Comments Posted By mistyfizz

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ringing

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me…” This is the 63rd time I’ve heard this song today.

I’ve been counting.

“Please have snow,. And mistletoe…” I know because I’ve been here, on this yellow pleather, for 10 hours, going on 11. “and presents on the tree… Christmas Eve will find me, where the love light gleams.” Incheon, maybe, but for now I’m not convinced I’m not just leaving it here.

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.23.2017 @ 5:16 am

offer

Deer, Boar, Bear – all present at tonight’s drunken feast, all in the background of Hanafuda cards, or so I’m told by superiors not so much drinking sakeas spilling it everywhere.

Passing time, talking about an old man’s card game, when all I’m thinking of is everything but.

Remember that time you beat me with 70 so points?

It’ll haunt me the whole 14 hours home tomorrow. Time to strategize.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.22.2017 @ 6:51 am

My secretary called me in the morning two weeks ago, excited, and I couldn’t muster up the courage to show my face at work to talk about his “good news.”

I was in this office, two weeks ago, with a different piece of paper, a thicker one. I sat with over lukewarm, bittersweet coffee with my Principal asking me to stay, first at his request, then at the request of my coworkers.

I was pulled out to dinner once, drinks thrice, and told in broken English “We want you to stay here.”

…and yet, two weeks later, it finds its way to my hands:

“Mr. Fizz, Misty

We regret to inform you that we do not intend to reappoint you for the following reason(s):

Generally, the maximum number of reappointments is two. Our City also follows this procedure.

Unfortunately, for budgetary reasons, we cannot extend your contract at this time. We appreciate your help and cooperation with us.”

This paper is flimsy. This paper is recycled, darkened, lazily stamped by some nameless bureaucrat. He hands it to me like a stone tablet, delivers an apology even heavier before shuffling back to his office.

Every 3rd year, cut.

It’s like opening divorce papers on the 25th, they look at me and say, wry smile stretched across their face, “Merry Christmas,” with all the sincerity of a department store jingle on repeat.

Whatever happens, is going to happen.

Now more than ever. The only thing that will keep me here is how much I put into finding a way to stay.

Any way.

Every minute matters. I can’t waste any of it.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.21.2017 @ 8:11 pm

The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left in my techo on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess would roughly translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have firmly hanko’d, and opened the box –

“幸せつつみと花遊び”

Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. I grab my phone to send a quick reminder and reality bites at my excitement – even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful…so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.

It comes with a Zabuton?!

I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?

An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.

I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,

OF COURSE,

It’s a maneki-neko, the kabegami.

I only know one other person who bought this.

I wonder if they’d want to trade…

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.21.2017 @ 5:38 pm

The sound of a doorbell reminds me of a note I’d left on this date /months/ ago: 11,474 yen, Zekkei, which I guess which translate to…11,474 yen, Great View. It didn’t dawn on me what it was until I stumbled through the change and lazily signed where I should have hanko’d, and opened the box –

幸せつつみと花遊び

Oh! Of course! I ordered this all the way back in…September? It’s probably the 4th time I’ve bought this game, in different editions. Even if I snapped a picture, there’s no way to put it anywhere meaningful, so instead I ruffle through the little cardboard treasure box alone.

I’ll probably frame the Hanafuda cards, maybe request to get the posters signed, and…what’s this?

An almost dismissably small Ema, hidden under the bubble wrap and paper wrapping. I double check my order and wonder what it is, and find that if you bought it through the E-capcom store, you get one of 12 Fudegami Ema with your purchase.

I turn mine over, hoping for Bakugami, and of course, of course,

of course,

It’s a maneki-neko, the kabegami.

I only know one other person who bought this.

I wonder if they’d want to trade…

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.21.2017 @ 5:35 pm

stable

“From the rooftops, they’ve watched the people move through these roads for generations,” I whip out the first with a flare of grandiose that is certainly not present in its original language. “Where they may have been effective at striking fear into a thief or other such wayward heart-” there’s some more embellishment “-they ultimately couldn’t save the capital from burning down thrice.” A series of backspaces delete a bitter, niche joke as I laugh quietly to myself.

