Things I think about while I think while walking.

A car whizzes by and I hear, “Bad enough it’s a Porsche. It’s worse when it’s a guy driving a white Porsche convertible!” I’m walking along Lake Hollywood when Grey makes her inimitable observation.

It’s a warm sunny Sunday and Grey has joined me for a walk. It’s the first time we’ve done anything like this together and the change of venue is a nice new way to spend time with her. It’s also the first time I’ve brought anyone here to join me as I normally do my walks alone. Grey looks beautiful in her outfit—the only woman I know who could look so dazzling even when she’s working out.

As we walk down the path we’re talking about things in general when I realize that’s it’s also the first time I’m having a conversation while doing my routine. Normally I’m lost in my own thoughts, or in some type of void listening to music.

Things I think about while I think while walking. What? You say. It a not so good attempt at a play on words from the title of a book I’m reading. A couple of weeks ago I thought about what I think about while doing the hour-long walk. I remember doing this because it was a particularly mind-fleeting day and the book title kept rattling in my mind. It wasn’t as if I were looking for parallels, but for some reason I felt strangely attached to this book and the almost riddle-like title.

I hadn’t walked for a few days as I was away in the Bay Area and just returned. It’s a bright, beautiful afternoon at the reservoir—the sky blue and the course deserted. I’ve been walking around Lake Hollywood most recently now for about three years and it’s amazing how such an area can exist in the middle of Los Angeles and also be devoid of people.

With my iPod turned on I start my walk. I’m feeling pretty good but surprisingly I have a pretty blank mind. I can’t seem to concentrate and it almost feels as my mind is resisting all attempts to formulate any thoughts.

I’ve been walking now for about ten minutes and nothing comes floating through. So that’s when I decide to ask myself the question, ‘what do I think about when I’m walking?’ Usually it’s a smorgasbord of thoughts ranging from work issues, things which happen to be circulating about in my life at that moment, Grey, writing topics and just about everything else. But today, nothing seems to gel.

This was the question, which reminded me of the book I’m reading, Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running.” It’s his memoir about the influence running has had on his life—the marathons, training and of course the intermingling of the sport on his writing pursuits. Of course it’s written in his usual irrelevant style—a style I immediately took familiarity and a strong attraction. It’s an immediacy I felt when I first read Calvino’s ‘If on a winter’s night a Traveler’ and in more recent years, Kleinzahler’s ‘Cutty, Two Rocks’. Leave it up to Murakami to write a book with such a kooky title. And ok, leave it up to me to get fixated on something kooky—this I say to myself as I make my way through the first half-mile.

My first thought drifts towards the past few days I spent with my mom. Nothing eventful, just the usual visit running errands and spending time with her. I did however on this occasion notice that for the last six months or so, whenever I visited her, the conversation at some point always turned to her experience and life during World War II. Usually it was about the hardship, hunger and working at the Toshiba factory and how she returned home after being told that the family home had been burned from the B-52 bombings. But this time, our conversation took a decidedly different turn. We were talking about where we should take my uncle and aunt when they arrived for their visit in late October. Monterey, the wine country and the Mendocino Coast were my suggestions. My mom, while agreeable to such an itinerary, wanted to talk about the possibility of taking a day trip to a nearby Japanese POW camp in Tracy, California. Apparently it was the WWII equivalent of Guantanamo where Japanese POW’s captured in Polynesian were brought to Tracy and interrogated. This expose was apparently on the Japanese television station recently in part to commemorate the anniversary of the Hiroshima/Nagasaki atomic bombings. We talked at length about the bombings and the residual and lingering effects to the survivors and of the resultant gruesome deaths. It was a rather unsettling conversation we were having and I’m sure not the type the other folks eating at the Red Lobster would normally have taken up as part of their dinner conversation. Oddly for us, through our tears and grilled shrimp, it seemed like a necessary conversation. Actually, necessary for my Mom, myself, I was just a listener.

I’m clearing the first mile as while recalling my conversation with Mom. The rest of the Bay Area trip was fairly uneventful. The work part of the trip to Sacramento was similar. My only annoyance was the constant need for reassurance or validation from my senior staff. It seemed that every minor detail of their decision-making process had to be confirmed or ‘passed by me’. I’m not a micro manager and tend to give my staff a lot of latitude. But unfortunately, I’ve recently come to view them as being overly needy and for some reason unable to make any of their own decisions. I can’t recall myself as ever being that way. Sure I’d go to my supervisor on occasion when I needed some guidance, but in general I was essentially self-sufficient. Asking for forgiveness seemed much more productive than asking for permission. I suppose growing up pretty much on my own conditioned me in this way. Indecisiveness makes me crazy—which may seem ironic as I can be indecisive and am oftentimes viewed as being aloof and wishy-washy. But it’s usually for those decisions where I really don’t have much of an opinion one way or another, nor do I see as being critical.

I’m probably at my mid-way point now as I walk hugging the perimeter of the lake below. It’s my first walk since Sunday, which of course is the day I met Grey for dinner. It had almost been a year since I saw her last and I was a bit anxious anticipating the evening. I remember telling myself that a walk would do me good—empty my mind and relax me. Well as it turns out I thought about Grey the entire hour. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she might look—not so much physically, but given her condition and the trying year she had, I wondered if she might really be up for this. At the same time I couldn’t wait to see her. Longed for her was more like it. I was dying to see her beautiful face and smile and experience her laugh once again. Just a few more hours…my pace quickened as these thoughts race through my mind, anticipating my evening with Grey.

A few minutes pass and I start thinking about Murakami again. I recently discovered that he was taking part of the New Yorker Festival. In addition to a lecture, he was also attending a signing. As soon as I read about his participation, I started toying with the idea of flying to New York. Wouldn’t it be fun? A nice October weekend in New York, listening to what he has to say and straddling up to his table for a book signing---joy! I’m playing with this idea as I walk and simultaneously try to come up with an excuse or reason to visit the Corporate office so I can write the trip off. However, I can’t think of any reason and am actually amazed at how things have changed. Only a few years ago there were a myriad of reasons [both real and imagined] to visit the home office. I’ve created a distance from them the last few years and too some degree still harbor feelings of anger over the clashes I had with the Corporate group which led to my departure and return to Los Angeles. Unpleasant thoughts. Forget it. Instead I turned my thoughts back to the book signing and mulling over which book I should have Murakami sign. I’m thinking maybe his latest as it’s fitting that his memoirs are about running and the title is giving me the basis for this entry. Maybe I could slip in an extra minute and anecdotally mention what led to my decision to come for the book signing. We might both have a chuckle—maybe invite him to dinner at the steakhouse he apparently frequents near his hotel. Would his wife care to join us? I always wonder what type of person she might be—I mean you have to wonder about someone who could tolerate such a nut case of a guy. Well I suppose the same could be said about me—more chuckles! Ok, enough with the delusion daydreaming. I decide in the end I’ll bring two books, the latest one and ‘Norwegian Wood’, my favorite and most touching I feel, of all his books. And as quickly as I’ve made my decision, my mind has already embarked on yet another topic.

