Read my latest story, "A Tale of Two Birthdays", at 52|250.

It has proven impossible to get a replacement work visa for China without going back to the US. Of course, flying back and forth across the Pacific like that to work for one semester would hardly be worth it and, furthermore, the time it would take to complete both travel and paperwork would put me far into the semester before I could get back. What this means is that I’m going to be heading back to the US– Seattle to be specific– if only I can find a flight. Currently, I’m booked on standby for the 18th, which may or may not entail getting stuck in Taipei for a few days.

Last night, as I was sitting in my guesthouse reading Murakami’s South of the Border, West of the Sun, the first bolt of a storm struck half a block away. Once the rain tapered off the news came that it had hit and killed a woman. This woman died instantly, unpredictably, and certainly not for my own edification. There was no reason for it. Nonetheless, it reminded me that this is not the worst so long as we can say it is the worst– which seems to have become my mantra these last few days. I’ve also been thinking a lot about Tom Clark, teaching us Keats, Pound, and various courtly makers of the English Renaissance in the front room of his house, and telling all of us that any day when you can write is a good day. I’m trying very hard to believe that right now.

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