So anyway, I'm going to start a bit of a project, just to give myself a necessary kick in the arse to write stuff that I want to write. I guess this is going to try to be a Whereverhome blog-collabo fictional experimental piece for myself, with some sort of meaning behind putting it on my village well. On the wall of the well. So that when it starts to stink I'll kick it into the depths. Australian Bank Account will be in separate entries from regular blog entries, at least that's kind of how I picture it right now. But seriously, please don't expect too much. Wooord. Presenting:
Australian Bank Account (part one)
How did he come up with such a bad idea? Kaito knew that my friend had an account in Spain, and he once told me that his uncle's godfather had numerous bank accounts overseas. But was it simply because we were talking about old movies and Swiss investments in that rickety old ramen shack that one evening that he came up with it? "What on earth's goodness do you plan to do with something like that?" I remember asking him. I didn't have much to go on, honestly speaking, but still, it was a horrible idea, if you ask me.
I would've thought that I would have more to go on, now, seventeen months later- that I'd be aware enough to make quick judgements on friends' decisions- but the truth is I still have none-to-zero awareness. But let me tell you that this ricket-ramen-shack in Okinawa is an investment itself of an old schoolmate. From kindergarten. His name is Melvin, and he used to bring these funny noodle sculptures to show and tell. And now, on the shelves of the square-shaped room with sliding glass doors sit sixteen glistening copper-wire works that mimicked those old pieces we'd eat at recess. Melvin even sold a couple to a gallery in Shibuya, for a good amount, enough to buy himself a brand new bicycle and some electronics. The restaurant is called Shinbunshi, because of the newspapers neatly pasted on the walls and the fresh issues from all over the world on a rack next to the self-serve water jugs. As Melvin stirred the huge pot behind the beechwood counter, I sat at my table next to the bar with a coffee and The Dagbladet, a paper from Denmark. I looked at what I could read and saw that the date was September 16, a Thursday. Was that our date here, or Denmark's?...
to be resumed later or continued
