1. Sushi Symphony

    Food transcends being just food when you experience it in palatable symphonies, a sort of marriage of the senses and soul that when harmonised, make you say, this is straight from that elusive paradigm Plato was always going on about. I felt this today, dining at a small, renown sushi restaurant in Roppongi, Tokyo. The live ingredients, caught that morning, still retained a vibrancy in it’s flesh, lying in an irresistible lambency under white paper lanterns. I was in awe of each aesthetic arrangement, and the astute queue of sushi served to retain each individual piece’s delicacy and harmony with the course as a whole. The carefully paced rhythm conducted by the sushi chef, the elegant song of each fine-tuned ingredient, and the ingenious accompaniment with it’s timely punctuation, composed an unforgettable symphony on par with the London Orchestra. It is a synchronisation of the senses: vision, smell, taste, texture, that align so seamlessly, it caresses the soul, giving for a moment something that perhaps, might have been created by god, or in that perfect world of our good friend, Plato. 

     

  2. "How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?"
    — Plato
     

  3. Scraping

    A cracked open window on the 11th floor
    welcomes no timid west wind in.
    She’s a vagabond to her own open sky
    that’s been taken by scrapers,
    a jagged skyline,
    hanging from earth like unholy fruit,
    crawling with traffic
    and creatures
    who look but can’t see. 
    The outside pushes in, 
    echoes against the walls, where I sit 
    heavy lidded, white-washed, tasting salt. 

     

  4. The Japanese Describing Their First Game at the FIFA World Cup


    "Wabi-Sabi
     is a Japanese concept of finding beauty in things imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. It celebrates humanness and melancholy, defies perfection and embraces the inevitability of death. In their first game against the Ivorians, Japan were a team beautifully imperfect and incomplete. They mesmerised with their attack, but they wilted like a dying flower at the back.” 

    omg Japan turns everything into an existential haiku 

     

  5. Isabella and the Pot of Basil

    Isabella by the basil plant            
    roots itself in severed love.      
    putrid with her endless grief,   
    deluged beyond a basin’s steep      
    her well is her devotion deep.  

    Sweet basil’s mulch her tears did nourish.
    His vomer lay in scattered bloom,
    and love for him could never flourish;
    for he, his weakness was his tomb. 

    Her lover speechless but in reprieve,
    his presence gone but in each leaf;    
    persecution within her grief
    for Isabella would bereave.
    And little is aware, to the man in her bed,          
    that he’s outdone by basil and a potted head. 

     

     
  6. Brandy Alexander - Feist

     
     
  7. The Missing Piece Meets the Big O.

     

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  10. Good times, noodle salad. 

     
     
  11. After the Rain has Fallen, Brunswick, Vermont

     
  12. I love this interpretation of Op. 9 n. 2 by Rachmaninoff. It’s a relatively easy song, but the nuances are extremely delicate….It takes a special soul to get it right, I think. 

     
     

  13. The Island Closest to Heaven

    Solitude washes up bodies on the beach like the tide. They walk into the sea from every continent, fully clothed, and intrepid to the eternal submersion. For what is there to fear? I hope that I’m forgotten, and I hope I’m forgotten quickly. I’ve read tombstones with unfathomable bits of remembrance, names substituted with “Loving Mother,” and gaudy memorialising lights. I’d rather be forgotten completely than remembered falsely. And while you sink, you’ll pass others sinking with you, and you’ll be reminded that this is not something that is unique to only you, no. We all sink, hair tantalised by the waves until we are washed up on a distant shore, far from where we started. And perhaps then, we’ll drink inordinate amounts of a rum we’ve never tasted before and carouse all night over our sincere happiness that we have meant nothing, and are now never in any danger to.

     

  14. Worn

    I wear your name like a sweater.
    I say it again and again
    until it’s threadbare and thin,
    and I wonder
    if it’s warmth
    was fabricated.

     

  15. Secular Hymn

    The droning river            
                    is run-off from snow
    thawing from peaks       
                    that penetrate the sky.
    The leaves dress in silver,
                    dancing for storms,
    while we pray for rain,  
                    we pray for rain.
    Our coterie of four
                    edge cautiously downward
    into the valley
                    where river awaits
    for the heat of our limbs,   
             our harnessed souls
    wrapped in cotton,
                    encased with history.
    Toes dip in the current,                
                    we tremor with shock,
    as something dormant within
                     is splashed wide awake.
    We wade out, within reach,
                    of each other’s cold hands,
    as we wash away,           
                    we’re washed away.
    I cradle a boy’s head,    
                     baptism by submersion,
    as he gently sinks,          
                    his sins carried away
    on a crest of a current   
                    if we were so inclined,
    to believe. He emerges,
                    breaking the surface,
    and when he gasps,       
                    some divine, holy ghost
    fills his icy lungs.              
                    He grasps my fingers
    like half a prayer,            
                    and we plunge again,
    the great revival,             
                    as rain starts to pour.