I enter Taku Taku to find the opening band is still on, wrapping up their set. They're a local band, young and handsome and obviously popular with ladies. I find I'm one of the few guys in here. The girls are standing mostly, swaying back and forth to the beat. The way they move is like seagrass, immobile at the roots. On stage the trio is still rockin' on. They've been well honed on their craft, busting out all the classic rock 'n' roll poses and facial expressions. They're dressed like the early Who, the guitarist whaling away on Angus Young's Gibson SG guitar, the bass player keeping time on a loaner from Paul McCartney. For their encore, an older, seemingly more seasoned musician joins them, blatently ignoring the dancing co-eds as he strums his massive bodied ES335. It was like a display of the instruments of 1970s rock gods.
Asakusa Jinta kept up the theme, their guitarist on his double necked Jimmy Page special. He and the rest of the band really ripped, living well up to their hype. Jinta music is a post WWII version of chindon, which musicians played as a means to advertise local shops. In addition to Jimmy Page, the band had a loco tuba player, a hot girl on soprano sax, and a hipster trumpeter, plus what seemed like Les Claypool on bass, furiously slapping and smacking his clear-bodied, stand-up bass. The drummer though was the true engine of the band, keeping a frenetic pace for this ska-punk-klezmer madness. Brilliant!
The show over, I stepped outside, smiling to find the rain had stopped. And so had my Vespa...
(There is a second part to this story, for with the ending of the gig, the night truly began. And I attempted to write it, but a straight narrative can't capture the surrealistic magic feel of the city streets on that cold autumn night. So, I rework it and rework it, thinking it now as a short story. Will post it later if I can get it into a satisfactory form.)
On the turntable: "Celtic Christmas"
On the reel table: "There Will Be Blood" (Andersen, 2008)
Joined facebook today. Boy oh boy are worlds colliding now...
My Morning Jacket, "Z"
Don DeLillo, "The Body Artist"
The Buddhists say that our possessions eventually own us. I agree, but must rebut using the example of T'ang poet Ou-yang Hsiu, Confucian minimalist in all but books, the bound evidence of one's memory and intellect.
On the turntable: Mogwai, "Ten Rapid"
On the reel table: "The Lower Depths" (Kurosawa, 1957)
After a poor night's sleep, I walk under the shade of that huge sprawling Fig Tree near the train station, moving toward a brunch with Sheryl. It's fantastic to see her, and we have a good time catching up, though it's hard to cover 14 years in a couple hours. As we talk, a group of four hippie boomers hold a small impromptu parade, smiling their stoned smiles and flashing peace signs and holding placards saying, "Impeach." My reaction was the same as when I saw Oliver Stone's latest film, "W." Why now? Where were you 4 years, no, 6 years ago? Don't let your egos fool you into thinking you still matter. They are later replaced by a real parade of camouflaged ROTC clones and old jeeps driven by aging vets. Is this Armed Forces Day? Veteran's Day? Boy, I've been away from America a long long time...
After brunch, I take a taxi up to San Marcos Pass and the White Lotus Foundation. Here I'd spend the week, studying Thai Yoga Therapy. While I developed new skills, I would be living a porous schedule, with ample time to hike, read, meditate on and around big rocks and trees, and take brisk, exhilarating swims in local watering holes. The weather favored the latter, staying up in the high 80s (F) most of the time. Night brought on the winds. The first night they were especially strong, making sleep scarce. (Poor sleep being the theme of the trip, actually.) I could hear the wind coming from the valley below, roaring up the ridge where my yurt stood. Through the glass nipple roof, I would watch a tree bough thick as a Volkswagon bob and weave only a few feet above my bed. The constant gusts sounded like a dozen bears tearing through the canvas. A few BIG gusts shook the floor like an earthquake. With these Santa Ana winds often come fires. A few days into the week, moneyed Montecito was alight. Daylight hours were marked by the near constant thump of helicopters flying over, huge monsters filling up with water at nearby Lake Cachuma, which they'd then drop onto the flames. Looking up was like being an amateur entomologist; the various aircraft an intriguing variety of insect shapes. From my mountain perch, the sky over the sea was smoky, hiding the Channel Islands entirely. Ironically, the sky up here is a flawless blue everyday. Nights are even more starting, the moon highlighting the landscape in Day for Night clarity, everything shot through a gauze filter like those old films. Every cloud, every rock is visible. Animals take advantage of this light, and when the winds finally cease, I can hear them creeping around my yurt throughout the night. I look for tracks in the morning, but the ground is too dry from lack of rain. One afternoon, while hiking on the ridge above the yurt village, I find a variety of tracks in a soft patch of sand. There are an intermingling of deer and skunk prints, plus the huge paw shape of either a bobcat or mountain lion. My sleep is even worse after finding these, though I eventually drift off to the sound of crickets singing in time to Miles Davis on my computer.
