Thoughts from the bus

Recently I've been spending so much money on transportation in this country that I will take full credit for any economic upturns to come.

Eerie to hear Fats Domino"s "Walking to New Orleans" on my Creative Zen. Didn't even know it was in there.

On the clean lines
of freshly cut paddies,
crows as musical notes

A mere hour into the trip,
Not a single straight head
On the bus

At Kozuki parking area,
black cat struts from ladies room,
crippled girl sweeps trash


On the turntable: Peter Gabriel, "Plays Live"
On the nighttable: Chris Rock, "Rock This"

Schmolotiks

Went to a party last night where I overheard a group of Japanese twentysomethings discussing the recent election and politics in general. As I type this, I feel a cold breeze blowing from the direction of Hades.

On Thursday, coming home from Tokyo, I journalled my own somewhat-political rant:

"Sleepy drifting by train across the countryside. Byrds' fuzz tone guitar blowing clouds out of the autumn sky. Guy next to me looks at the nude pics which frame every issue of Friday magazine. Young Marine aross the aisle reads a pocket-sized bible, slowly pulling a telephone card down the page. A strangely symbiotic pair. The American fighting for the freedom which allows this young salaryman to look at tits in public.
Democracy ya
Democracy ya
Democracy ya."


(I plan to write up my Sado/Tokyo saga of the last two weeks, but I need to get a quick Kyoto trip out of the way first...Back Monday.)


On the turntable: Wes Montgomery, "Finest Hour"
On the nighttable: James Welch, "Fools Crow"

The Space Between

(I can't quite believe it, but I'm headed back to Sado for the next ten days. I won't post here during that time, but if you listen really carefully, from far across the water, you may hear the beating of Taiko messages in morse code...)

I'd thought that I'd spend my single week back in the 'Nog in my monastic quarters, hibernating away. While did have ample time to catch up on my shows and my blogs, I also spent much of my week with drink in hand, jaw aflapping.

It started with Steve's B-day party at Giardino. A few of the new JETs came out to share in a slight misadventure with a new waitron. As we're wont to do, we headed to Shidax for karaoke next, to be joined by the vast majority of the remaining newbies. I had the complete inverse of my usual initial meeting. Rather than feel a good connection with one or two, this time I was strongly repelled by a couple folks who, let's say, are a bit character deficient. One woman seemed to be doing a fantastic Patsy of Ab Fab imitation, whether she knew it or not. As for the other one, Miki actually asked me if he was retarded. ("Well socially, perhaps," I said.) I turned this into a game with returning JETs who asked me about the newbies. I told them Miki's reaction but didn't mention this guy's name and told them to try to figure out who it might be. I eagerly anticipate their mistakes.

Saturday I met most of the Tottori city group. We had a Buddhist experience event at Mitoku-san, where we'd climb the mountain, return for a vegan temple meal, then arise at dawn for meditation. After two months away, I looked forward to a bit of spiritual training. But I wasn't told about the night's entertainment, village woman doing traditional dance, their men emulating their movements while in drag. Nor was I told that I'd still have a beer in my hand past 1 a.m. It required every ounce of strength to get up for zazen at 6. Despite this, the morning found me genki, but it wore off slowly thru the day. I usually have a fantastic sense of direction, but driving back to the 'Nog with Catherine, I somehow wound up in Okayama-ken. We just shrugged and meandered the overabundant back roads, bobbing our heads to a mix CD of Tarantino soundtrack tunes. Once in town, I had a quick lunch with a visiting Katherine and the English School boys, then headed to the Kaike International (We Pay For) Friendship Assoc. BBQ. I usually like that event. Meeting new folk and seeing returnees after vacation always makes it feel like fraternity rush week or something. I'd forgotten that we are also expected to chat with the locals. In English. (Ben and I used to call them Star Fuckers.) They'd move slowly out of the crowd, sidling up slowly like a zombie, to consume your time and eat a bit of your soul. (I still love "Shaun of the Dead!") I was fatigued and not really in the mood, so I responded to everything in Japanese until they gave up. I'm a dick.

The weekend over, things went a little slower, but I still seemed to spend part of the day with somebody. Tuesday was the highlight. I was taken out to Miho Jinja, near the eastern edge of the Shimane Peninsula. We met with the main priest, who along with his team, gave us a demo of traditional Shinto music. After each piece, he'd give an explanation. As a (hopefully) future ethnomusicologist, this was heaven to me. I must get my hands on a ryuteki, that shrill flute that punctuates most Kurosawa films. As I sat in seiza, watching the miko turning as slowly as a 16 rpm LP, tears began to well up. I'm leaving this next year. Though I plan to return to Japan someday, in Kyoto I'll be one of thousands of gaijin, no longer the big fish I am here. In the 'Nog I seem to stumble upon these sorts of scenes almost weekly. I'll really miss it.

Miki's in the 'Nam again, so on my last night in town, I had a TV-light dinner with my mother-in-law. I always try to have my first Japanese meal at her house. As we ate, we watched the news. The election campaign is in full swing, but there wasn't a single story on it, the candidates, or their platform. Instead, we got three stories about Yon-sama and the thousands of middle aged women using him as an elixer to turn back menopause. But there was one LDP commercial featuring Koizumi. In it, I saw the PM sipping a pina colada at Trader Vic's. His hair was perfect.


On the turntable: Gomez, "Out West"
On the nighttable: Bruce Chatwin, "On the Black Hill"

It's the large things too...

...like incredibly fucking noisy election trucks...

...or an absolute lack of irony. In Japan, one of the main delivery companies is called Pelican. This morning, a woman came into my genkan, shouting out, "It's Pelican." Me: "You're no pelican, you're a human being."

(Chirp................... Chirp........................ Chirp..............................)


On the turntable: "AIZAWA DE GOZAIMASU!!!!!YOROSHIKU ONEGAI ITASHIMASU!!!!!!!!"
On the nighttable: A large fucking gun. (Oh, how I wish)

Shared blood spills easiest

Most of the trips I've taken in Asia were based around some sort of spiritual retreat or training. On the other hand, trips to UK, Europe or the States have been "couch tours," moving from one friend to another in search of unadulterated fun.

Imagine my surprise at this past journey having changed me more than any other before. I didn't spent most of my time in uncomfortable postures. I wasn't lacking food or sleep or a comfortable shelter. I wasn't expected to refrain from anything. No, this time, I spent the majority of my time with family. I suppose the reason for my reaction is because family can be the source of love and joy. But in their blasting through our pretenses, reminding us of how well they truly know us, they can also cause a lot of pain in making us aware of how convincingly we can lie to ourselves. It is in this vunerable state that most of the spiritual work is done. (Hardly an original idea of course. Hats off to Mr. Tolstoy.) It's when we are completely raw, when things are reduced to the point where a person is staring directly into their own heart, that we are most human, using our unique mixture of instinct and reason to make sense of the mess. This makes us much more open to new ideas. Here we grow.

When we haven't seen family of friends in awhile, they serve as a barometer for how much we've changed. Their reaction to this change can further serve as a major paradigm shift. But at the time it feels like being in a car skidding on ice.

I'm a different person than the man I was in June. My world is not the same. But I walk it with open eyes and fresh shoes.


On the turntable: "James Brown's Funky People"
On the nighttable: Daniel Mason, "The Piano Tuner"

It's the small things, really...

Ah the joys of returning to Japan after along time away. All those minor annoyances suddenly glaringly magnified...

Unintentional though ignorant racist comments coming from the uninvited saleman at my door

Line of black trucks a convoy of hate

Grease spot on the train window indicating where a salaryman fell asleep

People closing curtains on the bus, blocking out all the beautiful scenery. Like riding in a fuzzy tube. Is this a metaphor for tatemae, or sakoku?

Most depressing is the first time you go food shopping after a lengthly time away. Freedom of choice expressed as twenty types of meat spaghetti sauce. Today, as I was leaving the super, an old guy was staring. I looked away, then back. Still staring. A third time I looked. Still staring. Not only that, but he'd done a complete 180 degree pan with his eyes, as I'd rounded the corner where he was sitting. Welcome back to the countryside, Ted. I think next time I'll wink


On the turntable: Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, "Drinking in the Blues"

EC 05

OK, I've calmed down enough to actually write about the event.

(Long pause)

Or maybe not. This is what I feel when I attend something like this, be it a smokin' music festival, longtime immersion in the wild, or some kind of more traditional spiritual training. When you're living a moment fully, there's no room to write, since the observer's role requires distance.

EC was like that. The memories come almost as a laundry list. Arrived just in time to jump into an organized drum circle, with cicada accompanyment. Grabbed a quick bite at the flea market, then climbed up to the castle ruins for the gig. Kodo on fire as usual. Took a bus over to the campsite and set up in the dark. Three days of travel had worn me out, but somehow once again, I beat jet lag.

Saturday morning, woke early for a swim, getting out only after receiving five jellyfish stings. Caught some Fringe stuff at the shrine--Miyake daiko, hula, etc. Stayed out of the sun under cover of the tarp at the Kyoto Journal booth. Besides working the festival, I did double duty as PR for the magazine. Hung out with Ben and Jacob, two amazing guys from Antioch who are spending the summer in Kyoto as interns. It was great fun, rapping with people, or taking solitary walks around to other booths, talking to J-hippies. As is usual with that crew, it was a very mellow, relatively drug-and alcohol-free, asexual scene. In the West, you'd find tripping couples copulating in puddles of technicolor vomit. But not here.

Carlos Nunez's set was wicked mix of Celtic, Spanish and Arabic flavors, though somewhat strangely paced, with a few fast numbers followed by the occasional mellow one. Kodo joined them for part of it. I danced the second half, spinning to the jigs in my unique faux-Riverdance style, stomping my feet to the drums. At the end, the clothes I'd bought earlier in the day were drenched. Wandered the flea market area, but the mellow music brought me down. I caught a bus to the campsite. Some young English girl followed me around awhile, but I wasn't interested and ditched her when I went to my tent to get instruments. My drum had been in the hot tent all day causing the head to stretch and go out of tune. So I took the shakuhachi instead. Unlike the cohesion of the night before, the scene on the beach was segregated into three gaijin groups and only one Japanese, but the latter was the only one playing music so it was there I settled. Not for long. The music didn't really build into anything, and no one was talking, merely pounding their drums or spinning around in an annoyingly narcissitic fashion, looking cool. Hipposers. I went off to bed.

