State O'Maine

I awake under the gaze of Victorian women long dead. Breakfast with the B&B owner I haven't met yet. He tells me a couple guys from Kyoto were here a few days back. I walk through the still sleeping town to the Marginal Way trail. I remember now how good it feels to walk. The trail winds before huge homes fortified somewhat against winter storms. Benches offer places to gaze at the Atlantic, but they all have plaques dedicating them to those who died on her temperamental waters. At the trail's far end I have a coffee, then head back to the car. I walk again soon after, along the ameoba-shaped trail of Rachel Carson State Park. All is quiet here, but for the creek of tall maples and the near silent spring of chipmunks on the trail. I stop awhile, watching a flotilla of black-headed geese cruise the perimeter of the marsh. I'm comfortable here, in an ecosystem familiar from my childhood. But there's more to see...

I follow Route 9 north awhile, twisting through beach towns with varied faces. Past homes of old wood and peeling paint. Many of these places date from early Tokugawa times. I arrive at Pine Point where I'd hoped to swim, but the temperature is a holdover from March. I feel like I've arrived at a party too early. I walk into the surf until the water reached my knees. My head is willing but I'm outnumbered two-to-one by my legs. No way. I get in the car again and move south. I'm in New Hampshire for all of 30 minutes. That's how long the coastline is. NH beaches seem to be a well kept secret, even from the locals. They are relatively unspoiled and undeveloped, when one can actually see them behind the low concrete walls or piles of gravel.

Then I'm in Massachussetts. I've already noticed that the driver's absolutely deserve the reputation they have. I just want to mention that that thing sticking out from the steering wheel is to let people know when you're going to turn. Go ahead try it. It moves up and down. Mass people seem to me to be the most unhappy in New England. And the most conservative. Correlation?

Here I'll spend a couple days....



On the turntable: Dizzy Gillespie, "Birk's Works"

New Hamp Hump

I'd been in Bristol for twelve days. We've been studying Phoenix Rising Yoga Therapy, stress the therapy part over the yoga part. As amazing as it is, half of our training is receiving the technique from someone else in the workshop. So, basically, I've gone through two therapy sessions a day, for twelve days. I've no therapy experience whatsoever, and this is more therapy than the majority of human beings get in their lifetime. All this poking and prodding had left me fried, both physically and emotionally.

So with three days off I decided to roam. Through a sheer accident of serendipity, my brother Eric was camped out twenty minutes south of Bristol. He coaches a cross country team in Indiana, and was driving the boys around the Northeast in a Winnebago , camping and running. I hung out with them for a mosquito-filled night and morning. Then I pushed on east.

Through the Green Mountains along the Middlebury Gap. Incredible rivers butt their white heads into boulders. Trees like pine cones, trees like bristles. I startle a young moose on the road. He doesn't seem to know which way to go and lingers on an apparently well-used deer trail, looking back at me. He seems nervous and mama must be nearby. I get back in my car and point it east again. Stalking rivers through wild and calm, over high iron bridges, measuring their limbs. Vermont magic ends. Crossing into New Hampshire, I remember that I'm in the States. The road cuts through forest in a broad swathe, leading to quaint villages and small terminal cities, in both senses of the word. The downtowns appear to be rotting, the empty shops lining both sides of the main street. The remaining shops try to catch up with the outside world, for better or worse. One restaurant has Korean, Japanese, AND Thai food. Just outside the city limits I see the stripmalls and fast food chains. Walmart may as well be holding a smoking gun. Ironically, I'm currently traveling the Daniel Webster Highway, but it appears that in this version, the Devil wins.

I move through a maze of tall trees which hide perspective. The low clouds and creepy vibe of CocoRosie on the CD further enhances the telescope effect. I'm hungry and looking for a small mom and pop place, but all I see is pizza joints. Pizza is my favorite food, so the amazing exclusion of anything else feels like something from a Buddhist parable. Pizza Karma. Make me one with everything.

I ride on, cruising the New Hampshire mountain tops, past hillsides awash in rape and lavender, past lakes of impossible blue. The road straightens out alongside Lake Winnipesaukee . The view is magnificent. This massive body of water is punctuated with small islands, each dotted with small cottages. I think "Matsushima Ya," but ya's pronunciation is closer to Stephen King than to Basho. I'm looking for a place to eat on the water, but the few that appear are more bar-types, and each has dozens of motorcyles in their lots. I'd noticed the "biker's welcome" signs in front of many restaurants and motels, and probably passed a few hundred hogs along this stretch. There is obviously a Run happening this week here. It's not that they intimidate me as much as I'm practicing simple martial arts-inspired avoidence of potential hot spots. Entering a den of drunk rowdy bikers doesn't make for a mellow break from the road. The number of bikes is incredible and the majority are the big beautiful American make. Lots of polished chrome--if the sun were out the glare would be intense. Choppers still trump all and turn the heads of all the other riders. I'm flanked by bikers for a couple hours. The low "gata gata gata gata" rumble is like the presence of a small insect; not annoying, just present. By Maine they'll be gone.

I'd never been to Maine before and had looked forward to this part of the trip. Somehow, I missed the sign marking the border, and immediately became lost. I knew the road on which I travelled lead north, but I rode on, trusting fate to lead me somewhere interesting. The road narrowed, the trees hemmed in, the forest darkened. I followed this grey line until the trees stopped.

That place is Ogunquit, in a gorgeous Victorian B&B called the Yellow Monkey, a place chosen for the name's ironic value. About an hour after checking in, I notice that most of the others staying here are young, handsome, and male. I quickly realize that I've accidently picked a place which lodges these "confirmed bachelors." I'd forgotten that there is a large gay community here, and the gentle care in which the kind owner checked me in should have been a hint. And the way he mentioned that the jacuzzi was clothing optional...
I read awhile on the balcony, then go up the road for the lobster I'd long looked forward to. But I don't remember how to eat one. I tear in the way the Japanese eat crab, tearing and sucking, horrifying the neighboring tables and my server. Blame the wine...


On the turntable: Rusted Root, "When I Woke"

Setting a pic: "Kamataki Kween"

Sunday papers: Warner Herzog

“Those who watch television, lose the world, and those who read, gain it.”


On the turntable: "Smoke Signals" (sdtk)
On the nighttable: Junot Diaz, "Drown"

Notes on the Road to Vermont

A roundabout path takes me to Nagoya airport. I always think of this as Japan's Chicago, and from here I'm to fly directly to the American original. But then I'm told I have to change in SFO. Wha? I intentionally came all this way to avoid that. Despite my travel walla's major error, I shrug my own big shoulders, deciding to forget it with coffee and blueberry cheesecake. The first forkful drops onto my khakis. I'll wear this purple stigmata for the next 30 hours.

The High Sierra's absolutely snow-capped, despite a calendar nudging June.

From the speakers in O'Hare, Orwell's disembodied voice reminds me of the recent Orange Alert. I keep my eyes open but see no fruit at all. As I await my next flight, an Indian guy sits next to me and proceeds to talk on his cell phone in Hindi. A trio of short hairs eyes him with slight frowns, then one of them exemplifies US foreign policy perfectly by launching into a story of the cremation he witnessed in Baghdad during his recent tour.

The sun setting twice on the 29th of May; once over the Pacific , again over Lake Eire.

Jet-lag makes me feel shrink-wrapped.

I'm feeling more disconnected from the US this time around. It's been two years but feels like twenty.

The usual good times in CT, despite sleepless nights and tormented stomach. A massive thunderstorm triggers an electrical frenzy of thoughts in an already sleep-deprived mind.

Drive north. New England greatly resembles its aponymous older sibling in its churches and town names. Though thankfully without the crap weather. I laugh aloud at some signs-- "Worship in Canaan," "Mexi-Canaan," "Willies Weiner Wagon". On two occasions, I spy a driver in the midst of a tremendous fit behind the wheel. Closer approach reveals arm waving usually seen in a rap video. Another tragic Drive-by Shouting. Ignoring these references to the present century I drive on, thru towns older than the country.

Finally arrive in the town where I'll spend a few weeks. I look up the town's main street. How'd I wind up in Sicily, Alaska?



On the turntable: Los Romeros, "Spanish Guitar Favorites"
On the nighttable: Blake Morrison, "And when did you last see your father?"

Setting a pic: "Clear, hyun hyun"

Sunday papers: Richard Ford

"There is no cynicism like lifelong self-love and the tunnel vision in which you yourself are all that's visible at the tunnel's end."

--The Sportswriter


On the turntable: Jimmy Reed, "Live at Carnegie Hall"
On the nighttable: Gary Snyder, " Look Out!"

World in Union

This year, the month of May was composed of the elements.

