Tuesday afternoon

The rain let up around lunchtime so we decided to hike after all. I met with MatsuMiki at Demachi, then biked west across town, facing peril in the form of narrow, over-trafficked streets, hood-mounted mirrors, and slow-walking grannys. My front tire went flat again, but didn't slow us down much. We arrived at Jujozan, eyeing quietly but mindfully the mamushi warning signs, and bowing hello to a couple old timers washing their muddy boots in a small stream. The path wound us up and around the 88 small temples which mimic their Shikoku counterparts. There were even "border-markers" letting us know when we were entering Tosa, for example. At each of these temples we'd stop and ring the bells, MatsuMiki taking the evens, me the odds. Many of the rope bells were now too worn to make a sound, so we'd strike the tiny bronze bowl instead, using wooden wands hand-made. Prayers were written on small cross sections of bark hanging nearby, the brush-written hiragana sounding out the Sanskrit syllables. We chanted these with hands in prayer, the sounds eventually growing familiar as dieties began to repear at various temples, their names written on wood.
Looking down from the peaks, the low clouds blotted out most of the city, except for a sea of tiled rooves, now flecked with dim lights on this dark day. It gave the illusion of a step back to a time before neon and concrete. Somewhere around temple 31, afternoon left us, so we picked up the pace, stopping only to bow and offer a simple "On" which we had by now noticed was the first syllable of each prayer. We figured that if an abbreviated "Om Namu Renge Kyo" is good enough for the Nichiren folk...
And it was like this that we walked into dusk, the light rapidly dimming into sepia. By the time we rang the bell of number 88, it was full dark. Nearby, a finger of land led to a lakeside shrine. Our god-rousing claps frightened some waterfowl, which flew off unseen into the dark.

Atop our bicycles again, we headed far to the south to Rohm's industrial park , lit once again for the holidays. The lights lined the bare branches of cherry trees, spreading like ganglia to stimulate the optical nerves of those strolling beneath. These rows of trees led us north again, pointing toward the warmth of La Jolla and a well cooked meal. Then on again, to the gaudy taishaku burst at St. Agnes school, still fireworks against the darkness of the Imperial park beyond.

Once again out of the cold, bellies full, we settled in with tea to watch the film, "Local Hero," a old favorite from way back. But midway through we began to nod, legs and heads heavy with fatigue and beer. Off to bed. Wednesday morning awaits...



On the turntable: "Costello and Nieve"
On the nighttable: Gary Snyder, "Danger on Peaks"