Early the next morning I had to work at the EC shop. Perched behind the CD section, I quickly grew busy, dealing with customers and their money. The cumulative fatigue of the past few days was beginning to hit as I tried to make change. I remembered an old SNL skit where Chevy Chase, as Gerald Ford, is asked an economic question at a press conference. He responds, "I was assured that there would be no math." At lunch, I hung at the KJ booth again, then took part in a Miyake Taiko workshop, squatting in a horse stance, rocking back and forth until my calves screamed, pounding sideways, the sticks stained with the blood pouring from my broken blisters. Pure heaven. Cooled down by taking a swim with Jacob, jumping off spiky volcanic rocks as rain began to fall.

That night's gig was Kodo and Carlos playing together, me dancing and jumping, and yelling out "Yeah!" like a marionette with Tourettes. Watching supurb musicians at the height of their talents is almost religious. With all that dancing, I no longer have an ass to speak of. Afterward, I hung again at the flea market, watching the fire dancers do their exotic thing, balls of flame spinning dangerously close to flowing skirts. Then, I was crammed into the luggage space of a car-load of J-hippies. Despite the yogic contortions, I played my flute as fare.

Awoke soaked. Throughout the night, rain had dripped thru the tent onto my back. I guessed I haven't seam-sealed this puppy in awhile. All the clothes in my pack were damp, but the electronics were unscathed somehow. While I broke camp, the sky opened (naturally), so I stripped down and finished the job in my underwear. Of course, once finished, the sun came out. Spent the morning cleaning up the flea market area. Kodo came down to play for the boat departing at 10:20. As they hit their final note it was echoed by thunder, and then rain came down in biblical proportions. It was a quick storm but everyone was drenched, including the group and a team of documentary filmmakers who lost a camera. A tent from the flea market made a break for freedom, rising and spinning into the air, before it lost momentum and fell into the harbor. (I talked to the owners later who said that losing the tent was a shame, but they were happy to make a home for the fish. Ah, the understanding of hippies.) As I cleaned up, I said farewell to many new friends. One 10 year old followed me around, so I played Tom Sawyer and "let" him help out. And he didn't even get a staff T-shirt.

That afternoon I helped break down the shop. Since I was the biggest guy there, I was of course expected to move all the really heavy stuff, the victim of horrible size-ism. (Hey! You in the back! Keep your smutty thoughts to yourself.) Kodo member and friend Shin-chan gave me a lift in the official Kodo tour truck up to Kodo Village. There was going to be a BBQ for the band and staff. I was a little early and felt guilty for sitting around while the band members prepped food for us. They'd played their asses off for us and here they were cooking for us. Amazing spirit. So I helped Ei-chan built the BBQ pit, both of us cracking jokes and catching up. At seven, the rest of the people began to arrive, namely the band, the staff, and members of the fringe bands. It was a great scene of good food (including sopapillas which they'd learned to make from the Taos drummers who played here a few years ago; I'd never seen any outside New Mexico before) and drink, the best being the blackberry sake made by an Ainu woman, a drink of 70 proof with a kick like a horse. With all the lubrication, even more friends were made. Around two, I felt it was time to go but couldn't find my sandals. There were an identical pair near the door, two sizes two small. No doubt some drunk person had worn mine home. I was given a pair of incredibly small slippers to wear out into the heavy rain. Only the next morning did I see my heels and sheets, streaked with mud.

Since all I owned was soaked, I'd stayed at the hostel. In the morning, headed down to catch my ferry to find Kodo ready to go again. Most of last night's partygoers were on the boat, so the group played us off, okuri-daiko. The best was yet to come. After a three year absence, I'd gone to Sado in the hopes of reconnecting with the Kodo members I knew, hoping to renew friendships. In Tokyo, I got the call. I was being invited to come back next week, for ten days of special training in drumming, dance, and voice. An incredible honor. Crazy how this world turns for me sometimes...

So I did Tokyo by day (two yoga classes; some DVD hang time with Zach and Dana and Eli; lunch with Colleen) and Osaka by night (dinner with Keith at some weird Umeda restaurant filled with religious artifacts and gorgeous women; stouts at the Merseybeat pub in Namba, where I saw a photo of Catherine and Nicki of the 'Nog) and headed home. Here a week, then back to Sado again...


On the turntable: "Billy Bragg and Wilco, "Mermaid Avenue"
On ther nighttable; Paul Auster, "The Book of Illusions"

Earth Celebration 2005

Holy Fuckin Shit!




Why haven't I gone before?



Why haven't you?

Slowly I turn...

I had originally intended to spend my last day on the east coast in New York City, wandering the place of my birth. Do a little yoga at Jivamukti. Buy books at Gotham book mart. Drink Brooklyn lagers to live jazz at Village Vanguard. A slice and a canned coke drunk with a straw is of course a given. But I decided it was more important to instead spend the day with Nana. We had a nice quiet lunch on the front patio of her rehab center. When we usually part ways, we both seem to feel that it could be the last time. Today, our poker faces failed us, and with tears in my eyes, I turned and went to catch my shuttle in Waterbury.

I spent the night in a shoddy, noisy hotel near Kennedy. One of the staff gave me a lift to the airport. Wearing a loud shirt unbuttoned to midchest, listening to flashback disco music on the radio, he was doing a mean Tony Manero impression. The flight left early. My seat seemed to be broken. On takeoff, it slipped into what was not a full upright position. I tried to keep my body from being pushed backward, literally doing crunches against nearly a G of pressure. The flight cut straight cross-country. Seeing topography remembered from previous road trips, I could figure out what state I was over. I remembered a conversation I had with a British guy when we'd co-ride-shared a Palm Springs bound car. Driving thru Utah, he said the most amazing thing about the States is that this (indicating the scenery) and the Bronx are in the same country. Today, I was able to see both. I also saw Yosemite, one of my favorite places on Earth. El Cap and Half-Dome unmistakable, as if recognizing the faces of loved ones in a crowd.

Ben-chan met me at SFO, and to the Mission we did go. I did my usual final day ritual, shopping--vitamins at Rainbow to last thru winter, books at Dog-Eared to last the flight. Two films I'd hoped to see--"The Aristocrats" and the latest Bill Murray/Jim Jarmusch thing--were in town but I didn't have time. Instead, we did a class at Yoga Tree, met Emiko at the Phoenix for a couple pints, then a cheap African dinner at Baobab.

Ben helped me tote my pregnant bags back to SFO. A mere 24 hours in San Francisco is too little. Checking in, I didn 't see my flight on the board. Was it cancelled? Plan B was quickly formulated: side trip to L.A., over to Boulder for Folk Fest, then west again to Burning Man. (When you're self-employed, the party needn't stop.) (Un)fortunately, I did indeed have a seat. Ben and I killed time by people watching, laughing at the two cops riding bikes around the terminal. They were wearing helmets. Why? Are they in danger of being run down by errant smart carts? We also howled at the sight of the worst barcode/combover in the history of man. Ben said that the guy must wake up every morning with it stuck to the side of his face. I replied that then he'd look like Wolverine from Xmen. The flight was long but on this post-Obon day, I had a row to myself. I stared out the window, comparing two shades of impossibly perfect blue, and looking for whales. I alternated between dozing and reading, completely ignoring four of the worst films Hollywood put out this year. (Again, how to quantify?) Every flight into Tokyo encounters a bumpy spot about two hours out. A flight attendant was killed here in heavy turbulence in the late 90's. I lay across my three seats, noticing what the pilot was doing to find smooth air; the slight change in the engine's pitch, the subtle adjustment of the wing's angle. Laying prone, it feels like sleeping in the back of a car going over Japanese roads.

The shimmering sea gave way to Chiba. After a long, emotionally turbulent, thought-provoking trip to the US, everything below me looked especially small. The shadow of a jet flew over geometric shapes, rice fields clean rectangles, golf courses protozoa, then grew larger and larger, until touching my own plane's wheels, creating smoke. Breezed thru the airport, slow dreamy ride into Kichijoji. Casa Daza awaited. A quick pat on Eli's curly head. I hadn't seen him in 6 months but he's official been upgraded from infant to boy. Dashed back out and exchanged books up the street at Bondi Books, the owner putting up with my jet-lag babble. His shop is the only decent place to buy used in Tokyo, and he has a fine blog to boot. (Click the Bondi Books link at left.) Showered off the grime of Tokyo's unbelievable mugginess, Doc Brommer soothing but adding a tingling burn to the nether regions. Had corn and tofu burgers with Zach and Dana, filling them in on the trip, but due to the Joycian density of the tale, unsure where to begin.

And not quite over yet. Tommorow, early Shink and ferry ride to Sado. Earth Celebration awaits.


On the turntable: Beastie Boys, "Ill Communication"
On the nighttable: Monica Ali, "Brick Lane"

On the conch: Kurt

I'm in the air, so here's big bro Kurt with a flashback.


Oh Brother, there art Thou!

I had the joy of hosting Ted, as many of you have had, during his epic trip across the states, and the poor boy followed me in and out of the lighter and darker recesses of my life. On Ted's first night in Iowa City I dragged him into the deep haze of the local watering hole, Dave's Foxhead, showing him how writers drink --� not unlike expats I gather --with some sort of competitive edge, trying to evaporate all sense of fear and regret, skirting around the inherent emptiness of language, and Ted right there with us, bantering, playing coyote with the words reveling in the novelty of it all.

In the span of a week we managed to drink a truck load of beer, talk about the wonders, beauties, complexities, and overall surreal quality of the feminine mystique, and load and drive a Penske truck through that laconic sojourn of corn we call Nebraska. Along the way we drank rich Costa Rican coffee with Teresa and Jorge, ate some of that Midwest corn with Sherri and John, tubed the St. Vrain river with Ethan in the morning, watched Alison Krause from his cliffside at night, and did our best to keep it all real.

But the most defining moment came three days after we'd arrived at Boulder. We drove up Boulder Canyon to Clark Warren's house for dinner. It was a long, sinuous drive up Magnolia road, the switchbacks coming on as suddenly as acid flashbacks. Over beers and wine at eight thousand feet, amidst a discussion about the general lackadaisical nature of the modern college student, Clark turned to Ted and I and asked, "So, how'd you two become brothers?"�

Being step-brothers, there are hundreds of ways to tell that story. How my father met his mother, or how at their wedding I flirted with his neighbors as I bartended, or the time I brought a van-load of hippies to our parents' house in New Mexico, or the first time we got drunk together. I know we didn't refer to any of those moments, but I don't recall how we answered the question. There was probably some cool in it, some humor, a touch of affection. I don't think either one of us referred to the dead dog that we left in our wake as we drove out from Iowa City to Boulder, but to me, the answers are in there somewhere.

