—David
For a cup of ocha green tea, open the caddy and pour some of the finely milled green leaves into the lid; about the same amount as would make a small pile in the palm of your hand. When you buy the best tea, the leaves don't rustle, and have a smooth, almost oily texture and a rich odor.
Tip the leaves into the teapot, which has a filter behind the spout to keep the leaves inside. Pour in water about 15 degrees shy of boiling; this is easy with an electric hot water pot with a green tea temperature setting. The leaves immediately swell and release their juices. Pour the tea into a cup immediately.
The dark green, slightly opaque liquid tastes mild and grassy, with a hint of bitterness. Sipped, it both calms and alerts. A cup of green tea at any time of the day is a simple, profound pleasure.
--Julian
In most of the developed world, for most of the post-World War II era, the notion that torture might be OK was about as open to discussion as the notion that adulterers should be stoned or that Africans should be enslaved. Now, however, torture is back on the table, and even thinkers as mainstream as Harvard professor Alan Dershowitz refuse to categorically rule out its use.
This sea change in how we think about torture came about largely as a result of the revelation that Americans were, in fact, torturing inmates at military prisons, most notably in occupied Iraq. Many of us were shocked by this state of affairs and found the argument most frequently trotted out in support of torture, that extreme measures are necessary in a time of war, specious at best. There is, however, a grain of truth in this linkage of war with torture: Torture may not be necessary when a country is at war, but when a country is at war torture is likely to occur. We know that mistreatment of prisoners has been a part of the occupation of Iraq; can anyone doubt that it was a part of earlier, more popular occupations?
That's from my review of Terese Svoboda's Black Glasses Like Clark Kent
—David
Walking to work
The sun already up and warm by 6:00
Poppies, daisies, the last of the azaleas
Rotting lettuces and insect-shredded cabbages
Rows of newly-planted tomatoes, eggplants
The sudden sweetness of honeysuckle
The bush warbler's song from deep in the bamboo
On the way home
The moon, full and clear
The pulsing croak of frogs
The gnats, the bats
The keening buzz of solitary insects
Lights in the windows
The smell of evening meals
--Julian
I was heartened to see that truth could still appear on mainstream American television.
—David
I splashed to work on a wet midweek morning in the aftermath of an unseasonably early typhoon. The day before it had set the treetops swaying, but now all was still as the rain poured down. On the narrow road through the fields, it was clear the weather wasn't dissuading the residents who have been calling to each other for weeks now.
A rainy morning
From the shelter of spring leaves
The bush warbler's song
In the early afternoon the rain stopped. Later the white orb of the sun was visible, as pale as the moon, as it neared the horizon. After dark the moon itself, halfway to full, was high in a clearing sky.
Grass, weeds, vegetables and flowers have marked time on these rainy days, but the earth is holding the water. Add sun to the equation and there will be explosive growth.
--Julian
Reality is created out of confusion and contradiction, and if you exclude those elements, you're no longer talking about reality. You might think that—by following language and a logic that appears consistent—you're able to exclude that aspect of reality, but it will always be lying in wait for you, ready to take its revenge.
Haruki Murakami, in Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche
—David
