Anatomical Musings of a Yoga Teacher

Most Japanese women, built as slim as they are, don't have much in the hip department. But that doesn't prevent some of them from affecting a wiggle in their walk that would make Marilyn Monroe blush. Today, I saw one such woman, walking with such a contrived shake that it seemed as she was trying to dust the sidewalk with her skirt. In fact, the whole thing was lopsided, the shift to the left far more pronounced than to the right. Her butt would literally pull her off line, her right leg then stepping diagonally back to center. If not for this correction, I feared that in about 15 steps or so, she'd wind up in the street and get hit by a taxi.

On the turntable: Santana, "Lotus Gem"

On the nighttable: Ivan Morris, "The World of the Shining Prince"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Westbound V

Everybody on the train looked exhausted. Granted it was a summertime Friday, but it wasn't yet nine in the morning. Even the school kids, off to some sports event, had their bodies slumped onto one another, a far cry from their frenzied ass-grabbing antics that usually annoys the rest of the commuters. With the grated metal window blinds, the Hankyu car looked like it was transporting cattle.

Miki and I both found ourselves with a rare weekday off, the perfect opportunity to finish the Western end of the TSH. We were pretty careless this time around, no checking of bus schedules as usual, and thus found ourselves stuck for 45 minutes in a bland bedroom town, trying to keep at bay both the heat and the accompanying grumpiness. We finally made it out to the base of Ryuōzan just before lunchtime. Depsite the lighter packs, our legs were still carrying the weight of last week. We walked silently along the trail, through a dead landscape of downed trees, corrogated iron rice fields, and wood shards littering the trail. Yep, we were back in Kansai. Machine cluttered farms lined the trail, above perpetual signs of road work and the industrial metal clang coming from further out in the hills. It was as if the world was a film set being constructed. Passing through a heavy anti-boar gate, we came to a small pond whose surface was nearly covered by lilipads. They formed a triangle not too dissimilar than the shape of our rice balls, bisected by the slight trace of where a duck had recently swum across. A beautiful blue bird perched on a low branch, then had a brief pre-lunch dip.

We found a hamlet next, where an old farmwoman snoozed in the shade and a lizard fell from a sheer stone wall with a 'smack!' A small white truck was parked along the next forest road, with more loud banging just beyond. Intending to gather police evidence, I took a photo of the license plate, switched my camera to video, in order to shoot these men as they dumped their trash. To my surprise, the racket they were making was them instead cleaning the forest. Beyond them, middle-aged couples were filling jugs with water spilling from a forest spring. Here the trail gave us our only climb of the day, which seemed to annoy our calves until they were appeased by the level ridge that followed. It was a straight and narrow path, past massive cemeteries and the odd stones marking bigger, more important men. (Are we truly equal after death?) The trail dropped past a large granite TSH marker sitting before a nature center. And here we lost the trail for the first time. There were quite a few paths with different names, which has been our curse since entering Osaka-fu. We chose the one that seemed to match our guide book, following it up a hill until we saw a sign that pointed back the way we'd come, reading, "Start of Tokai Shizen Hōdō, 0.5 km."

S-say what?

Apparently we'd finished about 2 minutes before at that big grey stone. It was the perfectly ironic way to finish, missing the marker as we had done dozens of times before. But it was a major letdown. After 431 km, over 12 months, there were no hugs, no high fives, no moments of relieved smug satisfaction. Instead, we'd marked the occasion with our all too familiar, where the hell is the trail? It is only in my role as a yoga teacher that I can appreciate the perfection here. How often are we focussed on reaching a goal, getting far more caught up in the idea of finishing than in the appreciation of the process. Just this morning, Miki had said she would've been fine not to complete this walk, and she wondered why I'm so attached to my desire to finish. I wonder that too, actually. Today's walk in particular felt spurred on toward its completion, rather than enjoyed. How poetic then, that when we finished, we weren't actually there.

Profoundly disappointed, we moved along toward Minō Waterfall like a couple of deflated balloons. There we stood in the spray, feeling it on our faces, arms out in supplication...

