Upon my return to Japan, I realize that the time remaining in my stay here has dwindled down to the length of human gestation. Beyond that is a year on the road, a journey that has a certain metaphoric symbolism: an expression of the freedom of the young man which, at 41, I no longer am. Recently, what I really long for is the step following, of pitching my yurt with steel cables and settling into the routine of work and grad school and children. What drives this feeling is, ironically enough, partly material. I seem to think that once I gather all those internationally scattered possessions of mine, rejoining them as if they're parts of my self, I will be more complete somehow. My brother laughs at how when I visit friends, I tend to leave things behind, as if parts of me want to remain in the States. He is correct in all but scale, since these 'parts of me' are now spread across three continents.
The Buddhists say that our possessions eventually own us. I agree, but must rebut using the example of T'ang poet Ou-yang Hsiu, Confucian minimalist in all but books, the bound evidence of one's memory and intellect.
On the turntable: Mogwai, "Ten Rapid"
On the reel table: "The Lower Depths" (Kurosawa, 1957)
2 comments:
I think you need to leave something behind at my house, too.
Stinky socks OK?
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