Had a bizarre experience yesterday. For a couple hours in the afternoon, my masseuse worked the last bits of three Tokyo weekends out of fatigued muscles. A few hours later, I went to do aikido. I was a literal marionette on the mat, joints loose, spinning and whirling. These same joints felt like they would give every time I was thrown, pieces of me flying like shrapnel to the far corners of the dojo. Lots of rolling, my pressure points buzzing from the earlier bodywork. I finished the workout feeling spacy and euphoric.
Home, I watched the collision of three recent purchases, djembe, DVD of "Festival Express," and a bottle of red slightly pricier than usual. As the wine worked warmth from inside out, I jammed along to the bands on the TV, battering away at the cold winter night.
On the turntable: Elliot Smith, "Elliot Smith"
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