The gold of Golden Week was more the amber of fire, four near sleepless days of feeding wood into a kiln ablaze, tempering pliable clay into the hardness of form. Miki and I in a remote valley in Ishikawa, high above the sea, surrounded by road crumbed in a recent powerful quake. There were a couple dozen of us here, refugees against the usual holiday madness, half taking part in a course on zen, the rest feeding the fire. At ten minute intervals we'd thrust arms elbow deep into the blaze, pushing toward the hoped for 1250 degrees C. We'd work a few hours, sleep a few, work a few more. There was a primal feel to this pace, far from the usual "8's" of sleep and workaday world. Time retreated to that which existed before the parallels of rails brought about the circular paths of clocktime. Meals and sleep too, became arbitrary, making room for conversation borne of silence, and dance borne of sound. I'd take my leave occasionally, a brief respite from the "we" of my adopted home, to the "me" of my birth culture, yet clinging still to the words and the music by reading my books on Japanese jazz.

During its last weekend, May took the form of earth. At the Moon (夢雲) Gallery, deep in the wilds of Nara, Ezaki Mitsuru (江崎満) displayed his forms which we'd midwived in fire. Surrounded by hills and trees, we again broke from civilized clock time, too distracted by food grown in the surrounding soil, and in the "salt of the earth" conversation, if I may be allowed to further spur on the metaphor.

Those May days between were a waltz between wind and water, gentle breezes under flawless skies begot rainstorms of sudden fury and violence.

And ether? Through this I passed, defying physics for 24 hours. Here too, clock time once again was lost as the darkness of night lasted a few brief hours, and the sun set twice in the same "day", once over the Pacific, and again over Lake Eire.

And now, entering the void of mu here in the States, not so much a figure moving through space like in my usual travels, but more as a hole in the tapestry; both a part of this space (at least in my role as an American), yet separate from it. Time again looping, looping, into a mobius strip of the man I am and the boy I was, finding it impossible to co-exist...



On the turntable: Kiri Te Kanawa, "Kiri!"
On the nighttable: Doris Grumbach, "Fifty Days of Solitude"

Far east from the Far East

Off to Vermont today to figure out what the deal is with the curry...


On the turntable: Duke Ellington, "Money Jungle"

Setting a pic: "Repose"

Sunday papers: Rumi

"People say that human beings are microcosms and this outer universe a macrocosm, but for us the outer is a tiny wholeness and the inner life the vast reality."





On the turntable: Bonobo, "Days to Come"
On the nighttable: Satish Kumar, "You Are, Therefore I Am"

Life Imitates...

In these waning months of my 30s, I've begun to watch DVDs from the show thirtysomething. Back in my university days, I loved the show's crisp writing. My roommate Chris on the other hand found the characters shrill, and used to call it eightysomething. This time around, I began to feel he was right, yet after a few episodes I found it frighteningly... pertinent.





On the turntable: Johnny Griffin, "Birds & Ballads"

Where's Your Moses Now?

Yesterday, I went to Shokokuji to see their Jakuchu exhibition. These painting were last displayed 120 years ago, and I think that every single person born since that time was also there. On a Thursday.

The top third of the paintings were wonderful...


On the turntable: The Pogues, "Peace and Love"
On the nighttable: J. Wood, "Living Lost"

Setting a pic: "Family Man"

Sunday papers: Dalai Lama

"Learn to deal with your inner issues in private. Don't burden society with them; it is burdened enough. Transform your own energy first, then use your gifts to bring healing to society."

On the turntable: "Complete Woodstock Bootleg"
On the nighttable: "Ramakrishna" (bio)

Protecting One's Own

This morning, I happily read that UNESCO has denied World Heritage status to Shimane prefecture's Iwami Ginzan. A few years ago, I assisted in that proposal by doing some transcription and basic translating . It's the first time I ever did a moral gut-check regarding a job, working on a project to which I was strongly opposed. Iwami's campaign had at its center the economic crusade of a single businessman. Most of the residents were against the move. They felt the protection of this gorgeous place was best left in the hands of the farmers and artists who live there. I agree.

When the Kumano Kodo got World Heritage status three years ago, I immediately headed down there. This is my favorite part of the country, an area I've frequently hiked. So I thought it best to walk the areas adjacent to the protected section, before the roads were widened, leading to all the hotels, gift shops, restaurants, and bus parking lots. It was still beautiful then.

But all this is apparently moot to the citizens of Kyongju, Korea. It seems 90 percent of them favor building a nuclear waste dump nearby this World Heritage site. Kyongju is essentially the Korean equivalent of Nara, and easily the best place in the country. I spent a few days there in 1997, hiking amidst the Buddhist temples and Confucian mounds. The occupants of these tombs are no doubt doing a lot of rolling these days.


On the turntable: "Blue Note: The Ultimate Jazz Collection"
On the nighttable: Ellen J. Langer, "Mindfulness"
On the nighttable: Ellen J. Langer, "Mindfulness"

Setting a pic: "Self-Portrait"

Sunday papers: Charles Mingus

"Anger is an emotion that has some hope in it."



On the turntable: "Chinese Punk show, KALX"
On the nighttable: "Innocent When You Dream: The Tom Waits Reader"

Setting a pic: "Safety in Numbers"

Sunday papers: Aldous Huxley

"Which is more real: you as you see yourself, or as others see you? You in your intentions and motives, or you in the product of your intentions? You in your actions, or you in the results of your actions?"



On the turntable: Moby, "Go"
On the nighttable: Awa Kenzo, "Zen Bow, Zen Arrow"

Spring Cleaning

April is the pinkest month. Or reddest, if you are factoring complexions. I am always pleased to see these shades, as they replace the oppressive white and dismal gray of the preceding winter months. So revel I did, awalk in the Higashiyama hills, or at a variety of events throughout the city. On one incredible weekend, I joined a farewell potluck for Yuka, heading to a new life in Kanto. We sat beside the Kamogawa, eating and playing music. I ran into Rick and Douglas for the first time in a long while. Before the party, I realized that I didn't have enough tempura to share, so I decided to eat it all myself. As I sat alone, gazing at the movement of water, I felt what I at first thought was a bicyclist hitting my arm. It turned out to be a huge hawk, which had flown out of my blind spot to steal my food. Karma from above. Looking at the remains of my lunch, I decided to feed the group of about twelve hawks which had by now come out of nowhere. I'd throw a piece into the air, which they grab with their talons (never missing!) and flip into their beaks.
Come evening, I went uptown to Roger's housewarming party, with it's varied food and personalities. Then, with the clock flipping over into Sunday, I went home to greet Hide and Sawako, over from Osaka and staying the night.
The next day Hide gave a talk on totem poles at Honen-in. Afterward, I bid farewell and biked across town to Kara's own sayonara thing. As usual, the food and performances were fantastic. I've grown to love her theme parties, and will miss them as much as I'll miss her. She even gave me a didgeridoo, as if to commemorate our (admittedly short) friendship.

A few weeks later, Ben-chan (in town for two months!) and I were given free tickets to Miyako-odori. A few years ago, this kind of event would have thrilled me. And while enjoyable, it really brought attention to the shift into a new phase of my life here in Japan. While in the 'Nog, I'd always considered a life in the Kyo to be the pinnacle to one's stay, but now that I'm actually here, I'm hardly doing anything "cultural" at all. I suppose this reveals a sense of settling, being comfortable in whatever clothes you have on. Anyway, as the drumming called the first round of Maiko onto the stage, I couldn't help notice that they all looked computer animated. (The perils of formalized art.) The backdrops, representing the seasons, were beautiful, and through their bright hues I realized how much more colorful the world must have been, in those days before concrete and exhaust. The summer backdrop revealed a Kitayama mountainscape made familiar from long bike rides home. The effects overall were incredible, especially the fireflies which were basically long wires with small flashing lights at the end. (I like the thought that there were low ranking maiko at the other end of these wires, waving from above.) The music was lovely, though unmoving, which is my bias, not appreciating 'canned' music, even when it's live. I need spirit and more personal interpretation. Besides taiko and shakuhachi, most Japanese trad music leaves me cold. During the performance, I suddenly remembered that a year ago to the week I'd seen the shitty Hollywood interpretation of , "Memoirs of a Geisha" based on that even shittier book. (Essentially "Showgirls" in kimono, with a "8-Mile" interpretation on this very event which I was watching.)

A few days later, I went over to Ei-U-In to sit awhile with Satish Kumar, who was holding court before the beautiful garden. It was a very casual afternoon, with just a dozen people or so hanging out, talking freely about nature and spirit and whatever. I'm still amazed at Satish's eyes, so bright and alive. He wielded an incredible amount of energy, considering he was there all day. I at first was nervous to meet him, having reviewed his last book for KJ, but he enjoyed the review and actually thanked me. I thanked him too; it isn't often one meets a hero.

And April saw other things too--my own live Taiko performance; a Takeuchi hanami party; a trip to Tokyo for budo beers with Ben, Zack, Steve, Ron, and Brian; tough yoga with Gabriella. But I'm heading north for Golden Week and am out of words anyway...


On the turntable: "Festival in the Desert"
On the nighttable: E. Taylor Atkins, Blue Nippon"

Kennel #5

There are a lot of things in this country that leave me scratching my head. A couple years ago, we started to see a rise in metrosexuals here, brought out of the closet by big marketing pushes. And this season, we see the ultimate accessory--small dogs whose sizes seem regulated by FAA carry-on restrictions.

