7 posts tagged “wtf”

It's not often that epiphanies strike me while I'm in the midst of washing my hair but that's exactly what happened this morning.

See, I have what I like to call 'Merican hair.  In other words, I have dirty blonde (or dishwater blonde, whatever), straight, fine hair.  The kind of hair that women bleach, dye, curl, perm, highlight, streak, and style.  The kind that men resign themselves to the necessity of sporting either the Picard or the Kojak by the age of 40.  You know, plain, regular, hair.

Back in the day, somewhere in Jr. High or maybe my freshman year, I remember reading a piece on how to go from short to long hair or vice versa in a couple of years.  It may have been in Circus or Parade or Spin or some other music magazine.  I don't really remember and it's not important.  What is relevant is that this article showed one of the staff writers with eight different haircuts over the course of two years.  He went from very long, to kinda long, to shaggy, to styled, to short, to mohawk, to buzz cut, to shaved head.  So I started doing that in reverse.

Only I skipped the mohawk bit except for one time during the World Cup but I don't want to talk about that.

I started shaving my head and just letting it grow out, with one or two trims per year to give it a bit of direction and then left it long for as long (ba dump bump) as I could stand it, then out come the clippers and the process starts over.  It looks somewhat thuggish in the beginning and kind of shifty at the end, but in the middle, for a couple of months, it looks fairly respectable.  Hell, I even comb it for those few months.

And so in the shower this morning I realized that that is the perfect metaphor for how I live my life.  I'm too lazy to put in the work needed to maintain any one style for any significant length of time.  So I take the easy route, even knowing that it doesn't look that great and will earn me no respect.

Of course, now that I've realized this, I have no idea what to do about it.  Maybe it's time for a mohawk.

Two weeks in America:  L.A. to Vegas to L.A. to Yuma to L.A. to Oklahoma City to Nashville to Memphis to Nashville to L.A. and back to Japan.

I'm tired.

All I've wanted for the past two days was to get home and sleep in my own bed.  I've done that.  Now, six hours after a good night's sleep I'm bored and wanting to leave again. 

I'm pretty sure there is a condition called Compulsive Wander Disorder and I'm pretty sure I've got it.

It's come to me recently that, could I go back and do university again, I would do a business degree.  On the other hand, could I go back and study anything I wanted, I'd like to study linguistics.

At the moment, I study Japanese and Spanish and I dabble in Italian.  And I just signed up for an introductory, tourist level course in Russian.  I don't really have many reasons for doing so.  At least not for anything other than Japanese.  But I enjoy it, so I do it.

Everyone needs hobbies, right?

So now I'm thinking of going back for my masters.  And here's the question:  Getting my masters will not immediately benefit my family or my career.  In truth, it would probably detract from them in that I'm spending my time and money on myself only.  And, frankly, it's a lot of work.  But it just sounds...interesting.

Any thoughts?

Someone handed me the best straight line today.

I was talking with my students about economics and what not and one student asked "Do you care about money?"  I said, with great flourish and style, "No, I don't care too much for money because money can't buy me love."

Dead silence.

And all I could think was, had this been a musical, there would have been three guys stepping up from the background, singing the chorus in harmony and then everyone would have danced.

It's hard to describe how bitterly disappointed I am right now.

Orange Sestina

We used to lie in the dark, the trees heavy with oranges.
Out of our houses, through windows we would sneak.
The car had to be pushed down the road, stuck in neutral
waiting for the right moment to start.  Do you remember
giggling and shushing each other, dancing in the shadows
made by the headlights.  We thought we were in love.

She was the first girl who ever used the word love
in reference to me.  I panicked, I pulled an orange
down from the nearest tree and threw it into the shadows.
She frowned and looked like she wanted to sneak
away.  And you came around, do you remember,
and you said that's too bad, your tone so void, so neutral.

Emotions played across my own face, not one neutral
I know.  I think I turned to you then and asked for your love
but I may have just imagined that.  I don't remember
anything clearly except the deep scent of the oranges
in the night.  But you kept close to me and we would sneak
kisses in between jokes and always only in the shadows.

She saw us then, whispering and laughing in shadow
and this time it was her voice that was kept neutral
as she called me a liar and you a whore both of us sneaks.
But we said it did not matter, not because we were in love
or anything like that.  But because it was summer and oranges
were made not for avoiding, but for eating.  Remember?

She left and took our friends with her, do you remember?
She left and we were there, in my car, in the shadows
in the desert, near the canal, deep in the groves.  Orange
peels littered the ground and our hands were far from neutral
as we felt and fumbled and clumisly played at our love.
Later, I think, I laughed at us being called sneaks.

As if we were spies, educated and trained to be sneaks
instead of fools who thought oursleves clever.  Remember?
It would not have been so bad had we had truly been in love,
I think but we did not learn.  Our affairs last in others shadows
and now I no longer know how to keep my face neutral
when I grow melancholy for the acidic taste of an orange.

Now you speak of me and of love, and ask me again to sneak
through the orange grove and it seems you don't remember
promises we said in shadows:  I do not love you, I am neutral.

Under Glass, Sepia

Bound in leather, volumes linger on the walls,
Scribbled, flooded, and annotated, lining breaks,
Lost and confused, Beauty, thought crawls,
Try to spare the lash of your tongue; my eyes only take.
Our memory locked in silver frame resides,
Smiles lie still imprisoned on faces sepia,
Colors leach from imprisonment; chemical hides.
Sunlight glimmers from hope, winter nostalgia.
Never reconciled have we ever tried to be,
Neither missive nor epistle ever have we sent;
And regrets are easier for fools wishing for free.
Still there has been no sin, so shall I not repent.
    Yet thought slinks back, in pain and meant to rend:
    If only my eyes could clear, this light would never end.