Received: a letter from my good friend Stella yesterday. It had photos and a lovely little watercolour that her mom must have scored in a trade with one of her artist friends. The picture on the front is from Hiroshige's Views of Mt. Fuji series.
Of course I wish I knew who the artist was. But with Stella these things are always a bit of a mystery.
One of the necessities of being a fashion cowboy is answering no questions.
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Because I have this eccentric ken for all things strange and dystopian, the news out of Japan seems to be speaking to me on a special wavelength. And the news is appalling: more fires, bigger explosions, radioactive steam. The Emperor goes on television. Foreigners are fleeing even while the international airlines are staying away.
Helicopters are dumping giant red buckets of water on the reactors. Really?
Yesterday I walked to my dentist appointment in thin, shimmering March light. The world seemed cool and distant. I had that sensation that I get sometimes where I feel very tall, very long, and my legs sort of loop out before me. I also felt removed, or far away, which is difficult to describe. It has to do with the air and the evaporation of meaning.
I didn't know what to do with this idea of Japan melting down like some kind of diseased Easy Bake oven. I kept imagining a map with spreading red spots all over it.
Between needles, my dentist asked me if I'd been following the news. I nodded. Pretty hard to avoid, he said. What do you think about it?
I shrugged. I have a bad feeling about it, I said. And immediately regretted it, the emptiness of it.
They had on the office radio, as usual. Commercial radio. My dentist hummed along to the entirety of Don't Stop Believing. I never realized how long that song is.
And I wondered how bad things would have to get before things like that -- things like Journey and Charlie Sheen coverage and the vomitous tons of green beer they're going to sell tomorrow night -- would stop. I mean, will they be playing Celine Dion during the apocalypse?