On the turntable: Chet Baker Trio, "The Touch of your Lips"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XV (Pt 3)

Nine merciful hours of sleep later, we were in front of the train station waiting for a bus. Behind us was the tall statue of Basho. For a man who specialized in the subtle, there was nothing subtle in the scale. It seemed less for the haiku poet and more for the Tokugawa spy he may have been. (How else to explain his freedom of movement?) On the bus ride out of town, we passed a foreign woman on a bike. I lived long enough in the country to know that foreigners in small towns like this are almost tourist attractions in their own rite. 'The Iga Gaijin.' I tried not to think what might be in store for us today. Each of these three days had proved to have it's own challenges. The first day's were topographical, going over three peaks higher than 800 meters. (In fact, I later found that we'd essentially gone over what's known as the Muroji mountain range, a chain of six peaks above 700 meters, though mercifully we probably never dropped below 400.) The second day's were man-made, with the stairs and the bizarre choice of route. Today's will be atmospheric. As we sat out the electrical storm at the onsen, I noticed the darkest, nastiest clouds were over the valley we'd walk. This morning, the valley was still engulfed in cloud. Miki petitioned the sky gods as we trudged toward the temple again. Behind the main hall is a massive figure of Fudo-myo, his right eye twisted with his grimace. Incredibly, we'd met four people with a similar looking lazy eye, all within 30 minutes, including this temple's priest and wife (and their dog, but he didn't count.) I think of course of a limited gene pool, this village surrounded by mountains and cut off from the outside for centuries. This also explains the unfriendly way we were received. Our friendly calls of good morning continually going unreturned.

But we weren't thinking this as we moved over rough stone slippery with rain. Atop this rise was a small shrine. (My tally for this stretch of the TSH is two temples, two small shrines, and a single jizo. Due to the lack of such markers, I'd speculate that this area had been settled late, sometime in Edo perhaps.) The trail dropped straight down to the valley where the onsen is. I didn't even look in that direction. I was quite frustrated about how the outdoors has become a commodity, a place to which you drive and pay too much money in order to 'enjoy the nature.' People who want to have more of a pure communion are being priced out. Here in the forest was the real thing. We crossed a dozen streams, each flowing fast, then climbed into the foggy cedar groves, rich and sweet smelling from the damp. A yelp that we thought was a deer belonged instead to a dachshund being walked by it's owner. This was a sign that civilization was nearby, and we found it in a Youth Camp beside a large lake. We sat atop a grassy berm and had a late snack, before tackling the final climb up the spookily named Reizan, "Spirit Mountain." We had lunch beside a mound with a small Buddha inside, marking the former sight of a Tendai temple. Miki chose to lay back onto a large pile of deer dung, while I watched the trees exhale steam.

Then the knee surgeons were back, forcing us to descend five km down a 45 degree stretch of road. I can't remember how often we slipped, my mind too taken with the pain in knees and calves. Two hours later, the trail leveled off. We desperately wanted to sit and rest, but could hardly find forest floor due to all the rubbish strewn here. Welcome to beautiful Tsuge. As further insult, just inside town, the trail markers disappeared. And the rain, which had teased us all day, looked ready to up the ante. We were within a kilometer of the station, but didn't know which direction. We probably covered three times that distance until we figured it out. Exhausted and in pain, we walked silently, but for the sound of our final footfalls on the Yamanobe section of the TSH.

In our local sento back in Kyoto, I thought how well we'd done, aches aside. To date, we'd covered the furthest distances, along a stretch of the highest ground, over the longest number of hours, with the greatest amount of weight on our backs. All without a map.

On the turntable: Herbie Nichols, "Complete Blue Note Recordings"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XV (Pt 2)

We moved quite slowly the next morning, downing canned coffee and showering with a hose.