I read a lot, do plenty of yoga, and learn how to give a Thai massage. The last night, I play my shakuhachi awhile in the underground kiva (formerly a bomb shelter), and take part in a ceremony led by a Yanqi Shaman. The next day I'm off to LA. Near Ventura, there is a spot where I always seem to see dolphins. On this beautiful day, there is dolphin activity all along the southbound PCH. I get dropped off at Urth Cafe in Beverly Hills, where I reconfirm stereotypes as I wait for Gordo. I haven't seen him in 5 years, a significant period of time during which I got divorced, changed careers, moved cities, and married again. An hour-long monologue fueled by strong coffee just about covers it all. Gordo's own life jelled during this same five-year period, and he fills me in as we drive toward a setting sun whose patented beauty could only be created by this city's smog. LA drivers obviously spend loads of time in their cars, and seem so at home in them, in the way that their eyes are off the road and hands are off the wheel more than half the time. We have a surreal dinner in a fairly lowbrow Italian place, where the Chianti is bad and the waiters sing Happy Birthday. I love Gordo for taking me here, to a place so obnoxious and bustling and completely at odds with the peaceful quiet I'd had for the previous 9 days. Even after years without contact, a truly good friend will still fuck with your mind.
One last night of bad sleep in a hotel across from LAX, under the white noise of incoming planes. I hop an early flight for San Francisco, flying in an hour over what had taken many days to drive. We pass over Santa Barbara, which shows no apparent fire damage from 30,000 feet. I look at all those central coast mountains, and for the first time in years I remember the word, "Wilderness." I don't usually think of myself as separate from nature or mountains or the forest. But what is spread below me looks rough and wild, its beauty hiding perils like forest fires and big deadly cats. It's like a thick wrinkly comforter on an unmade bed. Somewhere along the way it dawns on me how much like an American I now feel, how these three long trips over eighteen months have made the place seem like home again. Mentally, I'm prepared for the impending return. (Emotionally? Who knows...) As we near SF, I look down on the water of the Bay. Lacking landmarks, I have no real perspective. I could be hundreds of feet up or merely standing at the edge of a small pond lightly tousled by wind. This lack of perspective continues until the plane's shadow appears, rising and rising until it touches our belly.
An hour later it's wheels up again, and a bigger shadow now speeds across the tarmac. My seatmate is Japanese, who demonstrates that uncanny ability to sleep anywhere, a trait seemingly shared by most Asians. Within minutes of takeoff he's out, and for the next 11 hours he does a lovely impression of an angler fish, head back, mouth open. When this entertainment grows thin, I keep busy with my books and videos, breaking away from the mono-view of seascape that begins immediately upon leaving the fatherland. We pass half a day in tracing a high arc above Alaskan islands toward the little happy land where the mono-views are in the politics...
On the turntable: Velvet Underground, "Live at End Cole Avenue"
On the nighttable; Donald Richie, "The Films of Akira Kurosawa"
Geologists are never at a loss for paperweights.
On the turntable: Beth Orton, "Daybreaker"
On the nighttable: Michael Pollan, "The Omnivore's Dilemma"
On the way to the airport, I thought about how it is a new dawn for this country. The coming of the new Obama administration could finally morally justify a return home for me. I wondered what was going on in the heads of each African American I saw. I could imagine the incredible amount of pride they must be feeling. Yet will there truly be an improvement in racial relations in this country?
In the airport, an excited New Yorker shows me the cover of today's New York Times, telling me that the font used as the headline for the election is one he hasn't seen since the first moonwalk back in 1969. Apparently the font is used only for historic occasions. My plane takes me up out of Denver and over Boulder. Just beyond, the Rockies are getting their first heavy snow of the season. Further on in Utah, the mountains are lined up neatly in rows.
I deplane in San Jose, in an airport whose layout defies logic. I don't find any logic out on the road either, where I join the insanity that is the California Highway system. We spend 15 minutes going 80mph, then 15mph for 10 minutes, then back to 80 again. The traffic and the speed give out eventually, in an area where flannel-shirted workers bend over rows of bushes that stretch out toward the sea. Big grilled pickups and muscle cars rush past, predictably piloted by Navy men stationed nearby.
