In another life, Utako is a Japanese composer. She has been married four times. She believes in all things related to the moon and the stars and the rhythm of the ocean. She once left her husband in the middle of breakfast after reading her horoscope in the Sunday paper. She put the paper down and picked up the phone. She called her friend Yoko Ono despite having been out of touch with her for years and said “Yoko, it’s Utako. The planets have aligned and I must leave my husband and fly to New York.”
In this life, Utako is sick of being afraid. She has pursued love and she has lost. She has been poor enough to eat dog food. She has shoplifted from every store, deli, cafe and boutique in the East Village. She has sewn her own clothes in the shape of potato sacks, sometimes in the shape of peacocks or marshmallows, and she has worn them to art openings and rich people’s houses and job interviews and movie theaters. She has buttered bagels for minimum wage. She has drawn chalk drawings for free. She has fallen out of touch with loved ones and been reconnected. She has been on dates with men who say things like “I met these two women. We had a few drinks. One thing led to another. We went to a hotel. I couldn’t wait to fuck this one girl. She was hot. In her twenties. Big ass. Beautiful face. I took my dick out and she started backing away from me, like ‘Hell no! No, no, no. You ain’t puttin’ that in me!’ so I had to fuck the other girl. That’s how big my cock is.”
She has made to-do lists that look like this:
1) psychic
2) gym
3) meditation
4) library for book on astrology
and some that look like this:
1) pick up pay check
2) deposit it
3) pay back brianna
4) buy pot