At six-thirty we started up the fire road where we'd spend most of the morning. Six km later we arrived at the campsite where we'd expected to stay, had yesterday's trail been more cooperative. The vegetation here revealed that we were once again moving toward Kansai. We passed through a community of posh 'second homes' where the vending machines charged 160 yen from a can of tea and the toilets were off limits, then pushed on up to Aoyama Kogen which was flat and open, revealing what we'd spent a day and a half walking over. Ise Bay stretched away to the east. We talked with a man who was gearing up to climb the Chuo Alps this summer. This view was also popular with the motorcyclists who'd ride up, have a smoke, then move along the road to the next view. The map up here showed us five more rest stops in the next 10km. Little did we know that we'd be instead walking the ridge below them, along overgrown trails which forced me to hunch over. The forest here was very active, most of that life airborne. I kept knocking cicadas off branches with my bag, and they'd smack into one of my temples, or both. Worst were those that tried to climb into my ears, their screams like the worst speed metal distortion. It's a wonder I didn't have tinnitus at the end of the day. But worse yet were the trail planners. This stretch was a roller coaster, up and down, up and down, over those stairs that I've come to loathe. There is no apparent benefit that I can see to putting a body through this. A path running parallel to the road would've been fine. Perhaps it was a conspiracy involving local orthopedic knee surgeons. There were some bigger animals up here, deer and rabbits dashing startled through the brush. The ridge was lined by tall windmills, their blades slashing through the air with a roar that caused the whole forest to throb. At the end of the row was a windmill commemorative rest stop with typical self-congratulatory display. "Look what we're doing to the Earth!" It must be the only tourist place in Japan that doesn't have a vending machine, which was sorely missed on this hot day. The reason could be related to their 'eco-conscious' themed signs, but how to explain the sensor-activated electric doors?

The trail now was a gentle ascent through a beautiful stretch of forest. Why ruin it then with the highest, steepest flight of steps leading back up to 800 meters? Erosion made most of them rise from the ground like goal posts, and gravity brought many of them vertical, becoming more ladder than stair. (Later, I noticed that our TSH blogger called then "Hell's Staircase.") I moved toward them laughing, singing Tom Waits' "Straight to the Top" until I was too winded. Then Waits' "Step Right Up" became more apropos. At the top of Kasatoriyama, we met road which descended as a steep concrete strip toward the village of Oyamada. There were quite a few Buna trees up here, a species I'm beginning to much admire. They are the rebels of the Japanese tree world, following their bliss amidst the monotonous straightlaced cedars. I lost interest in them too eventually, as my legs complained about the angle of the slope. I didn't know my knees and calves knew such foul language. I was so far gone that I forgot to be startled by the viper that I nearly stepped on. It was young and cocky, moving toward a rock wall, then turning to look back and mock us, like saying, "I could've had you if I'd wanted." Which begs the question: Do poisonous snakes know they're deadly? If so, how do they figure it out?

We reached the village proper now and sat beside an abandoned shack to the delight of our legs. There was a river beside us, which, if you believe the signs, is teeming with those rare Giant Salamanders. We crossed the bridge to a sake shop to ask the proprietess about lodging. I'm constantly amazed how local people can give so much information while simultaneously giving so little. This talent cuts across cultures. After her 10 minute zen koan, we moved on to Daibutsuji, where we'd start the following day's hike. There was an information center here, with a small folk museum upstairs. These are always interesting. We poked around, then melted into chairs to drink the tea a woman served us. Her answers to our lodging questions gave us a few more options, but most of them she couldn't answer. We left our bags and went next door to the temple to have a look. This was the first real living temple of the trip and should've held our interest. But we'd done back to back 30km days over tough ground. Last night, we'd agreed that it had been the hardest single day hiking for us, but today definitely prevailed.

