Nothing Gold Can Stay

Let me just blow the dust from this recently neglected blog. It's now a year old as of May 9th. I can't quite remember where I was at the time, these first two weeks of the month being a maelstorm of activity, bringing with it Golden Week and a matriarchal invasion force. I was in motion, something I usually don't do during holiday times. But this year I stepped into the breach, and it went a little sometin' like this (Hit It!)

Sayonara party for Kat which begat long amblin' bouts of silliness with Shell's beau Nate, visiting from America (Fuck Yeah!) which begat after hours karaoke which begat boisterous singing which begat cottonmouth thirst which begat a rainbow of drinks which begat a samba beat hangover which begat vomiting while bathing (a first).

The following night, teatotalling at a party at Kyoryukan in the Kyo. Butoh and jazz and tap, Oh my! Cooling off on the roof, I spied what may have been a UFO over the Imperial Palace, plus a little silhouette of a man running across a roof on the next block.

Hike from Ichijoji over the top of Hiezan and down to Biwa. Deep in the forest, heard the puzzled screams of monkeys, and surprised a couple cuddling at the Buddha's feet.

Multiple meals with visiting friends over the following days. Sunshine means outdoor dining in the Kyo.

Walked the Kamogawa, from Kitayama to Shijo. In Tagh's, ran into Ady, down from Tokyo. Joined the masses in a bar crawl, which led us to Greenwich House. Midway through my first drink, it dawned on me that E-Ma Mari had sung here the week before.

Beautiful afternoon going park to park with Zack, Dana, and Eli. Breaking the (social) law by engaging in "mastication and ambulation" which led to Dana and my keeping the rhyme scheme going for almost an hour. Stacy came down from Gunma for wine, pasta, and Tarentino's surprisingly graphic new film.

A hike up the back side of Takao, with lunch and nap on a stream's small island.

My first trip to Yokohama, fighting the crowds to get to a Chinatown restaurant famous for rice gruel (and well worth the rep). Follow the neon lit waterfront awhile. Pay waaay too much for bad jazz and bad wine in Japan's highest building.

Pick up Mom and Maggie at KIX. My patented jet-lag cure? Wine and conversation in the back garden.

A few days in the 'Nog. Driving the villages of Shimane. Boat trip round Matsue castle. Daisen antiques and Aloe Cafe lunch. Visit to my tea sensei. Plus the usual cuisine, which I only seem to eat when folks come from abroad. Conveyer belt sushi anyone?

Obligatory Izakaya stop. Invite my better friends from the expat community. Number's have dwindled much this year, and sadly, I now no longer have to take off my socks to count them. [Hello Kyoto!].

A few days in the Kyo, with a side trip to Nara. Hit the major tourist spots, many I haven't hit in over a decade. Dodge the students who seem to be everywhere.

Send mom on her way, then walk the Kamogawa again, heavy with water from the week's rain. Bathe in the moonlite.

Watch the Aoi Matsuri procession awhile. Then round third and head for home...


On the turntable: "From Detroit to St. Germain"
On the nightable: Simon Winchester, "Korea"

Thank God I'm a Country Boy!

Today, the woman who runs the Chinese restaurant up the way asked if she could cut some sanshou from the tree in my yard. Later, she brought me some sweet and sour take-no-ko. I love the barter system...

On the turntable: Duke Ellington, "Early Ellington 1927-1934"

Beijing Bicycle

The hutong were calling, so I got on a bicycle and went. Earlier that morning at the hotel, I was shown my choices of bikes: mountain, road, superior, giant. No pictures or descriptions. Mine was one of Beijing's eight million bicycles, (which outnumber cars 4 to 1) and I joined the commuters heading into the central part of the city. I followed the canals into and around the Fobbiden City, then on into the hutong, weaving between brick walls which hid courtyards and narrow passageways. I biked for hours, trying to become part of the scene. An old woman lay on a wooden cart as her equally old husband towed her, pedalling along. Unemployed men played cards. Kids yelled from doorways. Old women gossipped in the street, and a few of them used colorful new exercise equipment, pumping their legs slowly as they talked about Miss Chen and have ya seen the length of her skirts recently? Some people sat on low stools reading. In one doorway, I saw a girl sewing. I didn't take her picture because there was no need. There was eternity in that scene. Someone had been sitting in the same doorway doing the same thing since Mongol times. A couple people walked dogs. Here in China, animals are more often food than pets. I saw few dogs and no cats at all. In the hutong, one image was constant. Through a passageway, I see a single bicycle leaning against a wall, with another passage leading to the left. Again and again, block after block.

My bike also led me out onto some of the bigger streets. I saw a guy on a mountain bike wearing a cowboy hat. Outside a bridal shop, an employee stood in a white tux. Not the best choice for this polluted air. But today the sand was light. Instead, small pieces of white fluff floated and drifted everwhere. I know it is pollen, but it was if a gigantic duck had exploded high over the city. And once again, it was the signs which kept me amused. Babe Salon. Pink Mao Mao. Bling. I saw many "Sex Shops" and a "Herbal Heaven, " so a rock'n'roll joint is sure to follow. I also noticed the Chinese for Starbucks uses the star kanji.

After a lunch in the sunny courtyard of Passby Bar, I changed my hotel to Hao Yuan guesthouse. Located in the hutong, its large and classic rooms formed a figure-eight around two courtyards. I seemed to have the back courtyard to myself. My room was done in the old style, with dark wooden furniture and red fabric. It was one of the nicest places I've stayed and I didn't want to leave. I took my book and sat in the courtyard, looking at the fish and flowers and trees. Tiny birds sang in small bamboo cages. (Don't know why.) When it grew too dark to read, I got a traditional Chinese massage from a guy in a long white lab-coat. He pawed me like a cat, which I presumes brings blood to the skin's surface. It was relaxing at first, but after an hour, it felt like he was my older brother picking on me. I wanted to cry, "Mom! Make him quit it!"

I was the only diner in a small restaurant on the opposite side of the courtyard. Later I sat outside in the dark, looking at the moon. It was a warm night, and the sounds of the city were beginning to hush. It stayed awhile enjoying the quiet, fully engulfed by the city's embrace.

I left for the airport at six the next morning. My driver looked quite the hipster, in his funky clothes and cool shades. He further won me over by playing Dave Matthews on the stereo. But this was to change when he then played a CD by some clone boy band. I hate such pop pap at any time, but this early in the morning it becomes agony. Yet this driver had a few surprises. He pulled down the sun visor on the passenger side of the car, revealing a small TV screen. Alright buddy, you're cool.

There was little traffic, so I had plenty of time before my flight. There were a few small groups of Koreans about. I'd seen a lot more in town. It suddenly hit that I hadn't seen a single Japanese in Beijing. That's the first time that's ever happened. Like Germans and Australians, you seem to run into them in the most remote corners of the world. And Japanese products were scarce. Even cars. VWs, on the other hand, were thick on the ground. Nice work Koizumi. Enjoy that Yasukuni sake.

I sat with Theroux's book, occasionally looking throught the dusty air to new buildings being built across the tarmac. This visit had been good to me, much different than the last one, where I couldn't wait to leave. But has China changed, or have I? It's hard to do a true comparison. Last time I'd stayed deep in the country, in areas that get few "foreign guests." I realize that being a city, Beijing is different . But I'd been to Shanghai. Although by the time I'd gotten there, I was already pretty frazzled by seven weeks of hard travel. Just kept my head down and tried to blend, no longer finding the stares amusing. On my last trip, I think I'd been slightly intimidated by being in a communiust country for the first time. Being American, fear of the Reds is part of the mythology. (I still feel strongly that I missed out on never having gone to Eastern Europe when it was behind the Iron Curtain.) This trip, I barely acknowledged the ideology of my hosts, whereas before I'd looked for signs of it everywhere. And most important: this time, money didn't seem the be the primary focus of Chinese life, an incredibly strong impression I'd brought home. Now, I could travel more freely, be harrassed less. A trip back into the countryside should see if this change is a national trend, or just applies to moneyed Beijing. I'll brush up on my language skills in the meantime.

As my plane neared Japan, I looked down at a sea of pointillest waves. Where Chiba began, there was a massive, dense cloud which looked like a block of tofu. In Japan, there's a dish where a small living fish is slowly heated in water. It tries to escape by swimming into tofu and cool. But there it boils to death. I felt like this fish as we entered the cloud. Then I noticed what looked like lightning hitting our wing. I wasn't sure until I saw a stewardess take a phone call, then look out the window. And again, electrical lines wriggled down the wing. Our pilot then came on to confirm that we had indeed been struck twice, but we'd be OK. As the clouds thinned, they streaked the sky. I could tell their altitude by how big our shadow was as it passed across the surface of one. Then we were down.

Tokyo of course had changed little in four days. But after Beijing, to me it felt emptier. No doubt this is the first time in the history of the world that someone has thought so. In many ways Beijing is a more beautiful city than Tokyo. For all the dust and dirt, there is a greater sense of space. Tokyo, though scrubbed nearly spotless, feels more cluttered. It all comes down to a different sense of what is "clean." Some of the most spotless Japanese homes can have closets and hallways piled high with useless crap that's long outserved its impulsive purpose. Some spring cleaning is due.


On the turntable: Jerry Garcia Band, "Pure Jerry 2"

China's Safety Belt

Early the next morning, a mini-bus picked me up to take me to the Great Wall. As the bus drove around picking up other passengers, it dawned on me what was so different about China this time around. Back in '97, China had yet to enter the digital age. (Nor had Japan, actually.) Where I'd only seen a handful of cell phones, (and those were only in trendy Shanghai) now even cabbies would text their girlfriends as they idled in traffic. Buses carried ads for Nokia and Yahoo, the latter using the kanji for "kidnap." The signs I saw most often were for breast augmentation surgery.