I meet with Ben, and we walk up into the hills above his house. It becomes full dark quickly, and it isn't long before we see deer coming down to graze from the hedges surrounding the massive estates up here. I spend a couple days here, walking the Monterey streets, beside white buildings red-headed with Spanish tile. It is a lovely town, with fine weather, but there isn't much life here; many shops are closed, the streets relatively empty of people. Life seems to have gone elsewhere. Ben and I follow suit, driving south to Point Lobos. We wander the forests and cliffs, going through our usually walk and talk rituals to dispel angst.
A day later I pass the same stretch of shoreline, solo this time. I follow the twisty mountain road with the views that define Big Sur. Many stretches through here are black and burned from recent fires. The charred hillsides seem indiscriminatory. More than a few sections of these, having lost their topsoil are following gravity's path, across the road and into the sea below. More than once I have to stop for quite a while in order for workers to clear the roads of the night's rockfall. I hardly mind since it's a lovely day. I get out of the car and walk to the edge of the cliffs, smelling the pines and looking at the sea hundreds of feet below.
The mountains eventually drop toward the sea, giving way to long stretches of flatland. The signs here say "Whale Watching." It isn't long before I notice the flecks of silver light that are the arching backs of dolphins. Dozens of elephant seals lay on the beach, using their flippers to flick up sand in order to keep the heat off. I overhear a ranger talking about the losses this colony suffered during recent storms. Two bulls begin to fight, but apparently the spirit isn't with them, and they both retreat to different parts of the beach. On a hillside nearby, Hearst Castle stands lonely and forlorn.
I pull into Cambria for lunch, sitting at a rail a few meters from the sea. The weather is warm and beautiful, so I sit awhile here watching the surfers exercising their patience in the low rolling swells. Other figures are on the beach, silhouetted in twos. When I lived in Santa Barbara, I used to escape up here sometimes. My favorite place was this old cemetary somewhere up in the pines, filled with the graves of the English and the Scottish who settled this part of the coast. As I drive south out of town, I look for it, but of course there are no signs. No surprise. Americans are a people in a constant battle with aging, and hate to be reminded of nuisances like death.
The Santa Ynez Valley still proves to be one of the most beautiful places on earth. I pass beneath hills and mountains I once hiked, drive around the lake where I saw my first Pow-Wow. I cut my teeth in this place. Coming over San Marcos pass I see the familar shapes of the Mesa, Isla Vista, the Channel Islands beyond. Once in town, I head up State Street, amazed at how much has changed in 14 years. There are many new chains here, the old chains too still hanging on. The local shops, the ones that gave this town so much character, are no longer here. The travel bookstore where I spent hours researching my Asian travels, where I had had a long conversation with Pico Iyer, is now a Starbucks. Earthling Bookshop, where you could choose from some of the best stock on the planet and read it in front of huge fireplace, is a neo-bleached Old Navy. My favorite cafe, Cafe Roma, is still there, though now a chain. Another of my haunts,Video Schmido, (DVD Schmeeveedee ?) is thankfully there, as are both my old places of employment. I spend most of the evening in Lost Horizon bookshop talking with my former boss Jerry. For three years I worked here, minding the store so that he could surf. He tells me he's more partial to softball these days. Enterprise Fish Co. is also still around, though both the interior and the menu have been drastically revamped. The bar area is completely different, with lots of neon and a new wall that takes in a now obsolete smoking section. Friday night is bustling, as usual, and the waitstaff is larger and much cuter than in my day. A staff photo still hangs near the men's room, reminding me of days and friends long past. After my meal I walk back to my hotel that lies below the cliffs upon which City College stands. Santa Barbara has always been a strange place, hyper-rich people living in the homes in the surrounding hills, with a ever-changing supply of college kids to serve them at their favorite shops and eateries. The people I used to hang out with 15 years ago have no doubt long ago moved on. New college kids remain a constant, displaying a fair share of fake boobs, more than I've seen in previous trips to the States. A new generation of punk skaters are keeping it real, serving as the missing link to my day, along with the usual assortment of homeless eking out a reasonably comfortable existence in these temperate climes.