We'd puzzled out that there was an onsen nearby that did food and may have camping out back. We thumbed a ride, from a jimbe clad guy in his 60s whose taste in cars and music was that of a man half his age. At the onsen, we weren't impressed by the surly staff, and less so with the 4500 price tag for a tent site. We hemmed and hawwed awhile before fatigue prevailed. Just as we stepped outside, the skies tore open. Sigh. We sat licking ice cream with Charlie Brown black clouds around our heads. Other guests sat waiting the storm out. After a short while it dawned on me how big a hit my genetic makeup was making with the locals. Inspired, I went back to the counter, told them what they could do with their overpriced square of dirt, grabbed the grottiest, most abandoned-looking umbrella in the rack, then stood out in the rain to hitch a ride...somewhere. Now let me take a moment to say how incredible a woman my wife is. No matter how long or hard the walk, she never complains. I could practically see her twitching with anticipation for a hot bath and bowl of warm noodles, but still she didn't moan. After a couple of minutes she was beside me, thumb out. Carload and after carload of pampered, happily relaxed day-trippers drove by our sorry, sopping, sagging selves. But Miki was a trooper. Finally, as dark was nearly complete and our hopes were almost gone, a pair of heroes picked us up and drove us the half hour to Iga Ueno. As long as I'm doling out kudos, I shouldn't forget the person who decided that it's imperative that the Yoronotaki izakaya chain have such wonderfully big draft beers. Nor the person who designed the lengthy tubs in Green Hotels. I lay there, my calves blown up like balloons and heavy as lead, the song of cicada still echoing in my ears...

On the turntable: "Hare Krishna Hare Rama"

On the nighttable: Henry Scott Stokes, "The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XV (Pt 1)

Miki and I wanted to escape Kyoto's Gion Matsuri like the plague. We still had to finish the Yama-no-be section of the TSH. For whatever reason, our guidebook neglected to cover this section, and the usual TSH bloggers had little to say either. One guy did it over four 6-hour days, but he proves to be a powerhouse, clocking times much quicker than ours. We reckoned that if we carried camping gear, we could do it in three long days. The additional weight would slow us down of course, but it would be good practice for the six week walk we have planned for later this summer.

On the Japanese national holiday commemorating the sea, we once again headed to the mountains. We spent Friday night in Nabari, in one of those small seedy hotels that blurs the line between business- and love-hotel. A cheap dinner in a locals only izakaya fuelled us for an early start the next morning. The bus had us at the trail head before nine. A month before, we stood in the same place, admiring this same view. But this day was to teach me that those same mountains whose shapes you most admire tend to bring the most grief. A sudden ascent led us quickly through a village and into a forest where we soon became lost. The path here is well marked, but a typhoon had caused some heavy damage to the region, sections of the hills shoved violently down into the streams below. The path took some unusual twists and turns, no doubt created by the footfalls of hikers winging it. We found ourselves looking up at the remnants of a slide. After poking around looking for alternative routes we decide to push straight up the slide, happy to find the actually trail just above. We soon came to a parking area, where a frog-like granny sold unseasonably warm drinks. I wanted something cold, but her cute expressive face nearly made me cave. Just above this lot was the Soni Kogen, a wide grassy plateau that rose up toward three peaks. A marshy lake filled the basin between and beyond it, we could see small figures pushing their way slowly up a long, straight diagonal toward the 800 meter pass. For some reason, my mind flashed onto a famous eight minute long take from Wender's "Wrong Move," where his characters riff about life while ascending toward similar heights. The climb was quicker than expected, through grass moving in waves toward the col. Other figures were higher up on the peaks themselves. Our own route brought a merciful descent, into a well tended forest, and eventually to farmland well fortified against hungry wild critters. We passed a woodcutter with a machine slung over his shoulder in a way similar to Mifune's wanna-be samurai slung his in Kurosawa's classic. A bearded artist-type was weeding amongst his chickens and goats. One kind old gentleman offered us a ride. The other villagers we passed were equally nice and friendly, but one disturbing thing about the place was that the trail signs had been altered to point toward a single destination; some kind of herb garden for tourists. We really need those markers as we didn't have a map. Mie performed as well as expected, offering not only well-marked trails but also the occasional map. We sat beside one of these, eating lunch in the shade of a sake shop. The map showed that we'd be spending the afternoon going over two 900 meter peaks and both Miki and I seemed to dawdle over our food, not wanted to face the inevitable.