Our own driver's cell repeatedly rang as he joined the long lines of traffic entering Beijing's ring roads. Not long out of the city, we stopped at a jade museum which served as a front for a large shop beyond. This was somewhat frustrating as I'd chosen this tour because it supposedly didn't stop at such places. But no reason to get upset, the day was too nice. I went out and sat in the sunshine, trying to ignore the dust and diesel fumes waltzing in my nose. No one in my group seemed too interested in buying anything, so it wasn't long before we heading further into the countryside and up the main road leading to the Ming Tombs. Built according to feng shui principles, its 7 kilometer length was shaded by fruit trees. A shepherd in a Mao suit tended his flock. A couple dromedary camels lay in the dirt, looking obstinate. Some buildings had strange numbers written on them. The main tomb, Chang Ling, had an impressive hall with tall cedar columns. The Chinese tourists seemed more interested in our small cluster of foreigners than in the exhibits themselves. A large courtyard had a few cherry trees in full bloom, their pink petals a sharp contrast to the bright green grass of the burial mound beyond. (Which had the amusing name of "Soul Tower.") A small stone structure overlooked the mound. Climbing atop it, I had great views of the mountains in the distance, traces of the Great Wall climbing along the ridge. I was amazed at how much the area resembled Arizona. I'd heard of the desertification of the area, the sand racing toward Beijing at a rate of 2km a year. And looking at these mountains, it was easy to see why. Their rocky faces had wrinkled brows; straight lines of small trees had been planted to prevent further erosion. Erosion originally caused by deforestation, of course.

We travelled across this desert landscape, passing a forlorn-looking abandoned fun park. Nearby was our lunch stop. Before eating, we had to suffer through a short tour of a cloisonne factory. I was more curious about how much these workers were being paid. Probably far less than this English speaker leading the tour. When it was finally time for lunch, our group of ten ate communally at a round table with revolving platter at center. (Is the round table not the perfect design for a socialist banquet?) Unlike backpacker tours I've done in the past, none of these more well-heeled tourists seemed to want to intermingle. I was the only one who tried to talk to these Aussies, these Mexicans, these South Africans. I did spend a long time in conversation with Ken, an Assemblyman from Maryland. A personable and bright guy, he had lots of interesting insight into China and Asia in general. He and I were also the only ones to get into the spirit of baijiu, that incredibly strong rice wine. After lunch, walking past recently abandoned tables, it was easy to see which groups had eaten where. While the foreign tourists had left mere sauce stains on the white tablecloths, the Chinese tables were littered with food that extended onto the chairs and floors. I made my way downstairs, where a Japanese-speaking salesgirl tried to sell me some traditional-looking robes. I was more interested in conversation, but as she grew more persistant, I smiled and begged off. The heavy lunch and the baijiu had made me sleepy, so I took a nice nap in the warmth of the bus. I awoke as we pulled out, passing some PSB guys doing goose-step John Cleese imitations in the parking lot. Why are the PSB always so skinny? You'd think with their authority they'd be better fed than all but the highest cadre members. Instead, they look like GIs in an old 1940's WWII film.

Finally we arrived at the Wall. The parking area was the worst of tourist hell, so I briskly made my way toward the entrance. In pictures, the Wall looks fairly flat, but there are some pretty steep parts as it snakes its way up and down the low peaks. At certain intervals, there are former guard houses, now containing touts selling their wares. There were thousands of Chinese tourists around, but I was one of the few Westerners. Despite this, I wasn't singled out or harrassed. On my last visit, hawkers were constantly trying to seperate me from my money. It had become so bad, I'd even gotten a T-shirt with the kanji for, "I want nothing," hoping to fend them off. Today, things have certainly changed.

I had recently heard that the myth of being able to see the Wall from the Moon is just a myth. Instead, I'd hoped to see the Moon from the Wall, but it was too early in the day. I strolled on, enjoying a couple hours in the sun, walking the stone hillsides. Middle-aged men wore their leisure attire of cheap sport coats over polo shirts. Old women smiled for photos. An overly dressed woman talked on her cell phone in one hand and grasped a handrail tightly in the other. Another woman was trying to prevent a young smiley guy from filming down her blouse as he stood higher up the slope. A young mother smacked the crap out of her toddler son, her arm raised well above shoulder height. I eventually came to a series of rails running down the mountain. As it was nearing the time of my bus to leave, and wanting to further explore the kitsch factor, I caught a ride on this rollercoaster down into the parking lot. People standing in front of small stalls shouted at me to buy beer or coke. I chose instead to look at the bears feeding on slop in a pen at the bottom of the tourist circus. One of the bears was frolicking in his trough, literally coating his upper body in the stuff. An attendant came over wielding a shovel, and when the bear turned its head to look, it got whacked in the face. The dude had swung really hard. All the other bears growled at the violence, and I was amazed that they didn't tear this guy apart. The beaten bear hardly looked fazed. He simply sat in a high tower, merrily licking the slop from his body. Animals seem far smarter than some humans.

Back in Beijing, we encountered a massive traffic jam. Our driver did some incredibly selfish and offensive driving to get us through. From an overpass, I saw two horse-drawn carts amidst the buses, cars, and trucks of rush hour. I thought we were soon to be home, but we stopped yet again, this time at a silk factory. I'd had enough. It was our third superfluous stop, when we were supposed to have none. We'd spent more time at those other places than at our intended destinations, and this seven hour tour had stretched to eleven. So I left, walking into the Beijing dusk. I was near the site of the future Olympic village, an area thick with cranes. Nearby was the Stadium called, "The Nest," but instead it was a Gothic mess out of Batman's worst nightmares. I wandered awhile, then caught a taxi to Xiao Wang's Home Restaurant. I'd heard that there were tables in an old converted train car, but today they were closed. So I settled into a corner table and ordered the spiciest thing on the menu, hoping to purge the dust from my sinuses. And I finally got a huge glass of Tsingtao on tap, which I'd been searching for but had eluded me until now. On the way out, an African guy offered me ganja, but I preferred a shower. It had been a long day, and the worst sort of packaged bus tour. All the start and stop and wait makes you tired, destroying an sort of momentum or enthusiasm. I was in bed by ten...


On the turntable: Miles Davis, "On the Corner"
On the nighttable: Adeline Yen Mah, "Falling Leaves"

China: Slight Return

A few years ago, when I heard that the 2008 Olympics were going to Beijing, my first thought was that I needed to make a trip over before they levelled the tattier parts of the city in order to impress foreign guests. My instinct proved correct. Earlier this month, I read an article which stated that the city had already razed 60% of the Hutongs, those old maze-like neighborhoods that date back 800 years to the Mongol times. So I booked a flight, and less than a week later, I went.

On arrival, I passed through a large crowd of people clamoring for space and waving placards with the names of passengers and hotels. I felt a little like a rock star. Where the crowd ended, the adventure begins. "Here we go," I thought. Within seconds , a taxi pimp approached. We haggled the price down some, but not before I was reminded of my position in this country as a foreign tourist and therefore, a mark. Driving into town, I was further thrust into the memory of my last visit to China. The scenes were the same: of traffic and dust and crowds. A bus had overturned, crushing a guardrail flat, and strewing luggage down a hillside. The passengers stood milling about, the foreign faces looking dazed, while the Chinese ones looked bored. My driver slowed a bit to join the other rubberneckers, then we headed on into the neon glow of Beijing.

Nine years back, I had meandered the Chinese countryside, trying to stick to a $15 dollar a day budget, sleeping in the cheapest of digs. This time around, my lodgings were the posh Capital Hotel, midway between Tienanmen Square and the Beijing Train Station, terminus for the Trans-Siberian Express. Sitting in the lobby of my hotel, I nursed a $5 dollar bottle of Tsingtao beer and sinking into the fatigue of a long travel day, which had culminated in a 20-minute bounce down through strong Gobi winds.

Looking from my 10th floor window the next morning, my view of the neon had been replaced by yellow sand. Back in the 'Nog, it'll occasionally dust my car or make the edges of the horizon appear hazy. Here it hung thick, and I could barely make out buildings a few blocks away. Below me, the dust coated the rooves of the building which had been part of the Foreign Legation before 1949. All the dust and the sandy sky made the whole city appear two-dimensional. My head felt about as hazy as the sky, so I went downstairs for coffee. At the buffet table, a young woman was busy loading up on rolls and bacon and dim sum, stuffing it all into a box which was beginning to round and turn gray with grease. When she could pillage no more, she walked quickly out of the cafe. The staff sat silently smiling. I had this fantasy that she was the eldest daughter of a poor neighborhood family and had set out in her best clothes to get provisions for her family. I later found out that the buffer was cheaper if you took the food up to your room. My impressions from my previous China trip dying fast, I headed out into the street in order to form new ones.

It was a short ten minute walk to Tienanmen Square. On the way I passed a few wanna-be guides and some squawking postcard salesmen (Wili Lo Man?). The two massive gates at the south end of the square were covered in scaffolding. A few gates in the Forbidden City, along with some of its buildings were also covered, with those bamboo tinker-toy spiderwebs so beloved by Chinese laborers. Looking through the yellow air, the city skyline was a forest of cranes. Beijing was in the midst of getting a facelift. It reminded me of Shanghai a decade ago. In his book, "Riding the Iron Rooster," Paul Theroux writes about a 1986 Peking, "[It was] as if someone had simply sent out a decree saying, 'Build this city.'" Now, twenty years later, the IOC had done exactly that. Perhaps I'd already come to Beijing too late.

I walked on into the Square. It was a weekday in the spring, but it seemed there were a billion Chinese here--half of them yelling at each other. A couple hundred were lining up to enter Mao's mausoleum. (Great band name, that.) I tried to join the queue, but a few people started hollering at me. Finally one said in English, "No bag," gesturing at my daypack. He pointed at another long queue across the street, presumably where I could check my pack. I simply smiled and moved on. I'll come back another time. The Chairman's not going anywhere.

I wandered about the large open space of the Square, stepping into people's photos, people stepping into mine. It was too crowded to check out of reality and reflect on the history here, including what had happened to the students in '89. (I'd been a student myself at the time, watching CNN coverage from the safety of my Tucson bed.) For incredible documentation of the event, I recommend the film, "Gate of Heavenly Peace."

