We had a slumber party at my place. In the morning, Marcin and I went down the hill to DONQ to fetch brunch Later, we decided to climb up Fushimi Inari. Tari and I ate whole sparrows on a stick, then washed our hands using the ladles at the entrance to the shrine. The whole place was gearing up for the Eve ahead, vendors setting up their stands. Surprisingly, the best location had been scored by a kabab stand.
We followed the trails partway up, then wandered down through the woods toward Tofukuji. We caught a train back up to Shijo, warming up in Starbucks awhile, until Okera mairi was ready to start at nearby Yasaka Jinja. The priests carried their fire through the crowd, the atmosphere like a subdued India somehow. Tari got her rope of fire, which she twirled with a certain coolness as we walked through Maruyama Park. All that was missing was her Zoot Suit.
Tari and I set off on out own to Tom's Bar for a pre-party. Nearing midnite, we met up with Big Paul and Shino-chan to ring in the New Year at their small local temple. Shino is a friend of the priest's family, so we got the invite for toshikoshi soba. Warm and full again, we walked to a crowded Shimogamo to join the rest of the Kyo in their 'traditional ways of spending money."
The next morning, I thought that this had been one of the best New Years I'd ever had in Japan. Later it dawned on me that it had been the first really good Eve since losing Ken. Each new year brought with it the same thought, "Another year without you in it." That mantra had been created a few months after his death, somewhere in deep Osaka, walking unfamilar streets while trying to hide my ceaseless flow of tears from the strangers all lined up to ring the temple bell. The worst had been the following year, tearing myself abruptly away from a table of surprised friends in a whiskey-fuelled despair that led me to his grave, where I sobbed for an hour in lightly falling snow, finally arriving at the place that was, and thankfully continues to be, rock bottom. The next few Eves were slept through, as if denying the arbitrariness of the whole thing, though one year, in New Mexico, I did awaken briefly to the sound of celebratory gunfire, the bullets falling onto the desert like that cemetery snow of a year before.
The snow fell again lightly this quiet New Years day. In a while I'd board a train for Hiroshima to join Miki. She'd had a completely different experience altogether. A sudden bout of norovirus had inspired her creative side, brought up in representations of meals past, done in green.
On the turntable: Angelique Kidjo, "Djin Djin"
On the nighttable: "Jungle Crows" (Hillel Wright, ed.)
On the reel table: "A Trick of Light" (Wenders, 1996)
"When a man leaves a woman he begins to hate her. or is it that he hates his own failure? Perhaps we want to destroy the only witness who knows exactly what we are like when we drop the comedy."
--The Honorary Consul
On the turntable: Van Morrison, "Common One"
On the nighttable; D.L. deJongh, "Genkaku"
On the reel table: "Ohayo" (Ozu, 1959)
Kix: "Well I am at the moment."
On the turntable: The Free Spirits, "Tokyo Live"
On the reel table: "The Decalogue" (Kieslowski, 1988)
The other night, I was asked whether I prefer Ozu or Kurosawa. I'm a big fan of both directors. I've been a Kurosawa fan for over twenty years, since being amazed by "Ran" on the big screen. Not longafter, I saw "Throne of Blood" in one of my film classes. Just prior to coming to Japan, I watched nearly every one of his films over a couple months. Ozu I came to later. I remember being bored by "Tokyo Monogatari" a year or two into my stay here. I've since changed my position. This past year, I've seen all of his post-war films, and have come to love his slow and steady pace. His films have become a Sunday night tradition, pleasant as a warm bath.
So coming back to the original question. How to answer? I've begun to watch Kurosawa again this winter, and aside from "Seven Samurai," which may be my favorite film of all time, I find his stories to be a little over the top sometimes. I don't love him any less; just that I find his hyperbole tiring. Like spending time with a talkative friend, enjoyable yet.... Last weekend I watched "Dodeskaden' again, a film I didn't enjoy very much 15 years ago. I think less of it today. Granted, I'm watching these old films with 2008 eyes, eyes that are subject to change. But lately, my criteria for disliking a film is based on there being more drama than characterization. I found "Dodeskden" to fail miserably here. Supposedly a character study, the stories are overwrought. It's a film of all peaks and no valleys. Then it hit me. It had no "ma." This simple concept (or lack of concept) is what makes a work of art Japanese. Ozu's films are "filled" with ma. Aside from his half dozen or so best films, Kurosawa's works lack it somewhat. Which is bizarre because to most, his films represent Japanese cinema worldwide.
