(untitled)

Beyond the eyelid's
Moving screen,
Beauty unfolds.

On the turntable:  Boredoms, "Boardrums77"

Sunday Papers: William Blake

"Great things are done when men and mountains meet."


On the turntable:  Alice in Chains, "Jar of Flies"
 

Middle of Somewhere

I've walked a great number of roads in this country, but today was the first time I've walked a road that no longer exists.  There is a triumvirate of ancient paths between Asuka and Nara, traversed perhaps when the former capital passed the baton of Imperial seat to the latter.   I'd already walked both the High Road and the Low, so I figured it was time to honor my Buddhist heroes and take the Middle Way.

The walk started at Asuka Station, with the first hour or so passing between monuments dating to a time when the wild Jōmon tribes began cutting their hair, putting on robes, and calling themselves the Yamato.   This is perhaps my favorite period in Japanese history, a time when Japan was most soulful, to judge from the ancient shrines, burial mounds, and the trendy accessories of an import called Buddhism.  (Sadly, a lot of this went away two centuries later with another import.  The Ritsuryō codes gave birth to a bureaucracy that quickly entrenched itself so effectively that it survived 1500 years of near constant regime change.)  So it was with great joy that I walked, eyes filled with some of the greatest beauty this land can offer, right down to the temporal shapes of the sakura.

I had little to go on, map-wise, except for one that was simply a single line running between the shrines that acted as way points, a map that paid no heed to the contemporary reality of house, factory or fields, passing directly through them.  And most amazingly, my path did indeed run arrow straight, like a compass pointing due north.  I found small dirt paths between new suburban homes, crossed parking lots, and tightrope-walked low berms between earthen plots.  I only had to deviate once, at a concrete ditch which my legs were a decade too old to leap. After a brief detour, north again I went.

The day was warm and fine and busy with old timers working in their gardens or preparing their fields for planting.  By contrast, the suburbs north of Asuka were near devoid of life, and the few people I did meet seemed unable to return my greeting.  Perhaps this too is part of the Ritsuryō.  Beyond these deserts, I startled a pair of mandarins who took flight from a small canal, to land again upstream. They rose with a great deal of kinetic energy, far more than it would take to say hello.  

Leaving this no-man's land I was approaching Nara, my path now called Route 53.  There were no sidewalks, so my mind grew occupied with mental martial arts maneuvers as defense again oncoming wing-mirrors. In quieter moments, my eyes sought vistas familiar from previous walks, of Mounts  Miwa and Ryozan, of the forests of Kashima Jingu and the dormitory village of Tenri, of the as yet unclimbed peaks of Nijo-zan, and Katsuragi.  

I've mentioned Tenri before so won't go into it again here.  But I'm always amazed and the size and the scale of the place (built upon the site of what had been the capital for a decade at the end of the 5th century).  I noticed today for the first time a whole section of their campus tucked up in a nook of the hills, all tall apartment flats and massive boxes that could only be auditoriums. Incredible how the visions of a middle-aged peasant woman could grow into an organization with over 2 million followers.      

Just beyond was the Nara river,  little more than a small creek of one-meter-across.  On its far shore was a small hut sheltering a couple of dozen Jizo, who found eternal shade beneath the broad branches of the chestnut tree above.  Raising my head to look beyond its upper reaches, I found some comfort in my first glimpse of Wakakusa-yama's bald pate.  Not much further to go. 

The rest of the day was a slow creep into Nara.  There wasn't much to catch the eye, so I allowed the ears their turn, offering them the voice of Allen Ginsberg to distract them with some of his poems.  All the way, cars rushed by like the ghost of Neil Cassidy. 

In Nara proper, I eased off my ever-linear northern trajectory and detoured into the warren of lanes south of the station.  Most tourism in Nara is centered around the deer park, leaving me alone to walk the narrow paths lined in wood and tile and earth, which front temples and galleries and cafes. There is a definitive Bohemian feel to Nara, albeit one grounded in the 8th century.  And as I wrapped up my stroll I felt yet again how much preferable the place is compared to Kyoto. 

This thought returned to me that evening, when I attended a small festival at Goryō Jinja, my neighborhood shrine.  Yet even at this stripped down scale there was little warmth.  Whereas most festivals I've attended in Japan gave a sense of cathartic communitas, in Kyoto they take the form of touristic processions, where the only real community participation entails standing in the heat along the route. Actors move along in fixed lines and positions, dressed in attire that was traditionally never worn by the commoner, implying a certain separation.  It inevitably culminates in a group of men carrying or dragging along a shrine or a cart or those towering yamaboko.  In Kyoto, history's weight is heavy.     