A merger was inevitable. I hereby announce my search for financial backing for Dog Cosmetics. Though be comforted in the fact that as I bask in my wealth off this idea, I will retain my high moral standards. All products will be free of Human Testing, rest assured...



On the turntable: Ali Farka Toure, "Niafunke"
On the nighttable: George MacDonald Frasier, "Flashman"

Buddy Dharma

Late April, Kyoto was visited by Dzigar Kongtrul Rimpoche. He has set up a small Sangha here, superimposed on the local Shambala community, many members being former Boulder residents and old students of Trungpa Rimpoche. It was through their introduction that I attended the talks, held in a beautiful machiya at the foot of Hiei-zan.

The whole thing brought me back to the ashram again, spending long days cross-legged, trying to ignore the pain in your knees and back and focus instead on your breath or on the teacher's words. The latter was a challenge in itself. Not being a student of Vajrayana, it was hard to follow at times. I felt as if I'd stepped into a theater where a film is already in progress and in a different dialect. One interesting part of this split was a simultaneous Japanese translation of Rimpoche reading a sutra in Tibetan, and us reading along in English. The overlap of time was also in play, as he chanted an ancient text from his Mac. As we chanted along to our English translation, I once again wondered why English speakers tend to chant in an approximation of the original Asian language, devoid of beauty and decaying into a monotonal, Borg-like drone. Like a paint-by-numbers version of a masterpiece.

The talks themselves were great. I wrinkled my nose at the stuff I didn't get, bobbed my head to those pieces that mirror the Japanese mikkyo folded into my brain. Then I heard this:

"Just as all the buddhas of the past
Embraced the awakened attitude of mind,
And in the precepts of the bodhisattvas
Step by step abode and trained,

Just so, and for the benefit of beings,
I will also have this attitude of mind,
And in those precepts, step by step,
I will abide and train myself."

And suddenly I'm taken back a decade to out in front of a used bookstore on a quiet Wellington, NZ street. A friend had asked about the Boddhisattva vow, and I'd explained that if a person glimpses satori, recognizing the interconnectedness of us all, that person would naturally try to bring it all into the fold much the way that Humpty Dumpty would grab at all the shattered pieces of himself. But I'd been wrong.
My view had been ego-driven. The wish for enlightenment is much more altruistic. You want to bring everyone over. It's not a means of gathering all the pieces of the puzzle as much as recognizing that the puzzle's completion requires the proper placement of that first piece, to which all the other's relate. And it starts where you sit. With those painful knees.


On the turntable: Operation Ivy, "Energy"
On the nighttable: Takei & Keane, "Sakuteiki"

Setting a pic: "Turning Over..."

Sunday papers: Tom Waits

"I feel like there is a battle going on all the time between light and dark, and I wonder sometimes if the dark has one more spear."



On the turntable: Patti Smith, "Twelve"
On the nighttable: Marc P. Keane, "The Art of Setting Stones"

Elegy for Rob

Yesterday I found out that one of my best friends has killed himself. I first met Rob back at University of Arizona, where we were both studying creative writing. As students do, we spent long hours in drunken ramblings about what constitutes talent, and he always seemed to trump my own ideas about which writers were good by lending me books written by better ones. He was a Hemingway freak: when sober, Rob could be as sparse as that author's dialogue, but while drunk he could as rambunctious as the man himself. Some writers I've grown to love--Raymond Carver, Richard Ford, Tobias Wolff, Tim O'Brien--I met through Rob.

After graduation, my growing idealism led me to decide to leave the US for Japan, with the intention of not returning for quite a few years. But Rob's wedding brought me back Stateside, and he in turn took part in mine. (This pair of ceremonies served as catalyst for a long, somewhat meandering international phone debate about his new found Catholicism [via Tolstoy!] and my own Gary Snyder inspired Zen.)

Like many passionate friends, we lost touch for awhile. Six years later, I found him in Dallas. He'd been suffering from a condition which required heavy medication, turning him into a mere shadow of the intellectual giant I'd know him to be. During that visit, he decided to go off the meds. The clouds parted and suddenly the old Rob was there. I was encouraged, was sure that Rob would pull through. My visit gave him strength and during subsequent phone calls, I sensed a guy still struggling, but able to keep his head above water by clinging to the rocks of his Catholic faith. Yet fighting the current for too long can lead to an unbearable fatigue.

A couple weeks ago, Rob sent me a email, wanting to start up a community newspaper together in Chicago. I'd have refused, but no doubt we would have had a great conversation about the paths our lives were walking. Usually I reply to his mails quickly, but this time, overwhelmed with my own detritus, I put it off. The guilt I have is heavy. As in the past, would he again have found support in my friendship, leading him in a direction other than toward self-destruction? I'll never know.

But I do know that I love the man. I'll miss you buddy...

Taxi Drivers Should Be Drag Racers

Taxi drivers should be drag racers, the way they blast off the line.


On the turntable: "Spirit of India"
On the nighttable: Rumi, "Say I Am You"

Setting a pic: "Where's Waldo?"

Happy Earth Day!

I plan to stay on the planet all day today...



On the turntable: Mickey Hart, "Planet Drum"

Sunday Papers: Aaron Cometbus

"TIME AND WATER, THE TWO GREAT EQUALIZERS"

--Double Duce



On the turntable: Cesara Evora, "Cafe Atlantico"
On th nighttable: "Innocent When You Dream: The Tom Waits Reader"

Remembrance of Things Passed

Since leaving the ashram, I've been trying to avoid eating meat. Besides a couple special occasions like Chinese New Year and St. Pats (complimentary lamb stew courtesy of Tagh!) I've done pretty well. But I'd long wanted to go to Okariba, since first hearing about it a few years ago. The one year anniversary of Miki and I meeting seemed a good enough excuse to go.
The vibe was like the usual izakaya, but with funky log cabin walls, mounted dead birds, and various things hanging from the unfinished ceiling. This menu is infamous for being whatever the owner has killed recently, yet I was surprised at the variety. Miki and I chose wild boar, barbecued and served on skewers. (While eating, I kept wondering if this boar might have been one of the group that threatened us on the Path of Philosophy one autumn night.) We also had smoked duck, served cold, but a little too icy on this chilly night. (Colder than our beers actually.) The owner was friendly and this being a quiet Thursday, he had lots of time for us. And me, being non-Japanese as usual, drew out a certain amount of interest from him. Which, to a bar owner, is usually expressed in free food and drink. Besides the obligatory sake, he presented us with a plate of grasshoppers and bee larvae. The latter I've been wanting to try since my first month in Japan, when a student told me that it was the most disgusting thing she'd ever eaten. Coated in sugar and soy sauce, they were pretty tasty, so the distinction for my own worst food experience remains the boiled silk worms I had in the mountains of Korea. So, not getting the facial reaction he'd hoped for, the owner broke out the big guns. "Dig in," he said. I did. Chewy. Fatty. "Deer?" I asked. "Bear, " he said with a grin. From behind his back, he presented an uncooked chunk. It was a pyramid of white fat, with a small stripe of meat at the center. This bear, shot in November, appeared to have already bulked up for hibernation. The meat itself tasted less gamy than you'd think. It tasted more like deli meat; the salami of the predator world. And while not grossed out, I did feel guilty, due to my narrow escape in Hokkaido. That time ten years ago, the bear had chosen not to eat me. Today, I ate his cousin.

(Setsunai, at On Gaien Higashi Dori, printed my account of that encounter. I pirate it here.)

May 27, 2005

The Shiretoko Bear Story
A while ago, Ted promised me a story on the time he encountered a Japanese Brown Bear on the remote Shiretoko Peninsula in Hokkaido. True to his word, he sent the story today. Scary stuff with an interesting twist at the end. I don't think I would have ever been able to leave the tent. If you're ever up in Shiretoko, take those bear signs very seriously. And bear bells are good.

"I'd been walking for two days down the mountain range that serves as a spine for the Shiretoko Peninsula. Typhoons rarely hit Hokkaido, but a recent one had given the area a good soaking. I'd had a rough day, pushing along soggy trails, and it's entirely possible I'd nearly died a couple of times due to my own stupidity. I finally hit the trail end at dusk. In front of me was an observation point where cars can pull off the road, and between the guardrail and the cliff's edge I had enough room to set up my tent. With the fly facing the moon now rising over the sea, I'd have a lovely view with dinner. A half km up the road were some waterfalls, the water heated by the volcanoes I'd been hiking over. It was great place for a natural warm shower.
"The moon was up and full, so I used its light to make my way back to my tent. A few meters away, I saw something move above me on a slight ridge. A bear. Keeping my eyes on it, I slowly got into my tent, then into my sleeping bag for extra protection. I listened. Within seconds I heard a loud sniffing. Amazingly, this large animal had come down the ridge, across a gravel road, and over a guardrail within seconds, without making a single sound. I'll never forget the mushroom shape of its nose sliding against the tent wall. It moved around to the front flap. Ah! It was after my shoes, soaking and reeking after the wet slog. Suddenly, it fell down the cliff, breaking branches as it rolled down the slope. I started laughing with relief, but within a few minutes it was back. It lingered around for about ninety minutes in all. At first I was terrified. (They say that if you are within a fifty meters of a bear, you are as good as dead. These higuma (Japanese Brown Bear) are related to the killer grizzlies of both Alaska and Kamchatka.) After a while I began to get pissed off, wanting simply to eat and sleep after a long day walking. I reached into my bag for the bell I'd bought in Sapporo. At its first peals the bear tore off. Not long after I fell asleep, but not before ruining my water bottle since I was too scared to go outside to pee.
"The next morning cooking breakfast, I noticed that the water I'd collected at the falls was yellow with sulfur. If I'd drunk any the night before, I'd have become incredibly sick. The Ainu up in Hokkaido consider the bear to be a god. Had one come to protect me? I pondered this as I walked up the road toward town."


