Le dessin inclus est venu d’un calendrier de 2007.

J’espère que ton vol se passe agréablement et tu arrives à dormir un peu. C’est toujours mon problème, je ne peux point m’endormir en avion et après quelques heures, je commence à me sentir ennuyé et fou. Je ne sais pas combien d’heures ça prend entre Paris et Tokyo, mais je me prépare pour les 12 heures de Los Angeles au Japon!!!

Quant à Masumi, je ne sais pas. Je ne lui parle pas régulièrement comme toi, mais il me semble qu’elle est toujours très occupée par son travail. Peut-être elle ne te répond pas encore à cause de ça. En tout cas je vais lui écrire une petite note bientôt, on verra… La dernière fois que j’ai été à Tokyo, on s’est revus et elle m’a invité au diner; elle était très sympa, envers mon ami japonais Yusuke aussi. Ｄonc j’imagine qu’elle est juste un peu fatiguée.

Ｊe serai très content d’explorer la vie nocturne japonaise avec toi! Ｊe vais rechercher des bars et des restaurants sympas. Ｐendant les journées j’estime qu’on va faire toutes les choses touristes et du shopping, mais j’aimerais bien découvrir des “trésors cachés” où qu’ils soient. On n’a pas encore décidé sur l’emploi du temps, mais nous sommes assez ouverts.

D’abord, je veux te voir! Mon amie Yumi doit être libre ces soirs-là aussi; elle parle japonais et anglais. Il sera un bon mélange de langues entre nous!

Okay, on se parlera plus comme s’approche mon jour de départ. Bon voyage à toi et ton mari! Au mois de juillet!

Apart from using three separate blogging entities, and various social networking sites, there’s a constant deluge of news articles to be read and amusing pictures and other stuff sent by friends.  Not to mention Wikipedia.  Ahh!  I’ve been cooped up in this office by myself in a slight panic.  It could be the one or two puffs I took earlier this afternoon.

I am at a loss, to put it simply.  Outside of the internet, back in the IRL world, there is so much that needs to be done or attended to or taken care of or simply thought about.  I feel messy, spilled all over like a beer bottle knocked down.

I hope to approach you with more seriousness all around, budget you accordingly to match my ambitions.  There is a lot to do, and you have been sorely missed this past year.  I guess this greater appreciation of you will whip my life in shape if I stay focused.

Mostly, I want to fulfill day-to-day aspirations rather than worry about the distant future too much.  The big picture will come together if I can fit the small pieces together first.  I hope I’m not naive.  I’d call it cautious optimism borne of practicality and experience.

I am thoroughly anticipating the challenges you will present to me, however.  I have always disliked dwelling on a sense of the ephemeral, of concluding.  Part of me still feels a villager-mentality mysticism attached to the passing of the seasons.

It’s best to relish you, with no regrets.  Somehow, years later, I always return to the same affirmations.  I suppose it’s reassuring.

Oh, little one, how beat up you must be, how quivering and pulpy and soaked in spirits.  And you certainly had your retribution.  Little did I know this morning, when I woke up feeling peachykeen and singing the theme song from The Jeffersons (“We finally got a piece of the pieeee…”), that you would turn on me in a few hours – with a vengeance.

All of a sudden at work I felt some great metaphysical shift in my qi.  Oh fuck, I thought.  Oh no.  The room seemed to dim and suddenly e-mail was atrociously hard to focus on, Excel spreadsheets were openly hostile, the sound of my boss’ screechy voice nauseating.  I felt dizzy walking to and from the bathroom, where I sat on the toilet with my hands folded impotently over my head, whirling in the nether regions of in-between conscious states.

Curse you, liver, that was not a funny trick to pull in the morning.  I couldn’t even finish my lunch, relegating half a Tupperware full of mezzi rigatoni with pesto and tomato sauce back into the fridge.  You made coffee be the least palatable smell I could imagine, the very thought of those beans and that dark aroma rendering me queasy as a bulimic in her first trimester.

I have paid dearly for my abuses and I am truly sorry, though I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.  Perhaps we need a hiatus, liver.  I will leave you alone for a while and visit with my mistress, Mary Jane.  Maybe we can mend our stormy relationship if we keep a comfortable distance.  I’m certainly hopeful.

It seems like an absurd game on a cosmic scale, self-created, self-perpetuated.

What is the point, Miriam?  What is the fucking point?  I don’t see why I should bother to feign interest in meeting anyone’s demands or expectations.

At least I’ve learned a few things from you, as always:

- Pomegranate tea is not a viable cure for you. In fact, it made me even more nauseous.

- Aforementioned nausea leading to vomiting five minutes before leaving for work; talk about an inauspicious way to start the day.

- I’m more susceptible to hugging when drunk.

- I’m a better dart player when drunk.

- Drinking cup after cup of straight Seagram’s may seem like a good idea at the time, but will lead to extraordinary bodily discomfort in a few hours.

- It’s easier to stare at people unabashed when drunk. They almost unravel before your eyes, their mannerisms and comportment and social graces (or lack thereof) and self-image. It’s also easy to unravel yourself.

- Cold night at the street corner outside the lesbian bar waiting for a tow truck strikes me as an exquisite feeling of desolation.

- I never learn.

After a brief respite this evening, I will probably do this all over again.