On the turntable:  Art Pepper, "Goin' Home"
On the turntable:  Toby Thompson, "Positively Main Street"

Narrow Road Signs X

Weeks come and go
Marshes ebb and flow.
Only gold can sway.

On the turntable:  Dave Van Ronk, "The Folkways Year 1959-1961"

Shigeru Ban and the Virtue of Impermanence

Another architectural post, this one on Shigeru Ban:

http://www.zenvita.com/blog/shigeru-ban-and-the-virtue-of-impermanence.html 

On the turntable:  Audioslave, "Audioslave"

(untitled)

Haru biyori.
A plain blue canvas for
The subtleties of green.

On the turntable:  Affinity, "Affinity" 

Sunday Papers: Rudyard Kipling

"I am sick of wastin' leather in these gritty pavin' stones."
 --The Road to Mandalay

On the turntable:  Nilsson, "The Point"

Narrow Road Signs IX

Reflections and
Decomposition.
Natagiri-toge.

On the turntable:  "Inside Llewyn Davis" (Sdtk)

(untitled)

Rites of Spring.
On a stage of blue,
Proscenium of ochre and tile.

On the turntable:  Bill Laswell, "Baselines"

Narrow Road Signs VIII

刈草や兵どもが夢の跡

Cut grasses,
All that remains
Of warriors' dreams

On the turntable:  Dave Van Ronk, "Inside Dave Van Ronk"

Narrow Road Signs VII

暫時は滝に佇む夏の初め　

I linger awhile
Before the waterfall,
As summer begins.

On the turntable:  Beck, "Sea Change"

Sunday Papers: Stephen Henry Gill

"When, unwittingly, a tiny frog once jumped into an ancient pond -- to be recorded for all posterity by Basho -- it never left."

On the turntable:  Anton Fier, "Blind Light" 
 

Imai-cho article

My article on Nara's Imai-cho, published at Japan Visitor.

http://www.japanvisitor.com/japan-city-guides/imaicho


On the turntable:  Abecedarians, "AB-CD "
On the nighttable:  Knut Hamsun, "Pan"

(untitled)

On top of Ibuki
Covered in concrete
I lost any reason
To climb this poor peak.

On the turntable:  Ani diFranco, "Puddle Dive"

Sunday Papers: Fosco Mariani

"Civilizations are organic complexes of implicit assumptions crystallized in the mother-rock of language;  or, put another way, grandiose systems by means of which men display in different fashion their fundamental similarity."


On the turntable:  AC/DC, "If You Want Blood, You Got It"

(untitled)

Scratched upon
The old temple wall,
Generic PC graffiti

On the turntable:  Aimee Mann, "Whatever"
 

Norway the Hard Way

Some forgotten notes from the recent Lapland trip.  Full piece published here..

Funny how the ride in to city from the airport is through a landscape familiar--suburbs, box stores, commercial warehouses.  That is, through a landscape familiar, one found in most countries.  It is only when you approach a city center that you find it begins to take on a distinct cultural character.

Walking the streets of Oslo on a sunny Saturday afternoon late month,  I was struck by the incredible number of prams being pushed around, and was made even more aware of their absence in infant-deficient Japan.  

The mystery of boats floating in ice-bound slips in Oslo.  How do they heat that water? 

Riding along the world's highest railway, half of the seats in each carriage facing backwards.  It was in one of these that I sat gazing out the window, musing on where I'd just been.

Comparing the aesthetics of Zen with Scando-minimalism. 
 

Musing in a cathedral, I think that it's nice to believe in a god, if that brings comfort.  For me, God is just another name for hope. And hope is more a human instinct than divine.
 

On the nighttable:  Fosco Mariani, "Meeting With Japan"

(untitled)

Springtime Fushimi canals,
Upon whose waters
Sake is born.

On the turntable:  Alexander Spence, "Oar"
 

Narrow Road Signs VI

As my feet point north
My thoughts linger on those
Suffering far south.

On the turntable:  Alison Brown, "Stolen Moments"

Purple Majesty...

Serendipitous reference to Prince during a rainy Kanazawa lunch...

On the turntable:  (............................)

Sunday Papers: Alan Booth

“If you speak three words of Japanese you will be rapturously applauded for your linguistic mastery. It is only when you are approaching competence that you will be frowned upon as a threat to the national polity.”
  
On the turntable:  Art Blakey, "The Complete Blue Note Recordings"

Narrow Road Signs V

Cleaner waltzes across
The station floor
Brushing calligraphy with a mop.

