Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Westbound III

Took a morning train west, to catch a bus for the next part of the trail. Detraining with us were dozens of men, all heading to the free shuttles that would take them to the Bicycle Races. They shared the same frumpled and unhealthy look, as if gambling with their health was part of the package. Our own bus was full of old timers heading to view the sakura at Hananotera, its stone walls enclosing 400 trees. We headed the other way, through a series of villages. One beautiful house has a wrap-around creek How pleasant (I thought) to sit with your feet hanging over the garden, the water below gurgling away hot and starry summer nights. Up and up toward Kanzoji, a shaded cluster of buildings stacked up the steep mountainside. A small dilapidated hut stood on the east side of a clearing. I image a monk living here for decades, looking out over a view that becomes gradually unrecognizable, the view creeping toward him as more and more homes pop up on this long plain that connects Kyoto with Osaka.

The trail levels off, through a forest with many mamushi warning signs. The lizards play hide and seek with us, so I imagine the vipers are up too, giving me the chance to worry about something besides boars. I wonder if their distant Ursine relatives have finished their own hibernation. Sure enough, they have signs of their own. We soon come to a clearing with a truly bizarre sight. The valley is literally paved with granite, grave markers fitted together in a way reminiscent of Tetris. There must be thousands of them here, old grave markers relocated and abandoned. In front of them all is a single brazier for incense; to pray for one is to pray for all. Very Buddhist. I head over to the older graves, some of which must be centuries old. The small jizo statues also stretch back in time, marking the deaths of children who never grew old enough to contribute their genes to the more recent generations of dead whose own stone markers are nearer the front. Under the trees were some larger stones of animals or mythological figures. I wander away, wondering where all these graves came from, and what has been built on the site where they once stood.

The next village rests in a very high valley. We pass an old man and his young grandkids readying the fields for irrigation. The trail suddenly shoots straight up toward

Ponpon-yama. The name comes from the sound that feet make as they walk toward the crest. I'm guessing the name has an older and now forgotten source. Besides don't all footfalls sound like that? Earlier, Miki and I had a conversation about how we rarely meet anyone on these trails. Not so this one. Today, we pass dozens of hikers in organized groups. They are uniformly clad, and well-kitted out. One woman looks Miki over, her face showing her scorn at my wife's lack of gear. At the top of Ponpon is a small clearing. Lunchtime! It's hard to find peace up here, with that group and their loud stove, not to mention that joker over there with the radio. We turn our backs on their racket and look to the peaks stretching north.

The descent is as steep and fast as the climb. Partway down we spy what I call a tengu tree, an unusually shaped trunk marked with a small shrine. They're usually gnarled and spooky, but this one is stunning, simply a pair of high cypress whose limbs stretch toward each other in anticipation of an embrace. One has a hollow knot at the base, and inside this yoni is a small orange torii. Beautiful. We soon come to a large Tendai temple where we ring the large bell, the echoes of iron throbbing outward into the forest. The trail turns concrete now, racing toward the valley. Where the land levels off is another temple, spread out along a creek. The entrances to both of these temples are marked with the bizarre looking kanjogake-style gate, like a Shinto Torii but intertwined with vines from which bound branches hang down. It looks more European than Asian, as if they marked the domain of the pagan Green Man, who serves as the local deity. But we stayed on our own human side, passing between shops and noodle joints, toward the bus that will lead us back to Kyoto. Other human friends are waiting there, celebrating the return of Spring in the own way, upon a throne of rainbow-colored sheets overlooking the river...

On the turntable: Thomas Dolby, "Retrospectacle"

Sunday papers: Mark Walsh

Happy Easter!

On the turntable: I Monster, "Neveroddoreven"

Deep Kyoto

Michael Lambe has asked to be be an irregular contributor to his fantastic Deep Kyoto.  Today's post can be found there. 

Not much posting here lately due to pink flowers.  Off to the river again!

On the turntable:  Mount Eerie, "Live in Copenhagen"

On the nightable:  Hamish Beaton, "Under the Osakan Sun"

On the reel table:  Ong Bak  (2003, Pinkaew)

Sunday papers: Christopher Isherwood

"It's much easier to turn hate into love than to turn fear into love."

On the turntable: Ry Cooder, "I, Flathead"

Nara on a Winter's Day

Deer laying in the damp grass,

looking like embarrassed eunuchs

with their antlers shorn.

On the turntable: Velvet Underground, "Fully Loaded"

Capitalism

I'm on the train again, bound at a ridiculous pace for Tokyo. The Shink always feels like we're on a jet that is in a perpetual state of take off. Strong G's push me into my seat. Out the window are the mountains of Kyoto and Shiga. I look over peaks and ridges now familiar, eyes tracing the lines where the trails are, calves remembering the pitches of the slopes. Further on, into Aichi and Shizuoka. Looking toward prefectures north, I notice the snow covered shapes of the big muthas beyond, lying in wait for the hikers to return.

In Tokyo now, I do my business, then meet up with Leza. The wine and chat is always tasty here. Recently, I've been really feeling the pull to be a dad again, so a few hours playing with Yuto is just what I need. Exhausted, I go sleep in the teahouse, trying to read but lulled into sleep by the wind in the bamboo outside.

The next morning I head over to Meguro early. I walk down the hill to Gajoen, a ridiculous structure of Heisei gaudy opulence superimposed on early Showa ornateness. The murals of the earlier era are still here, of 3D geisha and bushi, and ceiling 'fans' decorated with images out of a 1930s beer ad. It all feels more Taisho than Showa, and I almost expect to see Tanizaki in a smoking jacket sipping coffee beside the fake waterfall. (His hair is perfect!) Besides the garden, there is a mock up of a farmhouse built inside the far end. Jumping metaphors again, it is like a Vegas Casino with a pre-war Japanese theme, when the country looked more toward Europe than the States. Secondhand nostalgia. The number of staff here is massive, dressed in identical uniforms and strolling the long carpeted corridors like extras in a SciFi flick. (Metaphor quota thereby reached.)