On the turntable: "Maximum Rock 'n' Roll radio, Spanish Punk Special"
On the nighttable: Charles Mingus, "Beneath the Underdog"

Setting a pic: "Buddha Blowing Kisses"

Sunday papers: Gary Snyder

"Three-fourths of philosophy and literature is the talk of people trying to convince themselves that they really like the cage they were tricked into entering"



On the turntable: Pearl Jam, "The Full Birdman Sessions"
On the nighttable: Aaron Cometbus, "Mixed Reviews"

Peckish

(I know I've been blogging too much bloody awful poetry. Frankly.
But I reckon a nibble beats fasting.)

Starved for words,
This blinking cursor
Taunts me



On the turntable: Sonic Youth, "Goo"
On the nighttable: Brian Edge, "924 Gilman"

Resurrection

Baptism by petals
Heralds winter's true end

On the turntable: "Peace Together"

Postmodern

Beside the concrete stream,
a lone sakura
lit by vending machines


On the turntable: The Who, "Live at Leeds"
On the nighttable: Alan Clayson, "Keith Moon: Instant Party"

Setting a pic: "Tale of Genji continues..."

Easter Sunday Papers: Jane Siberry

"Whenever you look at someone with love in your heart, you are praying."



On the turntable: "Kila & Oki"
On the nighttable: Ikkyu, "Wild Ways"

Easter Coming Down

From my unedited travel journals. A farm stay in Ireland, February 2005.


In Abbeyliex, I lapped the town. Unlike Portlaoise's curvy grid, this village had a single street with incredibly busy traffic. It looked newer, but had a few nice old buildings. I waited for my ride at Morrissey's, a beautiful pub of black furnishings which looked the old shop that it had once been. Behind the bar, various goods and bottles lined the high shelves. It all seemed out of a daguerreotype of a century ago. Since this store had opened in 1850, I wonder if any of my family had ever been in here. I sat near the pot-bellied stove, nursing a Guinness.

The farm owner, Marty, took me far out into the country. I'd previously noticed that Dublin seemed to have the world's dirtiest buses, but this guy's car deserves special mention. It was a theme matched by the trucks parked in front of the farm. There was a team of six staying here, all from various countries, all studying the sod. I had a simple dinner of bread and coffee while talking to a Scot who's working on a conservation project near Dublin. He was currently doing a one week crash course in chainsaw handling. A quick count of his phalanges told me he must be doing OK.

At 7, I went to my room. I listened to classical on the radio, read some Joyce, wrote awhile. It was noisy early on, with an old man watching TV upstairs, and someone else playing drums--badly--in the loft next door. When it settled down, I slept for 10 hours...

..well rested and well-fed, I walked a bit across the bog, listening to the ground squeak where I stepped. I peeked over a low fence into a sheep's pen to find dozens of eyes staring back at me. It reminded me of my English teaching days. Marty came through and fed them, the sheep lining up and taking their turn without shoving. They'd been sheered just after Xmas, so that when they'd lamb around March, it would be easier to see the progress if a lamb got turned around in the womb. Plus, if the sheep were cold, they'd eat more and be strong when it came time to give birth. If a sheep loses a lamb, it's difficult to get it to nurse another, so farmers would put her into stocks in order to feed another sheep's lamb, which she couldn't identify because she isn't able to turn her head to see or smell. Once her milk was in the lamb, she'd think it was hers. As Marty and I talked, it dawned on me that, with Easter about a month away, some of those cute lambs I'd seen frolicking yesterday were due for someones dinner table.

In the barn next door were a couple dozen cows with enormous heads, walking gingerly across boards slatted to collect shit. Marty stood in the doorway and explained his plans for the future. It appeared to be a pretty cool place when it wasn't booked with the sodders and their muddy trucks. In addition to hosting art events, Marty was active politically, serving as a member of the County Council. He drove me to Borris-in-Ossory to catch the bus. On the way, he pointed out sites both political--farms-- and historical--abbeys and ruins. We sped along bumpy roads at high speed, both his hands off the wheels for much of the ride. Farmers love to put their trust in faith. They know that you can't bend nature to your will. You have to learn to trust it.



On the turntable: Gogol Bordello, "Multi Kontra Culti vs. Irony"
On the nighttable: Russill Paul, "The Yoga of Sound"

White Man in Nostalgia Palais

Man, I love the Clash. Few things sound sweeter pumping thru the iPod. I'm hard pressed to name my favorite tune, or even my favorite album, but every time "The Card Cheat" comes on, my stride naturally doubles and I begin to strut. When that line comes around, that one that goes,

"From the hundred year war to the crimea
With a lance and a musket and a roman spear
To all of the men who have stood with no fear
In the service of the king,"

I feel like belting it out, even in a crowded place.

How is it that the Clash were so damn good?



On the turntable: The Clash, "London Calling"
On the nighttable: Douglas Coupland, "All Families Are Psychotic"

Contusion shames

Politician's truck harmonizes
With machine eviscerating Machiya--
Springtime symphony

On the turntable: The Kleptones, "Yoshimi Battles the Hip Hop Robots"

Confucian Rains

Pink blotches
On yellow canvas--
Springtime skies



On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks 25"
On the nighttable: Dave Lowry, "In the Dojo"

Bobblehead Knight

As I was leaving the ashram in February, I was wondering what would be the first thing to make me completely lose the peace I'd found. It happened a mere month later, at the annual International Budo Seminar in Chiba. The beauty of the seminar, besides all the hang-time with good friends, is the chance to try a martial art that you don't practice. This year was my 8th, and the only thing I hadn't tried yet was kendo. So, donning the Jawa-like gear, I ran through a series of drills, under the eyes of a few of Japan's highest ranking kendo practitioners. I have to admit that I find Kendo kiai hilarious. To watch a group of males jumping forth, repeated yelling "Men!' always brings a smile. And on this day I got great delight in bellowing a Homer Simpsonesque, "D'Oh!" with every strike to my opponant's midsection. The last part of the session was spent sparring. We traded partners every few minutes. My first three "bouts" were pretty mild, my opponant and I both giggling as we tapped and poked each other with the bamboo shinai. My last partner ended the mirth. Seconds into our bout, as I'm looking for a place to poke, he brought his shinai down on my head full force, making my ears ring. Playtime's over I thought, and started to gear up for battle. His shinai came down again. "Fucker!" I yelled, muffled by my head gear. So it went, him smacking me hard, me losing it, me then smacking him back full strength. When we finished, I went up to him, patting him amicably on the back.
"You do karate?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said.
"Competitive?"
"Uh-huh."
"Thought so. You're pretty fierce, man"
Drenched in sweat, I drank tea in the lobby, my aikido-gi stained blue. I hadn't expected kendo to be that hard. I was already exhausted, but we had two more training sessions left. What to do? My body said kyudo, but my pride said judo and aikido.
Pride won, as it does, but for the next two days, my body wouldn't shut up about it.


(My friend Jeff wrote of his experiences, and does a fine job of summing the event up in his usual humorous, self-depreciating way:
http://jeffsbudoblog.blogspot.com/2007/03/double-super-mega-post.html )


On the turntable: "Heavy Flute"
On the nighttable: Larry Watson, "In a Dark Time"

Setting a pic: "ArchitEscher"

Sunday papers: Oscar Wilde

“Life is one fool thing after another whereas love is two fool things after each other.”



On the turntable: "Deep in the Heart of Tuva"

Super Size This

Went to see the film, "Tokyo Loop" at Minamikaikan this week. It was billed as a collection of short films done to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of animation. Like most short film collections, it was a mixed bag. I'd been expecting a lot more, being a tribute, but it seemed more like the hip in-jokes of a group of colleagues. Half the films were brilliant, wry criticism of the dehumanizing effects of megalopolis living. The rest were of the annoyingly pretentious, "Look how weird I am!" school of film making. Personally, I like realism, and prefer my reality, well, more real.
But the highlight of the day for me was the Minamikaikan itself. I'd last been here 11 years ago, to see Hal Hartley's "Amateur." God, I miss art house cinemas. In these dire days of the multiplex, it's refreshing to hear the nostalgic "Rriiiiip!" as the soles of your shoes peel off a floor sticky with rancid butter.