On the turntable:   Alice Coltrane, A Monastic Trio"

(untitled)

The twain have met,
Brought together by
The blustery wind.


On the turntable:  Afro Celt Sound System, "Vol. 3" 

My Favorite Norseman

Reading/watching Thor Heyerdahl inspired the following: 

Those unsinkable men of Kon Tiki
With a premise considered quite cheeky.
Kept their inner eyes glued
On Rapa Nui's stone dudes,
While praying their craft wasn't leaky.

On the turntable:  Aerosmith, "Classics Live"
 

(untitled)

Nakasendo westward.
Trading my palanquin,
For 99 horses.

On the turntable:  Agent Orange, "Sonic Snake Session"

Sunday Papers: Kurt Caswell

"The journey is not over until you have told its story."

On the turntable:  Adiemus:  "The Best of Adiemus"

The Roads to Satire

"More thorough nonsense must be spoken and written about Japan than about any comparably developed nation."

--First line of Alan Booth's hilariously snarky 1992 guidebook to Japan.


On the turntable:  Ayub Ogada, "En Mana Kuoyo"

(untitled)

The clouds too
Close in on
The final temple.

On the turntable:  Arab Strap, "Monday at the Hug & Pint " 

Sunday Papers: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

"If our purpose is to understand mankind and its yearnings, to grasp the essential reality of mankind, we must never set one man's truth against another's.  All beliefs are demonstrably true. All men are demonstrably in the right. Anything can be demonstrated by logic[...] Truth is not that which is demonstrable but that which is ineluctable."


On the turntable:  A Flock of Seagulls, "A Flock of Seagulls"

Kengo Kuma and the Erasure of Architecture

My architectural post on Kengo Kuma over at ZenVita:

http://www.zenvita.com/blog/kengo-kuma-and-the-erasure-of-architecture.html 


On the turntable:  AC/DC, " High Voltage"
On the nighttable: Dave Van Ronk, "The Mayor of MacDougal Street"

 

(untitled)

Not a bear in sight
Along the ridges of Kuma Kogen.
Perhaps they hate rain.

On the turntable:  Ancient Grease, "Women and Children First"

(untitled)

Yamazakura
Stand sentinel to guard
The reclusive Heike.

On the turntable:  Brian Eno, "Discrete Music"

 

(untitled)

Like the land itself,
My footfalls rise slowly
With the passage of time.

On the turntable:  Bob Weir, "Ace"

(untitled)

Impermanence.
Buddhist principles
As expressed in weather.

On the turntable:  Boredoms, "Rebore Vol. 2"

(untitled)

Wearily we seek,
On and off the path.
Below us, fishermen seek bonito.

On the turntable:  Bonbino, "Agadez"

(untitled)

After winter grey,
A resurrection of colors
Eases the soul.

On the turntable:  Brownout, "Aguilas and Cobras"

 

Poipourri of Strolls

I have a busy day ahead,  a series of hikes and walks splayed across Nara prefecture, which now appears bigger on maps than it had before.  I'd only be able to cover that distance by car, so I rise with the sun and drive into its fresh rays not long afterward.  This early start ensures that I beat Kyoto rush hour traffic, but I hadn't counted Nara city proper, so with a crawl I move in the long shadows of its ancient relics.

I am nearing my first destination when a sign welled up, for something called the Ancient Tang Burial Mound.  Intrigued by the name and the low tower silhouetted against the hills, I pull into the car park.  The tower is built into one corner of a man-made pond, punctuated by wooden planks used as a seat for fishing, and ringed with sakura just coming into bud. The park that surrounds it had been built in 1994, but there seems to be a bit of expansion going on, and I wondered if it were connected to the recent influx of Chinese tourism, and whether those tour groups found their way out here.  Upon approach, I find the tower was off-limits to climbing, but it makes for a pleasant excuse to stretch my legs and bladder. There is a basic information sign telling me that the tomb had been discovered in 1901, but not when it had been built.  There are photos of a few broken relics, now housed in a nearby museum, but I can't budget time to investigate further.  I am intrigued by this long dead Chinese, of a status that warranted him a sizeable tomb.   This area is rich in Korean influence, reflected both in its place names and its artistic traditions, though the Tang had come a bit later and their touch lingers to this day.   