I drop down to the concrete canal and walk beneath sakura moments away from blooming. The chilly wind seems to be against them. A single blossom of a single tree takes initiative, a fleck of spectacular pink against the dingy grey background. Further down the hill stands the Parasite Museum. I'd long wanted to go to this place, its reputation established both in print and by the word of friends. But I wasn't too impressed. OK, so I'd heard about the 8.8 meter intestinal worm; I'd heard of the photo of the guy whose scrotum would make a tanuki blush. Beside this, there was little more than dozens of small specimen jars containing a small fleck of white floating in deep dark blue, reminding me of those Jacques Cousteau shows of my youth. None of this really captured my attention, though it did make me rethink that raw deer and undercooked boar meat of a few days before. What made the trip worth it was the fact that, despite all the posters showing how to avoid getting a parasite, the toilets had no soap or towels.

I make my way to Ebisu next, and the photography museum. The current exhibit is early Meiji photography, not too extensive but just enough to keep me out of the wind for a hour. More than half of the exhibits are of Kyoto in the 1860s and 70s, so I stay awhile to look for familiar spots that are hardly familiar at all. Most startling is a panorama view of a Kobe twice gone, with avenues incredibly broad despite being decades away from the first automobiles. Stepping back out into my own century again, to walk Yebisu Garden Palace, that faux-European Meiji dreamland. I linger on a bench awhile, here in a city with few places to sit, a city made more for movement.

I eventually head toward the train station. In the past, I'd loved Tokyo, but this time I'm quickly agitated by all the people rushing about. I've spent a lot of time in Osaka this winter, but in that city there seems space to move. Here in the capital, I'm jostled and bumped near any train station I pass. Zach mentions that Tokyo people move deliberately, in straighter lines on weekdays, whereas on weekends the movement is more random. The reason why is obvious. This Tuesday, I find myself in commuter hell, faces pouring out of a mass, each becoming distinct on approach. I just can't go with everyone else's flow. I'm finding that my stay in Japan has begun to take on a parabolic shape, and recently I'm making a lot of the same 'rookie mistakes' as I did my first year here. I wonder if this is due to a subconscious emotional and psychological weaning away from my adopted home, in this, my last year here. Being so out of rhythm is probably related to this. In any case, I arrive in Yoyogi safely for my lunch with Taiko Tari, then walk toward Shinjuku. Near the station's West Exit, I see one hipster with a bleached mustache carrying a small dog of the same shade. The smoking area, marked with a Smokin' Clean! sign, has the population of a small village, all subliminally simulated by the large Coccoon Gerkin behind. I wander down nearby Shonben Alley, its no peeing signs an ironic historical deconstructionist critique. Toward Shin-Ogikubo, continuing the hike of the Yamanote Line that I started with Zach a number of years ago. Around me are signs of lingering hay fever, the sniffles of a few weeks ago blossomed now into full blown coughs.

I have a class this evening in Osaka, so board the Shink mid-afternoon. On these trips, we can often see those young women in uniform who stroll the aisles like beauty queens. I'd always assumed that they are security in disguise. Today, one is subtly kitted out in body-armor, an apparent new addition to this year's pageant. (I give her an 8.3.) This, plus the sight of a helicopter flying above us somewhere near Izu, worries me briefly, in these days of terrorism and bad action films. By Shiga, it's all long forgotten. Out the window, amidst the still-barren fields stands a single sign for the Shizen Hodo, a portent for another trip toward Kanto, sometime in my future.

On the turntable: Silver Jews, "Tanglewood Numbers"

On the nighttable: Tim Moore, "Continental Drifter"

Tokai Shizen Hoedown XV

We had three days ahead of us and blue skies overhead. At an early hour, we found ourselves yet again walking away from Ishiyama-dera Station. This being the Shiga suburbs, it didn't take us long to lose the trail, always marked at annoyingly random intervals. (I said once again how I wanted to write a letter to the parks department, and this time Miki might actually hold me to it.) Despite walking lost between cookie-cutter houses, we made our way toward the tall hotels farther off, knowing they marked Nango Onsen and the bridge that would take us east across the river. The houses fell away quickly and we were soon on a farmroad that shook with every passing truck. The mountains weren't too far off and we were on them quickly. This area is known by the hopeful moniker of "Konan Alps", thought we found out later that this name referred only to the two low hills that rose to our left like perfectly shaped breasts. The figure of a lone hiker leaning into a stick was making his way slowly and gingerly up their steep sloped sides. The trail we were on was lovely, leading us along a stream. Just past a small Fudo Statue, a trio of waterfalls splashed their way down a series of huge boulders. We found a spot between them and tucked into our riceballs. Three old women suddenly came out of nowhere and complimented us on our perfect picnic spot. We surrendered it soon afterward and began to really climb, higher into the wilder and unspoiled reaches above.

At the top was Fudo-ji, and our approach was marked by more Fudo statues. One had a freakish gaze which followed us as we passed between the make-shift torii arch that serves as the barrier between the land of the living and the metaphoric land of death that belongs to Shugendo. The mountains where the yamabushi play are always marked by a certain quality. There's always the same sort of wind, the same sort of chill and darkness, with the clouds hemming in low overhead, and tree roots pushing up from the earth hazardously underfoot. This path is well-trod, sunken below the rest of the forest. The bird song, what little there is, sounds like a rusty gate. The temple grounds themselves are sparse, a few small structures, nearly windowless and lacking the frills and varnish of moneyed city temples. There are no patrons here, only hard training. Behind a small Jizo, a tiny ghoulish stone figure squats, and waits. We move up a set of stone stairs to an open area below high, swaying trees. A single figure of Fudo stands at one end, and upon our approach, he is lit up by a single beam of light from between briefly parting clouds. We have been accepted. Yet behind him too, nearly impercievable in the cliff face, is an older, more sinister Fudo, who scowls. There is some sort of duality going on here that is unsettling. Marking the furthest reaches of this open space is a cypress that is simply massive, stretching hundreds of feet up, with branches wind-shorn into an ironic bonsai. Shugendo is a sect strongly forbidden to women yet here on the grounds is a small shrine for preventing health issues specific to that gender. Nearby is a well named after a legendary dragon, and beyond that a path closed to all but those who lie down in this mountain. We find ourselves winded by a steep flight of stairs which we climb to the Hondo. It too is dark and dirty, thrusting out over the abyss and fastened to the cliff face by strong pillars and stronger faith. Whatever deity that is housed here (Fudo or Zao Gongen most likely) is hidden from us by the dark. We wander a little outside, pushing finally through a narrow gap in the rocks. Reborn once again, we descend sharply toward our world...

