Japanese Garden

I did a post a while back. Less than a post really, just a few words. A picture of a statement that was worth a thousand words I didn't really know how to say at the time.

A moment passed, yet archived and preserved -- like an old photograph in a memory book.

So many blogs seem to want to be something else these days -- entertainment, information, propaganda, whatever; but in the end they can't escape what they are, what they've always been: Journals.

They're still snapshots of you, captured in white against blue -- of that
moment, of that time, of the person that you were that Tuesday in July.

But then something weird happened. Comments started showing up. Lots of them. In Japanese.

Surely all spam, probably of the worst variety -- but all hidden behind the interesting veneer of kanji script. You'd think if I was getting spammed it would attack the blog in it's entirety, hitting any and everything it could find in the hopes of snagging the interest of that one reader of mine who could actually translate the script and believed in anonymous claims of sexy girls who want to meet YOU or ancient herbal secrets to penis enlargement or whatever the hell those comments actually say -- but instead, they're just there.

Unreadable reactions to a purposely cryptic message.

There's something oddly Zen about it. About messages hidden within messages written into responses to a message I was trying to hide within a message.

Life's like that sometimes I think. Those mornings where you find yourself waking up from dreams that don't make any sort of sense, images out of order, random ideas that don't seem to be who you are at all. Sheep telling you to dance. Music telling you to cry.

The things you know are on the horizon and the ones you'll never see coming.

..All a part of who we are.

"Whatever it is you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting."
        — Haruki Murakami

[Listening to:  John Coltrane - "What is There to Say?" ]