At five o'clock in the afternoon on July 29th, the day before we were to leave Iowa City, Ted and I took Mason to the Creature Comfort Animal Clinic to have him put down. Before we left for the clinic Mason and I sat in the front yard watching Cardinals flit amongst the black walnut trees. I'd just cut the grass the day before and the clean green scent of it was everywhere. That spring, a chickadee family had taken up residence in the eaves of my house, just above my bedroom, and as we sat there the mother and father brought worms and bugs to the nest. The small pastel-orange triangles of the baby bird's beaks emerged, inhaled the food, and disappeared. The traffic moved with a constant rhythm, motorcycles playing talk radio, pick-ups with young kids driving far too fast. The heat wave that had engulfed Iowa City for two weeks had passed and the afternoon was breezy but warm, the sky as soft as a child's blue blanket.

Ted came up the sidewalk and instead of joining us right away he moved around us, a comfortable kind of ghost, taking pictures I only later learned about, giving Mason and I space. I know he joined us. I also know that he rode to the vet with me, moved with me through that odd, sad, efficient space the decisions about death engenders, but I wasn't fully present. I was dissembling the choice, putting it back together again, trying to understand how I'd found my way to a vet's office to say goodbye to my dog of fifteen years. I know I talked to Ted, both about things of a practical nature and about the things Mason had done in his life--living in Prague chief among them. I was impatient for the vet, upset that the office was busy.� Ted listened, agreeing in that quiet right kind way he has.

When Mason went, after the anaesthia, after we both had said our goodbyes, after he fought Mr. Death, growling his own fuck-you at him, after we both cried, trying to find the tissues in that room adorned with dog breed posters and anti-tick ads, we left out the back door and Ted knew not to let me drive. At home, the first thing we did was grab some beers, dark rich ales, and we drank on the porch, watching the traffic slide by. The blue blanket of sky gave way to smoky turquoise. We lifted the beers, as we did for the rest of the time we were together, and toasted my dog. And that quiet, tactful company is how we continually become the brothers that we are.

CT scan

Here in Connecticut, I've spent about a week speedily moving along narrow roads shaded by the maples which tower over Colonial homes. My family comes from around here, at three points of a triangle that straddles State Highway 8. This is slightly north of the gold coast, those expensive NYC commuter suburbs which include Greenwich, where I'd lived briefly as a boy. A few hills over is where the new money is, in the form of huge houses where entertainment types with names like Spielberg and Hoffman live part time. I'd spent a lot of time here as a kid, mostly at my aunt and uncle's place. Deer sometimes come through the arched bushes and into the yard. The neighbors have a pool where I used to swim, but there are now new people there, whose names I do not know, so I cannot ask for swimming priviledges even with the 100 degree heat. Years ago I marched in an Independence Day parade on the quiet road out front. My grandparents' place the next town over has long been sold, but the home where my grandmother grew up is still in the family, my cousin Matt being the fifth generation to live there. My Nana had told him of the days when she was young, how they'd have to be careful of the noisy third stair when sneaking in late. Recently, when renovating those same stairs, Matt found a crack in the third one, running from wall to post. History will always reveal itself when it is the right time. In Waterbury, the house where my father used to fend off his drunken dad is gone, but my uncle John now lives nearby.

I spent most of the week with him, sparring with our usual topics of college hoops and film. A decade abroad has left me armed to handle only the latter. We watched quite a few together, "Steve Zissou," "Smoke Signals," "American Splendor." On a trip to New Haven we saw "Apres Vous" in the cinema. It was like a refresher for John, a retired high school French teacher. We also wandered Yale a bit, the tall stone halls reminiscent of my recent UK trip. Though thin in stature, John's life also entails dining out a lot. He talks of restaurants in superlatives: Zini's in Litchfield doing the best Italian; Cookhouse in New Milford doing the best ribs; Pepe's in New Haven doing the best pizza; and of course, Frankies doing the best hot dogs. Growing up, I'd often gone to the latter, yet had never noticed their slogan, "Come In and Eat or We'll Both Starve." (This trip I tried their Lobster Roll, which is basically cut-up lobster on a roll. For $12, I'd rather have just the lobster.) I'd always loved hanging out with my uncle, he serving as my sole male role model during the time between my mom's two marriages. Ironically, he has outlived both men. And he shows no sign of slowing down. His sense of humor is still razor sharp, with a cynical wit which may have been contagious. It was hilarious to hang out with him and his friends, like being in an episode of Seinfeld. One morning, we walked four straight flat miles along a long abandoned railway line. I'm told there are now more trees in Connecticut than ever, due to the owners of large estates planting on what was once farmland. This thick wood was bear country, and mountain lions have also been sighted. More prevailant were the horseflies and deer ticks. As we walked, I almost expected to see Ichabod Crane come racing up, the Headless Horseman in hot pursuit. At least the Horseman needn't worry about the ticks.

This trip, I wasn't able to see much of my aunt. She's been busy taking care of my 93-year old Nana, who broke her hip last month. Rehab will last a few more weeks. The care hasn't been bad, but the food is lousy, so she's been having a tough time. When I saw her last Tuesday, I'd been expecting the worst, but Nana's a resiliant old bird, the glow in her eyes undiminished. Here's a woman who survived polio 80 years ago. I visited with her everyday, listening to her tales of her grandparents who left Ireland in 1874. I feel a certain kinship with them since I went in search of their hometown and relatives back in February. Irish blood runs thick in my family, and I heard about it constantly. The West is now the "New World", races mixing as they manifest their destinies. Back East, as I've mentioned before, is still the "Old World," with strong ties to the Older World of Europe and beyond.

Ten years away has made me feel that I'm only a satellite member of the family, one who doesn't have full voter priviledges. Spending a week out here plugged me back in. Saturday night, we had a small party for my Nana. Afterward, my cousins took me out on their pontoon boat. They're much younger than me, and it was the first time we ever got a chance to hang out. It was interesting to hear their take on family politics, coming as it was from a different angle. We floated on the still lake, drinking Sam Adams. A bad cover band was playing at Lake Quasapaug Amusement Park, the sound cutting thru the dark to us. (For awhile we thought it might actually be John Fogarty, until we heard the singer say, "Thanks, we're the Steve Allan Band." Cousin Matt: "Isn't that guy dead?") The park played a major part in my childhood summers. Cara said that the rides probably haven't changed since then, and that without fail, somebody gets killed every year. (Props to my aunt and uncle for risking their lives for my entertainment.) Back on land it was hot and muggy. Matt sped the roads in his new Mustang, a car modelled after its classic 60's ancestors. I'm not a car guy, but I couldn't help but be impressed. It's been a long time since I've been in a car which has real balls. The engine is so powerful that it feels like you're being pushed from behind. This engine growled as it downshifted into turns, frightening the deer off the roads .

On the weekend, I privately celebrated Obon. My aunt has built a small garden for the memory of Ken-chan. I weeded and trimmed the shrubs, then placed flowers behind the small pagoda. Though I'm miles away from my home in the 'Nog, he is here with me. No matter where I am, the air always seems thicker at this time, as if filled with spirits. On the fifteenth, when the ghosts depart, the storms began and the summer night once again turned cool.


On the turntable: Mickey Hart, "Apocalypse Now Sessions"
On the nighttable: Gish Jen, "Who's Irish?"

Chicago revisited

Last time in town, D took me to have pizza in a famous place not far from where he did med-school, which happens to be the set for ER. This pizza joint borders the Greek part of town, itself the setting for "My Big Fat Overrated Movie." As we walked its streets, I noted the Greek flags, the Greek travel posters. Greek pride is rampant these days, no doubt due in part to the popularity of said film. But with my usual cynicism, I sensed a different motive. In these post 9-11 days, they might as well have hung banners saying, "Greeks. We ain't Muslims."


On the turntable: Carlos Nunez, "Os Amores Libres"
On the nighttable: David Sedaris, "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim"

Brief Home Chicago

On Saturday, Eric and Dave drove me halfway Chicago, to East Lafayette. I'd been here before when I was 21, an age when I thought it important to break up road trips to party in university towns. About twenty minutes after boarding my north-bound bus, we stopped again, probably so some of the thugs in back could get down and smoke a rock. Not that I blame 'em. You need it to deal with the complete absence of any feature on the landscape to draw your attention. Flat flat flat. (But it still beats the shit out of Kansas, where the landscape is so dull [despite William Least Heat-Moon's great book] that I once got ticketed twice in a half hour speeding across it.) Second only to windmills, billboards were the highest things on the horizon, often carrying deep messages about "Abstinance until Marriage," and "Reverse Vasectomy Procedures." Cause and effect and cause and effect. This went on until Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, when Chicago's southern, poorer satellites began. A lot of billboards here shot through the heart of the black demographic, with ads that D later told me he found racist. He for one, ain't "Lovin' It." But Gary was keeping it real, with nice homes lining quiet suburban streets, flanked at both ends by typical scenes of economic despair. Lotto kiosks and bars were especially prevailant, one of the latter carrying a sign saying that they sold "Gary's coldest beer." How do you quantify that?

D and Braver met me at the bus station and we drove north along the crowded beaches of Lake Michigan. We found ourselves down here again the next day, in front of Lincoln Park, where we wandered awhile, passing dozens of young parents unnecessarily and quite harshly scolding their broods. Cafe Brauer offered great seating from which to watch the varieties of human expression. Who needs "March of the Penguins" anyhow? The beach was another great vantage point. There are an incredible number of nationalities in Chicago, whose varied behaviors no doubt causes most Americans to quickly think, "Other." In Japan, one of those "freaks' would be me.