My feet led me through the various arches into the Forbidden City. It was nearing lunch time, and many old-timers were sitting around with tea and lunch. Unlike recent Japanese sakura revellers and their blue tarps, the Chinese preferred to sit directly on the dusty ground. In fact, the only tarps I did see were being used in construction; those of the striped variety, familiar to me from my time in Hong Kong.

The Forbidden City too was crowded, so I decided not to linger too long in the exhibit rooms. Better to wander across the cracked stone courtyards and pick up the vibe. Here was a hall with a big chair. Here, a hall with more big chairs. Here, an even bigger chair. They looked uncomfortable and I immediately channeled my step-father saying "They look like a royal pain in the ass." All these chairs and the crowds were making me get tourist burnout pretty quickly. So, rather than be annoyed by all the tourists, I decided to watch them. The group leaders would wave their little flags, leading their charges in their identical baseball caps. One team actually had green (knock-off) Nike swooshes. Besides these groups, every school child in Beijing was here today, in their identical blue sweatsuits. I eavedropped a little. Some years ago, I'd studied Chinese for a few months and was curious how much I remembered. Surprisingly, I could still pick out certain words. But one baffled me. I heard a guide saying something like, "Staw Basch." Looking to where she was pointing I had to laugh. There's actually a Starbucks in the Forbidden City. Coffee culture is now officially everywhere.

Exiting through a side gate, I followed a small willow-lined canal into the center of the Beijing. I eventually wound up at Huang Ting restaurant. It may be in the bowels of a posh hotel; it may be made up to resemble a 1930's Hollywood version of classic China, but here I had one of the best meals of my life. The highlight of the multiple courses was a grilled pigeon, washed down with a fine Aussie Chard. I left the place slightly and merrily buzzed. And so passed the rest of the afternoon, strolling around trendy Wangfujian. I really admired the signs. The boast of "Impossible is Nothing." And my personal fave of the day, "Mr Lee--California Beef Noodle King." I wanna see his crown. There was a huge figure of a basketballer dunking a ball onto the roof of a tall sports store. (Earlier at the hotel, I'd caught part of a Houston Rockets game on satellite. With Yao Ming now in the NBA, basketball is massive in China.) I lingered awhile in the square in front of St. Joseph's Church, watching old women gossip and young toughs do stunts on their mountain bikes. In one corner of the square was a statue of the founder of this religion--himself having gotten a Mandate of Heaven 2000 years ago. On one of the small side streets, a couple cyclo drivers reclined in the saddle, playing a board game with pieces the size of jam jar lids.

Back at Tienanmen Square, I noticed an attractive girl waving at me. When I approached her, she said to me, "Sit down and rest awhile." Her boyfriend and she were students hoping to practice their English. When they found out I taught yoga, they had me repeat the word, not quite realizing it wasn't English. We also chatted in Japanese, which the girl had also studied. I probably taught her more words in that language than in my own. They in turn praised my Chinese pronunciation. And so we sat enjoying the sun which had finally burned the yellow sand from the air. A few PSB guys passed by to check us out, looking like scarecrows in their over-sized uniforms. I noticed no crow during my stay in Beijing, but these guys didn't scare me, and it wasn't until the shadows grew long and the crowd thinned that I said my goodbyes.

Heading back through the Square, slaloming around the postcard touts and the statues of Revolutionary Heroes. Two women stood on either side of a quiet tree-lined street playing badminton. Boot camp yells came from beyond a high mysterious wall. A derelict poet sat against a wall, scribbling his latest masterpiece. A few blocks on, I came across a restaurant whose name I recognized, so I sat at a formica table and was served up greasy duck and warm beer by surly waitresses. I didn't linger long. Five minutes later I walked past another restaurant with the same name, and realized that I'd just eaten at its shabbier cousin. (Pa Ti Duk?) I strolled on, each block revealing a theme--of shops standing side by side, each carrying identical goods. There were barber shops, then shoe stores, then stand-up noodle joints. Finally I came to the theatre where they had the acrobats.

I was led for some reason to the large plush velvet seats of the VIP section. Next, I was given jasmine tea and Oreos. I had this entire section to myself, making me feel like I was on a Japanese train. Nine years ago, I'd seen an acrobat show in Shanghai, which I'd later recommended to an especially liberal friend, who later retorted, "Child labor." (Well, there is that, I suppose.) Where the Shanghai show had been amazing and professional and error free, this one was amateur hour. Which added to the appeal. The choreography and grandious gestures were pure camp. Best of all was the music, which I'd classify as 1980's Suburban Mall Moog. The Asians have nearly perfected kitsch. Throughout the show, my mouth got quite a workout, alternating between slack-jawed amazement and clench-lipped stiffle of laughter. I wondered if any of these performers would appear at any Olympic ceremonies. Most were great, but a few had a ways to go. When any of the jugglers would drop something, I immediately thought, "No dinner tonite." When one girl dropped bowls on three seperate occasions, it was, "No rice 'til the weekend." With the show over, I relinquished my VIP status and left the theatre full of mirth, quickly catching a taxi in order to escape the cold wind once again blowing sand into the sky...


On the turntable: Jerry Garcia, "Garcia Plays Dylan"
On the nighttable: Paul Theroux, "Riding the Iron Rooster"

Olympics '08

In Japan, it is the sakura that are fleeting. In Beijing, it is the Hutongs.

I'm off...


On the turntable: Calexico, "Garden Ruin"
On the nighttable: "Lonely Planet: Beijing"

Too Soon, Harvest Moon

Bright orange moon
Clashes with a checkerboard
Of green grass and pink petals.


On the turntable: Tortoise and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, "The Brave and the Bold"

Pickled Pink

Sunday I spent most of the day at Chofukan, where we had a hanami party. Up at the mountain dojo, there was traditional Japanese singing and a couple pieces performed on koto and shakuhachi. Next up, a small group broke into pairs and performed kata. Anna and I went through some basic bo stuff. I'm still new and unsure about it all, but she praised me a bit after, especially when my bare feet slipped on the grass, but I still maintained form. Afterward, was the party itself. we sat at benches and low tables, eating densly packed bento from two-tiered bamboo boxes. I also had my first encounter with doboroku, which is some sort of unrefined sake that looks like rice gruel but packs a wicked punch. I later settled in with the more familiar blend. Every person in attendance had some sort of connection with traditional art or culture, no real surprise considering that Kancho is a true J-renaissance men. Most of the conversation throughout the day stayed in the realm of music or koryu. One of the best parties I've been to, set high in the hills above the Kyo.

After the party, Anna and I biked downtown, riding beneath the sakura lining the Kamogawa, drunkenly dodging the drunker. There was a going away party for Owen, who claimed to remember my reading at an open mic night last year. On this night, he and I did a really funny song he'd written, him on guitar, me on Pringles can. There were some amazing people about: hula dancers and Shiatsu practitioners, filmmakers and Russian economists. I biked home, head and belly full, amazed at how incredible one day can turn out to be...


On the turntable: Jefferson Airplane, "Surrealistic Pillow"
On the nighttable: Janice Valerie Young, "Sweet Daruma"

Hana Matsuri

Saturday marked the day when Buddha became enlightened. Buddhism led me to Zen which led me to Aikido, so what better way to celebrate than to attend a special training at Peter Rehse's Himeji Shodokan dojo. The three hour morning practice was split between an hour of Yoshinkan led by Michael Stuempel, an hour of Aikikai led by Peter Goldsbury, and an hour of the local brand under Sakai Sensei.

Bryan Bateman of Seishinkan in London and I took ukemi for Michael, leading us through some variations of shionage that were similar enough, though much more powerful than the Hombu versions. I'd heard lots about Michael's aikido (in the book, "Angry White Pajamas") and it was great to see (and feel) him in action.

Next up was Aikikai with Peter G. Again, I've know his rep for years and it was a pleasure to be his sole uke. His nikyo was ferocious, and being on the receiving end of kubi-nage again and again definitely kept me focused.

The Shodokan basics were as intriguing as they were when I visited this dojo three years ago. I think they'd be a worthwhile study for anyone doing any type of aikido. Sakai sensei was incredible; his movements quick, crisp, and from the hips. He is a true man of budo.

After training, we all went for lunch nearby. As all of us met and knew each other from budo forums, our conversations stayed mainly in the cyber realm. It's funny how these days, budoka often talk about the internet more than they do about budo. Ah, modern times...


On the turntable: David Grey, "The EPs 92-94"

Falling, falling

There are sakura petals
In my rain.


On the turntable: Billie Holliday, "Lady Day"

After about 6 years...

...the "Fuck Damp!" graffiti is gone! In this wet San-in climate, I've always appreciated it's sentiment.


On the turntable: "Run Lola Run soundtrack"

McBento

I watched a homeless woman carrying her half-dozen garbage bags into a McDonalds. Curious about what would happen, I followed her in. She rummaged through the trash a bit, then finding some tasty McMorsals, she sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic seats and ate. I waited around, pretending to study the menu, hoping to see what would happen. But everyone ignored her. Despite being a full-on lunch rush, none of the workers came over to free up the table. I guess she deserves a break today.

On the turntable: The Who, "Ultimate Collection"

In the Shrill of the Night

The coming of spring brings opera season. Throughout the day, the warbler warms us up by running through her itinerary. After dark, the real show begins. The cats take their places at various locations throughout the garden and begin to tune their voices. Then the males come to center stage in pairs and work on duets which express the fullest extent of their abilities. The two of them really get into it, backs arched to heighten dramatic tension. The two voices wrap around each other, spiralling up into the quiet night. The females linger back, not coming on until a bit later. And the show ain't over 'til the fat one sings, though she really won't reach her full girth for many weeks.


On the turntable: The Kinks, "The Ultimate Collection"

Beginner's mind

Even after twelve years in Japan, it's still possible to forget to take off the toilet slippers. And to try to hail a student driver thinking it's a taxi...


On the turntable: Gipsy Kings, "Love Songs"

Windows

On snowy days I found it hard to concentrate on my shakuhachi lessons, my eyes constantly wandering to the house across the road. The study upstairs was laden with books, its wraparound windows revealing an elderly man happily reading as he drank his tea. How I much prefered to be there, safe in that cocoon.