“Temples would commission iron works to produce massive versions of these to be hung from the wooden structure’s central – and coincidentally largest – joist. The fearsome face would (same phrase as was used in the previous sentence), but also proved the might of the Temple to its competitors, attracting common and noble patrons alike. Though the largest of these now stands in front of (shameless self-advertisement), the second largest once hung in the great hall of (kanji I can’t read). Though the joist has since deteriorated,”

…what am I even writing in these anymore?

“records of its grandeur remain. The Onigawara was so heavy, the great cedar joist not only bent to hold it, but the entire structure folded inward at the weight of a single foot stepping into it. This phenomenon was said to be the power of divine forces peering deep into your soul, inspiring piety.”

I can smell the incense, hear the wood creek, maybe even discern some rumbled ancient Japanese that I’m mistaking for my coworkers in the moment – but I remember an old saying,

“the body is a temple,” and I add my own bit to the end of that, “that could collapse at any minute.”

Find your footing, stare it straight in the face, make time the only thing that bends your joists.

Ugh, joists…

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.20.2017 @ 11:28 pm

louder

後3週間

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.17.2017 @ 12:56 am

mpossible to ignore – all the voices in your head speaking at once, their words drawing the thick, bitter sap out of you like a wounded tree; wanting to scream, but nothing comes out. Nightmares like words whispered to you in desperation – asking, begging, tearing you to shreds – letting ivy grow unchecked until it’s suffocating you, waking up with a scream and sweat soaked sheets wondering if the pain means the dream hasn’t ended. Falling asleep every night with a voice in my heart growing from a low hum to a pastor’s fevered sermon, standing every hair on end, leaving me only in the form of a quiet tear. Not a word leaves my mouth.

Decisions that seem too late, contradictions too deep, prolonged silences muting the world around me – an opportunity. Each torture a gift to listen to, not hear, and I fight everyday in the hope I finally turn my head in the direction of my voice, knowing it may lead me into desolation, like a penguin turning from the sea and running toward death.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.16.2017 @ 4:55 pm

shuffle

Making my way North, slowly, with a seven card hand and no playables in sight. Mulligan? I stroll further up familiar streets I don’t recognize in the dark – 5 lands, 1 playable. Mulligan #2.

Slip into a little farming aqueduct, catch myself, take a breath. 5 instants, no lands. Meaningless tricks, mull #3.

I stop at a bridge, dropping my light in the river. A scream swells but doesn’t leave me – like this new hand, 3 creatures and a land, nope. Mull again.

Uphill – tired legs, quiet mind – mull # 5!

2 cards left as I walk through the door of am old joint, I don’t turn them over until I leave with an “Ookini!”

1 instant, 1 land. Enough to survive for a turn. For a night.

Waiting to cut the deck.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.16.2017 @ 12:31 am

figure

Day 4

There’s a British game show where the host’s lovely assistant chooses five different numbers between 1-100, then randomly generates a number between 100-500. The panelists use each of the five numbers once – adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing with the others – to try and get as close to the target number as possible.

Sometimes its possible.

Sometimes it’s just one or two away from the target, and impossible to figure.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.13.2017 @ 8:07 pm

echo

Day 3

Preparation.

You use an Antidote when you’re poisoned.
Eye Drops when you’re blinded.
A Gold Needle when you’re petrified.
Smelling Salts to wake you from confusion.
A Maiden’s Kiss to bring your body and mind from frog to man.
Megalixirs for when you’re beat an inch from death, and
Echo Herbs. Even a Phoenix Down can’t save me from silence.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.12.2017 @ 11:00 pm

doorway

Day 2

Ambivalence – It cages misery, dejection, fury and all the other feelings that have lost their direction. The click-click-click of spokes like blue devils plucking at tightened heartstrings, a chaotic melody that sometimes dovetails into something bearable –

Like checking every pocket for misplaced keys, wondering if you’re just buying time.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.11.2017 @ 11:34 pm

shapes

Day 1

Try to grasp its form. Keep your mind’s eye on the self and your others on the horizon. Even when the sun goes down other small lights dot the sky, and people have always found stories in them.

Find your place among them, and fade into day.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.10.2017 @ 11:52 pm

concerned

You’re wrong.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.09.2017 @ 3:50 am

I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.

I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.

I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.

I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.

I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.

It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.

When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being thought of as nothing more than a bad memory, if even that.

