Sunday Papers: Suzuki Shunryū

  

"I think you're all enlightened until you open your mouths."  

 

On the turntable:  Andreas Vollenweider, "Vox"

 

The Voyage of Basho

 

 

And from the "I totally forgot about this" file: 

 

"The Voyage of Basho" is a 2018 release by the renowned Swiss director Richard Dindo. Shot throughout Japan over the course of a year, Roger Walch's photography is a visual feast. I am happy to have played a small role in the production, as "landscape counselor."

 Watch here.

 

On the turntable:  Quincy Jones, "In the Heat of the Night"

 

Sunday Papers: Kenneth Rexroth

 

“Religion is not something you believe, it’s something you do.”

 

On the turntable:  David Crosby: "If I Could Only Remember My Name" 

Unresolved

 

 

I snuck in one last hike in the waning days of the year, a large loop around the hills above Uji.  I've mentioned before that I don't usually write much about my hikes unless something particularly interesting occurs, but at one point "writer's voice" kicked in to internally narrate a series of thoughts and impressions.   

Heading toward the start of my hike I passed the Tale of Genji museum, which I had been wanting to visit awhile.  For four consecutive autumns I read one translation of the great tome, so felt I needed to pop in.  Exhibits were few but the layout was tastefully done and it was obvious that they'd spent a great deal of money on the place. But I am always baffled at why the Japanese choose to represent some of the older and dearest parts of their culture with neon and animation.  As I had my eyes on the mountains, I moved through quickly, a metered visit of about 100 yen/minute. 

The prow of my face cold as it cut through the winter air.  This would change later, as the day grew to be a warm one, and the inevitable internal combustion during the steeper ascents.  The first of these was a zig-zag path up a hillside that had all the feel of a city park.  There were two different kindergarten groups doing the same climb, joyfully and effortlessly in the way of little kids.  Their handlers had differing ideas about how to present the experience, evident in the shapeshifting amoebic freedom of the yellow hats vs the dour straight lines of the blue hats.   

A group of old men sat individually enjoying the view over Byodo-in and the west, and I soon left them to find a pleasant ridgeline leading off into the hills.  Before long I came to the peak of Asahiyama, where a pair of old timers chatted beside a fire that burned in a rusted out iron barrel.  I asked them the date of the Kannon statue within a little hall nearby that serves as Kosho-ji's oku-no-in.  They didn't know, and I quickly realized that they probably never felt the need to.  I recognized then the disadvantage of living in the center of the city.  One can't simply walk out the door and make climbing the local peak part of the daily constitution. 

There tends to be an interesting culture in mountains that are near cities, appreciation show in the flourishes of the hands of men.  Along the path, I found stone cairns built up, or strange little dolls and figures left symbolically behind. Informational signs along the way were simply laminated Wikipedia pages stuck to wooden boards.   I'd done close to 100 hikes during these work-free days of Covid, mostly deeper into the countryside.  Winter now presented a great opportunity to explore closer to home, see how the locals relate, co-exist.   

And the further I moved into the hills, the nicer the trails grew, surprising me in being natural growth, and not the ubiquitous coniferous borderlands of Kansai communities.  The best hikes are often those where you expect nothing.  They delight you with their beauty or challenge you with some rough terrain.  And this hike was simply me following a line I'd seen which led to a peak with an intriguing name.  Not part of any guidebook, or on anyone's top 100 list.   And at the end of the day I was left feeling that it was one of the nicer hikes in the region.  

Even the ugly bits had charm.  I came to a massive quarry, its pit cut into terraced sections like something Escher would have done had he a cubist period.  Diggers and dump trucks worked on the various levels, their scales diminishing into miniatures down at the valley bottom. All was as dusty and noisy as Mordor.  Not far away I followed a wrong turn, out amongst the footfalls of the parading giants of utility towers which leveled the forest to provide good views.

Later there would be a criss-crossing scramble over a deep sinuous creek, lunch taken overlooking a quiet reservoir, and a detour to an old cave, followed by a off-trail scramble up to my final peak.  A small park marked the end of the trail, with a group of workmen buzzing noisily with their grass cutters.  One of their trucks was parked in front of a directional sign, causing me to again take a wrong turn (a rookie mistake that I'm usually careful about), but I was rewarded with great views overlooking the Amagase Dam.  I passed over the great concrete monolith, keeping to the center as is my acrophobic want.  

In a lousy bit of timing, a guardman happened to notice me at the far end, and prevented me from crossing the bridge below that I needed to complete my loop.  The detour would take me along a busy road and miles out of my way, but partway along I noticed that I could descend a steep ridge to get me back to river level and to the next bridge downriver.  Mere seconds into my scramble I noted that this was far steeper than I thought, forcing me to literally inch along on my bum, grasping at whatever I could to defy gravity's power. It was slow going, switch-backing rather than in a straight line, sitting for a minute at a time to plan then next move.  Aside from a few scrapes to my hands I got down safely, but spent most of the pleasant riverside stroll back to the station chastising myself for the risks I continue to take, despite knowing better.  A resolution for the New Year perhaps?

On the turntable:   George Shearing, "Personal Collection"

Sunday Papers: Craig Mod

 

"[...]Japan, where formalities and walls built through language often conspire to keep a sense of friendship at bay for months or years. Certainly when alcohol isn’t involved. And when alcohol is involved, that itself becomes its own artifice and makes parsing the real from the affected an impossible task."

 

On the turntable: Lenny Bruce, "Carnegie Hall"

Happy New Year!