Poems from a Japanese Restaurant
Three reflections from a Thursday night solo dinner
There are few things I cannot see within the confines of my imagination. It is a boundless cage, a fenced playground. I cannot find true freedom without knowledge of the boundary. How can one curse the confines of their situation without the details of their internment?
I like choreography; I like blocking. Productive chaos is not possible sans confinement. A tornado cannot form without the exact temperature wind and topographical location. Chaos is anything but haphazard.
Genius is the most lonely station–far more than its lackadaisical counterpart. I am at a Japanese restaurant, eating alone, listening to the buzzing tintabulations of tables caddy-corner. I am much less alone than the girl by the bar, flanked by three seeming friends. Perhaps she is one of us, entrenched in the sheer speed of an unstoppable observational inner monologue. She pacifies with sporadic nods and well timed laughs. At least I haven’t laughed yet.
Language is to be molded and respected, held to the utmost honor. It should be heavily studied and frequently used– much like the family recipe book on the kitchen counter, passed down for generations, flaunting countless untraceable stains.
I was in love once. It was fast and long and undeservedly reminisced. It was the greatest time of my life. I do not think I’ll love again.
By A. Tozer