I push
myself not to eat starch; at least not too much of it. I had a call early this morning and
whipped up some rather abrupt breakfast fare for the girls. The older one did not eat her peanut
butter and honey open faced English muffin. That thing sat there on the table, when I went up to get my
healthy grapefruit juice refill and I took a bite. This is the beginning of the end. Next, the express mail delivery dude rang the bell. It was still sitting there. I took another bite or two and wetted out the taste with a handful of raisons.
The next time I passed through there was less than half the thing left
so I shrugged and inhaled it and now it’s gone. Still, I’ll probably justify my starch-conscious salad, regardless.
There was so much bird noise out there this morning. I’d like to say it was beautiful. I’d like to say that the sounded like lovebirds
or tropical bird songs but rather it sounded like a tough bunch of chickadees
arguing over just whose seeds these actually belonged to. “They’re mine.”
“They’re mine” “They’re mine,” over
and over. All I could think of was
that one of these bullies had probably been the one that ate up he/she, the
spider who disappeared yesterday and did not re-appear today. I was supposed to think about nothing,
sitting there, but all I did was hold things up and look at them from different
angles, over and over again with all the patience of a hungry bird, 画饼充饥[1]
I’ve gotta hit the road again today, for three days. Come home and head right back out
again. There is a birthday this
weekend that I cannot miss. It’s
cloudy just now and it had better not rain or the two-hour flight will turn into an eight-hour
sampling of Air China’s in flight entertainment. The calendar birthday is on Sunday but it looks like we’re
having the party on Saturday. My
wife made a very cool invitation card for my daughter to distribute to her
friends. I think my little one was
struggling with who to invite form the old school and who to invite from the
new school and whether or not the two groups would get along OK. Sounds easy as a bi-cultural adult, “it’ll
be one big happy party, dear." But only
she knows how truly challenging that might be to bridge. And who would have difficulty and which
way it would stretch her.
I’m holding off on calling Ctrip to book my flight, because
once I do the clock will start ticking.
This is silly because I have to leave tonight anyway, so the number of
hours remaining isn’t any different.
But this way I can work on things like this blog without a specific
definition to the sword over my head.
But its up there dangling nonetheless. Down to Shanghai, which may be a
bit warmer. It may also be quite a bit warmer. I’d really prefer to stay right where I am.
Why move? I’ve
got a wonderful album on that is helping me procrastinate. “The Cafe Extra-Ordinaire
Story” released in 1977 by the bass player Bobby Jackson. There’s a fascinating narration of the
gentlemen’s effort to keep open a jazz venue open in the Twin Cities during the
years when it was hard enough to attempt to do so New York. It reminds me of a treatment my dear
friend and I have worked on for years, titled “The Club Istanbul:” jazz as the metaphor for intercultural improvization set in a Club that used to be. Part producer, part musician, Mr.
Jackson hosted a range of guests on this swinging, modal collection of grooves
and he is the one consistent instrumentalist on all the tunes. “Peepin” is on now and it is melancholy
like a club on its last day off existence, or a cloudy day when you don’t want
to travel.
[1] huàbǐngchōngjī: lit.
to allay one's hunger using a picture of a cake / to feed on illusions (idiom)
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