Captain's Log, Day 2. Supplemental.
Well, I just got done with a perfectly good dinner with my Thai family, and then I called my friend to wish her a happy b-day. So far, so good.
The dinner went really well. We talked about ghosts and how they are real in Thailand and how they can't do anything to you, but they are still scary. My younger brother, whose name I mispronounced (both brothers are named Yo with different tones), was pouting for some reason and kept placing various hand written notes outside of his room. One was even on a makeshift stand whose base was comprised of two colored hearts. All the notes said that his older brother was not allowed into the room. Fortunately, mom and dad rode to the rescue, using a hidden key to enter the room, whereupon Yo (the younger) made an appearance and attempted to remain proud in his defiance. I respected that, so I finally worked up the courage to whip out some pictures my mom gave me for him. They were of wind-powered turbines, and they went over really well.
Upon seeing those pictures and hearing the giant things were near my American mom's house, my Thai mom (is this getting confusing yet) requested to see pictures of my Mom's house. So I brought out the only 3 pictures I could find (along with a bunch taken of her property). The three photos depicted the following: 1. the actual house in the dark, lit up for Christmas with snow falling; 2. The top corner of the house with a cat on it and the two story garage behind it; and 3. an old barn in which they keep a tractor.
My Thai mom held up the picture with the tractor shed and asked if it was my mom's house. I immediately realized that it highly resembled many of the Thai houses surrounded mine (dilapidated old wood that has gaps between the boards in places). So that was a rough spot in explaining. Imagine my further consternation when the two story building with a really nice roof was, in fact, a garage for housing cars and tools. I think I accidentally conveyed that I lived there for a time, given that I said my stuff was in the attic. Oh well, you can't win em all.
In other news, I have been reading again, and I wanted to include an excerpt from one of the short stories I read, written by Eudora Welty in 1941. This particular excerpt is a black band leader named Powerhouse speaking in a bar he goes to during intermission with his bandmates wanting to hear some music:
"Here's a million nickels," says Powerhouse, pulling his hand out of his pocket and sprinkling coins out, all but the last one, which he makes vanish like a magician.
This story, entitled 'Powerhouse,' has such a great way of making me feel the characters that it made me want to write again. I am frequently amazed to find hidden gems like this lying around. I have gone through a lot of bad books, movies, and stories, but can't nobody say that Pocket hasn't tested what he likes. Powerhouse drove home the notion that a good story isn't theme or message, it is description. Poetry isn't convolution or complication, it is simplification. Music isn't sorrow or love, it is a way of life. And this is, quite simply, because if you limit yourself to describing, simplifying, and living, then people will find meaning in and with you.
- Jean-luc Pocket's Supplementals are often longer than his regular logs... And no, that isn't a poop joke.
The dinner went really well. We talked about ghosts and how they are real in Thailand and how they can't do anything to you, but they are still scary. My younger brother, whose name I mispronounced (both brothers are named Yo with different tones), was pouting for some reason and kept placing various hand written notes outside of his room. One was even on a makeshift stand whose base was comprised of two colored hearts. All the notes said that his older brother was not allowed into the room. Fortunately, mom and dad rode to the rescue, using a hidden key to enter the room, whereupon Yo (the younger) made an appearance and attempted to remain proud in his defiance. I respected that, so I finally worked up the courage to whip out some pictures my mom gave me for him. They were of wind-powered turbines, and they went over really well.
Upon seeing those pictures and hearing the giant things were near my American mom's house, my Thai mom (is this getting confusing yet) requested to see pictures of my Mom's house. So I brought out the only 3 pictures I could find (along with a bunch taken of her property). The three photos depicted the following: 1. the actual house in the dark, lit up for Christmas with snow falling; 2. The top corner of the house with a cat on it and the two story garage behind it; and 3. an old barn in which they keep a tractor.
My Thai mom held up the picture with the tractor shed and asked if it was my mom's house. I immediately realized that it highly resembled many of the Thai houses surrounded mine (dilapidated old wood that has gaps between the boards in places). So that was a rough spot in explaining. Imagine my further consternation when the two story building with a really nice roof was, in fact, a garage for housing cars and tools. I think I accidentally conveyed that I lived there for a time, given that I said my stuff was in the attic. Oh well, you can't win em all.
In other news, I have been reading again, and I wanted to include an excerpt from one of the short stories I read, written by Eudora Welty in 1941. This particular excerpt is a black band leader named Powerhouse speaking in a bar he goes to during intermission with his bandmates wanting to hear some music:
"Here's a million nickels," says Powerhouse, pulling his hand out of his pocket and sprinkling coins out, all but the last one, which he makes vanish like a magician.
This story, entitled 'Powerhouse,' has such a great way of making me feel the characters that it made me want to write again. I am frequently amazed to find hidden gems like this lying around. I have gone through a lot of bad books, movies, and stories, but can't nobody say that Pocket hasn't tested what he likes. Powerhouse drove home the notion that a good story isn't theme or message, it is description. Poetry isn't convolution or complication, it is simplification. Music isn't sorrow or love, it is a way of life. And this is, quite simply, because if you limit yourself to describing, simplifying, and living, then people will find meaning in and with you.
- Jean-luc Pocket's Supplementals are often longer than his regular logs... And no, that isn't a poop joke.