In transit, in an anonymous room at an anonymous airport hotel. This room either faces the front overlooking a parking lot and the road, or the back overlooking a different parking lot and an airline building. Nothing to see here.
Each room virtually the same as the next — pleasant enough, though characterless.
I arrived in Japan just after dark, having chased the sun for hours.
I was one of the first off the plane, though not in business class, and possibly the first passenger from my flight to make it to customs since I was travelling with carry-on only. I’d mentally prepared myself for a scrum at that time of day but was greeted by almost echoing emptiness. And an English-speaking woman to help me with the “self-serve” passport reader.
I was a little drunk with fatigue – the length of the flight was getting silly, but stopped short of the ridiculous – and had to navigate to the train station and buy a ticket and all. And try not not fall asleep in the train while it waited in the station. And once I arrived in the town, I had to orient myself in the dark, checking my phone frequently to ensure I made no time-consuming missteps.
I was relieved to arrive at the inn (properly a ryokan) earlier than I though; I’d expected passport control and customs to take much longer. I had time to get comfortable in my room and then go down to my meal where I was confronted with countless little plates – a little swarm of a bit of this and a bit of that.
And then, time to relax. Still roly-poly, I made my way to the onsen, the public bath/hot spring, to wash and soak. And relax.
[Looking back at my most recent Sinful Sunday contributions, I see that the last time I posted something timely (rather than the “from the vault” images in September) was almost a year ago! I hadn’t realised! I do have some images that I’m looking forward to sharing with you.]
The other day I decided to have a look at the photos on my memory card, which had been sitting on my desk for long enough that I’d forgotten what exactly was on it and why I’d put it there in the first place.
The major thing I’d forgotten was the fact that my entire archive of sexy photos (begun after my epiphany and before I started blogging) was still on it. I’d bought my external hard drive expressly for the purpose of storing photos but it was a big organising job and I’d run out of steam after sifting through the safe-for-work stuff. So yesterday I set to work transferring the NSFW images from card to disc. I’m about halfway done at this point.
Even though I am prone to clutter, I’m very analytical and thus very good at organising most things when I put my mind to it. Since I’ve been having difficulties with depression and, more recently, anxiety, I’ve found that organising the materials as a first step often helps me to overcome the challenge of starting a project that (for whatever reason) feels difficult. As I engage with the various items, I start noticing patterns and small tasks that need doing, and then it doesn’t seem so hard to start doing those tasks.
Organising my photos is, fortunately, firing up the same neurons. I use separate folders for each month, which for me is a long enough period of time that there’s more than just a handful of pics but short enough that it doesn’t bog down the computer when it’s loading up the thumbnails. I’m finding that looking at a collection of photos taken on different days tunes me into the similarities and differences better than looking at each shoot separately, and I start mentally categorising the images and coming up with labels. [Note: I’ve never actually tagged photos before this so I don’t know if I’ll find tags useful in future, but I’m not doing many so it’s not much of a time investment.]
Looking at those early images now, I can see that they are cautious and tentative, and I remember the awkwardness and self-consciousness when I took them. I don’t even appear in the very first images; that honour goes to my then-recently purchased stilettos.
FYI, I’ve gotten loads of enjoyment out of these shoes and have only rarely worn them outside the house. I’m glad I didn’t let “Oh, I’d never wear them anywhere” be an excuse not to buy them.