I’ve been listening to the same iPod collection for about two weeks now and getting pretty tired. Even though it’s on the “shuffle” mode, it seems the titles are in some type of pseudo-random order. ‘Long Cool Woman’ started out the day’s set followed by ‘Yolele’ a South African tune and a few other odds and ends. My pace quickens appropriately with the beat and exponentially when a punched out song like ‘Thrill Me’ plays. A few high school era songs slip through and bring back wisps of faded memories. In between the beads of sweat and the gasps for air I think back to the first time I heard ‘Persephone’ or ‘Ramble On’. Tony’s rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ plays followed by his ‘My Favorite Things’. His music makes me remember his concert I saw recently. At 85 or so, the guy can still belt out the tunes.

My feet are on autopilot. ‘Hypnotized’ starts to play. How long have I been listening to this song? And is that Peter Green on guitar or was he already gone from the band at this point? I used to know all of those useless factoids at one time. Somehow it was important once. So does that mean what was important to me once and what is important to me now are two completely different things? No. I don’t think so. All I know is that what I think while I’m walking gives me an opportunity to check in with myself. And I suppose that’s why I look forward to spending this hour.

I turn the corner into the last stretch before the path dead ends. I step into the brightly lit passage. My mind is off wandering again, no doubt thinking about things I think about while walking. Off in the distance I hear La Belle Dame Sans Regrets. Funny, I could have sworn my iPod had run out of batteries.

In the arms of your significant being: The Music of Your Life

“I’ve been listening to Country a bit,” Grey informed me the other day. It was an odd choice, I thought, and told her so. She agreed and explained it was a recent discovery and it folded into her as the lyrics were of substance and resonated with her. Though I’m not a country fan myself and have a fairly limited familiarity, I have to agree that it is a much more human music stemming from personal experience and feelings, thereby touching you on a more personal level. And I’m sure given what Grey had gone through in the last year, it was fitting on many levels.

“What are you listening to these days?”

To my recollection my friend Vincent is the only person who ever asks me this question—especially on an ongoing basis. I maybe talk to him two, three times a year, but he makes a point to ask that question every now and then. I’ve known him since we were in third or fourth grade so when we talk there isn’t a lot of pretense. We catch up because we want to, and while we aren’t as close as we once were, we still are very mindful and caring of each other.

I suppose music was always at the core of our friendship—from Hendrix to Young; Weather Report to Tyner, our shared genre’s were always broad and we were always on the search for next aural challenge. Recently he sent me three CD’s—all were songs by the Beatles. The first were “B” sides of rarely heard songs from the mop heads and the other two CDs were Beatles’ songs performed first by a non-Beatle, and then performed by the Beatles—back to back.

When Vincent mentioned that he was going to send me these CDs, I thought, “Why bother?” But after listening to some of the songs, it was amazing to hear the diversity of the non-Beatles’ versions—they ranged from classical renditions to Robin Williams singing ‘Come Together’. My favorite? Sean Connery reciting “In My Life” in prose. While an undeniable favorite, I have a hard time listening to that song as it reminds me of our very good friend Louis that we lost shortly after he graduated from college. Connery’s unmistakable Welsh tenor made each word sink deep into me and moved me uncontrollably. Just writing about it right now brings tears to my eyes.

So in return for those crazy Beatles mix, I sent him four or five CDs I was listening at the time. I can’t remember exactly, which ones, but it included a CD by Eliana Elias and another by Houston Persons. The latter of course was a loaner from Grey, which had a delightful rendition of ‘In A Sentimental Mood’.

I called Vincent a few weeks later to thank him for the CDs. He returned his thanks, and added, “You’re listening to some really grown-up music, aren’t you? That’s good.” It was an odd comment, but for some reason I felt he was acknowledging my state of being at that moment without requiring any explanation. I suppose it’s the kind of thing only old friends can do.

Today, I’m sitting at Starbucks checking up on my emails. I’m in the Bay Area visiting my Mom and as there’s no Internet connection at her house, I’m using the T-Mobile connectivity at Starbucks. I feel guilty doing this, as I usually don’t buy anything while I’m occupying space at their store. Sure I buy an obligatory Americano, but just one—and I frequent the place at least three times when I’m visiting my Mom. Well, it’s supposed to be a social, community kind of place anyways, right?

Anyhow I’m checking my work e-mails, kind of lost in my own world and listening to whatever eclectic mix they’re playing at the coffee house. I’m sitting inside the store and the place is deserted. I’m the only customer [paying and non-paying included] except for a couple seated directly across from me through the window seated in one of the outdoor tables. I glance at them and they seem to be engaged in an intense conversation. I make a mental note of them—she in sunglasses with rather homely features, the guy in a tank top sporting a few tattoos…not the typical Starbucks crowd from around my neighborhood.

About 20 minutes later my ears catch a hold of the song playing in the store—a slow, nice, yet somehow sad sounding song. I’m listening somewhat intently trying to catch the lyrics. Is it a country song, I wonder? Yeah, I think it is. At the same time I notice the couple outside still talking rather intently. But this time I could sense that something had changed. Their facial expressions were strained and I could tell that something had upset them. I knew that at any moment the woman would start to cry. It was obvious and no sooner had I made this determination, tears streamed down her cheeks. I saw the man hold her hands, and raise it to his lips, gently kissing them., his eyes consoling her. It was obvious it wasn’t an argument, but a serious discussion. I felt badly watching them, intruding on their very private moment.