Saturday night, we went over to DePaul University to meet Braver's 25-year-old cousin, a professional drummer currently playing two shows a night at something like $800/week. (I hid my envy well, I think, breaking none of the lucky fucker's phlanges. {Ooh! Good band name!}) We had subs at Potbelly, then crossed the street to down pints. Heading to the john, I ran into a guy I knew at Univ. of Arizona. Weird. Afterward, D, Braver and I went to a larger bar jammed with college age kids. It was too packed/noisy to talk, so we simply swivelnecked to look at the local talent. This got old for me in about 27 seconds. I was by no means looking for company, but the attitude in that place was ridiculous and unwarranted. (Is this "baby-doll" dress trend nationwide, or only here? It's a terrible look either way, from the Lush Mama line at Victoria's Secret.) In my cups, I got annoyed at the whole thing, and left quickly. (In hindsight, I should've relished the irony of a meat-market in Chicago. Upton Sinclair lives!) I remember why I always hated places like that, even back in college. We caught what turned out to be the last train. After shuffling our feet for a half-hour on a busy platform, we realized we'd missed our connection. Braver spent the time talking hoops to a spacey amateur boxer. When our train didn't come, we decided to walk the last mile home. A really tall girl joined us, no doubt finding safety in our numbers. It turned out she was a 20-year old varsity volleyball player at Northwestern, abandoned by her friends. We talked awhile with her, but as I was tired and it was nearing three, I went up to D's to crash. D and Braver drove her the rest of the way home. Fifteen years or so ago, one of them would've tried to pick her up, but instead, in their latest role as husbands and dads, they lectured her on the dangers of going into the dark with strangers. How times change...

Most of the weekend we spent walking Evanston and the area around Northwestern U. We drank pints at the same Irish pub twice. One night, we watched "Shaun of the Dead," a film that deserves all the hype it has gotten. Brilliant. And Chappelle, plenty of Chappelle. In college, it used to be Playstation, but now we compare some of the more bizarre web sites we've found. And in between these things, we talked, about old times and new, trying to find common ground among three lives now grown up and spinning in different trajectories.

Monday, Braver flew back to Phoenix. That night D and I went to an open-mic near campus. The crowd was mostly teenaged, listening to the high-school balladeers and their guitars, ignoring the old-timers and their overblown poems. Where were the freaks, the flavor? I know it's around, having read about the scene in long dead punk 'zines and in the journals of Aaron Cometbus. Hell, I'd been at shows here myself. But this trip, it was as vanilla as the ice cream in my root beer float. Chicago, despite it's multi-ethnicity, seems devoidedly lacking in multi-culturalism. Like a TV dinner tray, everyone here seems seperated into their own monolingual ghettos, the Irish, Poles, Greeks. I guess I forget that this is how things work in the Midwest and on the East Coast. I've grown accustomed to the jambalaya mix of western cities. Or more appropriately , I thrive on the hunt for foreign flavors while wandering Tokyo or Kyoto neighborhoods, an alternative to the washoku land of the 'Nog.

My last morning in town, I took an early morning swim in the calm waters of Lake Michigan, the latest body of water in a growing list of those which have engulfed me. On the beach I watched the young mother brigade begin to roll their tykes to the water's edge, listened to their varied accents, and looked beyond to the neat, pricy middle-class homes from which they'd come. The face of this country has changed rapidly during the decade I've been away. Myself being caught between two cultures and belonging to neither, I encourage the change, the variety. But I can't help but feel sad about one thing. When you add all the colors of the spectrum together, you tend to wind up with white.


On the turntable: Bonny "Prince" Billy, "Master and Everyone"
On the nighttable: Roy Parvin, "The Loneliest Road in America"

Indiana jonesin'

Back in '96, I went see the film "Twister." There's a scene near the end, where a warm wind begins to blow as the leads stand out on the front lawn of a motel . I remember leaving the air-conditioned theater and stepping back into the hot July night, feeling a slight sense of nostalgia for that summer wind which blows in the Midwest (and in Sinatra songs) but not in muggy Japan. Last Wednesday, not thirty minutes after floating down over the Indy 500 raceway, I stepped out of the airport and for the first time in a decade, felt that same wind on my face. In the state where people seem built for comfort rather than speed, their accents doing terrible things to French words.

Marty and Eriko picked me up. I'd last seen them in September in Tokushima, where I'd done double duty at their wedding, both performing the ceremony and translating the speeches. As way of thanks, they bought me dinner at an Italian joint just off the highway. Marty had picked this place because he liked the way trees were growing from the roof. It was a great time, bouncing our ridiculous conversation around and around the table. In Columbus, I found my brother Eric waiting up. We chatted awhile, pausing occasionally to laugh at John Stewart or Cartman.

The next morning I chilled out, happy to have the first down time in two weeks. I didn't want to squander it, so I watched a DVD of "Dude, Where's My Car?" I also wrote long overdue emails, and tried to catch up on this blog (writing more because I feel I have to and not really want to, resulting in this stilted atrocious prose of late.) I also spent some time talking to Eric and Angie, both exhausted with baby Beck, born five weeks ago this day. So begins this initial phase of "house arrest", the first stage of an eighteen year sentence.

Eric is the track coach of one of the high schools and is currently in charge of a cross-country camp up at Brown County State park. I went up there with him the afternoon. When he set off with the boys for a humid eight mile slog, I jumped on the mountain bike and rode up and around the Park's gentle hills, hesitating at Hesitation Point to ogle Ogle Pond, then followed the mountain bile trails back down. The humidity here isn't quite Japan standards, but I was soaked just the same. Being a huge "Breaking Away" fan, I'd hoped for a swim in one of the local quarries, but was satisfied in finding a small above-ground pool in my brother's backyard. We swam around washing off sweat, talking about the frustrations of being a progressive in a small Midwestern town, the rain beginning to lightly fall from the same clouds I flew out of a day before in Denver.

Maura and Dave came by for dinner. They'd come to visit the 'Nog last fall. I later went back to their place, about a dozen miles out of town. It's quiet out there, isolated, and I'd hoped to hike around their land and startle some deer. It was Dave and I who found ourselves started, by a raccoon(probably) which ran across the roof behind us. We sat on the back deck in the dark, drinking Guinness and talking, mostly about Warrior Codes (inspired by Finn Mac Cool and the Irish beer connection) and their unfortunate absence in today's world. This led to the inevitable bitching about the Jones' and the Status Quo, a topic that comes up nearly every time we're together, carrying us far too late past bedtime.

Spent all day Friday out at Dave and Maura's place. The rain kept me indoors most of day, so I watched old school stuff on DVD, namely the pilot episode of Kung Fu and the always hilarious Reefer Madness. I also sat on the porch in the hammock, reading and watching the rain drive birds closer and closer to the house. Between chapters, I'd squint my eyes and try to align the slats of the deck with the stripes on the lawn, now slightly off-color from recent mowing. A dozen meters or so from my swinging head was the frame of a barn in the midst of construction. It was a shame about the rain because I'd been looking forward to seeing the bearded workmen sing Amish songs as they hammered, and their womenfolk praise God as they whipped up a fine lunch. When the sun came up and the grass dried, I finally made it onto the trails. Dave returned about then, so we drove back to town to pick up pizza. At the drive-up window, I was surprised to see Angie's brother. (Would he be my brother-in-law?) He handed us four pies rather than the two we'd ordered. (Thanks guy!) Back at Eric and Angie's, Eriko and Marty dropped by, and we all ate and drank and watched the remake of "The Italian Job" (There it is again).


On the turntable: Jack Johnson at Bonnaroo '02
On the nighttable: Chang-Rae Lee, "Aloft"

...and then the Mountains Were Back

When Kurt and I got to his new house we found it locked and no one around. In all fairness, we hadn't let anyone know when we'd be arriving. So we unloaded the truck off the trailer and went to buy a case of Fat Tire. We drank on the front steps, blowing off unpacking even after the keys arrived. After sunset, we went to Sherry and John's place for a BBQ of shrimp and sake and ice cream. As parties do, the whole thing migrated to the kitchen, where we laughed as the dog pounced at shadows on the floor.

Sunday morning, we walked to Vic's for coffee, then over to Masa for brunch. I finally got the blueberry pancakes I'd been craving since my last morning of yoga training. After breakfast, three out of the eight of us were planning to go to a Renaissance Fair. It got me going on about why there aren't any Dark Ages Fairs, where people walk around in rags with dirt on their faces, coughing on one another and living la vida squalid. You could drink lots of mead, then DaVinci would thank you on your way out.

Before our group parted ways, they all helped us unpack the truck, knocking the whole thing off in less than twenty minutes. We lounged most of the day, then headed up to Lyons to Ethan's place. He had a house on a cliff overlooking the site of the Rocky Mountain Bluegrass Festival. The sound up here was clear and clean, and we could see the stage from the patio. The cliff's edge was better seating than I've had at many stadium shows. As the evening progressed, we heard sets by Doc Watson, Tim O'Brien, and Sam Bush, the latter blowing me completely away. After dark, Alison Krause came on, crooning to me as I sat drinking red wine in the hot tub. An incredible night as two dogs flanked a one-ton weathered Buddha aglow by tiki torch; Mars rising in the sky beyond.

Monday was a day of errands, taking a couple hours longer than they should of, in part due to too much paperwork, and the difficulties in negotiating the truck and trailer thru the narrow rows of a storage unit. To decompress, we hiked the Flatirons with Ethan, climbing the steep rocky steps up to Royal Arch. These steps drove my knees into my stomach, full and churning from pesto tortellini and spicy chai eaten earlier at Whole Foods. As I sat fighting nausea on top, Ethan pointed out local geography, mountains and lakes and the skyline of Denver far off to the right. Back in town, I ran Kurt thru an abridged version of one of my yoga classes. What followed was a Boulder pasttime. Dollar taco night at Masa. The place was packed and was a meat market. (Actually, the whole town's a bit of a meat market.) We filled up and crashed early.

Tuesday was the first day in a week that we had no errands. It was full nonetheless. We drove up to Lyons and tubed the St. Vrain with Ethan and his dog, Riley. It was a great morning, flowing from sunshine to shady cliffs and bouncing thru three sets of rapids. We finished at a small waterfall, which we and Riley would jump from into the swimming hole churning below. Later, Kurt and I went back to town to meet my friend Bruce, who drove up from Denver where he teaches yoga. I met him at Tias' Level 1 training, and he's the guy who introduced me to the "Brain Machine"(details later). At three we took an Ashtanga class at Richard Freeman's Yoga Workshop. At dusk, we drove up to Magnolia, winding high above Boulder, along dirt roads to my friend's cabin which sits at 8000 ft. I met Clarke when he was my teacher for Naropa's study trip to Bhutan. It was great to see him after a two year absence, and his sense of humor was intact, as expected. There were also a couple of Naropa faculty present, though to my slight disappointment, Anne Waldman was unable to come. We passed a great night over red wine, Thai curry, and corn on the cob. (I forget, do Americans eat this every night in summer?) Conversation went everywhere, from Tibetan Buddhism to the expat experience to conspiracy theories. As I said, a great night.