On the turntable: Gomez, "How We Operate"
In the rapidly fading light, I head north, following the Rio Chama flowing yellow with Cottonwoods. The moon is up, a slim crescent flanked by two stars. I keep a close eye out for elk, who move through this area in great numbers. Near the Colorado border stands a low mountain, looking grassy and beautiful. I'd hoped to get here before dark in order to ogle its shape, which had so impressed me last year. I honk my horn as I leave New Mexico, most likely the next time I go back it'll be to live there. It's full dark now, so I grab a bed near the terminus for the Toltec Railroad. The motel owner asks me if I'm in town for the hunt. Next door is a combination Bar and Diner, where I sit and order. The other customers all appear to be hunters, wearing clothes of camouflage or bright orange. A local politician moves amidst the tables, but doesn't approach mine. Somewhat self-consciously, I pull out a book to read. My food arrives, and after a few bites, I begin to gag and hiccup. This happens to me about once or twice a year, if I eat too fast. By getting up and walking around, it usually goes away quickly. I walk to the toilet, and upon a large hiccup, my mouth fills with foam, which I spit into the toilet. I begin to feel better and return to my table. But it happens again, and then again. I apologize to the server, pay my check and go back to my room. The next hour is a comic scene of me sitting on the edge of the tub, reading my book, and spitting foam into the toilet. Finally, I vomit the entire contents of my stomach, tasting again the pesto I had at lunch. My body had really wanted to reject something. Previously, I'd had bizarre hallucinations or intense emotional reactions while doing intensive yogic breathing sessions, especially those related to my throat. The same may have happened here, after all the weekend's pranayama. Or maybe it was being surrounded by the hunters, taking sport in taking life. Who knows? I slept well and quickly, my body exhausted after all the spasms.
The next morning I woke early and continued on through the San Luis Valley. I was surprised to see the Rio Grande running up here. If I grabbed an inner-tube and got on the water, after a few really cold days, I'd pass near my mom's house. High snow coated peaks rose to my right, and eventually the road ran right into them. Clouds sit on these peaks like a cap. I pass old schools and crumbling homesteads. The newer ones surprise me in how remote they are. With such gorgeous views from the picture windows, who needs TV? I'm driving along at 8000 feet, with 14ers right over...there. But from this altitude they look climbable in an hour or so. Up around 10000 feet, patches of snow begin to appear, hiding themselves in the shadows of tall pines. Through the mountain communities now, along a stream running fast and cold. Cord wood is stacked in front of many homes; winter must be coming soon.
I'm in Boulder by lunchtime. My brother is working, so I walk up to the Hill, grab a sandwich at Half Fast, a coffee at Buchanans. The sky over the Flatirons is starting to striate, but much of the street traffic is wearing t-shirts or shorts. I grow tired quickly of watching the Greek posturing here, so I head over to campus and grab a spot of grass. I try to make headway with my book, but I'm too enthralled by the trees, who have already removed their tops, but have modestly retained their flowing yellow skirts.
The next day, election day, I chose to ride a bike along the foothills, dropping down onto quiet streets strewn with leaves. Autumn, which hasn't yet gotten to New Mexico yet, has nearly finished here. The look of everything is pastoral, warm and homey. I wind up on Pearl Street, where I walk and eat and read. Kurt will finish work soon, and we'll get to the business of watching the returns come in...
Obamanos!
On the turntable: Amos Lee
On the nighttable: Dieter Dengler, "Escape from Laos"
I'm up in Santa Fe for about 10 days, finishing up my yoga teacher training with Tias Little. This is the first session they've held at the new studio that they built behind their house. It is a pleasant little space, in the desert outside town. There are no guest facilities out here, so we all commute into town to stay at the Sage Inn. I feel that this breaks up the feeling of peace that usually accompanies spiritual retreats, and I wish we could've stayed at Upaya Zen Center again, with its remote feel and clothing-optional sauna. Don't miss Upaya food at all, which always messes with my digestion. My stomach is funky anyway, air moves howling through my belly during lectures.
The days begin somewhat late, with meditation followed by a 3 hour yoga practice. After the first few days, I feel like someone has taken a crowbar and yanked open my stiff shoulders and closed clavicles. I have a migrane that lasts for three days, and I'm not sleeping well; could be altitude, could be grief trauma being systematically wrenched from my body.
In the afternoons, we all eat lunch in the sun. Afterward, we listen to Tias give talks in front of the moon window, clusters of birds occasionally bisecting the flawless sky behind his head. Inevitably, we'll do another hour or two of asana in the midst of it. This training is billed as "The Subtle Body," delving into psychology, spiritual states, and the parasympathetic nervous system. The most amazing thing about Tias is how he goes into areas well beyond yoga, covering things I'd learned in my vastly different training in India and Vermont. One amazing teacher.