On the turntable: "All Virgos are Mad"
On the turntable: Chris Stewart , "Driving over Lemons"

Mucho Friggin Grande

The Osaka sumo tournament finished up last weekend, so I suppose it was no real surprise to see a huge, well-coifed rikishi at the Qanat Starbucks, having a cuppa with his tres petite amie. I finally get now why Starbucks has those ridiculous sizes.


On the turntable: "Best of Turntables on the Hudson"
On the nighttable: Jack Kerouac, "Lonesome Traveller"

Now...

...Open for business

Tale of Two Weekends

Kara's mom would be leaving soon, so a few of us decided to introduce her to the karaoke ritual. It was Friday afternoon, still light, and none of us felt up to drinking yet. So we chose to intoxicate ourselves instead on bad 80's pop tunes. After dusk, we doubled our numbers for dinner at Bangkok Garden, a recent and timely Thai restaurant discovery. (My local Thai place, a big favorite of Marcin and I, went under while I was in India. [I know, man!]) I ordered the spiciest stuff on the menu, to blast away the pollen colonizing my sinuses. Our numbers increased again at NegaPosi. I like this club, especially since the kanji for its name is the clever, "yin-yang." Tonite was the second Kyoto gig of Seiichi's Rustic Pans, the amazing steel drum band that I raved about last fall. From the opening strains of that jazz classic, "Caravan," I knew I was back in heaven. The front line of Sei-chan, ever-smiling Giant, and that Al Pacino lookalike kept cracking me up with their physical stage antics. I went through my usual catalog of dance moves, which is more jumping than any real dancing. When Sei-chan yelled out, "Jump! Up! Ska!" I nearly bashed my head on the overhead vents. Japan is far too low a country in which to pogo. My crouching, choo-choo train shuffle was a big hit. Going home later, I found that it is impossible to bicycle with legs of jello.

Saturday happened to be St Pats, and we chose to celebrate with Tagh at his new place, McLoughlins. Had a pint of Guinness, which was the first time in ten weeks I'd drunk an entire beer myself. So I had another, figuring that the two hour yoga class that morning at Village had entitled me to a caloric splurge. Ran into a few friends there, as expected, though we left early, before the real crowds would turn up. But how to choose, since the Kyo's three Irish pubs are all within the same square mile.
It was a cold night, but we braved it, and the crowds, at the annual Higashiyama light-up. A couple koto players played below the massive trees of Shoren-in. In front of Chion-in a fox was wed, accompanied by dozens of handlers. We followed into Maruyama Park, done up with fantastic sculptures of light. Large elaborate flower arrangements were placed near the bigger temples, and even the towering Yamaboko of Gion was well lit. A small group of people were looking into the grounds of Gesshin-in at, well, nothing at all. Miki and I fished in a greater crowd by exclaiming, "Incredible!" and "Unreal!" as we walked away. The lanes began to narrow, but the crowds didn't, so rather than carry on to Kiyomizu, we turned and went back to our bikes. We'd celebrate this cold night with ice cream instead.

Sunday night, Kara had a potluck at her machiya. It was a theme thing, so I put on my kimono, happy for a chance to wear it outside New Year's. There were a nice group of artistes huddled around the tables, warming themselves up on jokes and wine. I spent most of my night talking about India with M., who had been studying Kathakali dance. After the tables were cleared, a vast arrangement of desserts arrived. Everyone made fun of the way I piled up a plate with one of everything, then hid it behind some jackets like a dog would. Later, Brigit performed a traditional dance, moving unbelievable slowly, legs bent so low they were in near buckle. At the end, she fell back on her ass, a tribute to her butoh influences. Later still, Kara broke out a collection of multi-colored flourescent bracelets which we all put on to created a funky flashy light show. Before going home, Kara sold me the painting that I'd admired at her exhibition a week ago. Hailing a taxi out in the cold, in our dressy attire and a large painting under my arm, felt a little like being in New York...

And the following weekend? There was nothing, a mere passage of time between meals.

NegaPosi.



On the turntable: Beck, "The Information"
On the nighttable: Isabella L. Bird, "Unbeaten Tracks in Japan"

Take Care

I see movement high in a tree on the hill above my house. "Monkey!" I excitedly shout, until I notice a large hawk fly out of the tree and drift over the hill. Soon it returns, then immediately sets off again. Over the next ten minutes, this scene repeats a dozen times. It must be feeding its young. On one approach, I notice the long body of a snake in its beak, wriggling to escape along earth that's no longer there. Nature's warning for me to watch my feet while hiking from now on.


On the turntable: えま& 慧奏, "天地の歌”
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "after the quake"

Setting a pic: "Top o' the World, Ma!"

Sunday Papers: Abbie Hoffman

"There are no teachers, we are all each other's teachings"


On the turntable: Brozman/Bhattacharya: "Mahima"
On the nighttable: Yuko Tsushima, "The Shooting Gallery"

Getting in Tune

Spending a slow afternoon in the backstreets of Osaka proved a change from where I usually pass my slow afternoons, in the foothills of Kyoto. I couldn't help but think of energy and how it moves. On the surface, the natural world seems to move so slowly, yet the energy is so fertile, so ready to burst. Cities by contrast appear to really move, yet the energy lies stagnant, dying a quick death amidst all the tar and concrete.


On the turntable: Red House Painters, "Old Ramon"

He Gone, Me So Gone

Wednesday was the Vernal Equinox, O-Higan in Japan, a day when people traditionally go visit the family grave. But Miki and I choose to look instead to the future and make us some miso. We went deep into Osaka to the home of Yayoi and Seiichi, she being a leather artist (not what you're thinking), he being one of Kansai's best percussionists and the leader of Rustic Pans. (They played in Kyoto last weekend, much to the delight of my happy feet. Where were you?) Their home is an interesting mix of their stylistic interests, Santa Fe adobe punctuated by driftwood collected on the beaches of Kochi. There were a few others present, creative-types. After the preliminary toast with sake, we set down to business. Making miso is relatively simple. We first had to steam soybeans down to a certain softness, which Yayoi seemed to know almost by sight. Then one of us would crush the beans in a large stone pestle with a huge wooden mallet. These are the same impliments used in making mochi, but rather than a carnivel strongman swing from the shoulder, hands are placed on both ends to do the crushing. After a few minutes, someone else would follow with the spatula-like shamoji, to scrape the smashed beans toward the middle. Inevitably, a dance would ensue where the scraper would follow the crusher around the stone bowl, mocking the dances of summertime Obon. This action would eventually create a paste, which would be mixed by hand with shiokirikoji (salt and some kind of mold) then thrown into large clay jars, their varied sizes creating some interesting pitches and tones. Miki had the best technique, literally slamming these fistsful of miso down like an endzone football spike, hair and arms flailing wildly. The whole process takes about ten minutes, compared to the thirty minutes of sitting around waiting for the beans to steam. Even with three propane burners going, it still took about 10 hours. This of course leaves much time for drinking. As is typical for this country, there was a natural division by gender, the women chatting in the kitchen and making lunch, the men out front, talking less and drinking more. Awamori from Okinawa eventually made an appearance, but I begged off, still nursing a mental hangover of four years ago on Miyako. ( I think everyone has their most memorable hangover. Whew!) It was a beautiful day and almost a shame to be inside, but the house had sliding front doors which opened onto a wooden deck like in the Old West. On this day of equal dark and light, we made the most of this indoor-outdoor effect, sitting in the narrow street in our low camp chairs, adjusting our position occasionally in order to stay in the constantly shifting sun. Late in the day, Miki and I took a walk along a dirty river lined by a low concrete wall decorated with children's art. Large planes, making their final approach to Itami, opened their landing gear directly over us. The sun eventually followed them west, filling the street with shadow. But by now the work was done, our miso made. Now all we have to do is set it in a cool dark place for a year(!) while it rots, er, ferments. A nice reminder of how time used to move...


On the turntable: Maryam Mursal, "The Journey"
On the nighttable: Ryokan, "Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf"

Migration

On the nighttable:
Shinto Meditations for Revering the Earth,
Shinto: the Way Home,
A Year in the Life of a Shinto Shrine

Waiting for the gods of spring to return...




On the turntable: Phish, "E. Centre, 11.02.98"

Over the Border

Near Ginkaku-ji ,
The scent of magnolias
Beside Gyoja-bashi,
Uguisu chants a sutra


On the turntable: Ry Cooder, "Music by Ry Cooder"
On the nighttable: Cometbus, "Double Duce"

On the border

Large wet flakes
Fall
From an empty blue sky


On the turntable: Bahia Black, "Ritual Beating System"
On the nighttable: Joanne Kyger, "Strange Big Moon"

Setting a pic: "Sacred, Old & New"

Sunday Papers: Francois Truffaut

"The weakness of the self-taught is their need to convince others."
--L'Invite du dimanche, Oct. 26, 1969


On the turntable: "Northern Exposure" (Sdtk)

Slainte!