During warmer weather I was more enthusiastic about my flute studies, progressing to the point where I played a few concerts. More fun for me was playing during full moon parties held with friends. Usually these were held at the castle ruins in the 'Nog, but my favorite by far happened in the Kyo, under the massive Sanmon gate of Nanzenji. As a handful of friends drank sake and read poems, I sat under a pillar a little ways off, trying to stir the trees with my notes. E-ma Mari stood further away in the dark, singing quietly to herself. I later snuck up behind her to record her singing "Amazing Grace" in Japanese.

I'd always loved this gate. Before coming to Japan, I read a scene in Mishima's "Temple of the Golden Pavillion," where standing upon this same gate, the main character witnesses through a window, a woman opening her kimono to squeeze breast milk into a cup of tea for her soldier lover soon heading off to war. This image has always stayed with me. Incredibly, the first time I stood atop Nanzenji's Sanmon, through an open window of a neighboring house, I spied a tea ceremony being performed by a woman in kimono.



On the turntable: Peter Tosh, "Scrolls of the Prophet"
On the nighttable: Nien Cheng, "Life and Death in Shanghai"

Sakura Blah!

At this time of year, every foreign blogger in Japan seems to post about cherry blossoms. I hate to submit to tired cliche, but it's unavoidable. The sakura culture offers you so much material.

Usually in the 'Nog, I'd go to a different location everyday, sitting in a prime spot with my tea and The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon (to further propagate the cliche), which I only read in that setting. (It's taking me years to read that book.) To avoid the crowds, I rarely go out at weekends. But I think that Morrissey was referring to Kyoto when he sang, "Everyday is like Sunday." So began my first sakura experience in the Kyo. Noticing all the bikes outside Hirano Shrine should've been my first clue. The second would be the tour guides with flags. Well, I'd been warned not to hit the famous spots. In the shrine grounds, there wasn't a bare spot of ground to be seen. I simply wanted to find a nice patch to enjoy my bento, but this was harder than I thought. A group of tatami platforms had been raised under some of the most prime trees. They were surprisingly empty. I hadn't been sitting for three minutes before a woman said that I had to pay 4000 to sit here. I asked her if I could just finish my lunch, and I'd leave within 10 minutes. Despite there being no other people, she still insisted on my paying. Yet again, rules over reality. Well, I'd been warned.

So on a spring day with weather that can only be described as glorious, I began a huge circular course around the Kyo. A zigzag zensen, if you will. From Hirano to Nijo, across town to Kiyamachi, up along the canal to Sanjo, weaving around and around Gion, cutting through Maruyama Park, past Chion-in and Shoren-in, over to Heian Jingu, past all the love hotels of Higashiyama to the Path of Philosophy, then along the Kamogawa north toward my home near Kinkaku-ji. And the crowds were consistant, hundreds of bodies per tree. Well, I'd been warned.

The peace I'd been seeking seemed elusive. Rather than get frustrated, I decide to change my focus from Cherry Blossom viewing to viewing the Cherry Blossom viewers. Revel in the subculture. In the drunks who hassled the gate-keeper at Chion-in for closing on time. In a cop yelling at a tour bus driver, "Can't you see how congested it is!" In another cop showing no emotion as an old woman gestured wildly about something. In how every square centimeter of Maruyama was covered in blue tarp, so much so that people couldn't pass between them. (I haven't seen so much blue tarp in Kansai since the Hanshin Quake of '95.) In a superfluous crossing guard telling people to cross at the crosswalk. (How many times today did he say that same line? How many times this week?) In gaudily dressed women walking their little barky dogs, which piss on tree roots to do their part for the sakura front. In the large cluster of Chinese tourists ricocheting off each other. In the strange dialect emanating from a group of oldtimers at a sidewalk cafe. And in the stylish white-clad couple in the Jaguar, driving along the canal, top-down to reveal the pink ceiling above. The ultimate metaphor.

I of course had my own part to play. Dodging the masses, who walked with eyes looking up to the petals, oblivious to my own pedalling form. Weaving to stay out of photos. (A mid-afternoon beer at Cafe 58 temporarily diminished my avoidance capabilities.) Repeated stops to dip into Sei Shonagon or my book on Dogen. (One guy snuck a photo as I read the former on a hillside near Eikan-do. I blame the beer.) And finally finding what I'd been looking for all day. Away from the crowds, a single weeping willow sakura stood in the grounds of a little non-descript temple at the city center. Dignity and independance in dazzling pink.

Aside from the famed temples of Higashiyama, the largest crowds seemed to be in Gion and Kiyamachi. If, to the Japanese, these blossoms are prized because they represent the fleeting, then what better place to see them than in these floating worlds, where value is measured in the ephemera of beauty? And if the fleeting nature of existance is so cherished, what's with all the photographs?



On the turntable: "Putamayo, Islands"
On the nighttable: Yuho Yokoi, "Zen Master Dogen"

Nanohana

Yellow flowers burst from hillsides
Like splashes of lava from Kilauea



On the turntable: "Drumfunk Hooliganz 2"

Travelling Light

During this long cold winter, I found myself watching an exorbitant amount of films. Before long, my eyes began to act like a camera, framing objects, or following lines of motion which passed before my vision. Incredibly, I've grown sensitive to changes in light. This fact became apparent with the coming of the bright days of spring. Last Sunday in the Kyo, I went to the "Light-Up" at Nijo Castle. The beams cutting through the rainy mist created unbelievably beautiful sculptures of light as they fell on dripping cherry trees and damp stone. (The crescent moon high above was of course in a class by itself.) On my return trip home Monday, I drove into a sunset which lit up the sky like yellow gauze.

Do you like Brahms?

On cold rainy days
I prefer to live
At 24 frames per second


On the turntable: Keith Jarrett Trio, "Still Live"
On the nighttable: A.S. Byatt, "Sugar"

I'll Remember April

Drove down to the Kyo this week, taking a leisurely 6 hours on the backroads. The day was open and bisected by the line which I traced with my tires. Just when I was beginning to decide that Tokyo had declared war on the countryside in the form of huge industry and construction projects, I'd get caught up the beauty of the sky and the mountains and the farmers doing their thing underneath. I brought my New Mexican musical sensibility with me, in the form of Neil Young and Johnny Cash and Ry Cooder, though the charm of the West is lost here where the trucks are small and devoid of color. Not a gun-rack to be seen.

The return trip Monday was just as pleasant, a stop for ice cream almost obligatory. In the valleys all was warm and sunny, rivers bloated by snowmelt. Up high in the mountains that same snow lingers. Up and over, high to low, repeatedly thoughout the day. The perfect metaphor for the bizarre weather of March.


On the turntable: Omara Portuondo, "Buena Vista Social Club Presents..."

Sakura Bleu!

My world has exploded into pink.
Dare I say Spring is finally here?

On the turntable: Willie Dixon, "I am the Blues"

March into April

Sunshine in my kitchen;
Daisen sheds its winter skin


On the turntable: Paul Simon, "One Trick Pony"

Neapolitan

White snow
Pink plum blossoms
Dark brown earth.

I wanna eat ice cream.


On the turntable: Geoffrey Oryema, "Pure Moods"

At what age does cool die?

On Sunday night, I went to a masquerade party at DoDoDo. I liked the premise, and since I'd never been to one, I decided to go. A handful of foreign friends were there, wearing butterfly-shaped masks, just like everyone else in the place. It was only the second time since New Years since I went out, and I was happy catching up. For awhile. At many large Japanese social events, here is a tendancy to schedule games or activities. Usually, these are good, drunken fun. But on this night, the staff came around to all the tables and made us join in. I didn't care for this, especially since the party was moving along at a nice pace until then.

So stood off to the side with Cian, heckling the whole thing. In my slightly annoyed state, I looked around the room at all the people having their enforced fun. More than enjoying themselves, the majority just stood around trying to look cool. There was no need to hand out masks here, everybody seemed to have brought their own. I used to really enjoy this place, which stands at the pinnacle of cool in the 'Nog. But it seemed hollow tonight, a reminder of what bothers me about this city. When I first came here, I was amazed at all the hip looking people around, but was soon told that for the most part, it rarely goes deeper than fashion. Yet another uniform in a country that thrives on them. It took time to find the depth, and before long I had found an interesting circle of funky Japanese friends who never fail to stimulate and challenge me. None were here tonight.

But am I so different? If it hadn't been a masquerade party, I wouldn't have come out at all tonight. And I know of course that uniforms are not specific to Japan. A long while ago, I came to the conclusion that cool is just a commodity, bought and sold in terms of the right look, the hippest music, the trendiest film. If you think that you're cool, you've been sucker-punched by advertising. I prefer to measure my life in terms of growth and depth.

Or maybe it's just that I'm getting old. And increasingly pretentious.


On the turntable: Jeff Buckley, "Grace"

The Night has a Thousand Ears

I heard my neighbor yelling last night. It must've been loud, for it was cold, and the windows of both our houses had been closed. I looked at the neon clock. Just past one. So I sat up, craning my head like a dog, trying to catch a little of what he was shouting. But all I could hear was the monotone bass of his voice, and a higher voice, a woman's voice, calling him an idiot. Who was she? It used to be that he'd fight with his wife, the mother of his child, the woman he'd knocked up. But she must've reached her limit with him, because I haven't seen her or the daughter in a couple years. The guy himself was gone awhile, caught breaking into a scuba shop up the coast. These days I rarely see him, except when he's walking quickly past our houses, head studying the pavement. Shame is the hammer that pounds the nails around here.

But I notice him now, his voice cutting through the night, through the cold rain. And the banging, like furniture being flipped over. Suddenly, there are two loud pops which make me jump. If this were the States, I'd assume someone got shot. I sit quietly, waiting for screams, for sirens, for helicopters. But all is still. I roll back to sleep...

On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "American Beauty"
On the nighttable: Lowell Sheppard, "Chasing the Cherry Blossom"

Thinking of Woody

All the trains on my local line have a neon scroll telling you the final destination. It starts with the words, This Train is Bound for...", and the voice in my head always says, "Glory" before the next word appears.