But at the same time, I had this feeling that there was a familiarity in what I was observing. Could it be that in the not too distant past I was the man sitting in that seat? As these thoughts passed, the tattoos disappeared and likewise for the homely features. They were real and what they were experiencing were real. I watched them fleetingly with the music in the background, filling in the melancholy, silent moments. And as quickly as the scene unfolded, it ended. The couple stood up to leave, the music fading into the next song.

I hurriedly went over to the flat screen which displayed the music title and jotted down the artist and song. It was indeed a country song—‘Down Low” song by Teddy Thompson. After jotting down the song title and artist name on a napkin, I reflected a little bit on what had just transpired. The entire experience seemed serendipitous with my recent evening with Grey…the conversation we had and comfort I felt with her and I hope she felt with me. Alone at Starbucks I stared out the window and let my thoughts wander—Elvis Costello now wailing in the background.

What I am listening these days? I think now more then ever I understand what Vincent is truly asking me. The music of my life is an ever-changing collection of the old and new. But just as important, it’s what I’m experiencing now through choices and happenstance. So what am I’m listening to? I’m not sure, but I’m hoping that it might be a discovery of something new, yet familiar and altogether heartwarming. I’m sure I’ll have an answer when he checks in with me next.

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[Postscript]

Imagine my surprise when I Googled Teddy Thompson. He’s not a country singer but a folk/singer songwriter of like, noteworthy parents. And get this, he’s a Brit with ‘Songs from Abbey Road’ being a recent song or album. Odd coincidence but it all seems to fit perfectly, right? But how did I mistake this young man for a Country virtuoso?

Simple.

The particular song I heard was from his album of a couple of years ago—a compilation of classic Country songs. The album name? Upfront and Down Low.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Backdrop of My Life

This is a work in progress. Something happened today which made me write. I'm in the Bay Area today having spent the weekend with my Mom. The Olympic weekend. Fascinating in all aspects of seeing a country poise itself once again. But what drew me towards a days' ending is the conflict in Georgia. I'm appalled and thrown into a flurry of tired spiral which makes me wonder--how can we walk in the avenues of lovers being in hand in hand, families reconciling, those struggling reaching and being held in place by those whom love them? This apparently is the background of my life.

I was rather willing to write a rather lofty piece today for you, my gentle reader. But I thought that writing what I felt today was of better significance. It's been a month of odd contrasts--The Olympics, the anniversary of the atomic bombings in Nagasaki and Hiroshima and of course the inpending doom of Georgia--all in the backdrop of the Olmpics.

I'm looking at my notes right now and I'm thinking what made me decide to write today was of one of general happiness. And truly this was a wonderful day. The summer wind blowing through. Warm and gentle...it's the kind of day where the world acknowledges you as being part of life and softly hands you off to your day. So this is also the day where I have a Martini and Oysters on a Half Shell. It's been the first time I've had a dozen Oysters since the time I had 'em at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central. Well I'm digressing here. And there's a few more things I want to add/edit to this post. But something compelled me to write tonight. And you know why?

Gentle reader--you're my world and I love you very, very much.

I wish the day when we're together.

P.

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

A Love Song for Walter Keefe

I stand here amidst the fall,
Eyes shut wide, my mind fully awake.
My feet hold onto the ground,
Leaves crackling under.

I woke up in the midst of darkness this morning. A solid seven hours of sleep. Or was it just a moment? The room was unfamiliar, but the bed somewhat comforting. I ambled out of bed and into the sparsely lit living room. The surroundings were becoming vaguely familiar as I stood in front of the mirror; introduced to a man I’ve grown to known over the years. The house--my parents. The bed--my father’s. The man in the mirror, his son.

I noted that I looked tired. Hair spiked from the evenings sleep and sporting a beard of two days I examined myself. The dashing good looks were no longer there. But I felt comforted noting that it was never there in the first place.

For the first time in what seemed like months, I felt ready for Las Vegas. Which also meant that my Saturday was suddenly free. Breakfast seemed like a good idea—the most important meal, the Breakfast of Champions. I decided to see if Mom felt like having pancakes. Now I personally stay clear of those sugary sappy flat clumps of dough, but somehow Mom has a thing for IHOP. I can always have a BLT, which according to me, is the true Breakfast of Champions.

I decided later on in the afternoon to visit Dad. It’s been a few months and the fall scenery might be nice to spend some time. It also occurred to me that I might take one of his books and read to him. Odd about the books he loved. Science fiction and fantasy were his favorite choices. From Tolkein to the Conan series—neither of which I ever enjoyed. Literature was more of what I bent towards; pulp fiction was his. But strangely his love for reading seeped into my DNA I suppose. I recall the Saturday runs to the library and lingering amidst the rows, only to emerge several hours later to find my Dad at the checkout counter.

Leaving for Vegas from Oakland didn’t seem to be a good idea. It meant finishing the presentation at my parents with continual motherly distractions. And of course with no Internet connection, it meant mad dashes to Starbucks to download and upload files. It seems crazy. But as Walt, my long gone mentor and teacher of bad habits, once told me, the day you stop loving the craziness is when it’s time to pack up. Besides, he used to remind me, how could you not love that rush as you exit the building, colleagues in tow for a round of drinks because you just absolutely killed them and left them all on the floor to die, beggin’ for more? Walt had a gift for eloquence. Or some would say, the lack of one.

Oddly enough, I suddenly recall that I was in a similar predicament this time last year. The Monday before Thanksgiving last year was the day for yet another major pitch. How fast the year had gone by. And while all of the things that I experienced flash by within a moment’s time, there are memories I won’t allow to casually brush through. While I headed to San Francisco for last year’s engagement, Vegas is the setting for this year’s. As much as I’m intolerant of that city and the population it draws, I’ve grown fond of the emptiness of strip. There’s something to be said of the attitude of tearing down and rebuilding. As if they weren’t able to get it right the first time. I guess there’s a bit of Vegas in all of us. I hope I do Walt proud.

And were an epitaph be my story,
I’d have a short one ready for my own.
I would have written of me on my stone;
I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.
Robert Frost

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Mother’s Day Ball

I’m feeling restless today. It’s Mother’s Day and I’ve been at my Mom’s place for the last three days looking after her as she recuperates from her surgery. I’m also feeling somewhat sluggish and tired with all of the travel and crisis we had with Mom the last few days.