Content with being nothing, if it means it doesn’t hurt.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.08.2017 @ 7:21 pm

I felt myself melt in the dead of Winter at the foot of your doorstep, and consciously made the choice to open that hearth to share it.

I felt myself stretching toward the sun in the Spring with the light you brought me, but sitting under cherry blossoms I felt it begin to burn.

I felt myself shrivel away in the dark of that hallway when I asked you for a kiss, and that darkness found it’s way to my eyes my ears, and my mouth.

I felt my self disappear behind my pride and selfishness in the Summer, pleading for an answer from one of me, from friends, from professionals, feeling my way around in the dark I created.

I felt my self dying with the vine maples in the Fall, every leaf that dropped a bright red lie that stole a little bit of life from me as it settled on the ground, destined to be blown away.

It’s Winter again, and my self is stunted by the darkness, frozen by the frigid air that makes every step a sharp crunch as the last of the leaves are swept away by the relentless change of seasons.

When you can’t plead for forgiveness, you can make it so easy to be hated that you don’t deserve it, content with being a memory, if even that.

Content with being nothing.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 12.08.2017 @ 6:49 pm

editor

You don’t have to sit at a desk and tap away at a computer, or touch the point of a pen to paper just to change a few details in your favor. All you need is a voice, apparently – a vote of confidence in your power, a voice, and a face everyone can trust. Speaking in black ink, it makes the whole story seem flawless doesn’t it? No one can see everything you crossed out, misspelled, mistook – laid in front of you with no errors, and nothing to be faulted for. When you put pen to paper you embrace your errors and make something better of them. Can the same be said for whispering words in into the air?

» Posted By mistyfizz On 10.09.2017 @ 6:28 pm

parallel

Even when I’m on the wrong road, I know it runs beside the main route. I know that even while I’m walking through quiet, beat down neighborhoods, I’m going the right way – and it feels great.

Even though that odd choice of direction would stir discomfort in others, I know you think like me. I know you’ve made all the right calculations, all the right presumptions, all of the right everything. Neither of us are perfect but the chemistry balances itself as if it were, and the result is a thin film of sweat I can ignore over hearing you laugh.

We run parallel to each other in so many ways. It feels so good it out to be a drug, and it is, isn’t it? An addiction to running parallel -except maybe you won’t use the word here like I do, maybe you won’t stretch the boundaries like I do, maybe you won’t let your lips loosen like I do – all of it, without ever realizing that it means we never cross.

We never cross.

The weight of that realization brings me back to my senses, staring at the surface of this lake for the 3rd, 4th, 5th hour in a row. I see the frogs, smell the smoke, feel the heat eating away at my skin, but the burn of this moment is so much greater than the marks it will leave on my face, or on my arms.

I can see those lines – running parallel, and it feels great.

It feels great.

It feels great.

I just keep telling myself,

It feels great.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 08.05.2017 @ 3:52 am

futuristic

Stilted, like the petals of a flower I’ve wilted, tilted in this inverse world that I call
Home? It’s hard to tell anymore – what does it mean, what is it all
Four? weeks from now a brand new month, empty as the list of words that rhyme with
August, not enough, a whole clock full of minutes and moments to
Stuff, all of the things that occupy my mind into one little day on the calendar, one little
Block of time I have to rhyme before that bell chimes it’s
Here, in front of me and in both hands – empty and full as they make their last
Stand against the present – the future, a present, when everything ends and everything
Begins.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 07.02.2017 @ 11:26 pm

brewery

Five small glasses lined up in front of me, all with fairly straightforward names – Amber Ale, Blonde Ale, Imperial Oatmeal Stout, IPA, and Scotch Ale – a different percentage under each name and a promise of looser lips in the hours to come.

They’re not for me, though, I’ve tried them all before. I’m not always in the mood for that bitter sting an IPA leaves, a cruel trade off for its otherwise perfectly refreshing citrus notes that so nicely compliment a hot day. The Blonde Ale, it’s okay, if you’re somewhere between wanting water and beer but aren’t particularly drawn to either. The Imperial Stout is a bitter treat that tricks you into thinking its sweet, and finds its place being nursed in one long sitting. Amber Ale is a classic, but it is outclassed in every sense by the final beer on the list – the Scotch Ale.