...which is sunny again. We follow the road awhile along a creek that flows through the grounds of the Shinji Shumeikai Sect, owners of the Miho Musuem which lies just beyond that hill to our east. The trail takes us onto their property at Misuji-no-taki Falls, dropping beautifully into fast moving water. A short ways away is a small farm collective, with a few farmhouses built in the traditional thatch style, yet completely refurbished within. We poke around some, and after awhile a young women comes over to chat, curious yet openly friendly in a way that members of these new religions tend to be. We move into the village proper now, older by centuries, then up a nice patch of forest. A half hour later it begins to widen, and Miki says, "Civilization again." Yet all I see is a hillside torn away, and the yellow machines that are responsible. We follow the narrow muddy potholed dirt road that led them here. Over the course of the day, we'll encounter three such roads, which seem to go on forever and offer little in the way of scenery. While I respect the fact those who designed this Shizen Hodo opted to use existing trails, I wish they'd been a little more creative in their choices. Close to half seems to be along roads such as this or down their paved, faster cousins. The trail markers here in Shiga are the worst of any prefecture. Most are old, and are quite dubious in which direction they are pointing. Despite them, we finally reached another village, gratefully grabbed a warm tea, then climbed into forest again. At the top of this particular rise were the ruins of Shigaraki Gushi, pronounced the capital in 745 by the impulsive Emperor Shomu. (The capital returned to Heian within the year.) Stones spread throughout the forest, marking the foundations of the cypress beams that had probably been contemporaries of the giant we'd encountered up at Fudo-ji. We stood up here amongst these remaining wisps of history, in a forest lonely but peaceful. Dropping down again, to meet the road at the Safari Museum(!), now closed. Dusk was falling and the wind, strong all day, was picking up. I'd been cold for hours so was thrilled when, upon approaching the platform, a train pulled up, saving us over an hour's wait 'til the next one on this quiet line.

We got off the train at another lonely platform, surrounded by fields and not much else. The hill directly in front of us was flicking with Christmas lights. We had reservations for a small inn out here, and had little idea which way to go, but the owner had earlier assured us that we'd know. We headed toward the lights. The owner of Oishi Minshiku was standing out front, having had some sort of premonition (or at least an idea of the train schedule). "I wasn't sure whether you were coming." He showed us to our room in an adjacent building. It was two adjoining rooms, both tiny, and at first I guessed that this was a renovated love hotel. We later found out that it was a dormitory for his apprentices. Oishi-san(?) was a potter and a wood-carver who'd once lived in Osaka, but had moved out to these wilds 17 years ago. His temperament as an artist was apparent in the inn's design, of a few rambling buildings completely littered with artwork both classic and cheesy. His pottery and woodwork were simply everywhere. On the hill behind the inn was an outdoor hot spring, which he offered to let us use, but he'd have to get it ready. Taking the hint, we said, "No, no, the bath in our room is fine." A smile of relief crossed his face as he turned, his ponytail bobbing its way toward the kitchen and the pressing business of dinner. I'd found his inn online and had wanted to stay here for the food. Oishi was also a hunter, and whatever he'd recently shot would be our meal. Today we had slices of frozen deer, katsuo sashimi, and thin sliced wild boar. The latter was to be eaten shabu shabu style. I was worried both karmically (as recently my anxiety about meeting one in the wild seems to be growing weekly) and gastronomically (not wanting to be weighted down by digesting meat during the following day's hike). Unlike the heavier, oilier botan nabe, this meat was really light, due to the fact that he'd raised the animal himself. His traps are especially small, letting him trap only adolescent hogs, which he'd fatten for three years to around 60kg, making for some tender and tasty meat. (There were apparently 17 more inoshishi on the grounds here.) The meat from a single boar would last around one week, and could last longer except that the internal organs are too smelly to be eaten by anything but his dogs. Alcohol seemed to be on the house tonight and flowed freely. We were the only guests, and besides the omnipresent TV, the only entertainment for the night. He was a funky guy with his own way of thinking, which entertained us as well. Written on the board above him are all the different types of game that he was able to prepare. (I believe another trip out here is necessary.) He told us how business had been off since the new bypass was built. "Most folks just come out for a quick golf game or a look at some pottery, then head home." As if to emphasize this, the news on the TV was mentioning that this had been the first day that highway tolls had been reduced to 1000 yen, and that traffic was triple the average. Some folks had driven all the way to Shikoku just for lunch, then returned home. Miki and the owner clucked their tongues, saying how ridiculous that the government talked "Eco-this" and "Eco-that," yet would create measures which ensured waste by encouraging more mindless, sheep-like consumerism. With this, we pushed ourselves off the wolf-skins upon which we'd been sitting and waddled toward bath and bed.

The train back to the trail left before eight. Oishi had woken us early, fed us, and even let us make some rice balls for lunch. He was a real delight and I hope to go back. (As should you. Oishi is atop this list.) We picked up the trail again, climbing a steep set of stairs into beautiful soft light. Miki and I are early risers but rarely make it out this early since we are usually on a train making our way toward a trailhead. It is a bit lame to call light delicious, but it was, and I miss those days of solo travel when I'd break camp at dawn and set out. (I look forward to seeing more of this light come summer.) The trail went over this low peak and descended again, alongside a creek. We passed a few shrines during the morning, most being little more than a rope or a stone marking a huge tree. The animist element of Shinto was alive and kicking out here. The next village was about a dozen homes spread out along a wide valley. This rare acceptance of space is unusual for Japan. Each home was huge and far away from the others. I could imagine the villagers coming together for festivals, gathering at the town hall, which stood just in front of the rice paddy where we sat and enjoyed some trail mix. We climbed out of the village into some real forest, dark and wild. The trail led through a small tunnel cut into a narrow bank of earth, passing between a few high lakes. Atop the next peak we had a wonderful view of space stretching away toward some high, wild looking peaks out west. (I'd later realize that we were now looking at the remainder of the day's walk.) It was rare to look out at this much...nothing. None of the usual concrete eyesores or power lines scarring the sky. The villages too were few, the green of trees ever-present. What we'd descend toward in a few minutes was the border of modern Shiga and Mie Prefectures. But in older times, this line bisected the towns of Iga and Koga. Both were traditionally the strongholds of the ninja. These ninja clans are mysterious in origin, thought by some to be remnants of defeated warriors, either of the dethroned Taira, or of the T'ang who'd fled China a couple centuries before. Or they could simply be former yamabushi who'd given up their mountain training grounds for a more settled existence of farming or esoteric Buddhist espionage. Either way, it was easy to see how the vastness of the forest below us would appeal to someone looking to be anonymous. We moved through the day, criss-crossing this border. The forest was filled with Spring, of new flowers, of bees, birdsong, and the voices of frogs. We moved along fencing designed to keep out the boars. It was creepy to pass through a gate between the safe village-side and the outer, unprotected barricades. It added to the whole medieval feel of things. Being this close to the pottery center of Shigaraki, it was natural that some of these villages had a kiln. Smoke rising from forged weapons could therefore be easily disguised as pots firing. We found ourselves moving through a Mie-ken relatively untouched, along a trail system which didn't rise or fall much, proving to be built more to traverse an area with ease and a certain amount of speed. In fact, we hadn't expected to go this far in one day. As the morning turned to afternoon, we realized that we wouldn't need our hotel reservation for the night, and that we wouldn't have any more hike to do tomorrow. For us, the trail stopped just below where those high ominous peaks shot straight up. They would keep. In their shadow was Tsuge Station, and a reasonably short ride back to Kyoto. We'd get there before dusk, to settle in with a DVD--Princess Mononoke, reminding us of where we'd come from.