On the turntable: "Blind Faith"

Circles

It starts with the sky a uniform blue.
You inhale deeply,
bringing the green out of the long-brown grass,
drawing up the new sprouts between the blades,
bloating the plums trees into a puffy white,
pulling out all the sweet scents into the air,
nudging people to shed their heavy clothes and their houses,
turning the volume up on birdsong,
wringing the frigid from the sea,
which rises into the warm air,
birthing a mist which smudges the sun into a yellow thumbprint.
And the cool returns...



On the turntable: Wings, "Venus and Mars"
On the nighttable: William Nicholson, "The Society of Others"

Antonioni

The breeze blowing through trees.

Exist.



On the turntable: Ron Carter and Jim Hall, "Live at Village West"

Have a Day!

I'm sitting at the edge of Lake Togo playing djembe with Alama. The lines I'm slapping down are relatively complex, but he's literally playing figure eights around me, wrapping his rhythm around mine and meeting me on the upbeat. As my mind and ego shut down I begin to play unconsciously. My attention is drawn to the lake. It's a windy day, the waves pushed into small chop. I begin to accent my playing whenever I spy a whitecap.

Lately, my attention is drawn to the shape water takes. This cold winter, I watched a dozen or so surf films. Whenever I drive along the coast, I start to check out conditions. The funny thing is that I haven't surfed in twenty-five years. This stretch of coast is famous for winter swells, bringing surfers from across the nation who try to ignore how friggin cold their faces are. When summer comes back, I may go in myself.

My thoughts here are much like waves and as they move of their own volition, oblivious to obstacle, I digress. Earlier when I picked up Alama, I realized, embarrassed that I'd been playing his CD in my truck. I quickly replaced it with "Pulse! A Stomp Odyssey." He seemed to enjoy this aural document on drumming from across the world. Then as one track came on he said happily, "These are my Friends!" The National Drummers of Guinea.

At home, I pulled out my latest read, "Tuesdays with Morrie." The book came to my attention when I noticed it on the bookshelf of my dad, then in his final months. For years afterward, I'd often see the book in airports or restaurants back home. Reading it was like wearing a badge saying, "Someone I love is dying." But we're all dying, and the book's message echoes what I said this week. Embrace Life. Give it a big fat wet sloppy kiss too.


On the turntable: Alama Dioubate, "Femmes du Monde"
On the nighttable: Mitch Albom, "Tuesdays with Morrie"

Puff

Spring comes
one plum blossom
at a time


On the turntable: Sonny Rollins, "Sonny Rollins and Friends"

Rites of Spring

I got a panicked call from a close friend (who wants to remain anonymous). Her cat had died suddenly. She'd had this cat for most of her adult life and was having a hard time with it. So I decided to go with her to a pet cemetary up near Daisen. Being O-Higan, it was busy, with quite a few people having brought small dogs with them, visiting the grave of the predecessors. The people running the place were almost cold in their efficiency, allowing little time for my friend to process her loss. Literally seconds after cremating her cat, they asked for her thoughts on a burial plot. The questions came out like a sales pitch. My friend seemed upset and needed some time to collect herself. So I took her hand and we walked quietly up a small hill toward the forest. It was a gorgeous day. The sky was empty and the trees were rife with birdsong. Enjoy this, the day seemed to be saying. Then it dawned on me that it was the Vernal Equinox. Day and night, light and dark, in perfect balance. From here, each day will grow brighter and warmer, rushing toward summer and all its joyous vitality.
Heading up that hill, into the beauty of the day, we were taking small steps away from death and choosing to celebrate life.


On the turntable: Dizzy Gillespie, "Afro-Cuban Jazz Moods"

On approach

Light folds around towering storm clouds
Bouncing back up from layers of smog below.

Flying into Bangkok, you pass over much water. If the sun is right, the water will light up with fantastic pyrotechnics.



On the turntable: Kings of Convenience, "Riot on an Empty Street"
On the nighttable: Henry Miller, "Quiet Days in Clichy"

Unaccustomed

The other day, Nico asked me to expound a bit more about my going to check out the warehouse. I aim to please. Here's the extended director's cut.

I had to go to immigration in Sakai to deal with my visa. Miki had some business at Customs next door, so I went along. We were met by a guy in a suit and hardhat, perhaps one of my favorite fashion combinations. I wasn't as fancily dressed, though I did have my white gloves and a crowbar, with which I began to crack open the slats of this cheap wooden crate. (In the Golan-Globus version, I'm a Columbian cocaine dealer, looking to poison the minds of young Americans. In the modern Bruckheimer version, I'm a Muslim fundammentalist looking to poison the water supply. The beards remain the constant.) A couple other officers started their Keystone Kustom Kops act, arbitrairily taking out bags and making sure that the merchandise matched what was on the invoice. After watching for a few minutes, it dawned on me that Customs officers are the lowest rung on bureaucracy's ladder. The older, sterner of the two (let's call him Hardy) held the bags open with his left hand while he wielded a metal detector held in his right. It beeped. With a puzzled look on his face, he ran the detector over the bags again, with the same result. Beep. Again. Beep. Finally, his younger, greener partner (who we'll call Laurel) brought an important point to his attention. As he waved the wand, he was swinging it over his wristwatch. This is where my private S&M act kicked in, biting my check in order to stiffle the giggles. And with each subsequent action on their part, my inner mirth increased, nearly bubbling over into guffaws when Hardy held up a pair of shoes he'd been examining and said with all seriousness, "You know, these would go well with that dress you brought in last month." This day was no doubt the best time I've ever had at Customs.

My worst was when I came back from Sri Lanka. I'd decided to celebrate my last evening in country by sitting on the patio of Colombo's Galle Face Hotel, dining on lobster thermidor and watching the sun slide into the Arabian Sea. The menu carefully listed the spices used in the preparation, but it neglected to mention a certain micro-organism. My flight left at 2 am (all flights departing Colombo leave after dark, in order to avoid surface-to-air missle attacks), the first of 4 two-hour flights, from Colombo to Bangkok to Hong Kong to Taipei to Osaka. I was running a low fever by the time I hit Thailand, vomited in Hong Kong airport. This was at the time of SARS, so I was really worried that I wouldn't be able to get back into Japan. However, I cleared quarantine and immigration without problem. Then I hit Customs. Let me interject here that my appearance isn't the usual "token language walla" look found on most NOVA posters. I've had my bags looked through on many occasions, but this was the first time I'd actually been pulled into my own special room of simply a table and four white walls, one for each of the agents, I guess. The senior rambled off his questions while the others looked through my gear. On this trip, I'd picked up some pretty unusual stuff, the kinds of things that are probably used as props in Smuggler's 101: hollow Buddhas, bamboo flute, coconut hollowed out to contain rice, and a novelty mystery box which I'd forgotten how to open. It was almost a cliche on places to stash dope. The senior guy kept things light, and we actually talked yoga for a good portion of the twenty minutes I was kept. Luckily, my body cavities were left unliberated. But as I stood, one young officious punk suddenly slapped my front pockets. "What the Fuck!" I was pissed but was right in thinking I'd get home sooner by keeping my mouth-- like all my other orifices-- shut.
By that point, I didn't have the energy for the four-hour bus ride back to the 'Nog. I made it as far as Namba, where I crawled into a capsule and slept like the dead for fourteen hours.


On the turntable: The Cluster Pluckers, "Just Pluck It!"

Unlike Me, The Dead Are Never Lonely

I've always been somewhat skeptical of these newfangled mental disorders that always seem to originate in the States. Yet I'm starting to wonder about SAD, which until recently always reminded me of a type of clown. The weather here on the Sea of Japan really can drag you down. There are occasional periods where cold rain falls for ten straight days. I mentioned before that this is my first full winter here in three years, and I've seen my mood darken steadily since late January. In splitting my week between the 'Nog and the Kyo, I thought I'd be able to enjoy the latter city's fairer (though cold) weather. But this week, I seemed to time the rain perfectly, and by today was pretty cranky.
The train ride home wasn't much help. I forgot that it was O-Higan, and everything was full. (Interesting to watch the demographics. College students on spring break de-trained in the cities, while the grave-visiting old timers chose the backwater stations.) My usual three hour-plus bus ride became five by train. I had three people change seats once they saw that I wasn't "from 'round dese parts." C'mon people. I showered, brushed, deodorized, and kept my volume at low levels and my eyes in my book. Time to face the future...

On the turntable: Tom Waits, "Swordfishtrombones"
On the nighttable: "Salon.com's Wanderlust"

Bipolar

Mother Nature continues her schizophrenic ways. Last night, as I lay me down to sleep, I heard a flock of migrating geese fly over my house on their way to warmer spring climes. No doubt they were squalking, "What's the deal with all this snow!"

I'm a bit schizophrenic in winter myself. The last three years, I tried to avoid it completely, spending two or three of the coldest months in warm places. But this is shaping up to be my last winter in the 'Nog, so I decided to tough it out. Naturally, we had one of the heaviest snow seasons on record. I did allow myself a week in Thailand, Ko Phanghan in particular, at a place called The Sanctuary. A week of loafing on the beach, with three daily yoga classes, on-call masseuses, and incredible vegetarian cooking, plus my own jungle bungalow called Weemarn
Baan. It is supposedly the place that Alex Garland based his over-rated book on. Check the link and envy...

http://www.thesanctuarythailand.com/indexF.htm


On the turntable: Songs: Ohia, "The Magnolia Electric Co."
On the nighttable: Amulya Malladi, "A Breathe of Fresh Air"

Life Imitates Cliche

I spent a bizarre afternoon Monday standing in a cold customs warehouse in Sakaiminato. It felt like I was in the final scene of a bad action film, watching a guy crack open crates to reveal illicit contraband. Cue Chuck Norris, moments after he says to his disposable sidekick, "It's time to check out the warehouse." In this scenario I would've been an uncredited heavy, complete with beard, pastel Italian suit, and lightweight machine gun, who gets off a few rounds before taking a boot to the head.

I saw far too many Golan-Globus movies in my youth.

On the turntable: The Smiths, "Meat is Murder"

And when the snow hit...

