Room Service

With some trouble, I open the window and turn off the embalming cool of the air conditioner. It’s in the upper seventies and cloudy, a typical late spring Saturday with moderate traffic.

The buses come regularly and often, stopping outside of the guest house three stories below. Nearby someone is intermittently running a ban saw and children squeal with joy across the street. An old bicycle’s brake whines to avoid hitting a kindly old lady, largely oblivious to the bustle around her.

My head is slightly swollen and stuffed with menthol tissues, another night of too much beer and cigarettes. The lump in the back of my throat is easy to ignore, the gentle throbbing behind the peaks of my disheveled eyebrows is strangely satisfying; a kind of half-conscious telekinetic massage.

Today I have three meetings in order, mostly photography and exhibition related. Then tomorrow a photo shoot at Zushi beach and a date for mayhem and villainy with Rob.

But first I must start with enjoying this glorious day of low grade hangover in placidly busy Tokyo. The atmosphere is far too stimulating.

Counting the days ’til summer…

In a cave, or something

This is the view looking down my street to the west. Depending on the time of year and weather, the sun gets low enough to cut through all the air pollution and make a glorious golden light, which reflects at just the right angle off of the sound-dampening panels on the outside of the highway. In person it’s actually much, much, more beautiful, and much, much brighter; so bright that you’re nearly blinded by the reflection. But the computer monitor is a poor medium for portraying such majesty, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.