There were many fine poets from Limerick
With their clever and quite naughty shtick
Like their descendants in Rap
Said "Feck Off!" to claptrap
About their odes to boobies and prick


On the turntable: "Walker" (Sdtk)

Two Quick Impressions on Returning to Kyoto After 6 Weeks in India

"Why is this taxi driver going so damned slow?"

and

"What's with the big condom on Kyoto Tower?"



On the turntable: Easy Stars All-Stars, "Radiodread"

Breathe Easy

I'm a junkie.

Yes, I admit it, I'm addicted to deep abdominal respiration. It's become something of a habit due to years of yoga, zen, and martial arts. In fact, I'm so used to it that it's almost impossible for me to chest breathe consciously.

Which is why this year's hay fever is killing me.

It's my first spring in the Kyo, which means this invisible enemy is being launched from vegetation to which my lungs haven't yet had the priviledge of meeting. The 'Nog was far kinder, being swept by gentle (and not so gentle) sea breezes. But this city is in a bowl, which places me in a tupperware of pollen.

It's ironic, in a way, since what I do for a living is teach breathing. And I'm always amazed at the effects a slight difference in technique can have on me. Years ago, while in the dojo preparing for my third-dan iaido grading, I suddenly noticed how unsettled I felt. It dawned on me that this feeling was being caused by upper chest breathing due to stress about the test. These days, besides that same unsettled feeling, I feel tired all the time, my shallow breath leading to shallow sleep and lack of good REM. Plus I'm really agitated, getting flustered at simple things like red lights. (But who wouldn't really? The whole traffic system in this country seems to be designed like a 1960s board game. "Oh, I afraid you can't advance until you roll double-sixes.")

Next Tuesday, I teach my monthly yogic breathing class. What a poor role model I've become...



On the turntable: Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, "Love Their Country"
On the nighttable: Aaron Cometbus, "I Wish There was Something I Could Quit"

Stuck Inside Samsara with the Winter Blues Again

Sunday

Sun Clouds Snow
Clouds Snow Sun
Snow Sun Clouds

Wanted to Hike
But Just Boddhi-sat Around

On the turntable: Manu Chow, "Radio Bemba Sound System"

On the nighttable: Daryl Davis, "Klan-destine Relationships"

Setting a pic: "With God On Our Side"

Sunday papers: Penn Gillette

"Luck is probability, taken personally."

--Theme Time Radio Hour #38


On the turntable: Ichiko Hashimoto, "Ub-X"
On the nighttable: "Dersu the Tracker"

On Red Dragon Street

Lunar New Year in Kobe

wandering the four square block juji of Chinatown

making like pachinko balls

as we bounce from one yatai to another.

Pilgrimage by stomach.

On the turntable: "Straight to Hell Returns"

On the nighttable: Ben Snakepit, "The Snakepit Book"

Hiking Neural Pathways

And now back in the Kyo I try to sort everything out. How does all I went through at the Ashram fit into the world I once comfortably lived in? The whole tree has been shaken, the leaves have fallen. Like a fortune teller reading tea, I try to find meaning in the patterns.

So it is with open eyes that I walk through my days. In fact, the metaphor can be followed up into the Higashiyama hills, where I spend my weekends following the main path, yet am confused by the constant criss-crossing of other trails: trails that tempt me, trails I've walked before, yet lead me in directions I am not planning to go.

One day, Miki and I follow one, way up Mikage toward Hiei. Along the way, we find a long set of steps, leading to a Shrine whose main diety is a mythological white snake. (Shades of the Indian Naga cult?) Beyond its waterfalls is a cabin, with a tree house beyond. A man stands in front, cutting wood. He invites us in to warm ourselves by the fireplace, have some tea. It turns out that he's an artist and environmentalist. He spends a good part of the year in Africa, but happens to be here today. He points out back, to a large clearing beside the stream. We often have events here, he tells us. It dawns on me that Mandala and a couple other groups played a gig here last fall, but I didn't go since it had rained. We talk awhile, telling him that we are trying to find the main 36 peak trail, and how last month, we were led by a kitsune to that weird slice of West Virginia nearby. He warns us to be careful around here, since this place is called Mamushi-dani, or Valley of the Vipers. Ah, those Naga again...

Later there are parties, meals, gallery openings. Yet despite being around people, even those I really love, I'm still distant, unable to full verbalize what I myself don't understand.
They ask, "How was India."
"It was good, " I say. "..."

Even after a month, I don't yet have the ability to translate the subtle shifts of the spirit.
I will write about the Ashram.

Eventually...


On the turntable: Apples in Stereo, "New Magnetic Wonder"
On the nighttable: Haruki Murakami, "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman"

Setting a Pic: "Obsolescence"

Sunday papers: Richard Ford

"The amount of precious time you'll squander on someone else's calamities and fuck-ups [is] friendship's greatest measure."

--The Sportswriter


On the turntable: Jimmy Reed, "The Very Best of..."
On the nighttable: "Beyond Duality"

You're leaving, isn't it?

It was Sunday, February 4th, which meant that the course was over and we could go back to our lives. Twenty of us had chartered a bus to take us the two hours north to Varkala. At the helipad, we all went our seperate ways, planning to meet up later, either in a cafe somewhere or on the beach around midnight. The place I was staying was on the outskirts of town, and after a few wrong turns I was dropped off. As I walked throught the swampy rice fields toward my hotel, I thought that this is where the true training begins, out of the Ashram. For a month, I'd passed my days in long periods of meditation and tough yoga poses. I'd wrapped my head around mind-blowing esoteric concepts. I'd eaten nothing but the healthiest vegetarian foods and had weaned myself off the coffee, beer, and wine that made daily appearances in my life. How long would it be before I returned to old habits?

The next couple days (when I wasn't making up for lost sleep) I spent swimming in the sea, or lurking in the shops and cafes on the town's famous cliffs. From the beach, it all looked somewhat like Santa Barbara, but without the oil rigs. Due to the backpacker bibles, the town was beginning to come into its own, and now the race was on. Will Varkala be ruined first by the foreigners with their imported desires and disposable cash, or by the locals, with their piles of rubbish on the beach and the armies of men strolling the beach ogling the forbidden fruits hidden (though not always) by bikini strings? I'd occasionally run into someone from the course, but despite our initial intent to party together, we all seemed to be keeping a healthy distance. I did hang out quite a bit with Lili, no real surprise since we'd become good friends during the course. I was amazed to see her reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Spanish one day, Paulo Coelho in German the next. When it was time to go, we shared a taxi down to Trivandrum airport. I'd carry on to Kovalam. We'd been told that our driver would pick us up at 10:45, but he didn't show up until 11:20. He started out driving the careful, cautious way they do when delivering foreigners, but Lili, seasoned by two years of Dehli-living, asked him to hurry or she'd miss her flight. So began a manic, carnival ride, weaving around everything on wheels and feet. More than a few times, we missed other vehicles by less than a foot . Lili smiled and asked me if I was scared. I just laughed, trying not too look out the windshield too much. I do remember a sign flashing past: "Accident prone area."
The driver dropped Lili at the airport for her flight (which she inevitably missed) and drove me the remaining half-hour to Kovalam. I'd wanted to visit due to the town's fame as a hippie hotspot on the road to Goa. The reality made me sad. I always enjoy the pathos of a beach town in the off season, but I've never seen a town so far past it's prime. I found myself to be the youngest person around by at least a decade. Most of the tourists here were of the moneyed Euro retiree type, flown in for a few days for the "India experience." But the place had long been picked clean and even the bones were a disappointingly dull grey. Sitting in cafes or on the beach, I frequently witnessed those relationships that appear to cut through cultural and generational and economic barriers, but have a lifespan of mere days, culminating in an exchange of some kind. This can take more sinister forms in other parts of Asia, but here in Indian, it's more Nouveau Raj. Disheartened, I stayed away from the beach--away from the sight of drooping white flesh and the sound of pomposity--and sat on the patio of my room, or hid myself away in grubby narrow rooms for my latest Ayurvedic treatment.
Waking early the next day, I decided to take a swim, and was pleased to find the beach empty but for a couple dozen fishermen pulling in two lines of nets. As they pulled, a few of the old timers were singing a song which rang out beautifully in the quiet morning air. Between their lines, a couple of large white fish were swimming. The fishermen yelled to them, but unbelievably, this European couple would not move, choosing to ignore the commotion on the beach, and paddle slowly around. So the fishermen kept pulling, eventually drawing the net around the couple, who at this point began to swim frantically for their lives. Once the nets were on the beach, I looked for what I hoped what would be lunch. Despite at least an hour spent pulling, they'd wound up with only five fish. Immediately an argument broke out, between the old timers who been pulling one line, and the younger men pulling the other. I didn't need subtitles to figure out what they were fighting about.
I walked back up the beach to my hotel to check out. The guy behind the desk had tried to overcharge me for a bunch of services I hadn't used or needed. Using my newfound ashram powers, I didn't fight, but gently refused. He backed down, then changed the subject, telling me how good and tough a man that Bush is. Turds of a feather.
Within the hour, I was again heading south.