We eventually moved on toward Ōborayama. Halfway up the mountain we passed the only temple we'd see in two days. Beyond it was a field of bizarre rock shapes. Apparently this whole mountain was supposedly the body of Zao Gongen, the deity so beloved to the yamabushi. And typically, spiritual peaks are in the best shape. The forest up here was lively, frogs jumping all about, doing extreme leaps off the trail and free-falling out into open space below. I saw more than one bounce headfirst off trees or rocks, wondering each time if their joints and heads were as elastic and squishy as they look. And the higher we climbed, the bigger the frogs were. Long legged spiders moved out from beneath our feet, their extreme appendages looking like sci-fi moon landers. Most bizarre were the crabs that never fail to surprise me when I see them at these heights, near no water whatsoever. We moved below the peak and came to a stone trail that paved the ridge. The stones were weathered and uneven and slowed our pace a great deal. There was no surety to our steps due to many of the stones rolling if trod upon. Another slide forced us to drop far below the ridge, then rapidly up again. We came across more and more of these rapid ascents, striated by those helpful 'log' steps that are a boon to hikers everywhere. New they might serve a purpose, but years of erosion turns them into hurdles, the hiker then forced to goosestep over them. Killer on the knees. Up until now I'd been thankful how Mie had kept the trails well-marked and clean, but now it seemed excessive.

We soon came to Amagatake. Whereas the former mountain had been green and teeming with life, this mountain was the land of the dead. The flora? Cedars. Fauna? Cicadas. We moved along the bare forest floor devoid of anything but dirt. More of those deadly steps strained our knees as we moved up and down the hills. The descents were most fearful, the logs shifting with our weight. My footing wasn't sure yet, my center of gravity uncertain under the heavy pack. As we moved downward, we saw a sign that promised a short cut that would save us nearly a kilometer of walking. Instead we walked nearly three times that as we moved the wrong way along a road. Miraculously, a car came from nowhere and the driver set us straight. No more short cuts.

Around six-thirty, we finally came to Menard, a posh resort for golf and tennis and overpriced food that sprawls across the hills. We stocked up on water, then found a nice patch of grass at the resort's far end. As we were illegally camped, I won't reveal exactly where, but we had toilets, a vending machine, and BBQ pits. We had dinner near the latter, as stars came out and fireflies flew by, bigger and much faster than their citified cousins. We waited until after dark to set up the tent and settled down for a restless sleep. Resort workers came and went from a building not far away, every voice bringing anxiety about being caught. The cicada had quieted down considerably after the sun fell, but their occasion soft buzz sounded too much like the footfall of large predators, bringing me quickly back to alertness. A couple of deer had a conversation down where I'd hung my sweat-soaked clothes. I pictured them having a feast at this newest salt-lick, and my shreaded clothes strewn about the next morning. And then there was the genius who parked nearby, turning his car stereo up to 11, and blasting some asinine talk radio from 4 to 4:30. Thanks dude...

On the turntable: "Putumayo Presents Acoustic Africa"

On the reel table: "Omohide Poroporo" (Takahata, 1991)

Sunday papers: Diana Ackerman

"Etymologically speaking, a breath is not neutral or bland--it's cooked air; we live in a constant simmering. There is a furnace in our cells, and when we breathe we pass the world through our bodies, brew it lightly, and turn it loose again, gently altered for having known us."

--A Natural History of the Senses

On the turntable: Philly Joe Jones, "Showcase"

Strays

Here is something I wrote last winter. It started life out as part two of this post, yet I'd hoped it would grow up into something bigger. But life, and the mind, moves on. Come here and speak my dear foundling...

...so I walked. It's good to walk. I once loved to walk the streets of a city, any city, in order to see a place without the plastic. When dusk falls, the cities facade--as presented by City Hall and the Chamber of Commerce--crumbles. Only real people exist after dark. I traced unlit streets, figures moving toward me, literally lurching with the pull of a briefcase to one side. Taxis shot by on these narrow paths, slaloming the figures, the telephone poles, and me. Near the top of the street a dozen women are huddled in the doorway of a woman's shelter, waiting for it to open and looking very cold. Despite being very well dressed, they could be extras in some Depression era film. The lights of Shijo well up and I move along its covered sidewalks, in front of Xmas trees and winter coats behind glass. Here are more young, well-dressed women, striding quickly toward home after work. I dogleg up Teramachi, following the covered streets in order to stay out of the rain. It's more crowded in here, young dudes with big hair lurking around, squatting in front of closed up shops. A few have their guitars out, each song always in the same pitch, the monotone caterwaul always loud and sincere. Oike-dori is busy and bright , the neon blue of the fountains mocks the water that flowed here in better times. I drop into the subway, encountering now the couples, many heading home as it's a worknight. As if in opposition, the solo subterranean figures look lost, ruffled hair, faces hiding behind books.