...it hit with a fist. Driving back from Tottori just past midnite, with normal tires and 4WD, into blowing sideways gusts, losing sight of the road completely where it edges the sea, turning off my lights to find the grooves left by other drivers also foolish enought to be out in this gale. Hard pumping techno pushed me deeper into the spines of this violent, albino sea urchin.

On the turntable: Suara Parahiangan, "Sabilulungan"

Sprung?

Ten hours on the nod mean that I'm finally catching up on sleep from back to back week-long trips to Thailand and Tokyo. Before opening my eyes this morning, I could sense the room was bright. Then a long sought-after sound brought me to full conciousness. In my garden, a bush-warbler was warbling it's annual mantra meditation to spring. O praise Amidha! Looking through the glass, my breath leaves me in surprise. A tree in the garden is garlanded in flowers of a bright red, thumb-sized petals extend from freckled yellow navels. In the eight years, I've lived in this house, I've never seen these tsubaki bloom before. I'm simply stunned. Mother nature always wields the thickest keisaku.
Humming a Biz Markie tune, I grab my cuppa and sit at the computer to check the weather. Today, 15 degrees C. From tomorrow night, three days of snow.
(Cue Charlie Browne frustration "Aaaaaaaarrggghhh!" here)

On the turntable: Led Zeppelin, "How the West was Won"

Old whine in new battles

One good thing about living in the 'Nog is the Tottori Exchange. It's the cyber pony express of the day, where we digenous (well, why not?) folk keep atop the zeitgeist. This morning an item came through, guaranteed to provoke outrage: the current initiative to fingerprint foreigners in Japan.

It's old news people. When I first arrived here 12 years ago, getting your thumb inky was de rigueur. While my gaijin card no longer carries the mark, no doubt it is still on file somewhere amidst the bureaucratic paper fortress of City Hall. Which brings to mind a story.

Burnicle and I were drinking beers in the back alleys of Tottori City. I'd make the trek across the Ken a few times a year for a night reserved solely for talking shit. (The boy had The Gift, until Brotha Cancer took him far too early at 29. More stories to follow.) On this night, he was telling me about how he came out of a bar one night to find a taxi idling there in front of him, driver nowhere in sight. Burnicle being a man of quick thought and even quicker action, jumped into the car, drove around the corner, and left it idling on the next block. He was laughing as he told me this, until I said, "Betcha didn't think about how your prints are on file." His face went completely white, taking on a shade far lighter than what is considered (in many cases anyway)the basic requirement for the card in the first place.

On the turntable: The Pretenders, "Learning to Crawl"
On the nightable: Peter Urban, "The Karate Dojo"

Oddball and I

Sitting here in the 'Nog, listening to large clumps of last night's snow slide down the roof and crash onto the lower eaves with Tchaikovskian subtlety. (Brady over at "Pure Land Mountain" wrote about the same phenomenon, but with greater detail and talent. Check out his February 7th post.)
Meanwhile, back in the Kyo, I finally got my bed. The delivery men hemmed and hawed awhile as they looked at my narrow doorway. "Impossible, impossible," one of them kept repeating over and over, while making absolutely no attempt. I kept going, "C'mon guys, it'll fit," but they'd shake their collective heads, young one showing me his tape measure, old one chanting his mantra. After about a half hour of this, I actually started to chant back in English, "Positive thinking, man! Positive thinking, man!", while waving my hands in the air like I was doing vertical push-ups against an invisible wall. My foreign lingo mojo must've worked for we got the bed in, diagonally, through the window. Physics trumps mathematics every time. Smiles all around as I signed the usual paperwork and watched them drive off into the collective sunset. All the while reminded of the film "Kelly's Heroes", where Donald Sutherland repeats painfully to Captain Stubing, "Always with the negative waves Moriarty, always with the negative waves!"

(While you're checking out Brady's aforementioned post, stop over at the camp of "Circus Freaks in Training" (at left) where Nico does a fine review of Thursday night. My world would be a far simpler place if I had people to review my life everyday...)


On the turntable: "All about Lily Chou-chou (soundtrack)"

What would Gulliver drive?

Mini Coopers don't look so mini in Japan.


On the turntable: Hal Willner, "Amarcord Nino Rota"

Uncharted journey continues...

My usual rhythm has me in the Kyo from Thursday to Saturday, and in the 'Nog the rest of the week. Last Saturday was a holiday, therefore no aikido, therefore no reason to come back here. So six full days in the Kyo this time, doing little more than loafing. And if you got time to lean, you got time to glean.
Here's what I picked up this time:

Met with a new student for lunch at Sarasa downtown. Find out that I'm the first person she's met socially in 8 months. And it's her birthday. So I ask her to tag along with me as I run errands downtown. And it's her 40th birthday. So I buy her pints and dinner at Hill of Tara. As my cab pulls away, I spy the merry bounce in her gait as she heads home. No one should be alone when they turn 40.

Same night, Friday, have Chijimi at Daruma near (secret). The crowd tonite includes a professional jazz singer. The night gets late and a guitar comes out. Luckily, I have a new Indian drum which I bought a couple hours before. Tap away gently to her homegrown J-folk. Am then prompted to sing "Stand by Me" and "Don't Let Me Down," to a full house. Of ten.

Begin Tai Chi lessons once again. Watch my new teacher drop twenty years as she goes through the form.

Find the Japanese translations of two of Sherman Alexie's books in Sarasa Nishijin. Find out that the manager I befriended three years ago, with whom I talked about Osho and Krishnamurti and the Dalai Lama, is still in charge. It doesn't take a guru to see many heady nights in my future.

Beautiful warm Monday in the sun with a book, coffee, and two cats.

Caught Hiros live in Kobe, playing along with Kul Bhushan Bhargava on tablas and Umezu Kazutoki on Bass Clarinet. Small crowd at some sort of art space. A woman bobs and weaves in time as the three men create sounds of the harbor: seagulls, tugboats, steel.

After four months on probation, finally become the 313th member of Chofukan dojo. And I hung up my shingle to prove it.

On the turntable: Shigeru Umebayashi, "House of the Flying Daggers"
On the nighttable: "Granta 48: Africa"

Curiosity

I want a partner with whom I can walk hand in hand toward no fixed destination,
instead seeking the joys that everyday life hides,
and watching these treasures reflect in my lover's eyes.

On the turntable: John Coltrane, "The Ultimate Blue Trane"
On the nighttable: Monique Wittig: "The Guerillieres"

At the Ancient Shrine

Waiting in line to draw sacred water,
A pretty girl texts on her cell phone


On the turntable: Hassan Hakmoun and Zahar,"Trance"

Remember the Main

One of the files in my email account is for amusing cyber nudges and winks sent by good friends. I call the file, "Classics." My London-based mate Cath has a knack for writing emails which instantly become permanent residents there. Her latest:

Walking through london
thinking...when will Ted be here, playing his bongos at street corners
and
howling at moon-like street lights? Ahh....London with bongos...


On the turntable: Bill Laswell, "Jazzonia"

Home is where the Hard Drive is

I first got into blogs big time about a year ago (though it took a few more months for the water to break on this one). I'd started by reading a martial arts blog, "Give Your Meat" a long while, and by following link to link, I was off and running barefoot thru the minds of my fellow expats. I was attracted to anything that was funny and/or well written.
But my interest is on the wane. I've been trying to spend less time online, missing the feel of dead trees between the fingers, the ring of laughter in real time. So, I've been slowly cutting down on my blog reading. It's been like saying goodbye to friends. This process has in fact been parallel to the whole expatriate experience. Broken promises to those who weren't here long, finding in time that you didn't have as much in common as you thought, aside from shared geography. And those inevitable friends you lose to parenthood, whose sentences inevitably contain the personal pronoun of their offspring. (Hey, I can understand, having been a parent myself.) Those connections that thrive are the ones that, while based in Japan, rarely dwell on that fact. They blog about the things they'd be doing and thinking no matter where they were living. This is I think the key point about friendship between long term expats: you never mention it, forgetting sometimes that you're in Japan at all.


On the turntable: The Coral, "Invisible Invasion"
On the nighttable: Neeli Cherkovski, "Bukowski: A Life"

Worth a Hill of Beans

Early Friday, I hooked up with Anna and her friend Sheffield Dave, currently on two-week holiday. We headed south to Nara, arriving at Gankou-ji a bit early, so we spent a couple hours just hanging out on the grounds. Kancho had redone the garden here, and for nearly the whole time I was engrossed in staring at the jizos. Four evenly spaced rows of shark's teeth. The perfect morning light cast their shadows on the moss. The Hondo was home to multiple figures of Fudo-Myo-O. His form and incredible presence, backlit by fire, makes me long for a life of dedication and austerity. These thoughts resonated awhile in the vacuous silence of the temple. And I wouldn't have been the first to think them, here in the oldest extant temple in the country.

After a quick shojin ryori lunch, a group of monks in mustard robes began chanting. they eventually settling on the Heart Sutra, repeating it for close to 45 minutes, over and over like children. Ah--beginner's mind. Things moved quickly after that, with a yamabushi procession and Takeuchi demos. (Kancho later explained to me the Takeuchi-Shugendo connection. I was thrilled to see two of my paths converge.) To the continuous sound of chanting and blowing conches, the yamabushi fired arrows into the bundle of sasaki piled high in the courtyard. After lighting the branches, they threw prayer sticks into the flames. As the sasaki had burned off, the yamabushi pulled apart the flaming wooden frame, lining up the logs for us to walk across, symbollizing entry into the fires of Fudo. This, plus generous amounts of sake, helped warm us all. As the afternoon wore on, the sun slowly went into hiding, and the wind developed teeth.