I took what would be my last Ambassador ride of the trip. My driver was ancient, but at least he kept the pace sane and slow. I wondered if he'd ever heard Gandhi speak, and if Partition had affected him badly. Then I noticed the cross hanging from the rearview mirror, swinging in slow circles above the everpresent elephant figure mounted on the dash. I suppose the driver made it to his ripe age more to the help of Jesus rather than Ganesha.
My destination was Thapovan, an Ayurvedia retreat run by a friendly German named Andreas. I settled into a paradise of teak-lined rooms and large grassy lawns on which I'd do yoga. Every night, small mushrooms would sprout amidst the grass, to be eaten by either the furry legged Chinese chickens, or the larger, purple African fowl constantly pecking around. The latter, in addition to their duties as landscapers, also acted as security, screeching like banshees anytime a snake would appear. I enjoyed a couple quiet days here, swimming amidst the Arabian Sea's large rocks or getting the best messages of the whole trip. I'd eat incredible Keralan food on the hotel balcony, looking over the palm forests covering the hills. At night a cross would begin to hover above the hills, revealing a church hidden amongst the trees, its Malayalam hymns bursting from the speakers, yet never loud enough to drowned out the voice of the Mullah, rising up from the mosque far beyond. Most of the time, though, I sat in a chair out front of my room, drinking directly from a coconut and working my way to the bottom of a large stack of Indian-related books I'd acquired on my travels. I was even given another day here, after my Singapore-bound flight was cancelled. Rather than freak out, I simply accepted a taxi voucher from the airline and went back to the peace of Thapovan.
On the last afternoon, I went visit the Sikh I'd befriended. He sold Buddhist art in a small shop down the hill. I hadn't thought there were any Sikhs this far south, and it turned out he was from Delhi. On my last day, he asked me why I thought that his shop's logo was of a hollow Buddha. I said that it's because Buddha, or God, or whatever, is a mere form, and that because we all have different concepts of the absolute, it is up to the individual to give this form flesh. He laughed and patted my knee. "No," he said, still laughing, "I tell them that the Buddha on the sign is not real, but the one's inside the shop are." I smiled, and wisecracked, "Well now you have both a spiritual and a commercial reason."

I'd originally planned to spend a couple days in Singapore, but the airline had seen to that. I could've had a long afternoon of wandering the city, but instead decided to change my flight and go straight back to Japan. At the airport, I'd gotten a nice surprise. Since I'd been so understanding about the missed flight, even refusing a free hotel room, I was given a seat in First Class. Nice. Yet since the flight left close to midnight, and flew throughout the night, I chose to sleep in my park bench of a seat, partaking not of the booze or the gourmet food or whatever else is given to the man behind the curtain. As the flight gradually descended, I looked out at the lights splayed below, each of them a potential destination in a part of the world completely untramped by me. And later, I'm nursing an airport coffee at dawn, the weird eighties techno of Mark Mothersbaugh being the perfect soundtrack to the scene of zombies walking bewildered and slow, each lied to by their individual bodyclocks which contradict the 6 am rise of Duty Free shutters. And watching these people of every conceivable shape and size, I smiled to myself at the memory of how, a few hours before, in the irony of my seat in First Class, I'd read about how there is no real distinction between humans at all.

http://www.thapovan.com/

On the turntable: Ghost, "In Stormy Nights"
On the nighttable: Christopher Benfry, "The Great Wave: Gilded Age Misfits, Japanese Eccentrics, and the Openening of Old Japan"

Setting a pic: "On a New Day"

Sunday papers: Joseph Campbell

"Where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existance; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world."

--The Hero with a Thousand Faces (?)


On the turntable: Link Wray, "Be What You Want To"
On the nighttable: Hillel Wright, "All Worldly Pursuits"

What Is Your Country? Ah, Beautiful Place!

Fast forward one week. It's Friday, our day off at the ashram. Forty-one of us have chartered a bus to head south to Kanyakumari, India's southernmost point. Rajid is our guide. He's a fully trained Brahman priest, but is now working as ashram staff, in particular as the Malayalam (language as palindrome) translator. Today he also helps us find toilets and chai, plus backs us up when we scream at the bus driver to "TURN THE DAMN MUSIC DOWN!!!"

Just after daybreak, we have a swim at a series of waterfalls. I climb behind the falls into some caves with floors dangerously slippery with lichen. I'm tempted to dive off the higher rocks, but large stones line this pool, just below the water line. A small group of us follow the river awhile to a small Hindu Temple. The grounds are lined with trees and shrubs whose leaves are ground to make those patently smelly Ayurvedic treatments. (Later in the day I'll injure my foot, and in turn recieve an oil which smells like pesto, making me crave pasta for the rest of the month. [Mmmmm. Venugopala....]) It's the day of the Divine Mother, so we line up to take kumkum between the eyes and three streaks of ash across the forhead. The day is hot, and despite not wearing a shirt, it's all soon washed away by my sweat. Outside, another bare-chested man breaks a cocunut on a stone in front of the Naga statue. This is the soul's symbolic release from a skull bursting in the heat of a funeral pyre. The crows swarm on the bits in seconds. Naga statues represent fertility, so has our friend already lost his head over a woman?

We have a spicy breakfast of curry and chai, the first real flavor to pass my lips in a week. Then back on the bus, heading south. Typical India scenes pass. An old woman sits in her doorway reading a paper. Three myna birds perched on the gate of a burned out house. Multiple churches and familiar hammer and sickle crests hint at Kerala's foreign flirtations. Many billboards. Sorry Ma'am Men's Wear. Reliance Gas (US foreign policy slogan?). Saraswati Hospital. The biggest billboards seem to be for jewelry. Bathers and buses, tuc-tucs and Ambassadors, palm trees and wandering cows. Etc etc etc. And as I try to scribble my notes in an undecipherable hand due to the road conditions, I wonder, Why even write at all about this? India has been captured in words for centuries, by people with far more talent than I. Then again, so has Japan, yet this blog lumbers on.

We eventually reach the southern tip. Massive construction is going on, due to this area being wiped clean by the tsumani of a few years back. Odd for this country, not much is happening on or near the water. A small ferry boat makes its way slowly to a pair of small islands. More like piles of rocks really. The surf is high, and the boat bobs and weaves like a boxer. These islands are dedicated to the man who once meditated here, and eventually brought Vedanta philosophy to the west, Swami Vivekananda. In his honor, I find myself humming an Elvis tune. Most of the other people here are what I think of as Men In Black. A week before, I sat beside one on the plane and had been intrigued. These men are pilgrims on the way to Sabarimala Temple, one of India’s holiest sites. During the pilgrimage, the men take a 41-day penance, abstaining from meat, sex, and swearing. Some of them seem to have trouble with the prohibition against smoking. Besides the tobacco, there is no vegetation here at all, but there are a couple temples, plus a cave where I too meditate awhile. Then I destroy all merit earned by buying a dozen cheap books. Yet materialism is present in other forms here as well, notably in the 133 foot high statue of a poet on the other island. We decide to give it a pass and head back to the mainland.

The temple here is huge and busy. The door facing the water is closed since ships would often mistake the candles for a lighthouse and crash onto the rocks. Outside there is a small park, filled with folks gearing up to watch the sunset. I pass a small tsunami memorial and make my way to the point where the Arabian Sea, Indian Ocean, and Bay of Bengal all converge. Facing north, I'm stunned by the thought that there are over a billion people between me and the Himalayas. But my revery isn't long because lots of young men keep wanting to take picture with me. Using my camera. I escape after awhile to a beach further north and west, to take a sunset swim. I need to pee, and make my way to a place between fishing boats, only to be chased off by a pack of angry, snarling dogs. Your beach, man. As I get into the water, one of the Nepali guys screams and mentions spotting a seasnake as thick as his arm. I'm not sure if he's joking or not, but as I swim out, I'm too nervous to completely appreciate the surface of the sea shimmering turquoise and silver in the fading light. There are alot of us in the water, and I'm trying to get a little distance so I can empty my bladder, but not too far since I'm still thinking about that damn snake. The waves are coming up now and getting back to the beach is tricky. Large underwater rocks line the shore, and as I step on one, a wave knocks me sideways, shoving my foot into a hole. I pull it out of the water to see one of my toes is bent downward at a right angle. Great, there goes my yoga training. I crack the toe back into place and within seconds, it swells to the size of my thumb. It will be two days before the doctor decides to show up for work and tell me that rather than a break, I merely have a bad sprain. Yoga is back on.

Well after dark, we make our way to Suchindram Temple, where the combined trio of Siva, Brahma, and Vishnu are worshiped. What intrigues me most are the musical columns which ring out in a different tone when struck by open palms. I jam awhile, then set out to find the rest of the group meditating in an enclosed space near a huge statue of Hanuman. Outside, a group of musicians is playing beside a cart reminiscent of Gion's festival hoko. Near the bathing ghats, a group of schoolgirls waves to us from their bus. Behind them, the temple’s dark black tower stands tall against a darker, blacker sky, looking ominous like something more often found in Mordor.