Like a honey bee, crafted to be a specialist in every area – rich, smooth, only slightly bitter, sweet with an aftertaste of caramel that disguises its high alcohol content. Even when mood is dreary or the clouds threaten rain, any day is a good day for a pint, or two, or three. I could enjoy it sitting at this table, staring at all the other glasses as much as I could enjoy it sitting on a closet floor, dozing in the summer heat. I could enjoy it at the top of a mountain reached after hours of hiking as much as I could watching some terrible film on the couch inside. It pairs well with just about everything, and I order it, every time.

When we’ve all taken our tastes, we dole out the remaining glasses between ourselves. When I’m up, I insist on taking the small 6oz glass of…do I even need to say? Drawing predictable comments from the peanut gallery, “Still sticking with the Scotch Ale, huh?”

I have a habit, it seems, of choosing drinks with such predictable consistency the servers themselves might remember without me needing to say as much as a word. In the end though, when the night continues and my lips grow loose, I only need to say three of them: “the usual, please.”

» Posted By mistyfizz On 06.25.2017 @ 10:27 pm

nutrients

The fields are verdant – the rice grows an inch a day and the wheat has already been harvested twice. Water from snow falls down the nearby mountains and feeds the irrigation channels through hundreds of little squares that have been arranged so neatly in between the villages that, from above, the whole lakeside looks like a colored piece of grid paper.

Ah, the lake.

The reflection of the sky is dulled by an expansive veil of slime, sharing the same vivid green as the rice plants but an appearance warped by the sun and so repulsive as to hide the word verdant from the sub-consciousness with a simple glance. The wind pushes through the fields and brings a wonderful, nostalgic image of the country to mind – but one breeze on the shore here lifts a putrid scent to the nose that throws a rock at this two dimensional referent, shattering it to pieces.

Pure until it hits the fields, the water that leaves the lake in precipitation returns to it as poison. An idiom comes to mind, “the grass is always greener,” an irony of nature reflecting our own that brings a curve to my lips.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 06.15.2017 @ 12:46 am

ghosts

Little moments stitched into time by the gravity of circumstance – can it be so simple? Superstitious folk considered hauntings a grievous occurrence that brought to the forefront of their lives spirituality and faith. With a the growing and recent trend of liking “I Fucking Love Science,” people have found more creative ways to explain away such apparitions – like I said, little moments, stitched into time, replaying when all those little building blocks of our reality vibrate subtly to an unusual frequency.

People find all kinds of explanations to adequately make sense of the past – me? I see them everyday. A possibility missed here, a chance not taken there, a crossroads with no meetings because of a sudden and inexplicable act of fate, a product of a million little factors that can’t possibly be controlled by one person. Phantoms of the past -they’re memories. They help us read situations, they put terror into hauntings, they put science into the superstitious – but they’re memories, all the same.

Today, the thing that makes my hair stand on end aren’t the skeletons beneath me in a graveyard, or that dark closet in an old childhood home, they are the realities I see before me, as real as they are fake, as meaningful as they are meaningless, that haunt me every day.

A lifetime of possibility before your eyes, as invisible, as uncertain, as terrifying as a spectre.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.19.2017 @ 1:05 am

starfish

Am I looking into the sea? A hundred little star-shaped spots , standing out only slightly against the vivid aquamarine tint of the sea, which dyes everything around it an alluring shade nature surely hasn’t given a name – Shakotan, maybe? Nothing seems to come close.

Am I looking at the evening sky? In the darkness, those little spots turn into pinpoints of light – not living stars from the sea, moving slowly as if constellations seen from earth, but static ones, burning brightly and changing position as fast as the world it reflects moves.

No – these aren’t a seascape, or a portrait of the sky – they are objects, set in a face, given life with a voice, a laugh, a smile, a jab. They belong to you, a brilliant color somewhere between blue and green, far too lively to be called hazel, or to even recall brown – though the metaphor for trees is dying to be let free.

I take my time, looking at them, and into them, and just like the sea, or the sky, in awe of what lies beyond.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.17.2017 @ 12:40 am

birds

80 times per second. That’s how fast a hummingbird has to flap its wings to maneuver its long beak into open flowers. In the right conditions though they can flap more than twice that speed – 200 times per second – and can move diagonally, backwards, or even hover.

