovely birthday Fandango Bucks from my homeslice, Lindsay. If any theaters near you are playing this fantastic Brittish film, I encourage you to go see it. It’s a great movie for people of all ages–kids, teens, adults, old, the undead–everyone will love it. A reviewer claimed that it was the best film carried by a child actor since A Christmas Story, and I’m happy to report it lived up to the expectation beautifully.

  Also, this weekend I have ventured into a new fiction piece. It stars a character named Hotarou. The bulk of today was spent doing some plot outlines and character sketches. Tonight I wanted to try my hand at a little scene to see if I will dig becoming this character while I write her. So far–so good–I dig her.

  I typically don’t post my attempts at fiction writing–the web just doesn’t seem to be the right venue for longer works and some of my essays seem to push that already (plus, while I am a trusting person and I don’t think my work is even good enough to want to rip off–there is always a part of me that is a bit guarded). However, I thought some feedback on this little scene while the concept is still congealing might give me some inspiration. Namely, I’m curious to know what you, my dear reader, are curious about.

  As always, all opinions are welcome and cherished as long as they are shared. ::smile:: I hope you all had a great weekend! And fear not–Monday will be over before you know it I’m really just consoling myself here). Enjoy!

  Hotarou Goes to Kyoto
  A little scene, with no real reason to title anyhow, so please excuse the crap title
  © The Author, 2005

  My reflection in the train car window was ugly. It had been a few days since my welcome at Toshi’s apartment expired and I had yet to scrape together enough to give myself a proper scrub down at the public bath. I had been avoiding my reflection all day, but since my Walkman batteries were shot and I still had well over two hours until the train reached Kyoto, self-loathing seemed to be a reasonable way to kill time. But in all honesty, I wasn’t expecting it to be as half as bad as it was.

  My hair was in tangles. It was greasy and my scalp itched under flakes of dead skin and the grime of travel. My eyes were tired, dull slashes in my puffy face. My skin was yellow and dead. A heinous pimple had cropped up like a third eye, or better yet–an egg with an evil hatchling inside, between my eyebrows. I tried to push my bangs about to hide the monstrosity, but they only clung in limp strands to my sticky face. I was defeated by my own filth.

  It seemed like a million years ago–in a funky twilight zone parallel universe of a place–that this face was ever was able to smile. Despite my better judgment, I lifted the corners of my sagging mouth. Immediately, my lifeless eyes accumulated a wall of tears, blurring my unbearable reflection. And suddenly I was home.

  My mom’s hand was running through my hair as I lay on my bed, collapsed and defeated from another bad day in Mr. Tanaka’s class. At sixteen, I was too old for this type of comfort, but I didn’t want it to end. Her hands smelled like aloe and miso. Her neat fingernails massaged my scalp. Then and now–and I suspect always–I wanted to be little again. I remember counting the days to my dad’s next business trips so I could have my mom all to myself. While he was away, I would tiptoe into her room to crawl up beside her in bed and sleep with my back snuggled up against her warm, white pajama-ed back. In the dark, she would whisper that we were like two little sleeping shrimps.

  I blinked my eyes and my wall of tears came plummeting onto my fat cheeks. I looked about at the other passengers on the late train–most of them weary businessmen commuting to stale meetings and industry conventions in the city. My eyelids were growing heavy and were becoming nearly impossible to contend with. I exhaled loudly, inadvertently catching the eye of an old woman across the aisle from me.

  Wearing a silk, poppy printed scarf tied around her head and an orange wool pea coat, she was rigidly clutching her luggage, which seemed to only consist of a basket filled with cherries, apples, and little pre-packaged pink bean curd buns. My stomach groaned jealously. It was odd–I couldn’t recall her boarding and I was flummoxed as to how I would miss her. We held each other’s gaze for longer than is customary on public transit–perhaps a full five seconds–before my eyes finally succumbed to sleep. My dreams ebbed with childlike pictures of poppy fields, fruit, and happy sleeping shrimp all lined up in a row.

  • 12:22 am
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