On the turntable: Ryukyu Underground, "An Evening with Ryukyu Underground"

On the night table: Will Ferguson, "Hokkaido Hitchhike Blues"

On the reel table: "Gandhi" (Attenborough, 1982)

Introducing Ted Taylor & Other News

 

 

http://www.deepkyoto.com/introducing-ted-taylor-other-news/

"Now to today’s main point. I am happy to welcome a new guest contributor to Deep Kyoto: Mr. Ted Taylor. Born in New York and raised in New Mexico, Ted has lived in Japan for 15 years. After more than a decade in remote Yonago, Tottori, he moved to Kyoto to further his martial arts studies. He teaches yoga, plays music, and writes random things as they occur to him, some of which find themselves in print. He lives at the eastern edge of town, a great springboard for hikes and walks.

Ted is the author of the wonderful blog Notes from the ‘Nog, which I urge you all to read and enjoy. He will be posting irregularly on up-and-coming musical and yoga events and anything else that takes his fancy. I am very excited that he has accepted my invitation to contribute his own unique voice to this blog."

 

 On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Free Concert in Piedmont Park, Atlanta"

That cat's name is Maceo

On the train this week, was a mentally handicapped guy who looked just like Kodo's Oda Yosuke. He was sitting there in the priority seats, tapping his feet and singing quite exuberantly, with huge expressive eyes. His voice had all the gravel and shriek of James Brown. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, I toggled over to some instrumental tunes by the JBs, took one bud out of my ear and had my own private Funk Party. All the way to Kyoto, there was Oda Yosuke, boogying along with Fred and the gang, right there on the Kintetsu line...

On the turntable: Lucille Brogan, "The Complete Recorded Works"

On the nighttable: Yoda/Alt, "Yokai Attack!"

On the reel table: "Gion Bayashi" (Mizoguchi, 1953)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown IX

At the bus stop, a group of maybe 50 people was milling around, waiting for the bus.  I thought that there was no way we'd be able to ride out to Yagyu today.  What was it that wanted to prevent our trip out there?  You may remember that we'd missed the same bus a month ago, due to an sudden schedule change.  Was this some kind of divine punishment for our entering that closed trail?  Was that mountaintop traverse closed to all but a chosen few?  As I pondered this, an employee from the bus company came out to assess the situation.  He concluded that he'd have to get a second bus.  This turned out to be a good thing, since we'd travel faster and in more comfort.  

Yagyu was a popular place this day.  There was a TV crew filming up at the old temple, and the young, short-skirt brigade was heading out here for that.  The rest, their well-kitted grandparents, were off to a Plum Blossom festival the next valley over.  Yet when we got off this bus, there was no one around.  We saw maybe one or two folks out in their fields, but the place was completely silent.  Even the dogs had nothing to say, lying quietly in the sun.  We moved along the paths through the village, past the large carved Jizo outside of town, and into the forest toward Nara.  This first part of the trail is paved with cobblestones, and was the only real climb of the day.  Beyond it, we stepped into the wide open space of fields, stretching far along the range of hills.  The bank of one rice paddy was sloped just right, so we stopped here in the soft grass, eating lunch and watching the clouds follow their shadows across the bare earth.  It would be easy to doze here, but we had four more hours walk ahead of us.  We entered the village nearby.  Most of the houses had their own vegetable plots, and it was fun to watch our friends Juri and Sumioka as they'd assess the state of many veggies and herbs.  They run a small cafe north of Kyoto which they support with their own homegrown organic ingredients.  I greatly envied their knowledge.  In front of one house, some shiitake mushrooms were left to dry in the sun.  In front of another, were the pelts of several wild boar.  One was so fresh, you could still make out the ears, the nostrils.    As we were looking, an old guy came out of a barn to wash a long knife.  I'd venture that it was with the same knife that he'd done the skinning.  We talked with him about the boars around here, and he told us he'd killed eight this year.  They'd been increasing over the years since most of the younger generations no longer had any interest in the hunt.  Now the boar come down to the villages to destroy the gardens and on occasion, even kill.  He'll sell the skins in town as decoration.  Despite the someone gruff manner of the hunter, he was really friendly and chatty, and invited us to sit with him awhile.  We all wanted to but had to get to Nara by dark.  I liked how Sumioka begged off:  "The road is long so we must go."  

We followed another pass to the next village, on whose outskirts we found a lone Udon shop.  Their banners had been spread along the trail, and hikers must make up the bulk of their business.   We moved down to a large cluster of trees which unmistakably indicates a shrine.  We'd been passing stone-carved Buddhist figures all day, but this shrine was far older than their 1200 years.  Beyond this, a group of old folks played gateball.  The clack of mallet on ball followed us deep into the forest.  Above one small bend in the river were a handful of grave stones, dark and weathered but still retaining the Sanskrit symbols carved into the soft stone.  In the river itself, the rocks were equally high,  equally mysterious and ancient.  The work of water had cleaved the tallest among them into three.   From there, the trail climbed again, up toward Ninnuku Pass.  A single beam of sunlight shone on a small green fern waving to us as we passed.  A sign of new life amidst all the old.