But I’m also anxious and bored. No errands to run. No movies to watch. Only endless chatter from the Japanese channel playing on satellite T.V.

There’s also this ongoing thought in my mind that I can’t stop. It’s about Grey. For some reason I haven’t been able to get Grey out of my mind recently. I switch the channel to the Food Network and there’s some show about a weekend in New York which makes me think of Grey even more.

I decide to go for a walk hoping it’ll take my mind off things.

I wander onto a lakeside trail at the college down the street from my Mom’s. It’s a bright day and the campus is deserted. I walk briskly for about 20 minutes and feel better as my mind empties and wanders about. New York is still on my mind. I reminisce about nothing in particular but my mind settles on Velma and the time we went for drinks. It was summer and the Met had a champagne happy hour event on their rooftop. It was a beautiful, warm early evening, and there was quite a large turnout. Velma looked particularly beautiful that evening in her simple white summer dress. She always had the most beautiful shoulders.

I also thought about the gathering I had just before I left. We had also met at some rooftop place somewhere midtown just off of Park in the lower 30’s. It was the first gathering of the Group of 5. I got there pretty early and had a few rum tonics before the rest showed up. It was warm and we were all having a great time. I remember the sun setting over the rooftops and thinking how I’d be leaving all of this behind in a matter of a few weeks. I vaguely recall that we had dinner later on but I can’t remember where. Maybe that tiny Italian joint on 3rd or Lex and 40th just down the street from that Italian steakhouse. Oh yeah that steakhouse—I think it was the Tuscan Steakhouse. I can’t remember the name for sure but I do remember the dinners Mark and I had there. A round of cocktails, a magnum of a nice Super Tuscan and a veal chop.

Regarding the magnum, Mark’s theory was since \we’d polish a bottle in no time; why not order a magnum to begin with? There would be no need to fuss or deliberate about ordering the second bottle and it showed upfront commitment. Funny, I never questioned his logic. I think something about him being a philosophy major made whatever he said always convincing. And then there was that time where we invited Rich after the McGraw-Hill pitch. It was for the whole account...not just McGraw-Hill but for Standard and Poor’s plus their educational divisions. I remember how great it felt, as we nailed the pitch. And by the time Rich joined us, he had gotten the preliminary kudos’ from his insider at McGraw-Hill.

Of course we did the magnum thing again.

I veered off the trail and made my way to the campus track field. As I circled around the field I landed upon the subject of celebrities. In a city [Los Angeles] where celebrity sightings are commonplace, I hold the distinction of spotting nobody--celebrity challenged, I believe is the official term. Even around my neighborhood where apparently there are hordes of people who work in “the industry” [a convoluted term which drips of self-importance if there ever was one]. And while she’s not part of “the industry” someone recently told me that she spotted Betsey Johnson at one of the neighborhood joints. Now that’s pretty odd—Betsy Johnson in Toluca Lake? Besides, would you really recognize her? I can’t even recall what she looks like—doesn’t she look like Bette Midler’s younger, thinner crazy half sister? I think I can actually recognize her dresses more readily.

Ok, back to New York.

However celebrity-challenged I am, there have been two occasions where I have recognized someone. Ok, not quite your typical celebrities: Charlie Rose and Malcolm Gladwell. The two sightings were on different occasions, but in similar settings—small neighborhood eateries and both individuals alone, busily writing away.

I was in an English pub in Chelsea that had been getting some recent press when I noted Charlie Rose sitting alone in booth in the back. I was having one of their renowned burgers and a pint. The bartender told me that the booth was Charlie’s “spot” and I shouldn’t bother him. I was a little annoyed that the bartender would actually think I would bug the man. But I let it pass. And of course, I still think highly of Charlie as I’ve always been enamored with journalism. Of course the highlight of chance meetings was the time when an older gentleman asked I wanted his table just off the bar at Kuleto’s in San Francisco. [Bars are getting to become a recurrent theme here—have you noticed?]. I thanked him as I was meeting another party and it was such a nice spot. As he put on his jacket he asked me what I did for a living. I replied and he mentioned that it was a good profession. We said our goodbyes and later the waitress asked if I knew that the gentleman I was talking to was Walter Cronkite.

The spotting of Malcolm Gladwell was at a small, cute place just off Mott Street. I stopped for a glass of wine and saw an intense looking, wild haired man sitting alone at a table piled with books and paper. I confirmed my suspicion with the bartender and mentioned to him that I might go to his table. The bartender, amused, asked whatever might I have in mind to talk with Sir Malcolm. I responded to the bartender that I happened to have a few theories of my own which I’d like to pass by him. Perhaps another glass of wine might be a better alternative suggested the bartender. Point well taken and I signaled for another round.

I later reflected on the bartender’s comment and was slightly offended. What made him think that I wouldn’t have much to converse with Malcolm? After all, my IQ has been tested at 140 [well, ok I cheated just a little bit as I took an extra 10 minutes on the test], which may not be quite MENSA material, but certainly qualifies for fringe status, right?

I’m feeling better as I make my way around the lake. Half running up the incline I spotted a golf ball. A Top-Flight. I grabbed it and threw it against the asphalt walkway. I’ve forgotten how high these golf balls bounce. Pretty soon I’m running across the walkway playing catch by myself. I slam the ball and as it shoots upward, I run towards the ball as it reaches the pinnacle against the bright sky and falls downward.

I can easily make a game out of this.

Memories of solitary ball games flashed forward. I remember playing endlessly with a rubber baseball throwing it against the kitchen cabinets. In my mind I was the pitcher and the goal was to catch the ball as it bounced off the cabinet and re-throw as if I the ball was being fielded to first. If I caught the ball, the runner was out. If I fumbled, or if the ball went astray and knocked into the kitchen table or the wall, the runner was safe. It was a combination of handball and baseball—my game of solitary.

I run across the parking lot chasing the white golf ball. Thoughts of Grey have settled somewhere in the back of my mind and even my New York musings are long gone. The only thing that occupies me is the warmth of the mid afternoon sun, the bright cloudless sky and the empty campus parking lot. And of course that small white, brilliant spot high up in the sky.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: The Amerasian

Rider always knew how to get to me. All she had to do was to call me Amerasian and she knew that it would ruffle my feathers. Of course she would never do it with malice.