They use flight to eat, but they must eat to fly – in fact they have to eat half their weight in sugar DAILY – snacking, as it were, up to 8 times an hour. 250 breaths and 1,200 heartbeats per minute – the little bird is non-stop…but it all seems like a vicious cycle, created by nature for a point…What’s the point? Fly to eat, eat to fly, eat to live, live to eat, it just goes in a giant circle, and the only purpose it really has is to push forward to the next day, and the next, not even to say it could, but to live – in the most raw sense of that word: just to live.

How many days have I spent as though a hummingbird?

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.15.2017 @ 8:31 pm

anthem

You’re not alone.

The world slipped into winter and we’re told it dies, but you can feel its faint heartbeat, underneath all the snow and ice, streams pulling free from cold and refusing to remain still. It’s sleeping, that’s all, it’s just sleeping.

Just go for a little walk.

Somehow the flowers are easier to notice when you’re laughing, but the swollen eyes that follow are easy to misread – the world’s awake now, after all, and pollen floats quickly through dense air.

Remember not to cry.

Even when you want to, even when you feel the weight of your thoughts keep your head from turning up, remember not to cry. Don’t drown in it, swim in it – drink it. Let it push you forward, and moving forward,

Remember not to cry.

Just go for a little walk.

You’re not alone.

Let those words be your anthem, and remember the person swinging the flag.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.11.2017 @ 1:00 am

knives

I read a long thesis today – words no one should ever have to start their morning with – about how the different radicals that make up kanji provide huge phonetic clues to how that kanji is pronounced. Instead, native speakers actually tend to rely on the reverse to garner meaning from a mysterious character: they listen to its assigned sound to determine the meaning, instead of looking at the radical to assign sound. I know my audience is slim here, but bare with me. Let’s take a look at 包, a radical compound made from 已 and 勹, which is pronounced “hou,” as in, “don’t smack that hoe.” Don’t believe me? 包丁 (houchou) means kitchen knife, 泡 (awa, hou) means bubbles, 砲 means bullet, it goes on.

Wait…one of these things is not like the other.

What is kitchen knife, 包丁, doing in there? Yeah, fooled you. This one is a rare exception, and more over, it makes no sense, phonetically or pictographically. You might think “Oh! MistyFizz! It shares a the 已 radical with other words that might vaguely be related, like 危 (ki, danger)!”

You’re wrong.

There is no connection. You just have to memorize it as is. “Oh, but MistyFizz, you mentioned that this is a new type of pedogogy, and that speakers rely on knowing the sound, not the radical, for discerning meaning from an unknown character!”

…nope! you’re still wrong. If that were the case, this “hou” might as well be…放, to release, or 法 method, or 報 report. “But Mistyfizz, the word 包丁 and 放鳥 might be related through the fairy tale The Tongue-Cut Sparrow, where a jealous old lady uses a knife to cut out the tongue of a sparrow her husband has mended back to health and then released it into the wi-” Listen, I get it. I know you’re depserate for a reason, but there is no reason, and if you go looking for one, you’ll just get stabbed in the back.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.08.2017 @ 11:05 pm

dizzy

One little action, one little gesture sends my head reeling – am I even breathing? When’s the last time I remember this feeling? My eyes turn white and the world goes black. When I wake up, I’m in bed, safe – was it a dream, or have I just forgotten what’s happened in the in-between?

» Posted By mistyfizz On 05.07.2017 @ 8:23 pm

swerve

The other day I was sitting outside of the shrine bordering my apartment. There wasn’t quite enough time to drive somewhere and walk with enough sunlight to call it worth it, so this had to do for now. “Maybe my recent streak of bad luck is a lack of my generosity here,” I think, stating at a mostly empty donation box, but almost unconsciously my conscious speaks without restraint “…or maybe they just take the coins from here too.” I stopped in my tracks almost as fast as I turned around, seeing something small, long, green dangling in front of my face. Backing up a bit, I see it’s a little inchworm, dropping itself from the mostly bare cherry trees above. For a moment, I lift a finger, intending to let it free on some leaf in the neighboring garden, but a thought hits me, and I leave it be.