My actual first destination is the alleged burial mound of the legendary Himiko, a shaman-queen who appears in the archives of that Tang Dynasty.  Japanese records are non-existent, so the location of her tomb is in dispute, if she had existed at all.  I had already visited one of her 'tombs' on Kyushu's Kunisaki peninsula, and a month ago I learned of this Hashinaka site.   A flotilla of ducks floats across the placid surface of the pond that bordered this reasonably sized tomb, though the lack of infrastructure gave hint of few human visitors.  There is a small rock garden and a cafe, and how pleasant it would be to sit at the waters edge and ponder what may have been.  Instead I park my car near a kindergarten on the opposite side, the laughter of the children dissolving into that of crows, feisty and active in the forested tomb above.  I circumambulate around the tomb, to the accompaniment of the usual sounds of morning, of the excitable voices of old woman greeting one another in the street, of the bangs of construction somewhere out of sight, of the canned music of a kerosene truck circling slowly and optimistically.

A short drive away is Omiwa Jinja, where I park and walk up to the adjacent Hibara Shrine. Here I am given a sash, a blessing, and a somewhat stern reminder of the rules.    I must appear impatient as I am eager to set off before the group of perhaps 60 old timers kitted out in hiking gear.  I move up quickly and steadily, legs taken aback at the steep pitch of the trail.  I overtake a few people, a family, a middle-aged woman and her less than enthused teenage son, a number of women walking alone.  The forests are wild, untouched, far more beautiful than the straight rows of cedar beyond the fences.  There are a number of features along the way, a waterfall, a spring, an ancient and majestic cypress, towering, towering.  I make good time, nearly half that as predicted by the maps, and before I know it I am standing before a large circle of stones.  This is one of Japan's oldest holy sites, and even today the mountain itself is seen as a god.  In a remote corner of the peak a woman is doing full prostrations to the god, her devotion obviously far deeper than that of the usual 'power-spot' groupie.  I descend just after her, and her sureness of foot betrays the fact that she is quite regular in her veneration.  As I drop lower into the forest, I pass another young woman, with the supple and straight posture of the yogini, feet bare to absorb every bit of prana that the gods allow.  

Onward, south to Uda, an ancient village celebrated in the Manyoshu for its light.  The sky isn't the red of the poem, but a rich blue that doesn't seem to mind that the leaves and flowers have yet to return.  This next section of walk takes me forward through the centuries, from the ancient Asuka countryside, to the mountain temples of the Muromachi, to the centralized hub of Edo town.  Visiting one temple, Tokugenji, I see that the house adjacent to the main hall is littered with drums of a variety of cultures.  Curious, I call out to whomever it is I hear washing up back in the darkness.  I expect a shaved-headed older priest, but instead I am approached by a man closer to my age, with tidy beard and long scraggly hair.  Under the pretext of him clarifying a name on the temple's historical information sign, I shift to ask him about music.  So begins a half-hour conversation about life, music, and common acquaintances.  I'm not sure from his look and manner whether he is the priest here, but his life and vision is far closer to the Buddhist ideal than the more programmed ordained.   His wife, a woodblock printer, joins us, and though I could pass the afternoon here, I need to peel off at some point.  After a quick look at the Oda clan graves in the forest above, I drop down to walk the compact and well-preserved grid of narrow street that make up the town center.  It is a beautiful and quiet place, and once again my mind begins to explore the contours of a life lived in these remote reaches.     

After a long meandering drive through the hills that border Mount Yoshino, I find myself less enthused with the town of Gojo, which is spoilt and overbuilt and hides its lovely old post town look away beside the river.  This single street is the only thing of interest here, and I don't take long to trace its length up and back.  

Then, and finally, I continue to Taishi-cho in order to trace a section I'd skirted as I walked adjacent along the Takeuchi Kaidō.  At its most extreme reach is Futagozuka Tomb, tree-covered and bored out to partially reveal the entrance to the twinned tombs within.  It is rare that you are allowed to walk atop one of these tombs, and from the summit I stand and watch the sun dropping toward Kansai Airport far to the west.  As I turn again toward my car, I see two women in an adjacent field, one lightly patting the belly of the other who has apparently toppled over.  She is quiet and breathing regularly, and I sit with them until a group of men return to help.  I stand there a moment more, wondering what, if anything, to do, until I figure that there is little I can do, and that medical attention had been called.  But the image of these woman stays with me as I too head toward that setting sun, until the traffic pulls my focus back once again to the passage of the road ahead.  



On the turntable:  Art Pepper, "Lost Life"
On the nighttable:  James Kirkup, "Me All Over"

Writers in Kyoto post

From John Dougill:

"Up now on the Writers in Kyoto website is a travel piece by Ted Taylor, resident of Kyoto who is often on the road - and on the plane, to judge by his Facebook postings. This time he offers us a glimpse into his travels in Sri Lanka, with some wonderful illustrations. Take a look for yourself."