According to Wikipedia, Amerasians are children born to Asian women fathered by American servicemen throughout Asia. What is implied, but not explicitly mentioned is the fact that these children and their mothers were left behind to fend for themselves. Ostracized by their respective society, these half-breeds never allowed to assimilate into their native culture and lived as outsiders. The term for Amerasians in Japanese is especially haunting: senso otoshigo. Quite literally, children dropped as a result of war.

It bothered me terribly growing up in Japan and being referred to by this phrase. Of course it shouldn't have, as it didn't apply to me. Well almost. While my father didn't desert us and we grew and lived as a family, the part about being an outsider was always present. I made light of it, as it's the way I usually deal with sensitive and hurtful subjects, but it did bother me as I was never not fully accepted within the Japanese community. And upon my move to American, I also sensed that I would never quite fit here. Whether in college or in corporate America, I was always an in-between. Oddly, because of this "fit" issue, I thought about moving to Hawaii while in college. I took a trip during spring break and It just did not appeal to me. Hawaii reminded me of the communities surrounding the military bases in Japan and the pigeon English never quite rested well with me and somehow represented the worst of multi-culturalism.

With this in mind of my background, a few incidences occurred recently which made me start to rethink and ultimately feel ashamed of my self-absorption.

It all started rather innocently with a telephone conversation with Rider. As usual we kidded with each other--I've gotten less sensitive about the Amerasian thing with her. I was still smiling to myself about how silly we can be as I settled into Murakami Haruki's book of short stories. I found myself on familiar grounds with his writing style as I read the story "Tony Takitani." It's a touching story of love and longing for a lost love. I've seen the movie adaptation, which was brilliant, and devoured the story. I had also forgotten that it was a story of a child whom was mistaken as an Amerasian because of his given name, "Tony". Not quite the common Japanese name, but a name given to him by his godfather, a GI who played the clarinet with Tony's father, a noted Jazz musician. H-m-m-m, I thought, I had forgotten about the Amerasian thing. Funny given my recent banter with Rider about the Amerasian thing.

I was still thinking about the story the following day, as I greeted Morita whom I had arranged to have drinks. Morita was an interpreter who specialized Korean-English legal translation. Being of Korean mother and Caucasian father, Morita was, as with myself, sensitive to the plights of half-breeds. We eased into our conversations as we had quite a bit to catch up. I asked Morita whether there had been any interesting gigs recently and apparently there was this jaunt as press conference interpreter for Yahoo dealing with the Korean press recently. However with another round of drinks, Morita welled up a bit as the story of the more recent assignment unfolded.

Apparently Morita took on this immigration case involving a Korean family whom had overextended their stay on a tourist Visa. Long story short there were three of them--the mother, an older sister and a younger brother. Apparently the older sister had somehow arrived earlier and after much hardship, I assume, graduated recently with a Master's from a noteworthy Ivy League school. The mother had also applied and successfully petitioned for legal residency. But the legal case was for her son. And it was a deportation case hearing.

Apparently the son had been caught with possession of marijuana. A small amount, which would have meant a misdemeanor for you or I. Unfortunately for him, it meant the immediate halt of his permanent residency application and he faced immediate deportation. Of course what it really meant was being returned to a country where society shunned him. As an adult of mixed breed and of no formal higher educational schooling, it would surely mean trotting the path of an outcast.

Morita had tears welled as the story was told to me. I had a lump also. While we didn't really comment, we knew all too well the consequences. Being an outcast was hurtful enough. And now in his adult life to be alone with no family, walking the streets with the eyes of society beating down on him. It's the same as if being rejected by your own mother.

Fast forward to today. The post delivered my Netflix movie: The Beautiful Country--a brilliant film written by Sabina Murray [she's of Filipino descent, won the Penn/Faulkner award and has worked with Terence Malick]. Directed by Hans Petter Moland, a Norwegian director whom I'm not familiar with but apparently much acclaimed, it's such a beautiful, moving and heart-grabbing masterpiece. The topic? What else but an Amerasian who after much tragedy leaves Vietnam in search of his father. Of course the one hour and forty-seven minutes captures his tragic life and journey, but in the end, the bittersweet reunion with his father is beyond what any words may describe. It brought tears to my eyes as the ending of the film faded and the kind of film which brings you to your knees and makes you think not twice, but three times. And truthfully, there shouldn't be too many things in life which you needn't think three times. Unfortunately, there are.

I've always been incensed when mistaken as those from subordinate Asian cultures--meaning I always held in high regard the Northern Asian cultures as being more refined. But as I've given more thought over the past few years and certainly the last few weeks of the plight of children whom have experienced the wrath of men and the lifelong resultant plight, I feel ashamed of my smugness. The pain I felt as I child was but just an insect bite given the enormity of pain felt by my fellow Amerasians.

--

Sidenote: the title links to aahope.org. Hope lives in limited sprinkles.

In the Arms of Your Significant Being: Spring

Is happy a feeling that visits often?

I heard from Sayuri recently and she cites that "happy" was a feeling that has started to visit her often. She also comments about the welcoming burst of spring being uplifting as it brought remembrances of comfort felt long ago.

As for myself, I welcome this spring only in a partial way. While the world around me is coming alive, I'm not fully engaged. I continuously feel as though I've forgotten something important--but as I leaf through my mind there's never a trace of that forgotten item--just a trace remembrance of something past. Similarly, my taste buds seem to also have taken a temporary hiatus. As for my vision, colors which surround me aren't quite as brilliant as if there's a layer of frost on my eyes. The exception are the flowers blooming just outside the kitchen window. For some reason the radiant color of these simple flowers embrace me and also captures my complete attention and focus.

Hara hachi-bun me. Literal translation: stomach eight-tenths full or consuming to the point where you're just about full leaving you wanting more. It's a common Japanese saying with Chinese equivalents and I’m sure among numerous other cultures.

I was thinking about "hachi-bun me" the other day as I happened to catch it in a Japanese movie. It stuck with me and I started to think whether it applied to all things in life. Is it indeed possible to attain 100%--say in terms of happiness? Or is the feeling of just enough and wanting more, be where you want to leave things?

I'm not certain. And I'm not sure if it's something I wish to ponder extensively as makes my head ache. It's bad enough that my ability to concentrate is at an all time low—these cosmic wonderings are beyond what I can handle.