As usual there was good company. The caretaker of the Shaker Museum in New York state. A young woman currently training at Tara Mandala in southern Colorado. An alumnus of Upaya. Plus writers, yoga teachers, body workers. On the final night, as we eat curry and drink wine around a campfire, a comet passes by, so huge and bright and flaming that I momentarily think a plane is crashing down into Santa Fe. We've been blessed.
I go down to my mom's place for a couple days, then am back in town for the weekend. Richard Rosen is doing a workshop on pranayama. I'm a big Tias fan, of course, but Richard is one of the best teachers I've ever seen, weaving history (both Indian and American), sanskrit lessons, anatomical knowledge, jokes, film references, and song lyrics into the mix. This is technically a 12 hour weekend of breathing, but we do our share of asana as well.
On Friday, Halloween, as I go over to get a slice of pizza during a dinner break, I'm held up by a passing train, packed with costumed kids and adults, the former waving, the hands of the latter too busy holding onto long-stemmed glasses. The train blasts its air-horn, filling my body with sound which resonates through my core, hollowed out by an afternoon of deep breathing. The sky above mimics my revved-up brain, first the color of brushfire, later a duller grey like a fogbank rolling in.
The next night, Gino drives up from Albuquerque. We spend far too much time trying to find REI, driving round and around a train station built for trains which don't yet exist. This town is constantly evolving, and a short walk proves that little is where it used to be. Some things hardly change at all. As Gino and I have pints and food up on the Ore House balcony, a couple guys we knew from high school turn up, suddenly and surprisingly. The talk turns to old parties and girlfriends, mixed martial arts bouts and elk hunting. Worlds are definitely colliding here, an atmospheric book end to the comet of a few nights before. Later Gino and I tear ourselves away for coffee at Borders. He's long quit his position as regional manager for the chain, thought the staff doesn't know that. We sit laughing at a staff in frenzy, rushing about to straighten shelves. They'll sweat a few days, waiting for a memo that'll never arrive.
Sunday, the last day, I do 5 hours pranayama and asana with Richard, plus another couple hours in a Tias class packed with 58 people, many of them the being this town's wealthy "painted ladies." By the time I get in the car for the drive up toward Boulder, I'm spent...
On the turntable: Death Cab for Cutie, "Narrow Stairs"
On the nighttable: Barbara Kingsolver, "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle"
Where even the most mundane things in San Francisco inevitably seem "hip," my home state has the tendency to dazzle you with her beauty. It is best to keep in mind Joel Weishaus's words that "New Mexico's emptiness tempts the imagination to overdose on scenery and clichés."
But clichés aren't all that easy to avoid.
As my plane swoops in, I look down at ancient volcanoes rising like areolae from the brown earth, which curves away toward the edges of horizon. The desert here is a fuller color than it was last summer. And the sky so blue, not as dark as the High Sierran lakes we'd flown over, but much more dramatic. There is so much space here that thoughts come out in fragments, with little to hold them together.
A day or two later, I get up early to help my mom clean her church. I sweep the courtyard, pushing the broom over land than had once been sacred to the native people now long pushed out by the Mexican farmers who've for centuries plowed the nearby fields. There are a few spaces carved like caves into the adobe walls, hiding a handful of this county's long forgotten war dead. As I sweep, I think how the zen monks in my adopted land pull their brooms toward them, where here at home I am pushing it away. A metaphor lies here somewhere, maybe in how zen is about moving inward toward one's true face, while the Catholics expand outward to meet God. As I amuse myself with these useless thoughts, I try to ignore the Right to Life posters on the wall. Apparently the parish priest himself isn't so extreme in his ideas, and in a brief conversation, I find him a delight. He literally howls when I tell him how Miki once mistook a confessional for a bathroom.
Afterward, I indulge myself in that other American past time, politics. From abroad, the election seems like a sporting event, but here at home it is more like a battle. It's depressing how easily the news networks throw around war metaphors. This is the first day of early voting and here in New Mexico, a swing state, it takes me almost a hour to do my civic duty. It's always fun to listen to the opinionated conversations of these small town folk around me. I happened to be here four years ago, and I'll never forget hearing one old guy saying, "Well that Bush just looks a whole lot tougher." That 2004 election had been really tight here, taking on a reddish hue by a mere 11 votes. How I'd prayed for a tie, which according to state law would've been decided by a hand of poker. I eventually get my pencil and darken the circles on my ballot, taking the multiple choice test that is democracy.