Through all this I have the new Dylan on the Pod. His latest is a greatest hits collection, each track having once played soundtrack to my previous walks spread over various countries. The words are universal, international, interversal, descriptions of characters like those I pass on this night. Dylan remains ever the griot, stripping bare the same facades that daylight encourages. And with these truths I slip into a certain state, one step closer to the reality of the beings with whom I know nothing except for that they are right here. I could break the wall even further by making conversation, but that moves the truths from the universal to the personal. I prefer to keep things general tonight.

This illumination is blinding upon entering a bar. There are many people there, but there is nobody there. Aside from one friend, everyone is new to me. Where did they all come from? I'm feeling too separated, too happy in my own protective zone of the general, to connect. The darkness here helps, as does the smoke from the fireplace now filling the room. I chat, I joke, but I give nothing. I am enjoying the company of these people who I've never met, hearing their stories, but I deflect any questions. The only real necessary communication, ordering a beer, ironically leads to a situation even more disjunct, where the order never comes. I keep one eye on the window, watching the rain. When it lets up, I go.

I'm alone now, but for Dylan. His words follow me to the towering Sanmon gate of Nanzenji. Architecture of such size tends to diminish the personal. I stop awhile thinking of other nights I've sat here, yet these memories intermingle with memories brought on by familiar songs. I'm in many places, many times, many states of being, at once. The night feels heavier all of sudden. A city this old is full of ghosts. And they are here, mixing with my own ghosts. I begin to move toward home, through a night that becomes more the feel of autumn, with an increase in the wind. This wind swirls the leaves along the street, along which go my thoughts, constantly scattered, scattered.

On the turntable: Andrew Bird, "Noble Beast"

Mr. Mojo Raijin

Bizarre weather today.

It's July, I've got less than two months to go here in Kyoto. Lately, I've been peeling away my work and other obligations like sunburnt skin. Which frees up my Mondays. I decided to spend this one with JesusChris, meeting him for the first time since April. Hanging out with him is like hanging with Local Legend Tim, moving aimless through space as the day unravels toward night.

After an exuberant chat over a potent Vietnamese tea, we moved up to the compass atop Yoshida-yama. We cooled ourselves on the marble stone, talking and listening to a storm coming from the south. We moved over to the cemetery above Kurodani, watching high battleship-grey clouds mount their attack on Kyoto Station (as punishment for poor architectural accessorizing I suppose). The clouds began to flank our own position and the big fat drops began to fall, foreshadowing an imminent deluge. The skies opened just as we found shelter in front of a barracks-like apartment building. JesusChris immediately stripped off his shirt and shoes and bounded merrily into the rain, looking like he was starring in his own personal Bollywood musical. I stood dry under the tin roof and pouted. In most of my relationships with friends, I am the impetuous one, but here I stood, alternating mentally between excuses about why I wasn't out there and scolding myself for being so straight. And there I stayed, as my friend frolicked and danced and I merely hunched and stared stupidly at a security camera.

These squals rarely last long, and when the rain let up, we moved down toward Shinnyodo. But the storm regrouped and counterattacked, throwing large pyrotechnics our way. We huddled and had a Rashomon moment under a temple gate. Each time we'd step out, we'd get hit with another burst. Finally, as the skies showed blue and the grey had moved on, we started uphill. And one final, enormous, arm-hair raising flash hit the cemetery stones to our immediate right, the final thrash of the dragon's tail. I showed JesusChris Honen's purple cloud meditation stone, he in turn introduced me to Afro Jizo. Under the half-closed eyes of Oily Buddha, we parted ways.