On the turntable: The Waterboys, "The Best..."
On the reel table: "Room 666" (Wenders, 1982)
Yesterday was Ebisu Matsuri, the festival which honors the God of Wealth. As we are both self-employed, Miki and I wanted to pray for a prosperous year. Thus, we followed the elderly hoards (praying to get their pensions?) into Gion, down a street lined with food and toy stalls, most run by dark-skinned youth of the dyed hair variety. The shrine itself was slightly less crowded than a Who concert. We joined one of the four queues leading to the roped bells hanging to call the gods. Old women jumped from queue to queue like they were navigating an LA freeway. The younger, white clad miko on the Noh stage nearby moved with far more elegance. I was just getting used to the tiny, wrinkled hands pressed into my back, when we suddenly changed lanes to a spot behind a blind man. His dog was dressed in a plaid apron like a maid in a 70's sitcom. Once at the front, I prayed, one of the only people who didn't make a monetary offering. I mean, if the whole idea is to make money, the last thing I'd do is throw cash away into a wooden box. To quote Bono, "The God I believe in isn't short of cash, mister." Karmically, I was almost blinded when a coin tossed was deflected by an well-timed pull of the rope, bouncing off the shoulder of the pushy old timer to my right. The huge tuna between us and the gods passed no judgement, simply laying on it's side looking like a beat-up eggplant.
Back out on the main street again, we ducked into a temple dedicated to wild boars. Last year was this animal's year, and being Miki's Chinese zodiac "sign," she prayed to give thanks for 2007's safe passing. I simply walked around looking at the temple's many statues and paintings of boars. For some reason, I've recently grown slightly nervous at running into one of these in the wild. It's more a sense of apprehension than a full blown fear, but one that's increased in these days where the weather has gone crazy and the behavior of animals has gotten more unpredictable. If I run into a bear or boar some time this winter, I wouldn't at all be surprised.
Further down the street, we ate takoyaki next to a man who was well into his cups. For some reason, he was convinced I was French. Parting with an "A bien tot!", we then rode our bikes over to a smaller shrine at the south end of the Path of Philosophy. The Shrine's ema of a three-legged crow suggests it's link with the Shugendo sites of Kumano. But the main attraction here is the large statue of Ebisu. A real beauty. The national government has hopes of making this a national treasure, but the Shrine politely refuses, hoping instead to entrust the kami.
At the opposite end of the Path is soft cream. Miki and I sat on a stone bridge, lapping away the warm day. Nearby, a rickshaw driver was having a rough time drumming up business. Perhaps a prayer to Ebisu would help...
On the turntable: Neil Young, "Harvest"
On the reel table: "Tokyo-Ga" (Wenders, 1985)
This morning, I had a winking flirtation with the idea that if I were to start a new blog, I'd call it Cognitive Dissonance. Then after a quick Google, I found that one already exists! I'd start one anyway, but that would be too much like a cognitive mid-life crisis.
On the turntable: The Free Spirits, "Tokyo Live"
On the reel table: "Red Beard" (Kurosawa, 1965)
Over the past year, I've gone big for the Flashman series of novels, whose protagonist is a skamp and a rake and a cad, in those days when bosoms heaved, and such words meant something. As I sat reading the eighth installment on a Bullet Train speeding west, the author of the series, George MacDonald Fraser, was dying halfway across the world on the Isle of Man. In that instant, life became that much more ... modern.
On the turntable: Shakti, "Natural Elements"
On the nighttable: George MacDonald Frasier, "Flashman and the Dragon"