I spend long afternoons out in the back yard. The space here is not only in the physical landscape. It's all too easy to sink into the silence. The ring of the phone feels especially offensive. One afternoon, two Apache helicopters fly over, so low that I can see the door gunners, leaning into the space. I read and watch the birds feed. Two sparrows have built a nest over the front door, and the daylight hours are marked by the near constant tapping of their beaks on their own reflections in the mirrored glass just below. One night I step outside, accidentally scaring dozens of migratory birds from the trees out front where they'd chosen to pass the night. Another night, I surprise a coyote.
As usual, I watch films. The sub woofer of the home theatre setup more than once tricks me into thinking that we're having a quake.
My sister and her family fly over from North Carolina. I hike along Sandia Crest with my nephew. The wind is strong, my ears aching with the altitude. We climb onto the roof of the Kiwanis Cabin, (the place where I proposed to Miki last year), with its 270 degree views of the desert floor a mile down. On the road home, three elk run across the road and escape into the scrub, the white bulls-eyes of their asses moving toward the ridge above. The setting sun makes the sky a tapestry of yellow, throwing gold bars across the striated rocks of the valley's mesas.
Throughout it all, the sky keeps its constant blue, broken only by planes plowing vapor trails high above...
On the turntable: Bonnie Prince Billy, "Blue Lotus Feet"
On the nighttable: Ivan Morris, et al., "Madly Walking in the Mountains"
On the reel table: "Amongst White Clouds" (Burger, 2007)
After dark, we make our way down toward the Mission. We decide to grab a beer before dinner. The Argus is dark, the clientele young hipsters again. The same can be said later over at the Latin American Club. In both bars we can't seem to get the IPA I've been craving for most of the year. Distributor seems to be out. We sit under the pinatas drinking Anchor Steam, laughing at all the 80s tunes that come over the sound system. They come across much cheesier having played the soundtrack to teen memories. We are finally able to get a seat at Barretta, a new Italian 'comfort food' place CLo had been wanting to try. A place so hip that when we'd originally balked on joining the wait list, the hostess shrugged like, "Don't care if you eat here or not." The food was outstanding, but would've tasted better in sobriety and on more sleep.
The next morning, we do the morning ritual at Liberty Cafe, where Miki and I ate often last year. CLo finished work midday, so we drive over to the Haight for lunch and a walk. Our legs take us up over a few hills and up Fillmore. We go into the Japan Center, all the kanji messing with my head so soon off the plane. We check out Yoshi's jazz club, with its beautiful pre-war vibe, high ceilings and spiral staircases. Fillmore looks pretty beat down. We see three instances of road rage on three consecutive blocks of a single street. The Fillmore Auditorium plays bookend to yesterday's Warfield, two names often seen on cassette tapes of Dead bootlegs.
Drop the car up in Bernal and watch some of the debate. Growing fat on slogans and hungry for a meal, we make our way out. The debate continues, flashes coming from every bar or shop we pass. Even the butcher is tuned in. Down the hill, the seedier pool halls opt to show a futbol match instead. A fine representation of the artist/workingclass vibe in this part of town. We pop into El Rio for our long sought after IPA, downing them as CNN begins their spin. We finally make it over to Popolote, now bustling with amateur spin of its own. We've eaten late a lot these two days, testament to CLO and I getting caught up in our gab, scattering our attention. I ask him about why everybody in this city just vibrates with hipness. He said that most people here are able to work some kind of cool job which allows for a certain lifestyle. I think about this as we pass a Hello Kitty piñata in a store window, under the buttery light of a harvest moon, hanging high above the Victorians.
On the turntable: Haco, "Happiness Proof"
On the nighttable: Dervla Murphy, "Full Tilt"
I think too of my uncle's team, the Dodgers, whose own season finished a week ago. I think how their move from Brooklyn to LA back in 1958 killed two communities.
And I think of course of the Yankees, who couldn't even eke a few more games out of their beautiful stadium. It dawned on me recently that back in the era of the club's hot 1970's teams, I had been too young to see that those teams I adored had been created by Steinbrenner's Hand-of-God approach to ownership, an approach which eventually went on to kill the entire game of baseball for me.
OK, that's it. Three strikes, I'm out...