Atop the pass was Enseiji Temple, with its large pond and admission charge.  We moved around back to sit and drink tea on some large stones that will one day become grave markers.  At the moment, all there was was a lone Jizo, so I dug into my trailmix to make an offering of almond and raisin.  Where the first half of the hike had been amidst villages and fields, the remainder was all forest.  We followed the ridge line awhile. It was somewhat eerie here, with much fallen bamboo and the forest floor shredded by foraging boar.   At some point we passed an unkept tea field, its bushes grown wildly into afros.  Next to this was a sugi forest planted so deep and dense that absolutely no light could penetrate.  It was the darkest forest I've ever seen and deserved it's monicker of Hell Valley.    Clustered in the next valley was a small village , most of the houses here offering veggies or fruit or tea.  The latter came from the tea bushes climbing up the western hill.  Three Jizo stood peering our from some bushes near the top, as if playing hide and seek.  At the next pass was a tea house where we stopped for some tea and waramochi.  It was damp and chilly outside, but it was more pleasant out here, away from the stench of dog that permeated the inside.  As we were the only customers, the owner came out to talk with us.  We mentioned that we'd seen no other hikers, and he said only a couple dozen pass each day.  He was happy with his immunity to the pollen allergy, living beneath all these sugi. (I was suffering badly.)  He wished us well as we moved downward toward Nara.  This was the lair of waterfalls and huge ancient trees.  It was all testament to how beautiful this country can be, if only the government could keep its damned hands off it.  We pass quite a few Buddhas carved in to hillsides above us.  One triptich was starting to crack and lean, as the massive stone on which it is carved begins its slow gravity assisted journey into the river below.  Most of these carvings are so old that no records exist on their origins, and the credit is usually given to Kobo Daishi, who was quite the busy fellow.  I imagine they were instead the work of Koreans who came prosteletyzing to these islands in the 6th Century.    

We were to the outskirts of Nara now.  We startled three deer grazing just off path, more skittish than their cousins below who make their living as begging tourist attractions.  A woman carrying an infant walked with her toddler son, whose feet spun at incredible speed as he negotiated the pedals of his tricycle on a steep hill.  We moved into the forest again and over a trail to Kasuga Shrine, where we said goodbye to Juri and Sumioka, who headed back up to Kyoto.  You can find them at Cafe Millet.  Miki and I moved through the encroaching dark to join the crowds at Nigatsudo for the Omizu-tori festival, book-ending the event we saw in Obama five days before.  As the flames moved along the hallways of the temple, throwing sparks into the crowd, we all roared our approval, in a collective welcome of Spring.

(Sumioka-san's photos of this walk can be found here and here.   Don't miss the world's most amazing picnic spot midway down.     His photos of the Obama Omizu-okuri (see previous post) are here.)

On the turntable:  Grant Green:  "Idle Moments"

On the nighttable:  Leila Philip, "The Road through Miyama"

Omizu-okuri

It was Monday, and we were driving above a fast river, wheels pointed north. High mountains loomed at the head of the valley, looking quite smart in their winter outfits, in obvious emulation of their older Himalayan siblings. The look was accessorized with the rustic temples clinging to the hillsides, clumps of snow piled in their shadows. A grove of well-lined cedars lined the banks of the river. At one bend, a whole section of them had slipped into the water, taking out a large section of road in the process. The shabby makeshift bridge built nearby added further color to an already remote scene.

We arrived at Jingu-ji just before dark. Any temples with this moniker are the last remnants of the old Shinto-Buddhist connection which nearly became extinct with the coming of Meiji. This Jingu-ji, just south of Obama city, is perhaps the most famous, and is host to the Omizu-okuri festival every March 2nd. An acquaintance had a home just below the temple, and after a warming cup of tea in front of the Franklin stove, we walked out into the cold night. A few hundred people were gearing up, standing in front of the temple. A couple sections had been roped off, and at their centers a large pile of logs had been stacked, covered over by their soft needles. The air in this mountain valley was clear and revealed many stars, a crescent moon. Chanting had been going on for some time, punctuated by the occasional bellow of a conch shell. At seven, a bright light appeared within the main hall of the temple, and suddenly, a man shrouded in white appeared from within, carrying a massive fireball, which looked like a two meter smudge of sage lit aflame. Fire roared up into the rafters, brushing the curtains and punching out at the crowd. It's incredible that the whole place didn't go up. These shrouded men (covered head to toe in white and looking a little too similar to Klansmen) were accompanied by an entourage of yamabushi, who ran through a series of chants and mudras, twirling swords and axes, and even shooting arrows dangerously into the crowd. Then the pyre was lit, flames quickly shooting 10 meters up, in a swirling attempt to touch the stars. (Watching the upper limits of a fire this size and the shapes it makes reveals why we say "tongues of flame.") The wind was down, but the heat was belching up an incredible amount of sparks, going up like fireworks and coming down like grey snow. The heat also sent up sections of cypress needles the size of human hands, which would twirl slowly and teasingly like a bully, to fall down over the crowd whose collective volume would increase with their fear. The shrouded men brought the flaming bush back out through the crowd, who due to the heat began to push back, creating a dangerous chain reaction where the lot of us were collectively heaved backward, like the undulating movement of fire, of water. I knew then why I'd been warned not to wear my fleece hat. The fireball was carried down toward the river, and the crowd began to move toward the pyre left behind to light the goma sticks we carried. These were a length of thick rope tied together with four sticks of gomagi (a word that Ken Rodgers tells me has Indian roots). The crowd was still dangerously pushing, but this time toward the flames. Like everyone else, I fended for balance, until I noticed some open space to my right, so pushed my way out of the crowd. The was no perimeter to keep us in, and I couldn't figure out why everyone stayed herded together like that. I walked easily toward a small building which upon closer view contained an old well cut into the forest floor. This was the source of the water drawn earlier that had been purified by the flame. I took a sip. Very sweet. There was a huge tree just in front, its trunk old and twisted and swirling in the opposite direction than the flames had earlier on. Pure shamanistic magic this. Miki and our friends found me here, Juri leaning in close to the tree, sticking her face into a hollow knot like a deep kiss.

