With that sweet moon language.

Flowers inside the entrance of Ueno Zoo - a long row of radiant, delicate cupped pastel on thin green stalks held by gusts of wind. Otherwise, I couldn’t find anything worthwhile - only a lot of tired-looking zoo animals behind bars and glass. And a snapshot of part of a Rodin sculpture outside Ueno’s National Museum of Western Art, where I went to see a “Venus” exhibit.

I saw this movie about Rachmaninoff (the English name is “Lilacs”). When I began to tear up at the opening chords of his Piano Concerto No. 2 at the beginning of the movie, I realized again how much I care. Piano was my first intimation of mortality - you can never turn back time to create the circumstances that might have made you better, that would have polished your negligible amount of potential (and thirst & desire) into some form of great and shining success. But I would rather live my failure with grace; I have moments that I would rather keep for myself. When many a teacher said, during one of my frequent moments of dissatisfaction, “But I like to hear you play.” My teacher sitting in silence before saying, “That was beautiful” - because I missed notes, but this piece is everything to me. A spare space in time - a hushed moment kept tight in my heart - when, for once, I was on a stage or in a practice room, and I played honestly because I forgot myself entirely, or you could say I remembered myself fully, without any hesitation or self-deprecation. The knowledge that someone has really heard. I want to leave these things with myself. I would rather forget all the ugly thoughts - that I have bad technique, that my playing is appallingly bad to many people - and instead learn to embrace this wonderful love story that I have had. I am always mocking myself with a relentless, cruelly acute inner critic; I have an extremely difficult time taking myself seriously. Is it peculiar that piano has been such a big part of my consciousness, my personal growth, when I’m not even a very good pianist? But I am good, in that I have always gotten something out of a piece that has mattered to me.

At Yale, I want to keep on playing and accept the place that piano has for me. I cannot compete with anyone else; I cannot try to fight against time. Sometimes I forget what I have learned, that people can leave this world all too quickly, and under these circumstances, you should really just do everything that matters to you. I think about what a pleasure it will be to play the piano again, to share pieces like small jewels with people I care about.

A poem first found by a dear friend.

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Everything and nothing, my current state of mind.

My part-time job, while exciting for the first day or so, seems like it won’t be a big part of my summer, since I’ll probably only be needed for special events or to fill in occasionally.  And yes, my right foot is still slightly swollen and aching, and I was told to stay off it until it’s better.  I decided to take that advice since it was starting to worry me - it’s been hurting since mid-April - and I’m going to be running around a lot during the second half of May.  So mostly I’ve been lurking around the house feeling caged and restless.

I sleep on the upper bunk, with the bottom one for storage space.  When the train passes by my house, the bed shakes, and I turn over and pull my blanket tighter around myself.

Once this is over with, I want to start running in the mornings.  It’ll feel good to pull on a t-shirt and exercise shorts and get sweaty and tired - to feel like I’m doing something.  And I’m tired of being weak or sick.  Enough with the endless string of bad colds in February and March, the stupid foot that gave out on me in April.  Drawn away from everything, feeling tired, colorless, bloated from lack of movement.  It’s almost summer, and I want to walk through it being strong, lean, stripped of all that’s unhealthy.

Since moving here, I’ve had vivid dreams heavy with nostalgia thread their way through my nights.  People I haven’t seen in years appear, getting married, mocking me, inviting me over.  Past loves telling me new and interesting things…this is only in dreams.  I make plans to stay at friends’ dorm rooms at Wellesley only to wake up and realize that these girls are now miles and miles away from me, that time is almost two years in the past, and I will never exactly return there again.

I went over to Togoshi Koen the other day and took a few lush pictures to show you.  According to this page, Togoshi Koen was created based on the garden of a feudal lord from the Edo Period.  What it doesn’t mention is that there are gnats swarming everywhere in the air, and it’s very hard to stop for even a few seconds to take a picture without having them attack you.  But it’s very pretty, isn’t it?  My morning jog is going to pass through here!

Does anyone want to climb Mt. Fuji with me in early July?  It’s commonly enough done that it shouldn’t be that difficult even for someone like me who isn’t very athletic.  Maybe climb Mt. Fuji, then see Chagall at the Pola Museum and soak at an onsen in Hakone the next day.

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Planning, reading.

My master plan for Thailand is now complete. Rainy days, nervous energy (unease + restlessness), and a recuperating foot are good for something. We’re going to shop and eat our way around Bangkok and explore Ao Nang, Railay Beach, and Ko Phi Phi in southern Thailand.

This evening I’ve been snuggled up on a big polyester chair in the kitchen as I’ve alternately blogged, look for tantalizing descriptions of Bangkok street food, chatted with the other girls staying in the house, and read bits here and there of Anne of Green Gables.  About my penchant for returning every few years to that series (there are actually eight novels), which I owned in paperback from elementary through high school, sometimes it’s safer to sink into nostalgia when everything around you is bewildering–slow and lazy, yet somehow simultaneously strained and rushed, weighted with promise and anxiety.  This always happens to me.  Worrying about the reading that I “have to” do, I forget that passion and enjoyment are not mutually exclusive.  In any case, Anne of Green Gables provides a good type of nostalgia with its warmth and lovely descriptions.

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