It is already 9:30 when we make our third and final meal stop of the day. More masala chapattis and chai. After a week of no spice, my stomach is doing a funky mambo. Next door, some of our group are buying chocolate, but I hold strong. I figure that I’d enjoy it for a few days, but then would have to quit eventually.

Rare for me, I doze on the drive home, then climb into bed close to one a.m. Meditation in five hours...



On the turntable: Yo La Tengo, "I Am Not Afraid Of You And I Will Beat Your Ass"
On the nighttable: Tom Kizzia, "The Wake of the Unseen Object"

Your Good Name?

And then my first glimpse of India, in the form of the moon reflected in a small lake far below. Lights began to appear and before long, our pilot announced our arrival in a voice not unlike Ricardo Montalban. On the ground, I’d expected the madness I’d found in Sri Lanka, but unbelievably, I was in my hotel bed within the hour.
The next morning started slowly, then accelerated. I had breakfast downstairs in the hotel dining room, served by a staff who wouldn’t stop calling me "sir." Walked out into the street, muttering, "Here we go," yet passed the day unmolested. Down the street, past the massive Sri Padmanabhaswamy Temple and its ghats where people were in the midst of their Sunday bath. Walked the perimeter of the temple, noting the Ganesha head-shaped marks on the fences, a mark which would reappear at various spots throughout the city. Then up MG road, mad and bustling. The bus stops were especially crazy, riders literally throwing themselves on and off moving vehicles, objects of various shapes and sizes hanging from hands, arms, or heads. I passed a spaced-out white man with a dot of kumkum between his eyes. While walking, I noticed how, despite lack of sleep, I didn’t feel even a little tired, yet I often feel sleepy when I spend a day reading. Went on down to South Park Hotel, and had myself a chai. It was a posh place, and as I was about to use a desert spoon to stir my tea, the waiter stopped me, offering to get a tea spoon. I told him it was fine, but he said, "Not Fine" and dashed off. Back on the street again, past the saluting Sikh doorman, almost getting hit by a tuc-tuc as I stared at the amount of bricks the brick-walla had on her head. At the top of the street was a park. A line of schoolgirls was entering the Reptile House to watch the cobras have their guinea pig lunch. Nearby was the beautiful, high-ceilinged Napier Museum, itself more a work of art than what it housed. While sitting reading Ruth Prawer Jhabvala's "Heat and Dust" at the base of a nearby tree, I was chatted up by a cluster of skinny schoolboys, lanky and clumsy and seemingly connected in a Siamese-twin kind of way. Under some trees, young couples exhibited their intimacy without any physical contact, and under others, men demonstrated Kerala’s incredibly high literacy rate. Back on the street, a beggar woman moved quickly from the periphery, hand extended. She was the only beggar I saw that day, but I met her repeatedly throughout the city. What she lacked in persistence she made up in mobility. Had an eight curry lunch with dessert, then walked the narrow side roads back to my hotel, dodging cars which had all their wing mirrors folded in. Took an Ambassador taxi out of Trivandrum and into a landscape familiar to me from Sri Lanka. Ganesha on the dash and a sadhu beside the road, good portents as I sped my way to the Sivananda Ashram, my home for the next month....

On the turntable: Zakir Hussein, "The Mystic Masseur"
On the nighttable: Nick Jans, "The Grizzly Maze"

While making feet for children shoes...

Singapore. Caught my first glimpse from the plane, of a large flotilla of ships all facing the same direction. It looks as if they`re fleeing. Inside Changi, I catch the familiar Asian scent of long airport carpets going moldy in damp climes. I put on my iPod, Tom Waits. I look for this city`s eponomous song, but not finding it, settle on "Shore Leave." After this single track, I turn it off, wanting instead to hear all the languages around me. (This includes the Japanese spoken at a cluster of tables near "Genki Sushi.") I change money without knowing the going rate. And I walk the smelly carpet, rubbernecking, amazed at the size of this place. The smell of mold is overwhelmed by perfume near the Duty Free shops. I walk past three small men carrying large machine guns. (In a tight spot I`m sure they`d rather go for the kukri tucked into the back of their belts.) I`m not in Japan anymore. 　As I board my Trivandrum-bound plane, a woman eyes my wrist, and says something to her companion. I make out the word "mala."

On the turntable: Buffalo Springfield, "Retrospective"
On the nighttable: Lynn Schooler, "The Blue Bear"

Setting a pic: "Under Indian Skies"

What if they had a blog and nobody wrote?

OK, so I'm back. No mean nasties camped in my digestive tract. No limbs severed on kamikaze bus rides. No fangs, teeth, or claws tattooed in my flesh. (I was almost decapitated by a falling palm frond, but that story can wait.)

Despite my head still being firmly affixed to my sunburned neck, I don't have much to say yet. I've written here (or in my journal[or in my head]) that it is impossible to write about something if you are immersed in it completely. During intense spiritual training, there is no distance from which to watch the action. After all, the goal of any spiritual practice is to get to the point where the watcher watches itself. And this quiet continues, like those proverbial ripples on that proverbial pond. Only this time the pond is frozen.

Will be back after the thaw. This being the material world of samsara, it'll be soon, I reckon...


On the turntable: "Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."
On the nighttable: Rudyard Kipling, "Plain Tales from the Hills"
Sarah MacDonald, "Holy Cow!"
(and way too much philosophy)

Neyyar Dam-nation!

Off to India, where I'll spend a month in teacher training at the Sivananda Ashram. I'm sure to return much thinner and slightly more pious.

Back in snowy February...



On the turntable: Krishna Das, "Pilgrim Heart"
On the nighttable: Salman Rushdie, "Midnight's Children"

Hitching into the Year of the Boar

Spent a crazy week with friends, exploring the themes of good food, rampant conversation, and long walks under mild winter skies. I've already mentioned that Miki and I spent a night in Osaka with Hide and Sawako, eating an international hodge-podge and talking James Joyce under the eyes of some of Hide's creations. The next night saw a brief stopover by Kodo apprentice Crissy and staff member Chie. Then the following day, Team Daza was in town, cashing in on the karma acquired by the countless nights I've spent on their Kichijoji tatami. (Patient folks they are.) We added bike riding and mountain climbing to the mix, plus had a party with Anna S. and a couple more with E-Ma.

On the eve, Miki and I met friends at Shimogama Jinja. Had a surreal moment of realizing that the New Year had dawned only when noticing dozens of people simultaneously beginning to text on their cellphones. After giving props to the gods, I stood by the bonfire, drinking cheap wine from a paper cup, on which I later wrote this poem:

Pillars of sparks
from the shrine's courtyard
give birth to stars

Also talked a little with one of the shrines kannushi, a young fellow with jeans poking out beneath his white robes. He claimed that the main reason his English was so good was so he could chat up foreign girls.

Missed the first sunrise, but compensated somewhat, with flashes of a fierce headache. With Daza and Eli, we walked to my local shrine, then down the Path of Philosophy to Miki's local. The slow pace of a three year old allowed us to notice all the things we usually miss during our walks or bike rides there. Zach and I explored the creepy remains of a long dead tea shop and as evening came on, we found a couple new places for waterfall misogi. Atop one stretch of steps we found some lollypops as offering to jizo. Bizarrely, this was the same thing Eli had been asking for all day.

The following day, biked upriver to join the crowds in prayer at Kamigamo Shrine, then walked the streets nearby, lined with high earth walls. Eric and Mari had their party that night, osechi followed by piano jazz.

On Daza's last day in town, we all walked up Daimonjiyama, then on into the woods beyond, hoping to find a path through the mountains back to my place. Along the way we met a bizarre old man walking with two canes who pointed us down the trail. We joked that he may have been a trickster fox, but stopped laughing soon enough, after dropping into a strange valley settlement which seemed to be abandoned. There were a handful of structures rapidly being overtaken by grass and vine. A few of them had strange figures of fiberglass and molded plastic, the detritus of festivals long over. One gargoyle was particularly creepy in the way it surveyed this dead kingdom. Had we been in the States, I would have been listening for dogs while worrying about guns. Yet even here in Japan, it was hard to feel completely at ease in such a place as this. Leaving the buildings behind, we continued along a small river into a land rapidly darkening with gathering clouds. The walk was forboding, along crumbling marshy trail that crossed steel beams that hid the creek and gave the aural illusion of passing cars. But the water continued to run, and the ridges grew lower and finally we found the road to Hiei. We began to hitch. Somehow, a car stopped for us, bringing us, four adults and a three-year old standing in the middle of a mountain road, down to the city. I'm sure the driver had a good story for his friends that night...


On the turntable: Talvin Singh, "Ha"
On the nighttable: "Granta 57: India! The Golden Jubilee"

Setting a pic: "Facing the New Year"