Wednesday morning I got an Ayurvedic massage from yet another of Kurt's friends, Jane. It was a mix of deep-tissue manipulation, light yogic stretching, and lots of oil. It made me really feel all the activities of the previous few days. When it was over, I could barely communicate for about half an hour. Kurt and I wandered Pearl street mall for awhile, eating at a Falafel place I remembered from my first visit here 23 years ago. I bought some books at Boulder Book Store and Trinity, then we set off for Denver and my next flight. I had had a great time in Boulder and didn't really want to leave. As we pulled out, three deer walked gingerly up the street.


On the turntable: Keb' Mo', "Keb' Mo'"
On the nighttable: Nick Hornsby, et al., "Speaking With the Angel"

Nebraska Interim

Our truck was 16 feet and was pulling an Isuzu Trooper, all four tires up on a trailer. It was a massive rig which pushed from behind on downhills. It was just crazy. We were both freaking out and laughing alot, but figured that people dumber than us do this kind off thing all the time. After a couple hours, we found the balls to take it past 75 mph, cruising into Omaha just before midnight. Finding out that backing up on an incline is futile, we found a large parking space (Parallel! Go Kurt! You're the new Sir Speed, my brother.) and joined my friend Teresa for some wine. She had another guest, Jorge, up from Costa Rica, who Teresa had met on a yoga retreat sometime. Besides being a good guy, he whipped up some tasty coffee and a mean breakfast.

Nebraska is weird. I'm not being critical, but there is an energy there that slows down time. All the way across we had my Ipod on a ridiculously low level. Not much in the way of scenery. Corn. Maize. Tomorokoshi. We passed the parking area where we'd picnicked in the snow with Mason 18 months back. In the early afternoon, we pulled off the highway into an ancient gas station amidst the, you guessed it, corn. As we were filling the tank, another rental truck pulled in from the opposite direction. It too was towing a 4x4. Two young guys got out. I laughed. Time in Nebraska had slowed so much that we had met our selves from 15 years ago. Weird.

Once past the Colorado state line, we turned the music up high, as if we'd forgotten to do so earlier. Heads and feet bobbed. Speed increased. The front tire of the Isuzu lost its connection with the trailer. How many miles ago? Jesus.

The mountains welled up and Boulder embraced us.



On the turntable: The Ramones, "Rocket to Russia"
On the nighttable: Paul Birman, "Two Girls and A Camel"

...and then the Mountains Were Gone

Flew into Iowa City Tuesday the 26th, Buddy Holly on my mind on approach. My bags were still in Denver, due to a woman at the check-in counter being so flirtatious that she forgot to check them thru to my final destination. She told me that I'd been "randomly" (finger quotes) selected for an extra security check, and joked that someone wants to ensure I feel good and safe.. I replied that apparently, I wasn't the one who needed to feel secure. Once again I wonder, does being a member of the Green Party qualify a person for an FBI file?

My oldest brother Kurt met me at the airport and so began a marathon three days of packing, cleaning, and loading a Penske for the long haul to Boulder. We were smart in that we loaded the thing in increments over three days, usually after dark when the humidity was down and the blood-alcohol content up. So it wasn't all dull moments. The first night started out with pizza at an English-style pub (!?). We stopped at a liquor store to buy beer, and on our way out spotted some of his friends in the Foxhead across the street. A couple rounds ensued. We downed our warm beer in the park at the by-now winding down party. The whole proceedings then migrated back to the Foxhead. This seemed to be the official drinking hole for the Iowa writer's workshop. Many of its participants had since moved on, but the dregs were all here, playing pool, smoking cigs, and talking about their proposed destinations. I imagined a fleet of rental trucks, loaded with great books and full notebooks, parked on small-tree covered streets throughout the town. The night went enjoyably on and on. Kurt and Ted, together again.

I awoke way too early the next morning, head and shoulder pounding from too much second hand smoke. We headed to the Penske rental office. It apparently also rents carnival junk, such as skeeball tables, cotton candy machines, inflatable clowns, and huge jousting puppets, among other bizarre things. In my weakened condition, I wandered through the immense room ,the strange images jumping out at me. I swear I heard manic laughing and the lights flashed red. Welcome to John Waters' attic. (Yes, there were pink flamingos.)
Around noon, I went to the University hospital to meet Kurt's friend Sahib. He was doing an experiment on how meditators are more sensitive to the workings of their bodies. I was fitted with random wires and clips, and after meditating for awhile, was expected to tell whether or not the tone I heard was in sync with my heartbeat. Two problems arose (Three including the hangover). One, when verbalizing "yes" or "no," you lose both concentration and the feeling of the beat. Two, having played drums for close to thirty years, I'd like to think I have a finely-attuned sense of rhythm. So I was honing in on the ever-changing beat in my chest, assuming that a tone just off the beat was not sync-ed. I'm not sure whether Sahid got the results he had hoped for. Burritos followed, then coffee at Java House thru the afternoon. That night, Kurt had to emcee an open mic night for participants in the summer writer's program. The readers were mostly middle-aged, a couple pretty good, and divorce poems carried the day.

(You know, I'm sitting here, and for the life of me can't remember what we did on Thursday. Ah, Iowa. I think that I looked for Greg Brown CDs in used music shops, the Rig Veda in used book shops. No luck. I'm sure coffee was drunk, words read, notes heard.)

Oh yeah Thursday. Thursday sucked. That morning we took Mason for his last walk. That evening at five, we had to put him down. A week before, Kurt took him for a checkup to see if he could handle the 750 mile drive to Colorado. After that one mile trip to the vet's, the poor guy could barely walk for three days. There was no choice really. I still remember playing with him as a pup, in a river outside Missoula, Montana, fifteen years ago. He's intersected my life many times since, in New Mexico, Portland, Eugene, Iowa City. He'd even lived in Prague awhile. I returned to the house at 4:30, he and Kurt sitting in the yard under his favorite tree. "Iron and Wine" was playing, and I think I'll always associate them with this scene. Then it was his time. Did he know? He got on well with other dogs, but not with rules, so he was always a fighter. Which was how he went out. He'd been sedated, but I'm sure his last twitches weren't involuntary. And his last few breaths went out in growls. Yeah, Fuck You Death! I see Mason now, chasing my own dear departed beautiful boy around, somewhere beyond the reach of us mortals. Farewell old friend...
After, Kurt and I sat on the front porch with beers, quiet. For the next week, every toast we raised was to the 'Sonic. We went for a Carribean dinner, still somewhat somber, then picked up the pace with the rest of the writing gang on the back patio of a bar called Martinis until I, drained, set home just past twelve, giggling at the drunken antics of outgoing grad students and incoming undergrads.

Friday was a day of dust and cobwebs. Kurt took his final stint as emcee of "Elevenses," a daily lecture delivered by a famous writer. This last day was an open mic for the Iowa Writer's Workshop Faculty. In comparison with the other night, it's easy to see the gulf between good writing and bad. (I'd like to think my own stuff floats somewhere between.) I wandered a bit on the ped mall, not sure when I'll be this way again. Then it was back to campus for a farewell dinner for the summer workshop attendees. At 7:30 pm, we blew town.


On the turntable: Jeff Beck, "You Had It Coming"
On the nighttable: Alfredo Bryce Echenique, "Tarzan's Tonsillitis"

Yoga and Ecology

The first night of Yoga training, I attended a lecture on yoga and ecology. It wasn't part of our course but the topic seemed interesting. It was, except for the language used. My bullshit detectors for New Agey language are finely tuned, so it made it tough for me to get into it completely. I mean, all concepts introduced that night come out of really old traditions, so why not be faithful to the original terms?

And I never got the ecology connection. The point seemed to be introducing exercises to expand our consciousness from personal to global to universal. (See what I mean about language? Fuck!) We'd generally do something (i.e. meditation, yoga, nature awareness, candle-gazing, chanting) then write something for three minutes, usually the first thing that popped into our (individual? collective?) heads. Mine were pretty bad, but here goes:

>>Ujjayi--> Fire in a bowl. Feeding it with my breath. Fire in turn nourishes me, keeps me warm in my own bowl, this valley which clouds and storms kiss gently, yet rarely with passion. Cool hands work down my spine, pulling out knots and memories, allowing this space to fill with peace, the gentle wind blowing up this valley. Rain falls- a distraction, drops large, gumdrops flattened out with the force with which they fall, sugar to nourish all they touch.

>>Nada-->The nada river flows, stopping at nothing. Energy channel of the bare earth, nutrients left on all the shores, inlets and runoffs carrying to the far reaches and out, beyond, up into the air the river goes, to those galaxies there, floating out to places beyond comprehension. Do these uncomprehendable beings nourish us with their energy rivers? Are their rivers composed of the same stuff as ours?

One other thing we did was eye gazing for three minutes. My partner was an old friend, Amy, from Texas. The whole thing was uncomfortably personal, but I'd love to try it with a lover someday. I wrote:

>>Dristi-->Shadows flicker across the face, like the flame in my periphery. Are these all the hidden emotions in Amy's life, a history of a soul torn by experience? Her face itself is kind, but the shadows distort. Her mouth too seems to move, silent verbal reaction to this pain. The light at the perimeter dims, like a lens suddenly changed in a 60's film. I hold focus, trying to ignore how incredibly personal this practice is. Do I have a right to see these secrets in someone I hardly know? Which brings this: what is she seeing in my eyes? Which of my own secrets are being revealed? Self-consciousness follows. Looking for the earth in her pupils, her rapid blinks are the change over eons.

Our last practice was free-drawing. Now, I absolutely suck at this. I have no talent at all, and my drawings always look done on a broken etch-a-sketch. I decided to color the spaces between my erratic lines. So at the top margin I wrote:

>>I like coloring more than drawing. My hand can't create what my mind can see. Are these doodles below the parts of the subconscious which I can't make out--seemingly random patterns expressed without thought? If coloring is better than drawing, would I make a better actor than director, a musical instrument rather than musician, a crayon rather than an artist?

DISCLAIMER: I promise never to write this badly again. This kind of stuff is best left in the journals of disgruntled residents of the Freshman dorm. I'll bring talent next time...



On the turntable: "High Fidelity" (soundtrack)

Yoga Source Teacher Training

Drinking bad coffee and gnawing a stale donut, I drove up to Santa Fe for my second level teacher training. I missed the morning asana practice entirely and showed up ten minutes into the first lecture, no doubt reeking of wine and second hand smoke. Then I had to give hugs. About 7 of the 24 teachers I knew from Level 1 were here, in a group of 44. The first day was rough, but when the day was finished, I got some rolfing from Jen, her hands abusing my spine while I tried to ignore my grimaces by focusing on the red hills before me.