Taking a seat at the benches in the square, I watch a few wagtails gather at the ground below it – the worm is doomed, but I should just let nature take its course. They aren’t even pecking at the ground, or calling to each other, they’re just waiting. Fate takes a sharp turn, and he scene is broken by a strong guest of wind, which the inchworm rides all the way to the donation box in front of the shrine. With haste it crawls behind the bars and inside, whether to hide or the time being or make a cocoon for itself in the safety of a wooden box, I don’t know.

A silly superstition and nature contradict itself before my eyes – that little inchworm offered no coins, no offerings of any kind here, but the wind saved it none the less. I offer not a single coin but find myself penniless because of it? No, there is no pity, no force at work here, nothing – just luck, and you never know when it’s going to feed you to the wagtails.

Silly, too, is that this thought crosses my mind because of a worm. I could go home, but I choose to sit a little longer. Maybe a car will come speed around the corner and ruin the shrine and its donation box, I can’t rule out that possibility, nor deny myself the chance the see it.

So I watch.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 04.23.2017 @ 6:57 pm

lens

At 12:30 sharp (a few minutes early if everyone’s busy and away from their desk) I leave my office with an obligatory “I’ll be back soon!” (no matter what, even if no one is there), slamming the door behind me, making my way to a nearby park to eat lunch. It’s usually a choice between eating or walking around the pond there – and the image of a chubby white guy sitting in front of a grocery store eating croquette and chicken skewers in his car alone is enough to sway me in the direction of Mishimaiike juuuuust about every time. Anyways, in accordance with that rule, all I’ve brought with me are a few rice balls and some tea, which i still didn’t have time to eat, because of that man. I had parked myself at my usual spot – in the middle of a boardwalk located on the north end of the pond – which is now teeming with life. Winter brought a few complacent quacks from spoiled ducks to the ears, but Spring brings an orchestra of insects and a chorus of frogs, so I sit and take in my free concert. I was interrupted this time, though, by a man who was fascinated with one the concerts silent members.

“Do you see that Dragonfly?” he was pointing to a considerably large Red Dragonfly, which I wish had a more interesting name that initial description could lead you to, alas, they are one and the same. “If I scare it” he waves his hand a bit, and the dragonfly takes off from its perch, “it’ll fly away, but come back.” As he said, the Dragonfly returned to its perch seconds later, seemingly unaffected by the two of us, which made his head curiously twitch, like a puppy hearing a new sound for the first time. “That’s how you can feel the history in the air here. Even the bugs are used to people.” He chuckled and walked away, wishing me a good afternoon.

I can’t say how many times he’d been there, or how many times he’d given that speech, but surely he couldn’t have missed the swarm of gnats above its perch, and that there was one fewer gnat in the mass every time it left and returned. It was hunting – calculating his next move by measuring the time it takes for one of them to move from one occili to the next – triangulating the gnat’s position relative to itself and striking where it would be moments later. In the opening to the Ehon Mushi Erami by Utamaro, his producer notes how devout of an artist he was as a child – that he would catch insects with his hands, and trace their every feature and detail into his minds eye before writing them down on paper. Yet, the book was circulated, and exists today, featuring this same Red Dragonfly, with 7 legs.

I wonder if I wonder if Utamaro would interrupt people’s lunches, to, to explain some wondrous phenomenon. I wonder how much better the world looks under that lens.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 04.20.2017 @ 8:21 pm

driveway

It’s the first real night of Spring. I know this because I can hear the chorus of frogs, all calling out for some celebratory company and competing against a thousand different voices, each hoping to pass the season with an admirer.

It’s been hours. I don’t know that because of the miles we walked tonight, or the dirt that covers my jacket from the culvert we crept through in hope that some adventure that make the night even longer awaited on the other side, but because I’ve lost track of Orion in the night sky while we stand and talk in front of my house.

It’s August. I know because in the hours we’ve been standing here, staring at the sky and being swept away by an ever flowing stream of conversation, I’ve seen a few Perseids escape across the night sky.

It’s over now. I know because I feel every minute pass when you’re not there. The chorus of frogs turns into a cacophony of unfulfilled voices screaming for company. I know because I never lose track of Orion.

I know, because without you there, my driveway is just a half-empty space where I leave my car.

» Posted By mistyfizz On 04.13.2017 @ 6:30 am

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