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the only time to write

these days it's after i've had a shot of rum, after being out of the house from 10am to 11pm, after bouncing around a classroom feeding off the energy derived from a can of soda, instant coffee, bright-eyed young people fueled by their own youth.

today i explained japan's cultural obsession with cherry-blossoms, how a tree totally devoted to the production of beauty (the absence of even a single photosynthesizing leaf) can inspire so much poetry. how entire offices will take an afternoon to picnic and get drunk under the falling blossoms, how some people will go flower-viewing just for the food. it was a "Namiko Abe" moment. (see my earlier post dated april 23.)

i also succumb to these moments, although i do identify with the ones who show up just to get drunk and eat the rice cakes.

i am learning that my writing identity is becoming more and more estranged from my daytime identity. is this a problem?
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