On the turntable: "Rogue's Gallery"
On the nighttable: E. Readlicker-Henderson, "Under the Protection of the Cow Demon"
One Saturday night, there was a release party for the latest issue of Kyoto Journal, one that highlights some residents of that city. Among these is a Zen monk from Myoshinji's subtemple of Taizo-in, where the party was held. All of the interviewers and interviewees were invited to connect and re-connect over beer and vegetarian fare. Miki's friend Aki played the Ainu instrument, mukurri. She in turn was followed by a kamishibai performance. Later, everyone was invited out to the garden. The lighting created an entirely different visual subtext than a zen garden seen in full daylight. Some areas were hidden, others revealed. Long shadows were thrown in a way that closely and uniquely paralleled the contours of the viewer's mind. Swells of shakuhachi phrases came out of some of these shadows. The light behind revealed multi-colored patterns of kimono...
II
The next day, Miki and I had intended to continue on our walk of the old roads, but an insistent rain limited us to a medium-sized stroll over Kurodani past Honen's hut of purple clouds, then on down to Heian Shrine for Veggie Festa. We ran into quite a few of our friends there, so many that it took us over a hour to actually leave. Cafe Millet's Juri and Kuma-pan were selling vegan sweets and coffee, and not far away, Iain D. and Chie were explaining how the magic behind their biofuelled truck. A couple of Hare Krishna were spooking people with their literature, most of all, JesusChris, who felt stalked. I was surprised and happy to run into the Sikh who runs the Kundalini Center down on Mt. Ikoma. We continued a conversation we had back in the spring. He has renovated the retreat space and hopes to do more events there. Very intriguing. On the stage nearby, a very talented band was playing a unique, jazz-world music hybrid. We walked past, happy and recharged as we made our way home.
III
Bodhi over at Iori invited me to take part in a series of workshops and events held as part of the Origin Arts Program. Founded by Alex Kerr, Origin offers the opportunity for people to come to Kyoto and experience a variety of traditions under a master instructor. Due to work commitments I could only attend the Noh portion, but this was the area that most interested me. As a long term student of aikido and kyudo, I had long been curious to see if there is any connection with the footwork of Noh. (My previous study of the Omotesenke tea ceremony found similarities in the movement of the hips.) The workshop was run by the son of a famous Noh actor. He led us through an enjoyable afternoon, the movements of the Japanese guests done in the utmost concentration; those of the foreigners a study in self-consciousness (myself included). This was followed by a philosophical and spiritual lecture on Noh masks. It was incredible how these masks took on a life of their own when worn. It literally became a living face. As he talked, his real face became a mask, that of a performer and a teacher. It was only when speaking of his personal life that this "mask" cracked to reveal the typical face of a 27-year old. During the performance later that night, while performing as part of the chorus, his face became ethereal, almost demonic. This otherworldly nature of the performance was enhanced by his father, dancing and stomping less than a meter in front of me. In his mask, flowing robes, and furious glare, he acted the shaman, connecting us simultaneously with all ancient cultures and all ancient places. The only human part of him was his hands, which looked massive. Time too flirted with stopping completely and becoming all times, but for the lone shime drummer keeping human time marching on, sticks brandished stiffly with flourishes that revealed some of the roots of kumi daiko. When the beat stopped, we, the audience, were silent. When and how does a person applaud a transcendental experience?
Afterward, we all went over to the Yoshikawa Ryokan for a formal sit-down dinner. The night was still warm but the garden surrounding us was moving toward the colors of autumn. Alex was a fantastic interpreter and host, tying themes not only between the arts of Japan, but also amongst other Asian traditions. For example, he mentioned that Gagaku is basically 6th Century Turkish dance, sped up. When he spoke of this cultural game of telephone, I had to smile when he said that these arts "came to Japan and never got lost." This coming from a man who wrote a book entitled, "Lost Japan." As we ate and talked, a handful of geisha and maiko moved about to keep us company and see that our glasses were full. I was surprised to see that one of the maiko was a familiar face, having been part of our filming, "Tengu" last spring. I especially enjoyed talking with Teruko, an aging geiko still going strong in her 70s. She was particularly interesting in that she'd spent a month in Hollywood as part of the cast of Marlon Brando's "Autumn of the Teahouse Moon." Yet to me, the best part of these parties is how, in a room filled with people of various "social standing, " the geisha are magnanimous in treating us all exactly the same. It was a wonderful night, one that won't come again. It served as a explicit reminder of how non-Japanese my life has become. The life I've been leading lately could be had anywhere, despite achieving my decades long dream of living in the ancient capitol.
The second day, I arrived late, yet in time for the Kyogen performance. In it, I could see in the exaggerated yelling and gestures the roots of today's TV talento. Similarly, the use of onomonopeia seemed a precursor to the sound effects of manga. The lead actor was surprisingly a Czech, who bore an uncanny (yet beardless) resemblance to Richard Chamberlain in his role as "Anjin-san." While performing, his face took on the characteristics of a Japanese, yet later in English conversation, he was all European. A very friendly, humble, and talented man.