We then lit our gomaki from the incredibly hot embers in front of the tree and followed the crowds down the steps and alongside the river. What I saw before me was hundreds of people stretched down the river carrying torches as if looking for Frankenstein's monster. The yoga teacher in me suggests a more spiritual metaphor, of people using this sacred fire to light up the dark places of the soul, in order to root out the beasties that lurk there. But I know that the majority of the people here were taking part in this event for less serious reasons. And why not, there were snacks and cold beer waiting back on the tour bus. Our own group of a dozen had once again found each other somehow. Two of our friends had wrapped themselves in white cloth in protection from the heat, and we quickly dubbed them the Zoroastrians. We all followed the crowd upriver. I was amazed at how careless people were, considering they had 20cm flames extending from their outstretched arms. They'd turn quickly to shoot photos, or suddenly change direction. Beside minding both flanks, you had to take care not to trod on the many pieces of wood which had fallen to the ground and were still lit. Along the sides of the path were iron pots set up for people to drop their torches into. The further we'd go, the more had collected, the cumulative flames getting higher and higher. Miki and I laughed at one middle-aged woman looking quite panicked as the flames burned closer to her hand. Another man with an even shorter torch walked very deliberately. My own had burned pretty fast, and when the flame was about 15 inches, I mock run, holding my flame aloft like it's the Olympic torch. When it got down to 8 inches, I'm running for real, wanting to take this to the end, not wanting to add my flame to the others littering the road, which by now looks out of the Paris riots of '68. And how much this is like how we live our lives, trying to burn, burn, burn, trying to draw the energy out of every endeavor, and refusing to give up before those around us. Yet our flames will burn out when they will, and for those whose lives burn out of control, there's always the choice to let go, be it the literal corporeal release of suicide, or opting for the more peaceful (though challenging) path of transcendence, where we get to keep our flesh, yet must alter our relationship with it. I finally reach the end to find the crowd slowly funneling through a Torii arch and down a path to the river's bank. I mentally yell at them to let me pass, to let me add my fire to that already burning high and hot beside the water. Then I suddenly realize that we were never meant to carry them that far, and I extinguish my torch in a pail of water. I move with the crowd to the fireside, where the yamabushi are carrying out more rituals. They then cross a bridge to the other side of the river, where the head priest pours the purified water into the fast moving current. From here, an underground stream will carry the water to Nara's Nigatsudo where a similar ceremony will take place on March 13. The water will have moved along a ley line that takes it past Kurama, Kamigamo, Shimogama, Jonangu, and beyond Nara to the sacred sites further on, Tenkawa, Kumano Hongu, marking the coming of spring, as it has for 1300 years. We watch awhile the rushing water tinted red by fire. Then we turn and slowly head back down river. Like fire, like water, and like Spring, always returning.

On the turntable: Kokoo, "Super Nova"

On the nighttable: Swami Buddhananda, "Moola Bandha: The Master Key"

On the reel table: "A Man Called Horse" (Silverstein, 1970)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Westbound II (One for Nanao)

It was a beautiful day, very clear, very warm. We biked along a gradual slope, which led us between and around the small bamboo laden hills that dot the northern part of Kyoto. Out along a small creek, feeding the fields still sleeping away the winter season. Above one field, we saw a huge banner of Kokopelli, dancing in the soft breeze. This must be the place. Today, Wakusei Gakk o was hosting a memorial service for Nanao Sakaki. It was supposed to have started at 10, and despite our showing up a half hour past that time, preparations were still going on, mainly in the form of lighting fires and chopping wood. A few people were busy getting lunch ready. We all milled around, chatting quietly and respectfully. A small altar had been erected in the southeast corner of the yard, with a few pieces of fruit, some branches and flowers, a cup of something. One man with a beard and long ponytail knelt before it offering prayers. The rest of us stood silently, watching. The man began to play his handmade dulcimer softly, meditatively. After a few more prayers, he sang a song on his guitar, dancing back and forth in a rocking folksy style. Lastly, he picked up a long branch which looked like an unstrung bow, blew on it a few times, then stated in a loud voice that this wasn't a weapon, and that those of us gathered were lovers of peace. He threw the branch on a small fire, then followed it with some pieces of food, some water. Finished now, he stood back up and yelled at the sky, "Nanao, Omedet ō!" The rest of us did likewise, applauding and yelling our congratulations into the air.

People began to move into the school. One long wall was covered with dozens of photos, some with, or taken by, Gary Snyder or Allan Ginsberg. Gary's reading here in 1988 was where that flying Kokopelli had come from. Below the photos were tables covered with programs of former poetry readings, plus some handwritten letters and poems from Nanao. At the center of things was a small altar, and beside it were a few possessions, his jacket, his hat, his rucksack, his sandals. For a man who had stirred up so much dust, he certainly had small feet. At the back of the room was a stage. The rest of the day would be spent in poetry and song, capped off by a screening of an old Suwanose film from the old days. It looked to be a good time. Yet it was too nice outside. Giving it some thought, Miki and I decided to get out and honor it, and Nanao, in a way that he would have appreciated. Saying a quick goodbye to friends, we stepped out into the sun, and began to walk Earth A.

We followed the Tokai Hodo through the hills marking the western edge of Arashiyama, dotted with many small temples. Happily, we ran into few people out here, despite the good weather. We were reminded that we shared our walk with other living things, in the form of a sign in a public toilet telling to beware of Vipers. No surprise since they love the bamboo groves that striate the hills out here. Above one grove, we found a small Obaku temple, standing lonely and forlorn at the top of uneven stone steps which looked like broken teeth. The main hall was a zendo, the inside perimeter dotted with zafu. An "enlightenment stick" leaned against one of the pillars. In such a haunted locale, one could only imagine the severity of the training here. Not far away we followed the trail, ever marked by bamboo, up to a small pass where we rested with tea. Behind us, a new suburb had sprouted. A stone walkway led through it, following a creek which flowed between the cookie cutter homes here. If you've read this far, you know how I feel about suburbs, but this place had done well in honoring the surrounding hills and keeping a semblance of green. The rest of the day was spent moving along the groves famed for their persimmons, then on into deeper forest. In the fading light, we came to Oharano Jinja, built with some connection to the Imperial Family. At the front of the main shrine were the usual A-Un figures, this time in the form of deer, the open mouthed one to the right with a scroll in it's mouth (I wonder if Ojisan Jake can shed some light on why.) A bizarre end to the day, winding up in a place built in honor of the Imperial Family, whose deification led directly to the disllusionment of a young soldier, who, finding no place amongst such ways of thinking, opted simply to "Walk On."