Being Setsubun (try Google or Wikipedia), the bean throwing was next. The usual chant heard throughout Japan is, "Demons out, Good Fortune In." But at Gankou-ji, the demons are also welcome. Just inside the main gate, a small table had been set up to sell multi-sized ceramic demons, painted by the mentally handicapped. One of them stood just outside the gate, yelling at the streams of people coming for the Mamemaki bean toss. Having not yet seen the table, more than a few people looked confused at the guy's ambiguous cries of, "Big ones, 800 yen! Small ones 500!" On a raised platform in the courtyard was a large platform from where a handful of local celebrities would throw bags of beans to the crowd. They threw the bags in all directions, and it was a bit scary to jump up to catch them, knowing that children and the elderly were scrambling in the dirt around my feet for those bags that got through. One old timer scratched me behind the ear with a mistimed leap. Being tall, it didn't take long to snag three bags, plus a soft rubber ball. I'd made eye contact with one of the tossers, an attractive woman whose large hair and slightly fading beauty suggested newscaster. She'd literally guided the ball right into my raised hand. Satisfied at my loot, I backed away slowly, ducking and dodging flying bags and hands. It must've looked like I was Salaam-ing.

Back in the Kyo, I'd promised to meet E-Ma Eric at Hill of Tara. I left my house on bike, the blinding snow and confusing streets causing me to head due west, rather than the desired direction of southeast. I arrived 30 minutes late to find a slightly peeved friend. But, happily the wounds were superficial, easily tended with a couple pints of Kilkenny. Our conversation drifted to house buying, translation, and the trials of grad work in a foreign tongue. As we talked, three people began to play some trad Irish music incredibly well. It was only on the way out that I noticed they were Japanese.

I biked through the still-falling snow to Yoshida Shrine. Arriving at exactly 11, I was just in time to see the lighting of another sasaki bonfire, this one as large as a house. Fireman in gray Darth Vader suits kept things under control with their large phalluses. Literally minutes after the fire was lit, most of the locals cleared out, leaving a group of about a hundred foreigners to drink around the warmth. I spied quite a few familiar faces (at first hard to recognize in the flickering light), and made some new friends. I'd long looked forward to moving to the Kyo and enjoying the anonymity I've long ago lost in the small confines of the 'Nog. Yet quite a few people here had already heard of me. Shit. I guess I'd been warned...

Feeling that my season had been satisfactorily split (look up the kanji, willya?), I set off, and thirty minutes of cold uphill pedalling brought me home. Getting into bed, I thought back on the those twin pillars of Japanese festivals. Fire and booze. With the occasional beans...


On the turntable: Sacred System, "Nagual Site"

This Morning...

Woke up and followed little clouds of breath downstairs. Snow piled high in the garden and the house is cold. But no kerosene. Few things are more unpleasant than heading into the wet cold straight from a warm bed...

On the turntable: Death in Vegas, "Milk It"

No One Likes To Be Let Down

On the bus to the Kyo, sitting behind two Germans. Judging by the fact that one of them has a pair of souvenir chopsticks, they must be tourists. During their limited time in country, with what eyes do they see?

Do they notice the mompe-clad gateball players? Or do they notice the nearby river's concrete banks?

Do they notice the mountain rising from the sea to punctuate the landscape? Or do they notice the paper-factory in the foreground, its high smokestack a raised middle finger?

Do they notice the quaint little farmhouses which line the valley? Or do they see the pork-built bridge high above, throwing midday shadows across their fields?

At what point in time does the eye change? And why does it cease to admire the pale, soft beauty, being drawn instead to the blemishes and scars?

On the turntable: Madness, "One Stop Beyond"
On the nighttable: "Not So Funny When It Happened" (Tim Cahill, ed.)

Going Down the Silk Road Feelin' Bad

Reading about Alexander the Pretty Friggin' Swell, I note that during his marriage to Roxane, the new couple used a sword to cut bread, the symbol of carnal union. This Macedonian tradition is still used in modern weddings in Japan. Amazing, the meeting point of cultures. And Japan, a country with a long tradition of bizarre porn, can do some pretty horrible things to baked goods.

On the turntable, "Festival in the Desert"

Ego Rappin'

At high altitudes,
Thin fir trees
Too proud to bow,
Decapitated by snow.

On the turntable: Habib Koite, "Maya"

Balcony acrobats

Rare sunny day
Housewife spanks her futon:
Out! Out damn spot!

On the turntable: Jack Johnson, "J.O.A.T."

Tony the Tiger Says...

Reading a book about the exploits of Alexander of Macedon. Defeating King Darius of Persia, establishing contact with India. The guy did so much, starting from such a young age. He was so... I don't know. I just can't find the proper superlative.

On the turntable: Bill Laswell, "Dreams of Freedom"
On the nighttable: "Alexander the Great: The Heroic Ideal" (Thames & Hudson)

Big in Japan

It was Saturday afternoon and I was wandering the side streets of Kurayoshi in a daze. I'd had a late night at DNA in Tottori, checking out Tokyo's DJ Munoz on Viva Steva's recommendation. I'd missed the last train by hours, so checked into Super Hotel, half expecting to see a cape waving from the roof. No cape, but there were bunk beds. I'd had a restless sleep, due in part to all the Guinness, in part to nightmares about a job as an underwater welder. So, the next morning I staved off sleep in an aimless meander.
I came across a large street, and directly in front of me was a shop. Big American Shop. Being a big American, I entered, bumping my head on the doorframe. No, wait a sec. Grammatically, it could be the Shop that was Big, not me, in which case, the doorframe would've been tall. Right. So, I was standing inside the shop (or Shop), surveying the merchandise with binoculars. I made my way toward the sweaters. Arriving eventually, my eye was drawn to one sweater in particular. I held it up to my chest. Nope. Too small.
I must be the biggest American in Japan.

On the turntable: Bill Laswell, "Deconstruction"

Simply Existing

Spent my Sunday in hibernation. It was my pre-determined, monthly day of siesta where I don't leave the house, holding at bay all that which troubles me. I spent part of that time watching "Baraka," engulfed for ninety-some minutes. It is by far the most beautiful film I've ever seen. The images are incredible in how they draw upon our emotions, yet it is the use of music and sound which gives the film it's power. A 96 minute meditation on "aware" in the Japanese sense, which I'd translate loosely as pathos. The sheer scale of humanity and of the landscape and of time, leaves the viewer feeling insignificant. Yet the ability to think this way makes you the most significant one of all.

On the turntable: John Coltrane, "The Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings"
On the nighttable: Jonathon Coe, "The House of Sleep"

Kyo wishlist

Things to do:

1) Attend the piano concert of Yukio, soon to depart home to Switzerland. Be dazzled by his own compositions and by his improvisation.

2) Dine and drink until late with new roomies

3) Play scrabble and have conversation over reheated enchiladas

4) Finally hook up with the Kyoto Tibetan Dharma group. Give care to spirit, mind, and body with meditation, dharma talk and random conversation, a great meal.

5)Saturday night in with Guinness and NY Times crosswords

6) Further tickle the mind at a Kyoto Journal meeting. With sweets.

Put a check before each of these, and that'd be last weekend...

On the turntable: Ry Cooder, "Chavez Ravine"
On the nighttable: Michael Palin, "Himalaya"

Wa! What is it Good For?

There's a line in Robert Whiting's book, "You Gotta Have Wa," that says that sports are a modern replacement for war. Yet as war indeed continues, isn't it ironic the parallel between the breakdown of good sportsmanlike behavior both on and off the field (in the form of tauntings, showboating, hooliganism, and bleacher brawls), and the rise and acceptance of torture and collateral damage by the military.

On the turntable: Brian Wilson, "Smile"

Seisho-in, January

Maple leaves curled into tight cold fists
Winter came so suddenly,
They didn't have time to fall.


On the turntable: Mogwai, "Come On, Die Young"
On the nighttable: Tristan Hawkins, "The Anarchist"

Subtle cultural niceties

Amanda and I were racing around the Loft in office chairs on wheels. Rather than scold us, a shop worker merely came over and wordlessly removed a breakable item from a desk.

In an Indian restaurant with Keith. A waiter handed me a tray with the bill, then waited until I paid. Lunchtime's over, I guess.

I'm looking at a natty looking sweater in a small shop. The clerk tells me it's 34000 yen. I wince, saying, I'm sorry but I don't think you'll have my size.

On the turntable: "Samba Bossa Nova"

Kobe earthquake poems

Small but violent temblor last night. Reminds me of eleven years ago today...

Giant hands
Once again shake me awake
From the peace of dreams.

A toothless rice seller
Squats beside the temple wall
Laughing at the rain.

Full moon rises unseen.
Not even Kannon's thousand arms
Can hug all who grieve tonight.


On the turntable: Ryan Adams, "29"
On the nighttable: Nanao Sakaki, "Inch by Inch: 45 Haiku by Issa"

Leggo my Edo

After leaving the Kyo, I took a brief detour to Tokyo for the Nippon Budokan's Kagami Biraki. I'd been to the Budokan years before, representing Tottori prefecture in a Shorinji Kempo tournament. That day, my fellow competitors probably had thoughts of glory, but all I could think was, "Holy Shit! John Lennon sang here, man!"
I'd hope to see Old School Koryu, but today's event seemed to focus only on modern martial arts demos, with the usual packs of noisy, rambunctious kids. So I decided to stay just for the first half hour, to see the process of weekend warriors in their armor. Two groups came out to a song reminiscent of the Death Star theme, and the two "leaders" ran through mellowdramatic speechs that were straight outta some Vegas show, as choreographed by NHK. Then they got down to the business at hand, cutting through a large pile of rice cakes with a sword, and smashing open a large barrel of sake with a mallet. Yet before the procession, I noticed a group of men rolling out the items in question. As you can see, the mochi's already been cut, the barrel broken. Prepackaging for the samurai set.

The rest of this warm day I spent drifting from restaurant to cafe to pub. Mahi mahi at Bubba Gump's in Gorakuen, chijimi in some Shibuya Korean joint, a couple pints in Dubliners. A restless night in an Ikebukuro hotel, where from the next room came sounds of passion, her climaxes punctuated by horror movie screams. The next morning, after spending less than 24 hours in town, I headed back toward the 'Nog.

On the turntable: Death Cab for Cutie, "Transatlanticism"

Gulf War

During my frequent walks in the Kyo with Keith or Amanda, talk turned frequently to the nature of the sexes or sex or love. The latter is somewhat of an obsession for me of late, as I sift thru the ashes of a dying relationship, using words and ideas from classic films or books as a means to measure my own experience and history.