Most of week went along the same daily schedule. Arise at 6:15 for my own private pranayama practice. Tea and energy bar followed, eaten in the sun. Meditation at 7:00, then asana from 7:30-9:15. Breakfast and work period next. Morning lecture from 10:45. Lunch at 1:30. Afternoon lecture from 3-5. Lecture topics varied: anatomy, philosophy, nutrition, sanskrit, but in almost all of them, we found ourselves doing lots of poses. I'd say on average, we did asanas 3-4 hours a day. Free time, I sat and read, played my flute, or walked down to the creek. I also met lots of interesting people from all over, new friends and old. Before bed, I always wound up in the cedar wood sauna, loving the fact that progressive folks have no qualms about co-ed naked bathing, a far cry from the "iya da!" cries I could imagine.. During level 1, I'd treated the whole things as a retreat, rarely leaving the Upaya compound. This time I had a car, so headed into town nightly, usually to Whole Foods. Three times I had pizza next door to Yoga Source, and once, a group of us had an excellent meal at Maria's, world famous for their incredible variety of tequila. One friend wanted to buy me the most expensive margarita in the house. $200. OK, the second best then. $40. Happily, I settled for the best $15 marg I've ever had.

Other nights we sat out on the patio, watching the moon rise full. Its glow coated the ridge, then popped up as quickly as if it were the sun, with coyotes in full chorus. Friday night was our final party, held in the garden of Yoga Source. In our group, we had about a dozen excellent musicians, so organizing the "Spontaneous Orchestra" was easy. All three of my roommates played music, two of them professionally. Richard from Pittsburgh was an incredibly gifted drummer. Preston, a guitarist from Florida recently published a book on Bebop and the Beat Generation. Jen is currently in a band, so she brought the equipment. The session ended up being light jazz, with sutras converted into sung Sanskrit and English. Flutes ruled the day, Sean on Bansuri, me on Shakuhachi, Luna on Western style. I also played drums on a few songs. Towards the end, some drunk guy came over carrying beer from Second Street brewery across the street, our number one fan. It's incredible how well it came off, considering we'd never played together. Maybe it was week of living in close quarters, and much physical contact in the form of yoga and bodywork. (I have to tread carefully through this post. A week in Santa Fe often leads to overuse of words like "Energy' and "Cosmos.")

Upaya food as usual had me feeling bloated and full. Not the best conditions for twists.. The microbiotic diet was great, but by Thursday, my stomach was in torment. Could it be altitude related? It's amazing how your stomach takes most of your focus when it's doing poorly. And as happened last year, looking in the mirror a couple days after it all finished, water weight gone, I was shocked at how thin and strong I'd become.

The Yoga itself was of course top notch. Tias Little is one of the best in the country, with amazing knowledge of anatomy. I could tell how much I've grown since level one, and how I seem to have an instinct for teaching. I got fewer corrections than I thought I would, and poses that gave me trouble in October were no longer a bother. Also, I am now able to kick up into a non-supported handstand, and the final day I dropped into a standing back arch for the first time. Overall, we spent much of the week upside down in inversions, which really helped me to finally get my head out of the sky.





On the turntable: Willie Nelson, "Teatro"
On the nighttable: Sherman Alexie, "The Toughest Indian in the World"

Thomas Wolfe, you can kiss my ass...

The weekend before last, I attended my high school reunion. It was spread out over three days, a cocktail party Friday, actual reunion Saturday, and BBQ on Sunday. I really liked this idea, giving you a chance for small-talk recon the first night, which would determine your social circle for the rest of the events. (How high school is that?) I arrived Friday with some trepidation. After all, I hadn't seen any of these folks in more than twenty years. Within minutes, I got incredibly freaked out, almost panicked. It always takes me awhile to adjust to the return to my NM past, and this thing threw me those feelings into overdrive. For the first time in my life, I needed a drink to steady myself.

In time, some of my (former) better friends began to show up, the beer did its thing, and I started to have fun. Looking around the room, I recalled that in school, I had pretty much liked everyone equally. Of course I had my closer friends and as the night wore on, it was with them that I began to settle. It was funny the things people remembered about me, most of which I'd long forgotten. Stranger still were the old scores. Many still seemed bitter at our buzzer beater loss in the championship basketball tourney (my girlfriend at the time had attended the school who beat us, and I never seemed to hear the end of it). I overheard many guys apologize for fights they'd had in Jr. High. Weirdest of all were the sheer number of my classmates who have college age children. One classmate is in the Air Force and outranks her 19 year old son.
I had a lot of fun trying to find the face I once knew inside the face sipping booze before me, morphing back and forth. It's like the friends I once hung out with were now stuck inside these bodies quickly declining into middle age, many wearing fat suits like in some Eddie Murphy film.

When the party finished, many of us went to Fiorillo's, which I remember being an Italian restarante, but now had after-hours dancing. It was a serious redneck scene, pickup trucks everywhere. The DJ was as bad as I've ever heard, in our honor (horror) playing nothing but 80's pap, most of it undanceable. One friend pulled me onto the dance floor, but how the hell do you dance to "Crazy Train?" I simply swung my hair around, and it was days before my cervicle joints stopped aching. As the night approached two, I had lots of fuel, but most of the gang was pooped and heading home. Am I really as old as they?

Saturday was more formal with round-table dinner party seating which broke the organic flow of the night before. Everyone sat with friends and seemed to camp. I started getting a bit bored and slightly bummed out, so I went outside and watched lightning terrorize the valley, yet again getting lost in the sky. I felt in a place of transition, wanting to look forward, not back. I was of course sentimental about old times, but for me they seem so long ago and were no more impotant than what has come since. Maybe it was the lack of connection I sensed, which I often get while hanging around people who haven't travelled much, not that there's anything wrong with it. (Although, with our current Foreign Policy, maybe it is.) Or maybe it was my slight envy at the warmth between those who had stayed on in this little town of 4000, people whose world view may be smaller than my own, yet they know the fine print incredibly well. Cue Gary Snyder and his "Place in Space."

I mentally came back to the reunion during the awards. It was a no-brainer that'd I'd win for "person who travelled the farthest to attend." But I also won for "person you're happiest to see." So I stand corrected. Even after twenty years absent, the connection is still there. I myself raise a glass. I'm incredibly glad that I came.

All night I alternated between caffeine and wine, but couldn't feel the effects of either. Christina J. kept pulling me into her hotel room, sharing the secret stash of wine her father makes. This seemed to finally do the trick and near midnight, I got my groove back. Blurred memories remain. Ronnie's story about being a guard at the state pen, and another classmate, now an inmate, being terrified to make eye contact. Yvonne in tears while talking about my losing Ken-chan. Later, upon hearing that I teach yoga, she began to do poses, the look of concentration on her face mixing with her drunkenness, me in hysterics. My foresight that former "nerds" (who I liked as much as anyone else) would have the most interesting lives. Geoff G.'s incredible memory of those days, and his sweet nature which hasn't changed a bit. Talking to Nina in Vegas on a borrowed cell phone. Crazy dancing to impossible music with Mary Beth. Sarcastic joking and Prince references felt like old times with Patricia. Overall, spending time with Robert S. was perhaps the highlight of my night.

Because Mary Beth lives near my place, she gave me a lift. It was now 4 a.m. On the way home,
we saw her family prepping the Sunday papers in the parking lot of the Iga. It was funny to get handed the paper personally, somewhat like the final scene in "Bright Lights, Big City" where Michael J. Fox eats fresh bread at dawn. Resting in the peaceful aftermath of a turbulent night out.

I fell into bed, and a few hours later, exhausted, I started the long drive to Santa Fe for a week of yoga teacher training.


On the turntable: Ani DiFranco (mix)
On the nighttable: Rick Fields, "The Code of the Warrior"

Fretting zoo

Mom's gone back East and I have the house to myself. I still bide my time outside but now jazz music blasts through the open door and windows. Inside the house the acoustics are even better, the low moans of tenor sax skid across the hardwood floors, finding and filling space in all these empty rooms. Home as concert hall.

The other night, the desert followed me in. As I walked down the stairs to my subterranean dwelling (cool in the day, warm at night), I stepped over a scorpion. I squatted down awhile to watch him scamper back and forth, aware of my looming mass but unsure what to do. His stinger wasn't up, so he couldn't have been that frightened. Just aware. It's not often we get scorpions inside. I've seen a few black widows, and will sometimes hear centipedes rustling behind my books. On rare occasions, rattlers will come into the yard, and back when the dogs were alive, we'd have to pull them into the house. Now, the dogs are buried under crosses in the dirt which the snakes now slither over unmolested. I leave the scorpion the same way. If he found his way in, he'll find a way out. That or one of the cats will get him.


On the turntable: "Sonny Rollins and the MJQ"
On the nighttable: Bruce B. Junek, "The Road of Dreams"

Off the path

Needing a break from the sky, I escaped to the movies with Gino. He drives this funky yellow and black truck with a few bat-symbols on it. Who better to see Batman Begins with. It was much better than expected, a dark tale of fear and rage. The training scenes set in what was probably remote Tibet or western China made us both want to disappear awhile.

So we drove toward Acoma sky city. On approach, we saw signs telling us that the city was closed, no doubt due to some sacred ceremony. We continued west, deeper onto Navajo land, along a road set at the base of where the Acoma mesa ends. The cliff face was pockmarked by caves, their blackened backs the remnants of old warrior customs carried out in the dark. Across from the mesa were the ancient lava flows, realm of the feared fire gods which kept the Acoma people up on the safety of the cliffs. Only the truly brave did descend.

As the mesa dropped away, we cut further into their territory, bouncing along the dirt road in the Bat-truck, listening to this crazy Arabian pop--my touch since I'm all about dry desert irony. A few miles in, we passed a large group of elk, a few calves in tow. Gene counted four and told me that it was a good year, for usually half the calves have been taken by coyotes this late in summer. The road bounced on, into an arroyo, then along a low canyon of wild dirt spires. Here and there were the ruins of old homesteads, long given up to this high desert. Beyond these were mountains which looked low, but Gene assured me they shoot up to over 9000 ft. We stopped across the valley from where their shadows ended. Just prior to stopping, my attention was pulled to low hills to our right. Gene, knowing my eerie penchant for rooting out "power" spots, asked, "You can already feel it can't you?" This was our destination, the sacred ground of the Acoma.

