Vecchia zimarra
Farewell, my concubine old coat.
Colline's aria from La Boheme when he goes to pawn his old overcoat to buy medicine for Mimi is oddly echoed by this entry. I talked somewhere before about the sadness of losing stuff I've had forever, especially things I used in Japan. Clothes I mind less, because clothes and I have an ambivalent relationship, but yeah. That XL Bodyshop t-shirt that I slept in; the thin cotton t's from Nakano Sun Mall that I wore through the anvil-hot summers of '94 and '95; the fuchsia and emerald and blue jungly-pattern Indian cotton outfits from Morningstar in 1991 (so perfect for muggy weather and never found again) that I used to wash by hand at the Kimi Ryoukan and hang out to dry on their balcony, the thought of which brings back all the forgotten details of my first summer in Tokyo like that. They're memory in concrete form, and when they go to rags a bit of memory gets lost as well.
Now that cheerful times
have vanished, I say to you: Farewell,
my faithful friend.
Farewell, farewell.
Colline's aria from La Boheme when he goes to pawn his old overcoat to buy medicine for Mimi is oddly echoed by this entry. I talked somewhere before about the sadness of losing stuff I've had forever, especially things I used in Japan. Clothes I mind less, because clothes and I have an ambivalent relationship, but yeah. That XL Bodyshop t-shirt that I slept in; the thin cotton t's from Nakano Sun Mall that I wore through the anvil-hot summers of '94 and '95; the fuchsia and emerald and blue jungly-pattern Indian cotton outfits from Morningstar in 1991 (so perfect for muggy weather and never found again) that I used to wash by hand at the Kimi Ryoukan and hang out to dry on their balcony, the thought of which brings back all the forgotten details of my first summer in Tokyo like that. They're memory in concrete form, and when they go to rags a bit of memory gets lost as well.
Now that cheerful times
have vanished, I say to you: Farewell,
my faithful friend.
Farewell, farewell.