The storm returned a couple more times before the sun set. In the fading light, the season's first cicada began to sing, like the tuning note of an solo instrument which serves as the seed of the symphony to come. After dark, the moon rose in our small valley, ducking and weaving through the clouds. The light from it's rays streaked the wet air, extending from all four cardinal points like a Zia. I knew that much later, in the middle of the night after the city went to sleep, my bedroom would take on that special glow of the full moon's light. I will miss that certain quality that the light takes during early these morning hours, and the feeling that I'm the only one in the world who is lucky enough to see it.

On the turntable: Skatalites, "Hi-Bop Ska"

On the nighttable: Diane Ackerman, "A Natural History of the Senses"

On the reel table: Pom Poko (Takahata, 1994)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XIII

Ezaki Mitsuru was having another exhibition down at Gallery Mu-un. So it was that Miki and I, along with KJ John and Sage, spend a long morning making our way down to south Nara. There were a few of the usual Yoromi suspects around, including that couple from Fukui who do kamishibai. We passed the afternoon in conversation. It was interesting to see Ezaki's latest works, and how he is continually developing as an artist. He talked about the creative process behind his new fish hanga, and explained the multi-faceted Buddhist philosophy behind one of his earlier works, which up until now I'd taken for an eye chart.

As the conversation shifted toward other ears, the four of us walked through the village and up the hill to the swampy lake, then got lost in the forest on the way down. In the late afternoon John and Sage hopped a train north, to be replaced an hour later by Zach, who was in Kansai on business. He was pleased with the natural and healthy food to come, as he'd been holed up in a dormitory somewhere in the industrial bowels of Osaka and force fed starch and salt. This simple dinner had all the feel of a party, and although we'd arrived worried that we'd brought too much beer, as we staggered off through the dark toward our beds we found it had been just enough.

Dawn marked the curtain rise on a comedy about me noisily rattling a dozen doors in search of the toilet. Giving up, I walked over to Mu-un along a road damp with rain. I sat awhile and looked across the hills toward the bigger peaks draping their shoulders with white mist. It was a quiet morning, last night's revelers appearing one at a time as if making stage entrances.

After a late breakfast, Miki, Zach and I made our way to where we'd left the Hodo a few weeks before. We quickly came across a small shrine that pointed in the direction of Ise. A tiny green frog was balanced on a hollow piece of bamboo, and another was bathing in the rainwater within. Zach picked him up but he leapt away, launching a desperate kung fu kick in our direction as he fell. We followed a paved road around a lake. It was hot day, and below us, a few men under umbrellas had wonderful ringside seats for a good day for fishing. As we crossed a high suspension bridge we saw a school of large grey flat monsters moving toward the baited hooks. We kept along the road, falling into conversation when the scenery let us down. Which wasn't often. The striated lines above the water told the history of the lake and above, birds perched in trees waiting for lunch to swim by. Eventually the water stayed behind as we moved into the hills. After too many experiences of searching frantically for trail markers, we found one that was the size of a small house, pointing into the forest. Just inside, a car came rushing down the hill, chased by what I thought was a deer. On closer approach, it proved to be the biggest dog I've ever seen, probably a Mastiff-Great Dane mutt, out for a 'walk' with its master, running after his car doing at least 20kph. It looked pretty tired, but turned to flash a wet, sloppery smile as it passed.

We climbed up and over the pass, through a forest well used. There was a large sprawling park at the other side, then a village, then Muroji. We had time to kill until the bus, so spent it searching in vain for the ice cream we all craved. Shaved ice just wouldn't cut it. And so the bus came and took us to the train, and we moved west, toward the bigger and crowded cities where people understand that summer's value is measured in ice cream...

On the turntable: Willie Hutch, "The Mack"

On the reel table: "Pather Panchali" (Ray, 1955)

Alms Sunday

Waiting at the stoplight. Down the hill I see a figure with bushy straw colored hair, wearing a cape and walking deliberately in the rain.

The light changes and I ride down, to notice that it's a monk on his begging rounds, merrily stomping through puddles in his zori.

On the turntable: Jeff Beck, "Beckology"

On the nighttable: Alan Booth, "Looking for the Lost"