This event too was followed by a party, where Alex and a calligraphy master wrote out a variety of kanji characters in differing styles. As the wine went down, the strokes became more gorgeous, and we too became more bold in shouting out the names of kanji whose beauty we hoped to see created on paper, words referring to those beautiful qualities we hoped to instill in our own lives.
IV
Another Saturday, I took part in a haiku hike up Arashiyama's Mt. Ogura. It was a combined literary tour and mountain clean-up, led by local poet Stephen Gill. It was another beautiful autumn day, and even the color of the rusty homes near the train station could be a kigo for koyo. We went up through the narrow bamboo lined paths at the base of Ogura, surrounded by groups of Chinese and Korean tourists. The forest beyond the neatly-kept bamboo fence were wild tangles of roots and fallen trees. Holes in the fence showed where inoshishi had brought some of that wild through. We stopped occasionally to hear a poem, moving steadily up through Saga, the color of moss on kaya roofs mimicking the forest beyond. At a bend in the road we found a group of Ritsumeikan students hard at work cleaning appliances and other large trash off the hillside. (I love how this is part of a college course on "Volunteerism," yet is considered a mandatory requirement.) We made our way down, staying close to a series of ropes which had been criss-crossed in order to create a hold for balance. The slope was close to 45 degrees, with a false surface that was about two or three meters of garbage reclaimed by soil. As you bent your head close to the ground to pick things up, you were in constant danger of being beaned by rocks carelessly dislodged by the feet of those on the ropes above you. The feet had no real place to plant themselves, making for a bizarre type of ankle yoga. This sense of working at zero gravity was probably not unlike doing a space walk or working underwater. If you slipped, after a series of uncomfortable bounces you'd wind up in the Hozu River. We worked a couple of hours, then had lunch at the top of Ogura, with Kyoto splayed out below us to the south. Another short walk brought us to an fenced in area of land which belongs to Ristumeikan. Within was a large clearing of indigenous (autumn) wildflowers and small fir trees. This was real landscape, far more lovely than the obsequious sugi monoculture of the higher mountains now at the reaches of our vision. Whereas the damage on the hillside that we had cleared had been the work of individual polluters, what we now saw before us was systematic pollution as a matter of national policy. Navigating that bureaucracy will take nimbler footwork than any we'd demonstrated today.
V
(Tokai Shizen Hoedown VII)
That same weekend, Tim was in the Kansai to play a gig with Nara musician, Roman Rhodes. Miki and I did a hike nearby, following the TSH along the Kizu River. We got off the train at Tsuki-ga-Seiguchi, stepping onto a platform built excessively long due to the old SL trains that once travelled this valley. The first bit of our walk was along a moderately trafficked road, going past dams and a nuclear power plant. Beyond this we entered the forest, below Buddhas and Jizo carved into stone. The mountains down here feel particularly ancient. Near one bend in the river we heard the voice of what I thought may have been a bear cub, my heart stopping immediately. We didn't see anything, but it was probably some just kind of waterfowl. The trail took us up to a nice little village, where an old woman made her way gingerly and deliberately to pull weeds at the side of her garden. Atop the hill was yet another shrine connected to Amaterasu. The river became narrow and wild here, its length easily traversed by hopping large boulders all the way down. The last couple km were right next to the iron rails we'd ridden on that morning. At the far end we came to Kusagi, where the rafters finish their runs of the white water. On the table beside the sand were a dozen tea bottles, clustered around a 3D model of the river's course. The stone banks further down were covered by the tents of those enjoying the long weekend. A festival had just finished up in the village itself, dozens of kids now running around a mikoshi laid on its side, its carriers downing yet another sake round for their labor. Miki went home, but I met up with Tim and Roman, for our own parade of the Kyo's many Irish pubs.
There were also many smaller things, like my taiko lecture at a local college, or Miki doing a talk at Green E on Holistic living (with another to follow soon) or our teaming up to do a pair yoga/pair shiatsu workshop (this one at Cafe Millet, followed by an incredible lunch). October 14th was the 6th anniversary of Ken's death. Tempting fate, I boarded a plane bound for the States...
On the turntable: "Rogue's Gallery"
On the nighttable: Werner Herzog, "Of Walking in Ice"
On the reel table: "Two for the Road" (Donen, 1967)