On the turntable: "Boycott Rhythm Machine"

Sunday papers: Suzuki Shunryu

“We fall down by the ground, and we also stand up by the ground.”

On the turntable: Art Pepper, "Lost Life"

On the nighttable: Shiga Naoya, "A Dark Nights Passage"

A Thin Slice of Samsara

Saturday was one of those days that was unique, yet typical in many ways. I woke early to catch a 7am train for Osaka. I was subbing at a studio there, covering an early morning meditation class. A few others joined me in the cold of the morning, to sit and stretch and breathe all in preparation for... nothing. Despite the low numbers, I enjoyed the vibe of the class, at the peace and ease I felt in leading it. This month I've been also covering a Sivananda class twice a week, but on those days I feel somewhat at sea. Despite having both extensive training and a license in that style, I feel much more at home with my usual Iyengar. In the Sivananda class I have to leave all my tools at home, since due to protocol, I'm not supposed to adjust or use props. So instead I pace and blurt out instructions, my hands twisting and looking for something to do.

After class I set off up the shopping arcade, looking for a place to have a quick coffee. Some folks are dashing around wearing blue happi, gearing up for some sort of festival. I like Osaka, there's so much life going on here, with little of the mothball smell that can often pervade Kyoto. I find a place that offers cups for 250 yen, so I grab a seat and get a cafe au lait. The decor hasn't changed in decades, and most of the clientele were probably my age when it was built. One middle-aged guy seems to be taking his elderly mother out for breakfast, and she looks thrilled. A greasy haired loner type sits across from me and disappears into a book. I too read awhile. I check my watch from time to time, then head back outside, figuring the Indian place must be open by now. It is. I order a curry and sit in front of a poster of some curvy actress in a sari, standing beside an armor-clad actor who is a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. A shelf nearby sells candles in the shape of seated Buddhas. The perfect expression of tapas.

After lunch, I go underground and catch the train. Back in town, I find I still have an hour to kill. It's reasonably sunny, so I sit on the banks of the Kamo, and read abit. On my iPod, the Silver Jews start up a song called "Bring on the Clouds," and so beckoned, they come. It gets chilly quickly, but I read on. There are many walkers out today, going down one bank. and presumably up the other. One guy wearing Cat in the Hat gloves asks me in polite textbook English if I could please tell him the time. This used to happen back in the 'Nog, but this is the first time I've given an impromptu English lesson here in Kyoto. I shake him off soon enough and out on the river in front of me, a beautiful mallard shakes a tail feather of his own. I go back to my book, reading about the connection between Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism, but I'm tired of reading about Yoga and Buddhistic Shamanism. Instead, I watch the river awhile. Some young guy descends a set of stone steps to the water's edge, and due to my reading material, for a moment my eyes are tricked into believing I'm actually in Varanasi, watching someone go down the ghat to do his daily ablutions.

I bike over to the studio, change clothes, get out my mat. I'm leading a workshop on Vinyasa jump-throughs, which is far off my usual yogic radar. I haven't even done Ashtanga for years, let alone teach it. Someday I'd love to get in front of a room full of Ashtangis and put them in an hour long Tadasana, just to watch them twitch. The trick to this workshop is that I'm teaching building blocks, rather than the jump-through itself. No one is expected to master this difficult pose in a single day anyway, so I'm basically giving them months of homework. Back in my English teaching days, I'd often get students who wanted me to teach them only"English for airports" or "English for shopping." Today is like this, but I'll be teaching them skills they can use in dozens of poses, and show them the importance of creativity and control rather than the usual overemphasis on muscular power. As the sign out front says, "Yoga for Life." (Though Andrew Sensei is right in joking, "Shouldn't it be 'Yoga for Death?'" Transcendence baby.)

I'm surprised to find that one of the attendees is a guy I met at the ashram in India two years ago. We chat awhile afterward, then Miki (who assisted me) and I bike quickly down to a different studio for a workshop on Nada, the yoga of sound. Ty Burhoe is leading it, and I know him since he did the music for Tias' DVD, plus a year ago he played tabla with Shen, who was my own teacher for a very short time. Ty's workshop is good, with a light humorous touch. For the second half, his drumming is the BGM for a vigorous Vinyasa class that I hadn't expected. I'm pretty pooped at the end. After a short break, he's joined by Sarod player Steve Oda for a mellow night of ragas. I'm too tired to sit up so I slump across a bolster, pointing my legs at the musicians, wiggling my toes in time to the music as if I'm conducting it. And drift into a minor samadhi that's all mine...

On the turntable: Chet Baker, "In Tokyo"

On the nighttable: David Chadwick, "Thank You and OK!"

On the reel table: "Round Midnight" (Tavernier, 1986)

Sunday papers: G.K. Chesterton

There is no history; there are only historians.

On the turntable: T Bone Burnett, "Tooth of Crime"

On the nighttable: David Chadwick, "Thank You and OK!"

Keyboard Cookie Crumbs

Mapmaking is Empire's way of taking inventory.

Reading a bad book can feel like sitting in traffic.

Spy a "Duck!" moving van driving down Karasuma.  Sure hope they don't move pianos.

On the turntable:  Thievery Corporation, "Sounds from the Verve Hi-Fi"

On the nightable:  Georg Feuerstein,  "The Deeper Dimensions of Yoga"

On the reel table:  "Jeremiah Johnson"  (Pollack, 1972)

Tokai Shizen Hoedown VI

Awoke Valentine's Day to the warmth of April.  More specifically, the muggy tropical warmth of the April of Hong Kong.  We biked down the hill, jackets unzipped, hair finally freed from woolen caps, waving behind us all the way to the train station.  We were forced by JR to ride a series of trains and buses which took a ridiculous amount of time, due to their usual poor scheduling.  It amazes me how inconvenient this route is, despite being the main line between the tourist sites of Kyoto and Nara (with another, Uji, in the center), and penetrating into the heart of the suburban commuter Kansai Bermuda Triangle (if you include Osaka).    JR further showed its obliviousness to context by turning on the air conditioner, despite this being an early February morning.  A bus took us to a village whose name, Wazuka, loosely translates as "A bit."  We stood there looking up at the high mountain in front of us, ribbed with tea bushes stretching all the way up to the crest.  This tea represents about half of Uji's famous brand, and we'd need at least a cup in order to get to the top. 