But what made be smile to myself was the play on words which sprang into my mind. If you substitute "Hara" [stomach] with "Haru" which is Spring, it becomes "Haru hachi-bun me."

It seemed like an apt phrase for how I felt. It hasn't been a totally fulfilling spring, but perhaps I should be pushing myself away from the table feeling that what I’m feeling is fine and I shouldn’t keep wanting more. Maybe that’s when I’ll stop feeling that I'm forgetting to do something. And in the end, instead of trying to effect things, I should just be content with where I am and let things be as it may. And if it were meant to be, it’ll somehow happen.

Somehow a warmer feeling of embrace presented itself as I thought about my Hachi-bun me no haru. My spring of eight-tenths, in the 49th year of my life.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Grey

I was in New York today. Well, at least it was a day which brought back memories from my days in the Big Apple.

I decided to knock off early today from work today and being that it was Friday and things seemed to settle down relatively early I thought maybe a movie was in order. I knew that the "The Namesake", an adaption of Jhumpa Lahiri's novel, was out and the previews looked great so I decided, "why not?" Making things more interesting, it was playing at the Arclight in Hollywood which I've never been so a quick hop onto the Metro and I'll be there in no time.

The movie was good--touching at times, but really didn't do the book justice. In the novel, Lahiri spends quite a bit of time on the emotional composition and development of each character. The movie glosses over the conflicts of the characters quite a bit, perhaps hoping that you may have read the book. But I enjoyed the movie for the most part as it did bring back the bits and pieces of the book. I also lingered over the scenes of the City--the apartments, SOHO, and all the what-nots associated with that city. It also occured to me that the memories of my experience in New York are mine only. It not as if I'd shared it with anyone as I was pretty much alone the entire time. And there really isn't anybody I can pull over and reminisce. The weekends that I roamed the city from sun up to sun down. The extended weekends which I always seemed to spend alone. How I longed for the weekend to be over. Monday through Friday were my weekends. I remember staying late at work til nine or so and walking home. It didn't seem to matter whether it was freezing cold or blistering hot, I still loved walking the 30 or so blocks home. Oddly it was similar tonight. Granted it was the streets of Hollywood, but the thoughts, emotions and the hurried pace were the same.

An odd thing happened after the movie ended. As I shuffled out of the theatre, I spotted Grey. For a split second I thought, "could it be her?" Of course it wasn't, but from behind, it was her...maybe not exactly, but the hair was just about identical. I always loved Grey's hair. It was so sensual, and uniquely hers. I walked past the girl and took a quick glance--mid 30's, similar facial shape to Grey's, not quite as attractive, but still, attractive in her own way. Chinese, rather than Korean, would be my guess, but her hair was just done in jsame manner as Grey's with luxurious, flowing curls.

I hadn't thought about Grey for a few hours as I was preoccupied with the movie. But the spigot turned itself on and thoughts of Grey start gushed into my consciousness.

As I walked towards Sunset, I thought to myself how odd--here I am in Los Angeles taking the subway to the movies. And of course, my audience, I find once again, is within the company of myself. Strange how things repeat. Yet this time there is one difference--Grey resides in me and that warmth is what will make me revisit this evening each time with fondness.

As Falls Wichita, So Falls Wichita Falls.

“I need to get out of the City,” I remarked to Ritchie.

“You mean for good?” deadpans Ritchie in a way only he can.

I’m having lunch with him today. It’s our first lunch since his Mum passed away. Kenji decides to join us. Between the two of them, I’ve known them since maybe the fourth or fifth grade. Odd how I haven’t really made friends since my grade and high school friends.

Well, maybe with two exceptions. Big Lick and Brucie would be the first exception and of course, West and Rider would be my second.

Back to Ritchie. He’s one of these silent guys. You know, the kind you have to draw out which at times can be exhausting. Plus at times he’s rather boring. But as he’s the “brains” of my group of friends, maybe that’s just him being tolerant of simple minded me. Odd how at times he reminds me of Grey and vice versa. Both are super smart and own wide-open hearts.

I felt bad for Ritchie when his Mum passed away. I could feel his pain. He loved his Mum and I felt this immense warmth and sadness at the same time. You see, I never felt the same about me Mum. His hurt touched me in a way where it made my heart ache. I felt so helpless—here was my friend feeling emotionally raped and I couldn’t do anything for him.

As things have a funny way of happening, Ritchie and I have since then had a series of conversations. At first it was awkward and strained, but in the end I felt connected with him. I appreciated his openness and felt a brotherly closeness to him.

He called me a last week to tell me he received “honorable mention” with a haiku he wrote. Apparently his Mum had submitted to some national contest. I was especially happy for him as his Mum was a haiku aficionado and it must have brought a special closure to Ritchie.

The call also came to me on a day where my relationship with Grey was crumbling. And thanks to him, Ritchie’s call was the one uplifting call during my dark days dealing with the hurt I had affected to Grey.

[The city where I had lived now remains only a shell of what once was.]

My Pop and Me.

It’s my Pop’s anniversary on Saturday. Unfortunately it’s the kind of anniversary that weighs heavily on me, as it’s the anniversary of his death. My Pop died last year. It’s been a year already. My. My. How time flies.

Well, it does, really.

It was only a moment ago that we hung out together on our drives to Zama and Yokosuka. For some reason I was his buddy and we just drifted around in the car going from base to base. It was on one of these occasions that I told him that I was going to be an archeologist.

“Why,” he asked.

“I want to dig up mummies,” I replied.

He smiled encouragingly. You see that’s what Pop did best. Nothing fazed him and I amused him. I was just some zany kid that had an odd imagination several times bigger than me. And he was my audience.

Decades later and now that he isn’t around, he’s still my audience. I still check in with him. Funny how I never sought his approval when I was younger, but as I matured [well, sort of] his was the only opinion which counted.

So now that I’m at the age where I shouldn't be doing things which may be deemed idiotic, shameful and downright stupid, I wish Pop was around to smack me a few times. I thought about this today. How easy was it back when he would be around to knock some sense into me. How I could’ve used that slap of awakening recently.

Pops, I’m really ashamed to say I’ve done it again. Another unforgivable, irreversible doosey of a, well shall we just say I pulled yet another Philip?

I’ll see you Saturday Pops. Ok. Ok. It's really Dad. He was never Pops.

Miss you all the same.

Love you.