Ted Taylor on the Road

On the turntable:  The Beatles, "Anthology 2"

Muse-eum

Living in Kyoto you get so used to the usual cultural tropes that essentially litter the city. It is like living a full time package tour.

So imagine your shock when that plastic Sakura out front of Kyoto station is in fact a real tree.


On the turntable: Beastie Boys, "Agio e Olio"  

Linear Equation

What are trains but numbers made manifest?


On the turntable:  Art Pepper, "Lost Life"

(untitled)

 

A potpourri of strolls.
Rousting out winter,
The warbler as ally.

 
On the turntable:  Bob Dylan, "Almost Went to See Elvis"

The Shannon is Gone I Heard

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited 2005 Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous entries can be found here:  Part 1,  Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 4,  Part 5,  Part 6,  Part 7.


I didn't sleep well, probably awakening to pee for each pint I had drunk.   Awoke to a beautiful morning.  The coffee at Kinley House was weak, so I decided to walk around town in search of something stronger.  I walked back down the main pedestrian drag, now completely empty and silent.  Even the churches looming on adjacent blocks had no life.  Whereas last night I'd only noticed bars, today I saw the shops, for Aran sweaters and musical instruments and new-age trinkets and the cafes all closed this Sunday morn.  Besides the narrow cobblestone lanes, I found a few ruins -- a Druid temple, the Spanish Arch -- testament to the days when this town was a major port.  I found a few sections of the town's former wall, pigeons loudly cooing in the holes once used to sight rifles.  I went down to the water, up the rushing river, then back through town, wandering aimlessly like a sailor back in port after many weeks at sea. 

We set off at 10:30, meeting below the spooky mural in Kinley House's stairway, of a wizened hag looking down at a backpacker.  Not far out of town , a dark storm dumped on us, but within 10 minutes the sky was flawless again.  In a field, I saw a bathtub which had been put out to collect rainwater for cows.  We were entering sod country, huge chunks torn from the land to burn in the fireplaces of Dublin, and to be used in the the local power station to power the region.  

Our first stop was at Clonmacnoise, an incredible ancient site of pagan Christianity.  Driving in we passed a Norman fort doing a bizarre balancing act.  After watching an extremely disjunct film, I wandered the site.  There were dozens of ornately carved Celtic crosses dotting the hill, amidst a few small stone cathedrals built here.  A high tower stood watch over the swollen River Shannon, with her blue dark against the green beyond.  There was a power here.  I could have stayed here all afternoon, but for the incredibly strong wind chilling my face and pushing me about.  Wonderful weather for the setting.  I must return.  

Our next stop was at a small pub where I had a really nice roast turkey and a pint, next to a small fire.  We were sitting in the 'Bullshitter's section.'  After lunch, the rest of the group toured Ireland's oldest whiskey distillery, but I chose instead to sit in the adjoining cafe and write.  The road back to Dublin was busy, but we made decent time.  In front of one house, a dog napped in front of a stone deer.  I also noticed that Ireland has its own Farrelly Brothers, but here they are landscapers.  

Our group parted ways, and I killed the evening by checking email and reading in my hostel.  When I went to brush my teeth, I passed a huge Russian who had perhaps the worst body odor ever.  I had to hold off on brushing, the scent filling the bathroom making me gag.  So I quickly set out for The Palace at the Trinity end of Temple Bar.  Upstairs I found a céilidh in full swing. Here I sat, tapping my feet, nursing my last couple of Guinnesses in Ireland.  Coming back to the hostel, the Russians were smoking out front, clad only in T-shirts, hardened against the cold.

I had thought that the night was over, but I entered my room to interrupt a couple in the their 50s in the act of something.  His chest was bare above a hill of a belly, and she was flowing out of her bra and panties.  Startled, I ducked back out and brushed my teeth slowly to give them time.  I returned, apologized and turned out the light.  They were both sharing the same bunk, and both began to snore almost immediately.  A Spanish couple returned and crashed out immediately.  The Spanish guy would make a clicking with his tongue, and I'd move my bed slightly, in an attempt to wake them.  The old guy would mutter in his sleep, "Fuck!  Mumble mumble, fuck!"  It was like sharing a room with Father Jack.  

The next morning I awoke before everyone, trying to make as much noise as possible.  An early bus took me to my ferry that ended up departing four hours late.  But the boat was a nice swank distraction, with two restaurants, a pub, a convenience store, and a movie theater.  I staked out a sofa, and passed the time reading, dozing, and watching the Irish Sea trade Ireland for Wales.  


On the turntable:  Anoushka Shankar, "Anoushka"