In which I begin my chic and refined living

So, to

This is written on my ancient washing machine.  The "urban" is a bit of a low blow.

(Slim my Cafemug)

and heavy my heart as I trudge through the days as I shall now relate...

I knew it.  IknewitIknewitIknewit.  You go and name a blog something like “A Catalogue of Light” and there is no way, no way, that it is not going to turn into a bitter joke.  No way in hell.  So, as promised, I am trying REALLY HARD not to transition directly into "A Catalogue of Woes" (English spelling retained for added pathos), but it's been tough.  Heretofore undiscovered, truly unpleasant, you-really-don't want-to-know levels of tough.  Hence my lack of posts.  Really, though; would you rather have nothing, or twenty pages of existential angst and philosophical maundering about fish?  You tell me.  'Cause I've got reserves.

Cultural Incident: this morning there was a man outside my bedroom window at six in the morning, mowing hay with some infernal hand-held machine, sort of like a giant circular saw weedeater with a backpack engine.  He was then raking the hay into rows.  With a rake.  A rake made of wood.  He appears to be about 80 years old.  End cultural incident.  

 

This is Bizarro-cat.  His name is Daifuku, which means “big luck.”  He is a sweet, friendly cat, but he will NOT. SHUT. UP.  All day, all night, maow maow maow mRRa’prauw lick maow bite lick lick cuddle paw MAAAAAUW.  Is it morally justifiable for a vegetarian to gag a cat?  Even if said cat is damaging her calm?  I’ve also never had an indoor/outdoor cat before, and his presence leaves me feeling distinctly unclean.  Which echoes my feelings for my apartment.  

The hell of wood paneling.  The entire downstairs (entry, washing machine, kitchen, bath, toilet) is covered in the most unconvincing metal trompe l'nul woodgrain I have ever seen.  On the mirror, upper left, is a drawing of a baby holding a shotgun.  Caption: "I believe my justice."

Entryway.  Thrill.

Office/living room with closets, bookshelf, and scuzzy couch suffering from pleather eczema.

Other side of the same room.  I actually love the floor-chair.

Bedroom.  This is where the laundry lives.  With a tiny washer, small wardrobe, and frequent rain, this indoor line is full 100% of the time, adding some much-needed humidity to my interior-scape.  Apparently, no sheets are currently made in Japan to fit this mattress, which is reasonable because it is crap.

But I have a tanuki!  So far he has failed to crush any of my foes with his giant swinging testicles, but I live in hope.

Exterior shot; more soon.  The grass out here is now above my knees.  Those of you with schoolboard experience can probably imagine the joy of having the country board of education as your landlord.

So, here it is, in all its glory.  Narrow, metal, old, hot.  The upstairs is not bad, just a little ragged (plus one room has these creepy gray baby hand-prints on the wall).  It has been a long time since I slept in the full summer heat without air conditioning; it’s actually been strangely nostalgic.  The discomfort of the whisper-thin, spring-sprung mattress, though, is neither nostalgic nor charming.  The reason I can’t sleep in the one air-conditioned room is difficult to explain without attaching a soundfile, but I’ll give it a go.  All the walls in my apartment have round vents with screens on the inside and heavy metal shutters on the outside.  These seem to regulate pressure somehow, gently flapping open from time to time and doing so more frequently and forcefully when the weather is changing.  The one in the air-conditioned living room, however, SLAMS at irregular intervals and incredible volume.  It shakes the walls and I can’t sleep through it.  

In lighter news, either I’ve finally stopped smelling like a racehorse with a glandular disorder, or I am losing the ability to perceive my own stench.  Really hoping it’s the former.  I have a beauty routine now that takes over an hour in the morning; hair, pretty clothes I hope, full make-up, tan pantyhose in the tropical heat...it's depressing.   

I can't confirm that it makes my make-up completely, but it is a really good eyelash curler.

Have I mentioned that Japan is the US in the 50's?  See upcoming posts for more details.  Suffice it to say that I am now putting more effort than ever before into my appearance, doing it while sick and from a home that makes me feel slimy.  I've had cockroaches, slugs, live lizards, dead lizards, dead mice, really dead mice, and lines of ants.  The cat tracks in dirt and grass.  Water leaks from…somewhere.  Drifts of white cat hair clump in corners. 

I went to Kobe last weekend and, among (too) many other things, bought a little cloth carrying case for two onigiri.  If you don’t know them, onigiri are the triangular rice balls that Japanese people often eat for lunch.   

Looking cute will not save you now.  Being filled with fish, now that'll do it.

There is no way I can justify having a special container for these objects, but it's charming and purple, and I put it on my kitchen table to cheer me up.  This morning, eating my Mild Chocolate cornflakes, I picked it up to bask in the pointless ownership and a lizard jumped out, onto my face.  We are talking about a harmless, 1.5 inch gecko here, but still, there was much gender-neutral squealing.  Somehow, this incident feels representative of my life here.  So forgive my unfocused post and tune in next week for tales from the Japanese educational system, provisionally titled How I learned to stop worrying and love bombing, or, The Sound of Silence.  Please leave any questions or suggestions in the comments.  Please talk to me.  Someone has to.