Your son,

Philip

In the arms of your significant being: Grey Goose

The bottle has been sitting in the corner of my kitchen for over a month now. Funny how I greet it every morning as it reminds me of her. Something you need to know—I’m not a Vodka drinker. As a matter of fact I’ve only had it once where I actually appreciated it and it was probably because it was such a desirable setting: after a late breakfast, 40 degrees outside, a Sunday, cigars and a batch of Martinis with good friends. An impromptu session, but stuff you remember into the dark old days when the sharers of those memories are not longer around.

Ok, but this entry is about the Grey Goose. She brought such a smile to my face. I’ve never met anyone as precious as her. Words would never describe her.

I found myself tonight face to face with the bottle. Of course I knew it was never going to be opened nor enjoyed by her. It was a bottle that represented all of the good times I had hoped to have with her. It now sat quietly in the corner. When our eyes met a sad sensation arose in me. But just as quickly, I was greeted with warmth and a cherished sensation akin to a wonderful memory.

“She was the girl, wasn’t she” the bottle seemed to say.

“Yeah she was,” I replied. “In more ways than anyone would ever know. Besides, her memory is mine to keep and not meant to be shared with anyone.”

“Why?’” Wouldn’t sharing not ease that lump you have in you right now?”

“Grey” I replied, “as much as sharing eases your pain, there’s a thought I prescribe to. It’s where the more you share your memory fades. You see, it just becomes a well rehearsed story where details are altered, and events as well as moments of tenderness fade into the background. And while that in itself isn’t necessarily bad, there are memories where it needn’t be altered, nor shared. With her, I’d rather leave all the memories to myself—just the way it is, in the arms of my significant being.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Rider

Rider reminded me of no one I've never met.

I had no one in my thin, nozzled life whom compared to Rider. It's been a year since Rider drove into my life. How Rider appeared deserves a chapter on it's own. Futhermore, the highs and lows which Rider affected deserves yet a few chapters.

But this chapter isn't really about Rider and it's about something different. It's about how I finally met someone at this stage in my life where I believe I've found a real friend. It's my first in quite some time. We had a conversation recently where in describing to Rider whom Rider represented, I was able to articulate quite easily. That's no small feat as it's a well know fact that the Gods of Articulation and I are no steadfast pals. In fact, I prescribe to the Anti-Articulation League of Frustrated Enunciators. Witness the 250 words thus far in this entry to get to this point.

I've heard from time to time that there will be one great love in your life. Similarly, luck you'll have a handful of close friends. I'm not sure I prescribe to this romantic notion of exclusivity. In your life, you will have numerous loves. True, only a few may take the form of flesh and blood, but is it not the case where love can also take the form of non-carbon objects? As for friends, I may have to succumb to the theory of handfuls. There are those who seek my friendship and those whom I've sought. And of course, numerous individuals whom I've neglected. And Rider, for some reason keeps me in touch with that fact--the fact that as my own best friend, I've often neglected myself. It's why I cherish the time where I visit with myself. I check in with myself, and inquire how I'm doing.

Yeah, it sounds borderline clinical redzone, but I can't wait to get home to cocoon in the company of myself.

Take a seat on the patio.

Flip the movie on.

Pour the redness.

Wallow.

Rejoice.

Tucked away in my small corner of the Universe, in the arms of my very own significant being.

Maboroshi no Hikari

Ima hitazumi ni omotte iruno desu--kagayaku hikari wa naze minikui no desho? Meno mae ga mienaku naru hodo okarui. Sorewa shiyawase nano desho ka? Sore tomo kurasa no nakade ikiteiru uchi ni hikari no sekai wo motemeru kokoro ga jitus wa ikirukachi nano desho ka?

Boku wa sonna hikari ga daikirai desu. Naze anna attami ga aru, utsuku shii mono ga kiete shi ma wa nake re ba ikenai no desho. Ya ha ri maboroshi nano desu ne.

Yattsu no egao kara hitotsu sae
Sore wo sagashi nami ni deru.
Sasoware anomichi wo kudari
Natsu no koe wo mata mitsuke,
Kokoro ochitsuke aki no kumo.

goose bumps in the heart of my life.

ko i shi ra zu
omo e ba
ki mi no
ko ko ro ko so.

na ze na ra ba
itsu mo ya ai fu ka shi
ki mi no ko e

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Velma

Fifteen minutes and still no sign of Velma. I'm her escort for the evening.

I had come across her in a place in Manhattan two weeks prior. I was alone nursing my second drink at the Campbell Apartment. I was feeling horrible. Just plain tired. I was fiddling with the obligatory bowl of nuts placed in front of me. I reach out for a cashew only to find another finger hunting feverishly in the bowl, as if looking for lost treasure.

“Brazil nuts are my favorite,”.

I look up and see this striking women. Not entirely beautiful, but striking in a sensual, soft way that only an Asian women can be.

“Hi. My name is Velma.”

“And you have this thing for Brazil nuts.” I add.

She smiled and replied something about how she’ll dump a can of mixed nuts upside-down and hunt for Brazil nuts. I told her we’d be a good couple as I detest the stuff but will pick out the almonds and cashews. We both agree that peanut really don't have a place in the nut world. Unless of course it's the really good kind you get from the South...the boiled, crunchy stuff.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: West

I’ll call you right back says West. Now in the beginning I took this literally. Little did I know that this was West’s way of saying, “OK, that’s it for now, bye”. So in the beginning I was always puzzled as I waited for the return call. The call that never materialized. The puzzlement turned into anger then into a mild depression then back into anger again. And so on.

But I came to a realization that this was just the way West was. She was just scattered. And I don’t say that in a mean way. She has a bazillion things going on and always going in ten different directions. I also suppose when you’re that adorable and cute, you also can get away with it.

I recall this one time when we agreed to meet in Sacramento. I’m in Fresno and the idea was for me to drive up in the afternoon in time to get together for the evening. I was never able to confirm, but that’s just how it was with West. I was getting a bit frustrated when I was unable to reach her. Fatigue was setting in as I had gotten up at 3:30 am or so to catch the early flight from LAX. The cell rings and its West. She informs me that she has to drive down to Fresno as there’s something going on. Maybe we can meet there and join her and her “friend”. I inform her that that won’t work as I’m now halfway between Sacramento and Fresno. Maybe a drink somewhere around the Sacramento/Delta turnoff she suggests. Long story short I ask her for a rain check. I fib and tell her I’m probably too tired to be fun company anyway. She softly apologizes. The way only West can.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Velma

I was Velma's escort to a floral arragement exhibit a the Waldorf. It was a society thing sponsored the Japan Society. She asked me if I would be interested as she knew of my background and interest in Ikebana. It also turns out that similarly to my Mom, Velma's mother was a floral arrangement teacher.