With Amanda, I pondered whether women might be more inclined to bisexuality than men. Males it seems, in most societies are conditioned against such love. Women, on the other hand, being the target of advertising on the beauty myth, might go beyond the outward representation of trying to emulate that beauty, to a longing for the beauty itself, personified by the model's sexuality.

Keith and I went further back, wondering whether or not some disagreable behavior on the part of the opposite sex might be genetic. For example, is a man's philandering ways, simply a biological urge to further propagate the species? A man is never fully sure that a child is his, so perhaps he's working the odds somewhat. Maybe a woman's fickleness is based on her innate drive to find the best mate. If she grew dissatisfied with her current beau, would she not move on to a better choice? And a woman being hung-up on sex could also be tied into this. These sexual mores could be genetic and not Victorian. If she were to throw up roadblocks at a potential suitor's advances, she could be checking his dedication over time. Males who are only out for casual sex will quickly retire. A man who has a stronger will to be with that woman long term will continue the pursuit. The woman then will have found the most suitable provider for her offspring.

A mere difference in chromosomes can create some amusing havoc. I recently heard a story where a guy and a girl were on a first date. Leaving a restaurant, they passed a love hotel. The man tried to convince the girl inside, but she insisted that she never slept with a guy on the first date. Deciding they were still a little hungry, they ate at another restaurant. Once finished, he said that that's two meals, which equals two dates. The girl smiled, shrugged, and went off with him.


On the turntable: Wilco, "Summerteeth"

Back to the Garden

Spent the later half of the New Year's holiday wandering the Kyo. It was an exercise in rediscovering a skill I used to excell at: passing a day rather than building one. Instead of rushing forward toward the next thing, I merely strolled thought the now. A slightly snow-covered now.

Spent most of my time with Amanda, engaged in conversation and caffeine. We no doubt hit most of the coffee shops around Teramachi. Topics flowed at varying speeds, probably one of my favorites being about getting a university degree in comedy. Imagine the courses. "Existentialism in Knock-knock Jokes: Who IS there?"

On the riverbank, two children build a snowman. Moments later a little dog pisses on it. The next day, most of the snow is gone, but the snowman remains. Then yet another little dog pisses on it. Is this some bizarre Kamo-gawa snowman ghat, with dogs taking the place of vultures? Well, it is their year...

One day, still thinking I'm going to the States, I change an absurd amount of yen into travellers checks. The bank's highest denomination is 100s. So I go to a nearby Starbucks, and sitting at a window-front table, I whip out my roll and begin signing. I get the attention of people both inside and out, feeling like quite the little gangster.

In the alleys of Ponto-cho, a photography club huddles and ducks, trying not to get each other in the shot. I wonder about stereotypes. Did a Meiji-era foreigner once stumble across such a club, inadvertantly giving rise to the Japanese as Shutterbug thing? I ponder this as I play a Taiko video game, pounding along to children's songs which boom along a surprisingly quiet Kawaramachi Street.

Off Ponto-cho is the Piranha Bar. I imagine a whole, roasted cow being placed between tables. The customers eat the thing from their respective sides. If the finish the entire cow in under 60 seconds, it's free. Plus they get their photo (courtesy of the photography club, of course) in the window.

In nearby Kahula coffee shop, playing a magnetic fishing game as the speakers expell that classic Hawaiian song, the one that anybody who's ever been to Waikiki has heard dozens of times. Yet like me, couldn't tell you the group or the title.

Speaking of music. Get a chance to see the group Mandala play twice. At the group's center is a young couple, Eric and Rie, who spend the year in a handful of countries. In each place, they've surrounded themselves with a revolving group of musicians, who play live shows with them when they're in town. While maintaining a certain sound, each night has different instrumentation and styles, therefore ensuring that every gig is different. Though they always rip. At the end of both gigs, I happily join in for a jam. Flute and darbuka on Friday (at El Latino, whose chorizo is the best in Japan, hands down). Djembe on Sunday (at Falafel Garden, near Demachiyanagi). I really love this type of scene they've created, and hope to play with them more regularly when they get back to Kyoto in the summer.

Sunday morning, walking from Keage up to a large shrine, through its cave, then over the ridge toward Nanzenji. Along the way, snow drops from trees in large clumps, and it gives the effect that Nature itself is collapsing. The bamboo on the opposite hill seem to shiver in the cold. Beside a small waterfall, I find a statue of Fudo-myo. With my refound convictions, I pray to this deity of the immovable spirit. "Help keep me on the path." A short time later, ducking into Seisho-in to see the famous, anonymous poem (who DID write it?), Amanda smacks her head on the doorway. In the material world, concrete is more immovable than spirit.


On the turntable: "Sahara Lounge"

Gathering moss

I type these words from a keyboard resting about a meter above the volcanic, shifting earth of the Japanese archipelago. That is to say, I blew off my somewhat redundant USA trip at the eleventh hour. I blame the seismic temporal collision of the insane pace of late ought-five with the idleness of a freshly-born new year. That latter toddler reminded me of my mellower days, where meditation and the printed word (be it on paper or celluloid) took precendence over bars and late nights, every third one being spent in a different bed in a different city.

So I've hung up my dancing shoes for now. I'll blow the dust off my mind, turning it over and over as I sit on my zabuton, still.

On the turntable: Taj Mahal, "Recycling the Blues"
On the nighttable: Bruce Chatwin, "What Am I Doing Here"

Gidget, pass the popcorn

I mentioned a week ago that Bossa Nova is a sure way to fend off winter blahs. But as the snow continues to return like a bad guest, I needed to take further steps. I have found reprieve in surf films. I recently bought the six disc set of Bruce Brown's early films, all made late 50's, before "Endless Summer." Hours spent watching warm water waves, set to a cool jazz soundtrack.

On the turntable: "Music From the Coffee Lands II"
On the nighttable: Kate Walbert, "The Gardens of Kyoto"

Too long alone (Random Things)

...aliens have colonized my long forgotten potatoes, building towering white cities...

.. .the Tibetans believe that the white light we head toward at death is our inherent self...

... at birth we cry while everyone around us is happy. At death everyone else cries, but we feel at peace...

...to travel and then write about it is like an Aboriginal Australian making his songlines...

...visiting friends is like reading a history of one's life...

...you can't turn a page back on a computer...

...I'm living a kid's life with a wage...


On the turntable: Clap Your Hands Say Yeah!
On the nighttable: Robert Whiting, "You Gotta Have Wa"

How to spend 3 weekends in Tokyo. In Verse.

(Rather than the usual rushed shopping list...)

Centuries old pain played out in today's traumas;
The channeler reads my scars
like a map to my future

Neon-blind in Kabuki-cho--
Thai fire and yellow beer
fuels aggressive karaoke

Old friends amongst old weapons;
Another Meiji afternoon under November sun

Strolling narrow Shimokitazawa lanes
searching for drums,
found friendship

Pizza and Ebisu and Red;
Must be Friday
In Kichijoji

Yoga
and Yoga
and Yoga again

Inokashira color--
Perfect antidote to
too much curry

Saitama paved countryside;
Here concrete rivers
are considered nature

Have I mentioned beer?
Hundreds of options
in smoky Shinjuku basements

Shibuya on Sunday in heavy rain;
Won umbrella slalom gold medal

Zach and I perfect our kata:
eating and beering and jawin'
(with musical interludes)

Dancing to Brazilian magic:
the perfect way to burn off
excess Wolfgang Puck

Lunch in Akasaka amid high security--
suits try to ignore all the guns

--------------------------------------

Music lesson in Ogikubo.
tap bongos and sing
to a cat sleeping on a speaker

Overcrowded Hokusai exhibit-
Still life in lines

On the way to monja-yaki,
Lead Taiwanese tourists
To a kaiseki joint

Paid daytime gig
keeping time
for three gorgeous singers;
retarded man kisses my hand
between songs.
How'd he know I'm a righty?

Strange gospel gig,
Bigfoot on vocals &
Jackie Chan on bass.
Ridiculous lighting,
retarded audience,
unnecessary banter

Confused middle-aged man
working at "Freshness Burger"

Yet another Sunday
at Inokashira Park

Latin percussion lesson
From famous gay couple

--------------------------------------

Leza's Friday night class:
Restorative yoga/Thai massage--
Body as butter

Other end of spectrum:
Lance's yoga boot camp--
My limits are behind me

Saturday night Aoyama gig:
Southwestern diva,
Stand up bass with flute,
and us, psycho-bossa nova.



On the turntable: Animal Collective: "Feels"

In Between Days

Temporarily left my bardo of repose for the samsara of Asahimachi. Usually this floating world is populated by salarymen, though tonite it's a young crowd, making a life elsewhere but now home for the holidays. Even normally quiet places like Jealousy have bodies down the bar. Tonight, I'm in search of wine and song, and I work my way thru the whole Clash catalogue. It's fun to be surrounded by happy young unfamiliar faces. I quite enjoy these holiday times, where most of the 'Nog's slight foreign crew are scarce, no doubt creating scenes like this in their own climes.


On the turntable: M.I.A., "Arular"
On the nighttable: Diane Ackerman, "A Natural History of Love"

In Shades

Blue truck crawls down the street in low gear. A loudspeaker emits that familiar nighttime winter sing-song recorded voice, "Yaki Imo!" A dog trots alongside, moving faster than the truck itself. In the distance, Daisen looms. All day, its base had matched the color of the sky, merely teasing with a glimpse of the snowy peak, hanging supernaturally above the city. As the evening sky went through its usual array of hues, the mountain's blue shape once again exhibited its timeless solidity.


On the turntable: Albert Ayler, Ghosts"
On the nighttable: Michael Raposa, "Meditation and the Martial Arts"

All is Quiet...

The new year brings the first blue sky I've seen in the 'Nog in a month. Seems that all the prayers from last night pushed away the clouds which hovered thoughout December.

The sound of a moped outside means that the first of the New Year's cards have arrived. Time to dust off those kanji-reading skills...

On the turntable: Ron Carter, "Blues Farm"