The moment I stepped from the truck I felt great. The lightness and headiness which had been plaguing me since my return to NM was sucked through the soles of my feet into the red earth. We wandered along the gradual slope, footing made soft with lichen. Trees had been scraped by elk-horn, and other large branches littered the ground. We took care to look for scorpions and rattlers, the latter starting to wake up now after the heat of the day had faded. We found an elk trail and got quiet, moving alongside it so as not to leave our scent. The trees began to thin along this route. Gene was moving in the fashion that he'd learned from an old Jicarilla elder he'd studied with before the old man had died. Gene stopped and asked, "Smell that?" I caught a musky scent, tinged with acid. Some predator had been through and had marked the area. Coyotes probably. They'd scared off the elk. We walked for another hour following side trails but didn't see any. It was strangely quiet. Even the birds who should have been singing our presence had nothing to say. The only life we saw were a few tarantula wasps. They sting the spiders, paralyzing them long enough for the wasps to lay their larvae in the spider's skin. The larvae then eat their way out. We figured the wasps would lead us to tarantulas, something I've never seen, not even after 25 years in NM. Nothing. We did find some bear tracks, days old. It hadn't rained in quite awhile, so all the tracks we found couldn't easily be dated. We followed them back down in the direction of the truck. The monsoon clouds which had been sitting to the east had moved in, throbbing with thunder. We left the elk trail and hugged the treeline, staying out of the clearings. The lighting soon came. Thunder's percussion moved along the same route we did. Gene said, "I love that sound." Me: "Only because I'm taller than you." We moved a little more quickly now. From this height I saw the wisdom of having a bright yellow truck, easy to spot in the wilderness. In one of the lower clearings we found a few pot shards scattered about. They'd long ago been purposely broken in order to let their spirits escape. As I turned a shard over and over in my fingers, the rain began to fall, drops so large they almost hurt. The gods have their own wicked sense of irony.

Driving out, I saw the wisdom of having a yellow truck which is light. We travelled quickly over the wet clay road, moving more sideways than forward. Going along the top of the canyon was a real nailbiter, and Gene grinned when he saw me gripping the "Aw, Shit!" strap above the door. He slowed only to cross holes filled with brown water, uncertain of their depth. I relaxed a bit once we'd crossed the arroyo, it's water not yet begun to flow. That could've meant a night spent camping. We let out a harmonious sigh as the truck's tires once again bit the dark asphault of a road newly built with tax money. This last fact reminded me of Ginsberg's awe -struck quip, "You mean there's a senator for all this?"


On the turntable, Joshua Redman, "Wish"
On the nighttable: Jack Kerouac, "The Subterraneans""

Sky metaphors abound

Flew out of the thick SF fog, Twin Peaks stirring it with its tower. Sierra and Rockies holding July snow in their shadowy nooks. I love my usually infallible travel guy. (I've seen him so much in the last two years that I feel I may have to produce a ring.) This time he dropped the ball; three friggin hours stranded in Denver's new airport. I've never been here so start to walk. Make that stroll, given the length of the corridors. No, make that strut, due to Little Feat pumping thru the headphones. It's especially hard not to strut when the song is "Rocket in my Pocket." Caught part of a ball game on TV near my gate. I'm sorry but no amount of slo-mo replays can make baseball seem exciting. (Though I love it.) An hour later, bumping down into Albuquerque, as if sliding down a flight of stairs on your ass. It's often white knuckle coming in here.

So now a week in New Mexico and already a year older. I've spent most of my time on the back patio, getting lost in the vast sky. It's not the perfect dark blue of winter that I've become used to on my Xmas visits. After 12 summers away, I've long forgotten the clouds that flit at the horizon, but never seem to come in. I read alot, usually nature stuff about the land and the West. I listen to music. Ballads make me zone out and stare off the edge of the mesa. The Rio Grande is down there somewhere. Farther out are the LaDrones, former home to thieves, and ever-spooky looking with their jagged crags.

It's been hot too. I remember now how swamp coolers don't quite do the job. One day it hit 104, and Pete and I were locked out. We sat on the front grass in the shade, listening to the ice cream man's bells draw closer, our collective grins reaching Cheshire proportions. Timing is sometimes beautiful, baby. Another day, I sat in the car a half hour as my mom shopped, in a metal box cooked by 101 sun. No particular reason; the body just cries out to know. A final experiment in the desert. My father and my son share a grave in an unshaded cemetery on a large patch of bare, open desert. Think Boot Hill. I did my incense ritual, then walked around a bit. Yep. You'll die in the desert, and you'll die fast.

One incredibly windy day, I drove up to Santa Fe, the first of three daily commutes in a row. Tumbleweeds blew sideways across I-25 and later I needed to floss my grill. Again with the open space, the mind tries to fill it, often with litter best left packed away. So I sing. Now remember, my music collection in NM ends in 1994. (My own Austin Powers syndrone.) As I drive I'm just cranking old grunge stuff and caterwauling, Temple of the Dog, Singles soundtrack. (Pearl Jam was somethin' fierce back then.) Plus Catherine Wheel's Ferment (Black Metallic one of the best tunes ever.), a Jefferson Airplane compilation, Camper Van Beethoven taking skinheads bowling. Sunday morning it's all Lou Reed, storytelling the entire drive up. I'm temporarily distracted by Sandia Peak's tram cable, glistening like spider floss in the early sun. Then, the brutal power of the song Street Hassel (sic) brings me back. Favorite music, no matter how old, sounds so good, even on cassette. On the Pink Floyd tape, you can still hear the LP pops.
I went to Santa Fe for a Sanskrit intensive. It's a dead language (essentially), and I like the idea that I can become fluent in 12 hours. The class is held by my teacher Tias Little's yoga studio, and is part of my teaching license. The other members of the class are pretty cool, the usual suspects: yoga teachers, Gita freaks, or just aging hipsters looking for a hysterical fix at...sorry Ginsberg kicked in again. One girl, a New York opera singer, claims I speak Sanskrit with a Japanese accent. By Sunday, my mind's eye is filled with the twisted, squiggling shapes fresh from Tim Burton's imagination, my tongue tired from tracing strange shapes and sounds. The next night, while eating dinner on my mom's patio at dusk, I begin to see the characters extending from the branches of a tall pine tree, silhouetted against the sky.

Sunday, I dropped in on Tias' yoga class and remembered why I love him as a teacher. In my own classes, I emphasize feet alot, something I get from him. He's got a knack for keeping you grounded. Something important in this land where it's easy to get lost in this big big sky and all the NewAge energy threatening to cut your tether. And boy I've been drifting. Since arriving in NM, I've had this internal monologue going about where I want to go next year. Kyoto? London? San Francisco? Santa Fe? Drifting, just drifting. Two hours with Tias brought me back down. It also reminded me how hard his yoga is. Five minutes in headstand? Um, OK. The next couple days, I was sore up my sides, from hip to armpit. Are there even muscles there? Hamstrings hamstrung. I look forward to next week with more than a little dread.

And as I finish typing this, I hear the wind rustle the trees and feel the air cool. Looking out, I see that the clouds, a week held at bay, are moving in. Monsoon season is under way...


On the turntable: (see above) plus Buckwheat Zydeco, "On a Night Like This "
On the nighttable: John Sutter, "Poets on the Peaks"
"Heart of the Land; Essays on the Last Great Places"

The Yoga of Friendship

(Ted's in the air so Ben-chan's got the conch.)

Listening to Bowie and eating chips and salsa, I slowly come down from the buzz of two pints of post-yoga Guinness that I just finished with Ted at Dubliners. It's good to have my friend around again after a long absence. Or perhaps brother is the more appropriate term -- though born in different places, to different parents, at different times, we are somehow connected by a bond that pushes the limits of friendship.

It's a wonder--as I push 30--that I have any friends left at all. My community since college has slowly succumbed to personal apathy and the fragmenting influences of post-industrial post-modern existence. The bleakness and loneliness in the American soul that Coltrane and others saw (thanks, Ted) find their greatest exemplar in me. Why, otherwise, would I have taken off for far-flung shores?

What a gift, then, what a fine blessing to have a friend who I can be both obliviously stupid and stop-drop-and-roll serious with. We talk So-Cal-like, saying "dude" and knowing the precise meaning of each of ten different intonations. We guffaw when one of us farts (OK, at least I do). We discuss things that matter: sex, politics, vagabonding, and the meaning of existence (yes, in that order). We talk about love and loss and the quantum trajectories of our lives--If I try to pin myself down, I'll surely miss--and it is the talking and the simple walking through the fog-washed hills overlooking San Francisco that bring a kind of transcendence, a sort of samadhi-through-camaraderie.

I have a new term for this practice: the yoga of friendship.

Much love, my friend, and come back soon.
-- Ben


On the turntable: David Bowie, "Ziggy Stardust"
On the nighttable: Herman Melville, "Moby Dick"

SF on the wane

Tuesday morning I slept really late for me, until 10:30. I felt like I was 25 or something. I sat thru the morning in Ben's room, chilling out. I didn't know it, but there was an open house going on, strange people poking their heads in yet without saying hello or 'scuse me. Whatever, ya rude gits. I was starting to feel like I was in the zoo, labelled gaijin incrudulous, and there was a bus out front letting out the gawkers.
So I went walkabout. I had planned to go up Twin Peaks looking for dwarves and cherry pies, but a long unending billow of fog poured over the top like cappucino froth. (OK, admittedly a weak simile, but remember what city I'm in, man.) So, I wandered toward Bernal Heights instead. Along the way:
>I finished my fossilized jet lag burrito, though incredibly, I didn't seem to get it this time round, due no doubt to all those late nights;
>wondered why so many drinks are in cans here and if it is a reason for the obesity, downing them in one go;
>overheard the socialist street terrorist poet, his weapons his words, dig!
>saw street corner rummage sales;
>watched ice cream vendor vatos racing their carts, a jingling as they go;
>saw a heavily-tattoed girl reading the book,"7 Stages to Money Maturity";
>remembered a line in Sunday's play, one actor saying, "I used to be CIA butI don't do faith-based intelligence;"
>misread a sign as "We refuse the right to reserve service to anyone."