The trail led up a narrow track rutted by the tires of small farm trucks.   On the crest, we had a quick lunch while sitting on a single iron rail used to transport tools up and to send freshly plucked tea leaves back down.  The descent down the other side was steep, leading eventually to a small village seated in a high valley.  This village was simply two rows of homes bisected by a single road, and to walk through it was to walk through any old Western film.  Next to a pond were a group of geese, two female, and a male who protectively challenged my approach, craning its neck and hissing.  I smiled and backed off, somewhat ashamed at ruining his date on this day reserved for lovers.  At the far end of the village, a light truck wheeled up, its elderly driver smiling at me and making conversation.  He seemed amazed to see me here, the huge smile never leaving his face.  Though we'd spend most of the day on roads, we'd see very few vehicles, and nearly all of them bore the teardrop mark of an aged driver.  We walked through rice paddies, some flecked by huge stones looking like the backs of breaching whales.   Before long another group of farm houses appeared, stretching out along this high plateau.   A sign told us that nearby were a Korean Confucian temple and the tantalizingly named "Fudo Falls," but they were far off our route today.  We did find the Pond of Benten, that muse of poets, whose festival day is traditionally in April, and today's warm weather gave us a taste.  

We descended now, dropping down for the next 2 hours, for the next 8 kilometers.  This middle portion was somewhat uninspiring, but for the occasional glimpses of mountains and mountains unfolding south toward Nara, Yoshino, and Kumano beyond.  With little to occupy us visually, we'd distract ourselves with rambling conversation.  A few words, a bit of passion, and boom! off we'd go.  We spent at least an hour debating Kipling's "East is east" quip.  At the bottom we found a busy road, then a trail which climbed up to some high marshy land.  The reeds rustled to a bossa nova rhythm, and amidst this beat we found a simple house standing where it was least likely to be found.  The owner no doubt prefers it this way, and the warm rusticity hints at a simple, satisfying life.  Where the reeds ended, more tea plantations began.  In the wooded areas between them we found a few bamboo cutter hard at work, one of them complaining to us that with the unseasonal warmth, the bamboo shoots would come early, and unless he pruned back their taller ancestors, the youngsters would never get enough space and light to survive.  A literal generation gap played out in the forest.  And we walked on into spring, with the plum blossoms being serenaded into bloom by the uguisu, tuning its rusty pipes for an early, and sudden return to the stage.

On the turntable:  "Lilliput"

Sunday papers: Brad Warner

"As a culture have started to drift back towards spirituality in the hopes that it might solve our troubles and bring us the fulfillment we seek. What we’ve forgotten as a culture is that spirituality already let us down. That’s why we became so materialistic in the first place."

On the turntable: Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha"

On the reel table: "The River" (Renoir, 1951)

Accidents Will Happen

There's a certain voyeuristic delight in watching Nick Cave sing. The way the veins in his head swell with every enunciation you half expect him to have a massive aneurysm at any moment. It's a guilty, razor's edge thrill, like watching auto racing, or attending an air show.

On the turntable: Jimmy Smith, "Groovin' at Small's Paradise"

On the nighttable: David Frawley, "Yoga and Ayurveda"

On the reel table: "The Soul of a Man" (Wenders, 2003)

North and South

Soul Flower Mononoke Summit was in town again, with Ainu musician Oki as the opening act.  I've long been wanting catch him live, after hearing his timeless beauty on "The Rough Guide to Japan" CD.  On stage he was a lone man with his thick bodied Tonkori,  cradling this bulky, 5-stringed log like a baby while finger-picking high notes with his right hand, picking the low end with his left.   The sound it made went beyond deep, to thick, to dense.  From the opening notes I was enchanted, swept away somewhat to the music native to my New Mexico home.  Other times I found myself amongst the high grass on the Siberian Steppe, the effect enhanced by the cicada-like chirping of someone's cell phone vibrating on a table nearby.  I had spent the weekend watching Scorsese's documentary series on The Blues, so there were also moments where I was on the Mississippi Delta, or in the deserts of Mali.   (Interesting how such an obscure style of music can draw comparisons from around the world.) 

To buffer his sound, he played through a series of effects. (Almost too much.  As stated by Felicity, it would've been nice to hear the same sounds that the Ainu heard 500 years ago.) Oki's singing through a delay was at times otherworldly, and more than once I found myself swaying as if in trance.  Little wonder the shamanistic influence on that region's art and culture.  Even his mukkuri, a distant relative of the polycultural mouth harp, when heard with effects, had all of the character of wind blowing through grass, vibrating in the same way that Tuvan throat-singing does.  And his heavier numbers reminded me some of the great jazz bassist Jaco Pastorius, and his live solo work.  I imagine that Oki too could play a mean stand-up bass.  He'll appear again at Kyoto's Metro in early April, so catch him if you can.

 

Soul Flower came on next and as usual, didn't disappoint.  I've written of them many times in these pages, and won't say much again.  When Oki joined them for a couple of their numbers, he seemed somewhat lost, and was buried too deep in the mix.  But when the band backed him up on his most famous song, it was seamless, and every eye of every band member was completely on him, and in their concentration, didn't miss a single change.  Very talented bunch.  The last piece was an Okinawan classic, but here too, Oki's sound was just too thick for the light touch of island music. It was like a fallen coconut tree, caught in the surf break, crashing heavily again and again on soft, gentle sand.

(Michael over at Deep Kyoto wrote about the club and the gig, both here and here.  The latter link, to Deep Kyoto, will help ensure that you never eat at home again.)

On the turntable:  Kazumi Watanabe, "Mo Bop II"

On the nighttable:  B.K.S. Iyengar, "Light on Life"

Sunday papers: Vivekananda

"If your freedom hurts others, you are not free."

On the turntable: Psychobaba, "Liveep"

Sunday papers: Peter Greenaway

"Against the disk of the full moon, even white birds are black."

-A Walk Through H

On the turntable: Modern Jazz Quartet, "Collection"

On the nighttable: Donald Richie, "Ozu" -