I agree to accompany her as something gives me the feeling that she feels alone and vulnerable. She can be a very softspoken girl who does express her feelings in depth. Another similarity we share in common. I often wonder what she thinks or feels.

We arrive at the Waldorf, she's looking extremely attractive. Very understated but incredibly sensual. She puts her arm through mine and clings slightly. We walk into the hall and am greeted by a swarming crowd of Asians. I'm surprised to see the amount of women clad in Kimonos, most likely wives of the Senior Officials of the Society. One elderly Japanese women greets Velma, comments on how beautiful her arrangement has turned out and praises her. Velma thanks her and they chat a bit. I take this as my cue to wander over to the bar to fetch some drinks. As I walk to the bar, I look into the crowd. The room goes into slow motion as the Kimono ladies slowly cross the room against the austere backdrop of the stunning arrangements.

I catch Velma's glance as I walk back with the drinks. She moves towards me and nestles next to me. A small smile. I brush her forehead with mine. She's embarressed that I did that in a room full of Japanese, but at the same time I sense that she feels safe. Odd how we can feel completely alone in the midst of the crowd.

I once asked Velma some time later why she was alone at the Campbell Apartment when we first met. She told me that she was coaxed by her friend, the hostess. Apparently she had not gone out for a while and didn't want to deal with the annoyances of someone engaging with her but figured if she was tucked away in a corner stool always with earshot of her friend, she'd be sheltered from crowds. Of course it didn't preclude her from meeting me.

I asked her why she was feeling lonely. She mentioned that she had broken off with someone recently and was feeling an emptiness. A few weeks prior, she had met someone through Craigslist. They corressponded a bit and realized that had similar professional backgrounds. It was decided to meet for a casual drink at Eli's in the Upper East Side. It turned out to be a great choice as it was a nice, quiet location. She arrived early and waited for the date to arrive. He arrive a few minutes late, dripping wet from head to toe. He was caught in a sudden rainstorm and was completely soaked as he ran from the 77th Street Subway exit to Eli's at 80th and 3rd. He walked in. Flashed a big smile and a hello, excused himself and disappeared with a couple of bar towels the barkeep handed him as he made the corner into the washroom. He emerged a few minutes later, slightly presentable and his white shirt not quite soaken through.

Velma mentioned that he turned out to be a funny charming man and took a liking to him. She felt comfort in his stories and anecdotes. At one point he drew her close and kissed her lightly. She responded. They lingered for awhile and the kisses became more intense. The small crowd left them alone and in the dimly lit section of the bar they were in their own universe. They left Eli's and made their way back to his place. It had stopped raining and a gorgeous New York evening emerged.

So what happened I asked Velma. Slightly embarressed she mentioned that she spent the night with him and the episode blossomed into a few more nights of romance together. But she added that in the end, it was nothing more than a feeling of wanting to be held. To be in the arms of someone. And she knew it wouldn't be anything more than that.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: Diary

Shortly before I met Velma I started writing down a few notes. Not exactly a diary but more of what I call miscellaneous ramblings. I just wrote what came into my mind at that moment. It seemed to help ease my bout with depression and I enjoyed the calming effect. The writing came in spurts. I sometimes wrote in Japanese, drew when the moment presented itself and also examined events from my childhood. The writings were contained in a small black spiral bound notebook and my last entry was the day I spoke with Sayuri for the first time. It seemed an appropriate time as much of the writings had been about my feelings about West and the highs and lows I was experiencing. Sayuri represented a new beginning and perhaps a significant new chapter.

In The Arms of Your Significant Being: West

I had a strong, immediate connection with West. Not only was she beautiful, but engaging, personable and an immediate friend. We met in the conference room and we ended up talking about our entire life in an one hour period. The world stopped for us and went around us. West told me about her father's illness and how that became a life altering event. It took her away from Los Angeles and into a path she hadn't considered. It's ironic now, two years later how she despises the institution which she credits to saving her father's life.

We talked again later that night. This time about my marriage, the breakup and why I find myself alone in Los Angeles. I was attracted to her, but at the same time felt this kinship. It was the rediscovery of a long lost friend. And I think West felt similarly.

West's life story is patchy. I know chunks of certain vertical time periods but not what connects each space in time. She tells me that she's had several long term relationships, which, I didn't doubt for a second. But what puzzeled me was why such a beautiful, eligible creature had never been married. From what she tells me there were countless proposals. Timing never seemed to be right for her. When he was ready, she wasn't. When she was ready to marry, he wasn't. Hard to believe some man would turn her down or even begin to imagine that they weren't ready to take West's hand. But as I have come to know her, there is something about West which put a damper on a relationship: if you were a possessive soul, West would be a problem. West belongs to the world. And the world belongs to her. She's a tireless soul. A caring person who will go beyond for others. And I don't know if a person who only wants to care for her would be enough for her. Although in the end, that is the affection she craves.

West tells me she's searching for the soul mate. How would she know if she met one? She remarked to me once that she had no problems letting him know. She's not afraid to tell hem. I still wonder though if she'll recognize him even when he presents himself. Of course I'm thinking about myself. And no, West hasn't spoken up to me.

What I do know about West is that she will end up with someone out of familiarity or convenience. "I know him. I can anticipate his actions. I know he cares for me." I suppose it's a form of giving in or "dakyo" as it's more appropriately called in Japanese. I hope she feels comfort in this. I'm still battling the idea. Perhaps because I have this fear that if I give in to "dakyo" at this point, my entire past would have meant a meaningless struggle. Although conversely this stubborness may be at the core of my problems. Maybe there is no significant being outside of yourself and your selfishness mares your vision. Is that why in order to clearly see, you have to detach?

I recently heard that West is engaged with that fellow. What happened? Was the blur which made her unable to see come into focus? Or did she give in to "dakyo" so that a sense a being might finally materialize? I'm sure I'll never learn why.