I sat atop Bernal Heights Park reading and playing with dogs. Dropped down to a coffee shop called, Profound Ground (?), and wanted to sit out on Bennigan Street but didn't think I had enough pieces of flair. Met CLo later and we listened to music and rapped the evening away. Grabbed an Indian Pizza(!) at Zantes (32nd and Mission), downed an Argentine red. Our buddy Herb came by, and the words, in our usual unique vernacular, began to flow.
It went a little something like this (Hit it!):

Koi Pond Floundering
C..."Those people make some good pizza."
T..."God bless those Indians."
John Malbecovich, being the sounds of the SF city electronic histrionic
every long haired person here is crazier than a corndog.
Or Poi Dog on pizza, no mere CPK with ham and pineapple.
Aloha Honolulu, "Did you bring the lotion?"
Rubbing those spots still green from fresh Nippon haze,
Soy sauce: the spice for every occasion.
Shoyu, show-me only so much outsider.
Rice-a-roni, holy cannoli
harping the chords that bliss the day
leading into the song of the jay
as it sparks its mischief with SPF 30
plus the piece that knows no peace.
The End of Violence-->Waits breaks the silence
with La Boca Right On!
Vaga-male-bonding about our vagabondage
No place to hang the hat,
But on goat horn hooks.
Squeeze-->slap and tickle the cheese for this Zante's infernal za.
No bovine comedy for these slices.


* * *

ThisMorning, connected with Ben-chan again, and headed up toward the Haight. We talked about street yoga, yogis on the street are willing to work it out. Also heard:

T..."I think I'm the only long-hair in the city who's not crazy."
B..."Naw, dude, that's not true. You're totally crazy."

Had an awesome sit down lunch at some incredible teashop whose name escapes me. Famous though. Up to Ameoba to drool and dream. Passed the post office on upper Haight, and threw out my "Haight mail" joke again. Over chai at The People's Cafe, who should walk in but Sean and family. Good reconnect there. Yoga inNoe again,followed by a couple Guinness pints. (I think I'm starting to get the hang of this karma-caloric balance thing.)



On the turntable: Talvin Singh, "Breezeblock"
On the nighttable: ZZ Packer, "Drinking Coffee Elsewhere"

Holidays in the fog

It's my first summer in the States in 11 years. My last July 4th was spent at Naropa's summer writer workshop, listening to Tibetan monks chant to Gamelan, and having Allan Ginsberg kiss my tattoo. (On my back, you pervs.)

On Saturday, Ben and I hooked up with CLo among others and drove to Mill Valley. A friend of Mike's lives up there, commuting the 90 minutes by bike down to CIIS in the city. Sean and his wife are awesome people, introducing elements of their Indian heritage into their life, such as the tent on the front patio under which he meditates and does yoga, a mid-70s Zakir Hussein (live at Naropa, in fact) LP spinning slightly warped in the sun.
After chai, we followed long narrow wooden staircases up to the top of the ridge, and into a forest which was the setting for Endor in "Jedi." I didn't see any Ewoks, but I did see a beautiful Moon gate, passing on the left Tibetan style, humming a slightly different version of a Monty Python ditty. "Always walk 'round the left side of life." The trail went behind some houses and along grassy slopes. We passed a small shack, and CLo joked that this was where an 8 year old had been chained until it was ready to accept the validity of cultural relatism, in some kind of horrific Marin County sub-urban myth. In fact he and I did little more than joke, having years ago created a bizarre hybrid language of our own, consisting mainly of song lyrics, film quotes, and ridiculous triple layered puns in multiple languages. When we hang out, I can't ever seem to be able to write, the words coming out in this twisted lingo of Asa Nisi Masa. ("Culture of two? Smoking or nonsmoking?")
We were heading toward Mt. Tamalpais, but stopped part way, at the German Tourist Club, a huge Bavarian-Tibetan-Korean thing in the shade above the grass hillface. We sat out on the deck and drank the dark full bodied beer that only European monks seem to be able to make, in their attempt to ignore crushing sexual frustration. And at 8%, ALC whew! On no food, it was a spike to the brain. Despite this, our picnic table was a heady place, Mike and Romanian Alexandra talking psych at one end, Sean espousing on the hidden Vedas down our way. Two-year old Noni drew goldfish on the napkins in between. We'd occasionally pull out a trivial pursuit card to show off, though I had my own version where I played my Shak. Later the guitar came out too, I harmonizing in barbaric yodel yawp. Good stuff all around, with a trekker's hostel vibe. It's an incredible place, but I want to keep it myself for awhile, and won't spill the beans on location no matter how large the bribe. So there. (Where's the goddam extended tongue icon?)
Our party headed back down the mountain in a drunken samba line, to Mill Valley proper. We ate cafe food, downed coffee,then parted ways. I had a wonderful veggie chili, which I came to regret later. I was sleeping in a high loft, a few feet below the ceiling. Usually a person doesn't mind their own brand, but that night was murder.

Sunday, Ben, Mike, Emiko, CLo and I went to Mission Delores Park to see the Mime Troupe put on their annual July 4th play. I am a sucker for old glimpses of hippiedom, and this day was no exception. I had a great time people watching. The play was decent, but the music was better. That band really knew their licks and had immpecable timing. There was even a Balinese dance of sorts, not 100% authentic, but not bad at all. After it was all over, we continued to loaf in the sun, watching people playing soccer and dogs jumping high for frisbees.
Ben and I walked back up to Valencia with Jack, an old radical who is a fount of Mission history. It's always a pleasure.
After a quick caffeine blast, Ben and I went back to the house for dinner and a video. Over a pasta made atomic by Chinese chili sauce (try it!), we watched "Suzhou River," a recent update of "Vertigo" set in Shanghai. It was a fantastic love story, erratic handheld camerawork helping to create tension. The lighting and sound were equally clever.

Monday, the 4th was mellow. We had planned to head up to Mill Valley again for Sean's party, but our borrowed car fell thru. Buses seemed a hassle, so we blew it off. In fact, we had a choice of three parties (two more in Oakland) but were in incredibly apathetic moods. It was starting to feel like teen angst,but we finally got it together, walking down to Rainbow foods for lunch, then continuing on toward the Bay. At Yerba Buena Park we sat awhile in the sun, watching shirtless kids chase each other around. Then a long hike back to the Mission. Emiko came by, cheesecake in tow. She made okaiyu which we downed with a cheap red while watching "Henry Fool." I forgotten how good a director Hal Hartley is, his ear for dialogue, his eye for blocking. (I hadn't seen a Hartley film since "Amateur" back in Kyoto in the mid 90s, CLo and I taking a time-out from Gion Matsuri craziness, accidentally jumping an express train all to way to Saidaiji. But that's a whole other story...) On this night, we had the sound up loud, to drown out the sound of the Mission's residents recreating the attack on the Alamo, fireworks engulfing us with noise. The smaller cluster pops like typewriter clacks, the large thuds filling chest cavities and setting off car alarms.

Around two a.m., my cell phone rang. Not everyone knows I'm in the States, and this was the second time it's gone off in the late hours. It was a person I really enjoy talking to, so despite the time, I babbled away in the dark, enjoying the stillness of the city, until the batteries ran out. It was only the next morning that I realized we'd talked over two hours, and my rate for recieved calls is $1.80 per minute. Zoinks! Worth every penny...


On the turntable: Blue Merle, "Burning in the Sun"
Ont the nighttable: Susan Vreeland, "Girl in Hyacinth Blue"

On this independence day. . .

Googled "Fuck Bush" and got 4.6 million links.

Happy 229th America! God bless for keepin' it real.



On the turntable: Woody Guthrie, "This Land is Your Land" (Full version. I dare you to listen.)

How to beat jet lag

1. Go up Valencia to a Colombian/Ecuadoran joint for a burrito bigger than your arm.
2. Buy a book for a friend at Dog Eared.
3. Sit in the sun on a redwood deck, watching the tower cutting fog on Twin Peaks.
4. Do a tough intermediate yoga class in Noe Valley, far more aerobically challenging than expected, but wonders for opening back and shoulders stiff from the flight.
5. Get buzzed on a single Guinness drunk at The Dubliner which you passed on way to said yoga class.
6. Giggle down small streets with Ben-chan laughing at ole tales from the 'Nog.
7. Have Pinot Noir and Pesto&Pine Nut Pizza at Paulines, next to the original Levi Strauss building. (alliteration rules!)
8. Talk movies over Wiezen with old friends. Annoy neighbors with impromptu jam on two beautiful redwood drums which you forgot you bought on your trip here last year. Neighbor's door pounding adds counterbeat.
9. Sleep 11 hours.
10. Drive up Skyline, heading thru thick fog down the South Bay, listening to CDs Amy made as "So long" present.
11. Have turkey sandwich and home-made lemonade at a German deli in Saratoga.
12. Walk amidst gigantic redwoods in Big Basin, awed at the quiet. Spy charred trunks blackened by lightning strike. View reflection in clear streams.
13. Meander down thru the Santa Cruz mountains to Highway One and turn north, driving past surfers and families camped on the beach. Pass pick-it-your-damn-self cherry and strawberry groves. Glimpse beautiful valleys thru breaks in the fog.
14. Have Kung-Pao Shrimp and Tsingtao in a no-frills Chinese place, all formica and fishtanks. Served by a high-school aged girl no doubt pissed about working on a Friday night.
15. Get pulled into a jazz club by hipster in black suit and fedora, yeah. Listen to a smokin trio, yeah. Drink a pint of Fat Tire, marvelling at the chocolate goodness, yeah. Eavesdrop on a couple Japanese men rapping at the end of the bar, yeah. Tap your fingers in the air to the beat, accidentally calling the bartendress over, yeah.
Be impressed that this club, Savannah is breaking new ground in the Mission, yeah. Swoon as the band segues into A Love Supreme, yeah. (No escaping that song these days.)
16. Walk twice as far home due to zigzag walking style, versus straight line of earlier in the night. (A buzz surpeme) Get a cryptic message by a guy pushing the Mobile Art Gallery. Be annoyed by a guy riding what sounds like a leafblower. Spy a pile of rags on the sidewalk, no doubt remnants of a mummy alien abduction. Pee against a graffiti coated wall for like ten minutes (A buzz supreme). Feel envious at the sight of a couple walking lazily hand in hand, bottle of wine held by the neck.
17.Merlot and crouton nightcap.
18. Sleep 9 hours despite car alarms.


On the turntable: Bright Eyes, Rilo Kiley, Modest Mouse (Fine choices all, Amy)
In the fortune cookie: "Your winsome smile will be your sure protection (in bed)"

Odelay uncle Ted

Congrats to Eric and Angie for the birth of their son Beck. Outstanding, guys. See you in August...